Citizenship in Latin America 9781626371309

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CITIZENSHIP IN LATIN AMERICA

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A project of the Latin American Program of the Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars

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CITIZENSHIP IN L ATIN A MERICA edited by

Joseph S.Tulchin Meg Ruthenburg

b o u l d e r l o n d o n

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Published in the United States of America in 2007 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 © 2007 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Citizenship in Latin America / edited by Joseph S. Tulchin and Meg Ruthenburg. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978-1-58826-490-9 (hardcover : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 1-58826-490-4 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Citizenship—Latin America. I. Tulchin, Joseph S., 1939– II. Ruthenburg, Meg. JL967.A2C56 2006 323.6098—dc22 2006021636 British Cataloguing in Publication Data A Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library. Printed and bound in the United States of America The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1992. 5

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Contents

List of Tables Acknowledgments

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1 Toward an Analysis of Citizenship in Latin America,

Joseph S. Tulchin and Meg Ruthenburg

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2 Latin American Citizenship and Democratic Theory,

Frances Hagopian Part 1

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Conceptions of Citizenship

3 Citizenship Regimes, the State, and Ethnic Cleavages,

Deborah J. Yashar

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4 Citizenship in Disjunctive Democracies, James Holston

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5 Fields of Citizenship, Ariel C. Armony

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6 Democracy and Citizenship in Latin America,

Joseph H. Carens Part 2

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Challenges for Citizenship

7 Neopluralism and Citizenship in Latin America,

Philip Oxhorn

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8 Democracy Across Cultures: Does Gender Make a Difference?

Roderic Ai Camp and Keith Yanner

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Contents

9 Crime and Violence: Challenges to Democracy in Brazil,

Luis Bitencourt

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10 Democracy Assistance in Creating Citizenship,

Christopher Sabatini Part 3

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Promoting Active Citizenship

11 Between Paradoxes and Challenges: Promoting Citizenship

in Bolivia, Carmen Beatriz Ruíz

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12 Participation and Democracy: The Case of Argentina,

Carlos March

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13 Representation and Active Citizenship in Ecuador,

César Montúfar Part 4

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Conclusion

14 Citizenship as Public Work, Harry C. Boyte

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15 Citizens: Made, Not Born, Joseph S. Tulchin and

Meg Ruthenburg

Bibliography The Contributors Index About the Book

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285 309 313 329

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Tables

3.1 4.1 4.2 4.3 8.1

8.2 8.3 8.4 8.5 8.6 8.7 8.8 14.1

Principles for Allocating Citizenship Democratization in the Twentieth Century Among Nation-States with Populations Greater Than 1 Million Third Wave of Democratization Among All Nation-States, 1972–2000 Civil and Civilly Disjunctive Electoral Democracies, 1972–2000 Expectations of Democracy and Opinions of the Most Important Task of Democracy, by Gender, in the United States and Mexico Predicting Expectations of Democracy in the United States and Mexico Predicting Opinions About the Most Important Task of Democracy in the United States and Mexico Predicting Democratic and Authoritarian Attitudes in the United States and Mexico Predicting Satisfaction with the Functioning of Democracy, by Gender, in the United States and Mexico Predicting Satisfaction with Democracy in the United States and Mexico Predicting Satisfaction with Democracy in Mexico Predictors of Political Participation in the United States and Mexico Public Participation vs. Citizen Agency

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61 76 76 83

152 155 158 159 160 162 163 165 280

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Acknowledgments

This project was made possible through the generous support of the William and Flora Hewlett Foundation. We would like to thank Andrew Selee and Ariel Armony for their help in formulating this project, Cindy Arnson for generously overseeing the final stages of publication, Elizabeth Bryan for helping organize the conference from which this book emerged, and Latin American Program (LAP) intern Lisa Kraus for helping prepare the final manuscript. We would also like to express our appreciation to LAP interns Allison Werner, Alana Parker, Jessica Martin, and Elvia Zazueta, as well as LAP assistants Cristina Jiménez, Jessica Varat, and Kate Brick for helping prepare the manuscript for publication. We would like to recognize Joe Brinley, at the Wilson Center Press, and Lisa Tulchin, at Lynne Rienner Publishers, without whom this book would never have been published. Finally, a special thanks to the contributing authors for their enthusiasm, support, and merciful patience in carrying this project forward.

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1 Toward an Analysis of Citizenship in Latin America Joseph S.Tulchin and Meg Ruthenburg

In the early 1980s, an influential group of scholars examined countries in transition from authoritarian rule in Latin America and other world regions. Between 1979 and 1981, the Woodrow Wilson Center’s Latin American Program sponsored a series of meetings and conferences convened under the title “Transitions from Authoritarian Rule: Prospects for Democracy in Latin America and Southern Europe.” Since that time, all Latin American countries—with the exception of Cuba—have indeed gone through a transition from authoritarian rule to democracy. 1 However, in the intervening decades since this “third wave” of democratization began in Latin America, democracy has gone from being “a ‘hurrah’ word” (Huntington 1991, p. 7) to being characterized by more variegated terminology such as “low-intensity democracy” (Gills, Rocamora, and Wilson 1993) and “democradura” as scholars have struggled to reconcile actual democracies with the ideal types forwarded in the literature. The proliferation of these “democracies with adjectives” (Collier and Levitsky 1997) belies a high level of dissatisfaction with democracy both on the ground as well as in theoretical approaches (O’Donnell 1999a). The third wave of democratization called for a shift in theory. Once transitions to democracy had in fact occurred, scholars began to focus on the consolidation of democratic regimes (see, e.g., Huntington 1991; Linz and Stepan 1996b; Schneider 1995), on the institutions of democracy, and on the quality of democracy in Latin America. This change, however, merely shifted the focus from one aspect of a state’s political organization to another and did not lead to the fundamental change of analyzing democracy in the context of state-society relations. As a result, one key component of a meaningfully democratic society—citizenship—has not been sufficiently analyzed. Democratic theorists, for example, have not been as concerned with citizenship as have many local, national, and international nongovernmental organizations, which for some time have been sensitive to the 1

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importance of citizenship for democratic governance. This volume seeks to bring the analysis of citizenship in Latin American democracies to the forefront of democratic theory and, as a consequence, to the center of discussions of development policies.

Trends in Democratic Theory Immediately after the transitions to democracy took place, theorists began focusing on the consolidation of democratic regimes. However, scholars who have studied democratic consolidation have had a difficult time defining a set of consistent criteria for a democracy to be considered consolidated. For instance, while Juan Linz and Alfred Stepan offer several criteria, in their basic conception a democracy is considered consolidated when democracy has become “the only game in town” (1996b, p. 15), that is, when the majority agree to conduct their politics through the system of democracy and there are no factions or groups actively attempting to overthrow this system. The lack of a strong definition makes consolidation difficult to demonstrate. When can a democracy be considered consolidated? One author notes, for instance, that this literature “misconstrues regime endurance for consolidation” (Yashar 1999, p. 78). It is important to note that some proponents of a consolidation approach admit “consolidation does not necessarily entail either a high-quality democracy or a high-quality society” (Linz and Stepan 1996b, p. 30). Nevertheless, it is difficult to avoid the teleological leap to considering consolidation a “seal of approval” (Becker 1999, p. 139)—a temptation made even more difficult to avoid when countries are categorized by the value-laden term “consolidated” or “unconsolidated.” Another important trend in democratic theory has centered on the institutions of democracy. In one formulation, “institutionalism posits the relative autonomy of politics vis-à-vis [economic, social, or cultural] factors” (Mainwaring 1999, p. 7). Many times, however, this approach is often too narrowly restricted to the formal characteristics of the different institutions and is unable to account for the qualitative aspect of social and cultural factors, which may be important preconditions for a democratic society. While institutions are of the utmost importance for a democracy to thrive, they must be studied in the context of state-society interaction. Guillermo O’Donnell argues, for example, that the problem with many third-wave democracies is not that they lack institutionalization but that political scientists’ focus on a specific kind of institution obscures the importance of clientelism and other relationships, which O’Donnell terms “particularism” (1996a). The presence of particularism demonstrates that there is not always a tight fit between formal rules and behavior; that even if

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democracy is the only game in town, the rules of the game may differ from place to place. Deborah Yashar contends that, far from becoming the only game in town, democracy is being challenged by the “incomplete reach of the state, the survival of authoritarian enclaves, the uneven incorporation of social sectors, and the emergence of opposing social forces” (1999, pp. 76–77). Indeed, Latin American democracies today are facing serious challenges from different social sectors that have sparked debate on citizenship, participation, and the very nature of democracy itself. It is apparent that the idea of democracy as synonymous with institutions, particularly with the institution of free and fair elections, has obscured the fact that a “viable liberal democracy has identifiable correlates in the structure and practices of the economy and society” (Becker 1999, p. 138). Without denying the importance of the political, then, we must acknowledge that other aspects of society may hold equal importance for the construction of vibrant democracies in Latin America.

Toward an Analysis of Citizenship Although it may be argued that citizenship has not been at the center of democratic theory recently, the study of citizenship is certainly not new. Most modern analyses of citizenship follow T. H. Marshall’s framework (1950) of citizenship rights, conceived of as encompassing civil, political, and social rights. This framework, however, is not unproblematic. For instance, in the 1980s, when “basic human and civil rights could no longer be dismissed or taken for granted” (Jelin and Hershberg 1996, p. 3), the triad of civil, political, and social rights came into question. The demands of indigenous peoples and the debate about individual and collective rights present another kind of challenge to Marshall’s framework. In addition, it has been shown that the various kinds of citizenship rights may be unevenly distributed, resulting in a kind of democracy that could be characterized as “disjunctive” (Holston and Caldeira 1998), an adjective used to refer to the expansion and contraction in different areas of citizenship rights. Whereas the transition to democracy in most Latin American countries expanded citizens’ political rights through suffrage, for example, most Latin Americans do not enjoy full civil rights, to say nothing of social, or welfare, rights in a region that continues to possess the ignoble distinction of having the most unequal distribution of wealth in the world.2 Citizens’ civil rights are curtailed by a weak rule of law, evidenced by police misconduct and ineffective legal systems, while their political rights are hindered by imperfect institutions or parties, or by inefficient or corrupt states. Debate notwithstanding, Marshall’s conception of citizenship rights continues to be of key importance for discussions of democratic gover-

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nance. Therefore, there must be a persistent effort to refine the definition of citizenship rights, define their relative importance, and explore their uneven distribution. Nevertheless, there is a danger in “reifying the concept, and in identifying citizenship rights with a group of concrete activities—voting, enjoying freedom of speech, receiving public benefits of any kind, and so on” (Jelin 1996, p. 104). Indeed, there is more to citizenship than citizenship rights; other aspects of citizenship must be considered. For instance, does not citizenship encompass citizens’ responsibilities and duties? Citizenship rights alone cannot account for the “enormous gap between formally defined rights and everyday practices in Latin America” (Jelin 1996, p. 107). A broader discussion of the links between theory and practice is necessary to further democratic citizenship in Latin America. For scholars and policymakers to begin to address the issue of citizenship in Latin America, several shifts in theoretical perspectives are necessary. Yashar argues that we need to “analyze democratic politics in the context of state-society relations” (1999, p. 79, original emphasis). In addition, democracy and citizenship must be conceived of as inherently connected, and both must be extended beyond the political to include the civil and socioeconomic aspects as well (Holston and Caldeira 1998). Augusto Varas offers a revised definition of democracy as a “continuous process that is permanently driven by the constant need to extend and institutionalize the rights of citizens in the face of existing or emerging absolute powers” (1998, p. 147). In other words, both democracy and citizenship must be conceived of and studied in context, with consideration given to the particular cultural, historical, and economic situation of each country. We must study the “full experience of democratic citizenship” (Holston and Caldeira 1998, p. 288). The mass mobilizations witnessed in recent history in countries such as Venezuela, Ecuador, and Argentina exemplify the need to better understand democratic citizenship. While widespread participation in a protest may be a sign of a participatory public, it does not necessarily mean that this public participates as citizens of a democracy. Indeed, their participation may not be a demonstration of their citizenship rights but a tool to attain them. Academics and policymakers would do well to heed this call and begin to offer theory and policy measures that contribute to the inclusion of citizenship in conceptions of democratic governance. Citizenship must be a central concern of research and policymaking if democratic societies are to thrive in Latin America.

Overview of the Book The aim of this edited volume is to highlight the need to include a robust discussion of citizenship in the study of Latin American democracies, and to

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outline proposals on how to do so. In Part 1, scholars forward different conceptions of citizenship. In Part 2, different challenges to citizenship are outlined. The final chapters in Parts 1 and 2 attempt to make connections between and analyze the preceding chapters. In Part 3, practitioners reflect on their experiences advocating a more active citizenry and on ways to promote citizenship in Latin America. Part 4 offers conclusions. This volume intentionally brings together scholars working on democratic theory and citizenship with practitioners from Latin America and the United States. The chapters by the practitioners are not intended as academic or theoretical exercises; they are statements of how politics is conducted and arguments about what is wrong with the democratic process in these countries and how the flaws in the democratic process limit the exercise of citizenship in Latin American democracies. While most of the volume’s authors are Latin Americanists, several experts on citizenship and democracy who do not specialize in Latin America are represented, and their contributions are invaluable in furthering the comparative discussion. In Chapter 2, Frances Hagopian summarizes trends in democratic theory, then situates the question of citizenship within this body of theory. She contends that Latin Americanists have a shallow understanding of democracy—one that undervalues the role of citizens. As a result, she argues for a more solid theoretical foundation from which to examine democracies in Latin America and, in particular, the role of citizenship in those democracies. In the second half of her chapter, Hagopian elaborates on what this foundation might look like. Several problems emerge as areas for further research, including the state’s failure to guarantee citizenship rights, particularly civil rights, and the underperformance of civil society. Finally, Hagopian examines the new frontiers of citizenship in Latin America, in particular the challenges presented by neoliberalism and cultural pluralism. In Chapter 3, Deborah Yashar picks up on the challenge of cultural pluralism in her exploration of citizenship regimes and ethnic cleavages. Like Hagopian, Yashar argues for a more robust understanding of democracy. She further argues that in Latin America, citizenship has been largely derivative of democracy and has not taken into account ethnic or national politics. She attempts to bridge distinct literatures on citizenship and outlines different kinds of “citizenship regimes.” By examining the boundaries, form, and content of citizenship, Yashar demonstrates the need to include the study of not only formal institutions but also social practices in the study of democracies. Similarly, James Holston argues, in Chapter 4, that the full experience of citizenship—not just political citizenship—must be studied. He forwards the concept of disjunctive democracies, in which aspects of citizenship or citizenship rights may be more or less developed than others. Citizenship rights are unevenly distributed across territorial and social lines. For exam-

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ple, while most Latin Americans enjoy political rights, their full enjoyment of civil rights is impaired by violence, injustice, and impunity. This is what Holston refers to as “civilly disjunctive electoral democracy.” His approach allows for a more nuanced understanding of democracy, one that avoids tired dichotomies between liberal and illiberal, new and old, or established and emerging democracies. Indeed, Holston argues that all democracies are “normally disjunctive in their realization of citizenship, as the institutions and practices of citizenship are always at once expanding and eroding in heterogeneous and unbalanced ways.” In doing this, Holston moves us toward a theoretical framework that is able to account for actual and natural variation in democratic experiences and, at the same time, allow us to appreciate or criticize particular aspects of a democratic experience without elevating or discounting the entire democratic project. Like Holston, Ariel Armony, in Chapter 5, seeks to find an approach to studying democracy that is able to capture and appreciate the contradictions and paradoxes in particular democracies rather than reinforce evolutionary assumptions. In doing so, he aims to overcome the sharp division between the study of democracy in the United States, Western Europe, and other parts of the industrialized world, and the study of democracy elsewhere. To account for variation in citizenship rights, Armony advances the concept of “fields of citizenship,” defined as “given distributions of rights for certain social groups.” This approach has significant methodological implications for the literature on comparative democratization in that it allows for intranational and international comparison instead of relying solely on nationallevel comparisons. In Chapter 6, in reaction to Yashar, Holston, and Armony, Joseph Carens emphasizes the need to think normatively about the questions of citizenship and democracy in Latin America. For, although he agrees with all three authors that no country or group of countries should serve as an ideal model of democracy, he argues it is still possible—and indeed necessary— to make normative evaluations. Nevertheless, Carens argues that normative analysis must be contextualized. The authors in Part 2 explore challenges to citizenship in Latin America. In Chapter 7, Philip Oxhorn argues that the defining characteristic—and the central problem—in Latin American democracies is neopluralism, which he defines as a “market-centered pattern of political incorporation” that tends to be authoritative in nature. Neopluralism limits democracy through economic and citizen insecurity and the fragmentation of civil society. Perhaps the most disturbing characteristic of neopluralism, however, is that it masks the structural causes of these underlying issues, which in turn allows new forms of populism or extremism to emerge. Nevertheless, Oxhorn notes that although poverty and inequality are exceedingly high, there is little resulting political violence. Similarly, while social and civil

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citizenship rights remain largely unfulfilled, political rights are now enjoyed by most Latin American citizens. It may be precisely through the space created by these political rights that change will come to the region. In Chapter 8, Roderic Camp and Keith Yanner explore a different set of challenges to citizenship. They set out to correct a gap in the literature by bringing a gendered perspective to questions of citizenship and democracy. In doing so, they also pioneer a new kind of comparative study: one that compares citizens of a postindustrial country, citizens of a less developed country, and immigrants from the latter who are living in the former. Camp and Yanner examine the gender differences in the expectations of and satisfaction with democracy in the United States and Mexico by exploring the views of US citizens, Mexicans, and Mexican Americans. Among their findings, Camp and Yanner discovered that gender is in fact an important variable in political analysis, even when the issues raised are not gender related. They also detected a gendered difference in the conceptualization of democracy. Across the three cultures, women chose the nonprocedural conceptualization of democracy over the procedural; that is, they were more likely than men to emphasize equality, progress, and lawfulness as important aspects of democracy over the procedural description of democracy. The authors also encountered lower rates of political participation among women. Camp and Yanner conclude that there are still significant barriers to women’s political participation, and that much research is needed to understand the gendered aspects of democracy. In Chapter 9, Luis Bitencourt analyzes what are perhaps among the most serious challenges to citizenship and democracy in Latin America: violence and insecurity. The skyrocketing rates of crime and violence in Brazil threaten the fabric of its democracy, even as the country continues to assert itself on the international scene and enjoys a comparatively stable and successful national government. Bitencourt emphasizes the threat that crime and violence pose to social and civil rights in Brazil, as well as to the country’s growing but young democracy. In Chapter 10, Christopher Sabatini offers his perspective, as a member of the donor community, in analyzing the three preceding chapters. He argues that research on citizenship has been undertaken separately from work on transitions to, and consolidations of, democracy in the region. As a result, policymakers and donors have focused on questions regarding citizenship and the quality of the democratic experience. Sabatini notes that each of the three preceding chapters strongly emphasizes the role of the state in citizenship and democracy. The state-centric focus of each of the chapters brings a perspective to these questions that differs from the common perspective of the donor community, in which, for some time, the focus has been on working with nongovernmental organizations as a way to forward stable democracies in the region. Sabatini laments that none of the

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three chapters treats the question of social and political obligation in a systematic way. He argues that citizenship is composed of both rights and obligations, and that attempts to theorize about citizenship must include an analysis of both. In closing, Sabatini contends there are reasons to be optimistic about democracy in Latin America, despite the many problems in the region. He also urges policymakers and donors to begin to address questions of citizenship in a systematic way, cautioning that this effort not become the “latest fad in development and democracy assistance.” In Chapter 11, Carmen Beatriz Ruíz argues that citizenship and human rights are intrinsically connected, which has been the basis of much of the work of Bolivia’s human rights ombudsman. This approach allows the ombudsman to address the underlying structural conditions of poverty and social exclusion, and to serve as a bridge between the citizenry and the state. Ruíz recounts the ombudman’s experience in promoting citizenship through various civic education programs, and concludes that building citizenship entails efforts by the government to guarantee citizenship rights as well as a proactive citizenry. In Chapter 12, in describing the work undertaken by the prominent nongovernmental organization Poder Ciudadano in Argentina, Carlos March shows by example how a more participatory citizenry can be fomented. Poder Ciudadano has undertaken initiatives in participatory budgeting, monitoring of citizens’ rights, ensuring the transparency of government processes, and civic education. March argues that the experiences of Poder Ciudadano demonstrate that civil society can be an effective tool for guaranteeing the effectiveness and transparency of government and promoting active citizenship. In Chapter 13, César Montúfar focuses on Ecuador and the concept of citizen participation, noting that not all participation is democratic in nature, nor does it necessarily lead to democratic outcomes. Montúfar outlines different kinds of passive and active citizenship. In addition, he distinguishes between representative politics and constitutive politics, arguing that each has a different, though not contradictory, logic. The challenge in a country like Ecuador is to find ways for these politics to complement each other effectively. In Chapter 14, Harry Boyte reflects on models and definitions of politics, democracy, and citizenship. While he recognizes the strengths of the liberal and communitarian approaches to democracy, he offers a third approach, one that has been the focus of the Center for Democracy and Citizenship at the University of Minnesota: public work. The public work approach focuses on productive citizenship and on citizens as cocreators of democracy through everyday politics. In this conception, democracy is understood as a way of life, and the citizen is of central importance. In Chapter 15, Joseph S. Tulchin and Meg Ruthenburg conclude the

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book by briefly noting some of the events that have occurred in Argentina, Bolivia, and Ecuador since this manuscript was originally drafted. Despite changes in leadership, these three countries are still grappling with the issues discussed by March, Ruíz, and Montúfar. Tulchin and Ruthenburg also discuss the positive aspects of citizen participation in Latin America and express hope that citizens and their leaders will continue to work together to strive for a more deeply democratic and peaceful region.

Notes 1. “Transition” authors acknowledge that a transition from authoritarian rule may not necessarily yield a democratic regime but could lead to an authoritarian regression, revolution, or a hybrid regime. Guillermo O’Donnell notes that “our ‘seminal work’ on transitions was not entitled Transitions to Democracy. Instead we called it Transitions from Authoritarian Rule, which is not the same thing at all” (2002, p. 7). 2. It is certainly not our intention to return to or reopen the old debate over whether capitalism or inequality undermines the democratic quality of political regimes. We deliberately leave aside a rich literature on the political economy of transitions. It is our hope that a focus on citizenship such as the one proposed here will be useful in discussions of public policy related to development or to social reforms.

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2 Latin American Citizenship and Democratic Theory Frances Hagopian

All is not well with democracy in Latin America. According to the latest Latinobarómetro survey (2004), only 53 percent of respondents in seventeen countries agreed that democracy was the best form of government. Uruguay and Costa Rica, as usual, pulled up the averages (78 and 67 percent of the population in those countries, respectively, support democracy). At the opposite end of the spectrum, in Guatemala and Brazil, support for democracy ranged from only 35 to 41 percent of respondents. There was even less satisfaction with democracy. Those satisfied with democracy fell from 32 percent in 2002 to 29 percent in 2004. These polls have caught the attention of The Economist (2003), which has classified Latin American democrats as “frustrated,” as well as the United Nations Development Programme (2004), which has profiled citizens in its most recent report on the state of democracy in Latin America, Toward a Democracy of Citizens. These polls reflect a new common wisdom that, since the 1980s, when euphoria about redemocratization fueled an unprecedented optimism, democracy in Latin America has faltered, and that democratic governments, if not regimes, are in trouble. In some cases this view may be exaggerated, but in several countries established parties and party systems have collapsed, and since 1985 fifteen presidents have not finished their constitutional terms in office. One, Jean-Bertrand Aristide of Haiti, was deposed by a military coup, four were impeached, but most resigned, due in many cases to mass protest and violence.1 Whereas a predominantly middle-class opposition prompted the resignation of Fernando de la Rúa in Argentina, and attempted, but failed, to oust Hugo Chávez in Venezuela either by general strike or by recall referendum, in Ecuador, Bolivia, and elsewhere, lowerclass and often indigenous citizens participated in such protests. Ordinary people are disenchanted and angry, and it is they—not the military, large landowners, or comprador bourgeoisie—who represent the gravest threat to democracy today in Latin America. If there is a connection between a disen11

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gaged citizenry and democracies that are becoming emptied of popular support, then the current crisis of democracy can more accurately be understood to be a crisis of citizenship. To explain the erosion of citizen support for democracy, scholars and casual observers typically reach for the customary “easy answers.” They point to declining growth rates in the region since 1997, surging unemployment, and the swelling ranks of the poor—in once wealthy Argentina, to as much as half the population. They argue that mass publics do not support democracy because governments in democratic regimes have produced bitterly disappointing results. A related popular argument concerns social exclusion. Many charge that elitist regimes in highly unequal societies that exclude women, ethnic minorities, and the poor, in favor of the rich and their foreign friends, are bound to lose the support of those whom they leave behind. It is no doubt true that evaluations of democracy are often conditioned by economic performance (and perhaps more narrowly by the employment and real wage picture) and possibly personal security, and also that strong government records in these areas can boost public support for incumbent administrations. Nonetheless, this explanation draws too broad a connection between regime performance and public support, and like the brushstroke of the impressionist, it is one that can blur the underlying reality. Democracy can of course weather bad times; it survived the Great Depression in the United States, Sweden, the Netherlands, and Norway amid economic conditions that were at least as harsh as those that toppled the Weimar Republic in Germany. Closer to our immediate concerns, support for democracy is far more robust in Argentina and Uruguay (at levels of 64 and 74 percent respectively), where the financial system collapsed and open urban unemployment levels are as high as anywhere in Latin America, than in Chile and Brazil, which have both been deemed success stories in terms of economic management and democratic governance.2 If the view that economic conditions are to blame for the dwindling ranks of committed democrats stands on shaky empirical ground once put to the test of comparisons across nations and time, this view is also theoretically and conceptually underdeveloped. Theoretically, it forgets that democracy should not, and cannot, rest on growth rates. Rather, as Juan Linz and Alfred Stepan put it, a democratic regime enjoys two sources of insulation from sustained economic downturn that are not available to nondemocratic regimes (which are heavily dependent on their performance claims): a “claim to legitimacy based on its origin and the fact that elections are always on the horizon and hold the prospect of producing an alternative socioeconomic program and an alternative government without a regime change” (1996a, p. 79). They do recognize that there may be limits to public tolerance for economic downturns— they suggest at least an eight-year interval (a period that arguably has lapsed

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in many Latin American countries)—but such a recognition merely deposits us back at our starting point: some democracies are doing better than others. Conceptually, the economic downturn thesis gives up on the search for the mediating variables that condition broad public support for democratic regimes in places of high unemployment and inequality. If rising unemployment, poverty, and social exclusion can threaten democracy, when, where, how, and why will these threats be realized? Linz and Stepan suggest one possibility, that economic crises tend to lead to democratic breakdowns when powerful groups outside or, worse, inside the government increasingly argue that nondemocratic alternatives of rule are the only solution to the economic crisis (1996a, p. 81). But the truth is that we simply do not know. Scholars have had difficulty explaining the shortcomings in contemporary democracies in Latin America, and tracking an exit from these impasses, because they have by and large focused their attention on aspects of democracy other than its citizens. Since the transitions to democracy were considered accomplished in Latin America, the attention of political scientists, at least, was focused on political institutions, for good reasons. We wanted to know what made these institutions work as attenuators of polarization and mediators of (elite) conflict, so that democracy would not break down again. We also sought to understand how the right institutional designs could ensure economic and personal security and deliver efficient public policy—to pass budgets, stabilize the economy, rekindle growth, modernize ports, guarantee pensions, establish quality schools and healthcare, and stop crime. The problem with what was otherwise an important and reasonable avenue of inquiry was that a fine-tuned knowledge of the most effective designs for political institutions to mediate elite conflict, eliminate deadlock, and smooth out the policymaking process left us bereft, as a field, of an understanding of why mass support for democracy has become so volatile and fragile.3 Recent, frantic attempts to interpret just how significant declining levels of popular support for democracy are, in Latinobarómetro and other surveys, have produced at best interesting hypotheses and at worst inconclusive evidence for lackluster regime support and public protests that have urged presidents and entire political classes to simply “go.”4 The question of why citizens do not support democracy in Latin America today is an urgent one. Democracies today, unlike in the second, postwar wave of democratization, are mass democracies. With the enfranchisement of women, illiterates, and youth and the lifting of most restrictions on rural organizing, there has been an exponential expansion of the electorate in many countries,5 and a sharp rise in indigenous and grassroots mobilization in many countries. Politics can no longer be, in the wonderful phrase of Alexander Wilde (1978), “conversations among gentlemen,” and political parties can no longer be gentlemen’s clubs. The genie has been let out of the bottle.

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In this chapter, I first take stock of where a quarter century of scholarship about democracy has brought us. I review where we, as a field, are currently situated, how we got here, and where we appear to be going, with respect to citizenship. My claim is that our visions of democracy and citizens were both inadequate. One view looked at democracy without the interference of citizens, or forgave that interference because citizens were seen as immature democrats and the objects of neopopulist demagogues. The contrasting view exalted citizens for their moral purity, heroism, and common wisdom, all the while forgetting that they, and their political actions, were part of a democratic polity, and that social movements, public opinion, and civil society needed to be linked to the functioning of public space, political society, and political power. Next I turn to the question of citizenship in democracy theory per se, with a particular focus on the participation, rights, responsibilities, and identities of citizens. I contend that the way in which Latin Americanists “consumed” democratic theory also contributed to the current impasse.6 Our understanding of the rights and responsibilities of citizens was narrow and shallow, and adopting an empirical focus on democracy’s electoral institutions brought clear, short-term empirical advantages, but also in the long run led us to devalue the role of citizens and citizenship. I bring to the discussion two central problems that relate to citizenship in contemporary Latin American democracies and the proposed solutions that have been raised in the literature—that of civil rights and the (un)democratic state, and that of the underperformance of civil society. I examine the problem, to which Guillermo O’Donnell (1993) first called attention, of the uneven guarantee of the rights of citizenship, especially the civil rights that we took for granted, across the territory of Latin America today. A second problem—that citizens who are disengaged or connected to antidemocratic civil movements are more difficult to please and serve democratically— threatens the quality of democracy and democratic regimes. I join scholars from different traditions who propose to solve this crisis of citizenship by “thickening” citizenship; not by relying on citizen watchdog groups or legislating according to public opinion or even enriching public discourse and multiplying the opportunities for civic association independently, but rather, as former Brazilian president Fernando Henrique Cardoso urged in a 1996 address at Stanford University (Cardoso 1996), by reuniting civil society with political society, and anchoring social movements and civic organizations to politics and political representatives. I also highlight two developments that raise future citizenship challenges to Latin American democracies and that are likely to constitute the new frontiers of studies of citizenship in Latin America—neoliberalism and cultural pluralism. Viewed one way, neoliberal economic policies threaten social rights in Latin America in much the same way that welfare state

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retrenchment has in the advanced industrial democracies; in any view, the retreat of the state and the extension of market principles alter the terms of citizenship. Also, in these global and postmodern times, new notions of “differentiated” citizenship not only add new rights—such as cultural rights and the rights to difference—to the bundle of citizenship rights as we understood them in the mid–twentieth century—but also call into question how they are achieved and who should hold them, define them, and guarantee them. They set citizenship “in motion.” I conclude the chapter with an appeal to connect citizens to the institutions of political representation, and citizenship to our understandings of democracy. I view both of these steps as necessary for enriching our scholarship and guaranteeing citizenship in a vibrant, democratic polity.

A Quarter Century of Democracy Studies In the past quarter century, the literature in Latin American politics has passed through three distinct phases.7 In the first, our attention was focused on transitions to democracy. For a decade after authoritarian leaders in Brazil, Peru, and the Dominican Republic promised political liberalization and the eventual abdication of power, students of Latin American politics doggedly—even obsessively—researched and pondered what could launch and sustain regime transitions before democracy’s enemies, and how democracy could spread throughout society. In this phase, scholars studied a wide range of phenomena, from military autonomy to the commitments of business elites to political democracy (Stepan 1988; Bartell and Payne 1995; Gibson 1996), to the capacity of grassroots Catholic movements to serve as “schools of democracy” and usher in a new, democratic political culture (Levine 1993). But almost as soon as the transitions to democratic regimes in Latin America had safely taken root, scholars shifted the focus of their study of democratization in the region to the subject of democratic consolidation (Mainwaring, O’Donnell, and Valenzuela 1992), and their main concern became the institutionalization of new democratic regimes. In this second phase, attention moved to studying political institutions. The first subject in a long line comprised the merits of parliamentary systems of government versus Latin America’s presidential systems (Linz and Valenzuela 1994). Another important work shone a spotlight on the key agents of the democratic process—political parties (Mainwaring and Scully 1995). Once scholars realized that Chileans, Brazilians, and other Latin Americans would not abandon presidential traditions, attention was fixed on what would make presidential systems more workable, such as reducing the effective number of parties and adjusting the electoral cycle to diminish the incidence of

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divided government (Mainwaring and Shugart 1997). Finally, scholars pressed on to study the extraordinary powers of the executive (Carey and Shugart 1998), and the internal organization of Latin American legislatures and their partnership with the executive branch (Morgenstern and Nacif 2002). Even while research was advancing on the political institutions of democracy, a call was sounded to focus research on the capacity of institutions within Latin America’s democratic regimes to govern effectively but also accountably “in response to the expressed concerns of the electorate” (Domínguez and Lowenthal 1994). Scholars en masse began to abandon the study of how and when a democracy could become and be considered “consolidated,” perhaps due to frustration that the task was illusive and perhaps impossible (O’Donnell 1996a), in favor of a focus on how their governance could be improved. Thus a third moment had arrived, and scholars turned their attention to the quality of democracy. In this moment, scholars began to consider the problems of democratic governance (Agüero and Stark 1998), the rule of law (Méndez, O’Donnell, and Pinheiro 1999), and new mechanisms of democratic accountability (Schedler, Diamond, and Plattner 1999; Mainwaring and Welna 2003). What role did citizens, civil society, and citizenship play in the literature? In the first phase, it played a significant one. During the transitions to democracy, “ordinary people,” to use Nancy Bermeo’s recent term (2003), were seen to have opened up political space in demanding democracy. In this phase, scholars credited citizens with advancing and, in a very real sense, securing complete democratization even where initiated by elites, who might have otherwise been content to stop the transitions partway (Eckstein 1989; Alvarez 1990; Escobar and Alvarez 1992; Stepan 1989). The standard view was that civil society, organized into social movements, emboldened the opponents of dictatorship and restrained any intentions on the part of military elites to institutionalize a limited form of democracy, a process that Alfred Stepan characterized with reference to the Brazilian transition as a “dialectic between regime concession and societal conquest” (1989, p. viii). To be clear, the role of citizens went far beyond the effectiveness of one-shot or even monthly protests that toppled dictators. Especially where states were strong and societies weak, the new political associations and social movements of civil society that emerged to oppose centralizing dictatorships were expected to play a significant role in future democratization in two distinctive and fundamental ways. They were expected both to inspire popular participation and to check the perpetual ambitions of strong states to expand and concentrate their already considerable authority. Both roles, which could trace their genealogy to classical political theory, carried a special urgency in the Latin American context. In the first instance, social

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movements were proposed as the antidote to the fragility of democracies that rested on the foundations of an authoritarian political culture. Scholars claimed that the new social movements, including grassroots religious and popular organizations, autonomous women’s movements, and new labor unions, operated as self-managed political communities that contributed to the democratization of political culture by resocializing and politicizing the women, religious workers, and slum dwellers who participated in them. In the second instance, these new horizontal solidarities in civil society challenged a corporatist state historically adept at quelling social protest in such a way that expanded the scope of freedom. The most eloquent statement of this position is Francisco Weffort’s conclusion to his 1989 essay “Why Democracy?”: “We want a civil society, we need it to defend ourselves from the monstrous State in front of us. This means that if it does not exist, we need to invent it. If it is small, we need to enlarge it. . . . we need to build civil society because we want freedom” (p. 349). Somewhat mysteriously, in retrospect, scholars did not follow up on the exciting questions of whether or not social movements fulfilled their promise to democratize political culture and guard newly won freedoms. Once authoritarian regimes were a thing of the past, political scientists, including many who had themselves studied social movements, turned to studying political institutions and to a lesser extent political behavior, but in either case promptly forgot about social movements and citizens.8 What is most surprising is not that some scholars would become interested in legislative or electoral politics, but that few scholars even bothered to investigate whether or not the promise of civil society actors to be the agents of a democratization of political culture and a more fully inclusive democratic order had been naive and exaggerated. Even if social movements receded from the news, they were never proven to have failed.9 This puzzling turn of scholarship was not a self-evident one. Unwittingly, it was anticipated, and perhaps set in motion, by both the giants of the democratization literature as well as the champions of social movements in the academy. In their modal democratic transition, Guillermo O’Donnell and Philippe Schmitter identified a sequence of activity in which civil society was “resurrected” and then, once elections were called by authoritarian leaders (in part to attempt to channel opposition into safer channels), politicians and political parties who had been in the background returned to center stage, “a position of prominence” that they were projected to “occupy for some time” (1986, p. 57). The implication was that leaders of both popular and elite social movements would pave the way for the return of the political class, and that this made sense. Citizens, or ordinary people, morphed into voters, and the field of political behavior appropriated their aspirations, their sense of efficacy, and their anger as items in opinion surveys. However valuable these surveys of public opinion in the transitions

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to democracy were (see especially Catterberg 1991; Camp 2001), they could not stand alone in answering key questions about citizenship in new democracies, nor should they have been asked to. There was a certain empirical reality behind the assumption that the party was over and civil society had gone home, and it was reinforced by students of social movements who found the demobilization that O’Donnell and Schmitter (1986) had anticipated. Philip Oxhorn (1995) argued that demobilization of popular movements in Chile was the product of a conscious strategy on the part of political elites to minimize social conflict and attenuate political demands in order to assuage nervous elites. In Peru, social movements became demobilized in part due to the actions of parties, but also because of a violent guerrilla movement that targeted the democratic left—its closest competitors—above all others (Stokes 1994). But this reality was more limited than widely appreciated. In Brazil, social movements became quiescent, but erupted again in 1992 in a movement to secure the impeachment of the corrupt president Fernando Collor de Mello. Subsequent years have shown that these movements became the kernel of a more vibrant associational life (McDonough, Shin, and Moisés 1998) (but it is true that this did not happen in Chile). Human rights movements in Mexico, Peru, and Argentina lived on as proponents of deepening democracy and of democratic accountability (Jelin and Hershberg 1996; Smulovitz and Peruzzotti 2003). The democracy literature turned away from citizens and toward institutions for another reason: North American political science experienced a paradigmatic shift. Rational actor models based on economistic reasoning assumed that institutional incentives motivated the political behavior of political elites, and that citizens had little or no proper role in the functioning of political institutions, especially where the lines of electoral accountability ran upward toward party, legislative, and executive branch elites. They theorized that where legislators faced incentives to follow the preferences of party leaders for their reelection or career advancement, their party delegations were more cohesive and amenable to cooperation with the executive, for example, than where their constituents had a greater role (Morgenstern and Nacif 2002). However logical, even in electoral systems in which voters should have had a voice, this literature sidestepped the issue of what these cardboard constituents actually wanted from government; the hopes, desires, and fears of citizens mattered very little, if at all. Scholars engaged in the rational choice tradition merely assumed that voters with some real leverage over their representatives would inevitably want pork for their communities or patronage for themselves, but not the policies necessary to stabilize prices, provide for decent wages, or protect the environment or consumers. It would be only a slight exaggeration to assert that to the extent we

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thought about citizens, it was when we were troubled by their political behavior. Where Latin American citizens voted for the “wrong” candidates—or at least, for those who were perceived by scholars as not really being democrats or not governing in the best interest of ordinary citizens, we viewed them as the prey of demagogues. A new literature on “neopopulism” saw ordinary poor people, especially in the Andes, not as “citizens” in any meaningful sense of the term, but as voters, or survey respondents, or beneficiaries of state patronage who were manipulated by unsavory elites (see especially Roberts 1995; see also Weyland 1996; O’Donnell 1994). Not one of these authors argued that citizens were not worthy of support, and certainly no one argued that the franchise should be restricted anew to literate voters, but the point is that citizens were not so much seen any longer as agents of democratization, but rather as part of the diagnosis of shaky democracies. Ironically, the policy community, buying into V. O. Key’s famous maxim, “If the people can choose only from among rascals, they are certain to choose a rascal” (1966, p. 3), saw citizens very differently—as astute, capable of knowing their interests, and having good reasons to be disgusted with corrupt, self-interested politicians. But the dominant view among political scientists was that those who were not organized by political parties or social institutions, and who lived in rural areas or worked in the informal sector of the urban economy, were as incapable of exercising the rights and responsibilities of citizens as those Englishmen who, subject to the Poor Law, had to surrender to internment in the workhouse and forfeit their liberty and their rights as citizens (Marshall 1950, p. 24). Although they clearly assigned blame for this situation to the state, and not to an “irresponsible electorate,” the net effect was the same. For their failure to connect their work both to the big questions of the past as well as to the realm of politics, scholars of social movements themselves must shoulder a portion of the blame for the current lacuna in our scholarship on Latin American citizenship and civil society. To take one example, a promising literature on religion and politics in Latin America in the late 1970s and early 1980s pointed to the potential for leaders and members of grassroots Catholic organizations that operated like self-managed communities of believers to transform Latin America’s hierarchical political culture, and to serve as training schools for future civic leaders (Levine 1993). But the question of whether or not any of this potential was fulfilled was largely abandoned. Carol Drogus (1999), who returned to Brazil to interview the women whom she previously studied as leaders in the ecclesial base communities in the early 1980s, stands out as an exception. More critically, many scholars who did continue to study civil society and social movements flew under our radar screens, like stealth bombers, because they did not connect their study of social movements to politics. Most did not speak to the scholars who studied political institutions, and were often as

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guilty of ignoring the state, political society, and the realities of power, and of a naive view of democracy, as those who studied political institutions were guilty of ignoring citizens, or treating them like nuisances. Except for Joe Foweraker and Todd Landman (1997), who drew an explicit connection between social movements and the conquest of the rights of citizenship, these scholars, who could barely conceal their disdain for politicians, political parties, and the halls of Congress, could find no value in civil society, and citizens, engaging political society, and so they found little evidence of such influence. As Linz and Stepan decried, “Within the democratic community, champions of either civil or political society all too often adopt a discourse and a set of practices that are implicitly inimical to the normal development of the other” (1996a, pp. 8–9). Whichever side is to blame for the bifurcation of the field into those who kept on studying social movements and those who studied political institutions, the net effect was that in our imaginations civil society tragically became divorced from political society. Instead of following the harder path of charting the presence or absence of the connections between the two and their consequences, we turned to the more facile and seductive solution of consuming a growing body of generally good and more readily accessible public opinion surveys. The problem was not in examining available surveys; it was in not taking a more active role in designing their questions, and especially in relying on their answers almost exclusively for any insight into the political attitudes of average citizens toward their democracies, bringing us to an impasse where we cannot easily interpret their responses and explain their results. As we turn our attention to the question of citizenship, we may legitimately ask whether citizenship is a logical extension of our collective concerns with the quality of democracy, or whether, as Joseph Tulchin and Meg Ruthenburg seem to suggest in Chapter 1, it is really a separate subject of inquiry. While it is hard to disagree in principle that full citizenship is an essential ingredient in a quality democracy, democratic theorists might object that when the “quality” of democracy is defined and measured as political stability, the reduction of corruption, and the capacity of the legal system to enforce contracts, it is too narrow a term to capture the study of citizenship, and that what might admittedly enhance these aspects of the quality of democracy will not necessarily enhance others, in particular the enabling of citizens and their engagement with their rulers. If the question of citizenship can be disentangled from the question of the quality of democracy, then we may be poised at the doorstep of a distinctive, fourth phase of scholarship on democracy in Latin America. It is likely that, however demarcated, we will witness a flurry of citizenship studies in the years ahead, a move that we should welcome to bring real and ordinary citizens back into the local councils, labor unions, church groups, and voting booths of democracies.

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What will these studies look like? What should they look like? How might they help to explain the crisis of mass support plaguing contemporary Latin American democracy? To lay an agenda for future research that is capable of addressing these questions, we must first recognize the manifestations of the fundamental problem of “thin citizenship”—citizens do not participate fully in political life, in many cases they are denied basic citizenship rights, and many, especially racial and ethnic minorities, are excluded from membership in national political communities—and we must also acknowledge that we begin from a theoretical disadvantage brought on by a too hasty consumption of democratic theory.

Citizenship in Democratic Theory The ancient Greeks, the original practitioners of democracy, could hardly have imagined a corpus of scholarship about democracy without a starring role for citizens; democracy without citizens had no content. They certainly could not have imagined any debate about citizen participation, rights, and responsibilities in a democracy. In ancient Athens, citizens participated directly in legislative and judicial functions, and citizen associations were sovereign. All citizens, some 30,000 to 45,000 in total, met to debate, decide, and enact the law, and before the law, everyone was equal. There was no distinction between public officials and ordinary citizens; the governors were the governed. But citizens, of course, were hardly ordinary. The rub is that the demos consisted entirely of adult males of strictly Athenian descent. Athenian democracy, in its perfection, denied both the rights and the duties of citizenship to women, and it rested on a base of slavery (Held 1987, pp. 15, 18, 34). Some medieval Italian towns achieved citizen participation without slavery, but the challenge for democratic theory ever since has been to devise ways to make citizens out of people who are not truly free and equal, to constitute a democratic form of rule in societies so large and complex that “direct democracy” is not technically possible, and to accompany what Robert Dahl called the “second democratic transformation—from the city-state to the nation-state” (1989, pp. 1–2). These challenges of democracy, which have preoccupied political thinkers for two millennia, cannot be adequately treated in this chapter. Here, I focus on two questions underlying the current “crisis of citizenship” in Latin America. First is the problem of participation, scale, and competence: how much citizen involvement should there be in a modern democratic polity and what form should it assume? Second, and related to the first, is the problem of the rights, responsibilities, and allegiances of citizens: What rights should citizens enjoy, in what unit should rights reside, and who should define and guarantee them? These two questions raise an

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epistemological one: How can we appropriately address the questions of democratic participation and representation and the boundaries of citizenship within existing, widely accepted empirical definitions of democracy that limit our ability to provide a “thick” account of democracy and citizenship that is tractable yet true to its normative content? Participation, Representation, or Elite Competition? Contemporary debates about the “right” mix of citizen participation in selfgovernance can trace their origins to three classic visions of democracy— the participatory, representative, and competitive elite traditions. These traditions have long been concerned with the nature and consequences of citizen participation in government, and especially, how democracy might help to form an active citizenry (Held 1987, p. 72). The architect of our modern notion of participatory democracy was Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who linked democracy to a new version of the rights and duties of citizens (Held 1987, p. 73). Rousseau rejected the social contract of Thomas Hobbes and John Locke, which transferred sovereignty from the people to the state and its rulers, as the original mechanism of individual consent, as well as the ballot box as the mechanism whereby citizens periodically conferred authority on government to enact laws. Objecting to any transfer of sovereignty, even a conditional one (Held 1987, pp. 74–75), because sovereignty originated in the people and could not be alienated, Rousseau wrote in 1762: “Legislative power belongs to the people and can belong to it alone” (Rousseau 1967, p. 59). It made “no difference” to Rousseau if the state had “ten thousand or one hundred thousand men,” except that each person’s slice of sovereignty had been divided into a smaller share (pp. 60–61). The exercise of sovereignty for Rousseau entailed a radical notion that all citizens participate directly in public meetings to decide what is best for the community and enact the appropriate laws—to be the legislature and the authority of the state. Participation was so important because “the considered exercise of power by citizens” was the only legitimate way in which liberty could be sustained. The citizen both had to create and had to be bound by the supreme direction of the “general will,” by which Rousseau meant the publicly generated conception of the common good (Held 1987, pp. 75–76). Sovereignty could not be represented because the general will could not be represented. He sharply distinguished the general will from the “will of all,” which “has regard to private interests, and is merely a sum of particular wills” (Rousseau 1967, pp. 30–31). For Rousseau, “the ruled should be the rulers” (Held 1987, p. 75) and the “deputies of the people” could not be their representatives. “Every law which the people in person have not ratified is invalid; it is not a law” (Rousseau 1967, p. 99). A republican, Rousseau believed in the separation of the legislative from the execu-

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tive branch.10 The role of the executive, or the prince, was to execute the people’s laws (Held 1987, p. 77). This, the clearest statement of the participatory model of democracy, was one that could with great difficulty be transposed to modern democracies. Even Rousseau himself could not resolve that the democracy he envisioned presupposed many things, including “a very small state . . . in which every citizen can easily know all the rest,” and be readily assembled (Rousseau 1967, p. 70). Strictly speaking, “there never has existed, and never will exist, any true democracy,” because it was “impossible to imagine that the people should remain in perpetual assembly to attend to public affairs” (p. 70). Indeed, those who championed Rousseau’s noble tradition, such as Carole Pateman (1970), sought evidence of the workability of participatory democracy in small-scale units, such as worker self-managed factories in the former Yugoslavia. We should be careful to note that Rousseau championed the direct participation of citizens in ascertaining the general will and legislating according to it, but not necessarily the participation of citizens in civic associations. To the contrary, he worried about “partial” associations. Such associations he saw as detrimental to the whole society, because “the will of each of these associations becomes general with reference to its members, and particular with reference to the State,” and this was especially so if one of these associations became so great that it predominated (Rousseau 1967, p. 31). “In order to have a clear declaration of the general will,” there should be “no partial association in the State,” and “every citizen should express only his own opinion.” But if there had to be “partial” associations, he argued it was necessary “to multiply their number and prevent inequality” (pp. 31–32). This sets him apart from Alexis de Tocqueville, who believed that the political associations of civil society were the “dike to hold back tyrannies of any sort,” as he wrote in 1835, and the best guarantee against the omnipotence of the majority, a danger that was especially great in a “democratic social state.” Political associations were “great free schools, where all citizens come to be taught the general theory of association,” and through seeing, speaking, listening, and stimulating others to carry out all sorts of common undertakings, the dangers of freedom were rendered less formidable (Tocqueville 1988, pp. 192, 522, 524). A second tradition is exemplified by John Stuart Mill, who, a century after Rousseau, in 1861, returned to the problem that the ancient Greek idea of the polis could not be sustained in modern society. Despite the usefulness and desirability of participation by the “whole people” and their admission to a share in the sovereign power of the state, all could not, “in a community exceeding a small town, participate personally in any but some very minor portions of the public business” (Mill 1958, p. 55). For Mill, it followed that in modern conditions the “ideally best form of government” was representa-

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tive government, a system in which “the whole people, or some numerous portion of them, exercise through deputies periodically elected by themselves the ultimate controlling power” (pp. 36, 68).11 Even if the people should exercise the “ultimate controlling power,” Mill circumscribed the degree to which representatives should be bound by any commitments to their constituents. He was clear that there was “a radical distinction between controlling the business of government and actually doing it” (p. 70).12 Mill favored the move from direct to representative government not merely to solve the problem of scale, but also because he feared two dangers—a “low grade of intelligence in the representative body and in the popular opinion which controls it,” and “class legislation on the part of the numerical majority, these being all composed of the same class” (p. 102). To limit the influence of the masses, ensure minority representation and represent different opinions, and preserve individual liberty, Mill proposed a system of plural and weighted voting for the legislative assembly, and he stipulated that the public administration would comprise a set of professional rulers selected on a merit basis. Mill’s reservations about direct popular participation for good government notwithstanding, he did believe firmly in citizen participation in political life—via voting, involvement in local administration, and jury service —as a means of creating a direct interest in government and, consequently, a basis for an informed and developing citizenry, male or female (Held 1987, p. 86). Mill drew a line connecting the dots between citizen participation and the guarantee of citizen rights: “the rights and interests of every or any person are only secure from being disregarded when the person interested is himself able and habitually disposed, to stand up for them” (Mill 1958, p. 43). Citizen participation in social and public life also served the greater good: the “general prosperity attains a greater height and is more widely diffused in proportion to the amount and variety of the personal energies enlisted in promoting it’” (p. 43). Though often without attribution, Mill’s influence is clearly at work in the body of scholarship on constitutional engineering and institutional designs that enhance good governance. In the twentieth century, the technical impossibility of the “people” ruling bothered Joseph Schumpeter, but his mechanisms for citizen participation, responsibility, and accountability differed. Schumpeter (1942) believed the best solution to the problem of organizing a democratic polity in modern and complex times, given the capacities of elites and citizens, was for elites to govern, and for competition to serve as the mechanism through which citizens would select those to govern them. He allowed little role for citizen participation. The pluralist theorists, and especially Robert Dahl (1971, pp. 2–3), made this elitist conception of democracy more palatable in two ways. First, they discounted that power would become concentrated in the hands of the few, both because different groups enjoyed different kinds of resources that allowed the influence of any particular group to

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vary from issue to issue, and also because social forces tend to change their composition, alter their concerns, and shift their positions (Held 1987, pp. 189–190). Second, they added a layer of citizen participation beyond that envisioned or permitted by Schumpeter. For Dahl, the competitive model of democracy worked when citizens in a democracy “among a large number of people” were able to formulate their preferences, signify them to fellow citizens and the government, and have their preferences weighed equally in the conduct of government. In other words, they should be afforded the opportunity to do more than select from fit leaders, they should also signal their preferences to their representatives and their governors, a key element in representation according to some democratic theorists (Manin, Przeworski, and Stokes 1999). The impact of pluralist theory, and especially of the works of Dahl that sought to align Schumpeter’s electoral democracy with the normative goals of self-governance, is reflected in contemporary understandings of the quality of democracy. The question of whether citizen input is badly needed or gets in the way in the business of large-scale government is still relevant in established democracies in which authority is migrating to international and supranational institutions, but it acquires even greater urgency in new democracies constrained by the global economy that face an agenda of painful reform in hard times. Given the challenges facing government and inexperienced citizenries, many scholars today follow Schumpeter in believing that democracy works best, for a number of reasons, when representation is curtailed essentially to the mechanism of periodic electoral accountability. For these scholars, civil society plays the role of “spoiler,” to use Nancy Bermeo’s term (2003, p. 11). In the widely read Crisis of Democracy (1975), a work so influential that it spawned a sequel (Pharr and Putnam 2000), Michel Crozier, Samuel Huntington, and Joji Watanuki admonished that the democracies in Western Europe, North America, and Japan—the Trilateral region—were becoming “ungovernable” because of an “overload” of demands by mobilized citizens on states that were stretched beyond their capacities. In earlier eras, deference and even outright exclusion had served to restrict citizen demands of government to manageable levels, but authority based on hierarchy, expertise, and wealth all came under heavy attack in the 1960s. In Western Europe, the traditional authority structure residing in churches, schools, and the army nearly collapsed, and the United States experienced a reaffirmation of the democratic and egalitarian values of the American creed (Crozier, Huntington, and Watanuki 1975, pp. 25–28, 75, 112–113). The result was not the democratic political culture that neoTocquevilleans hoped for, but an explosive wave of protests symbolized by the civil rights movement in the United States, the strikes of 1968 in France, the “hot autumn” of 1969 in Italy, and an “intrinsically threatening,” “pervasive spirit of democracy.” In this hyperdemocratic moment, overloaded

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democratic governments caved to a slew of demands from African Americans, feminists, environmentalists, and a host of other groups, which in turn caused deficits to grow, inflation to rise, discontent to spread, and a sense that governments simply could not govern. As Huntington put it, “the vitality of democracy in the United States in the 1960s produced a substantial increase in governmental activity and a substantial decrease in government authority” (Crozier, Huntington, and Watanuki 1975, p. 64). While often pilloried for his stark appraisal of the causes of this “crisis,” Huntington and his coauthors were of course neither the first nor the last political scientists to hold such a view. Gabriel Almond and Sidney Verba have also been chastened over the years for implying that the civic culture had a right mix of activity and passivity, and that “the intensity of the individual’s political involvement and activity” must be moderated for democracy to thrive (1963, p. 339). Huntington and those who followed him premised their conclusion on the assumption that if citizens were not hypermobilized, they would be deferential, malleable, willing to restrict their political participation to selecting leaders at election time, and accepting not only of the notion that what government could provide them was necessarily limited, but also of wherever government drew that line. They did not consider that uppity citizens who did not participate in the process of formulating demands and the public debate about policy might become more immoderate, quicker to anger when government fails, alienated, and, once disaffected, willing to join a radical antisystem movement. They certainly did not admit the possibility that citizens might formulate inflated and unreasonable demands, or not accept not having them met, the less, not the more, they participated. Moreover, disengaged citizens might not be dispassionate, neutral, and accepting of policy reform, but less understanding of the trade-offs for the common good and more self-interested. Public participation can serve an agglutinative role, bringing together citizens of a community to develop shared interests in the common good and a shared responsibility for the results of the policies they propose. Where this does not happen, where “common identities, histories, and cultural heritages are forgotten and society fragments into ghettos” and “political mediation fails to fulfills its function of transforming individual interests into collective interests,” warned former Brazilian president Fernando Henrique Cardoso, the “public debate tends to focus less on what must be done than on how to allocate limited resources in order to satisfy demands that certainly compete for attention even when they do not directly clash with one another” (1996, p. 9). There may also be strategic reasons for popular mobilization and participation. In a work authored more than a quarter century ago with Joan Nelson (Huntington and Nelson 1976), Huntington himself took some degree of political participation by the poor as a prerequisite for distributing the fruits of economic development more widely, and

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political participation by any group or set of previously unmobilized individuals as essential for any government that wished to change course to offset the opposition of those that stood to lose. Against the elitist strain of democratic theory, contemporary champions of participatory and deliberative democracy have of course entertained just such a possibility that participation, especially in civic organizations, can enhance community, civic virtue, and good government. Michael Walzer (1995) has argued that it is in the voluntary associations of civil society, and not the market or political venues, that we learn the virtues of mutual obligation. Robert Putnam, resurrecting Tocqueville, boldly championed the notion that the participation of responsible citizens, an outgrowth of their association in civil society, is what makes for better, not overloaded, democratic governments. In those regions of Italy that had a long tradition of civic engagement, Putnam claimed that civic association laid the foundation for “social capital,” or those features of social organization, such as social trust, norms of reciprocity, and networks of civic engagement, that “improve the efficiency of society by facilitating coordinated actions” (1993, pp. 167, 170–171). Although the bleak state of affairs that Huntington predicted did not come to pass, a result he attributed a quarter century later (2000, p. xxiv) to sounding the alarm bells to the Trilateral Commission and to democratic leaders taking its recommendations to heart in the 1980s,13 the fears of a citizenry that takes democracy too seriously have only grown in new democracies. In the 1980s, scholars worried about the ability of Latin American democracies exiting from authoritarian rule in the 1980s to cope objectively with the crushing burden of debt, four-digit annual rates of inflation, and a populace with legitimate, pent-up grievances stored from military regimes that had deliberately driven down wages and living standards and emasculated the rights of citizens. In the 1990s, many feared that, given the decline of deference across these societies that were highly stratified by income, color, and region, widespread consultation with civil society would undermine the coherence of reform programs and prompt governments to cave to spending demands that would raise deficits even higher, fuel inflation, and constrict the capacity of future governments to invest in social services, the modernization of physical infrastructure, and the promotion of industrial and nontraditional exports. Wherever their hearts lay, these opponents of popular participation argued forcefully that badly needed reform that was sure to induce temporary pain should not be subject to popular referendum, and they surrendered to the idea of instituting reform by stealth (see, e.g., Sachs 1994). Here institutionalists joined cause with the overload theorists, prioritizing the smoothness and efficiency of the legislative process over the benefits of public participation. With fragile democracies facing the urgent tasks of executing fiscal,

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administrative, and pension reform, controlling the deficit spending of subnational governments, and limiting the state’s reach into the economy, this concern was understandable. But reform by stealth and imposition that did not have the benefit of informational feedback and shared responsibility carried a different set of risks, such as haphazard decisionmaking, a vulnerability to reversal under public pressure, and even institutional instability. In Venezuela, for example, things went terribly wrong, even amid impressive growth rates, when bus fares rose, the quality of public services declined, and citizens did not understand why they had been asked to sacrifice (Naim 1993). Adam Przeworski went so far as to argue, with the input of Luiz Carlos Bresser Pereira, former Brazilian minister of finance and later minister of state administration reform, that negotiating an economic reform program with diverse political forces could serve to improve its technical quality, particularly since “neither the local consistency of any particular reform strategy nor the design of specific measures are [sic] obvious even to professional economists,” as well as help to build a base of political support to sustain reform “as the costs are experienced” (Przeworski et al. 1995, pp. 76, 81). It would not be an exaggeration to say that this unresolved debate continues to divide the community of social scientists on strategies for improving democracy and its policy outputs. On one side are proponents of such experiments in active citizen engagement as participatory budgeting, an initiative of the local Workers Party administration of the southern Brazilian city of Porto Alegre that permits citizens to participate not only in public discussion to set budgeting priorities but also in the actual delivery of public services (Baiocchi 2001). On the other side, skeptics maintain that tough times require insulated decisionmakers, and that when government performance turns around, so will democracy’s approval ratings. The Rights, Responsibilities, and Identities of Citizens By this point it is trite to say that political theorists classically spoke of citizenship not as rights but as duties, obligations, and responsibilities. For Aristotle and the ancient Greeks, citizenship meant participation in public affairs at a rank comparable to modern-day representatives and office holders, and “the limited scope in contemporary politics for active involvement would have been regarded as most undemocratic” (Held 1987, p. 36). Similarly, for radical democrats like Rousseau, citizenship was “heroically intense” (Walzer 1995, p. 171), and in the republican tradition, too, citizenship was “active,” “thick,” and, at its core, about civic virtue and responsibility. By contrast, the modern-day identification of citizenship with rights and entitlements underlies a version of citizenship that is “passive” and “thin”; and where citizens are denied the opportunity to exercise civic responsibility, a “low-intensity” citizenship results.

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The “rights movement” in contemporary scholarship on citizenship began with T. H. Marshall. In his pioneering and brilliant essay on citizenship and social class, Marshall (1950, p. 28) defined citizenship as a status bestowed on those who are full members of a community that carried with it a basic human equality. Citizenship’s three component parts were each exercised and guaranteed through different institutions and, in England, acquired by men and women sequentially over the course of three centuries. Civil rights, or those necessary for individual freedom—liberty of the person; freedom of speech, thought, and faith; the right to own property and to conclude valid contacts; and the right to justice (p. 10)—came first. These were achieved through the courts of justice roughly in the eighteenth century (from the revolution to the first reform act) at the same time that capitalism developed. The civil rights of individual economic freedom and free labor, indeed, were indispensable to a competitive market economy (p. 33). Political rights, including the right to participate in the exercise of political power as a member of a body invested with political authority or as an elector of the members of such a body (p. 11), were acquired in the nineteenth century only after civil rights had been secured, as a secondary product of those rights. Political rights were exercised and guaranteed through the parliament and councils of local government. Social rights, which were achieved in the twentieth century through the educational system and the social services, included a range of rights from a modicum of economic welfare and security to the right to share to the full in the social heritage and to live the life of a civilized being according to the standards prevailing in the society (p. 11). The “social rights” of citizenship were not mere policy victories or welfare benefits. Rather, they were required for citizens to be formed, to become complete “civilized” men and women, to vote, to pay taxes, and to serve on juries—in short, to adequately discharge their duties of citizenship. In the late twentieth century, human rights and cultural rights were added to this triad. Globalization brought to the fore a set of “postnational” social issues and notably broadened the community of support for enforcing those rights beyond the nation-state to encompass the international community. That community is now “global, virtual and thin, rather than local and thick” (Turner 2001, pp. 203–204). The growing cultural pluralism of modern societies, European integration, the universal and particularistic claims of asylum seekers, and the claims of aboriginal peoples and ethnic and religious minorities for special rights, coupled with pressures to transfer authority over citizenship downward to local communities, have also put cultural rights—the right to teach children in a native language or to wear religious garb to public schools—on the agenda of politics. They have also challenged the national basis for citizenship and citizen allegiance in democratic theory (compare Habermas 1995, pp. 255–256). The struggle for cultural rights entails a struggle not merely to acquire

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them as individuals, but also to hold them collectively in a way that allows individuals to share in the cultural heritage of a community. Cultural rights have neither precise nor necessary connections with membership in the nation-state, and thus they redefine the political community in which citizens hold membership away from the nation-state to the particular group to whom citizens may owe primary, prior, or shifting allegiances. Cultural pluralists argue that citizenship must take account of differences in sociocultural identity among such groups as women; ethnic, religious, and racial minorities; indigenous and aboriginal peoples; and gays and lesbians; and that a notion of “differentiated citizenship” (Young 1989, p. 258) is necessary if historically excluded groups are to gain inclusion in the common culture (Kymlicka and Norman 1994, p. 370). Will Kymlicka and Wayne Norman (1994, pp. 373–375) do not exaggerate when they claim that these theorists pose a radical challenge to our theories of citizenship because they call into question the essential premise that citizenship is, by definition, a matter of treating people as individuals with equal rights under the law. But they also soberly assuage those opponents of multiculturalism who might panic that any claim for special representation would bring an end to national unity.14 They draw a useful distinction between those citizenship claims for extended rights that aim toward inclusion—special representation rights for disadvantaged groups and multicultural rights for national minorities15—and those for self-government rights, which do not. Whereas the former take the larger political community for granted, the latter aim to weaken the bonds with the larger community and “question its very nature, authority, and permanence.” Self-government rights divide the people into separate “peoples,” each with its own historical rights, territories, and powers of self-government, and each, therefore, with its own political community, raising deep problems for traditional notions of citizenship identity. As Kymlicka and Norman put it, “If democracy is the rule of the people, group self-determination raises the question of who ‘the people’ really are. National minorities claim that they are distinct peoples, with inherent rights of self-determination which were not relinquished by their (sometimes involuntary) federation with other nations within a larger country” (1994, p. 375). Thus cultural rights are perceived as threatening to the nation, and unlike civil, political, and human rights, are not widely accepted rights of citizenship in contemporary democracies.16 Perhaps less evident is that the social rights of citizenship are also contested. The battle lines are not merely over their extension, but especially over whether or not the public provision of healthcare and old-age and unemployment insurance constitute legitimate rights. It is of course politically expedient, given that welfare states have been subject to retrenchment in the advanced industrial democracies and neoliberal reform has taken the state out of the provision of many social services that could be construed to be part of the bundle of social

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rights Marshall had in mind, not to see the withdrawn benefits as rights. Moreover, social rights are not seen as part of the definition of a realistic democracy. If we had to begin to take stock of social rights, not to mention the even application of civil and human rights, we would have to exclude many more nations from the democratic club. The Normative and Empirical Challenges of Studying Democracy When Joseph Schumpeter unveiled a mechanism for selecting leaders from competing elites, he transposed democracy from a system of self-government into a method, an “institutional arrangement for arriving at political decisions in which individuals acquire the power to decide via a competitive struggle for the people’s vote” (1942, p. 269). Schumpeter’s new definition of democracy ran counter to a venerable tradition that had spanned two millennia, and had a surprisingly powerful impact on the modern discipline of political science. Schumpeter’s Capitalism, Socialism, and Democracy (1942) was embraced by most contemporary scholars of democracy, and any objections to his approach gradually faded in the decades after its appearance, to the point where even Samuel Huntington confidently asserted that by the 1970s, “the debate was over, and Schumpeter had won” (1991, p. 6). Huntington’s triumphal gloat may be exaggerated, but he is essentially correct. Schumpeter’s approach won wide appeal in the six decades after he introduced this notion, not merely among those who might distrust the masses, be skeptical of democracy, and seek to circumscribe it in such a way so as not to interfere with the proper functioning of state and market institutions, but also among many who agreed with the hopeful view that democracy might help to bring about a more decent and just society. The latter group was persuaded that a minimalist definition of democracy better served their empirical purposes. Robert Dahl, who continued to believe that democracy held the promise of something more than elections and constitutional procedures, in a famous sleight of hand surrendered to the empirical model and renamed the animal he studied “polyarchy.” Przeworski and colleagues also justified their minimalist stance with respect to classifying regimes as democratic on empirical grounds, claiming: Almost all normatively desirable aspects of political life, and sometimes even of social and economic life, are credited as definitional features of democracy: representation, accountability, equality, participation, dignity, rationality, security, freedom—the list goes on. Indeed, according to many definitions, the set of true democracies is an empty set. And from an analytical point of view, lumping all good things together is of little use. The typical research problem is to examine the relationships among them. We want to know if holding repeated elections induces governmental account-

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They settle for a definition of democracy as a “regime in which government offices are filled by contested elections,” and they apply three simple rules: that the chief executive must be elected, that the legislature must be elected, and that there must be more than one party (Przeworski et al. 2000, pp. 14–15, 18–22). If the elite model of democracy is as realistic, descriptive, and empirically accurate as it claims to be, there have been normative and conceptual consequences. Jean Cohen and Andrew Arato charge that in reducing democracy to a method for choosing leaders, to “a set of minimums modeled on a conception of bargaining, competition, access, and accountability derived more from the market than from the earlier models of citizenship,” the elite model denudes democracy of its normative content, and its realism “loses all criteria for distinguishing between formalistic ritual, systematic distortion, choreographed consent, manipulated public opinion, and the real thing” (1992, pp. 4–5, 7). Conceptually, by treating democracy as an independent variable in order that we may ask such questions as, “Do democratic regimes promote growth?” and “Do democratic regimes promote happiness?” or as a dichotomous variable that allows us to ascertain whether or not we have “arrived” at a democratic regime, we have lost some of the richness of our understanding of what makes democracy good, vibrant, and, in the eyes of its own citizens, worthy or not of defending. The challenge is to construct an alternative approach toward democracy that brings citizens back into our everyday understanding of it, and that is amenable to rigorous empirical investigation.

The Consumption of Democratic Theory by Latin Americanists As Latin Americanists turned to studying the roles of citizens and the concept of citizenship in new and sometimes fragile democracies, especially their participation and their rights, we relied on an abridged reading or, worse, on each other’s readings, of democratic theory and theories of citizenship. Dahl and Marshall became the new canon. When democracy was restored to Latin America, few of the generation of especially US scholars who charted the regime transitions had read such classics of democratic theory as Rousseau and Mill since their undergraduate days, some dusted Tocqueville off their shelves, but all clutched Robert Dahl’s 1971 classic Polyarchy.17 Discomfited with the notion of adhering to an “elitist” view of democracy, it was reassuring that Dahl took inclusion into account equally with competition, and that he gave serious

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thought to the conditions that would enable the effective exercise of citizenship in a modern, responsive democracy. To a generation grappling with reconciling themselves to swearing allegiance to the democracies they had previously (and with more mature eyes mistakenly) viewed as hopelessly limited and unjust, Polyarchy became a life raft. We could believe that once established, political democracy could be achieved, and the resulting democracy, if allowing for universal suffrage (participation) and party competition (contestation), would be a pretty good democracy, as long as elites learned to live with losing, something that would be easier if the masses tempered their demands. In truth, Dahl’s conditions made Schumpeter’s model of elite competition palatable, but did not shift the fundamental premise of democracy away from competition; his conditions simply made competition fairer. Polyarchy also allowed us to utilize an empirical definition of democracy that would enable us to advance research on political regimes. Thus we comforted ourselves that if Dahl’s conditions could be met, and citizen input could be channeled into democratic policymaking, that which we called the quality of democracy would improve. When it did not, we wondered whether or not Latin Americans enjoyed the full spectrum of rights to which citizens in democracies were entitled. To define those rights, we turned to Marshall. We applauded the restoration and extension of political and civil rights, which we understood, once the transitions to democracy had taken place, to be a simple matter of constitutional concession. Once these rights were inscribed in constitutional law, we surmised that the root problem of Latin America’s poor-quality democracies was that the social rights of citizenship were in short supply. We sang as a chorus that the essential task necessary to improve the quality of Latin American democracies was to find the money to extend these social rights to all. The problem was not in turning to Dahl and Marshall for inspiration; it was relying on them practically exclusively, and especially on a too narrow reading of these works that focused on some questions these authors raised to the exclusion of others. We were sold on the empirical advantages of working with a limited understanding of democracy and an understanding of political representation as a system based on elite competition. As two anthropologists, James Holston and Teresa Caldeira (1998, pp. 264, 287), perceptively argued, an excessive focus on regime change, electoral competition, and their preconditions allowed for the study of only the political and formal component of citizenship. Fearing “ideological and evidentiary confusion” if we broadened our scope of legitimate investigation and that “we would have no democracies to study” if we expanded our definition of democracy, we passed over threats to citizenship posed by an undemocratic social sphere, and “what was meant by the shibboleth ‘the rule of law’ [was] seldom investigated, and the crucial question of the performance of the justice system [was] seldom posed” (pp. 286–287).18 Sticking to our research

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agenda, we did not position ourselves to fully understand the current crisis in Latin American democracy. Specifically, we committed three errors. First, we underestimated the difficulty of achieving, and the consequences of failing to secure, civil rights. We bought into the notion that observing civil liberties and the various freedoms—of association, the press—was a readily achievable task; once (constitutionally) extended, they would also be guaranteed. But of course, we focused only on the formal rules of the legal and judicial systems, without taking sufficiently seriously the informal practices from the uneven, class-based application of bureaucratic procedures to racial discrimination that we all encountered in our first days of fieldwork in Latin America (compare O’Donnell 1993, p. 1359; O’Donnell 1996a, pp. 39–41).19 We were oversold on the right to social rights and glibly attributed the inability of the poor in Latin America to use their political rights to achieve these social rights, as their English counterparts had, to inequality. Our claim was that the persistent, extreme inequality of many Latin American countries—evidenced by Gini coefficients in the range of from 0.40 to 0.64—subverted the possibilities for an even playing field.20 Had we read Marshall more closely, we would have discovered that for Marshall, the condition of “economic” or “quantitative” inequality did not impede citizenship as long as civic and political equality was assured. In fact, he treated social-class inequality (which was generated by the competitive market) as a dependent variable, something that was attenuated, with time, through the conquest of the full rights of citizenship because it was incompatible with them. In retrospect, recognizing that Latin Americans have been largely unsuccessful in using political rights to secure social rights, and assuming that such a political conquest was impossible amid persistent extreme inequality, was not sufficient. We needed to explain this deficit, and we still do. Second, we focused on the questions of the rights of citizenship to the exclusion of citizenship’s responsibilities, a question of deep concern to democratic theorists. We turned a blind eye to a long tradition of liberal, communitarian, and republican political theory about civic responsibility, virtue, and the “fitness” of citizens to govern, presumably because it would have smacked of elitism, but we collectively forgot that even radical and committed democrats such as Rousseau shared these concerns that citizens, in whom he had an abiding faith, might succumb to the selfishness of pursuing private interests. While we recognized that inequality impinged on the political and especially the social rights of citizenship, we did not consider that inequality also impedes the exercise of the political obligations of citizenship. Indeed, one of the gravest oversights of Latin Americanists was that we gave little thought to how the majority of the population in Latin America, deprived of even an elementary education—so fundamental to Marshall—could exercise citizenship.21 Viewing neopopulism as elite

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manipulation, but not asking what might have inoculated the poor from the siren calls of demagogues, we forfeited the opportunity to understand the vulnerability of “passive citizens” to such strong-arm leaders of the right and left as Alberto Fujimori and Hugo Chávez, and eventually to antisystem social movements that challenged the boundaries of national identity and the shape of the polity. We especially neglected the ways in which exercising the obligations of citizenship through democratic participation holds state institutions and actors accountable for enforcing rights as well as for clean and effective governance engender better policies and build support for democracies. Third, we accepted on faith the national allegiance of peoples who were traditionally excluded and who, in the extreme, did not identify with common membership in their nations. Persisting in viewing Latin America in class terms, we were slower to embrace contemporary theories about citizenship and multiculturalism than were students of advanced industrial democracies. With few exceptions, we neglected the exclusion of women and the estrangement of indigenous peoples and racial and religious minorities from a political community that was defined and managed by Iberiandescended males. This omission was most notable, and serious, in cases in which powerful indigenous popular movements unseated elected presidents. Other, less dramatic changes that also followed from a pluralization of religious and other identities by and large escaped the notice of political scientists. Assuming that either Latin America would remain a Roman Catholic region indefinitely or that the growth in the ranks of Pentecostal, diaspora, and indigenous religions would have no significant political implications, we overlooked the ways in which the growth of indigenous religions— always inchoate but now manifest—was part of a rebellion against the (dominant) religion of conquerors and slave-owners and has now contributed to new religious and collective identities (Steigenga 2004, pp. 231–232). The recent demands for religious freedom among religious minorities (see Sigmund 1999), moreover, portend national debates not merely over the rights of Protestant ministers to preach from a bullhorn in the public square during the lunch hour, but also over religiously based circumscriptions of individual civil rights, and the (Roman Catholic) religious identity of these nations (Levine forthcoming). In short, because we focused on some rights of citizenship but not others, rights without obligations, without identity, and without a sense of membership, we forfeited an important opportunity to identify the source of the deep disaffection of ordinary people with democratic governments and democratic regimes. Most fundamentally, we left ourselves without a means of understanding the failure of democratic governments to organize the consent of the governed, which, we also failed to remember, of course, is a first and fundamental principle of democratic theory.

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Rights, Participation, and Representation in the State and Society Of all the deficits in contemporary citizenship in Latin America, the crisis of citizenship rights and the crisis of participation and representation stand out as critical. Below, I highlight the contours of both the fragility of civil and political rights and the scarce participation of citizens in democratic political life. These two deficits may be connected: citizens who are denied access to the civil and social rights of citizenship are challenged to exercise their obligations as citizens, and if citizens are not responsible for the poor quality of democracy, they might plausibly, through the exercise of a “thicker” version of citizenship, hold state and political institutions to greater account in guaranteeing rights. I take up the move for cultural rights, which, along with the shrinking, neoliberal state, constitute the defining challenges in this “fourth moment” of democracy studies, later in the chapter. The Crisis of Citizenship Rights A quarter century of scholarship on democratization assumed that with the achievement of democratic regimes, the civil and political (though not necessarily the social) rights of citizenship would automatically follow. As it turns out, the project of restoring and advancing political rights in Latin America advanced to a remarkable degree, but while the field was fixed on the problem of social rights and the difficulty of Latin Americans in achieving them, the process of extending and enforcing civil rights was uneven, slipshod, and incomplete. The first political scientist to call attention systematically to the vast scope of this problem, its manifestations in the way in which the courts, police, and petty bureaucrats mistreated ordinary people in their daily interactions, and the way in which it made a mockery of the whole notion of citizenship for so many of Latin America’s poor, was Guillermo O’Donnell. O’Donnell prompted us to think about the rule of law not merely as enforcing contracts, as an eighteenth-century liberal might, but as fairly applying the protections and punishments of the law to all citizens, as befits a twenty-first-century democracy. He argued (1993, p. 1357) that the rights of citizenship cannot be guaranteed in the elections and the political process of a democratic regime alone, but rather that these rights must be protected in the courts of justice and the offices of ombudsmen—in other words, in the democratic state in which that regime is embedded. In a democratic state, citizens need to have equal access to the rule of law in the sense not only that governments and officials must act in accordance with the constitution and the laws, but also that they have access to the judiciary, bureaucracy, and fair process, that the justice and police systems must be universally and predictably applied, that discriminatory laws must be elimi-

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nated, and that sheer lawlessness must be eliminated (O’Donnell 1993, p. 1353; 1999b, pp. 311–314). This has hardly been the case in many countries. To the contrary, in Brazil and elsewhere, violence and “sheer lawlessness” have increased since the transition to democracy. The state has failed utterly to prevent private violence on the part of the hired guns of landowners and drug gangs operating on the urban periphery. More critically, it has failed to discipline its own agents—typically on- or off-duty military police who often kill with impunity. For their violence against presumed criminals, they elicit public approval, but for their violence against known innocents (often the same people), they also engender deep-seated fear. The failure of the state to control violence and to protect the poor from itself is an outgrowth of the corresponding failure of the judicial system. Civilian and military courts have routinely failed to impose sanctions on the offenses of the powerful, to protect citizens from abuses by the state, and to hold military police accountable for committing abuses of civil rights (Holston and Caldeira 1998; Pereira 2000). In the most spectacular instances, courts have even failed to convict and even to bring to trial the perpetrators of very public massacres of poor citizens (Freedom House 2003). The crux of the problem is that the guarantee of civil rights—the right to physical security and equal access to justice—depends on state institutions that are not necessarily under the control of elected governments. The state as a territorial entity delimits those who are the carries of the rights and obligations of citizenship, and as a legal system it enacts and backs these rights and obligations (O’Donnell 2004, p. 20). Where states cannot effectively control territory and enforce equal access to the law, where the state does not penetrate local communities or does so imperfectly, as is true in the “brown areas” of Latin America (O’Donnell 1993)—northeastern Brazil, the Andean highlands, and the periphery of many Latin American cities—caudillos and landlords can deploy their own paramilitary forces and create their own political rules (Yashar 1999).22 The failure of the rule of law and the denial of civil rights have had important consequences for democracy. Where civil rights are a privilege of elite social status to which ordinary people have limited access, where people accordingly fear the police and do not seek redress from the courts, where, in short, law enforcement so dramatically fails, citizens take justice into their own hands, as is increasingly the case with “lynchings” in Brazil and especially Guatemala (Mendoza and Torres-Rivas 2003). In a state in which violence, injustice, and impunity are the norms and the principle of legality is obstructed, where there is a “disjunction” between the considerable success in democratizing political institutions and the systematic violation of the civil rights of democratic citizenship (as was true in Brazil and other emerging democracies), citizens also lose faith in democratic institu-

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tions, as countless surveys of public opinion attest, and democratic politics may lose its legitimacy and efficacy (Holston and Caldeira 1998, pp. 263, 276). The Crisis of Democratic Participation and Representation The second key if underdiagnosed problem in Latin America today is what we may call the “underperformance” of civil society and the oversupply of “passive citizens.” Democratic theory does not speak with one voice about whether citizens should play the role of democracy’s guardians and guarantors and, if so, how. “Market theorists,” who see citizens as consumers in an economic and political marketplace, are not persuaded that participants in the market should also be active in the state. As Michael Walzer puts it, citizens as consumers “need the state, but have no moral relation to it, and they control its officers only as consumers control the producers of commodities. . . . [C]apitalism in its ideal form . . . does not make for citizenship” (1995, p. 160). Contemporary liberal thinkers, too, have turned away from civic organizations to the educational system to inculcate in citizens critical reasoning, moral perspective, public reasonableness, and civic virtue.23 These dissenters aside, most democratic theorists make the case for civil society as a key agent in securing the benefits of democratic citizenship and the good life. A long tradition of political theory, from Aristotle to Rousseau, as we have seen, prioritized participation in explicitly political discussions as the hallmark of active citizenship, which in turn was required for democracy’s success and extension. They believe that participation in civil and political society abets the formation of a virtuous and responsible citizenry who are fit minimally to select excellent leaders, and at best to play their part in informing good legislation and in making sure that government is good. If civil society socializes citizens in the practice of civility, trains them to be active participants in political life, teaches them to be critical of authority, enables them to hold institutions accountable and keep the state in check, and fosters a vigorous public debate, then are such disturbing trends as the growing lack of interest in politics, declining rates of voter turnout, hostility toward professional politicians and political institutions, public policy that does not enjoy public support, and the rise of strong-arm leaders products of a failed civil society? Or are we, like Rousseau, expecting too much of people who must work long hours to survive in very hard times? After all, as Walzer (1995) reminds us, most ordinary people are not intensely political; they do not really derive their primary or exclusive happiness from political pursuits, but from their social lives. In truth, we cannot confidently answer these important questions. We know that political participation is lacking, but not whether social membership and activity are also lacking. Judging by the observations of democrat-

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ic theorists, such as Walzer, who speak in general terms of “a growing number of people [who] seem to be radically disengaged—passive clients of the state, market drop-outs, resentful and posturing nationalists” (1995, pp. 171–172), it is highly improbable that the problem is unique to Latin America, but we do not know if the number of political dropouts in Latin America is greater, and if the nonparticipants are more marginalized, than elsewhere. We cannot say whether the problem is one of too low levels of civic participation in general, or in the right kind of associations. Is association in any organization that brings people together to forge common bonds and discuss the issues of the day intrinsically worthwhile, or must social organizations be democratic, loyal to the nation-state, and civil? Does membership in hierarchical churches or ethnic movements foster democratic citizenship, or does it form citizens who are too passive before authority and disloyal to the nation and the state that confers citizenship? Does civic participation always lead to civic virtue, or can membership in civic associations, especially in those that are uncivil or that promote private interests, also produce pernicious effects? 24 We also do not know if civil society organizations can free-float and still fulfill their democratic potential, or if they must engage in expressly political debate and be anchored to political society and state institutions. What is it about civil society that allows it to play a complementary or substitutive role for political society? Civil society’s many champions marshal a host of answers. First, Michael Walzer, who by his own admission joins the “civil society argument” uneasily, sees civil society, unlike the heroic, high-intensity citizenship of Rousseau, as possible and realistic. He finds in civil society—the space of uncoerced human association and the set of relational networks that fill this space, the “setting of settings” where “each [liberating project] can find the partial fulfillment that is all it deserves” (1995, p. 173)—the place where engagements are plural, the stakes are lower, and people can find protection from market-generated inequalities. Union organizing, teaching in a school, volunteering in a hospital, working in an ethnic alliance or feminist group, and shaping a cooperative budget are forms of action that imply an understanding of civility even if the organizations that people serve are sometimes partial and particularistic. Jean Cohen and Andrew Arato add that “movements bring new issues and values into the public sphere and contribute to reproducing the consensus that the elite pluralist model of democracy presupposes but never bothers to account for.” They also claim that the chances for direct participation, so fundamental to radical democrats, are best realized not in some “idealized, dedifferentiated polity” but rather within “a highly differentiated model of civil society itself” (1992, pp. 19, 20). For Augusto Varas (1998), societal mechanisms give visibility to and articulate demands of social actors such as rural and indigenous movements that may be (at least initial-

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ly) disregarded in the representative arena. Citizens can also hold political power accountable either symbolically, as, for example, when 30,000 citizens in the Argentine province of Catamarca (of a total provincial population of 210,000) marched for justice in the investigation of the murder of a teenage girl that ultimately brought down a political dynasty (Smulovitz and Peruzzotti 2003), or through the courts when the legislative and executive branches of government fail to act in legislating and enforcing existing regulations. Finally, echoing Francisco Weffort’s eloquent statement linking civil society to the sphere of freedom, Varas believes that the social movements of civil society are fundamental for giving support to the demand for the diffusion of greater degrees of liberty for excluded social groups, that is, to support democratization itself. These civil society theorists of various colors and stripes agree that the first step is to widen the circle of those who learn civic virtue and Tocqueville’s “art of association.” But they depart company when some, following Tocqueville, contend that the organizations of civil society should themselves be democratic, tolerant, and civil. Cohen and Arato distinguish their approach from that of the pluralists for whom “it makes no difference what the internal structure of the institutions and organizations of civil society are” and join Tocqueville in arguing that “without active participation on the part of citizens in egalitarian institutions and civil associations, as well as in politically relevant organizations, there will be no way to maintain the democratic character of the political culture or of social and political institutions. Precisely because modern civil society is based on egalitarian principles and universal inclusion, experience in articulating the political will and in collective decision-making is crucial to the reproduction of democracy” (1992, pp. 18–19, original emphasis). Walzer essentially agrees that “only a democratic state can create a democratic civil society, only a democratic civil society can sustain a democratic state” (1995, p. 170), but allows for exceptions. He does not insist that each constituent unit of civil society must be perfectly democratic, as long as civil society on average is. Some democratic theorists establish the even higher threshold that to fulfill their promise to improve democracy, civic associations should be connected to political society. Cohen and Arato, for instance, do not see social movements as “prefiguring a form of citizen participation that will or even ought to substitute for the institutional arrangements of representative democracy (the radical democratic position)” (1992, p. 19). That this should be so is not immediately obvious. After all, in Putnam’s vision, choral societies and bowling leagues had their own intrinsic value, and the connection between dense associational networks and interpersonal and social trust on the one hand, and good government and good democracy on the other, could have been drawn by a hidden hand. In the extreme, many

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champions of civil society in Eastern Europe would claim that the real value of civil society lay in confronting, and defeating, a totalitarian state. They easily could have said, “any” state. Walzer expressly warns against the “antipolitical tendencies that commonly accompany the celebration of civil society.” He argues, “The network of associations incorporates, but it cannot dispense with, the agencies of state power . . . there can be no victory at all that does not involve some control over, or use of, the state apparatus. The collapse of totalitarianism is empowering for the members of civil society precisely because it renders the state accessible” (1995, pp. 168–169). Three Latin American examples will illustrate these arguments. In a recent essay on Argentina, Steven Levitsky (2005) attributes the surprising success of the Carlos Menem and successor governments in maintaining Argentine democracy, even amid 20 percent unemployment and the collapse of the country’s financial institutions, to the strong ties between the working-class Peronist Party and working- and lower-class society.25 These ties, Levitsky argues, prevented the sort of mass urban looting and protest over economic reforms witnessed elsewhere in Latin America in the 1990s, and helped the Justicialist Party to retain its traditional and lower-class electorate, which in turn served to limit the prospects for the sorts of antireform and antisystem appeals that took hold in other countries. He contrasts Argentina to Peru, where the reservoir of Peronist organization was not present, and where the sole political party to survive—the American Revolutionary Popular Alliance—never had that reach into the countryside. There, as we know, antiparty candidate Alberto Fujimori won the presidency in 1990 in a fair election by trouncing the Peruvian political establishment. He went on to shut Congress, repress civil liberties in the name of a state campaign against the Shining Path insurgency, stack the high court, and demolish political parties. Fujimori was only thwarted in his efforts to serve out an (unconstitutional) third term in office because of the public revelations of the activities of his unsavory close associate, top adviser and head of the intelligence services Vladimiro Montesinos. A third case illustrates when the problem is not one of passive citizens, but of a lack of connection between well-organized civic associations and political institutions. Rene Mayorga (2005) suggests that in Bolivia, where angry protesters ousted the president in 2003, a mobilized civil society had become unconnected to, deeply disenchanted with, and certainly not represented by political parties. There, the capacity of political parties to serve as mediating structures, to articulate and aggregate the demands of the sectors that did not benefit from economic development—to represent them—had declined during the administration of former president Hugo Banzer (1997–2001). Social conflicts became politicized, and there were constant, direct confrontations between the state and contentious social actors, espe-

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cially the peasant movements of Chapare and the Northern Altiplano, headed by the ethnic leaders Evo Morales and Felipe Quispe. If civil society is valuable as a sphere unto itself for making life good, and as a bridge to political life for making democracy good, in its heroic form—in the form it can exercise the most democratic potential—it is comprised of associations. If there is not much positive value in citizens only occasionally entering the public sphere, the fact remains that such passive citizenship is a fact of life today in much of Latin America. As Juan Linz and Alfred Stepan (1996) usefully remind us, ordinary citizens, not organized at all, are also part of civil society, and if Varas is correct to insist that “the concept of citizenship should not be confused with public opinion, which is so easily manipulated” (1998, p. 149), the sad reality is that public opinion is easily manipulated, and it may hold little or no potential to enrich the quality of public debate. Nonetheless, not only are unattached citizens still citizens, but they also have the potential to come together quickly in organizations that are not always of our choosing, as the mobilization of Bolivia’s cocaleros (coca farmers), for example, attests. In the extreme, these organizations can be antidemocratic and even set as a goal the intentional sabotage of democratic institutions. Once citizens are “reattached” to such groups, they may exhibit anticivic, even antidemocratic, but most perniciously, perhaps, antiliberal behavior. They may wish to act as veto players or exercise undo influence over some aspect of public policy. In this context, lamentably, we have woefully underspecified the underlying conditions that shape the contexts in which citizen opinion and citizens are formed. And so we have reached a paradox. Various scholars, Varas among them, decry that “where social fragmentation prevails over community and solidarity, . . . the collective social actor turns from citizen into social monad” (1998, p. 149). At the same time, however, when socioeconomic exclusion threatens the expansion of citizenship, they call on citizens to mobilize to exercise their rights and hold political power responsible and accountable. In observing the tension between centrifugal forces that broaden social exclusion and centripetal ones that demand full participation in society, Varas assumes this situation will engender new social movements to deepen democracy. But of course, they do not always. In a best-case scenario, there is a curious catch-22 at work here: citizens are increasingly dispersed by economic liberalism, but are required to mobilize in order to protect democracy. They are both viewed as incapable of exercising their obligations and responsibilities as citizens, and at the same time expected to rescue democracy. This paradox is especially evident in the fourth wave of democracy studies, in which two developments stand out as critical: the turn to neoliberalism and the emergence of ethnic movements that challenge the basis of national identity and the nation-state.

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The Fourth Moment: Minimizing the State and Extending Citizenship Evelina Dagnino (2003, p. 215) has observed that there is a “perverse confluence” between, on the one hand, the spread all over Latin America in the past decade of the participation of civil society as a mechanism for extending citizenship and deepening democracy and, on the other, the project of a minimal state, which requires the shrinking of its social responsibilities and the gradual abandonment of its role as the guarantor of rights. What is especially perverse, she continues, is that the “participatory project” has been appropriated and stimulated in recent years by the state as part of a strategy for implementing liberal economic reforms. Jonah Levy (1999) tells a similar story of France, where, he argues, the socialist retreat from the dirigiste state relied on societal and local actors to create more decentralized, socially embedded forms of economic regulation, except that for Levy, the outcome was not in the least perverse. French civil society was more resilient, dynamic, and capable of influencing state policy than was widely believed.26 Neoliberal reform is reshaping citizenship in Latin America, but the final outcome of this process is yet to be determined. The Neoliberal Challenge, Decentralization, and Democratic Theory Alongside democratization, the most important trend in Latin America in the past quarter century has been the withdrawal of the state from various productive, regulatory, and distributive economic functions, and the extension of market principles to a wider range of economic activity than Latin America has seen since the Great Depression. The advance of economic liberalism returns us to the age-old question of whether economic liberalism supports or undermines democracy (or both). For Marshall and a long line of liberal thinkers (the “new right” in today’s parlance), civil rights and economic liberalism are perfectly compatible. The market maximizes freedom. It also engages citizens, and “in a context in which the state is gradually withdrawing from its role as guarantor of rights, the market is offered as a surrogate instance of citizenship” (Dagnino 2003, p. 216). Even skeptics such as Dahl (1998, p. 166) describe the relationship as one of “antagonistic symbiosis,” a sort of “you can’t live with it and you can’t live without it.” Of course, for others, this relationship has been more tempestuous. Contemporary critics of neoliberalism charge that economic liberalization, like welfare state retrenchment, has made a mockery of citizens’ rights. Because neoliberalism drives people out of jobs in the formal sector of the economy, as well as out of unions and other organizations that formed collective, horizontal bonds of social solidarity, it disarticulates citizens and

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thwarts the promise of civil society. Fundamentally, the market cannot guarantee rights; without the firm disciplining hand of political authority, it tramples them. Again, Dahl neatly summarizes this position in his claim, “In no democratic country does a market-capitalist economy exist (nor in all likelihood can it exist for long) without extensive government regulation and intervention to alter its harmful effects” (1998, pp. 176–177). And this is why the state’s retreat from its regulatory and distributive responsibilities has been so damaging. Even worse, not only has the state sold steel mills and deregulated trucking and prices, but in many countries it has also divorced itself from the business of providing old-age insurance, healthcare, and even much tertiary education—in other words, from the things that a state is supposed to do for its citizens. Both the pro- and antineoliberalism positions carry with them their own models of politics. Proponents of neoliberalism expect that more liberal economic policies will engender more liberal democratic politics. They welcome the reduction of the opportunities that an interventionist state will have to tamper with the rights of individual choice, to become overbloated, and for its public officials to become corrupt. They even see a prominent role for voluntary groups in the form of charities and nongovernmental organizations in supplementing the market without infringing on individual civil rights. To opponents of neoliberalism, market reforms are seen as responsible for rolling back social rights, exacerbating inequality, atomizing society, and, in Varas’s words, turning citizens into “social monads.” In this view, the poor are double victims. They attract our sympathy for the economic immiseration they are forced to endure by greedy foreigners and corrupt or incompetent rulers, but their poverty, social isolation, and immiseration also make them politically dangerous. Among Latin Americanists, the latter view has easily trumped the former. Whatever the demerits of the new market model, and there are many for growth, employment, living standards, and the quality of workplace life, our condemnation of neoliberalism has had consequences for our research agenda on citizenship. With few exceptions, scholars have not sufficiently explored the emerging relationships among the state, market, and civil society. Between a liberal politics and a disorganized one, we have not yet come fully to terms with just how wide-ranging the opportunities are in this moment to realign democratic institutions and reconfigure citizen representation in Latin America, now that the premise of state intervention has been withdrawn. We need more research on the channels through which workers will claim their social rights, now that corporatist institutions and codes are being dismantled; on whether the abridgment of opportunities for the particularistic delivery of state services will create the possibility for universal entitlement programs; on whether political parties that fed off of such particularistic practices will now become agents to advance those rights; and

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especially on the ways in which the reconfiguration of the state directly impacts citizenship. Paradoxically, we may see more social demands for more democracy and full citizenship being directed toward central governments just as they are losing their traditional prerogatives and are decreasingly able to provide the goods and services demanded. In some cases, power has devolved upward to supranational jurisdictions and transnational organizations. In others, it has been privatized. And in yet others, it has been devolved downward in decentralization schemes. Although scholars have studied the causes of decentralization and the reasons behind varying sequences and designs of its political and fiscal component, we have yet to explore fully the potential consequences that decentralization has for democracy and citizenship. Champions of decentralization schemes that come out of a political economy tradition assume that competition at lower levels of government will be beneficial for efficiency, innovation, and accommodating diverse tastes (Tiebout 1956; Weingast 1995). But despite the promise of bringing government closer to the people, it is not at all clear that new subnational governments are capable of replacing state functions, or that they are more efficient in the delivery of public goods (Armesto forthcoming). Public services might be captured by clientelistic brokers (Auyero 2001; Levitsky 2003).27 Moreover, political decentralization can potentially thwart democratizing and rights-oriented reforms, as any student of northeastern Brazil or even any veteran of the US civil rights movement of the 1960s knows (compare Stepan 2000). Decentralization can also foster regionalism, and as countless theorists have stressed, what makes a political community is a nation; when that is no longer true, national polities cannot hold together. Neoliberal reform might also redefine citizenship by catalyzing the new identity-based mobilization of indigenous peoples. Deborah Yashar (1999, pp. 78–81; 2005) has contended that neoliberal citizenship regimes expanded political and civil rights but dismantled the social rights guaranteed under the heavy hand of state corporatism and denied indigenous communities the collective right to own property. Because liberal and pluralist modes of interest intermediation ultimately concede less de facto autonomy to indigenous communities, she continues, neoliberalism politicized ethnic identity and set off a wave of indigenous movements from Chiapas to the Bolivian Altiplano to demand new forms of representation, political autonomy, and multicultural recognition. If Yashar is right, the most radical implications of her work are not that neoliberalism threatens social rights by generating greater inequality and privatizing social services, but that the citizenship model that neoliberalism supports—a return to civil rights exercised by free individuals in a market—will be superseded by one that treats citizenship as not a fixed but a moving target, one that is “set in motion.”

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Rights to Difference, Cultural Citizenship, and the Postmodern, Postliberal Challenge In updating his thoughts on democracy, Robert Dahl remained steadfast in his belief that “weak subcultural pluralism” is one of five conditions that favor democracy, and although the adverse political consequences of cultural diversity could be managed through such strategies as assimilation, decision by consensus, electoral system design, and separation, “democratic political institutions are more likely to develop and endure in a country that is fairly homogeneous and less likely in a country with sharply differentiated and conflicting subcultures” (1998, pp. 147, 149–156). Looking ahead, he identified “cultural diversity” as one of four challenges facing contemporary democracies that will confront greater demands to protect the rights and interests of groups that have habitually incurred discrimination as well as to respect those of recent immigrants (pp. 183–184). Much contemporary citizenship theory has been preoccupied with the fragmentation of Eastern European countries, a trend that peaked with the breakup of the former Czechoslovakia and the bloody civil conflict in the former Yugoslavia, as well as with the way in which Western European countries wrestle with accommodating the permanent immigration into their national territories of persons sometimes seeking asylum who hail from different religious traditions and do not necessarily identify themselves as Frenchmen or Germans, but who owe their psychic allegiance to other lands. In these contexts, recognition of the right to cultural diversity might take the form of allowing Muslim girls to wear head scarves to school. In Latin America, where immigration has in recent times not been terribly significant, this sort of demand for cultural diversity seems less applicable. But the demand for the extension and protection of rights to the historically disadvantaged, ethnically defined minorities, looms large and in Latin America acquires an added urgency. Just as neoliberalism poses more urgent challenges than welfare state retrenchment in advanced industrial society, because of the accumulated deficit of wage compression, declining public services, and social exclusion, citizens’ demands in Latin American societies may also be far greater than those in the “overloaded democracies” of the Trilateral countries, not merely for habitual discrimination, but also for what we might think of as an accumulated deficit of citizenship. Indigenous peoples in Guatemala were subject to a genocidal war under military rule, and in the high Andes their rights were systematically violated. As Atilio Boron often reminds us, until very recently in Latin America, a white person could kill an Indian with impunity. And in this context, Will Kymlicka and Wayne Norman’s distinction (1994) between demands for inclusion and demands for self-government acquires added salience. Indigenous movements in Mexico, Guatemala, Colombia, Bolivia,

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Ecuador, Brazil, and Peru have demanded plural rights and constitutional reforms recognizing the multiethnic and plurinational composition of their countries. They have lobbied Latin American states to ratify the International Labour Organization’s Convention 169, which outlines the rights of indigenous and tribal peoples and the responsibilities of multiethnic states toward them (Yashar 1999, pp. 89–90).28 They demand that the state simultaneously protect members’ individual civil and political rights and recognize indigenous communities as a political unit (Yashar 1999, p. 92). At stake is not merely the right to speak indigenous languages in schools, the designation of the community as interlocutor for its members in negotiations with state authorities, or even the right of indigenous legal systems and authorities to process and adjudicate claims on indigenous land, but the basis upon which political representation is built. Yashar (1999, pp. 90–92, 95) casts these indigenous claims as a fundamental, “postliberal” challenge to the state, which at its most radical questions the notion that individuals unambiguously should be the only unit of representation or even the most privileged. Ethnic demands that the state uphold equal rights and responsibilities for indigenous peoples as individuals are consistent with liberal notions of citizenship, but they depart from the liberal tradition in claiming that the state should recognize indigenous communities as a “historically prior and autonomous sphere of political rights, jurisdiction, and autonomy” (p. 92). They also call for the constitutional recognition of multiethnic and multicultural states, challenging the idea that the state should correspond to a presumed homogeneous nation. In other words, they call for more differentiated forms of citizenship and political boundaries, which both grant individuals rights as citizens and grant collective rights and political autonomy at the local level. Fundamentally, cultural rights are more than a fifth layer on a cake that already includes civil, political, social, and now human rights; and the challenge to contemporary Latin American democracies represented by the “cultural rights movement”—which could just as easily apply to other disadvantaged groups such as Afro-Brazilians as to ethnic, indigenous groups—goes far beyond the remediation for cultural discrimination and exclusion and even the fragmentation of national identity and the body politic. The demand for cultural rights and the right to different, tailored forms of citizenship opens the possibilities that citizenship will not be identical for all, that the unit that holds rights will not necessarily be the individual, and that there is not a fixed basket of rights that only the state will define and concede. For T. H. Marshall (1950), citizenship was defined and conferred by the state. For Elizabeth Jelin, citizens themselves define rights; citizenship is “self-referential.” And she adds, no mechanism of formal democracy can guarantee that such state institutions as the judicial system and welfare institutions are indeed repositories of citizenship representation. “In fact,

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the Latin American state has been and remains alien to its citizens, appropriated by some and distant from others.” Rights are acquired by social struggles, “with no guarantee of a necessarily ‘happy’ and harmonious ending” (2003, p. 315). This claim is akin to that of the postmodernists who, as Charles Tilly puts it, “think of citizenship as a set of mutual, contested claims between agents of states and members of socially constructed categories: genders, races, nationalities, and others” (1995, p. 6).29 In their view, social identities rest on shared understandings and their representation, and because identity is socially constructed, and contingent in that “it regards each assertion of identity as a strategic interaction liable to failure or misfiring” (Tilly 1995, p. 6), it can be renegotiated and reconstructed. In this sense, the struggle for citizenship rights does not have a fixed endpoint; it is a permanent revolution, and in this process it extends and renews democracy itself. As Jelin puts it, “both citizenship and rights are always in the process of construction and change” (2003, p. 214). In sum, redefined by new social identities and the insistence on the equality of difference, citizenship today is no longer viewed as a final status, with a well-defined target that has remained constant for at least three centuries and perhaps longer, but rather as a project that is continually redefined, a political tool as well as a cultural referent, and something whose boundaries and accomplishments are always open to the possibilities that politics creates. Individuals and groups may be defined by their regional, racial, cultural, or religious identities, and as Fernando Henrique Cardoso (1996, pp. 8–9) claims, the exercise of civil rights guarantees that there will be a proliferation of such newly mobilized identities. Politics also now gives citizens an opportunity to rally around causes such as the fight for human rights and the preservation of the environment and to make society itself more democratic. The use of rights to create these opportunities is cause to celebrate the spread of democracy in its normative sense. But challenges to national identity and the new sources of allegiance that spawn them can also represent potential sources of disaffection with democracy. The challenge will be to harness the energy these movements spawn to expand the opportunities for active citizenship and deepen democracy, not to allow them to implode fragile democracies from within.

Conclusion: Toward Future Study of Latin American Citizenship In the past quarter century, we have learned much about democratic regimes and institutions in Latin America. I want to be absolutely clear that in my view, it was eminently worth showing—using different methodologies— what brought democratic regimes about and kept them going. It was also

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worth defending the notion that authoritarian regimes were not superior at generating growth and providing material security. But I also believe that we have now reached a point where approaches that served us well in the past are no longer well suited to illuminate the questions that lie ahead. Arguably, the most urgent of these questions is about why democracies enjoy so little support today in countries in which dictatorships not long ago were so brutal and harsh. Our first responses—to decry the neoliberal assault on social rights and endorse projects of cultural pluralism—may be politically correct if one cares about the poor and the disadvantaged, but they do not answer our questions and doubts about the context in which citizens’ preferences are formed, the circumstances in which they influence the rulers that govern their lives, why they consent to this rule, and why they drop out if they feel they are not being offered clear choices. Our first empirical responses have not served us much better. We have never had at our ready disposal as many good surveys of public opinion that give us a fairly accurate view of what citizens are thinking about their politicians, institutions, and democratic governments at a given moment in time, and what important problems they would like their representatives to solve, as we do today. We also have more sophisticated statistical tools with which to analyze them. But these surveys can only take us so far. Even if we were to learn that citizens who abandoned governing parties in droves were angry about the loss of jobs and real income, we do not know how their governments might have connected with them better, or even if these citizens might have obtained more responsible government sooner, had they demanded it, or even that an economic recovery would have restored public faith in traditional parties or democratic institutions. Even drawing from a number of valuable empirical datasets about various dimensions of citizenship (such as Freedom House data on rights) does not solve the problem. In short, these data sources do not allow us to explain why some democracies are doing better than others. Nor do they help us to understand how citizens in these complicated times can be assured of the full panoply of the rights they deserve, and at the same time discharge their obligations in order to have good democracies. This chapter has not aimed to answer these questions substantively, but rather to show why we as scholars find ourselves in a conundrum in which we are not adequately prepared to analyze the fundamental crisis of democracy in Latin America today, which I have called a “crisis of citizenship.” At a time when the state is weakened and identities are multiplying, citizens without rights have largely not been part of the conversation, debates, and compromises in political society, and their exclusion has come at a cost. In what directions, then, might concerned scholars turn their attention to correct for the imbalance in our scholarship? The first possibility is that we should expand the scope of democracy

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without disqualifying regimes. When studying democracy is understood as an exercise in classification, our bias is to eliminate from our consideration precisely those undemocratic practices and blights that diminish the quality of democracy and erode public support for democratic institutions. The point is not to make the definition of democracy so stringent that no realworld country qualifies, or to blur all shades of imperfection in existing democracies, but rather to open up our research agendas, to broaden our inquiry so that we can answer our most intractable questions. Second, we need also to invert our variables, and rather than use democratic regimes as independent variables, we should treat them as something to be explained. If we take citizenship—and its components—as independent variables, if we truly leave open the possibility of democracy’s distortions, transformations, and even inventions, if we invert and think about how different experiments in citizen engagement, different ways of institutionalizing forms of citizen participation, different recognition of cultural rights and differences—different citizenship regimes—shape democracy, we may open the underside onto why rulers get away with corruption, why party systems collapse, and why citizens do or do not bother to vote. Such a strategy might also offer a solution to the empirical challenge of providing an alternative to stripping democracy down to its minimal definition in order to give us analytical leverage. Third, we would profit from taking our analysis down one level, from the regime to particular aspects of the exercise of citizenship and the linkages between citizens and their representatives and their governments, and then back again. We also need to know more about citizen groups and nongovernmental organizations; urban, rural, and indigenous social movements; participatory budgeting and other experiments in participatory democracy; protest groups; the legal system; education and social policy; mechanisms linking citizens and parties; and democracy’s informal institutions. If, as we know, educational inequalities are strongly correlated with variance in explaining support for democracy, interest in politics, and so forth, and if education is a material condition of citizenship and more specifically of fulfilling the obligations of citizenship, then we need to know more about strategies to improve the educational systems of Latin America as well as the promise that explicitly civic education holds for strengthening citizenship. Fortunately, a new generation of scholars is investigating such questions as the delivery of local public goods in these times of state shrinking and decentralization (Armesto forthcoming), police violence in South America (Brinks 2004), the resurgence of land-based movements in Latin America (Rodríguez forthcoming), the piqueteros (jobless protesters) (Fernández Anderson 2004), and democracy’s informal institutions (Helmke and Levitsky 2004). Fourth, in order to address these questions satisfactorily, we should

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return to the tried and true comparative method. I cannot provide empirically grounded comparisons here, but some hypotheses suggest themselves from the literature on democratic theory. Let us take the dimension of ethnic rights and national membership. If we only looked at macro-level phenomena with an expectation of finding generalizable trends, we would find that in the countries with the highest proportions of indigenous peoples— Guatemala, Bolivia, and Ecuador—democracy has been the least stable, and the least well supported, especially since indigenous movements have grown, and grown more radical. But a focus on the demand for rights might reveal that the greater challenges to democratic governments have come in Ecuador and Bolivia, where these movements have demanded some rights to self-government, than in Peru, where they have not. Additionally, let us return to the issue of the uneven guarantee of civil rights. If we look only at the typical explanations for support for democracy—economic performance, degrees of public corruption, and even the breadth of political offerings—we might expect levels of support for democracy as a regime type to be far greater in Brazil than in Guatemala. Yet on this dimension, Brazil’s scores approached Guatemala’s for most years during the period 1996–2005. A focus on citizenship rights, however, would reveal that Brazil and Guatemala are not only the two countries in which democracy as a regime type has been the least well supported, but also two Latin American countries with especially weak records in the protection of civil rights. And let us contrast both sets of countries with Uruguay, in which civil, political, and social rights continue to be widely and evenly guaranteed, despite record-high rates of unemployment. But perhaps more to the point, Uruguay is also a polity in which citizens have the means with which to exercise their obligations. They are exceptionally well educated; their voting participation rate, 95 percent in 1999, is the highest in Latin America (it is true that voting is compulsory, but rates are nonetheless considerably higher than in other countries in which voting is also mandatory); and their citizenship is generally robust. Citizens are not only the passive beneficiaries of among the most generous rights in Latin America; they are active citizens as well. There is a practical, political implication to this chapter: there has been a sense among those who promote citizen politics and the study of citizen politics that citizens are good and clean, and politicians are often self-interested at best and corrupt at worst. And I agree with both. But I disagree with the notion that what follows is that we should obliterate political institutions and set up citizen councils to interact with government agencies. Such a view is dangerous. When things are going well, as they are, reasonably so, in places like Chile and Costa Rica, then citizenship in a democratic state may be adequate to maintain support for democratic regimes. But in hard times, without adequate linkages between elites and citizens, with-

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out adequate citizen input, and without adequate representation, people can become disenchanted, begin to decline to participate in elections, and begin to participate on the street. At both the public policy level (international organizations and institutions) and the academic level, we need to reconnect citizens to institutions of political representation as well as the state, both in scholarship and in the real world. Hopefully, my brief excursions into democratic theory will persuade the reader that we need to rediscover the richness of the life of the citizen and the public sphere in order to appreciate the potential of contemporary democracy. We need, in other words, to study ordinary people not as the objects of politics and elite manipulation, but as citizens.

Notes I thank Guillermo O’Donnell for his insights, advice, and conversations about democracy and citizenship in Latin America, which informed my thinking for this chapter, as well as his comments on an earlier draft. I also thank an anonymous reviewer. 1. Those presidents who were impeached were Fernando Collor de Mello (Brazil, 1992), Carlos Andrés Perez (Venezuela, 1993), Abdalá Bucarám (Ecuador, 1997), and Raúl Cubas (Paraguay, 1999). Elected presidents resigned three times in Bolivia (Hernán Silez Zuazo in 1985, Gonzalo Sánchez de Lozada in 2003, and Carlos Mesa in 2005), twice in Ecuador (Jamil Mahuad in 2000 and Lucio Gutiérrez in 2005) and Argentina (Raúl Alfonsín in 1989 and Fernando de la Rúa in 2001), and once in Haiti (Jean-Bertrand Aristide in 2004), Guatemala (Jorge Serrano in 1993), Peru (Alberto Fujimori in 1999), and the Dominican Republic (Joaquín Balaguer in 1996). I am grateful to Lucas González, who pulled together this information. 2. Support for democracy in Chile and Brazil was 57 and 41 percent, respectively (Latinobarómetro 2004). 3. To echo the UN Development Programme report (2004) on democracy in Latin America, “For almost two decades, particularly in the 1990s, the public agenda and public policies in Latin America dealt with the question of democratic consolidation, the crisis of politics, state reforms, structural economic reforms, and the impact of globalization in the region.” The report admits at the outset that these debates were, at the moment, essential, but warns that they are now insufficient and they have marginalized other debates that “should be” at the center of the discussion. The report explicitly decries, “The development of democracy is much more than the perfection of its electoral system,” it places the question of citizenship at the center of each of the dimensions that have occupied scholarship on Latin American democracies in the 1990s—the crisis of politics, state reform, economic reform, and globalization, and speaking specifically of the crisis of politics—and it admonishes that this crisis “is found as much in the low credibility and prestige of its parties as it is in the limited capacity of governments to broach the central questions of the citizenship deficit, in particular civil and social rights” (pp. 48–49). 4. Argentine protesters in December 2001 urged que se vayan todos (that they all go). 5. Illiterates received the vote in Chile in 1970, in Peru in 1980, and in Brazil

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in 1985. To give a sense of the degree to which the franchise was restricted during the 1945–1964 democracy in Brazil, in 1961 a mere 18 percent of the adult population elected the president. 6. The reader with a long memory will recall Fernando Henrique Cardoso’s 1977 “Consumption of Dependency Theory in the United States.” In a delicious phrase, Cardoso refers to the “article for consumption in various versions that include references to the original myth but in large measure constitute the expression of a quite distinct intellectual universe from that which gave it birth” (p. 8). 7. I make many sweeping critiques of “the field” in the pages that follow. There are of course, always exceptions, and in some areas those exceptions are not insignificant. Few or multiple, there are too many to mention. But I make these claims nonetheless, to make a general point about the thrust of our collective efforts in the past quarter century of scholarship about democracy and citizens, especially the scholarship that has been most widely referenced and valued. I self-consciously use the first person plural to include myself in these critiques. I should point out that the “we” refers primarily to political scientists based in North America. 8. There are exceptions, but not enough. See, for example, Chalmers et al. 1997. 9. To the contrary, there is even evidence that social organizations have served as schools of democracy in such unlikely places as war-torn El Salvador. Elisabeth Wood (2005, p. 187) reports that more than a decade of political mobilization left behind a legacy of political participation, a network of civic organizations, and a new political culture based on values of citizenship and entitlement and a rejection of deference toward rural elites. Residents of zones occupied by the Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front (FMLN) were also more politically tolerant, attended municipal meetings at a much higher rate, and characterized municipal services—even where they were seriously deficient—more favorably than did other groups. Wood directly observed that in an area of Usulután, where peasants had supported the FMLN during the war, networks of activists continue to organize collectively and bargain with various agencies and nongovernmental organizations over the terms of development assistance. 10. Jean-Jacques Rousseau wrote, “It is not expedient that he who makes the laws should execute them. . . . Nothing is more dangerous than the influence of private interests on public affairs; and the abuse of laws by the government is a lesser evil than the corruption of the legislator, which is the infallible result of the pursuit of private interests. . . . If there were a nation of gods, it would be governed democratically. So perfect a government is unsuited to men” (1967 [1762], pp. 70–71). 11. “There is no difficulty in showing that the ideally best form of government is that in which the sovereignty, or supreme controlling power in the last resort, is vested in the entire aggregate of the community, every citizen not only having a voice in the exercise of that ultimate sovereignty, but being at least occasionally, called on to take an actual part in the government by the personal discharge of some public function, local or general” (Mill 1958 [1861], p. 42). 12. For John Stuart Mill, “The interference of a popular assembly,” even when well intentioned, is “almost always injurious to the ‘skilled’ business of public administration” (1958 [1861], p. 72). 13. Samuel Huntington reflected, “I would like to think that our volume may have played some minor role in the broad intellectual and political movement that developed in the 1970s to point to the limitations of government and that led to the economic and social policies associated with Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, and their counterparts in other advanced industrialized democracies. That process,

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indeed, began in the United States with the deregulation movement initiated by the Carter administration, almost all of whose top leaders, from the president and vice president on down, were Trilateral Commission members” (2000, p. xxiv). 14. Opponents of contemporary multiculturalism, such as Ronald Beiner, argue that with multiculturalism, “the state is obliged to serve the pluralistic identities of subgroups, not vice versa” (1995b, p. 6). For Beiner, this radical, “trendy, left-wing” pluralist vision poses a threat to the idea of citizenship because if each group in society withdraws behind the boundaries of its own group, its own “groupist” identity, there is no need to acknowledge a larger common culture, and citizenship is reduced to an aggregate of “subnational ghettoes.” 15. Indeed, as they point out, the claim for special representation can plausibly be seen as a temporary measure on the way to a society “where the need for special representation no longer exists.” Moreover, the right to special representation is not something radically new, but “just a new twist on an old idea”: “In cases where minorities are regionally concentrated, democratic systems have responded by intentionally drawing the boundaries of federal units, or of individual constituencies, to create seats where the minority is in a majority. Cultural pluralists simply extend this logic to nonterritorial minorities,” one may add, in nonproportional systems. “Most multicultural demands are evidence that members of minority groups want to get into the mainstream of society” (Kymlicka and Norman 1994, p. 374). 16. As famously operationalized in the Freedom House scores. 17. Foreign scholars, and such foreign-born scholars as Philippe Schmitter, were generally more avid readers of political theory. 18. Even though, as James Holston and Teresa Caldeira also correctly point out, a Schumpeterian insistence of procedural conceptions of democracy could perfectly well have included judicial process, it often did not. They also tell us that broadening the definition of democracy would produce an empty set only if we insisted on “homogeneous categories and terminal processes.” If, on the other hand, we understand that all democracies, even consolidated ones, are “disjunctive,” then this difficulty evaporates (1998, pp. 286–288). 19. To illustrate, let us consider the case of Brazil. There, some civil rights, such as the freedoms of expression, press, and organization, were restored after military rule. Other civil rights, which José Murilo de Carvalho calls “late-coming” civil rights or “rights in arrears” (2001, p. 209), were only conceded for the first time with the democratic constitution of 1988. Among these “new” civil rights was habeas data, which permitted any person to demand of the government access to information about themselves in public records, even those of a confidential nature. Torture was also now defined as a crime for which there could be no bail and no amnesty. While these civil rights exist on parchment, Murilo de Carvalho claims, they are not well recognized, extended, and guaranteed in practice. His claim rests on a strong empirical foundation. In one survey of metropolitan Rio de Janeiro in 1997, 57 percent of those surveyed could not mention a single right, and only 12 percent mentioned some civil right. Almost half believed it was legal to be imprisoned simply as a suspect (p. 210). Moreover, one study by the Brazilian Institute for Geography and Statistics, based on 1988 data, found that only 62 percent of 4.7 million victims of a crime went to the judicial system. Two-fifths either did not believe in the judicial system or feared it—they feared either reprisals or did not want to be involved with the police (pp. 210–211). 20. In his most recent writings on democracy, Robert Dahl argues that “because market capitalism inevitably creates inequalities, it limits the democratic

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potential of a polyarchal democracy by generating inequalities in the distribution of political resources” (1998, pp. 177–178). 21. An important exception was Adam Przeworski’s 1995 work Sustainable Democracy, which, with O’Donnell’s input, reminded us that modern citizenship entailed a bundle of predictable and enforceable obligations as well as rights for every member of the political community and that the primary obligation and exercise of citizenship “is feasible only for those individuals who enjoy some modicum of material security, education, and access to information.” The problem lay in the fact that in these days of universal suffrage, even material security and “enlightenment” “are not guaranteed to everyone by the mere existence of democratic institutions” (Przeworski et al. 1995, pp. 34–35). Although O’Donnell and Przeworski even shone a spotlight on the impact of educational as well as social inequalities on the exercise of citizenship, reporting findings that lower educational achievement levels are related to greater political skepticism, lower levels of political efficacy, more limited political participation, and indifference or rejection of democratic politics in Spain, Brazil, Poland, and elsewhere (Przeworski et al. 1995, p. 37; compare Moreno 2001, p. 35), they did not carry this line of reasoning forward to explore what the consequences would be for the “new monster” of democracies that did not extend “effective citizenship for large sections of the political community” (Przeworski et al. 1995, p. 34). 22. Although Deborah Yashar (1999) sees de facto autonomy for Indian communities under state corporatism to be the positive benefit of such incomplete penetration, to my mind, such autonomy was of little comfort. 23. These are summarized nicely in Kymlicka and Norman 1994, pp. 365–366. See also Dahl 1998, pp. 185–188. 24. Although Robert Putnam assumed that all forms of civic engagement would produce the anticipated positive results, one of his students, Sheri Berman (1997), subsequently showed that in a context in which political parties were weak and discredited, social organizations did not defend Weimar democracy but rather supported the rise of the Nazis. 25. In his detailed surveys of Peronist unions and neighborhoods in the late 1990s, Levitsky found that more than 80 percent of national unions and more than 90 percent of local unions participated in Justicialist Party activities (2003, pp. 137–139). He also found that the Justicialist Party maintained close ties to a range of other civic and social organizations. In 1997, more than half of 112 local party branches maintained ties to civil associations, clubs, or other social organizations, and more than a third possessed ties to at least two such organizations. 26. Other scholars have also explored the ways in which state policies shape political participation and the exercise of citizenship, and vice versa. Suzanne Mettler and Joe Soss (2004, p. 63) remind us that even in the US case, state policies and policy designs may structure political participation not merely by defining who may participate, but also by actively encouraging or discouraging demand making, creating arenas for political action, challenging mass demands to some arenas rather than others, and endowing some demands with greater legitimacy and promoting greater political involvement. 27. Levitsky’s survey (2003) found 96 percent of local Justicialist Party branches engaged in some form of social assistance: nearly 70 percent of these local branches distributed food or medicine, and more than half regularly organized childcare and tutoring services, as well as social and cultural activities in their neighborhoods. Slightly less than half offered programs for the elderly. Levitsky’s research is consistent with that of Javier Auyero (2001), who found that neighborhood-level

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Peronist “problem-solving networks” interceded with state authorities to obtain everything, from wheelchairs, disability pensions, and scholarships to funeral expenses and odd jobs for their constituents. 28. Among the Latin American signatories are Mexico (1990), Bolivia (1991), Colombia (1991), Costa Rica (1993), Peru (1994), Paraguay (1994), Honduras (1995), Guatemala (1996), and Ecuador (1998). For more on indigenous rights, see Dandler 1999. 29. Facing the choice of joining the “postmodern juggernaut” or combating it with determination, Charles Tilly (1995, p. 2) seeks a new synthesis taking into account postmodern challenges to old ideas, and reexamines citizenship and identity in the light of changing conceptions of social history.

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Part 1 Conceptions of Citizenship

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3 Citizenship Regimes, the State, and Ethnic Cleavages Deborah J. Yashar

The third wave of democracy indisputably advanced citizenship. But what is citizenship? Who gets to be a citizen? And how is citizenship experienced? These are basic questions. Yet they have been largely sidelined in studies of third-wave democracies. While there have been notable exceptions (including my colleagues in this volume), most studies of third-wave democratization have tended to focus on the institutions that define democracy rather than the people who take part and the terms by which they do so.1 It is no longer possible to ignore the concept and practice of citizenship in democratization studies. For with the turn to competitive electoral regimes, we have witnessed the (re)emergence of groups committed to redefining citizenship. These are not “simply” struggles to expand the suffrage to excluded groups. Rather, these new struggles have increasingly (although not exclusively) assumed an ethnonational cast and have taken two broad forms. First, in their most extreme and exclusionary form, social and political movements have formed to redefine the boundaries of citizenship by restricting membership to a given ethnonational group. Informed by nationalist ideas and international rhetoric about self-determination, groups in Eastern Europe, Africa, Asia, and the Middle East have mobilized in multiethnic polities to construct nation-states where membership is allocated along ethnonational lines. This program has often had destructive consequences, as nonnationals have been excluded, often violently, from the polities that they once identified as theirs. These concerns have dominated studies of ethnic conflict (Sri Lanka, Rwanda, Ireland, Israel/Palestine) and studies of genocide (Germany, Rwanda, the former Yugoslavia). In both cases, struggles to restrict citizenship along ethnonational lines have commonly resulted in violence. While we are perhaps most familiar with these violent conflicts, not all struggles over citizenship have resulted in violent struggles over national boundaries. A second form has occurred over the content rather than bound59

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aries of citizenship in multiethnic settings. While various social movements (particularly labor movements) have historically struggled to extend and redefine the content of citizenship, in recent years ethnic groups have done so in greater numbers and with greater force. Beginning in the 1960s, indigenous groups mobilized in unprecedented ways to demand a redefinition of citizenship that would maintain their rights as citizens of a polity but also accommodate their community-based demands to local autonomy. These struggles have most often been discussed in studies of multiculturalism and have tended to focus on the more established democracies, including the United States, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and even India. However, these nonviolent movements to redefine the content of citizenship are not restricted to these older democracies. Indeed, during the last part of the twentieth century, these movements also started to emerge in the new democracies of Latin America. Indigenous movements emerged throughout Latin America, using largely nonviolent tactics to demand a reconsideration of the content and practice of citizenship. These recent efforts by indigenous people represent a striking and unprecedented departure when viewed against historic patterns of weak ethnic cleavages and presumptions about assimilation. They require us to consider citizenship not only as one about boundaries but also as one about content. Democratization scholarship therefore needs to expand its conceptual understanding of citizenship—particularly within the Latin Americanist community, which has tended to focus on citizenship as largely derivative of electoral democracy.2 This chapter takes up this conceptual task.3 It lays out three core dimensions of citizenship, which are discussed in distinct literatures on citizenship: who has political membership, which rights are granted to citizens, and how interest intermediation is structured. This chapter highlights the need to consider all three dimensions when charting out the terms of citizenship. Doing so provides one with the capacity to delineate different types of “citizenship regimes.” This chapter then uses this framework to highlight how citizenship regimes in Latin America have changed over time and why these formal attributes of citizenship must be analyzed in the context of social cleavages and state capacity. Indeed, stark inequalities, social hierarchies, and weak state capacity have placed severe limits on the ability of citizens to exercise their democratic rights and responsibilities—a theme developed throughout this volume. Accordingly, we need to incorporate the study of formal institutions with the study of social practices. This chapter, therefore, does not break new empirical ground. Rather, it serves as a conceptual bridge to, and a conceptual umbrella for, a vast and diverse scholarship on citizenship. By working with these concepts, we can gain better comparative insight into how Latin American citizenship has changed over time and how it compares to citizenship regimes in other parts of the world.

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Conceptualizing Citizenship The Boundaries of Citizenship So who is and should be a citizen? Who is included and what is the legitimating mechanism for doing so? Should boundaries be tied to the state system and, if so, should it be restricted to certain categories of people? The question of who is eligible to be part of a political community is fundamentally tied to the boundaries that are drawn—both vis-à-vis the resident population (a question of restrictiveness) and vis-à-vis those who reside beyond those state borders (a question of the primacy of state borders). For boundaries are drawn both within states as well as between them. These boundaries are drawn to define and uphold the relevant political community and have implications for the public (generally national) identity. Broadly speaking, four principles (the Aristotelian ideal, jus sanguinis, jus soli, and universality) have been used to define the relevant political community. Viewed together, these four principles provide a framework for thinking about how different states allocate citizenship. While each principle privileges a different template for determining the political community for citizenship, they each have implications for national perceptions of public identities and ethnonational relations in multiethnic states. This is as important for Latin America as it is for other regions. But as with all frameworks, these four principles serve more as heuristic markers rather than absolute descriptions of the principles used by all cases. Some cases fall neatly into one category. Others bridge categories. I elaborate on these four ways of allocating citizenship, in order of increasing inclusiveness (see Table 3.1). As discussed below, Latin America has formally moved from the most restrictive camp (the Aristotelian ideal) to the more inclusive pattern (jus soli). The Aristotelian ideal. The first principle used to define who is or who should be a citizen builds on normative beliefs about who is capable or fit.

Table 3.1

Principles for Allocating Citizenship Restrictive Identities Yes

Primacy of state borders

No

Yes

Jus sanguinis National community National sovereignty

Jus soli Territorial and civic community State sovereignty

Not necessarily

Aristotelian ideal Those who are fit/capable

Universal citizenship Open borders

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Drawing on political theorists such as Aristotle and John Stuart Mill, this approach evaluates who is capable of reason and who is able to calculate the general will of the community as a whole. While this principle can theoretically be used to include all human beings, it has historically been used to restrict citizenship within existing states to white, property-owning males. Those who “fit” this Aristotelian ideal were granted full citizenship rights. Those who did not were relegated to either secondary or tertiary status; they were subjects rather than citizens. This principle was obviously not confined to Athenian times. It has been widely applied in the twentieth century to exclude groups deemed unfit to assume the rights and responsibilities of citizenship. Women, indigenous peoples, blacks, slaves, and Jews, among others, have commonly been denied the full status of citizenship; these groups were commonly described by political elites as lacking reason, as too tied to particular interests, and as lesser beings; they were consequently excluded from full citizenship rights. Indeed, Judith Shklar (1991) reminds us, in her powerful discussion of citizenship in the United States, that citizenship has historically been defined and valued precisely in terms of those who were excluded; it was democratic for the few, undemocratic for the many. In Latin America, this principle has been used historically, and even quite recently, to deny citizenship to the poor, women, indigenous peoples, and blacks. Volumes have discussed the historical patterns of repression, isolation, and exclusion of indigenous peoples. So too, much has been written about the various political battles that were waged over working-class votes. And while much less is known about gendered struggles for inclusion, it is incontrovertible that women too were historically denied the full rights of citizenship because they were not deemed fit. Accordingly, literacy requirements were in place until 1945 in Guatemala, 1970 in Chile, 1979 in Ecuador, 1980 in Peru, and 1985 in Brazil, and effectively excluded many people (particularly indigenous men and most indigenous women) from taking part in elections and exercising their political voice (Lapp 1994, p. 3). Remarkably, no sustained or widespread organization or mobilization occurred in Latin America to extend citizenship to indigenous peoples until the last third of the twentieth century. Democratization scholars who focus on the extension of suffrage are generally looking at those cases where the Aristotelian principle of fitness has been used historically to exclude certain categories of people. Indeed, with the third wave of democratization in Latin America, states have rescinded restrictive literacy clauses (where they still existed, as in Ecuador and Peru) and have consequentially extended formal citizenship to all adults of voting age. In other regions, as well, we find the declining legitimacy of Aristotelian evaluations of who is and can be a citizen—with the exception of children and convicted criminals. Most dramatically, we have seen in

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South Africa the dismantling of apartheid and the extension of citizenship rights to all South Africans, regardless of race and ethnicity. Jus sanguinis. 4 While we currently denounce states that exclude people according to the Aristotelian principle of fitness, we commonly accept the rights of states to extend and restrict citizenship according to the principle of national descent or kinship. Indeed, the prevailing type of citizenship operates according to the principle of jus sanguinis. Rooted in nineteenthand twentieth-century ideas about the nation-state, this ideal type is predicated on the idea that the fundamental political community is based on descent or ethnonational origins. Citizenship, therefore, should be restricted to the ethnonational community and, therefore, is a marker of membership for different states of different ethnonational origins. Each nation should have a state, each national should be a citizen of her or his nation-state, and each nation-state should allocate citizenship rights along national lines. In short, states and citizenship are and should be the political manifestation of ethnonational identity. Germany is the prototypical model of jus sanguinis, but this principle applies to a broader range of cases (Brubaker 1992, p. 33). In countries that apply this model, those presumed to share a common lineage are automatically extended citizenship rights (even if they are born and live abroad); those who are presumed to herald from other national communities are commonly denied these rights in their new home countries. Consequently, those countries with multiethnic populations that use this principle of determining citizenship face a serious challenge. Guest workers who have resided in Germany for generations, for example, have demanded the right to become citizens—a status that is highly restricted (Brubaker 1992; Soysal 1994; Rubio-Marín 2000). Moreover, in much of Africa and Asia, this principle has given way and informed the ethnic conflicts that have emerged—leading some ethnic groups to mobilize either to demand inclusion (where it is denied), to create their own polity (so that nation and state coincide), or to fight to gain control of the state that now excludes or marginalizes them. In many cases, they appeal to international norms about self-determination. It is striking that citizenship in cases of jus sanguinis assumes a primordial community that can and should govern itself. As such, those sharing ascriptive characteristics are “in”; those who do not are “out.” This principle is foreign to Latin America. As a region populated largely by immigrants, it is hard to sustain the principle of jus sanguinis. Moreover, in a region where ethnic identities are understood to be malleable, it is hard to maintain a rigid and legal analysis of identity and citizenship. Indeed, Latin American states have promoted policies that encourage indigenous peoples to shed their “Indian ways” and to assimilate into a

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mestizo (mixed culture). In doing so, they gain the possibility of becoming full citizens—although for most indigenous peoples citizenship has proven elusive in practice. Jus soli. Jus soli provides an alternative way of allocating (and restricting) citizenship in this age of sovereign states. The principle of jus soli grants citizenship along territorial lines. This principle is the most common in Latin America. Jus soli begins with the assumption that a community is primarily defined by geography and civic ties. States therefore generally extend citizenship to those who are born in a given territory;5 they naturalize those migrants who meet a set of conditions, including knowledge of and commitment to the principles of a given state. Citizenship is self-consciously tied to ideas of civic inclusion, equality, freedom, and fraternity. In other words, there is no claim that the political community is one of blood, kinship, and descent; rather it is one that sanctifies the individual and his or her political allegiances and civic ties to a given state. This form of citizenship is today common in settler states—that is, in the Americas—but can also be found to one degree or another in Britain and France (Brubaker 1992, pp. 33, 81). Given this territorial and liberal/civic understanding of citizenship, it is perhaps not a surprise that many of these states have come to include ethnically diverse populations. In the former colonial countries, these immigrant populations have come to reside on lands that were once populated and governed by indigenous peoples. It is in these states (including Latin America) that the multicultural debates have found greatest resonance—with indigenous peoples often demanding a certain degree of autonomy and immigrants and former slaves demanding greater inclusion. Universal citizenship and open borders. The fourth principle for allocating citizenship builds on the idea that the fundamental political community is humanity writ large—independent of fitness, national identities, or territorial boundaries. Therefore, citizenship should be a universal good—with no political restrictions. Universal access and open borders should define a world system. This principle remains an unrealized project that could take various forms—including the existence of states that agree to open up borders and access to citizenship, or the creation of world government to which all would belong. In this model, passports would become obsolete, or at the very least their role would change. While this fourth approach to citizenship remains (at present) no more than an ideal, some of its ideas are approximated at a global level in UN ideals of human rights (Soysal 1994) and at a regional level within the European Union (Wiener 1999). In its purest form, this ideal type is based on universalism—no individual is excluded (regardless of race, ethnicity, ideology, or capacity); everyone is a citizen. This last

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type of citizenship remains an ideal type since it is nowhere implemented. As such, it is not discussed at length here. But when juxtaposed against the prior three models, it helps to highlight where citizenship inheres, how restrictive it is, and the central role of the state in this process. *

*

*

Jus sanguinis and jus soli are the prevailing forms of allocating citizenship today. Both presume that the state is the natural and preferred basis for determining the political community. In this regard, citizenship becomes a way of defining who is “in” and who is “out.” It is a form of “social closure,” as noted by Rogers Brubaker (1992, chap. 1). And it is the state that is understood as the final arbiter in determining and allocating these rights (see Table 3.1). The right to exclude is based on the presumption that people naturally belong to the state that shares their national background. The other assumption is that there is a state that corresponds with their national and publicly sanctioned identity. Jus soli and jus sanguinis are therefore not just about extending citizenship as a form of inclusion but also about delimiting membership in the state system. Some people have citizenship in a given state, others do not— a political decision that has more often than not had an ethnic bias. Jus sanguinis makes this explicit by stating its ethnocentric bias. For this practice of allocating and determining citizenship according to national membership remains exclusionary precisely because we do not live in a tightly contained world where nations and states coincide in a neat way.6 There are many more self-proclaimed nations than states. In fact, self-proclaimed nationstates often have multinational populations. And colonialism, war, refugee flows, and migration patterns (both forced and voluntary) have further complicated the fit between nations and states. Indeed, in the postcolonial world, one could say that there is a poor fit between states and nations and between country residence and national membership. Consequently, the construction of nation-state boundaries and citizenship provides a way of excluding not only those beyond national borders but also those nonnationals residing within them. Otherwise stated, jus sanguinis provides the logic for treating nonnational residents as second-class citizens (even when they have lived in these countries for several generations). These problems are not restricted to authoritarian times but are prevalent in many contemporary democratic regimes that extend citizenship according to this principle. The question of who can be a citizen in countries with jus sanguinis is an ethnic question—pure and simple. And often the ethnic movements and conflicts that emerge in these cases are about who can become a citizen and how that happens. Jus soli, by contrast, claims to be ethnically blind when it comes to the

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allocation or extension of citizenship. And comparatively speaking, access to citizenship is more open and accessible to those residing in a given state territory. However, this should not blind us to the fact that jus soli begs the question of who can legally emigrate to that country—for jus soli is not a policy of open borders; to the contrary, there can be restrictive laws for immigration, residence, travel, and visas. Jus soli also presents other kinds of challenges for ethnic groups residing in their borders. These challenges have less to do with the access to formal citizenship (which is theoretically granted to those born in a given country) and more to do with how citizenship is experienced once it is granted. In other words, while discussions of who can be a citizen might lead one to conclude that jus sanguinis and the Aristotelian principle are ethnocentric and that jus soli is ethnically blind, discussions of how citizenship is experienced lead one to question this simple dichotomy. Indeed, if one is to make sense of ethnic mobilization in jus soli states (i.e., those in the Americas), then one must consider other aspects of citizenship (form and content) and compare them against the experiences of its citizenry. The Relationship Between Citizen and State There are competing principles for determining membership in any given polity. But what form does the relationship take between citizens and the state? What are the terms of interest intermediation? Who is the subject of citizenship? And who is the object of state norms, rules, and regulations? While it is now commonplace among scholars of democratization to assume the primacy and relevance of the individual, this is but one form of interest intermediation between state and society. For as a significant literature on Latin America and Western Europe once highlighted, and as political theorists continue to highlight, interest intermediation can privilege the collectivity just as it can privilege the individual.7 Political theorists and philosophers, unsurprisingly, have pursued these questions with the greatest vigor. Debates about liberalism and communitarianism, in particular, speak to this question—albeit from a largely normative rather than empirical perspective. Liberals privilege the individual as the primary unit or subject of political life. The individual possesses certain rights and responsibilities and, in large part, acts to maximize personal autonomy, interests, and capacities; the individual is free to do so provided that she or he does not harm others. While individuals rely on the state to maintain law and order and to establish relations with other states, individuals seek to keep the state to a minimum. It is this freedom to actualize individual liberties free from state intervention that is the hallmark of contemporary democratic citizenship, according to prevailing liberal political norms.

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Liberalism therefore is an individual affair. Rights and responsibilities inhere in the individual. And it is the individual who relates to and is regulated by the state. Ethnicity and multiculturalism are irrelevant to a discussion of citizenship and the formal mechanisms of interest intermediation. While any individual has the right to participate in ethnic (or any other) associations, ethnic groups should not be privileged in designing the institutions of interest intermediation. This school of thought has become hegemonic in political theory, comparative politics (including US politics), and policy circles. But citizenship has obviously not been confined theoretically or empirically to a set of individual rights and responsibilities. Groups have also assumed a formal political role in defining some state-society relations. Theoretically speaking, communitarians question the assumption that we can analyze individuals outside of the social context. Indeed, communitarians argue that identities, interests, preferences, meanings, and capacities are socially constructed and rooted in communities. Therefore, interest intermediation and political mobilization cannot be understood independently of the community. From this starting point, communitarians argue that we need to privilege the community as the basis for understanding political subjects and their relationship to the state. The communitarian philosophy has an empirical correlate in countries that have institutionalized corporatism, consociationalism, and/or legal pluralism. Each of these forms of interest intermediation and representation privileges the group as the primary set of political actors. Corporatist systems, for example, privilege labor unions and business associations in their negotiations with the state. While the Latin American and European variants of corporatism have differed quite significantly, both privilege these class-based associations as important political units, particularly with respect to economic representation and policymaking. Consociational systems set out to institutionalize interest intermediation and representation in societies deeply divided by social cleavages such as ethnicity, race, religion, and political ideology; in these cases, states do not allow the accumulation of individual decisions to decide who their executive and legislators will be, but allocate these offices depending on group identities, quotas, alternation in power, and veto rules, among other things. Finally, multiethnic countries with legal pluralism institutionalize systems where different groups maintain jurisdiction over their own communities— according to different and at times contrary legal precepts. What all of these cases share is that groups rather than individuals are the political subjects that have the right and responsibility to take political action. Under these circumstances, the state obviously must play an active role to determine which groups are privileged (and which ones are not), what the rules are, and how national politics is regulated. At base, states actively

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intervene to create more equal outcomes among groups rather than focusing exclusively on providing equal opportunities for individuals. It is the state-sanctioned group, therefore, that maximizes autonomy rather than the individual. These two classical frameworks, therefore, have quite different ways of looking at state-society relations, with very distinct ways of thinking about the role that ethnicity could and should play in defining citizenship—with communitarians seeing it as primary and liberals seeing it as secondary.8 These debates are rooted in Western thought and context. They are not restricted, however, to the West. These foundational questions are relevant to the new democracies in Latin America, Africa, Asia, the Middle East, and Eastern Europe—even if comparative scholars of these regions have more often than not ignored the liberal-communitarian debate that speaks to the philosophical foundations of ethnic diversity and democratic representation. But the questions that these theories raised should not be ignored: What is the central unit of political life? To what extent should these institutions be informed by liberal or group principles? Should communities be granted special (i.e., different) rights by virtue of being a community?9 What are the appropriate institutions to mediate between citizens and states? And does the state have the capacity to enforce one type of citizenship or the other? These questions and answers are at the heart of democratic institution building and social policy. Each of the new wave democracies has had to make decisions addressing these issues. In the process of doing so, they have constructed a particular understanding of the appropriate form of citizenship and the corresponding relationship between society and state. In general, the liberal/pluralist version has won out in the advanced industrial and developing world. This is increasingly so with the third wave of democracy, but has not historically been the case. The Content of Citizenship The third component of citizenship speaks to content. What does citizenship entail? A minimalist definition of democracy might lead one to conclude that citizenship rights are fundamentally (if not exclusively) about suffrage. However, an entire rights-based literature on citizenship has argued that citizenship entails much more. In his classic (if idealized) study of Great Britain, T. H. Marshall (1977) identified the standardization of three different kinds of rights: civil, political, and social. Civil rights have come to include freedom of association, expression, faith, and religion as well as freedom to own property, engage in contracts, and seek justice; these rights are backed up by the courts. Political rights refer to the right to take part in government—whether by participating in a legislature or local government or by exercising the right to suffrage. Social rights refer to the right to a cer-

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tain minimum standard of living, with particular reference to shelter, education, and health; by ensuring a certain standard of living (through welfare programs in housing, education, and health), social rights were to raise up the impoverished and provide them with the opportunity and the resources to act equally as citizens in the political realm. Marshall derived these rights from the British experience but projected that they would be extended in other cases as well. However, in those other cases, the scope, sequencing, and depth of citizenship have not occurred in the sequential and nonconflictual ways outlined by Marshall. While in Europe citizenship rights were extended sequentially and relatively slowly, in the developing world they have generally been granted sparingly, simultaneously, in a different sequence, or intermittently.10 In other words, there is no simple and universal logic to the content of citizenship in the twentieth century. Indeed, by the end of the twentieth century, the idea of social rights had been everywhere challenged by conservative politicians and neoliberal economists, who successfully reframed them as expensive and unsustainable entitlements rather than fundamental rights of the citizenry. By the end of the twentieth century, the social rights that Marshall outlined as a sign of humanity’s progress had been dismissed as a dispensable luxury. To further complicate the picture, several advanced industrial countries have extended political, civil, and even some social rights to noncitizens residing in their territories. In other words, the content of citizenship has been subject to enormous variation across time and across region. Given this variation, any discussion of citizenship must account for the content of citizenship and the rights that are upheld in any given state.

Citizenship Regimes Who has access to citizenship? What rights does citizenship entail? What are the appropriate institutions to mediate between citizens and states? To what extent should these institutions be informed by liberal or group principles? These questions and their answers are the stuff of democratic institution building and social policy. Each of the third-wave democracies has had to make decisions about these issues. In the process, they have defined the boundaries, form, and terms of citizenship, and in turn have put in place “citizenship regimes”11—patterned combinations addressing the three fundamental questions posed in this chapter: • Who has access to citizenship? Is this based on the principle of “fitness,” jus sanguinis, jus soli, or open borders? • What is the form of citizenship? In particular, what are the primary modes of interest intermediation? Are they based on liberal and plu-

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ralist principles that privilege the individual, or on corporatist, consociational, and communitarian principles that privilege the group? • What is the content of citizenship rights? Drawing on T. H. Marshall, “content” refers to the civil, political, and social rights extended to the citizenry. Citizenship regimes are patterned responses to these questions, and can take various forms. Since the end of the twentieth century we have witnessed an increasing (although not absolute) convergence around “neoliberal citizenship regimes,”12 which are empirical complexes that privilege the individual and minimize the role of the state through extension of civil and political rights, but not social rights; and through institutionalization of liberal or pluralist forms of interest intermediation. Neoliberal citizenship regimes can coexist with either jus soli or jus sanguinis; but in the contemporary age, it has been increasingly hard to use the principle of “fitness” to explicitly and formally deny access along class, race, gender, or religious lines. Seen as a whole, neoliberal citizenship regimes in the third wave of democracy, and particularly in Latin America, have celebrated the individual as the political subject of citizenship. Neoliberal citizenship regimes, however, are a recent configuration. Indeed, prior to the 1980s, they were not the prevailing form of citizenship regime—in Latin America or elsewhere. Beginning in the mid–twentieth century, Latin American states (as well as European states) tended to promote corporatist citizenship regimes.13 They extended social rights (including subsidies, credit, healthcare, education, and the like) and institutionalized corporatist modes of interest intermediation for workers and peasants, in particular. These were followed in some cases (notably, the Southern Cone and Central America) by military regimes that foreclosed most avenues for interest intermediation, denied political rights, and to some degree maintained social rights. Following the transition from authoritarian rule, by contrast, states have promoted the aforementioned neoliberal citizenship regimes. The expansion of political and civil rights has tended to coincide with the decline in social rights and the promotion of liberal or pluralist modes of interest intermediation. Organized social sectors (such as workers and peasants) have lost their state assurance of a basic standard of living and similarly have lost their main institutional means of accessing and occasionally influencing the state. While citizenship regimes have such significant consequences for statesociety relations, they are neither equal to nor derivative of political regimes. Corporatist and neoliberal citizenship regimes developed in democratic and authoritarian regimes in Latin America (and Western Europe, for that matter).

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Conclusion: Social Cleavages and the State I have argued in this chapter that the boundaries, form, and content of citizenship regimes matter. They provide the formal institutional context within which societal actors operate. In this regard, they fundamentally define formal aspects of state-society relations. But should one generalize from the institutions of different citizenship regimes to the experiences within them? For if most democratization scholars and contemporary political regimes have privileged a liberal understanding of citizenship, they have also assumed that the experience of citizenship at any given point in time is, for analytical purposes, more or less constant among citizens of a given state. At any one point in time, citizens are assumed to have equal rights and responsibilities. But the formalism associated with this approach, which assumes that each citizen gains certain rights, independent of a set of social cleavages and conflicts, falls prey to the very shortcomings once noted by E. E. Schattsneider (1975) in his criticism of legal formalism. They mistake institutions for practice and formalism for experience. Indeed, studies of democracy have done precisely this by taking citizenship as a given institution that is extended and experienced equally by all individuals. In other words, liberalism assumes an equality that belies differential opportunities and experiences. For as Joe Foweraker and Todd Landman have also noted: “citizens may enjoy equality before the law, but the law ‘is silent on their ability to use it” (1997, p. 13, citing Bendix 1977). For these reasons, it would be shortsighted to elevate citizenship regimes to a new kind of formalism. To tackle how citizenship regimes matter, therefore, we must situate them in the context of the societal cleavages, inequalities, and tensions that exist in society. For societal cleavages and inequalities can compromise, hinder, and at times undermine the political equality promised by citizenship. Different social groups do not necessarily identify with the national political community, gain equal representation or voice in the prevailing forms of interest intermediation, or encounter equal access to the rights acknowledged by a given citizenship regime. These points are eloquently and convincingly made by a diverse set of scholars—including Karl Marx (1972), T. H. Marshall (1977), Michael Walzer (1983, 1993), and Iris Young (1995)— whose work has greatly influenced the kinds of arguments I have presented here. One does not have to agree with their distinct policy recommendations to appreciate the eloquence, power, and implications of their arguments about citizenship and inequality. For despite fundamental differences in ideological orientations, all of these scholars note that while citizenship legally grants equal rights, in practice these rights can be and have been minimized and blocked for significant parts of the citizenry. This tension can result from the inequalities posed by capitalism (Marx and Marshall) and/or the persis-

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tence of social exclusions (Walzer and Young). In short, citizenship regimes can grant formal equal rights for an officially defined political community, but they cannot do away with unequal experiences—vis-à-vis citizenship regimes, other citizens, and the state. Given different social backgrounds and social contexts, experiences are uneven, social marginalization can persist, and other kinds of exclusions and inequalities can result—particularly for subordinated or marginalized ethnic groups. If I draw explicitly on these authors for their insight into the tension between citizenship and social inequality, the same cannot be said for their assumptions about state capacity—at least not in the Latin American context. Marshall, Walzer, and Young have all argued that the state has intervened or should do so to address the tension between citizenship’s political equality and societal inequalities: be it through social rights (Marshall), neocorporatist forms of representation (Young), or greater education and civic life (Walzer). At base, all of these scholars trust that the state has the capacity to play this corrective role and to bring the ideals of liberal citizenship regimes closer in line with the opportunities afforded by society. And given their focus on the advanced industrial democracies, their political analysis and policy recommendations are perhaps compelling. They are right to highlight the potentially corrective role of the state. And they are right to pinpoint that state intervention can perhaps alleviate the tension between citizenship and social inequality. However, they are wrong to assume that state capacity exists. State capacity cannot be assumed but has to be empirically substantiated. This is true for all cases, but particularly for the new democracies, where one does not always find a fully functioning and capable state. For it is not only that people contest the liberal underpinnings of citizenship and its failure to understand the ways in which other social cleavages might compromise citizenship (the point forcefully made by Marshall, Walzer, and Young). But it is also, and perhaps more fundamentally, that states cannot always deliver on the political promise to correct this situation (O’Donnell 1993; Foweraker and Landman 1997, pp. 20–21). Indeed, the incomplete and uneven reach of the state in Latin America has compromised access to and experiences with different types of citizenship regimes. In the absence of a state that can actually govern across a territory—what Michael Mann (1986, p. 59) refers to as infrastructural power—citizenship regimes are compromised at best and sacrificed at worst. Under these circumstances, it is not only that citizenship regimes might fail to deliver on the promise of unified political communities, equal political rights, and standardized forms of interest intermediation, but also that they might mask the local autonomies and deep social inequalities that already exist.

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Notes This chapter is an abridged version of Yashar 2005, chap. 2. 1. For important exceptions in studies of democratization, see Jelin and Hershberg 1996, O’Donnell 1993, Fox 1994a, Fox 1994b, Chalmers et al. 1997, and Linz and Stepan 1996a. Studies of nationalism, ethnic conflict, multiculturalism, immigration, and genocide, by contrast, have acknowledged and explored why and how citizenship is a highly contested good and concept. 2. Latin Americanists have tended to analyze citizenship with little reference to ethnicity or national politics, in marked contrast to discussions of citizenship in all other regions of the world. This comparative anomaly is likely a consequence of various historical factors, including the weakness of ethnic cleavages, the absence of nationalist wars in the twentieth century, and the primacy of other social cleavages. 3. For parallel discussions of citizenship, see Shafir 1998 and Wiener 1999. 4. The discussion of jus sanguinis and jus soli draws extensively on Brubaker 1992. 5. The jus soli principle is an ideal type. Whereas some jus soli countries automatically grant citizenship to those born in a given territory (e.g., the United States and Great Britain), others grant citizenship to children of immigrants only when they turn eighteen and only if they are still residents of the country (e.g., France). See Brubaker 1992 for a discussion of the exceptions and details for the cases of Britain (p. 81, n. 14) and France (chap. 4). 6. For a similar point with respect to dual citizenship, see Carens (2000, pp. 162–166). 7. Comparativists once tackled state-society relations with an eye toward analyzing competing institutional arrangements of interest intermediation and constitutional rights and responsibilities. They analyzed pluralist modes of interest intermediation (that privileged the individual) against corporatist and consociational forms of interest intermediation (that privileged the group). With the recent round of democratization, comparativists regrettably lost interest in these questions as liberal ideas gained ascendancy. For an exception in comparative politics, see Janoski 1998. For particularly important normative debates in political theory on the topic of individual and group rights, see Kymlicka 1995b and Shapiro and Kymlicka 1997. 8. That said, it should be noted that a new generation of liberals have tried to evaluate how states can accommodate a group-based understanding of ethnicity and ethnic rights within the liberal tradition. See, for example, Kymlicka 1995a, Kymlicka 1995b, Carens 2000, Williams 1998, and Gutmann 1994. 9. There have been efforts to conjoin these seemingly opposite positions; see, for example, Kymlicka’s “Introduction” and Kukathas’s “Are There Any Cultural Rights?” in Kymlicka 1995b. 10. Also see O’Donnell 2001a. 11. I borrow the phrase “citizenship regime” from Jane Jenson and Susan Phillips (1996). They use the term to refer to the varying bundles of rights and responsibilities that citizenship can confer. I use the term in a more expansive sense. 12. I use the term “neoliberal” in discussion of citizenship regimes for three reasons. First, I want to distinguish it from T. H. Marshall’s description (1950) of earlier British liberal citizenship regimes in which civil and political rights were extended first, but social rights were not yet on the political agenda. The sequencing of citizenship rights that Marshall identified does not apply to the contemporary Latin American context, where social rights were dismantled and civil and political

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rights extended. Second, I want to distinguish it from the liberal periods that marked the second half of nineteenth-century Latin American politics. Finally, I want to link the contemporary neoliberal citizenship regimes to the contemporary neoliberal reforms that have redefined Latin America’s political economies and dismantled many of the social programs that were once tied to social rights. 13. I use the terms “corporate” and “corporatist” to refer to state-designated forms of political representation and mediation between the state and societal groups. I do not use the terms to suggest the presumed closed nature of indigenous communities, as discussed in Eric Wolf’s classic 1957 article.

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4 Citizenship in Disjunctive Democracies James Holston

Political democracy became a global process of transformation during the last quarter of the twentieth century, expanding with unprecedented force throughout the world. As a result, no bloc of nations or cultural tradition can claim it exclusively. None has the only recipe; no history is universal. Rather, democracy’s values now cut across the usual categorizations of the world, such as first and third, center and periphery, metropolis and postcolony, and West and Rest. Nevertheless, the dominant theories of democracy are still predicated on its North Atlantic experience. If it is true that countries of vastly different histories and cultures have taken up democracy, and if it is also true that, as a consequence, their democracies vary significantly, then theories anchored in North Atlantic democracy are unlikely to provide an adequate understanding of its global experience. In that case, a different approach is necessary, one that assesses the quality of democracy in such diverse situations and also distinguishes different configurations of democracy from claims of difference that are merely excuses for undemocratic practices. In this chapter I suggest elements of such a consideration by analyzing problems of citizenship under electoral democracy that current political theories miss. Democracy has indeed taken root in remarkably varied ground around the world. In just over a quarter century, since the mid-1970s, the number of countries that changed from nondemocratic to democratic political systems has more than doubled. If we exclude countries with a population of less than 1 million, it has tripled (see Table 4.1). Table 4.2 shows that, for all countries, there were 52 electoral democracies in 1972, constituting 33 percent of the world’s 160 sovereign nation-states. By 2000 the number had risen to 120 democracies out of 192 states, or 63 percent of the total, for a net gain of 68 democratic states. If it took 200 years of political change from the Age of Revolution to generate about 50 democratic states by 1970, it took only 20 years to yield the same number again. Never before has the world experienced such democratization.1 75

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Table 4.1

Democratization in the Twentieth Century Among Nation-States with Populations Greater Than 1 Million

Total States 1922 1942 1962 1973 1990 1996 2000

64 61 111 122 129 150 150

Electoral Democracies 29 12 36 30 58 87 90

Nondemocratic States

Electoral Democracies as Percentage of Total States

35 49 75 92 71 63 60

45 20 32 25 45 58 60

Sources: Years 1922–1990 are from Huntington 1991, p. 26, tab. 1.1; years 1996 and 2000 are derived from Freedom House 1997 and 2001 respectively. Notes: Huntington’s estimates omit countries with a population of less than 1 million. Where Huntington uses “democratic states,” I use “electoral democracies” to emphasize the defining role of elections in the political conception of democracy he employs. For comparative purposes, I also omit countries with a population of less than 1 million for years 1996 and 2000.

Table 4.2

1972 1977 1982 1986 1992 1996 2000

Third Wave of Democratization Among All Nation-States, 1972–2000

Total States

Electoral Democracies

Nondemocratic States

Electoral Democracies as Percentage of Total States

160 164 167 167 186 191 192

52 56 60 67 99 118 120

108 108 107 100 87 73 72

33 34 36 40 53 62 63

Sources: Derived from annual surveys of political rights and civil liberties in Freedom House 1978, 1983, 1987, 1993, 1997, and 2001. Note: Includes all sovereign states in each year.

Moreover, this movement for political democracy has swept over every region of the globe. In the early 1970s, one-party regimes and military dictatorships of various sorts held power over most of Latin America, Africa, Asia, and Eastern Europe. By 2000, however, democracy had dramatically transformed the political landscape of all these regions. In the one region where democracy has not transformed the nature of national rule, the Middle East, it has nevertheless generated many local democratic projects and debates. Without doubt, democracy has become not only a global value,

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adopted by the most diverse societies, but also one of the major forces of globalization. As the new democratization is overwhelmingly non–North Atlantic, its transcultural scope forces us to consider a host of questions, which I group into two sets. First, to what extent do theories of democracy anchored in North Atlantic history and culture remain adequate for understanding its global reach, experience, and quality in such diverse situations? Do the cultural and social conditions of citizenship, which vary enormously, matter for democracy? Put another way, to what extent does the political definition of democracy (which dominates North Atlantic theory) remain the most useful? Are there alternative configurations of democracy and different ways of reaching it, and when are claims of difference excuses for undemocratic practices? By what criteria do we judge? Second, what is the most productive way to evaluate the relation between democracy and citizenship, the latter being the practice of the former? Is it better to focus the analysis of citizenship on its political aspect alone or to consider the experience of citizenship in the full sense of the term? With regard to the development of citizenship, is democratization an even, cumulative, and homogeneous process, or can it vary disjunctively both between and within societies at a given time? Unless we accept that non-Western democratization is superficial or due entirely to European or US impositions, these kinds of questions must be addressed. Indeed, they constitute an enormous comparative project of historical and ethnographic research. In this chapter I focus on the relation between democracy and citizenship as a means of engaging these questions. I argue for the need to study the full experience of citizenship, and not only its political aspect, to understand the development of democracy. In effect, I propose that binding the evaluation of democracy to a more complex conceptualization of citizenship has compelling analytic advantages for a comparative assessment of specific cases. I develop this argument by concentrating on one way in which emerging democracies appear to vary significantly from established ones in matters of citizenship. My claim is that many emerging democracies experience a similar and defining disjunction: although their political institutions democratize with considerable success, and although they promulgate constitutions and legal codes based on the rule of law and democratic values, the civil component of citizenship remains impaired, as citizens suffer systematic violations of civil rights and commonly encounter violence, injustice, and impunity. I describe this configuration as electoral democracy that is “civilly” disjunctive, to contrast it with other kinds that may be socially or culturally disjunctive with regard to those substantive domains of citizenship.2 My argument is that the majority of new democracies are simultaneously both electoral and disjunctive with regard to civil citizenship. They there-

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fore share specific features of citizenship, which I delineate below. However, I also argue that all democracies—emerging and established—are normally disjunctive in their realization of citizenship, as the institutions and practices of citizenship are always at once expanding and eroding in heterogeneous and unbalanced ways. Thus, to say that most emerging democracies in the world today are civilly disjunctive is not to label them pathological, but rather to consider them examples of processes that all existing democracies experience. Moreover, the characterization “disjunctive” is categorically different from those such as “illiberal,” “weak,” “pseudo,” and “façade” that have appeared in recent democratic theory. The latter terms are used to designate a subset of aberrant and ailing cases of democracy, apparently as measured against some standard of existing democracy. In contrast, I apply the term “disjunctive” to conditions of citizenship in all democracies. From this perspective, no democracy is “consolidated,” at least insofar as that concept implies the existence of a normative threshold beyond which democracy becomes “full,” “liberal,” “strong,” “real,” and the like. Furthermore, if democracy always comprises a jumble of processes of citizenship in the making, replete with contradiction and unmaking, then the notion of “transition” as commonly used in the literature on “democratic transitions” is similarly problematic. The first consequence that follows from the proposition that all democracies are disjunctive in their development of citizenship concerns the disjunctive nature of current democratization; the second, the deficiencies of the political definition; and the third, democracy’s relation to citizenship. I suggest a fourth—the uncertain relation between democracy and the rule of law—but must save a deeper analysis of it for another occasion.3

Disjunctions of Civil Citizenship Under Electoral Democracy By “civil,” I refer not to the classic liberal separation between state and nonstate, political society and civil society, public and private, or to any such dichotomies that typically derive from the state-nonstate divide.4 Rather, I use “civil” to refer to an aspect of citizenship, and “citizenship” to refer to the prerogatives and encumbrances of membership in the modern political community (typically, but not necessarily, the nation-state). Developing T. H. Marshall’s (1977) typology, I distinguish the civil from the political, socioeconomic, and cultural components of citizenship. However, I jettison Marshall’s progressive, cumulative, and law-abiding historical scheme in favor of one that emphasizes amalgamation, assemblage, simultaneous expansion and erosion, contradiction, unevenness, and the importance of illegality. I use “civil” to specify the sphere of rights,

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practices, and values that concerns justice, as the means to all other rights, and liberty, both negative and positive. As the component of citizenship concerned with justice, its rights, practices, and values ground the democratic rule of law. My use of “civil” embraces a paradox of modern democracy: although society needs protection from the state, it is only within the framework of a state that this is possible. Thus, citizenship is a regulatory regime by which the state molds people into particular kinds of subjects and also one by which citizens hold the state accountable to their interests. I use the notion of “civil” to emphasize this complex imbrication of state and society through citizenship. The importance of specifying the components of citizenship that are violated or unbalanced in an electoral democracy is that their analysis permits a comparative perspective; reveals processes, conditions, and types of democracy not adequately identified in current democratic theory; and indicates the fundamentally and normally disjunctive nature of democracy itself. Electoral democracies that are disjunctive in the civil sense share a number of features of citizenship. Elsewhere, I identify these features by analyzing what happens when the civil sphere of citizenship is systematically violated, not under dictatorship, as we might expect, but under electoral democracy (Holston and Caldeira 1998; Caldeira and Holston 1999). I use the case of Brazil. What makes Brazil exemplary is that it presents with particular clarity the disjunctions of civil citizenship that are characteristic of many emerging democracies. Here, I only summarize the features of citizenship that such electoral democracies are likely to share. Let me stress that although these features tend to be serious violations of civil citizenship, they do not turn these emerging democracies or the societies that are struggling to create them into pathological examples of some existing standard of democratization. All existing democracies have serious violations of citizenship of one kind or another. The first defining feature of a civilly disjunctive democracy is the combination of electoral democracy and systematic police violence. Much of this violence is extralegal or illegal, public rather than clandestine, and widely supported by the population. 5 Human rights organizations have amassed a great deal of data to show that torture, battering, degradation of prisoners and others, and excessive use of deadly force are accepted practices of police under many democratically elected governments.6 The point is that widespread violence against citizens appears to have grown dramatically after the institutionalization of democratic rule in Brazil, as in many countries. This sequence is obviously not the case for those countries that become electorally democratic after open civil war. Nevertheless, most of those post–civil war democratic regimes remain violent. It is probably impossible to prove that the number of violations in Brazil has increased

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absolutely after political democracy, due to the clandestine nature of abuses under military dictatorship. However, at a minimum, we can conclude that the publicity and popularity of this violence have grown significantly after democratization due to the opening of the media to market forces. Although these media freedoms are without doubt a benefit of political democracy, they often result paradoxically in increased popular support for extralegal measures of control. In particular, media reporting of crime and violence— including the proliferation of programs of cop and crime narration on radio and television—saturates the public with images of a criminalized poor and legitimates violent reaction as efficient police work.7 Official police actions are not the only source of the proliferation of human rights abuse in civilly disjunctive democracies. The broad criminalization of the poor elicits support from social groups at all levels (including, perversely, the poor) for the privatization of security and the extralegalization of justice as effective means to deal with “marginals.”8 There is massive support for market forms of protection and justice on the one hand (private security, vigilantes, and enforcers—who are often off-duty police) and, on the other, for extralegal measures of control by police acting unofficially (death squads). The privatization of justice may not lead people to vigilantism themselves, because they are often afraid to take justice into their own hands. However, it produces much support for summary executions by the police or their surrogates and positive evaluations of police violence generally. One of the important characteristics of these disjunctive democracies is that the privatization of security and justice also creates privatized cities. As Teresa Caldeira (2000) has shown in her study of São Paulo, the technologies of security not only degrade the cityscape and its public space with walls, armed guards, surveillance cameras, and the like. They also produce both closed residential condominiums and pseudopublic enclaves, such as shopping centers and office complexes, where access can be controlled and social homogeneity guaranteed. Caldeira shows that these private measures emphasize suspicion of difference and foster social discrimination, legitimating practices of distancing, segregation, and homogenization. In São Paulo, the development of this new culture of discrimination is contemporary with the transition to electoral democracy. People privatize law and justice in civilly disjunctive democracies because the state’s justice system is for most of them an overwhelming failure. This judicial discredit is one of the defining characteristics of these democracies.9 It produces generalized expectations of either impunity or abuse from the law, with a double discrimination: the poor suffer criminal sanctions from which the rich are generally immune, while the rich enjoy access to private law (civil and commercial) from which the poor are systematically excluded. This double bias pollutes the entire field of law, discrediting the judiciary and the law generally as a means to justice.

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In sum, civilly disjunctive electoral democracies share a number of significant features of citizenship: they undergo delegitimation of many institutions of law and justice, escalation of both violent crime and police abuse, criminalization of the poor and the ethnically “other,” decline in civility and security in public space along with its privatization and abandonment, privatization of justice and security, popular support for illegal measures of control, pervasive obstruction of the principle of legality, and unequal and uneven distribution of citizen rights. A civilly disjunctive democracy is thus an electoral democracy in which citizens suffer systematic violence by public and private forces of organized and unorganized coercion that act with the confidence of impunity. It features a democratically elected government, functioning political institutions, a constitution, and formal rule of law, along with widespread police violence, vigilantism, privatized security, ineffective civil rights, rampant “everyday criminality,” and a discredited judiciary. Caught in this conjunction of political democracy and violence, most citizens are resigned to an undemocratic fate: they cannot rely on the institutions of state to secure their civil rights. Moreover, once their rights have been violated, it is equally unlikely for them to expect redress through the courts or the police. In comparison with political and even social rights, therefore, civil rights are not effectively woven into the fabric of citizenship. They are not appreciated as part of the common components of citizenship. As many examples show, including Brazil, Guatemala, Namibia, India, Israel, and the Philippines, the development of citizenship in these democracies remains strikingly uneven long after the successful institution of democratic politics. Having outlined the key characteristics of this kind of disjunctive democracy, I shall try to estimate its rate of occurrence among the world’s electoral democracies and to determine whether it has increased during the current wave of democratization. To measure its development, I used the annual world surveys of Freedom House. Since 1955, this nongovernmental and privately funded organization has monitored political rights and civil liberties in the world’s sovereign nations and related territories. In 1973, Freedom House began to publish an annual survey of its findings, employing a standard set of conceptual, empirical, and evaluative criteria. Let me stress that this Freedom House survey has problems. Clearly, it cannot replace in-depth anthropological and historical investigation. Rather, I see it as indicating in a crude but comparable way what we may already know in detail from other sources about individual cases. A serious limitation of the survey is its conception of citizenship, especially the civil component. It uses a classically liberal dichotomy between state and society to define the civil sphere in negative terms only as civil liberties, and does not

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consider its positive terms as civil rights and especially rights to justice. The survey has an additional major conceptual failing. Although it focuses on the political and some aspects of the civil, it does not include the socioeconomic sphere of citizenship. This omission gives its understanding of democracy a distinctly liberal and especially North American cast, as liberal democracies typically minimize, if not disdain, social rights. The survey thus misses what is in most countries often the most important element of the struggle for democratic citizenship. Although we should not make too much of its numbers, therefore, the survey’s value is that it provides a comparable snapshot of certain key rights and liberties on a worldwide scale over a thirty-year period.10 With these caveats in mind, I derived the following snapshot. To estimate the occurrence of civilly disjunctive democracy, I first ascertained the total number of electoral democracies in the annual survey for each year between 2000 and 1972 (the last survey before the onset of third-wave democratization). Then, I identified all those electoral democracies that had a civil liberty rating of 3 or greater, on a scale of 1–7. These I considered disjunctive. For example, in 1996, Guatemala had a rating of 3 for political rights and 4 for civil liberties, Argentina a rating of 2 and 3, Thailand 3 and 3, Pakistan 4 and 5, and so forth. Significantly, in all years, I found civilly disjunctive electoral democracies not only among those countries Freedom House rated partly free, as expected, but also among those it rated free.11 Table 4.3 presents these findings. It indicates that among the world’s electoral democracies in 2000, 43 percent were civilly disjunctive, slightly down from 46 percent in 1996. By comparison, in 1972, about 23 percent of the total were civilly disjunctive. Thus, during the third-wave period, the proportion of democracies with deficient civil citizenship to the total number of electoral democracies nearly doubled. Moreover, of the seventy-six countries that changed from nondemocratic to democratic political systems during the third wave of democratization, from the mid-1970s to 2000, fortyeight (63 percent) were civilly disjunctive. These trends indicate that civil disjunction dominated the processes of political democratization at the end of the twentieth century. They do not mean that this democratization is false. Rather, they suggest that many nations experience democracy in ways that do not fit the North Atlantic model, which assumes not only that civil citizenship comes prior to political and social citizenship, but also that it is evenly distributed. They suggest, therefore, that these different experiences of democratization in most of the rest of the world require different accounts. Table 4.3 also suggests that when democracy takes root, it becomes a force of destabilization, insofar as it brings into competition different conceptions of society, state, justice, right, equality, public, private, and so forth. New expectations and performances about the nature of society and the allotment of its resources collide with cultural formulations about what

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1972 1977 1982 1986 1992 1996 2000

83

Civil and Civilly Disjunctive Electoral Democracies, 1972–2000

Total

Civil Democracies

Civilly Disjunctive Democracies

Disjunctive Democracies as Percentage of Total

52 56 60 67 99 118 120

40 40 41 46 58 64 69

12 16 19 21 41 54 51

23 29 32 31 41 46 43

Sources: Derived from annual surveys of political rights and civil liberties in Freedom House 1978, 1983, 1987, 1993, 1997, and 2001.

is important, with social practices that follow lines of established power, and with existing distributions of wealth. Violence and injustice are likely to result. On this ground of confrontation, democracy grows by uprooting. If not, we may suspect that the introduction of political democracy is a sham. That the majority of third-wave electoral democracies have deficient civil citizenships indicates, if nothing else, that democratization is having a profound impact in the most diverse societies and that under its pressures cultural habits resist change. Thus democratization brings its own kind of violence different from that of dictatorship.

Disjunctive Democracy The particular combination of electoral democracy, violence, and injustice I have described suggests a fundamental attribute of democratization itself, namely that it is a disjunctive process. By calling democracy disjunctive, I want to emphasize that it comprises processes in the institutionalization, practice, and meaning of citizenship that are never uniform or homogeneous. Rather, in ways that vary historically, they are always temporally and spatially arrhythmic, unbalanced, irregular, and heterogeneous. As a result of such disjunction, some processes of democratization are likely to contradict others. That is, at any one moment citizenship may expand in one arena of rights as it contracts in another. The concept of disjunctive democracy also means that democracy’s distribution and depth among a population of citizens in a given political space are uneven. What I am calling civilly disjunctive democracy is an example of the arrhythmic and uneven democratization typical of many emerging democracies today: although the political component of citizenship is effective, the civil component is not.

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Other types of disjunction commonly occur. Certainly, US democracy is socially disjunctive with regard to post–World War II European and UN conceptions of socioeconomic rights. Recently, moreover, major civil and political aspects of US citizenship have been challenged, if not eroded. If the United States could be considered to have a socially disjunctive democracy, pre-1971 Switzerland would have to be called a politically disjunctive one, as it denied over half its population—women—the right to vote in national elections. Yet few would not have considered Switzerland democratic prior to 1971, for two reasons. First, other aspects of democratic citizenship were effectively realized for Swiss citizens; and second, the primary locus of Swiss political citizenship is participation at the more local level of the canton and the commune (rather than the nation), where public contestation is highly developed.12 As these examples suggest, focusing on the spatially and thematically uneven distribution of democracy gives a more accurate and complex analysis of the conditions of citizenship, whether the case concerns so-called advanced democracies like Switzerland and the United States or emerging ones like Brazil. Such disjunctions show that within a national space, democracy typically has uneven relevance and meaning. Thus the notion of disjunction emphasizes that democracy normally comprehends many components of citizenship in uneven relation. Democracy is always becoming and unbecoming. It is not a set stage of institutions, actors, social structures, and cultural values. It is, in that sense, never consolidated. As a result, its contemporary development is typically uncertain, both expanding and eroding citizenship. Contrary to Marshall’s account, neither democratization nor citizenship is cumulative or progressive. There is always erosion and backsliding.13

Deficiencies of the Political Definition The political theories of democracy that dominate contemporary social science typically miss or underconceptualize the disjunctive nature of democracy and its specific problems. Focusing on the form and practice of government—especially on electoral competition and regime change—they do not consider social, cultural, and economic conditions of citizenship as fundamental to the evaluation of democracy. These so-called minimalist conceptions descend from Joseph Schumpeter’s definition of democracy as “that institutional arrangement for arriving at political decisions in which individuals acquire the power to decide by means of a competitive struggle for the people’s vote” (1947, p. 269). This formulation has a classical pedigree in the study of the ways in which political power is exercised. It evaluates democracy in terms of such questions as: Who governs? How is gov-

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ernment exercised and held accountable? Who votes? Until recently, answers to these questions seemed sufficient to determine the democratic development of a particular society. Most conceptions of democracy today accept this electoral focus as the core definition, from those of policymakers and world bankers to those of political theorists. Minimalist conceptions often acknowledge the importance of civil rights and liberties, but primarily as procedural minimums necessary for meaningful electoral contestation. Most argue against considering the full array of social, economic, and cultural aspects of citizenship in the evaluation of democracy. The principal reason given is commonly that to study these aspects, and therefore the real texture of social life, would introduce too many variables and too much messy evidence. To consider the full sense of citizenship as fundamental to the conception of democracy seems to make it difficult for many observers to find actual democracies to study, because in these terms no democracy is consolidated. However, this apparent difficulty is an artifact of a classificatory scheme that insists on homogeneous categories and determinate processes to ensure analytic elegance. If we accept that even established democracies are disjunctive, and that they are indeterminate in this sense, the difficulty evaporates and we are compelled to study the full anthropological experience of democratic citizenship to understand the development of democracy. As minimalists do not typically investigate other dimensions of democratic citizenship, they fail to assess how and why democratic elections may deny meaningful democracy—including citizen security and the democratic rule of law—to many if not most people who are formally citizens. In addition, privileging the Schumpeterian formulation tends to promote North American and European models of electoral democracy and political culture as both the ideal and its measure. This ethnocentrism obscures the possibility of alternative paths to and configurations of democracy. It also impairs perception of nondemocratic developments within North Atlantic democracies. Instead, minimalism tends to posit a universal definition, single development path, and unique set of cultural requisites for democracy in the most varied national contexts. Just as no two countries have identical histories, it is unreasonable to suppose that all countries have the same democratic experience. It is worth raising the case of democracy under Islam as exemplary of problems with the electoral definition. In its 1997 report, Freedom House judges that “there are no democracies in the Arab world” (1997, p. 11), based on its assessment of national elections among the sixteen countries with a majority Arab population.14 In this evaluation, it reiterates (and perhaps informs) the widely expressed view of the US press. Here, it must suffice to say that in many Islamic countries, such as Iran, Jordan, and Egypt, there is a vigorous contest among state authorities, Islamists, and opposition

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groups (especially of intellectuals and artists) over demands for and meanings of democracy. An exclusively electoral and national view misses these kinds of democratic developments. Moreover, the culturalist argument against Islam is too reductive and generalizing to grasp the historical production of present differences among Muslim nations and is, in any case, as wrongheaded as the once widely held view that Catholicism or Iberian culture was inherently inimical to the development of democracy in Latin America. In a world of globalized democracy, the minimalist and culturalist models are obsolete.15

Evaluating Democracy in Terms of Substantive Citizenship My point is that the rapid growth of civilly disjunctive electoral democracy renders insufficient democracy’s definition in terms of the form and practice of government, as well as research on the quality of democracy based on it. Without doubt, considerations of government remain fundamental because political democracy is necessary to protect citizens from despotic rule. Yet the problems of disjunctive democratization indicate that political democracy is not sufficient to ensure a democratic society, one that ultimately must legitimate the political system. It is all too evident today that such disjunctive developments have compromised the experience of citizenship for the citizens of new democracies everywhere, from Latin America to Russia. If electoral democracy becomes civilly disjunctive in the absence of social, economic, and cultural conditions favorable to democratic citizenship, as I have argued, then it is imperative to study the full experience of citizenship under electoral democracy and consider democracy itself as a qualification of society as much as of politics. In other words, the extension of democracy to the social sphere, to the citizen in social life, is as central to the concept as its qualification of the political. Both of these conditions constitute the contemporary and enabling form of democratic development. In the political realm, individuals are regarded as electors. But in the other spheres, they have a multitude of identities that engage this status, with reciprocal consequences. As a result, in its contemporary development, democracy extends beyond political organizations to occupy new spaces and realms of decisionmaking that hierarchical and nondemocratic relations have traditionally dominated—from the school, workplace, and family to the courts. It is common to most of the world’s citizenship movements that people want the right and the power, in the spaces of civil society, to make decisions that affect the substance of their lives. Without evaluating democracy in these spaces, analysis misses what people usually find most important about democracy.16

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To assess democracy in these terms depends on linking it necessarily and inherently to citizenship in the full, more anthropological sense of the concept. This requisite binds the evaluation of democracy to the sociocultural formulation and realization of citizenship—to its substantive social, cultural, and economic conditions and not only to electoral performance and institutions. This approach has several analytic advantages. First, it shifts the focus of study to specific configurations of agency, process, practice, and institution—to what I call the study of democratic projects. Hence, democratic projects can be compared at many social and political levels, even among polities not formally democratic and peoples lacking a territorial state. Second, understanding democracy in terms of substantive citizenship reveals the ways that established practices and meanings may conflict with a particular project of democracy, or that some democratic projects contradict others. Another important consequence concerns the rule of law. Even the wider political definitions of democracy tend to suppose that the institutionalization of competitive politics and more independent legislatures will produce rule of law, access to justice, and protection of civil rights as more or less automatic by-products of formal regime change. As a result, what is actually meant and practiced by “the rule of law” is seldom investigated. Indeed, in many third-wave countries, this supposition grounded political arguments for the replacement of dictatorship with democracy. However, when political democracy finally came, it was burdened with an expectation in this regard that it could not meet, and many inaugural democratic governments suffered disappointment. The analysis of civilly disjunctive democracy indicates why: political democracy does not necessarily produce a democratic rule of law, and the rule of law does not necessarily secure democratic citizenship. This conclusion suggests four correlates. First, the rule of law is not necessarily just or democratic. It may secure conditions favorable to democracy, but it may not. Nondemocratic regimes may have a rule of law—as a study of legal systems like those of apartheid South Africa, Nazi Germany, and Augusto Pinochet’s Chile demonstrates. Second, political democracy does not necessarily produce a rule of law that is centered on democratic concerns of justice. As the case of Brazil shows, we cannot assume that electoral democracies have a democratic rule of law. Third, if we cannot assume that a rule of law is democratic or that political democracies have a democratic rule of law, we have to investigate the extent to which a particular rule of law engages a project for democracy. Finally, a rule of law so engaged is necessary for full democratic citizenship. This necessity is easy to show. We can imagine fair trials occurring under nondemocratic regimes and unfair trials under democratic ones. However, we cannot imagine anything other than a sham democracy without fair trials. Therefore, a democ-

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racy must secure the legitimacy of law on its own terms of citizenship. If not, it becomes discredited. My argument about the need to link the study of democracy to that of citizenship depends on a substantive conception of the latter. By “substantive,” I refer to the array of attributes, resources, and processes citizenship entails and the manner in which they are available to people. I find three dimensions of citizenship particularly significant in bringing this substance into focus: the legal-institutional, the moral, and the performative. I shall conclude with a brief discussion of the latter two. The moral dimension refers to the meaning of the particular kind of belonging in society that citizenship entails. This meaning is grounded in democracy’s classic legacy of opposing the inequalities of legalized status hierarchies with the equalities of universal membership. This moral consideration brings into focus a set of fundamental problems for contemporary citizenship: in every kind of democracy, even the most effective and meaningful, the moral universe of citizenship is inherently disjunctive. On the one hand, the citizen’s sense of equal dignity is absolute in democracy, irrespective of any personal status other than citizenship itself. In this form, citizen dignity demands an equalization of rights regardless of other differences in race, gender, culture, and so forth. On the other hand, such a politics of equality also entails the value of individual worth, in the sense that each person is equally distinctive and unique. This unique moral sense does not depend on the market value of individuals but on the absolute right of citizens to a measure of well-being needed to cultivate their distinction. In this sense, citizenship demands a differentiation of rights on the basis of salient differences. As Charles Taylor (1992) has analyzed forcefully, such disjunction between equalization and differentiation generates deep conflict in most contemporary citizenships. An analysis of the moral dimension of Brazilian citizenship reveals that, historically, the relation between citizenship as a universal equality and citizenship as a status of special treatment has been one of contradiction. The universal conception figures prominently in Brazil’s constitutions and rhetoric of nationalism and modernism. However, the differential conception has been the norm of social practice as well as of much legislation that differentiates categories of persons entitled to rights. Even when rights expanded under the corporatist state of Getúlio Vargas in the 1930s and 1940s, it did so framed in terms of special entitlements. That is, Brazilians became entitled to rights because they were certain kinds of persons, such as registered worker, female, university graduate, property owner, and retiree. Hence, registered workers have rights to employment benefits others do not, women can retire five years earlier than men, college graduates have a right to a private jail cell, and only the literate could vote until 1985. Thus, historically, rights in Brazil are generally targeted for specific

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social groups, who in turn view them as their private privilege—privilege in the Hohfeldian sense of freedom from the claims of others, absence of duty to them, and immunity to their legal power. In this sense, Brazilian citizenship is rooted in difference in such a way that different treatment usually means discrimination for some and the absence of accountability for others. Morally, therefore, Brazilians traditionally formulate citizenship as a principle and practice of special treatment and privilege, not as a measure of common ground. Citizenship reminds people more of what they are not and do not have in common. It defines most citizens as “others” in a hierarchy of special treatment and (dis)privilege, and considers the law what such others “get”—a formulation of citizenship perfectly embodied in the Brazilian saying “for friends everything, for enemies the law.”17 Finally, the performative dimension of citizenship refers to the practices without which citizenship has no substance at all. They range from voting and paying taxes to reciting oaths of membership (such as the US “Pledge of Allegiance”) and stopping at a traffic light. No matter how apparently trivial, these practices establish the habit of citizenship among people by eliciting—through either obligation or choice—the individual recognition of a set of rulelike conditions to which people must subscribe in their interactions.18 Such performances relate the three principal agents of citizenship—the state, the individual citizen, and groups of citizens—in an inherently antagonistic triangulation, for two reasons. First, although individuals may think of their citizenship as protecting them from state intervention and abuse of power, the state also tries to turn people into “good citizens” by imposing specific kinds of citizenship performances on them, such as voting, military service, orderly public behavior, and paying taxes. These impositions set the standards of conduct to which the state holds citizens accountable, establishing the terms of obligation and resistance. Second, the civil right of each citizen to associate with others generates collective organizations of unequal capacities. As collectivities act to defend and advance their interests, these capacities are set against each other in the arena of citizenship.19 This second type of conflict is especially evident in liberal democracies where the state is committed to a constitution that proposes equal rights and due process but is not committed to providing citizens with equal means to realize those rights. As a result, the inequalities of class transform the formal equalities of citizenship into substantive differences, as those who have the social and economic means to take advantage of their formal legal rights outperform those who do not. Thus the poor are typically formal citizens without much substantive citizenship, who are not able to perform their citizenship effectively. In Brazil, both rich and poor assess citizenship in terms of each other’s performed advantages. In large measure, their reactions—for example, social movements among the poor and criminalization of the poor—both expand and erode Brazilian citi-

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zenship. Citizenship necessarily develops, therefore, by simultaneous expansion and erosion, by generating new inequalities, powers, and contestations. Such imbalances constitute its dynamism and thereby the contours of democratic development.

Conclusion At the beginning of the twenty-first century, perhaps half the world’s electoral democracies and two-thirds of those in the third wave have severely impaired civil citizenships. Their experience of democracy is so disjunctive that its traditional conceptualization in terms of political membership in the nation-state is as unconvincing theoretically as it is unfaithful to the new empirical conditions. Indeed, we now know that the condition of formal membership without much substantive citizenship is characteristic of many societies that have recently become politically democratic in Latin America, Africa, Asia, and Eastern Europe. My objective in pushing democratic theory beyond the political is to open up the study of democratic projects to the specificities of different cultures and societies. It is to suggest a theoretical framework that accounts for actual variation in the experience of democracy. Calling a democracy civilly disjunctive refers to specific aspects of a complex project. It does not condemn the entire project. Moreover, it does not suppose that becoming civil means necessarily becoming just like some other democracy. Civilly disjunctive democracies are democracies nevertheless. The problem is to account for their disjunctions from within the process of democratization without disrespecting their democratic intentions or predetermining the antidote to their perversions on the basis of convergence to ideal types that are modeled on particular North Atlantic examples, such as US or European liberal democracy. If, as I think, such convergence is unlikely, then democratic theory and research must adapt to the development of new and everchanging configurations of citizenship.

Notes I am grateful to the Fulbright-Hays Faculty Research Abroad Program of the US Department of Education and to the International Center for Advanced Studies of New York University for fellowships that supported research on which this chapter is in part based. I also wish to acknowledge the helpful comments of fellow participants in the conference “Analyzing Citizenship in Latin American Democracies,” sponsored by the Woodrow Wilson Center. 1. Although there was a net gain of sixty-eight electoral democracies during this twenty-eight-year period, seventy-six countries changed from nondemocratic to

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democratic political systems: eight had been formally democratic in 1972, became authoritarian, and then redemocratized by 2000. International watchdog organizations use standard criteria of electoral procedure and political freedom to arrive at the number of electoral democracies in the world. As will become clear, I am critical of the electoral approach. I use its data to grasp both the importance of elections and their limitations in evaluating democracy. In this chapter, I use the research that Freedom House has compiled since 1973 in annual world surveys of political rights and civil liberties. Thus, in my analysis, the attribution “democracy” is not a matter of a country’s self-nomination. For example, although the governments of the Democratic Republic of Congo and Egypt declare themselves democratic, international organizations disagree and do not count them among the world’s 120 electoral democracies. With regard to the number of waves of democratization since the late eighteenth century, Samuel Huntington (1991) argues for three waves (and, thus far, two reversals), while Philippe Schmitter (1993) proposes four. At this point, the phrase “the third wave” has caught on. 2. I resist the temptation to call this particular kind of disjunctive democracy “uncivil.” It would be a useful shorthand, especially as it evokes related notions of civility and civitas. However, I have decided that its common association with “uncivilized” renders it too problematic, too dismissive of entire societies. Furthermore, the use of corresponding neologisms such as “unpolitical” and “unsocial” to refer to other kinds of disjunctive democracies makes little sense. Although I have used “uncivil democracy” elsewhere (e.g., Caldeira and Holston 1999), I have changed my mind. 3. I refer readers to my forthcoming book, Insurgent Citizenship, for an extended discussion of these four points, set within the historical and ethnographic context of Brazil. 4. These dichotomies are usefully analyzed in Bobbio 1989, pp. 1–43. 5. An example of this perverse conjunction occurred in Brazil in the first week of October 1992. During that week, the democratically elected National Congress voted in exemplary democratic fashion to suspend democratically elected president Fernando Collor de Mello from office and to send him to the Senate for impeachment. He resigned and was replaced by his vice president. The entire process followed constitutional provisions to the letter. A few days later the military police massacred 111 unarmed prisoners at São Paulo’s House of Detention during a prison rebellion. The media graphically presented the slaughter and its aftermath of butchered bodies to the public. Even though human rights organizations documented the systematic execution of prisoners and numerous incidents of grotesque violence, the public mostly supported the police action, as opinion polls and street demonstrations indicated at the time. Two years later, the commander of the police operation ran for a seat in the state assembly, using the number “111” to identify himself as a candidate on the ballot. He placed second in the election, was declared the alternate, and actually served when the elected deputy was selected for a post in the state administration. 6. At the height of police abuse, in 1992, the military police in the metropolitan region of São Paulo killed 1,301 civilians “in the line of duty.” By comparison, in the same year, the New York City police killed 27 and the Los Angeles police killed 23. After an intense international campaign against police violence in São Paulo, the number of civilians whom the police killed dropped to 183 in 1996. But in 2000, the number rose again, to over 500. These civilian deaths in São Paulo are not due to the increased violence of criminals, as the military police and media crime-mongers claim. See Caldeira 2000 for an analysis of these data. These num-

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bers suggest more a regime of terror than one of law embedded in an electoral democracy. 7. Sometimes, however, media exposure of police violence results in public outrage. In 1998, an amateur videotaped a police shakedown in a poor neighborhood in Diadema in São Paulo. As broadcast repeatedly on television, it showed the police beating and shooting a man who would not give them money and who was obviously not a criminal or a suspect. The public were outraged because they saw an “honest worker” abused by “corrupt police.” But more typical was a video shown a few months later on national television that showed a policeman gunning down two men as they sat on a motorcycle after someone told him that they might have been involved in a bank robbery. The policeman was universally acclaimed even though in the video he makes no attempt to subdue the two men without gunfire, even though the two do not appear to reach for guns but rather to raise their hands, and even though their guilt was not evident or later established. Rather, the two dead men were characterized as “marginals anyway,” and this seemed sufficient justification. 8. Police killings are justified through the dehumanization of citizens as “criminal suspects.” This dehumanization regularly occurs in the “tough talk” of official policy. A few days after policemen killed thirteen suspected drug dealers in the shantytown of New Brasília in Rio, the governor of Rio issued the following statement: “These violent criminals have become animals. . . . They are animals. They can’t be understood any other way. That’s why encounters with them can’t be civilized. These people don’t have to be treated in a civilized way. They have to be treated like animals” (May 11, 1995, cited in Cavallaro [for Human Rights Watch] 1997, p. 10). It was never shown that those killed were drug dealers, and it was immediately evident that some of the victims were not criminals of any sort. 9. Between 1965 and 1990, for example, Americas Watch registered the murder of almost 1,700 rural workers in Brazil. Of these cases, there have been only 26 trials and 15 convictions (Human Rights Watch 1991). The conclusion is certain: hired guns murder with near impunity in rural land conflicts. So do police. The general sense is that the legislature passes laws that the courts cannot or will not enforce. In such circumstances, the law and the justice system become remote from the actual problems of social life. In Brazil, 72 percent of those involved in criminal conflicts do not use the justice system to resolve their problems, according to data from the 1990s. 10. The survey does not rate the performance of governments per se and does not base its evaluation on governmental intentions or constitutions. Rather, it evaluates the realization of political rights and civil liberties for citizens of a country or territory, as this realization may be affected by governmental and nongovernmental factors. The survey uses an eight-question checklist to determine the realization of political rights and a thirteen-question checklist for civil liberties. Based on raw scores for these questions, each country receives one rating for political rights and one for civil liberties, on a scale of 1–7. Category 1 represents the closest and category 7 the furthest from the ideals suggested by the checklist questions, beginning with free and fair elections for political rights, and individual freedoms for civil liberties. The survey understands political rights as those that “enable people to participate freely in the political process” and civil liberties as “the freedoms to develop views, institutions and personal autonomy apart from the state” (Freedom House 1997, p. 572). The overall objective of Freedom House is to use the twin scales of rights and liberties to determine the “degree of freedom” present in each country. For this pur-

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pose, it divides the world into the three supracategories of “free,” “partly free,” and “not free.” It considers “free” those states that have an average of 1.0–2.5 for both scales, “partly free” those that have an average of 3.0–5.5, and “not free” those that have an average of 5.5–7.0. In the case of countries with an average of 5.5, the determination of “partly free” or “not free” is made according to the total number of raw points. In all of the surveys, all countries rated “free” are electoral democracies. Some countries rated “partly free” are also electoral democracies. Thus, in 1996, there were 79 electoral democracies among 79 free countries and 39 electoral democracies among 59 partly free countries. For my purposes, however, this overall categorization of freedom is not useful, because we find civilly disjunctive democracy in both free and partly free countries. 11. Thus there were 15 in 1996 among the 79 free electoral democracies, including Greece, Israel, Bolivia, Malawi, Mongolia, and the Philippines. All 39 partly free electoral democracies were also civilly disjunctive. In 2000 there were 18 free and 33 partly free civilly disjunctive democracies; in 1986, 13 and 8 respectively; and in 1972, 10 and 2 respectively. 12. In its confederated system, Swiss communes and cantons rather than the nation and its individual members are the primary bearers of rights. In this way, Switzerland presents an alternative model of direct democracy to the AngloAmerican one of liberal democracy based on elected representative government and individual rights. 13. Although I am indebted to Marshall for pointing the way to expand the analysis of citizenship beyond political institutionalization, I do not share his historical perspective in at least five ways. First, he explains the development of British citizenship as a three-stage sequence that expands progressively and cumulatively from the civil to the political to the socioeconomic over three centuries. His history is all one of expansion. In contrast, I view the development of citizenship and democracy as always disjunctive. They both expand and erode, progress and regress, in complex ways. Second, I do not view the three-stage historical sequence that Marshall plots as the norm of development. In fact, although it may be an accurate description in some cases, such as Britain, in general it is not. Rather, the spread, timing, and substance of citizenship vary substantially with historical and national context. In most emerging democracies, including Brazil’s, political and socioeconomic rights develop long before civil rights, and in any case not in discrete or linear sequences. Thus the aspect of timing is usually different from the sequence Marshall proposed for Britain, and needs to be evaluated in each case. Third, Marshall always treated citizenship as national, as rooted in the unit of the nationstate. As I argue here, this assumption is mistaken in some cases and increasingly unconvincing in many more. Moreover, the city remains crucial to the emergence of new forms of citizenship (see Holston 1999). Fourth, Marshall analyzes the exercise of collective rights exclusively in terms of social classes. It is more evident today than when he wrote that groups based on difference-specific identities and cultural memberships also claim rights, and that such group-claims contest the liberal theory of difference-neutral citizenship. Finally, when he discusses it at all, he treats the illegal as an aberration, external to the construction and operation of law. I view it as central (see Holston forthcoming). 14. Among the forty-three countries with a majority Islamic population, Freedom House concludes that there are six electoral democracies, namely Albania, Bangladesh, Kyrgyzstan, Mali, Pakistan, and Turkey. 15. Such accounts are frequently used in theory, policy, and the popular press to argue that Islamic religion and culture contradict the premises of democracy and

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that therefore most Islamic countries “appear to have little prospect of transition to even semidemocracies” (Diamond, Linz, and Lipset 1988, p. xx). Tending to view Islamic culture as discrete, uniform, and coherent, the culturalist explanation attributes the apparent lack of democracy to norms and practices inherited from the weighty past of tradition—Samuel Huntington’s 1993 essay on the “clash of civilizations” is a notorious recent example. In a recent publication, for example, Bernard Lewis (1996), a renowned scholar of Islam, distinguishes multiple meanings of the term “Islam” and evaluates the compatibility of each with democracy— though, paradoxically, he accepts only the minimalist “liberal” definition of democracy. On the one hand, he claims to identify such antidemocratic aspects in the Islamic world as “the absence of the notion of citizenship,” observing that “there is no word in Arabic, Persian, or Turkish for ‘citizen,’” and that there is “from the beginning . . . an identification of cult and power or religion and state.” Given such verities, one might well wonder how he would account for those Islamic countries that are electorally democratic (e.g., Turkey, Albania, and Mali), just as one might question that the lack of a word necessarily means the absence of a concept or the inability to develop one. 16. I want to stress, however, that I am not saying in any way that such popular decisionmaking is necessarily just or equitable. Quite the contrary. People often use democratic powers to segregate, discriminate, dismantle, and privatize—as do homeowner associations from coast to coast in the United States, for example. The use of democratic powers and participation to segregate is a basic problem of contemporary democracy that we must engage and theorize. 17. See my forthcoming book, Insurgent Citizenship, for an in-depth study of this Brazilian formulation of citizenship. 18. Those who have lived in countries, like Brazil, in which it cannot be taken for granted that cars will stop at a red traffic light understand in no uncertain terms that such practices are not trivial performances of citizenship. Indeed, I would argue that in contemporary cities, traffic constitutes perhaps the most important public space of citizenship, where its substance is tested through countless negotiations of right and power between anonymous citizens. 19. In his analysis of nation building and the extension of citizenship to the lower classes in Europe, Reinhard Bendix (1977, pp. 89–126) dissects this conflict in terms of what he calls the “plebiscitarian” versus the “functional” principles of citizenship—though he does not conceive of them as performatives.

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5 Fields of Citizenship Ariel C. Armony

Democratic membership in a community is not homogeneous. Poor people, members of racial, ethnic, or religious minorities, and others who are powerless and systematically marginalized in their societies are often shut out of the benefits of the rule of law, live shorter and less gratifying lives, suffer the worst of economic decline, and seldom enjoy the benefits of economic bonanzas. Their experience of democracy is marked by exclusion, injustice, and failure. But their share of democracy’s “deficits” is not randomly distributed. As Michael Walzer put it, “their condition is not in fact the product of a succession of autonomous decisions, but rather of a single systemic decision or of an interconnected set” (1993, p. 58). These people are voters, but this right does not fully define, from the perspective of everyday life, their actual connection to democracy. The rights of citizenship, which determine the “conditions of belonging to society,” are unevenly distributed across territorial and social lines in all democracies (Holston 1999; Chapter 3, this volume). This chapter attempts to develop a conceptual framework for explaining subnational distributions of rights with a comparative look across old and new democracies. To do so, I integrate state-centered and society-centered approaches to democratization and I compare subnational units across different nations—in this case, vulnerable groups across two societies with large contextual differences. The analysis focuses on ghettoized blacks in the United States and favela (shantytown) residents in Brazil. The focus on citizenship in this chapter is not on formal membership in a polity, but on the bundle of political, civil, and social rights available to social groups. Indeed, formal citizenship status is not directly correlated with substantive citizenship, which can only be fulfilled with the enjoyment of the rights necessary for sustaining agency in the sense of the capacities for meaningful social and political participation (Jones and Gaventa 2002). Democracy, a form of political order, entails negative and positive 95

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valences: its functioning is marked by discrepant and conflicting processes (Holston and Caldeira 1998; Caldeira and Holston 1999). A useful way to capture this idea is to think of democracy as syncopation, that is, a musical rhythm accenting a weak beat. As in music, democracy works by occasionally shifting an usually strong beat (e.g., the procedural expectation of horizontal accountability) to a beat that is usually weak (e.g., heightened executive autonomy and discretional rule). As in music (think of ragtime and jazz), occasional syncopation of procedures and rights is present in all democracies, though it predominates more in some than in others. Institutional weaknesses such as impulses toward concentration of power in the executive and contraction of rights do not have a uniform impact across social groups. The most likely victims of institutional weaknesses are the underprivileged (poor, ethnic minorities, unemployed, immigrants). Accents on the off-beat inject nondemocratic practices in state-society relations, but their effect is not homogeneous: it travels down unevenly across social groups, shaping their experience of citizenship in a variety of ways. While the notion of democratic citizenship entails a composite of rights that, in theory, cannot be contingent upon privileges based on class, race, ethnicity, gender, age, religion, and other features, in practice some social groups (nonrandomly defined) are de facto excluded from the full benefits of citizenship. Exclusion is expressed, for instance, in extremely weak judicial guarantees, everyday abuse by state agents (such as the police), or systematic exposure to health risks due to deficient regulation by the state of activities involving human-created dangers. The content of democratic citizenship should include not only a political dimension but also civil, social, economic, and cultural aspects, because citizenship rights are multidimensional (Caldeira and Holston 1999; Janoski and Gran 2002). The bundle of rights available to citizens (at a minimum, political, civil, and social rights) does not move from incomplete to complete stages in the direction of full evolution, but it relentlessly expands and contracts in arrhythmic ways.1 Political, civil, and social rights are interdependent and constantly in flux (O’Donnell 1996b; Holston and Appadurai 1999; Yashar 1999). In most of Latin America, the expansion of political rights in the 1980s was not matched by widespread enforcement of civil and social rights. Some countries experienced a transition from “political” to “criminal” violence as the police state loosened its grip on the poor sectors and neoliberal reforms deepened existing inequalities (Scheper-Hughes 1997; Caldeira 2002). On occasion, governments in the region responded with constitutional reforms to citizens’ demands for minority rights (e.g., for women and indigenous groups), but often these rights hardly permeated existing socioeconomic stratifications (Yashar 1999).

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The capacity of the state to guarantee a bundle of rights for all cannot be detached from existing inequalities and dominant patterns of social interaction, especially those characterized by diverse forms of socioeconomic and cultural exclusion, which are often more resistant to change than are political institutions (Vilas 1997). The law and institutions do not guarantee, by themselves, that all those who claim membership in the nation-state will be able to exercise their rights effectively. The distribution of exclusion is a critical window into the functioning of democracy. The interaction between the state apparatus and social context produces different distributions of rights in different settings. From the perspective of citizenship, the study of exclusion examines the extent and degree to which rights are effective at the subnational level and for whom, with attention to the institutional and socioeconomic conditions that shape the distribution of rights. By comparing similar social groups across different countries, it is possible to understand the syncopation of rights in democracy. The cases selected for illustration here—the United States and Brazil—are intended to show that the processes that sustain exclusion are comparable across democracies.

Fields of Citizenship If the content of citizenship is, in practice, not guaranteed by its formal status, then it is necessary to understand how citizenship is made effective for members of a political community. This approach to the functioning of democracy explores how democracy works for different social groups in the realm of rights, specifically why formal rights (rights-in-principle) fail to become actual rights (rights-in-practice) (Foweraker and Landman 1997). The law and institutions are “free-floating forms of empowerment and cultural resources” whose actual value for effective citizenship depends on the social position of groups (i.e., socioeconomic conditions) and specific social interactions (i.e., the relational situation of groups with respect to institutionalized patterns of authority and subordination, constitution of social prestige, and social networks) (Somers 1993, p. 611). In other words, the laws that prescribe rights and the institutions that protect them cannot be considered independently from social practices and the relational position of social groups (Young 2001; Rao and Walton 2002). The law can be turned into a form of empowerment only if people can access the resources necessary for the transformation of the law into effective rights. Theoretically speaking, the law eliminates “the grounds for thinking that others are not complying with the rules” and sets the boundaries within which people are expected to act (Rawls 1971, p. 240). But in practice a series of complementary conditions is necessary—such as unre-

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stricted access to the courts and legal processes that are open, fair, and impartial (Raz 1979; Krygier 1997). From the perspective of citizenship, the actual implementation of the law for social groups is dependent on functional access to the legal sphere, cultural resources, and the specific matrix of social, economic, and political relationships that determine an individual’s position (as a member of a social group) in the broader socioeconomic context (Somers 1993). Instead of establishing an ideal parameter against which cases can be assessed, I suggest comparing subnational distributions of rights across different countries. This approach combines within-nation analysis and between-nation comparisons (Snyder 2001). Thus I advance the concept of “fields of citizenship,” which are defined as given distributions of rights for certain social groups. The notion of “field” expresses the extent to which rights are effective for a given social group in relation to other groups. The objective of this approach is to evaluate inequalities in the enjoyment of rights by comparing social groups (see Young 2001).2 This is a tool to operationalize the syncopation of rights in democracies (see Chapter 4 for a discussion on democracy’s “disjunctions”). A field of citizenship for a certain social group in a given country is a function of the coverage of political, civil, and social rights for that group (the extent and degree to which each right is effective vary within a specific field). The category of “social group” (e.g., African Americans, women, Mayans, or shantytown residents) identifies individuals similarly placed in social structures. These people “frequently experience multiple forms of exclusion, unequal burdens or costs deriving from institutional organization, rules, or decisions, and the cumulative consequences of each”—that is, these structures enable and bound their life choices in manners that are mostly beyond their personal control (Young 2001, p. 8). A comparison of vulnerable groups across different societies is important to understand how the interaction of institutional and social patterns sustains structures that result in the systematic protection or abridgment of rights for certain social groups. Methodologically, the scheme of comparing vulnerable social groups across countries avoids the propensity toward “whole nation” biases. Rather than focusing on assessments made on the basis of national-level averages, this approach seeks to draw comparisons with attention to the internal heterogeneity of countries. The proposed analysis involves examining how structural disadvantages (sociohistorical “handicaps”) that result from belonging to a social group are connected to inequalities in the distribution of rights. The purpose of the analysis is to explain why some groups carry a heavier burden of injustice than other groups. In order to show that there is injustice with regard to a social group, it is necessary to tell a “causal story” that explains why the group is systematically disadvantaged (Young 2001). The story

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(i.e., a narrative explaining patterned relationships) must show the process (i.e., a pattern of structural disempowerment sustained over time) that results in systemic disadvantages for members of the group. In order to account for the irregular distribution of rights, a causal story must identify the interaction among institutional rules and policies (i.e., the state’s administrative and coercive apparatus, and the legal system), socioeconomic conditions (i.e., the additive collective material effects of institutional behavior and social relations), and social interactions (i.e., individual and group actions, relations, and perceptions) (Young 2001; see also Somers 1993). The intersection of institutional, material, and cultural conditions shapes the access and use-value of rights for social groups. As stated, the purpose of a causal story is to explain why some groups are systematically more disadvantaged in the enjoyment of rights than others. As I will show, the patterned relationships that characterize a given field of citizenship in an advanced industrial democracy, the United States, can be compared to those in a new democracy, Brazil. The social groups selected in each of these countries are comparable because they are placed at the lower end of class hierarchies, they are more exposed than other groups to discrimination and stigmatization, and they are defined as a group by both residential space and the categories of race and class. In brief, economic inequality, ethnoracial stratification, and identity markers place ghettoized African Americans and black favelados in a similar plateau as “most vulnerable” groups in each of their contexts. The fact that deficits in various types of capital (economic, cultural, social, and human) are irregularly distributed across social groups indicates that opportunities and potentialities are established “by the ways the positions [of groups] are related to one another to create systematic constraints or opportunities that reinforce one another like wires in a cage” (Young 2001, p. 12, emphasis added). For example, the “relational setting” of ghettoized blacks in the United States is patterned by the cumulative collective effects of institutional and societal practices, and expressed in conditions of economic deprivation, disempowerment, and low levels of social and human capital. This setting functions as a “cage” (i.e., a hostile environment) that limits people’s life chances and their potentiality as agents with capacities, autonomy, and dignity (Carens 2000; Appadurai 2001; see also Somers 1993).3 As causal stories show, patterns of inequality are not merely economic, because institutional and socioeconomic structures intersect with cultural and racial biases. Systematic assaults on the dignity of individuals (e.g., manifested as racism, sexism, and xenophobia) are rooted in discriminatory patterns embedded not only in laws and institutions but also in social practices and structures. For example, racial discrimination played a key role in structuring the housing and lending industry in the United States, shaping

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regulatory guidelines, appraisal rating systems, lending policies, mortgage insurance, and home-building subsidies (Gotham 2000). The perpetuation of racial stigmas often reveals a “‘fit’ between the belief systems of both more and less powerful groups which lead to behavioral interactions that perpetuate inequality” (Rao and Walton 2002, p. 4). The resulting “internalization of subordination” generally restricts a group’s accessibility to social networks, its stock of constructive experiences (based on the association between aspirations and results), and its perceptions about the inherent value of democracy (Carens 2000; Appadurai 2002). As “wires in a cage,” these are important components of a causal story of injustice.

African Americans and Voting Rights The articulation between structural conditions that burden ghettoized blacks disproportionately and laws and policies designed to fight drug abuse results in a serious restriction to one of the fundamental rights of citizenship: the political right to vote. In the United States, a substantial portion of African Americans has been disenfranchised from this basic form of participation. This truncation of political rights affects African American males considerably more than any other social group in the United States. The causal story that explains this outcome meets the conditions of plausibility and convergence of mutually reinforcing patterns of systematic bias against a social group. Succinctly, the causal story is the following: race is a key predictor of felony conviction and, in most states, felons cannot vote. The “war on drugs,” social exclusion, and racial stigmas converge to account for a high rate of incarceration for African American men coming from the most economically precarious sectors of the urban population. In the United States, the state has played a key role “in racializing the processes through which people perceive their relations with others and form their social identities” (Hayward 2003, p. 503). These processes sustain a system of racial stratification that makes the African American underclass more exposed to discrimination and stigmatization; in other words, these processes exact a disproportionate burden on a vulnerable sector of the population. This is evident in the racial bias that underlies the disproportionately high incarceration rates for black men and the disenfranchisement laws that curtail their political rights. The punitive treatment of socioeconomic exclusion means that poor urban African Americans become entrapped “in the clutches of the penal system in numbers and with an intensity far out of proportion with their criminal involvement” (Wacquant 2005, p. 129). Because of state laws regulating the right to vote for felons and former felons, a disproportionate number of black men are barred from exercising their right to vote. Blacks

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are more likely to go to prison than any other social group. By the end of the twentieth century, 48 percent of inmates in the United States were African Americans—a group representing 13 percent of the total population. According to data from the mid-1990s, white males had a 4 percent probability of being incarcerated at some point in their lifetime; Latinos, 16 percent; and African Americans, nearly 29 percent (Mauer 1999). From the late 1980s to the mid-1990s, there was a sharp increase in the rate of incarceration of blacks in thirty-eight states and the District of Columbia. In 2000, the rate of black males serving time in prison was 4,617 per 100,000, whereas the rate for white males was 630 per 100,000.4 Drug offenses have played a central role in the soaring rates of incarceration for all social groups. The percentage of inmates in federal and state prisons convicted for drug offenses has increased dramatically since 1970. In 1970, federal prisoners sentenced for drug offenses constituted 16.3 percent of the total prison population. This percentage increased to 58.9 by the end of the 1990s.5 Still, blacks constitute the group most affected by this trend. At the state level, the number of African Americans incarcerated because of drug-related crimes increased 465.5 percent from the mid-1980s to the early 1990s. This increase surpassed that of whites by 4.4 times (while both groups experienced a similar increase in the number of felons convicted for violent crimes) (Sentencing Project [9050]). Most US states ban felons and former felons from voting. Therefore, African Americans are the most affected by disenfranchisement laws, given the number of felony convictions among this group. In the early 2000s, an estimated 13 percent of adult African American males were temporarily or permanently banned from voting—a percentage nearly seven times higher than the national average.6 Disenfranchisement laws vary from state to state. Most states (forty-eight states and the District of Columbia) take away prisoners’ voting rights, thirty-six states withdraw the right to vote from felons on parole, and thirty-one states withdraw the right to vote from felons on probation as well. Three states disenfranchise all ex-felons who have completed their sentences, while nine states deny the right to vote to specific categories of ex-felons or allow petition for restitution of rights for certain offenses after a mandatory waiting period (Sentencing Project [1046]).7 Institutional rules and policies interact with structural inequalities, which result from a system that confers important advantages (e.g., better access to jobs, housing, and education) on the basis of race (Nelson 1996; Young 2001). Racial inequalities in the United States are manifested in poverty, lower income, unemployment and informal employment; lower levels of life expectancy; higher levels of infant, maternal, and young male mortality; and higher rates of abortion, teenage pregnancy, births to single mothers, children living with one parent, and victimization (homicide, rapes, burglaries, assaults, and domestic violence) (Loury 2002; see also

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Geronimus, Bound, and Waidmann 1999; Geronimus et al. 1996). These indicators reveal a consistent pattern of inequality and social exclusion. Blacks living in areas of concentrated poverty face social and economic conditions that aggregate to create a “cage” of systematic constraints. Drugs often represent a viable economic activity in this context. The dominant response in the United States is a penal discourse and policies focused on the notion of a “war on drugs,” which conflates blackness and criminality (see Wacquant 2005). This policy emphasizes the principle of “addition by subtraction”; namely it “removes people from their communities, subtracting from those places whatever deficits were exacted by their presence” (Clear 2002, p. 180). The priority given to law enforcement over treatment and prevention has a disproportionate impact on inner-city communities. They are the systematic target of punitive practices and count on very limited resources for addressing the social dimension of drug trafficking (Mauer 2002).8 Laws that determine mandatory sentencing for drug-related offenses and prescribe harsher penalties for drugs that are often used in poor urban communities are an important component of the penal treatment of exclusion. Sentencing policies have a disproportionate impact on racial minorities. While blacks represented only 13 percent of drug users in the mid1990s, they accounted for 35 percent of arrests for possession, 55 percent of convictions, and 74 percent of prison sentences. Furthermore, if we compare mandatory sentencing regarding two forms of substance abuse—drunk driving and drug abuse—it is clear that sentencing policies are considerably harsher for drug-related offenses. Whereas drunk drivers—who are mainly white males—tend to be charged with misdemeanors and normally receive sentences carrying fines, license suspension, and community service, drug offenders—predominantly drawn from low-income minorities, mainly blacks—are commonly charged as felons and often sentenced to imprisonment (Sentencing Project [1003], [9040]; Mauer 1999). Federal and some state sentencing laws differentiate between crack cocaine and powder cocaine, punishing crack offenses more harshly. These products have the same chemical composition, though “crack is marketed in less expensive quantities and so is more often used in low-income and minority communities” (Sentencing Project [5047]). Therefore, black drug offenders, who tend to deal crack, receive more severe sentences than whites. A conviction of powder cocaine possession with intent to distribute mandates a five-year sentence for a quantity of 500 grams or more, while a similar conviction for crack mandates the same sentence for 5 grams and results in compulsory incarceration for first-time offenders (Sentencing Project [1003]). By the mid-1990s, African Americans represented only one-third of crack users, but they accounted for almost 85 percent of those convicted of crack possession and 88 percent of those convicted for trafficking (Sentencing Project [1003], [5047]).

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As argued, discriminatory patterns embedded in social and institutional practices are important components of a causal story of injustice. While there have been, of course, crucial changes in attitudes toward blacks in the post–civil rights era, social meanings in US society continue to reinforce a racial stigma according to which poor African Americans are perceived as more likely to break the law and as carriers of a “spoiled” social identity (Loury 2002). In the causal story of African Americans, racial bias and policymaking reinforce each other. Public policy has been highly susceptible to social meanings: this is evident in the “war on drugs” approach, which is rooted in the idea of the corrosive nature of inner-city life (regarded as a source of deviance and violence) and the threat posed by “dangerous” groups to the broader society. This perception translates into a punitive approach for some (e.g., young dealers in ghettos) and treatment for others (e.g., young drug buyers in the suburbs) (Loury 2002; see also Mauer 2002). An outcome of this approach is that prisons have become the “normative” experience of socialization for a majority of black men (Scheper-Hughes 1997). In fact, black men are present in the prison population in a nearly sevenfold greater number than in the average population. In turn, young black males (twentyfive to twenty-nine years old) are present in the prison population in a seventeenfold greater number than in the average population.9 The reinforcing relationship among law enforcement strategies, sentencing policies, socioeconomic conditions in ghettoes, and negative stereotypes accounts for the staggering incarceration rates for African Americans, which result in a systematic restriction (in the sense of a patterned process affecting a specific social group) of a core dimension of their political rights: the right to vote. While disenfranchisement laws are ostensibly racially neutral, their origins are vitiated by historical schemes of racial containment. Indeed, the fact that African Americans suffer a disproportionate burden in the restriction of voting rights is a function of institutional legacies anchored in the legacies of slavery, Jim Crow, and the development of the urban ghetto (Behrens, Manza, and Uggen 2003; Wacquant 2001, 2002). The penal treatment of exclusion and the resulting loss of voting rights are antithetical to the equality of all citizens before the law. In a context in which rights-in-practice are often effective for most groups, the serious contraction of political rights for African Americans illustrates an important aspect of syncopation in US democracy.

Favelados and Limits to Political Rights This causal story focuses on shantytown residents in Brazil. These shantytowns, favelas, are racially mixed and the degree of poverty varies substan-

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tially across residents. Even though there has been a significant degree of mobility among favelados in the past three decades, generally manifested in upward mobility to better neighborhoods, this mobility has been largely available only to nonblacks. While skin color continues to be a liability for black Brazilians, the most important disadvantage for those living in favelas is the social stigma associated with this place of residence. This stigma restricts access to better jobs, thus thwarting possibilities for socioeconomic advancement, and contributes to reinforce anticrime discourses and policies based on negative stereotypes of favelados (Oliveira 1996; Perlman 2005a, 2005b). Exposure to discrimination worsens when the stigma of the favela meets the darkness of the skin. Most favelados live under conditions of “structural violence,” namely structural inequalities that restrict access to healthcare, education, work, urban services, and security (Leeds 1996). Everyday life in most shantytowns is marked by both criminal and state violence (Zaluar 1995; Mitchell and Wood 1998; Brinks 2002, 2003). Violence tends to operate as “the mediator of social relations” in these communities (Pinheiro 1996). Similar to imprisonment for young African Americans in the United States, violence has become a fundamental component of the socializing experience for young, mostly black, favela residents. The state as a guarantor of peace, order, and security is hardly present in these communities—or when it is present, its agents tend to behave as repressive actors (Caldeira 2002). Criminal actors usually exercise control in the favelas through ruthless practices (Leeds 1996). Indeed, many of these communities are caught between “two fires”: the violence coming from the drug dealers and the violence coming from the police. While the broader setting in which these citizens live is determined by the institutions of democracy, everyday relations between state and society are marked by authoritarian practices carried out by state agents (police, judiciary, elected officials at all levels) and powerful private actors (criminal networks). Inmates in Brazil are largely drawn from the poor and black population, and, as in the United States, convicted felons lose their voting rights. Brazil’s rate of incarceration has surged over the past three decades, particularly in the 1990s, and the mass imprisonment of the poor has been a key component of this country’s recourse to a punitive approach to law and order (Wacquant 2003; Salla 2001). As of 2002, Brazil had Latin America’s largest prison population in absolute numbers: nearly a quarter million inmates. Conditions in Brazilian prisons are dire. Overcrowding, systematic abuse, and absence of mechanisms for rehabilitation have turned prisons into hellish facilities that serve mainly as “schools of crime” (Macaulay 2002). While it would make sense to compare patterns of institutionalized racism in the United States and Brazil regarding restrictions on citizenship

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rights for felons, my analysis will focus on a different set of constraints on the rights of a vulnerable group. This causal story will show how institutional, material, and cultural features interact to impede effective citizenship for favelados, specifically in terms of the enjoyment of adequate levels of autonomy to exercise political rights. As Guillermo O’Donnell put it, the rights and responsibilities ascribed to full membership in a democratic community are virtually meaningless for those who lack the necessary “autonomy and/or the availability of a reasonable range of choice” that constitute them as agents (1999a, p. 43). In the case of Brazil’s shantytown residents, two interrelated policies (formal and informal)—the “war on crime” and the “politics of the water tap”—articulate with conditions of structural violence to sustain a recreation of clientelistic relationships that reinforces the subordinated position of this group. Arbitrary state practices and large social distances reinforce hierarchical social interactions, where formal mechanisms of interest intermediation tend to be replaced by informal rules that are dependent upon patronage and clientelism. The result of this causal story is not a loss of voting as a formal right, but a loss of political autonomy. As argued, when members of vulnerable groups lack minimum autonomy and the possibility to choose from a fair set of alternatives, they cannot be constituted as citizens, that is, as legal subjects with effective rights and responsibilities (O’Donnell 1999a). Clientelism may be seen as a device for the poor to obtain resources otherwise unavailable. But in a context marked by deep socioeconomic inequalities, in which the state does not function as a fair and predictable arbiter and social relations are mediated by violence, clientelism becomes a mechanism for the distribution of public goods that is highly particularistic and discretionary. If state-society relations are not bounded by the law, and mechanisms of representation are textured by highly unequal power capacities, political demands are likely to “find a niche within the clientelistic order, regulated by particularistic and illegal exchange, because clientelism is the sole mechanism providing protection” (Rossetti 1994, pp. 100–101). Thus, when clientelistic exchange plays a central role in structuring interactions between vulnerable groups and democratic authorities, political rights are largely present as de jure rather than de facto rights (Perlman 2005b). The everyday presence of violence in the favelas is linked to institutional failures. State institutions, particularly the police and judicial authorities, often perceive the law as an impediment to guarantee public safety (Pinheiro 2002). The resulting “war on crime” represents a form of law enforcement rhetorically presented as an effort to control the detrimental effects of common crime and drug dealing. This is a “war” justified as a rational means of controlling the “dangerousness” of shantytown residents, the “criminal nature” of youths, and the “drug addiction” of

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street children (Scheper-Hughes 1997). Policies geared toward crime prevention are often less focused on crime control than on lessening the sense of fear and insecurity—the “crisis of security”—felt by the middle and upper classes(Pinheiro 1996). Both state and society produce discourses that associate crime with specific spaces (favelas) that purportedly produce crime. The state contributes to produce the sense of danger, which legitimates a heavy-handed approach to policing the “dangerous” classes (a role in which the media also play an important part) and enforces policies designed to protect the well-off from the poor (Leeds 1996; Pinheiro 1996). Middle- and upper-class sectors tend to portray the poor as the source of most social ills. Their lifestyle and behavior are considered aberrant, backward, deviant, and threatening (Caldeira 2000). The opinion that evil must be “repressed, tamed, and controlled” sustains a strong-hand approach in law and order, which gives police significant leeway in abusing the underprivileged: poor, young, black citizens (Caldeira 1998). The roots of the “war on crime” reside in “a long-standing tradition of Brazilian police abuse and violence against the lower classes in general and favela . . . residents in particular” (Leeds 1996, p. 63). The deployment of militarized police forces in cities has resulted in a form of illegal violence that includes a number of routine practices that systematically violate the rule of law. As a standard, the criminal justice system places more emphasis on the perceived features of the individual who perpetrates a crime than on the nature of the criminal act itself, reflecting “hierarchical and discriminatory practices that mark social relationships” (Goirand 2003, p. 4; see also Adorno 1995; Mitchell and Wood 1998; IBCCRIM/FSeade 2003). A longitudinal study of favelas in Rio de Janeiro (1969–2001) found that feelings of exclusion and disempowerment (i.e., lack of access to decisionmaking spheres) continued to be high among favelados despite years of democratic transformations. While the most recent surveys indicate that positive perceptions of state and municipal governments are higher than those for the national government, the former are nonetheless very low: just over one in three interviewees viewed state government as helpful and only one in four residents believed municipal government fulfilled this expectation (Perlman 2005b). An important reason for this frustration is the continuous presence of the “politics of the water tap”—the use of material promises and rewards by politicians as a means to win elections or retain electoral support (Leeds 1996). This political practice entails a discretionary system of interest intermediation based on highly unequal terms of exchange. Usually, political candidates seek favela votes by negotiating with local leaders the provision of infrastructure and service delivery. While sometimes the exchange works for both parties, more often the result is corruption and deceit. The option

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for clientelism is a rational response for individuals who lack economic resources and the political power needed to obtain them; as such, this is a mechanism that fits the structural conditions of highly vulnerable groups (Gay 1990a, 1999). However, even if we view clientelism as a defense against unresponsive government and exclusion, the “politics of the water tap” works as a mechanism of social control and political subordination in the favelas. The growth of powerful drug-dealing rings in these communities and the alliances between political candidates and drug bosses have debilitated the power and influence of local grassroots organizations (Arias 2002; Goirand 2003). Drug gangs command extraordinary economic resources, which allow them to replace neighborhood associations as mechanisms for community development and grassroots collective action (Gay 1999). Ties among drug traffickers, community leaders, and politicians have become the basis for powerful networks of leadership in these communities, resulting in a complex partnership that brings together political, economic, and criminal power (Leeds 1996). The imbrication between criminal networks and networks of public patronage and clientelism has consolidated a system of interest intermediation in which politicians provide protection to drug traffickers, traffickers provide security to favelas and finance political campaigns and community projects, and residents deliver votes to politicians and cooperation to drug groups. Therefore, favelados are forced to accept a discretionary system of decisionmaking (the exchange of goods and services for votes) and, simultaneously, a repressive system of “alternative justice” imposed by criminal groups (Leeds 1996; Arias 2002). Social stigmas contribute to sustain a form of citizenship that is contingent on social standing—vulnerable groups are denied the possibility to belong to a sphere of equality, to be recognized as fellow human beings, and to be accepted into “the universe of useful citizens” (Mitchell and Wood 1998; Goirand 2003). Favela residents feel “exploited, manipulated, and repressed” by public officials, the police, the courts, and the media. In addition, they carry the burden of their place of residence. In fact, the stigma against favelados lingers as one of the most salient aspects of social exclusion faced by the urban poor in Brazil (Perlman 2005b). During elections, the “politics of the water tap” and the “war on crime” reach a high point of convergence: favelados are treated as potential beneficiaries of state-financed infrastructure and service delivery by candidates for public office, while they become the target of the “war on crime,” which rings prominently in campaign promises to the middle and upper classes. Both aspects—political subordination and everyday forms of state violence—mark the boundaries of citizenship for the urban poor. As in other countries, dense clientelistic networks based on the “distributive capacities”

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of political brokers, elected officials, criminals, and other individuals in positions of power are often the only problem-solving devices in a context marked by structural violence and nondemocratic institutional behavior (see Auyero 2001). In this context, political rights tend to be reduced to a particularistic exchange devoid of legitimacy. As with the law, which is generally perceived as a tool for the privileged, political participation loses its meaning: the result is a process that deepens social distances, reinforces nondemocratic behavior, and discredits the political system (Pinheiro 1996; Goirand 2003).

Conclusion This chapter has focused on the contradictory character of rights in two democracies, examining the loss and contraction of a formal right for ghettoized blacks in the United States and shantytown residents in Brazil. While poor African Americans are disproportionately affected by the restriction on the right to vote, favelados experience democracy in an environment where voting becomes part of a “system of tradeoffs between the haves and the have-nots” sustained by political subordination, corruption, and violence (Vilas 1997, p. 62). Even though there are conspicuous differences in the precise way in which the contraction of a right is manifested in the United States and Brazil—the loss of the right to vote versus the erosion of the capacity to exercise such a right—the comparative analysis of these cases highlights the importance of approaching the study of democracy with a focus on patterns of exclusion. While everyday democracy in Brazil is less effective than in the United States, and there are important variations of institutional resources and strengths between these countries, some fundamental problems, such as inequalities in the distribution of rights, tend to be similar. Furthermore, these cases illustrate that processes of democratic inclusion are syncopated. In the United States, the increasing restriction of voting rights for African Americans seems to reverse historical trends toward minority enfranchisement (see Uggen and Manza 2002). In Brazil, robust rates of political participation and new forms of accountable governance at the municipal level—a clear expansion of democratic rights—stand in contrast to serious limitations in the autonomy of vulnerable groups to exercise their citizenship rights (see Hagopian 2003). The abridgment of rights for vulnerable groups has implications for the broader political system. These are subnational patterns that constrain and disrupt regional and national processes of democratization (Cornelius, Eisenstadt, and Hindley 1999; Gibson 2004). In the United States, it is estimated that the political incorporation of disenfranchised African American

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males would have altered electoral results in the past three decades, in both congressional and presidential races (Uggen and Manza 2002). In Brazil, clientelistic practices in local politics influence state and national electoral outcomes, and patronage influences the votes of state congressional delegations on important policy matters—an effect intensified by weak party discipline. Political machines, clientelism, and corruption not only are the trademark of rural regions, but also continue to shape politics in midsize and large cities in Brazil (see Hagopian 1996a; Ames 2001). The analysis also suggests that deficits of citizenship in Brazil are not necessarily the result of a distorted type of democratic regime, the normal expression of which is to be found in the democracies of the advanced industrial world. The case of the United States, where limitations to the right to vote still remain today, shows that the contradictory character of democratic citizenship is inherent to both old and new democracies. Furthermore, the construction of causal stories shows that patterns of exclusion may be rooted in similar processes. State action intersects with economic resources and cultural conditions that shape the creation of group identities to “make” citizenship. The results of this process are evident in asymmetries of rights observed subnationally as well as on the basis of racial, ethnic, gender, and class divides. These asymmetries need to be traced back to layers of unfairness and bias—for instance, to various forms of inequality, which range from systematic disinvestment on the part of the state in the black US ghetto to ingrained biases resulting in higher prison sentences for black offenders in the Brazilian court system (see Hayward 2003; IBCCRIM/FSeade 2003). These inequalities are critical because they define which social groups will be most affected when institutions underperform or the rule of law fails. Studying these patterns requires theoretical and methodological tools that help correct excessive reliance on “whole nation” approaches in favor of analyses that consider distributional patterns of citizenship rights. Also, research on the liabilities of democracy is likely to be more promising if it is undertaken across traditional boundaries—those between old and new, Western and non-Western democracies. Furthermore, the study of citizenship makes us rethink sequential models of democratization. Indeed, the United States, a paradigm of democracy, also stands as a paradigmatic example of how, even after more than two centuries, crucial democratization tasks still remain unfinished (Armony and Schamis 2005). Thinking about citizenship requires that we approach the study of democratization with the understanding that this is a process marked by multiple delays and unpredictable detours. Moreover, we need to correct the assumption that democratic deficits are characteristic deviations of new but not older democracies. If we make the case that all democracies exhibit similar deficits and face comparable challenges, our grasp of democratization

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will be richer in conceptual innovations, theoretical insights, and empirical lessons.

Notes 1. For a definition of political, civil, and social rights, see Janoski and Gran 2002. 2. The territorial dimension is also important in assessing the distribution of rights. In the case of the social groups examined in this chapter, space is an important signifier associated with various aspects of these groups. Space reinforces stratified social relations by defining material boundaries in the urban environment (see Hayward 2003). 3. Even though I will not include the transnational dimension in my analysis, it is important to acknowledge that the local sociohistorical context is shaped by global forces (e.g., movements of capital and labor, transnational communities, and technological innovation). These forces generate “problems that manifest themselves in intensely local forms but have contexts that are anything but local” (Appadurai 2001, p. 6; see also Sassen 1999; Anderson 1994). 4. For women, the rates were 375 per 100,000 for African Americans and 53 for white females. Data from the Sentencing Project. 5. See Frontline’s “Drug Wars,” available at http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/ frontline/shows/drugs/etc/synopsis.html. 6. Imprisonment also has an impact on civil rights and social rights. For instance, incarceration carries a substantial decline in the future income of first-time offenders, and male incarceration has a disproportionate impact on the welfare of families when compared with other socioeconomic factors (see Sentencing Project [9050]). In addition, removing men from their communities is not merely the penalization of an individual, but also a social process that seriously damages interpersonal attachments and limits the production of prodemocratic social capital and political participation (Braman 2002). 7. Recent policy changes have sought to restore voting rights to ex-felons, but most of these processes are still too intricate to have a real impact on the restitution of rights (Sentencing Project [9080] and updates; Mauer 2002). It is interesting to note that US disenfranchisement rules are much more severe than those in many other democracies (convicted prisoners retain the vote in countries as diverse as Australia, Canada, France, Greece, India, Israel, Peru, Poland, and South Africa) (United Kingdom Parliament 1998). 8. The percentage of the antidrug budget spent on treatment and prevention has decreased considerably since 1970. In 1970, 58 percent of the antidrug money was allocated to treatment and prevention; in 2000, the figure was 34 percent (“The Federal Government’s Response to Illegal Drugs, 1969–78,” “National Drug Control Strategy, Budget Summary 1998,” “ONDCP Fact Sheet 172873,” cited in Frontline’s “Drug Wars,” available at http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/ shows/drugs/charts). 9. Author calculations based on 2004 prison and jail inmate data from the US Department of Justice, and on population estimates from the US Census Bureau.

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6 Democracy and Citizenship in Latin America Joseph H. Carens

What conceptions of democracy and citizenship should we use in studying Latin America? One of the central themes in the preceding three chapters is that we should not adopt the United States as an ideal model of democracy and criticize Latin American states whenever they deviate from that. This is a view that I heartily endorse, but it does not take us very far. Another theme that sometimes seems to emerge from these three chapters—I say “sometimes seems” because this theme is much more ambiguous than the first—is that there are no common standards of evaluation, no shared principles of democracy and citizenship, that can be used for purposes of comparative evaluation. I am not sure whether any of the three authors really means to endorse this view, but if they do, I wish to challenge it and to point out that it conflicts with their own practices. Each of the authors implicitly or explicitly makes normative evaluations that depend on principles that transcend the particularities of the cases and issues they discuss. James Holston and Ariel Armony explicitly use the language of justice, treating it as something whose meaning in these contexts will be readily understood by their readers. The normative dimensions of Deborah Yashar’s analysis are apparent in her discussion of social rights, among other issues. “Democracy” and “citizenship” are not neutral terms. In the modern world, they carry positive valence. Democracy is a good thing. Citizens are people who have rights and are to be treated equally. That is why it is important to criticize conceptions of democracy that focus exclusively on formal political institutions and conceptions of citizenship that focus exclusively on formal civil and political rights. Critics of such conceptions, including the authors of these three chapters, rightly argue that we have to pay attention to economic, cultural, and social rights as well as civil and political rights, and that we have to look beyond formal rights to consider how politics and the rights of citizenship actually function in practice in assessing democratization. But these sorts of arguments implicitly invoke 111

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more adequate conceptions of democracy and citizenship, and, in doing so, they set us once again on the path of normative evaluation. We may want to criticize the United States as well as Brazil, Canada as well as Colombia, but we cannot escape the task of normative assessment. At the same time, it is surely right to be wary about assuming that the same principles of democracy and citizenship apply in the same ways in all places and all times. Like all three authors, I think that normative analysis has to pay attention to context. So, one challenge is to clarify how the empirical differences between Latin American democracies and democracies in other parts of the world matter normatively, and how they do not. Here I agree fully with Holston’s statement early in Chapter 4, “A different approach is necessary, one that assesses the quality of democracy in such diverse situations and also distinguishes different configurations of democracy [presumably legitimate ones] from claims of difference that are merely excuses for undemocratic practices.” I will try to contribute something to that new approach in these comments. I am a political theorist who writes about immigration and multiculturalism (mainly, though not exclusively, in Europe and North America), and I normally think about democracy and citizenship in that connection. In my own work, I have pursued what I call a “contextual” approach to political theory, one that links abstract normative theories about democracy, citizenship, and justice to a discussion of actual cases (Carens 2000, 2004). My assumption is that political theorists can learn from studying actual cases because the cases may raise questions that the theorists have not considered, and because practices may contain forms of embedded wisdom (e.g., solutions to problems) that theorists ought to take into account. So I think that theorists ought to pay attention to what scholars in comparative politics have to say. At the same time, comparative scholars often make normative claims or adopt normative presuppositions, as the authors of Chapters 3–5 do. It can be helpful if these claims and presuppositions are brought to the surface, examined, and discussed. Since I know relatively little about Latin America, my main contribution to this discussion has to come precisely from identifying some of the normative questions that ought to be asked, bringing to the surface some of the normative issues that are raised by these chapters, and showing how these questions and issues might be pursued further. Let me begin with Chapter 4, in which James Holston draws our attention to the fact that democratization in Latin America has mainly been about the institutionalization of elections, parties, legislatures, and so on. As a general matter, he observes that this kind of democratization does not necessarily provide citizens with secure or effective civil, social, or cultural rights, even if it does advance certain kinds of political rights. His primary focus, however, is on what he calls “civilly disjunctive democracy,” a type of regime that “features a democratically elected government, functioning

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political institutions, a constitution, and formal rule of law, along with widespread police violence, vigilantism, privatized security, ineffective civil rights, rampant ‘everyday criminality,’ and a discredited judiciary.” The first point to note here is that there is no serious contestation, in principle, about the importance of creating a genuine, not merely nominal, rule of law and of protecting basic civil rights, nor is there any dispute about the relevance of such tasks to democratic government. In this respect, civil rights stand in sharp contrast to social and cultural rights because some people, including some political theorists, deny that social and cultural rights are essential to democracy. No one says this about civil rights. The protection of the individual against physical harm that is not formally authorized by the state is a fundamental part of every political theory about the legitimacy of democratic political authority, and indeed has been a component of every liberal theory since Thomas Hobbes. The normative illegitimacy of violations of civil rights is not affected by the fact that they may be popular. To state the obvious then, civilly disjunctive democracy is not a neutral descriptive category like, say, parliamentary democracy or presidential democracy or constitutional democracy. Civilly disjunctive democracy is a bad thing, a kind of democracy that does not live up to one of the fundamental requirements of any democracy. Note that in making this last statement, I am appealing to a universal standard of democracy. Whatever else democracies do, whatever legitimate variations there may be because of differences in the history and circumstances underlying them, every democracy ought to protect the physical safety of its population and ought to establish an effective, not merely nominal, rule of law. I assume Holston agrees with all of this, and I emphasize the obvious only because it can be lost sight of in the course of pursuing other issues. To say that civilly disjunctive democracy is a bad thing does not address all of the normative questions we might want to ask about it, in particular how it compares with alternatives, if any. For example, we might want to ask whether civilly disjunctive democracy is inevitable under certain circumstances. If we see it as inevitable, this certainly reduces the space for normative critique. Inevitability does not altogether preclude criticism. For example, based on my reading of the Discourse on Inequality, Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1967 [1762]) thinks that the human goods available to those who live in modern societies are vastly inferior to the goods enjoyed by those who lived in earlier, much simpler social orders, but he also thinks that there is no going back. For the vast majority of human beings, the conditions of modern society are inevitable. On the other hand, these conditions are not natural, not a necessary part of human life. For this reason, they are regrettable as things that are an intrinsic part of the human condition are not. So, even if civilly disjunctive democracy were inevitable

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for certain states, it would still be regrettable, because we know that it is not a characteristic of all possible democracies. On the other hand, criticism of existing arrangements is much more powerful when it is linked to proposals for plausible superior alternatives, that is, when the existing arrangements are not seen as inevitable or as the least bad of the available possibilities. In this connection, I think that some of the empirical claims in Holston’s chapter are underspecified or ambiguous. I want to show how clarifying these claims affects their normative implications. It is not clear to me whether Holston is claiming that overt violations of civil rights have increased or only that they have not decreased, or whether he is saying that the effectiveness of the rule of law has actually declined or simply that it has not improved since the introduction of greater space for elections, competitive political parties, and other mechanisms of political democracy in places like Brazil. If the claim is only that there has been no change, this is disappointing but not a reason to reject the introduction of these political changes as an important form of genuine democratization. Elections, parties, and so on are not sufficient to create a genuine democracy, and their introduction is perhaps not even the most important form of democratic transformation, but it is something that nevertheless represents a positive change. On the other hand, if the move to more democratic political practices has coincided with a decline in the effective rule of law and an increase in violations of basic civil rights, we have much more reason to ask whether these changes are morally desirable and whether they reflect a net gain overall for democratization. Of course, the answer to that question depends importantly on the links between the changes in political practices and the negative developments with regard to the rule of law and the protection of civil rights. If they coincide in time but are otherwise unrelated, we have much less reason to question the desirability of the political changes than if we think they are causally connected. Holston’s position on this question is not clear to me. He seems to hint at times that there are connections. For example, he emphasizes that extralegal police violence is popular with the public, but he does not say clearly how strong he thinks the connections are. This is a crucial issue because it goes to the heart of the question of how we should respond to the political changes of the past decade. It is one thing to say that the formal trappings of electoral democracy do not go deep enough and do not meet the requirements of genuine democratization; it is quite another to say that they are to be regretted. Most people think of the move from authoritarian forms of government to ones with elections, parties, legislatures, a free press, and so on, as a desirable development, whatever its limitations. Is Holston’s concept of civilly disjunctive democracy intended to call that judgment into question or to qualify it somehow, at

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least in certain contexts? Concretely, is he saying that it would have been better not to press for the end of military rule and the creation of democratic institutions in Brazil and elsewhere in Latin America? In reading Holston’s chapter, I was reminded of debates in the development literature in the 1960s and 1970s about whether there was a trade-off between democracy and development, especially economic development. Some people argued that the institutions of electoral democracy were at best a costly luxury, at worst an obstacle to economic development. This is an argument that is much less popular in the academic literature today, although one still hears traces of it in the resistance of some political authorities (like those in China) to calls for democratic political reform. I wonder whether Holston is raising the specter of a similar trade-off, but this one internal to democracy. We can all agree, presumably, that, other things being equal, a set of political arrangements that provides both electoral democracy and an effective rule of law that protects the basic civil rights of all is preferable to a set of arrangements that does neither. (In that respect, at least, there is no difficulty in constructing a universal standard of democracy.) Does Holston mean to suggest that under some circumstances we cannot have both elements, that there is a trade-off between democracy in the form of political freedoms and electoral competition, and democracy in the form of a genuine rule of law providing effective protection for basic civil rights? If so, what sorts of trade-offs would he urge us to make, and why? In Chapter 5, Ariel Armony is concerned with the ways in which the social, economic, and cultural marginalization of groups undermines the effectiveness of the rights people hold as individual citizens. As he says, “The distribution of exclusion is a critical window into the functioning of democracy.” I agree entirely with this statement. In my comments, I will try to unpack some of its normative presuppositions and implications, suggesting at points how this might challenge or at least complicate Armony’s own analysis. One goal of Armony’s chapter is to challenge the presupposition that “old democracies” like the United States provide the standard of what a democracy is and hence have no institutions, policies, and practices of their own that deserve criticism in the name of democracy itself. Armony makes no explicit references to such a claim. My guess is that it is the sort of position that is rarely stated explicitly but rather serves as an implicit presupposition in many discussions of democratization in Latin America (though clearly not the discussion in this book). As I have already indicated, I am entirely in accord with Armony (and the others) on this point. Indeed, from my perspective as a political philosopher, this is precisely the sort of critical reflection that I and other normative democratic theorists routinely undertake as contextual theory or immanent critique. That is, we try to articulate an ideal of democracy or a set of democratic principles that we take to be

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widely shared among citizens and reflected in the public political culture, and then we point to the ways in which existing conditions, institutions, policies, and practices in our own society (or in some other society) fall short of this ideal or these principles. Sometimes the principles and the ideal are tied to the history and context of a particular state, but often they are thought to have a wider resonance. Armony’s own discussion of the exclusion of convicted felons from the vote in many states within the United States nicely illustrates this critical democratic theory approach and parallels independent criticisms of the practice that have been developed by legal scholars and political theorists, some of whom he cites. Armony does not make this explicit, but his analysis clearly presupposes a general normative theory of democracy, namely that democracy requires equal citizenship and that one key component of equal citizenship is the right to vote. To exclude people from the vote, certainly after they have been released and arguably while they are still in prison, seems incompatible with the fundamental democratic principle of equal citizenship. Most European states do permit felons to vote, at least after they have been released, and the Canadian Supreme Court (in a deeply divided opinion) recently extended the right to vote even to felons in prison. So, on this issue (as on many others), the United States is an outlier among the old democracies. The disenfranchisement of felons would be objectionable from a democratic perspective even if the criminal convictions that led to disenfranchisement were randomly distributed among the population. But they are not randomly distributed. The convictions are disproportionately found among a particular social group: African Americans. As Armony shows, this disproportionate conviction rate is itself the product both of inequalities in background social and economic conditions and of deliberate policy choices with respect to the criminal penalties for drugs and with respect to enforcement strategies, so that African Americans are convicted of drug-related crimes at much higher rates than are whites engaged in comparable drugrelated activities. In short, felony disenfranchisement in the United States further marginalizes an already marginalized group. That is what makes it especially objectionable. What we have in Armony’s discussion, then, is a critique of US practices in the name of a general democratic ideal. There is an implicit principle in his analysis, namely that enjoyment of democratic rights should not vary by social group, and to the extent that it does, a society is failing to meet a democratic standard. So far I have been trying to make explicit what I take to be the normative presuppositions of Armony’s analysis. Now I want to challenge one aspect of his analysis, namely his insistence that “all democracies exhibit similar deficits and face comparable challenges.” I worry that Armony is leaping from the sensible claim that we should not accept the United States

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as the standard of democracy to the much more problematic claim that all states are equally (un)democratic. A more sympathetic way of reading Armony’s analysis is to say that he is interested in controlling for differences in capacity among different regimes. Take the case of social rights. It would hardly be fair to expect Brazil to provide the same level of social rights as Sweden, given the vast differences between their per capita gross domestic products, although it would still be reasonable to inquire about the extent to which social rights are distributed unequally among different social groups within each state. That is a perfectly sensible focus of analysis, but note that it does leave open the possibility that, even controlling for capacity, some states do better than others at minimizing the inequalities among social groups—or at least some states do worse than others. It would be a mistake to adopt a strategy of investigation that did not permit us to criticize the apartheid regime in the old South Africa as being more undemocratic than the regimes of most other states. Similarly, the vulnerability of shanty dwellers in Brazil to police violence should be compared not only with the vulnerability of other social groups in Brazil but also (at least) with the vulnerability to police violence of shanty dwellers in other societies that are comparably situated. I would go even further. As I have argued in my discussion of Holston’s chapter, vulnerability to arbitrary murder is rightly seen as a deep failing from an ideal democratic perspective. It would be a failing even if the vulnerability were equally distributed across social groups within the society. So, I do not think we can entirely escape the use of general democratic ideals in comparative analysis. Finally, I turn to Chapter 3, in which Deborah Yashar suggests that we think about citizenship in terms of boundaries, form, and content. In my own work on immigration, the boundaries question is often central. Who will have access to legal citizenship and under what conditions? How do and how should the rights of citizens differ from the rights of residents who are not citizens or from the rights of temporary workers or those present without authorization? I gather from the conference from which this book emerged that these sorts of issues are not now highly salient in Latin America, though I wonder if that will continue to be the case. I know that the movement of people from Central America into Mexico has already raised a number of issues, and it is possible that globalizing economic pressures will generate more movement within Latin America. For the moment, however, these questions about citizenship seem marginal in the Latin American context. In discussing the form that citizenship takes, Yashar distinguishes between two alternative modes of interest intermediation, one focusing on individuals and the other on communities (of various sorts). She traces the evolution of interest intermediation in Latin America from a collectivist and corporatist model to a liberal, individualist one.

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It is important not to overstate this distinction. As Yashar herself notes, some theorists have attempted to move beyond the liberal-communitarian divide. To suggest that we must choose between individual and collective rights may be deeply misleading. As Will Kymlicka (1995a) observes, group-differentiated rights may be held and exercised directly by individuals (like certain language and education rights) or directly by groups (indigenous self-government rights) or by some combination of the two (as in aboriginal hunting and fishing rights). So, we should be wary about drawing distinctions between the individual and the collective that are too simple and too rigid. Like Kymlicka and others, I have tried to show in my own work why liberal commitments often require us to pay attention to claims of culture and identity and to take groups seriously. With that caveat in the background, the question that emerges for me from Yashar’s discussion is: What form of citizenship should be promoted in Latin America today, one that focuses on securing the fundamental requirements of common citizenship (like the right to basic personal security that is discussed in the other articles) or one that focuses on group-claims and the recognition of difference? I do not mean to imply that there must be one answer to this question for all of Latin America. On the contrary, I would assume that the answer is likely to be contextually specific. And I do not mean to imply that we must choose one or the other form. As I have already said, my own theoretical work seeks to bridge this gap. But it would be helpful to know whether Yashar sees a fundamental tension between these two alternatives, at least in certain contexts, or whether she sees them as alternative modes that can fruitfully be combined. Let me press this point further by tying it specifically to a question about cultural rights for indigenous peoples, because Yashar has made indigenous movements a central focus of her work and she draws attention to them in her chapter. Does the discussion of forms of citizenship help us to think about the best way to respond to the claims of indigenous peoples in Latin America? In my own work on multiculturalism, I have sometimes distinguished three kinds of cultural rights or responses to cultural claims. First, there are various ways of including people despite cultural differences. For example, in Canada, there was a famous case involving a Sikh who wanted to join the Mounties but who was not willing to wear the Mountie hat, a long-standing component of the Mountie uniform, because he felt a religious obligation to wear a turban. The Mounties eventually agreed to permit him to wear his turban. As this illustrates, one way to include people as citizens in a democratic community is to modify existing practices so as to make it easier for them to participate. Second, there are issues of recognition. These may or may not involve inclusion in existing practices. Sometimes, it may simply be a question of giving people space to live their lives the way they want—for example, to carry out their own tra-

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ditional practices, like ritual slaughter, that might otherwise be prohibited. Finally, there is the possibility of self-government, which involves recognition by the state that there is another political community within the state, a community that seeks to govern itself in certain respects and that does not see its political identity and political legitimacy as deriving from the state. So, first, as an empirical matter, what sorts of claims are indigenous people putting forward in Latin America in the name of culture and identity and why are they putting forward these claims? Then, normatively, how should we evaluate these claims? Are they claims of justice, like the claim for effective civil rights (which I take to be a fundamental claim of justice), or are they (merely) political claims, the sorts of claims that different groups put forward in the political arena and the outcomes of which are legitimately left to the political process so long as that process satisfies basic requirements of fairness? I turn last to what Yashar calls the “content” of citizenship, that is, the rights and practices that compose citizenship. Yashar emphasizes that the extension of democratic political institutions has been accompanied by a decline in social rights. This raises a question about the possibility of internal trade-offs within democratization that is parallel to one I put forward in my response to Holston. Is Yashar claiming that the decline in social rights is something that has been caused by the expansion of political rights and electoral institutions, or is there merely a temporal coincidence of these two developments, while the decline in social rights can be attributed to other factors? My own view is that the latter hypothesis is much more plausible, since social rights have declined everywhere in the world in response to the rise of neoliberalism. If the decline in social rights in Latin America is independent of the process of political democratization, we can regret this decline without calling into question the extension of political democracy. (In saying we should regret the decline of social rights, I am implicitly adopting a particular conception of democracy, about which I will say a bit more below.) On the other hand, if we were to see a connection between the extension of democracy and the decline of social rights, especially if we were to see a viable way of preserving social rights at the expense of political democracy, then we would be faced with a normative challenge that would require us to clarify the relative importance of competing democratic considerations. I will not pursue this possibility here, however, because neither Yashar nor I see it as plausible. Let me conclude my response to Chapters 3–5 with a comment about the disjuncture between theory and practice that may remind us of the powerlessness of theory but also of its critical distance from the status quo. In thinking about the tensions between neoliberalism and social rights, we should remember that within contemporary liberal theory, the dominant

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view is one that sees social rights as an essential component of democracy. Whether one thinks of John Rawls (especially the early Rawls but even the later Rawls), Ronald Dworkin, Joseph Raz, Brian Barry, or Will Kymlicka, to name only a few, most of the major contemporary liberal theorists are liberal egalitarians. They do not see individualism as incompatible with redistribution, but as required by it, and they see economic justice as a central aspect of democratic justice. The same is true of continental theorists like Jürgen Habermas. Furthermore, we should remember that despite cutbacks and conservative political triumphs, most European states and even Canada still have much more fully developed and robust systems of social rights than does the United States. I have made this point before, but it bears repeating. In some key aspects of democracy, such as social rights but also rights in the area of crime and personal security (death penalty, incarceration rates, length of prison terms, rates of violent crime, and so on), the United States stands much further from the ideals advocated by political theorists than do many other states. To say that we need a critical ideal of democracy is not to suggest that the United States should serve as a model.

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Part 2 Challenges for Citizenship

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7 Neopluralism and Citizenship in Latin America Philip Oxhorn

With notable exceptions, democracy in Latin America has been more stable, longer lasting, and more robust than at any period in the region’s history. Even in Argentina, a country infamous for political instability and its resultant violence, democracy was able to survive the worst economic crisis in the country’s modern history. Yet as numerous studies have demonstrated, it would be a mistake to become too complacent, confident that, at long last, democratic regimes have consolidated themselves in almost all countries in the hemisphere. Rising levels of poverty and the highest levels of income inequality in the world, not to mention the ongoing political problems in Colombia and Venezuela—two of Latin America’s oldest democracies—are reasons for ongoing concern. Even if democracy were truly consolidated, what kind of democracy is being consolidated and how durable or viable will these regimes prove to be over the long term? Will they last decades, like Costa Rica’s Latin American version of social democracy? Or will they suddenly collapse after equally long, or even longer, periods of time, as happened in Chile and Uruguay in 1973 and may be happening today in Colombia and Venezuela? These problems fundamentally reflect the ambiguous nature of citizenship in Latin America today (Oxhorn 2003). While Latin Americans enjoy an unprecedented level of political rights of citizenship, their basic civil rights are increasingly precarious and their social rights of citizenship are being narrowed in scope.1 It is this contradiction—the apparent inability of citizens to use their political right to vote to find democratic solutions for their most pressing needs—that is perhaps the greatest threat to democracy in the region. At best, it could suggest to Latin Americans that democracy is irrelevant to improving the quality of their lives; at worst, democracy could appear as an obstacle to finding practical solutions to the most serious everyday problems people must confront. Ultimately, the challenge of safe123

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guarding democratic governance in the region reflects the need to improve the quality and meaning of citizenship. In this chapter, I argue that the principal obstacles to improving citizenship in the region stem from what I suggest is the defining characteristic of Latin American democracy today, what I label “neopluralism.” Paradoxically, however, the threat will not come from high levels of poverty and income inequality per se, but rather their consequences in terms of how the average Latin American actually experiences democratic governance. After defining neopluralism, I argue that it limits citizenship rights in three interrelated ways: growing economic and physical insecurity, and the fragmentation of civil society. Equally serious, I argue that neopluralism, by its very nature, diverts public attention away from the structural causes of these three problems, opening the door to new forms of extremism and populism as a way of filling a perceived political void. In concluding the chapter, I speculate on what might be done to reverse these negative trends. Before proceeding, it is important to qualify the following arguments in two important ways. First, it is beyond the scope of this chapter to directly compare the quality of citizenship today with what might have existed in the past. Many of the problems and challenges facing Latin American democracies today are not new, although many may have been exacerbated by trends dating back to the exhaustion of the state-led development model in much of the region beginning in the late 1970s, the subsequent debt crisis of the 1980s, and the nature of the recent transitions to democracy. Second, the chapter seeks to highlight an important and very positive feature in the current period in comparison to much of the region’s history: the unprecedented spread and relative stability of free and generally fair elections. Indeed, this is the source of the central paradox that the chapter addresses: the simultaneous existence of old and new socioeconomic problems with meaningful political rights in virtually every country in the region. For this reason, there is an underlying optimism that such problems can be addressed democratically, at the same time that the criticisms of the current period are not meant to imply a romantic image of the past as being in any fundamental sense “better.”

The Context: Neopluralist Democracy In order to understand the principal obstacles to improving the quality of citizenship in Latin America, it is important to first provide an analytical framework for classifying the kinds of democracies that are predominant in Latin America today. While a large body of literature has emerged focusing on a number of democratic deficits affecting the quality of democracy in the region, the dominant characteristic of Latin American democracies for the

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purposes of understanding citizenship is what I call “neopluralism.” 2 Neopluralism is a market-centered pattern of political incorporation. It has replaced the state-centered pattern of incorporation associated with corporatism and the developmentalist state that dominated the region up through the 1970s, and is closely associated with current neoliberal economic policies emphasizing free trade, open markets, and a minimal role for the state in both the economy and society. Yet it is not reducible to neoliberalism. More broadly, neoliberalism reflects a combination of growing globalization and the failure of the developmental state in the context of the debt crisis and lost decade of the 1980s—the same factors that largely influenced the adoption of neoliberal reforms in the first place.3 The pluralist aspect of neopluralism revolves around the belief that the best balance of interests and values within a given polity is produced by some form (however limited) of free competition among individuals in the rational pursuit of their self-interest. In much the same way that the market is characterized in liberal economics, the rational maximization of individual interests (which are reconciled through the mechanism of the market when they conflict) is portrayed as the driving force behind progress. Individual freedom is valued above all, and this requires respect for private property and (ideally, at least) the rule of law. (Oxhorn 1998a, p. 201)

What distinguishes neopluralism from the more traditional pluralist model associated with democracy in the United States (Dahl 1961) is its marked authoritarian bent. Ultimate political authority is essentially decided upon through a free market of votes. But once elected, officials have few checks on their power and frequently bypass representative democratic institutions (O’Donnell 1994; Oxhorn and Ducantenzeiler 1998b). Moreover, a variety of unelected (and unaccountable) power holders, particularly the military, exercise control over key state decisions (McSherry 1998). The logic of neopluralism, undergirded by market-based economic reforms, permeates entire political systems in a variety of ways. In particular, market principles and market-based incentives come to play a defining role in collective action. An individual’s personal economic resources largely determine the extent and nature of her or his political and social inclusion. They also directly affect the quality of education and healthcare, and even the legal protection a person enjoys. Just as the state is assigned a minimal role in ensuring the smooth functioning of the market in the economic realm, the state largely abdicates its role in providing incentives (both positive and negative) for collective action. The public and private goods formally available at the state level to those who mobilized in earlier periods, as well as the coercive incentives for the hierarchical organization of eco-

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nomic interests under state corporatism (Schmitter 1974), no longer exist or have been significantly reduced. Group identities and collective interests lose any intrinsic value, and organizational activity within civil society reflects individual, self-interested decisions to join. A direct consequence of this is that socioeconomic inequality has a more pronounced impact on political and economic policymaking, since collective actors representing the lower classes are less able to serve as counterweights to the predominance of economic interests. In the context of neopluralist democracy, inequality and high levels of poverty are not direct threats to democracy. In fact, one of the defining characteristics of neopluralism is the way it deflects public debate away from the structural causes of poverty and toward a focus on its most notorious consequences.

Neopluralism and the Limits of Citizenship The structural changes associated with neopluralism adversely affect quality of democratic citizenship in at least three ways.4 The first is through growing economic insecurity, which threatens democracy by directly decreasing the ability of workers to engage in it, both individually and collectively. This increased insecurity is a direct result of neopluralism’s reliance on the market for determining the best allocation of resources and opportunities for all members of society. As a result, labor codes throughout the region have been modified to generally make it easier for firms to hire temporary workers and fire current employees (Oxhorn 1998a). This new labor market flexibility allows for the maintenance of international competitiveness on the basis of low wages. Moreover, governments increasingly “informalize themselves vis-à-vis their own laws in their quest for even more foreign investment” by creating special production zones that exempt foreign firms from labor legislation and taxation policies applicable in the rest of the nation (Portes 1994, p. 168). Where existing rights are not taken away outright, their systematic violation is often ignored by the state. The consequences of this have been significant. Latin American economies grew approximately 15 percent in the first half of the 1990s, yet unemployment also rose, while real wages fell. This is in part because 90 percent of all new jobs created in the 1990s were in the informal sector (Vilas 1999, p. 15). 5 Not surprisingly, poverty rates have remained persistently high. The percentage of poor households did decline as a result of economic growth, but only by 2 percent, from 41 percent in 1990 to 39 percent in the mid-1990s. This is substantially higher than the 35 percent rate experienced during the early 1980s, and represents approximately 210 million people—50 million more than the average for

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the entire decade of the 1980s. 6 In what Inés Bustillo, director of the Washington, D.C., office of the Economic Commission for Latin America and the Caribbean (CEPAL), calls the “lost half decade,” Latin American standards of living have stagnated since 1997 and 10 million more people have been added to the region’s poverty rolls.7 Employment is no longer a guarantee of even a minimal standard of living. For example, 70 percent of all poverty is accounted for by low wages in Argentina (Vilas 1999, p. 17). More generally, the region’s poor performance in poverty alleviation reflects extremely skewed patterns of income distribution (Koreniewsicz and Smith 2000, p. 13). These trends reflect structural problems in the economy that can be corrected only through state intervention. As Alvaro Díaz concluded: An important portion of the poor in the 1990s work and receive regular wages. However, their employment is precarious, unstable and subjected to authoritarian labor relations. This means that poverty no longer is generated by “exclusion” from the system, but is reproduced thanks to the exploitation of the workforce. The consequence is that economic growth will not by itself solve problems of poverty or inequality, but will more likely reproduce them. (1991, p. 89)

These same trends are also responsible for the weakening of labor movements, one of the principal representatives of the lower classes throughout the region. Workers in the informal sector and most free trade zones are only rarely organized (Barrera 1999; Organización Internacional del Trabajo 1996). Declining union membership and organizational fragmentation have combined to reduce the collective bargaining power of organized labor, independently of legal changes designed to have a similar effect (Organización Internacional del Trabajo 1993, p. 29). Increasingly, organized labor has become a narrowly self-interested actor, competing with other groups in civil society in the pursuit of the particularistic interests of its reduced membership.8 Moreover, labor union elites have often bargained with elected governments over concessions intended to preserve their own individual status and institutional position through control over worker pension funds, government posts, and so on, in exchange for their acquiescence to legislative changes curtailing organized labor’s effective power (Buchanan 1997; Murillo 1997; Zapata 1998). This has further weakened organized labor by contributing to a growing distance between the union rank-and-file and their leaders. Aside from the obvious effect of economic insecurity on the capacity of workers and other economically disadvantaged groups to participate in the public sphere, another important consequence has been the erosion of their will to participate. As Carlos Vilas notes, the growing phenomenon of the working poor is radically altering what he calls “the culture of work”:

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Challenges for Citizenship The idea of employment as the means which permits a living to be earned . . . is now diluted by the evidence that having a job does not necessarily permit one to live better. The vision of the union as the instrument of the defense of rights and access to benefits is likewise losing ground. The idea of belonging to a group of fellow-workers—a class—is brought into question by fragmentation. The sentiment of solidarity with fellow workers is undermined by the competition for all against all for a decent job. (1999, p. 20)

Under these circumstances, the necessity of day-to-day survival may make public participation and collective action seem at best a luxury one can no longer afford, and at worst a wasted effort. As Victor Mejia, president of the Association for Community Development in San Salvador, explained, there is an unavoidable decline in organizational activity when “the people in the communities are thinking about what they will eat today, despite all their other problems” (personal interview, San Salvador, May 1997). Rising crime rates and the predominant responses to them reflect the second way in which neopluralism threatens the viability of democracy. Crime rates, in part fed by growing economic insecurity, have risen substantially in almost every country in the region. This has led to the criminalization of poverty, a marked increase in state repression, and the de facto marketization of the rule of law.9 To deal with rising crime rates, the poor are often targeted by police efforts to control crime in what amounts to criminalizing poverty. As Paulo Pinheiro explains, “the poor continue to be the preferred victims of violence, criminality, and human rights violations” (1999, p. 2). Despite recent transitions to democracy and a substantial reduction in the systematic violation of human rights by the state (with the exceptions of Peru and Colombia due to ongoing civil wars), the overall level of state violence in these countries has generally not declined. Instead, it has undergone a qualitative change, as it is no longer directed against the political opposition, but the poor (Méndez 1999b, pp. 19–20). Moreover, the military is increasingly becoming involved in basic law enforcement, particularly in the growing area of drug-related crimes (Kincaid and Gamarra 1996; McSherry 1998). In some cases, the criminalization of poverty is even formalized into law. For example, the elected government of El Salvador passed several laws (portions of which were eventually declared unconstitutional) in March 1996, stipulating that individuals were to be considered potential criminals subject to imprisonment and the loss of basic rights simply because of their appearance (Oxhorn 2003). What is most surprising is the lack of opposition such trends generate. Because the poor remain the principal victims of crime, even laws like those in El Salvador generally receive widespread popular support among the poor (Méndez 1999b; Neild 1999). This was the case with the laws in El

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Salvador. Similarly, a 1998 poll conducted by the Wall Street Journal (April 16, 1998, p. A15) found that fears of social violence, corruption, and upheaval led more than a quarter of the respondents in Brazil, Colombia, Guatemala, Mexico, Paraguay, and Venezuela, as well as a majority in Ecuador, to state explicitly that they preferred more authoritarian governments. Public support for repressive police policies involves more than just a simple fear of growing crime rates. Abuse of the legal system by elites, corruption, and widespread perceptions that officials enjoy a certain level of impunity regardless of what they do have also undermined trust in legal institutions. Throughout Latin America, with the exception of Chile, public confidence in the judiciary is alarmingly low. This is particularly true for low-income groups, including the poor in Chile (Garro 1999, p. 279). It reflects not only the continued distrust of state institutions caused by high levels of abuse under authoritarian regimes, but also the fact that such practices do not end with the transition to democracy. Laws and personnel are held over from the authoritarian regime and are difficult to change. People become accustomed to pursuing extralegal remedies for their grievances. Moreover, elected officials have contributed to the pervasive lack of confidence in judicial institutions through their own political intervention in the courts (Méndez 1999a). As a result, people are reluctant to cooperate with law enforcement agencies, even to the extent of reporting crimes. In Chile, for example, up to half of all burglaries and thefts go unreported, despite the fact that this is the only country in the region where most citizens approve of police performance (Neild 1999, p. 5). This lack of citizen cooperation leaves few alternatives to applying more violence, because effective law enforcement and crime prevention are dependent on community involvement. Yet repressive police measures ultimately do little to improve the image of law enforcement agencies. Instead, there is a real danger that the situation will only be exacerbated as local communities further withdraw from the legal community. As Rachel Neild warns: It is precisely the record of authoritarian policing that built up social control and repressive functions at the expense of criminal investigation and crime prevention [and] generated the high levels of public mistrust that exist today. There is a real danger of a vicious circle in which a failure to act reinforces public perceptions that government is weak, while overreaction with “war on crime” and “fire force” policing measures leaves the impression that little has changed and will, in the end, only deepen the loss of confidence in the formal justice system. (1999, p. 13)

The criminalization of poverty and resort to repressive police methods also reflect the widespread marketization of the rule of law. Basic civil

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rights are in effect allocated according to people’s “buying power.” Although equal protection under the law exists on paper, the poor cannot access it because of their limited economic resources. The state is incapable (because of corruption and its own lack of resources) of filling the void. Instead, legal systems serve to further reinforce structural problems of inequality and social exclusion. As Pinheiro argued, “police and other institutions of the criminal justice system tend to act as ‘border guards,’ protecting the elites from the poor” while “middle class and elite crimes,” including corruption, fraud, tax evasion, and the exploitation of child or slave labor, are ignored by judicial systems that focus on the crimes committed by the poor (1999, pp. 4–5). At the same time, particularly among the relatively well-off, there is an increasing privatization of law enforcement throughout the region, as people purchase personal security by contracting private police forces. For those who lack the economic resources to hire armed guards or pay corrupt judges and police in order to attain justice, taking justice into one’s own hands in the form of vigilantism or “popular justice” is a growing phenomenon (Neild 1999). Rising crime and the increasingly violent and arbitrary responses to it inevitably have harsh consequences for the quality of democracy. As potential victims of crime, people can lose their “sense of minimum security . . . which allows them to look for alternative ways to improve their situation” (personal interview, Victor Mejia, San Salvador, May 1997). After all, why “bother” to strive to move ahead if one can so easily lose everything?10 Studies from a number of developing countries in various parts of the world demonstrate that high levels of crime not only diminish economic opportunities for the poor, but also lead directly to decreases in school attendance, community investment in housing and infrastructure, and participation in community-based organizations (Neild 1999). Looking beyond the local level, the result is not only an erosion of public confidence in state institutions, but also the perpetuation of fear of them. The increased role played by the military in internal policing only serves to exacerbate neopluralism’s authoritarian tendencies, further reducing the space for popular-sector participation in the public sphere—assuming the poor are even willing to try. The latter point underscores the third way in which neopluralism restricts the scope of citizenship rights in much of Latin America: the fragmentation and atomization of civil society. Popular-sector organizations often remain small, atomized, and dependent on external largesse from state and nongovernmental agencies. Their efficacy—so essential for understanding the impact of the public sphere—thus remains severely circumscribed. This fragmentation reflects a variety of factors associated with neopluralism, including the demobilization of popular-sector organizational activities during democratic transitions (Oxhorn 1998a, 2003). Efforts to reform both the state and society to conform more closely to market principles have

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often exacerbated this problem. Social welfare reforms, for example, emphasize helping people participate in the market by targeting those most in need of assistance until they can resolve their situation through participation in the labor market. This can generate political apathy, as people’s efforts are devoted to participating in the market and they have less time and perceived need to become politically active. State agencies frequently play popular organizations off against one another in a competitive scramble for limited resources, particularly when social welfare budgets remain tight in order to curtail government spending (Cardoso 1992; Eckstein 1988; Gay 1990b; Piester 1997). Decentralization of social welfare services, moreover, can further fragment potential popular social movements, restricting popular-sector organizational activity to narrowly circumscribed communities. At the same time, popular-sector mobilization is often circumscribed by fear of provoking a backlash from authoritarian elements in the state, particularly the military, leading to further withdrawal from the public sphere (McSherry 1998; Oxhorn 1995). Combined with problems of social organization created by increased economic insecurity and the effects of anticrime efforts, the public space available to Latin America’s lower classes is quite limited, while their ability and willingness to try to occupy it remain in doubt. The recent experience of Chile underscores the challenges posed by neopluralism in the region. The strength of Chile’s political parties and state institutions, not to mention its economic success and democratic stability, suggests that it would be the least likely country to experience the general problems of citizenship I associate with neopluralism. Yet the policies of state reform and the neoliberal development model that undergird neopluralism had their earliest, and in many cases most complete, expression in Chile beginning with the military regime, and were carried through during the transition to democracy. Nor is Chile immune to more general trends of globalization, as well as the exhaustion of its state-centric development model, which further contribute to the emergence of neopluralism. In practice, all of this has meant that neopluralism has been both slower to emerge and less authoritarian than in most other countries of the region. Yet neopluralism, even in its more moderate form, is in many ways at the root of Chilean democracy’s most important challenges. These problems revolve around what the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) in its 1998 human development report on Chile concluded was the “paradox” of the country’s development: “a country with notable economic development where the people do not feel happy” (Programa de Naciones Unidas para el Desarrollo–Chile [PNUD-Chile] 1998). Chile experienced an average annual economic growth rate of 6 percent through the end of 1998 (when Chile, as well as the rest of the region, entered into recession). This thrust Chile to the highest position (thirty-

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fourth) of all Latin American countries according to UNDP’s Human Development Index (United Nations Development Programme 1999). Over a million and a half people were able to escape poverty in just seven years, as the poverty rate declined from 46.6 percent in 1987 to 28.5 percent at the end of 1994. By the end of 1998, Chilean government statistics showed poverty had declined even further, to just 21.7 percent of all families when government financial support was included (Santiago Times, June 11, 1999). Inflation remained in check and unemployment hit new lows. Yet according to its 1997 survey of human security (long before there was any indication Chile would be heading into a deep recession at the end of 1998), the UNDP found that there was an “important dissonance between [Chile’s] objective achievements and the perception of the people” (PNUD-Chile 1998, p. 3). In one poll on which the report was based, taken in the southern zone of Santiago, for example, almost 83 percent of respondents said they were not happy, regardless of their impression of the country’s economic situation. This dissonance stemmed from the high level of insecurity perceived by the majority of Chileans. This insecurity had three sources according to the UNDP study. First was what the authors identified as “fear of the other,” including one’s own neighbors, which transformed “the city into a hostile territory.” The second source of insecurity was people’s fear of economic exclusion. Finally, the report found the pervasive impression that “things were out of control,” a “fear of the senseless” stemming from perceptions of urban disorder and drugs, and “diffuse experience of ‘chaos’” (PNUD-Chile 1998, p. 3). Two good examples of these subjective feelings of insecurity are crime and healthcare, which are difficult to fully comprehend from more objective indicators of the reality people face. Almost 80 percent of respondents to the national survey felt it likely that they would be the victim of robbery in a public space, and 60 percent feared they would be robbed in their home. Such fears, however, seemed far removed from reality, in that over the pervious twelve months, only 17.4 percent of respondents reported that they or someone in their household had been robbed in the street without violence, and 6 percent said they or a family member were robbed in a public place in a violent act. Only 6 percent of respondents reported that they or a family member had been robbed in their home.11 Similarly, a substantial majority of respondents (with the exception of respondents in the highest income bracket) said they did not trust either the public or private healthcare system to provide opportune attention of good quality, and in particular they doubted their ability to pay for it. This is despite the fact that per capita public healthcare expenditures more than doubled from 1989 to 1996 and that “today the population has the best levels of health in its history” (PNUDChile 1998, pp. 7–8).

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Such high levels of insecurity created, according to the UNDP report, “a noticeable weakness in the daily sociability of Chileans” (PNUD-Chile 1998, p. 6). Two-thirds of respondents expressed serious doubts about the ability to organize their neighbors or receive help from them. Most tellingly, almost no one thought they would receive help if attacked in a public place. Civil society remains weak and fragmented, incapable of retaking the initiative it had demonstrated during the 1980s under the military regime (de la Maza 1999; Oxhorn 1995). For example, on average, less than 2 percent of eligible voters participate in elections for local neighborhood councils (juntas de vecinos)—institutions that were first established and legally recognized in the mid-1960s (Posner 1999, p. 70). Instead, political parties have dominated Chilean politics with a noticeable inability to resolve these problems. In effect, the transition resulted in a “political framework that does not stimulate participation and is increasingly elitist” (de la Maza 1999, p. 24). Even the women’s movement, which had been a key actor during the years of authoritarian rule and was able to firmly place gender relations on the political agenda after the transition, has been largely displaced from political influence.12 These problems are in many ways a direct reflection of the limits of Chile’s economic success. Although poverty reduction has been dramatic since the return to democracy, the pace of poverty reduction had already slowed markedly after 1994,13 and poverty still remained significantly higher than the 17 percent poverty rate of 1970 (Rosenfeld and Marré 1997, p. 20). Moreover, this substantial reduction in poverty was achieved without significantly reducing the high levels of income inequality inherited from the military regime. As early as 1994, inequality even showed a slight increase as economic activity slowed (Altimir 1994; Barrera 1998; Ministerio de Planificatíon y Cooperación 1995). This negative trend continued through 1998 (before the onset of the last recession), with government statistics from December 1998 showing that the richest 20 percent of households were earning 57.3 percent of total income, up 0.2 percent from the previous survey, conducted in 1996, while the poorest 20 percent of households saw their share decline 0.2 percent, to just 3.7 percent of total income (Santiago Times, June 11, 1999). Despite unprecedented levels of economic growth and an even more impressive reduction in poverty throughout most of the 1990s, income inequality was virtually the same in 1999 as it was in 1990, at the end of the seventeen-year military dictatorship.14 A variety of factors contribute to the perpetuation of high levels of income inequality in Chile. Many of the poor are now working poor, and employment insecurity has become a structural problem throughout the economy that the labor reforms enacted by the first Concertación government were unable to change (Díaz 1991).15 Organized labor remains rela-

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tively small and organizationally weak, with various strains in the relationship between the leaders of the peak organization, the Centro Unitario de Trabajadores (Central Workers Union), and union rank-and-file. 16 As President Ricardo Lagos himself explained to the leaders of the developed countries attending the June 2000 “Third Way” conference convened by German prime minister Gerhard Schroeder in Berlin, “I told them, you have strong unions that negotiate for your workers. But in our (underdeveloped) countries, characterized by weak unions, who can negotiate on behalf of the worker?” (Santiago Times, June 6, 2000). More generally, throughout the region a principal factor behind high levels of economic inequality is the poor quality of public education systems, which limits social mobility for the majority (Inter-American Development Bank 1998). This stands in sharp contrast to the period 1950–1979, when improving educational levels contributed to significant social mobility for many Latin Americans, particularly young ones (CEPAL 1989).17 Chile is no exception. For example, students who are able to attend private schools have a 60 percent chance of being accepted into a university, compared to just 16 percent for graduates from public schools (Santiago Times, August 6, 1999). Concern over educational performance led to the enactment of major educational reforms in the late 1990s, but so far their impact appears to have been minimal. Results from the Educational Quality Measuring System showed no improvement compared to test results from 1996, before the reforms. Moreover, the weakest scores tended to come from the Santiago metropolitan area (Santiago Times, July 10, 2000, July 13, 2000). Similarly, of the twenty-one countries included in the Second International Adult Literacy Survey, conducted under the auspices of Princeton University, Chile came in last. Just over 50 percent of Chileans scored the lowest possible score on reading comprehension (basically none), and 56.4 percent were “incapable of carrying out a simple mathematical calculation using numbers easily located in the text” (La Tercera, July 2000).18 The frustrations these problems engender are further compounded by enduring authoritarian legacies and what often appears to be a noticeable lack of change after the return to democracy, including Augusto Pinochet’s continued political presence, first as commander in chief of the army, later as senator-for-life, and now as a fugitive from justice who was declared mentally incompetent to stand trial in both Britain and Chile. In addition, there is also the important veto role played by conservative-designated senators and right-wing political parties, which are overrepresented in the legislature due to Chile’s binomial electoral system (Siavelis 2000). One result has been the public’s growing disenchantment with the performance of the democratic regime. Such disenchantment emerged quickly, rising from 20 percent of the population to 45 percent of the population in just the first

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eighteen months of the new democratic regime. By 1996, only 27 percent of Chileans were satisfied with the performance of the regime (Lagos 1997). More recently, a 1999 UNDP survey found that only 45.2 percent of Chileans said democracy was preferable to any other form of government, while 30.5 percent did not care if the government was democratic or not. This compares with a 1989 survey by the Latin American Social Sciences Faculty (FLACSO), in which 64 percent of Chileans favored democracy over all other kinds of regime (Santiago Times, March 13, 2000). While the 2002 Latinobarómetro public opinion survey found that 50 percent of Chileans now felt that democracy was the preferable system of government, 79 percent felt democracy was not necessary for solving the country’s socioeconomic problems, and only 27 percent were satisfied with how democracy actually functioned in Chile. Not surprisingly, voter apathy has been rising in Chile. In the 1992 municipal elections, the first in over twenty years, there was a 12 percent abstention rate and another 10 percent of voters submitted blank or void ballots. A trend seems to be emerging, and in the 1997 congressional elections, 20 percent of eligible voters (mainly youth) did not register, and another 18 percent of voters cast blank or void ballots (compared to just 6 percent in 1993) (Posner 1999, pp. 70, 74).19 Voter apathy is particularly pronounced among the young, who see their future opportunities as limited and have no memories of the tumultuous 1970s and early 1980s. This is clear from voter registration statistics: while the number of Chileans aged eighteen and older increased from 8 million in 1988 to 9.6 million in 1997, the number of registered voters increased by only 600,000 during the same period, a gap of a million people (Riquelme 1999). The leadership of the Concertación has been unable to develop an effective long-term strategy for dealing with these challenges. In effect, they wasted valuable opportunities for institutional change in the early years of the regime, when their overwhelming victories in the 1988 plebiscite and 1989 elections gave the Concertación government an unprecedented level of legitimacy and authority that would have helped to neutralize opposition from the military and the right to needed reforms (Garretón 1995). Moreover, Manuel Antonio Garretón notes that much of this is related to the closed nature of Chile’s political elite, to the extent that “any potential criticisms from the intellectuals close to the Concertación was silenced by the official political class” (1999, p. 259). Pinochet’s arrest in London in October 1998 only served to highlight many of these problems, as the Concertación government of Eduardo Frei failed to devise a coherent strategy that reflected the overwhelming desire of a majority of Chileans for justice: “this episode has produced the widest distance and deepest gap between the political class, responding self-referentially and introvertedly to the situation, and a public opinion that watched perplexed

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as the former got entangled in the issues of national sovereignty, spun a double discourse and was incapable of representing the demand for justice of the great majority of Chileans” (Garretón 1999, p. 267). Overcoming the problems of Chile’s democracy inevitably will revolve around the political parties that have exacerbated (if not actually created) them, and their relations with civil society. As the authors of the UNDP’s 1998 human development report on Chile concluded, “it is fundamentally a political challenge: to develop the capacity of politics to name, accept and take charge of the fears and dreams, of the doubts and motivations of the people” (PNUD-Chile 1998, p. 11). Unfortunately, the political realignments and changing ways of “doing politics” (hacer politica) associated with neopluralism will make it more difficult to meet this challenge, both in Chile and elsewhere in the region.

Neopluralism’s “Personal Touch”: Populism and Political Engagement Neopluralism affects how politicians relate to voters in ways that are both old and new. Neopluralism has a strong affinity for populist forms of mobilization that offer the promise of quick solutions for pressing problems. What is new is the way in which such politicians seek to get their message across to voters and their ability to overwhelm alternative political perspectives that offer long-term solutions to the structural causes of extremes of poverty and inequality. Other factors contribute to this (e.g., political marketing techniques drawn from the United States and propagated in Latin America by US political consultants), but neopluralism provides a particularly propitious context for a particular kind of political engagement to become dominant. This is perhaps most evident in the 1999–2000 presidential elections in Chile. Again, the country offers important insights, given that the factors influencing the emergence of neopluralism are generally much stronger elsewhere.20 The 1999–2000 elections marked the first time that the presidency was decided through a run-off election, which took place after no candidate won a majority of the vote in the December 1999 electoral contest. The run-off provision was included in the 1980 constitution as one of several institutional mechanisms established by the military regime in an effort to “engineer” a new political party system that would be dominated by two electoral blocs, if not parties. The closeness of both elections suggests that the military might have actually succeeded. In the December contest, Lagos narrowly beat the right-wing candidate, Joaquín Lavín, 48.0 percent to 47.5 percent. The outcome of the run-off was almost as close, with Lagos receiving 51.3 percent of the vote to Lavín’s 48.7 percent. This polarization of the

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vote itself was also historic. Never before in Chile’s modern history had a right-wing candidate received such a high percentage of the popular vote, coming very close to an absolute majority. In some senses, the narrowness of Lagos’s victory is not surprising. Chile had entered into its worst recession since the economic collapse of 1982, largely as a result of the Brazilian economic crisis. Unemployment again reached double digits. To make matters worse, a prolonged drought had curtailed hydroelectric production and Chileans were forced to endure blackouts and electricity rationing. Moreover, the slow response by the Frei administration to both problems fed growing perceptions that the government was not only lacking in initiative, but also increasingly distant from the average person, given its excessively technocratic, probusiness policy style. For many, it seemed that after ten years in power, the Concertación was running out of new ideas and that a change was needed. Lavín recognized this, successfully campaigning on the slogan “Long Live Change!” (¡Viva el Cambio!). What is surprising is the swiftness of Lagos’s electoral slide. Lagos had dominated national opinion polls as late as just six months before the firstround election. His apparent invincibility was underscored when he resoundingly defeated the Christian Democratic Party’s presidential nominee, Andrés Zaldívar, in a national primary election held in May 1999. Despite the party’s clear organizational advantages over the center-left Socialist Party and the Party for Democracy, which supported Lagos, Lagos won 71 percent of the vote. Yet within a matter of months, the race changed dramatically and became the closest electoral contest since the 1988 plebiscite, which began the transition process. Several factors contributed to this dramatic change in Lagos’s electoral fortunes (Oxhorn 2000), but the principal factor can be seen in the contrast in their campaign styles and the kind of relationship that they sought to establish with the electorate. This contrast was in large part generational, although the differences separating the two candidates in this regard were far greater than their fifteen-year age difference. Fundamentally, the sixtyone-year-old Lagos represented the kind of politics associated with Chile’s rich democratic past, whereas the forty-six-year-old Lavín was a new kind of politician much more in tune with Chile’s neopluralist democracy. In the earlier period, which came to a dramatic end in 1973, politics revolved around a strong, centralized state and was orchestrated by equally strong, equally centralized political parties. These parties were closely identified with rigid ideological projects and dominated Chilean civil society, intensifying the dimension of social class in political identities. This system gave rise to Chile’s infamous “three-thirds” voting pattern, in which the principal electoral tendencies were divided into roughly equal right, center, and left blocs. No single tendency could hope to win a majority, yet their

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ideological differences made effective coalitions and compromise increasingly difficult to achieve. The radical reforms of the state and the economy instituted by the military regime, combined with its intense repression of all political activity, irrevocably undermined the foundations for this kind of politics. Global trends, particularly the end of the Cold War and the dominance of US influence on processes of globalization associated with the technological revolution and increased economic ties among nations over the past twenty years, accentuated these trends. This was particularly true for Chile, given the historically close ties between the Chilean left and the Soviet bloc, and the unprecedented degree to which neoliberal economic reforms were carried out in terms of economic liberalization and the privatization of state institutions. The declining importance of political parties and political ideologies, as the Chilean case clearly demonstrates, is one clear consequence of the new style of engaging in politics. Thus, even though the Chilean electorate still is divided into the same roughly equal three electoral tendencies, the consequences of this division are very different. Instead of political stalemate and confrontation, the dominant political outcome has been, if not cooperation, inertia. Moreover, the largest group of voters by far identifies with no particular tendency, giving Chilean politics an unprecedented fluidity. I am not suggesting a return to the rigid ideological positions that characterized Chilean politics in the past. Indeed, one of the principal political lessons that the parties of the Concertación learned is the need to seek compromise and avoid attempting to equate party ideologies with the national good (Garretón 1989). Rather than building this political learning, however, the role traditionally played by political parties and ideology in aggregating interests and attempting to develop long-term projects for national development has largely been replaced by the candidate’s ability to personally “connect” with the people. The prestige of being chosen to lead powerful, well-organized parties in presidential elections no longer suffices to ensure voter allegiance. Lavín recognized this early on. He launched his national campaign with his unorthodox “Walk Through Chile,” which brought him into direct contact with Chileans from all walks of life all across the country. Throughout the campaign, Lavín adopted an “anti-party and anti-politics stance that is popular with the Chilean right [and] played to a similar mood in a populace disillusioned with the limitations of Chilean democracy and the self-absorbed maneuvers of its increasingly distant political leaders” (Winn 2000, p. 7). As a result of this direct “connection” with the people, Lavín claimed to know their true problems better than did Lagos, and focused his electoral promises on issues of most concern to them. To buttress his claim to truly know what was on the average Chilean’s mind, he announced with consid-

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erable fanfare in early June 1999 the results of a poll, conducted on his behalf, showing that voters were concerned most about jobs and crime, followed closely by education and childcare, with constitutional reform being the least of their concerns. The results of Lavín’s poll were hardly unexpected and were consistent with polling results from the respected Center for Public Statistics in late April through early May of the same year. What was surprising was the degree to which Lavín explicitly tailored his platform to the polls—even if he never adequately explained how he would fund these initiatives given his commitment to fiscal restraint. By implication, Lavín was distinguishing himself from ten years of unresponsive Concertación government. This is what Lavín successfully associated with his campaign slogan “Long Live Change!” His overriding message was that he would listen to the people, whereas the previous government and Lagos had not. The reaction of the Lagos campaign helped Lavín succeed in getting this message across. Whereas Lavín sought to deal directly with the consequences of neopluralist democracy, Lagos sought to deal with the underlying structural sources of those problems at the political level, at the same time that he stressed that he would not abandon the Concertación’s commitment to the same basic set of economic policies shared by Lavín. Lagos was certainly not insensitive to the concrete issues of most concern to the average voter,21 but his priorities appeared to be different. For example, even though polling data consistently showed that Chileans were largely uninterested in constitutional changes to advance Chilean democratization, this remained a priority for Lagos. Contrasting the Concertación’s primary elections, which took place at roughly the same time that Lavín’s poll was being conducted, Lagos noted that “these are two different ways of listening to what people are saying. . . . The public is able to separate the wheat from the chaff. But why is it we are told (by Lavín) that we should only fight crime, and should not concern ourselves with the issue of designated senators. Let’s get serious!” (Santiago Times, June 8, 1999). Similarly, Lagos’s approach to the economy appeared to be the polar opposite of Lavín’s promise of “change.” Instead, Lagos’s campaign slogan, “Growth with Equality,” failed to capture the imagination of the average Chilean and seemed more like just another iteration of the Concertación’s original promise of neoliberalism with a “human face.”22 Yet the appeal of Lagos’s promise was, ironically, limited by the legacy of the first Concertación government. Given the years of neglect under the military regime and the clear electoral mandate of President Patricio Aylwin, the government was able to increase social expenditures by 21 percent in real terms from 1990 to 1992, and decrease the poverty rate from 46.6 percent in 1987 to 28.5 percent at the end of 1994. Such dramatic, concrete signs of improvement could not be duplicated—especially during a period of recession.

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Admittedly, Lagos’s options were limited in the area of economic policy. This was part of Salvador Allende’s legacy—the need to prove that a “socialist” could be fiscally responsible. Indeed, this was perhaps the most successful part of his campaign leading up to the first-round election, achieved through various meetings with Chilean business groups and the representatives of various international economic interests. The problem for Lagos was that it reinforced other aspects of his political style, as he himself recognized in changing his campaign slogan soon after the December elections to “A Much Better Chile” (Chile Mucho Mejor). Lagos was also handicapped by his inability to match Lavín’s immense campaign financial resources. While the absence of campaign disclosure laws makes it impossible to quantify the differences with any precision, it is clear that the lavish support given Lavín by the business community allowed him to significantly outspend the Lagos campaign. Moreover, Lavín used his estimated US$50 million war chest to contract US advisers—certainly the most proficient practitioners of this kind of electoral style.23 “Connecting” with the people in this sense is very expensive! The contrast between the two styles was captured well by Peter Winn when he wryly observed how “in contrast to Lagos’ top-down statesman, Lavín offered a bottom-up populist” (2000, p. 8). The best indicator of the permanence of this new style is that Lagos was increasingly forced to emulate it to compete. As Andrés Velasco points out, a defining moment in Chilean politics today came on January 7, when both presidential candidates used a popular term equivalent to the word “job” in English, pega: “That night . . . both presidential candidates did not promise more employment, more work or even an improved labor market, but more pega” (La Tercera, February 27, 2000). This simple word—something that, not coincidentally, would be of little importance to a North American audience, which is long accustomed to its leaders promising more “jobs”—revealed in a graphic way the two candidates’ efforts, if not need, to reach out to the common person, to speak “in their language.” Fundamentally, it also reflects a shift from Lagos’s focus (and the Concertación’s traditional focus) on the structural or institutional causes of Chile’s social problems to Lavín’s insistence on addressing in a direct way the consequences of those same underlying problems. While such changes are fundamental to the long-term prospects for Chilean democracy (Siavelis 2000), the problem is that a commitment to achieving them no longer seems sufficient to win elections, but instead may exacerbate public perceptions of a distant, self-absorbed political class that is “unconnected” with the people.24 This focus on the consequences of Chile’s structural and institutional problems also inevitably shifts attention away from issues of democratization and citizenship. Communist Party secretarial-general and 1999 presidential candidate Gladys Marin’s harsh criticism of Lavín strikes at the core

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contradiction or paradox of neopluralist democracy: “He was a functionary of the Pinochet dictatorship. He doesn’t know what democracy is all about” (Santiago Times, June 7, 1999). The authoritarian elements that are intrinsically part of neopluralism make Lavín’s close ties to the military regime irrelevant, even if Lagos’s own socialist “past” conditions his candidacy in substantial ways.25 More accurately (and independently of Lavín’s somewhat tainted past), this style of politics, at best, takes political democracy for granted. At worst, it leads to extremes of plebiscitarian styles that, in between elections, run roughshod over basic democratic principles of accountability and citizen participation (O’Donnell 1994; Oxhorn and Ducantenzeiler 1998a; Weffort 1998). It plays to the growing economic insecurities of people at the same time that it places a premium on private economic resources (including Lavín’s immense campaign war chest) for allocating political power, if not actually determining the practical effectiveness of individual rights of citizenship and the style of engaging in politics. Chile’s strong political parties and rich democratic history tend to highlight in a particularly sharp way the principal characteristics of this new form of political engagement, but similar tendencies are already at the root of political instability throughout the region. In many ways, the spectacular rise of both Hugo Chávez in Venezuela and Alberto Fujimori in Peru, to give but two examples, reflects the same fundamental dynamics in much weaker institutional contexts.26 The consequences of long-term structural problems associated with poverty, extreme inequality, and the apparent inability of democratic politics to address them contributed to the rise of populist leaders with little or no commitment to democracy (Chávez entered the political scene by leading a failed military coup, and Fujimori’s popularity surged when he suspended Peru’s constitution and congress), but who appeared to offer concrete solutions to pressing problems.27 Even more dramatic was the October 2003 resignation of Gonzalo Sánchez de Lozada in Bolivia. Centuries of racism; decades of economic liberalization that failed to reduce poverty and inequality; a corrupt, deligitimated political class; and intense nationalism served as a potent basis for populist leaders to mobilize widespread frustration against an unpopular and ineffective government. The violence that ensued only further discredited the Lozada government. Unfortunately, however, the ultimate losers from such a populist putsch are most likely to be the same poor, indigenous groups who made up its backbone, if only because of the incoherency of any possible alternative that it might have represented (Laserna 2003; Oxhorn 1998b). Perhaps the most poignant example is the now all-but-dead project to ship Bolivian natural gas to the West Coast of North America. The multibillion-dollar natural gas project became the focal point for the mobilization against the president, not for environmental reasons, but for a vague sense of nationalist integrity because the project would be owned by

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foreign firms and the gas would be shipped through a Chilean port that had been part of Bolivia until Bolivia lost the War of the Pacific in 1879. Sadly, it was the poor indigenous majority that came to the nation’s “defense,” even though they had been alienated by Bolivia’s national identity for centuries as a result of overt racism and desperately needed jobs so that they could escape their dependence on the illicit coca trade.28

Stopping the Vicious Cycle: Latin America’s Democratic Challenge Perhaps the greatest paradox in Latin America today is that so many negative factors are converging at a time of unprecedented political rights. Problems of economic inequality and poverty are not new to the region, even if their levels are much higher. Yet these same structural problems have, in earlier periods, led to horrendous levels of political violence, including civil wars, failed revolutions, and bureaucratic authoritarian regimes. The fact that this is not happening today is positive. Even if civil and social rights of citizenship remain precarious (which is also not a new problem), one should not underestimate the importance of the unprecedented level of political rights enjoyed by most Latin Americans today. It opens up new spaces for trying to resolve these historical and contemporary problems. And despite the negative tendencies emphasized here, other positive trends are readily identified. Among others, there is also an unprecedented level of organizational activity among indigenous groups and other minorities in a number of countries. While the women’s movement is not as active as it was during mobilizations demanding democracy, the movement has not disappeared and important gains have been made, even if much remains to be achieved. And even neopluralism has not been able to prevent the recent electoral victories of Luiz Inácio “Lula” da Silva in Brazil and Néstor Kirchner in Argentina, although it is still too soon to know if they will be able to fully live up to their democratic promise. All of this underscores the importance of even limited political openings and political rights. Latin America’s democratic challenge is to push those spaces out further and increase both what those rights entail and who is able to fully benefit from their exercise. Unfortunately, if this does not happen, not only will the resultant void discredit the political rights that were often won at great cost, but it will also likely be filled by opportunists whose populist and extremist rhetoric promises more responsive government. This, in turn, will require that civil society be strengthened in order to demand more rights and that existing rights be enforced.29 This is no easy task, especially given the historical and current weakness of civil society in Latin America (Oxhorn 2003). But, here again, there are positive signs that

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point the way to a better, more promising democratic future (Avritzer 2002). The key is not to lose sight of that future and the hope that it will come about. Strengthening civil society necessarily entails a central role of the state. First, because the state plays a central role in structuring politics, it is imperative that state institutions actively seek to interact with civil society. In this way, civil actors can strive to influence state policies through democratic institutions that transcend period elections, which in turn can create powerful incentives for such actors to emerge and grow. Decentralization of state institutions so that more access can be provided for civil society actors is one important way of achieving this, but even central state institutions, including ministries and the legislature, also have an important role to play in this regard. Historically, when the state is closed to such influence due to the existence of overtly authoritarian regimes or “democratic” regimes that are perceived as being corrupt, inept, or nontransparent (e.g., Venezuela, Peru, and Bolivia), civil society’s potential is ambiguous. Somewhat surprisingly, civil society (at least temporarily) seems to have played a much more constructive role in the recent authoritarian periods, during which it played a pivotal role in transitions to democracy than it has since. One reason for this is the nature of the resultant neopluralist democracy: the frustration, if not alienation, of large segments of the population has led to their almost blind support for populist and extremist alternatives that have, at best, only an ambiguous commitment to respecting basic democratic norms. Another reason, however, is that transnational institutions, particularly the Catholic Church, played an important role in protecting and nurturing civil society under authoritarian regimes but generally renounced this role after the return of democratic rule (Oxhorn 1995). While the relationship was not without tensions, its success was based on the willingness of institutions such as the Catholic Church to respect the autonomy of the civil society organizations they sponsored, at the same time that they provided those organizations with both material assistance and more intangible support in the form of helping people learn how to organize and understand the importance of organization. While institutions such as the Catholic Church are no longer in a position to reassume this role, the state should step in to take their place. Moreover, this experience provides the state with an example of how it should model its relations with civil society organizations. This is no easy task, given a history of state efforts to co-opt and control civil society, and given that the requisite level of trust in the state is often lacking. Yet the history of the Catholic Church in Latin America is really no better in this regard. It only began to assume a new role in a number of countries (but by no means uniformly in the region or even within the same country) in the

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late 1960s and early 1970s. In many cases, including Chile, it did so reluctantly, to fill an important political void and to help stop the increasingly violent abuses of the state. Perhaps it is now up to the state to perform the same role before the political context again changes radically and the church again has no choice but to reenter the political realm to try to curb future outbursts of state violence.

Notes I would like to thank Chris Sabatini for his insightful comments on an earlier draft of this chapter. 1. This draws on the famous distinction made by T. H. Marshall (1950) among three kinds of citizenship rights: civil, political, and social. According to Marshall, citizenship rights begin with the granting of universal civil rights and then expand to encompass, first, political rights and, later, social rights. 2. For a more extensive discussion of neopluralism, see Oxhorn 1998a. 3. This is why it is important to emphasize that neopluralism and neoliberal economic reforms are two parallel processes that share similar ideational backgrounds. They rarely, if ever, emerge simultaneously, and countries vary considerably in terms of how far neoliberal reforms have progressed and whether the reforms proceeded or followed the installation of democratic regimes. Countries will similarly vary according to the degree to which they conform to the ideal type of neopluralism presented here, although the assumption is that they will increasingly converge around that ideal type unless a fundamentally new dynamic is introduced. For example, Brazil in many ways represents a paradigmatic example of the neopluralism, yet it has also been among the last countries to adopt neoliberal reforms. Chile, the first country to enact neoliberal reforms in the mid-1970s under a dictatorship, also is among those countries that have enacted the most extensive and far-reaching reforms. Its enviable record of economic growth and democratic stability, which in turn reflect strong state institutions and an institutionalized political party system, among other factors, has served to dampen many of the worst aspects of neopluralism, but the underlying problems still persist—a point I will return to later in the chapter. 4. I am not arguing that these problems are necessarily new or that the previous state-centric development model was somehow able to avoid them. Instead, I am arguing that they are qualitatively different (and frequently quantitatively worse) compared to Latin America’s past, at the same time that neopluralism’s embrace of universal political rights opens up new possibilities for resolving both “new” and “old” problems relating to democratic citizenship that may not have existed in the past. For more on this point, see Oxhorn 1998a. 5. Chile is a partial exception, with real wages showing moderate growth from 1992 to 1995. Yet among the poorest 10 percent of workers, the proportion earning less than the minimum wage increased from 48 percent to 67 percent. Moreover, the overall pattern of income distribution at best remained the same, and may even have worsened during the same period. See Altimir 1998, Barrera 1998, and Ministerio de Planificatíon y Cooperación 1995. 6. These figures are taken from Koreniewsicz and Smith 2000. As the authors note in their comprehensive review of the issues and debates concerning the rela-

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tionship among economic growth, poverty, and inequality, poverty rates again began to rise as a result of the 1999 recession, which affected most of the region. 7. Presentation at the FOCAL IV Forum of Hemispheric Experts, Canadian Foundation for the Americas, Ottawa, June 19, 2003. 8. In many countries, organized labor traditionally represented a more privileged segment of the popular sectors. See Portes 1989. What has changed is organized labor’s ability to represent the lower classes politically, including workers. What also may have changed is its willingness to try, given the fact that the existence of a large informal sector is a major threat to its ability to organize large numbers of workers collectively. 9. There is now a large body of literature addressing problems relating to rising crime rates and judicial reform. See, for example, Holston and Caldeira 1998, Kincaid and Gamarra 1996, McSherry 1998, Méndez, O’Donnell, and Pinherio 1999, North American Congress on Latin America 1996, Neild 1999, and Oxhorn 2003, 10. The vulnerability of the poor only increases as a result of their poverty. For example, “Juan,” a street vendor in Santiago, Chile, in 1986 was barely able to make ends meet selling newspapers and periodicals near the central downtown metro station—a choice spot given its location near the University of Chile and downtown offices. When he was robbed by neighbors in his own shantytown, he was cut off from his suppliers. Months later, when he somehow managed to save the necessary money to purchase a new stock to sell, he had already lost his choice location at the corner of the metro exit and was forced to move elsewhere, to a less “lucrative” spot on Santiago’s crowded downtown streets. 11. It is important to note that the media’s coverage of crime likely contributed to such insecurities. I am indebted to Chris Sabatini for reminding me of this important point. 12. This is despite often-glaring inequities. For example, Chile has one of the lowest levels in the region of representation of women at all levels of government, and while the average earnings for men are US$19,000 per year, women earn on average just US$5,000. See Santiago Times, August 6, 1999. 13. An average of 560,000 people per year rose above the poverty line from 1990 to 1996. This dropped to just 155,000 per year on average from 1994 through 1998. Santiago Times, June 11, 1999. 14. Inés Bustos, director of CEPAL’s Washington, D.C., office, presentation at the FOCAL IV Forum of Hemispheric Experts, Canadian Foundation for the Americas, Ottawa, June 19, 2003. 15. More significant labor reforms have become a priority of the Lagos administration after the Frei administration failed to pass its own reform package due to the intransigence of the business community and right wing in Congress, although it is not clear that these reforms will significantly affect income distribution. 16. This was a common theme in interviews I conducted with labor leaders representing the principal political tendencies in Santiago in December 1995, and there is little evidence that this has changed since. In fact, the inability of labor leaders to achieve any noticeable advancement on behalf of workers may have exacerbated this problem. 17. Education is a good example of how the problems associated with neopluralism are not reducible to neoliberal economic policies. Because of the communications revolution and more general processes of globalization, basic literacy no longer suffices to guarantee social mobility for younger generations the way it did in the past. In fact, even though privatization has exacerbated inequality, privatization

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policies were often a response to these general socioeconomic changes in the late twentieth century by introducing accountability and competition into the delivery of education. 18. It should be noted that Chile was the only Spanish-speaking country included in the survey, and that the rest were generally much more economically developed. It is also important to add that the educational reforms were enacted beginning in the late 1990s, and they may take some time to show significant results. 19. This trend was mitigated to a certain extent in the 1999–2000 elections. Although the rates of abstention and nonregistration continued to rise, there was a significant drop in the number of blank and void ballots. See Epstein 2000. However, it is difficult to determine if this is a long-term trend or, as is more likely, a reflection of the closeness of the elections, which made individual votes more meaningful. 20. Chile is also relatively unusual in that it historically has had only limited experiences with populism compared to many other countries in the region. See Drake 1978. 21. In fact, on assuming office, Lagos instituted policies to directly address many of the same issues Lavín tried to monopolize during the election. For example, the Lagos government moved quickly to virtually eliminate waiting lines at public clinics. 22. For a critical analysis of the Concertación’s economic policies, see Vergara 1994. 23. The Concertación also has formidable public relations know-how, even if it was less effective in publicizing the political success of incumbent Concertación governments. In particular, the ability of the opposition to win the 1988 plebiscite was highly dependent on its extremely successful campaign publicity, which allowed it to overcome the obvious disadvantages it faced in trying to defeat an incumbent dictatorship, not the least of which was the fear on the part of many to defy the regime by voting no. Not surprisingly, if perhaps a bit late, the same people responsible for the 1988 campaign were given prominent roles in the Lagos campaign after the December round of voting. 24. Significantly, as Manuel Garretón (1995) has argued, the lack of political vision, if not the temerity, of the Aylwin administration in addressing fundamental issues of political reform during the first years of its mandate may itself have contributed to such popular disillusionment. After he won the elections in 2000, Lagos went on to become one of Chile’s most popular and successful presidents. To his credit, he persisted (despite the polls!) in pursuing constitutional change, which was finally passed in 2005. While the infamous binomial electoral system remained unchanged, many other “authoritarian enclaves,” including designated senators and the president’s inability to remove the commanders in chief of the armed services, were eliminated. Of course, while such constitutional changes may have been necessary, they are not sufficient for solving Chile’s socioeconomic problems, and much will now depend on how future elected governments use their new powers. 25. Lavín’s ties to the military have taken on renewed importance in the leadup to the 2006 presidential elections. This is in large part a consequence of a unique three-way race between Lavín, Sebastián Piñera (also on the right), and Michelle Bachelet, the Socialist candidate for the Concertación. While Piñera is one of a very few party leaders on the right who sided with the opposition and openly voted no in the 1988 plebiscite, Bachelet is the daughter of a general who died in prison after the

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1973 coup, as well as a former political prisoner herself. Bachelet’s unprecedented rise in popularity as the Concertación’s presidential candidate is in part due to her own personal style and warmth, although this is but one factor. 26. These same factors help explain why populism, which has long been a problem in the region, historically has had only a limited impact in Chile. 27. Chávez has consistently campaigned against neoliberal reforms, and this was clearly one of the sources of his electoral success, even though in practice he has not fundamentally changed the course of economic development in Venezuela and has taken advantage of his ability to win votes by appealing to many of the same basic concerns as did Lavín. The example highlights how neopluralism is distinct from neoliberalism, despite their obvious selective affinities. See Weyland 2001. 28. While it is hard to defend the last Lozada government, it is ironic that during his first presidency (1994–1997), Lozada did more than any other to incorporate indigenous people into Bolivia’s national identity through concrete reforms that included, among other things, constitutional recognition of Bolivia’s multiethnic character, the introduction of bilingual education, and state recognition of indigenous community organizations as part of decentralization policies. 29. Political parties also have an important role to play, although it is beyond the scope of this chapter to discuss how this can be achieved. For more on the importance of political parties for strengthening democracy, see Mainwaring and Skully 1995.

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8 Democracy Across Cultures: Does Gender Make a Difference? Roderic Ai Camp and Keith Yanner

The number of countries that have undergone democratic transformations since the late 1980s is extraordinary. These political transformations have prompted a voluminous literature on the transformative processes and on explanations for their success and failures. As Georgina Waylen (1993) concludes, this literature is inadequate in its analysis of the role of women, and its failure to incorporate a gendered perspective will produce a flawed view of democratization. A fundamental question that has not been adequately addressed in this literature is how citizens actually conceptualize democracy, what they expect from democracy, and what variables explain how individuals learn and express such specific perceptions of the democratic political model. 1 As Larry Diamond suggests, “despite the extraordinary outpouring of data over the past decade, the comparative study of how mass publics in emerging democracies view and value their institutions is only now emerging into a more mature phase.”2 Furthermore, few studies on this issue compare a postindustrial society and a less economically sophisticated country. To our knowledge, no study has yet explored such a comparison between the citizens of two such countries, while simultaneously drawing comparisons from a third group of citizens: immigrants from a lesser developed economy residing in a first world economy.3 This chapter explores the specific views of Americans, Mexican Americans, and Mexicans toward democracy, with a focus on gender differences in expectations of, and in satisfaction with, the functioning of democracy in the United States and Mexico. One justification for including Mexican Americans as a third category in this study is that we can learn how and to what extent citizen perceptions of democracy can be altered by a changed social setting and environment. 4 In other words, do Mexicans residing in the United States alter their conceptualizations and expectations of democracy, and if so, in what ways? Equally important, what variables explain those differences? For example, are gender differences in attitudes 149

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toward democracy greater in one country than another, and do they change as citizens immigrate from one society to the next? Furthermore, the United States and Mexico have long been viewed as sharing a symbiotic relationship.5 Observers have suggested that the presence of the premier democracy along Mexico’s northern border may have affected Mexican democratic perceptions, and that the flow of Mexicans to and from the United States might have also contributed to changing political attitudes and values. From a Mexican policy perspective it is also essential to understand Mexican American views of democracy, because Mexico recently passed major legislation that would allow Mexicans residing in the United States to vote in presidential elections. That group constitutes such a large percentage of the total Mexican electorate that it could easily determine the outcome of a presidential election. From a US perspective, an exploration of Mexican American democratic perceptions is revealing of political transformations that might occur among all recent immigrants, not just Mexicans.6 The most comprehensive comparison of explicit views conceptualizing democracy is a comparison of Chileans, Costa Ricans, and Mexicans funded by the Hewlett Foundation in 1998. A number of findings from that dataset have been published in Citizen Views of Democracy in Latin America (Camp 2001). A second survey by the Hewlett Foundation, building on the findings from the first survey, was completed in the fall of 2000, and explores the views of Americans, Mexican Americans, and Mexicans. We are drawing our data from this latter survey. Some initial findings appeared in a special forum in Mexican Studies (2003). The contents and timing of the 2000 Hewlett survey suggest three important findings that might impact our analysis of democratic perceptions among the three groups, as well as our analysis of gender differences. First, the original Hewlett study in 1998, in combination with a follow-up survey by the Wall Street Journal in 1999, discovered an extraordinary difference in how Hispanics, Mexicans, and Americans conceptualize democracy, as well as their expectations of democracy. These important differences are reconfirmed in the 2000 dataset. For example, 77 percent of individuals surveyed in the United States chose “liberty” among six common responses to how they defined democracy. In Mexico, however, only 29 percent chose this response.7 The citizens of these two countries conceptualize democracy in two entirely different ways, in terms of both the level of consensus that exists on what it means as well as its substantive definition. For Mexicans, equality is just as important as liberty, which is not surprising given the widespread social and economic inequality in Mexico (see Review of the Economic Situation of Mexico 2002a). Widespread inequalities also exist in the United States, and therefore one might expect equality to receive greater attention, but it is often absent from the political landscape. As we shall see below,

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gender accounts for significant differences within these groups, although the gender gap is wider in Mexico than in the United States. Second, Mexicans were undergoing the most dramatic electoral experience in their history in July 2000, and the survey was timed just two months after the election. The data, in combination with another major survey funded by the National Science Foundation and the Mexican newspaper Reforma, provide an opportunity to explore the impact, if any, of the electoral process on democratic attitudes.8 Data from these surveys clearly suggest that a procedural process, such as an election, can have a dramatic effect on citizens’ perceptions of democracy. Indeed, our results show that in terms of expectations of democracy, Mexicans place more emphasis than do Americans on procedural definitions of democracy. By contrast, when the question shifts to opinions about the most important task of democracy, Mexicans were more likely than Americans to emphasize quality-of-life issues over democratic procedures. With regard to gender, women were more likely than men to emphasize quality-of-life conceptualizations of democracy over procedural conceptualizations. The move away from traditional liberal, procedural definitions may be the result of globalization, which is altering the way people think about democracy (Cedroni 2001). Third, among Mexican voters, women played a crucial role in the electoral victory of Vicente Fox, the candidate who by any measure represented change, and for many Mexicans represented radical change (Camp 2003a). Among Mexican voters in our survey, of those who voted for Fox, 55.3 percent were women. By contrast, only 34.2 percent of the voters who cast their ballot for the Institutional Revolutionary Party candidate, Francisco Labastida, were women.9 Interestingly, women were found to be partisans of political parties prior to 2000, not because of parties’ posture on feminist issues, but because they provided greater possibilities for democracy (Cuéllar Vázquez 1995).10

Gendered Views of Democracy Perhaps the most decisive test of citizen attitudes toward democracy that scholars can devise is to ask individual respondents to define democracy in an open-ended question, without presupposing a given list of conceptualizations. 11 When respondents from the three groups were asked to define democracy, the responses according to gender were significantly different in some important respects—especially among Mexicans (see Table 8.1). In looking at simple cross-tabulations, men and women within all three groups differed in their expectations of democracy. American women compared to men viewed democracy in egalitarian terms. This may be explained by the importance of feminist interests, and the degree that democratic insti-

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Table 8.1

Expectations of Democracy and Opinions of the Most Important Task of Democracy, by Gender, in the United States and Mexico

Americans Women

Men

Mexican Americans Women

Men

Mexicans Women

Men

Expectations of democracy Liberty Equality Progress Lawfulness Elections/Form of government Total Other/Uncertain N (3,156 total) Cramer’s V Significance

11.4 13.4 20.2 13.4 6.2 6.3 6.5 4.4 1.8 3.0 100.0 100.0 53.9 59.5 386 365 0.112 0.095

11.1 12.7 21.4 20.9 15.2 22.7 4.9 4.1 3.0 2.6 100.0 100.3 44.4 37.0 369 387 0.109 0.108

9.2 12.4 19.2 20.6 19.1 18.6 5.8 6.4 9.8 15.9 100.0 100.0 36.9 26.4 827 822 0.137 0.000

Most important task of democracy Combat crime Redistribute wealth Protect minorities Elect officials Other/Uncertain Total N (3,155 total) Cramer’s V Significance

21.2 15.1 12.1 10.1 16.0 18.9 35.1 38.6 15.5 17.3 99.9 100.0 387 365 0.092 0.170

37.4 28.0 8.7 14.0 29.8 34.2 17.6 18.9 6.5 4.9 100.0 100.0 369 386 0.126 0.018

32.2 21.9 16.8 19.0 20.1 21.4 20.9 28.3 10.0 9.4 100.0 100.0 827 821 0.127 0.000

Source: Hewlett Foundation survey, September 2000. Note: Some data do not sum to 100.0 due to variable weights.

tutions have facilitated feminist goals in the United States. It can also be explained by the fact that there is a greater tendency among women “to hold egalitarian attitudes.”12 American women also were much less likely than men to be uncertain in their expectations. By contrast, both Mexican American and Mexican women were much more likely to be uncertain in their expectations than their male counterparts. Among Mexicans in the United States, the other large gender difference concerned the notion of progress. Mexican men in the United States were more likely than women to expect progress. Among Mexicans, men were more likely than women to conceptualize democracy in terms of liberty, voting and elections, and type of government. These conceptualizations incorporate the three most traditional definitions of democracy, two of which, voting and elections, and type of government, can be viewed as a procedural conceptualization—that is, defining democracy by its process. Mexican women, on the other hand, are more likely than Mexican men to

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conceptualize democracy in terms of improving one’s quality of life and standard of living—that is, viewing government in productive economic and social terms.13 The issue of procedural versus quality-of-life definitions of democracy was even more salient when the question shifted to opinions about the most important task of democracy. In all three groups, the percentage of respondents emphasizing procedural democracy increased considerably, and men were more likely than women to give a procedural response. The gender gap in preferences for procedural democracy is much larger among Mexicans than Americans or Mexican Americans. The cross-national differences regarding procedural democracy are also striking. American women were much more likely than Mexican American or Mexican women to give the procedural response. This may be explained by the fact that genderbased influence has been exerted through the “women’s vote,” thus raising the stakes on issues of special interest to women or specific groups of women. Another explanation for why American women versus Mexican and Mexican American women view democracy in procedural terms may be related to their level of political knowledge. While women in all three groups express less interest and less confidence in their knowledge of politics, the gender differences are much sharper between Mexican and Mexican American women and men.14 Such differences have been shown to explain gender differences on other political attitudes.15 One consistent gender pattern across all three groups on the question of democracy’s most important task involved the “combat crime” response. Women were more likely than men to emphasize this response, and the gender gap was much larger in Mexico than in the United States. Why should gender differences be so pronounced and, regarding the issue of procedural versus quality-of-life preferences, consistent across cultural groups in some cases? One possible explanation is that the traditional view of any type of political system often defines it as a political model or government. Existing political models are the product of male-dominated political processes. Men also, compared to women, are more likely to express this definition, because they share a higher level of interest in politics across cultures. One way to measure political interest is to assess the frequency with which a citizenry converses about politics. A large percentage of people, two-fifths of the population, claim they never discuss politics. When broken down by gender, however, women form a much larger proportion of those same citizens. Among American and Mexican women, 58 percent never talk about politics.16 These differences in the way men and women in these three groups conceptualize democracy is significant, given that the copious literature in the 1980s and 1990s comparing female and male political beliefs concluded that strong differences between men and women in their attitudes toward

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politics have diminished.17 Those studies are almost exclusively confined to the United States and other postindustrial societies, and few look at developing countries or compare attitudes across postindustrial societies with newly industrializing countries. 18 In our study, gender is not the most important variable in explaining differences among these three groups, but gender differences are significant and they vary considerably across the three groups. Therefore, we hope to further elaborate those differences, to offer some explanations as to why they might exist, and to suggest their significance in comparison with other important explanatory variables regarding attitudes toward democracy. The key question at this point in the analysis is whether the gender differences identified above remain statistically significant when controlling for other variables that might account for the variation in expectations of, and opinions about, the most important task of democracy. Comparativists have offered several alternative explanations for gender gaps in political attitudes and behaviors. The two most compelling that need to be taken into account here concern political values and access to economic resources. Regarding political values, some scholars argue that gender differences tend to disappear when political interest, political efficacy, political awareness, interpersonal trust, risk aversion, and the like are controlled for statistically. The idea is that women tend to feel less politically efficacious and interested than men, and so gender differences in political attitudes and behaviors are really about differences in interest and efficacy. Regarding access to economic resources, some scholars argue that gender gaps are essentially income gaps or gaps in socioeconomic status and disappear when different levels in income, education, occupational status, and the like are controlled for. The “uncertain” responses in our data illustrate the tendency among women as a group to be less politically interested, efficacious, and aware. They also indicate perhaps less comfort in responding to a sophisticated political question requiring abstract thought about the meaning of democracy. However, the “uncertain” responses to the questions about defining democracy and what people expect from democracy are sizable, regardless of nationality or group. 19 The same is true in recent Afrobarometer surveys. Nevertheless, women account for a significantly larger proportion of those “uncertain” answers. This finding relates to a general argument in the literature that a higher percentage of women compared to men are not as likely to understand politics.20 For some women, especially in Mexico, this can be explained by differing levels of education, which also translate into differing income levels and occupations.21 Such distinctions, when present, can be an enormous factor in the formation of gender attitudes, even when the level of education does not extend beyond six years of schooling (Whiteford and Alden 1998). On the other hand, when these distinctions do not exist, differences in political attitudes across and between cultures decline significantly.22

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Women’s lack of knowledge also may be related to their level of interest. A conclusion found in the earlier literature on gender-related attitudes toward politics is that men have a greater interest in political matters than do women.23 In our survey, men expressed more interest than women in politics among all three groups examined. In our data, 45 percent more women than men considered politics to be too complicated to understand. Not surprisingly, one’s comprehension of politics does explain, in part, one’s ability to answer a more complex political question. For example, nearly two-thirds of respondents in the “uncertain” category in defining democracy and in their expectations of democracy were women. The data in Table 8.2 indicate a significant linkage between a person’s level of confidence in under-

Table 8.2

Predicting Expectations of Democracy in the United States and Mexico

Constant Women Interested in politics Believes votes matter (efficacy) Understands politics (efficacy) Trusts others Takes risks Base groupb Mexican Americans Mexicans Education Age Economic resources indexc Economic situation seen as worse Partisanshipd Republican or PAN Reform or PRD Independent Other/Uncertain

Libertya

Equality

Progress Lawfulness Uncertain

1.058 0.232 –0.209 0.897** 0.175 –0.642** 0.852**

1.968** 0.504** –0.092 0.879** –0.016 –0.789** 0.728**

1.667* 0.366* –0.021 0.802** 0.282 –0.578** 0.739**

1.399 0.426* 0.010 0.793** –0.152 –1.027** 0.441*

4.233** 0.492** –0.375* 0.373** –0.269 –0.681** 0.185

–0.235 –2.144** –0.031 0.004 –0.100 –0.051

–0.135 –1.872** 0.017 –0.014** –0.107 –0.184

0.590 –1.461** –0.097** –0.001 –0.124 –0.131

–0.716 –2.263** –0.018 –0.003 –0.141 –0.408

–0.945** –2.856** –0.067** –0.004 –0.006 0.100

0.120 –0.415 0.215 –0.010

–0.427* 0.105 –0.138 –0.111

–0.046 –0.031 0.226 –0.218

–0.074 –1.133 0.129 0.156

–0.184 0.370 0.174 0.476

Source: Hewlett Foundation survey, September 2000. Notes: N = 3,079; * p < 0.05; ** p < 0.01; multinomial logistic regression estimates; pseudo-R2: Cox and Snell 0.198, Nagelkerke 0.207, McFadden 0.070. PAN = National Action Party, PRD = Democratic Revolutionary Party. a. The omitted or contrast response for all other response categories of the dependent variable is “elect officials/form of government,” which is conceptualized here as procedural democracy. The signs on the estimates indicate whether the independent variables increase or decrease the probability of the column response over the omitted or contrast response. For example, women are more likely than men to respond “equality” over “procedural democracy.” b. Americans omitted. c. This index gives respondents a score of 1 for each of eight items—ranging from hot water to a vacation home—they possess. d. “Democrat or PRI” omitted.

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standing politics and his or her ability to answer analytical questions about democracy. Even after a multinomial analysis controlling for the effects of political values and access to economic resources, we still find significant gender differences in attitudes toward democracy. Our strategy in this analysis was to compare procedural expectations of democracy to quality-of-life expectations of democracy, and to determine whether gender might help explain preferences for quality-of-life expectations over procedural ones. Gender does make a difference in the specific way in which a person defines expectations of democracy. Women in general are more likely than men to view democracy as a means of achieving equality, as improving the culture of law, and as producing progress. A case study of women in Ciudad Juárez discovered that women defined their family interests as changing the structure of Mexican politics, long before the Fox victory (Barrera Bassols 1992). The expectation of equality from democracy is not surprising, given the fact that democracy is a participatory political process in which women have increased their involvement, if not directly in politics, then in other social and economic activities, including voluntary organizations, civic groups, and the workplace.24 Indeed, Victoria Rodríguez (2003) argues that this form of mobilization and its impact on public policies have been the most dramatic change among Mexican women. Women in general, for example, are much more likely to belong to religious groups than men, which is not surprising since universally they are more religious than are men.25 But religiosity may affect the way in which individuals define democracy and their expectations of democracy (Greenberg 2001). Participation in such groups has been shown to transform women’s views, including the views of Mexican women (Morgan 1998; see also Stephen 1997). Women’s response to the culture of law is tied to a strong view that government generally, and democracy specifically, should fight crime. Other than gender, a number of variables, excluding nationality and place of residence, are found to be associated positively or negatively with expectations of democratic government. Two of these variables—political efficacy and risk-taking—often are linked to each other in explaining political behavior. In general, men feel more politically efficacious than do women. But our data demonstrate, and are supported by recent studies from other cultures, that in some societies, such as the United States, women believe themselves to be as efficacious as men.26 In Mexico, on the other hand, men compared to women share a much stronger sense of political efficacy.27 A similar pattern was found in a study of Brazil, where women felt less efficacious and also were less interested in politics (Moisés 1993). Both political efficacy and risk-taking are found to be associated positively with viewing democracy as linked to liberty, equality, and progress, com-

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pared to procedural expectations such as type of government or elections. These figures compare with some of the results among Chileans, Costa Ricans, and Mexicans published from earlier surveys (Power and Clark 2001; Moreno 2001). Political trust, on the other hand, another traditionally significant variable in explaining political behavior, is associated positively with procedural expectations. One possible explanation is that people who trust others are more likely to conceptualize democracy in procedural terms, probably because they do not see lawlessness, corruption, inequality, and oppression as essential problems that have to be addressed apart from procedures, structures, and processes. In other words, if the proper procedures are in place, then none of these other issues will be a problem, because none is an essential component of human nature. This belief flows logically from the “trust” presumption. A second possible explanation might be that, since a democratic government, and the elections to achieve such a government, rely heavily on a belief in the integrity of the electoral process, as well as trust in the decisionmaking process, citizens who share high levels of trust prefer procedural to nonprocedural expectations. The most important point about these results, however, is that gender remains a significant predictor of expectations of democracy, even when political values and access to economic resources are held constant. In moving from the more abstract to the more pragmatic aspects of politics—specifically, what a person actually believes are a democratic government’s primary tasks—our analysis reveals that gender also affects specific perceptions. Respondents were asked to choose among four potential responses: combating crime, redistributing wealth, protecting minorities, and electing officials (see Table 8.3; the latter response, “electing officials,” is used to define the contrasting or omitted response of procedural democracy). Women were more concerned than men about fighting crime. Personal security is generally an important issue among females, and that concern is transformed into perceptions of the types of tasks a democratic government should perform. Among those issues, women from all three groups— Americans, Mexican Americans, and Mexicans—were more concerned about fighting crime compared to men, by a 13–19 percent margin.28 In Mexico, crime was one of the top three issues in the 2000 presidential campaign. Mexican women were especially sensitive to the issue and desired a democratic government to replace the status quo, the latter of which they associated with corruption and high levels of crime in urban centers.29 Another way to understand the importance to women of fighting crime is to see this concern as a community issue, rather than an issue of personal safety. Because crime affects families and extended families, it represents a collective concern for women (Pardo 1990). It is apparent that a number of variables, including gender, are associat-

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Table 8.3

Predicting Opinions About the Most Important Task of Democracy in the United States and Mexico Combating Redistributing Protecting Crimea Wealth Minorities

Constant Women Interested in politics Believes votes matter (efficacy) Understands politics (efficacy) Trusts others Takes risks Base groupb Mexican Americans Mexicans Education Age Economic resources index Economic situation worse Partisanshipc Republican or PAN Reform or PRD Independent Other/Uncertain

Uncertain

1.911** 0.388** –0.521** 0.127 –0.047 –0.356** –0.332**

–1.082* 0.042 –0.130 0.007 0.028 –0.221 –0.148

1.404** –0.002 –0.286** 0.222 –0.004 –0.387** –0.215

0.047 0.168 –0.543** –0.348* –0.166 0.202 0.140

0.850** –0.190 –0.099** –0.013** –0.083 0.200

0.721** 0.969** 0.020 –0.006 0.031 0.428**

0.995** –0.454 –0.063** –0.007* –0.150** 0.202

–0.361 –1.003** –0.060** 0.017** –0.142** 0.336*

–0.131 –0.285 –0.394** 0.127

–0.221 0.221 –0.358* 0.013

–0.114 –0.457 –0.098 0.072

–0.107 –0.030 0.233 0.425

Source: Hewlett Foundation survey, September 2000. Notes: N = 3,079; * p < 0.05; ** p < 0.01; multinomial logistic regression estimates; pseudo-R2: Cox and Snell 0.160, Nagelkerke 0.167, McFadden 0.056. PAN = National Action Party, PRD = Democratic Revolutionary Party. a. Omitted response is procedural democracy: “elect officials.” See Table 8.2, note a, for explanation. b. Americans omitted. c. “Democrat or PRI” omitted.

ed positively with citizens’ beliefs about a government’s task, but vary depending on that task. However, several of the variables found to be significant in explaining citizens’ expectations of democracy are also associated with the tasks they expect democratic governments to perform. These variables include political interest, risk-taking, and trust, which are more likely to be associated with electing officials as the main task of democracy than with fighting crime and helping minorities. Again, however, the key result is that gender remains a significant predictor of quality-of-life over procedural democracy preferences when the effects of political values and economic resources are held constant. In a more direct assessment of democracy, however tentative their experience of it, respondents were asked to indicate whether they preferred an authoritarian government or a democratic government (see Table 8.4). Regarding gender, there were no statistically significant differences in democratic versus authoritarian attitudes, but women were more likely than men

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159

Predicting Democratic and Authoritarian Attitudes in the United States and Mexico

Constant Women Interested in politics Believes votes matter (efficacy) Understands politics (efficacy) Trusts others Takes risks Base groupb Mexican Americans Mexicans Education Age Economic resources index Economic situation worse Partisanshipc Republican or PAN Reform or PRD Independent Other/Uncertain

Authoritariana

Uncertain

1.162** 0.081 –0.229* –0.323** –0.274** –0.235* –0.352**

1.285** 0.437** –0.594** –0.522** –0.513** –0.354* –0.573**

0.345* –0.351 –0.060** –0.019** –0.007 0.014

–0.244 –1.329** –0.122** 0.001 –0.151** 0.545**

–0.106 –0.236 –0.115 0.006

0.014 –0.469 0.301* 0.741**

Source: Hewlett Foundation survey, September 2000. Notes: N = 3,079; * p < 0.05; ** p < 0.01; multinomial logistic regression estimates; pseudo-R2: Cox and Snell 0.153, Nagelkerke 0.183, McFadden 0.092. PAN = National Action Party, PRD = Democratic Revolutionary Party. a. The contrast response for each category listed is “democracy is preferable to any other form of government.” b. Americans omitted. c. “Democrat or PRI” omitted.

to respond “uncertain” over “democracy is always preferable.” Among all of the statistically significant variables, political values and socioeconomic status were the strongest predictors of democratic over authoritarian attitudes.30 These associations can be explained fairly confidently. First, the dramatic election of Vicente Fox in July 2000 reinforced favorable attitudes among Mexicans toward a democratic government. Indeed, after Fox’s election, the number of Mexicans who believed Mexico moved from a nondemocratic to a democratic system increased by 50 percent. Since the dataset was compiled just weeks after the election, many Mexicans would have retained strong, negative responses to an authoritarian choice. This was especially the case along the border, where Fox received more votes than in many other regions. Second, democracy as a political culture relies heavily on trust to function effectively. Inherently, as suggested above, those who express trust in their fellow citizens would be more likely to

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express a preference for democracy. Third, respondents with a favorable attitude toward authoritarian government view it as more stable and predictable than democracy. Therefore, individuals who express greater willingness to take risks would also express greater support for democracy. The Mexican respondents in this category (many supported Fox and the idea of change) would increase the significance of risk-taking associated with a preference for democracy. Fourth, it is to be expected that those with high levels of efficacy, who believe they can influence government leadership and policy, would be more favorably inclined toward a political system that allows them to exercise their influence. Fifth, the better-educated citizens, who also are more knowledgeable about politics, and have a more sophisticated understanding of the advantages and disadvantages of a democratic versus an authoritarian model, should be expected to have a positive association with a democratic choice.31 A study of Uganda demonstrated a correlation between education and an understanding of basic democratic principles (Ottemoeller 1998). Finally, using both the 2000 Hewlett Foundation survey and a panel study supported by the National Science Foundation and the Mexican newspaper Reforma, we can also explore citizen satisfaction with democracy in both the United States and Mexico, and explore the consistency of satisfaction levels in Mexico from September 2000 until May 2002, when the final round of the panel study was completed. Table 8.5 reveals two striking results about satisfaction with democracy in the United States and Mexico.

Table 8.5

Predicting Satisfaction with the Functioning of Democracy, by Gender, in the United States and Mexico Reforma (May 2002)

Hewlett (September 2000)

Americans Women Satisfied Dissatisfied Neither/Uncertain Total N Cramer’s V Significance

Men

62.4 60.3 31.9 30.4 5.8 9.3 100.0 100.1 364 388 0.066 0.191

Mexican Americans Women

Men

68.9 66.4 20.7 22.2 10.4 11.4 100.0 100.0 369 386 0.027 0.758

Mexicans Women

Men

Mexicans Women

Men

23.7 33.3 40.4 49.1 48.2 47.7 45.8 43.4 28.1 19.6 13.8 7.6 100.0 100.6 100.0 100.1 828 821 1,156 1,033 0.125 0.117 0.000 0.000

Sources: Hewlett Foundation survey, September 2000; Reforma panel study, fifth round, May 2002. Note: Some data do not sum to 100.0 due to variable weights.

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First, about two-thirds of American and Mexican American respondents were satisfied with the way democracy functions in the United States, while only one-quarter of Mexican women and one-third of Mexican men were satisfied with Mexican democracy. The level of satisfaction among Mexicans, however, rose significantly by May 2002. Second, while American and Mexican American men and women were about equal in their percentages of “satisfied” responses, there is a significant gender gap among Mexicans. In both September 2000 and May 2002, Mexican men’s satisfaction with democracy was almost 10 percentage points greater than women’s. The gender gap is only statistically significant in Mexico. The key question, of course, is whether the gender gap remains statistically significant—especially on the question of satisfaction—when the effects of political values and access to economic resources are held constant. Women were less likely than men to be satisfied with democracy in the United States and Mexico because of a significant gender gap in Mexico (keep in mind that satisfaction levels were only about 2 percentage points lower among American and Mexican American women compared to their male counterparts), when controlling for the effects of political values and access to economic resources. This means that women were less likely to be satisfied with democracy despite their relative poverty or lack of political interest and efficacy (see Table 8.6). An earlier exploration of the Russian transformation found a similar difference between men and women (Gibson, Duch, and Tedin 1992).32 A different analysis of Brazil also suggested weaker support among women for democracy (Moisés 1993). In addition to gender, partisanship emerged as a significant predictor of satisfaction with democracy in both Mexico and the United States. The results on the party identification variables are consistent with our expectations. If the focus is placed exclusively on Mexico and the National Science Foundation/Reforma panel study is introduced, we can determine that the Mexican gender gap concerning satisfaction with the functioning of democracy is stable (see Table 8.7). In both September 2000 and May 2002, Mexican women were significantly less likely than Mexican men to be satisfied with democracy, when controlling for the effects of political values and access to economic resources. The results on the other explanatory variables are consistent with previous models and are not surprising. Taken together, the statistical results throughout this study consistently reveal a gender gap in expectations of democracy, opinions of democracy’s most important task, uncertainty over whether democracy is always preferable to authoritarian government, and satisfaction with the functioning of democracy in the United States and Mexico. The results also reveal a consistently larger gender gap in Mexico than in the United States. More specifically, the gender gap in expectations and opinions about democracy’s most impor-

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Table 8.6

Predicting Satisfaction with Democracy in the United States and Mexico

Constant Women Interested in politics Believes votes matter (efficacy) Understands politics (efficacy) Trusts others Takes risks Base groupb Mexican Americans Mexicans Education Age Economic resources index Economic situation worse Partisanshipc Republican or PAN Reform or PRD Independent Other/Uncertain

Satisfieda

Uncertain

0.993** –0.250** 0.150 0.588** 0.074 0.504** –0.022

0.617 0.123 –0.590** 0.117 –0.510** 0.669** –0.328**

0.451** –0.934** –0.053** –0.007* 0.047 –0.553**

0.363 0.047 –0.097** –0.004 –0.057 0.052

–0.222* –0.938** –0.225 –0.464**

–0.245 –0.971** –0.121 –0.230

Source: Hewlett Foundation survey, September 2000. Notes: N = 3,079; * p < 0.05, ** p < 0.01; multinomial logistic regression estimates; pseudo-R2: Cox and Snell 0.235, Nagelkerke 0.270, McFadden 0.131. PAN = National Action Party, PRD = Democratic Revolutionary Party. a. Omitted response “dissatisfied.” b. Americans omitted. c. “Democrat or PRI” omitted.

tant task is expressed in terms of a consistent preference among women for quality-of-life as opposed to procedural conceptualizations of democracy.

Conclusion In a comprehensive survey of public opinion literature, Eliska Rendlová (1999) concluded that gender was significant only when those subjects considered directly related to gender issues were examined. Rendlová also concluded, however, that when gender is analyzed as a contextual variable, differences can be quite striking. The evidence in this chapter clearly suggests that gender plays a role in, and should be considered a potentially influential variable in, political analysis, even when the issues analyzed are not directly related to gender. The most significant general finding is that gender-relevant differences, politically speaking, and specifically related to democracy, are most notable among Mexicans. This finding suggests the importance of developmentally related differences politically among women and men. As Ronald Inglehart

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Predicting Satisfaction with Democracy in Mexico Hewlett (September 2000)

Constant Women Interested in politics Believes votes matter (efficacy) Understands politics (efficacy) Trusts others Takes risks Education ordinal scale Age Economic resources index Income ordinal scale Economic situation worse Partisanshipb PAN PRD Independent Other/Uncertain

Reforma (May 2002)

Satisfieda

Uncertain

Satisfieda

Uncertain

1.087** –0.487** 0.152 0.580** 0.102 0.305* 0.072 –0.117** 0.018** –0.184 — –0.484**

0.619 0.101 –0.709** –0.003 –0.445** 0.899** –0.193 –0.121** –0.008 0.280 — 0.332*

0.221 –0.219* 0.131 — 0.021 0.581** 0.195* –0.137** 0.005 — 0.039 –0.855**

–0.703 0.371* –0.488** — –0.409* 0.838** 0.042 –0.284** 0.016** — –0.017 –0.838**

–0.003 –0.882** –0.011 0.028

–0.174 –0.867** –0.008 –0.521

0.862** –0.660** 0.162 0.520

0.130 –1.108** 0.218 –0.838**

Sources: Hewlett Foundation survey, September 2000; Reforma panel study, fifth round, May 2002. Notes: Hewlett: N = 1,649; * p < 0.05, ** p < 0.01; multinomial logistic regression estimates; pseudo-R2: Cox and Snell 0.170, Nagelkerke 0.194, McFadden 0.088. Reforma: N = 2,180; * p < 0.05, ** p < 0.01; multinomial logistic regression estimates; pseudo-R2: Cox and Snell 0.154, Nagelkerke 0.181, McFadden 0.087. PAN = National Action Party, PRD = Democratic Revolutionary Party. a. Omitted response for both regressions “dissatisfied.” b. “PRI” omitted.

and Pippa Norris concluded in their study, of the four developing countries they examined, two, Mexico and Chile, reflected a strong and significant gender gap. They argue, and we concur, that this “again reinforces the finding that any global analysis of the gender gap needs to take account of the type of society, as well as individual level factors. The process of modernization has had profound effects on men’s and women’s lives, and the modern gender gap is strongly linked to the process of economic and political development” (2000, p. 457).33 Another significant discovery, which we believe has not been replicated elsewhere, is that when gender views of democracy are compared across cultures, including a hybrid culture of Mexican Americans, based on procedural versus nonprocedural conceptualizations, women are more likely than men to choose equality, progress, and respect and lawfulness over procedure regarding expectations of democracy, and women are more likely than men to choose fighting crime over procedure regarding the main task of democracy. One could speculate that women, in terms of these issues

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specifically, feel inadequately served by democratic procedures. One student of Mexican democracy found that the procedures themselves would have to change for women to become direct beneficiaries (Stevenson 2001). This finding is theoretically underdeveloped in the literature; indeed, we could find no previous study that offered any gender-related conclusions about citizen conceptualizations of democracy, and why they might be linked to procedural versus nonprocedural perceptions.34 We have offered our own speculations about these linkages, but it is apparent that this finding requires substantially new theoretical explorations.35 Finally, many citizens do view politics as a complex subject. The more analytically sophisticated the question, the greater the number of respondents who willingly admit they are unable to answer, or just do not attempt to answer. And yet the three questions we raised about democracy are rather straightforward and broad, without requiring specific, substantive knowledge, such as knowing who one’s government representative is. It is therefore surprising that large numbers of citizens are unable to express any expectation about democracy, and even more shocking that they indicate a preference for one of the two diametrically opposed forms of government. Despite the arguments in recent literature that political differences between women and men were exaggerated in the past, often because of methodological biases and weaknesses, women continue to show less interest in politics and a willingness to define broad political processes. Numerous explanations, some of which have been discussed here, may explain this gender difference, but the belief by other scholars that “an interest in politics by itself is sufficient to overcome the barriers of either childhood or adult socialization processes” may contribute significantly to this pattern (Clark and Clark 1986, p. 15). However, in our preliminary analysis of participation (see Table 8.8), even when we control for political interest, women participate less than men. When we control for efficacy, women participate less than men. This may suggest an alternative interpretation and that there remain significant social and cultural barriers to women’s participation in politics. If political interest and efficacy, and access to economic resources, do not cause gender to drop out of our models, there has to be another reason—apart from socialization—contributing to lower levels of participation and significantly different attitudes toward procedural democracy.

Survey Methodology Research Objective Our survey was designed to explore citizen conceptualizations and expectations about democracy in Mexico and the United States, including their

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Predictors of Political Participation in the United States and Mexico

Constant Women Interested in politics Believes votes matter (efficacy) Understands politics (efficacy) Trusts others Takes risks Base groupa Mexican Americans Mexicans Education Age Economic resources index Economic situation worse Partisanshipb Republican or PAN Reform or PRD Independent Other/Uncertain N R2

Total Sample

Mexico Only

3.338** –0.470** 1.454** 0.486** 0.575** 0.311** 0.196

4.931** –0.506** 1.276** 0.430** 0.690** 0.191 0.123

–1.022** –1.310** 0.071** –0.009** 0.162** –0.039

— — 0.099** 0.006 –0.192 –0.113

0.011 0.909** –0.319* –0.440** 3,078 0.298

0.457** 1.302** 0.226 –0.049 1,648 0.221

Source: Hewlett Foundation survey, September 2000. Notes: Ordinary least squares estimates; * p < 0.05, ** p < 0.01. PAN = National Action Party, PRD = Democratic Revolutionary Party. a. Americans omitted. b. “Democrat or PRI” omitted.

level of satisfaction with, and information and knowledge about, institutions and political practices. In this project, we divided the interviewees into distinct groups in both countries. In Mexico, we created a special subsample of citizens living along the northern border with the United States, as well as a national sample. For the United States, we created a Mexican American sample consisting of Mexican citizens living in the United States, or who were US residents or citizens of Mexican descent. Sample Size We conducted 1,187 interviews in Mexico and 1,506 in the United States, for a total of 2,693, of a nationally representative sample of adults aged 18 and older in each country. For Mexico, the total sample was divided into two parts: a representative national sample including the border region, and a sample representative of the northern border only; the first consisted of 932 interviews, and the second consisted of 255 interviews. For the United States, the sample was divided into two parts: a representative national sample of Americans, and a representative sample of Mexican Americans

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(Mexicans residing in the United States, or American citizens of Mexican descent); the first consisted of 751 interviews, and the second consisted of 755 interviews. Sampling Procedures Mexico. The national representative sample consisted of a selected distribution from 62 electoral districts (the primary unit of selection). The northernborder oversample consisted of 17 representative districts, in addition to 5 border districts included in the national representative sample, for a total of 22 districts. Selection process: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Selection of districts with a systematic random selections start. Selection of three points on each starting point. Selection of five homes for each starting point. Random selection of interviewee based on most recent birthday.

United States. The survey consisted of 1,506 interviews. The general-population sample in the 48 contiguous states consisted of 751 interviews. The Mexican American population sample consisted of 755 interviews from Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and California. All respondents were aged 18 and older, and were adult residents of the United States. The birthday method (closest to the date when the phone is answered) was used to help balance age and gender. The average length of the survey was 22 minutes. A random-digit sample was used for the general population in the 48 contiguous states, and a Hispanic listed-surname sample was used initially for the sample of Mexican Americans in the United States. The interviewer asked the respondent if he or she was Mexican. The samples were obtained from Survey Sampling Inc. All Mexican American interviews were conducted in the respondent’s preferred language, Spanish or English, using native speakers. Margin of Error For Mexico, the margin of error for the national sample was +/–3.0, and for the northern-border oversample was +/–5.0. For the United States, the margin of error for both groups was +/–3.6. Fieldwork and Dates Each group was given the same precoded, structured questionnaire. In Mexico, interviews were conducted personally in the respondent’s home; in the United States, interviews were conducted by telephone. In Mexico, the

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interviews took place between August 30 and September 6, 2000; in the United States, the interviews took place between September 5 and September 19, 2000. Data Processing In Mexico, the data were processed and verified using ASCII. In the United States, the telephone interview process used the CATI system. The total sample was processed on SPSS, and the tables were processed using Excel. Coordination The general coordinator of the survey project was Global Quality Research (Princeton-Mexico).

Notes We would like to thank Miguel Basáñez, Ulises Beltran, Audrey Bilger, Michael Bratton, Chappell Lawson, Larry Diamond, Jorge Domínguez, Joseph Klesner, Alejandro Moreno, Pippa Norris, and David Shirk for their suggestions, data, and insights. 1. Waylen’s comprehensive survey of this topic does not allude to this issue at all, nor does her paper “Gender and New Democracies” (2003). 2. For a comprehensive survey of comparative findings on how citizens view democracy, focused on evaluative postures, see Larry Diamond’s excellent paper “How People View Democracy” (2001; quote from p. 19), and the January 2001 issue of Journal of Democracy. 3. The most recent, comprehensive account of gender issues in Latin America—Chantwith and Nikki Craske 2003—makes no mention whatsoever of this relationship. 4. As Timothy Cooke argued in a comprehensive review of socialization literature as an essential ingredient in understanding politics, “we should investigate whether sociopolitical environments of individuals help to challenge or to maintain the vague intuitive notions about politics” (1985, p. 1090). 5. This argument is best articulated by Lester Langley (1988, pp. 5–7). 6. The Mexican Americans in our study include both citizens and noncitizens, and individuals born in Mexico, and in the United States, of Mexican parents. For a policy analysis of recent Mexican American attitudes and their potential consequences, see Skerry 1995, pp. 275ff. 7. The implications of these differences are discussed in detail in Camp 2003b. 8. National Science Foundation (SES-9905703) and the Reforma newspaper. Some of the data in this chapter are taken from “The Mexico 2000 Panel Study,” whose participants included Miguel Basáñez, Roderic Camp, Wayne Cornelius, Jorge Domínguez, Federico Estevez, Joseph Klesner, Chappell Lawson, Beatriz Magaloni, James McCann, Alejandro Moreno, Pablo Parás, and Alejandro Poiré. 9. The party, recognizing how poorly it did among female voters, passed the

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most radical changes of any party in its candidate selection process to automatically include a high percentage of female and younger party activists on its candidate lists. Both groups voted in large numbers for Fox. See Review of the Economic Situation of Mexico (2001). In June 2002 the Mexican Congress also passed a major reform of the 1996 electoral law, requiring all parties not to nominate more than 70 percent of the candidates for both the single-member districts and the proportional seats from the same gender. This also applies to both types of senators. See Weldon 2003, p. 21. 10. This was the case of the National Action Party, to which Fox belonged. See Staudt and Aguilar 1992. 11. Naturally, most of the theory on conceptualizing democracy has been offered by scholars from postindustrial societies. The most appropriate theoretical conception of how a Latin American might view democracy can be found in Bunce 2000. 12. Such views affected women’s attitudes on five of six issues; thus it is quite possible that they would impact on their definition of democracy. See Howell and Day 2000. 13. Michael Bratton did not find this pattern to be true among African female respondents. 14. In a recent survey conducted by the government secretariat, 20 percent of men and 30 percent of women did not know their state governor. See Este País 2002, p. 7. 15. For example, the authors of a study on European integration concluded that women compared to men allowed their lack of knowledge about integration to affect their views of it; specifically they expressed greater distrust based on the lack of knowledge. See Nelsen and Guth 2000. In his comparative work on Africa, Michael Bratton also discovered a sizable disparity in the political knowledge between men and women, a difference likely to impact on their definition of democracy. Personal correspondence with Michael Bratton, May 15, 2003; and data from the Afrobarometer survey, based on twelve countries, 21,531 interviews. See Afrobarometer Briefing Paper no. 1, April 2002, http://www.afrobarometer.org. 16. A more recent study of Mexicans, in which the question was phrased differently, by adding “in the last seven days, how often have you discussed politics with nonfamily members,” 72 percent of women and 60 percent of men had not discussed politics. Este País 2002. The complete 2001 national survey of political culture and citizen practices can be found at http://www.gobernacion.goc.mx. It contains 121 questions, of which 40 appear in the supplement. There were 4,138 respondents with a +/–1.7 margin of error. 17. For some of these patterns, including the impact of a lack of political knowledge on the functioning of democracy, see Tolleson-Rinehart and Josephson 2000. 18. For example, see the comprehensive survey in Hahn 1998, chap. 3. Few researchers found gender differences in political knowledge, interest, or behavior, but they did discover that females sometimes express lower levels of political confidence and ability to understand politics compared to males (Hahn 1998, pp. 107–108). 19. In her exploration of gender differences among different generations, Sue Tolleson-Rinehart found that women continued to demonstrate “comparatively weaker political confidence” (1988, p. 82). 20. Diana Owen and Jack Dennis (1988) found that among children in the United States, boys’ knowledge of politics was significantly higher than that of girls,

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and that girls were less interested in many, but not all, aspects of politics. This same pattern extends to college-age females. See Tolleson-Rinehart 1988. 21. For example, when testing women’s views toward particular economic strategies in the United States, one study concluded that income and gender combined showed sharper gender-gap voting than did either by itself. See Somma 1992. 22. An exploration of Korean political attitudes based on gender found economic development to be one of two major determinants of reducing differences between gender-based views. See Lee 1996. 23. Margaret Inglehart (1981) established this pattern among Europeans, arguing that the most important variable that explained such differences was the presence or absence of some sort of authoritarian tradition, and that one of the variables traditionally associated with this, at least before the 1980s, was Catholicism. 24. For example, the mobilization of women in organizations that are leftist or feminist, and possess social and political resources, widens the gap in attitudes between men and women, based on a study of Denmark. See Togeby 1994. 25. In the 1990–1993 World Values Survey, 69 percent of women, compared to only 56 percent of men, described themselves as religious. See Inglehart, Basáñez, and Moreno 1998. 26. For a complete discussion of these contradictory findings on such issues as trust and efficacy, see Hahn 1996. 27. Such differences across cultures may be related to occupational roles experienced by both genders. Working outside the home, less common in Mexico among women, contributes to differences in political efficacy, since it has been shown that such work may indeed involving restructuring the way individuals relate to the political world. See Anderson and Cook 1985. 28. Viewed as an issue affecting families, this is generally a universal concern among women. See Anderson 2000, p. 320. 29. Despite the presence of Fox’s government and some notable achievements against drug-related criminals, Mexicans in a March 2002 national survey viewed crime as on the increase, and nearly half felt somewhat or very unsafe. See Review of the Economic Situation of Mexico 2002b. 30. It is interesting to note that this preference did not show up as statistically significant among occupational categories. However, when women alone are separated on the basis of working inside or outside the home, South American women reflect a significant difference in the expressed preferences for an authoritarian compared to a democratic government, with women working inside the home expressing a decided preference for an authoritarian model. See Braun 1992. 31. Education is a controversial variable in the socialization literature in that some studies have shown that attitudes that appear to be associated with higher levels of education are predetermined. That is, they may have more to do with class, family background, parental interest in politics, and the like than with educational achievement per se. See Jennings 1993. 32. They found that males, younger citizens, and better-educated individuals were more supportive of democracy. 33. Such was the case of a comparative study of Spain, Brazil, and Korea, across which variables, including religiosity, produced entirely opposite effects. See McDonough, Shin, and Moisés 1998. On the other hand, the reason why other variables such as education and income may not affect female participation is indicated in a study of South Korea in which the authors found that “Korean women are not markedly more likely to participate in political activities with rises in their socioeconomic level. If the social norms and expectations that inhibit or even bar women

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from political participation are strong enough in a nation, they will be felt across all socioeconomic strata.” The authors conclude that sociopolitical change in Korea is lagging behind women’s attitudinal changes. See Lee and Tolleson-Rinehart 1995, p. 79. 34. For a discussion of some of the other differences found in surveys on attitudes toward democracy, see Canache, Mondak, and Seligson 2001. 35. For an interesting critique of the inadequacies of procedural democracy, using the model developed by Robert Dahl, see Gordon 2001.

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9 Crime and Violence: Challenges to Democracy in Brazil Luis Bitencourt

The Brazilian elections of 2002 were greeted by democracy ideologues as a remarkable demonstration of the strength of Brazilian democracy and citizenship. Indeed, Brazilian democracy seemed to be at its prime when Luiz Inácio “Lula” da Silva, a former metalworker with very little formal education and a candidate from the left-wing Workers Party, was elected president in a rapid, efficient, and legitimate process. As such, Lula became the first elected president in Brazil’s history who was not a representative of Brazilian traditional political sectors and oligarchies.1 Enthusiasm toward Brazilian democracy was also generated by the unprecedented smoothness of the two-month transition process from former president Fernando Henrique Cardoso to the Lula administration. Indeed, thanks to Cardoso’s initiative, as soon as all election results were in, the new administration named a transition team that was granted full access to information in all areas of government; even some critical last-minute decisions made by Cardoso’s departing administration were undertaken in consultation with this transition team. 2 President Lula’s victory is even more remarkable when contrasted with the fact that the current chapter of the Brazilian democracy is a relatively recent one, opening in 1985 after two decades of authoritarian military rule.3 Apparently, these facts would be relevant enough to attest to the vitality of Brazilian democracy and show proof of vigorous citizenship. Although I share the enthusiasm for the political accomplishments of the Brazilian democracy, I am less optimistic when I assess the quality of this democracy through its capacity to guarantee social and civil rights to Brazilian citizens. From this angle, and observing the situation of urban crime in Brazil, it is impossible not to perceive the enormous deficit of citizenship, which directly affects the confidence of citizens in the state and in the democratic regime. This deficit of citizenship may be observed either among citizens threatened by crime or among 171

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the poor Brazilians living in slums and tempted daily to join criminal activities. Indeed, during the past two decades, Brazilians residing in some of the country’s most important cities have become increasingly fearful of rising crime rates and the state’s apparent inability to guarantee safety. Crime has skyrocketed in Brazil’s largest urban areas, generating a wave of criticism against the police (who are viewed as incompetent, violent, and corrupt) and the state (which is considered inefficient and unreliable). The state apparatus responsible for enforcing crime has shown its incompetence and a lack of coordination at all levels: the judiciary process, the system of law enforcement, and the penal system. Erosion of Brazilian social capital has reached a point at which citizens and policymakers alike often claim that crime generates a power structure that is parallel to and competes with the state’s authority in such a way that the most basic values of democracy are being threatened. In this chapter I analyze the public safety situation in Brazil—using Rio de Janeiro as a case study—to argue that the Brazilian democracy cannot be considered robust from the citizenship standpoint. This approach is particularly relevant because democracy is a relatively new phenomenon in Brazil. I begin by analyzing the nature and dimension of urban crime vis-à-vis the inability of the state to guarantee safety for its citizens. Then I assess the implications of this situation for the Brazilian democracy—understood according to its ability to guarantee political rights, but also social and civil rights, to Brazilian citizens.

The Crime Problem and Its Political Implications Urban criminality and violence in Brazil are shocking. Between 1979 and 1997, the homicide rate increased from 11.5 to 25.4 murders per 100,000 inhabitants; in the same period, while the population increased by 65 percent, the homicide rate increased by 120 percent. The situation mirrors countries that are experiencing internal war. For example, in 1999, Recife (capital of the state of Pernambuco) and Vitória (capital of the state of Espírito Santo) had higher murder rates than war-torn Colombia (Huggins 2000).4 The 2002 report of the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization ranks Brazil as the country with the largest percentage of murders committed by firearms in 2001; in that year, firearms caused 78 percent of all homicides, and this violent trend did not abate in 2002. The Jornal do Brasil (May 18, 2002) reported that during the first four months of 2002 alone, 2,351 homicides took place in Rio de Janeiro, or 7.4 percent more than occurred during the same period in the previous year. The results of the same study also showed increases in attempted homicides (up

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6.4 percent), robberies (up 4.7 percent), auto thefts (up 31.3 percent), and home burglaries (up 8.9 percent). Even more compelling than these numbers are the frequent headlines in Brazilian newspapers. Every day there is a fresh and dramatic case related to public safety: kidnappings, police violence and corruption, drug-related crimes, and prison riots are now routine front-page news. Urban crime, and the inefficacy of the state to tackle it, have become trivial rather than extraordinary for the Brazilian press. Because crime prevention and law enforcement are primarily the responsibility of governors, the president of the republic is correct in demanding that the states take action against the problem. For their part, however, governors often blame the central government for not delivering the resources necessary to better fight crime. The issue has been highly contested between the state and federal governments, which explains why in presidential races the candidates generally preferred to avoid this debate on public security, although it is a theme that is very dear to the hearts of the electorate.5 Security is such a hot subject that the presidential candidates prefer that it be left to political races at the state level.6

The State’s Tools to Promote Safety The causes of urban crime in Brazil are well-known. Experts may emphasize one or another factor depending on their particular bias, but there is a general agreement that the causes are interrelated and rooted in three major factors: poverty and the social gap, drug trafficking, and the inefficiency of the state’s security apparatus (due to low-level preparedness, police violence, the legacy of an authoritarian state, and corruption). Poverty and social imbalances offer a fertile ground for drug trafficking to prosper and corruption to advance, especially when there already is a weak and inefficient state. The state structure in Brazil, supposedly responsible for the institutionalized exercise of violence, is flawed at all levels; law enforcement, judicial organization and procedures, and the penal system are outdated, inefficient, and corrupt. If there is any consensus among analysts of Brazilian safety problems, it resides in the need to modernize the Brazilian state’s tools to promote safety. First, Brazil’s judicial system is slow and antiquated, allowing processes to pile up and become backlogged. In addition, it is full of loopholes that give smart attorneys the room to delay processes indefinitely or find several ways to circumvent the law. Second, Brazil’s law enforcement agencies have been severely hampered by police forces that have very little training, are poorly armed, and are characterized by low levels of morale. Finally, the penal system is overcrowded, plagued by riots, and so weak that

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gang leaders are able to control their groups’ operations even when they are in jail and under arrest. Part of the difficulty in improving public security in Brazil is that the apparatus responsible for it is divided between two political levels: the national and the state.7 At the national level, the federal police are responsible for investigating criminal offenses that are either interstate or international. The federal police force is structured as a career service organization with the following missions: to prevent and suppress the illicit trafficking of narcotics and related drugs; to perform the enforcement functions of a coast guard, air force police, and border patrol; and to perform the functions of the judiciary’s police. In addition to these functions, the government announced in June 2002 the creation of a uniformed branch of the federal police: a 6,000-person force to perform preventive enforcement roles at points of entry into the country and at some government buildings (Jornal do Brasil, June 13, 2002). Agencies such as the military police, the civil police, and the fire departments function at the state level. The military police, as well as the fire departments, are militarily organized and serve as auxiliary forces and as the reserve army, which are subordinated, along with the civilian police forces, to their respective state governors. Despite being relegated to the state, since the days of Brazil’s authoritarian government (as will be detailed later), these forces have maintained close ties with military organizations and the federal police. Operationally, both military and civilian police forces are supervised by the state-level public security secretariats. At the federal level, these secretariats are coordinated by the National Council of Public Security. Apart from the logistical problems created by this division of the public security apparatus, there are other issues related to the performance of the police in law enforcement activities. Police actions have been harshly criticized as violent and ineffective. Steven Dudley, for example, says that “the brutal behavior of the police has made it easier for the drug traffickers to remake themselves as the protectors of law and order in the favelas [shantytowns] and to solidify their hold over these neighborhoods” (1998, p. 2). Several notorious cases linking police members to violence, death squads, and corruption have provoked national and even international reactions. For example, on July 19, 1993, sixteen members of the military police of Alagoas, a northeastern Brazilian state, were accused of killing sixty-nine people. On July 23, 1993, eight street children were gunned down by members of the military police outside Candelária Church in Rio de Janeiro.8 On August 30, 1993, thirty masked and armed men—later identified as military policemen—invaded the Vigário Geral shantytown in Rio de Janeiro and killed twenty-one people while setting fire to and destroying several houses. In April 1997, Human Rights Watch issued a report based on research

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into police homicides in seven Brazilian cities (Porto Alegre, Rio de Janeiro, São Paulo, Belo Horizonte, Salvador, Recife, and Natal). The report concluded that although poverty and social injustice were important factors in explaining police violence, they were not enough to explain the differences in police abuses between cities as well as among the subnational levels of government within a given state (Cavallaro 1997). It concluded that the adoption of the same policies in Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo would not produce similar results for controlling police violence. By 1992, Human Rights Watch considered São Paulo’s police force much more violent than that of Rio de Janeiro.9 Yet it conceded that the measures adopted in the aftermath of the Carandiru prison massacre helped to reduce the level of police violence in São Paulo.10 Another Human Rights Watch report, released in January 1996, emphasized that law enforcement in Rio de Janeiro relied often on disregarding and violating human rights. That report (which focused on “Operation Rio”—a large-scale police action against Rio’s drug gangs from November 1994 to mid-1995) noted that “despite the intentions of some public officials, most of Rio’s police were abusive, violent and corrupt” (Human Rights Watch 1996, p. 2). The last part of the puzzle for understanding the complex Brazilian public safety equation is the country’s penal system. The system is under the responsibility of the Ministry of Justice through the National Council of Criminal and Prison Policy and the Federal Prison Department. These organizations oversee two types of penal institutions: correctional and detention. The first type includes penitentiaries, custodial and treatment facilities, penal and agricultural colonies, and general correctional facilities. In total, Brazil relies on approximately 5,000 penal institutions, including 51 correctional institutions (27 penitentiaries, 6 custodial and treatment facilities, 12 agricultural colonies, and 6 correctional facilities). The second type of penal institution includes military prisons, detention centers, and juvenile correctional institutions (12 military prisons, 1,580 prisons, 2,803 jails, and 5 facilities for minors), which are generically categorized as detention institutions. By the end of December 2000, 212,000 inmates were incarcerated in Brazil’s prisons. Given the chronicled wrongdoing and mismanagement of the Brazilian penal system, problems with prisons abound. They are overcrowded, and riots, violence, and killings are common.11 Escapes—either by spectacular breakouts or simply by bribing prison guards—are common.12 In addition, as Fernando Salla observes, Brazil’s prison system is plagued by “torture and mistreatment of inmates . . . a lack of medical, social and legal assistance for inmates and an insufficient number of work and educational programs” (2001, p. 8). Finally, organized crime groups, including those who traffic drugs, have been able to maintain command over criminal operations

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from inside prisons (Salla 2001; Cavallaro and Carvalho 1996). With all these weaknesses, the penal system has become more of the problem than the solution to crime and violence in Brazil.13

The State’s Attempts to Curb Crime Several administrations, at the state and the federal level, have been undertaking different initiatives to curb crime. Although many programs have been impaired by a lack of resources, coordination, and political cooperation, it is remarkable that some state governments have been conducting successful programs to reform their police forces. For example, Ceará,14 Minas Gerais, and São Paulo have achieved positive results through the adoption of programs based on increasing police professionalism and promoting community involvement through entrepreneurial-style organizational criteria.15 In terms of the central government’s actions to combat violence, authorities have been generally cautious about sending federal forces into the states unless their use is constitutionally sanctioned. These operations have been undertaken only as a last resort and with the agreement of the local governors. Apart from convening task forces, the federal government has authorized the use of the armed forces on two occasions. Both of these actions occurred in Rio: first, federal troops were deployed in 1992 as a preventive measure during the 1992 Rio-Eco summit, the renowned world meeting on environment protection, and then in 1994–1995 they were sent to the city to stop drug trafficking in the shantytowns in Operation Rio. On June 20, 2000, the Cardoso administration issued its national public safety plan, a comprehensive project aimed at stopping and preventing crime, reducing impunity, and “increasing the overall safety for all citizens” (Instituto da Cidadania 2001). The plan was assigned a budget of approximately US$750 million and included 124 areas related to strategies and measures to fight drug trafficking and organized crime. The plan advocated disarmament and gun control laws, provided for professional training and reequipping of police, mandated termination of police violence, and promised to update the legislation related to public safety. Nevertheless, with the end of the Cardoso administration, the plan was abandoned and no specific report has been issued to assess its results. To replace the Cardoso administration’s national public safety plan, the Lula administration issued a plan of its own, which is based on a policy paper prepared in 2001 by the Institute for Citizenship, which is overseen by the Workers Party. Conceptually, the plan is largely similar to the previous one, but it was, initially, more successful in attracting state governors to join the Unified System for Public Safety, which intends to improve the

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coordination and training of the police system. Nevertheless, this plan would also soon be abandoned by the Lula administration.

Armed Forces Fighting Urban Crime? Some segments of the Brazilian population look to the armed forces as a solution for controlling violence in the cities.16 However, there are two important reasons for not using the military to fight crime. The first is operational and practically a truism: the armed forces should not be allowed to deviate from their primary function, which is to defend the country from external threats, because they are not operationally prepared for missions such as enforcing crime. The doctrines, training, equipment, and structure of the armed forces are not compatible with police operations; in essence, the military is trained to act violently and decisively. The military does not, and should not, have the mandate or skills to conduct police investigations and legal processes. Using the military for law enforcement purposes may result in the use of excessive violence and destruction, and it raises the risk of demoralization for the armed forces. Finally, the Brazilian military would be exposed to corruption, as has often happened with the police. The second reason is more important and derives from the peculiar history of military interference in Brazil’s political affairs. In effect, twenty years of military dictatorship have had a strong influence on all Brazilian government sectors, particularly on the public security apparatus, affecting the structures and doctrines of public security as well as society’s perception of the issue. Without question, the 1964–1984 military dictatorship is still a sensitive issue in Brazilian politics, and some critics remain resentful of the extraordinary command the military achieved over all sectors of the country.17 Others even blame the dictatorship for having “militarized” the public security apparatus by creating a military police force and thereby institutionalizing state violence. This is not a fair criticism, however, because the existence of military police under the command of state governments is an old tradition in Brazil.18 It is true that, between 1964 and 1984, the military government incorporated these state police forces (military as well as civilian) into the fight against “subversion.” Their involvement was based on Brazil’s national security doctrine, which created a complex domestic intelligence apparatus. 19 The resulting agencies, such as the National Intelligence Service and the National Intelligence System, had control over all federal and state government institutions, including the intelligence sections of the military police.20 Therefore, the military dictatorship established an apparatus that could directly control the military police organizations within each state. Control was exerted directly, through the General Inspectorate for the Military

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Police, and indirectly, through the National Intelligence System (as both military and civilian police forces participated). In short, through the General Secretariat for the National Security Council, the armed forces issued the general guidelines for national security, including public safety; through the General Inspectorate for the Military Police, they exerted effective coordination and control over the military police forces; and through the National Intelligence System, they maintained a veiled control of the police forces while securing their authority over the intelligence organizations of the civilian and military police. This model was only altered by Fernando Collor, the second civilian president to succeed the military dictatorship.21 In the first act of his administration, Collor dismantled the Secretariat for the Assessment of National Defense and the National Intelligence Service (Bitencourt 1998, p. 256).22 By pushing the military back into its traditional role outside the political arena, Collor gave back to citizens the right to exercise political power. He thereby dismantled the rationale that the concept of public security had relied on for more than twenty years in Brazil during the military dictatorship. Nevertheless, whereas the old and comprehensive logic has been dissolved, it is clear that a new doctrinal framework that is compatible with democracy is not in place yet. Consequently, two major difficulties still impair the modernization of Brazil’s law enforcement capacity: the difficulty of purging the influences of the authoritarian period, and the difficulty of establishing a new model for reorganization that is compatible with democracy.

Risks for Democracy If one assesses the vitality of a democracy through its usual elements— occurrence of periodic, fair, free, and legitimate elections; rotation of political power; and effective competition23—Brazilian democracy is vibrant and does not seem to be affected at all by the evident lack of safety in some of the country’s largest cities. Indeed, Brazil has been holding regularly scheduled elections for all political offices, popular participation has been excellent, and the electoral process itself has been efficient and reliable. Even corruption, which has been an enduring, debilitating disease of Latin American democracies, has been somewhat addressed in Brazil. In fact, the ouster of former president Collor de Melo on charges of corruption served to strengthen Brazil’s democracy rather than weaken it. As expected, the debate on crime and security is more heated in regional campaigns and in the states most affected by urban violence, such as in Rio de Janeiro, São Paulo, Espíritu Santo, and Pernambuco. Because state governments have the primary responsibility for public safety, the political implications of crime and violence have been relatively limited to this sub-

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national level and have not achieved a broader political impact proportional to the concerns raised in the media. While the direct results of crime may be geographically limited, the feelings of insecurity and the disbelief in political authorities are not; they can spread throughout the country and eventually affect the political system. There is no evidence, however, that this is happening in Brazil. Thus the response to the initial question must be no: urban crime in Brazil, serious as it is, does not threaten the country’s democracy, because its democratic political structures and procedures are sound and lively. The logic of the previous argument seems elegant and simple because it defines democracy from a static perspective. On the contrary, Brazil’s democracy is best viewed as a dynamic process that began in 1985 after twenty years of military dictatorship. The country’s democracy should be considered a process instead of a product—that is, as a regime in transition toward a “full democracy” that still suffers the influences of authoritarian practices lingering from the military dictatorship. In this sense, the notion of what is a real “threat” to its sustainability is more subtle, and is concerned with what may undermine or impair the country’s process of transition toward a full democracy. Consequently, to be able to analyze the impact of urban crime on Brazil’s democracy, a new variable must be included: the quality of the country’s political and electoral systems. With the inclusion of this concept, the hypothesis that rampant urban crime may be a threat to Brazil’s democracy becomes quite sound. The first possible threat to such an “evolving democracy,” at least theoretically, comes from the ghosts of the previous military regime. The logic of the argument works like this: the increasing deterioration of society’s confidence in the state—due to the failure of civilian authorities to curb urban crime—would create an environment that would motivate the military, with the support of society, to undertake a coup d’etat and reassume the political control of the country. Inasmuch as there is currently no evidence of any military movement or interest in returning to power, this is not a rhetorical or academic exercise. It is true that the armed forces have been avoiding engaging in crime enforcement. They also have been completely mute about political issues. However, the military, particularly after having commanded the country for so long, does not take well to the notion of state authority deteriorating. As they did in the past, military officials could be tempted to intervene under the assumption that they should “save” democracy, for the state has lost control over crime, and crime networks have established “parallel states.”24 In addition, as mentioned earlier, the influence of the military dictatorship on the structure of the existing public security apparatus is still considerable. The armed forces, given their two-decade stay in power, still exert some influence over the public safety apparatus. After barely a decade and a

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half since the return to democracy under a negotiated pact with the military, Brazil has not had enough time to create new structures that are entirely free of the vestiges of the prior dictatorship. Moreover, some of the military organizations and agencies that were dismantled at the end of the military dictatorship were never replaced with equivalent organizations founded on democracy.25 As a result of these democratic anomalies in Brazil, we are forced to abandon our previous analytical tools and adopt a more complex, sophisticated definition of a democracy in order to understand the impact of urban crime on the country’s democratic regime. In contrast to a minimalist definition, a complex concept of democracy entails consideration of the capacity of the regime to bestow social and civil rights, in addition to political liberties, to its citizens, therefore underscoring the notion of citizenship.26 When applying this paradigm to Brazil’s democracy, we observe that while the authoritarian regime was able to promote a fair development of political rights, it was not able to similarly address the profound disparities in social and civil rights. Historically, the social rights of Brazilian citizens have been dramatically impaired by poverty and inequality.27 In parallel, their civil rights have been characterized by a lack of civic culture and by a lack of protection against societal and even police violence. Consequently, urban crime, violence, impunity, and the related inability of the states to provide for the public’s safety directly affect the prospects for improving Brazilian democracy. Even worse, they may eventually fuel people’s frustration with democracy. Within this scenario, frequent elections, which should characterize the exercise of political rights, have had the paradoxical effect of hindering initiatives of reform that could broaden the scope of citizens’ civil and social rights. Indeed, defining democracy as the mere exercise of political rights has led Brazilian civil society to be less demanding about expressing its civil and social rights.28 Therefore, Brazilians do not seem to value the association between civil and social rights as a basis for citizenship and a stronger democracy. Similarly, this perception helps to explain why Brazilian civil society, although shocked and pressured by urban crime, does not seem to be particularly sensitive to the relationship between crime and democracy.

Conclusion Observers witnessing the excitement and energy surrounding the 2002 Brazilian elections could conclude that Brazil’s democracy does not seem to be threatened by the feelings of insecurity in its largest cities. Although the population is frightened by the high rates of urban crime and violence, poli-

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tics seems to proceed as usual and transmits the impression that the country’s democracy is vigorous and unmarred by the escalating crime. However, when one observes the Brazilian democracy as a transition process that still needs to secure better civil and social rights for its citizens, a different conclusion emerges. From this standpoint, urban insecurity does affect the prospects for improving the country’s democratic model. On the one hand, by spreading fear among citizens of important urban centers, rampant crime affects their freedom and undermines their confidence in the state and in the democratic system. On the other hand, urban insecurity underscores the marginalization of those living in slums, where close proximity to crime fosters a lack of faith in the power of the state. In this sense, ironically, the success of Brazilian elections has an anesthetic effect. By creating a sensation of strong democracy and by magnifying hopes and expectations, it keeps society from emphasizing the relevance of citizenship to create a stronger democracy. Nevertheless, the societies of Rio de Janeiro, São Paulo, Vitória, and Recife have been increasingly affected by crime and are increasingly questioning their quality of democracy. Disheartened by the absence of reliable police action and prevention, they blame the state and eventually the democratic regime for their situation. Since the very origin of the “state” as an idea was related to the community’s collective desire for security, feelings of insecurity relate automatically to the perceived failure of that state (Ulman 1995). As the image of the state’s security apparatus—uniformed and nonuniformed police forces, the penal system, the judicial system, and the like—has been tainted by excessive violence, incompetence, and corruption, Brazilian citizens are becoming progressively frustrated with the present political regime. Brazilian society’s relationship with democracy is more complicated than what it appears, because of the lack of a solid democratic tradition in the country. This chapter has emphasized the importance of the transition between the previous military regime and the current democracy and presented several examples that show the existence of a considerable deficit of democratic institutions and culture. Of course, this gap has made society more prone to interpret the inability of the state to provide public security as a flaw of democracy. It also has made the population more interested in urging the state to stop crime by any means necessary rather than address the root causes of the problem. The sources of urban crime can be linked to a combination of causes. Poverty, especially the huge gap existing between the rich and the poor, creates a fertile environment where drug dealers circulate and establish areas of influence. The lack of respect for the state’s enforcement apparatus— plagued by violence, poor training, inadequate structures, and corruption— lends a perception of impunity that both promotes and trivializes criminal

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acts. In addition, the inequity, dramatized by the close proximity between the richest and the poorest classes in urban centers, underscores the injustice of the situation and renders an air of legitimacy to crime. The administration of Fernando Henrique Cardoso launched several programs to improve the social situation of the country and achieved relative success with some of them. A good example is the “Bolsa Escola” program, which established a monthly minimum wage for families who keep their children in school up to a certain age. Despite this and other efforts of the administration, social programs have only been able to scratch the surface of the much deeper issue of inequality in Brazil, a problem that has worsened over successive generations. Another impediment to the success of these programs has been that, although they aim at easing the social burden on Brazilian civil society, they are linked with efforts to curb crime in the major cities. Institutionally, the state has shown its inadequacy to fight the rising wave of urban crime. The judicial system is outdated and slow, while the penal system is overcrowded and unable to prevent jailed criminals from communicating with their gangs. Law enforcement has experienced conceptual and political difficulties in overcoming these institutional deficiencies, including a lack of coordination among civilian and military police forces and poorly defined crime-fighting activities. Law enforcement has also experienced operational problems regarding the training and equipping of its officers, as well as its control over violence. These weaknesses are representative of the fact that police organizations and operations still suffer from the distortions and influences left by the twenty years of military rule in Brazil. Initiatives to improve the system have presented mixed results. Although the federal government and the state governments have long recognized the problem, specific measures, including reform of police forces in some states and the 2000 national public safety plan, have been undertaken only recently. Nevertheless, state police reforms have not been uniform, nor have they been taken seriously by all states, and the national public safety plan is still too new a measure to yield significant results. Meanwhile, ad hoc initiatives such as a task force assigned to Rio de Janeiro, have produced some positive results, but they are purely operational and targeted at specific criminal activities without comprehensively addressing the problem of urban violence.

Notes 1. One hundred fifteen million Brazilians went to the polls to choose their leaders from 18,781 candidates running for 1,647 state and federal positions. This

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impressive crowd of electors elected a new president and vice president, 27 governors, 54 senators (two-thirds of the Senate), 513 representatives (the entire House), and 1,024 state representatives. This was the fourth direct presidential election in Brazil since the end of the military dictatorship. In the first round of the election, on October 6, Lula received 46.44 percent of ballots cast, beating Brazilian Social Democrat Party candidate José Serra with 23.20 percent, Brazilian Socialist Party candidate Anthony Garotinho with 17.87 percent, and Popular Socialist Party candidate Ciro Gomes with 11.97 percent. During the second round, on October 27, Lula won an impressive majority of 52,793,364 votes, or 61.27 percent of ballots cast, against José Serra’s 33,370,739 votes, or 38.73 percent. 2. Nevertheless, this optimism was almost shattered by financial concerns loosely associated with the political process. During most of the electoral campaign, the international financial markets reacted nervously to the prospects of a leftist administration in Brazil. Markets were suspicious that a Workers Party administration might break existing contracts, leading Brazil to bankruptcy and a disastrous economic situation. Consequently, investment agencies increased risk assessments, forcing devaluation of the Brazilian currency, the real, and creating the conditions for what could turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy. In an effort to calm the market during the campaign, Lula published an open letter and issued several statements assuring that, if elected, he would respect Brazil’s financial contracts and maintain orthodox economic policies. After the elections, both Cardoso and Lula’s transition team made concerted efforts to soothe markets in an effort to facilitate a smooth transition process despite Brazil’s fragile economic situation. Every political step of Lula’s transition team was chosen with one eye on the political environment and the other on the reactions of the international financial market. 3. Yet the first direct elections after the military dictatorship happened only in 1989, when Fernando Collor de Mello became president, only to be ejected amid accusations of corruption in 1992. 4. These statistics are helpful and provide a less emotional picture of the situation for Brazilian public safety. Nevertheless, for the purpose of this chapter, statistics must be analyzed with some skepticism, as they offer only a partial and static picture of the situation. 5. On August 2, 2002, Alberto Cardoso presented the results of a poll conducted among 2,800 individuals in Rio de Janeiro, São Paulo, Recife, and Vitória to assess the national public violence prevention plan: 67 percent of those interviewed mentioned urban violence as one of the most serious problems faced by Brazil, while 40 percent said they were extremely concerned with jobs and income. 6. After the first televised debate among the presidential candidates, Lula complained that public safety had not been discussed. It is interesting to observe that the lack of safety in some urban centers is still seen as a local rather than a national problem in Brazil. Recent polls show that, different from the situation in those critical urban centers, at the national level the population is much more concerned with unemployment and poverty than with violence. According to David Fleischer (2002), surveys of Brazilian voters have consistently positioned violence behind unemployment. Only in June 2002 was the need to combat crime considered more relevant than the need to combat corruption and to increase development. However, the following month the need to combat crime returned to its usual position in third place among the concerns of the Brazilian population. This peak in June could be explained by the campaign of the Brazilian press (particularly TV Globo) that followed the kidnapping and murder of reporter Tim Lopes. 7. See Article 144 of Brazil’s federal constitution.

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8. Four military policemen were later arrested and convicted for this crime. 9. In 1992, São Paulo’s military police killed 1,470 civilians, one-third of the total number of homicides in the state (Cavallaro 1997). 10. During the Carandiru massacre, which occurred on October 2, 1992, police killed 111 detainees while acting to control a prison riot. 11. In a riot on February 18, 2001, for example, 28,000 inmates rebelled in twenty-nine prisons. The riot began during family visiting hours when the inmates took some of the visitors and prison guards hostage. When the entire rebellion across all prisons was finally put down, nineteen inmates were dead. 12. For example, in November 2001 some criminals escaped from a São Paulo prison using a helicopter stolen from a leasing company. 13. For another more compelling example, see Werneck, Bottari, and Goulart 2002, which reported how Rio’s judicial authorities and military policy stamped out the “Central Office of Organized Crime,” which had been installed in the maximumsecurity prison Laércio Pellegrino (Bangu I). Using cell phones (whose calls were secretly recorded by the police in this operation), one of the most notorious Brazilian drug-gang leaders, Luiz Fernando Costa (also known as Fernandinho Beira-Mar), was conducting drug operations from prison and even buying heavy weapons. 14. In the case of Ceará, in May 1997 the government created the Secretariat of Public Security and Defense of Citizenship, which unified command of the state police system and launched a comprehensive overhaul based on three guidelines: behavioral change, structural reform, and community and operational integration. As a result, the secretariat began several programs to reshape the system, including the modernization of its communications, the establishment of an integrated management structure and operations center, the creation of community partnerships, and the implementation of new training programs that were consistent with established general guidelines. Since the secretariat’s founding, the state of Ceará has invested US$20 million in these new initiatives, apart from the US$12 million received under the national public safety plan. 15. See Latin American Program 1999. 16. See, for example, “Violencia no Rio Não é Problema Military, diz Viegas,” Folha Online, May 8, 2004, http://www.folha.uol.com.br/folha/cotidiano/ ult95u93967.shtml. 17. See, for example, Dudley 1998. 18. As stressed by Jaqueline Muniz, “Different from other modern institutions, such as the London Metropolitan Police and the New York Department of Police . . . our Military Police (forces), during almost two centuries of existence, have not always functioned as police organizations. Even taking into consideration the distinct historical trajectories depending on the Brazilian State they belong to, only in a few instances have they acted as urban police forces” (2001, p. 179, my translation). 19. Under the auspices of the Superior War College, the military regime would establish a decisionmaking model based on a bureaucracy that included military and civilian personnel who were technically and hierarchically organized. Soon after they took power in 1964, using the national security doctrine as an ideological blueprint, the military reshaped governmental structures and created new organizations that emphasized central planning and control over the entire state administration. 20. Executive Order no. 66,862, of July 8, 1970, establishes that the military police should join the army’s intelligence and counterintelligence services. 21. Although the period of authoritarian rule in Brazil concluded in 1984, the first civilian president after this period, José Sarney (1985–1989), did not significantly modify the overall structure of the government.

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22. During President Sarney’s administration, the General Secretariat for the National Security Council would be renamed the Secretariat for the Assessment of National Defense. The objective of the name change was to replace the expression “national security,” then identified with the repressive military period, with a less ideological expression: “national defense.” The term “national security” was abolished from the text of the new federal constitution in 1988. Later, in 1990, the Secretariat for the Assessment of National Defense would become obsolete, and the newly created Secretariat for Strategic Affairs would be made responsible for coordinating and overseeing the country’s nuclear program. The National Commission for Nuclear Energy was subordinated to the Secretariat for Strategic Affairs. 23. The minimalist approaches to the definition of democracy are satisfied with the observation of these attributes in Brazil, and overall they remain consistent with Robert Dahl’s definition (1971) of polyarchy. According to the minimalist approaches, a political regime is defined as democratic if it allows for free opposition and participation. Based on these stipulations, it is clear that opposition and participation are present in Brazil’s democracy. However, these two attributes refer to a wide range of values, norms, and practical activities, which start with the mere exercise of voting but do not stop there. Consequently, minimalist approaches use concepts that are in themselves highly subjective and imprecise. 24. See, for example, ”Tráfico cria Poder Paralelo,” Jornal do Brasil, June 13, 2002: “The President of the Tribunal of Justice of Rio, Marcus Faver, said that the traffic has established a parallel power in the State” (p. A10). Expressing preoccupation with the situation of violence and drug-related crimes in Brazil, in January 1998 Alberto Cardoso, then chief of the military and institutional security cabinets, warned that drug traffickers and organized crime had established “parallel states” or “liberated zones”—that is, niches within society that would end up being dominated by criminals and threatening Brazil’s sovereignty. He explained: “The lenience of the authorities and of the society itself has allowed the drug traffickers to replace the government in controlling the social environment; the notion of respect for state authorities has deteriorated and the state as instrument of control has been totally disregarded. When a government administration is supported by organized crime, it establishes a condition of generalized lenience that extinguishes the authority and gives birth to a parallel state” (Kramer 2002, p. 2). Nevertheless, despite this declaration, two years later Miguel Reale Jr., then Brazil’s minister of justice, would again denounce the existence of parallel states under the command of organized crime in Brazil (Jornal do Brasil, June 12, 2002). He made the statement following the popular consternation in the wake of the murder of TV Globo reporter Tim Lopes (Cooper 2002). A Jornal do Brasil editorial (June 6, 2002) stressed that the murder of the reporter represented two kinds of threats: one to public security and the other to freedom of information. For the newspaper, “organized crime was strong enough to challenge the state and impose a parallel justice. . . . Security and democracy itself are threatened” (p. A10). 25. For example, Paulo Sérgio Pinheiro states, “Democratic leaders during political transitions in Brazil have held an overly optimistic view that civilian government and the strengthening of civil society would be sufficient to consolidate the rule of law. New civilian governments have underestimated the vigor of the authoritarian legacy and have proved unable to reform institutions inherited from the military regimes” (2000, p. 119). 26. This conceptualization follows from Guillermo O’Donnell’s paradigm (2001b). O’Donnell observes that certain South American countries (Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Uruguay, Chile, and Costa Rica) satisfy the two essential requirements for the definition of a political democracy: opposition and inclusiveness.

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These countries meet the first requirement by holding “elections under universal adult franchise that, at least at the national level, are reasonably fair and competitive” (p. 599)—although O’Donnell acknowledges that these elections have yet to become more institutionalized and decisive. This group of nations also fulfills the second requirement by securing some political rights for their citizens, such as freedoms of expression, association, movement, and access to a pluralistic media. Nevertheless, the incapacity of these states to tackle economic crises, social inequality, corruption, and violence has resulted in the rise of “anemic states,” such that “everyone has the political freedoms that pertain to a democratic regime; yet many are denied not only basic social rights, as suggested by the widespread poverty . . . but also they are denied perhaps even more basic civil rights” (p. 601). Consequently, O’Donnell concludes that although some South American countries were able to secure democratic political rights, they have fallen short in guaranteeing civil and social rights and cannot be considered “full democracies.” 27. Brazil’s population is about 170 million. Considering the World Bank’s poverty baseline (US$32.74 per month), 35 million Brazilians are living in poverty (23 percent of the population). Considering the Fundação Getúlio Vargas’s baseline (US$35.00), 50 million Brazilians (30 percent) are living below the poverty line. Assuming the World Bank’s poverty line, this portion of the population (23 percent) receives less than 3 percent of the national income. The problems of poverty are magnified and multiplied by inequality, particularly in the largest urban centers, where the disparity is most evident. The richest 10 percent of the population appropriates 50 percent of the wealth, while the poorest 50 percent receives only about 10 percent. Moreover, the poorest 10 percent controls only 1 percent of the nation’s income, and the richest 10 percent captures 47 percent of the total. In addition, there are striking disparities among and within states. A rural-urban gap exists within almost all states in terms of poverty and resulting social welfare indicators. For example, the rural illiteracy rate for individuals of about fifteen years of age is still 32 percent, almost twice the national level. Among states, there are deep differences regarding per capita gross domestic product, living standards, and public service infrastructure. Finally, a large number of Brazil’s poor are located in rural rather than urban areas (53 percent). Urban areas with populations under 100,000 are home to 62 percent of the nation’s poor, suggesting that the majority of the country’s poor are not living in the shantytowns, although income inequalities are more evident in the larger cities. 28. For example, Fareed Zakaria (1997), concerned with the Western practice of blurring the distinction between democracy (which is related to political procedures) and liberal democracy (which is related to constitutionally ensuring social and civil rights to its citizens), explains that democracy (implying fair and free elections) is a public virtue. Yet to be labeled democratic, a country should ensure “a comprehensive catalog of social, political, economic, and religious rights.” Moreover, Zakaria explains that for a nation to be categorized as a true democracy, it should value democracy as “a badge of honor rather than a descriptive category” (p. 23).

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10 Democracy Assistance in Creating Citizenship Christopher Sabatini

While the preceding three chapters address the issue of citizenship from different perspectives, a clear set of themes unifies them. Collectively, these chapters offer interesting contributions and contrasts with the current literature on democratization with important implications for policymakers and assistance to promote democracy. Support for democratization in developing countries has become an increasingly important component of development assistance over the past two decades, in Latin America and throughout the world. Much of this assistance has tended to focus on issues of democracy as defined by the processes and institutions associated with democratic regimes (such as elections, legislatures, rule of law) and citizen participation and organization. The quality of citizenship is essential to democratic stability in the region, yet research on citizenship has taken place separately from that on democratic transitions and democratization. For this reason, few of the questions raised in this book have found their way into the discussions of policymakers and donors working to promote democracy. This is unfortunate. These chapters contain important insights for practitioners in the field. Here I first discuss what unites these three chapters in terms of challenges for citizenship in the region. In each case I highlight how some of these perspectives may differ with or contribute to how policymakers and donors have viewed or worked on the issue of democracy. Second, I discuss one theme that appears to be lacking in all three chapters, political and social obligation, and its importance in understanding both citizenship and the complexities of social trust and obligation in democracy promotion. Last, I conclude with a brief reflection on what these chapters say about democratic stability in the region. In different but complementary ways each of the chapters emphasizes the role of the state in citizenship. For all the authors, citizenship is tightly bound up with the capacity of a state to promote and protect basic political, 187

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social, and human rights and to meet the expectations and views of citizens regarding the role of government. Both Philip Oxhorn in Chapter 7 and Luis Bitencourt in Chapter 9 take an activist view of the state in promoting and ensuring citizenship. They argue that the inability of the state to provide an effective response to citizens’ demands and to structure meaningful interaction between citizens and government has deep implications for citizenship in the hemisphere. In Chapter 8, Roderic Camp and Keith Yanner approach the question from a different angle, but come to a similar conclusion about the centrality of the state for notions of democratic citizenship. Though their focus is slightly different, the basic operating assumption for Oxhorn and Bitencourt is that the state has a central responsibility for political and social rights. Oxhorn’s theories of neopluralism and its effects on citizenship are predicated on the collapse of traditional patterns of statecentered incorporation and their replacement by more market-oriented patterns of political participation. In this new, individualistic, self-interested environment, the state plays a minimal, even passive, role in providing incentives for collective organization and action. In the absence of a more activist state, collective social and political rights are weakened and thus the capacity of citizens to make meaningful demands on and enjoy democratic government is weakened as well. Oxhorn is also concerned about the weakness of the state in its ability to protect citizens against rising crime rates, a theme that is central to Bitencourt’s discussion of citizenship and democracy. For Bitencourt a proper assessment of the state of democracy in Brazil needs to look beyond processes and rules, to the capacity of the Brazilian state to guarantee a complex series of rights, chief among them ensuring the security of the country’s citizens. What emerges in Camp and Yanner’s detailed study of citizen attitudes is the extent to which democracy is linked in the minds of Mexican citizens to the roles and responsibilities of the state. Camp and Yanner demonstrate that Mexican citizens and Mexican women specifically associate democracy with the state’s responsibilities in productive, economic, and social terms: improving the quality of life and standard of living, combating crime, and protecting minorities. The central lesson of Camp and Yanner’s chapter, particularly in light of the other two, is how for citizens themselves the concept of democracy and democratic citizenship is closely linked with the state. The state-centric focus of these three chapters makes them unique, not only for policymakers and activists but also within the body of democratization literature. While there have been exceptions, the wave of democratic transition and consolidation literature that emerged in the 1980s and the 1990s tended to focus more on questions of regime (rules, institutions, procedures) and civil society.1 In part a reflection of this temporary academic trend and in part a condition of the practical limits and realities that policymakers face, the democratization programs launched by donors since the

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mid-1980s also placed a high priority on civil society. In the past two decades, attention and resources have shifted toward support for nongovernmental organizations as a way of promoting democratic civil society. At a practical, management level, the emphasis on civil society was seen as a more efficient and effective means of delivering assistance, in effect bypassing corrupt or inefficient state institutions. At a strategic level, in international programs to promote democracy civil society was seen as more than just an end in itself; a number of indirect and direct benefits were ascribed to a strong, vibrant civil society. In closed societies, support for civil organizations was seen as a way to promote human rights and citizen participation to weaken authoritarian governments and open up political spaces necessary for peaceful democratic transitions. After democratic transitions in the hemisphere, international and bilateral donors—inspired in large part by the important role citizen groups had played in democratic transitions in Argentina, Chile, and Guatemala—stepped up their financial and political attention on civil society. By the late 1980s and 1990s, US and other bilateral and multilateral donors were pouring resources into the hemisphere to work with a variety of nongovernmental organizations. Human rights groups, legal reform organizations, peasant associations, women’s groups, and election observation networks emerged and received funding under the rubric of civil society. For example, in 1991 alone the US Agency for International Development invested just under US$20 million to support nongovernmental organizations in the region. For donors, civil society was seen as something of a magic bullet for democracy and development. While programs and foci differed by donor, generally speaking donors came to support and discuss civil society as beneficial, indeed even essential, to democracy in several ways. The first of these was the idea that civil society could increase the participation of citizens (particularly from traditionally marginalized sectors) in the political system by mobilizing individuals and groups around new demands. By harnessing these groups, civil society could promote social change and break down historical barriers and patterns of political exclusion (Macdonald 1997). Second, donors and observers alike saw civil society as a new means to increase state accountability by organizing citizens to make demands on the state (Diamond 1994). Citizens organized around concrete issues and demands would be in the best position to advocate for new issues, monitor governments and elected officials, and protect citizens’ rights and interests against the state. Last, in a practical adaptation of Robert Putnam’s Making Democracy Work (1993), civil society promotion was viewed as a way to advance civic values. The expectation was that by bringing people together in cooperative ventures, civil society would provide the means for learning civic values such as cooperation, compromise, and trust (Sabatini 2002).

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This fascination with civil society reflected more than just a traditionally liberal view of the state and the importance of protecting and defending citizens against the encroachment of the state on their rights. Authors and donors describing civil society often couched their rhetoric in liberal terms of the need to balance the state against the rights of individuals. Yet even among the left and the social movement community in Latin America there was a strong distrust, if not rejection of the importance, of the state that echoed this same discourse. Decades of corrupt, authoritarian, and arbitrary governments left a sense among many that the best and perhaps only way to strengthen the emergence of democratic societies and accountable government was from the ground up. This focus had an implication for how donors and even many citizens in Latin America viewed the construction of citizenship. The thinking was that the norms and structures of citizenship had to be renegotiated among citizens separate from authority, and that, where necessary, society itself would serve as an engine for state reform. In this view, the role of the state was important primarily insofar as it could guarantee political and civil liberties and democratic procedures necessary to ensure political space for the operation and expansion of civil society. All of the preceding three chapters differ sharply with many of these views and approaches. They imply that citizenship is greater than the sum of citizen initiatives and norms that can be negotiated by or emerge through the interaction of citizens. Rather, citizenship is contingent on the capacity of the state, in ways that go far beyond simply standing back and guaranteeing basic political rights. Citizens’ expectations of the state, the role of the state in structuring the incentives for citizen participation and collective organization, and the effectiveness of the state in protecting citizens from themselves (rather than just from the state) are essential to ensuring citizenship and by implication a fuller democracy. For many of the reasons that donors and activists were skeptical originally, though, Oxhorn and Bitencourt are also quite pessimistic about the possibility for change coming from the state. According to Oxhorn and Bitencourt, Latin American states are hobbled and potentially even trapped by their authoritarian pasts. Bureaucratic structures, laws, and personnel from the past remain and will be difficult to root out in an effort to recast the state in a more efficient, democratic form. Their path-dependent view of the state implies that wholesale change is unlikely to come from within, and that change from the outside will confront internal barriers. The abiding skepticism of the state gives the impression of a vicious circle. While none of the authors addresses the problem directly, one can also draw the conclusion that civil society’s ability to directly affect meaningful change in the state is also quite limited. Oxhorn is particularly gloomy about the ability of neopluralist civil society to muster the collective passion and pressure necessary for forcing the state to adopt significant

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reforms. Moreover, Oxhorn argues that changes in the state and the economic organization of the countries (the “marketization” of politics and security) have served to undermine the state’s capacity to play a proactive role in orienting collective identities and demands. The conclusion would appear to be that the state is too weak and hampered by its own authoritarian past, civil society too atomized, and the state now too recalcitrant for there to be a dramatic improvement in citizenship. For this reason, while Oxhorn’s recommendations at the end of his chapter—of focusing on societal changes rather than state reforms—make sense, they also appear to leave us where we began. If the state is so central to promoting and protecting citizenship, then it is logical to conclude that improving the conditions for citizenship will require cutting through the Gordian knot of reforming the state. But how can that be done given the present conditions? At a minimum, the question forces donors and policymakers to recognize and consider the state dimension in the question of democratic citizenship and stability over the long term. Another theme unifying all three chapters is the matter of how citizens relate to their government and how this relationship affects citizenship. For all the authors, citizenship is a complex process of identity formation and the development of demands and the articulation of those demands to political elites and the government. For Oxhorn the rise of neopluralism has made the formation and articulation of interests particularistic and inchoate. The result is that while greater political space exists today than in the past, this space is less consequential because the interests represented are too narrow and disaggregated. This in part is due to the inability of the state to provide incentives for broader collective identity and decisionmaking and in part to the deterioration of formal economies and the rights and organizations intended to protect working and lower classes. As a result, larger, potentially powerful coalitions that could address the basic socioeconomic demands of increasingly marginalized and disaffected sectors have deteriorated. For Bitencourt this gap in interest mediation has meant that politicians and civil society have been slow to effectively echo concerns of citizens concerning crime and violence. He implies that there is a disparity between these popular worries and the policy response. While individual politicians may be picking up these demands, a structural mechanism for conveying these issues effectively has not yet emerged. In their survey-based chapter, Camp and Yanner do not address the question of how the demands and expectations they analyze are transmitted to the political system. The chapters raise an important set of issues for policymakers: the importance of effective, meaningful channels for the representation of demands. These go beyond the individual organizations of civil society, and are an area that policymakers and donors often overlook. As Oxhorn argues, effective representation of economic issues is predicated on broader collec-

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tive identities and collective action. Yet in recent years, society has fragmented, due to the informalization of the labor force throughout the hemisphere and—related to that—the weakening of labor unions and their role. The dissolution of these socioeconomic coalitions and their traditional organs of representation has also contributed to the weakening and in some cases the collapse of political parties, further undermining effective representation. These analyses rightly point out the need for policymakers and donors to consider the class bases and incentives for representation. Political participation and representation are more than the sum of individualistic groups organized and active around narrow issues of legislation or reform. There are higher-order themes as well, such as economic conditions, labor rights, and even citizen security that require larger-order institutions and organizations that can package and represent these issues. Traditionally there have been unions and political parties that have done the heavy lifting of political aggregation and representation. But both unions and parties throughout the hemisphere have been on the decline. These chapters are an important reminder of the need to understand their importance for political representation as well as for the formation of collective identities and common purposes. The chapters also remind donors and policymakers of the need to understand the social and economic context in which such organizations are—or should be—embedded, and the importance of those factors for their growth and effectiveness. In lamenting the fragmentation of civil society and the weakening of large coalitions to represent workers, however, we should be careful not to glorify the unions and political parties of the past. Unions and center-left parties may have served as effective advocates for union rights and social welfare programs, and their survivors or analogs today may be only a shadow of what they were in the past. But by the same token these organizations were also fraught with their own pathologies and inconsistencies. The clientelistic, closed, patronage-dominated institutions that passed for unions and center-left parties of the past were hardly paragons of internal—and even external—democracy. The corporatist unions of Argentina, Mexico, and Venezuela or the dogmatic unions of Peru, Bolivia, and Ecuador were hardly the most effective and responsible voices of the working class and advocates for labor rights. Similarly, the parties of the left that espoused social and economic rights of the underclasses have themselves been weakened and in some cases destroyed by the persistence of a closed circle of elites and a stubborn refusal to renovate internal party structures and practices to a new electoral environment. In many of these cases, the collapse or marginalization of these unions and parties occurred not only (and perhaps not principally) because of philosophical or economic changes, but also because of their own inability to change. These hierarchical, closed organizations lacked the flexibility to adapt and renew themselves to new challenges.

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Perhaps in voicing our concern about the current state of representation in Latin America, we should not so much lament the passing of these institutions as discuss how new ones can emerge. On this point, Oxhorn makes a very convincing case for the hurdles that new or reformist organizations face in the current context. They are also ones that donors should examine as well. If civil society was the trend in the donor community in the 1980s and 1990s, political parties are also becoming something of a fashion today. With the near evaporation of party systems in Peru, Venezuela, Bolivia, and Argentina and strains being witnessed even in Colombia, donors are beginning to turn their attentions to political parties and party systems. These chapters remind us of the close association between the economy and party systems. Parties are more than organizations that place candidates and win votes. They are sustained by socioeconomic identities, coalitions, and their demands. For political competition to be meaningful, political parties themselves must be relevant to the concerns of constituents. Yet there are significant challenges. With nearly a majority of the population throughout Latin America employed in the informal sector and traditional associations for economic representation in disarray, partisan class identities and coalitions are very fluid. In this environment, parties will tend to remain fragile and oriented around single issues, often with little ideological content. One issue that does not emerge sufficiently in these discussions of citizenship is that of social and political obligation. In civil society programs and in development programs, political and social obligation often receives a great deal of attention, and it is surprising not to see it mentioned here. Oxhorn makes an implicit reference to it when he talks about the weakening of social, particularly elite, compliance with norms and how this erodes popular respect for the law. Neither Bitencourt nor Camp and Yanner mention obligation. As many donors have tended to think about it, citizenship consists of more than rights (social, economic, and political) that are either granted or protected by the state. An important component of citizenship also involves responsibilities and obligations to other citizens, and—according to liberal democratic theory—a state that guarantees the basic rights and freedoms in a democratic society. Arguably many of the ills of citizenship today discussed by authors (corruption, violence, decreasing trust in institutions) are in part also related to an attenuated sense of social obligation. Regional and country surveys in Latin America have demonstrated alarmingly low—and declining—levels of intersocial trust and trust in the state. These trends pose a potentially vicious circle: on the one hand a state that is incapable of effectively protecting citizens and on the other a deteriorating sense of responsibility to a feckless state and to fellow citizens. Understanding the reinforcing relationship between these factors goes beyond simply pinning the blame on a minimalist, ineffective, or authoritarian state. It is this sense of obligation to the regime and to fellow citizens

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that contributes to a willingness to pay taxes and abide by the rule of law and social norms regarding violence. Such behavior is more than simply the fear of punishment by the state; in countries where rates of tax compliance are high, the reasons for compliance rest on more than just a rational fear of getting caught. A sense of obligation undergirds and sustains actions that benefit the public good. How to spark and sustain that change is a perennial and obviously complex question, but is one that is not addressed in any of the preceding three chapters. This is not to suggest that citizenship and any analysis of it should suppose blind trust or obligation to a state—any state—is good. Rather it is an argument for attempting to understand the complex relationship of citizenship to the imperfect states that citizens live under and the social norms and obligations of citizens toward the state and toward one another. To be sure, given the way many people have experienced or endured the state, they have good reason not to feel particularly indebted or obligated to public authority in Latin America. Nevertheless, democratic citizenship embodies some degree of obligation to the state and to fellow citizens (Gibson, Duch, and Tedin 1992, p. 332). The line between a healthy distrust of the state and political authority, and obedience, is a difficult one to identify. This is a dilemma that donors and policymakers struggle with at a practical level. Civil society programs often work with local nongovernmental organizations in programs to mobilize popular support and advocate for reform of specific laws or institutions. Logically, much of that effort revolves around demonstrating the flaws of the current system and tapping into popular discontent and desire for change. Surveys done on these programs, however, have demonstrated that people who participated had lower levels of confidence in state institutions (Finkel 2003). Such an impact is understandable and perhaps even desirable. The goal of such programs is not to promote slavish obedience to public power or an unaccountable state. The question, though, concerns whether such an approach can promote a generalized sense of distrust and frustration that weakens citizens’ commitment to the state.

An Optimistic Glance to the Future All of the preceding three chapters remind us of the importance of the state for citizenship. The authors argue that the state is central to providing and guaranteeing social and economic rights key to democratic citizenship. Citizens themselves express this concern. As Camp and Yanner demonstrate, the state is central to citizens’ own expectations of democracy. These chapters suggest that, in general, citizenship is deteriorating, in large part due to the persistence of ineffective, authoritarian state structures, further

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weakened by the rolling back of government in the past two decades. In the midst of this, the opportunities for citizens to voice their demands and effect reform of the government and the state have become increasingly limited by the fragmentation of political debate and the erosion of intermediary institutions such as political parties and unions. But should all of these problems of citizenship indicate that democracy is threatened or Latin Americans are worse off? I would argue that there is cause for a fair amount of cautious optimism. First, the past twenty years in the region have seen the expansion of democratic liberties and participation. Citizens are now free to choose their leaders, express their views, and make demands on government in ways unthinkable thirty or forty years ago. While democratic practice in many countries today is by no means perfect, and in some cases may be deteriorating, for most citizens of the hemisphere the dark days of death squads, government censorship, and disappearances in the dead of night are things of the past. We may worry about the rise in violence and crime and the inability of the state to halt it, but this is a different, although much more complex, challenge than occurred during the time when what citizens feared most was an arbitrary and brutal government. If citizenship is threatened or weakened in the current context, it is largely— though not entirely—because of ineffectiveness. This is a far cry from purposeful, targeted efforts to exclude and abuse. This is not to diminish the very real sense of threat and vulnerability that citizens confront today in many countries in the region. In many ways the themes discussed in the preceding three chapters represent a much more complex set of challenges to democracy in the region that go to the very heart of the health and meaning of democracy: personal security, inclusiveness, representation, and the capacity of elected officials and the state to respond to citizen demands. Over the long term, if left unchanged, these conditions will breed a deeper sense of helplessness among citizens that will ultimately erode popular legitimacy and support for democratic institutions and processes. Second, while unions and parties have become weakened in recent years, their collapse has opened up new space for the emergence of new, more effective means of interest articulation. The organizations that have been victims of change were fraught with their own problems, and arguably their collapse was as much their own doing as it was the result of a difficult and at times hostile environment. Rather than lament their passing and romanticizing their past, the task ahead should be to analyze the conditions for the emergence of new organs of social and political representation. What would or should such organizations look like? How are they likely to form? What are the likely challenges and opportunities? These are questions directly relevant not only for analysts but for donors as well. Ultimately, such institutions emerge and grow out of their own initiative, but such

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analyses can help activists and can improve our collective understanding of the positive and adverse affects of the international community and policymaking on these issues. Last, while human and political rights are necessary but not sufficient conditions for citizenship, their continued protection affords important political space that provides the best—perhaps only—means for dealing with these problems. To be sure, threats to political rights have begun to reemerge, but questions of limited citizenship and patterns of creeping authoritarianism and political polarization can only be addressed through a democratic system. However, should democracies not address these concerns of citizenship, the very health and future of democracy in the region could be at risk. These preceding three chapters urge policymakers and donors to begin to grapple with the effects of reforms on the issue of citizenship. Such a concern cannot simply be translated into a “citizenship initiative” nor should it become the latest fad in development and democracy assistance. But one of the lessons to be learned here is that observers, analysts, and policymakers alike need to understand how citizens’ perceptions of government, socioeconomic conditions, channels of political representation, and the state affect political democracy and are affected by democratic regimes. These questions push us to think about democracy in ways that are broader and deeper than a regime of laws and processes and individual social organizations, and to seek to understand the complex ways in which citizens experience democracy, actively and passively.

Notes The opinions expressed in this chapter are my own and do not reflect those of the Americas Society/Council of the Americas. 1. One of those exceptions is Juan Linz and Alfred Stepan’s Problems of Democratic Transition and Consolidation (1996a). Nevertheless, Linz and Stepan’s more historical view of democratization stands in subtle contrast to much of the more process-oriented transition and consolidation literature that blossomed in the late 1980s and early 1990s.

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Part 3 Promoting Active Citizenship

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11 Between Paradoxes and Challenges: Promoting Citizenship in Bolivia Carmen Beatriz Ruíz

This chapter was written a few weeks after a series of social and political events occurred in Bolivia, marking out a course of sorrow and hope for the country.1 Sorrow because of the high social, economic, and human costs and the resultant state of political vulnerability for the democratic process. Hope because, despite everything, the political system and the population had the maturity to prevent an unstable departure of the president, attend to the constitutional health of presidential succession, and generate a social and political truce. The conflict began in early September 2003 with the demands of peasant and Aymara indigenous organizations from the highlands of La Paz department, the region where La Paz City, the provincial seat of the government, is located. It spiraled into violence fueled by two fires: government reluctance and inability to deal with the conflict, and the radical positions and partisan interests of certain political and labor leaders who used the unresolved conflict to enhance their own positions. Underlying all of this were the root problems of poverty, social exclusion, and the “feather my nest” approach to politics. The outcome, so far, includes the resignation of President Sánchez de Lozada, a change in government following constitutionally mandated rules for succession, probably 70 dead and more than 400 wounded, considerable physical damage to public and private infrastructure, and a general feeling of uncertainty. There is also a sense of hope stemming from the conviction that a political system that is insensitive to the needs of the people is not part of the democratic process, but rather a barrier to democracy. This is the framework for my reflection on the promotion of citizenship, which the Woodrow Wilson Center has asked me to explore as Bolivians mourn their dead and lick their wounds, as they debate positions and perspectives about what has occurred. A glance over events as recent as October 2003 allows the identification of many aspects that are directly and 199

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indisputably related to the themes that are addressed in this chapter as well as in different presentations that were made during the Woodrow Wilson Center’s seminar concerning organized citizenship. This chapter deals with aspects like the increasingly widespread social discontent of populations in Latin American countries over the issues of equity and development, approximately twenty years after the initiation of democratic processes; the exhaustion of legitimacy for traditional political systems and the search, unsuccessful until now, for new leadership outside the political system; and the enormous cost that is paid by democratic processes in Latin America in the middle of a region hit hard by economic crises and by state policies put into place by northern governments. These include the war against terrorism, the eradication of cocaine, and immigration control. What happened during the so-called Black October in Bolivia is not a spontaneous product of the rage of “furious mobs” and should not be viewed only in terms of its results, but also in terms of its roots, in that, when a growing number of people begin to question obvious failings in the exercise of political power, abuse of authority for personal gain, and generalized inefficiency in public services that the state is expected to provide for its citizens, then the motive is a deepening of democracy, not sedition. This chapter first discusses the intrinsic connection between citizenship and human rights as a conceptual reference. It then focuses on the four main areas of promoting citizenship, conceived as part of the promotion and educational strategies of Bolivia’s human rights ombudsman since inception of the office in 1998. 2 The chapter concludes with an evaluation of the ombudsman’s work in civic education.

Citizenship and Human Rights: An Intrinsic Connection There is a substantial theoretical background on the origins and conceptual development of human rights and citizenship that surely would support some of the points I raise here. However, I will not go into it in depth, because, even at the risk of delving into the commonplace and the prosaic, I prefer to share compelling information from an actual situation involving the exercise of human rights and citizenship. This information is organized around what I consider to be a central question: Is it possible to change the terms of Bolivian social contracts and surmount the age-old discrepancy between discourse and practice? I think that the answer is a definite yes, but only by meeting certain requirements that are inextricably linked to what could be considered the central premise of this chapter: that the exercise of human rights and citizenship is intrinsically interconnected with the process to effect changes in Bolivian cultural standards and in the structural conditions that give rise to poverty and social exclusion. I am referring, then, to transcending the legal,

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institutional, and formal notions so intimately linked to these concepts in order to brave the quagmires of socioeconomic transformation through common sense, value building, daily life, and socialization. During the turbulent years of the French Revolution, the masses and ideologues cried out for liberty, equality, and fraternity. Their echoes reverberated in the yearning for independence of the American Colonies, which were immersed in their own process. While that historical moment is recognized as the formal origin of theorizing about rights, it was only after World War II that the Universal Declaration of Human Rights was proposed, which launched the concept of rights throughout the world and characterized them as indivisible, universal, and interdependent. Since then, the masses and the ideologues have changed, as have human rights. They have assimilated many new aspects into their core deriving from the social changes that have taken place in the world and from the end products that in practice, like a colossal laboratory, the world itself constructed. In Bolivia, out of the entrails of its own process, solidified by pain and battles, Juan del Granado Cossío (1995) defines human rights as the very essence of the democratic system, “the backbone of any system that claims to be democratic, the ethics of democracy . . . the stage upon which an integral democracy is built.”3 This essence includes individuals and the state, since, “to the extent that [human rights] are inherent to the personality, they are innate rights of human beings that the State simply recognizes and, in recognizing them, pledges to respect them and to create the conditions for their effective exercise. This second element of the relationship between society and the State, between the individual and authority, is nothing more than that age-old relationship between authority and liberty.” These basic notions elucidate the role of the state and its effect on the life of the masses, since human rights are nothing more than the framework in which governance is understood as an act intended for the common good and the individual good. And that is why human rights, as an affirmation of the masses vis-àvis the State, establish reference points for the conduct of government; this means that human rights, together with the set of standards that comprise human rights, constitute the paradigm that the government must follow if it is to exercise authority for the common good.

Del Granado shows the reference point that persisted in Bolivia concerning human rights, obviously emanating from human rights doctrine and the practice of international law in this area. Nonetheless, the proposed conceptual reference by the then–parliamentary leader, in fighting against the impunity of dictator Luís García Meza has clearly emphasized a correlation between human rights democracy that gives rise to more practical notions of exercising rights as well as exercising authority, and the links, boundaries, and limits between them.

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A satisfactory process of governance cannot be successful from the unilateral viewpoint of exercising power. It must also satisfy the needs of the population and build the common good. A Subjugated Citizenry While the formal origin of human rights in recent history is inscribed in the French Revolution, citizenship has more ancient roots found in the construction of cities, beginning with the Greek polis, and later in the legal incorporation of small towns. According to classical sociological theorist T. H. Marshall: “Citizenship is a status granted to legal members of a community. Its beneficiaries are equals in terms of equal rights and responsibilities. While there is no universal principle that determines rights and obligations, societies in which citizenship is an institution of progress create an image of ideal citizenship that becomes the yardstick of success and the object of aspiration” (Bottomore and Marshall 1998). This is not, however, a linear or purely cumulative process, as described by Tom Bottomore, a commentator of Marshall’s: “The history of civil rights in its formative period is characterized by the gradual inclusion of new rights in a pre-existing status that was considered inherent to all adult members of the community; although we should say male members, as the status of women, at least married women, was unique in many ways” (Bottomore and Marshall 1998). This reveals the ties that bind the concepts of human rights and citizenship in a process that, while characterized by distinct origins and different historical rhythms of development, consistently leads us back to a single process comprising common as well as disparate features. When we speak of human rights, we observe evidence of this process and its many divergent paths: some going in a positive direction, and many coming back in a negative direction. The same appears to be the case with citizenship, in its essentially two-tiered definition: the formal and the substantive. According to Bottomore, this dichotomy is revealed in the sense that what constitutes citizenship—the set of rights or the model of participation—is not necessarily linked to being formally tied to a State. Formal citizenship is neither a sufficient nor a necessary condition for substantive citizenship . . . as is observed clearly in the fact that one can formally belong to a State and yet be excluded (de jure or de facto) from certain political, civil, or social rights, or from effective participation in government matters pertaining to many different aspects of social life . . . and that is the case, although it may not seem obvious to us, since, while formal citizenship may be necessary for certain aspects of substantive citizenship (for example, voting in general elections), other aspects . . . are not contingent upon formally belonging to a particular State. Social rights, for exam-

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ple, benefit citizens and legal non-nationalized residents alike, in virtually identical conditions.

This is why both formal and substantive citizenship raise very different issues and I have come to the conclusion that we must examine civil, political, and social rights less in the framework of citizenship and more within a general conception of human rights. . . . The current status and development of human rights in the world presents certain contradictions. Plans to broaden human rights will only move forward if social and societal policies are rooted in the notion of social production as planned production for wellbeing, which also entails an equitable distribution of the product among all members of society. (Bottomore and Marshall 1998)

Recently, the interrelationship of human rights, citizenship, and the structural conditions of equity and inclusion has become apparent. It is no coincidence that in recent years, women are the ones who have been waging a sustained struggle for the theoretical and practical broadening of certain principles that, while seemingly formulated for all of humanity, in practice have been applicable mainly to adult, white men of a certain income level. This concern has also been expressed by leaders and academics involved in peasant and indigenous issues, who believe that the concept of universality, for example, does not lend itself to ethnic particularities or economic and social inequalities. Whence comes the well-known refrain that in order to enjoy respect for human rights, you must be a rich, white, Western adult male. Human Rights for Human Development If there is any doubt about the mechanics of exercising citizenship and human rights, based only on their enunciation and formal recognition—and even political recognition by states—something similar occurs in the interrelationship of human rights, citizenship, and development. Fernando Calderón Gutiérrez (1999) affirmed this when he said: From the standpoint of human development, poverty is not a result of material need. Rather, the material need is the result of unequal social, cultural, and political opportunity among people and groups, and social inequity. In order to effect change in the impoverished conditions of broad sectors of the population, the people themselves must feel and perceive their situation and aspire to change it. Therefore, strengthening people’s capacity to be protagonists in their own development is one of the strategic courses of action in human development. . . . [I]ssues such as human rights and citizenship lie at the heart of such problems . . . and despite the lack of conceptual consensus regarding the connection, there is a fertile and revitalizing relationship between human rights and citizenship.

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According to Calderón, an integrated approach to political and civil rights and social and cultural rights recognizes a universal consensus on the existence of multiple links and the obvious reciprocal effects between individual civil and political rights and the right to attain a higher level of material and spiritual wellbeing. Therefore, it is clearly impossible to conceive of economic development without full respect for human rights and, at the same time, it is very difficult to promote human rights in the absence of sustainable progress in economic and social welfare. . . . Nonetheless, in an integrated approach to civil and political rights and economic and social rights, both bodies of rights are part of a substantive vision of the fundamental rights of individuals, notwithstanding the different legal statutes governing their nature, enforceability, and protection mechanisms. Thus, if no progress is made in economic and social rights, hard-won political and civil rights tend to lose their meaning.

This is true especially true for the most excluded groups: In Latin America, as numerous human rights reports point out, it is a documented fact that the most excluded and marginalized groups face many more obstacles in access to justice and to the ability to defend themselves against abuses perpetrated by third parties and by the State. Poverty, weak institutions, and the absence of civic practice are strongly linked in the region . . . in synthesis, an integral, citizen-centered approach to development is essential for achieving progress in civil, legal, and political rights, as well as economic, social, and cultural rights. In this sense, social citizenship must become politicized, and politics must become socialized.

An analysis of Calderón’s stance shows the complexity of the theme, which, apart from the intrinsic connection between human rights and human development, must be attacked with the characteristics of integrality and indivisibility that are demanded by the concept of human rights. At the same time, Calderón offers an analytical perspective of increasing importance—of equilibrium between rights and obligations, in that the satisfaction of rights will be the result of equal and inclusive policies by the state, and will function only if the society organizes and acts. In order to achieve this, the definition of responsibility shared between the state and the population with respect to the validity of human and citizen rights should be expressed in a socioeconomic pact between them. The Unbearable Weight of Reality Scenes from daily life in Bolivia are not all catastrophic, nor are all of the visions hopeful. Analyst Roberto Laserna (2004) points out that “a superfi-

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cial glance might explain this crisis by affirming that the liberal modernization launched in 1985 provided stability at the expense of poverty. However, in addition to stability, statistics show significant progress in all areas. What was lacking was a leadership capable of translating these accomplishments into new hopes that would inspire people to continue down that road.” Bolivia’s human rights ombudsman directed a study in order to demonstrate the bare facts about human rights practices in Bolivia. The principal conclusions of the work emphasize the dissatisfied expectations that lead to the breakdown of the democratic process as a framework for resolving the age-old differences in equality and social inclusion that burden the Bolivian state; an open tension between the notions of universalities and the particularisms of human rights, particularly from the point of view of ethnic groups; and the difficult demand to construct a balance between rights and responsibilities as part of daily citizen culture of the population, defined by Laserna as a “consumer of rights,” although “insufficient producer of rights.” However, according to Laserna: While it’s true that there is enormous poverty in Bolivia, it was worse before. Inequality has declined, but it is more visible because of urbanization. Despite scant progress in macroeconomic accounts and an adverse climate, nearly all indicators show considerable progress over the last 21 years of democracy. Infant mortality has been reduced by half, school enrollment rose at all educational levels, sewage, electricity, and telephone services have increased their coverage, poverty declined more rapidly than in the preceding period, and channels for social and political participation have multiplied, as have citizen protection mechanisms. . . . These achievements were the result of bold institutional reforms and a sustained increase in public investment, concentrated in social areas, once the State was freed from the need to subsidize inefficiency, corruption, and bureaucracy in government enterprise.

As recent events in Bolivia have shown, however, none of this is sufficient, since while it is possible to cite improvements in statistics, the same development has not occurred in the daily life of the vast majority. This is evident in the ongoing complaints expressed in reams of petitions with which different social sectors, particularly peasants and indigenous groups, confront successive democratic governments. An intermediary position between complacency and dissatisfaction with advances in development that have occurred over the past two decades of democracy might be more balanced and provide opportunities and content for social dialogue. In this sense, an integral approach might identify successes and failures more objectively, similar to Laserna’s view when, referring to Black October, he said:

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In this context, and from the triple perspective of democracy, citizenship, and human rights, a quick glance at the Bolivian reality reveals the main types of human and civil rights abuses against the population. In a survey sponsored by the human rights ombudsman (Defensor del Pueblo 1998) in the departmental capitals of the country, roundtable discussions, involving an average of sixty institutions and grassroots organizations in each region, identified the following issues: • The right to work. Lack of jobs, abrupt layoffs, job insecurity, low wages and exploitation, child labor, and fear of flexibilization are among the issues associated with growing poverty, family breakdown, and child abandonment, and, for rural families, forced migration and new, impoverished urban settlements. • The generational problem. Children, adolescents, and young adults lack family and government protection, suffer mistreatment, and are forced to work in inhumane conditions, at the expense of their education. • Abuse of authority. In its different manifestations, abuse of authority occurs throughout the country, particularly in Cochabamba due to systematic human rights violations in Chapare. It includes abuse by police, such as arbitrary detention, mistreatment, and extortion, as well as abuse by judicial authorities, municipal officials and agents, public agencies in general, and military officers and lower-ranking personnel. • Corruption. Corruption is perceived as a national scourge and is mentioned frequently as part of abuse of authority. • Poor administration of justice. Delays in administration of justice, incorrect or discriminatory application of the law, corruption in the judiciary, arbitrariness and corruption in transmission tax offices, and so forth constitute a central human rights problem, and are compounded by abysmal prison conditions such as overcrowding, mistreatment, and lack of basic services. • Inadequate public services. In virtually every department in Bolivia, public services are either absent or of poor quality and discriminatory. It has been pointed out that some regions have problems with potable water.

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• Inadequate healthcare and social security. Bolivia’s healthcare and social security systems suffer from poor quality, deficiencies in infrastructure, discrimination, bureaucracy, shortage of medicines, inaccessibility to private medical services, and delays and corruption. • Inadequate education. Bolivia’s education system lacks infrastructure, human resources, educational materials, and even curriculum. Boys and girls are abused and mistreated, social- and gender-based discrimination persists, and education reform legislation is not observed. • Gender discrimination. Though it has not yet been adequately perceived by civil society, gender discrimination—whose effects include physical and psychological abuse, exploitation, sexual harassment, marginalization, and subordination—is felt in family life, the workplace, schools and universities, labor unions, and politics. • Public insecurity. The proliferation of organized crime and youth gangs, alcoholism, and drug addiction is compounded by an ineffective and corrupt police and judiciary in whom the public lack confidence. • Regional discrimination. Neighboring departments of Chuquisaca and Potosí comprise one of the poorest regions in the country and receive little attention and investment from the central government. • Ethnic discrimination. Though still assigned low importance, ethnic discrimination is a factor in urban-rural relations, rural poverty, and the forced migration of rural families and communities to slum communities surrounding urban areas, with attendant loss of cultural identity, social control, self-esteem, and moral values. • Environmental degradation. Various regions of Bolivia suffer from indiscriminate clear-cutting of forests and woodlands (by lumber companies and colonizers), unrestrained urban sprawl, inappropriate use of water resources, and lack of precautions in mining and oil drilling as well as industry. There is a troublesome lack of interest in environmental issues at the local and national levels of authority. • Weaknesses in the democratic system. Though assigned little importance, weaknesses in Bolivia’s democracy are reflected in the lack of credibility of government institutions (including regionally) and grassroots organizations, frequent distortions in enforcement of public participation legislation (particularly relating to the role of the oversight committees), bureaucracy, widespread featherbedding and nepotism at the central administration and municipal levels, layoffs for political-partisan reasons, and the general lack of institutional structure in public administration. Thus, although an effort has been made to balance the expectations and actual realities of democracy with respect to equity and inclusion, the inadequacies are perceived and expressed by the population in a direct and transparent manner.

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Theory and Practice This degree of “unfinished business,” as expressed by numerous members of civil society, confirms the assertion that in Bolivia, defense of human rights has focused, on the one hand, on the defense of economic and social rights through the successive struggles of workers in recent decades, and on the defense of civil rights in the context of the dictatorships. In recent years, new battles have been waged in favor of the human rights of women, indigenous peoples, and children, bringing with them different types of demands. The most prominent trends include the struggle against poverty and in favor of civil and political rights, along with the fight for equality and equity. In this context, the defense of collective rights has predominated, employing methods more akin to resistance and pressure than to negotiation and concertation. (Eyzaguirre y Montaño Virreira 1998)

There seems to be a consensus that the formal regime—comprising the laws by which a society organizes its social relationships and, in that framework, the role of the state—is insufficient to ensure the exercise of human rights as a form of practicing citizenship. Citizens themselves must be committed, ensuring respect for these rights. Moreover, it is not enough that these commitments exist or are recognized, but they must be accompanied, in a harmonious relationship, by integral processes of equity and social justice. This could mean that the path to full and active exercise of human rights and citizenship will be marked by a series of challenges deriving from a seemingly idyllic interrelationship of human rights, citizenship, and culture. Individual and Collective Commitments To be a citizen implies being a member of a State; it implies people with rights and duties, who think and opine, reflect and act, who participate and make commitments, who ask why and who question. . . . We can exercise this citizenship in many ways, as people who vote and participate and demand our rights, or as collectives, as neighborhood, labor, gender-based, educational, or religious groups. But oftentimes we think that the only possible way to act is as a group, a social sector, or collective. In fact, in our Bolivian social history, the latter has been the traditional way of acting. But at the end of the twentieth century, in a post modern world, in a situation in which the traditional sectors appear to be losing impetus, there is a strong tendency toward paralysis, toward not being to act if no one is representing me. Perhaps we should also ask ourselves if social collectives have not gone overboard in assuming this representativity, thereby freeing their members of any personal responsibility, canceling them out in a way. —Carlos Molina (1999)

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Carlos Molina’s arguments are not meant to be simply provocative. They concern the limitations that a sustained history of collective demands increasingly has placed on individual commitment and on personal transformations required to transform proposals for the exercise of human rights and citizenship into reality: if I don’t change, I may not be able to change much else. Women, children, and rural and indigenous groups have challenged the discourse for decades using these arguments. The underlying premise is that antidemocratic behaviors such as discrimination and social exclusion, with their pervasive effects on these three social groups (to varying degrees but with the same devastating results), are not altered by discourse, no matter how public. Nor are they challenged by laws, although laws help. Attitudes must be changed, and with them, behaviors. This is based on a principle as unique and indivisible as the theory of human rights itself: individual behavior. This viewpoint does not propose shifting the scales entirely to the individual side, but rather proposes finding a balance between both the individual and the state. With a better balance, it cannot be assumed that individual responsibility for the deconstruction of social behaviors such as machismo, racism, and authoritarianism against youth will happen by magic, as a result of a few public speeches and a body of sophisticated laws, which ultimately will be of little use if no one actually applies them. Within this framework, it is essential to discuss the balance between rights and duties as correlates to the balance between the individual and the collective. These two dimensions are complementary in that they allude to the recognition of the self as a base of change while emphasizing the need to recognize others and the significance of their needs and interests, yielding a sense of responsibility to the collective and respect for the norms of social coexistence. The Relationship Game The most seductive aspect of the cultural perspective is the acknowledgment that building citizenship and the exercise of human rights are, in part, the products of interpersonal relationships. This can be underscored through events of the past decade, without disregarding earlier contributions to the theoretical and methodological approach to gender relations: This perspective entails taking a second look at social movements and, in turn, the diversity of responses to the homogenizing actions of the State. This reappraisal leads us to the notion that it is possible to adopt new ways of doing politics. In other words, to create the basis for the exercise of citizenship with fewer intermediaries in the form of social actors and political

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Promoting Active Citizenship collectives (read political parties, labor unions, etc.). This is conducive to a more autonomous social dynamic and less instrumentalized ways of doing politics. (Anderson 1997)

Education at Its Roots There is nothing new about demands for education proposals and practices that facilitate civic formation in pluralism and incorporate information and values of respect for human rights, respect for differences, and commitment to change. However, these demands have not yet been met beyond their formal acceptance at the level of discourse. It’s true that this is no easy task. But it might be helpful to envision its urgency by examining, with Xavier Albó (1998), the possible impact on cultural values that could be achieved through a strategic effort: The world of values, which is considered to be at the core of each culture, embodies a certain synthesis between our two slopes (the symbolic and the pragmatic). They are symbolic because they are intangible and intimately linked to religious practice, the socialization of new generations in the family and the community, and all of the human and social relationships of the group. One way or another, each cultural group’s values system is codified in the underlying principles of its unwritten, customary law. For this reason, every cultural group tends to claim certain values as their own, such as respect for the elders, the relationship with Pachamama (the Earth) and the environment, etc. At the same time, however, it is imprecise to speak of the eternal values of each culture, since they will change in very pragmatic and realistic ways in different contexts and situations. Values such as community, family, or reciprocity can be transformed, for example, into a deadly competition for increasingly scarce resources. Or they might be substituted by other values, such as higher profits or the accumulation of wealth in a new urban environment.

In this case, let us invert the two-pronged view of individual-collective relations and balance the scale by raising the need for institutions. Albó refers to an approach to education that results in social structures and institutions with a positive intercultural focus. In other words, elements that are conducive to this type of creative relating in any context. This should become the focus and organizational approach of, for example, public administration as a whole, the mass media, the school system, legal practice, medicine, and commercial and labor relations. . . . At a deeper level, those who promote such structural changes will require political will and broadmindedness, as well as a certain degree of accumulated experience with positive intercultural relationships at the personal level. It is not a matter of changing structures first, followed by personal attitudes, or vice versa. They are two concurrent and complementary approaches.

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It is no accident that this stirring narrative from Albó, originally written for an intercultural education policy, can be easily adapted to the subjects under discussion here. The connection is inevitable. Therefore, “the changes introduced in structures and institutions are perhaps more programmable and measurable, although they are not easy to implement unless people are willing to do so. It is therefore necessary to anticipate a series of additional, simultaneous educational actions that contribute to the development of intercultural values—in our case, human rights and citizenship—at this personal level” (Albó 1998). Although the previous quotation refers mainly to the formal education system and its institutions, the role of the media, whose cultural power and ability to shape public opinion and sentiment, has increased markedly in recent years. The Demonstration Effect None of this can be transformed into reality if individuals and members of social collectives lack a real, practical, and tangible vision that these aims, which are virtually universally accepted by the moral public, are actually attainable as a possibility within reach. This is where the state and its agents make a strong entrance; they are responsible for demonstrating that the main conflicting concepts, authority and liberty, can indeed coexist. It comes as no surprise, and in fact it is quite commonplace, to hear people explain their reluctance to pay taxes, for example, by arguing that they are going to put an end to the plundering of those in charge of public administration. This outlook supports the conviction that state agents must play a visible role in the process of building citizenship and respect for human rights, and they must produce tangible, sustained results. Inputs for Democracy There is a lot of talk about the benefits of democracy, or rather the benefits for democracy of strengthening human rights and, concomitantly, progress in the social construction of citizenship. This is widely recognized by most social actors in their public discourse. Nonetheless, there is still a long road ahead, a huge chasm to traverse. Perhaps the most salient element is the sine qua non condition that democracy building must be accompanied by a parallel effort to create conditions of social equity for human development. Moreover, complementary elements can be found in the demands of women, youth, and ethnic groups under different circumstances and from different vantage points. Among the most provocative of these is women challenging the cultural changes that

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are manifested in changes in family behavior, which in turn are manifested in changes in daily life. It is true that the subject of family immediately leads us to an anthropological discussion, something that those of us in other fields are usually reluctant to explore. But from the standpoint of relationships between human beings and, within that, the demands for citizenship and human rights on the part of youth and women, this is an important field to discuss. We must put an end to the polarizing view that families “are how they are” depending on which cultural ethnic group we are talking about. There is a much broader perspective, a more provocative one, if that’s possible. If there is no change in the terms of relationships between family members, we will be talking about standards, laws, and discourse, but not about changes in daily life, much less changes in individuals in their most personal, vulnerable, and powerful ties. A more general aspect, which clearly includes, while not subsuming, the previous point, is the need for new values concerning broader political representativity, eligibility, and social participation. This also includes cultural changes because it concerns different ways of understanding and resolving conflicts, and a deeper understanding of the political game and representativity, which goes hand in hand with delegation. Otherwise, it remains a game of mirrors, in which people stare at their own reflections. Essentially, however, it leads us to conflict management techniques, based on acknowledgment of and respect for the other person: In order to transform the social logic that fuels an exclusive model of citizenship, it is important that conflicts be explicitly stated. A society without conflicts is not only a negative Utopia, but also could reflect a paralyzed society. One in which power manipulates differences in such a crushing way as to render people incapable of perceiving their own differences. . . . Conflicts must be explicitly stated, recognized, and worked out collectively, and the process should be conducted through negotiation, not violence. . . . There must be channels for representative participation so that conflict management and resolution take into account all of the pertinent interests, stakeholders, and arguments. This also means creating more space for the public, in different ways, to facilitate this representative participation in conflict management. (Calderón Gutiérrez 1998)

Human rights and citizenship constitute a work in progress, with advances and setbacks intrinsic to these two concepts. They constitute a core divided into two parts that retain enough play and resistance to permit mutual feedback, without either being subsumed or canceled out. From this standpoint, it would be pertinent to discuss, in a simple but important exercise, the strengths and threats that emerge in this bifurcated process currently on the agenda of political debate in Bolivia. The strengths of Bolivia’s democracy include formal recognition of the

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importance of human rights and strengthened citizenship as a clear accomplishment of the democratic process; the inclusion of these two concepts in the integral design of goals concerning quality of life; the recent steps forward, arduous but tangible, that have opened up the political landscape through the momentum of new social actors; and the irreversible process of municipalization and attention paid to local actors and local power relations. At the same time, however, the negative side alerts us to threats such as the seemingly insurmountable poverty; the culture of authoritarianism; inefficient state practices in which public servants have been unable to gain the confidence of part of the population and therefore continue down the path of lost legitimacy; the huge gaps between discourse and practice; the imbalance between rights and duties; the authoritarian practice of viewing civic processes as homogenizing initiatives; “conflictitis” as the preferred way of relating between members of society and between society and the state; legal insecurity that stifles citizen trust in Bolivia’s incipient, vulnerable institutions; and the indifferent delegitimization of political life, which diminishes not only the credibility of politicians, but also the ability of citizens to vote for reasons other than immediate interests and illusions of personal gain. There is still enough of a balance between expectations and reality for Bolivians to continue working toward potential change. But as actors with shared responsibility, Bolivians are susceptible to winning or losing themselves, in personal terms, and where it hurts the most, in their daily lives.

The Experience of the Human Rights Ombudsman The process that culminated in the appointment of the first human rights ombudsman began in 1998 with the activities of the Bolivian Ombudsman Chapter.4 Through seminars, working groups, and other events, dozens of members of Bolivian society and international institutions participated in this effort, with the common aim of creating a human rights ombudsman in Bolivia. For this reason, it is safe to say that the office was a project and an achievement of society itself. Following the appointment, during the six months of vacatio legis (the time between creation of the law and its implementation), a small team worked tirelessly to secure a constitutional mandate and ensure that it provided for a service that would be accessible to the Bolivian people. The primary, urgent challenges included obtaining a budget; taking the practical steps of establishing the office, such as designing a system to attend to the public and hiring staff; and informing the public about the ombudsman’s mission and areas of responsibility. Since those first days of the ombudsman’s office, it seems as if

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decades, not just years, have passed. A quick glance at the outcomes clearly demonstrates that creation of the office has been worthwhile. Fifteen branches have been established nationwide (9,500 complaints were processed in 2002), with a specialized, dedicated staff who have helped improve the population’s understanding of its rights and its knowledge about the office. A number of studies have been conducted on the state of human rights in Bolivia. Most important, the public recognizes the institution’s work and the effectiveness of its results. In the public opinion surveys that have been accessible over the years, the ombudsman’s office ranks third in terms of public credibility, after the Catholic Church and the media. Among the complaints handled by the ombudsman, violations of civil and political rights have the greatest direct impact. However, serious problems have also been encountered in economic, social, and cultural rights and, in general, the right to development and well-being. The type of complaint, the rights violated, the institutions identified as responsible by the affected parties, and the composition of people attended to by the ombudsman together reveal that human rights violations have a disproportionate impact on society, with the most vulnerable sectors suffering more violations. In many cases, the condition of vulnerability itself appears to be a significant factor in abuses and violations. The state seems to be incapable of creating a climate of generalized respect for the principles of human dignity and nondiscrimination. At the same time, civil society seems to be incapable of exercising its responsibility to demand such respect (Defensor del Pueblo 2003). Human rights promotion was considered to be a strategic core issue from the outset, based on the premise that comprehensive public education was the only way to achieve irreversible progress in the exercise of human rights. Human rights training aims to teach respect for and protection of human and civil rights through educational activities targeting members of Bolivian society, the general public, and civil servants alike. It promotes the interdependence, indivisibility, and universality of human rights. The ombudsman’s office works toward its objectives of human rights dissemination, promotion, and reporting by conducting public campaigns in the mass media; sponsoring events directly involving the public and civil servants, such as seminars, workshops, and training; holding events on various subjects and experiences related to human rights; and producing a series of educational publications. The office’s alliance with the media is key to dissemination. Reporters have given coverage to promotional and publicity events in support of the ombudsman’s objectives. In addition, preferential rates with the marketing departments of various media agencies were negotiated, especially during the campaign period of the presidential elections. And as a bonus, some press agencies courteously published the public campaign packet beyond the established timeline. Because the ombudsman’s messages are inscribed

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into the design of public education materials, and because the office in some cases pays only a nominal fee for this, the media also join in the crusade for the defense and promotion of human and civil rights. Any evaluation of Bolivia’s experience in promoting human and civil rights can only be conducted in conjunction with an evaluation of the ombudsman’s office as a whole. A Bridge Between Citizens and State The role of the human rights ombudsman in persuasion and as a mediator between the public and the state is manifested in various ways. First is the regular handling of complaints. According to the procedures mandated in the law that created the office, one of the first steps in the process is to request that the authority or civil servant named in the complaint provide his or her version of the events, together with any information clarifying or responding to the charge. This information is processed, analyzed, and verified from the standpoint of national and international human rights law. Subsequently, reminders of duties and recommendations are issued. However, because it has become increasingly efficient to resolve complaints through direct verification, by visiting and making telephone calls to the public agencies that respond positively to the ombudsman’s requests, recommendations have not been required in a growing number of cases. Second, several of the ombudsman’s areas of action, such as special programs, urgent actions, and human rights training and promotion, are conducted through active, ongoing networking with social organizations and public and private institutions. This has taken the form of roundtables and strategic alliances that have produced concrete agreements on work agendas and specific tasks. These “strategic allies” frequently comment on the multiplying effect of working in collaboration with the ombudsman’s office for a common aim. One example of this is the enactment of legislation on such matters as the rights of children and adolescents, paid domestic work, gender quotas, and criminal distraint. This collaboration also has been effective for specific aspects of human rights violations, which, when articulated jointly and placed before public opinion, have received immediate attention and interest on the part of government agencies. This was the case with identity rights; the view of discrimination as a daily, often overlooked occurrence; the vulnerability of certain sectors in their relations with the police; the dissemination of the rights of people with disabilities; and so forth. This is not to say that only the ombudsman’s work has achieved results. The capacity of organizations and institutions to recognize the potential impact of alliances, and their willingness to share with other actors the work and the credit for achieving shared goals, figure prominently.

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Third is the mediating and facilitating role in conflict situations played by Ana María Romero de Campero and other officials, particularly the members of the special actions team and regional representatives. Actions to facilitate dialogue in conflict situations demonstrate, like no other undertakings, the ombudsman’s role as a bridge between society and the state. Conversely, the population’s interest in presenting complaints waned, although their level of awareness about the institution increased. A frequent complaint has been that the media have attributed a disproportionate amount of importance to the ombudsman’s mediating role at the expense of publicizing day-to-day work. However, although mediation was not one of the functions originally anticipated, the ombudsman cannot disregard this role. Since the inception of the ombudsman’s office, Bolivia has experienced an intense and prolonged social convulsion, to the point of challenging the very existence of human rights and democracy. The Power of Small Things Each case is a microcosm of the way in which the Bolivian state can be blind, deaf, and dumb toward its own population, and the latter’s defenselessness, frequently due to misinformation, fear, or passivity, toward the state. For the same reason, each case that has a happy ending—in other words, when the abuse is rectified—is, in and of itself, an educational act. It has a demonstrative effect, in which the parties involved learn that demanding a right can have a positive outcome and that the act of filing the complaint is, simultaneously, a form of exercising citizenship. Likewise, in complying with the requests of the human rights ombudsman, civil servants fulfill their responsibility to ensure rights. In order to nourish this learning, the ombudsman’s office publishes an annual report of its work, including a detailed explanation of the types of cases and their outcomes, and the names of officials who have collaborated and those who have not. This is done in accordance with a legal provision stipulating that the office prepare and widely disseminate its reports, precisely because of its persuasive and educational character. From Words to Deeds Human rights are common knowledge and have been debated for over a hundred years. In Bolivia, however, the understanding and exercise of human rights have been marked by the insecurity of dictatorships and the impact of poverty. This to the extent that it would appear that political rights and those related to survival are always the priority. This situation has created, among other effects, a bias toward viewing

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human rights mainly as political and economic rights, at the expense of civil, social, and cultural rights. This is detrimental to their integral and indivisible nature, as provided in human rights doctrine. The sentiment also exists that human rights derive from an idealistic, if not outright utopic, view of society. This fuels the notion that human rights are useful at the level of political discourse about human dignity and aspirations for equity, but are not considered a practical tool for daily life. In response, the human rights ombudsman has helped to shape a more practical, functional perception of human rights, by implementing a series of mechanisms and procedures that improve citizens’ access and ability to exercise their rights. Defensive procedures should be understood in this light. These include the intake and investigation of complaints brought by the population, together with recommended actions and follow-up; investigations and other official actions taken in response to human rights abuses; filing of constitutional remedies; and human rights reporting. Through each of these procedures, the ombudsman’s office demonstrates, in a practical, direct way, that anyone can demand his or her rights and obtain results; and that every small success contributes cumulatively to significant social change. Empowering People Shortly after the ombudsman’s office began its work, it was observed that the civic culture in Bolivia was marked by poor self-esteem and accountability. This is characteristic of the behavior of the public and of civil servants alike, and has a significant impact on their relationships and, in turn, on the exercise of human rights. Hence, in accordance with the law that created the ombudsman’s office, resources have been allocated for ongoing dissemination and educational campaigns that speak to understanding and exercising human rights. These messages are explicit with regard to the complementarity between rights and duties, the inevitable relationship between the public and the state, and citizens’ role in exercising their own rights. Progress in human rights is related to the ability of the population to demand them. This is a matter of not only information but also, and essentially, action. Citizens must be empowered to confront the vestiges of a frequently authoritarian and passive culture. It is clear that this goes beyond an internal effort, centered inside a single institution, and that it entails coordination with the population. Although it might come across as a platitude, it is important to reaffirm that only by knowing their rights can people exercise them. For this reason, building citizenship entails government efficiency in responding to people’s demands, as well as a more proactive citizenship. Any initiative to promote citizenship and educate people about it must

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take into account the intrinsic relationship between the exercise of citizenship and the exercise of human rights. This is tantamount to a dual approach that addresses the underlying structural conditions of poverty and social exclusion as well as the cultural aspects of civic behavior.

Notes 1. In October 2003, a large and turbulent protest developed in the seat of the government, located in La Paz. After a few weeks, it ended with the resignation and departure from the country of then-president Gonzalo Sánchez de Lozada. Immediately, in accordance with the federal political constitution, Congress enacted presidential succession, positioning Vice President Carlos Mesa Gisbert as the new chief of state. Mesa was forced to resign in July 2005, and was succeeded, through a constitutional provision, by Eduardo Rodríguez Veltzé, president of the Supreme Court of Justice. 2. The human rights ombudsman is a state institution, without public powers, inspired by the Swedish word ombudsman, which refers to a person whose task is to care for the interests of others, a charge that was implemented in Sweden in 1700. It was also a way for the king to control power. The mission of the ombudsman is understood as a resource endowed by its own state to efficiently fulfill its task of guaranteeing the human rights of the citizenry. In Bolivia, the institution was created by a constitutional mandate in the Law of 1818, promulgated in December 1997. 3. As a member of parliament (1982–1997), del Granado pressured for the prosecution of dictator Luís García Meza, who was sentenced to thirty years in prison without the possibility of early release. In 1999, del Granado, director of his own self-created political party, was elected mayor of La Paz. 4. The mission of the human rights ombudsman is to “safeguard the effective exercise and enforcement of rights and guarantees in relation to all administrative activities in the public sector; it also works for the promotion, exercise, dissemination and defense of human rights” (Law of 1818, art. 1).

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12 Participation and Democracy: The Case of Argentina Carlos March

In Article 38, the reformed Argentine constitution of 1994 indicates that “political parties are fundamental institutions of the democratic system.” Moreover, the parties are the entities that monopolize access to public office. Nevertheless, political parties, which were constitutionally established to build a framework of ideological foresight, form political cadres, and build confidence between leaders and citizens, became mere tools to powerful leaders, who put parties at the service of their own or other interests. Through the words of Minister of Internal Affairs Aníbal Fernández during a meeting with Poder Ciudadano (Citizen Power)—“the parties are the problem of party members and not of the citizens”—we can project the decreased reach that the announced political reform will have. The right to vote, which for its part was a tool designed to legitimize representatives, does not function as a decisive element, but merely as an instrument that ends up endorsing decisions already made by party structures that are closed to citizens and, in many cases, to party members themselves. In other words, neither political parties nor the right to vote guarantees the essential links of social confidence and legitimate representation that sustain representative democracy. In addition to these factors, we must note the weakness of the institutions of democracy and the vulnerability and absence of norms that the majority of Latin American countries experience, with Argentina being a particularly good example due to the economic, political, and institutional crisis in December 2001 that ended the government of Fernando de la Rúa.

Some Contextual Information Argentina is a country in which the republican powers have a low public approval rating that has been dragging since the early 1990s. According to 219

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surveys done by the Union Study Center for the New Majority, which is directed by Rosendo Fraga, the approval rating for the National Congress fell from 15 percent in 1990 to 10 percent in 1999. The judiciary’s approval rating fell from 21 percent to 7 percent over the same period. The approval rating for political parties fell from 13 percent in 1991 to 11 percent in 1999. The panorama of the 1990s does not seem to have changed in the twenty-first century. According to the 2002 Latinobarómetro survey by the Latin American Consortium of Market Research Companies, confidence in institutions is equally low. While the average confidence level for Latin America was 14 percent, only 4 percent of Argentines said they placed “a lot of” or “some” confidence in political parties, with 92 percent declaring they had little or no confidence in the government; 90 percent declared the same for the National Congress and the judiciary. These levels of mistrust are twenty times higher than those for the rest of Latin America. While President Néstor Kirchner does enjoy a positive image, it appears to be based more on personal gestures than on state politics. According to an annual ranking by Transparency International concerning the perception of corruption, where 10 indicates the most honest country and 1 indicates the country most permeable to corruption, Argentina oscillated between a maximum score of 3.5 and a minimum of 2.5 from 1996 to 2003. This demonstrates that the country finds itself in a hotbed of structural corruption. This revelation coincides with what most worries Argentines: according to Gallup Argentina, since December 1990 corruption has always been ranked among the country’s top three problems. Other problems that have stood out include unemployment, education, poverty, and insecurity. Even so, according to the 2002 Latinobarómetro study, which covered seventeen countries in Latin America, 65 percent of Argentines said they agreed that “democracy is preferable to any other form of government.” The average for all the Latin American countries was 56 percent. On the other hand, 52 percent of Argentines—the average percentage for the rest of Latin America— responded that “there can be no democracy without political parties.” This diagnosis demands from the citizen not just nominal participation in a party, or participation tied to voting, but rather full participation in democratic life by entering into public administration, contributing to government policies, and seeking a way to democratize the functions of political parties. Only through participation can democracy socially license the ruling class to represent the citizens.

Twenty Years of Democracy and Civil Society Argentina’s democratic process, initiated on December 10, 1983, gives us some indications of the challenges that civil society will confront in the future if it wants to turn citizen participation into a process of transformation.

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From Public Space to Public Institutions In over two decades of democracy in Argentina, citizens have limited their participation to the public space, leaving public institutions in the hands of political, union, and business leaders. This allowed for the state to be captured by these leaders, who put it at the service of their own interests, disrupting the institutions of participation and deactivating the organisms of control. Now, the challenge is to achieve an integrated action strategy that allows for an equilibrium between citizens’ use of public space for protest and for defining the public agenda, and their use of public institutions to define social quality of life. From Absence of Norms and Legislative Demagoguery to Rule of Law One aspect of Argentine institutional weakness is linked to the lack of basic laws to exercise rights or facilitate citizen participation. Perhaps the most illustrative example is the absence of a national law granting access to public information. However, there is also legislative demagoguery in which laws are passed that mandate limits but do not punish failure to uphold the law, or in which tools that are mandated to promote participation and allow access to rights are not distributed. Civil society needs to increase its oversight and monitoring efforts. From Autism to Social Networks Institutional capture does not materialize itself in isolated people but in networks that respond to common interests. Meanwhile, social organizations fragment based on different values, which impedes them from advancing in successful collective actions. When Argentine networks include political leaders who respond to the values that the society demands and isolate those who defend their own interests; when business is conducted through investments and not negotiated with the resources of the state; when networks include small entrepreneurs and producers who seek to consolidate a sovereign, social economy; and when civil society works for common values and facilitates and articulates its work through networks, then laws, institutions, and democracy can be recovered, and networks of ineptitude and corruption can be replaced with virtuous networks. The secret: like begets like. In this way, the impact of actors in networks and coalitions will be increased. From Affinity to Transversality Argentine networks have historically united around similar agendas and kindred topics. The scale of the current crisis demands that civil society organizations try to form alliances transversally; that organizations with a national reach work together with entities that have a provincial or local impact; that

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organizations specializing in different topics, such as building solidarity and focusing on an institutional impact, work together; and that formal organizations, such as foundations and civil associations, interact within the new spaces brought about by the crisis, such as social movements of unemployed workers, recuperating businesses, or neighborhood assemblies. From Mobility to Purging The leading political class in Argentina, which was harshly criticized during the 2001 crisis—captured in the extreme by the popular phrase “they all must go”—incredibly was able to recycle itself for the electoral calendar of 2003. In this way, leaders whose political careers were ended were able to camouflage themselves in electoral lists that allowed them to reoccupy legislative, provincial, and local posts. Also, national leaders who would not have been able to retain their public functions through electoral means were reincorporated through the direct channel of appointments in provincial and local governments or in the national government. It may be naive to think that the citizenry, given that it has left democracy in the hands of the political class for over twenty years, could recuperate the institutions of democracy in a year and a half of crisis. However, it is important to work on reform processes to democratize the functioning of the political parties and promote both political and state reform that guarantees the improvement of electoral offerings and the contest for public office, in order to purge the Argentine political leadership. From the Ballot Box to Force Fields The 2001 crisis implied that the people would begin to understand that participation at the ballot box must be complemented with an everyday attitude of political, social, and institutional militancy. This means that those who concentrate on institutional control, oversight of the rule of law, participation in public policy, and citizen control should be able to construct “force fields,” through which boundaries are created around public institutions so that functionaries execute public policies and legislators dictate the norms that citizens demand, as well as work for the common good. There are three fundamental aspects to creating a force field: • Critical mass. The resources needed to promote action and generate consequences in public policies must be identified. These resources can be financial or human, such as through developing ties with the media or other social actors (e.g., nongovernmental organizations, academia, journalists). • Social anchoring. Citizens must address topics that drive them to action, so that they can actively participate in the proposed strategies.

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• Diffusion of power. The asymmetry of power that exists between the state and civil society must be balanced. Through strategic alliances with other social actors, strategic communication, international support, and other forms of adding value, the driving force behind an action can increase its limited real power and turn it into diffused power, thereby not allowing the state to neutralize the action.

Impact at the National and Local Levels An analysis of Argentina should divide itself between two foci: the national level, where there is still a lot of work to do to limit the use of discretion in the management of institutions; and the provincial and local levels, where the monopoly of power causes democracies to become feudal systems. Because of this, it is important to achieve equilibrium by constructing a civil society that has the ability not only to achieve impact at the national level, but also to participate in provincial and municipal government. When national organizations interact with provincial and local organizations, they need to do so without invading local agendas. There should be an absolute respect for local decisionmaking concerning what topics to prioritize, which tools to use, what strategies to develop, and which alliances to forge. Once capacity is created at the provincial and local levels, national organizations must accompany the provinces and municipalities in developing their strategies. This adds value to the effectiveness of local civil society and ensures that local power will not neutralize and annul the strategies and actions that drive provincial and local organizations. It is important for local actors to feel that they are supported and protected against reprisals that they might suffer from local powers. National organizations, which are moving targets for the power of local pressure, need to interact and have a physical presence in the provinces and municipalities during those moments of impact. Here, they can reduce and neutralize the pressures that threaten local organizations as fixed targets.

Various Means of Control and Impact Monitoring Institutions: Appropriation of Public Space Argentine nongovernmental organizations have developed an excellent exercise based on protest and the use of public space to define political and media agendas. But to consolidate their social role, they are challenged to advance toward efficacy in public politics. This means they must assume

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the public space, which is to say, enter into the institutions of democracy and observe how they function, know who is who in each organization, and solicit public information. This allows not only for control of public administration, but also for a clear diagnosis of how institutions function, which allows for immediate action. Knowing the different actors of these bodies allows civil society to select the functionaries that execute public policies, in order to establish strategic alliances or to establish agreements for collaboration. Poder Ciudadano, the local chapter of Transparency International, has developed two bodies for institutional monitoring in Argentina: the Judiciary Council and the National Congress. The Judiciary Council was created in 1999 and has five basic functions: to select judges, remove judges, apply disciplinary sanctions, structure the budget of the judiciary, and promote reforms in the administration of justice. The monitoring team, which comprises three lawyers and one law student and was organized by Poder Ciudadano, proactively diagnoses weaknesses and strengths and proposes actions and tools to deepen transparency in the functioning of the council. For example, a citizen initiative asked council members to guarantee the inclusion of basic principles when defining internal bylaw: transparency, guaranteed access to information, implementation of a merit-based system to appoint judges, and the guarantee of citizen participation by making both the meetings of the topical committees and the plenary sessions public. When the bylaw was defined, it was compared with the citizen initiative, and the newspaper La Nación published an article citing the omissions that were considered a departure from the requested principles, allowing for public debate, for the first time, regarding internal regulation. In 2000, the Social Forum for Justice—a nongovernmental collaboration— presented an initiative during the public hearings of the Judiciary Council, based on which the council decided to create three types of hearings: two types of public workshops to be sponsored by the council itself, to inform the public about its work, and, at the request of Social Forum for Justice, a public type of hearing to address agreed subjects. There have been two public hearings at the request of social organizations, in 2001 and 2002, which were attended by an average of 125 people seeking to learn about the work of the Judiciary Council, pose questions, and present initiatives directly to the council members. Another regulation proposed by civil society within the Judiciary Council concerned removal of council members. After the trial of a council member accused of having received bribes at the beginning of 2001, a note was sent requesting that the council analyze the situation. As a result, it was discovered that the council did not have a procedure for removing its members. Immediately, Poder Ciudadano sent a note requesting that one be implemented, after which Poder Ciudadano began to monitor the work of the council’s regulatory commission. It took about eight

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months to come to a consensus regarding regulations on the removal of council members, but it was not discussed in the council’s plenary session. In February 2002, Poder Ciudadano organized a demonstration on the corner where the offices of the council are located and, in an appeal to irony, passed out birthday cake to celebrate the one-year anniversary of not having passed the regulation. The act was widely covered in the press, and twenty days later the regulation was discussed and approved. Another institutional monitoring body was organized by Poder Ciudadano in March 2001 to monitor the National Senate. A group of fifteen citizens has the opportunity to attend Senate sessions and commission meetings, ask for public information, analyze internal rules and laws, and interview senators. Based on the information gathered, the citizen monitoring group has written two reports (2001 and 2002), both of which have been used to reform internal regulations. When the citizen group began their monitoring, in July 2001, and presented themselves at the entrance to Congress, asking to be present during its sessions, which by law are public, security officers obstructed their passage and told them that the meetings were not public, that they were not allowed, or that they had to ask for permission by telephone ahead of time. After the citizens explained that they were members of Poder Ciudadano and asked to speak to the chief of security, they were given authorization to enter and told that there had been a “misunderstanding.” In the face of this pressure, a group of ten volunteers organized themselves and, every two minutes, approached the entrance to Congress and asked to enter, but without mentioning their association with any institution. As a result, the ten citizens were denied access. The media were immediately contacted and the news was spread. A short time later, at the request of Poder Ciudadano, signs were posted that listed the requirements that a person needed to be able to enter the Congress, resolving the situation. In a similar experience in 2001, when the volunteers from Poder Ciudadano tried to find out about the schedules of the Senate’s thematic commission meetings, forty-four of the fifty-one commissions obstructed citizens’ access. Senate employees demanded that a written application for attendance be submitted, or stated that the meetings were not public. Only six of the commissions made the days and times of their normal meetings public. The majority of the commissions did not have fixed times and days for meetings, some did not know how to disseminate the information, others did not want to inform the public because they considered the meetings to be reserved, and in some cases commission members did not even meet, according to the employees that were consulted. As a result of the systematic monitoring of the Senate, the volunteers currently receive much better treatment from Senate employees and advisers and they usually acquire access to the information they solicit. The internal regulations of the Senate

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were greatly improved based on observations made in the reports by Poder Ciudadano, the number of Senate commissions was reduced to twenty-five, and public hearings for the election of Supreme Court justices were solidified, a process that had previously been carried out behind closed doors. Monitoring Norms: The Law Is Not Enough James Madison, the fourth president of the United States, maintained that “a popular government without popular information . . . is nothing more than a prologue to a farce or tragedy, or perhaps, both at the same time” (Hunt 1910, p. 103). In the United States there are laws that guarantee the access to information and that mandate transparency of government. They allow for the exhibition of state documents in public places such as libraries, create free public access to electronic databases or guarantee access to public information, and require public meetings of collegiate bodies or of the federal executive branch. There are laws that protect federal employees who reveal information about the irregular conduct of their superiors, and that provide citizens access to personal information about themselves. There are laws that provide private information that concerns the public interest, such as the private financial situations of government functionaries. While in Argentina there have been advances in the sanctioning of regulations since 1999, the fact that a law exists does not guarantee access to information. For example, Argentina’s law on public ethics, like its counterpart in the United States, requires government functionaries to make public, sworn declarations about their personal financial situations. Nevertheless, only the executive branch, through the Office of Anticorruption, has implemented a system of access to this information. Poder Ciudadano had to go to court to get the same information from the legislative and judicial branches. It won its case against the Argentine Senate, and finally, in 2002, after a year of legal battle, it succeeded in requiring the judge to force the House of Representatives to implement a mechanism to allow access to this information. There is no national law in Argentina that guarantees access to public information. In 2002 a group of fifteen organizations began pushing for such a law to be created by the Office of Anticorruption in consultation with civil society. The executive branch finally presented the law to Congress at the beginning of 2002, and at the beginning of 2003 the House of Representatives passed it. In 2004 the senators modified the law and returned it to the House of Representatives, where it is about to lose the parliamentary treatment. On the other hand, Buenos Aires has a law, from 1998, that guarantees access to public information to any citizen who needs it. According to Poder

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Ciudadano, this law is practically unknown by the residents of Buenos Aires, but more seriously, this ignorance extends to a large portion of the government functionaries who must apply it, and to almost all the municipal employees who should be able to offer this information. The majority of Poder Ciudadano’s requests for information have resulted in appeals before the judiciary to obligate the government of the city of Buenos Aires to uphold the access law as put forth by the executive branch of the city government. The Buenos Aires law decrees that the city government must fulfill any citizen request for information within ten working days if the request refers to existing data that do not need to be produced especially for the citizen. The ten working days can be extended to twenty if the requested information is difficult to locate. If Buenos Aires does not deliver the information within the deadline or delivers partial or incomplete information, the citizen can initiate a court appeal to force its delivery. This procedure was monitored by Poder Ciudadano, based on a request for information; it was enacted into law by the attorney general of Buenos Aires on May 30, 2000. The attorney general concluded that the city should deliver the requested information in terms of what is available according to the norms. Another norm that is being monitored concerns the financing of electoral campaigns. The financing of politics should no longer be an issue of theoretical debate and should become a focus of action. In order for this to happen, two aspects need to be considered: the laws and the political will to uphold them. There is no value in having one without the other. A good example is the 2000 elections of the chief of government of Buenos Aires, where legislators, who in December 1999 passed a law regulating electoral campaigns, broke the same law the following May when they were candidates.1 Those responsible for the campaign of Aníbal Ibarra, a candidate for chief of government from the Alliance Party, and the campaign of Gustavo Béliz, candidate for deputy chief of government from Encounter for the City, did not pay attention to some of the regulations that they had earlier voted for as legislators. Both groups spent more than the legal limit (US$2,042,688): Alliance declared US$2,345,399 to the general auditor of Buenos Aires, and Encounter for the City declared US$2,093,180. They also did not comply with the regulations that obligate parties to put the name and telephone number of the printing press on every poster placed in a public area. During the first week of the elections, there were posters all over the city without this information; Poder Ciudadano denounced this omission. Thus, not only is it necessary to define how political activity is financed, regulated, and controlled, but it is also necessary to clearly define the repercussions, in case the regulations are not adhered to, and to clearly

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define which agencies will apply the regulations when there is no political will to comply with them. A particular and frequent illegal use of power by the state is concentrated in the production of official propaganda during election periods. It is very common to see the use of propaganda concerning government acts and achievements when a candidate also holds office. An example of this happened during the presidential campaign of 1999, in which Eduardo Duhalde, candidate for president for the Justicialist Party and at the same time governor of Buenos Aires, spent US$5,400,000 in broadcasting the work of his government in October, the month of the election, and US$350,000 in November, when there was no electoral contest. In the period from January to July 2003, during the elections for chief of government of Buenos Aires, Aníbal Ibarra, who was seeking reelection, invested double the amount that was spent on official government propaganda during the same period in 2002. Monitoring Processes: The Democratic Metamorphosis To cleanse the judiciary of inept or corrupt judges, the functioning of two systems must be respected: the removal of and the selection of magistrates. It does nothing if a judge is removed for poor performance through indictment by the Judiciary Council and the Jury of Prosecution if the system that evaluates the admission of future judges—based on austerity and independence as implemented by the council’s Selection Committee—is replaced by the political resolution that some members of the Senate’s Accords Commission promote. The Judiciary Council took about a year to define and implement a system to select judges based on rigor, evaluating antecedents, and organizing interviews between council members and candidates. The process defines a list of three candidates in order of the points they have obtained, which is forwarded to the president, who designates one of the three, and then forwarded to the Senate for agreement or rejection. In a public confession, Adolfo Gass, a former senator from the Radical Party on the Accords Commission, recognized that, in reference to the previous system, “judges were named by alternating between the Radicals and Justicialists,” the two major parties in Argentina.2 There were some movements in this direction during the government of Fernando de la Rúa. President Kirchner established, by decree, a system of public consultation about the list of three candidates that the Judiciary Council submits for appointing national and federal judges, which implies a qualitative shift in the selection process and in limiting even more the discretional power of the president. Within the council’s Selection Committee, some counselors produce reports that, according to the political inclination of the candidate, alter the established order for

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evaluation of their records and evidence against them. This became public during the case of the three candidates selected for the Twelfth Federal Court of the Capital, a fact that motivated a few counselors to enlist the media in order to show their concern with respect to the issue, including the question of why external juries even bother to meet if later the counselors modify the verdicts according to their own criteria. All of this confirms that when one tries to change the judicial branch in Argentina, it does not matter very much, because what is of true importance is power. This is dangerous conduct for such a critical process, in that the selection of judges determines how justice will be administered in the country. This situation is notably worse in the provincial judiciaries, where independence of the judiciary is permanently subjugated. In Santa Cruz, when President Kirchner was governor, the post of attorney general was divided and the person who had this role, who had initiated investigations about the administration of functionaries of the provincial government, was dismissed. There were similar situations with independent judges in the provinces of Salta and San Luis. The provincial Judiciary Council is also influenced by local political powers. For example, in the province of Tierra del Fuego, the wife of the former governor occupied one of the five seats on the provincial Judiciary Council, and the former governor, who was the personal lawyer to former president Carlos Menem, became president of the Supreme Court. Another process monitored by civil society was a series of political reform measures that were announced but never implemented. In 2002 an agreement was signed between the national government and the provincial governments to move forward a series of fourteen efforts to promote democratization of political parties, the transparent functioning of politics, and control over the electoral process. Only small modifications were made to the electoral code, to demarcate the duration and cost of campaigns; at the same time, though a law that made internal elections of political parties open and compulsory was sanctioned, it was not implemented during the next year’s presidential elections. A commission to follow up with the political reform was created, comprising members of the executive and legislative branches and leaders from civil society and academia. This commission was ignored by the Kirchner administration, which declared a new process of political reform and created a new commission in which participation of civil society organizations was reduced to mere consultation. Preventative Monitoring: Transparency Is Business Poder Ciudadano, as the local chapter of Transparency International, carries out a program of transparent contracting in Argentina, which is applied to public contracts that have high social impact. The role of civil society is to

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monitor the development of the two tools that make up this program: public hearings and the pact of integrity. A successful, municipal-level case in which the government saved US$13 million in a four-year trash-collection contract, arrived at through a public bidding process, illustrates this type of monitoring. In December 1999, new officials in the municipal government of Morón took office. Morón, located in Buenos Aires, is one of the most important municipalities in Argentina. The previous four-year contract for trash collection and disposal, street sweeping, sewer cleaning, and landscaping, held by the company Taym (of the Roggio group), for US$45,120,000, was set to expire in July 2000. The context in which the public bidding would take place was critical: the previous municipal chief, Juan Carlos Rousselot, had been thrown out of office for irregularities in the administration of a budget that exceeded US$90 million annually and had made Morón, a municipality of 370,000 inhabitants, a paradigm of corruption. In view of this situation, Municipal Chief Martín Sabbatella entered into an agreement with Poder Ciudadano to develop a program of transparent contracting. Public hearings. On June 15, 2000, a special public session was convoked by the Deliberative Council of Morón, with the objective of discussing the bidding process for trash collection. This initiative, previously unheard of at the level of local government, consisted of combining a session of the Deliberative Council with a public hearing that was open and participatory, such that all the actors involved (authorities, legislators, businesspeople, workers, neighbors) could voice their opinions about a process that would greatly impact the quality of life in their community. The public hearing demonstrates the concept of preventative transparency, allowing for the anticipation of possible conflicts, the circulation of information, and the optimization of governmental decisions. During the hearing, Municipal Chief Sabbatella spoke, as did the presidents of the three main blocs of commissioners (from the Justicialist Party, Action for the Republic, and the Alliance Party), representatives of the drivers union, representatives of business, and thirty-seven citizens. The actors took interesting stands in their proposals. The Justicialist bloc began by distinguishing themselves from the previous administration of Municipal Chief Rousselot, forming strong critiques of the trash-collecting company Orange, which was under the proprietorship of the former municipal chief. They also defended the rights of workers contracted by Orange and asked that international competition be excluded. The union workers, for their part, signaled that priority must be given to national companies and expressed that the bidding did not guarantee that all of the workers would find work in trash collection even if the company

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were to change owners. The citizens of Morón who attended the hearing formulated the creation of a municipal, intermunicipal, or regional entity that would allow not only for trash collection, but for recycling as well. Along with this proposal, citizens strongly criticized CEAMSE—the agency that regulates trash at the national level in Argentina. Citizens also demanded that cooperatives be considered as possible bidders. Another proposal involved municipalizing the trash-collection service to save money. One of the people who formed this proposal, a former counselor and former provisional municipal chief, stated that “if the adjudication [proved] onerous for the municipality, it reserves the right to make the pertinent denunciations.” Adding to the value of this public hearing process, Municipal Chief Sabbatella promoted the creation of a pact of integrity, making Morón the first Argentine municipality to subscribe to this type of agreement. Pact of integrity. The pact of integrity that Morón made with four companies that participated in the bidding, monitored by a nongovernmental organization, turned out to be an effective formula to guarantee compliance with the law, establishing practical mechanisms of mutual control between the administration and the bidders. The pact is a strategy to achieve a gradual cultural change in public bidding, through which the government will ensure transparency in the design of the basis for bidding, the process of adjudication, and the execution of the contract. It also guarantees that no public functionary will demand or receive bribes. The bidding companies, on the other hand, commit themselves to not offering bribes and to denouncing anyone who does. The principal points that make up the pact are as follows: • Participating companies will not offer or accept bribes. For their part, functionaries and municipal advisers also will not ask for or accept any payment or other favor on behalf of the participating companies in exchange for favor in obtaining or retaining contracts. • Participating companies commit themselves to preparing a proposal with reliable information and to not presenting an artificially low price with the intention of trying to compensate said price with additional payments during the execution of the contract. • With respect to business-related payments, participating companies agree that the payments to agents and other third parties will be limited to a reasonable compensation for services clearly associated with business, and agree that if there is a formal complaint of bribery, an arbitrator will be designated. No such complaints had been levied as of 2006. • In the case of a bidder who does commit bribery and is found guilty by the arbitrator, sanctions will be applied, such as job termination, a fine

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equal to 10 percent of the value of the contract in the favor of the other applicants that participated in the bidding, and forced abstention from the public bidding processes in Morón for a five-year period. • If a functionary or adviser commits bribery and is found guilty by the arbitrator, sanctions will be applied, such as immediate dismissal and public denouncement. • To guarantee the possibility of monitoring the established commitments, bidders will make copies of their technical and economic proposals available to the other participants. Morón’s experience with its pact of integrity demonstrates significant achievements in saving money and implementing transparent actions in a public contract. The public changed about 70 percent of the draft delivered by the municipal executive; the following changes were the most significant: • The agreement was focused on the results of the trash-collecting service rather than on the technical details of the bid. Additionally, it avoided involving the municipality in a field in which it was not an expert and thus could not measure the impact. • The number of years of experience demanded of a trash-collection company was reduced from ten to four, expanding the number of businesses that were able to participate in the bidding. • Bank guarantees were used to ensure the solvency of the bidder companies. • Quality of service was designed to reach ISO 14000 certification. • Environmental protection conditions were incorporated. In the creation of Morón’s pact of integrity, the political will of the municipal chief was combined with the commitment of businesses to operate in a transparent framework. As a principal innovation, the pact adopted an incentive-based method toward businesses, to resolve conflicts more rapidly and effectively than would occur in the justice system, such as through an arbitrator. It strengthened the punishment for bribery, established checks and balances, and guaranteed that the information in each stage of the process would be public. This permitted Morón to award the existing trash-collection service, under the Taym company for a sum of US$45,120,000 for four years, to a new company, Urbaser Argentina, for a sum of $32,160,000 for the same period, a savings of US$12,960,000. Other monitoring experiences in Argentina. In Buenos Aires, in a new subway project to join Retiro, located in the north, with Puente Uriburu, located in

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the south, the city government had planned to begin its construction in 2000 with Retiro’s Plaza Miserere, located in the city’s northern zone. In a public forum, the majority of neighbors and legislators suggested that construction begin at Uriburu Bridge, located in the city’s southern zone, which had greater need of transportation infrastructure. As a result of the forum, the city changed its plan and initiated construction at Uriburu Bridge. Another recent experience, at the national level, was initiated in October 2003 in the Ministry of Education. Based on an agreement signed by that body and the two chambers of commerce, which brought together more than seventy textbook publishers, three tools—an integrity pact, a participatory system to define the criteria for selecting texts, and a mechanism for defining which criteria could be a conflict of interest for the text selection committee—were implemented to maintain a level of transparency in the direct purchase of over 3 million books for US$15 million. This purchase was to be monitored by civil society, and a participatory system was to be developed to define the criteria for selecting the texts. Participatory Monitoring: The Budget in Sight With the support of Avina, a nonpartisan nonprofit, Poder Ciudadano has been developing a participatory budgeting program in Buenos Aires since February 2001. The objective of this program is to promote and support citizen participation in the definition of public policy and its implementation, under a framework for sustainable development that establishes and strengthens institutionalized spaces, channels, and mechanisms needed to openly debate and implement concrete initiatives. The program seeks to guarantee community participation in creating, defining, and regulating the budget of Buenos Aires, through relief of demands raised by particular sectors of society, consensus over the priorities of each zone, and monitoring execution of the budget. The program has two main objectives: first, to develop the budget-monitoring capacity of civil society, and second, to conduct a collaborative pilot experience in implementing a participatory budget, under the framework laid out in Article 52 of the Buenos Aires constitution, which as of 2006 has still not been applied or regulated. In this vein, numerous meetings were held at the neighborhood level to disseminate information about, and develop familiarity with, the design, definition, approval, and execution of the city budget. These meetings allowed for deeper discussions about possible mechanisms to open the process to more citizen participation in the future. In mid-2002, Buenos Aires implemented a system of public discussion to define budgeting priorities, even though there was no law to regulate it. More than 5,000 people participated in the resultant neighborhood assem-

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blies. A consultative board is now in place, comprising members of the local government, nongovernmental organizations, and neighborhood representatives elected by their peers. *

*

*

The development of institutional monitoring mechanisms in Argentina has enabled civil society to become an effective space for controlling public administration and public policies, and to begin undertaking monitoring of its own.

Notes 1. The position of chief of government was created in the 1994 Argentine constitution. The chief of government is essentially a mayor for the entire city of Buenos Aires, which is then subdivided into smaller municipalities, each overseen by a municipal chief. 2. The Justicialist Party, as it is officially known, is more commonly known as the Peronist Party.

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13 Representation and Active Citizenship in Ecuador César Montúfar

Article 26 of the Ecuadorian constitution establishes the capacity and reach of political participation by Ecuadorian citizens. It does not limit the participation to the framework established by classic representation models; rather it opens a wide spectrum of political rights as much in the sphere of citizen participation in representative acts of government (electing and being elected, performing public functions) as in areas of direct intervention (popular referendum, monitoring the acts of public power, revoking an elected official’s mandate, presentation of laws).1 In this way, the Ecuadorian constitution opens an important space so that citizen initiative can influence spheres of governance. Constitutionally speaking, citizenship in Ecuador is not only a passive exercise of rights and obligations; it also has the potential to project itself into spheres of action that allow for a much more active citizenry. This chapter analyzes the possibilities and limitations of citizen participation in consolidating democracies like that of Ecuador. It offers a strong critique of the antipolitical rhetoric that has gained ground in Ecuador and Latin America. It also combines the analysis of conceptual aspects concerning the role of political parties and the nature of political representation with a diagnosis of the crisis of representation penetrating parties and democratic institutions in the country. The chapter seeks to answer various questions: How can citizen participation strengthen representative democracy? What is the most appropriate relationship between political parties and civil society? What would be the keys for exercising active citizenship in consolidating democracies such as Ecuador’s? The answers to these questions lead one to think of citizen participation as a method to strengthen democracy through the expansion of rights, social control, and accountability; the strengthening of institutions; and the development of political innovation. The chapter concludes with a reflection about the necessary relationship between representation and participation, between representative party politics and constituent politics of civil society organizations—all of this in the 235

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direction of constructing a democratic system with the ability to produce the results that society demands and to consolidate political institutions that guarantee the fundamental rights of citizens.

Antipolitics, Representation, and Parties In several Andean countries, the political instability of the 1990s brought with it a profound crisis of traditional party structures and the emergence of antipolitical discourses that devalued representative politics based on the corruption associated with parties. The clearest cases of this phenomenon occurred in Peru during the Fujimori period, in Venezuela beginning in 1998, and recently in Bolivia. Ecuador, where antipolitical discourse originated in the populist tradition that gained strength in the 1940s, has not been an exception. Its principal advocate, five-time president José María Velasco Ibarra, always expressed an antiparty and anti-ideological rhetoric. The military regimes that took power in the 1960s and 1970s adopted a similar position, classifying the political class as an obstacle to their reform programs. In the democratic era, León Febres Cordero used the same antipolitical language, curiously filtered into a neoliberal agenda, to attack any opposition to his government. Although the forces that brandished this discourse have not been able to definitively defeat the party system, antipolitics in Ecuador did constitute the passport for the emerging civil society groups, such as the indigenous movement, to achieve national and local positions of representation. 2 A corollary to this mobilization was the military-indigenous alliance that overthrew President Jamil Mahuad in 2000, which later attained the presidency with Colonel Lucio Gutiérrez in 2002. Ecuadorian social movements established the idea that groups excluded from society were not represented in the party system and that they should look for alternative strategies of political participation. This participation could express itself through elections or through other mechanisms, such as direct access to public decisionmaking or even the exercise of nonconstitutional paths of revoking the mandate of elected officials under the justification that street mobilizations constitute genuine plebiscites against “governments that have betrayed” the expectations of the people. In any case, the antipolitical rhetoric that circulates in Ecuador and in other Latin American countries promotes the idea that the traditional paradigms of liberal democracy should be modified, and that the only way to deepen and legitimize contemporary democracies is to establish alternative forms to political participation that transcend the mediation of parties. This would increasingly include the recurrent use of plebiscites on topics of general interest, the direct participation of social and economic groups in the

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process of public decisionmaking, and the establishment of corporative mechanisms of participation within the state that would complement or substitute representative actors. The discussion on the limits and difficulties of modern representative models suggests a possible transition from representative to participatory or direct democracy. This sustains the very notion that representation is bankrupt and that only civil society and its organizations will have sufficient legitimacy to effectively bring the state closer to citizens. This discourse is accepted and resonates deeply in many sectors of Ecuadorian society, but unfortunately has strong antidemocratic connotations. This chapter maintains the premise that opposing the model of representative democracy to citizen participation constitutes a false dilemma. Representation does not exclude participation; rather it should support it through diverse forms of collaboration with legitimate authorities, mechanisms of accountability, the expansion of rights, and political innovation. Moreover, contemporary representative democracies increasingly require more and broader participation of citizens. Participation should not be seen as an alternative to representation, but rather as a mechanism to strengthen and legitimize it. In other words, the confrontation between representation and participation is somewhat illusory. Instead of confronting each other, they should relate to each other (see Echeverría 2003, p. 2). It is not enough, in this sense, to speak of a paradigm change or a structural transformation of the democratic model in the sense that direct citizen participation could replace representation and that a moment of transition, under the democratic model, would result. The question is not so much how to promote participatory democracy as how to strengthen representative democracy, through mechanisms of direct or indirect influence from an active civil society. The option of constituting participatory or direct democracies is simply impossible in societies where, due to their size and complexity, all citizens are not able to jointly and simultaneously make public decisions. Modern democracies are based on a separation between the state and the citizenry. Contemporary democracies, where the symbiotic relationship between state and society that was produced by the Greek polis is not possible, can only be institutionalized as an indirect system of limitation and control of power.3 Therefore, modern democracies are condemned to function in an indirect way. They cannot do away with the role of the intermediaries—the representatives. Because of this, unleashing rhetoric against representation, as the antipolitical discourse does, implies an attack on democracy itself. It is necessary, in this sense, to adequately discuss and locate the function of political representation in contemporary democracies. As Maurizio Cotta notes in the Dictionary of Politics, political representation concerns the establishment of a regularized relationship of control between the gov-

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erning and the governed. Additionally, political representation “consists of a process of election of those who will govern” (1991, p. 1390). Representation thus requires the creation, by the governed, of institutionalized mechanisms of electoral competition and political control over the elected. Both dimensions allude to the principle of political responsibility, one of the basic premises of modern representative democracies. Only political parties can fulfill representative functions in contemporary democracies. For this to occur, in accordance with Giovanni Sartori, parties should transcend their partiality and express a general interest: “Although a party only represents one part, this part should adopt an entirely impartial focus” (1999, p. 54). If this is not achieved, a party’s logic is no different than that of a faction. The key point is that parties act as “mechanisms of expression, that is, serve for the primary objective of vigorously communicating to the authorities the demands of the public as a whole” (p. 92). Although parties may be no more than political groups who present themselves in elections and place their members in political offices, they cannot function without expressing the interests of a sector or group beyond their immediate membership. Without this step, a party would be incapable of transcending its factional logic. The problem emerges when elected officials and political parties fail to fulfill their representative roles, which is one of the central problems of the Ecuadorian and most Latin American democracies. In Ecuador, the existing parties do not articulate the interests and demands of society, and they are far from being accountable to voters. Moreover, scholars of Ecuadorian political parties have highlighted the weakness of the party system in the country. 4 In addition to their pronounced personalism and inability to articulate general interests, Ecuadorian parties lack internal discipline and present high electoral volatility. It is common for active party members and candidates to circulate from one party to another from election to election. Besides that, parties in Ecuador demonstrate a factional logic in which they tend to directly express the interests of regional, economic, ethnic, and even family groups. Ecuadorian parties are very well trained to organize electoral campaigns and win elections, making it possible for those who support them to gain control of resources and state influence. In this way, elections are the route of direct or indirect access to state power for particular groups. Ecuadorian electoral machineries rarely present ideological programs. They rather express the will and interests of tiny groups geared toward the acquisition of a portion of political power. This generalization does not do justice to the efforts made by some political organizations in Ecuador during the past two decades. In fact, traditional parties such as the Democratic Left and the Social Christians have been able to consolidate themselves as ideological political organiza-

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tions (center-left and right-wing, respectively) and undertake national projects. Nevertheless, in one way or another, all parties in Ecuador ultimately depend on caudillo politics instead of promoting national political agendas. In recent years, the influence of national political parties has considerably diminished in Ecuador. If during the 1980s one could identify national parties with national leaders—indisputably the cases of the Social Christians and León Febres Cordero, the Democratic Left and Rodrigo Borja, and the Roldosists and Abdalá Bucaram—in the 1990s these parties could only claim a regional influence, in the best of cases. Progressively, national political parties have disappeared in Ecuador. Though parties with a regional strength still exist, national parties do not. This trend expresses a peculiar characteristic of contemporary Ecuadorian politics. In contrast to what has occurred since the 1990s in other Andean countries (the collapse of the party system in Venezuela, Peru, and Bolivia), in Ecuador, though the national political parties experienced a serious decline, they maintained themselves as crucial regional actors. This tendency manifests itself in the composition of local governments and the Ecuadorian Congress, which is elected only on the basis of provincial districts. The composition of the 2002 Congress, for instance, does not indicate the end of the parties, but rather their continuing ability to dominate the provincial electoral scene. In fact, if we add the number of seats attained by traditional political parties—that is, the Social Christian Party (twenty-five representatives), the Democratic Left (sixteen representatives), the Roldosist Party (fifteen representatives), the Popular Democracy Party (four representatives), the Socialist Party (three representatives), the Popular Democratic Movement (three representatives), and the Concentration of Popular Forces (one representative)—one finds that they controlled 70 percent of congressional seats.5 In contrast, a very different story occurred during national elections. If we compare electoral results of the 2002 presidential race, the top three positions were occupied by candidates who ran against the traditional party system: Lucio Gutiérrez, Álvaro Noboa, and León Roldós. The three presidential candidates together received 53.1 percent of the vote, defeating the candidates presented by the Democratic Left, the Social Christian Party, and the Roldosist Party, which together received 38.1 percent of the vote. Authors such as Flavia Freidenberg (2003) maintain that, at the regional level, the parties in Ecuador effectively fulfill various representative functions such as structuring electoral competition, creating a conceptual interpretation of political reality, establishing alliances, and providing cadres for the political system. For Freidenberg, at least in the regional realm, the parties serve as structures of political mediation, to the extent that the electors continue to consider them valid intermediaries.

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Nevertheless, parties manifest serious limitations in fulfilling these functions at the national level, in aggregating social demands, and in transcending their particular socioeconomic, regional, or family contexts. The unevenness of representation between national and regional politics clearly manifests itself in the level of citizen confidence that national and regional governments enjoy in Ecuador. According to a study conducted by the University of Pittsburgh in 2001, citizen support of the national government, Congress, and political parties reached 30.5 percent, 24.7 percent, and 21.4 percent, respectively, while institutions such as parish councils, municipalities, and provincial councils achieved much higher percentages: 46.9 percent, 46.7 percent, and 40.0 percent, respectively (Seligson 2002). In general, the level of support for local authorities such as mayors and prefects is much higher than that for national authorities. This has been a characteristic of Ecuadorian politics since the 1990s. For this reason, while instability and conflict have consumed the national political system, and while support for the executive and national institutions like Congress has declined consistently, support for local authorities has grown, to the point that many of them have been repeatedly reelected.6 In sum, it appears that local governments in Ecuador consolidate themselves as spaces for the deepening of democracy in which those who govern and those who are governed have real options to face their deficits in basic needs, and address topics related to minority rights, gender, and ethnic and cultural diversity, among others. Ecuadorians understand the factional logic that guides the actions of national political institutions, which has led to an acute crisis of representation in national politics. Citizens repudiate political participation and consider it an empty exercise dominated by corruption and lacking legitimacy. As a result, organized groups in society tend to bypass representative actors and promote direct access to state decisionmaking processes. Moreover, they prefer to avoid political parties or use them as direct channels to advance their interests. This process has been accompanied by the multiplication of public institutions governed by councils in which social and economic interest groups have direct representation, in a clear corporative format.7 In sum, during recent years and coupled with the national political instability experienced since 1995, the Ecuadorian democratic system has suffered the proliferation of unmitigated access by particular groups to public decisionmaking. At the same time, national political parties and institutions like Congress confront a pronounced crisis of representation. Far from expressing a strengthening of democratic forms of participation by citizens, this process implies a step back toward corporatism and the weakening of the rule of law. Given constant mobilization of economic and social groups who bypass national representative institutions, whoever possesses more resources always has the best chance to win, at the expense of the majori-

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ty—citizens who have neither the motivation nor the resources to organize. Without dispute, the crisis of representative actors brings with it a constant weakening of collective projects that express the general interest. The problem, as the antipolitical rhetoric so often likes to claim, is that even when electoral politics and competition at the national level lack prestige or legitimacy, civil society actors cannot take the place of parties. Simply put, civil society organizations cannot carry out representative functions that are derived only from competitive electoral events. Social organizations represent only those people who have voluntarily decided to constitute them, and thus are constituent, not representative, actors. Nevertheless, the temptation for substitution persists to the point that even parties and political movements seemingly tend to act like nonpolitical social groups, while many civil society organizations seek to represent collective projects. Furthermore, some civil society actors claim to represent the majority of citizens, and even claim to possess greater levels of legitimacy than do discredited political parties, even though these actors have not received any representative mandate through elections or become subject to the principles of political responsibility. In this sense, a civil society organization, no matter its prestige and goodwill, cannot fulfill a representative role unless it wins elections.

Spaces and Potential for Citizen Participation How can citizen participation contribute to representation without eroding or weakening it? What is the role of active citizenship in a limited democracy like that of Ecuador? To state that civil society actors cannot and should not occupy the place of political parties is not to suggest that the citizenry has no role to fulfill in strengthening democracy. To clear up these issues, we must begin from the recognition that not all participatory initiatives have a democratic impact. It is not about promoting participation for the sake of participation, since some citizen actions can express authoritarian values or practices—antipolitical, sexist, racist, and so forth. It is about provoking citizen involvement that promotes democracy and its values, consolidates institutions, and shoulders democratic leadership. Within this framework, when we speak of citizen participation we should recognize at least two areas for the exercise of citizenship. The first is passive citizenship, which implies the exercise of basic duties and obligations—namely voting (especially in countries like Ecuador, where voting is obligatory), paying taxes, and complying with the law. In exercising passive citizenship, the citizenry expects that elected authorities will do their work without establishing mechanisms of social control. Citizens simply trust that the institutions will satisfy their demands and expectations. In the realm of

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passive citizenship, citizens live democracy when they vote, forming part of a tenuous public opinion that indirectly influences the everyday actions of elected officials. Apart from voting, passive citizenship has no other form of everyday expression than that offered by opinion polls. It can sometimes have far-reaching influence, but only indirectly. The second area of participation is active citizenship, according to which citizens take the role of protagonists as much in the fulfillment of their obligations and duties as in guaranteeing the satisfaction of their rights. They may even go beyond this and constitute themselves as agents of collaboration, support, and innovation. Here, the exercise of citizenship transcends the space of what the law requires of citizens, which falls into the realm of passive citizenship, and centers itself on at least four lines of action: demand for and expansion of rights; control, oversight, and accountability; collaboration with authority and institutional strengthening; and political innovation. These lines of action are not exclusive and can mix themselves into the same participation initiative. Similarly, it would be difficult for one social actor alone to exercise all lines of action at the same time; the majority operate in one or two of these areas. Active citizenship entails processes of democratic learning as much for civil society actors as for political groups, and has the potential to bring forth not only new political practices, but also renovated conceptual frameworks for understanding social reality and practicing democracy. Demand for and Expansion of Rights This is the most frequent form of active citizenship. Historically, it has been one of the principal motors for the expansion and universalization of civil, political, and economic rights. In recent Ecuadorian history, the mobilization of social actors around the enactment of the 1998 constitution resulted in a significant expansion of rights for minorities and for excluded groups, as well as the establishment of third-generation and collective rights in areas such as the environment, communication, and access to public information. Financed mainly by local funds, this path of participation has been the pretext for organizing a large part of society around specific demands and interests. Here we find labor, business, indigenous people, women, and environment organizations, among others. The Ecuadorian tradition includes an early expansion of political, union, and economic rights. In 1929, Ecuador became the first Latin American country to grant women the right to vote, and became part of the continental wave of expansion of labor rights during the 1930s. On many occasions, although not all, initiatives for the expansion of rights did not come from organized social groups but from the state’s elite, especially dur-

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ing military governments. Nevertheless, it is evident that in recent years, and with the social leadership of the indigenous movement very much involved, Ecuadorian society has become broadly mobilized for the defense of acquired rights and the expansion of new ones. This type of participation risks twisting the involvement of society toward the achievement of corporate or informal privileges and the development of clientelistic relationships. Due to pressure by certain groups, there is a pronounced tendency for the state to cede resources and influence to mobilized social and economic elites, to make decisions to their benefit, and to permit them direct access to decisionmaking, all of this undermining the principle of political equality and the rights of the majority. Additionally, these forms of participation may limit the autonomy of society and reduce political participation to an exchange of social loyalties for state resources. They can strengthen privileged groups and distort the functioning of democratic institutions. The problem is not that organized sectors of society turn to the state to channel their specific demands and interests; the problem is that this can spill into the institutionalization of privileges for some, affecting the principle of equality among all citizens, eroding the majority’s interests, and weakening representative institutions. Despite these risks, the demand for and expansion of rights is one of the fundamental channels of exercising active citizenship. Social Control, Oversight, and Accountability In this line of active citizenship we find numerous initiatives undertaken to make authority accountable to society. Oversight and monitoring groups have emerged in many fields in Ecuador and Latin America, including the payment of external debt, anticorruption, children’s rights, fiscal policy, elections, and campaign spending. In the case of Ecuador, these initiatives are largely financed with international assistance channeled through local organizations, or are directly executed and financed by international nongovernmental organizations. The financial dependency of local groups raises the question of whether these spaces in which active citizenry is exercised are truly rooted in the country, or whether they are initiatives transplanted from abroad that only survive through international economic subsidies. One of the principal democratic contributions of this form of active participation lies in its possibility to produce qualified information concerning diverse topics of public interest. This information can be very useful to citizens in terms of better informing their decisions. Moreover, if information comes from independent sources, it can offer state officials new visions and viewpoints. Additionally, this path of active participation can promote better com-

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munication between the state and society, permitting the citizenry to obtain some level of social control and accountability. This contribution is crucial given that Latin American democracies, critically so in the case of Ecuador, suffer a lack of public information and effective channels for demanding accountability from authorities. When citizens give their opinions, vote, or decide on public matters, they often do so with no information about what authorities do or do not do. The channels of official information are almost exclusively limited to the kind of self-promotion that the authorities and institutions offer about their own initiatives. On many occasions, this information is aimed at shoring up the processes through which elected authorities seek reelection. Thus the function of citizen oversight and social control, through the work of observation or oversight groups, constitutes one of the most important spheres of active citizen participation. Oversight and observation groups can unintentionally run the risk of deepening citizen mistrust in representatives and institutions, feeding the antipolitical discourse and exacerbating rhetorical positions against democratic institutions and democracy itself. The antidote to this problem is for social monitors and observers not to project themselves as parastatal organizations that look to replace existing institutions. Even though this may be difficult, they should always keep in mind that societal oversight and social control are aimed at strengthening and relegitimizing institutions, not replacing them; nor should they become the political opposition of elected authorities. Nevertheless, citizen oversight, social control, and demand for accountability should start from a position of independence from the authorities and institutions being monitored. Without this, active participation can be manipulated to the point that citizens feel they are becoming accessories to the interests of state elites. Collaborating with Authority and Strengthening Institutions This is an underdeveloped field of citizen participation. Even though all the other forms of active citizenship imply collaboration with authorities, citizens can organize specific initiatives and act collaboratively with authority in order to enhance the positive results of public policies. In general, Ecuadorian society looks to state institutions as sources of resources, work opportunities, and influence, but does little to contribute to and collaborate with them. Nevertheless, labor unions, businesses, nongovernmental institutions, and other civil society groups have promoted collaborative activities areas such as legal reform, consensus building, civic campaigns on matters of public concern, and research on topics of national interest. One field that has recently gained relevance within this field concerns participatory budgeting processes by local governments. This has occurred

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exclusively in the realm of municipal and provincial spheres of government, and is considered to be the beginning of a renewed exercise of direct democracy that transcends the representative model. It is important, however, not to exaggerate the reach of participatory budgeting initiatives. Without depreciating their value in bringing the decisions of the state closer to the demands and expectations of the citizens, it is necessary to understand them as sound mechanisms of citizen collaboration with authority in key moments of the process of decisionmaking. Therefore, they should not imply the erosion of representation or a substitution of the role and responsibility of representatives. Another development of this type of participation concerns processes of institutional regeneration that emanate from society. In Ecuador, many public institutions find themselves trapped by networks of corruption, under the influence of groups and interests that impede them from acting in the public interest. This entrapment certainly blocks policy decisions and obstructs the quality and efficiency of public services. Under these circumstances, it is possible that civil society groups can organize themselves and temporarily assume administration of state institutions during crisis, develop within them processes of administrative restructuring, deactivate their networks of corruption, and redirect them toward fulfillment of the public good. Processes like these are definitely part of the existing tendency toward the privatization of certain public services. Hence, citizens must remain wary of the state being snatched away by interested sectors. This modality of citizen participation can only be valid if civil society—responsible for the general wellbeing—effectively contributes to the process of regenerating and strengthening state institutions, rather than using its participation as a pretext for the colonization of private interests inside these institutions. It is important to insist that, as with other forms of participation, collaboration between civil society and authorities should not diminish the autonomy of the social actors involved. The collaboration must establish the bases for a constructive relationship between state and society without allowing for illegitimate access to public decisions by social and economic groups, and without being used by the state to co-opt citizen groups. The objective of this form of participation is not to support public officials solely for the sake of supporting them, as out of personal loyalty, but to strengthen authority and democratic leadership and consolidate institutions in such a way that authorities and citizens generate synergistic relationships to obtain collective benefits. Political Innovation Another possibility for active citizen participation is political innovation. Parties and elected officials operate with a power-accumulating logic. Thus

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their behavior tends to be more pragmatic than based in normative considerations. The politics of parties and of democratic institutions is guided by the effectiveness of their results, given that they should be held accountable for their actions. In any given moment, through formal channels or in elections, they should be judged on whether or not they have completed their goals or fulfilled their electoral promises. Through their actions, they must not separate themselves from the principle of political responsibility, which is one of the pillars of the representative regime. This makes representative actors conservative; they are always reluctant to innovate. The position of citizens and civil society organizations is different. Societal actors do not experience the pressure to win elections and maintain positions of power. Their concern is to respond only to their visions and interests. Their responsibility is social, not political. This is saying that they are only accountable to themselves. Not subject to elections, societal actors are not subject to the principle of political control. The organizations that emerge from civil society, in this sense, have greater liberty to propose and to act. They do not depend on external approval, but rather on generating internal consensus and social mobilization. This liberty of civil society organizations can be enjoyed in many ways, such as the possibility of imprinting normative dimensions onto their initiatives, something that is rarely possible in power politics. The functioning of democracy is sustained on certain normative principles that often fall by the wayside to realpolitik. That this happens can prove effective for those actors who compete in elections or who fight to maintain power, but can also generate a serious ethical deficit in the operation of the democratic system. The participation of society, in this sense, can possibly promote these ethical issues and try to include them in the public agenda. Such innovation can be an important contribution when it comes to questions that concern democratic principles and values like tolerance, pluralism, and responsibility. In this way, active participation can provide democratic politics with a sense of ethics and renew the commitment to fundamental values that unite state elites with civil society, the representatives with the represented, in the context of different conceptions of public good or conflicting interests. Another realm of political innovation concerns the creation of spaces for democratic deliberation. Modern democracies require the operation of new mechanisms for the processing of society’s demands and of political communication between public officials and citizens. This implies innovating processes of citizen deliberation that enhance the quality of decisions and the results of democracy itself. This capacity finds itself completely unexplored in Ecuador. The very limitations of representative democracy make it difficult and complex, as well as even more necessary, to carry out mechanisms of deliberation. Deliberation can function as a link between

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participation and representation; it can help correct limitations, including the tendency to simplify complexity within heterogeneous and conflictive societies; and it can enrich representative democracy. If, through deliberation, society adds complexity to the reduced and simplified impulse of representation, the representative model can gain expressiveness and legitimacy. The administration and governance of complex societies require elaboration of decisions in which the learning and cognitive abilities of society, as well as of the actors who make decisions, come into play. In the words of Julio Echeverría, “Activating deliberation as a complementary function to participation and representation gives society a voice, installs true communicative processes, and redefines politics as the only possibility in a secular world to make sense of collective decisions” (2003, p. 7). In representative democracies, effective aggregation of demands and expression of social interests and identities have limitations, but these can be corrected through deliberative processes. In sum, the capacity of civil society for political innovation can set the framework for communication processes between state and social groups that allow for a more efficient operation of democratic institutions.

Conclusion: Articulating Representative and Constituent Politics Political parties attempt to reach and maintain power. Being representative actors, their role is to process social conflicts by reducing complexity and articulating divergent perspectives into national agendas. Party logic seeks an institutional logic; it produces, reproduces, and institutionalizes constituted power. Active participation of the citizenry moves in a different sphere of power, the constituent sphere. It may contribute to institutionalization, but overall it generates and condenses the creative energy of society, which is mobilized around its immediate needs and visions. While constituted power must obligatorily overcome factions and articulate common visions, the constituent power comes from the plural and particular experience that exists in society, mobilizing the energy of diversity. Constituted power seeks to express and institutionalize points of view expressed by all, while constituent power tries to unleash the creative force of its parts. Constituted and constituent powers are different in nature but are not contradictory. They move in distinct spheres but should relate to each other. Representative power functions principally in a zero- or negative-sum logic: the rest loses what the one wins in the electoral process. All distributive decisions are highlighted by this fatal logic. In contrast, constituent power does not necessarily correspond to a political logic based on negative sum-

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mations. Citizen action has a great potential to generate scenarios of political relationships from which collective power can in turn be generated. It is not that representation impedes the unleashing of collective power. It is simply that civil society finds itself in the best conditions to combine collective energies, because it does not have to occupy itself with electoral competition. Playing from the position of particularity allows exceptional creative liberty and potential. Social responsibility has fewer ties and limitations than that of political responsibility. In many ways, the strengthening of representative democracy depends on the articulation of constitutive and constituent political logics. In Ecuador, this articulation must take place at the national and local levels. While local governments offer greater opportunities for this to occur, work in national scenarios is equally necessary. From a civil society point of view, this project should materialize not through the undertaking of representative functions, but rather through the exercise of an active citizenry geared to promote the expansion of rights, enhance social control and accountability, practice collaboration with authorities, and innovate politically. In these four fields of active citizenship, participation can strengthen representation. Society can, from this perspective, generate an immense indirect influence over those who govern, improving the quality and results of democracy and the very exercise of citizen rights. If Ecuadorians don’t fall into the trap of participation solely for the sake of participation, or renounce their capacity for responsible civic action, they can positively transform their society and effectively democratize the political system.

Notes I would like to thank Harry Boyte for his comments on a previous draft. 1. According to Article 26 of Ecuador’s constitution: “Ecuadorian citizens enjoy the right to elect and be elected, to present laws to the National Congress, to be consulted in the cases provided by the Constitution, to control acts of the organs of public power, to revoke the mandate that they have given to elected dignitaries, and to hold public offices.” 2. The indigenous movement, through the Pachakutik Political Movement, played a very important role in the 1997 Constituent Assembly, which drafted the new constitution. In 2002 it was part of the electoral alliance that won the presidential elections with Lucio Gutiérrez. 3. In modern societies, as expressed by Giovanni Sartori (1987, pp. 278–283), citizens cannot constantly exercise political power as occurred in the Greek polis. The members of the Greek political community were able to dedicate themselves to political life; they were complete citizens. 4. For studies on the party system in Ecuador, refer to Pachano 1998; Freidenberg 2003; Mejía 1998; Sánchez 1999. 5. Following the 1998 constitutional reform, the Ecuadorian Congress now

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houses 100 representatives, who are elected in provincial districts. National representatives were eliminated. 6. In the cases of Quito, Guayaquil, Cuenca, Ambato, and Loja, among others, the municipal authorities have been consecutively reelected, which has allowed them continuity in the development and application of their municipal policies. 7. For an analysis of this process, see Montúfar 2001.

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14 Citizenship as Public Work Harry C. Boyte

There is a global trend toward the replacement of citizen democracy by consumer democracy, with citizens conceived as consumers, clients, and users. —Omano Edigheji (2005, p. 3)

In Zola Maseko’s 2005 South African film Drum, Henry Nxumalo (played by Taye Diggs), an investigative reporter, is murdered by the apartheid regime in 1955. Set in the vibrant interracial district of Sophiatown, in Johannesburg, before it was demolished, the film recounts a fascinating process of “civic education.” In bars and newsrooms, street scenes and prize fights, whites develop respect for blacks, blacks learn not to hate all whites, and the characters develop political consciousness and seriousness about themselves and the world. The final scene is a funeral march in which ordinary people—including government workers, journalists, and people gathering from streets and shops—walk with dignity and determination to the baffled rage of apartheid officials. It intimates the “power of publics” that will eventually topple the seemingly impregnable system of apartheid. It also points beyond today’s democratic theory of civil society. Citizenship in Latin America intimates similar processes in recent years, conveyed by Frances Hagopian in Chapter 2: “horizontal solidarities in civil society challenged a corporatist state . . . in such a way that expanded the scope of freedom.” Omano Edigheji (2005), a Nigerian South African political economist and manager of research at the South African Center for Policy Studies, has had similar experiences. He identifies with what he calls “citizen-democracy” from experiences in a Nigerian democracy movement that “expanded the scope of freedom.” The movement taught him to respect the capacities of ordinary people. Like the authors in this book, Edigheji sees forces moving against such freedom. But he is more hopeful. Engagement “leaps off the page” of this volume, to adapt a phrase from Joseph Carens, but the mood is somber and pessimistic. The authors call on 253

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states to deliver on promises, to protect citizens, to achieve social justice. They desire a powerful “civil society” to demand government action. But many express doubts about the capacities of Latin American governments to deliver, and they worry that civil society is dormant. I write not as a Latin Americanist, but from the vantage of “public work” theory that my colleagues and I developed through the Humphrey Institute’s Center for Democracy and Citizenship at the University of Minnesota.1 I argue that practical possibilities for change are circumscribed not simply by the structural forces described in this volume, such as corrupt governments and “neoliberal” economic policies and their institutions. There are also problems in democratic theory. These problems both reflect and sustain the disengagement of professional classes from the real civic life of places, and also eclipse the potential roles that cultural and knowledge workers play as makers of a broader democratic culture. In today’s democratic theory, civic engagement is located in civil society, a realm of voluntary activity or deliberation separated from productive activity and the state—what can be called “the playground of civil society” (Boyte 1999). Such a location sharply limits citizens’ roles. The separation of civic engagement from the concept and practice of work with public meanings also weakens possibilities for democratizing change in professional systems, the economy, the state, and the culture as a whole. This separation sustains professional networks as self-referential and abstract, full of techniques and procedures, devoid of public life. Today, the trend is for schools, social service agencies, and other public and civic institutions, whether in Buenos Aires or Minneapolis, to be as detached from local cultures as are fast food businesses. Meanwhile, the larger culture, understood as a way of life, is profoundly troubled. The governance disaster that accompanied Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans in 2005—the failure to act together to prevent widespread death, suffering, and lawlessness—dramatized a culture dominated by images of the good life that are hypercompetitive, materialistic, and focused on celebrity, not substance. Reconceptualizing citizenship as public work entails a shift in the meaning of democracy from state to democratic society. In this conception, government is the instrument of the citizenry, providing resources, leadership, tools, and rules, but it is not the center of the civic universe. The shift involves a reworking of conceptions of civic agency, from citizens as volunteers, clients, consumers, and protesters to citizens as problem solvers and cocreators of a democratic way of life. Finally, it entails a transformation of politics, from ideological warfare to a philosophically progressive, democratic, and also cross-partisan activity drawing on diverse traditions. Democratic politics aims at the creation of a democratic culture as an alternative to dominant trends.

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Definitions: Off the Playground of Civil Society Came the dream, the strength, the will to build America . . . Land created in common, Dream nourished in common, Keep your hand on the plow! Hold on! If the house is not yet finished, Don’t be discouraged, builder! . . . The plan and the pattern is here, Woven from the beginning Into the warp and woof of America. —Langston Hughes (1995 [1943], p. 267)

Langston Hughes’s poem is not explicit political theory, but it is full of theoretical insights that can sharpen questions by Frances Hagopian, Deborah Yashar, James Holston, and Ariel Armony about what Holston calls “North Atlantic definitions of democracy.” In Chapter 2, Hagopian describes the debate between proponents of representative and participatory democracy in a wonderfully self-reflexive and comprehensive way. She argues that Latin Americanists too uncritically adopted frameworks such as those of Robert Dahl and T. H. Marshall. As a consequence, they neglected the challenges that inequality poses for citizenship, accented rights and slighted citizen responsibilities, assumed common identities in settings where many feel excluded, and developed research agendas based on narrow definitions. In Chapter 3, Yashar looks at what she calls the “content” of citizenship: who is a citizen, what rights are granted to citizens, and how interests are mediated. She argues that liberal theory, focused on citizens who are assumed to have equal rights and responsibilities, fails to address adequately “the societal cleavages, inequalities, and tensions that exist in society.” North Atlantic theorists who do raise these issues make an assumption that cannot be taken for granted in Latin America, that the state has the capacity to take action to remedy inequalities. Hagopian, Yashar, Holston, and Armony call for attention to social and participatory aspects of democracy. All draw attention to injustices and inequalities. Yet their theory frustrates their aspirations for a more just, egalitarian, and democratic society. All operate within a framework that distinguishes sharply between civil society and state, accepting the dominant definition of democracy as a state-centered system of institutions, rules, and participatory procedures.2 Their civil society theory draws from recent history, especially challenges to authoritarian states in Latin America and elsewhere and the movements that have battled against them—what Hagopian, using the language of Francisco Weffort (1989), describes as the struggle for freedom against “the monstrous state.” But this theoretical map consigns

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citizens to civil society, limiting citizens to roles of apolitical volunteers or angry consumers. It segments society, neglecting attention to what citizens need to do to build democratic societies as a whole, and failing to address how citizens learn the necessary skills and habits. Action needs to be added to whos, whats, and hows of citizenship. In contrast, the above excerpt from Langston Hughes’s 1943 poem “Freedom’s Plow” shifts the focus to the idea that democracy and freedom are qualities of the culture, understood broadly as the meaning systems and practices of the society as a whole. For Hughes, society is the work of citizens, a “land created in common, dream nourished in common” (1995 [1943], p. 267). Hughes, an African American, was a key figure in the Harlem Renaissance. More broadly, he was active in the democratic cultural and intellectual movements of the 1930s and 1940s. In his poem, “America” is created by diverse citizens. “America” also comprises citizens who do the work. Through work, ordinary people gain authority with which to press demands for full inclusion. They develop a sense of ownership in society, what can be called “critical patriotism,” rooted in and also contesting the society’s symbols (e.g., Harris 1999).3 Finally, the idea of the society as common work generates hope. Such themes had deep roots in African American history and were later central to the black freedom struggle of the 1950s and 1960s. In a far different context, Alexis de Tocqueville’s Democracy in America (1988 [1835]) also focused on the idea of democratic society created through the efforts of citizens. Before elaborating such wellsprings, it is important to show how the theme of work is opposed in theories of active democracy. The Western tradition to which we are heir conceives public life as the democratization of aristocratic leisure.4 As Benjamin Barber has observed, “To the Greeks, labor by itself defined only mere animal existence, while leisure was the condition for freedom, politics, and truly ‘human’ forms of being” (1998, p. 132).5 Leading twentieth-century participatory theorists continued to distinguish between public life and work, with an occasional exception like French radical Simone Weil (1973). Thus Hannah Arendt viewed work as had the Greeks, as part of the apolitical world. She saw “manual labor” as an undignified necessity, “herdlike”; while “work,” on the other hand, was far more creative and important, the activity of homo faber, or “man, the maker of things,” the builder of the world. Yet Arendt still believed that work did not belong in the public arena of “deeds and action,” specifically the arena of politics. Arendt held that the worker’s “public realm is the exchange market, where he can show the products of his hand and receive the esteem which is due him.” Producers remained “private,” or isolated: “homo faber, the builder of the world and the producer of things, can find his proper relationship to other people only by

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exchanging his products with theirs because these products themselves are always produced in isolation” (1958, pp. 161–162, emphasis added). Arendt argued that the thought and manual art that produce craft—the creation of a “model” or idea in one’s mind, which is then reproduced through shaping materials of the world—necessarily require isolation. Only apprentices and helpers are needed, she argued, in relations based on inequality. Modern participatory theorists mainly follow Arendt in separating work, with its boundary-crossing resonances, from public life. They thus detach politics from the process of “making the world.” Jean Cohen and Andrew Arato’s 1992 book Civil Society and Political Theory follows Arendt in taking work off the map of civic engagement. The book has democratic aspirations. But their idea of civil society, seeking to retain for the concept a critical edge, revises the classical notion of civil society descended from the Scottish Enlightenment and G. W. F. Hegel, which included large institutions and commerce and excluded the family. They argue for “a reconstruction [of the concept] involving a three-part model distinguishing civil society from both state and economy.” They see this definition as the way to “underwrite the dramatic oppositional role of this concept under authoritarian regimes and to renew its critical potential under liberal democracies.” They define civil society as “a sphere of social interaction between economy and state, composed above all of the intimate sphere (especially the family), the sphere of associations (especially voluntary associations), social movements, and forms of public communication” (p. ix).6 Michael Walzer (1995), as Hagopian notes, brings in civil society “reluctantly.” For Walzer, citizen action is ancillary to state action. Habermas seeks to establish grounds in theory for a public sphere of communicative rationality. He separates deliberative activity from the bureaucratic and market entanglements of what he calls “the system world.” His theories have been extremely influential in the spread of deliberative democracy.7 Other leading democratic theorists have constructed similar models. Thus, Benjamin Barber, a powerful critic of liberal conceptions of “thin democracy” and a leading theorist and activist organizer of international connections among participatory democrats, created the definition of civic engagement that became dominant in the United States. Civil society, according to Barber, includes “those domains Americans occupy when they are engaged neither in government (voting, serving on juries, paying taxes) nor in commerce (working, producing, shopping, consuming)” (1995, p. 6). In his book A Place for Us: How to Make Society Civil and Democracy Strong (1998), Barber argued that work is disappearing due to the advance of technology and the market. He proposed that the voluntary sector represents a home for democracy unlike coercive government and the commercialism of economic life, and argued for advanced community service with

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civic reflection as a way to cultivate the identity of citizen as an alternative to “producer” and “consumer.” Similarly, A Call to Civil Society: Why Democracy Needs Moral Truths, a manifesto of the Council on Civil Society of the Chicago Divinity School chaired by Jean Elshtain, involving Cornell West and other leading intellectuals, used the definition of Barber, Cohen, and Arato: “By civil society we mean those relationships and institutions that exist in a sphere of society largely separate from both the institutions of government and the dynamics of the market economy” (Elshtain et al. 1998, p. 3). Such theorists are full of democratic intentions. Yet the location of civic engagement in a realm of voluntary activity or deliberation separated from work undermines Barber’s desire to create a civic identity different than that of consumer. Indeed, the role of “producer” with civic aspects is the only way to conceptualize the task of building a democratic culture as an alternative to the culture dominated by commercialism and instrumental rationality, which Barber decries. In concrete terms, separating civic engagement from work fails to critically examine the cultures and practices of professional systems and their institutional foundations—most especially higher education—or to develop strategies for change within them and the way they function in the larger culture.8 Finally, in locating politics as activity in the state, this theory sustains the distributive, zero-sum, and highly ideological character of politics as conducted, at least in the United States, with the latest technologies of mass mobilization and communication.9 Citizenship is constituted by the demand for services. In so narrowing their agency, citizens lose the commonwealth.

Putting Work Back In In contrast, the tradition of living democracy in the United States confounds the opposition of work and public. Indeed, work with public aspects was the main source of the “commonwealth,” once a crucial balance to the pursuit of private wealth. From the American Revolution onward, urban artisans, laborers, and farmers stressed work as a far better source of public virtue than leisure (Boyte and Kari 1996). Democratic ideas of freedom and independence were made practical by the fact that citizens (albeit free white men) owned their own labor. The society’s civic life was what Robert Wiebe (1995) called “portable democracy,” which meant that citizens took it with them where they settled. Citizens created towns and town halls, schools and libraries, infrastructure and cultural celebrations, what David Mathews (1999 [1994]) called the “sweaty and muscular” tradition of citizenship. This was not morally uncomplicated. Exclusions and injustices were also

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“woven into the warp and woof” of the United States against blacks, poor people, women, and others. But as Hughes suggests, the authority gained from work was a potent resource for powerless and marginal groups to use in fighting for full inclusion.10 As the nation industrialized, traditions of cooperative labor took new forms in education for professions with public meanings and impacts. Thus, for instance, public and land-grant institutions of higher education had a practical bent, and also, in more visionary dimensions, a sense of their role in helping to create democratic communities. Indeed, land grants were sometimes called “democracy’s colleges.” In the twentieth century, as intellectual historian Scott Peters and his colleagues have found (Peters et al. 2006), such institutions stressed contributions to rural democracy through research, teaching, and sustained partnerships with communities. This history of land-grant institutions was full of implicit and, at moments, explicit references to concepts and practices of public work and, more broadly, to an understanding of the role of knowledge workers as coproducers of a vibrant democratic civilization or culture. Thus, Liberty Hyde Bailey, dean of agriculture at Cornell and chair of Theodore Roosevelt’s Country Life Commission, which developed the philosophy of the nationwide cooperative extension system, stressed practical partnerships with communities to solve public problems and to create civic capacity. Bailey saw these partnerships as grounded in public spaces in community life, such as schools, churches, general stores, and community centers, where people developed capacities for discourse, common work, and civic learning. Bailey sometimes used the term “public work” to convey this ensemble of reciprocal partnerships, capacity building, and public spaces. “Students in agriculture are doing much more than fitting themselves to follow an occupation,” he wrote. “They are to take part in a great regeneration. The student in agriculture is fitting himself for a great work.” As such, Bailey challenged practices of narrow expert-led extension work. “A prevailing idea seems to be that an expert shall go into a community and give advice to the farmers on the running of their farms and on all sorts of agricultural subjects, being teacher, inspector, counselor, confessor, organizer, and guide.” Bailey declared that this approach was likely to fail. Even where it conveyed new information, it created dangerous dependencies, not capacities for self-action. “The re-direction of any civilization must rest primarily on the people who comprise it, rather than be imposed from persons in other conditions of life” (1913, pp. 11–12, 133, 29–30). The idea that professionals’ work should aim at developing the productive civic capacities of people and communities and contribute to enrichment of democratic culture, not simply provide services, was widespread. In Langston Hughes’s Harlem, for instance, in the 1920s and 1930s a range of professionals—artists and poets, labor organizers, teachers, ministers and

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musicians, to list a few—saw themselves as having a civic obligation to develop the capacities of ordinary people, invisible in the larger society. James Weldon Johnson, an architect of the Harlem Renaissance, put it this way: “Harlem is more than a community; it is a large-scale laboratory experiment. Through his artistic efforts the Negro is smashing immemorial stereotypes.” He saw the black “impressing upon the national mind the conviction that he is an active and important force in American life; that he is a creator as well as a creature.” The Harlem Renaissance meant that the black American was to be seen as “a contributor to the nation’s common cultural store; in fine, he is helping to form American civilization” (quoted in Cruse 1984, p. 34). Civic-minded professionals helped to sustain a myriad of what Sara Evans and I have called “free spaces,” places rooted in the life of communities that have a public, diverse, and democratic character, in which democratic values and practices incubate as an alternative to the dominant culture. In Harlem, such spaces ranged from jazz spots like the Cotton Club to churches, labor study groups, locally owned businesses, union locals, the Harlem library, schools, and theater projects. These settings mingled with fluid boundaries to create vital local public cultures. People learned skills for dealing with others who are different. They developed more public identities, and a sense that what happened in Harlem mattered to “American civilization.”11 Free spaces could be found not only in Harlem but also across the country, in small towns as well as in big cities. Thus, for instance, the late vice president Hubert Humphrey traced his famous political career to his father’s drugstore in the little town of Doland, South Dakota, in his autobiography, Education of a Public Man (1976). The drugstore in Doland, part of the larger cultural background for midwestern populism during the New Deal, functioned as a public space for deliberation, argument, and action. “In his store there was eager talk about politics, town affairs, and religion,” Humphrey wrote. “I’ve listened to some of the great parliamentary debates of our time, but have seldom heard better discussions of basic issues than I did as a boy standing on a wooden platform behind the soda fountain” (p. 8). Activities in the drugstore enriched the public life of Doland in multiple ways. The store functioned as local lending library and cultural center— music came from the window of the second floor, from his father’s rickety phonograph. It embodied a rich conception of civic agency and democracy as a way of life built through citizen labor. It catalyzed action. The drugstore was sustained as a free, public-creating space because his father did public work as a citizen businessman of Doland. Free spaces and local public cultures had strong political dimensions. In Cultural Front (1997), a splendid treatment of the cultural politics of the New Deal era, Michael Denning traces progressive political organizing

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among “cultural workers” of many kinds—from journalists, screenwriters, and artists to scholars and educators and union organizers—who made up the movement. Using the idea of a “historic bloc” of variegated forces of diverse interests and motivations united around certain overarching goals (including defeat of fascism, defense of democracy, and pursuit of economic and racial justice), Denning shows how the cultural front played a central role in shaping American culture. The content of the American dream shifted from the individualist, WASP-oriented, consumerist ideal of the 1920s to a far more cooperative, racially pluralist, and egalitarian vision of democracy in the New Deal. In the process, cultural workers developed a strategic consciousness of their own potential role in the battle of ideas and conceptions of the good society, as potential allies of industrial workers, blacks, farmers, small businesses, and other groups, fighting for themselves as well as others. Overall, the cultural front and its strands of organizing created a medium and mirror in which people saw themselves acting in more cooperative, assertive, and public ways. Public meanings of work infused many occupations, giving a strong civic cast to New Deal programs like the Civilian Conservation Corps (Bass 2004; Boyte and Kari 1996; Green 1998). Another outgrowth of the New Deal alliances was a philosophically democratic politics across party lines. Progressives switched from the struggle for socialism to defense of democracy. This involved not simply defense but also the positive project of building democracy. What can be called “everyday politics” taught people how to work across ideological divisions to organize unions, build communities, reform education, and create democratic culture. Democratic theorist and organizer Saul Alinsky conceptualized such politics in Reveille for Radicals (1946). In Chicago, his model community organization, Back of the Yards, brought together ethnic groups, conservative priests, businesses, and left-wing trade union organizers. Alinsky argued the need for organizers to listen to the communities in which they are working, based on the insight that there are untapped democratic energies and potentials across partisan lines: “The starting of a People’s Organization is not a matter of personal choice. You start with the people, their traditions, their prejudices, their habits, their attitudes, and all of those other circumstances that make up their lives.” This meant seeing democratic potentials in a range of cultural communities. “To understand the traditions of a people is . . . to ascertain those social forces which argue for constructive democratic action as well as those which obstruct democratic action” (pp. 76, 79). Public work traditions of cooperative labor and professional practices in which cultural and knowledge workers saw themselves as cocreators of a broader democratic culture can be found in radically different societies, suggesting further research possibilities for Latin American scholarship. In

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sub-Saharan Africa, many rough equivalents to “public work” practices can be found, sometimes playing pivotal roles in liberation movements. In Sesotho, the term letsema means “cooperative village work on common projects,” and in isiZulu, ilimo is a close equivalent. In Kenya, harambee— meaning “let’s put aside big differences to work on the larger task”—was central to the liberation movement, though its corruption afterward by government policies that avoided responsibility for the state’s role also furnishes a cautionary tale, highlighting the need for government as resource and citizens powerful enough to demand such a role. Vital local public cultures and political and civic professional practices were also crucial in African independence and democratic struggles. In South Africa, for instance, whole professions and cultural institutions, from schools to theaters and the press, became politicized. Communities like District Six in Cape Town, Sophiatown in Johannesburg, and Ginsburg in the Eastern Cape were famous for their leadership role, and well-known for the vitality of public life sustained by many occupations—clergy, teachers, musicians, businesspeople, and others. The destruction of such communities dramatizes a key and continuing dynamic in the erosion of democratic culture. The District Six Museum entrance memorializes the vitality of the community’s public life and also recounts how the community’s destruction had roots in the approach of Swiss planner Le Corbusier. His philosophy was that the modern city needed to replace “accidental” development with “geometric design.” The government called for removal, described as “ruthless eradication directed toward a revitalizing process. We have, following Le Corbusier’s lead, named the process the Surgical Method.” In the destruction of District Six, geometric thinking was in the service of brutal racism, despite official depictions of the area as being crime-ridden and unsanitary. In other cases, forced removal, with its destruction of local communities, has other rationales. Whatever the official line, “geometric thinking” indicates technocratic thought and action and, more generally, the uprooting of professional cultures and practices from civic life. In this process, higher education has played a formative role.

Obstacles: The Secession of Professionals If “work” is essential to democratic culture building, it is work of a particular kind: work undertaken by publics, in public settings, and for public purposes, in ways that contribute to democratic culture making. All these aspects of the “publicness” of work are apparent in democratic movements like the New Deal or the black freedom movement—and I daresay in democracy movements that toppled authoritarian regimes in Latin America.

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Public work needs to be brought into the discussion of not only definitions but also obstacles. The detachment of professionals from public work has eviscerated public life and contributed greatly to the hypercompetitive, materialistic, and celebrity tendencies in the culture that liberal professionals decry. In Chapter 10, Christopher Sabatini writes from the perspective of donors who have, in his words, tended to look at the state through the lens of “distrust if not rejection.” He argues that “decades of corrupt, authoritarian, and arbitrary governments left a sense among many that the best and perhaps the only way to strengthen the emergence of democratic societies and accountable government was from the ground up,” building civil society. Donors hoped through such support to help citizens mobilize around new demands, to increase state accountability, and to spread civic values such as cooperation, compromise, trust, and responsibility. As Sabatini notes, in contrast, Philip Oxhorn, Luis Bitencourt, and Roderic Camp and Keith Yanner adopt a state-centered view in their analyses of obstacles. Oxhorn, in Chapter 7, focuses on the destructive spread of market approaches as the state has receded; Bitencourt, in Chapter 9, on the inability of government to secure the safety of citizens; and Camp and Yanner, in Chapter 8, on higher levels of women’s mistrust of government and lower levels of perceived political efficacy. Sabatini observes the irony that, despite their emphasis on state intervention, Oxhorn and Bitencourt “are also quite pessimistic about the possibility for change coming from the state.” His point illustrates the dead end if the issue is state supply and civil society demand. If the question is posed differently—how to build a flourishing democratic way of life—then the issue is not civil society demand for government supply. Rather, it is how to build productive and confident publics that solve public problems and create a civic culture in which an ethos of responsibility, accountability, and agency is widespread. “Publics” is a more complex concept than “the public.” Publics are contextual. They develop in concrete situations. They address specific tasks and problems. They confound conceptual divisions like state, civil society, and economic life. Their distinguishing characteristic is that they combine particular interests (demands), regard for the public welfare, and practical hope. As the movie Drum shows, this gives publics their authority. Anyone involved in democratic movements has seen this.12 In his 2004 book Civil Society, Michael Edwards, director of the Civil Society and Governance Program at the Ford Foundation, points out that concepts like public sphere, publics, and public cultures complicate theories that focus on associational life or moral betterment. Edwards argues against the facile uses of the term “civil society” by governmental and donor groups, what he calls “the civil-society-building industry that has proliferated since 1989.” He calls attention to the idea of the public sphere. “The cre-

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ation of public spheres is usually ignored [by donor groups],” Edwards argues. “Nurturing civic institutions (which means connections, attitudes and practices, not just organizations) takes the most careful and sensitive accompaniment over long periods of time.” He proposes an “ecological lens” that is able to see “an inclusive associational ecosystem matched by a strong and democratic state, in which a multiplicity of independent public spheres enable equal participation in setting the rules of the game” (pp. 104–105). The ability to see publics, like the capacities for public work itself, is eroded by the secession of professional elites from civic life. In Chapter 2, Hagopian, in her history of recent democratic theory, describes “democratic elitism,” a phrase drawn from Joseph Schumpeter’s Capitalism, Socialism, and Democracy, published in 1942. Schumpeter was not just proffering definitions. He was also expressing contempt, characteristic of the rising class of experts who are detached from public life. Schumpeter argued that ordinary people are incapable of doing more than choosing their leaders in a competitive process. Elite definitions of democracy were tied to the notion that experts, working with political decisionmakers, needed to be at the center of the political universe. Daniel Rodgers has described the pattern of the detachment of leading academics from public life in Atlantic Crossings (1996). A pattern of private alliances between academics and politicians had grown before World War I on both sides of the ocean, giving an increasingly technical quality to political and policy discourse. In the late nineteenth century, American graduate students studying in Europe, fired with reformist zeal to tame the excesses of unbridled capitalism, absorbed the model of policymaking in private consultation with political leadership, far removed from public involvement. Young intellectuals desired to temper the workings of the market. But they saw this as elite activity. “Students of the first Germantrained economists . . . establish[ed] new forms of authority by colonizing the social space between university professorships and expert government service.” In Rodgers’s view, “their efforts came to define a central structural element of American progressive politics” (p. 108). The relocation of democracy to the domain of government and experts was accompanied by a conceptual removal of politics from public life, as well. “We all have to follow the lead of specialists,” wrote Walter Lippmann, who set intellectual fashion in the first decades of the twentieth century. In his view, a growing body of opinion “looks to the infusion of scientific method, the careful application of administrative technique.” Science was the model for liberal thinking; technocrats the model actors. An editorial in The New Republic argued, “the business of politics has become too complex to be left to the pretentious misunderstandings of the benevolent amateur” (quoted in Jordan 1994, pp. 75–76). Even John Dewey, who

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argued for democracy as a society, not a state, acquiesced in relocating politics to the state (Boyte 2003b, 2004a). As politics became the property of elites, citizens’ roles became radically circumscribed, shifting from productive labor to voting, consuming, demanding, and volunteering. With the transformation of free spaces rooted in local communities—with parties, unions, even congregations and schools becoming service providers—citizens lost the settings of public life and democratic culture lost its wellsprings. Democratic movements like the New Deal reform and civil rights can be seen as countertrends. The triumph of technique created similarities across political systems. “From the standpoint of the employee,” remarked the historian Arnold Toynbee, “it is coming to make less and less practical difference to him what his country’s official ideology is and whether he happens to be employed by a government or commercial corporation” (quoted in Galbraith 1967, p. 109). In the early 1950s, Baker Brownell, a philosophy professor at Northwestern University who had been involved in rural extension projects, issued a polemic against the academic world from which he came for its role in spreading technocracy. “Truth is more than a report,” he said. “It is an organization of values. Efficiency is more than a machine; it is a human consequence.” Captivated by technique, procedure, method, and specialization, Brownell argued, the educated professional classes had lost sight of face-to-face relations. “It is the persistent assumption of those who are influential . . . that large-scale organization and contemporary urban culture can somehow provide suitable substitutes for the values of the human communities that they destroy,” he declared (1953, p. 135). For want of a better word, I call these persons “the educated”—professionals, professors, businessmen, generals, scientists, bureaucrats, publicists, politicians, etc. They may be capitalist or they may be Communist in their affiliations, Christian or Jew, American, English, German, Russian or French. But below these relatively superficial variations among “the educated” there is a deeper affiliation. They are affiliated in the abstract, anonymous, vastly expensive culture of the modern city. (1953, pp. 19–20)

Brownell missed the larger possibilities of the educated as contributors to a democratic counterculture, but he captured phenomenological similarities across professions. Others have analyzed the same processes in other terms. The tyranny of the technocrats was the theme, for instance, of George Orwell’s famous novel 1984 (1949). Iconoclastic Marxist African American C. L. R. James, in American Civilization (1993 [1950]), wrote in a similar vein that “the inevitable direction of society is towards the vast centralized bureaucratic state in which labor leaders and intellectuals of all types will form a solid governmental mass” (pp. 255, 258). Three decades later, moderate conservative Peter Berger drew on Marxist theory in

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describing “the new class struggle” between the “old elite,” made up of businessmen and their allies such as conservative religious leaders, and “the new elite, composed of those whose livelihood derives from the manipulation of symbols.” The latter included “intellectuals, educators, media people, members of the ‘helping professions,’ and a miscellany of planners and bureaucrats.” Berger, like others, argued that in technological society fewer people are engaged in the production and distribution of material goods, the basis of the old capitalist class, and a growing percentage of the work force is “occupied in the production and distribution of symbolic knowledge.” This new class has institutional interests in the expansion of the welfare state. Berger also observed that the business class and its allies had, in contrast, interests in opposing such expansion (Berger 1981, pp. 194–196; see also Bell 1973; Gouldner 1979; Boyte 1989, 2002; Lasch 1995). Brownell had reason for targeting higher education as an important cause of professional detachment. In Academic Cultures in Transformation, edited by Thomas Bender and Carl Schorske (1998), leaders in four disciplines—economics, political science, philosophy, and English—document the growing separation of academia from public life. Such detachment has shaped professional education, from business to ministry and teaching, resulting in the loss of interactive, horizontal ties to local civic life. As Bender put it in Intellect and Public Life (1993), “In [the] largely successful quest for order, purity and authority, intellectuals severed intellectual life from place” (p. 45). A number of scholars and leaders in higher education have recently made similar points about the growing detachment of academic cultures over the past half century.13 Technocratic patterns are prevalent in South Africa, as in the United States. In South Africa, the depth of the anti-apartheid democracy movement also generates intellectual challenges to technocratic assumptions. Thus, public intellectuals such as Edgar Pieterse, Nomboniso Gasa, Xolela Mangcu, Jeremy Cronin, Omano Edigheji, Peter Vale, Steven Friedman, and others are critics of what Mangcu calls “technocratic creep,” the service delivery paradigm eclipsing the agency of ordinary people. In housing, according to Mangcu, heir to the Black Consciousness tradition of Steve Biko and others, “a bricks and mortars approach [has] dominated the urban discourse. . . . The result is a housing policy that focuses on the number of houses to be built with very little regard for issues such as employment, quality, and community-building. Poor people now live in remote RDP houses that sometimes are worse than apartheid matchbox houses” (2004a, p. 4). In a similar vein but from a far different ideological background, Jeremy Cronin, deputy secretary-general of the South African Communist Party and a leader in parliament, argues that technocratic patterns have become widespread in South Africa but must be reversed. “How can we develop economic and social policies in which citizens, their livelihoods

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and communities, are central, not peripheral?” (personal interview, Cape Town, December 5, 2004). Such arguments suggest research questions for Latin Americanists beyond civil society theory: How has expert detachment from civic culture not only circumscribed the agency of citizens and the productive dimensions of politics, but also helped constitute the limits in theory? Finally, what can be done to renew democracy?

What Can Be Done? The writers among us bemoan the triviality of the mass media, but why . . . do they allow themselves to be used in its silly routines by its silly managers? These media are part of our means of work, which have been expropriated from us . . . we ought to repossess our cultural apparatus and use it for our own purposes. —C. Wright Mills (quoted in Denning 1997, p. 113)

The concept of public work—sustained, visible effort by a mix of people that creates civic goods, cultural or material—has proven a useful way to name the political, pluralist, productive, and horizontal qualities of strong civic agency. It implies a shift from weak conceptions of citizenship, with citizens consigned to civil society, to efforts that cross boundaries of state, society, and economic life. People doing public work solve public problems, create public wealth, and in the broadest terms, become makers of a democratic culture. As I argue elsewhere, participatory theories of democratic governance point in a similar direction, toward the need for a civic culture in which an ethos of responsibility and a sense of robust civic agency are widespread.14 Whether in Latin America, the United States, South Africa, or elsewhere—for all the differences in particular strategies and programmatic articulations—to effect such a culture, to shift from “democratic state” to “democratic society,” requires the strategic emphasis that C. Wright Mills made in writing about knowledge workers in the “cultural apparatus.” Rather than complain, knowledge workers must organize for change in the worlds of institutions and systems, in order to make principles such as the equal worth of each individual, “liberty and justice for all,” and the dignity of cooperative labors that build the commonwealth more than empty pieties. Across societies around the world, we need a politics that builds a democratic way of life. In the United States, a lens of public work has allowed scholars like Peter Levine, director of the CIRCLE research center (2005), and Carmen Sirianni and Lew Friedland, editors at the Civic Practices Network (2005), to see a range of promising initiatives in arenas that cross boundaries of

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state, economic life, and society; renew public cultures; and expand public wealth.15 In the very different context of South Africa, “Lessons from the Field: A Decade of Democracy in South Africa,” a research project supported by the Ford Foundation in 2004 that I helped to coordinate for the Institute for Democracy in South Africa (IDASA), a public work framework also revealed many examples of citizen-led problem solving. These created a dynamic debate about a shift in conceptions of democracy from “state” to “society,” connected to a critique of technocracy; attention to the development of political and civic capacities of citizens and institutions; and a broader focus on how to challenge the culture of materialism, hypercompetitiveness, and celebrity that is spreading there, as elsewhere.16 An important research agenda for Latin Americanists is to map civic trends building on examples like that of Carmen Beatriz Ruíz. Her account in Chapter 11 is full of the practical wisdom from frontline engagement with these issues as a human rights ombudsman. She points toward public work–type understandings of citizenship that cross distinctions between state and society, and quotes Calderón Gutiérrez to make the point about citizens as the foundational agents of democracy and also the need for a serious, sustained attention to capacity building. Finally, Ruíz has an acute sense of the growing power of knowledge-making institutions—and thus knowledge workers—like the media and schools. Her idea of the ombudsman’s role as a mediator between publics and the state, developing networks, strategic alliances, and productive public projects, is a vivid case of democratic governance as public work. The elements in Ruíz’s story suggest a different kind of culture-building politics, politics that is nonideological, that draws on different partisan traditions and is grounded in the gritty soil of human plurality, but that is also democratic and broadly progressive. Such a politics can be described by work in places, of publics, and for public purposes. Work in Public: The Politics of Places In his book The Unsettling of America, public intellectual and farmer Wendell Berry (1986) describes an exchange that took place in a community meeting. A land-grant economist argued, “There is no essential difference between owning and renting a farm.” A farmer in the audience replied, “Professor, I don’t think our ancestors came to America in order to rent a farm” (p. viii). As the obvious detachment of many faculty members from the real life and culture of places in this incident shows, older civic traditions in public land-grant universities like those championed by Liberty Bailey have eroded. Yet they have not completely disappeared. A recent collec-

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tion by Scott Peters and his colleagues, Engaging Campus and Community (2006), recounts vivid stories from land-grant universities of public scholars who address issues in sustainable agriculture. Scholars who engage in public work scholarship develop relational and organizing skills that they never learned in graduate school, far different from the pervasive academic norms of detachment described by Baker Brownell. They learn deep respect for local knowledge and culture, and they develop a sense of everyday politics as the negotiation of the gritty plurality of the human condition (for parallels in Africa, see Boyte 2004b). They function in open-ended, improvisational ways, recognizing their own uncertainties, moving from critique to engagement. They integrate their own specialized knowledge into a much larger project. Peters draws rich implications for public engagement from these accounts, including several ways that academics doing public scholarship contribute to democratic revitalization of local communities and the society. Scholars doing such public scholarship help revive the public spirit of their disciplines. They multiply opportunities for citizens to engage in public work. They bring civic ideals and knowledge of larger contexts into work on problems like weeds or water, contributing to cultural renewal. IDASA’s 2004 “Lessons from the Field” project similarly reveals many examples of professionals who have learned to work in the context of actual communities in South Africa, and also in Latin America. For instance, the May–June 2004 issue of Architecture South Africa featured several articles on Latin American housing efforts from Brazil and Peru that challenge what editor Julian Cooke calls “top-down approaches,” and showed the feasibility of a far more active role for citizens and communities in housing design “shift[ing] toward autonomous development enabled by government.” These efforts also highlight the importance of public spaces to democracy building (Cooke 2004, p. 1).17 Peters and colleagues also show how such work is countercultural in disciplines that see citizens with condescension and look upon noneconomic dimensions of agriculture as obsolete. As Nick Jordan, a professor in plant genetics at the University of Minnesota put it, “the obsolescent story is that agriculture is about the production of commodities in an industrial mode and that’s all it’s about. It’s not about public health and it’s not about environmental quality and it’s not about rural communities” (quoted in Peters et al. 2006, pp. 447–448). To build the civic life of places goes against the professional grain. It requires not only effective community work but also learning savvy political skills for dealing with radically different interests and views, and organizing in the larger worlds of professions and systems, like higher education.18

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The Work of Publics: Everyday Politics in Institutions Publics that act in a dynamic sense are not “masses.” They are made up of diverse individuals and groups who come together for public purposes. The sense of diverse publics acting together has been deepened by organizing efforts descending from reform movements of the 1930s and 1940s, which generated politics based on plurality, not ideological combat. This politics, described in 1946 by Saul Alinsky, proves to be a key practice for members of the “new class,” knowledge workers, to put themselves back in the civic mix of the world. Since Saul Alinsky’s death in 1972, citizen organizations in the network he began in 1940, the Industrial Areas Foundation, and other similar groups have flourished. They now number more than 150 local organizations, comprising approximately 4,000 member institutions, with several million families. They incorporate a mix of groups—Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, and Protestant congregations, schools, and unions. They address issues of concern to low-income and working-class populations, such as education, policing, wages, housing, and medical coverage. Such groups are based on a philosophical, not ideological, politics. They teach disciplines of political work across lines of racial, faith, partisan, and other differences. Such organizing is different than “mobilizing,” in which organizers define issues, script action, and use protests. In broad-based citizen efforts, organizers are coaches; citizen leaders take center stage, and citizen ownership of politics is stressed based on respect for potentials of ordinary people. What is called the “iron rule” counters the condescension of service delivery: “never do things for others that they can do for themselves” (Warren 2001; Wood 2002; Boyte 2004a). For a number of years in the partnerships of the Center for Democracy and Citizenship, my colleagues and I have sought to translate organizing lessons into higher education as well as other professional settings. Maria Avila, a former Mexican American organizer with the Industrial Areas Foundation who directs the Center for Community-Based Learning at Occidential College in Los Angeles, describes what this means. “The medicine for our predicament [in both society and higher education] requires efforts to restructure the way we think, act, behave toward each other, and the way we act as a collective to restructure power and resources.” Avila argues that organizing focuses on cultural change before structural change. “Culture changes [come] first, leading to structural changes later.” Change is relational, tied to organizing and power. “For academic institutions to partner with community groups, institutions and organizations for a better society [requires] countless opportunities for conversations and organizing campaigns with community partners engaged in power restructuring.” This shatters norms of silence and isolation. It is difficult, she says, in academia,

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“to be real with each other, to show our vulnerabilities, our real passions, fears, pain and anger, to put all this into a societal context, to create spaces where we can feel, learn, reflect and act together” (Avila 2003). In the early 1990s, faculty at the College of St. Catherine in St. Paul experimented with everyday politics in higher education. A faculty group organized by Nan Kari, director of faculty development, gave sustained effort to learning to think politically and in strategic ways about institutional culture change. Over several years, the group made major changes to the school’s core curriculum, created public spaces for dialogue and discussion, and developed a seed-grant program to encourage civic innovation. At the University of Minnesota we have drawn from the experiences of the College of St. Catherine as well as other efforts to implement public work approaches at Minneapolis Community and Technical College, Naropa University in Colorado, the University of Michigan, and Colgate University in New York. After several years of university-wide effort at Minnesota, in 2003 the Board of Regents created the Council on Public Engagement, a high-level university-wide council whose goal is “to incorporate public engagement as a permanent and pervasive priority in teaching, learning, and research activities throughout the university and to enlist support for public engagement among all segments of the university and in the larger community.” As this charge suggests, “civic engagement” at Minnesota has explicitly adopted a public work perspective, seeking cultural change across professional work of all kinds. In keeping with these goals, the council has sought to embed public engagement more deeply within university practices, foster engaged professional work across colleges and other units, strengthen an institutional culture of engagement, and enhance connections to external communities. Since 2000, “public engagement” has become a widely discussed and debated concept at the University of Minnesota. Several departments and colleges have adopted new definitions of scholarship that highlight public engagement. Two—the College of Public Health and the Department of Mass Communications—have undertaken a significant reworking of graduate and PhD education using the concept of “citizen scholar.” The university includes public engagement reporting in its annual compact processes with colleges and in its report to the Board of Regents. More than sixty projects aimed explicitly at cultural change, supported through a highly competitive process of seed grants (building on the model of the College of St. Catherine), have been organized in departments and colleges. In the larger higher-education environment, the University of Minnesota has taken leadership in several bodies, including the Committee on Engagement, organized as part of the Committee on Institutional Cooperation, the Big Ten research university consortium (see http://www.umn.edu/civic). Finally, several developments at the university have long-range potential for cultural

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change in the university and in the larger society, especially efforts that explicitly counter the technocratic, detached biases of “service” and begin to institutionalize alternatives. For instance, the Academic Health Center is establishing a new Citizen Health Program, building on the work of William Doherty and his colleagues. This is framed by the public work approach, challenging the “service delivery” model of healthcare, aimed at teaching professionals across the country a new model of collaborative work. As its founding statement puts it, the Citizen Health Center is “based on the belief that the greatest untapped resource for improving health care is the knowledge, wisdom, and energy of individuals, families, and communities who live with challenging health issues in their everyday lives. In this approach, health care professionals learn public skills for working with patients who are citizens of health care—builders of health in the clinic and community—rather than just consumers of medical services.” These early efforts show the potential for higher education to be an architect of democratic culture. Indeed, the experiences at the University of Minnesota have brought home repeatedly the power of such institutions to shape the culture of the larger society. As one local official in a public forum on the university’s civic mission put it, “The whole future of the state of Minnesota is bound up with the University. If the University recovers its public purposes, it will have an impact everywhere.” These experiences point to a third element of a different politics, what might be called the politics of democratic culture making. Work for Public Purposes: The Politics of Culture Making Devaluation of public wealth, endangered everywhere in the world—not simply in Latin America—by privatization, can be taken as a symbol of the erosion of public culture as a whole. Indeed, from the vantage of contemporary elites, globalization produces consumers concerned about their private concerns, not citizens concerned about the commonwealth. In The World Is Flat, Thomas Friedman (2005), the leading international columnist for the New York Times, presents a scenario in which consumer identities overwhelm everything else. Friedman is a progressive. He talks about “empowerment,” “communication,” and “flattening of hierarchies.” He notes downsides of globalism, like declining wages. He champions open societies. But for Friedman the good life is shopping at Wal-Mart. “As consumers we love [such places] because they deliver us all sorts of goods, from tennis shoes to laptop computers at lower and lower prices. That is how Wal-Mart became the world’s biggest retailer” (p. 129). Citizenship, public wealth, public culture, and public life are not in his book. Views like Friedman’s reflect fatalism that grows from an inability to imagine power to tame the global market or technocratic trends. This is a

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problem with theory as well as with individual proclivity. Concern about privatization is a strong current in this volume, but the framework of civil society does not provide a solution. When citizens make demands on the state, consumers are produced, not producers who create a larger public world. A focus on citizen demands alone generates a distributive, rightsbased politics that teaches people to focus on private gain and service delivery, not care for a shared public world. As Lawrence Sommers once quipped, no one in history has washed their rented car (in Friedman 2002). If we are to reclaim the commonwealth, we need to define democracy as a society for which all are responsible, with citizens as its architects.19 There are many countertrends that point in the direction of revitalized concern for public wealth and public culture. “Conventional thinking divides the world between the market and the state,” says the website of a new movement called Reclaiming the Commons. “In reality, the economy has another sector that’s as valuable as the market and its necessary complement as well. This sector is the commons. At one time the commons was vastly larger than the market. Today, however, the commons is in grave danger because the market relentlessly attacks it” (see http://www. friendsofthecommons.org). The movement notes multiple, dangerous threats to the commonwealth—which it defines in an expansive way, including air, water, common lands, DNA, seeds, topsoil, biodiversity, public knowledge, human culture, languages, and much else. For instance, in the United States, the nation’s founders instructed Congress to protect the public domain in order to “promote the progress of science and the useful arts” by offering short-term copyrights, or monopolies, on discoveries. Today, monopoly protections have been extended eleven times since the 1960s, from twenty-eight to ninety-five years, “to such ludicrous proportions that it now often inhibits rather than promotes the circulation of ideas,” editorialized The Economist (see http://www.friendsofthecommons.org). Even ancient commons are now defined in commercial terms, as is water by the World Trade Organization. Similar to Reclaiming the Commons, the Democracy Collaborative at the University of Maryland is creating a network of scholars and communities who adopt strategies of building common wealth as an essential element of development (see http://www.community-wealth.org). Other groups are emerging that are clearly aimed at building a democratic culture, as an alternative to radical privatization. The Kettering Foundation is the nexus for different professions—from journalists to state councils of humanities and academics—to think about deeper meanings of democracy. The Leadership for a Changing World partnership of the Advocacy Institute, the Ford Foundation, and the Wagner School brings together civic leaders who fight for justice, reject the “rescuer role,” and build local civic cultures. Imagining America, a consortium of universities directed by Julie Ellison

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and based at the University of Michigan, is developing a cultural movement for democracy that helps scholars in humanities, design, and artistic disciplines to become more rooted in specific places and understand public culture as a shared enterprise. One of the most important new trends is among young people creating alternatives to negative images and values in the mass culture. Thus, positive Hip Hop among young African Americans counters the mass culture’s portrayal of young blacks as thugs and drug addicts. In the South African movement known as MAP (Men As Partners), poor black men challenge their portrayal in the media as batterers, abusers, and rapists. The movement is directly about making culture, rather than being pawns of mass culture. Higher-education groups like AASCU and Campus Compact, as well as the “civic mission of the schools” K–12 initiative, are seeking to counter the dominant message—that education is about monetary gain and individual career success—with a vision of active citizenship. All such initiatives renew a democratic culture that counters dominant trends. A final research agenda for democracy building in Latin America should entail mapping developments that revive public wealth and public culture and counter privatization. Enrique Peñalosa, mayor of Bogota from 1998 to 2000, is an outstanding example. Peñalosa involved the citizens of Bogota in a large campaign to create public spaces. He believed that in a society with widespread poverty, it is sometimes more effective to improve people’s quality of life through public facilities such as parks than by raising salaries and creating jobs. “A minimum of public goods available to all citizens on equal conditions is necessary for the society to hold together and advance towards happiness.” During his three-year term of office, Mayor Peñalosa led the creation of 300 parks in the city. The budget for developing public spaces was second only to education. It included pedestrian streets, wide sidewalks with trees and gardens, bicycle paths, neighborhood parks, large city parks, and open plazas in front of public buildings. For Peñalosa, providing quality public spaces was also a way of showing respect for the most vulnerable people in society: the poor, the elderly, and the children. Peñalosa argued that “a city is not better when its people are rich, but when its people are happier.” Public spaces are an essential ingredient in equality. “Public space is the only place where the poor and the rich meet on equal footing” (quoted in Ström 2004; see also http://www.pps.org). Conventional wisdom—what C. Wright Mills once called “crackpot realism”—sees privatization as ineluctable as a tsunami. But there is evidence to the contrary. A poll of Europeans aged eighteen to thirty by the newspaper Libération highlighted deep discontent about “neoliberalism” shortly after the referendum on the European Union constitution in France. Young people are skeptical about the EU’s primarily economic focus, and see the EU as mainly a set of bureaucratic mechanisms that offer little space

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for their role. While having progressive values, they question the grand narratives that dominate partisan politics (Auffray 2005). According to Yves Mény, author of Democracies and the Populist Challenge (2002), “young people are torn between more inward looking impulses and the desire for a vision that is more generous and noble” (p. 8). Young people across the world have similar interests. They are desirous of opportunities to break out of cultures that treat them simply as objects to be manipulated and amused, and to develop a public life. Young people want to do work of consequence for themselves and societies. They want to participate in a public culture that recognizes and values such efforts.20 Practical examples of a culture-building politics that is more “generous and noble” are germinating in the early years of the twenty-first century. To build democracies in Latin America and elsewhere will require drawing on these, including the examples highlighted in this volume. It will also require movement beyond theories of citizenship bounded by civil society, statecentered democracy, and ideological politics. We need instead a new democratic politics that puts public power, public work, and democratic culture making at its center. In such politics, citizens are not “consumers, clients, and users,” in Omano Edigheji’s terms. They are builders of a democratic way of life.

Notes Research for this chapter was supported by the Kettering Foundation. Thanks to Marie Ström, David Cohen, Omano Edigheji, Heather Booth, and Steven Friedman for feedback on earlier drafts. 1. See the websites of the Center for Democracy and Citizenship: http://www. publicwork.org, http://www.publicachievement.org, and http://www. westsidelearning.org. Public work statements of colleagues include Ström 2005a, Doherty and Carroll 2002 (and the website http://www.marriagefriendlytherapists. com), Peters et al. 2006, Bass 2004, and Longo 2006. 2. The parallels to official US definitions of this state-centered approach are strong, despite the different emphases. Thus, though the US Information Agency’s book What Is Democracy? (1991) does not feature questions of justice, its definition does emphasize citizens’ roles as much more than voting: “Democracies flourish when they are tended by citizens willing to use their hard-won freedom to participate in the life of their society—adding their voices to the public debate, electing representatives who are held accountable for their actions, and accepting the need for tolerance and compromise in public life” (p. 3). 3. The term is Julie Ellison’s (personal conversation, April 4, 2005), drawing especially on black political thought. 4. There are dissents to the classical tradition. Thus, Victor Hanson (1995) has argued that work, in particular the emergence of a new practice of family farming by fiercely independent and ingenious farmers who collaborated for reasons of practical self-interest, generated the ethos and practice of public life and Greek politics. In Hanson’s terms, “The rise of independent farmers who owned and worked

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without encumbrance their small plots at the end of the Greek Dark Ages (1100–800 B.C.) was an entirely new phenomenon in history [producing] a person for whom work was not merely a means of subsistence or profit but an ennobling way of life, a crucible of moral excellence in which pragmatism, moderation, and a search for proportion were the fundamental values” (p. 3). 5. The analysis of Arendt is developed in Boyte and Kari 1996, Boyte 2003a, and Boyte 2004a. 6. For more extensive treatment of Jean Cohen, Andrew Arato, and other contemporary civil society theorists, see Boyte 1999. 7. For treatments of Jürgen Habermas, see Boyte 1992 and Boyte 2004a. Differences in views of democracy and public agency hold significant consequences for political action in the global context of the early twenty-first century. Thus the destructive, privatizing dynamics of globalization prompted the famous call by Habermas and Jacques Derrida for a transformative politics in their February 15, 2003, statement “What Binds Europe Together” (Habermas and Derrida 2005). But transformative politics should not be defined as a way for Europe to counter the United States. It needs to be a shared politics, spanning both Europe and the United States, with allies everywhere in the world, that challenges and changes the increasingly destructive, expert-driven marketization of the world. Transformative politics needs to put citizens at the center, not only in terms of motives and attitudes, as Habermas and Derrida urge, but also in terms of citizen capacities and the array of civic institutions that make up robust democratic societies. Transformative politics must counter identities of consumer and victim with a vision of civic agency, solidarity, and productive contribution. 8. It also has sometimes bizarre effects. During the weeks leading up to the presidential “Summit on Citizenship” in 1997 in the United States, agencies gave workers time off to “do citizenship.” 9. Zero-sum politics is closely linked to a zero-sum notion of power—“power over” not “power to”—in political and social theory. See Boyte 1989. 10. This argument is developed in Boyte and Kari 1996 and Boyte 2004a. 11. In Free Spaces: The Sources of Democratic Change in America (Evans and Boyte 1992), Sara Evans and I examined broad democratic movements in US history, asking how is it that ordinary people, steeped in experiences of subordination, at certain moments in certain settings, develop the courage, spirit, and confidence to assert themselves, to become architects of democracy rather than spectators and victims? What are the roots not simply of movements against oppression but more positively of those movements that enlarge democracy? We looked at the African American freedom struggle, the movements of women for full inclusion in public life, workers’ efforts to organize, and populist movements among small farmers who sought to protect their way of life against banks, railroads, and other giants. In each case, we discovered what we called “free spaces” at the heart of these movements. Free spaces are public places rooted in communities where people develop selfrespect, collective confidence, political skills, and civic consciousness. Free spaces are “schools for democracy” owned by participants themselves. They combine faceto-face relationships with public dimensions, involving a mix of people beyond one’s personal ties. They are the sites where diverse peoples develop a more public sense of themselves. 12. Program notes of the 1963 “March on Washington” (in my possession), written by Martin Luther King, James Farmer, and other movement leaders, urged marchers to resist provocations: “In a neighborhood dispute there may be stunts, rough words, and even hot insults. But when a whole people speaks to its government, the

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dialogue and the action must be on a level reflecting the worth of that people and the responsibility of that government.” What is most notable about this eloquent phrasing is that it is largely descriptive, not simply normative: movement leaders were describing the “freedom spirit” they had seen innumerable times on the ground. 13. For instance, in a recent essay, Craig Calhoun (2004), president of the Social Science Research Council and an important social theorist of the public sphere, raised similar themes. Calhoun’s short but powerful statement includes a sharp critique of features of research cultures: “Too often, we act as though making sure that knowledge is shared and even used can be left to afterthoughts—separate actions after the research of which publication is the most important. And publication, we imply, is simply a matter of the eternal record, the accumulation of truths on which policy makers may eventually draw.” Social sciences, in his view, have often lost sight of the ways in which the creation of knowledge is inherently a public process. Publication, for instance, “is a conversation, central to science not just as a record but as part of the process by which understanding is refined, errors corrected, and possible applications discerned. The conversation needs to start before publication—indeed often while research is still in the planning stage. It needs to include not only other scientists but broader constituencies. Depending on the nature of the project these might include policymakers, journalists, advocates, activists, or others.” Calhoun, like Edwards, calls attention to the formation of publics that act as a key rationale for knowledge creation. Using the case of the University of Michigan’s affirmative action court argument—an argument that appealed to a sense of the public good that is far more than the aggregation of private interests—Calhoun argues that social scientists depend on publics, must far better understand and appreciate publics, and need to see their work contributing to the existence, formation, and sustenance of a vital public sphere. 14. The language of governance, not simply government, frequently employed in this volume but not closely interrogated, also intimates this shift in paradigm. Governance, as its more democratic theorists and practitioners in the United States and elsewhere argue, involves a change from a hierarchy and command structures to networks and collaborations. In a recent Public Administration Review article (Boyte 2005), I detail the ways in which I believe such a change—and the implied ethos of civic responsibility and agency as a function of the general culture—intimate this paradigm shift, in which officials are not the center of the civic universe, nor is government the only location for democracy’s work. This shift holds potential to address complex public problems that cannot be solved without governments around the world, but that governments alone can never solve. It can also cultivate a renewed appreciation for public goods and public institutions—in an older idiom, the commonwealth, which is endangered by the increasingly market-oriented and instrumental public discourse that authors in this volume describe as neoliberalism. For a review of the governance literature, see also Bingham, O’Leary, and Nabatchi 2004. See also Crosby and Bryson 2005 for an excellent treatment of themes of agency, power, and public work in a world “where no one is in charge.” 15. For Daniel Levine’s overview, see http://www.peterlevine.ws/mt/archives/ 000631.html. Levine’s blog regularly covers civic trends and developments. See also Sirianni and Friedland 2005, Sirianni and Friedland 2001, and their website, http://www.cpn.org. On place-making, see the website of the Project for Public Spaces (which includes case studies from Latin America), http://www.pps.org; on community wealth generation, see http://www.community-wealth.org; on the movement to “reclaim the commons” against the omnivorous market, see http://www.friendsofthecommons.org; on public cultural and humanities work, see

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the website of Imagining America, http://www.ia.umich.edu. For an example of public work in family practice, see http://www.marriagefriendlytherapists.com. 16. See “Lessons from the Field,” the sixteen-page insert in the Mail and Guardian, November 26, 2004, also available on the IDASA website, http://www. idasa.org.za. 17. Practitioners attuned to the real-world cultural politics of communities and societies are beginning to develop similar approaches around the world, as Rao and Walton 2004 illustrate with rich case studies and theoretical treatments of the importance of taking culture seriously. 18. The University of Minnesota has seen much work on these questions in recent years, with leaders like Bob Bruininks, Ed Fogelman, Mary Vogel, Carl Brandt, Vic Bloomfield, Lakeesha Ransom, and others working to strengthen the university’s public engagements. In 2005 the university-wide Council on Public Engagement launched a network on “education for place,” which plans a sustained organizing and intellectual effort. The American Association of State Colleges and Universities, a large network of regional universities, has officially adopted the theme of “Stewards of Place.” For instance, the Jane Addams School for Democracy, a learning and public work partnership in the West Side neighborhood of St. Paul among new immigrant communities from Asia, Africa, and Latin America; the University of Minnesota; and others, has involved more than a thousand students from the university since 1997. In the Jane Addams School, students learn to think of themselves as “members,” not as students doing “service projects.” The theme is that “everyone is a learner and everyone is a teacher.” This creates a sharply different experience of colearning and cocreation. It also has generated different thinking about professional practice generally. The Jane Addams School has spawned a neighborhood-wide learning initiative, the Neighborhood Learning Community, in which the whole community and its institutions—from parents to libraries, businesses, community organizations, and nonprofits—have claimed authority for the education of children. Many new forms of collaboration have emerged. See http://www.westsidelearning.org. 19. One fascinating feature of the contemporary South African political landscape is the emergence of strong trends in politics that aim at productive public work, building public wealth. For instance, Jeremy Cronin and Raymond Suttner’s Introduction to the Freedom Charter (2005) seeks to reintroduce for early twentyfirst-century audiences and activists the legacy of vibrant civic agency in the movement that led to anti-apartheid’s foundational document, the Freedom Charter of 1955. Cronin and Suttner, leading intellectuals in the South African Communist Party, wrote the first edition of their book in 1985, thirty years after the conference that brought people of diverse races and ideological backgrounds together to produce the charter. They wanted to acquaint the burgeoning movement of young activists in the mid-1980s with the history of the movement that produced the document, arguing that this history had been largely lost by the brutal suppression of the apartheid regime. In the early years of the twenty-first century, Cronin and Suttner propose that technocratic rationality, professionalization of politics, and the dominance of expert-led, market-oriented globalization also create amnesia. For all the new government’s participatory rhetoric and structures, often with the best of intentions, government officials and other experts see themselves as doing “for” citizens who are conceived as needy, helpless, and incompetent. The idea that citizens are the foundational authors of democracy needs to be revived. Similar political perspectives are voiced out of ideological traditions once radi-

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cally opposed to those of Cronin and Suttner. Thus, from the Black Consciousness tradition, Xolela Mangcu cites the life and work of crusading journalist Aggrey Klaaste, editor of the Sowetan, who believed in “everyday politics of people building structures in their communities as the basis of democracy” (2004b, p. 14). Drawing on his own experience as well as the views of Black Consciousness leader Barney Pityana, Mangcu locates Klaaste in the tradition of the Black Consciousness movement (BCM), which formed a potent alternative to mass protest politics: “The BCM started community development projects throughout the country [that] ranged from community health clinics to schools to home-based industries. In addition [it] concentrated on intellectual dimensions of development . . . the leitmotif was the philosophy of self-reliance which was popularized through slogans such as ‘black man you are on your own’” (p. 7). Other leaders from the Black Consciousness movement argue for a similar view of politics and citizen agency. Ishmael Mkhabela, a founder of the Black Consciousness party AZAPO in the 1980s, argues against politics based on ideological abstractions. “I don’t believe in slogans,” says Mkhabela. “They simplify things.” He organizes using a concept of politics that is down-to-earth. “This kind of politics addresses issues affecting people intensely. People will hold to what they believe in and what they feel strongly about. People act around their own self interests.” Such politics also cultivates capacities for selfdirected activity. “Organizing is also about teaching self-reliance. Liberals’ incurable disease is always trying to do things for black people” (Boyte 2004b, p. 13). A third example of such everyday politics comes from IDASA, an Africa-wide, high-profile organization founded in 1987 by Frederick Zyl van Slabbert and Alex Borraine, leaders of the parliamentary opposition to the apartheid regime with roots in Afrikaaner radicalism and antiracist religious activism. IDASA describes itself as “an independent African public interest organization that promotes sustainable democracy, based on active citizenship, democratic institutions, and social justice.” IDASA works on democracy projects across the continent and at different levels of society, from townships and informal settlements to national policy debates and parliamentary and election monitoring. It sees itself developing a distinctively different “African democracy alternative” that can effectively challenge dominant North Atlantic conceptions. In practice this means that IDASA stresses active citizenship and the concept of a democratic society, contrasted with a state-centered view of democracy (see Table 14.1). Such examples create a paradigm of citizen engagement different than the distributive, state-centered politics of liberalism, and also different than apolitical concepts of civic engagement from communitarian theory such as “social capital” (Mayer 2003). 20. In Public Achievement, a youth civic engagement initiative developed by the Center for Democracy and Citizenship, teams of young people, ranging from elementary through high school students, work over months on a public issue of their choosing. They are coached by adults, who help them develop achievable goals and learn political skills and political concepts. Teams address a large range of issues, including teen pregnancy, racism, violence, and school curricula. A variety of studies show often remarkable accomplishments. In 2003–2004, about 3,000 young people were involved in Public Achievement, which is now represented at more than eighty sites in US communities (e.g., in Colorado, Florida, Kansas, Minnesota, Missouri, New Hampshire, San Francisco, Wisconsin). It has also spread to Ghana, Israel, Moldova, Northern Ireland, Palestine, Poland, Romania, Scotland, South Africa, Ukraine, and Turkey. Public Achievement vividly evidences the desire of young people for a public life. See http://www.publicachievement.org.

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Table 14.1

Public Participation vs. Citizen Agency Public Participation

Citizen Agency

What is the definition of democracy?

Democratic state, with free elections

Democratic society, created by ongoing work of all

Who is in control?

Government

Citizens (including those in government!)

Who initiates?

Government

Citizens, in many civic institutions and government

What is the aim?

Consultation

Broad development of civic capacities and skills to widen range of actors

What are the outcomes?

Service delivery

Creation of public goods and public wealth

What are the attitudes?

Condescension, dependency

Respect for extraordinary potential in ordinary people

What is the pattern of interaction between citizens and government?

Consumer attitude: complaint, Producer attitude: partnerprotest, intense competiships, negotiations, comtion mon ownership

What is the basic question?

What can government do?

What can we do?

How realistic is it?

Seems the most realistic (capacities are visible), but problems are too big for government alone

While harder to believe in, holds potential to unlock a huge range of talents and capacities

What is the philosophy?

Public and private scarcity

Democratic abundance

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15 Citizens: Made, Not Born Joseph S.Tulchin and Meg Ruthenburg

The Current State of Democracies in Latin America Since this book was drafted, many changes have occurred in the countries discussed, particularly those featured in Part 3. In Argentina, for instance, the government of Néstor Kirchner has worked to undermine the power of opposition groups and parties and has limited access to public information by the media, frustrating progress in areas that are of concern to Poder Ciudadano, the local chapter of Transparency International. Although Kirchner has promoted public discussion of judicial appointments, his government has, at the same time, weakened the Council of Judges, which was designed as the body that would ensure independence of the judiciary and the professional competence of those nominated for positions in the judiciary. Just as significant, the Kirchner government has allowed small groups to occupy the public space. Jobless protesters, known as piqueteros, have occupied streets, cut off traffic, and used such demonstrations to make demands on the state. That such public demonstrations have become commonplace in Argentina was made clear in the province of Entre Rios, for example, where mobs of people blocked the international bridge to Uruguay because the Uruguayans had begun to construct pulp plants on the Uruguayan side of the riverbank between December 2005 and March 2006. The blockades kept trucks from Chile and Argentina, loaded with equipment for the plants, from crossing the bridge, in violation of treaties among the members of the Mercosur trade bloc. These anomic—though highly organized—occupations of the public space are precisely what Carlos March refers to in Chapter 12 as substitutions for lawful public discussion within the framework of existing institutions, such as political parties, the congress, and the courts. At first, the president applauded the mob action and refused to discuss the international conflict with his Uruguayan counterpart. When, after some 281

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delay, it became clear that Kirchner in fact had held conversations with President Tabaré Vázquez of Uruguay. The governor of Entre Rios and representatives of the organized activists demanded and were granted an audience with the president to air their grievances. As March argues, this sort of occupation of the public space undermines existing institutions and complicates democratic governance. Indeed the political parties have become weaker under President Kirchner. The congress has lost much of what little credibility it had at the beginning of his term, and the media have lost a portion of their independence through state manipulation. On the other hand, nongovernmental organizations such as Poder Ciudadano remain committed to their task. Other organizations, such as the Council on Civil Rights, continue to fight for transparency and for individual rights. What remains in doubt is the strength of the link between individual rights and individual action, and organized channels of intermediation that are vital to successful representation. Without such formal, public channels, civil society remains vulnerable to manipulation by the state and cannot be said to be an entirely or purely democratic force. In such a situation, corruption remains endemic and the means to reduce or eliminate it and establish the rule of law will be difficult. That is and will continue to be the central dilemma of Argentina’s democracy. Although there are similar issues at stake, the cases of Ecuador and Bolivia are even more dramatic. Bolivia may be the paradigmatic case of how demonstrators—or, in this case, organized mobs—take over the public space and force changes in government outside of and without recourse to the institutions of government. The Bolivian case offers an example of how violence in the streets shapes political campaigns, and how that violence affects constitutional norms and rules. In recent Bolivian history, two presidents were forced from office by street demonstrations. In December 2005, one of the leaders of the demonstrators, Evo Morales, was elected president. Given the peculiarities of the Bolivian electoral system, the final winner of presidential elections has often been determined by horse trading in the congress, precisely the sort of separation between the citizenry and the political elite about which Carmen Beatriz Ruíz in Chapter 11, like Carlos March, complains. The effectiveness of the demonstrations in the years leading up to the elections in 2005 contributed to the selection of Morales without the usual back-room bargaining. The challenge for Morales is to transform his power over the street demonstrators into effective national leadership and into effective management within the structure of the state. The situation in Ecuador is not very different: the party system is fragmented, the congress is of little use in governing the country, and the judiciary is corrupt and publicly disgraced. Two presidents were forced out of office by public demonstrations. Ironically, even Lucio Gutiérrez, who participated in the 2000 coup that stripped President Jamil Mahuad of power,

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was himself forced to abandon the term for which he was subsequently democratically elected, due to mass protests. The Ecuadorian citizenry has been active indeed—but their actions have been focused on noninstitutional mechanisms of power. The result has been what César Montúfar calls an antipolitics discourse that denigrates the political parties and appears to privilege direct action by citizen groups. As Montúfar points out in Chapter 13, these civil society groups have no legitimate representation and are not accountable to the citizens in any recognized manner. Montúfar insists that Ecuadorian democracy can be strengthened only by improving or strengthening representation, not by replacing it with so-called direct consultation or direct participation.

Toward Fulfilling the Promise of Democracy Frances Hagopian begins Chapter 2 with a somber phrase: “All is not well with democracy in Latin America.” And it is true. Nevertheless, while it is true that all is not well, it is also true that all is not lost. Throughout this volume, the authors have examined democracies with a critical eye, but at the same time have offered hopeful visions for the future. The topic matter of this book—the quality and content of democracy—is itself quite significant. In the not so distant past, a similar volume might have been concerned with the abuses of authoritarian regimes and the sad prospects for transition to democracy in the region; it would not have been concerned with the important role citizens must play in democratic society. In today’s Latin America, democratic elections are regularly held and citizens are often actively engaged. Indeed, many of the hard-won transitions to democracy were themselves precipitated by citizens. In the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s, from Mexico to Patagonia, many brave Latin Americans fought for their rights and freedoms, often at great personal risk. Citizens continue to assert their rights, although today they do so under democratic regimes and enjoy significantly greater freedom. Citizen action has led to election reform in Mexico, but also to the ouster of democratically elected governments in Ecuador and Bolivia. Indeed, such powerful waves of protest have some political scientists questioning whether there is too much citizen participation. To be sure, the very definition of democracy is regularly questioned in the region. Is it more democratic, for example, to support broken institutions or to challenge the institutions of democracy when they are corrupt? When, in 2000, a “people’s” coup d’etat, led by the country’s indigenous population, overthrew a democratically elected— though very unpopular—president in Ecuador, one of the leaders of the coup refused to classify it as antidemocratic, arguing instead that it was a civic act. César Montúfar references these concerns, as he argues for a

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vision of democracy where representation and participation are complementary, not contradictory. Protest, though, is not the only form citizen participation takes in Latin America. In many places, citizens are working together with government in fruitful ways. Participatory urban planning and participatory budgeting, for instance, allow citizens to play an active role in shaping their communities. Governments, particularly local governments, are increasingly realizing the benefits of including citizens in governance. In one well-known case, in Bogota, Colombia, a series of reform-minded mayors advancing the concept of “citizen culture” have made the citizenry cocreators of the city’s noteworthy renaissance. As has been suggested throughout this volume, the study of democracy may be lagging behind the reality. Each author here has presented different theoretical, empirical, and practical approaches to incorporating the concept of citizenship into democratic theory. We hope this volume will serve as a touchpoint for future reflection and as an inspiration to those struggling to capture the reality of Latin America and further democracy, inequality, and peace in the region. While there are positive changes taking place in Latin American democracies, widespread corruption and fragile institutions continue to plague the region’s democracies. The Woodrow Wilson Center’s Latin American Program seeks to further the rule of law, citizen security, the exercise of the rights and obligations of citizenship, and a positive relationship between government and the governed by promoting dialogue, debate, and informed policymaking in the region. We may have come a long way, but much work remains for the promise of democracy to be fulfilled.

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Ariel C. Armony is the Audrey Wade Hittinger Katz and Sheldon Toby Katz Distinguished Teaching Associate Professor of Government at Colby College. His areas of expertise include democracy and democratization, civil society, citizenship, and inter-American relations. He is author of The Dubious Link: Civic Engagement and Democratization and Argentina, the United States, and the Anti-Communist Crusade in Central America, 1977–1984. Luis Bitencourt is professor of National Security Affairs at the Center for Hemispheric Studies of National Defense University. He also serves as consulting director of the Brazil Institute at the Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars. His areas of expertise include world politics, public policy, political transition, international security, civil-military relations, and nonproliferation. He is author of Brazil’s Growing Urban Insecurity: A Threat to Brazilian Democracy? Harry C. Boyte is senior fellow, founder, and codirector of the Center for Democracy and Citizenship at the University of Minnesota’s Humphrey Institute. He is also founder of Public Achievement, an international youth civic engagement initiative now operating in twelve countries. His research focuses on conceptions of citizenship, civic agency, and comparative theories of democracy. He is author of nine books on citizenship, organizing, and democracy, including Everyday Politics: Reconnecting Citizens and Public Life. He is coauthor of Building America: The Democratic Promise of Public Work and Creating the Commonwealth: Public Politics and the Philosophy of Public Work. Roderic Ai Camp is Philip M. McKenna Professor of the Pacific Rim at Claremont McKenna College, where he researches politics, democracy, 309

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socialization, elites, and the civil-military and church-state relationships in Mexico. He is author of Politics in Mexico: The Democratic Transformation and Mexico’s Mandarins: Crafting a Power Elite for the 21st Century. Joseph H. Carens is professor of political science at the University of Toronto. His research interests include contemporary political theory, immigration, multiculturalism, and citizenship. He is author of Culture, Citizenship, and Community: A Contextual Exploration of Justice as Evenhandedness. Frances Hagopian is Michael P. Grace II Associate Professor of Latin American Studies in the Department of Political Science at the University of Notre Dame, as well as a faculty fellow of the Helen Kellogg Institute for International Studies. She studies the comparative politics of Latin America, with emphasis on democratization and the political economy of economic reform in Brazil and the Southern Cone. She is author of Traditional Politics and Regime Change in Brazil. James Holston is associate professor of anthropology at the University of California, San Diego. His research focuses on citizenship, law, and democratic change in the Americas, especially Brazil and the United States, and related transformations in the social and spatial organization of cities. He is author of The Modernist City: An Anthropological Critique of Brasília and Insurgent Citizenship: Disjunctions of Democracy and Modernity in Brazil, and editor of Cities and Citizenship. Carlos March is the Buenos Aires representative of the AVINA Foundation, an organization that supports leadership for social transformation in Latin America. He was executive director of the Fundación Poder Ciudadano, the Argentine chapter of Transparency International, from 2000 to 2005. His interests include journalism, civil society, and law. He is coauthor of the book Una Corte para la Democracia. César Montúfar is professor at Universidad Andina Simon Bolívar– Ecuador and former executive director of the Corporación Participación Ciudadana. His areas of expertise include Latin American politics, international development aid, and international security. He is author of Hacia una Teoria de la Asistencia Internacional para el Desarrollo and Gobernabilidad y Participación. Philip Oxhorn is associate professor and director of the Center for Developing Studies at McGill University. His areas of study include civil society, democratization, and public health. He is coeditor of

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Decentralization, Democratic Governance, and Civil Society in Comparative Perspective: Africa, Asia, and Latin America. Carmen Beatriz Ruíz was the acting human rights ombudsman in Bolivia in 2003. Her areas of expertise include communications, development, and human rights. She is author of various articles on the Bolivian democratic process. Meg Ruthenburg is a writer and translator living in Ann Arbor, Michigan. She was formerly a program associate at the Latin American Program from 2002 to 2005. Her areas of study include the Andes, social movements, and Quichua language and culture, and she has conducted research in Ecuador on civil society organizations. Christopher Sabatini is senior director of policy at the Americas Society–Council of the Americas in New York. His interests include political parties, security and defense, human rights, and democratization. He is author of “Lost Illusions: Decentralization and Political Parties” (Journal of Democracy). Joseph S. Tulchin is senior scholar and former director of the Latin American Program of the Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars. His areas of expertise include US foreign policy, inter-American relations, contemporary Latin America, strategic planning, and social science research methodology. Keith Yanner is professor of political science at Central College. His interests include immigration, interethnic relations, and local history. His current research involves collecting and archiving life histories of recent Latino immigrants to rural Iowa. Deborah J. Yashar is associate professor of politics and international affairs, and director of the Program in Latin American Studies at Princeton University. She is author of Demanding Democracy: Reform and Reaction in Costa Rica and Guatemala, 1870s–1950s and Contesting Citizenship: The Rise of Indigenous Movements and the Postliberal Challenge.

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Accountability, democratic, 16, 36–37, 243–244 Active citizenship, 242–247 Advocacy Institute, 273 Africa, public work practices in, 262 African Americans: countering negative images in mass culture, 274; disproportionate conviction and incarceration rate, 116; fields of citizenship, 99–100; Harlem Renaissance, 259– 260; Hughes, Langston, 255–256; voting rights, 100–103 Afrobarometer surveys, 154 Agricultural work, 259, 268–269, 275(n4) Albó, Xavier, 210–211 Alinsky, Saul, 261, 270 Alliance Party (Argentina), 227–228 Allocating citizenship, 61–66 American Revolutionary Popular Alliance, 41 American War of Independence, 201 Americas Watch, 92(n9) Anemic states, 186(n26) Antidemocratic organizations and regimes, 42, 93(n15) Antipolitical discourses, 236–237, 283 Arato, Andrew, 39–40, 257 Architecture South Africa magazine, 269 Arendt, Hannah, 256–257 Argentina: budget monitoring, 233–234; capacity building, 223; civilly disjunctive democracies, 82; employment and poverty, 127–128; history

of democracy and challenges to civil society, 220–223; inclusiveness and opposition, 185(n26); Kirchner administration, 281–282; political approval rating, 219–220; political power of citizens, 40; process monitoring, 228–229; public access to information, 226–228; public support for democracy, 12; Rúa’s resignation, 11; social cohesion and democratic success, 41, 55(n25), 55(n27) Aristide, Jean-Bertrand, 11 Aristotle: Aristotelian ideal defining citizenship, 61–63; rights and responsibilities of citizenship, 28 Assimilation, 63–64 Association, right of, 89–90 Athens, ancient, 21 Authoritarian nature of neopluralism, 125 Authoritarian regimes: gender affecting preference for, 158–160, 159(table), 169(n30); intrinsic connection of neopluralism to, 141; popular support for oppressive police policies, 129–130; as threat to Brazil’s democracy, 179–180 Authority: Bolivia’s abuse of, 206; collaboration with, 244–245 Autonomy, political, 105 Aylwin, Patricio, 139, 146(n24) Bachelet, Michelle, 146(n25) Back of the Yards organization, 261

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Bailey, Liberty Hyde, 259 Banzer, Hugo, 41–42 Barber, Benjamin, 257–258 Béliz, Gustavo, 227 Bender, Thomas, 266 Berger, Peter, 265–266 Berry, Wendell, 268 Bidding processes, 231–232 Binomial electoral system, 146(n24) Black Americans, 100–103 Black Brazilians, 103–108 Black Consciousness tradition, 278(n19) Black October (Bolivia), 199–200, 205–206, 218(n1) Blockade, 281–282 Bolivia: antipolitical discourses, 236; Black October, 199–200, 205–206, 218(n1); citizen protest ousting president, 11; citizenship rights and democratic stability, 51; citizens’ occupation of public space, 282; civic-political connection, 41–42; constitutional reform and indigenous people, 147(n28); cultural perspective of rights and citizenship, 209–210; democracy building and social equity, 211–213; education and civic formation, 210–211; human rights and citizenship,200–207; human rights ombudsman, 213–218, 218(nn2,4); human rights practices, 204–207; inclusiveness and opposition, 185(n26); individual and collective commitments to citizenship, 208–209; neopluralism in, 141–142 Bolivian Ombudsman Chapter, 213–218, 218(nn2,4) Bolsa Escola program, 182 Borja, Rodrigo, 239 Borraine, Alex, 279(n19) Bottomore, Tom, 202 Boundaries of citizenship, 61–66 Brazil: citizenship rights and democratic stability, 51; citizenship rights as elite privilege, 88–90; civil and social rights inequality, 117; crime as threat to democracy, 178–180; criminalization of the poor, 92(n8); demobilization of social movements during consolidation, 18; disjunction of civil citizenship under electoral democracy,

79–80, 93(n13); drug traffickers as parallel state, 185(n24); favelados’ political rights, 103–108; gender and political participation, 169(n33); gender and support for democracy, 161; inclusiveness and opposition, 185(n26); institutional inadequacy in crime prevention, 173–176; international concerns over leftist administration, 183(n2); Latinobarómetro survey, 11, 52(n2); military police as perpetrators of crime, 184(n9); military police fighting crime, 177–178; military status of police force, 184(n18); national public violence prevention plans, 183(n5); neopluralism and, 144(n3); organized crime initiatives, 184(n13); police violence and civilly disjunctive democracy, 91(nn5,6); poverty statistics, 186(n27); public support for democracy, 12; restoring civil rights, 54(n19); risk-taking and efficacy explaining political behavior, 156–157; state anticrime initiatives, 176–177; status of democracy in, 185(n23); suffrage for illiterates, 52(n5); urban crime, 172–174; voter turnout, 182(n1) Brazilian Social Democrat Party, 183(n1) Brazilian Socialist Party, 183(n1) British citizenship, 93(n12) Brownell, Baker, 265–266 Bucaram, Abdalá, 239 Budgeting processes, 244–245 Bustillo, Inés, 127 Calhoun, Craig, 277(n13) Campaign spending, 140, 227–228 Campaign strategy, Chile, 138–139 Canada: religious and cultural rights, 118 Capacity, state, 72, 187–189, 259–260 Capitalism: societal inequalities leading to cleavages, 71–72 Carandiru prison massacre, Brazil, 175, 184(n10) Cardoso, Fernando Henrique, 14, 26, 53(n6), 171, 176–177, 182 Catholic Church: gender-determined interest in politics, 169(n23)

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Index Catholic organizations, 19–20, 143– 144 Center for Democracy and Citizenship, 270–271, 279(n20) Chávez, Hugo, 11, 141, 147(n27) Chile: inclusiveness and opposition, 185(n26); labor reform, 145(n15); Latinobarómetro survey, 52(n2); neopluralism and neoliberalism, 131–136, 144(n3); populism and political engagement, 136–142; poverty rate, 145(n13); public opposition to oppressive justice system, 129–130; public support for democracy, 12; suffrage for illiterates, 52(n5); three-thirds voting pattern, 137–138; vulnerability of the poor, 145(n10); women’s movement, 133; working poor, 144(n5) Citizen agency versus public participation, 280(table) Citizen-centered democracy building, 276(n7) Citizen scholar concept, 271 Citizenship regimes, 69–70, 73(n11) Citizen Views of Democracy in Latin America (Hewlett Foundation dataset), 150 Civic education, 210–211, 253 Civil democracies, 83(table), 91(n2) Civil rights: analyzing citizenship in light of, 3–4; Bolivians’ collective rights, 208–209; Bolivia’s human rights ombudsman, 214, 217; Brazil’s failure to guarantee, 171–172; Brazil’s restoration of, 54(n19); as component of citizenship, 29; criminalization of poverty and, 129–130; defining the content of citizenship, 68–69; democratic stability and, 48–52; and economic liberalism, 43–45; failure to extend and enforce, 36–38; Freedom House surveys, 92(n10); impact of incarceration on, 110(n6); integrated approach to, 204; Latin American scholars’ undervaluing, 34; political and social rights and, 123–124, 144(n1); roots of, 202–203; systematic violation of indigenous citizenship rights,

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46–47. See also Rights and responsibilities of citizenship Civil society: Argentina, 220–223; Argentina’s institutions and processes, 223–234; Argentinians’ public space, 281–282; Chile’s populism and political engagement, 136–142; citizen action, 283–284; civic engagement and oppressive regimes, 253–254; civilly disjunctive democracies, 77–78; democratization programs’ focus on, 188–191; Ecuador, 235–236; 241–247; fragmentation, 124, 130–133; neglecting the challenges posed by inequality, 255–256; “ordinary people” demanding democracy, 16–17; overcoming neopluralism by strengthening, 142–144; political participation and representation, 38–42; public sphere concept, 263–264. See also Public work; State-society relations Civilly disjunctive democracies, 78–83, 83(table), 112–114 Clientelism, 105–108, 192, 243 Cocaine use, 102 Cohen, Jean, 39–40, 257 Collective and individual rights, 3–4, 117, 208–211 Collor de Mello, Fernando, 18, 178, 183(n3) Colombia: 46, 56(n28), 112, 123, 128, 129, 172, 193, 284 Commonwealth, 258, 273–274, 278(n19) Communitarian philosophy, 67–68, 70, 117–118 Community service, 258 Competition, electoral, 238 Competitive elite democracy, 22, 24–25, 27, 31–32 Concentration of Popular Forces (Ecuador), 239 Concertación government (Chile), 133–142, 146(n23) Confederated systems, 93(n11) Conflict. See Ethnic conflict Conflict management, 212 Consociational systems, 67–68, 70, 73(n7) Constituent and constituted power, 247–248

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Consumer identity, 272–273 Content of citizenship, 68–69, 119 Contextual approach to political theory, 112 Contraction of rights, 100–108 Contracts, public, 229–232 Core dimensions of citizenship, 60–69 Corporatist systems, 67–68, 70, 73(n7), 74(n13) Corruption: Argentina’s Transparency International rating, 220; Bolivia, 206; Brazil’s military police, 174–175; and Ecuador’s institutional development, 245 Costa Rica: inclusiveness and opposition, 185(n26); Latinobarómetro survey, 11 Cotta, Maurizio, 237–238 Council on Civil Rights, 282 Coup d’état, 283–284 Crackpot realism, 274 Crime, 152(table), 153, 157; and Brazil’s government apparatus, 173–176; and democracy in Brazil, 178–182; increase after democratization, 36–38; and military police, Brazil, 174–175, 177–178; and neopluralist democracies, 128–130, 132–133; organized crime, Brazil, 184(n13); and public safety, Brazil, 183(n6); in shantytowns, Brazil, 104; and social and civil rights, Brazil, 171–172; state anticrime initiatives, 176–177; urban crime, Brazil, 172– 174, 182; war on, 105–108 Criminalization of the poor, 80, 92(nn7,8,9), 128–130 Cronin, Jeremy, 266–267, 278(n19) Cultural conditions defining democracy, 87 Cultural diversity, 46 Cultural pluralism. See Pluralism Cultural rights: Bolivia’s human rights ombudsman, 214, 217; as component of citizenship, 29–31; indigenous claims to political and civil rights, 46–48; integrated approach to, 204; linking abstract citizenship theory to actuality, 111–112; opposition stance, 54(nn14,15) Cultural workers, 260–261 Culture building. See Public work “Culture of work,” 127–128

Dagnino, Evelina, 43 Dahl, Robert, 24–25, 31–33, 46, 54(n20), 255 Decentralization, 45, 131 Del Granado Cossío, Juan, 201–202, 218(n3) Deliberation, democratic, 246–247 Democracy: assistance, 187–196; defining in terms of citizens’ rights, 4, 186(n28); disjunction of citizenship and, 78–83, 93(n13); as disjunctive process, 83–84; evaluating in terms of substantive citizenship, 86–90; old democracies as standard, 115–116 Democracy Collaborative, University of Maryland, 273 Democratic consolidation, 15–21 Democratic elitism, 264 Democratic Left Party (Ecuador), 238–239 Democratic theory, 2–3; citizen action as work, 255–258; contextual approach to political theory, 112; crisis of citizenship, 48–52; evaluating Latin American democracy, 32–35; and inequality, 255–256; neoliberal reform and decentralization, 43–45; political change and civic engagement, 254; political participation and representation, 22–28, 38–39 Democratic transition, possible outcomes of, 9(n1) Democratization, 1–3, 76(table) Denning, Michael, 260–261 Deregulation movement, 53–54(n13) Destabilization effect of democratization, 82–83 Development: assistance, 187–196; economic, 115, 131–136; human, 203–204 Dewey, John, 264–265 Differentiated citizenship, 15, 30 Diffusion of power, 223 Direct consultation, 281–283 Direct democracy, 22–24, 93(n11), 237–238 Disadvantaged groups. See Marginalized people Discrimination: Aristotelian ideal of fitness excluding groups from citizenship, 62; Bolivia, 207; and Brazil’s favelados, 103–108; fields of citizen-

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Index ship for disadvantaged people, 99–100; increase after democratization, 36–37 Disenfranchisement laws, 101, 110(n7), 116 Disengagement from democracy, 11–12, 14; Chileans’ disenchantment with democracy, 134–135; crisis of citizenship, 48–52; failure of law and denial of civil rights, 37–38 Disjunctive democracy, 83–84, 83(table), 93(n13); distribution of rights in, 3; failure of civil component of citizenship, 77–78; lack of validity of, 112–115; rule of law and, 87–88 Distributional patterns of citizenship rights, 109–110 District Six Museum, Cape Town, South Africa, 262 Drugs, war on, 103 Drug trafficking: and African Americans’ loss of voting rights, 101–102; Brazil’s drug industry, 185(n24); and Brazil’s penal system, 184(n13); Brazil’s state anticrime initiatives, 176–177; Brazil’s urban crime, 173; favelados’ position between police and traffickers, 104, 107; US government spending on, 110(n8) Drum (film), 253, 263 Drunk driving policies, 102 Duhalde, Eduardo, 228 Eastern European countries, 46 Economic performance: Chile’s campaign platforms, 139–140; evaluating democracy in terms of, 12–13, 87; insecurity limiting democratic governance, 124, 126–128; international concerns over Brazil’s leftist administration, 183(n2); neoliberal reform and decentralization, 43–45; neopluralist paradox of Chile’s economic development, 131–136. See also Neoliberalism; Neopluralism Economic rights: Bolivia’s human rights ombudsman, 214; defense of Bolivians’ collective rights, 208– 209; linking abstract citizenship theory to actuality, 111–112 Ecuador: antipolitical discourses, politi-

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cal representation, and party development, 236–241; citizen demand for accountability and expansion of rights, 242–244; citizen protest ousting president, 11; citizenship rights and democratic stability, 51; citizens’ occupation of public space, 241–247, 282–283; collaborating with authority and strengthening institutions, 244–245; constituted and constituent power, 247–248; constitutional provision for political participation, 248(n1); constitutional reform, 248(n5); indigenous participation and representation, 248(n2); people’s coup, 283–284; political innovation, 245–247; support for municipal authority, 249(n6) Edigheji, Omano, 253 Education: in Bolivia, 207, 210–211, 216; Chile’s reform of, 146(n18); and economic inequality, 134; importance in democratic support, 50; and negative images in mass culture, 274; neopluralism and social mobility, 145–146(n17); predicting democratic and authoritarian attitudes, United States, 159–160, 159(table); predicting expectations of democracy, United States and Mexico, 155(table); professional and academic detachment from democracy building, 262–267; public engagement as university practice, 271–272; and publicly meaningful professions, 259–260; transparency in Buenos Aires’s education administration, 233; variables affecting female political participation, 154–155, 169(n31) Educational Quality Measuring System, 134 Edwards, Michael, 263–264 Egalitarianism, 120, 151–152 Elections: Argentina’s increasing participation and monitoring, 222–223; Bolivia’s election by demonstration, 282; Chileans’ apathy over, 133, 135–136; Chile’s campaign, 146(n23); Chile’s military regime engineering, 136–138; effect of racial disenfranchisement on, 108–109

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Electoral democracy and civilly disjunctive democracies, 77–78 Eligibility for citizenship, 21, 61–66 Elite democracy, 22, 24–25, 27, 31–32, 264 Elites: portrayal of poor as evil, 106; secession of professionals from community building, 262–267; spread of democratic elitism, 264 Ellison, Julie, 273–274 El Salvador: criminalization of poverty, 128–129; mobilization of social organizations leading to participation, 53(n9) Employment: Chile’s populist rhetoric, 140 Encounter for the City Party (Argentina), 227–228 Enlightenment, 257 Environmental issues: Bolivia’s degradation, 207 Equality, as factor in democracy, 150–151, 156 Ethnic conflict: Bolivia’s Black October, 199–200, 205–206, 218(n1); and ethnonational lines of citizenship, 59; lineage determining citizenship, 63–64 Ethnicity: Bolivia’s discrimination, 207; cultural rights, 29–31; jus soli fostering diversity, 64; jus soli versus jus sanguinis, 65–66. See also Indigenous groups Ethnonationalism: jus sanguinis restricting citizenship, 63–64; redefining citizenship, 59 European Union (EU), 168(n15), 274–275 Everyday politics, 261, 278(n19) Evil, portrayal of poor as, 106 Exclusionary democracy, 258–259 Exclusion from citizenship: Aristotelian ideal of fitness, 62; criminalization of the poor, 80, 92(nn7,8,9), 128–130; and disengagement from democracy, 12–13; ghettoized blacks, United States, 100–103; jus sanguinis, 65; unequal distribution of rights and responsibilities, 95–97 Executive power in participatory democracy, 22–23

Extension work, 259 Farmer, James, 276–277(n12) Favelas (Brazil), 103–108, 117, 174, 186(n27) Febres Cordero, León, 236, 239 Fernández, Aníbal, 219 Fields of citizenship, 97–100 Firearms, 172–173 “Fitness” for citizenship, 61–63 Force fields protecting Argentina’s institutions, 222–223 Ford Foundation, 273 Formalism, 71 Fourth moment of democracy studies, 43–48 Fox, Vicente, 151, 159 Fraga, Rosendo, 220 Fragmentation of civil society, 131–133, 192 Freedom House surveys, 81–82, 92(n10), 93(n14) Freedom spirit, 276(n12) Free spaces, 260–261 Frei, Eduardo, 135–137, 145(n15) French Revolution, 201 Friedman, Thomas, 272 Fujimori, Alberto, 41, 141 Fundação Getúlio Vargas, 186(n27) Gallup Argentina, 220 García Meza, Luís, 218(n3) Garotinho, Anthony, 183(n1) Gass, Adolfo, 228 Gender: Bolivia’s discrimination by, 207; and crime as significant political issue, 157–158; differences in Americans’ political knowledge, 168(n20); equity in candidate selection, 167–170(n9); immigrants’ conceptualizing democracy, 149–151; political attitudes and behaviors, 154–156; predicting expectations of democracy, United States and Mexico, 155(table); predicting opinions about the most important task of democracy, 158(table); predicting political participation, US and Mexico, 165(table); predicting satisfaction with democracy, 160–161, 160(table); procedural versus quality

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Index of life perceptions of democracy, 151–154; research methodology for gender survey, 164–167; risk-taking and efficacy explaining political behavior, 156–157; views of democracy, 151–162, 152(table) Generational issues, Bolivia’s, 206 Geography determining citizenship, 64 Germany as model of jus sanguinis principle, 63 Ghettoized blacks. See African Americans Globalization: and Chilean voting patterns, 138; of citizens’ rights, 29–30; of democracy, 75–78, 93(n11); and electoral democracies, 90(n1); and public wealth, 272–274; transformative politics, 276(n7) Gomes, Ciro, 183(n1) Governance, democratic, 16 Greece, ancient, 21, 28, 202 Guatemala: citizenship rights and democratic stability, 51; as civilly disjunctive democracy, 82; Latinobarómetro survey, 11; systematic violation of citizenship rights, 46 Gutiérrez, Lucio, 236, 239, 282–283 Habeas data, 54(n19) Habermas, Jürgen, 257 Haiti, 11 Harlem Renaissance, 259–260 Healthcare, 132–133, 207, 272 Hegel, G. W. F., 257 Hewlett Foundation, 150, 160–161, 160(table) Hip Hop movement, 274 Hobbes, Thomas, 22 Homicide, in Brazil, 172–175 Homo faber (man, the maker of things), 256–257 Housing, technocratic creep and, 266 Hughes, Langston, 255–256 Human rights: Bolivians’ collective rights, 208–209; Bolivia’s democracy building and social equity, 211–213; Bolivia’s ombudsman of, 213–218, 218(n4); Bolivia’s practice in, 200–207; Brazil’s police violation of, 175–176; citizenship in terms of, 3–4; as component of citizenship, 29; human development and, 203–204;

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movements, 18; violations of, in a civilly disjunctive democracy, 79–80 Human Rights Watch, 175 Humphrey, Hubert, 260 Huntington, Samuel, 53(n13), 93(n15) Hurricane Katrina, 254 Hyperdemocracy, 25–26 Ibarra, Aníbal, 227–228 IDASA, 279(n19) Identity: citizen as producer and consumer, 255–258; of citizens, 28–31; consumer versus public, 272–273; neoliberal reform and indigenous groups, 45; neopluralism and group identity, 126; principles for allocating citizenship, 61(table) Imagining America, 273–274 Immigrants: conceptualizing democracy through gender differences, 149–151; jus sanguinis and jus solis restricting, 63–64, 66 Impeachment, of presidents, 11, 52(n1), 91(n5) Incarceration, 100–105, 175 Inclusiveness, as requirement for democracy, 185(n26) Indigenous groups: antipolitical discourse leading to representation, 236; Aristotelian ideal of fitness excluding groups from citizenship, 62; Bolivia’s Black October, 199–200, 206, 218(n1); Bolivia’s constitutional reform, 147(n28); civil rights and democratic stability, 51; cultural rights claims, 118–119; neoliberal reform mobilizing, 45; participation in democracy, 13, 248(n2); redefining citizenship, 60; systematic violation of citizenship rights, 46–47 Indirect democracy, 237–238 Individual and collective rights, 3–4, 117, 208–211 Industrial Areas Foundation, 270 Industrialization, 259 Inequalities, societal, 113–114; and Brazil’s poverty, 186(n27); challenges posed by, 255–256; Chile, 133, 145(n12); citizenship regimes addressing, 71–72; democracy and

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substantive citizenship, 88–89; fields of citizenship, 97–100; in neopluralist democracies, 126; political rights of Brazil’s favelados, 99, 103–108; roots of Brazil’s urban crime, 173, 181–182; United States, 150–151; vulnerability of passive citizens, 34–35 Information, 243–244; public access in Argentina, 226–228 Infrastructural power, 72 Innovation, political, 245–247 Institutional Revolutionary Party (Mexico), 151, 167(n9) Institutions, democratic: in Argentina, 221–226; Brazil’s favelados, 105–108; civilly disjunctive democracy, 112–113; and civil rights, 37–38; culture change through social organizing, 270–272; democratic theory in terms of, 2–3; discriminatory patterns of injustice to ghettoized blacks, 100–103; in Ecuador, 240, 244–245; evaluating democracy in terms of, 13; institutionalization of democratic regimes, 15–21; as obstacle to economic development, 115; public space and the use of, 282–283; victims of institutional weaknesses, 96 Intellectuals, 264–265 Intelligence systems, 178 Interest intermediation, 66–70, 73(n7), 117 International Labour Organization (ILO) Convention 169, 47 Islam, democracy under, 85–86, 93(nn14,15) James, C. L. R., 265 Jane Addams School for Democracy, 278(n18) Johnson, James Weldon, 260 Jordan, Nick, 269 Journalists, murder of, 183(n6), 185(n24) Judicial system: Brazilians’ lack of faith in, 54(n19); and Brazil’s urban crime, 173–174, 182; and ghettoized blacks, 101–103; Kirchner administration and Argentina’s judicial inde-

pendence, 281; subjugation of Argentina’s independence, 229 Judiciary Council (Argentina), 224, 228–229 Jus sanguinis, 61(table), 63–66, 69–70 Jus soli, 61(table), 64–66, 69–70, 73(n5) Justice systems: Bolivia’s, 206; criminalization of the poor in civilly disjunctive democracies, 80–81; failure to protect civil rights, 36–38; institutional monitoring in Argentina, 224–225; low public opposition for oppressive regimes, 129–130 Justicialist Party (Argentina), 41, 55(nn25,27), 228, 230–231 Kettering Foundation, 273 King, Martin Luther, Jr., 276(n12) Kirchner, Néstor, 220, 228–229, 281–282 Klaaste, Aggrey, 278(n19) Korea: variables affecting female political participation, 169(n33) Labastida, Francisco, 151 Labor practices: under neopluralist democracies, 126–128; reform, 145(n15); vulnerability of Chile’s poor, 145(n10). See also Public work; Union labor Lagos, Ricardo, 136–142, 145(n15), 146(nn21,24) Land-grant universities, 259, 268–269 Latinobarómetro survey, 11, 52(n2), 135, 220 Lavín, Joaquín, 136–142, 146(n25) Law, as form of empowerment, 97–98 Leadership for a Changing World partnership, 273 Le Corbusier, 262 Leftist administration, concerns over Brazil’s, 183(n2) Legislative monitoring, Argentina, 225–226 Levy, Jonah, 43 Lewis, Bernard, 93(n15) Liberalism, 66–70 Liberal theory, 255–256 Lineage determining citizenship, 63–64 Lippmann, Walter, 264 Literacy rates, 134, 145(n17)

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Index Locke, John, 22 “Long Live Change” slogan, 138–139 Lopes, Tim, 183(n6), 185(n24) “Lost half decade,” 127 Lula da Silva, Luiz Inácio, 171, 176–177, 183(nn2,6) Madison, James, 226 Mahuad, Jamil, 236, 282–283 Mangcu, Xolela, 278(n19) March on Washington, 276(n12) Marginalized people, 92(nn7,8); criminalization of the poor, 80; fields of citizenship for vulnerable groups, 97–100; political rights of Brazil’s favelados, 103–108; stigmatization of, 100–103, 107–108; unequal distribution of citizenship rights, 95–97 Marin, Gladys, 140–141 Market-centered pattern of political incorporation. See Neopluralism Marketization of politics and security, 191 Market theorists, 38 Marshall, T. H.: on citizenship’s rights and responsibilities, 202; civil, political, and social rights, 69–70, 144(n1); civil versus political, socioeconomic, and cultural components of citizenship, 78–79; historical perspective of citizenship, 93(n13); neoliberalism versus liberal citizenship regimes, 73(n12); rights movement, 29 Marxist theory, 265–266 Maseko, Zola, 253 Materialism, 263 Media: and Bolivia’s human rights ombudsman, 214–215; legislative monitoring in Argentina, 225; murder of journalists, 183(n6), 185(n24); as public work, 267 Men As Partners (MAP), 274 Menem, Carlos, 41 Mény, Yves, 274–275 Mesa Gisbert, Carlos, 218(n1) Mexican Americans: and authoritarian regimes, 158–160, 159(table), 169(n30); conceptualizing democracy through gender differences, 149–151; expectations of democracy,

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152(table); predicting satisfaction with democracy, 159–161, 160(table) Mexico: and authoritarian regime model, 169(n30); citizen action, 283–284; crime as significant political issue, 157–158; education and female political participation, 154–156; expectations of democracy, 152(table), 155(table); gender difference in political awareness, 168(n16); occupational roles and gender gap in political interest, 169(n27); predicting democratic and authoritarian attitudes, 159(table); predicting opinions about the most important task of democracy, 158(table); predicting political participation, 165(table); predicting satisfaction with democracy, 160(table); research methodology for gender survey, 164–167; risk-taking and efficacy explaining political behavior, 156–157; state responsibility in democracy, 188 Military involvement: Brazil’s police force, 177–178, 184(n18); criminalization of poverty in neopluralist democracies, 128–129 Military regimes: citizenship rights under, 70; as threat to Brazil’s democracy, 179–180, 184(n19) Mill, John Stuart, 23–24, 53(n12), 62 Mills, C. Wright, 267, 274 Minimalist conceptions of democracy, 84–85 Mkhabela, Ishmael, 279(n19) Molina, Carlos, 208–209 Monitoring Argentina’s institutions and processes, 223–234 Montesinos, Vladimiro, 41 Moral dimension of citizenship, 88–89 Morales, Evo, 282 Mounties (Royal Canadian Mounted Police), 118 Multiculturalism: as challenge to democratization, 46; Latin American scholars’ omission from democracy studies, 35; opposition stance, 54(n14); redefining citizenship, 60 Municipal government (Ecuador), 240, 244–245, 249(n6)

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National Congress (Argentina), 224 National Intelligence Service (Brazil), 178 National Science Foundation, 151, 161 National Senate (Argentina), 225–226 Natural gas project (Bolivia), 141–142 Neighborhood Learning Community initiative, 278(n18) Neoliberalism: citizenship regimes, 70; civil participation contributing to reform, 43; decentralization and democratic theory, 43–45; liberal citizenship regimes and, 73(n12); neopluralism and, 125, 144(n3); social rights and, 14–15; young people’s dissatisfaction with, 274–275 Neopluralism: addressing education, 145(n17); challenges to, 142–144; Chile’s paradoxical economic development, 131–136; defining neopluralist democracy, 124–126; economic insecurity threatening democracy, 126–128; fragmentation of civil society, 124, 130–133; neoliberalism and, 144(n3), 147(n27); physical insecurity threatening democratic citizenship, 128–130; populism and political engagement, 136–142; state weakness and apathy, 190–191 Neopopulism, 19, 34–35 Networks, 221–222 New Deal era, 261 New Orleans, Louisiana, 254 Noboa, Álvaro, 239 Nonviolent protest, 60 Normative assessment of citizenship and democracy, 111–112 North American democratic traditions, 75–77, 85 Obligation, social and political, 193– 194, 208–209 O’Donnell, Guillermo, 36–38, 55(n21), 185(n26) Ombudsman, human rights, 213–218, 218(nn2,4) Open borders, 64–65 Opposition, as requirement for democracy, 185(n26) Organized crime, 175–177. See also Crime; Drug trafficking Organized labor. See Union labor

Overloading democracy, 25–27 Oversight, 243–244 Pact of integrity, 229–232 Pakistan, as civilly disjunctive democracy, 82 Parallel states, 179, 185(n24) Partial associations, 23 Participation, political: ancient Greece, 21; Chile’s populism and, 136–142; citizen agency versus public participation, 280(table); crisis of democratic representation and, 38–42; democratic crisis, 25–26; in Ecuador, 236–248; importance of public work in democracy, 275(n2); modern limits to, 248(n3); neopluralism and, 125–128, 131–133; predictors of, United States and Mexico, 165(table); relocating politics from the citizen to the state, 262–266; representation versus elite competition, 22–28; representative and constituent politics, 247–248 Participatory democracy, 22–23 Particularism, 2–3 Parties, political: antipolitical discourses and, Ecuador, 236–241; Argentina’s public opinion of, 220; gender equity in candidate selection, 167–170(n9); increasing trendiness with international donors, 193 Partly free democracies, 93(n11) Passive citizenship, 38–42, 241–242 Pega (job), 140 Peñalosa, Enrique, 274 Penal system: inadequacy against Brazil’s urban crime, 173–176, 182 Peronist Party (Argentina). See Justicialist Party Peru: antipolitical discourses, 236; citizenship rights and democratic stability, 51; demobilization of social movements during consolidation, 18; neopluralism and, 141; suffrage for illiterates, 52(n5) Peters, Scott, 269 Piñera, Sebastián, 146(n25) Pinochet, Augusto, 134–135 Piqueteros (jobless protesters), 281 Pityana, Barney, 279(n19) Pluralism: corporatism and, 73(n7);

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Index democratic theory, 24–25; liberalism and communitarianism, 67–68; neopluralism and, 125; social rights and, 14–15; subcultural, 46 Poder Ciudadano (Citizen Power), 219, 224–230, 233, 281–282 Police systems: in Brazil, 104, 174–175, 177–178, 182, 184(nn9,18); civilly disjunctive democracy, 79–80; indicating disjunctive democracy, 91(nn5,6); popular support for oppressive policies, 129–130; violence and, 36–38, 92(n7), 96 Policymaking: articulation of demands, 191–192; discriminatory patterns of injustice to ghettoized blacks, 103; policy community view of Latin American citizenship, 19; restoring voting rights to felons, 110(n7); structural violence against Brazil’s favelados, 105 Political allegiances, and citizenship, 64 Political efficacy, and political behavior, 156–157 Political innovation, 245–247 Political movements: democratic crisis, 25–26; redefining citizenship, 59 Political participation. See Participation, political Political rights: analyzing citizenship in terms of, 3–4; Bolivia’s human rights ombudsman, 214; civil and social rights and, 123–124, 144(n1); as component of citizenship, 29; defining the content of citizenship, 68–69; integrated approach to, 204. See also Rights and responsibilities of citizenship Political society: civic associations’ connection to, 40–41 Political trust, and political behavior, 157, 159(table) Polyarchy, 31, 185(n23) Popular Democracy Party (Ecuador), 239 Popular Democratic Movement (Ecuador), 239 Popular justice, 130 Popular Socialist Party (Brazil), 183(n1) Portable democracy, 258 Poverty: Brazil’s statistics, 186(n27); Brazil’s urban crime, 173, 181–182;

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Chile’s neopluralism and economic performance, 133; Chile’s paradoxical economic development, 131–132; Chile’s statistics, 145(n13); Chile’s working poor, 144(n5); criminalization of, in neopluralist democracies, 128–130; human rights and human development, 203–204; inequalities in neopluralist democracies, 126–128; vulnerability of Chile’s poor, 145(n10) Presidential systems, 15–16 Privatization: of education, 145(n17); of law enforcement, 130; of security in a civilly disjunctive democracy, 80; threatening public wealth, 272–274 Procedural democracy, 153 Process monitoring (Argentina), 228– 229 Producer and consumer, citizen as, 255–258 Progress, as expectation of democracy, 152–153 Propaganda, 228 Protest, 281–283 Provincial government (Ecuador), 240, 244–245 Przeworski, Adam, 55(n21) Public Achievement initiative, 279(n20) Public engagement, 271 Public hearings, 230–231 Public protest, 281–283 Public safety: in Bolivia, 207; in Brazil, 183(n6) “Publics” concept, 263–264, 270–272 Public services, Bolivia’s lack of, 206 Public space: Argentinians’ occupation of, 221, 223–226, 281–282; as source of community building, 260, 274 Public sphere concept, 263–264 Public wealth, 272–274, 278(n19) Public work: agricultural traditions, 275(n4); building the tradition of, 258–262; citizen engagement initiatives, 278(n19); citizenship as, 253–254; civic youth engagement initiatives, 279(n20); civil society as constructors of democracy, 255–258; as fundament of democracy, 275(n2); in institutions, 270–272; politics of culture making, 272–275; politics of

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places, 268–269; secession of professionals from, 262–267; shifting democracy from state to citizen, 267–268, 277(n14); theory of, 254 Putnam, Robert, 27, 189 Quality of democracy, 16, 20, 32–35 Quality-of-life definitions of democracy, 153 Racial biases, 99–108 Radical Party (Argentina), 228 Rational choice, 18 Reale Jr., Miguel, 185(n24) Real wages, Chile’s working poor and, 144(n5) Reclaiming the Commons movement, 273 Reform: Argentina’s regulatory reform, 225; benefits and risks of, 27–28; Chile’s education reform, 134, 146(n18); Chile’s reforms and “three-thirds” voting pattern, 138; civil monitoring of Argentina’s political reforms, 229; Ecuador’s constitutional reform, 248(n5); Mexico’s election reform, 167(n9); neoliberal reform redefining citizenship, 43–45; social welfare reform and neopluralist problems, 130–131 Reforma newspaper, 151, 160–161, 160(table) Regulatory monitoring, 226–228 Religion: democracy under Islam, 85–86, 93(nn14,15); and expectations of democracy, 156; genderdetermined interest in politics, 169(n23); Latin American scholars’ omission from democracy studies, 35; modifying practices to accommodate religious differences, 118–119 Religious organizations, 19–20 Representation, political: antipolitical discourse and, 236–237; Chilean women, 145(n12); crisis of democratic participation and, 38–42; demise of institutions and new opportunities, 191–193; democratic deliberation linking participation and, 246–247; direct consultation replacing, 281–283; Ecuador’s con-

stituted and constituent power, 247–248 Representative democracy, 22–24 Research culture, 266, 277(n13) Resource allocation, 26–27 Restrictive literacy clauses, 62–63 Rights and responsibilities of citizenship, 28–31; collective and individual, 3–4, 117, 208–211; in a confederated system, 93(n11); democracy and substantive citizenship, 86–90; democracy in terms of, 186(n28); democratic overload, 27; disjunction of civil citizenship under electoral democracy, 78–79; Ecuador’s citizen demand for expansion of, 242–243; Latin American democracy in terms of, 34–35; Latin America’s crisis of, 36–38; material security as premise for citizenship rights, 55(n21); participatory democracy, 22–23; in representative democracy model, 24–25; rights, responsibilities, and allegiances, 21–22; right to work, 206; societal cleavages and inequalities, 71–72; state responsibility for political and social rights, 187–188; traffic, 94(n18); unequal distribution of, 95–97; uneven guarantee of, 14; violation of, under electoral democracies, 78–83. See also Civil rights; Cultural rights; Economic rights; Human rights; Political rights; Social rights; Voter rights Rights movement in citizenship studies, 29 Risk-taking, and political behavior, 156–157, 159(table) Rodgers, Daniel, 264 Roldós, León, 239 Roldosist Party (Ecuador), 239 Romero de Campero, Ana María, 216 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 22–23, 28, 53(n10), 113–114 Rousselot, Juan Carlos, 230 Rúa, Fernando de la, 11, 228 Rule of law, 33–34, 87–88, 113–114, 221 Sánchez de Lozada, Gonzalo, 141, 147(n28), 199, 218(n1)

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Index Sarney, José, 184(n21), 185(n22) Schorske, Carl, 266 Schumpeter, Joseph, 24–25, 31, 264 Second democratic transformation, 21 Secretariat for the Assessment of National Defense (Brazil), 178, 185(n22) Secretariat of Public Security and Defense of Citizenship (Brazil), 184(n14) Security: crime as threat to Brazil’s democracy, 173, 178–182; physical insecurity limiting democratic governance, 124, 128–130, 132–133; privatization of, 80 Self-determination, 30, 55(n22) Self-government, 119 Self-interest, neopluralism and, 125, 127 Serra, José, 183(n1) Service delivery, 270–272 Shantytowns (favelados), Brazil, 103–108, 186(n27) Slabbert, Frederick van Zyl, 279(n19) Slavery, 21 Social capital, 27 Social Christian Party (Ecuador), 238–239 Social cleavages, 71–72 Social Forum for Justice (Argentina), 224 Social groups, fields of citizenship for, 97–100 Socialist Party (Ecuador), 239 Social mobility, 134, 145(n17) Social monads, 42, 44 Social organizations and movements: cultural perspective, Bolivia, 209–210; democratic crisis, 25–26; fragmentation of Argentina’s, 221; “ordinary people” demanding democracy, 16–20; political participation, 38–40; redefining citizenship, 59–60; as schools of democracy, 53(n9); use by marginalized and disaffected citizens, 35; work of publics in institutions, 270–272 Social programs, and Brazil’s urban crime, 182 Social rights: abstract citizenship theory, 111–112; citizenship in terms of, 3–4; Bolivia’s human rights ombuds-

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man, 214, 217; Brazil’s failure to guarantee, 171–172; civil and political rights and, 144(n1); as component of citizenship, 29, 68–69; defense of Bolivians’ collective rights, 208–209; incarceration and, 110(n6); integrated approach to, 204; neoliberal economic policies as threat to, 14–15, 43–45; political rights coupled with declining social rights, 123–124; unequal distribution in older and newer democracies, 117. See also Rights and responsibilities of citizenship Social security systems, 207 Social welfare reform, 130–131 Sociocultural sphere of citizenship, 87 Socioeconomic sphere of citizenship, 82. See also Marginalized people South Africa: building public wealth, 278(n19); citizen-led problem solving, 268; civil society challenging apartheid regime, 253–254; negative images in mass culture, 274; public work practices in, 262; technocratic patterns, 266 Sovereignty, 22–23, 53(n11) Spain: female political participation, 169(n33) Standard of living, 127 State capacity, 72 State-centered model of democracy, 275(n2) State-level response to Brazil’s urban crime, 174 State role in citizenship, 187–189 State-society relations: articulation of demands, 191–192; Bolivia’s human rights ombudsman, 213–218; Bolivia’s individual and collective commitments to citizenship, 208–209; citizen-state relationship determining citizenship, 66–68; defining citizenship in terms of, 66–68; defining human rights in terms of, 201–202; disengagement from democracy, 11–15; disjunction of civil citizenship under electoral democracy, 78–83; fields of citizenship, 97–100; institutionalism as precondition for democratization, 2–3;

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“ordinary people” demanding democracy, 16–17; political participation and representation, 38–42; third wave of democratization, 1–2; unequal distribution of rights and responsibilities, 95–97. See also Civil society State weakness, 188, 207 Structural changes of neopluralism, 126–128 Subcultural pluralism, 46 Subnational government, 45 Substantive citizenship, 86–90 Subway projects, 232–233 Suffrage. See Voter rights Sustainable agriculture, 269 Suttner, Raymond, 278(n19) Switzerland, 84, 93(n11) Taxation, under neopluralist democracies, 126–128 Technocracy, 264–267 Territorial lines, determining citizenship, 64, 110(n2) Thailand, as civilly disjunctive democracy, 82 Three-thirds voting pattern (Chile), 137–138 Tocqueville, Alexis de, 23, 256 Toynbee, Arnold, 265 Transformative politics, 276(n7) Transparency, 226–232 Transparency International, 220, 224–226, 229–230, 281–282 Transportation projects, 232–233 Trash collection contract, 230–231 Uncivil disjunctive democracy, 91(n2) Unemployment figures, in neopluralist democracies, 126–128 Union labor: Buenos Aires’s trash collection contract, 230–231; collapse of, 195; in neopluralist democracies, 127–128; representation of the lower classes, 145(n8); weakness of Chile’s, 133–134 United Nations Development Programme (UNDP), 11, 52(n3) United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), 172 United States: African Americans and

voting rights, 100–103; deregulation movement, 53(n13); disjunctive democracy, 84; distance from democratic ideals, 120; expectations of democracy, 152(table); gender differences in political knowledge, 168(n20); gender gap voting, 169(n21); loss of commonwealth, 273; old democracies as standard, 115–116; police violence, 91–92(n6); predicting democratic and authoritarian attitudes in, 159(table); predicting expectations of democracy in, 155(table); predicting opinions about the most important task of democracy, 158(table); predicting political participation in the US and Mexico, 165(table); predicting satisfaction with democracy, 160(table); research methodology for gender survey, 164–167; risk-taking and efficacy explaining political behavior, 156–157 Universal citizenship and open borders, 61(table), 64–65 Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 201 Universalism, 64–65, 69–70 Uruguay: Argentinians’ public protest against, 281–282; inclusiveness and opposition, 185(n26); Latinobarómetro survey, 11; public support for democracy, 12 US Agency for International Development (USAID), 189 Varas, Augusto, 39–40, 42 Vázquez, Tabaré, 282 Velasco Ibarra, José María, 236 Venezuela: antipolitical discourses, 236; citizen protest to oust president, 11; neopluralism and neoliberalism, 141, 147(n27) Veto power, Chile’s executive, 134 Vigilantism, 130 Violence: Bolivia’s Black October, 199–200, 205–206, 218(n1); by Brazil’s military police, 174–175, 184(n9); Brazil’s national prevention plans, 183(n5); crime as threat to Brazil’s democracy, 178–180; criminalization of poverty in neopluralist

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democracies, 128–130; increase after democratization, 36–38; police violence and civilly disjunctive democracy, 79–80, 91(nn5,6); public response to police violence, 92(n7); structural violence against Brazil’s favelados, 104–108; transition from political to criminal violence, 96 Voluntary sector, 257–258 Voter apathy, 135–136 Voter rights: African Americans, 100–103; Aristotelian ideal of fitness excluding groups from citizenship, 62–63; Brazil’s favelados, 108–109; ghettoized blacks, United States, 108–109; illiteracy and, 52(n5); passive citizenship, 241–242; restoring, to felons, 110(n7) Voter turnout (Brazil), 182(n1)

War on drugs, 103 Water tap, politics of the, 105–108 Weakness, state, 188, 207 Wealth distribution, 3–4, 9(n2) Weffort, Francisco, 17, 40 Weimar Republic, 55(n24) Women: and Bolivians’ collective rights, 208–209; Chilean, 133, 145(n12); and cultural behavior in Bolivia, 211–212; incarceration of American blacks, 110(n4); and Mexico’s election outcome, 151; preferences for authoritarian regime model, Mexico, 169(n30). See also Gender issues Wood, Elisabeth, 53(n9) Work. See Labor practices; Public work; Union labor Working poor, 127–128 World Bank poverty line, 186(n27)

Wagner school, 273 “Walk Through Chile” campaign strategy, 138–139 Walzer, Michael, 39, 41, 257 War on crime, 105–108

Yashar, Deborah, 55(n22) Zakaria, Fareed, 186(n28) Zaldívar, Andrés, 137 Zero-sum politics, 258, 276(n9)

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About the Book

Is democracy in Latin America in trouble, as many now argue? Or is the increasingly overt political participation of both “average” and marginalized citizens evidence to the contrary? This important collection focuses on citizenship to shed light on the dynamics and obstacles that the region’s democracies now face. The authors place citizenship in the context of democratic theory and explore its varying conceptions. They also consider a range of challenges to meaningful citizenship. In Part 3 of the book, practitioners reflect on their experiences in advocating for a more active citizenry, and on ways to promote citizenship in Latin America. Joseph S. Tulchin, former director of the Latin American Program and a senior scholar at the Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars, is editor of Latin America in the New International System. Meg Ruthenburg served as program associate for the Latin American Program in 2002–2005.

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