Political Communication and Democracy [1st ed.] 1403942544, 9781403942548, 9780230554894

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Political Communication and Democracy Gary D. Rawnsley

Political Communication and Democracy

Other books by Gary Rawnsley Radio Diplomacy and Propaganda Cold War Propaganda in the 1950s (ed.) The Clandestine Cold War in Asia, 1945–1965 (ed. with Richard Aldrich and Ming-Yeh Rawnsley) Taiwan’s Informal Diplomacy and Propaganda Critical Security, Democratisation and Television in Taiwan (with Ming-Yeh Rawnsley) Political Communications in Greater China: The Construction and Reflection of Identity (ed. with Ming-Yeh Rawnsley)

Political Communication and Democracy Gary D. Rawnsley Professor of International Studies, University of Nottingham, Ningbo, China (UNNC)

© Gary D. Rawnsley 2005 All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1T 4LP. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The author has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2005 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS and 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N. Y. 10010 Companies and representatives throughout the world PALGRAVE MACMILLAN is the global academic imprint of the Palgrave Macmillan division of St. Martin’s Press, LLC and of Palgrave Macmillan Ltd. Macmillan® is a registered trademark in the United States, United Kingdom and other countries. Palgrave is a registered trademark in the European Union and other countries. ISBN-13: 978–1–4039–4254–8 hardback ISBN-10: 1–4039–4254–4 hardback This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Rawnsley, Gary D. Political communication and democracy / Gary D. Rawnsley. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1–4039–4254–4 (cloth) 1. Communication in politics. 2. Democracy. I. Title. JA85.R386 2005 320′.01′4–dc22

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Printed and bound in Great Britain by Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham and Eastbourne

Dedicated to the memory of my Dad and best friend Jack Rawnsley 14 February 1936–28 June 2004

If there are any persons who contest a received opinion, or will do so if law or opinion will let them, let us thank them for it, open our minds to listen to them, and rejoice that there is someone to do for us what we otherwise ought, if we have any regard for either the certainty or the vitality of our convictions, to do with much greater labour for ourselves. – John Stuart Mill, On Liberty in Mary Warnock (ed.), Utilitarianism (London: Fantana Press, 1969) pp. 172–3. Free and untainted information is a basic human right. Not everyone has it; almost everyone wants it. It cannot by itself create a just world, but a just world can never exist without it. – Elizabeth Wright, ‘Postscript: broadcasting to China’ in Robin Porter (ed.), Reporting the News from China (London: RIIA, 1992) pp. 18–29.

Contents List of Tables

viii

List of Figures

ix

List of Photographs

x

Acknowledgements

xi

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Introduction: Crisis? What Crisis? Guarding Against the ‘Deep Slumber of a Decided Opinion’ Public Opinion Instruments of Expression (I): Group Politics Instruments of Expression (II): Referendums Political Communications and Democratisation: ‘Paladins of Liberty’? Towards a New Democratic Political Communication: Information Communication Technologies and Politics

1 22 65 95 120 140

177

Notes

200

Bibliography

216

Index

234

vii

List of Tables Table 1.1 Table 1.2 Table 1.3 Table 4.1 Table 4.2 Table 4.3 Table 5.1 Table 7.1 Table 7.2

Trust in professions to tell the truth ‘Verdict on the political class’ US Presidential election voter turnout, 1924–2004 Party membership in eight European democracies, 1960–99 Political party and pressure group membership Trades Union membership, 1996–7 Mean turnout in candidate and referendum elections in selected countries, 1945–1993 How many on-line? The Digital Divide, 2005

viii

7 8 11 97 97 98 136 191 191

List of Figures Figure 3.1 Opinion interaction and effect on the political process Figure 4.1 Daniel Hallin’s spheres

ix

82 104

List of Photographs Photo 1.1 Photo 4.1 Photo 4.2

A demonstration against the continuing occupation of Iraq, London, 2004 Campaign on the streets of Kowloon to encourage voter registration, April 2004 A sit-in at the Department of Agrarian Reform, Manila, 2001

x

11 112 116

Acknowledgements My thanks go to the School of Politics at the University of Nottingham, my intellectual home for the past ten years. The School is a collegial environment, allowing staff and students to work alongside scholars working in (not always cognate, but nonetheless fascinating) areas in political studies. I acknowledge the contribution to this book of ten years worth of students on my various modules (The Mass Media, War and Politics; The First Casualty; Political Communications). I have enjoyed our discussions about the ideas in this book, and I hope they can detect in it the seeds of their intellectual curiosity. I should also say a big thank you to Professor Kuan Hsin-chi and the staff and students of the Department of Government and Public Administration, Chinese University of Hong Kong. I was privileged to be a Visiting Professor there in 2004, and not only did I enjoy the opportunity to teach, but also gather valuable material from Asia and witness the resurgence of grassroots political activism in Hong Kong. Particular individuals require acknowledgement: Dr Susan McManus, formerly of the University of Nottingham, now Queens University, Belfast, read an early draft of Chapter Two. Susan pointed out my errors and guided me in the right direction. Dr Alison Edgley likewise was an inspiration when it came to thinking about Noam Chomsky. I am grateful for the time that both Susan and Alison spent helping me. I also thank Dr Matthew Rendall and Dr Pauline Eadie for allowing me to publish their photographs, and the following organisations for permission to reproduce the Tables and Figures presented: The Guardian (Table 4.2); YouGov (Table 1.2); the International Labour Office (Table 4.3); the Center for Voting and Democracy (Table 1.3); Mori (Table 1.1); Palgrave Macmillan (Table 4.1); and Thomson Higher Education (Figure 3.1). I also thank the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region Government for permission to reproduce some of the survey questions its Task Force on Constitutional Development published in Hong Kong’s dailies on 23 February and 1 March 2004; and the South China Morning Post for allowing me to reproduce my response, ‘First Get the Questions Right’ (25 February 2004). The author has made every attempt to contact other copyright holders. If any have inadvertently been overlooked, appropriate arrangements will be made at the first opportunity. xi

xii Acknowledgements

The support and advice of my editor at Palgrave Macmillan, Alison Howson, is much appreciated, as are the comments of the anonymous referees who were asked to read the original proposal. I acknowledge the continued love, support and tolerance of my wonderful wife, Ming-Yeh, with whom I am now embarking on an exciting adventure as Dean at the University of Nottingham’s new campus in Ningbo, China. She read successive drafts of chapters, gave insightful comments and asked much-needed challenging questions. One of the problems in writing this book was knowing when to finish; data and relevant examples were available on a daily basis after finishing the manuscript, but Ming-Yeh was astute enough to know when enough is enough. As always, I thank my parents, Jack and Shirley Rawnsley. My father died while I was writing this book and so I dedicate it to him. He would put it on his bookshelf with my other books, but never read it, claiming that he would not understand it. My mother can now do likewise. Gary Rawnsley Nottingham, UK 2005

1 Introduction: Crisis? What Crisis?

The evils of the Representative System are … great and grievous. Manifold also are the temptations to which the representative by virtue of his position is exposed. Unlawful usurpation of power individual or in committee, the illegal exertion of administrative pressure for personal or party ends and the demoralizing opportunity to obtain the prize of illegitimate riches, have all combined to impair or debauch the character of many representatives. Great political principles are forgotten or repudiated in the busy game of trafficking in spoils of office, whereas in the mad pursuit of partisan or private aims the people’s good and the people’s cause are for the most part abandoned.1 A meeting to discuss public apathy in Dorchester, Dorset, got off to a bad start when only four people turned up. – ‘Disappointment of the Week’, Sunday Times News Review, 24 August 2003. The titles of some recently published books say it all: Why People Don’t Trust Government (1997); Disaffected Democracies (1999); What is it About Government that Americans Dislike? (2001). The ancients would shudder at the very thought: democracy in crisis? Surely not. However, there is a growing consensus that citizens of all democratic political systems – though the criticism tends to be levelled at the usual suspects, the United States and Europe – are becoming progressively more cynical, disillusioned and apathetic.2 Hence, we should not be surprised that people are consciously deciding not to participate in politics.3 Few voters are prepared to turn out for elections (Gray & Caul, 2000) and cast their vote, and even fewer are joining political parties and interest 1

2 Political Communication and Democracy

groups (Mair & I. van Biezen, 2001; Putnam, 2000). A report published by the British Labour party in September 2001 announced that it had lost 50,000 members during the previous year. The Conservative party had lost 75,000 since the 1997 General Election. Between the end of 2002 and 2003, membership of the Labour party fell by more than 33,000 to 214,952. The turnout in the 1997 British General Election was 71.4 percent, the lowest since the Second World War, provoking John Curtice and Michael Steed (Butler & Kavanagh, 1997:299) to conclude: ‘It seems clear that the 1997 general election excited less interest than any other in living memory’ … That is, until the 2001 General Election when turnout across the United Kingdom fell to an extraordinary 59.3 percent. (‘The 71 percent participation in 1997 was itself a record low for almost 80 years.’ Butler & Kavanagh, 2001:2574). Only 39 percent of eligible voters under 25 cast their ballot, giving rise to the idea that the ‘Barcardi Breezers’ (Britain’s 18–24 year olds) should be persuaded to take more interest in politics (Julia Margo, ‘Bacardi Breezers want a serious party … a political one’, Sunday Times News Review, 25 August 2003:3). Only in Britain would the press celebrate the 40 percent turnout in the 2004 local elections!5 The same patterns seem to be recurring elsewhere: In the 1996 American Presidential election, less than 75 percent of all eligible voters were registered to vote, 49 percent of whom actually voted (www.turnout.org). In 2000, the turnout had risen to just 51 percent of eligible voters (www.igc.apc.org/ cvd/turnout/preturn.html). The problem is particularly acute among the young; 51 percent of people between the ages of 18 and 24 are registered to vote, but only 29 percent actually voted in the 2000 presidential election. Critics of apathy wonder whatever happened to the politically engaged America that Alexis de Tocqueville discovered in the 19th Century: No sooner do you set foot on American soil [he wrote] than you find yourself in a sort of tumult; a confused clamor rises on every side, and a thousand voices are heard at once, each expressing some social requirements. All around you everything is on the move: here the people of a district are assembled to discuss the possibility of building a church; there they are busy choosing a representative; further on, the delegates of a district are hurrying to town to consult about some local improvements … One group of citizens assembled for the sole object of announcing that they disapprove of the government’s course … (de Tocqueville, 1969 edn.:242).

Introduction 3

Those were the days! In the first round of the 2002 French parliamentary election, only 64 percent voted, the lowest turnout for a parliamentary election in the history of the Fifth Republic. In the presidential election of the same year, the abstention rate was 28 percent, meaning that Jean-Marie Le Pen representing the French far right, went into the second round. Observers suggested that the result could be explained largely by the strength of the protest vote on both the political right and left. This represented the general dissatisfaction with the mainstream Socialist and Gaullist movements that have governed France for over 40 years. The turnout across Europe in the four-days long 2004 election to the European parliament was an unprecedented 45 percent, with the lowest voting – 26 percent – recorded in the ten states that joined the EU the previous month (for example, turnout in Slovakia was 17 percent, in Poland it was 21 percent). Voters were deciding to cast a ballot – or not – on national, rather than European issues, suggesting that European issues are ‘too complicated’, and that pro-Europe governments have to make more of an effort to communicate or sell Europe to their citizens. Efforts to introduce innovative voting methods have had little effect. At first, the signs were encouraging: The Office of the Deputy Prime Minister released figures following the 2003 local elections that showed an average turnout of 50 percent in the 29 areas of the country using postal only ballots, compared with only 35 percent elsewhere. The highest recorded turnout was in Herefordshire, where 61 percent of eligible voters returned their postal ballot. This continued a trend of increasing turnout when the government first piloted postal-only voting in several areas in the 2002 local elections.6 This seemed to suggest that there is a genuine interest in local elections, but that voters are seeking new, perhaps more convenient ways of casting their ballot, and this prompted the government to introduce all-postal voting in four constituencies in the 2004 local and European elections. Turnout did increase in these regions by 13 percent compared with just seven percent elsewhere, but in Sunderland turnout fell to 40 percent from 47 percent recorded in 2003 when postal voting was used in local elections, suggesting improvements may be explained by the ‘novelty factor’. More seriously, the experiment was dogged by claims that scores of homes failed to receive ballot papers. Security was another concern, with two arrests made in Oldham of men who offered to ‘look after’ ballot papers, while in Burnley the Electoral Commission agreed to investigate a suspiciously high number of proxies. Voters complained of intimidation and bullying by party canvassers, and incorrectly completed forms invalidated votes. Some MPs complained that

4 Political Communication and Democracy

the requirement that ballot papers are countersigned by a friend or neighbour compromised the democratic right to a secret ballot. Attempts in 2003 to launch e-voting via the Internet and text messaging7 were equally unsuccessful. Only 19 percent of the electorate in the 18 pilot areas chose this form of voting. In Basingstoke, turnout fell from 34.3 percent in 2002 to 30.9 percent in 2003 despite the opportunity to vote by electronic methods. This may have been due to reported technical problems and congestion on the Internet. Clearly the voting system does not an interested voter make. And yet Brazilians of all people have managed to successfully create a national electronic balloting booth. With an electorate of 115 million, Brazil is the world’s fourth most populous democracy (admittedly with compulsory voting). It is larger than continental United States and includes two of the world’s biggest cities (not to mention the Amazon basin). In spite of the grand scale of the project the Brazilians managed to implement a fully computerised voting system, organised around 406,000 electronic ballot boxes in the 2000 Presidential election. When voting closed, diskettes were taken from the electronic ballot boxes and transported to state capitals. In remote areas the results were sent by satellite telephones. If a country the size – in geographic and demographic terms – of Brazil can manage it, why can’t little old Britain?8

‘Our votes were stolen.’ (Gerald White, discussing the way African-Americans in Florida feel about the 2000 presidential election, ‘Blacks aim to avenge Florida’s 2000 poll,’ The Guardian, 2 November 2002:15). We can take heart that the Brits are not alone in creating anomalies in the democratic process. How can we take politics seriously, the critics ask, when democracy allows such fiascos as the 2000 Presidential election in the United States? After all, this was an election with no obvious winner, accusations of voting irregularities, missing ballots and even corruption. Many eligible citizens, including African-Americans, were ‘omitted’ from the electoral roles in Florida.9 It is not surprising that many of the regimes that have been the focus for American vitriol for their lack of democracy should find the whole system laughable: Singapore’s media described the US as a ‘banana republic’, while China declared that obviously ‘the US electoral system is not as fair and perfect as the country boasts’. Malaysia’s Industrial Trade and Industry Minister, Rafidah Aziz, even suggested that ‘Maybe we, all developing countries, should send an elec-

Introduction 5

tion watch every time they have a presidential election’ (‘Either Way, A Bad Precedent’, Far Eastern Economic Review, 23 November 2000).10 Other critics explain the absence of interest in politics by its ostensible professionalism, and the domination of the spin-doctor. Image and sound-bites, they claim, have deprived voters of substantive political discussion.11 The media and government now run democratic politics, not the people. As Tony Benn once remarked, ‘The media, the pollsters, the people who hype it up and the public relations people who engage in politics have taken the democratic process away from us and made it something that highly paid experts want to manage for us’ (Franklin, 1994:10). Trevor Kavanagh of the Sun and Simon Kelner of The Independent argued about the EU constitution on Today programme, 21 June 2004. This is a significant development; it used to be that the politicians themselves would debate such weighty matters. Now journalists are increasingly taking over politicians’ debating role. If the politicians won’t take politics seriously, why should we? 12 One only needs to recall the fury that met Jo Moor’s comments of 11 September 2001, leaked to the British media. On a day when the world was coming to terms with the destruction of the World Trade Centre in New York and the death of an estimated 6,000 people at the hands of terrorists, Ms. Moor, a special adviser to the British transport secretary, Stephen Byers, wrote an e-mail to her boss explaining that it was a good day to release bad government news. Two hours after the attacks on New York, she said: ‘It is now a very good day to get out anything we want to bury’ (‘Pressure grows on Byers adviser to quit’, The Guardian, 10 October 2001).13 Such seemingly insensitive behaviour reinforces popular distrust of politicians. Moreover, the British government’s information machinery was again embarrassed in January 2003 when it was disclosed that a dossier detailing Iraq’s abuses of human rights and use of weapons of mass destruction was partly plagiarised from an American Ph.D thesis. ‘Though it now appears to have been a journalistic cut and paste job rather than high-grade intelligence analysis, the dossier ended up being cited approvingly on worldwide TV by the US secretary of state, Colin Powell, when he addressed the UN security council …’ (‘Downing St admits blunder on Iraq dossier’, The Independent, 8 February 2003:6). The Hutton inquiry that followed Britain’s involvement in the war was convened to determine reasons for the apparent suicide and death of weapons expert, Dr David Kelly,14 but also revealed how the Blair government worked and was almost ruined by its dependence on spin and presentation. The career

6 Political Communication and Democracy

of the ultimate ‘spin-meister’, Alastair Campbell, was pored over when he announced his resignation as the British Labour Government’s director of communications and strategy on 29 August 2003. Andrew Rawnsley in The Observer (31 August 2003:29) captured the popular impression of his power: ‘But … even when his formal job was merely that of Prime Minister’s press secretary, the title was much too modest to describe the status of Alastair Campbell. The force of his personality, combined with the dependence of the Prime Minister on that personality, made him the most formidable unelected official in British politics.’ Voters believe themselves excluded from the political process, ineffective and distant from the institutions which govern in their name (Nye, Zelikow & King (eds), 1997; Pharr & Putnam, 2000). Politicians appear unresponsive, uncaring, and impervious to rational debate. These accusations are a serious indictment not only of the political institutions and processes that structure democratic societies, but are also a comment on the frail condition of democratic political communication. Clearly, governments and politicians are failing to convey the ‘right’ image, despite the enormous amount of resources now devoted by governments to public relations.15 More importantly, democracy is thought to be about inclusion, dialogue, public opinion, public interest, government by the governed – all of which are the concern of political communication. It is far too easy to hold the media responsible for our current political cynicism and disengagement from the political system, a trail of blame and shame that has a long pedigree: in an influential report to the Trilateral Commission in 1975, the American political scientist Samuel Huntington blamed the media for the apparent erosion of reverence for authority in many post-industrial societies and therefore of contributing to a global crisis in democracy (Crozier, Huntington & Watanuki, 1975). As we have seen, this idea has gathered momentum and support in the intervening years, reinforced by evidence of supposed declining turnout at elections and the trivialisation of politics. Audiences, critics suggest, would rather vote for their favourite Pop Idol or member of the Big Brother house than their parliamentary representative or president. The media are now more interested in entertaining audiences than informing them of the substance of politics and the decision-making process, and thus encourage the very apathy that cynics lament. The Bill Clinton presidency will be remembered for the Monica Lewinsky scandal than anything else partly because of the extraordinary amount of media coverage this particular incident received (Zaller, 2001), while Anthony Pratkanis and Elliott Aronson

Introduction 7

(2001:xii) mourn the obsession of the American media with the 1995 O.J. Simpson trial: From January 1, 1995, until the week after the verdict, [American] television network news spent twenty-six hours and fifty minutes, or 13.6% of the available airtime, covering the O.J. [Simpson] story. That is more time than was devoted to Bosnia (thirteen hours and one minute), the bombing in Oklahoma city (eight hours and fiftythree minutes) and the U.S. budget (three hours and thirty-nine minutes) – the other top three ‘news’ stories – combined. When Alastair Campbell, the unelected Director of Communications and Strategy for the British Labour government – a Downing Street official – resigned on 29 August 2003, the news was released as a ‘Priority 2’ story, ‘equal to the death of the Queen Mother, Princess Diana and the resignation of any Cabinet minister’ (The Observer, 31 August 2003:15) – a clear indication of his perceived power and influence in British politics.16 Opinion poll data reveals that the British public do not trust the media or journalists; and they trust politicians even less (Table 1.1): Table 1.1

Trust in professions to tell the truth

Doctors Teachers Television News Readers Professors Judges Clergymen Scientists The police The ordinary man/woman Pollsters Civil Servants Trades Union Officials Business leaders Journalists Politicians Government Ministers

Tell the truth 2002 % (2004)

Not tell the truth 2002 %

Don’t know 2002 %

91 (92) 85 (89) 71 (70) 77 (80) 77 (75) 80 (75) 64 (69) 59 (63) 54 (55) 47 (49) 45 (51) 37 (39) 25 (30) 13 (20) 19 (22) 20 (23)

6 10 19 11 15 14 23 31 31 35 42 49 62 79 73 72

2 5 11 11 8 5 13 10 15 17 14 14 13 8 8 8

N = 1972 interviews (15 years old +); conducted 7–13 February 2002 (2004 figures: N = 2,004 interviews (15 years old +); conducted Feb/March 2004 Source: http://www.mori.com/polls/2002/bma-topline.shtml; MORI

8 Political Communication and Democracy

The Hutton Inquiry exacerbated this trend (see Table 1.2 below) and reinforced the popular view that politicians and journalists exist in a necessarily adversarial relationship. For example, the volatile relationship between the former Downing Street Director of Communications, Alastair Campbell, and the BBC’s Andrew Gilligan, has been well documented. Lord Hutton concluded that Andrew Gilligan’s broadcast statement that the government had ‘sexed up’ (ie. deliberately falsified) the dossier that made the case for Britain going to war against Iraq ‘attacked the integrity of the government’.17 However, the nature of the adversarial relationship is best demonstrated by the comment of the British television journalist and presenter, Jeremy Paxman, that his philosophy when interviewing politicians is to ask ‘why is this bastard lying to me?’ One report published in September 2003, the Phillis Review of political communications in Britain, identified similar problems of trust and acknowledged that a hostile government-media relationship was partly responsible. The need to move on from this adversarial relationship was reflected in a House of Commons motion, tabled in 2004 which said: ‘We … hope that this report will mark a watershed in relations between politicians and the media, where we move to a debate based on respect for each other’s opinions and adherence to the facts’ (http:// newsvote.bbc.co.uk, 2 March 2004). As David Yelland, former editor of the Sun newspaper commented, ‘Those in the business of communicating have to engage an audience that presupposes you are lying, even when you are not’ (‘How did we get so cynical?’, http://newsvote.bbc.co.uk). The so-called Phillis

Table 1.2

‘Verdict on the political class’

‘From what you have seen or heard of the Hutton Inquiry has your opinion of the following gone up or down?’ Gone Up Gone Down No Change Politicians in general BBC Journalists in general

– 8 3

51 36 32

N = 2,365. Source: YouGov, Daily Telegraph, 29 August 2003, p. 14.

47 53 62

Don’t Know 2 4 3

Introduction 9

Review, a committee chaired by Bob Phillis (the Guardian Media Group chief executive) was asked in 2003 to report on the apparent breakdown in trust between the media, politicians and the public. As noted its interim report identified the appearance of an adversarial relationship as a problem: The response of the media to a rigorous and proactive government and news management strategy has been to match claim with counter-claim in a challenging and adversarial way, making it difficult for any accurate communication of real achievement to pass unchallenged. Our research suggests this adversarial relationship between government and the media has resulted in all information being mistrusted when it is believed to have come from ‘political sources’. … The public now expects and believes the worst of politicians, even when there is strong objective evidence in favour of the government’s position.18 The situation is hardly better in other areas of the world. A Latinobarómetro poll published in The Economist (14 August 2004:41) found that trust in political parties, legislatures, judiciary and the police force in 18 Latin American countries remains lower than public confidence in television and the church, the two most powerful communicators in the region. (In 2004, less than 20 percent of respondents admitted to having ‘a lot’ or ‘some’ confidence in political parties; almost 80 percent said they had confidence in the church.)

‘I don’t care if they beat me. I’m going to vote for change’ (The Observer, 10 March 2002:3, reporting on the presidential election in Zimbabwe.) However, we should avoid the temptation to be excessively pessimistic, for there is a flip side to all this apparent doom and gloom that suggests things may not be as bad as they seem, especially when we end our obsession with the ballot box. For several decades now, extra-parliamentary movements and organisations have proliferated throughout the democratic world. Recent data suggests that these

10 Political Communication and Democracy

organisations are not represented by pressure or interest groups, and contrary to expectations, they are not enjoying an extraordinary revival; rather, the so-called ‘new social movements’ are attracting participants who might not otherwise become involved in the kind of confrontational, unorganised political direct action they advocate. This indicates people do not tire of politics provided the issues directly affect them or are concerns they feel passionately about (for relevant data, see Richard Topf’s chapter in Klingemann & Fuchs (eds), 1995). This persuasive argument runs that the broad church of political parties cannot satisfy individuals who are eager to effect change on the environment, human rights, poverty, or the inequalities of globalisation – issues that cannot be defined by parties or their programmes. The relevance of old models of democratic political communication connected to nation-states, parties, electoral participation, and representative government have become very limited. Now, the political agenda is more exciting, wide-ranging, and certainly more inclusive than ever before: ‘ … though voter turnout has stagnated (largely because of weakening political party loyalties), Western publics have not become apathetic: quite the contrary, in the last two decades, they have become markedly more likely to engage in elitechallenging forms of political participation’ (Ingelhart, 1997:296). 19 On 15 February 2003, an estimated one million people marched through London to protest at the possibility of war with Iraq, the largest demonstration against a war in progress in British history, while the police estimated that 200,000 people joined another march through London on 22 March 2002. ‘Those who marched yesterday could hardly be more representative of our country,’ wrote Menzies Campbell in the Independent on Sunday (16 February 2003:25). ‘MPs talk of postbags filled with letters from every social and economic background. The Government has mobilised inadvertently a mass popular movement of opposition. No voter apathy was on display in Hyde Park yesterday.’ Besides, when one looks at statistics available for each American Presidential election since 1924, turnout rates have actually remained remarkably steady at an average of 55.12 percent (the highest recorded turnout was 61.6 percent in the 1952 election). Beyond Europe and the US, the situation appears even more encouraging. Many new and emerging democracies have embraced principles and procedures that most Atlantic powers take for granted, and their people would find bizarre the notion of widespread cynicism and apathy. Ask any black South African who was able to vote for his president for the first time in 1994 whether he is disillusioned with politics.

Introduction 11

Photo 1.1 A demonstration against the continuing occupation of Iraq, London, 2004 (Matthew Rendall). Table 1.3

US Presidential election voter turnout, 1924–2000 Year

Turnout

1924 1928 1932 1936 1940 1944 1948 1952 1956 1960 1964 1968 1972 1976 1980 1984 1988 1992 1996 2000 2004

48.9% 51.8% 52.6% 56.8% 58.8% 56.1% 51.1% 61.6% 59.4% 62.8% 61.9% 60.9% 55.2% 53.5% 52.6% 53.1% 50.1% 55.2% 49.0% 51.0% 60.7%

Source: The Center for Voting and Democracy, www.igc.apc.org/cvd/turnout/preturn.html

12 Political Communication and Democracy

The election there was greeted by an impressive 89.9 percent turnout (22.7 million voters). While critics are now observing falling turnout in South African election as a sign of apathy, turnout rates still hover around 70 percent, which is still impressive (we have to accept that 1994’s turnout can be partly explained by the novelty of voting. ‘ANC set for third poll victory in a decade’, South China Morning Post, 15 April 2004:A11). Or explain the constant 70 percent plus turnout for elections in Taiwan with reference to apathy. And why did the opposition suffer such inexplicable violence to mount a credible campaign against Robert Mugabe’s regime in Zimbabwe’s 2002 election? The polls in Zimbabwe closed despite thousands not having the opportunity to cast their ballot, though as the quotation above highlights, Zimbabweans have not been cowed into forfeiting their democratic rights. In The Guardian Hugo Young provided a prescient comment on the significance of the election. His words are worth reproducing at length: In one way, the Zimbabwe election sets an example to all democrats. It inspires even as it appals. It’s a brilliant moment in the history of elections in Africa or anywhere else. It registers the attraction and the power of democracy as they’ve seldom been seen before. Where in our own continent of ingrates would people queue for 15 minutes, let alone 20 hours, to make their point? Where, simultaneously, has any other leader gone to such lengths as Robert Mugabe to confer democratic legitimacy on himself? While he serially violates the substance of democracy, he can’t do without its semblance. Each side, voter and dictator, pays tribute to what democracy is meant to be. It could be called a kind of apotheosis … the people … have suffered more for the cause of democratic representation than any western politician has ever had to do. We get democracy on a plate, and are beginning to yawn. Zimbabweans had to fight for it every day (Hugo Young, ‘The people of Zimbabwe have put us all to shame’, The Guardian, 12 March 2002:16). On 12 April 2003, tens of millions of Nigerians queued up, despite extremely bad weather, vote-rigging, allegations of irregularities in the selection of party candidates, and threats of violence in Africa’s biggest election (with 61 million registered voters). One voter summarised her fellow countrymen’s sentiments: We know our politicians. They are thieves. When they come to office, they will cheat and will not attend to us. But we have a right

Introduction 13

to vote. It is our right. We are not happy with the government, but we prefer democracy to the soldiers.20 In the run-up to the elections in March 2005, reports from Zimbabwe suggested that President Mugabe was determined to maintain control, including the power to appoint all members of the electoral commission which overseas polling. Moreover, independent groups were forbidden from campaigning. Even reports of alleged attacks on opposition supporters subject to repeated and systematic violence and intimidation could not douse popular enthusiasm for the electoral process in Zimbabwe. High rates of participation are not confined to new democracies: 90.5 percent of those eligible to vote in Belgium’s 1999 Parliamentary election did so; 84.07 percent in Iceland in 1998; 77.4 percent in Italy in 1995. The list goes on.21 In fact, the data record that ‘overall participation in competitive elections across the globe rose steadily between 1945 and 1990’. At its peak, the number turning out to vote reached a global average of 68 percent of the voting age population in the 1980s. While this dipped to 64 percent in the 1990s, this is far from being a sudden and dramatic fall that deserves the title of a ‘crisis’ (www.idea.int.vt/ survey/voter_turnout1.cfm). Of course, democracy is about more than elections, and we cannot judge the value of participation by simply recording turnout rates. Non-democratic regimes appreciate the value of elections in reinforcing their legitimacy, while elections and voter turnout tell us nothing about the quality of democracy or participation, or about the effectiveness of government. Many of these political systems still have a long way to go in terms of institutionalising democratic processes and cultures (via freedom of expression and assembly, the rule of law, human rights, etc.). 22 Besides, choosing not to vote can itself be a form of participation, for it represents an act of communication that those eligible to vote are dissatisfied with politics. (See Appendix 1.) The high level of control over parliamentary elections in Russia, and the bias of the media towards the government and its candidates, had the kind of effect we expect in the US and UK: ‘Why should I bother [to vote]?’ The Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe monitored the election: ‘In most western countries this [indifference] indicates that people are content enough to not consider it necessary to vote. But in this case they think the election has been decided’ (‘Russian election leaves little to the voters,’ The Guardian, 8 December 2003:16). Vasily Damov, an

14 Political Communication and Democracy

analyst from the Glasnost Defence Foundation said of the 2003 Russian elections: We are allowed enough freedom so that we can be internationally recognised as a democracy. But in reality, this is not a complete democracy, and there is no free press. Most people vote for United Russia because of the herd instinct. If a Russian walks into a café and sees everyone else drinking tea, he orders tea, even if he wants a coffee. That is how it is (‘Local heroes nowhere to be seen as fog of apathy descends on Russian elections,’ The Guardian, 5 December 2003:19). Apathy implies indifference; maybe we need to think of a better term to label those who deliberately decide not to vote.23 Moreover, turnout rates are not particularly reliable indicators of political attitude or behaviour anyway. After all, political systems all differ in terms of their core institutional and constitutional features, and comparison reveals a variety of electoral systems. Other variables include the dispersion of power, the scope and nature of competition and participation, the structure of the core executive etc.24 All of these factors will impact on the level of participation and mobilisation, including voter turnout, within political systems (Verba, Nie & Kim, 1978; Wackman & Miller, 1995; Katz 1997; Blaise & Dobrzynska, 1998; Lijphart, 1999; Meyer, 2001). The election system itself, for example, can influence how voters rationalise their participation; critics note that votes are often less valuable in systems based on a first-past-the-post electoral system (Britain) than where varieties of proportional representation are the norm. In still other countries, it is illegal not to vote (Australia, for example), but this may not necessarily improve the value of elections. Regardless of why the Hutton inquiry was required in the aftermath of Britain’s involvement in the 2003 Iraq war, shouldn’t we rejoice at the fact that a Prime Minister was asked to explain that decision first on live television to the Foreign Affairs Select Committee, and then to the inquiry itself (Tony Blair is only the second sitting prime minister to give evidence before a judicial inquiry). Before this, he had faced hostile live audiences on television news programmes, including a particularly uncomfortable interview broadcast from Tyneside on BBC’s Newsnight (6 February 2003). The Hutton Inquiry of 2003–4 was a landmark in the evolution of British political communication: it exposed the inner workings of a government accused of being obsessed by presentation; it questioned the role of the media in political society

Introduction 15

and challenged the working principles of the BBC; it contributed to the transparency and accountability of government (never before had so many senior politicians, civil servants and journalists been called before the court of public opinion to explain their decisions and behaviour); and the inquiry demonstrated the commitment to open government that is facilitated by new communications technologies (Lord Hutton decided to upload ‘every word of evidence’ and ‘every document’ onto the Internet. ‘The inquiry’s website was to become the most popular political site in Britain’. David Hencke and Tom Happold, ‘The Inquiry begins’, in The Hutton Inquiry and its Impact, 2004:84). Are these examples not evidence of an accountable democratic political system? So the centre of democratic procedure is inhabited by political communication. Political communication provides a vertical channel of dialogue and information between governments and governed, elected and the electors. Political communication helps to structure the participation and competition that characterise democracies. For supporters of direct democracy, a renewed system of political communication is the way to circumvent the problems identified at the beginning of this chapter (Barber, 1984; Barber, 1988). If citizens were given greater opportunities to deliberate on political issues, discuss them, mobilise and pressure governments (through devolution, referendums, grassroots mobilisation) then democracy would soon emerge blinking into the sunlight of a new political dawn: First, deliberation requires that one be well informed about proposed legislation. This includes being knowledgeable about competing – and minority – ideas, needs and perspectives. Second, it requires that this information be thoughtful and rationally considered rather than reacted to emotionally. … Third, deliberation requires that one be able to exchange views on proposed legislation with other decision makers, if one chooses. Fourth, deliberation requires open-mindedness. One’s preferences must be revisable in light of discussion, debate and new information (L.A. Baker, 1991). Dialogue is important for accountability as it requires opinions to be defended. In an ideal society, dialogue therefore encourages people to think through their views and have a clearer understanding of why they hold those opinions. But it is important to note that even dictators depend on communication to propagate their ideology, mobilise support and legitimate

16 Political Communication and Democracy

their rule. They may provide an illusion of democratic politics, as Robert Mugabe did in the 2002 presidential election in Zimbabwe, or structure elaborate propaganda systems that define the cultural and political identity of a nation and encourage support (the Nazis, for example). As I write in September 2003, Iraq’s Prime Minister has just visited the United States to celebrate the emergence of democracy in his country and the prospect of elections there in 2005. Yet, the lawlessness and continued military resistance in Iraq does not bode well for the future of democratic consolidation there. Elections do not a democracy make. In short, there is no escape from political communication, and since there is no escape, we may at least try to understand it better. That is the intention of this book, the product of many years teaching, observing and thinking about political communications. Its primary objective is to go beyond superficial discussions that equate political communication with the media and spin-doctors. Certainly they will feature prominently in this book – they cannot be avoided in today’s political environment – but I am concerned with demonstrating that there is more to political communications. The chapters that follow will take a broad-brush approach and discuss political communication in many – though not all – forms. We will encounter political parties and pressure groups as a way people join together, mobilise and communicate their interests to governments. We will discuss referendums and consider whether they do allow for a partial return to the glorious days of direct democracy that (so we are told) characterised many of the ancient Greek city-states. We will discuss public opinion, what it is, how it is formed and measured, and why it is important. The book will also address how the media contribute to the process of democratisation around the world (though especially in East Europe, Africa and Asia), and this will lead to an analysis of international political communications and the impact of the Internet revolution.

‘If democracy ever dies in Britain, it won’t be the Trots or the fascists; it’ll be the media that destroys it’. (Tony Benn, quoted in Franklin, 1994:10). It is not the purpose of this book to review the exhaustive literature that has been published on the theoretical and empirical approaches to understanding the media-politics interface. For one thing, it is difficult to offer comparative generalisations because of cross-national differences

Introduction 17

in media ownership, roles, regulation and consumption patterns. It is equally impossible to prove cause and effect: can we claim with any authority that the media do or do not influence their audiences? We are still struggling with the methodologies on this admittedly very important question and at the moment, the evidence and conclusions are both contradictory and contested. It is particularly difficult to measure the long-term effects of media exposure (there is a correlation between the media and public opinion, voter behaviour, etc., but not a demonstrable causation), and most research tends to focus on short term media exposure, especially in election campaigns. Even then it is essential not to lose sight of the importance of political context. For example, the press are thought to have been an important influence in deciding the 1992 British General Election because it was extremely close. The media were therefore important in helping to mobilise those who had earlier decided not to vote, or had not yet decided how to vote. In contrast, the 1997 and 2001 elections were not close; the Labour party enjoyed a substantial lead throughout the campaign, and most voters had clearly decided for whom to vote, indicating that the press would have little influence on their decision. Persuading relatively few floating or undecided voters to cast their ballot one way or another would have had little impact on the final result. Moreover, critics of media power are finding it ever more difficult to find evidence of the media actually changing public opinion. As every skilled propagandist knows, this is a long term process that requires sustained concentration on one issue and a repetitive style of coverage. As we move to a 24/7 news environment with multiple platforms, formats and choices, such concentration is far from easy. Likewise, it is difficult to measure audience reaction to media output and separate the opinions of the media from those of others to whom the media are giving a voice, or on whom the media depend as sources of news and information (press conferences, official statements, etc.). Before we are able to understand how the media impact on audiences, we are also under pressure to determine how audiences react to other sources of information they encounter, and then we must measure their level of trust in those sources. This means that, at the end of the day we must understand the relationship between public opinion and the media as a system of complex interactions and dynamics that rule out the notion of a simple uni-directional causation. We must face an inescapable fact: much of politics is dull. The finer points of public policy – however important, such as taxation, exports and imports, pensions and EU negotiations – are difficult to make attractive so that

18 Political Communication and Democracy

the average voter will engage with the ideas that lie behind them. Politics is often about outcomes and the delivery of services, issues that are unlikely to excite, outrage or even interest great swathes of media audiences. Invariably, the media find other things to report, and thus seize upon personalities rather than try to puzzle over the minutiae of government decisions. On the other hand, this book will argue that people are not disengaged from the political process or political issues. They are passionate, clear and angry about issues that impact on their daily lives. But they do believe far too often that their concerns are not accepted as important or relevant by the political class. There is no evidence to suggest that audiences are offered less politics now than in any other period of media history; we should resist the temptation to look back to a ‘golden era’, for the media have always been accused of trivialising politics, political bias and failing in their democratic duty to inform and scrutinise. Curran and Seaton (1997) for example trace the rise of the British ‘press barons’ in the 19th and early 20th Centuries as a response to the demands of the market. The launch of the News of the World in 1843 combined news with human interest stories and scandal, while A major survey … commissioned … in 1933, revealed … that the most-read news in popular daily papers were stories about accidents, crime, divorce, and human interest. They had a near universal appeal. In contrast most categories of public affairs news had only an average or below average readership rating. … Pressure to maximize audiences consequently resulted in the progressive downgrading of political coverage. By 1936 six out of a sample of seven papers devoted more space to human interest content than to public affairs – indeed, in some cases three or four times as much. … … [B]etween 1927 and 1937 the Daily Mail’s sports coverage rose from 27 to 36 percent of its total news, while home political, social, and economic news fell from 10 to 6 percent of total news content (Curran & Seaton, 1997:48–9). Neither are the America media immune to criticism. Veteran media scholar, Everette E. Dennis has described complaints by politicians against a biased media as ‘an American political tradition’ (Dennis, 1997:116). Instead, the present period is experiencing a new phase in the evolution of political journalism that is characterised primarily by format

Introduction 19

diversification. Modern communications technologies, especially the widespread popularity of cable, satellite, and now digital broadcasting have actually encouraged, rather than extinguished, serious coverage of politics. Previously, we assumed that every citizen in a democratic system should be interested in political issues. Now, we are in a strong position from which to challenge that normative position and understand that consumer choice applies to politics as it does to commerce; if citizens in developed democracies want to access serious political journalism and debate, they can do so through the diversification of media formats and platforms available. Equally, this satisfies those who choose to remain apart from the political process or simply decline to expose themselves to serious coverage of politics. So today CSPAN in the United States and the Parliament Channel in the United Kingdom broadcast alongside entertainment channels such as Sky One and UK Gold, just as the tabloid and populist Sun and Mirror newspapers are sold in British newsagents alongside broadsheets such as The Guardian and the Daily Telegraph. W. Russell Neuman’s argument (1991) that we are witnessing the death of ‘mass’ media and the birth of niche or narrowcasting seems a perfectly sensible idea. To reverse Marshall McLuhan’s famous phrase, today the message is the medium because of the technological possibilities for the decentralisation, diversification and customisation of media formats. Besides, why should people be forced to watch coverage of politics on their televisions if they are not interested? It is far too easy to subscribe to the liberal view that political apathy can only be overcome by political education; more exposure – however passive – will somehow mean more interest and participation. It is also too easy to accept a paternalist approach that insists politics is good for you. These ideas have all been captured in Pippa Norris’s ‘virtuous circle’, a term she uses to describe how the media and political participation ‘fit together’: ‘The most politically knowledgeable, trusting, and participatory are most likely to tune in to public affairs coverage. And those most attentive to coverage of public affairs become more engaged in civic life’ (Norris, 2000:317). Moreover, we should not overlook the possibility that ‘downmarket’ tabloid-style media can also stimulate audiences’ interest in politics, and that they often discuss complex political issues in ways that make them relevant and accessible. If the purpose of democratic political communication is to encourage popular engagement with the political system and try to overturn the apparent crisis in representative systems, then we should surely support the attempt to involve as wide a range of people as possible using a variety of

20 Political Communication and Democracy

platforms, media and styles of coverage. Such media diversity reflects the new multi-dimensional approach to politics that parallels the rise of new social movements and issues that are exciting popular interest and civic engagement. There is, after all, more to British politics than Westminster, Whitehall, and the European Single Currency. The media can help make such complex issues and processes meaningful to audiences, but also have the capacity to address concerns that are of immediate relevance to them. This does not imply a ‘dumbing down’ of political coverage as forcefully argued by Colin Sparks (2000:29), and this label does a great disservice to both media and audiences alike. If anything, we are perhaps referring to the democratisation of political coverage. Audiences can access politics through a variety of media and can consume different levels of political information that coincide with their needs, their backgrounds and their skills in using the media.25 For the purposes of this book, in which I intend to interrogate the relationship between politics, communications and democracy, we can accept Berelson’s admittedly vague proposition that captures the difficulty researchers face in this area: ‘Some kinds of communication, on some kinds of issues, brought to the attention of some kinds of people under some kinds of conditions, have some kinds of effects’ (Berelson, Lazarsfeld, & McPhee, 1954:356). We might also find useful the following questions, posed by Denis McQuail (2000:69) for thinking about the political roles and effects of the media. In fact, one might substitute ‘political communication’ for media and still the questions would resonate with the themes of this book: • • • • •

Who controls the media? Whose version of the world (social reality) is presented? How effective are the media in achieving chosen ends? Do mass media promote more or less equality in society? How is access to media organized?

We begin, however, with a little theory to whet the appetite. What does political theory say about political communication? From the Greeks to the post-Modernists, theorists have (often unconsciously) discussed communication as a fundamental part of their ideas. Often, their theories will not work without communication: can direct democracy, for example, function without allowing for free and full communication of ideas and interests? Harold Lasswell (1948:37) defined the study of communications as understanding ‘Who says

Introduction 21

what, in which channel, to whom, and with what effect’. Political theory adds a normative dimension: Who should be able to say what?

Appendix 1 ‘A dark horse in Taiwan poll’ (Far Eastern Economic Review, 29 January 2004:9). The focus in Taiwan’s presidential race has been on incumbent Chen Shui-bian and his Kuomintang rival, Lien Chan. But some analysts say a certain dark horse could also affect the March vote: none of the above. A tiny but growing movement is urging voters to express their dislike of the two candidates – both of whom ran in the last election in 2000 – by casting blank ballots. … They are using the Internet and cellphone messages … to spread the word. None-of-theabove movements aren’t new, of course, but in Taiwan they haven’t amounted to much. In 2000, more than 99 percent of ballots went to one of the five candidates. But given public dismay over incessant backbiting, and the fact that the candidates this time are both old faces, some analysts say things could be different if this year’s race is very close. … Emile Sheng, a political scientist at Soochow University, says … ‘If this movement continues to get publicity … it could gain more momentum.’

2 Guarding Against the ‘Deep Slumber of a Decided Opinion’

(John Stuart Mill, On Liberty, in Utilitarianism, 1969 edn.:170).1 One way we can begin to appreciate the role and importance of political communication is by examining the way that it has been discussed in, and developed by, political theory. This provides the foundation for our understanding of how different political systems have used and abused communication, but more importantly, it undermines the idea that political communication is the product of the media age. The pervasive media culture has conditioned us to accept spin-doctors, sound-bites and public relations consultants as modern phenomena. However, a cursory glance through the history of political thought reveals the interface between politics and communication has a long pedigree. It is important to begin with an important qualification: there is no single unified theory of political communication. Instead, the field is informed by theories and approaches from an array of disciplines, especially politics and sociology, that bring to the mix their own exciting and often challenging ideas and perspectives. Surprisingly, scholars of political communication have had least to learn from communication studies.

What have the Greeks ever done for us? As with so much in politics, it all began with the Greeks and their idea of the polis, most notably the democracy associated with the city-state Athens. One reason for the continued interest in Athens is that we have at our disposal a full record of its political system. Hence, most 22

Guarding Against the ‘Deep Slumber of a Decided Opinion’ 23

Greek political philosophy is the philosophy associated with Athens. The ideas discussed by its most prominent citizens – in particular, Thucydides, Aristotle and Plato (who are also Athens’ most celebrated critics) – and the stories they have passed down to us have inspired the development of political theory as demonstrated by the extraordinary amount of attention still devoted to Athens in the literature. The legacy of Athens, although routinely criticised, is undeniable. Although we should recall that Athens was not alone in its commitment to democracy and varieties of this system of government flourished throughout Ancient Greece, the Athenian democracy is most familiar to us, and thus will be the focus of this discussion. Aristotle begins from the premise that the human being is a ‘political animal’, which means living together in communities. Aristotle defines a community as composed of people with shared values and ways of living together to create for the community a worthwhile life. Individual happiness is therefore predicated on shared concern for those whom one lives alongside in the community. From the Greeks we acquire the notion of legitimacy, whereby the exercise of power is based on neither military strength nor the threat of force; rather, true legitimacy derives from the explicit acceptance by the citizenry that the government has a right to govern. Of course, the Greeks defined citizenry in such a way that a substantial population of the cities, especially men under the age of 20, slaves, and immigrants (anyone who had settled in Athens, including those from other Greek city states, regardless of how long ago they had emigrated) were not deemed to be citizens at all (‘That is the slave’s lot, not to speak one’s thought’).2 These groups were outside the polis, even though they resided in the cities. In this way, the Greek or Athenian democracy was based on inequality and exclusive membership. Hence, when Pericles (a prominent politician and general) described the Athenian constitution as a ‘democracy because power is in the hands not of a minority but of the whole people’, and that ‘everyone is equal before the law’, he was referring only to those classified as citizens (Thucydides, 1972 edn.:145). Pericles and his fellow Athenians never considered the possibility that democracy should be a system of government of, by, and for the people. Moreover, the power of defining who is a citizen is an act of political language par excellence. Membership of the Athenian polis brought with it responsibility, because all citizens were expected to fully participate in public and political life; Athens was a direct, rather than a representative democracy, and was therefore self-governing. Those who refused to

24 Political Communication and Democracy

participate were viewed with ‘contempt and suspicion’ by their fellow citizens (Bonner, 1967:14). Pericles is reported to have said: ‘We alone regard a man who takes no interest in public affairs not as a harmless but as a useless person’ (Thucydides, 1972 edn.:147).3 But the supposed effects of participation extended far beyond the debating forum of the Assembly, because involvement was thought to encourage self-education; the more a citizen assumed an active role in the political life of the city state, the more educated about political and social issues he would become. Thus the value and quality of his participation would grow. It is not surprising that the Athenian democracy remained a model for those who recognised the didactic appeal of political participation. For example, writing in the 19th Century, John Stuart Mill extolled the virtues of the Athenian democracy: ‘If circumstances allow the amount of public duty assigned to him [the individual] to be considerable, it makes him an educated man.’ Participation, argued Mill in Representative Government and On Liberty, ‘raised the intellectual standard of an average Athenian citizen …’ 4 Hence, Mill believed that extending the franchise to the working classes would encourage political education; participation, he maintained, nurtures active engagement. Participation implied communication; if the Athenian democracy was structured on the ideal of full participation by all its citizens, it followed that it required full and perfect information that allowed for reasoned deliberation: ‘We Athenians … take our decisions on policy or submit them to proper discussions: for we do not think there is an incompatibility between words and deeds; the worst thing is to rush into action before the consequences have been properly debated’ (Thucydides, 1972 edn.:147). To this extent, it is possible to date the birth of democratic political communication to the Ancient Greeks. For while the Athenian democracy was an exclusive club, even citizens that were judged ‘unworthy’ were encouraged to speak and deliberate in the Assembly because this was considered ‘good’ for democracy. Hence, we owe to the Greeks the essentially liberal notion that free speech is an automatic entitlement of citizenship. In Athens, this was based on isegoria, the equal right of all citizens to speak in the Assembly (fully explored in Finley’s 1973 study, Democracy Ancient and Modern).5 Outside the Assembly, communication about politics was extensive and easy to organise. After all, the Greek city states had small homogenous populations, and it was customary to meet one’s fellow citizens on a daily basis in informal situations (Finley, 1983; Mann, 1986, chapter 7; Dunn (ed.), 1992,

Guarding Against the ‘Deep Slumber of a Decided Opinion’ 25

chapters 1–3). Dialogue and debate outside the Assembly was therefore routine, and most citizens obtained their information from ‘the herald [or town crier], the notice board, gossip and rumour, verbal reports, and discussions in the various commissions and assemblies that made up the governmental machinery’ (Finlay, 1973:18). Writing in the Twentieth Century, Walter Lippmann, recognised that America’s founding fathers based their political system on a context similar to the Greek city-states: self-contained communities, and familiarity of both each other and the locale. This encouraged an Athenian-style commitment to participation: ‘ … not only was the individual citizen fitted to deal with all public affairs,’ wrote Lippmann, ‘but he was consistently public-spirited and endowed with unflagging interest. … Since everybody was assumed to be interested enough in important affairs, only those affairs came to see, important in which everybody was interested.’ Only three years after the original 1922 publication of Public Opinion, Lippmann (1925:13) argued that the pressures of modern urban and industrial living mean that the average citizen knows very little about public affairs, leading the author to conclude that the citizen ‘reigns in theory, but does not govern.’ Calls for direct democracy today, even utilising the Internet technology available to us, could not replicate the ideal type of direct democracy practised by the small and homogenous Greek city states (Dahl, 1998, discussed the relationship between the size of a country and the level of democracy there). Citizens are not willing to devote the time and effort that direct democracy requires, while the size of the population, together with the decline in face-to-face discussion about politics, create their own difficulties.6 As Peter Golding (quoted in Qualter, 1985:233) has suggested, ‘Most citizens undoubtedly have better things to do than offer daily advice to their leaders’. There is even suspicion that idealism which sees the Internet as a way to encourage political participation threatens to create a very unstable form of direct democracy (Birdsall et al., 1996, referred to this as ‘hyperdemocracy’). But this is not for want of trying, and the Internet seems to be re-energising constituency-based politics. In Britain, for example, over 67 percent of MPs have a website. Some have created databases of their constituents whom they regularly text or email to check their opinions on a wide range of issues. The problem with the use of this new technology to attempt to (re)create the conditions of direct democracy is that it depends on the representative having the required information about constituents – telephone numbers, email

26 Political Communication and Democracy

addresses etc – thus potentially excluding a significant proportion of the electorate. Moreover, there is a danger that these email consultations will be treated like any other kind of spam and be immediately deleted. Away from the white heat of technology, things look equally bleak. In June 2003, the British government launched a series of public debates on whether or not Britain should push ahead with genetically modified crops. The government called it ‘a national discussion like no other’ and ‘a unique experiment to find out what ordinary people think’. All the comments during the 11 city tour were recorded and included in a report presented to the government which, by November 2003, had to decide whether to endorse the cultivation of such crops. The almost complete absence of ‘ordinary people’ at the first debate, however, was not surprising. There had been no advertising except for the creation of a website. Nor had the NEC at Birmingham, host of the first debate, mentioned it in their events list. One representative of Friends of the Earth summarised the dilemma: ‘If people don’t get involved, the government are going to say, well, the people aren’t interested, so we’ll just go ahead’. The Athenians themselves were well aware that theirs was not a utopia of full and free political communication. In fact, we can speculate that they were genuinely concerned with the possible negative consequences of their democracy, for they created a number of mechanisms that mitigated against full freedom of speech, but which themselves were subject to wide-ranging qualifications. For example, the Athenians created laws that guarded against slander, but slander was only prohibited under certain very specific conditions: slander of the dead was strictly forbidden; slander of the living was likewise proscribed, but only in temples, courts, public offices and at public festivals. These qualifications did not satisfy Plato who said: ‘Concerning abuse there shall be this one law to cover all cases. No one shall abuse anyone’ (Bonner, 1967:70). Moreover, concern with the implications of allowing a ‘free for all’ in the Assembly did not preclude the frequent deterioration of proceedings into little more than the exchange of abusive dialogue and insults. It was perhaps inevitable that an Assembly of several thousand members,7 drawn from all sectors of the citizenry, would be ‘always volubly critical and often unruly and tumultuous’ (Ibid.: 74). In addition, the Athenian Assembly imposed checks on those who would seek to deceive it, those who failed to keep their promises, and those who were deemed to have given the Assembly erroneous advice.

Guarding Against the ‘Deep Slumber of a Decided Opinion’ 27

In this, way the (relatively) small and homogenous citizenship made the communication of political accountability reasonably easy. Punishment varied, but the most critical was disenfranchisement; the guilty were barred from participating in the Assembly and were thus regarded as political outcasts for life. However, observers of the Assembly here identified a significant flaw in its design and mechanisms that continues to haunt modern Parliamentary democracies: that the long term interests of the state would be sacrificed by the short term interests of the citizens. Thucydides’s suspicions are evident in the following passage: In view of the very great interests at stake, and in so grave a matter, we who advise must regard it as our duty to look somewhat further ahead then you who give matters only a brief consideration, especially since we are responsible advisers, while you are irresponsible listeners. Indeed, if not only those who give advice, but also those who followed it had to suffer alike, you would show greater prudence for your decisions; but as it is, when ever you meet with a reverse you give way to your first impulse, and punish your adviser for his single error of judgement instead of yourselves, the multitude who shared the error (Thucydides, 1972 edn.:43). Critics noted that wise statesmanship must respond to ever-changing circumstances, not the impulse of public opinion. They worried that such punishments would encourage the kind of reactionary politics from leaders that disregards the unpredictable nature of day-to-day politics. We owe much to the Athenians, in particular their contribution to the evolution of (albeit limited) democratic communication. But we continue to be amazed by the vision of the ancient Greeks. Responsibility for the development of professional political communication lies with the Sophists and their promotion of the art of rhetoric. The Sophists were masters of rhetoric, a useful skill to possess in the polis, and wanted to pass on their knowledge, often selling it for money. Does this mean that the Sophists were the first professional political consultants? Their skills in writing speeches (locography) and delivering them were much prized, though frowned upon much as we today sneer at the artifice and insincerity of political spin-doctors. Some have been kinder to the Sophists than others: Barker (1925:58) calls them the ‘first professional teachers of Greece’. Their allies have detailed how the Sophists were not just shallow orators who wrote and delivered

28 Political Communication and Democracy

speeches for immoral purposes; rather they were concerned with using reason to analyse and question in a rational manner the beliefs and institutions that were accepted by Greek society. This methodical process would then enable the Sophists to arrive at a conclusion about the validity of such beliefs and consider how they might be modified, or whether they should be altogether rejected. In short, Sophists were, according to their defenders, concerned with practising, writing, and delivering speeches to facilitate democratic practice and government. However, as hinted above the Sophists also had their critics. Some worried that the Sophists would breed a generation of radicals, corrupting the young among the Greek elite (who could afford to pay for the services of the Sophists) and encouraging them to overturn the status quo. The problem was that in popular discourse, Sophistry came to mean more than this. It evolved into a handy catch-all term of abuse that could label anyone who disagreed with the mechanisms of Athenian democracy, or had engaged in questionable conduct. While Aeschines accused the Sophists of practising and teaching the ‘unholy arts’ of speech, and others labelled Sophistry ‘witchcraft’ for its spellbinding and manipulative qualities, one of Socrates’s ex-pupils was accused of cheating a series of creditors. The speaker described this as representative of ‘the life of the Sophist’ (Hesh, 2000:207; 212). Sophistry was judged inconsistent with the commitment to full and free information that the Athenians valued, because Sophistry was said to value the construction and delivery of the speech more than its intention and the substance. One of the more influential critics of Sophistry was Plato, who expressed concern that rhetoric could be used to rouse mobs (a pejorative term throughout history) into activity against the best interests of the democracy. Plato based his understanding of how rhetoric affected Man on his knowledge of the human condition. Common Man, he said, is incapable of reason and judgment, and seeks simple answers to complex questions. Such Man has an innate need to be led, and is thus vulnerable to skilled oration. It is interesting that this is the basis for much of the theory that tries to explain how propaganda works; throughout the 20th Century all totalitarian regimes made effective, yet destructive use of propaganda that appeals to the base impulses of common man (Taylor, 1996). Plato defined democracy in rather biting tones: it is a political system, he said, that ‘treats all men as equal, whether they are equal or not’. Elitists ask a fundamental question: Is there reason to distrust judgement of our own interests? Some elitists claim that the public is ignorant or apathetic of politics, and they need to be convinced of the merit of political decisions. This means that

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decisions will have legitimacy through their support from below. Writing in the 19th Century, A.V.C. Dicey echoed the Greeks when he suggested that democracy was for the educated classes only. Public opinion, he intimated, is formed from ‘the wishes and ideas on legislation of those citizens who have … taken an effective role in public life’. This is similar to Plato’s distinction between the ‘navigator’ of a ship (the minority who possess the skill and knowledge to steer the ship) and the ‘crew’ (the majority who, not blessed with the virtues of the elite act on impulse). The political elite have the wisdom of political judgement to guide the ‘crew’, the majority, who do not. Even John Stuart Mill, fêted as the first to discuss equality of the sexes in a meaningful way, was essential elitist. In acquiescence to Plato, Mill justified that those with superior knowledge, skill, and education, should occupy the leading roles in political society. Such thinking even permeated the organisation of the BBC under its elitist founder, Sir John Reith. ‘Our responsibility,’ he noted in 1924, is to carry into the greatest possible number of homes everything that is best in every department of human knowledge, endeavour and achievement. … it is occasionally indicated to us that we are apparently setting out to give the public what we think they need – and not what they want, but few know what they want, and very few what they need. There is often no difference (Reith, 1924:34). But Plato did not reserve his invective for inclusive democracy; in fact, he attacked the very institution of democracy itself. Today, we are used to criticising politicians who try to ingratiate themselves with the public, who try to ‘sell’ themselves and their policies for short term political gain. According to David Held (1996:30), these problems concerned Plato: the Greek philosopher claimed, There can be no political leadership in a democracy; leaders depend on popular favour and they will, accordingly, act to sustain their own popularity and their own positions. Political leadership is enfeebled by acquiescence to popular demands and by the basing of political strategy on what can be ‘sold’. Careful judgements, difficult decisions, uncomfortable options, unpleasant truths will of necessity be generally avoided. Democracy marginalizes the wise. For Plato democracy degenerates into factional conflict, dissension and eventually tyranny. Only rule by the wise, the philosophers, can avoid such catastrophes.

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Suffice it to say that Plato was sufficiently concerned with the potential damage that oratory could do to democracy that he returned to it again and again in his writing (see his Euthydemus, Politicus, and Gorgias). For Plato, there was little to distinguish rhetoric from Sophistry; he believed that all oratory was a method of acquiring and exercising power, instead of promoting the value of reasoned and democratic argument. Nevertheless, Plato made a unique contribution to our understanding of both politics and political theory through setting out his ideas in the form of dialogues. John Stuart Mill described the dialogues as having been ‘directed with consummate skill to the purpose of convincing any one who had merely adopted the commonplaces of received opinion that he did not understand the subject … in order that, becoming aware of his ignorance, he might be put in the way to obtain a stable belief on a clear apprehension both of the meaning of doctrines and of their evidence’ (Mill, 1969 edn.:172). Was Plato therefore the most successful Sophist because he concealed his power claims, and in directing his argument against the Sophists, he is not suspected of being one?8 Aristotle was likewise concerned with the motives and methods of Sophistry, and he shared Plato’s belief that rhetoric should only serve a commitment to democracy; it must contribute to the development of the skills of statesmanship by providing wisdom and good judgement. Aristotle’s Treatise on Rhetoric (or On Rhetoric as it tends to be known) supplies perhaps the earliest cogent account of communication by a political theorist. That Aristotle, no democrat he, preferred the term ‘rhetoric’ is largely irrelevant, although (Plato notwithstanding) it does separate him from the Sophists (for Aristotle, rhetoric is designed for a moral purpose; Sophistry is intended only to win an argument by whatever means possible). Theodore Buckley, the editor of the 1872 edition of On Rhetoric wrote (p. 1) that, according to Aristotle, ‘any man who attempts to persuade another, under whatever circumstances, and with whatever object, may be said to exercise “rhetoric”.’ Much of Aristotle’s description of the ‘art’ of rhetoric is familiar to political communicators and media strategists today. For example, he explains why it is necessary to communicate through ‘the medium of ordinary language’, and discusses ‘the manner of communicating with the multitude’ (Ibid.:8). For Aristotle, communicating with the multitude is an important political act; and although he agrees with earlier Greek theorists that citizens must be expected to participate in public affairs, his exclusive definition of citizen remained consistent with Athenian practice. However, he does not simply follow earlier

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classifications, but extends them: not only slaves, foreigners and women, but also manual workers are outside the boundaries of Aristotle’s citizenship because ‘they haven’t the leisure for virtue’ (McClelland, 1996:57). Citizenship only has room for the rich. Book 1 Chapter IV of Aristotle’s On Rhetoric outlines the subjects ‘on which men deliberate’, namely finance, war and peace, the safeguard of territory, and legislation – what might today be defined as ‘high’ politics. The purpose of oration was to influence the formation of a decision (Chapter XVIII). Aristotle said that effective oration required absolute command of these issues; the orator must be in complete possession of all available knowledge and information about the subject on which he wished to speak. Once a decision is made, further oration is unnecessary. This raises the question of legitimacy: is further communication needed to continuously reinforce the legitimacy, authority and justification of decisions taken? The idea that the execution of decisions concludes the deliberative process is unimaginable today. We expect our politicians to continue to explain and justify the decisions that they take on our behalf; political communication is an ongoing process, not a means to an end that can be abandoned once the desired objective is realised. In this sense, Aristotle was also an elitist in the terms we will discuss below. Aristotle then goes on to describe the mechanisms of rhetoric in passages that are familiar to the student of propaganda today. The following, for example, is textbook propaganda methodology: … the rule of good taste is, that your style be lowered or raised according to the subject. On which account we must escape observation in doing this, and not appear to speak in a studied manner, but naturally, for the one is of a tendency to persuade, the other is the very reverse; because people put themselves on their guard, as though against one who had a design upon them, just as they would against unadulterated wine (Aristotle, 1872 edn.:208). Effective propaganda turns on the need to guarantee that your audience can identify with the themes and sentiments of the content, and therefore it is incumbent upon the propagandist to adapt the delivery to the audience – that it be ‘lowered or raised’ accordingly. The individual, however, guards against the prospect that he might be persuaded by propaganda to think and behave differently to his instinct. Propaganda, therefore, requires a natural approach to obscure the intention (it is instructive that the editor’s notes in the 1872 version of On Rhetoric here

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read: ‘We must conceal our art’). In fact, the whole volume, though Book III especially, can be read as a guide to conducting rhetoric/propaganda since it devotes many of its pages to imparting advice on style, rhythm of speech, construction of sentences, and the use of metaphors and hyperbole, ridicule and praise. In short, the Greeks made a full and significant contribution to the practice and study of political communications. From them, we acquire the framework to understand direct democracy, the problems of paying too much attention to public opinion, the art of spin-doctoring and political consultancy, and the origins of modern propaganda. Those who followed the Greeks (for example, the ‘liberals’) integrated communications into their own understanding of politics. We should not view these theorists as standing in opposition to the Greeks, but rather building upon their contribution to nurture ideas that accounted for social and political developments, in particular the development of the mass media.

The liberal tradition: Cui bono (in whose interest)? Given the impact of the Greeks on the evolution and practice of democratic political theory, it is perhaps surprising that absolutism ever developed. However, we must reiterate that the most prominent Athenians were critical of the political system in which they lived. Plato and Aristotle in particular disapproved of the kind of direct democracy that flourished in Athens. So we should not be shocked that political theorists were led away from the ideal towards a less democratic form of political organisation. The absolutist monarchies of Europe that reigned between the 15th and 18th Centuries were the clearest expression of anti-democratic sentiment until the emergence of totalitarian politics in the 20th Century. Absolutist rulers proclaimed they had a legitimate right to rule, and that this was not based on the kind of legitimacy conferred upon Greek governments; rather, absolutists asserted a divine right, that they had been chosen by God, and were thus answerable only to God. King Louis VX of France provides a most illuminating description of this system: In my person alone resides the sovereign power, and it is from me alone that the courts hold their existence and their authority. That … authority can only be exercised in my name. … For it is to me exclusively that the legislative power belongs. … The whole public order emanates from me since I am its supreme guardian. …

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The rights and interests of the nation … are necessarily united with my own and can only rest in my hands (quoted in Schama, 1989:104). It is also important to note that, on the whole, this was a Catholic absolutism. The liberalism that emerged to challenge absolutism coincided with the Protestant reformation, a movement that not only questioned Papal authority, but also raised important political and philosophical questions about the position of the individual in relation to the state, and to whom or to what he was obliged to be obedient. The reformation was also important in secularising language – Latin was the language of authority and power, whereas the reformation encouraged the use of vernaculars (‘All the great classical communities conceived of themselves as cosmically central, through the medium of a sacred language linked to a supernatural order of power’. Anderson, 1991:13).9 Meanwhile, the development of the printing press removed from the Church ultimate authority over the distribution of the Bible and its interpretation. Lucien Febvre and Henri-Jean Martin (1976:249) suggest that 77 percent of books printed before 1500 were in Latin. This means that ‘the fall of Latin’ after the middle of the 16th Century, ‘exemplified a larger process in which the sacred communities integrated by old scared languages were gradually fragmented, pluralized, and territorialized’ (Anderson, 1991:19). The printing press had allowed Martin Luther’s ideas to spread beyond Saxony, so that by 1500 an estimated nine million printed books were in circulation throughout Europe (Ralph Milliband, 1977:47 has called the churches ‘the first mass media in history’10). Liberalism extended the religious values of the reformation by advocating freedom of choice, the value of reason, and opposition to religious and political intolerance. It is important that the development of liberalism was influenced by the Protestant reformation, for liberals denied that state power was not based on supernatural ordinance, but on the will of the sovereign people. Liberals tried to demarcate a private sphere that was separate and inviolable to interference from both Church and State (ie. restricting state power in civil society). The state was necessary only as a guarantee of liberal rights; it must not interfere in the private sphere or the market economy. In this way, liberalism was the product of the Enlightenment that raised suspicion about the nature of states and the practice of state power, and championed instead a discrete social sphere where self-improvement through interaction could take place. Thinkers associated with the

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Enlightenment were concerned, above all, with creating a space for the development of enlightened opinion that would erode and eventually discard the need for the state. The first real victory of Enlightenment liberalism was the Anti-Corn League of 1846, established to persuade the state to end its regulation of the corn trade. This was the first real social movement of the 19th Century, and really the first genuinely effective ‘pressure group’ that challenged state power and forced it to back down for the good of the people. The League demonstrated that social mobilisation, and communication of grievances and interests through mobilisation, could work: the state would be forced to listen. One of the most important, and also one of the earliest liberals,11 was John Locke who published his influential Two Treatises of Government in 1690. David Held has provided a useful summary of Locke’s ideas: According to Locke, ‘authority is bestowed by individuals in society on government for the purpose of pursuing the ends of the governed; and should these ends fail to be represented adequately, the final judges are the people – the citizens – who can dispense both with their deputies and, if need be, with the existing form of government itself’ (Held, 1996:80). What dates the Two Treatises is Locke’s blatant declaration that ‘absolute monarchs are but men’. In one fell swoop, the idea of the divine right of kings is destroyed; for Locke, Sovereign power resides with the people who confer legitimacy on the government by consent, though we need to be extremely careful that we do not describe Locke as the epitome of modern democratic thought. According to Held’s reading of Two Treatises Locke did not advocate political liberties ‘irrespective of class, sex, colour and creed’ (Held, 1996:82). Chapter 6, Book II of The Two Treatises makes that perfectly clear. Neither did Locke believe in regular elections, or universal suffrage. In fact, like his Greek predecessors, participation was restricted to a particular definition of citizen, namely the propertied classes. Held concludes that Locke ‘cannot, like many of his predecessors, be considered a democrat without careful qualification’ (Ibid.). Locke believed in the virtues of majorities (Two Treatises, Chapter VIII), and that, by agreeing to enter political society, ‘everyone is bound by that consent to be concluded by the majority’. Otherwise, Locke said, the diversity of opinions and interests would make government impossible. And the reason they ‘consent’ to enter this political society, or commonwealth, is very simple: ‘the preservation of their property’. If the majority make laws ‘for the community from time to time’ and then execute ‘those laws by officers of their own appointing’, then, says Locke, the commonwealth can be described as no less than a

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‘perfect democracy’. This ‘perfect democracy’ is not republican; Locke was adamant that the legislature in 17th Century England should be king-in-Parliament and head of the executive. But the legislature should not be in constant session, but neither should legislatures be beyond rapid recall when the political situation demanded. Sometimes, the executive should be allowed to act, in times of national emergency, without law or recourse to the legislature. McClelland (1996:240) provides a cogent analysis of the connection between Locke’s ideas and the broad approach to political communication pursued in this book: What we ordinarily call ‘opinion’, or public opinion, arises in what Locke would call society, so it is thinking in society which decides what form the state should take. The state is the sum of opinion already formed, and it follows that it is certainly not the state’s job to try to change men’s opinions. Locke believed in the toleration of heterodox opinions (within limits) and the one thing he did not want was for the state itself to be an opinion-former. This is an argument that runs through the liberal approach to political communications; the state should not try to mould or change opinion, but should reflect the opinion of ‘the people’, however defined.12 Finally, Chapter XIX of the Second Treatise is important because Locke provides a lengthy discussion of when the dissolution of the legislature or government might take place and when it is justified. We need not concern ourselves with the detail; suffice it to say that Locke allows for the popular dissolution of government when the government acts against its raison d’etre; in other words, when government does not protect property, ‘and to make themselves … masters or arbitrary disposers of the lives, liberties, or fortunes of the people’. If government goes against the reason for its creation, the people have a right to ‘put themselves into a state of war’ with the legislature, and thus ‘it devolves to the people’ to create a new government. The same applies to political corruption, and the attempt to buy or influence voting behaviour. But again the removal of the legislature must be by consent. The French theorist, Baron de Montesquieu, built upon Locke’s liberalism and added to our understanding of the liberal contribution to political communication in very significant ways. Montesquieu adored the Athenian system of government and admired the way it encouraged direct participatory democracy (McClelland, 1996:316–18). Jean-Jacques Rousseau too defended the idea of direct democracy,

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believing that representative democracy does not provide the freedoms it alludes to: ‘The people of England regards itself free; but it is grossly mistaken; it is free only during the election of Members of Parliament. As soon as they are elected, slavery overtakes it’ (The Social Contract and Discourses:78). Testifying to its power as a medium of radical political communication, European governments considered the essay inflammatory: the French government banned its circulation and Rousseau was arrested. The Social Contract met with an equally hostile reception in Switzerland where it was publicly burned because officials there feared ‘that its stress on liberty would provoke a revolution’ (Andrain & Apter, 1995:233). J.I. Macadam (in Lively & Reeve, 1989:126) provides a useful summary of the main ideas: ‘For Rousseau, Politics, in representative democracy, is something which is done for him and happens to him’. Simply stated, Rousseau believed that legitimate authority is based on consent, hence the basis of the Social Contract to which all citizens must agree: The deputies of the people … are not and cannot be their representatives; they can only be their commissioners, and as such they are not qualified to conclude anything definitely. No act of theirs can be a law, unless it has been ratified by the people in person; and without that ratification nothing is law (The Social Contract:78). The Contract binds each individual to the will of the community, and each individual is expected – if not required – to make a full contribution to the formulation and life of the community. The parallels with the Athenian democracy are clear: man is bound by laws to which he has agreed should exist. Their legitimacy is therefore unquestionable (The Social Contract, Book II, Chapter 7). One immediate response to this is: does this mean that Rousseau advocated a style of politics that allowed for individually-expressed interests to supersede the general and political interests of the community? Not at all, he says. Unanimity is impossible, and decisions must be based on majoritarian principles. In response to criticisms that this system goes against Rousseau’s basic liberal ideas – that all men should be free, and that the majoritarian principle isolates minority interests – Rousseau believes that the minority will be persuaded by reason and intuition (not through discussion or debate) that their views are mistaken and will therefore come to accept a legitimate the majoritarian view. Moreover, Rousseau does not believe that parties, factions and interest groups, today considered vehicles of political communication, are con-

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ducive to democracy. Instead, they serve only to frustrate the general will and the arrival at a genuine consensus. This stands in stark contrast to Edmund Burke who, in Reflections on the Revolution in France, was convinced that political parties were important as part of the social structure. One’s location in society is conducive to defining and helping to fulfil one’s social and moral obligations. From Burke, we derive the origins of ‘primary groups’ (see Chapter 3 of this volume) since he believed that the family was the most important unit of obligation, interest, and socialisation. Burke then extended these ideas to suggest that outside the family there exist other organisations separate from the state to which citizens can belong, including political parties. A pluralist society is therefore necessary for man to fulfil his social commitments and obligations. But like his predecessors, Burke was essentially an elitist, for he talked of there being a ‘natural’ social hierarchy that allowed for prudent rule by ‘the wiser, more expert, more opulent’: [A representative’s] unbiased opinion, his mature judgement, his enlightened conscience, he ought not to sacrifice to you; to any man, or to any set of men living. These he does not derive from your pleasure; no, nor from the law and the constitution. They are a trust from Providence, for the abuse of which he is deeply answerable. Your representative owes you, not his industry only, but his judgement; and he betrays, instead of serving you, if he sacrifices it to your opinions (Edmund Burke, ‘To the Electors of Bristol … on Thursday the third of November, 1774’, Works, vol. I, London: George Bell and Sons, 1902:447). In contrast, Rousseau did not share Burke’s faith in pluralism or government by a natural aristocracy. For him, the creation of a political culture, or community, is based on the realisation of shared interests and objectives. Legislators are required only when the people do not accept the existence of a general will and must be persuaded of such; and they are persuaded through reason (The Social Contract, Book I, chapter 8; Book II, chapters 1, 4, 7). Rousseau also recognises the problems with direct democracy: Soon the inconvenience of everyone deciding on everything forces the sovereign people to charge a few of its members with the execution of its wishes. … Imperceptibly, a body grows up which acts the whole time. A body which acts the whole time cannot give an

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account of every action; it only gives an account of the main ones; soon it ends up by giving an account of none (Gagnebin & Raymond, Vol. III:837). For Rousseau, this transfer of power is dangerous and must be avoided at all costs; sovereignty must remain with the people. The people must therefore be persuaded of the virtue in retaining that power as represented by their participation in formulating the general will. Rousseau, then, is of limited use in helping our understanding of political communication. He discusses parties and factions, and believes that direct democracy is not only beneficial to the creation of legitimate political society, but endows the political culture with the educative qualities that the Greeks championed. He does, however, deny a place for discussion and debate, believing that voting is the only form of political participation required. Man will intuitively know what is in his best interest, and his best interest is served by creating a consensus on the general will. Discussion and debate are unnecessary because in Rousseau’s ideal society, men would automatically agree. Montesquieu too liked the idea of direct democracy, but realised that the Athenian political system could never be recovered: As in a country of liberty, every man who is supposed a free agent ought to be his own governor; the legislative power should reside in the whole body of the people. But since this is impossible in large states, and in small ones is subject to many inconveniences, it is fit the people should transact by their representatives what they cannot transact themselves (Montesquieu, 1952 edn.:71). This is important for our understanding of the development of political communication. We have moved from the direct democracy of Athens (though limited by a narrow definition of citizenship), through an absolutist period (justified in part by the criticisms of Athens), to the idea of representative democracy based on the consent of the people.13 Moreover, Montesquieu’s much celebrated separation of powers – providing for institutional checks balances – allows for a more meaningful accountability within the political system. Thus politics is now communicated in two ways: in the Assemblies where the representatives meet to deliberate; but also citizens are expected to express their preferences to their representatives on whom the power of decision-making is conferred or transferred. Communication is arranged vertically: information down from legislatures to the

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citizens, while preferences and interests flow up from the people to the legislature. Hence we have arrived at the genesis of modern parliamentary democracy, and thus the origin of the problems for which political communication is so often blamed. Like Locke, however, Montesquieu did not contemplate the idea of universal franchise, and neither did he believe that representatives should be accountable to the people. In this way Montesquieu’s liberalism was limited to the notion of consensual constraints on political power to avoid interference in the private sphere. It was left to the liberals writing in the 19th Century, notably Jeremy Bentham, James Mill and John Stuart Mill, to develop a more coherent theory of what Held (1996:88) has described as ‘protective democracy’: … [T]he governors must be held accountable to the governed through political mechanisms (the secret ballot, regular voting and competition between potential representatives, among other things) which give citizens satisfactory means for choosing, authorizing and controlling political decisions. Through these mechanisms, it was argued, a balance could be attained between might and right, authority and liberty. It is not too onerous to identify in this passage the ideas that are important for our understanding of political communication. Accountability, participation and competition all require dialogue between governed and governors. It also reiterates that the people are sovereign, but provides mechanisms that allow them to exercise their sovereignty. Moreover, communication is essential if representatives wish to fulfil their duties and convey to the government the views, interests, preferences and grievances of the constituents who elected them: Instead of the functioning of governing, for which it is radically unfit, the proper office of a representative assembly is to watch and control the government: to throw the light of publicity on its acts: to compel a full exposition and justification of all of them which any one considers questionable; to censure them if found condemnable, and, if the men who compose the government abuse their trust, or fulfil it in a manner which conflicts with the deliberate sense of the nation, to expel them from office …; to be at once the nation’s Committee of Grievances, and its Congress of Opinions; an arena in which every person in the country may count

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upon finding somebody who speaks his mind, as well or better than he could speak it himself (Mill, 1991:239). Where Mill is most radical is in his advocacy of open voting and a non-secret ballot which he sees as crucial for securing accountability. For Mill, voting is a communal action, but that action can have direct and serious consequences for other members of the community. We must, therefore, be prepared to justify our exercise of that power (Representative Government, Chapter 10). In his profoundly influential Federalist Papers, the American constitutionalist James Madison advanced such ideas one stage further by developing the theoretical foundations of representative democracy (Madison, 1966). This involves the transfer of power from citizens to those they elect to represent them. The representatives are then free to use their own judgement in deciding how the interests of their constituents are best met. James Mill described representative democracy as ‘the grand discovery of modern times’ where ‘the solution of all difficulties, both speculative and practical, would be found’ (Sabine, 1963:695). But we owe to Madison much more than the foundations of representative democracy, for his ideas were based on a penetrating analysis of factions in republican politics. The so-called 10th Federalist that Madison contributed to The Federalist Papers was indeed almost entirely devoted to understanding how a republican political system can accommodate the diversity and conflict of factionalism. Today, factions are tainted phenomena: they are often associated with the corrupt power and wealth-seeking strategies of political actors in democratising systems. Controlling factional based politics is frequently viewed as one of the main challenges of modern democracy. However, Madison’s understanding of factions allows for a more agreeable appreciation of the role they have played in the development of democratic politics, for factionalism is at the heart of what today we call pluralism, or interest group politics, a cornerstone of modern democratic communications; and representative government is necessary to control some of the more problematical features of factional diversity. (However, it is important to note that many of Madison’s ideas on the way that representative government can take some of the edge off factionalism are limited to the form of constitutionalism adopted by the United States of America. See McClelland, 1996:368–9). Thomas Paine’s contribution to the debate was to emphasise that political legitimacy rests on the consent of the people – it was as simple as that. Hence the legitimacy of the American and French constitutions and the problems of the English constitution:14

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The Rights of Man served a warning on the governments of the earth that their days were numbered. In the future on the democratic republic would be able to engage the loyalties of men who bothered to think about politics at all (McClelland, 1996:397). The liberals were the first to discuss in any meaningful way the idea of how the press interacted with political institutions and processes, and in doing so, they offered vigorous defences of press freedom. Liberals acknowledge that the media mediate; that they stand as powerful and indispensable structures between the state and the public that can hold the political system to account between elections. John Stuart Mill, for example, opened Chapter II of On Liberty (p. 141): ‘The time, it is hoped, is gone by when any defence would be necessary of the “liberty of the press” as one of the securities against corrupt or tyrannical government.’ (Chapter II of On Liberty provides a full discussion of the importance of freedom of thought and speech, and should be read as the scion of Aristotle’s On Rhetoric. On press freedom, see also James Mill, ‘Liberty of the Press’, in his Essays on Government, Jurisprudence, Liberty of the Press and Law of Nations.) Mill was vehemently opposed to attempts to suppress opinion: either the opinion is true, or will be revealed to be true only through discussion and exploration. Eulogising the great orators of ancient Greece, Mill defends the need to understand the opposing argument in order that one’s own might be better communicated. If an audience does not hear both sides of an argument, Mill suggests, it would be rational for him to suspend his judgement on that particular issue. But although Mill defended the freedom of the press, he does submit that an audience should not rely on ‘media’ (broadly defined to mean any person or persons that stand between two opponents) but instead should ensure that he hears each side of the argument from the horse’s mouth (On Liberty:163). While Mill describes as ‘the gravest’ of offences being the suppression of facts, arguing from mistaken or false premises, or misrepresenting the opposite argument, he does concede that these may not be entered into consciously or deliberately; ‘by persons who are not considered, and in many other respects may not deserve to be considered, ignorant or incompetent’, so that they should not be culpable (On Liberty:181). But Mill reserves his most invective for the ‘worst offence’, namely ‘to stigmatise those who hold the contrary opinion as bad and immoral men (On Liberty:182). Bentham and the utilitarians were likewise convinced that reconciling the public interest with the egoistic nature of rulers was possible only through representative democracy. Not for James Mill the

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idealism of Rousseau; direct democracy is far too impractical. Representative democracy is the next best thing. Thus power becomes dependent on control from below, and the whole community must be able to check government and hold it to account. Claiming that democracy requires healthy political communication, the liberals believed that a free press is a vital means of challenging state power, expressing and articulating an array of opinions on any particular subject, and ultimately empowering the people. The media are particularly important because if we accept that democracies are pluralist, politics becomes a competition between rival interests with varying degrees of power diffused throughout the system. One of the most disturbing developments is the way that more and more public agencies are becoming less and less accountable to the electorate. The media hold these institutions – the civil service for example – in check and provide information to public opinion about their activities. Bentham, for example, described public opinion as ‘a system of law emanating from the body of people … To the pernicious exercise of government, it is the only check’. State intervention is only justified when its absence threatens the social and economic order. Hence liberals see state intervention to uphold law and order as absolutely essential – to secure the greatest happiness of the greatest number. This is the basis for the utilitarian calculations most associated with Jeremy Bentham. Most intriguing, however, is the way that seeking the greatest good for the greatest number can conflict with the liberal approach to political communications: we normally link liberalism with the desire for freedom of speech and association. These are considered natural rights of man. However, it is possible to envisage a set of conditions when such rights are incompatible with the activities of a government seeking to satisfy the greatest good for the greatest number. Does this justify the suppression of liberty in the short-term to achieve long-term goals and benefits? In other words there is a clear paradox in Benthamite utilitarianism: voters are rational in that they will see the benefits of sacrificing immediate interests for long-term ones. In this way, Bentham is close to Rousseau in expressing extraordinary faith in the ability of man to recognise and accept the general will. However, we might also suppose that a truly rational and calculating individual would see that his immediate interests are more desirable. Most important for our understanding of liberalism is its commitment to non-interference by the state in civil society. In his 1859 essay On Liberty (p. 135), John Stuart Mill is very clear about this:

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… [T]he sole end for which mankind are warranted, individually or collectively, in interfering with the liberty of action of any of their number, is self-protection. That the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilised community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others. His own good, either physical or moral, is not a sufficient warrant. Hence, we begin to see the carving out of distinct ‘public’ and ‘private’ spheres that would inspire future generations of theorists who were concerned with political communication (though the ‘public sphere’ was, even in the liberals’ grand scheme, inhabited exclusively by men, and usually men of property). John Stuart Mill was an exception to the patriarchal liberal tradition, and his 1869 book, The Subjection of Women is a groundbreaking testament to his extraordinary vision of social, economic and political equality. However, while Mill extolled the virtues of universal franchise, he was less keen on the idea that all votes should count equally: It is important that every one of the governed should have a voice in the government … But ought every one to have an equal voice? This is a totally different proposition; and in my judgement … palpably false … There is no one who, in any matter … would not rather have his affairs managed by a person of greater knowledge and intelligence, than by one of less. There is no one who … would not desire to give a more potential voice to the more educated and more cultivated … (Mill, 1869:17–18, 20–2). His father, too, believed in wise leadership by the middle classes, the opinion formers; starting from an assumption of rationality, James Mill suggested that the working classes would be sufficiently rational to realise that their interests were best served by following their superiors. But John Stuart Mill cautioned against the ‘tyranny of the majority’, an expression that continues to resonate today. Mill was worried that majorities could subvert the communal good: Protection … against the tyranny of the magistrate is not enough: there needs protection also against the tyranny of the prevailing opinion and feeling; against the tendency of society to impose, by other means than civil penalties, its own ideas and practices as rules of conduct on those who dissent from them. … There is a limit to the legitimate interference of collective opinion with individual

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independence: and to find that limit and maintain it against encroachment, is as indispensable to a good condition of human affairs, as protection against political despotism’ (On Liberty:130). The liberals, therefore, advocated – albeit cautiously – all forms of liberty, including thought, speech and association. In this way they articulated how political communication is not only essential for democracy, but actually enhances and energises it. The following passage from Mill’s On Liberty (p. 138) is representative of liberal doctrine: This, then, is the appropriate region of human liberty … demanding liberty of conscience in the most comprehensive sense; liberty of thought and feeling; absolute freedom of opinion and sentiment on all subjects … The liberty of expressing and publishing opinions …freedom to unite, for any purpose not involving harm to others … No society in which these liberties are not, on the whole, respected, is free, whatever may be its form of government; and none is completely free in which they do not exist absolute and unqualified. … At the heart of the liberal tradition is the idea that democracy must involve a high level of popular participation. Political leaders follow and interpret the public mood, rather than create it. In other words, the liberals believed that the public know their own interests and have a desire to articulate them. To maximise popular participation, the public requires the opportunity to articulate their opinions, but they need to be educated of this opportunity; they need to be shown they can get what they want rather than having laws imposed from above. In this way, communication is itself a form of participation. Interests are not just known but need to be translated into political action. Political participation requires political knowledge. The more one participate, the more knowledgeable one becomes, and thus one’s participation becomes more rational. Hence, the liberal tradition leaves room for the idea of improvability through political communication and participation: John Stuart Mill in particular was keen to champion the educative effects of participation; and this ‘explains [his] … attachment to any means by which large sections of the population could be drawn into active participation in public life – representative democracy, local self-government, the growth of voluntary, intermediary associations’ (Lively & Reeve, 1989:194. See also Sargeant & Steele, 1999).

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Democracy is now a process of achieving the interests of individuals within society, not an end in itself (Held, 1996:97). There is also space here to understand the development of interest groups, that is collections of citizens who mobilise for the purpose of articulating their demands, interests and grievances to the government (we shall return to interest groups in a later chapter). However, while the participatory theorists may agree that government must be responsive to the needs of the public, they do not necessarily agree on the institutional process of politics. Some recommend the use of referendums, for others (for example, Joseph Schumpeter, 1992)15 elections are the only expression of democratic involvement, while for others, the measurement of public opinion is essential. Another group identifies itself completely with the idea of action, not words, as a form of political communication. All of these methods of political communication will be discussed in this book. The liberals thus left many questions unresolved: who was involved in the new political scheme? How were their demands to be realised? How could the idea of genuine universal suffrage be accomplished given the gross disparities in wealth that characterised the 18th and 19th Centuries? The liberal tradition gave birth to the radical movements of the early 20th Century – working class, feminist, civil rights. The liberal ideas allowed men and women of every race, creed, colour, and class to challenge the state apparatus that denied them the voice liberalism promised them. Held (1996:120) provides a neat list of those features that emerged from the radicalisation of politics in the 20th Century that had its origin in the liberalism of the 18th and 19th Centuries. Held’s list offers an interesting summary of how political communications have been an integral component of political practice, and many of the features he recounts will feature in the remainder of this book: [E]lected government; free and fair elections in which every citizen’s vote has an equal weight; a suffrage which embraces all citizens irrespective of distinctions of race, religion, class, sex and so on; freedom of conscience, information and expression on all public matters broadly defined; the right of all adults to oppose their government and stand for office; and associational autonomy – the right to form independent associations including social movements, interest groups and political parties. By the middle of the 19th Century the liberals had acquired their desired progress: capitalism had triumphed, while the industrial

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revolution had transformed the lives of those it touched. The legitimacy of the modern state, based on the will of the people, seemed secure. But the effects of the industrial revolution and the laissez-faire economy had devastating consequences that liberalism had difficulty explaining: Urbanisation, poverty, paternalism – these were the hallmarks of the ‘progress’ laissez-faire liberals had championed. Liberalism itself had split between those who believed in the efficacy of an unregulated market, and those who saw that liberalism demanded state intervention. But what kind of state intervention? And how much would be allowed? Little wonder that out of this liberal ‘victory’, there emerged a new political theory – socialism, and its revolutionary offspring, Marxism – that would not only challenge the assumptions and methodology of liberalism, but would change the world for the next century. In particular, 20th Century scholars have wrestled with the contradictions inherent in the liberal commitment to a free market and the expression of diverse opinion: in particular, critics point out that the free market has in fact reduced the opportunities of freedom of expression, because communication and media industries have displayed a tendency to merge. Hence, the media industry is dominated by fewer and fewer owners that are able to shape the public agenda. This gave rise to a tradition of political economy in understanding communications that owes a great deal to the Marxist approach to power and identifies a close correlation between the economic structures of the media and the ideological content of their output. Murdock and Golding (in Curran et al., 1977: 37) provide a useful summary of the main ideas of this approach. Economic forces, they say work consistently to exclude those voices lacking economic power or resources … the underlying logic of cost operates systematically, consolidating the position of groups already established in the main mass-media markets and excluding those groups who lack the capital base required for successful entry. Thus the voices which survive will largely belong to those least likely to criticize the prevailing distribution of wealth and power. Conversely, those most likely to challenge these arrangements are unable to publicize their dissent or opposition because they cannot command resources needed for effective communication to a broad audience. However, it is also worth noting that political scientists working in the 1960s – the so-called ‘Modernization school’ – revisited many of the ideas that the liberals left hanging in the 19th Century. In particular, Daniel Lerner and Seymour Martin Lipset, together with Almond and

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Verba’s work on the ‘Civic Culture’, tried to understand how mass communications might encourage economic and social development. The role of the mass media was to communicate the benefits of modernity and help refashion ‘backward’ and ‘traditional societies’ by relaying to them the advantages of building democratic practices and institutions. The media act as teacher, role-model, and unifier. In particular, the modernisation school examined the way urbanisation encourages personal interaction and the diffusion of education and information. Thus urbanisation creates a more opinionated, politically interested and better informed population. In these ideas, political communications provides the element of improvability that was central to classical liberalism. For Lipset, democracy ‘requires institutions which sustain legitimacy and consensus’, and thus he avoids the pitfall of economic determinism because the political establishment relies on the public. The main criticism of this approach is the lack of attention to cultural specificity and local realities. The media may contribution to the social, political and economic development of countries, but they are still too often limited in the adoption of such strategies by the absence of high-cost communications infrastructures (not to mention the association of the modernisation school with the cultural imperialism and dependency approaches).

Marx and post-Marxists [N]ews is not a neutral and natural phenomenon; it is rather the manufactured production of ideology. (Glasgow University Media Group, 1980:xvii–xviii). Unlike the theorists we have so far encountered, Marx had little to say about communications or the media, and this is quite extraordinary given that communication is arguably central to his ideas (the developments and dissemination of class consciousness, for example) and the transformations in technology and literacy that he witnessed. Then there is the way those who professed to practice Marxism in their various ways by invoking his authority and name – Lenin, Trotsky, Stalin, Mao – all used the media to disseminate their ideas and mobilise their societies towards a Marxist revolution. For these revolutionaries, communications are used for propaganda and agitation – for confrontation rather than resolution. Nevertheless, to criticise Marx for not saying very much about communication is valid only if we seek a literal reading of his work. More

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important are the implications of his ideas for our understanding of political communications. Also, we must be mindful that the Marxist canon has provided the foundation for a rich body of literature that has given communications a more central role: post-Marxists such as Gramsci, the Frankfurt School (especially Jürgen Habermas), the political economists, and the post-moderns all share the idea that meaning is attached to and constructed by power relations within society. As every first year politics undergraduate knows, politics is about conflict and the reconciliation of conflict. The liberals believed that conflict, although unavoidable, could be managed through bargaining and compromise. Marxists, on the other hand, have a more pessimistic view. They are convinced that conflict cannot be ‘managed’ because all conflict is about the struggle between classes for social, political, and primarily economic power. This conflict takes place on (among others) the cultural level, as Marx observes in The German Ideology. The ruling class are in every epoch the ruling ideas: i.e. the class, which is the ruling material force of society, is that the same time its ruling intellectual force. The class that has the means of material production consequently also controls the means of mental production so that the ideas of those who lack the means of mental production are on the whole subject to it … Insofar, therefore, as they rule as a class and determine the extent and compass of an historical epoch, it is self-evident that they … regulate the production and distribution of the ideas of their age: thus their ideas are the ruling ideas of the epoch (in Wood, 1988:101). Thus Marx identified a struggle for the communication of alternative ideas and perspectives, identities and histories. This conflict can only be settled by the complete transformation of the very structural (economic) conditions that encouraged the conflict. Class conflict is fought, among other things, on the cultural level. There is permanent struggle for the communication of alternative ideas and perspectives, identities and histories. The communication of these ideas and realities are not necessarily deliberate. As Ralph Miliband (1977:32) noted: Deliberate deception does indeed occur, whereby the spokesmen of a dominant class act as the ‘ideologues’ of the class, and try to persuade the subordinate classes of the universal validity of ideas and principles … useful in the maintenance of the given social order. But alongside deliberate deception, there is also much, and

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perhaps more, of self-deception, in so-far as the spokesmen of a dominant class, and those for whom they speak, do deeply believe in the universal truth of the ideas and ideals which they uphold … So while Marx insists that the dominant classes will seek to defend, strengthen or extend their rule by means of coercion, he also leaves room for the act of persuasion. Political communications and culture become mechanisms to prevent the emergence of a class consciousness among the subordinate classes, but are also valuable transmission belts for the accepted (dominant) social order. So in this scenario the media are intent on more than just financial gain; their primary objective might be the perpetuation of ideological, political and economic domination by a particular class. Inherent in this line of enquiry is the assumption that the media possess a set of broad powers and purposes that force our analysis beyond liberalism, and this requires us to question on whose behalf the media function. Do they pursue particular economic or political agendas? Are they servicing the interests of a class or political elite? Marxists, for example, would claim that it is only possible to appreciate fully the role and political power of the media once we have identified their patterns of ownership and have scrutinised the ideology behind their content. Curran and Seaton’s history of the British press (1997) and especially their discussion of the period immediately after the Second World War, demonstrates how the press became closely aligned to big business. Interlocking ownership, a more personal style of management, and the rise of Thatcherism all coincided to force the press (and especially the rightwing press) to follow a more Thatcherite agenda. As Curran and Seaton show, many newspaper journalists and editors who tried to maintain political independence or impartiality fell foul of their proprietors’ insistence on following a more partisan agenda. British media observers are used to reading and writing about the power of the new media barons – Rupert Murdoch, the late Robert Maxwell, et al. – who have followed in the footsteps of the Northcliffes and the Rothermeres. Randolph Hearst in the United States is a mythical, as much as historical figure, partly owing to the film Citizen Kane, while the post-Communist media in Russia have been reorganised under the control and ownership of an oligopoly (Nemtsov, 1999:5–6). This means that, despite a protracted liberalisation and democratisation that started in the final years of the Communist era, the freedom of speech enjoyed by Russian journalists is still limited as they are inhibited from criticising the owners of their newspapers or the media

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group to which their newspaper belongs (Ibid.:7). Other areas of the world are not immune from such corporate takeovers. In democratic Thailand, for example, media ownership is now shared between the state (specifically the military) and a set of powerful private monopolies (Glen Lewis in Kitley (ed.), 2003:61–79). Their strength is represented by the election as Prime Minister in January 2003 of Thaksin Shinawatra, a ‘media magnate on an international scale comparable with Italy’s Silvio Berlusconi’ (Ibid.:61). Critics claim that the removal in February 2004 of the editor of Thailand’s biggest English-language newspaper, Bangkok Post, was due to pressure from the Prime Minister who had been annoyed by coverage he had received. Thai journalists were naturally worried by the implications of this decision, seeing in it a growing tendency for the commercially and politically powerful Thaksin to violate media independence. The Prime Minister of Italy, Silvio Berlusconi, enjoys a monopoly on media and political power that demonstrates the irrefutable connection between political power and communications. He is Italy’s richest and arguably most powerful citizen, owning three television networks, thus giving him an extraordinary domination of political communication that extends into the economic and political realms,16 and he has been accused of still engaging in a relentless quest for control of the national news media. Corriere della Sera, boasting Italy’s largest newspaper circulation, has been particularly targeted, and its editor had to resign for ‘irritating Berlusconi’ (The Independent, 30 May 2003:14). In 1994, amid a crisis in Italian politics, Berlusconi used his domination of private television broadcasting to launch a new political party, Forza Italia. Many of this party’s personnel worked for his company, Fininvest, and his three TV stations were used to help his campaign. ‘Berlusconi’s control of the media resources has transformed the basis for political communication in Italy’ (Statham, 1996:88). In the post-Hutton Inquiry environment, critics not only question the integrity and outcome of the inquiry itself, but also challenged as utopian the notion of BBC impartiality. So, for example, while critics might call for a greater and more urgent need to preserve the independence of the BBC from political pressure, it is also possible to view the BBC – especially its managerial structure – as part of the same establishment edifice as the state. What do licence fee payers know about how the BBC is managed and run? Who are the governors? Who selected them? What are their backgrounds? Few licence fee payers know anything about the governors – what they do, who they are – just as they know almost next to nothing about the BBC Charter and

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its renewal. So, opine critics, we have a situation pre-Hutton in which the BBC governor and chairman of the Board of Governors were appointed by the Prime Minister; Lord Hutton was appointed by the Prime Minister to lead the inquiry into Dr David Kelly’s suicide; and Lord Robin Butler was appointed by the Prime Minister to conduct an inquiry into British intelligence failings that led the country to war against Iraq. In other words, the BBC and its critics are all members of the establishment elite and were appointed by the establishment elite.17 What is most worrying is that which separates the new media barons from their predecessors: their capacity to take full corporate and political advantage of both modern communications technologies and globalisation to extend their reach beyond newspapers. Rupert Murdoch, for example, is not only a newspaper proprietor (accounting for 175 newspapers), but also owns 20th Century Fox, the Fox television network, dozens of other American television stations, eight cable stations, most of Sky TV, the STAR network in Asia, Foxtel in Australia and Italy’s Sky Italia, not to mention the publisher HarperCollins. In other words, the Murdoch empire stretches across all media and covers news, information, entertainment and culture.18 Time Warner now owns Turner Broadcasting Systems (including the global news network CNN) creating the largest media operator in the world (Disney’s recent move into media diversification makes it a close second). Critics worry that such empire building represents concentration of ownership of world media and entertainment systems in the hands of a few multinational corporations. This is detrimental for democratic processes, because such corporations are unaccountable to democratic control or scrutiny (Bagdikian, 1997). People may choose to ‘switch over’ or ‘switch off’ but that becomes increasingly difficult as firms diversify. However, it is in the development of political economy and its value observing the operations of the media that Marxism is of most practical use. This approach drives us towards understanding the economic bases of communications, especially ownership, than their ideological content. As commented on earlier, Marxists believe the liberal view is an ideal, out of place in the real world where the free flow of information is restricted by the capitalist economic system and an unequal distribution of resources. The development of large-scale communications and media conglomerates, for example, provides evidence to demonstrate this structural reality: Rupert Murdoch’s media empire is often used as confirmation of the power of multinational media barons, while the cultural imperialism thesis is bound

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up in Marxist anti-corporate discourse – McDonaldisation and Coca-Cola Imperalism. The laissez faire economy does not necessarily make for more effective communication, participation or accountability. In fact, an unregulated market, characterised by competition, inhibits rather than encourages a diversity of information and media. But the connection between politics and communications is clear, for in the Marxist scenario political communications help maintain class power, excluding: those voices lacking economic power or resources … the underlying logic of cost operates systematically, consolidating the position of groups already established in the main mass-media markets and excluding those groups who lack the capital base required for successful entry. Thus the voices which survive will largely belong to those least likely to criticise the prevailing distribution of wealth and power. Conversely, those most likely to challenge these arrangements are unable to publicise their dissent or opposition because they cannot command resources needed for effective communication to a broad audience (Murdock & Golding, 1977:37). The media replicate the capitalist mode of production, owned by a capitalist class and organised to serve the interests of the capitalist class. The media disseminate this class’s ideas and world views while denying working class consciousness an opportunity to develop and mobilise. In the early 20th Century, Marxists began to question the assumptions of Marxism and understand why his predictions had failed. In particular, they were concerned with understanding why working-class movements had failed in Europe and fascism allowed to develop and prosper. Antonio Gramsci was among the first post-Marxists to consider why the working classes were not necessarily revolutionary but might instead accede to fascism. For Gramsci the key was in Marx’s distinction between the substructure (the economic system) and the superstructure (the realm of ideas and culture). Marx was adamant that the substructure was the driving force of history, and that the superstructure only served to reinforce the economic class struggle. But this does not advance us towards understanding why history had not played out as Marx had expected, with the ‘inevitable’ development of class consciousness among the working classes and their eventual mobilisation to bring down the capitalist mode of production. Gramsci believed that the problem lay in Marx’s economic determinism, and

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thought that we should pay more attention to the superstructure. After all, class struggle involves ideas, and the probable success or failure of revolution depends as much on ideas as action. Hence Gramsci reintroduces the importance of agency into Marxist analysis and is concerned with understanding the role of culture and ideology. What matters to Gramsci are not so-called natural laws that might determine human development and behaviour, but humanity’s consciousness of itself. In short, Marxists are wrong to assume that all social development originates with the economy. Economic determinism and the inevitability of revolution is, for Gramsci, equal to a belief in predestination and spiritual deliverance. Gramsci (1971) developed what has become known as the hegemonic theory of communications. He focused on ideology – what it is, how it is constructed and expressed, and especially how the dominant ideology receives the apparent consent of the working classes. The idea of consent is important: it removes speculation that the ruling ideology is somehow forced on the working class who have good reason to accept it (Strinati, 1995:166). This idea has been central to the postMarxist tradition, and has found recent expression in the work of Althusser (1971) and Poulantzas (1975). Moreover, ‘Dominant groups in society … maintain their dominance by securing the “spontaneous consent” of subordinate groups, including the working class, through the negotiated construction of a political and ideological consensus which incorporates both dominant and dominated groups’ (Strinati, 1995:165). In other words, the dominant class has, via coercion and/or communication, persuaded other classes to accept their value system by tailoring for them the message they wish to disseminate – even to the point of persuading them that the established order is natural. Systems of communication, including the media (together with other agents of socialisation, such as the family, education, church, etc.19) are therefore transmission belts whereby ideology (dominant or otherwise) is communicated and reinforced (Strinati, 1995:168–9). Opposition to the ‘natural’ hegemony is presented as deviant. Revolution will only occur following a spiritual emancipation among the oppressed classes. This post-Marxist analysis has encouraged the growth of critical media and cultural studies that draws on the ideas of Gramsci, Althusser and others. One of the most important pieces of work in this area was published in 1978 by Hall, Critcher, Jefferson, Clarke & Roberts. Policing the Crisis: Mugging, the State, and Law and Order demonstrates how the media are involved in disseminating the dominant

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ideology. The authors analysed the partial and selective way that mugging is represented in media and contrasted this with the dominant discourse on law and order. They found that the media were complicit in constructing accounts of mugging that corresponded to more general concerns about social order. The media thus have a part to play in constructing reality, and popularising the dominant discourse. However, Hall et al. seem to fall into the very trap that the postMarxists were keen to avoid, namely rejecting the idea that law and order might be a genuine concern among the working classes, and not simply the result of media complicity in projecting the dominant discourse. This connects with Dominic Strinati’s critique of Gramsci: People can accept the prevailing order because they are compelled to do so by devoting their time to ‘making a living’, or because they cannot conceive another way of organising society, and therefore fatalistically accept the world as it is. This, moreover, assumes that the question why people should accept a particular social order is the only legitimate question to ask. It can be claimed that an equally legitimate question is why should people not accept a particular social order? (1995:174). Moreover, communications studies are now paying far greater attention to the way audiences receive media products. They are no longer considered passive recipients of a dominant ideology, but interpret and internalise media products according to their own value systems, education, background, primary group pressure, etc. – in other words that two people can watch the same programme and interpret its meaning in very different ways. Most important of the post-Marxist analysis of communications is that offered by the so-called Frankfurt School whose ideas were shaped by two important factors: the experience of German intellectuals with the collapse of the Weimar Republic, and their encounter with mass culture while in exile in the United States. The Frankfurt School is the collective term reserved for an influential group of scholars (especially Theodor Adorno, Max Horkheimer, Walter Benjamin and Herbert Marcuse20) who were members of the Marxist School of Applied Social Research in Frankfurt, Germany. With the rise to power of the Nationalist Socialist (Nazi) party in the 1930s, they emigrated to the United States where their best work was conceived and written. As Marxists, members of the Frankfurt School were interested in explain-

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ing why revolutionary socialism had failed in Germany, and fascism allowed to succeed. Once in America, they expressed concern with the way capitalist societies develop and survive, even when the conditions for revolution seem to be in place.21 Like other post-Marxists the Frankfurt School believed that more attention should be paid to the superstructure, the realm of ideas and ideology (especially as represented through the media). The superstructure, they said, could prohibit historical processes of economic change in ways that Marx had ignored. They were concerned with understanding how social, economic and technological change encourages the deterioration of autonomy and the growing power of the state over individuals. They believed that ‘consumers’ are persuaded to buy into capitalism – the whole deal, including its ideas, relations of production, and above all its devotion to immediate gratification. Culture is one of the realms where this salesmanship takes place, being marketed for profit at the cost of the critical and oppositional powers of individuals. Eventually, the failure of autonomy gives way to the creation of a passive mass that is anaesthetised by the creation of a popular culture. Where high art tends to encourage critical engagement with the subject, this uniform and formulaic mass culture stifles the inquiring mind and silences criticism (in particular, see Adorno’s discussions of art in The Philosophy of Modern Music, London: Sheed & Ward, 1973, and Notes to Literature, New York: Columbia University Press, 1991). The individual is submerged into the mass whose true needs (for freedom, happiness, creative expression, and the realisation of one’s potential) are replaced by false needs of immediate gratification. The working classes lose their radical nature because they passively consume the cultural and information products offered to them, and society becomes, according to the title of Marcuse’s 1964 groundbreaking book, one dimensional. The ideas were summarised by Reisman in his 1950 book, The Lonely Crowd: ‘Glamour in politics, the packaging of politics of the leader, the treatment of the events by the mass media, substitutes for the self-interest of the inner directed man, the abandonment to society of the outer directed man.’ A later member of the Frankfurt School, Jürgen Habermas, was receptive to the idea that communications can assist the formation of democracy. Habermas identified the need for a public forum where discussion might take place, differences of opinion can be argued out, and conflict might be resolved. In fact, Habermas believed that the growth of the print media was important in stimulating the transition

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from absolutism to liberal democracy in Europe. He traced the rise of a ‘critical public sphere’, later referred to as ‘bourgeois’, that developed as an intermediate zone between the state and civil society. Individuals within the 18th Century public sphere that Habermas chronicled discussed in salons, coffee houses, and other meeting places new ideas that circulated through the print media (a wide range of intellectual journals were published at this time), and created a forum for critical debate. In this way, politics was forced into the open, and public opinion became more vocal as an important source of influence. In The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere Habermas wrote, ‘through the vehicle of public opinion,’ the public sphere ‘put the state in touch with the needs of society’ (1992:30–1). Therefore, although Habermas was not a liberal, one can detect liberal influences on his theory, especially in such statements as ‘the receiver of regulations from above [developed into] the ruling authorities’ adversary’ (1992:25–6). However, Habermas has most in common with the Marxist tradition, especially in his demarcation of the public sphere as bourgeois.22 These Marxist influences help to explain his criticism of the public sphere. An increasingly interventionist and specialised state, together with the extension of the franchise, meant that the media became more commercially-driven and less radical, so that eventually critical public opinion was absorbed by a culture of consumerism and advertising. Through the development of corporate ‘mass’ media at the mercy of advertisers, the population was depoliticised, and the media and public opinion become nothing more than a tool of legitimacy. Participation is only illusionary. It is this idea of passivity, that consumers are de-radicalised by the media that is the most disturbing current running through the canon of Frankfurt literature (see Habermas, 1992:175). The public are ‘largely relieved’ of the task of engaging in critical political debate by other institutions that stand apart from the public. Parties and interest groups, for example, are now the collective agencies of communication with government. The public are only relevant in legitimising these institutions, especially through elections (1992:176): ‘The parties are instruments for the formation of an effective political will; they are not, however, in the hands of the public but in the hands of those who control the party apparatus’ (1992:203). One can identify strong similarities between Habermas and the critics of modern media politics who lament the growth of political marketing as a substitute for substance. Habermas wrote that ‘The public sphere become the court before whose public prestige can be displayed – rather than in which public critical debate is carried on’

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(1992:201). His introduction of the term ‘packaging’ to describe the consumerist tendencies in politics was prophetic to say the least. Habermas analyses the professionalisation of communicating politics by demonstrating its similarities with advertising. This is, he notes, tantamount to the manufacture of a public sphere by the parties (1992:216–17). This is all part of Habermas’s lengthy discussion of representative democracy and the value of elections in an environment of ‘packaging’ and mass culture (1992:211–22), concluding that the notion of a ‘public liberal sphere in civil society’ is a ‘liberal fiction’ (1992:211). I propose that there is less reason to be suspicious of the so-called ‘packaging of politics’ than Habermas and other critics23 have suggested. The most important reason is that it underestimates the audience; it assumes that voters are easily manipulated by the superficial aspects of politics and have less sustained interest in the substance. This is a grave disservice for which there is no convincing empirical evidence. The relationship between the media and politics requires a distinct cultural focus, and this can be seen in the fear misgivings about the sound-bite. This represents another way that politicians adapt themselves to the requirements of the medium they are using. In a 24-hour saturated news environment, tailoring one’s language and communication to the medium, setting and the audience is rational political behaviour. Moreover, the sound-bite should be understood as part of a broader cultural shift. There is a tendency to think in sound-bites and other media requirements because that is the culture that we – voters and politicians – have grown up with. In other words, popular culture becomes the medium of politics, and the sound-bite is part of a larger cultural trend from which politics is not immune. Moreover, there are strong incentives for people to remain ignorant or uninterested in politics. Such disincentives arise from the fact that the cost (in terms of time as well as money) of seeking out information is not always balanced by a return on the investment. It therefore makes sense for politicians to communicate in cheap and accessible forms to accommodate the understandable inclination of citizens to limit expenditure. If ‘packaging’ is therefore an easier, more appropriate form method of consuming politics, might it follow that it therefore encourages more democratic forms of political communication? In drawing attention to culture, incentives, and form and content, we are appreciate that understanding political communication requires us to also understand popular forms of communication. The two can no longer be separated: political communication is no longer about just

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conveying information or persuading people of the merits of an argument through force of Aristotlean rhetoric; it also means capturing the popular imagination and conveying ideas and issues through using media and symbolism that will resonate with meaning and relevance for audiences. In short, the issue is not to lament the packaging of politics. The trick is to learn how to discriminate between different types of packaging. We need to understand the rituals, judgements and symbolism that audiences bring to popular culture to appreciate how different formats will stimulate greater political interest and involvement. It’s BBC Television’s On the Record versus The Politics Show. We must also disagree with Habermas is in his belief that the increasing number of ‘floating voters’ are generally apathetic, uninterested in politics, and uninformed. Together with those who decline to cast their ballot, Habermas calls floating voters the ‘worst informed and least firmly democratic group’ (1992:214, 215). As mentioned in Chapter 1, it is wrong to equate the decision not to vote with ignorance or disinterest in politics; by not voting, electors may be communicating a very clear signal about their frustration with the political process. Rather than blaming the voter, we need to consider the structural characteristics of modern representative democracy that discourages participation. Nevertheless, Habermas and the Frankfurt School provide a considered challenge to the notion that the mass media serve as a radical means to challenge the existing political order. Like the Marxists, the Frankfurt School focuses on the capitalist mode of production as the engine of development and change, and the eventual disintegration of the public sphere. But is it too simplistic to state that the media are agents of capitalism and news reporting developed to service capitalist needs? There remain radical media and forms of communication, and as Terence Qualter (1985:203) noted, ‘Radio and television make it possible to politicise the print illiterates.’ Perhaps the Internet provides a new form of the critical ‘public sphere’, provided that potential users are educated and have the resources to access it. Is the Internet therefore the latest example of a distinctly bourgeois public sphere? Andrew Shapiro (1999:124–6) has been particularly critical of the Internet and believes that the political idealism associated with it is naïve. Rather, the filtration mechanisms that allow users to choose the information they receive and the sources from which they receive it, means that even citizens of democracies are no longer forced to confront challenging ideas, thus limiting our knowledge and understanding of politics, and undermining the principles of free speech.

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From Athens on, democracy and democratic political communication are based on open dialogue between citizens allowing the competition of ideas. Shapiro worries that the filtration of information encourages the further marginalisation of ideas and opinions that are already marginal. Is the Internet giving citizens the opportunity first to express their ideas and then giving others the freedom to choose whether to respond? Although he would object to being discussed alongside the Marxists and post-Marxists, we can detect many of the structural ideas discussed in this section running through the acclaimed (and controversial) work of the American linguist, Noam Chomsky. Together with his co-author, Edward Herman, Chomsky has done more than any other living writer to draw our attention to the interface of politics and communication. He is essentially very critical of the way the American media report ‘news’ that fails to sufficiently interrogate the political and economic processes and is too vulnerable to political persuasion. For Chomsky, the line between political information and political propaganda is almost non-existent. With Edward Herman, Chomsky has addressed the question of bias in communication and have concluded through countless empirical studies – research that compares American media coverage of like events, such as the Indonesian invasion of East Timor and the genocide in Cambodia and then discusses the divergent coverage of those events – that bias is deliberate towards elite viewpoints. They wrote: ‘Most biased choices in the media arise from the pre-selection of right-thinking people, internalized preconceptions, and the adaptation of personnel to the constraints of ownership, organisation, market and political power’ (Herman and Chomsky, 1988:xii). The American media, they claim, ‘inculcate and defend the economic, social, and political agenda of privileged groups that dominate the domestic society and the state. The media serve this purpose in many ways; through selection of topics, distribution of concerns, framing of issues, filtering of information, emphasis and tone, and by keeping debate within the bounds of acceptable premises’ (Ibid.:298). The media are biased not because they are involved in any conspiracy with government, but because of the internalisation of elite viewpoints by journalists, their dependence on government sources for access to the system and information, and because of the economic organisation of the media.24 We do not use any kind of ‘conspiracy’ hypothesis to explain massmedia performance. In fact our treatment is much closer to a ‘free

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market’ analysis, with the results largely an outcome of the workings of market forces … [that allow and encourage] a guided market system (Chomsky & Herman, 1994:xii). Media organisations are primarily businesses and tend to report news in a way that does not disrupt established interests. Chomsky and Herman identify the ways that news can be distorted: through the choice of language; emphasis; and the running order and editing. Before considering the post-Moderns, it is important to first summarise the relevance of the Marxists and post-Marxist groups of critical theorists to our understanding of political communications. Their ideas are less influential for what they say per se than because they direct our attention to understanding how the processes of communications – and especially the media – work; how they are organised; and how we interpret the way they operate. In other words, we should pay less attention to what the media are saying, and more to why, as well as understand how the media are organised. There are also implications for democratic political communications, for the ideas suggest the need for all opinions to have a right to be heard, ‘including those which are unpopular, eccentric, or supported only by small minorities’ (Newton, in Goodin & Reeve (eds), 1989:132). There is also recognition that ‘the media should be broadly, not narrowly selective; judgements should be open, not doctrinaire or party political; the emphasis should be on inclusion rather than exclusion, and in presenting all sides they should take no side’ (Ibid.:133). In the final analysis, therefore, there is a clear need for multiple media outlets (without, one presumes, overlapping ownership) that offer access to all shades of opinion (Corner, 1995:64–5).

The post-moderns Finally, it is time we gave brief attention to the ‘post-moderns’. They have perhaps made the most significant contribution to understanding communications and culture, but they have tended to discuss their theories from a more holistic perspective than their predecessors. By that, I mean it is impossible to separate their political, social, or cultural ideas, and so they tend to be the most complex. But this also means they are probably the most interesting for understanding political communication, because they aspire to make discrete links between every aspect of their social observations and reasoning. Their writing is difficult, usually embedded in deep philosophical analysis. Here,

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therefore, we make only the briefest of forays into their territory to acquire an overview of how they help us understand modern political communications. The post-moderns tell us that there are no absolute truths. Certainly the media do not provide absolute truths, but instead help to ‘construct’ versions of truth and reality. This is associated most famously with Michel Foucault who began from the premise that we must question our knowledge of absolute truth (M. Foucault, ‘The subject and power’, in Dreyfus & Rabinow, 1982). Jean Baudrillard demonstrated this in his 1995 book with the controversial title, The Gulf War Did Not Take Place. Braudillard is not suggesting that something called the Gulf War did not happen in 1991, rather that what happened was not in fact a war. The media had constructed a version of the war that was out of step with what was actually going on in the deserts of Kuwait and Iraq; that audiences were presented with a ‘virtual’ war, and that media considerations played a fundamental role in its conduct. It was, in effect, a simulation that was produced by the representational capabilities of modern technology. This is important for our understanding of political communication in representative democracy: democratic governments go to war in the name of the people who voted for them; they must explain the war, justify it, win it, and demonstrate that the objectives are worth the costs involved. If we think about the implications of the ideas of Baudrillard and others who construct similar arguments, then it becomes easy to see how politics becomes another product of consumption, a fictive reality that is only authentic because the media and governments tell us it is. Baudrillard (1983) termed this an age of hyper-reality, though the term ‘virtual reality’ would be equally valid. His basic premise is that we do not possess the criteria to distinguish between appearance and reality. The post-moderns are concerned that this dependence on the media encourages our eventual withdrawal from social and political life, and thus we become the kind of passive and indifferent creatures that political theorists have been worried about since the Athenian democracy (Rosenau, 1992:22–33, 144–55). Part of the problem is that new communications technologies have destroyed the differentiation of our social and physical spheres. Post-modernism contends that what were once spatial and temporal limits no longer constrain us; disorganised capitalism, globalisation and information technology – all allowing for the compression of space and time – mean we no longer have to go to the office to work, fly around the world to attend a conference in Jakarta or New York, or

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even be aware of time and linguistic differences between different parts of the world. Society no longer exists; it is constructed, so that post-modern communication is individualised and atomised (Beck, 1992). Neither is there any clear distinction between producer and consumer, high and low culture, fact and fiction, information and entertainment. The post-modern can and float between these identities. Witness the rise of the docu-drama, ‘reality’ or participant TV, political advertisements produced by film directors, Hollywood producers accompanying American presidents on foreign trips to stage-manage their choreography, Woody Allen parodying himself, letting us into the secret in his films that they are, well, just films. If the post-moderns are correct, it means that we are (willing?) participants in a cultural revolution with enormous political consequences: who do we trust? Which information can we trust? And do we really have an opportunity to articulate our distrust and dissatisfaction with government? Baudrillard did not think so, believing that the media do not provide for reciprocal or dialogical communication; that even call-in shows and letters pages in newspapers are merely reversing the flow of information, with the receiver now sending the message. There is still no room for simultaneous response. So, the post-moderns contest that our place in society is not determined by modes of production; there is nothing inevitable or static about our identities, and in fact we have multiple identities and multiple interests (Butler, 1997). For Michel Foucault, identities are temporary. Their construction and communication depend on the situation we find ourselves in, and with whom we are interacting. This is a radical break from Marx’s determinism, because identity no is longer related to power. If power is not defined by our identity and position within society, then it is impossible to conclude that only dominant groups have power (the ruling class in Marxist analysis). In other words, power is no longer delineated by such categories as class, sex, or ethnicity etc. In short, we do not have clearly defined roles in society that we are unable to escape after all. This post-modern approach to identity and power can explain the rise of so-called ‘new social movements’ (the anti-globalisation movement, for example) that are progressively preferred to interest groups and parties by those wishing to participate in politics. Their activity is less structured; one does not ‘join’ a new social movement as one might join an interest group. Their membership and very existence are fluid, and tend to be based around the belief in direct action as a more effective method of political participation and communication

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(for a truly excellent discussion, see Melucci, 1988). Often, they will have international links, reinforcing the notion of post-modern de-territorialisation and the declining importance of the nation-state. Hence many have been optimistic. Gibbins and Reimer (1999:151), for example, have predicted a ‘return to a more open, public and unpredictable form of politics than traditional parliamentary and presidential forms of politics have allowed. The Athenian notion of politics, as the public activity of free persons negotiating how they wish to live, could turn out to be the most functional, effective, and legitimate mode of government in the post-modern world’. Hence, we return full circle to the discussion in Chapter 1; that for all the anxiety about low voter turnout, declining numbers of people joining parties and groups, widespread apathy and ignorance of politics, citizens across the world are in fact finding new ways of participating and communicating their political preferences. As we will demonstrate in Chapter 7, new versions of direct democracy based on new information technology (especially the Internet) are emerging that counter outdated belief in representative government. The Institute for Public Policy Research (IPPR), for example, the UK’s leading centre-left think tank, published in 2001 a groundbreaking study entitled Realising Democracy OnLine: A Civic Commons in Cyberspace (Blumler & Coleman, 2001). This paper identified new expectations and meanings of citizenship that encourage citizens to expect more from democracy than regular trips to the ballot box. Instead of celebrating apathy, we should recognise that we are capable of complex deliberation on policy issues and that we should expect more from our democratic commitment. According to the IPPR, representative democracies are fashioned from a 19th Century ‘political culture of deference when citizens were subjects [and] political deliberation was best left to the great and good’ (Ibid.:6). Cannot we adapt our political institutions and culture to reflect modern conditions and expectations (Budge, 1993)? Electronic democracy may be the way forward: it suggests open debate, easy access to information, and offers opportunities for encouraging citizenship (the educative qualities so admired by the liberals). The evidence suggests a greater desire and willingness to participate: Coleman and Gotze (2001), for example, conducted research that discovered a majority of respondents believe the Internet can facilitate their democratic participation (Coleman & Gotze, 2001:21–2). The Internet, say its advocates, reduces the barriers of distance (in other words, we can have direct democracy because we do not have

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to gather physically in a forum) and cost (financial and time). The sheer impoverishment of participation and the alleged deterioration in the quality of information in representative democracy are overcome by electronic democracy that is more equipped to deliver our expectations. We will return to these ideas in Chapter 7; now we turn our attention to public opinion – what is it, where does it come from, and how do we communicate it?

3 Public Opinion

What I want is to get done what the people desire to have done and the question for me is how to find that out exactly. (Abraham Lincoln, quoted in Hadley Cantril, ‘Public Opinion in Flux’, Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science (March 1942:205) Real political issues cannot be manufactured by the leaders of political parties. The real political issues of the day declare themselves, and come out of the depths of that deep – which we call public opinion. (James Garfield, quoted in Roll & Cantril, 1972:41) [T]hat great compound of folly, weakness, prejudice, wrong feeling, right feeling, obstinacy, and newspaper paragraphs, which is called public opinion. (Sir Robert Peel, quoted in Hague & Harrop, 2001:104) The theoretical basis for understanding political communication is clearly valuable; all the political theorists who have given the issue any consideration agree that communication has, to varying degrees, a function in political development and processes. Moreover, there is an underlying consensus that communication does allow for popular participation, though the theorists plainly disagree over how extensive and genuine that participation can or should be. Athenian direct democracy is no longer possible; modern society has made its restoration simply impractical. Still, democratic governments remain vexed over how to encourage greater interest and participation in politics, and this is especially troublesome as governments are accused of 65

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becoming increasingly distant from the people they supposedly represent at the same time that politicians insist that they have their ear to the ground and are determined to be responsive to public opinion. How has this dichotomous situation come about? If we accept, therefore, that the theorists were correct in their normative belief that citizens should participate in politics, the question then becomes how to persuade citizens that it is in their interests to participate: is it rational to participate in the political process if in fact there is little chance of influencing the outcome of political decisions? When pressed, many registered voters explain their reluctance to participate by claiming that there is simply no point; that their one little vote makes no difference, and that politicians will do whatever they want anyway. It is therefore irrational to waste one’s time acquiring the information and actually going out of one’s way to visit the polling station; modern society imposes other more pressing demands on our time. This seems fair, but illogical, for if we all acted in this rational way there would be no participation whatsoever, and the very foundations of representative democracy would crumble. Citizens need to be persuaded that they can change things, that their voice matters, and that their opinion counts. This requires an understanding of both public opinion, the subject of this chapter, and the means by which such opinion is aggregated, discussed in the following two chapters.

What is public opinion? ‘We learn about the things we care about’ (Luskin, 1990:348). The fundamental problem with discussing public opinion is identifying a workable definition. However, in seeking a single definition we are merely adding to the problem, for the very term assumes a single entity; we talk about public opinion as if it is a coherent, discrete, and uniform object that has a reality of its own. John Stuart Mill, for example, described how ‘the supreme controlling power in the last resort is vested in the entire aggregate of the community’, which is consistent with the utilitarian principle that the people are the best judges of their own interests (McClelland, 1996:471). In fact, there is not a single public opinion, because there is no single public, and attempts to measure opinion should be sufficiently advanced to identify these many publics, each with very different political interests and levels of concern. Each issue creates its own public, and individuals have overlapping membership with several publics at any one time.

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Thus, we can observe an assortment of often competing preferences, each held in varying esteem by their proponents as well as their audience, and articulated with a range of intensities through a variety of media. It is unlikely that public opinion will ever be characterised by unanimity; actually, there is no reason why it should even be the expression of majority opinion. After all, it is possible to identify instances where a particularly articulate and vocal minority will make more of an impact provided that it has the ears of the right people; it is not so much what you say or how, but to whom you say it (Negrine, 1996:108). Access is power, and this is part of the problem that gives rise to general dissatisfaction with the political process, for communication with governments is seen to depend on who you are, the resources you can mobilise, and whether you are considered legitimate by the government. Political influence depends on access to the political system (Gadi Wolfsfeld, 1997:18 differentiates between ‘status rich’ and ‘status poor’ political actors who enjoy access and legitimacy). So whose opinion counts, and does it count more than other opinions? It is high likely that political elites will be swayed by well-expressed convictions based on sound evidence and judgement. It follows, therefore, that so-called ‘experts’ with authority, legitimacy and clear communication skills, will enjoy greater access to the system and hence greater possible influence, even if their opinions do not represent those of the ‘public’ or even the majority.1 In short, whether your voice is heard or not can be dependent on where you are situated in the political system (or where politicians and government believe you are situated). Herbert Blumer captured the essence of this argument in his 1948 article, ‘Public Opinion and Public Opinion Polling’ (published in the American Sociological Review, Volume 13:242–9). Blumer stated that we must pay greater attention to the ‘sociological truth about politics’, namely ‘People with power and resources, closely engaged in politics, compose the public opinion that matters’ (quoted in Entman & Herbst, 2001:207). We shall return to this problem in the next chapter, but it is important for our understanding of public opinion: either public opinion is the majority view, in which case minorities are alienated from the political system; or it is the aggregation of the opinions of different publics (Yeric & Todd, 1989), so that access to the system and politics becomes the kind of competition among competing interests that is associated with pluralism. In either situation, it is erroneous to conceive of a homogenous public opinion that can represent all interests in society and to which governments will respond.

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This leads to yet another difficult question: should society endeavour to make all opinions equal? Non-specialists, those excluded from the political process, and those expressing minority or even extreme views often find themselves without a voice.2 It is incumbent upon these categories of citizens to communicate their opinions and bring them to the attention of those in powerful positions, which explains the use of direct action as more than simply political behaviour, but as an act of political communication. Dissenting opinions are as worthy and necessary in a democracy as views supporting the consensus, otherwise there is a danger that political society will form what Mill termed a ‘tyranny of the majority’. After all, as Voltaire is claimed to have said: ‘I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it’. In their landmark study of Public Opinion, American political scientists Robert E. Lane and David O. Sears (1964:11) discuss this issue in the context of what they describe as the ‘implication’ of opinion: Polls have shown that almost everyone supports the idea of free speech, but few people understand that this implies granting people holding positions they particularly dislike the right to speak. Thus in a study … more than a third of the respondents would deny the right of free speech for ‘someone who wanted to speak in this city against churches and religion.’ Under these circumstances one would say that those who supported the idea of free speech and the Bill of Rights, but denied its implications, were uninformed. This paradox resurfaced in the United States following the terrorist attacks on New York and Washington of 11 September 2001. Voices that were critical of American responses – the ‘war on terrorism’ and military action in Afghanistan – or that, in questioning why the terrorists attacked, believed that American actions around the world might have been partly responsible, were marginalised by the understandable outpouring of emotion and patriotism. In addition, we must consider the serious possibility that, in defining public opinion as the aggregate of preferences, we are actually doing democracy a grave disservice; does this mean that the individual is sacrificed for the collective, and is this consistent with the liberaldemocratic ideal (Negrine, 1996:103)? Moreover, does the notion of public opinion suggest that every member of ‘the public’ does or should hold an opinion on any given subject? After all, when confronted by the pollster on the telephone or in the street, many people do feel obliged to have an opinion however weak or uninformed, for it

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is a measure of worth and standing. Many people do not like to admit to each other that they do not know about or understand something that perhaps they feel they should take an interest in. Those who do admit to not knowing about an issue present their own particular problems: do they have no opinion because they are indifferent? Or do they care, but they are suspending judgement? Either way, the ‘don’t knows’ are an important constituency for politics, and for political communication in particular because they represent a share of the population who need to be persuaded to care or form an opinion. Once we begin to question whether citizens require only certain levels of information and knowledge to play their specific functional role within society, we have entered debates about the ‘adequacy of information’ or the efficacy of ‘activated’ public opinion. How much information is adequate for participation in political society? Which information is necessary for democratic citizenship? Who decides? For example, should every British citizen that enjoys the right to vote be able to name each member of the Cabinet, even though such knowledge may not be particularly relevant to their satisfactory performance in the role assigned to them? A study conducted by Delli Carpini and Keeter (1996) in the United States found that a large proportion of their research subjects could not name the Speaker of the House of Representatives, could not describe the powers of and role of the Supreme Court, and did not know the term of office served by US Senators. Will our expectations change if the citizen is the head of an insider group that aspires to influence the British or American government? This line of reasoning introduces into the analysis a much needed normative dimension; if we accept that each and every citizen is not required to possess a certain political competence to fulfil the responsibilities of their role, do we ever reach a point at which we must conclude that his/her ignorance of politics and the political process is unsatisfactory for any kind of participation, including voting? This is a dangerous argument, for it assumes that it is not only possible to measure and evaluate political knowledge, but that political knowledge can be a criteria for determining whether or not one has an automatic entitlement or right to participate in the political process. Anthony Downs’s rational choice approach is useful here, for he admits that government cannot force people to become well-informed for the following reasons: 1. There is no reliable, objective, inexpensive way to measure how well-informed a man is.

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2. There is no agreed-upon rule for deciding how much and what kinds of information each citizen should have. 3. The loss of freedom involved in forcing people to acquire information would probably far outweigh the benefits to be gained from a better-informed electorate (Downs, 1957:247). Definition, therefore, is one of the most elementary problems we encounter in trying to come to terms with public opinion. In satisfying the critics, we might adopt the definition proposed by William J. Crotty in the Introduction to his seminal work on Public Opinion and Politics (1970:1), namely: ‘Public opinion can be defined as the expressed view of an individual or aggregation of individuals on a subject of broad social importance. A “public” opinion is a point of view shared by a number of people and relevant to a topic of general political significance’. Although this definition is hardly specific, it is sufficiently broad to address the concerns of liberals who worry about losing sight of the individual within the collective, whilst also recognising the shared characteristics of public opinion. We saw in the last chapter that critics of representative democracy would argue that citizens have few opportunities to communicate their preferences except through the ballot box, a position articulated most famously by Rousseau. We must also resign ourselves to the possibility that citizens are happy to let government get on with the job assigned to them, that they prefer the distance of representative democracy, rather than the obligations of direct democracy. By extension, the idea of the mandate confers legitimacy upon democratically-elected governments, meaning that they are not obliged to respond to each and every whim of public opinion: governments must govern. Normatively speaking, they should listen to public opinion as a guide to policymaking, and it is undoubtedly rational to be sympathetic to the public mood given a party’s dependence on popular support at elections:3 Normally … he [the representative] must remember that the very meaning of the word representative is that the constituents shall be represented. It is his duty to try to lead them to accept his views, and it is their duty to give him as large a latitude as possible in matters of conscience, realising that the more conscientious a representative is the better he will in general represent them (Theodore Roosevelt, quoted in Roll & Cantril, 1972:143).

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Yet it is difficult to claim that public opinion should be an inspiration for policy; it is often ambiguous and defined by the narrow interests of those who articulate it. Governments that do listen and act upon public opinion are often accused of engaging in reactive, rather than the more desirable responsive politics, failing to separate the narrow short-term interests of electoral gain from the long-term interests of the community. Everyone would like lower taxes, but many would also like more money spent on education, health care, and law and order. Lower taxes today may be consistent with public opinion, but it is not necessarily in the long-term interest of society: ‘No doubt … there are good reasons for listening to what the people say they want, but there is no reason, a priori, for supposing that the people ought always to get what they say they want’ (McClelland, 1996:471; Verba & Nie, 1972:4; Qualter, 1985:2).4 Public opinion is essentially a liberal concept. It is predicated on the belief of rationality, government by consent and the collective will. Public opinion strengthens democratic politics because it means government founded on consent and legitimacy and is therefore stable. As John Keane (in Held (ed.), 1993:235) has written, ‘informed public opinion plays a central mediating role between citizens and their state institutions.’ It is essential to note, however, that there is not universal agreement that this is the best way to approach public opinion. Critical theorists, for example, would challenge the liberal idea that public opinion moves in an upwards direction from the people to the government. Rather, critical theorists such as Bourdieu (1973) see public opinion as an imaginary concept, or a set of discourses that are manufactured by social and political actors (described by Hall et al.(1978) as ‘primary definers’) to legitimate their decisions, preserve their power, and advance their own interests. Opinions move downwards, with citizens being persuaded to accept the views and decisions of political actors as the reflection of ‘public opinion’. Public opinion is what opinion leaders (politicians, the media, experts, polling organisations, groups and lobbies) say it is. In this context, public opinion is associated with Gramsci’s idea of ideological hegemony: ‘the supremacy a given social group obtained by virtue of its ability to be both “dominant” and “leading”’ (Golding, 1992:106). The creation of public opinion is essential to the pursuit of consent, the foundation of legitimate domination. This is an interesting and important viewpoint because it does lead to a discussion of where public opinion comes from, especially the significance of authority in defining what public opinion is or should be.

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Where does public opinion come from? Recent research into the nature of political man has come upon the same discovery that marked Freud’s research into human nature: Political life, like sexual life, starts much earlier than we had thought. This is an important discovery because the task of shaping political man is complicated and to be effective must take account of the earliest beginnings (Lane & Sears, 1964:17). Opinion comes in many guises and has multiple points of origin. Unsurprisingly, there are several competing theories about the source of opinion, and these can be divided for purposes of simplicity into socialisation and cognitive theories. These explain the processes ‘through which we learn about politics’ (Hague et al., 1998:64) and are concerned with identifying the source of political information, but they differ in explaining how we actually process that information. Where socialisation theory leans towards an assumption of passivity as a human characteristic, behavioural theorists speak of political cognition to refer to the way individuals acquire and manage information, and ultimately how they relate it to political reality as they perceive it. It ‘denotes the image or map of the world held by the individual person. His response to persons, things, and events are shaped in part by the way they look to him. These cognitions are selectively organised and integrated into a system which provides meaning and stability for the individual person as he goes about his business in the everyday world’ (Cohen, 1966:63). Moreover, cognition theory allows for the opportunity for opinions to change, especially since it accords the media a greater role than socialisation theory in actually channelling information. When new information is introduced that conflict with an individual’s cognitive system, the individual strives for ‘cognitive balance’ by processing the information in such a way that he will try to resolve the inconsistencies in what he believes and what is now suggested to him. Cohen (1964:62) talked of ‘cognitive consistency’, namely ‘a principle based on the notion that psychological structure is composed of an integrated and organised set of cognitions regarding some object or event. The introduction of new information aimed at changing attitudes disrupts that organisation and produces disequilibrium.’ An earlier study by a social psychologist, Leon Festinger (1957) described the process of trying to achieve this consistency: ‘When a dissonance is present, in addition to trying to reduce it, the person will actively avoid situations and information which would likely increase the dissonance’ (Festinger, 1957:3). They exhibit ‘circumspect

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behaviour with regard to new information even when little or no dissonance is present to start with’ (Ibid.:22). The individual tries to reduce the dissonance, perhaps by changing his or her environment. However, this can be difficult to do, and so the individual, says Festinger, engages in selective avoidance, but also learns to achieve consonance by changing his underlying behaviour and/or attitudes. Interaction and the proliferation of information in the modern age means that dissonance is more likely, but also behaviour and opinion are liable to change in order to restore balance. Here we begin to see the interface of the cognitive and socialisation explanations for public opinion. Both are interested in discovering ‘what people learn (content) … and from whom (agency)’, but in attaching less importance to the psychological processes of attitude formation and transformation, socialisation theory adds the dimensions of ‘timing and sequence’, that is ‘when they learn it’ (Hague, et al., 1998:64). Together, therefore, socialisation and cognitive theories are valuable tools in understanding political communication, for they refer to the way that citizens are incorporated into the political process, are taught its values and processes, and are persuaded of their relevance and importance in the political system. (A useful survey of how the study of socialisation, especially among children, developed is provided by P.J. Conover and D.D. Searing, 1994.) The foundation of socialisation theory is the significance of interaction among and between individuals, particularly in ‘primary groups’, a term used to describe communities whose members regularly encounter each other on a face-to-face basis. The term seems to have been invented by Charles H. Cooley in 1909 who described primary groups as ‘those characterized by intimate face-to-face cooperation and association’ (1909:23). George C. Homans (1950:1) refined this definition to refer to ‘a number of persons who communicate with each other often over a span of time, and who are few enough so that each person is able to communicate with all the others, not at secondhand, through other people, but face-to-face’. Socialisation theory implies that we begin to construct, reflect, and communicate opinion from an early age, for the most important primary group is the family. Research has suggested that the family is the core influence on the child and moulds his/her political preferences, values, and attitudes towards the political system, especially the exercise of authority. As expected, socialisation theory suggests that the political preferences of young children tend to replicate those of their parents (Almond & Verba, 1963; 1980); parental influence is central to a child’s life, and

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modification of family-shaped opinions is gradual, usually occurring only under pressure from strong extra-familial influences or exposure to overwhelming evidence. In the past, the category of primary groups also included class, residential location, ethnicity, and other fixed identifiers, though these are less relevant today given the ease of mobility, and the securing of social, economic and political opportunities that were denied to previous generations. As we grow older and move outside the home, parental influences are destabilised5 because we encounter different primary groups that all socialise us into society and shape and re-shape our opinions: at school (friends and teachers), in church (Verba et al., 1995), in youth groups (the Boy Scouts, or the Army Cadets), at University, and in the work-place (colleagues and perhaps union affiliation).6 Dare we suggest that some may even choose to join a political party (though this is becoming less of a preference for Britain’s young voters)?7 In addition, we are constantly exposed to the mass media and are thus vulnerable to their influence on what and how we think about particular issues: ‘One speaker drops a tabloid catchphrase into the argument: “Britain is a soft touch,” said Derek, a retired labourer, picking up a phrase that the Sun [newspaper] has repeated in 37 stories over the past year’ (‘BNP fuels anger about people “getting something for nothing”’, The Guardian, 7 February 2003:11).8 The influence of the media on shaping public opinion grows with increasing spatial and temporal distance between the issue under discussion and the individual, especially if s/he does not belong to a group that can inform his/her opinion on that particular issue (an excellent study of how the media help form opinions of dissident social groups is provided by Mueller:1988). In short, socialisation theory proposes that our experiences and interactions within civil society9 can determine our relationship with political society.10 It goes without saying that such civil society can only flourish in democratic political systems where freedom of expression and assembly are allowed, and criticism is both tolerated and encouraged: ‘At home, in school, on the job, and in voluntary associations and religious institutions, individuals acquire resources, receive requests for activity, and develop the political orientations that foster participation’ (Burns et al., 2001:35. On the influence of voluntary associations, see Putnam, 1995; 2000). While early socialisation theory proposed that non-political experiences with authority figures in childhood shape an individual’s political orientation, later research suggested that the experiences we

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have as we grow older are in fact more important because they are most recent and therefore closer in time to us (Almond & Verba, 1963:324; Hague, et al., 1998:67). Moreover, evidence accumulated through the comparative method indicates that opportunities to participate in decision-making at the group level can affect one’s judgement of possible influence, and thus has a direct bearing on how we judge the value of the democratic political system: If in his social relationships he is afforded no opportunity to participate meaningfully in decisions, he may derive from this a general belief in his incapacity to control any decisions, including political decisions. On the other hand, if he finds authority figures in social situations amenable to influence, he may come to believe that authority figures in politics will also be amenable to his influence (Almond & Verba, 1963:368). Socialisation allows us to witness the crossover of interpersonal political communication: it gives rise to the spread of opinion through interaction, but provides an understanding of the importance of group activity in political communication. The important thing to note is that we all have overlapping memberships of different groups, primary or otherwise. This means that our opinions are rarely consistent (accentuating the difficulty in talking about ‘a’ public opinion), but in fact will vary according to the social situation we find ourselves in, the people with whom we are interacting, and the image of ourselves that we wish to project. In The Social Contract Rousseau explained how opinions derive from social relationships, while John Stuart Mill was one of the first to understand the importance of political socialisation through group identification; and as McLelland (1996:407–11) points out, Mill was also conscious that controversial opinions had to enjoy the same opportunity for communication as those of the consensus. Overlapping membership of groups meant that the heterodox opinion that Mill so cherished would be guaranteed, and that citizens might ‘learn’ about politics through debate and exposure to different, sometimes competing opinions. This means we do not have to be too worried by the ‘group polarisation thesis’: ‘That groups of like-minded people, engaged with one another, will end up thinking the same thing they thought before, but in more extreme form’ (Sunstein, 2001:65). After all, in democratic societies even the most extreme views must compete with each other and other, more moderate opinions; they must persuade audiences of the relevance and

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credibility of their beliefs and cannot rely on group membership as a guarantee of acceptance. Group polarisation is defeated by the public deliberation that characterises democratic politics. The relevant passage from McLelland (1996:470–1) on Mill is worth quoting at length: The tyranny of everyman’s opinion was not as spectacular as the tyranny of a Nero … but it was more powerful in the long run because it worked consistently. It worked everywhere that people gathered, and it worked through every human group. Mill had a shrewd grasp of the realities of opinion forming and especially of opinion reinforcement. If all the effective socialising agencies in a society, families, churches, schools, classes and private associations, spoke with one voice about what the basic social values ought to be, and if all the great opinion-forming institutions, newspapers, universities, parliamentary assemblies, pastors and masters, spoke with the same voice, then dissenting opinion would remain the possession of a few increasingly isolated cranks. … Mill wants heterodox opinion to be tolerated, and even encouraged, where opinion really matters. … If dissenting opinion is really to bite, then it has to be effective in those institutions whose opinions and actions really can have an effect on society at large. However, not all conflicting opinions could be resolved as Mill would have liked. Socialisation theory does not tell us a great deal about how or why opinions might change, and conflicting identities arising through multiple membership of groups might have consequences that are far removed from Mill’s ideal. Robert Lane discussed this in 1959: Withdrawal from a decision involving conflicting reference groups is only one of several means of solving the conflict problem; others include (a) identification with one of the conflicting reference groups … (b) moderation in viewpoint, a moderation which may be either confused and eclectic or synthesized, (c) minimization of the issue, (d) failure to ‘see’ the conflict, (e) generalized apathy … (Lane, 1959:203). In other words, socialisation theory does not allow for a Road to Damascus experience. Rather, it suggests that we try to resolve conflicting opinions in terms of what we perceive to be the correct opinion according to our group membership and interaction. As Lane observes, conflicting opinions may even manufacture ignorance of the issue or a

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withdrawal from the political process altogether. In fact, we receive so much information from so many different sources that we tend to (consciously and unconsciously) process it and filter out any information that conflicts with our existing viewpoints:11 Substitute in the following passage of Mr. Berenson’s the words ‘politics,’ ‘business,’ and society,’ for the word ‘art’ and the sentences will be no less true: ‘… There is our standard of artistic reality. Let anyone give us shapes and colors which we cannot instantly match in our paltry stock of hackneyed forms and tints, and we shake our heads at his failure to reproduce things as we know they certainly are, or we accuse him of insincerity’ (Lippmann, 1997 edn.:56).12 Hence, the idea that ‘propaganda’ can never change opinion, it merely reinforces existing or latent opinions. Consider Walter Lippmann’s explanation of the power of stereotypes in propaganda and how we use them to understand the world around us: If … experience contradicts … stereotype, one of two things happens. If the man is no longer plastic, or if some powerful interest makes it highly inconvenient to rearrange his stereotypes, he poohpoohs the contradictions as an exception that proves the rule, discredits the witness, finds a flaw somewhere, and manages to forget it. But if he is still curious … the novelty is taken into the picture and allowed to modify it. … (Ibid.:66). This is why I reject the proposition advanced by Lazarsfeld, et al. (1944:88–9) that ‘Stability of political opinion is a function of exposure to reinforcing communication’. Some of the best examples of political propaganda in practice – especially the Nazi experience – demonstrate that reinforcement can be used to transform society on a radical basis. The key is identifying the values and attitudes among audiences that can be reinforced time and time again for one’s own political agenda. Socialisation theory says we tend to seek out information that corresponds to our position that has been formed via extensive group interaction; that will strengthen our emotional attachment to that opinion, and will provide ‘evidence’ of its validity (Klapper, 1960. On the issue of opinion dissonance (conflict) and consonance (resolution) see Lane & Sears, 1964:47–53). The most common example given by those who subscribe to this position is that readers tend to buy those

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newspapers that correspond closely to their political orientation: the British Daily Telegraph is the mainstay of Conservative thinking, while The Guardian reflects more left-wing bias, and these ideological differences are reflected in the people who buy either newspaper. It has difficulty explaining why the vast majority of Sun readers in the Thatcherite 1980s could be defined as ‘working class’ but constituted the main market of what at that time was a right-wing newspaper. (The Sun switched from supporting Labour to Conservative in the general election of February 1974, even though over half of its readers were committed to the Labour party. By the 1987 general election, only 40 percent of its readers supported the Conservatives, despite the Sun having been Thatcherite since 1975.) Suspicion of this hypothesis is justified by data presented by Newton and Brynin (2001:268). They found that a good many people read a paper that is at odds with their voting behaviour. In fact, little more than half of the readers of Tory papers in 1991 also voted Tory in 1992 and not much more than a third of Tory readers in 1996 voted Conservative in 1997. There is a stronger association with reading a Labour paper and voting Labour, but nevertheless, forty per cent of those reading a Labour paper in 1991 did not vote Labour in 1992, and rather more than a quarter did not do so in 1997. Overall, a large minority read a paper which is not consistent with their own voting behaviour. There are many reasons for this, and the discrepancy of the reinforcement theory seems determined by the curious status of tabloid newspapers and their core readership. The research by Newton and Brynin (2001:269) shows that fewer than two out of three Sun readers knew that it supported the Conservative Party in 1991, while a quarter of the readers of the left-wing Mirror believed it supported a party other than Labour. Another possible reason is that consumers do not buy a newspaper just because it supports a particular political party, but because they enjoy the crossword, sport coverage, or the Page 3 model. Moreover, the success of the British National Party (BNP) is due largely to its ability to design a propaganda strategy around one particular issue, namely asylum seekers. In elections in February 2003, BNP literature asked constituents to ‘Vote Labour if you want asylum seeker neighbours,’ while linking asylum to other issues of local concern, such as employment, education, and law and order. In short, the BNP has made inroads in what might be described as traditional

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Labour areas by portraying asylum seekers as a threat to local communities. Residents, already dissatisfied by the urban blight they face each day, are only too willing to find an easy scapegoat for their problems and are therefore vulnerable to the easy solutions offered by Far Right propaganda. One approach to public opinion draws its ideas from political psychology, and suggests that the attitudes of authority figures (however defined) can affect popular behaviour. Social pressures, including elite pressure, and the desires to conform and do-the-right-thing, persuade people whether particular actions should or should not be performed (Ajzen & Fishbein, 1980). This is important, for it corresponds to the ideas of peer pressure, conformity, and the human instinct to ‘fit in’ that has been very important in the success of 20th Century totalitarian propaganda. Socialisation theory helps us to understand that the strength of our opinions can depend on the specifics of the issue under discussion, because logic stipulates that issues of immediate concern to us – ones that affect our locale or primary group identification – will attract more interest than issues that are distant. In other words, it appears that there might be a direct correlation between one’s (temporal and spatial) distance from the issue and the intensity of our opinion about it. When the British constituency of Hartlepool was gearing up for a byelection following the appointment of its sitting MP, Peter Mandelson, to the European commission, the press reported on a return to local issues in a local campaign. Hospital and post office closures, crime and local unemployment dominated the campaign agenda. In contrast, foreign affairs are notorious for attracting least attention, especially in the United States, as comparative research has repeatedly demonstrated (Almond, 1960; Cohen, 1966; Bennett, et al., 1996). Research has suggested that the American public and media tend not to follow stories of international affairs unless the United States is involved. This is demonstrated by detailed content analysis of news coverage of the war in Bosnia done by Bennett, et al. (1997). They discovered that the peaks and troughs of coverage and audience interest corresponded to US involvement, foreign policy statements by American statesmen etc. The existence of the NIMBY (Not in My Backyard) phenomenon personifies this idea, as people reportedly believe they have most influence on local issues (Parry, Moyser & Day, 1992). Research has suggested that this inattention has made the media much more powerful actors in foreign than domestic affairs because we have less connection with and experience of international politics (Page and Shapiro, 1992; Meyer, 1992). However, the correlation between issue and distance may no longer be as strong as

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such evidence suggested in the past. One commanding feature of New Social Movements is that they are most engaged by ‘foreign’ problems – the environment, globalisation, Third World poverty, human rights, etc, issues that are not specific to one country, but instead concern international public opinion and therefore encourage transnational mobilisation. The world-wide movement that materialised in 2002 and 2003 against the possibility of military action against Iraq is the most stunning example of how opinion can be motivated by foreign affairs. More than a million people, drawn from all parts of the United Kingdom, marched through London on 15 February 2003 – the largest gathering of any kind in British history. Similar protests also occurred in 60 other countries. Moreover, local politics in Britain are notorious for attracting little media attention or the interest of citizens. Local elections are considered a referendum on central government performance, with many voters choosing how to cast their ballots according to national issues. This is certainly how voters were thought to have behaved in the 1 May 2003 local elections when Labour lost many council seats across the United Kingdom because of record council tax increases and a so-called ‘Baghdad backlash’ from Muslims and traditional Labour supporters, protesting against the government’s support for war against Iraq. There are two principal problems associated with socialisation theory. The first is the most important: it assumes that individuals are passive respondents of group stimuli and, like Pavlov’s dogs will respond to the rewards (approval) and punishments (withholding of approval) meted out by the group. It suggests that an individual’s need to conform to the group is stronger than any other (Lane & Sears, 1964:83–93). Cognitive approaches on the other hand suggest that individuals process the information, make rational cost-benefit analyses (Converse,1975:96), and may associate the information with the norms suggested to them by group membership (Bandura, 1986). Moreover, the mere possession of an informed opinion does not automatically translate into action. The individual must make calculations about the cost of acting weighed against the possible outcome, both of which are informed by the intensity of opinion and the relevance of the issue. The second problem with socialisation theory is its claim that once formed opinions are difficult to change, especially as we grow older. In contrast, cognitive approaches allow for change, that we are receptive to new information and will process it in such a way that our attitudes can vary. Moreover, people who are cognitively developed can differentiate between information. They will not be susceptible to the kind of black and white imagery – communism bad; capitalism good – that structures so much political propaganda. They would be able to differentiate

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between different types of communism; between the leaders and the people of communist nations; and make geographic distinctions – is Chinese communism the same as Cuban? In other words, political opinion is formed through a conflict of ideas; it is helpful that we are exposed to different viewpoints because this is the way our critical thinking develops over time (Andrain & Apter, 1995:250). Another less serious problem with socialisation theory is that modernisation – with society becoming increasingly secular (Weber, 1930), urban (and therefore fragmented) and classless – is undermining the influence of groups and our loyalty to them (Giddens, 1990; Inglehart, 1997; Bell, 1999). The nuclear family has replaced the extended family (and is in the process of doing so in areas of the world traditionally associated with extended families, such as China). Family members spend less time together, working mothers may be absent from the home, and the television becomes the centre of family life. The possibilities for mobility and working from home make the workplace and colleagues less relevant. The church continues to decline in importance as an agent of socialisation (Ashford & Timms, 1992; Voye, 1999) – admittedly in some but not all countries: religion continues to play a role in the formation of public opinion in some parts of the US,13 while in Italy, Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi’s support for the war in Iraq in 2003 was undermined by the extraordinary power over public opinion exercised by the Catholic church that, led by the Vatican, vehemently opposed military action. Meanwhile, the disappearance of economies based on manufacturing and industry and the rise of the knowledge-based economy has weakened the power of trades unions and other forms of economic organisation (Kerr, 1983; Bell, 1999) … weakened, but not eradicated. As the discussion in the next chapter will suggest, group activity has experienced a dramatic and remarkable revival at the expense of political parties. Labour unions may no longer hold the balance of power as they did in Britain in the 1970s,14 but they remain an essential form of organisation and communication for workers throughout the world.15 For a long time the ‘two step model’ of how public opinion is created and modified information is transferred from was popular. Associated with Paul Lazarsfeld, this model conceded ultimate power of influence to the media. Opinion leaders and elites first receive the information broadcast by the media and then simply rebroadcast it to the public, or interpret it before retransmission. In short Mass media → Opinion leaders/elite → Public (After Lazarsfeld, Berelson & Gaudet, 1948).

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This two-step model was subsequently challenged, most recently by David Fan (1988). While accepting the possibility of elite influence on public opinion, he was concerned that ‘both the rapidity of the public response and the short message duration’ are not compatible with the idea of two-step persuasion (Fan, 1988:130). Rather, Fan argues that public opinion can be influenced directly by the mass media. There is still room for elite power in his schema, for their influence derives more from their access to the media rather than to the public directly. The media privilege elites as sources for political news and information. So, Elite → Media → Public (After Fan, 1988:5, 130). Reality is rarely as straightforward as theory and models would have us believe, and it is possible to modify the above to provide a less satisfactory but more accurate picture of the cross-pressures on public opinion, hence Elite → Public ← Media Thus, it is virtually impossible to give any definitive answer to the question: which is most accurate, socialisation or cognitive theory? In fact, both provide valid and coherent explanations for the formation of public opinion, because both processes tend to work simultaneously as the following diagram suggests:

Individuals

I1

Institutionalised aggregation and transmittal agencies

Policy Makers

Political Parties

I2

Interest groups

I3

Social Movements

Media

Figure 3.1

Opinion interaction and effect on the political process

Source: After Crotty (1970: 4).

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In represents the individual holding a range of political opinions on a vast array of subjects. In is a member of a variety of groups and is thus subject to (often competing) influences from these different groups – family, friends, church, school, trades union, ethnic group, etc. In also interacts on a daily basis with members of the same group who are supportive of his opinions, and will normally reinforce his views. However, the overlapping membership may in fact mean that many of his opinions and attitudes conflict, a fact that strengthens the idea that there is no such thing as a single public opinion. He will also interact with members of other groups. In thus experiences a multitude of influences that help shape and refine his political opinions. He may also contribute to the development of the political opinions held by those with whom he interacts. The diagram also demonstrates how his views can be aggregated via parties, interest groups, and the media, and communicated to policymaking institutions. The influence of these intermediary agencies on the policy-making processes is dependent on the extent to which the group can marshal the resources to support its case, whether the government is prepared to listen (is the group considered legitimate on this issue?), and whether these opinions are factored into the policymaking process. In short, Crotty’s diagram provides a useful illustration of the communication process involved in forming and expressing public opinion, the essence of democratic politics (‘Why should the people’s opinions not rule in a country … increasingly dedicated to the principle that the will of the people should have the force of the law?’ McClelland, 1996:470). Bennett, et al. (1996:12) conclude that a ‘model of political information, therefore, should include indicators that tap opportunity [to acquire information], motivation, cognitive ability, and exposure to the media’. Clearly Lasswell’s (1948) simple observation that the study of mass communication is an attempt to answer the question, ‘Who says what to whom, through which channel and with what effect’ is no longer appropriate for the complexity of modern communications. Regardless of our theoretical position or where we stand in this model, we are faced with the same fundamental question: are populations of democratic societies dissatisfied with, and cynical towards politics and politicians because of or despite the media? The power of the media is such a core concern in modern politics because the media are now political actors in their own right. They no longer simply report politics or elections or parliamentary debates. Rather, they have assumed a central position within political society. Duncan McCargo

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(2003) has described how the media can be agents of stability (supporting the status quo), agents of restraint (checking and balancing political society) or agents of change. Through close examination of the media in selected Asian societies, McCargo demonstrates that these roles are not mutually exclusive. Rather, the media perform all these roles at different political moments. The merit of this agency-based approach is not only that it recognises the power that the media possess, but also suggests that they are in constant strategic negotiation with other political actors, all enjoying access to their own resources. That the media now have the capacity to exercise political power in their own right as political actors was demonstrated most clearly – and alarmingly – in the events surrounding the British government’s case for war against Iraq in 2003, how it was reported, and the findings of the Hutton Inquiry, published in January 2004. We are too used to the normative democratic idea that the media represent the electorate between elections, that they act as a check and balance in government and scrutinise government’s decisions. The Hutton Inquiry questioned the credibility of this argument, though it had been under attack for some time. Challenging the idea that the media have a democratic duty to act as an unofficial opposition, the Labour party chairman, Charles Clarke, said, ‘This arouses a vanity about the role of the media. They have a need to question and doubt every politician. This leads to a bad state of affairs and I think it has got to be repaired’ (‘Labour attacks media over Mittal affair’, The Guardian, 21 February 2002). The media do not like to admit they are political actors, as this would compromise the functions they believe they fulfil in a democratic society (Cook, 1998). It also implies that there is little to separate the media – ostensibly working on behalf of the powerless and voiceless – from the politicians they try to expose. Only once they and we accept the – in many ways disturbing – notion that the media are political actors, do we understand that the media do not simply transmit information or offer entertainment, but rather have the propensity to be ideologically influential through the imagery they present. The media provide the cues and the frameworks which determine political discourse and which influence our perception and reaction to social and political reality. ‘In the conduct of politics,’ noted Colin SeymourUre in 2001, ‘media are primary and political institutions secondary. The media can live without politics; indeed, surveys show that politics is one of the least appealing subjects to readers and audiences. But politics cannot live without the media’ (in King (ed.), 2001:119).

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Normative theories of democratic politics that allow public opinion to play a necessary role set what Berelson (in Berelson & Janowitz, 1966:503) calls a ‘high – an ideal – standard’, namely: that the electorate possesses appropriate personality structures, that it be interested and participate in public affairs, that it be informed, that it be principled, that it correctly perceive political realities, that it engage in discussion, that it judge rationally, and that it consider the community interest. Notwithstanding the inconsistencies here – rational political behaviour does not necessarily conform to ‘community interest’ – this is an extremely high barrier that tests the dexterity of the strongest democracy. If we expect so much from our citizens, should we really be surprised when they do not perform to such expectations?

Can public opinion be measured? Attitudes towards the value of polls are divided: some acknowledge that measuring public opinion adds to the representative character of democratic politics. Polls are a form of participation, suggesting that citizens are being listened to and that their views count. In fact, they are a measure of interest in politics and therefore quantify the health of democracy. Moreover, knowledge of public opinion is said to be a check on those political activists – pressure groups etc. – who claim to speak on behalf of, or represent, mass opinion, and is particularly important as executive power expands. In other words, it is a powerful restraint on elite politics. Charles Roll and Albert Cantril (1972:11–12) for example make the rather bold claim that ‘the polling establishment is easily a candidate to become the “Fifth Estate”’, suggesting its power and ability to hold the decision-making community accountable for its actions. Clearly, this over-estimates the influence of polls, for it assumes that politicians and governments actually listen to public opinion and that it has a positive effect on their behaviour and decisions. It is extremely difficult to identify such a correlation, especially when ‘public opinion’ is competing with the advice and information from a range of sources – specialist advisers, for example, or civil servants, pressure and interest groups, one’s own political party, etc. Besides, public opinion rarely brings its influence to bear directly on government. Rather, it is mediated via parties, groups, and the media. While these institutions serve to transmit popular opinion to government, and government opinion

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back down to citizens, they also serve as independent variables in shaping and controlling the opinions of government and public. This is important to note, for none of these mediating institutions are able to reflect precisely public opinion; their centralisation, bureaucracy and growing professionalism constrain their value in securing a genuinely free flow of opinion and information, so that they often direct rather than reflect public opinion. However, while establishing a causal mechanism between the expression of public opinion and changes in political behaviour is not straightforward, we should recognise that public opinion helps to create the political environment within which governments and politicians operate. Public opinion, even if expressed only during elections, are at least an indication of popular satisfaction, with polls therefore providing essential ‘political intelligence’ (Roll & Cantril, 1972:17). Others view polls as a threat to responsible elite politics, encouraging the kind of reactionary (rather than responsive) style decision-making that is the pitfall of democracy.16 Roll & Cantril’s 1972 study of Polls: Their Use and Misuse in Politics is a valuable addition to the literature, especially in its detailed analysis of the mechanics of opinion polls and in providing (now out of date) empirical evidence of their use. Most surprising, however, are the authors’ conclusions that suggest their elitist attitude to public opinion and politics in general: They acknowledge that ‘opinion research … can enhance the strength of the democratic process by improving communication between the leader and the led. … regular opinion soundings provide yet another way for the public’s view to become known – particularly between elections’ (Ibid.: 153). However, Roll and Cantril then describe (Ibid.:154–5) an essentially elitist view of the political process in which polls are taken to ascertain the ignorance of voters and facilitate top-down communication and explanation of issues and policies. Regular polling, they claim, ‘can help leaders maximize their leadership potential …’ Polls are thus used more as a method whereby political elites are able to design their communication strategy with the public to maximise support for decisions. In this way, it is possible to argue that opinion polls are partly responsible for the decline in interest in politics and trust in politicians; they are a fundamental characteristic of the ‘professional’ politics that so many now despise. This is because in government or opposition, parties now make rational use of opinion polls – produced ‘in house’ and by professional polling organisation and the media; rational because polls can be useful to track public opinion, to ascer-

Public Opinion 87

tain the strength of support for policies or their own standing during election campaigns among different geographic and demographic constituencies. It is rational for parties in a competitive democratic system to scrutinise the polls in order to maximise their chances of winning and maintaining support, especially as the numbers of floating and tactical voters continue to increase. In preparation for the 2001 British General Election, a number of Internet sites appeared that were devoted to tactical voting. These were examples of targeted campaigning and were designed to maximise the vote in particular constituencies that were considered vulnerable or marginal, especially the 90 parliamentary seats that were most vulnerable to a swing back to the Conservative party.17 Moreover, opinion polls are thought to add drama and excitement to an election, but for critics, this turns the campaign into a horse-race; who’s up, who’s down, who’s predicted to win, by what margin? There are suggestions that that opinion polls adversely affect voting behaviour and therefore election results (Norris, 1989:223). Political scientists have long wrestled with the implications of the so-called ‘Bandwagon’ and ‘Boomerang’ effects that claim voters (and floating voters in particular) are influenced in their voting behaviour by their interpretation of the polls, especially in political systems where party identification is weak. However, evidence that these effects do occur is lacking and, most important, these theories underestimate voters, providing nothing in the way of a rational explanation why voters might want to ‘jump ship’ at the last minute. Polls may also encourage tactical voting: in the 1997 British General Election, an estimated 8–10 percent of the electorate are thought to have voted strategically. In Taiwan, this is known as the ‘dump-save’ effect, where voters are encouraged to ‘dump’ their favourite candidate in favour of another who is most likely to defeat the least desirable contender. Therefore, some political systems believe that banning either the reporting of opinion polls, or the polls themselves immediately before election day is a positive method of ensuring a free and fair vote. In 1977, for example, France passed a law to prevent ‘publication, circulation and commentary’ of any poll ‘having a direct or indirect link’ with the election during the preceding week. The same law also created an opinion poll watchdog committee to monitor the objectivity and quality of opinion polls. The 2002 presidential election was the first since 1977 in which the French press were allowed to publish soundings up to the eve of the vote. Following the first round of the first round of presidential elections in France in 2002, there was an extraordinary backlash

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against opinion polls that had failed to predict the level of support for the Far Right candidate, Jean-Marie Le Pen. Broadcasting organisations and newspapers refused to run polls because they no longer had faith in the numbers. The pollsters blamed the elusiveness of typical Le Pen voters, their social background, the number of abstentions, and the record number candidates – 16 – contesting the election. However, one must consider that banning polls or the reporting of polls may be a form of censorship, contradicting the very principles that lie at the heart of democratic politics. The Representation of the People’s Act 2000 made it a criminal offence in Britain to publish statements or forecasts before a poll is closed based on information from those who have already voted. This virtual ban on exit polls conflicts with Article 10 of the European Convention on Human Rights that grants the right to receive and impart information. The Canadian Supreme Court ruled that a ban on opinion polls during a federal election was unconstitutional and restricted freedom of expression. Moreover, what happens if postal voting becomes the norm? Will this mean an end to polls altogether as the voting is usually spread out over several weeks? Besides, while it is possible to prohibit one’s own media from reporting opinion polls, modern technology and globalisation make it increasingly unfeasible to prevent them receiving information about the polls from foreign sources. But are opinion polls really a danger to democratic politics? There are two reasons why we can answer ‘no’. First, as with so much in modern politics, we must go beyond the largely superficial characteristics of the system and (in many ways meaningless) data that is provided by opinion polls and scrutinise the processes and institutions of government. Public opinion polls have an important role to play, but we should not overestimate their influence. For instance, one major criticism of the British political system is that the timing of General Elections is not fixed. Rather, the Prime Minister decides when to ‘go to the country’ provided it is within five years of the previous election. This means that governments can use opinion polls to their advantage; they can look for established leads, assess the public’s reaction to their policies, and even try to hold-off calling an election until a particularly favourable policy has trickled down to the electorate. This is one argument for having fixed term parliaments and removing from the Prime Minister the decision of calling an election. However, rather than censuring politicians for behaving as rational creatures and ‘playing the polls’, it is far more productive to question the institutional processes of the British parliamentary system itself.

Public Opinion 89

Similarly, we should be mindful of the way polls are communicated through the media, since this is how most of us obtain our information about them. The problems derive not just from their reporting of the polls (during the 1992 American Presidential election campaign, between five and 10,000 polls were conducted among voters. There has been a corresponding increase in the polls becoming part of the story of the election. Fifteen percent of Time magazine cover stories in 1973 used polls; in 1993, this had risen to 46 percent. Wu and Weaver, 1997:71), but that broadcast media themselves try to instantly gauge public opinion in a relatively short space of time and without providing sufficient information for viewers to make reasoned decision. In the age of rapid response technology – e-mail and ‘texting’ by mobile telephones – the broadcast media seem to be gaining confidence in their use of straw polls that invite audiences to vote for or against a proposition within the duration of a programme: should Britain support a war against Iraq, yes or no? Needless to say, these straw polls are meaningless beyond measuring audience size for ratings considerations. There is no room here for ‘yes, but …’; the questions are framed in such a way that the respondent is forced into a choosing from diametrically opposed positions. Moreover, there is absolutely no way to control the sample: how does one ensure that the respondents are in some way representative of the interested constituency? Respondents are able to telephone, text, or email as many times as they wish with little pressure of constraint. In short, such straw polls are completely unscientific, and therefore unreliable; even if their results are accurate, the methodology makes the poll extremely spurious. Likewise, the way that media report opinion polls is problematic; particularly during elections, the media are concerned with polls only because they add to the excitement, but are rarely concerned with discussing the meaning or implications of the poll results (and they are especially uninterested in the science of polls). For example, a report in The Observer newspaper (29 September 2002) was headlined: ‘No war without UN, warns poll’. The first paragraph of the report stated: ‘A vast majority of the [British] public opposes military action against Iraq unless there is clear sanction from the United Nations, one of the most comprehensive surveys of public opinion on the issue reveals’. However, the report revealed that the poll had been commissioned by a television programme (Channel 4’s War on Iraq: Which side are you on?) and surveyed only 1,000 people. While the credibility of the poll itself is beyond doubt, the result is far from

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representing a ‘vast majority of the public’. More significant was another poll, described in the same report, which found surveyed 202 Labour party constituency chairs and found that 167 opposed the idea of unilateral action against Iraq. Since these respondents are a powerful influence on Labour party opinion, these were worrying figures indeed for the Labour government. To be meaningful, media coverage of polls must provide context, be jargon free and provide few statistics beyond the kind of mathematics that everyone can understand. Using mathematics to dress the poll in scientific validity will only confuse readers and render the poll unusable; the media should offer simple (though avoiding oversimplification) descriptions of polls and explain why the results are significant. To evaluate polls we need to consider both the question asked and how the poll is interpreted and reported. Answering questions about voting intentions is relatively straightforward; a respondent is presented with a choice of candidates and/or parties and asked to specify for whom they will vote, or would vote if there was an election soon. They may not answer truthfully; one reason why the polls in the 1992 British General Election were so inaccurate was the so-called ‘spiral of silence,’ developed in Germany by Elizabeth Newman in the 1970s; at a time when it was unfashionable to vote Conservative, respondents to polls lied about their intentions rather than admit the way they would vote. Ivor Crewe (1992) has calculated that the number of people who refused to be interviewed about their voting intentions in 1992 was almost 50 percent, the majority of whom were Conservatives but were ashamed to admit it. (It is also possible that there was a definite pre-election bias in the polls towards those who were likely to vote Labour.) French opinion poll organisations claimed that they had miscalculated support for the Far Right candidate Jean-Marie Le Pen in the 2004 presidential election because the typical voter is solitary, uneducated and reluctant to admit supporting him. (See Appendix 1) Surveying attitudes is more problematic than voting intentions, since the response can turn on the phrasing of the question (See Appendix 2); asking the same question in two ways can elicit very different responses, even from the same person. A proposal to cut ‘aid to the needy’ will elicit a very different response to a proposal to cut ‘public welfare programmes’. The wording in the first instance provokes an emotional response, and few would like to admit they are in favour of denying ‘the needy’ financial help. The term ‘public

Public Opinion 91

welfare programmes’, however, is less sensitive and is more consistent with the value-neutral and rational approach to politics that people favour. As Roll and Cantrill (1972: 103) observe, ‘A poll is only as good as the questions it asks’. The cardinal rule would appear to be understand the political motivation of the agency – political party, the media, interest groups etc. – that is sponsoring the poll; the wording of the question can be written in such a way to provoke the response that sponsor favours. The question is only the first stage. The real problems lie in the interpretation of responses. For example, how should the strength of conviction be measured? Should a particularly strong opinion be weighted more heavily than one weakly expressed? Should the polling organisation allow for the fact that some respondents will be basing their answer on greater knowledge or information than others? Is the opinion of someone who does not know much about a particular issue worth the same or less than someone who knows more? Should their opinions be treated equally by decision makers? These are important questions, because they lie at the heart of democratic political communication; does or should everyone have an equal opportunity to express their opinions to policy makers regardless of their access to knowledge and information? This calls for an inquiry into the very value of opinion polls, the methods they use (especially in arriving at the sample of respondents),18 their place in the decision making process, and forces us to re-enter the debate about majorities and minorities and the nature of representative government. They tell us nothing about why respondents hold particular opinions and from where they obtained the information upon which the opinions are based: A public opinion poll tells us nothing about the eagerness or enthusiasm of those wish that something be done, or about the indifference or bitterness of those who do not want it done. Until the pollsters do both these things, they will not ‘chart’ opinion or ‘register’ sentiment. They may claim to count a pulse, but they cannot boast of reading a thermometer (Rogers, 1949:47). A more important measure of opinion is political activity; are citizens actually mobilised to express their dissatisfaction with policy or government intentions? This is a more accurate indication of intensity than opinion polls and, as we will see in the next chapter, can have more influence.

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Appendix 1 ‘… Despite a flurry of recent opinion polls suggesting [US Presidential candidate John] Kerry is widening his lead over the Republican president, a different picture emerges from a forecasting phenomenon the combines the technical sophistication of commodity futures markets with the thrill of gambling on a horse race. Admirers of the new system claim it has consistently proved more reliable than opinion polls in predicting election results. … … The search for a different form of political forecasting – one that ignores day-to-day swings in voter opinion and focuses on the likely result – has led to the creation of the new futures market. On the Iowa Electronics Market (IEM) and several similar exchanges the “commodities” are politicians and investors bet on their prospects. … Each candidate has a “price” that moves up and down according to investor interest, like a company share’. … … A recent University of Iowa study of IEM’s performance in 49 domestic and foreign elections found that the market had an average margin of error of only 1.37% – well below opinion poll margins.19 … … How can an obscure political trading system … outperform highly sophisticated opinion polls that canvass thousands of voters? The explanation [some believe] derives from the investor’s pride in his ability to guess right and to make a profit. … (Tony Allen-Mills, ‘Kerry’s stock slides in the futures market’, The Sunday Times, 13 June 2004:29.)

Appendix 2 On 23 February 2004 the Hong Kong Constitutional Development Task Force issued a survey questionnaire entitled Seeking Your Views to gather ‘public views on the issues of principle and legislative process relating to constitutional development under the Basic Law’. On the left hands side of the questionnaire were listed a number of statements; on the right a set of related questions. For example: The Hong Kong Special Administrative Region (HKSAR) comes directly under the Central People’s Government (CPG), the CPG has constitutional powers and responsibilities to oversee the constitutional development in the HKSR, and has the responsibility to ensure that the development within Hong Kong’s political structure is in accordance with the ‘One Country, Two Systems’ and the Basic Law, and the provisions relating to the relationship between the Central Authorities and the HKSAR. How could Hong Kong’s political structure develop in accordance with the following principles in the relevant Basic Law provisions which relate to the relationship between the Central Authorities and the HKSAR? (1) Hong Kong is an inalienable part of China (Article 1 of the Basic Law)? (2) HKSAR comes directly under the CPG (Article 12 of the Basic Law)? (3) The Chief Executive (CE) is appointed by the CPG. He is accountable to both the CPG and the HKSAR (Aricles 43 and 45 of the Basic Law)?

Public Opinion 93 On the principles of ‘actual situation’ and ‘gradual and orderly progress’: (1) what should ‘actual situation’ constitute? (2) how ‘gradual and orderly progress’ should be understood? When submitting the Basic Law (Draft) and its relevant documents to the Seventh National People’s Congress on 28 March 1990, Mr Ji Pengfei, Chairman of the Drafting Committee for the Basic Law of the HKSAR explained that: ‘The political structure of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region should accord with the principles of ‘One Country, Two Systems’ and aim to maintain stability and prosperity in Hong Kong in line with its legal status and actual situation. To this end, consideration must be given to the interests of different sectors of society and the structure must facilitate the development of the capitalist economy in the Region. While the part of the existing political structure proven to be effective will be maintained, a democratic system that suits Hong Kong’s reality should be gradually introduced …’ Based on Mr Ji’s explanation in 1990, how could the development of Hong Kong’s political structure: (1) meet ‘the interests of the different sectors of society’? (2) ‘facilitate the development of the capitalist economy’? Annex I to the Basic Law stipulates that ‘If there is a need to amend the method of selecting the CE for the terms subsequent to the year 2007, …’ Whether the phrase ‘subsequent to the year 2007’ should be understood to include 2007? In response, I wrote the following piece for publication in Hong Kong’s South China Morning Post. On Monday 23 February 2004 the English-language South China Morning Post – along with every other (Chinese-language) newspaper in Hong Kong – devoted almost a whole page to Seeking Your Views, a survey of public opinion that was launched by the Constitutional Development Taskforce. The survey invited readers to respond to a series of questions relating to passages from the Basic Law that were conveniently printed on the left-hand side of the page for easy reference. However, while Hong Kong’s democrats may have rejoiced at this attempt to encourage participation in the political process and facilitate genuine popular consultation, the survey did not assist democratic communication in Hong Kong whatsoever. In fact, it is a good example of how difficult it is to poll attitudes, it demonstrates the importance of framing the question to invite meaningful responses, and reinforced the idea that polls can be a tool of conservative elite politics. First, the survey complicated even further the extremely technical debates about Hong Kong’s political development that were saturating the media in the first half of 2004. Question A2, for example, refers to the principles of the ‘actual situation’ and ‘gradual and orderly progress’. Readers are then invited to comment on how the ‘actual situation’ should be constituted, and how we might understand ‘gradual and orderly progress.’

94 Political Communication and Democracy Another question asks how the development of Hong Kong’s political structure could meet the interests of the different sectors of society and facilitate the development of the capitalist economy. Talk about asking BIG questions. When the survey turns to the issues of legislative process, the questions become even more demanding: ‘What is the most appropriate legislative procedure for amending the methods for selecting the CE and forming the LegCo? Do we need to follow the procedures set out in Article 159 of the Basic Law, if we amend the methods for selecting the CE or forming the LegCo as specified in Annexes I and II of the Basic Law’. And on it goes … The Task Force obviously forgot the first principle: A survey is only as good as the questions it asks, and the questions asked by the Task Force do not invite serious response because they assume a particularly high level of knowledge and comprehension. Has everybody read, understood and, most importantly, interrogated the relevant passages of the Basic Law and all its annexes to be able to offer the kind of critical opinion the Task Force requires? Unfortunately for Hong Kong, political science tells us that, faced with a complicated question, citizens tend to abstain altogether from such surveys because they do not understand the issue, or they vote to keep the status quo (surveys generally being forces of conservative government). The consequences are potentially ominous: if the average citizen is unable to provide sensible and cogent answers to such surveys based on full information and critical reflection, it is possible to imagine a time when government concludes that the level of political ignorance is unsatisfactory for any kind of participation. Moreover, if the response rate is low, the authoritarians among us will claim that democracy has failed, and that Hong Kong people are apathetic to politics after all (an argument which the July 2003 and January 2004 demonstrations prove is nonsense). Or, the technicalities of the questions will generate responses from certain sections of the population only, sustaining an elitist political system that allows for the continued ‘tyranny of the minority’. Either way, Hong Kong loses. So if the survey is not assisting democracy, we can argue that it is merely feeding the illusion of participation, transparency and legitimacy. It is providing a fantasy for every Hong Kong resident – Chinese and English-speaking – that his or her views are wanted and are valued. The appeal of such surveys is understandable: decisions are considered more legitimate if they have been arrived at by soliciting popular opinion. However, the success of such surveys depends on voter interest and participation, being user-friendly, and providing information that is of sufficient quality that all potential respondents can form an opinion regardless of background or status. Let me summarise my argument in the kind of direct, jargon free language that the Task Force has decided is not appropriate for its survey: This is bad communication. Political communication turns on the need to persuade people to care enough about an issue that they will form an opinion about it. This survey does neither, and on such an important issue for Hong Kong, that is very worrying indeed. (Gary Rawnsley, ‘First get the questions right,’ South China Morning Post, 25 February 2004:A13).

4 Instruments of Expression (I): Group Politics

[T]he art of advocating something you know to be bad as the only alternative to something you know to be a great deal worse. (Sir Gerald Nabarro on party politics, quoted in The New York Times, 12 October 1969) To appreciate the importance of public opinion in modern democratic politics, it is not enough merely to understand what it is and how it is formed. We must also consider the aggregation of public opinion and some of the means of expressing it. After all, the issue is not so much what public opinion is, but rather why and how it should be communicated to have the desired effect. We turn first to understand groups and social movements as agents of political communication. Do they reflect public opinion as liberals believe, or do they create it as the critical theorists suppose? Does their decision to engage in direct action represents a method of expression or is it the epitome of crisis in representative government?

Group politics and communication Political parties have traditionally been defended as the primary link between citizens and the state. In 1942, E.E. Schattschneider even went so far as to claim that ‘modern democracy is unthinkable save in terms of political parties’, while Hague and Harrop (2001:167) described the ‘mass party’1 as ‘the mobilizing device of the twentieth century’. But this is a dated view of the political process. Admittedly, parties still perform functions that are essential to the smooth working of representative democracy and political communication, and it is difficult to envisage modern political systems working without the operational capacity of political parties: they can educate and mobilise voters, simplify the 95

96 Political Communication and Democracy

political choices available to them, recruit and socialise members, they aggregate and represent interests; and they still control governments, legislatures and electoral politics (Meyer, 2001:17; Clark, 2004).2 Parties epitomise the diffusion of political power in society, mediating between citizens and the state, and adding checks and balances to the system.3 Pressure/interest groups can do all these things, but what separates them from political parties is that pressure groups cannot form governments, nor do they seek election to office. There are exceptions, of course, and sometimes the distinction between parties and groups becomes blurred at election time. Some groups do become parties and stand for election, but they have little realistic chance of forming a government. The main difference is that parties stand for a broad platform, whereas parties created out of pressure groups tend to campaign on single issues. The Pro-Life Alliance fielded 53 candidates in 1997, and the Referendum Party 547 candidates, but neither had any credible chance of forming the government. Standing for election, however, is an extremely important act of political communication, for it is an opportunity for groups to raise attention to their cause. Visibility is crucial for the success of all groups. Although only 30 of the Referendum Party’s candidates saved their deposits in 1997, they did ensure that Europe was high on the election agenda, and forced the major parties to state their position on the issue (Butler & Kavanagh, 1997:308). In contrast, the Pro-Life Alliance had little success, securing publicity through its intended use of graphic images of aborted foetuses. The alliance was therefore newsworthy but had failed to make use of acceptable images that would have allowed them to attract mainstream support. ‘Any prize for the least seen broadcast [in 2001] went to the Pro-Life Alliance. It put up the six candidates required to qualify for a party broadcast in Wales. In a re-run of 1997, senior broadcasters judged its pictures of aborted foetuses incompatible with the guidelines or codes. The Alliance took them to court and lost’ (Butler & Kavanagh, 2001:153. A full discussion of the Alliance’s campaign techniques, including photographs from the banned broadcast, is available in the Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television 17(4), 1997). Party identification is falling (See Table 4.1; also Dalton & Wattenberg, 2001), at the same time that election turnout is also declining. If we accept Hague and Harrop’s classification of European political parties formed after 1945, it is not too difficult to understand the reasons for this trend. They refer to ‘catch-all’ parties which, among other things, are dominated by leaders who communicate with the voters through television rather than indirectly via a large, active membership. The catch-all party is a response to a mobilized political system in which governing has become more technical and in which electoral communication is through the media. The transformation of several radical socialist parties

Instruments of Expression (I) 97

into leader-dominated social democratic parties … is perhaps the most important example of a shift from mass to catch-all status’ (2001:169). This transformation is, of course, most visible in Britain with the creation of ‘New Labour’ dominated by media-friendly Tony Blair, while the ‘Old’ socialist Labour party of the trades unions, the Red Flag, town hall meetings, and conference composites, flounders at the margins. Table 4.1

Party membership in eight European democracies, 1960–99 Party members as a percentage of the electorate Beginning of 1960s

Beginning of 1980s

End of 1990s

26 19 8 16 13 9 3 9

22 13 9 14 10 3 4 3

18 10 7 7 4 3 3 2

Austria Finland Belgium Norway Italy Netherlands Germany UK

Source: Reproduced from Hague & Harrop, 2001: 172 and based on Mair & van Biezen, 2001, pp. 9, 12 & 15.

Table 4.2

Political party and pressure group membership 2002

X

Amnesty International Greenpeace Friends of the Earth CND (approx)

X

154,611

136,348

X X

193,500 110,248

176,000 105,185

194,309 (1998) 94,528 (1996)

X

27–32,000

25–30,000

Stonewall

X

6,000

5,000

1.11m 49,760 2.7m

1.4m 54,000 X

no previous figures no previous figures 925,000 (1996) 29,504 2.29m (1996)

1.19m X 2.8m

69 unions, 6.7m members

Source: The Guardian, 29 January 2002, p. 10.

311,000 71,641 318,000 X X

Earlier

TUC

RSPB RSPCA National Trust

X 74,176 X 4,000 X

2000

400,465 (1996) 98,611 (1996) 350,000 (1996) 3,500 (1996) no previous figures 73 unions (1996), 6.7m members 125,362 (1998)

Labour Lib Dems Conservatives Greens Plaid Cymru

280,00 76,023 330,000 5,000 11,000

2001

76 unions, 6.8m members

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Data provided by the International Labour Office (ILO) in Geneva confirms that the proportion of union members declined in the 1990s, but warns us against making generalisations: in central and Eastern Europe, for example, the decline is due in large part to the end of compulsory union membership. Moreover, we must take into account that membership has risen in only a few countries examined by the ILO (including South Africa, the Philippines, Spain, Malta and Finland), which is apparent once we examine the overall figures in Table 6 in light of overall employment statistics (Table 4.3 presents absolute figures only). Table 4.3

Trades Union membership, 1996–7 (absolute % figures only) South Africa Spain Chile Thailand Philippines Republic of Korea Bangladesh Zimbabwe Hong Konga Taiwan Egypt Netherlands Germany UK France Venezuela Hungary Uganda Slovakia Portugal Poland New Zealand Czech Republic Estonia Israel

+ 126.7 + 92.3 + 99.6 + 77.3 + 69.4 + 60.8 + 57.8 + 54.4 + 53.0 + 49.8 + 21.8 + 19.3 – 20.3 – 25.2 – 31.2 – 32.2 – 38.0 – 38.3 – 40.1 – 44.2 – 45.7 – 46.7 – 50.6 – 71.2 – 75.7

a

Prior to the handover to China, 1997. Source: The World Employment Report 1996–97, International Labour Office (Geneva).

In contrast to parties, other groups and social movements that are capable of encouraging political engagement are experiencing a resurgence of interest and membership. The rise of the British National Party (BNP) is widely seen as a reaction to the failure of Labour to connect with

Instruments of Expression (I) 99

constituents in areas that are traditional party strongholds. Those fighting the growing power of the Far Right, such as Kevin Curran, regional secretary of the GMB union in Sunderland, lament the failure of the Labour government to counter persuasive opinion that asylum seekers are a menace. In response, the GMB is seeking to reactivate grassroots political communication in these areas by working among residents to challenge BNP claims and growing xenophobia. The problem with such data, of course, is that it does not tell us anything about party or group activism. When party membership is high, does this mean that all members are active in the organisation? Or are the remaining members after a period of fall-out the committed individuals who were always more active? Do people join groups from a genuine commitment to the cause, or as a method of joining a network that will be beneficial to their career or social standing? And what about those groups where membership is automatic (all students in the UK are automatically members of the Students Union, for example)? And can we differentiate between those activists who give their time and energy – often voluntarily – from the ‘free-riders’ or hangers on who rarely participate in the group’s activities? The problem is more acute when we consider new social movements that have no formal organisation or membership structure. It can be difficult to define ‘joining’ such a group, never mind trying to measure the intensity of activism within it. Data suggests that people now prefer to join very discrete groups with narrow concerns than the broad churches of political parties (See Table 4.2; Seyd & Whiteley, 1992:204). Groups provide a useful link between government and governed, and crucially they allow for participation between elections. In this capacity, however, Table 4.2 is misleading, for it deals only in numbers of members and tells us nothing about the level of their commitment or participation. What if a member only ‘participates’ in a group’s activities by paying his/her membership dues? In other words, one must take into account the intensity of commitment to a group. The higher the cost of membership (in terms of commitment) the lower the participation. Moreover, it does not take into account overlapping membership; Labour party members may also be members of Greenpeace or Amnesty International, for example (See Seyd & Whiteley, 1992:92). Nevertheless, groups seem to enjoy popular trust in a way that political parties, the civil service, and industry do not (Jordan, 1998:9 found that whereas only 32–36 percent of people surveyed trusted the oil industry, 81–85 percent trusted environmental groups); and they can contribute to political education, since they offer (varying levels of)

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expertise on a wide range of issues, in addition to greater opportunities for participation than parties: The evidence here is quite indisputable; individual membership of political parties in the UK has declined precipitously since the 1960s … In 1964, 9.4 per cent of all registered electors were members of the main three British parties with nationwide organizations; by the time of the 1992 general election, just 2.0 per cent were (a 79 per cent decline in proportional terms) (Webb, 1995:306). Freedom of association is considered a yardstick for the level of democracy in a political system, and organised groups that campaign on behalf of their members and seek to influence policy are an essential channel of political communication. Groups do exist in authoritarian or totalitarian political systems, but they seldom enjoy the same degree of autonomy offered to their counterparts in democracies. Rather, groups are considered a vital component of the downward flow of communication and are useful only for organisation and mobilisation on behalf of the state (Chapter 6 this volume; Perlmutter, 1981; Hill, 1994:274–5). Authoritarian governments tolerate youth groups, women’s groups, unions etc. to keep their members busy and involved in regime-supportive activities, and are denied opportunities for independent mobilisation and organisation. In such political systems, groups are able to represent their members’ interests ‘in so far as they do not override the common good, as defined by the party’ (Saich, 2001:170).5 Control and predictability are preferred to the supposed chaos and uncertainty of pluralism. In democracies, however, groups are regarded as an integral part of civil society, and thus profit from the opportunity to challenge the state by voicing their opinions and mobilising against the state. As Britain’s leading expert on pressure groups, Wyn Grant, has suggested: Pressure groups permit citizens to express their views on complex issues which affect their lives … Numerical democracy … finds its difficult … to take account of the intensity of opinion on a particular issue. Democracy cannot be reduced simply to a headcounting exercise: it must also take account of the strength of feelings expressed, and the quality of arguments advanced (Grant, 1995:23–4).6 John Parkinson (2004:370–88) has also described the ‘facilitation role’ that interest groups play in democracy, ‘providing the public sphere

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with information that would not otherwise be available.’ Commenting on groups’ ability to marshal ‘time, resources and energy’ on specific issues, Parkinson concludes: Thus, interest groups need not have direct principal-agent links with the relatively inactive citizenry to have a legitimate role in democracy: they are the essential facilitators who do have the time, resources and expertise to facilitate communication through throughout the system.7 It seems extraordinary, therefore, that given so many arguments in their favour it is possible to argue that groups do not make a significant contribution to representative democracy after all. If groups are lobbying on behalf of the interests of minorities or particular economic or social groups, does this mean that the mandate governments are granted via elections to look after the national interest is undermined? In a trenchant liberal critique of group influence written in the 1980s, Samuel Brittan proposed that groups undermine freedom and good governance. Echoing the ‘New Right’ approach to politics, Brittan was sceptical of pluralism, accepting that ‘democracy has degenerated into an unprincipled auction to satisfy rival organized groups who can never in the long run be appeased because their demands are mutually incompatible’ (Brittan, 1987:79). In other words, politics becomes an arena of group competition (especially business versus labour) to the detriment of individual preferences. Good governance is sacrificed because governments are faced with multiple demands from competing groups that (again, like labour and business interests) can exercise a form of coercive power (for example, strikes) over them. Subscribing to the New Right ideology, the Thatcher government was elected to office in 1979 after the unions had paralysed Britain for much of the 1970s, culminating in the so-called Winter of Discontent in 1978–9. The New Right believed that the unions had too much power on matters that should have been left to government – prices, incomes, expenditure and taxation. The political argument was that the general interest of the country, as represented by constituency MPs in Parliament, was undermined by functional constituencies that represented only their members’ interests. Moreover, those who did not belong to these functional constituencies were denied a voice and access to power. The Thatcher government’s attack on the unions is well known and well documented; in particular, the defeat of the coal miners in 1985 after a year-long strike demonstrated that the power of unions had weakened considerably through government action, but also because of structural

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changes to Britain’s industrial sector. The problem resurfaced during the Tony Blair’s second parliament in 2002 when unions, starting with the powerful RMT, decided to withdraw sponsorship of the Labour party and those MPs seen as supporting the government’s transport policies. Bob Crowe, the general secretary of the union, expressed concern that a ‘procession of businessmen’ had been invited to Downing Street, and the transport secretary had meetings with rail company executives, but neither had met the heads of the rail industry’s largest union (‘Rail union cuts cash support to Labour’, The Guardian, 26 June 2002). The problems that many trades unions feel they have with the Labour party were summarised by Debbie Coulter, the GMB deputy general secretary during the 2003 TUC conference. Activists, she told The Guardian (9 September 2003:11) are questioning why they should give up time and effort to actively support the party when the government in power has moved farther away from the people they represent. GMB members feel let down by the government’s move away from a grassroots approach to developing policy towards policies being set in isolation by Downing Street officials. We can likewise take issue with the idea that groups are truly representative because they face the same management problem as most other large organisations, namely how to create a system of effective leadership that genuinely represents their members. Given the large membership that many of these organisations boast, together with the fact that they may be representing disparate communities (the elderly, the disabled, unemployed etc.), group management may not always be able to guarantee that the views of the membership are heard and considered. Moreover, pressure groups tend to be populated by the middle class and educated, belying the idea that groups offer the chance for a more inclusive and participatory politics. Schattschneider made this observation in 1960: ‘The flaw in the pluralist heaven is that the heavenly chorus sings with a strong upper-class accent’ (1960:35). Even in 1994, data revealed that cause groups attracted a predominately educated middle-class membership: 35.3 percent of Friends of the Earth members have a first degree, 18.9 percent have a postgraduate degree, and 10 percent were still in higher education. This means that 64 percent of Friends of the Earth had experienced higher education (Quoted in Grant, 2000:197). While it is certainly true that group politics are a reflection, not the cause, of deeper social problems that inhibit a more inclusive form of participation, and may be one

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explanation for the rapid proliferation of new social movements (see below), it is still possible to claim that some groups only perpetuate the elitism that characterises all levels of political society, and that only certain interests will have access to the political system. It follows that the idea of pressure groups acting as a channel of democratic political communication is an illusion because of the notable absence of a level-playing field for group competition. Governments will listen to some groups, and ignore others depending on the issue, the resources that the group can mobilise,8 whether the group is considered legitimate on that particular issue, and the political and public mood (‘The likelihood of any group gaining wide popular support for its demands depends upon the congruence between group demands and the values, beliefs, and emotions widely diffused in the culture’. Rose, 1974:253). In this context, Wyn Grant (1995:15–23) has made the important distinction between ‘insider’ groups (considered legitimate and involved in negotiation/consultation with government and/or the civil service forming ‘policy communities’) and ‘outsider’ groups (those denied access to the political system or who may not wish to be considered legitimate and concentrate mainly on influencing public opinion).9 The crucial point is that these definitions are not fixed; groups are neither inside nor outside on a permanent basis, but may find their status changing depending on the issue under consideration. So for example farmers and landowners, traditionally an ‘insider’ group (especially when a Conservative government has been elected in Britain), found itself resorting to outsider group tactics when faced with a prospect of a ban on fox-hunting. Being an insider group is not a guarantee of success, as Brynle Williams of the Farmers Union of Wales found out: ‘I’ve spent the last five years in political lobbies not getting anywhere … this [fuel] protest [in 2000] came about because no-one was listening … now I believe the doors are opening’ (quoted in Doherty, et al., 2003:11). Moreover, some insider groups are viewed with suspicion by other groups campaigning on the same or similar issues. Friends of the Earth and Greenpeace, for example, are often criticised by other environmental groups for having allegedly ‘sold out’ a radical agenda to earn their legitimacy.10 Another typology that refers to the strategies adopted by groups has more relevance to the idea that groups are important as vehicles of political communication. Bill Coxall (2001:111) talks of ‘fire-brigade’ campaigns that are short-term and aim to alert the public to an ‘immediate threat (e.g. miners against pit closures)’ and ‘long-term educational campaigns (e.g. those aimed at improving the welfare of wild and farm animals)’. Outsider and insider groups will use both strategies depending on the issue and the public/political climate.

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How the media report the activities of ‘outsider groups’ has generated a whole literature of its own. The most important work has been published by Daniel Hallin (1986) who created a model that sought to explain how the American media reported the Vietnam war with reference to what he called ‘spheres of influence. (Figure 4.1)’ This model can be easily applied to any particular political issue and any political system. (For example model has been used to explain the role of the media during the long period of authoritarian rule in Taiwan. See Rawnsley, 2000; Rawnsley and Rawnsley, 2001). The ‘sphere of consensus’ is here presented as a sacrosanct area that embraces core American values – apple pie, white picket fences, the Star Spangled Banner. The ‘sphere of legitimate controversy’ allows and encourages criticism; it is an area of debate about means rather than ends. For example, during the Vietnam war debate was tolerated provided it focused on the methods of waging the war, not on the aims or justification of the war itself. Entry to the ‘sphere of deviance’ or ‘unacceptable controversy’ means that the permitted boundaries have been crossed. Here we find discussion of ideas that contradict the sphere of consensus, i.e. American values.

Sphere of Consensus

Sphere of Legitimate Controversy

Sphere of Deviance Figure 4.1

Daniel Hallin’s spheres

Source: Hallin (1986).

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It was the sphere occupied by the ‘communists’ identified by the McCarthy witch-hunts of the 1950s, as well as to the ‘campus bums’ who led the counter-culture’s opposition to American involvement in Vietnam. Hence, the spheres allow us to understand how particular opinions are marginalised by the way they are communicated, or by the fact that they do not have a voice at all because they are not considered legitimate. Many have cited the Vietnam war and the Watergate investigations as turning points in the relationship between the American media and political institutions (Patterson, 1993; Sabato, 1993; Cappella and Jamieson, 1997). The breakdown of elite consensus on Vietnam that created a vacuum of opinion for the media to fill, together with the decline in deference to politicians following Watergate, meant that the media became much more aggressive in their pursuit of political stories and more prepared than ever before to expose the fallibility of the nation’s political actors. In other words, the boundaries between the spheres of acceptable and unacceptable controversy became blurred. Later, however, the situation changed again. For example, there was absolutely no room for any voices of dissent in America’s war against Iraq in 2003, and even the liberal media were ‘on message’. A similar process occurred during the 1980s when coverage of American politics was dominated by the conflict in Nicaragua and US policy there. Bennett (1990) reinforces Hallin’s view that the media report, rather than cause, the breakdown in elite consensus. The New York Times grew increasingly critical of President Reagan’s policies in Nicaragua only when opposition within Congress likewise increased. Once Congress turned its attention to other issues, so did the New York Times. Bennett’s conclusion (1990:106) is that: ‘Mass media news professionals, from the boardroom to the beat, tend to “index” the range of voices and viewpoints in both news and editorials according to the range of views expressed in mainstream government debate about a given topic.’ So, at the heart of any group’s behaviour – insider or outsider – is the desire to communicate (with the government or with public opinion) to first create publicity, then shape public opinion, and finally make sure that the issue is on the political agenda, for only when an issue is on the political agenda can anything be done about it. Simply being vocal is no guarantee of success, as Robert Dahl pointed out in his 1956 book, A Preface to Democratic Theory: I defined the ‘normal’ American political process as one in which there is a high probability that an active and legitimate group in the

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population can make itself heard effectively at some crucial stage in the process of decision. … … When I say that a group is heard ‘effectively’ I mean more than the simple fact that it makes a noise; I mean that one or more officials are not only ready to listen to the noise, but expect to suffer in some significant way if they do not placate the group, its leaders, or its most vociferous members (Dahl, 1956:145). The key to success, however, is promoting the right issue at the right time; catching the public mood in an emotional upswing, especially close to an election, can make all the difference. Consider one of the most successful campaigns of all time, the creation of the British group Shelter that campaigns on behalf of the homeless. Shelter was founded in 1966 after an upsurge of public opinion and sympathy following the harrowing TV docudrama, Cathy Come Home. More recently, the Snowdrop campaign to ban handguns in Britain following the Dunblane School massacre of 1996 was equally successful. With little experience, the campaigners achieved their objectives within a year. The most important reasons for the success of this campaign can be identified as the emotional outpouring of sympathy following the tragedy at Dunblane, and the media’s persistence in keeping the issue on their agenda. The pro-gun lobby could not compete with the exposure their opponents were attracting, nor with Britain’s emotional climate. The creation of Shelter and the Snowdrop campaign highlight the importance of the relationship between the media and the group. Publicity is difficult but essential, and in recognition of this, many groups have professionalised their attempts to generate publicity and court media attention, producing their own videos that are distributed to news organisations. Greenpeace, for example, has a full in-house film, video and photographic capability incorporating a small television studio, three editing suites, a digital sound studio, and a commercial film and television archive. These facilities also include compressed digital satellite encoders and decoders and three-dimensional computer graphics. The Greenpeace press desk operates on a 24-hour basis to accommodate the deadlines of media organisations around the world (Anderson, 1997:85). Groups that are able to do so, therefore, devote a significant proportion of their resources (staff, time, funds) to developing close relations

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with the media. This may mean giving the media finished films and polished press releases that news organisations can easily fit into their bulletins (part of the job of the professional is knowing how the media works and giving them what they want in a format they can use). Usually, it means providing the media with stories, information, reactions to events and policy developments, and quotable sound-bites. These professionals understand how the media work and advise their clients on the how to conform to the agendas and routines of the media (such as timing and format). This gives rise to the concept of ‘pseudo events’ or media events that refers to the organisation of activities by groups to coincide with the presumed requirements and functions of the news organisations (Montgomery, 1989:217). For example, good visuals and ‘publicity stunts’ will attract the attention of television news organisations (Fathers For Justice dressing as Batman to climb the outside walls of Buckingham Palace in 2004 received wide and prominent coverage in the way a simple demonstration may not). Political parties know this very well, and are especially attune to the timing of events; they will usually stage press conferences at a the most appropriate time in the day’s news-cycle to make sure they receive maximum coverage – of course, it is much better if the conferences are live and timed to coincide with the broadcast of a news programme. Media relations are particularly important for outsider groups who must appeal first to public opinion to influence the policy making communities. Baggot’s research found 75 percent of insider groups and 86 percent of outsider groups are in contact with the media at least once a week; 50 percent are in daily contact (Baggot, 1992:20; 1995:183). Given the importance of the media, it is not surprising, therefore, that many groups now employ the services of lobbying consultants who can advise groups how to professionalise their campaign. Professional lobbying is an American phenomenon; in 1945, less than 200 lobbyists were registered with Congress. Now there are over 16,000. The weak party structure of the American political system, the divisions between legislative and executive, the strong committee system within Congress, the federal system of political organisation, and the importance of financial contributions by Political Action Committees (PAC), have made lobbying particularly effective there. In Britain, however, the stronger party structure and discipline, and the fact that the executive operates from within the legislature, means that lobbyists are less successful than their American cousins in targeting individual politicians, and head first for the mandarins of Whitehall.

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Lobbyists act on behalf of their ‘clients’ by acting as intermediaries between them and government. Although there is much disquiet about the role of lobbying – cash for access and accusations of ‘cronyism’ have marred the reputation of such consultants in Britain11 – lobbying nevertheless can provide groups with little in-house expertise or contacts the information and access that can help their campaigns. Hiring a professional lobbying consultant does not guarantee success; it will help the client navigate his way around the political system and will provide access to relevant politicians and bureaucrats. The choice is a stark one, but it goes right to the heart of modern political behaviour in a high-intensity media environment: Should groups ‘rely on well-meaning, highly motivated people working for an ideal rather than for money? Or do you recognise that the outfit is, to all intents and purposes, a multi-national which needs professional skills at the highest level? (Wilkinson, 1994:42). The disturbing truth, however, is that only the most well-resourced have to confront this problem. For the majority of groups, the ‘pervading sense of powerlessness’ and marginality are all too palpable (Report of the Royal Commission on the Constitution, 1969–1973, Volume 2, Memorandum of Dissent, London: HMSO, Cmnd. 5460–1, October 1973:34). In July 2002, the village of Greengairs near Glasgow, Scotland, found itself the centre of a bitter fight against the local council that was considering two applications for landfill extensions and waste facilities (the village is already surrounded by three landfill sites). Kevin Dunion, director of Friends of the Earth Scotland, summarised the problem as one of alienation: ‘This village has faced the greatest level of environmental injustice of any community in Scotland. And these new proposals bring home the powerlessness they feel and the frustration that they have no rights in the matter’ (‘Victims of burgeoning waste crisis’, The Guardian, 29 July 2002:4). An expert from the United States visited the area and commented: ‘If you look at the pattern, it is usually poor people, working class communities that don’t have a lot of resources to hire lawyers or experts and the political clout to block these kind of facilities’ (Ibid.). It is therefore hardly surprising that citizens do feel disaffected by the political system that allegedly represents their interests, and that they turn to alternative methods to communicate their grievances.

Social movements and direct action ‘Six hundred Nigerian women held a US oil giant to ransom armed with a simple weapon – the threat of taking all their clothes off. And it worked’ (‘Hands up or we strip!’ The Guardian G2, 22 July 2002).

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‘David did defeat Goliath, even without CNN’ (Wolfsfeld, 1997:77). Recently, there has been a noticeable movement away from the formal organisation of pressure groups to the rapid proliferation of what have been termed social movements (sometimes, ‘new’ social movements).12 Unlike pressure groups, the membership and organisation of social movements tends to be fluid, with less emphasis on hierarchy and more attention to the possibilities offered by decentralisation. Often, they are composed of loose coalitions of like-minded activists who transcend traditional social, demographic, and even geographic boundaries.13 Their character has been summarised by Byrne (1997:15): As networks rather than formal organisations, movements attract supporters or adherents rather than members. Although those supporters are often more committed than those who have formal membership of political parties (being prepared, for example, to risk hardship and/or punishment by undertaking direct action), decisions on what to do are taken locally or individually. It is rare for any significant effort to be made to co-ordinate supporters’ efforts nationally, and even rarer for such efforts to succeed. Autonomy, then is an important defining feature of social movements … Another feature of social movements that differentiate them from groups is their attitude towards the relevance and effectiveness of pluralist approaches to political behaviour. Pluralism suggests that groups are important agents of the democratic political process; they promote bargaining among competing groups that possess unequal resources and enjoy different levels of access to the policy-making process, with the government acting more as arbiter than sovereign (A useful introduction to pluralism is provided by Martin Smith in Marsh & Stoker (eds), 1995:209–27). Social movements, on the other hand, tend to abstain from bargaining with either other groups or with government. Instead, they find different ways of communicating their interests to governments, usually via direct action. This may be legal (marches, demonstrations, organising petitions) or illegal (obstruction and disruption, civil disobedience) and even violent.14 The American civil rights movement of the 1950s and 1960s is one example of an extremely successful social movement that used illegal but non-violent methods to champion its cause.15 The achievements of the civil rights movement has inspired other social movements in the United States that pro-active efforts against seemingly impossible odds is worthwhile. In Britain, the social movement that campaigned against the

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British government’s imposition of the Community Charge (or Poll Tax) in the late 1980s and early 1990s was equally effective. This was a unique phenomenon in modern British politics for three reasons. First, there was little formal mobilisation or organisation. Only the British Anti-Poll Tax Federation, composed of left wing organisations, might be considered an attempt at organisation. Second, the movement united people from different backgrounds, classes, and geographical settings, bringing together the Militant Tendency and middle class housewives groups. It was therefore a genuinely inclusive social movement. Third, it was successful. A number of different strategies of direct action were used, including legal (demonstrations, marches, petitions), illegal (a non-payment campaign of civil disobedience), and violent (the Trafalgar Square demonstrations of 31 March 1990 is now referred to as the Poll Tax Riot). Unconventional political behaviour can work, at least some of the time.16 What is most interesting about the poll tax, however, is that political communication was blamed for its failure. Michael Heseltine, Minster for the Environment, claimed that the tax was doomed because ‘the public have not been persuaded that [it] is fair’ (Franklin, 1994:108). The failure of the poll tax demonstrated the importance of one over-riding fact in government political communication, spin, and government propaganda: Good presentation cannot make a bad policy any more palatable. This defining characteristics of new social movements – loose coalitions of concerned citizens who have never perhaps been politically active before; transnational organisation; use of new technology to mobilise (Dalton & Kuechler, 1990) – has been most clearly demonstrated in the global movements that protested against the possibility of war against Iraq in 2002 and 2003. One American explained, ‘Almost everyone involved is new to activism. When 50 people opposed to the war turned out last October [2002] to close down the federal building in San Francisco, none of them had been involved in civil disobedience before. We trained them the night before, and then they went ahead’ (‘They thought the global peace movement was all over. It isn’t now …’, ‘Iraq Crisis’, supplement in The Independent, 6 March 2003:12).17 The Independent described the American anti-war movement in the following way: Certain things about this movement seem to distinguish it from past protests. One is its remarkable diversity, even in the United States. Not just the usual left-liberal suspects with their tie-dyes and politically correct slogans, but Spanish-speaking bus drivers, public

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health workers, suburban mothers and their children, blue-collar production line workers, lawyers and Republican-voting executives. … Also unprecedented is the participation of the big labour unions, who were notoriously quiet during the Vietnam war …(Ibid.)18 It is unlikely that the anti-war movement would have been quite as successful at mobilisation without the precedent of the so-called ‘antiglobalisation’ movement that provided a demonstration effect for mobilisation on a grand scale. Simon Tormey (2004:39) regards the Seattle protests of December 1999 ‘as the “moment” when the contemporary anti-capitalist/anti-globalisation movement was born’. Tormey identifies four factors that are consistent with the approach to social movements considered in this chapter that helps explain why the Seattle protest was unique to that time. The first was the sheer diversity of interests represented, including trades unions that had been absent in North American demonstrations to that point. Second, the heavyhanded approach of the police led to violent scenes that were played out in the global media, suggesting that this movement had turned radical. The third was that the police response to the protest solidified the solidarity between the otherwise different movements. In this way, horizontal political communication was encouraged, as groups formed networks and alliances. According to Tormey the fourth, and probably most important factor suggesting the significance of Seattle is that the protests managed to disrupt the meeting of the World Trade Organisation, giving further encouragement to future movements that they might achieve success through mass mobilisation. Such empirical evidence counters the idea that new social movements tend to be positioned only on the political left and that the ‘conservative’ identity of many recent protest movements (for example, the British fuel protests in 2000) cannot be explained by social movement theory. The Liberty and Livelihood march in September 2002 brought together: pro-hunting lobby, the Equine Grass Sickness Fund, the movement to reinstate target pistol shooting, the Merseyside Terrier and Lurcher Club and the Keep Gibraltar British campaign. Many marchers ‘carried banners pleading “tolerance”, and “live and let live”, yet the biggest cheer of the morning went up at the march-past of a banner reading, “Gay rights, asylum rights, WE want OUR rights”’ (‘The day cross country came to town’, The Guardian, 23 September 2002:1). As a form of political participation and communication, protest has moved from the margins to the mainstream. (Tormey, 2004:46

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describes social movement politics as ‘subterranean’ and ‘invisible’, and suggests that they will only move to the mainstream ‘when they erupt’ and thus capture media and elite attention.) This is also the case in Hong Kong, long labouring under a mistaken belief that the population would remain politically docile provided the administration keeps the economy ticking along and income taxes remain low. On 1 July 2003, 500,000 marched through the streets of Hong Kong to protest tough new security laws. On 1 January 2004, another 100,000 demanded full democracy. Although most of the participants in both protests were young – reflecting opinion poll findings that they are unfavourable to the present political system in Hong Kong19 – the crowds also contained a diverse collection of sex, age, and social-economic backgrounds. In the face of such incredible public pressure, Chief Executive Tung Chee-hwa postponed the new security laws on 5 September 2003. For Hong Kong’s pro-democracy, this is an historical victory; for observers of participation in Asia, it shatters the illusion that Chinese are apathetic and incapable of launching effective protest movements.

Photo 4.1 Campaign on the streets of Kowloon to encourage voter registration, April 2004 (Gary Rawnsley)

As Pippa Norris (2001) explores in her seminal study of how computer technology has affected civic engagement, the Internet has revolutionised the capacity of trans-border networks to mobilise activists. But as Norris makes clear, the potential of the Internet means

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that groups and protest movements now integrate the Internet into their campaign strategies, often as a way to keep affiliated individuals and groups, as well as media organisations around the world, posted about their activities. Internet users are also encouraged to lobby via email their government representatives, engage in on-line dialogue, and donate money to a cause. The Internet is energising global social movements; it is giving a reality to the idea of trans-border networks and the creation of a global civil society. It is also offering new ways for interested individuals to participate in politics and engage in political communication (with elites and with each other) without leaving the comfort of their own home. (See Appendix 1) We will return to the relationship between the Internet and democratic politics in Chapter 7 which identifies and discusses some of the problems associated with the more idealistic claims about its impact. Direct action is a useful tool for those groups and movements that find it difficult to generate media attention. As Jordan (1998:327) has observed: ‘Protest without media coverage is like a mime performance in the dark: possible, but fairly pointless.’ Group staging of events can attract publicity that would otherwise have been denied them; they become news by being the news (on social movements and their relationship with the media, see Gitlin, 1980). This, however, is a risky strategy, because the need to find ever more spectacular methods of attracting media attention can undermine any sympathy they may have nurtured: the more illegal and/or violent the methods of communication, the less legitimate the movement and its cause: Four Labour MPs, including the junior agriculture minister … have had their constituency offices attacked by a group of militant pro-hunt supporters led by a balaclava-clad woman. … … The attacks reflect growing pro-hunt militancy. … Altogether in North Yorkshire tens of thousands of pounds of damage has been done to roads … The Humber Bridge has also been painted with slogans. … [Hugh Bayley, MP for York, a target of the group] said: ‘These attacks do the organisation or the cause no good.’ … [Ian Cawsey, MP for Brigg and Goole] said: ‘The effect of these attacks has been to alienate people who do not know anything about hunting and now think this is the behaviour of pro-hunt supporters, they want nothing to do with them. (‘Pro-hunt militants target Labour MPs’, The Guardian, 22 July 2002). Moreover, engaging in direct action for publicity is a risky strategy because the movement itself delegates control of the story to the media

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which decides how to cover the event, what images to show, and what language to use to describe what is going on (constructing a ‘semblance’ of reality. Eldridge, 1993:4).20 A largely uneventful march can very easily become a ‘riot’ in the media because the activities of a few can make the difference between positive and negative publicity. The media will focus on the dramatic and sensational, overlooking the routine and the peaceful, which means everybody is tarred with the same brush: ‘Anti-globalisation Movement’ turns out to be a name invented by journalists that has stuck. All the activists reject it, not least because it offers ammunition to opponents (‘How can you be against globalisation? Are you against cheap air travel? The internet? Cheap international phone calls?’) (‘Where did all the protestors go?’, The Observer, 14 July 2002). For these reasons, direct action, especially illegal activities, are often the final strategy of groups who are frustrated with conventional methods of trying to persuade government of their cause: There is a common link between the animal lovers and the anti-road activists … many of them have tried conventional channels for change, but have got so fed up with the lack of response that they have decided to take matters into their own hands. And it’s not just a question of having to wait too long for things to get better, increasing numbers of people are coming to the conclusion that their needs will never be addressed by those in power (Brass & Koziell, 1997:7). All groups and movements must weigh up the consequences of engaging in direct action: it will gain publicity, but will it gain public support? Will it merely inconvenience the public – strikes on public transport, for example, or ‘rolling roadblocks’ (blocking a road with slow moving traffic) – and thereby turn public opinion against the cause? The dilemma was captured in the contrasting views of the effect of ‘rolling roadblocks’ organised in Britain in July 2002 by the Countryside Action Network, a splinter group of the Countryside Alliance. A spokesman for the latter said: ‘We are critical of actions which appear to be designed to inconvenience the public. … Public support and the weight of … opinion is the greatest ally of rural Britain … and actions which undermine this support are therefore counter-productive’. In reply, a spokesperson for the Network said that the Alliance’s campaigns were too soft to be effective: ‘The inconvenience’ of the road blocks ‘was small, but think of the media coverage we’ve got’ (‘Country rebels block roads’, The Guardian, 13 July 2002).

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However, such tactics are rapidly becoming old-fashioned, and many social movements are quickly recognising the possibilities that are offered by new communications technology. For example, American activists protesting the possibility of war against Iraq in 2003 participated in a ‘Virtual March’ on Washington, whereby they bombarded the White House and other government agencies with phone calls and emails, thus bringing to a grinding halt the political work of the city. On 6 March 2003, school pupils across the United Kingdom staged walkouts from schools and protested outside Downing Street. ‘The pupils, some of them members of the Stop the War coalition, said they had arranged the protest by e-mail and leafleting’ (‘Parliament besieged by pupils in anti-war protest’, The Independent, 6 March 2003:2). If representative democracy is suffering the kind of crisis of communication that we discussed in Chapter 1, then direct action is the ultimate representation of the problems, as suggested by the EarthFirst! website: Conventional ‘green’ campaigning is not enough to stop the destruction that is happening. Politicians and companies ignore letters, petitions and public enquiries; they reject overwhelming evidence because it goes against their interests … the only solution is for people to take their future in their hands and physically halt further destruction of nature (quoted in Grant, 2000:145). Direct action that involves people who would otherwise not become involved in politics is not confined to the developed world. As the tantalising subtitle to this section demonstrates, even in parts of the less developed world groups of people can mobilise to take on political and, in this case, corporate power. Networks, community groups and local voluntary associations regularly form to engage in direct action on such basic life issues as access to water, local education amenities, and sanitation (Baker, 1999). The US oil giant in question, Chevron-Texaco, ‘was forced to promise jobs, electricity and other improvements to villages in the Niger Delta after 600, mainly Itsekiri tribeswomen stormed the company’s huge Escravos oil terminal, bringing it to a standstill for 10 days.’ The group was powerless in terms that it did not possess any financial or political resources to fight the oil company: The activists, aged from 30 to 90, were led by a core group of middle-aged women affectionately known as ‘the mamas’. And they had one simple but effective weapon: they threatened to remove all their clothes. The gesture, known as ‘the curse of the nakedness’, is a traditional way of shaming people and remains as potent as ever.

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Meanwhile, in May 2003, Kentucky Fried Chicken ‘bowed to pressure’ from activists campaigning against the company’s treatment of chickens after they ‘threatened to picket [KFC] president’s home and run a campaign suggesting KFC stood for Kentucky Fried Cruelty’ (‘Animal activists win on chicken welfare’, The Guardian, 10 May 2003). In Taiwan, an island under martial law until 1986, thousands of workers took to the streets of Taipei in November 2002 to protest against increasing unemployment and ended their demonstration by throwing over seventy tonnes of garbage in front of the Presidential Office: ‘“Garbage is dirty and useless, but the government’s failure to protect workers’ rights is worse than garbage,” a statement by the workers said’ (‘Angry unemployed create a stink’, Taipei Times online edition, http://www.taipeitimes.com, 11 November 2002).21 Maybe professional consultants are not that important in political communication after all; with a little imagination, a lot of spirit, and considerable frustration at the status quo, any perceivable strategy might be effective.

Photo 4.2 A sit-in at the Department of Agrarian Reform, Manila, 2001. A group of peasants had travelled to meet the Secretary but he refused to see them, so they took over the building and stayed there for several days. The photograph shows the peasants outside the Secretary’s office (he is stuck inside). They also staged a sit-in in the board room, which was an embarrassment for the government as the room was meant to be used for a meeting with visiting officials from the World Bank. (Pauline Eadie).

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What is clear from this evidence is that the agents and targets of influence are broadening out, as are the methods used to exercise that influence. In 1978, Verba, Nie and Kim offered a very succinct definition of political participation as ‘those legal activities by private citizens that are more or less directly aimed at influencing the selection of governmental personnel and/or the actions they take’. As this chapter has demonstrated, this is a narrow understanding of modern political participation that may or may not be legal, and may not necessarily aim to influence the government. Deborah Stone (1997) brings the threads of this chapter together by discussing the relationship between public opinion, group politics, and legitimacy in a plural society. Stone’s work is important because she analysed how discourse can determine how particular policies are seen and accepted as more important than others. Hence, Stone examines the narrative of policy making that decides not only the relevance of issues, but also how susceptible they are to intervention by actors within and outside government. If a ‘causal story’ demonstrates that citizens can have a positive effect on policy, then it legitimises the political behaviour that occurs outside government: citizen action can make a difference. On the other hand, a narrative that emphasises success only through the diligent work of committed individuals inside government will deny citizen politics any legitimacy. Stone accepts the competition inherent in pluralism, and believes that causal stories need to be fought for, defended, and sustained. There is always someone to tell a competing narrative, and getting others to believe one version of events rather than another is hardly automatic. Research on public opinion suggests that to some extent people have stable, overall outlooks on responsibility for social problems. … But public acceptance of causal stories is also influenced by the way television news frames stories. … A causal story is more likely to be successful if its proponents have visibility, access to media, and prominent positions; if it accords with widespread and deeply held cultural values; if it somehow captures and responds to a natural mood; and if its implicit prescription entails no radical distribution of power or wealth (Stone, 1997:202). The narrative can make all the difference between upholding the existing order and legitimising attempts to undermine it, peacefully or otherwise. An important addition to the growing literature on social protest movements was published by Jane Rhodes in 1999. Rhodes

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studied media coverage of the Black Panther movement in the United States, and discovered that there was very little discussion of context: Why did the Black Panthers feel a need to organise separately from the more mainstream civil rights movement? Why was this organisation so appealing? What was its relationship to the national race crisis that engulfed much of the United States in the 1960s? Likewise, the media avoided any discussion of the social context – racism, discrimination, unemployment, urban plight, etc. Rather, the media chose to adopt the dominant interpretive framework that portrayed the Black Panthers as a problem, that is, the mobilisation of young black men using ‘inflammatory rhetoric’ to target authority. Their cause was ‘hatred of whites’, representing a ‘spirit of lawlessness’ in black America. This framing therefore justified a solution based on law enforcement and containment. Jane Rhodes (1999:116) concedes that the Panthers used this radicalism to their advantage, largely to attract media attention. However, ‘ultimately, the Panthers could not control how [Panther rhetoric and symbolism] would be interpreted and framed’, suggesting that groups are dependent on the choices made in the newsrooms. Brian Doherty et al. provide a similar analysis in 2003. Part of their discussion of the so-called ‘fuel protests’ in Britain in 2000 is concerned with discourse, the way that protest movements are perceived by the state and by the media. This can provide the frameworks and interpretative cues that can determine the narrative of a particular group’s agenda and activities. Although they do not claim that publicity defined the failure of the movement,22 they did discover that the movement had been portrayed in particular ways that helped determine its legitimacy. In particular, they were concerned with the importance of representations of normality and deviance: Doherty et al. discovered that the fuel protestors, an example of what they called a ‘conservative’ new social movement, were treated very differently from other outsider groups ‘contesting society’s basic norms’. For example, the authors found that the police considered the fuel protestors ‘normal members of society’. The authors contrast this with the treatment meted out to environmental activists who engage in direct action. Similarly, media coverage of the fuel protests ‘produced a frame of the stoic struggle of ordinary folk in petrol queues who, while frustrated, supported the protestors … creating a sense of mass popular support for the protests’ (Doherty et al., 2003:16). The authors refer to a report of the fuel blockade that appeared in the Daily Mail, a conservative newspaper which presented a stark contrast between these

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protests and those organised by workers, miners, environmentalists etc. Hence, their clothes were ‘immaculate chinos’, and ‘carefully pressed jeans and polo shirt’, instead of ‘donkey jackets’; their cars were the ‘highly polished Ford Galaxies and Renault Meganes’ of the middle classes: ‘“The situation is awfully trying,” said the man wearing chinos. “But if one feels strongly about something, then something must be done. May I offer you a cup of tea?”’ (Glenda Cooper, ‘A very British blockade’, Daily Mail, 13 September 2000, quoted in Doherty et al., 2003:17).

Appendix 1 ‘There was always something quaintly old-fashioned about the way Americans embarked on the long process of choosing their next president. …Now, with nine Democrats vying for the job of challenging George Bush in November 2004, the process has been brought bang up to date with the arrival of a potentially revolutionary new tool: the on-line primary … [on the website] … MoveOn.org. Proclaiming itself as a new model for grassroots activism … the site has attracted 1.4 million subscribers in the United States and another 700,000 overseas. About two thirds of the membership were galvanised by their opposition to the war in Iraq. But they all share the goal of sending President Bush off into the sunset. That’s quite some constituency, which explains why all nine Democratic candidates have submitted statements and policy positions to the site and are taking the result of the primary … in deadly earnest. … [T]he winner can expect to raise an extra $30 million (£18 million) in campaign funds. … … By the mid-term elections [in] November [2002], its Political Action Committee had raised more than $4 million for progressive candidates across the country. …’ (‘From flying toasters to the virtual search for a president’, The Independent, 26 June 2003:16.)

5 Instruments of Expression (II): Referendums

‘The cure for the ills of democracy is more democracy’ (‘Battlecry’ of the American Progressive movement in favour of referendums, 1890s–1917, in Butler & Ranney, 1978:29). So far, this book has addressed the allegation that popular participation and interest in politics are declining in representative liberal-democracies. We have also seen how a growing sense of powerlessness and dissatisfaction with political parties has developed alongside an extraordinary increase in extra-parliamentary activity that might channel its frustration through parties, but is progressively more likely to be the source of social group mobilisation and direct action. The key here is the feeling of disappointment and irritation with representative democracy in particular; how might citizens experience the kind of direct democracy that so engaged the ancients? Advocates of referendums believe that they offer a solution, enabling citizens to encounter the power and enlightenment associated with direct democracy (Lijphart, 1984).1 Referendums are valued because they are apparently consistent with very important criteria of democratic politics and political communication. They are dialogical in that they encourage participation between elections, and are far more representative than opinion polls which rely on generalising from small samples of respondents. Elections are useful in deciding which party should form the government, but are limited as a method of consulting public opinion, mainly because voters do not enjoy an opportunity to register their views between elections, and because we are asked to vote for a complete party package, not decide our preferences on individual issues. Finally, many electoral systems allow governments to win by a minority of the votes; can we therefore say that they are truly representative? 120

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In addition, referendums are thought to circumvent other potentially powerful institutions that are poised between citizens and their government, including parties, pressure groups, and the media; and finally referendums are considered educative (á la John Stuart Mill) because they encourage governments and other groups sponsoring a referendum to provide as much information as possible about very specific issues (and may persuade citizens to use their vote sensibly and rationally, though the two are not necessarily synonymous).2 If the electorate are expected to vote on a complicated issue such as adopting the European Single Currency, then it is important that the opposing sides are able to communicate their position in an accessible way. If the technicalities are not communicated in such a way that electors will understand the issues, how can they be expected to be sufficiently interested to participate? Writing on constitutional referendums in Australia, Don Aitken has said ‘Undoubtedly, many electors, puzzled by the wording, bemused by the complexity of the issue, and battered from both sides by the antagonists, shrug their shoulders and vote no’ (Butler & Ranney, 1978:131). This is important for two reasons: first, it strengthens the conviction that referendums are a device of conservative politics (as the late Swedish Prime Minister, Tage Erlander noted, ‘It becomes much harder to pursue an effective reform strategy if reactionaries are offered the opportunity to appeal to people’s natural conservatism and resistance to change.’ Quoted in Qvortrup, 2001:191). The British Labour party, for example, has traditionally objected to referendums for this very reason (David Butler, ‘United Kingdom’, in Butler & Ranney, 1978:212). Voters who do go to the ballot box without fully understanding the issue they are being asked about will tend to vote conservatively, that is, in favour of no change, blocking the possibility that a radical agenda might be pursued. Thomas Christin, Simon Hug and Pascal Sciarini (2002:772–3) found from quantitative research on voter behaviour in Swiss referendums that the less informed the voter, the more likely he is to vote against measures if they imply a change to the status quo – these are ‘risk averse voters’. John Higley and Ian McAllister (2002:845–61) describe the ‘paradoxical’ referendum they observed in Australia in 1999 when voters were asked to decide whether Australia should adopt a republican form of government The result was 54.9 to 45.1 percent against. This, they say, was ‘puzzling, since opinion polls throughout the 1990s regularly recorded voters favouring a republic by roughly two to one, albeit with a quarter undecided.’ The reasons are many, but they do suggest poor political communication and absence of information, for example by

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creating confusion about the monarchy’s replacement as Head of State and who would actually decide this important issue – parliament or the people through a direct election for president? (Higley & McAllister, 2002). Second, the need for simplification undermines the elitist criticism of referendums that assumes voters are unable to make wise and judicious decisions because they are not fully informed. It is possible to argue that being fully informed is what democratic politics are all about, and therefore referendums require simplification (Lupia, 1992).3

‘The only thing people hate more than being asked to decide about things that are complicated is not being asked.’ (Margot Walstrom, quoted in ‘Ja or Nej?’, The Guardian, G2, 12 September 2003:2) At the same time, however, referendums do assume an interested electorate, and this is their principal weakness. Writing on referendums in Australia, Colin A. Hughes observed: Market research associated with recent attempts to review and revise the federal Constitution found that a high proportion of electors were unaware that there was a federal Constitution, much less having any command of its detail. … When asked to alter something about which they know nothing, the argument goes, electors behave rationally and refuse to do so. Conversely, there is an apparent tendency for support for passing an amendment to be higher at the start of each campaign than at the end: as electors become better informed, they are more likely to vote No to any change. Quite possibly, ‘better informed’ really means ‘more alarmed.’ (in Butler & Ranney, 1994:163) and Higley and McAllister reached a similar conclusion from their research (2002:855) on the 1998 referendum to decide whether Australia should become a republic. Similarly, many Italians never knew that their country had a divorce law until they were asked to vote on it in a referendum in 1974. Whose fault is this? Can we really blame voters for not feeling sufficiently moved to navigate the complexities of the Australian constitution? If something as simple as a divorce law can escape the

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attention of Italians, does this mean there is a problem in Italy’s education programme that does not include sufficient grounding in citizenship? In other words, it is far too easy to blame the voters for not being interested in political issues. As Alderson (1975:67) commented on the 1974 referendum in Italy, the ignorance of voters ‘was a condemnation, not of the referendum, but of the representative government that had preceded it. It was the representative government that had kept the electors ignorant. It was the referendum campaign – the need to win their votes – which enabled them to learn about the divorce law.’ (Research has discovered that Americans too are notoriously ignorant of their own political system. See Neumann, 1986 and Carpini & Keeler, 1996). The 1974 Italian referendum also draws our attention to the way a question is phrased. Italians were asked: ‘Do you want Law No.898 of 1 December 1970 – Norms on the Dissolution of Marriage – to be abrogated?’ This is hardly an inspiring question that allows voters to easily reach a decision. It assumes they understand the technicalities of the law in question and appreciate the consequences of ‘abrogating’ it. We do not have to reduce ourselves to the blatant racism of Alderson (‘the unsophisticated Italian electors …’) 4 to grasp the difficulties of communication that such a question poses, nor the power that drafting the question confers in the first place (sponsors of referendums can achieve the result they want simply by the way they phrase the question). Faced with a complicated question, voters tend to abstain altogether because they do not understand the issue, or vote to keep the status quo (again reinforcing the Left’s view of referendums as a tool of conservative government). 5 Either way, this abuse of power does not encourage the participatory democracy envisaged by the advocates of referendums. At the same time, of course, there is a danger that a referendum campaign will OVER-simplify an issue, thus persuading voters to respond according to their emotions rather than reason. This is a particularly serious possibility where referendums are characterised by the kind of political advertising that is common in American-style election campaigns – the 30- or 60-second television sound-bite that inclines towards attacking the opposition, instead of offering a case for the validity of one’s own opinion (it is much easier and effective to attack than defend in the short time offered to candidates by television advertisements).6 Higley & McAllister (2002:851–2) praise both the Yes and No campaigns in the 1999 Australian referendum: ‘Recognising

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voter ignorance of the complex institutional issues involved, both campaigns aimed at basic voter sentiments:’ The YES campaign reassured voters that the proposed change was ‘small and safe’, that most of Australia’s brightest leaders and celebrities favoured the change and that retaining the status quo would risk numerous embarrassments, such as an Australia ruled by ‘King Charles III and Queen Camilla’. The NO campaign railed against the ‘Chardonnay-swilling elites who had fomented a republican plot … and that ‘real democrats’ … should vote NO. Likewise, if the technicalities of Britain adopting the European Single Currency are reduced to tabloid-style discussions concerning Europe’s misgivings about the shape of bananas, whether ice cream contains real cream, or that the Queen’s head disappearing from our currency marks the beginning of the end for British sovereignty, then the opinion that voters will be motivated to make sensible choices based on reliable arguments and information is once again undermined. (‘Blair signs away our birthright,’ screamed the rightwing and anti-European Daily Mail (30 October 2004:4) when the Prime Minister signed the EU constitutional treaty, adding ‘with no mandate from the British voter’.) The possibilities are endless, incredible, even frightening, as the following account of the 1972 referendum on whether Norway should join the European Economic Community (EEC) clearly demonstrates: These campaigners persuaded many Norwegians that a Yes vote would send hordes of swarthy Latins rushing up the fjords to rape Norwegian women; that untrustworthy men with sand in their hair and tar on their boots would steal the best lumberjack jobs; that the Pope would undermine the nation’s strong Lutherian traditions (‘If Norway enters the kingdom of the anti-Christ’, went one warning, ‘thousands will fall into the devil’s net’); that the whole place would be swamped with booze; that there would be a brain-drain to Germany, but that the Germans would then buy up all the choice sites in Norwegian lakeside resorts; that once the Mediterranean predators had finished raping, they would open dozens of brothels; and that bicycles would be banned from the streets of Oslo (Cal McCrystal, The Sunday Times, 10 November 1974). The author of this article is not suggesting that voters were persuaded by these ridiculous assertions. He does, however, draw out attention to

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the problems associated with the quality of information that is often presented to voters in a referendum. Does such polemic facilitate reasoned judgement, clear decision making, and valuable political communication?7 Britain is not immune from such negative techniques. In July 2002, campaigners against Britain’s adoption of the Euro released a short video that featured a spoof Hitler praising the currency. Needless to say, the video drew criticism from Britain’s Jewish community who claimed it insulted the memory of the six million victims of the Holocaust. In the final analysis, the use of outrageous propaganda devices seems less influential than the organisation and resources that each side in a referendum campaign can marshal, as illustrated by the 1975 referendum to question Britain’s continued membership of the then EEC.8 The campaign was organised by two groups that crossed party boundaries – the Britain in Europe group and an anti-Common Market coalition. Both sides of the debate campaigned vigorously in the media and produced their own literature to distribute to voters, but the Britain in Europe group enjoyed distinct advantages over its rivals: the British press were clearly pro-Europe; and the group commanded far greater financial resources than the anti-Common Market coalition. So, although each group’s campaign was subsidised by £125,000, each group had access to free broadcast time and had literature delivered free to every elector in the country, the campaign was still not fought on a level playing field.9 The most interesting aspect of the post-referendum research was the discovery that the influence of authority had played a significant role in persuading electors how to vote, reinforcing the arguments discussed in Chapter 3 about the vulnerability of public opinion. The ‘Yes’ campaign was fronted by the most popular/respected/moderate politicians, while the most unpopular/extremist politicians (including Enoch Powell, Ian Paisley, and members of the Labour left wing. Butler & Kitzinger, 1976:280) campaigned for a ‘No’ vote. So much for rational voting behaviour. This example highlights how information is rarely perfect, and therefore referendums as a method of political communication are equally flawed. Moreover, the control of referendum campaigns by political elites reinforces the notion that their value in extending popular participation beyond the simple act of voting is illusionary (Smith, 1998). Similarly, President De Klerk’s campaign in the 1992 South African referendum used figures from sport, music, and popular entertainment to endorse his position, while almost every newspaper in South Africa supported him, with many choosing to publish his campaign

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advertisements at a discount. The U.K-based advertising company Saatchi & Saatchi Co, famous for co-ordinating the Conservative campaign victories of the 1980s, managed De Klerk’s campaign giving it an American ‘whistle-stop’ character (‘South African Whites Endorse End to Minority Rule in Referendum on New Constitution’, http://www.facts.com/cd/92049688.htm). In their attempt to persuade Swiss voters to say Yes to joining the United Nations, the government, media, churches and big business struggled to match the personality and resources of billionaire and populist, Christoph Blocher, who led the charge against Switzerland’s membership: ‘He’s the best orator in the country, he’s good at jokes and he goes for gut arguments about neutrality which are self-defining for Swiss identity,’ said one diplomat. ‘He tells them the UN will end banking secrecy and send their boys overseas to fight. Compared to that, the Yes campaign is rather stolid, all facts and detail’ (‘Will the Swiss come out of their shell?’, The Guardian, 2 March 2002:14).10 Similarly in the 2000 referendum that asked whether Denmark should join the European single currency, the winning ‘No’ side fielded comedians, scientists and actors, while the ‘Yes’ campaign used politicians and business leaders, ‘the least trusted groups in Denmark’ (Qvortrup, 2001:195). Bertie Ahern, the Irish prime minister, is reported to have secured a ‘yes’ vote on the Nice Treaty in 2002 via ‘hard work, big spending, simple slogans, and an impressive turnout of 48% … Sunny weather on Saturday helped too’ (‘Irish ayes smiling on a bigger EU’, The Guardian, 21 October 2002:15). The referendum held in Venezuela on 15 August 2004 to decide whether or not to recall the president, Hugo Chávez, is likewise an example of the advantages of incumbency. Public buildings, staff and vehicles were all illegally pressed into campaign service to help Chávez defeat the proposal. The president made liberal use of his right to force private radio and television to broadcast his speeches live, while the National Electoral Council, dominated by a government majority, debated the issue of balance in the opposition media. Even members of the Venezuelan armed forces campaigned for a No vote. Any members found to have signed the referendum petition were duly disciplined; many were expelled from the military. These examples drawn from a variety of campaigns around the world suggest that referendums are rarely fought on level playing fields. The resources that a government can mobilise often far outnumber and outweigh the capital available to opposition parties and movements.

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Yet research on the 2000 Danish referendum on joining the European single currency threatens to overturn these convictions about access to resources. As Mads Qvortrup (2001:191). notes, the ‘No’ vote won, even though the ‘Yes’ side out-spent their opponents and was supported by a colourful mix of groups representing all shades of Danish political opinion and mobilisation. Qvortrup’s research suggests that we need to examine the political context in which the referendum is taking place to understand its outcome: ‘structural’ factors such as the length of time a government has served in office (the more recently the government has taken office, the more likely a ‘Yes’ vote because of fewer broken promises and unpopular laws) and the strength of the economy (in referendums on European integration, the better the economy, the less reason to ‘experiment with a currency’. Ibid.:192). Once we begin to analyse referendum campaigns, we are forced to question the value of these devices as a form of deliberation and dialogue. A referendum campaign seeks to maximise votes; numbers are more important than arguments, and victory is measured by how many votes a campaign can marshal, not about its persuasiveness or ability to forge a consensus through reasoned argument. The referendum becomes a zero-sum game with winners and losers with hardened opinions,11 reinforced by a style of news coverage that mirrors the reporting associated with election campaigns. In other words it is possible to argue that referendums actually devalue the very acts of political communication and participation they are thought to facilitate. They are merely another means of voting, and therefore do not encourage the kind of participation so cherished by advocates of direct democracy, as the following passage suggests: … voting demands only the most minimal commitment and effort by the citizen. Voters need no qualification to participate other than legal proof of their presence on the roll of registered voters. … Voters need not engage in any confrontation between their preferences and opposing preferences. … voting is a most passive, undemanding, uninspiring, and unimproving kind of civic participation, vastly inferior to taking an active part in the discussion of issues in town meetings, local caucuses, and other types of face to face assemblies (Butler & Ranney, 1978:33). Comparatively speaking, referendums have enjoyed varied success in communicating citizens’ preferences (see Butler & Ranney, 1978; Butler

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& Ranney, 1994). In the 1990s alone, referendums were organised in countries as diverse as Switzerland, East Timor, Australia, South Africa, and the United Kingdom. Some of these concerned constitutional and territorial issues (thought to exceed the mandate of elected representatives), and often acquired historic status. For example, the South African referendum of 1992 was decisive in dismantling the apartheid system. In calling the referendum, President F.W. De Klerk told South Africans, ‘I shall accept your verdict.’ The referendum asked White South Africans: ‘Do you support the continuation of the reform process … which is aimed at a new constitution through negotiation?’ If the answer was ‘no’, President F.W. de Klerk promised that his government would resign and call for new parliamentary elections. A ‘yes’ vote, even by a majority of just one, would be taken as authorisation to continue negotiations with the African National Congress. A total of 1,924,186 (68.6 percent) voted ‘yes’, and 875,619 (31.2 percent) voted ‘no’ with an 85 percent turnout of eligible white voters. De Klerk heralded the historic significance of the result and thereby drew attention to the importance of the referendum as an act of political communication: ‘The massive positive result sends out a powerful message to all South Africans that those who have the power in terms of the present imperfect constitution really mean it when they say, “We want to share power”’ (‘South African Whites Endorse End to Minority Rule in Referendum on New Constitution’, http://www.facts.com/cd/ 92049688.htm). The British Labour government that was elected to power in 1997 organised more referendums in the first two years of office than any of its predecessors. In a referendum held in Scotland on 11 September 1997, 74.3 percent of those who voted on a 60.4 percent turnout12 did so in favour of creating a Scottish parliament with devolved powers; one week later, 50.3 percent of voters in Wales agreed that they should have their own assembly. (According to David Denver (2002:828), the date of the Welsh referendum was timed to follow one week after the Scots had voted. ‘It was hoped,’ concludes Denver, ‘that a strong YES vote in Scotland would help to convince waverers in Wales, where support for devolution was weaker’ (Ibid.). On 7 May 1998, 72 percent of voters in London voted in favour of the capital having its own elected mayor, and on 22 May, 71 percent of voters in Northern Ireland endorsed the ‘Good Friday Agreement’ that created a power-sharing administration at Stormont (Butler & Kavanagh, 2002:10–11). The Labour party had campaigned on these issues in the election, and thus discovered that it enjoyed a popular

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mandate to hold referendums once the party won its landslide majority of 179 parliamentary seats. The government sensed that the results would favour devolution (though in Wales devolution was approved by the slimmest majority). In contrast to the devolution referendums held in 1979, Labour’s majority and the abolition of the 40 percent turnout threshold (that defeated the proposed devolution in 1979)13 meant that this time, devolution was not an issue that would witness a long and bitter campaign (unlike the referendum on Britain’s membership of the European Economic Community in 1975). Moreover, between June 2001 and February 2002, 23 local referendums were held throughout the UK to allow people to decide whether they should have an elected mayor. Turnout has varied, with the highest recorded in Berwick-Upon-Tweed (54 percent) and the lowest in Sunderland (10 percent).14 Referendums – and referendums about local issues that, in theory, should excite most interest – do not encourage participation. On 8 November 2002, the second Blair government faced a referendum, organised by the government of Gibraltar on the proposal that Britain should share sovereignty of the island with Spain. Reports hinted that those in favour of such an agreement felt intimidated and cowed into staying silent, with no visible ‘Yes’ campaign being organised. This was felt to be a response to the aftermath of the last time a poll had been held on this issue in 1967, when there were violent attacks directed against those who proposed a deal with Spain. On the eve of the poll, Prime Minister Tony Blair was determined that although not legally binding, the 2002 referendum would be a genuine exercise in consultation: ‘We know what the result of the referendum will be, but what people in Gibraltar should realise is that there can be no change without their express consent’ (‘For Rock’s residents, a clear choice: say no to Spain – or nothing’, The Guardian, 7 November 2002:3. 17,900 (98.97 percent of voters with a turnout of 88 percent) voted No to joint sovereignty with Spain; just 187 voted Yes). Peter Caruana, Gibraltar’s Chief Minister and architect of the No campaign expressed his conviction that the referendum was a positive political signal: Fellow Gibraltarians, today we have sent a clear message to the world. One that this is our homeland; two, that we are a people with political rights that we will not give up; and three, that those rights include the right to freely direct our own future and we will certainly not give that up (‘Gibraltar votes out joint rule with Spain’, http://www.guardian.co.uk/gibraltar, 8 November 2002).

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Not all referendum results are greeted with such composure, or as legitimate exercises in democratic consultation; on 30 August 1999, voters in East Timor voted in favour of independence from Indonesia, even though they risked their lives to do so. Voters were asked: ‘Do you accept the proposed special autonomy for East Timor within the unitary state of the Republic of Indonesia? or, Do you reject the proposed special autonomy for East Timor, leading to East Timor’s separation from Indonesia?’ To make voting easier, symbols were attached to the ballot papers: an Indonesian flag represented acceptance, and the flag of the pro-Independence National Council for Timorese Resistance symbolised rejection. To the surprise of the Indonesian government, 78.2 percent of voters rejected ‘special autonomy’ status and thus communicated their longing to separate from Indonesia: ‘The army genuinely believed that it had stacked the deck and intimidated enough people to get a much higher percentage of the vote. It can’t believe the 78.2 percent vote and is now doing everything in its power and through a media offensive to convince the Indonesian public that UNAMET [UN Mission in East Timor] perpetrated a giant fraud’ (‘Questions and Answers on East Timor (Violence in East Timor – Background Briefing)’, http://www.hrw.org/backgrounder/asia/timor/ timor-bck0908.htm). The results sparked a wave of violence that was orchestrated by the pro-autonomy militia. Clearly some regimes cannot accept the democratic consequences of using referendums. Others have organised referendums merely to communicate the illusion of legitimacy: Adolf Hitler, for example, used four referendums between 1933 and 1938 to strengthen his power, and Benito Mussolini organised two between 1929 and 1934 for the same reason. In 1941, General Ion Antonescu of Romania engineered two referendums that received almost a 100 percent turnout of voters who unanimously endorsed the General’s plans. Moreover: During Communist rule in Eastern Europe from 1946 to 1986, only seven referendum questions were posed in Eastern Europe – and except for the three Polish questions of 1946 [to abolish the senate, make the economic system permanent, and approve the Baltic and eastern frontiers] the outcome of these referendums was a foregone conclusion as they elicited participation of over 98 percent and agreement of over 95 percent’ (Brady & Kaplan, 1994:178). Similarly in 1986, a referendum was organised in Romania that asked voters whether the defence budget should be reduced. The process

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‘included the nicety of signed ballots and produced the dark burlesque of no negative votes and only 228 nonvoters in an eligible electorate of over 17 million’ (Ibid.:183). Such abuses of the referendum to veil a totalitarian regime in populism and legitimacy prompted a rush of criticisms, most famously from the British Prime Minister Clement Attlee who is said to have described referendums as potentially devices of ‘demagogues and dictators’: I could not consent to the introduction into our national life of a device so alien to all our traditions as the referendum, which has only too often been the instrument of Nazism and Fascism. Hitler’s practices in the field of referenda and plebiscites can hardly have endeared these expedients to the British heart (Bogdanor, 1994:36).15 This opposition is based on the fact that referendums enable political elites to appeal directly to the ‘masses’, thus bypassing democraticallyelected representatives. Moreover, populism is discouraged because the ‘masses’ are easily persuaded by emotion rather than reason, making them potentially dangerous: Should we spend more on education? Yes. Are you in favour of managing the economy through controlling inflation? No. The two may be incompatible, but most sensible voters will want their cake and the freedom to eat it. On moral issues, such as abortion, capital punishment, or the treatment of paedophiles, the exploitation of emotion becomes a powerful political tool, especially if the timing of the referendum coincides with, for example, the killing of a police officer or the murder of a child.16 Media treatment of such stories will encourage change towards a harsher regime of punishment, thus interfering with the balance of information required in a referendum campaign. On the possibility of a referendum in 1978 to measure public opinion on capital punishment, the Conservative MP Reginald Maudling wrote the following letter to the London Times (7 June 1978): Such a referendum would raise all the grave problems of the authority of Parliament and the position of MPs in the most acute form. … There can be no doubt that the majority of the public would support the restoration of capital punishment. … The only purpose of a referendum would be to bring pressure on MPs to vote for a proposal they would otherwise reject. … I do not believe

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that whatever the referendum disclosed Members would vote against their consciences and so there would be no practical effect but the attempt to induce them to do so would be profoundly misguided (quoted in Butler, 1978:218). But does this suggest that we should, like Clement Attlee (and Margaret Thatcher after him who quoted Attlee in opposition to the 1975 referendum17), dismiss all referendums as the instrument of totalitarianism? As Philip Goodhart has observed, ‘Certainly some referenda have been held by dictators but Hitler’s use of the referendum to further totalitarian ends provides no more proof that referendums help would-be dictators that Stalin’s use of the Supreme Soviet to support his cult of personality discredits Parliamentary democracy. Both a referendum and a representative assembly can be twisted by an unscrupulous leader’ (Goodhart, 1971:80). Other critics of referendums observe that Britain is a representative, not a direct, democracy. The system works because voters elect Members of Parliament who are in a position to inform themselves of an issue, debate it, call on expert opinion, and then vote on behalf of their constituents. Referendums are thus anathema to representative democracy, and efforts to introduce an ideal direct democracy are misguided: citizens do not want it; they do not want the trouble of having to discuss, debate and vote on minor pieces of legislation. Is the cure for the ills of democracy – especially apathy, low voter turnouts and disinterest in politics – really more democracy? For some, referendums are merely a way for politicians to avoid having to make difficult decisions by passing that responsibility over to the electorate. Edmund Burke was particularly scathing about referendums: ‘Your representative owes you, not his industry only, but his judgement’, he wrote, ‘and he betrays, instead of serving you, if he sacrifices it to your opinion’ (‘To the Electors of Bristol … on Thursday the third of November, 1774’, Works, vol. I, London: George Bell and Sons, 1902:447). This judgement was even upheld in an American courtroom in 1971: The initiative and the referendum processes run contrary to our understanding of representative government. … One of the prices paid for the creation of a representative democracy is the vesting by the electorate of trust and responsibility in its elected representatives. Discretion is placed within the hands of the municipal legislators and we must accept the lawful exercise of this discretion (Quoted in Zimmerman, 2001:2).

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So referendums are criticised because they may encourage populism, and sometimes governments must defy public opinion in the longterm interests of the country. Effective political leadership leads, it does not follow. For example, Amendment 2 of Colorado’s constitution, introduced by initiative to curb the civil rights of homosexuals was subsequently overturned by the US Supreme Court, suggesting that elitism can be an important protection against the dangers of populism. Cochrane (1996:209) turns this argument on its head and considers how referendums may also help feed the illusion of participation in political decision-making: Voters in referendums are minor actors within an impersonal process – individuals whose identity is lost within a collective voice. Whichever way they vote they are not responsible, because a majority only emerges from a mass of numbers. Referendums offer the prospect of power without responsibility – the chance of using the electronic zap button. Implementation is still left to someone else. The important question is: Is the referendum a device for democratic political communication? Does it nourish the democratic process by encouraging participation and dialogue? We do not have to be as constrained as Attlee by the history of the last century to realise that referendums suffer from serious drawbacks. Group politics represent the popular articulation of public opinion; groups are extra-parliamentary, sometimes spontaneous expressions of the public’s dissatisfaction with government decisions; or they are the embodiment of frustration that a particular issue is not receiving the amount of political attention that it warrants. Referendums, on the other hand are, rarely extra-parliamentary and never spontaneous. Rather, the majority of referendums are managed by governments that possess the power to decide which issues shall be put to a referendum, the form of the question asked, whether the vote will be decided by a simple majority or whether there must be a minimum turnout, 18 and when the referendum shall take place. 19 Critics argue that governments are not interested in facilitating popular participation at all, merely using referendums to achieve their preferred outcomes (Smith, 1976. Arend Lijphart, 1984:203 has observed that ‘when governments control the referendum, they will tend to use it only when they expect to win’). The second Labour government, for example, did not have to hold a referendum because of its stable majority in Parliament (there was no corresponding electoral threat from either the Conservative or Liberal-Democrat Parties). Moreover,

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the likelihood of a referendum became less likely as the Blair government faced anger over its decision to take the country to war against Iraq and then became embroiled in the Hutton inquiry that exposed the inner workings of government. Any referendum held before the next General Election would probably end up being a mid-term referendum on the government itself. Some political systems do allow for the ‘initiative’ variety of referendum that entitles electors to decide that a referendum is needed (‘… the initiative effectively strips the legislature of its exclusive power to prevent referendums from being held, and voters and pressure groups demand them …’ Butler & Ranney, 1978:6). Initiatives are supported as the realisation of direct democracy to overcome the growing strength of mediating institutions: ‘As a means of realizing the indivisible sovereignty of citizens, these instruments come closest to the basic democratic principles of Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s doctrine of popular sovereignty which, today, is held most fervently by adherents to the theory of participatory democracy’ (Vatter, 2000:175). The American Progressive Movement of the early 20th Century (and especially the California Progressives who launched a prolific pro-initiative campaign in 1911) was particularly approving of this device. They assumed that the initiative would ‘neutralize the power of special interest groups … curtail corruption on the part of political machines … provide a vehicle for civic education on major policy issues … create pressure on state representatives and governors to act on specific measures, and, when they failed to act … bypass those representative institutions altogether …’ (Lee, 1978:88–9). 20 While government-sponsored referendums are available in all 50 states in the US, only 24 allow citizen-inspired initiatives. Comparative studies of the initiative indicate that they have little prospect of succeeding: as the Progressives realised, their value lies in their educational character; they not only help to publicise an issue or cause, but initiatives also nurture the political culture of participation and generate a sense of empowerment that is lacking in many democratic systems. By 1891, the right of initiative at the national level was part of the Swiss constitution, and until 2003 300 initiatives had been introduced. However, only 13, or 4 percent have been successful, largely because nation-wide initiatives require a double majority to pass: a majority of those who vote, and a majority of Switzerland’s 26 cantonal votes. The process if gruelling: 100,000 valid signatures are required to launch a constitutional initiative, 50,000 for a national law referendum. However, despite the

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arduous process and the low success rate, the Swiss continue to launch initiatives. The reason is that the Swiss claim to recognise the educative and communicative character of these votes: they place on the political agenda issues that may not otherwise receive any interest; and they stimulate debate, media attention, participation. And yet … One of the most important factors in deciding whether referendums do encourage participation is thought to be their frequency. There is no empirical evidence to support the idea that citizens of democracies prefer to communicate their political preferences through referendums than through other methods; in fact, it is possible to identify the influence of the Law of Diminishing Returns – the more one has of something, the less satisfaction it yields – because there appears to be a direct correlation between the frequency of referendums and falling turnout of the electorate (Aubert, 1978:44–5).21 Even in Switzerland, referendum capital of the world (from 2000 to 2003, a staggering 30 constitutional initiatives were launched in Switzerland), turnout is hardly spectacular: In a national referendum in February 2003, 70.3 percent voted in favour of extending the range of issues on which the Swiss could have a say. However, that was 70.3 percent of a 28 percent turnout. Even in referendums on issues of national importance, such as the ending of Swiss neutrality and membership of the United Nations in March 2002, only 58 percent bothered to vote.22 If the same proportion of citizens are casting their vote in a referendum as in an election, is it possible to argue that referendums are substantively more democratic than other forms of participation? Table 5.1 below compares the average turnout of elections and referendums in 12 democracies between 1945 and 1993 and finds that in all the cases (except Australia and Belgium where voting is compulsory 23) turnout for referendums is actually significantly lower than for elections.24 When combined with the possibility that voters will be faced with not one, but several often very technical questions on a referendum ballot, the ensuing voter fatigue is hardly surprising. For example, Zimmerman (2001:15) reveals that, in 1991, voters in St. Ann (Missouri) were asked to vote on 68 separate propositions for levying or increasing taxes on local business in one referendum. The figures presented in Table 5.1 (referring to those political systems that do not have compulsory voting laws) have three possible explanations: (i) there is a widespread apathy against voting in general, and referendums are not the solution to this general problem. This is highly

136 Political Communication and Democracy Table 5.1 Mean turnout in candidate and referendum elections in selected countries, 1945–1993

Australia * Austria Belgium* Denmark France Ireland Italy New Zealand Norway Sweden Switzerland United Kingdom

Candidate Elections (%)

Referendums (%)

Difference (%)

95 93 92 86 77 73 90 90 81 85 61 77

90 64 92 74 72 58 74 60 78 67 45 65

–5 –29 0 –12 –5 –15 –16 –30 –3 –18 –16 –12

* Compulsory voting laws Source: Reproduced from Butler & Ranney, 1994, p. 17.

unlikely; that more citizens turn out to vote for candidates standing for election than for referendums challenges the assumption of apathy. Therefore, there must be something wrong with referendums as a device for political communication and popular empowerment. (ii) In deciding not to vote in a referendum, citizens might be expressing their dissatisfaction with the amount of information provided (they may have insufficient, or even too much, information to make a sensible decision), or they may genuinely find it difficult to make a decision on what may be a very technical problem. This means there is a breakdown in political communications; here referendums are discouraging, rather than encouraging participation, and sponsors are not providing the kind of information that makes it possible for people to make a rational decision on an issue. This leads to the third proposition: (iii) If (ii) is correct, then perhaps the low turnout for referendums indicates that citizens are, contrary to popular belief, relatively content with the system of representative democracy. It is possible to argue that abstainers are behaving rationally because they prefer to allow more informed citizens – the legislators they elect – to vote on their behalf. This brings us full circle to the notion that the breakdown in representative democracy is little more than an urban myth. Moreover, since Butler and Ranney published their data in 1994, the turnout in many referendums has been higher than in national elections. In the 1995 Quebec referendum, for example, turnout

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was an enviable 95 percent, 12 percent higher than turnout in the provincial election held in 1994. Analysing this data, Lawrence LeDuc (2002:715) suggests that turnout is linked to the issue under consideration: the less ‘salient’ the issue, the more likely the referendum will register a low rate of participation (for example, the 1992 referendum in New Zealand on electoral reform, the 1980 referendum in Sweden on nuclear power and the 1986 Spanish referendum on NATO). Perhaps the question again becomes why citizens are refusing to participate on these supposedly important political issues: is it a symptom of a breakdown in political communication that voters feel less animated by these issues than by others considered ‘salient’? LeDuc (Ibid.:717) partly answers this question when he suggests that voting behaviour is determined by whether the issues have been debated extensively in other political arenas, or whether they are ‘new’ issues on which the public has no fixed opinion (and on which there is little partisan or ideological bias). In the latter case, public opinion is more susceptible to campaign rhetoric; voters lack familiar cues and information and thus their behaviour (the effects of the campaign) are more unpredictable. Analyses of the value of referendums as a tool for political communication must address the crucial issue of whether the referendum is advisory (in which governments are not bound by the result) or mandatory (in which they are). This allows us to decide whether referendums do in fact channel preferences in such a way that governments will act upon them, and thus nourish the idea that popular participation in the political process is important and valued. Whether a referendum is advisory or mandatory is largely structural. For example, in the British political system, only Parliament enjoys the constitutional authority to make laws, so referendums cannot be anything but advisory unless Parliament wills it. Hence, even though the referendum could only be consultative under the terms of the constitution, the British Labour Party declared in its 1974 election manifesto that the EEC referendum would ‘be binding on the Government’. This is in stark contrast to those situations where any elector has the right to propose a constitutional amendment that must be put to the public for approval in a referendum. The consequences are clear: As Jean François Aubert (1978:40) has remarked, ‘Swiss referendums are always mandatory, never consultative. … The citizens give strict orders to the authorities, not mere advice’.25 Not all governments agree to abide by the result of a referendum if it is advisory and if there are no constitutional provisions for their use. For example, in 1955 the Swedish government invited the public to

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vote on whether it should change the side of the road on which they drive. The result was clear: 83 percent who voted communicated their preference for remaining on the same side, but the government chose to take no notice of the result and legislated for change anyway. Such blatant disregard for the dialogical and consultative process that referendums are thought to facilitate raises an important question that may deter participation and encourage apathy: Is asking for an opinion and then ignoring it as bad, if not worse than, not asking for an opinion at all? Moreover, there is no reason to suppose that advisory referendums will solve the problems of lack of interest in political participation: would voters decide it is a complete waste of their time to take part in a vote that may not result in change? Irish opposition to the Nice Treaty was critical of having to participate in a second referendum in 2002 only one year after Irish voters had voted no (54 percent to 46 percent on a 34 percent turnout). ‘What part of No don’t you understand,’ asked an anti-Nice poster (‘Irish keep Europe guessing on enlargement’, The Guardian, 12 October 2002:4). Critics of referendums opine that they undermine the democratic process because they encourage the tyranny of the majority (Butler & Ranney, 1994. For an alternative perspective, see Zimmerman (1986), and Cronin (1989). For example, between 1978 and 1998, 13 antihomosexual initiatives were held in seven American states (Donovan et al. 1999).26 In a study of how Americans voted in referendums on civil rights, Barbara Gamble (1997:262) reached a disturbing conclusion: ‘ … the record shows that American voters readily repeal existing civil rights protections and enthusiastically enact laws that bar their elected representatives from passing new ones.’ However, at the same time it is possible to find evidence that they can encourage ‘tyranny of the minority’. For example, referendums were held in Slovenia on 23 March 2003 on the issue of membership of the European Union and NATO. The results of both were binding on the government (the referendum results supported membership of both organisations). Turnout, however, was only 45 percent – far below the normal 70 percent for general elections. Is such a prospect – 45 percent of Slovenes deciding their country’s future – really that democratic? Low participation in referendums means that the political society is vulnerable to what is termed a ‘false majority’, as demonstrated by the 1973 Northern Ireland referendum to decide whether that territory should remain part of the UK. The Catholic community was encouraged by its leaders to boycott the poll, meaning that only 58.7 percent of those eligible to vote did so. Hence, a 98.9 percent

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majority expressed their preference for staying in United Kingdom (a useful discussion of the background to this referendum, including the reasons for the Catholic boycott, can be found in Bogdanor, 1994:37). Political scientists studying referendums in societies that are deeply divided along ethnic lines, such as Northern Ireland and the former Yugoslavia, have concluded that their use is limited; national division undermines the legitimacy of a referendum’s result and hence its democratic credentials if it strengthens majority rule and does not adequately represent the interests of minorities. However, the stability of Switzerland, a political system that uses the referendum more than any other, provides the challenge to this thesis that must throw doubt on its credibility. 27 This suggests that referendums alone do not produce bad government, poor governance, or the tyranny of majorities. Rather, one must look below the surface at the structural features of the political system to find its flaws. To summarise, then, the appeal of referendums derives from their essence of democratic legitimacy; decisions are considered more legitimate if they have been arrived at by soliciting popular opinion. Hence, referendums are a device of political communication that are thought to encourage participation and facilitate open and transparent government. However, their success depends on voter interest and participation – why should we assume that voters will be any more inspired by referendums than they are by elections? – the quality of information that is provided by both sides in a campaign, and the news coverage of the referendum. In short, we cannot expect referendums to reproduce the conditions and effects of direct democracy; as a method of political communication they are useful, but flawed devices.

6 Political Communications and Democratisation: ‘Paladins of Liberty’?1

Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference and to seek, receive, and impart information and ideas through any media regardless of frontiers. – Article 19, Universal Declaration of Human Rights Advances in the technology of communications have proved an unambiguous threat to totalitarian regimes. – Rupert Murdoch, 1993 (quoted in Bruce Page, ‘How Rupert took on the world,’ The Observer (Review), 24 August 2003:5). Shortly after delivering this speech in 1993, Rupert Murdoch decided to pull BBC World Service Television from the Star network’s AsiaSat1, depriving audiences in China, Taiwan and Hong Kong access to BBC programming. At the same time, Murdoch invested US$5.4 million into Renmin Ribao (The People’s Daily), the official newspaper of the Chinese Communist Party. His critics allege that Murdoch had taken this decision following official complaints from China about critical documentaries and references to the 1989 Tiananmen massacre in programmes made by the BBC. In short, the anecdotal evidence available leads us to believe that the Chinese government told Murdoch that either Star must conform to its idea of acceptable programming or the network would not have access to the lucrative mainland market. If true, then this episode reveals that even global media barons such as Rupert Murdoch are no match for the power of states determined to maintain control of media in their borders. In the battle between free market capitalism and politics, can we suggest that Murdoch’s alleged surrender to the Chinese demonstrates that politics is, to paraphrase Mao Zedong, ‘in command’? 140

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If so, the prospects are bleak for democratic political communication in the authoritarian world, even in those political systems where governments, like China, advocate variants of free market economics. Indeed, in many areas that have experienced a successful transition to democracy, the consolidation of media freedoms remain tentative precisely because the tyranny of the state may easily be substituted for the tyranny of the market (Rawnsley & Rawnsley, 2001). New problems arise: the market does not guarantee quality; as competition intensifies, the media are less willing to invest in innovative programming and instead battle to capture the same middle-ground audiences with the same formats. This is particularly serious in television where national stations are forced to compete with cable channels showing foreign and local programming that are gaining popularity because of their ability to customise output for audiences. Moreover, the idea that market competition provides opportunities for consumer power is a little disingenuous. While reforming governments may try to end political influence in the media after democratisation, this may give way to the concentration of power in the hands of commercially dominant individuals or consortia, and it is not unusual for bigger operators to squeeze out their smaller competitors from the market. Market forces may not serve the specific political and social needs of democratising nations particularly well, but too often governments and media industries themselves consider media pluralism and privatisation a priority – often a panacea – with media institutionalisation and creation of new regulatory powers of secondary importance, if not an affront to the very democratic principles that now permeate the political culture. The five previous chapters have discussed the relationship between political communications and democracy. We have seen how theorists have situated with varying success communication in their approaches to politics. We have also studied how their ideas have been realised through the organisation of (legal and illegal) collective action, governments’ measurement of and responses to public opinion, and their endeavours via referendums to reproduce the more desirable characteristics of Athenian direct democracy. Yet, as Rupert Murdoch realised, communications also play a significant role in weakening authoritarian governments and facilitating the process of democratisation.2 As noted previously, communications can help structure the participation and competition within a political system (offering means of dialogue, transparency and accountability, and aiding parties in their contest for votes) and therefore make a positive contribution to the consolidation of democratic procedures,

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institutions and culture. (A consolidated democracy refers to ‘a regime that meets all the procedural criteria of democracy and also in which all politically significant groups accept established political institutions and adhere to democratic rules of the game.’ Higley & Gunther (eds), 1992:3). Moreover, political communications help to create senses of identity, lend communities geographic coherence and may support efforts to integrate new communities. In other words, political communications, especially through the media, play subversive and/ or supporting roles in systems experiencing political transition. At least these are the normative assumptions with which we engaged in Chapters 1 and 2, and which are consistent, for example, with Robert Dahl’s comprehensive catalogue of criteria by which we may identify a fully developed democracy (in Swanson & Mancini, 1996). However, we must recognise that the reality of political communications in new democracies too often falls short of these normative convictions; and this is not surprising given that communications have played very different roles in authoritarian political systems, and that the transition may happen at an unexpectedly brisk pace, leaving communications requiring time to rebuild and negotiate new social and political roles, sometimes literally overnight. Certainly, journalists must question their purpose and responsibilities in the political arrangements of a new democracy and consider their professional obligations and practices. James McEnteer (1995) describes the situation after the fall of Ferdinand Marcos in 1986 when the new government lifted all restrictions on the Filipino media. His account provides not only a portrait of incompetence, but a chaos driven by a specific short-term political agenda: ‘There were few rules or restrictions, only to prevent another Marcos at any cost’ (McEnteer, 1995:115). Moreover, McEnteer describes the poor conditions in which journalists worked after the Marcos era which leave them receptive to bribery ‘from anyone who might wish to have a story run, slanted or killed. … A radio reporter … told me that journalists often make more money during the 90-day election campaign season that during the rest of the year.’ Can we expect journalists to adopt what we consider the universal standards of objectivity and neutrality, and balance freedom of the press and press responsibility – standards that are rooted in the democratic tradition – without taking into account the historical and cultural experiences and expectations of each individual transition? (See Aumente, et al., 1999; de Burgh, 2003b; W.L. Bennett in O’Neil, 1998; Rawnsley, 2004.) For example, the BBC model of public service broadcasting has been widely acclaimed as the prototype for the trans-

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formation of state owned broadcasting systems. In Hungary, the Media Law of 1996 committed broadcasters to a BBC-style system, but had difficulty in living up to expectations: how can a public service broadcaster provide service to a community when the definition of community is unsettled? What is the relationship between public service broadcasting and privately-owned commercial broadcasting systems which, as we have seen in previous chapters, epitomise the classic liberal-democratic ideal? In Hungary, as in many other East European countries, is local rather than national programming more appropriate? Do these provide a more empowering and democratic form of communication? If so, do they rely on local investment from government or private enterprise? My purpose in posing these questions is not to answer them, but merely to suggest that simply contrasting free and non-free communications systems is only the tip of the iceberg. The communication and political processes that societies experience after democratic transition can be as powerful, influential and awkward as those they undertake prior to or during the transformation of political society. Too often the political system is in a hurry to reform, leaving many important issues and questions about the new structure and organisation of communications unanswered. Nevertheless, by observing the communication systems within a political society we are able to acquire a snapshot of the level of democracy enjoyed there. This is a crude and limited method; Freedom House3 measures the freedom of the media to assess the levels of democracy around the world by analysing the legal, political and economic constraints on the media and journalists. Freedom House reported that, in 2003, ‘out of the 192 countries and 1 territory surveyed, 73 countries (38 percent) were rated Free, while 49 (25 percent) were rated Partly Free and 71 (37 percent) were rated Not Free’ (Karleker, 2004:2). Societies that Freedom House concludes are Not Free have generally low levels of dialogical political communication: communications tend to process downwards and are crucial to the government’s exercise of authority. Freedom House expressed concern that in 2003 the global level of press freedom had declined for the second consecutive year. This trend was particularly noticeable in Central and South America, and central and eastern Europe. However, some societies were visibly backsliding from democracy, with media freedoms in gradual retreat. (‘Overall, 5 countries (Bolivia, Bulgaria, Cape Verde, Italy and the Philippines) declined from Free to Partly Free, while 5 countries (Gabon, Guatemala, Guinea-Bissau, Moldavia and Morocco) declined

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from Partly Free to Not Free. Only 2 countries – Kenya and Sierra Leone – registered a positive category shift in 2003 from Not Free to Partly Free.’ Karlekar, 2004:2.) Critics of the Russian government under President Vladimir Putin, for example, observe there a gradual reversal of media liberalisation and a growing concentration of power over the media in the Kremlin that for his detractors echo the character of communist control prior to 1991. Government raids on the offices of newspapers and television stations critical of the president and the arrest of prominent journalists testify to the continued decline in Russian media freedom (there is particular concern that the government is distorting reporting of its war in Chechnya). In our rush to reprimand Putin, however, we should not overlook the fact that this situation is partly because the relationship between the media, government and markets was never satisfactorily resolved after the hurried fall of communism in Russia (see Mickiewicz, 2000). The most disturbing aspect of such changes of direction is that they are not confined (as one might expect) to political systems that have recent often-traumatic experiences of democratisation or where the consolidation of the democratic culture remains fragile. In 2003, Freedom House classified Italy as ‘partly free’ because of the obvious concentration there of media ownership and political power under Prime Minister Silvio Berlosconi (Statham, 1996). Similarly, Freedom House described Thailand as ‘partly free’ because it accused Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra of trying to exercise political influence and control over the media through censorship and the systematic harassment of journalists and editors. The least free nations in 2003 according to Freedom House were Equatorial Guinea, Eritrea, Zimbabwe, Libya, Myanmar (Burma),4 Turkmenistan, Cuba and North Korea. In these political systems, the media are monopolised by the state and serve as agents of government propaganda. However, as this book has emphasised there is more to political communications than the media, and the Freedom House rankings tell only a partial story. Analyses of political systems must also scrutinise such indicators as the freedom of assembly and mobilisation, the ability of trades unions and other groups to represent public interests on a collective basis, and whether the articulation of public opinion through referendums or elections are genuine attempts at popular consultation or a crude instrument of legitimacy with little real value. The eight countries identified as having the least free media are also among the least free in terms of the other methods of political communica-

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tion. Political repression in these countries routinely denies their citizens the opportunity to organise collective activities independently of (and in competition with) the state and the levels of accountability and transparency are negligible. In other words, it is impossible to separate communications from the political context; the latter both reveals and limits the former, and we must consider the individual political systems to understand the role of communication there. However, the rankings are also limited in another more important aspect: the simple association of democracy with a free press and authoritarian governments with a closely regulated and strangulated media is too simplistic and actually out-of-date (being characteristic of the Cold War mindset that set ‘them’ against ‘us’ and pit ‘freedom’ against ‘repression’). As we know only too well, the media in democratic societies are never completely free from government influence, as the disastrous Broadcasting Ban on members of Sinn Fein in the 1980s in Britain demonstrates (Negrine, 1994). This is an example of a democracy claiming the existence of legitimate limits to media freedom based on paternal assessments of public interest and national security. Other political systems, however, do use more illicit methods of influencing the media that challenge their democratic credentials. In democratic Peru in the run-up to a presidential election in 2000, the secret police chief, Vladimiro Montesinos Torres used bribery as a method of exercising political influence over the media: ‘The typical bribe paid to a television-channel owner was about a hundred times larger than that paid to a judge …. One single television channel’s bribe was four times larger than the total of the opposition politicians’ bribes. The most forceful of all the checks and balances on the Peruvian government’s power, by Montesinos’s revealed preference, was television’ (McMillan & Zoido, 2004).5 In other words, the bribes offered to television stations expose the way Peruvian politicians conceded the power of the media. Television stations, say McMillan and Zoido (2004:13) had more ‘bargaining power’ than judges or politicians; while the supply of corruptible politicians and judges was unlimited, there were only six privately-owned television stations, any one of which could have been a thorn in Montesinos’s side. The mass audience for television broadcasting, together with audience dependence on television for news and information, increases the possibility of citizen-led democratic oversight unless checked by government supervision and/or corruption. Moreover, modern communications technologies make it increasingly difficult for authoritarian regimes to hermetically seal their

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borders and prevent their citizens from receiving and conveying uncomfortable news and information. The short-wave radio, for example, was a source of alternative information throughout the Eastern Bloc in the Cold War (Rawnsley, 1996a). As I discovered in my earlier research on international communication in that period, audiences have a stubborn curiosity about information that governments do not allow them to receive and will actively seek out alternative sources of information, often at considerable risk to their own safety. This is as true in 2005 as it was in 1955. For instance, anecdotal evidence available to researchers today suggests that the Chinese government’s blatant media censorship only whets the popular appetite for forbidden information. When Zhao Ziyang, to many a hero of the 1989 Tiananmen Square demonstrations, died after 15 years of house arrest in January 2005, the Chinese government controlled coverage of his passing and his funeral. Information was scarce: ‘I live in Guangzhou, and that night I wasn’t able to access two Hong Kong TV stations, so I realised immediately that something major had happened. …’; ‘ … today … my grandmother said, “Zhou Ziyang died, why isn’t the news or the papers reporting it?” I was curious, so I went searching on the Internet, but I found I couldn’t open many Web sites, which made me think something was strange. …’; ‘This morning, I couldn’t connect to any overseas web sites, and I realised that something had happened …’; ‘Putting aside Zhao’s merits and faults for the time being, we have already completely lost the right to speak, and to hear about him! What kind of world is this?’ (Emily Parker, ‘Cracks in the Chinese Wall’, The Asian Wall Street Journal, 26 January 2005). These concerns surfaced in chat-rooms and on other discussion sites on the Internet, suggesting that the information revolution may continue the trends set by shortwave radio and help curious users circumvent the officially managed media (see Chapter 7). Again, we might refer to the questions posed by Denis McQuail (2000:69) and substitute ‘political communications’ for ‘media’. Thinking through the answers to these questions is a particularly useful approach to understanding the relationship between communications and democratisation for they lead us towards identifying the power behind and of communications, their distribution, and objectives. Obviously this will help us to understand the role of communication in both authoritarian and democratic political systems: • Who controls the media? • Whose version of the world (social reality) is presented?

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• How effective are the media in achieving chosen ends? • Do mass media promote more or less equality in society? • How is access to media organised?

Reinforcing authoritarian control It is difficult to imagine how authoritarian governments could survive without devoting serious resources to influencing and controlling systems of communication. Lacking the political legitimacy enjoyed by democratic governments, authoritarian regimes depend on communications to reinforce their political and coercive power. Systems of communication rarely extend beyond transmitting, framing and interpreting for the audience the decisions and actions of the government. They facilitate political recruitment, socialisation and mobilisation, hence communications have distinct social and political responsibilities of social control and nation-building that are consistent with the development priorities and ideological assumptions of the regime. For example, in 1999 C. Rozzario, Director of the Public Affairs Division (Singapore Ministry of Home Affairs) justified his government’s strict management of communications by claiming that, ‘In a multi-racial and multi-religious Singapore, we cannot put at risk the racial harmony and sense of public order, peace and safety built up over the years’ (quoted in the Straits Times, 28 January 1999).6 Hence, the state called for the adoption of a nationalist ideology to forge a common bond among its people. This ideology, communicated through media and education, is built around five pillars that reflect the collectivism at the heart of Singapore’s commitment to ‘Asian values’, namely nation, family, community, consensus, and harmony. This ideology is justified as a ‘safeguard against undesirable values permeating from developed countries’ (Singapore’s Ministry of Information, Communications, and the Arts, Our Shared Values, 2002, at http://www.sg/ flavour/value.asp). Singapore is one of many authoritarian regimes who worry about the chaos that pluralism and freedom of information may introduce to their country, upsetting not only its development strategies, but also its cultural foundations (national communications are therefore tasked with resisting ‘cultural imperialism’). Many regimes have therefore decided that nationalisation of the media allows the most efficient form of state management. Since 1960, the Cuban state has owned and controlled all media to serve its political agenda (Nichols & Torres, 1998). Suharto’s government in Indonesia designed its national television network in 1962 around a specific

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developmental programme that required its people to identify closely with the regime. The Indonesian government required the media to help foster a sense of national unity, with television sets located in village halls across the country showing state-controlled programming (Shoesmith, 1994). This meant that the government decided broadcasting could encourage national identity and unity through the communal experience of watching centrally-planned programming. Alternatively, state control of the media may help to de-politicise and demobilise a population, sapping their energy, generating passivity and depriving people not only of a voice, but also of stimuli that might activate them. In authoritarian Spain, for example, ‘the primary result of media control was to secure the passive acquiescence of the Spanish population rather than to resocialize the citizenry into active participatory roles’ (Gunther et al., 2000:38, emphasis added). Hence, television stations produce and broadcast cheap entertainment programmes devoid of any meaningful content, or the government sanctions the controlled importation of (ostensibly) harmless foreign programmes. The 1970s British drama, The Onedin Line was one of the most popular programmes ever shown in Romania during the 1980s. Ceaucescu’s decision to remove it from the airwaves in favour of North Koreaninspired propaganda was one factor that contributed to the activation of citizens against the regime.7 Gunther, Montero and Wert (2000:38) are particularly scathing about this attempt by the Spanish Fascist regime to create an inert audience: ‘Regime maintenance,’ they write, ‘was facilitated by communications policies that effectively bored most Spaniards into passivity and acquiescence and deprived them of stimuli that might have triggered political mobilization.’ But as Sükösd (2000:139) notes, this strategy can backfire, as it did in Romania: in Hungary, the ‘official importation of Western popular culture resulted in a spiralling of demand for the forbidden fruit’. The forbidden fruit is always the most attractive variety, as the previous description of Chinese chat-room reaction to the suppression of news about Zhao Ziyang’s death demonstrates. Authoritarian governments exercise a variety of mechanisms to pressure, influence and, in the most extreme cases control communications, at the same time as demonstrating intolerance of alternative political opinions, autonomous and spontaneous popular mobilisation, information and channels of communication, but we can identify the following characteristics: • Important appointments within the media are decided on political rather than professional grounds.

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• The news agenda and news coverage are politically controlled to reflect the political agenda. • Laws and legal systems are created to influence the media (targeting source, media actors and/or audiences). • However, the media, journalists and editors are often subject to cycles of extra-legal abuse and intimidation. • The idea that the media operate within an autonomous public sphere is absent. • Civil society lacks autonomy; its mobilisation is tolerated only in service of the state-decided agenda. • Primary groups too are expected to serve political functions; church, youth groups, schools, art, even family-life are pressed into service to communicate the state’s political agenda. The most visible method of control is a system of media ownership that privileges the regime and embeds the media within the state structure under centralised management. This is clearly how communist governments influence the media: the Chinese government, for example, maintains this system of centralisation, despite a gradual loosening of the social and political systems there that has allowed the media a greater (albeit still small) amount of freedom (de Burgh, 2003b). The Chinese media are responsible to a series of state or Communist party institutions, including the Ministry of Culture, the New China News Agency (xinhua), the State Administration of Radio, Film and TV, the State Administration of Press and Publication, and the State Information Office and the Propaganda Department of the Communist Party Central Committee. In the Soviet Union, too the media were subordinate in a dual system of control by a government (state) ministry and a committee of the Communist party responsible for ideology or propaganda. The Soviet Union, the Communist states of Eastern Europe and China also share the nomenklatura system giving the party the power to nominate and veto individuals for prominent positions within economic, political and social institutions including the media, and these individuals will normally be party members. The editor of China’s People’s Daily (Renmin Zhibao) and the Director of xinhua are officials with ministerial rank, appointments that demonstrate beyond doubt the close relationship between the media and politics in China. Each organisation has provincial and local branches allowing the state to penetrate China’s vast media environment. Xinhua, for example, has over 6,000 employees, bureaus in every province and autonomous region and approximately 100 offices throughout the world (David, 1992:18–29). The media are required to

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disseminate the party message (Hsiao and Cheek, 1995),8 a responsibility that The People’s Daily reaffirmed in 2000: We should pay special attention to the use of modern tools of the mass media, such as the press, the radio, the television and the Internet, bring into play their role as the main channel of ideological education, and make continuous efforts to create lively forms that can reach people’s ears, brain and heart (quoted in Perrins (ed.), 2001:313–14). Workers in media organisations occupying senior positions (though not all journalists) are likewise usually members of the Chinese Communist Party as joining is considered a valuable and safe career move (Lee (ed.), 1990; Lynch, 1999). Under President Sukarno’s authoritarian regime (1966–1998), all journalists were required to join the Persatuan Wartawan Indonesia (PWI), a state-sponsored organisation that closely regulated and monitored the activities of all reporters. Only those members approved by the government were able to be editors and publishers. Membership of a rival organisation, the Alliance of Independent Journalists (AJI), created in 1994, resulted in expulsion from the PWI. The AJI became a focus for opposition mobilisation, campaigning for press freedom as part of a broader prodemocracy agenda (McCargo, 2003:92–3). In Saddam Hussein’s Iraq, all journalists were required to join the Iraqi Journalist Union, headed by Saddam’s feared son, Uday. In October 1996, Jiang Zemin, then President of China, General Secretary of the Communist Party, and Chairman of the Military Commission (the first Chinese leader to occupy all three positions simultaneously) toured the Chinese media to offer his guidance on their work and organisation. The People’s Daily (3 October 1996) recorded his requirements under the title ‘On the Correct Direction of Public Opinion’: 1. The press must be guided by the Party’s basic theory, basic line, and basic guideline, and keep politics, ideology and action in conformity with the Party Central Committee. 2. The press must firmly keep to the standpoint of the Party, adhere to principle, and take clear-cut stand on what to promote and what to oppose on cardinal issues of right and wrong. 3. The press must adhere to the party’s guideline with stress on propaganda by positive examples, sing the praises of people’s great achievements, and conduct the correct supervision of public

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opinion that should help the party and state to improve work and the style of leadership, solve problems, enhance unity, and safeguard stability. 4. The press must … hold patriotism, collectivism and socialism on high, and use best things to arm, direct and mould the people. Here, President Jiang affirmed beyond doubt that the Chinese media are, and must remain part of the political system; they must conform to party lines, directives and requirements, and they have a responsibility to work with the system, not against it. Ownership was likewise central to the authoritarian control of the media in Taiwan. Until the beginning of liberalisation and democratisation in 1987, the Kuomintang (KMT, Nationalist party) owned four national daily newspapers, the government owned two, and the military five, but the implied separation of ownership was deceptive because of the overlapping character of party/state/military political authority that defined the martial law era in Taiwan. A similar structure managed the three oldest national television stations, Taiwan Television Company (TTV, tai-shi), China Television Company (CTV, zhong-shi) and Chinese Television System (CTS, hua-shi). Again, the government, party and military owned these stations, so immediately we can observe a pattern of media ownership that does not hide political influence and motives. Taiwan’s media were ‘advised’ by government agencies (especially the Government Information Office, GIO) about which stories they could cover and how, so that the media might work towards meeting the regime’s primary objectives, namely rapid economic development and the reunification of China on the KMT’s terms. However, the KMT’s control of political communication in Taiwan extended far beyond the media as a lively article by Chen Yanhao published in the radical opposition journal, Current Monthly (Nuan zazhi) in 1984 makes apparent: The KMT’s censorship policy was everywhere in society and for no explicable reason the KMT prohibited every kind of behaviour: … it forbade any new party from forming; it forbade the registration of any newspaper; it forbade strike, demonstrations, and criticisms of national policy; it forbade the election of a provincial governor and the mayors of Taipei and Kaohsiung cities; it forbade the reading of works published by mainland Chinese authors; it forbade the expression of views by political rallies; it forbade students to have long hair and to help politicians in elections. Most of these activities

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do not violate the constitution. They are merely the subjective views held by those in power and run counter to society’s contemporary trends and the natural inclinations of our people (quoted in Rawnsley & Rawnsley, 2001:55). Chen here affirms that authoritarian regimes decide how systems of communication might and should work according to specific political and social agendas, and then subject those systems to myriad (often arbitrary) regulation. The close corporate relationship between politics and economics in many developing countries provides a prevalent and more insidious method of state control. This allows governments to influence indirectly the media through managing media appointments, regulating who can have licenses, the allocation of radio and TV frequencies etc. through often-elaborate patron-client networks, and thus inhibiting the flow of news and information from opposition-controlled media. For example, in Indonesia powerful business interests and government pressure stalled progress towards the creation of a free press: ‘Former Indonesian Information Minister Harmoko was at one point believed to have stakes in thirty-one media outlets. He did not buy those stakes; they were presented to him as a goodwill gesture by owners who were anxious to ensure that their publications were not closed down by the government’ (McCargo 2003:7). Similarly, the Bulgarian government controls the allocation of licenses, encouraging a pro-regime bias among the media there, while most editors of Cuban media have close ties to the state and share its worldview (Nichols, 1982). The media there are in the hands of private operators who are driven by commercial rather than political concerns, and thus desire to preserve and maximise their income by not disturbing the status quo. This provides the political and economic conditions for a degree of self-censorship and thus precludes direct state interference.9 The KMT government of Taiwan, like their Communist counterparts on the Chinese mainland, successfully managed the media through the creation of a complex patron-client network that allowed agencies representing the KMT, the provincial government and the state to manage media appointments. This meant that newspaper editors either were members of the KMT or were supportive of the party’s political agenda, thus sympathetic journalists, owners and political appointees were located in prominent and powerful ‘gate-keeping’ positions within the media. For example, the proprietors of the two privately owned newspapers with the highest circulation, China Times (zhong-guo shi-bao)

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and United Daily News (lian-he bao) were members of the KMT Central Standing Committee (zhong-yang wei-yuan-yui). ‘To a certain extent, the obligation to be profitable, the need to sell, incited the private papers to distance themselves from propaganda, while remaining within limits acceptable to the regime, in order not to end up being closed down’ (Batto, 2004:65). Many publications were closed down, usually through overt political and judicial methods, but the Public Opinion News, a political magazine that was critical of the government in the 1950s, was closed by the KMT’s decision to invest in it enormous sums of capital. Once it enjoyed a controlling interest, it was easy for the KMT to engineer the journal’s downfall. The magazine was forced out of business by the skilful manipulation of investment concerns, not by overt government pressure or legal mechanisms. In addition to creating institutional structures of control, many governments in the non-democratic world subject media and journalists to often legal cycles of repression and abuse, and Freedom House remains worried by the constant intimidation of journalists by politicians and criminals in clear violation of human rights regimes. In particular, Guatemala, Argentina, Azerbaijan, Ukraine, Rwanda, Tunisia and Guinea were considered particularly susceptible to election-related political intimidation and violence against journalists in 2003 (Karlekar, 2004:5). Non-democratic political systems are inclined to view the media either as instruments of state control or as adversaries – there is little room for the media to play a role between these poles: you are either with us or against us. If you decide you are against us, then you are by definition an enemy of the state and therefore the state is free to use any methods it may choose to destroy you. Journalists are especially vulnerable targets as they ferret out and expose the information certain members of the political world would rather keep quiet. The fact that journalists are deemed such a threat to the status quo that they deserve assassination is indicative of their perceived influence on public opinion. In 1986, Iraq’s Revolutionary Command Council issued Order Number 840 which imposed the death penalty on anyone who criticised the president. This is thought to have been the pretext for the execution of hundreds of journalists in Iraq. In Russia, too, there have been attempts to link the deaths of prominent journalists to the political establishment. On 9 July 2004, Forbes’s Russian editor, Paul Klebnikov, was murdered in Moscow, and two successive editors-in-chief of Tolyattinskoye Obozreniye newspaper in the Volga region were likewise killed in suspicious circumstances. By October 2004, 11 Russian journalists were murdered in contract-style

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killings and four others have died because of other violent, workrelated circumstances during President Putin’s time in office. At the time of writing, the police have not yet brought anyone to justice for these crimes. By 2000, when the KMT finally lost the presidency in Taiwan and the political system supposedly entered the consolidation phase of transition, many journalists still reported that they were under surveillance, their offices were searched, and their telephones (and those of family and friends) were bugged. For example, in October 2000 members of the Taipei District Prosecutor’s Office searched the offices and homes of journalists working for the China Times Express. They were searching for information leaked to the media detailing the level of corruption within the National Security Bureau. Journalists working for the newspaper complained that they, and their friends and families, were under close surveillance and that their telephone conversations were monitored. The prosecutors justified their behaviour by referring to ‘national security’, a handy catch-all term that democratic and non-democratic governments regularly use to justify the suppression of basic civil liberties. They claimed the leaked information could have included ‘highly sensitive state secrets’ that threatened the lives of Bureau members. Yet all too frequently, the intimidation is nonpolitical and extra-legal and originates in the criminal underworld. Offices of Jimmy Lai’s Taiwan enterprise, Next Magazine have been searched by prosecutors and regularly vandalised by hired thugs following the magazine’s exposure of criminal activity. These episodes resonate with the ‘white terror’ of Taiwan’s martial law period between 1950 and 1987 when hundreds of reporters, writers and editors were purportedly harassed, interrogated and often jailed on the pretext of threatening ‘national security’ (Chao & Myers, 1998; Rawnsley, 2000; Rawnsley & Rawnsley 2001). General Park Chung-hee’s military coup in South Korea in 1961 justified the absence of civil liberties there by referring to the threat from North Korea and the need for economic development. Like their KMT counterparts in Taiwan, the South Korean government believed that it would defeat communism, but doing so required extraordinary means and extra-democratic political organisation. Other governments use laws to influence the media. The problem for those on the receiving end is that most of these laws do not make explicit their intentions; the most common technique of exercising authority is to leave the laws as vague as possible to allow their expedient interpretation. This is particularly worrying in the context of the global war on terror; human rights advocates worry that the

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successful prosecution of this war depends on the suspension of fundamental liberties, and that the threat of terrorism (‘national security’) is once again a convenient excuse to exercise increasingly authoritarian practices against the media, even in otherwise democratic political systems. Taiwan’s Law on Publications (chu-ban-fa, passed in April 1952, amended 1958 and 1973, finally repealed 25 January 1999), enacted under the conditions of martial law described how the government could close a daily newspaper without recourse to judicial process or authority. The Law on Publications and other texts imposed restrictions on: (i) the registration of new papers; (ii) the number of pages that newspapers could publish; and (iii) where the newspaper could be printed and distributed. These measures affected a comprehensive press ban policy in 1951 that prevented the further issue of licenses and thus froze until 1987 the number of titles permitted to print at 31. Similarly, Spain’s Press Law of 1938 that defined the role of the media there for almost three decades (until the Press Law of 1966 marked the beginning of liberalisation) allowed the government to suspend any publication without appeal. In 2000, Russia’s Security Council passed an ‘information security doctrine’. In classic doublespeak that is associated with George Orwell and Big Brother, the ostensible intention of this doctrine was to protect journalists’ rights and improve the free flow of information. In practice, however, the doctrine has enabled the state to preserve its firm grip on Russia’s communications systems: the state can monitor Internet traffic, intercept email, the post and mobile telephone conversations, and share this information between state agencies, including the Foreign Intelligence Service and the Kremlin Secret Police (Franda, 2002:112). Another law passed in 2003 made it illegal for newspapers to express during an election an opinion about a candidate’s policies, his campaign or his personality. One journalist of the Vremya MN, Konstantin Katanyan, tested the boundaries of this law by writing an article about the election for governor in Mordoviya: ‘I violated everything I could in this article.’ … He said that the current governor might win as there was no alternative; he said the candidate liked football, and that he hired his own relatives as staff. The article theoretically broke the law three times, predicting results and referring to a candidate’s background twice. Yet Katanyan has yet to be reprimanded … compounding his fears that the law will … only be applied selectively against particular irritants (Nick Paton Walsh, ‘Back in the USSR’, The Guardian (media section), 6 October 2003:8–9).

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Again, the arbitrary application of such laws can be a powerful instrument in the hands of governments determined to preserve their control of, and influence over the media. Robert Mugabe’s power in Zimbabwe is now a well-documented example of a regime determined to maintain its authority by controlling political communications, especially the media. Mugabe has used a variety of methods to do this, including passing a series of laws to curtail media freedom and circumscribe opposition to his regime gaining a public voice. In other words, Mugabe demonstrates that it is possible to influence the media and journalists by making life hard for them. Since losing the constitutional referendum in February 2000, Robert Mugabe’s Zanu-PF waged a war against Zimbabwe’s private media which the government blamed for its defeat. In 2002, the government introduced the Access to Information and Protection of Privacy Act (AIPPA). This meant that the independent newspapers had until 31 October 2002 to register both their companies and their journalists. Newspapers must also provide forecasts of their operations, including cash flows and profits, for the next five years. Furthermore, they are required to provide details of all the political affiliations of their directors and executives. The decision to allow any journalist – local or foreign – to operate in Zimbabwe would henceforth rest with the Media and Information Commission. Any journalist working in the country without a state issued licence faces a two-year prison sentence. Moreover, anyone convicted of publishing or passing on information deemed false and prejudicial to the state may be imprisoned for up to 20 years. Mugabe has reinforced these laws with muscle: on 12 September 2003, armed police closed the Daily News, Zimbabwe’s largest circulation and only independent newspaper. Soon after it began publishing in 1999, the Daily News became the country’s most popular newspaper, concentrating on exposing the corruption and human rights abuses enacted by the Mugabe regime. After years of government harassment, including fire-bombings and journalists beaten, arrested and jailed, the closure came after the newspaper lost a court battle in which it challenged the constitutionality of the AIPPA. The court decided that the Daily News had to register before it could challenge the law, a verdict the government took to mean that the newspaper was operating illegally. After a week’s closure, the Zimbabwean High Court ruled that the paper should be allowed to publish, but the government refused to issue the Daily News a license, thus securing the newspaper’s illegal and thus outsider status.

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In Indonesia, newspapers are facing difficulties through legal processes designed to attack the media from a different direction: libel laws. In January 2004, Quran Tempo, one of the country’s most respected newspapers, was forced by the courts to pay a prominent businessman it accused of corruption US$1 million, meaning that the future of the newspaper was left in doubt. Other newspapers have faced similar fates, choosing to settle out of court instead and applying the principles of self-censorship, thus deliberately avoiding printing stories that they consider too risky politically, judicially and financially. Authoritarian governments, corrupt democratic governments, governments in political systems that have experienced a democratic transition but are now ‘backsliding’, all share a concern with media freedom. They struggle with systems of communications, perceiving them as either supporters or adversaries, recognising their power to mobilise public opinion on behalf of or against the government. The methods these regimes choose to exercise their power vary: from patronage and systems of nomenklatura to legal processes that scare the media into submission and self-censorship or face financial ruin, closure or jail. And yet democracies are still created; some of these maybe because of external pressure (the democratisation of West Germany and Japan after World War Two; of Iraq after the 2003 war) but the success rate of externally-imposed democracy is variable. The Third Wave that so intrigued Samuel Huntington (and naturally led to research on the Fourth Wave of democratisation that occurred after the downfall of the Soviet Union in 1991) occurred mainly because of internal forces. History does suggest that authoritarian regimes are vulnerable because of communication: they are subject to the pressures induced by modern communications technology and the global spread of ideas and information. In other words, despite the elaborate systems of control, power and influence they create authoritarian systems that invariably collapse or are overthrown. We now proceed to consider the role and responsibility of political communication in this transition process.

The transition process This discussion draws on the theoretical and conceptual literature on democratisation to question not only the role played by political communication as a process tool, but also as a catalyst: are systems of communications merely passive actors in democratisation, or do they

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share the responsibility for it? We are particularly interested in the so-called ‘Third Wave’, a term created by the American political scientist, Samuel Huntington, to describe the patterns of democratisation he observed between 1974 (with the democratisation of Portugal) and 1991 (the collapse of the Soviet Union): Between 1974 and 1990, more than thirty countries in South Europe, Latin America, East Asia and Eastern Europe shifted from authoritarian to democratic systems of government. This ‘global democratic revolution’ is probably the most important political trend in the late twentieth century (Huntington, 1991–2:579).10 Huntington’s celebrated analysis is very important for understanding the relationship between communications and democratisation, for he was among the first of a new generation of political scientists to understand how the effects of modern communications technology inspire political change. After all, it is impossible to separate the development of new technologies from their social and political contexts, and as systems of communications have evolved their potential has been applied creatively to political agendas. In other words, observers of this Third Wave were able to see first hand the effects of modern global communication in democratisation. In Poland, for example, Lech Walesa, the leader of anticommunist Solidarity movement, has described the role of communications technology. The political systems organised around communism, he said, recognised that new technologies (satellite television, the Internet, mobile telephones) made government censorship progressively difficult, time consuming and expensive. Walesa admitted that he took advantage of this weakness in the Polish communist system and used new communications technologies to his advantage (Franda, 2002:100). Samuel Huntington’s analysis of the Third Wave builds upon a tradition within political science that packages democratisation inside a wider debate about the relationship between development and democracy. Writing in 1959, for example, Seymour Martin Lipset (building on the work of Lerner, 1958) described democratisation as a product of modernisation, with communication a function of economic development.11 Lipset’s hypothesis was very simple: ‘the more well-to-do a nation,’ he wrote, ‘the greater the chances it will sustain democracy’ (Lipset, 1959:75). A synopsis of the modernisation theory as it applies to communication and democracy focuses on the development of industrial societies, forcing mass migration into the

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towns and cities for work in the factories. This urbanisation encourages socialisation, that is personal interaction (industrialisation tends to oblige families to live and work close together) and thus facilitates the circulation of information and education. Urbanisation, education (hence increasing literacy rates that have an effect upon the circulation of books and newspapers) and generally poor working conditions should, all things being equal, create a more opinionated, politically interested and better-informed population who then organise for greater worker representation.12 In other words, economic development facilitates political education via (interpersonal and impersonal) communication, thereby nourishing political activism and participation. Lipset then advances his argument one stage further by referring to citizenship: communication and education, he announces, also instil democratic values. Education allows for the spread of political and social tolerance, while increasing levels of wealth and education de-radicalise the working class so its members become less susceptible to dangerous anti-democratic ideas. Economic development also plays a part in creating autonomous social organisations that are not only a check on the government, but also increase popular political participation, thereby helping to build civil society. Hence political communication provides the elements of improvability and civic duty that were central to classical liberalism. Given their basic premises, it is not surprising that many commentators used these ideas to explain international communication from the 1940s until the 1960s (when ‘cultural imperialism’ became fashionable). Modernisation theory does correspond to the paternalism associated with apologists for colonialism, in that the advocates of modernisation argued that communication could transform a traditional (that is, ‘backward’) society into a modern (‘western-like’) one. This was possible because communications and the media provide a means of popular socialisation, extend the horizons of people, and therefore persuade them of the benefits of transforming their lifestyles. ‘The diffusion of new ideas and information stimulates the peasant to want to be a free-holding farmer … the farmer’s wife to want to stop bearing children, the farmer’s daughter to wear a dress and do her hair’ (Lerner, 1963 quoted in Shramm, 1965). Nevertheless, communications may add to knowledge, but they do not necessarily contribute to encounter and experience, as critics of the Internet revolution have observed (see Chapter 7). Communications media may, and sometimes do open up genuine possibilities for better international democratisation and co-operative regimes, but

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the greatest constraints remain non-technical – especially the political motivations of states, but also our emotional beliefs, which help us to filter out messages that do not correspond to our belief system and national parochialisms (see Chapter 3). There are also a number of significant flaws in correlating democracy with economic development, and social scientists are still arguing over the empirical data that seems to both support and contradict the thesis. (A useful critique that asserts the primacy of politics over economics and thus reverses the idea that development is a prerequisite for democracy is offered by Leftwich, 1996.) Simply speaking, modernisation theory establishes the premise that tradition is ‘bad’ and modernisation is ‘good’ with little reference to cultural specifics (hence it is a good justification for colonialism). Moreover, modernisation theory was predicated on liberal market discourse and the free flow of information, and one readily discovers in modernisation literature the over-use of such value-laden terms as ‘democracy’, ‘freedom of expression’, ‘public watchdog’, ‘accountability’. However, many states that embraced the general idea of modernisation, such as Singapore’s commitment to ‘Asian values’, neglected the part of the theory that advocates the free flow of information (within and between countries) if the people were to accept the government’s project for creating a better society. Instead, many governments have claimed that modernisation requires them to suppress democracy rather than nurture it in order to limit the internal challenges to political and social stability that might threaten their development strategy. Throughout Asia, modernisation has provided a straightforward rationalisation for the creation of media systems that are instruments of control rather than pluralism. My intention is not to engage with this modernisation literature and its critiques or the Asian values debate. Rather, I wish to draw attention to the fact that communications are located at the centre of a major and influential (though rightly contested13) approach to modern democracy. 14 The important point is that scholars working in this area believe that structural prerequisites are required that will lay the foundations for the maturation of political culture. Setting such objections to modernisation theory aside, we are indebted to Samuel Huntington for drawing our attention to the role of communications in political transition and devising a schema based around the idea of historical waves. Moreover, he also impresses on us the need to understand the simple sequential approach to democratisation. This involves three stages:

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1. Liberalisation: A story of unintended consequences?15 Liberalisation refers to the ‘loosening up’ of a political system and society that creates the conditions for mass communications to function more freely. This will involve relaxing or removing altogether restrictions on the media and allowing social movements to form, organise and mobilise without fear of repression. By liberalization we mean the process of making effective certain rights that protect both individuals and social groups from arbitrary or illegal acts committed by the state or third parties. On the level of individuals, these guarantees include … freedom of movement, speech, petition; and so forth. On the level of groups, these rights cover such things as freedom from punishment for expressions of collective dissent from government policy, freedom from censorship of the means of communication, and freedom to associate voluntarily with other citizens (O’Donnell & Schmitter, 1986:7). This is a useful summary, and it is not difficult to identify the correlation between O’Donnell and Schmitter’s definition of liberalisation and the discussions in previous chapters about the organisation and responsibility of political communications. In contrast to this legalistic approach, Samuel Huntington offered a more inclusive definition. Liberalisation, he wrote is the partial opening of an authoritarian system short of choosing governmental leaders through freely competitive elections. Liberalizing authoritarian regimes may release political prisoners, open up some issues for public debate, loosen censorship, sponsor elections for offices that have little power, permit some renewal of civil society, and take other steps in a democratic direction, without submitting top decision makers to electoral test (Huntington, 1991:9). Liberalisation, then, does not roll back the regime’s power structure; it merely opens the system to enable limited independent activity and participation by the media as well as the whole citizenry or segments of it. It represents an expansion of activity by and within civil society. While it presents the possibility of future challenges to the continuing system of state control, the essential power structure remains intact. Hence liberalisation may be a conscious act by a regime when under

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pressure; liberalisation may represent a pressure valve that allows critics to let off steam without challenging the established power-base. However, if a regime decides that this is how it wishes to proceed, it must tread very carefully, for the centre must control liberalisation if it wishes to avoid demands for radical systemic change that takes advantage of the relaxations introduced. The Spanish case is instructive: in 1966, the Franco regime enacted a partial liberalisation of the Spanish press that, contrary to the regime’s expectations, contributed to Spain’s transition to democracy a decade later. First, the new public spaces ultimately helped to de-legitimise the regime and generate expectations of further reform. Within these new public spaces, alternative political elites, ideas and programmes circulated, creating the conditions for pluralist communications and political activities. Even Franco’s continued control of the Spanish television system could not off-set these unintended consequences of press liberalisation. A similar process occurred in Chile: during the 1988 plebiscite on continued authoritarian rule, the government endeavoured to control the increasingly liberal media environment and minimise audiences for TV programmes publicising the opposition’s agenda. Research makes clear, however, that the strategy failed and broadcasts on behalf of the opposition’s No campaign were still popular (Hirmas, 1993:85–96). In other words, the government could not compete with the forces of liberalisation that had created new public spaces in which the political opposition could articulate their grievances and mobilise public opinion. Conservative critics of Mikhail Gorbachev (including the Chinese) believe that this is where the Soviet leader went wrong in the 1980s: Glasnost (liberalisation) preceded Perestroika (reform). Gorbachev needed the Soviet media to mobilise support for his offensive against the bureaucracy that he believed was impeding economic and social development: the media would help Gorbachev by criticising and attacking the institutions (responsible for the stagnation, corruption and mismanagement of the Brezhnev years) at the core of his strategy. However, it was not easy to manage the media from the political centre once the controls were relaxed. The increasingly vocal opposition that benefited from liberalisation became a source of political pressure that the Soviet government found difficult to restrain.16 In fact, there was even evidence of ‘backsliding’ as Gorbachev attempted in 1990 (as the secessionist movement in Lithuania gathered momentum and Boris Yeltsin was elected in Russia) to rein in the dynamics of change. However, Glasnost created new public spheres and the communicative

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power of this civil society was extraordinary: 1987–89 saw (in Hungary as well as the Soviet Union) the rapid growth of political activity by organisations standing outside the Communist party apparatus that campaigned on behalf of a raft of national, environmental and social issues. In 1988, an increasing number of enterprises and local authorities confronted protests against environmental pollution. Direct popular action such as letter-writing campaigns, demonstrations and rallies – activities previously illegal or strictly stage-managed by the Communist party – helped to put the environment on the political and social agendas. Perhaps most significantly, the end of the 1980s saw a wave of nationalism in the various Soviet republics; groups in Russia and elsewhere in the Soviet Union formed and campaigned for national self-determination, an issue that always generates emotion and provides the foundation for passionate political communication. Some of these nationalist groups were chauvinistic and used extreme methods to articulate their opinions. However, we may ask is extremism the price paid during the formative years of transition, unleashing public forces that had been subdued for decades? The period was one of learning and self-discovery for civil society and the government, as both wrestled with the experience of new freedoms and sought to balance the need (and right) for autonomous political activity with the maintenance of public order. A decree on meetings and demonstrations promulgated in July 1988 demonstrated this dilemma most clearly. This affirmed the constitutional right to demonstrate, but also permitted local soviets to prohibit political meetings considered contrary to the constitution or a threat to public order (Decree of 28 July 1988, BBC Summary of World Broadcasts, 2 August 1988). The more conservative elements within the Communist party tolerated increasing activity by civil society organisations provided the party was able to monitor and control it. Freedom, they believed, should not mean anarchy. Allowing a modicum of media independence can be a politically advantageous strategy, for it lends an authoritarian state a degree of legitimacy especially if, like Taiwan, it has a democratic constitution (‘temporarily suspended’ for the duration of the ‘communist rebellion’ in China). Difficulties arise when the media decide to overstep these tolerated boundaries and begin to agitate and organise a formal opposition to the regime, as samizdat media did in communist Eastern Europe and as many political journals did in authoritarian Taiwan (Berman, 1992). Sometimes, journals were little more than ‘recesses’ of ‘journalistic cover to smooth the transition to a democratic political system’ (Berman,

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1992:183). They intended to offer the basis for a substantive political movement, providing the rationale and structure for the emergence of political organisations to challenge the government. In Iran, the underground circulation of illegal cassettes of the Ayatollah Khomeini’s speeches served the calls for an Islamic revolution in 1979. Similarly, in Taiwan video images captured by camcorders and available on the black market contradicted the media’s representation of farmers’ riots in 1988. While in Thailand, the wide circulation of videotapes based on CNN and BBC footage of the military’s suppression of demonstrations in May 1992, allowed Thais to see for themselves the events that local television news never broadcast. In communist Eastern Europe, the proliferation of samizdat publications provided a forum for critical writers to voice their opinions on the lack of political freedom and articulate alternative programmes. As in Taiwan (Rawnsley, 2000) these dissident and samizdat media provided a focus for the development of opposition movements where they might hone their skills in mobilisation, organisation and networking. In this way, the opposition media perform many of the same functions of traditional political parties: they lent the movement ideological direction, opportunities for patronage, the aggregation of interests, and the recruitment and training of leaders. In his analysis of the media in Taiwan, Daniel Berman believes that the opposition press were more interested in these functions, especially forming a surrogate political party, than simply disseminating views and opinions. ‘By continually pushing – and subsequently expanding – the limits of acceptable behaviour,’ he wrote, ‘by providing a non-violent, legal context in which a de facto opposition could develop and mature, opposition magazine organisations made a substantial contribution to the relatively smooth transition to a much more democratic form of government’ (Berman, 1992:194). Duncan McCargo (2003:94) describes what he calls the ‘paradox’ of the Indonesia press: Suharto’s ‘New Order’ had, by the late 1990s, grown so monolithic that there were no political alternatives left. Before it could begin advocating a different kind of politics, the media had first to create such an alternative. Hence … what began as a journalists’ association [the AJI] inevitably found itself intimately involved in the pro-democracy movement. In Indonesia, the media had to create an alternative political force, not just function on behalf of activists struggling for a transition to democracy.

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Opposition publications can also have ideological focus, creating and shaping the identities that coalesce around the opposition movement such as representation of the poor, the working class and ethnic identity that form the basis of agitation and mobilisation. This is important in connecting civil society to political communication and the aspirations for democracy. As Rueschmeyer et al. (1992:50) have argued, ‘the growth of a counter-hegemony of subordinate classes and especially the working class – developed and sustained by the organization and growth of trade unions, working-class parties and similar groups – is critical for the promotion of democracy’. A political opposition gradually emerged in Taiwan and skilfully expanded its political influence; the ruling party progressively learned how to tolerate and live with the political opposition. This evolutionary phase of limited democracy was crucial for Taiwan’s democratic breakthrough and consolidation because it provided enough time for the people and elites to ‘learn democracy by practicing it,’ and for their political cultural values to become conducive to the practice of democracy (Chao & Myers, 1998:13). The opposition even experienced success: claims of electoral fraud in Chungli in 1977 provoked strong public protest, and according to one observer, this was the largest public demonstration of its kind since 1947: ‘In the face of this public display the regime backed down and admitted that there had indeed been fraud. … The Chungli incident marked a change of atmosphere, a toleration for active and outspoken political dissent’ (Moody, 1995:270). Success breeds its own momentum; liberalisation creates forces that are difficult to control once unleashed, and this is particularly the case when we turn our attention to examining the role of groups and civil society. Groups in authoritarian societies may be little more than agencies of information transmission and mobilisation in the service of the regime, and must be transformed into autonomous groups to function as civil society (Hill, 1994:267–83), but nevertheless they are important sources of personnel, organisation and skill, all attributes that are required in the transition to democracy. Moreover, the group mobilisation of popular interests can be a defiant act of communication: it conveys to a recalcitrant regime the level of popular dissatisfaction, strength and potential that lies dormant within society. However, it is important to remember that while popular mobilisation via strikes, demonstrations and riots may contribute to democratisation, such activities are rarely its cause. Samuel Huntington (1991:46) informs us that although mass action occurred in almost all of the 33 Third Wave

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transitions, it was central in only six (the Philippines, East Germany, Romania, South Korea, Poland and Czechoslovakia). Particularly instructive is the role of popular mobilisation in cases of elite-driven democratisation, such as Taiwan and Spain, where the role of civil society is muted. Paul Heywood (1995:40) reveals that in Spain, ‘Franco’s dictatorship dismantled itself voluntarily. In spite of a dramatic increase in the number of hours lost through strikes during the 1970s, and an upsurge in the violent activities of [ETA, the Basque separatist movement] … widespread popular mobilisation against the dictatorship always remains latent rather than actual.’ Mass mobilisation is only one factor of many that causes governments to take the decision to democratise, and may have little consequence beyond communicating the potential power of civil society. The fragmentation that has contributed to the power of social movements in democratic political systems may actually be a weakness under transitionary conditions. Their loose structure, in contrast to the organisational capacity of parties, means that their leaders may be unable to exercise the control and authority that might otherwise persuade the state to include them in negotiations for political change. Moreover, activism might be a symptom of weakness rather than strength, for it suggests the movements lack legitimacy and access to the political system, and must therefore find alternative methods of expressing their political preferences. This is consistent with the approach to social movements taken in this book, but it is important to highlight that in non-democratic systems, or in societies undergoing radical political change, these issues of legitimacy and access are of wider consequence than in democratic systems where social movement activity is often a response to the failure of organised representation. The church is one centre for social organisation that has been a particularly significant source of opposition to anti-democratic regimes, throughout South America (especially in Brazil, Chile, Guatemala and El-Salvador) and in other Catholic areas (such as the Philippines and Korea). Huntington is explicit about their contribution: All in all, if it were not for the changes within the Catholic Church and the resulting actions of the Church against authoritarianism [since the 1960s], fewer third wave transitions to democracy would have occurred and many that did occur would have occurred later. In country after country the choice between democracy and authoritarianism became personified in the conflict between the cardinal and the dictator. Catholicism was second only to

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economic development as a pervasive force making for democratization in the 1970s and 1980s (Huntington, 1991:85). The Church could marshal an extraordinary array of resources that we might consider vehicles of political communication. In particular, the Church provides a focus for socialisation; it is a trusted source of information and opinion, and thus enjoys enormous power to mobilise its congregation (which, if we speak of the Catholic Church, is global in reach). The Church has also created media systems that it designed to spread the gospel, but have political value when pressed into the service of democratic movements. For example, Church radio stations and newspapers can provide a channel for the political opposition. Radio Veritas, a radio station in the Philippines controlled by the Catholic Church, is credited with having encouraged large-scale popular mobilisation in 1986 – the ‘people power’ movement – in support of General Fidel Ramos and against Ferdinand Marcos (McCargo, 2003:20). Likewise, we should not underestimate the power of the church media in Poland in their support of the Solidarity movement in the 1980s (Jakubowicz, 1991). Many of the demands made by the Church throughout the Third Wave were consistent with the value attached to communication in the liberal tradition. In Spain, the 1971 convening of the Assembly of Bishops and Priests represented a dramatic break between Church and State, a relationship demonstrated in the 1950s by the 34 newspapers the Church published in close alliance with the political regime. Franco had granted the Church ‘unprecedented influence’ in return for its support, including exemption from censorship, the right to ask that offensive material be withdrawn from sale and control over education, freedoms that demonstrate the regime’s concern with the communicative power of the Church (Heywood, 1995:50, 69). However, the 1971 Assembly of Bishops and Priests called for ‘the right to freedom of expression, free association and free union meetings, in effect all the rights whose exercise has always been very limited during the Franco regime’ (Huntington, 1991:81).17 The Church was, and remains, a powerful influence in many societies throughout the world that, if liberalised, can present a strong challenge to political authority. Political communications by and between groups – primary or otherwise – have the capacity to play an important role in the transition to democracy. The pre-existence of attributes associated with civil society, even if carefully regulated and supervised by the state (as in Southern Europe), may provide the basis for a more successful and smoother

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transfer of power than in those political systems where civil society is less established (as in Latin America) or not allowed to exist at all (O’Donnell & Schmitter, 1986:7). It stands to reason that the power of this civil society is more pronounced as liberalisation proceeds unchecked and the state loses the ability to legitimately control the forces its policies have set free. To counter this momentum, the state must actively retain control over the liberalisation process. The Chinese communist regime, for example, has preserved its authority in civil society and over the media anxious that liberalisation serve, not challenge, the regime’s agenda (including economic modernisation and the preservation of the party’s power. See de Burgh, 2003b and Gries, 2004). This naturally limits the autonomy of civil society to engage in the same level and types of activism we would expect in more democratic systems. The cost of civil society’s participation in political communication is minimised.

2. Democratisation The second stage in the sequential process of regime change is democratisation. This refers to the precise changes in the political system that encourage the introduction of democratic procedures and institutions. In other words, the political system and the structures of power experience fundamental change. One of the elementary objectives of democratisation is expanding transparency and accountability, thus securing for political communication an important role in the process, and to achieve this goal democratisation must build upon the advances experienced under liberalisation, such as the relaxation of media restrictions. Therefore, we might conclude that (partial or full) media liberalisation is a prerequisite for the transition to democracy. A liberalising political system does not inevitably become a democracy, but we must acknowledge that once liberalisation occurs, a regime will usually face pressure to expand it and thus introduce democratic reforms. Communications systems have multiple responsibilities in democratisation, and how they fulfil these depends on their political orientation. In situations where pressure for democratisation comes from below or from external forces, media that support the regime may be compliant to the government’s attempts to prevent democratisation. We would expect these media to present a biased version of events that painted a particularly unfavourable picture of the transition. These media may also encourage popular mobilisation among sympathisers. For example, in Czechoslovakia, the state-controlled televi-

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sion refused to broadcast news of mass demonstrations occurring every day in Prague. The situation was only resolved once a strike committee of broadcasting workers entered negotiations with those in charge of individual television stations and eventually assumed temporary control of broadcasting. Similarly, those media supporting the transition (either they sympathise with revolutionary opposition movements, or perhaps the process is peaceful and driven by political elites) will likewise present a narrative that favours the transition and try to mobilise opinion and movements to support change. In other words, pro- and anti-democratic media play very similar roles and assume jaundiced characteristics that are consistent with the polarisation and passion of the moment. The media may channel news and information about attempts to initiate regime change and the progress of democratisation from their own political perspective. They try to widen popular awareness of political issues and help audiences interpret events. When in 1988 the Chilean people voted in a referendum to decide whether to allow General Pinochet to remain president for a further eight years, opposition television programmes reminded viewers of the desperate social, economic and political conditions under the dictator and facilitated the important work undertaken by political parties and social organisations over many years (Hirmas, 1993:94). But perhaps Hirmas’s conclusion on the outcome of the Chilean referendum is most important. The strong vote in favour of the government,’ she writes, ‘reflected the influence of two factors:’ fear, not easy to dispel in the short run, and the cumulative effect of fifteen years of concentrated government programming. After hearing the same message for years, with no alternative voice, any television audience internalizes the message, even given initial resistance. Persistence, reinforced by threats can finally prove persuasive (Ibid.). This is an important observation: Hirmas’s chapter narrates the way the Chilean government was engaged in classic propaganda, such as demonising the enemy, repetition, playing on fear, and denying other political actors a voice (Ellul, 1973; Taylor, 1996; Jackall, 1994; Jowett & O’Donnell, 1992; Brown, 1993). The media are an important actor in the process of democratisation, but they are no substitute for the groundwork undertaken by activists, often at considerable risk to themselves, and the media find it difficult to compete with the brutal

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realities of an internalised message that the communicative powers of fear and coercion have reinforced. In addition to providing information, the media can have the power to mobilise protest and are therefore additional sources of pressure on governments to democratise, provided the regime has embarked on a process of liberalisation. The media, for example, are often a site of contestation in any revolution: in Taiwan in 1947 (Rawnsley 2000); in Hungary in 1956 (Sükösd, 2000; Rawnsley 1996a); in Romania in 1989; in Moscow in 1991 (Rawnsley 1993). ‘These events,’ claim Sükösd (2000:129), ‘indicate that, in severe political crises in the late twentieth century, the media are seen as the real power center, as the decisive mobilizing resource and major source of legitimacy’. Throughout Latin America, Eastern Europe and parts of Asia we can identify instances where political liberalisation has encouraged the media to be more politically vocal. In Chile, for example, a number of publications took up the cause of democracy from the early 1980s even though they risked severe government suppression. Finally, we must address the impact of the international media which can bring additional external pressure on a regime to democratise; the media help redirect international attention towards a particular country or political system. Heavy international coverage of the wave of protest movements in Eastern Europe at the end of the 1980s persuaded activists there that they were receiving international attention, thus maintaining both morale and momentum. In addition, the international media may provide an alternative voice to the domestic media. This alternative may be foreign propaganda: Radio Free Europe, for example, a surrogate domestic system operated by the CIA from Munich and broadcasting across the Iron Curtain is thought (erroneously) to have played a vital role in persuading Hungarians to rise up against their Soviet masters in 1956 (Rawnsley, 1996a, Chapter 3). Many repressed citizens of authoritarian-led political systems rely on the international media to learn what is going on inside their own country, and will often take extraordinary risks (including jail or death) to access foreign broadcasts. This has an extremely long pedigree that pre-dates the global revolution in communication technology to which Huntington (1991) refers. One only needs to read the remarkable history of resistance to Nazi occupation and Soviet-backed communist domination in the Cold War to witness the tenacity of people to know what is going on inside and outside their own borders (See Rawnsley, 1996a, Chapter 3, and Rawnsley, 1996b on the reception of BBC and Voice of America broadcasts in Hungary during the 1956

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uprising). In 1990, the national media of the Cote d’Ivoire did not report the growing pressures for democratisation and the increasing number of student demonstrations there: citizens of that troubled nation had to tune into the BBC World Service to learn of these events. Similarly, the Chinese learned of the full scale of events in Tiananmen Square on 4 June 1989 from the BBC World Service; reporters there broadcast news and information of events out to the world, and the broadcasts were then beamed back into China. The demonstrators demanded that the BBC stringer, Simon Long, ‘Tell the world,’ and he did. But in doing so, he also told the Chinese people themselves of what was going on as wall-posters and loudspeakers relayed BBC reports. This became more important as the authorities began what the then Head of the Chinese Service, Elizabeth Wright, described as ‘one of the most complete disinformation campaigns in the history of the Chinese Communist party’ (quoted in Rawnsley, 1996a:140). When in 1992 foreign media in Thailand reported that the government was using violence to suppress popular demonstrations, international communications offered a method of channelling that information and news back into the country (McCargo, 2003:119), a process repeated in Burma when the BBC Burmese-language service supposedly encouraged the brief ‘democracy summer’ of 1988. The lesson is that it is almost impossible to seal hermetically one’s borders from radio and TV signals and, as the next chapter will show, the impact of the Internet.18 This global flow of information, combined with the natural human curiosity, has profound political consequences, for it has contributed to a ‘demonstration effect’ that has been particularly important in the Third Wave transitions (especially in Eastern Europe. See O’Neil, 1998:12; also Whitehead, 1996:4). By the mid 1980s, the rapid expansion in communications technology, allowing for the regional or global reception of television broadcasts, meant that ‘the image of a “worldwide democratic revolution” undoubtedly had become a reality in the minds of political and intellectual leaders in most countries of the world’ (Huntington, 1991:102). The demonstration effect indicates how media-users in one society discover that people in another can have the capacity to depose an authoritarian government, inspiring not only objectives and techniques, but also political confidence. The demonstration effect is most pronounced when the countries experiencing democratisation are geographically proximate, suggesting that the influence of the media is in inverse proportion to distance. So, Albanians watched the East European revolutions in the 1980s on television broadcasts from neighbouring Yugoslavia and Italy. Student

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demonstrators in Seoul in 1985 to 1987 followed the dramatic events taking place in the Philippines. The erection of the Berlin Wall in 1961 did not stop radio and television signals from the west passing into the east. Kaase (2000:398) cites Kurt Hesse’s research in 199019 that ‘in Germany every evening, electronic reunification’ happened ‘in front of the tube’. Tuning into foreign media undermines attempts by the authoritarian regime to maintain legitimacy based on performance, and can expose the ‘credibility gap’ between propaganda and reality (as happened in Thailand in 1992. See McCargo, 2003:30–1); the crossborder flow of information can lead to a dramatic ‘revolution in rising expectations’. Every night, East Germans could watch news broadcasts, public affairs programs, commercials for consumer goods, and entertainment programming, all of which contradicted the news and images coming from their own state media about the superiority of socialism and the crisis of capitalism. It also threw into sharp relief the bleakness of life in the dilapidated urban centres, polluted environment, and relative impoverishment that characterized East German society (Gunther & Mughan, 2000:407). Optimists claim that the western media helped East Germans recognise their plight, thus undermining popular support for, and the legitimacy of, the communist regime there. This is a pattern of media consumption that observers say is repeated throughout the Third Wave (Huntington, 1991), and beyond. For example, in March 2005, governments surrounding Krygyzstan which experienced what became known as a ‘tulip revolution’ feared the spread of democratic ideas and practices. Some of Krygyzstan’s neighbours regulated coverage of events there or simply reasserted control over their media to prevent the possibility of the ‘demonstration effect’ (The Independent, 25 March 2005).

3. Consolidation The final stage in the sequential approach is consolidation. This refers to society’s acceptance of a democratic political system as legitimate. In short, democracy ‘becomes the only game in town’ (Przeworski, 1991:26; Huntington, 1991, chapter 5; Schedler, 1988:91–107). In this stage, plural and free media (though perhaps still demonstrating bias towards one particular political party or programme) assume greater

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importance as they communicate the ‘rules of the game’ and assess the on-going performance of democracy. To facilitate consolidation the media must encourage full and fair debate about the development of the country following the transition and help set the agenda for the further evolution of the democratic culture. Representation, participation and legitimacy all presuppose the creation of channels for the expression of public opinion and the availability of high levels of information. Systems of communications, and especially the media, can help to cultivate the democratic culture by socialising both masses and elites into the process. If, as in Spain, audiences see peaceful and civil interactions between elites on opposite sides of the political spectrum, the standards expected of democratic procedures may be embedded within society. However, we must acknowledge that the impact of the media is not always so positive. If television shows political elites engaging in vicious disruptive behaviour, as in Russia in the 1990s and in coverage of Taiwan’s legislature, it is possible that society will polarise further. Again, this drives us towards the conclusion that political communication is inseparable from the political system in which it operates, for consolidation and socialisation are less dependent on the media and other forms of political communication than on the behaviour and attitudes of political elites themselves. The consolidation phase is often scarred by what we might term ‘media wars’ – a term sometimes reserved for explaining what happened in Hungary following the collapse of communism there – that rage over the control of access to newspapers and broadcasting systems. In other words, democratisation, implying the demise of state control, rarely solves the problems of ownership; if anything it can create problems as an open playing field generates new public spaces exposed to both political and commercial competition. The concentration of ownership and control in a few hands (Berlusconi, Murdoch, Thaksin, Putin) is a problem facing transition systems that may have sculptured other core institutions of democratic politics, and is particularly acute during early elections (Hungary in the early 1990s, for example. See Körïsényi, 1992). Moreover, the comprehensive privatisation of the press – isn’t democracy about distancing such institutions as the press as far as possible from the state? – has resulted in fierce competition between newspapers for readers and therefore for survival. All too often, transitional systems sacrifice the democratic ideal for profit and commercial growth, as demonstrated by, among other cases, Hungary (Sükösd, 2000) and Taiwan (Rawnsley, 2004). Sometimes, it is necessary for the state to rein in

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the media, to put an end to the anarchism that may characterise the early days of a democratic transition, and reassert authority over communications (for example, in Poland during President Lech Walesa’s term in office. See Karpinski 1995). Democracy is as much about responsibility as about freedom and only a balance of the two will encourage the consolidation of the democratic political culture. This is reflected in a major research project undertaken by Stephen White and Sarah Oats who found ‘considerable’ support in postcommunist Russia for the idea that the media should support the state rather than follow their own political and economic agendas (White & Oats, 2003:33). At this point in the discussion, it is necessary to issue a caveat. This approach – liberalisation, democratisation and consolidation – does not represent a strict sequence of change. Rather, in the transformation of political society, the stages may temporally overlap. In Taiwan, for example, democratisation of the political system began in 1987. However, the transmission and reception of cable television remained illegal until 1993, while call-in radio stations were only legalised in 1994 and the government did not abolish until 1999 Publication Laws that controlled the press via strict licensing regulations (Rawnsley & Rawnsley, 2001). Hence, full liberalisation occurred only after substantive political change. Similarly, Spain experienced a partial liberalisation of the press in 1966 while the regime maintained its grip on television until the transition to democracy had reached a relatively advanced stage. The Polish communications system had experienced a series of changes since the 1950s that had alternately relaxed and tightened restrictions. By the time communism collapsed in Hungary, its systems of political communication had experienced a long period of liberalisation that might be traced back to the 1956 uprising. On the other hand, liberalisation – the suspension of press censorship- preceded Brazil’s democratisation. It is clear, however, that successful democratisation processes do depend on the foundations of media liberalisation, and it is difficult to imagine how democratisation might occur and flourish without this liberalisation to create the conditions for free and independent political communication.

Conclusions Political science has only recently acknowledged that communications play an extremely important role in regime transition and democratisation. The growing literature attests to a greater awareness

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among scholars and practitioners that the media are important in the creation of democratic societies, especially where regime change has been imposed from outside, for example in Afghanistan and Iraq where the American-led coalition developed new national media as a priority following the collapse of authoritarian regimes there. There is little surprise in the fact that we can see in these countries the patterns of media use and content that we notice in Germany and Japan after the Second World War (Verba, 1965; Kaase, 2000). These societies have experienced attempts to create new television systems, radio stations and press that have the delicate task of ‘nation-building’, which means creating a democratic system from chaos, and when there are no guarantees of internal support, consensus or even cohesion. Guibernau (2004) has identified five strategies of nationbuilding with political communication at their core. These are: • The construction and circulation of the image of ‘nation’ • The creation and circulation of symbols and rituals that represent the nation • Encouraging citizenship and promoting rights and duties • Identifying or creating common enemies to lend legitimacy to the regime and provide a sense of coherence to the idea of nation • The consolidation of national education and media systems. This list does not specify whether the intention of nation-building is the creation of democratic systems or the persistence of authoritarian power. As we have seen, many governments, especially those advancing the idea of a core set of ‘Asian values’ stand opposed to the universal application of democracy as anathema to state-building. Others, like Iraq and Afghanistan and many of the former communist nations in Eastern Europe require a period of nation-building to prepare the ground for democracy because of the speed and/or nature of the transition (Rustow, 1970:351–61). Sometimes, that nation-building requires its own variety of hard-line measures. For example, after the collapse of Saddam Hussein’s regime, Iraq experienced a sudden and dramatic proliferation in media – over 200 newspapers and 90 radio and TV stations were created in the days following the end of the conflict in 2003. The US-led Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA) had to balance the rights of, and demands for press freedom with the need for stability and decided to close publications accused of inciting violence and contributing to instability there. Ambassador Paul Bremer, the head of

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the CPA, exercised sole authority in deciding which media to close and why. In Iraq, nation-building is considered far more urgent than allowing a completely open and free media environment.20 What is striking from our observations of the Third Wave is the important, yet limited role of communications. Despite all of the empirical cases discussed in this chapter where the media made an important contribution to democratisation, media pressure and the power of civil society alone are not sufficiently capable of driving a transition. Rather, we must unpack each individual case and analyse closely the array of political forces, actors, institutions and decisions that make or break democratisation. An internally-cohesive authoritarian regime always has the option of holding on to power through exercising its coercive power, even in the face of overwhelming international and domestic pressure (in Myanmar, for example, and in Malaysia in the late 1990s). Is the Internet revolution offering a new challenge to the internal cohesion of these authoritarian regimes? The next chapter will discuss the strength of arguments that the Internet is the foundation for a return to a robust style of democratic government and popular participation.

7 Towards a New Democratic Political Communication: Information Communication Technologies and Politics

The internet … if properly understood and defended and understood by enough citizens, does have democratising potential in the same way that alphabets and printing presses had democratising potential. – Harry Rheingold (1993:279). If putting government online is just a way of reinforcing access for people who probably already have more opportunity to access government and decision-makers, then it hasn’t really been much of an advance after all. – David Agnew, Governance in the Digital Economy Project, Toronto. Writing in 1993, Harry Rheingold in the quotation above captures the idealism that pervades discussion of the social and political impact of Information Communication Technologies (ICTs), especially the Internet. Their widespread use and potential have suggested nothing less than a revolution in political communication: their speed, their promise of greater levels of interactivity and connectivity,1 the absence of hierarchies and the possibilities offered by an unfettered and unmediated source of communication have together contributed their appeal to democratic theory. Idealists claim that the Internet has the capacity to transform political life by creating networks of globally or locally active citizens and by developing public spheres where they can participate in decision-making and help set the political agenda (Rheingold, 1993; Negroponte, 1995; Grossman, 1995; Schwartz, 1996; 177

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Budge, 1996; Brants et al., 1996; Tsagarousianou et al., 1997; Dertouzos, 1997). They believe that the Internet offers the reaffirmation of direct democracy through the creation of ‘virtual forums’ or new public spaces that will have particular relevance for the proliferating networks of global social movements. The Internet bestows upon civil society a selection of fundamentally new communication strategies that have the capacity to transform their more traditional approaches that we discussed in Chapter 4. Not only can groups use Internet technologies to mobilise support on a national, regional and even global scale, but can do so with less financial resources and attention to the demands of other electronic media. At the same time, social movements can despatch and publish their information, material, letters of protest, communiqués and press releases quickly and, because of the precise targeting allowed, efficiently to media organisations, governments, corporations and possible sympathisers. Vast political ‘rhizomes’2 are created as groups share information, create links (virtual and real) with each other and post information about each other’s activities on their own websites. It is therefore unsurprising that some have predicted the Internet promises the dawn of a new political age. Grossman (1995), for example, theorised that after the great epochs of classical Greek and representative democracy, technological changes place us on the verge of a third new period of electronic or ‘strong’ (Barber, 1984) democracy: Strong democracy is defined by politics in the participatory mode: literally it is self-government by citizens rather than representative government in the name of citizens. Active citizens govern themselves directly here, not necessarily at every level and in every instance, but frequently enough … Self-government is carried on through institutions designed to facilitate ongoing civic participation in agenda-setting, deliberation, legislation, and policy implementation … … strong democracy relies on participation in an evolving problem-solving community …[where] … public ends … are literally forged through the act of public participation, created through public deliberation and common action … (Barber, 1984:151). It is not difficult to see why advocates of the wider application of the Internet in political life have anchored their beliefs in the normative standards offered by such thinkers as Barber. Particularly empowering is the opportunity for all users to be simultaneously

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author, publisher and audience of news, information and opinion in a global market place of ideas. (‘In 179 countries … today almost 100 parliaments can be found on-line, along with 1,250 parliamentary parties, 14,500 government departments, 2,500 newspapers, 12,000 news sites and more than 12,000 groups and new social movements.’ Norris, 2001:195.) This is realised most dramatically in the rapid emergence of the ‘blogger’ culture, the posting by anyone with access to the Internet of on-line diaries that allow readers a glimpse into the lives of their authors. Bloggers can undermine official news sources and propaganda, and offer alternative perspectives on events from those provided by other media following their own news agendas and reporting stories according to particular framing devices. Blogging first came to our attention during the 2003 Iraq war when bloggers in Baghdad described life in a city under fire when the world’s media were reporting their own accounts of the conflict, framed according to particular news values and agendas and often based on information gathered from a narrow range of elite sources.3 Hence, most attractive about blogging is that it represents a genuine bottom-up process of unmediated and unfiltered communication. Bloggers can also challenge prevailing social orders: Iranian women have been particularly active bloggers, taking advantage of the anonymity offered by the Internet to speak freely about taboo subjects that are important to them. Discussions on Iranian sites about love and romance may not resonate with the same political significance as the war in Iraq, but they do suggest the emergence of a counter-culture that is daring to use the Internet to challenge prevailing social and religious values and disrupt established patterns of control (political and gendered) over the flow and content of communication. Blogging conforms to the democratic ideal that those living in authoritarian political systems, routinely denied access by the state apparatus to information, might profit from the communications revolution to maintain contact with the outside world, organise their political activities, and collect and spread information that could weaken the state. It is a common view among idealists such as Rheingold that ‘the internet poses an insurmountable threat to authoritarian regimes’ (Kalathil & Boas, 2001). ICTs offer the possibility of circumventing the more easily controlled broadcast and print media that, as we saw in Chapter 6, authoritarian governments depend upon to reinforce and exercise their political power. As far back as 1985, long before most people on the planet had even heard of the Internet, let alone surfed

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the world wide web, then US Secretary of State George Schultz believed that ‘new technology’ would play a crucial role in the Cold War: The free flow of information is inherently compatible with our political system. The communist states, in contrast, fear this information revolution perhaps even more than they fear Western military strength. … Totalitarian societies face a dilemma: either they try to stifle these technologies and thereby fall further behind in the new industrial revolution, or else they see their totalitarian control inevitably eroded. In fact, they will not have a choice, because they will never be able entirely to block the tide of technological advance (Schultz, 1985:716). There is evidence (in addition to that offered by blogging) that the Internet has evaded and undermined traditional forms of political control and challenge established patterns and hierarchies in the organisation, flow and content of political communication. Well documented, for example, is the way the Zapatista movement used the Internet to bring international public pressure down on the Mexican government. Castells (1997:72–83) in his full discussion of the Zapatistas calls them ‘the first informational guerrilla movement’ (Ibid.:79). In January 1994, the Zapatista movement declared war on the Mexican government and immediately launched a campaign to mobilise international support for its cause. In finding ways to circumvent both established hegemonic patterns of international news and the muscle of government-backed propaganda, the Zapatistas found most appealing the immediacy and the possible global impact of the Internet, hence members began to scan communiqués and letters to send via the Internet to potentially receptive and sympathetic audiences throughout the world. These receiving groups and individuals then translated the messages, re-posted them on their own websites, and printed them for use in publicity material in support of the Zapatistas, thus harnessing on a global scale the power of the Internet for the cause of a little-reported social movement in Mexico and creating a dense network of active support groups.4 Often mentioned too are the activities of the B92 Radio Station in Serbia in 1996. B92’s reports alleging government manipulation of local election results were the catalyst for its closure by Slobodan Milosevic’s regime. However, the station managed to continue to survive by operating through the Internet, sending its signal on-line to the BBC World Service in London, which then rebroadcast B92’s

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programmes back into Serbia. This also helped the station reach beyond Belgrade as the BBC retransmitted the signal via satellite to a network of local stations throughout the country. Within six months, B92 was broadcasting on 30 radio stations (Ferdinand, 2000:14; Shapiro, 1999:7–9). Then in 1999, when B92 broadcast its first reports of NATO’s bombing of Serbia, Milosevic ordered the arrest of the station’s editor-in-chief and transformed B92 into a government radio station. Undeterred, journalists again availed themselves of the Internet to broadcast as ‘Free B92’ for five months, with its website stored on computers in Holland for safekeeping until the Milosevic regime was brought down in October 2000.5 This episode demonstrates that groups learn quickly how to use the Internet in times of crisis and that global connectivity can provide not only a platform for communicating to an international audience, but also security in the face of political competition. Computers, along with other new ICTs such as cell phones, allow for a greater degree of physical mobility than was ever afforded to other media, such as television cameras or radio transmitters. Moreover, these technologies also allow an unprecedented mobility of information that helps its security, for data can be stored, transmitted, broadcast, or deleted anywhere in the world at the touch of a button without ‘hard’ copies every having to pass through anyone’s fingers. In addition to the possibilities of empowerment through access to information, the Internet is also capable of improving our management of information and creating the conditions for what is now called ‘e-government’. Citizens in political systems that have taken the time to invest resources in e-government are now able at the click of a button to access information about legislation and the process of making it, thus bypassing the media and their editorial judgements about political life. Thus the Internet opens new and exciting opportunities to encourage the level and intensity of popular accountability and government transparency that is the core of representative democratic theory. The more information we can access – at low financial, spatial and temporal cost – the more informed our judgements about the political process. It is remarkable that China’s government, infamous for the controls it imposes on Internet use, is one of the most visible and transparent on the web. Chinese are encouraged to fill and submit their tax returns, search for employment, apply for import and export licences, conduct their banking and even obtain an education (the Ministry of Education has recently opened one of the first on-line schools in

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the world). The government aims to connect to the Internet by 2010 all central ministries, provinces, municipalities, autonomous regions and embassies in foreign countries (Perrins, 2001:311), thus creating a vast network of bureaucracies offering information and services to users across the globe. Portals allow citizens to access social and political services from one Internet site without having to understand the organisational complexity behind the scenes; the portal will simply provide virtual directions to wherever she wants to go. Moreover, for producers the possibilities are refreshing, for connectivity should allow better communication between bureaucratic agencies, enabling government employees to work better together across all departments and have a better insight into how their work fits together. Many departments will share information about the same consumer, allowing the full picture of need and provision to emerge. It is in this area of e-government, taking advantage of the opportunities offered by connectivity, that the Internet has so far made most impact on political life. We must acknowledge that most governments are still in what we might consider the first stage of e-government, namely agencies using the Internet to publish information about themselves for the benefit of citizens. This facilitates transparency, but offers little else that we might consider democratic, for these sites allow only ‘one way’ communication; they are non-dialogical. Many governments (for example, China as we saw above, the UK and Chile with the possibility of submitting tax returns on-line, and Brazil and many parts of the United States with their experiments in on-line voting) have taken the first tentative steps to stage two in which they create sites that allow citizens to interact with governments and their administrative agencies. Again, this has potential benefit to democracy, for elections are one yardstick by which we measure the vitality of democratic culture. If e-voting encourages participation in a process attracting declining interest, then it is a welcome development. Yet we must acknowledge that most governments are still a long way from building sites that allow genuine dialogue between governments and citizens. Politicians now have published email addresses and we are regularly invited to send them emails to inform them of what we think about their performance as well as particular issues. Even the President of the US and the British Prime Minister have email addresses. However, the problem is that we have no real way of knowing what our representatives do with email communications sent them by their constituencies. Many MPs in Britain use them to build a database of email

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addresses for the despatch of electronic newsletters, meaning that in this case the Internet is yet another channel through which politicians can communicate to, rather than with the electorate.

A revolution of rising expectations? Rheingold’s assessment in the opening quotation is largely correct. In fact, we might go further and note that Internet use and availability have proliferated at a faster pace than previous communications inventions: in less than a decade the Internet reached 50 million users worldwide; it took the telephone 74 years, radio 38 years and television 13 years to reach comparable levels of distribution (Goldstein & O’Connor, 2000).6 However, there are serious flaws in the belief that the Internet is universally empowering and democratising. First, the visionaries make two major assumptions: (1) that people want to participate in the political process; and (2) the current channels of political participation are defective. As we have seen throughout this book, both are common beliefs, and while I support the first if we stretch the definition of the political process,7 the second is more problematic. Traditional methods of participation are failing in some parts of the world and flourishing in others making generalisations impossible. The difficulty arises when, in accepting the first two assumptions, the idealists consent to a third: that the Internet is the solution to these problems in political communication. How accurate is this? Let us begin with the idea that everyone can be publisher and recipient. If this is the case, we are confronted not only with an explosion in the amount of information8 we must confront, sift and process (Neuman, 1986) but with a fundamental question that defines the democratic approach to political communication: whose truth are we receiving? How can we check and guarantee the accuracy of the information? Does this mean that the responsibility for determining the truth falls to the consumers rather than producers? If we are already concerned with how the traditional media have the capacity to distort the truth and present a one-dimensional, biased or superficial picture of political issues, processes and institutions, won’t we become more anxious with information that is unmediated, unedited and unverifiable? The Internet provides more information, but it does not guarantee the quality of information. Perhaps this really is a case of better the devil you know … ? Second, available evidence seems to suggest that the Internet confirms long-held suspicions that communications reinforce rather

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than change political behaviour, habits, attitudes and opinions. Those who use the Internet for political purposes are already active and plugged into the political universe through regular use of such channels of communication as media, parties and groups. This reinforcement becomes a factor of access to the Internet itself, the technology, and fluency and security in using it. Hence, critics lament the fact that cyberspace is dominated by the same social elites and actors we find in other areas of political life, and this provokes a suspicion that the Internet allows groups to preach to the converted. After all, first one must be interested in a particular issue, group or party to take the time to find their website (we all have experience in using a search engine and know that finding the correct search term is only the beginning of what can be a frustrating process which may involve sifting through several thousand entries to find a relevant site), and it is unlikely given the strength of the reinforcement thesis of public opinion that these users will actively seek out the counter opinions offered by alternative groups and individuals.9 Moreover, the press and broadcasting systems throughout the world stand accused of serving narrow economic interests and creating international corporations that stifle pluralism, diversity and competition. However, some do not accept that the Internet offers any solution to this. For example, in a robust criticism of the idealism that pervades much of the discourse on the Internet Andrew Shapiro (1999) expresses anxiety with its commercial control. He documents (pp. 86–8) the rise and extent of Bill Gates’s Microsoft empire that rivals Rupert Murdoch’s for global reach, market penetration and platform diversification. Paraphrasing Microsoft’s promise of liberation from time and space – ‘Where do you want to go today?’ – Shapiro concludes (p. 88) that, ‘In reality, the company’s guiding principle seems to be: Where do you want to go today – within the Microsoft universe?’ Rheingold had cautioned us against this economic seizure of the Internet back in 1993, claiming that action was absolutely necessary in the early stages of Internet take-up to prevent a corporate takeover: ‘What we know and do now,’ he wrote, ‘is important because it is still possible for people around the world to make sure this new sphere of vital human discourse remains open to the citizens of the planet before the political and economic big boys seize it, censor it, meter it, and sell it back to us’ (1993:4–5). We also find in Shapiro (1999: 105–7; 124–6) a powerful challenge to the idea that the Internet encourages popular empowerment because the technology allows for the reception of information that is

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customised and personalised according to the user’s tastes and needs. As I write, The Sunday Times (30 January 2005, News Review:14) has published an article celebrating the joys of RSS (either Really Simple Syndication or Rich Site Summary – the journalist remains undecided) that ‘delivers a personalised, immediate on-line summary of all the information and entertainment you choose. It’s a 24-hour crib sheet to update you on your specific interests’. Its creators consider RSS the latest ‘weapon in the war against irrelevant information.’ In terms of democratic political communication this is worrying for if we accept Shapiro’s suspicions, RSS may mean that publics are choosing the information they receive while making it far easier than ever before to ignore other information and/or particular sources of information. The danger is that the Internet may encourage ignorance and apathy because the atomised nature of its use makes the reception of information a personal experience. In psychology-speak, ICTs are increasing ‘selective avoidance’ and thus undermining the need to consider alternative views (and reconsider one’s own) to achieve consonance (see Chapter 3 this volume). The liberal educative function of communication via interaction with alternative ideas, information and sources breaks down, and we can no longer claim that the more one participates, the more knowledgeable one becomes about political issues. Rather, the filtration mechanisms that allow users to choose the information they receive and the sources from which they receive it, means that even citizens of democracies are no longer forced to confront challenging ideas, thus limiting our knowledge and understanding of politics, and undermining the principles of free speech. From Athens on, democratic political communication is based on open dialogue between citizens allowing the competition of ideas. Shapiro fears that this filtration of information encourages the further marginalisation of ideas and opinions that are already marginal (an argument explored in detail by Noveck in Neuman, 1986). By having too much choice and the technological ability to filter out unpalatable ideas, are we sacrificing the existence of the very public sphere the net was supposed to encourage? Taking up these arguments, Manuel Castells (2001:119–20) believes there is less reason to worry than Shapiro and suggests that virtual interaction complements rather than replaces social interaction, an inference reinforced by his reading of studies of computer use in the UK. Researchers Ben Anderson and Katrina Tracey (in Ibid.:120) concluded that ‘there is no evidence from this data that individuals who now have Internet access in the household and who

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use it, are spending less time watching television, reading books, listening to the radio or engaged in social activity in the household in comparison with individuals who do not (or who no longer) have Internet access in their household.’10 Castells describes research conducted in the United States that discovered similar results, and even quotes Robert Putnam’s now classic account of the decline of disengagement from American political life, Bowling Alone (2000:170): ‘We also know that early users of Internet technology were no less (and no more) civically engaged than anyone else. By 1999 three independent studies … had confirmed that once we control for the higher educational level of Internet users, they are indistinguishable from no-users when it comes to civic engagement.’ So, the jury is still out on the impact that the Internet may or may not have on the scale and quality of democratic participation; arguments on both sides are equally persuasive. Maybe we are confronted with the same dilemma that the Chinese premier, Zhou Enlai faced when asked in the 1960s to comment on the 1789 French Revolution replied, ‘It is too early to tell’. Nevertheless, I think that we are now far from the original criticisms, amplified by Shapiro, which suggested Internet use would encourage alienation and atomisation. Our understanding of the Internet has sufficiently adjusted to appreciate that ‘online sociability’ in virtual communities ‘is a fact of everyday life’ (Feenberg and Bakardjieva, 2004:37), and the evidence presented by Castells and others demonstrates the opportunity offered by the Internet to engage within extended networks. These reinforce or complement, not replace, existing social relations. Although he missed this in the first edition of his book, Rheingold was aware by the time the second edition was published in 2000 that pre-existing social relations are important for understanding the impact of virtual communities. ‘One major difference between what I know now and what I knew when I wrote the first edition of this book is that I’ve learned that virtual communities won’t actually emerge or grow … simply by adding a forum or chatroom to a web page’ (Rheingold, 2000:341). Hence, the Internet’s contribution to the organisation and activity of political parties and interest groups, and to the formation of ‘rhizomatic politics’ as experienced most visibly by new social movements across the globe. Group politics are facilitated, not created, by the Internet.

Controlling the uncontrollable The greatest obstacle to the democratic potential of the Internet remains non-technological, namely governments who consider this

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communications system a threat to their political power and thus seek to constrain its use. Of course, the glass may be half-full; this threat assessment may be a positive indication of the potential strength of ICTs. Governments only attempt to ban and suppress technologies, information and people they judge dangerous and subversive. Nevertheless, the reality of attempted political containment contradicts the utopian aspirations of Netizens who once believed that it is impossible to censor or regulate Internet content, and that individual states had no authority in cyberspace. Across vast portions of the world, Internet content or access to the Internet is at best regulated and at worst denied by states pursuing interventionist or isolationist policies towards the information revolution. This situation also highlights how the vision of a globalised world characterised by the declining relevance and sovereignty of nation-states, especially in cyberspace, is misplaced. Rather, individual states are determined and able to control the Internet within their own borders, reinforcing and preserving their dominion. Many authoritarian governments face a serious predicament. Pursuing developmental agendas requiring interaction with an increasingly open and interdependent world, these governments must embrace ICTs for their economic promise while minimising their democratic potential. Kalathil and Boas (2001) have baptised this a proactive strategy, with governments ‘guiding Internet development and usage to promote their own interests and priorities.’ Regimes try to contain Internet use among the intellectual and scientific elites, that is, those required to access and publish information on behalf of national development. Singapore’s founder and first Prime Minister, Lee Kuan Yew, reinforced this agenda when he admitted that only the ‘top 3 to 5 percent of a society’ is able to handle the chaos and plurality of information offered by the Internet (Mallet, 1999:85). The rest of society must access the Internet via ‘proxy servers’ that deny users the right to see officially blacklisted sites, a management strategy shared by other authoritarian governments. Iran, too, has faced similar difficult choices. In 2001, the government closed most of Iran’s Internet cafés, known as ‘Coffeenets’. The reason was a curious mixture of business concerns and political posturing: the popularity of VoiceChat, the instant messaging service that allows Internet users actually to speak to each other meant that state-owned telephone companies started to lose revenue. Iran’s theocracy had initially embraced the Internet revolution, seeing the application of ICTs as a way of spreading the word of the Prophet, but then worried about the proliferation of the ‘immoral’ effects of western culture that

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Internet users could easily download from unregulated sites. In May 2003, the Iranian government began to block pornographic and other sites it judged subversive or obscene. Around 70 young users were arrested in March 2003 for meeting through an illegal on-line dating service, clearly suggesting that the authorities had monitored the chatrooms used. (A full discussion of the Internet in Iran, together with analysis of the theological debates that rage within Islam about and on the Internet is found in Franda, 2002:76–80). Chinese sources (especially those produced by the government, such as the People’s Daily and Xinhua) provide considerable evidence to suggest that the government is convinced the Internet can make a positive contribution to the country’s development. Hence, China has been at the forefront of the information revolution, promoting widespread access to the Internet and investing US$500 billion in the information technology industry by the end of 2005 in order to provide access to the benefits of ICTs across the entire country. Yet the Chinese government is also infamous for the regulations it imposes on this information revolution, trying to ‘limit the medium’s potential challenges through a combination of content filtering, monitoring, deterrence and the promotion of self-censorship’ (Kalathil & Boas, 2001). Internet cafes are required to use software that restricts access to particular websites and to keep records of their users and the sites they have visited. These measures outwardly undermine the principle that the Internet is a technology free from interference. When one considers the way some scholars and observers have discussed the potential impact of the Internet, it is not difficult to see why China is worried. Among the first to pronounce on the democratising possibilities of the Internet was US Secretary of State James Baker in 1991: No nation has yet discovered a way to import the world’s goods and services while stopping foreign ideas at the border. It is in our interest that the next generation in China be engaged by the Information Age … For this we determine the US feels that the Internet and information technology is a way in which democratic ideas will flourish and assist in managing the change that will come some day (Baker, 1991/1992: 16–17). Baker was followed by Gordon C. Chang who, in his 2001 book predicting The Coming Collapse of China, noted that ‘the regime may

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patrol cyberspace,’ but ‘it cannot help but be changed by the process’ (Chang, 2001:90). Jianhi Bi (2000: 421–41) concurred, suggesting that China’s need to enter the information age would collide with the Communist party’s determination to preserve its power, concluding that political change was inevitable. With so many suggesting that the Internet will force the eventual collapse of the Chinese communist party, it is little wonder that the regime feels under siege. It therefore imposes control on Internet use, believing that hostile nation-states might harness the Internet in a propaganda offensive, and therefore China must be ‘battle-ready’ to meet that threat. 11 In 2000, the Chinese State Council approved the ‘Measures for the Administration of Internet Information Services’, and it makes interesting reading. This lists the web content that the Chinese government has declared illegal, including: information considered contrary to constitutional provisions; information that endangers national security; information that threatens national honour; information that spreads rumours or undermines social stability; other information prohibited by the law and/or administrative regulations. In other words, the regulations lack specificity – a common technique, as we saw in the last chapter, whereby authoritarian states are able to exercise political expediency. As in other media systems, this ambiguous legal framework, reinforced by familiarity with the severe penalties for violation, encourages a culture of self-censorship. Anecdotal evidence suggests that the regulations have instilled a sense of caution among Chinese Internet users in the services they access; Internet providers are equally cautious about the information they publish on their websites. Yet there are grounds for optimism. A growing body of factualbased evidence suggests that Chinese Internet users are both circumventing restrictions and forcing the government to follow discourses that are determined and shaped by popular opinion expressed on-line. The downing of a US spy-plane on Hainan island in April 2001 generated what we might consider some of the most critical discussions allowed in China. These completely changed the government’s official response to this dramatic event and created a new momentum of nationalism that the government at first had tried to avoid (Gries, 2004). Moreover as Chapter 6 described, the death of Zhao Ziyang in January 2005 demonstrated the Internet’s potential to ferret out forbidden information and express grievances with government-controlled censorship: the Internet ‘has only endowed citizens with a heightened awareness of the amount of

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information that is being blocked’ (Emily Parker, ‘Cracks in the Chinese wall,’ The Asian Wall Street Journal, 26 January 2005). The lesson we can draw from this is that the Internet may be a communications system that is completely incompatible with communist political and social organisation. As we saw in the last chapter, the basis of communist party control over information is centralisation and vertical communication; the Internet, however, is designed to facilitate the decentralised spread of information and make possible horizontal communications. The connectivity associated with the Internet has the capacity to break down spatial and temporal relevance while undermining existing hierarchies. Predictably, these tensions worry governments, such as the Chinese Communist Party, that are determined to maintain a grip, however tenuous, on large populations (Traubmann, 1998).

Empowerment or alienation? The Internet does not provide a completely free space liberated from political control; states routinely exercise their capacity to influence the scale of national commitment to the Internet, the levels of investment in the required infrastructure, access and content. However, in assessing governments’ embrace or evasion of the information revolution politics is only half of the story, and we must consider the economic and technological barriers to the universal adoption of ICTs. Their exclusive constituency is a serious obstacle to the vision of a global e-democracy that fulfils the egalitarian requirements: serious inequalities in the access to the Internet undermine its idealist foundations and compel us to question its legitimacy as a tool of international democracy and community building. Democratic governments should be inclusive and treat all citizens equally (Catt, 1999:46); they should strive to provide the same level of services to all their citizens, but must pay particularly close attention to the welfare needs of the economically and socially marginalised and disadvantaged. However, these are precisely the groups most likely excluded from the information revolution and thus routinely denied access to its political and economic benefits. These groups must already struggle to find their political voice: whether the Internet helps them is questionable. First, we can find evidence of a global ‘digital divide’ (Holderness, 1998).12

Towards a New Democratic Political Communication 191 Table 7.1

How many on-line? (As of September 2002)

Middle East Africa Latin America Canada and USA Asia-Pacific Europe World Total

5.12 million 6.31 million 33.5 million 182.6 million 187.24 million 190.91 million 605.60 million

Source: http://nua.com/surveys/how_many_online/index.html

Table 7.2

The Digital Divide, 2005

Nation Iceland South Korea Denmark Sweden Australia United States Canada Finland Hong Kong Japan Singapore New Zealand Austria United Kingdom Israel Germany Italy Malaysia France Chile Slovakia Hungary Poland Bahrain Peru Russia Lithuania Mexico Brazil Argentina South Africa Croatia Saudi Arabia

Internet Users (% of population) 99.0 74.0 69.1 68.9 65.9 63.9 63.5 63.0 61.9 61.3 59.7 59.2 56.8 55.1 51.2 50.8 44.0 43.4 42.3 32.1 29.6 29.2 26.9 21.0 16.0 14.6 13.3 13.2 12.2 12.0 10.9 10.86 10.0

192 Political Communication and Democracy Table 7.2

The Digital Divide, 2005 – continued

Nation Qatar China Anguilla Philippines Indonesia Colombia India Egypt Namibia Botswana Kenya Guatemala Morocco Swaziland Bosnia and Herzegovina Cuba Ghana Pakistan Zimbabwe El Salvador Honduras Iran Angola Georgia Cote d’Ivoire Vietnam Albania Azerbaijan Gambia Haiti Libya Malawi Moldova Paraguay Syria Eritrea Lesotho Madagascar Nepal Rwanda Uganda Zambia Bhutan Guinea Laos

Internet Users (% of population) 9.1 7.7 7.2 7.0 5.4 4.4 3.5 3.2 2.3 2.1 1.5 1.4 1.2 1.2 1.1 1.0 0.9 0.7 0.7 0.6 0.6 0.6 0.5 0.5 0.4 0.4 0.3 0.3 0.3 0.3 0.3 0.3 0.3 0.3 0.3 0.2 0.2 0.2 0.2 0.2 0.2 0.2 0.1 0.1 0.1

Towards a New Democratic Political Communication 193 Table 7.2

The Digital Divide, 2005 – continued

Nation Mozambique Niger Sudan Burundi Cameroon Yemen Cambodia Nigeria Central African Republic Iraq Chad Turkmenistan Ethiopia Burma Bangladesh Congo, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Republic Liberia Somalia

Internet Users (% of population) 0.1 0.1 0.1 0.09 0.08 0.08 0.07 0.07 0.05 0.05 0.04 0.04 0.03 0.02 0.01 0.01 0.01 0.01 0.002

Source: Based on figures of population and absolute Internet penetration available from the CIA Factbook.

Tables 7.1 and 7.2 illustrate the existence of a clear global digital divide, with many developing countries in sub-Saharan Africa and South-East Asia excluded from the information age because of their poverty. In Southern Africa especially, the widespread lack of access to electricity and telephones makes the up-take of Internet technologies difficult, if not impossible. Franda (2002:12) reveals that in Southern Africa in 1999 only 20 percent of households had electricity, while Mark Davies, founder of the American company BusyInternet, described how in 2002 ‘There are 240,000 telephone lines in Ghana for 19 million people. … It takes about seven dials to make some phone calls go through, just across town’ (quoted in ‘Young American helps put Africa on Internet map,’ Taipei Times, 24 August 2002:19).13 One should also note that 87 percent of websites worldwide are published in English only (Castells, 2001:235), meaning that language and literacy – again linked to issues of poverty and development – are two of the most serious obstacles to benefiting from the still predominately text-based Internet (UNDP, 1999:62).

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However, access to the Internet is only one manifestation of the problem: like a wave rippling through a series of concentric circles, the effects of the digital divide surge outwards from the Internet so that access becomes a representation of division in wealth, social and telecommunications infrastructures, and economic and political power. Systems of communications, and especially the media, mirror the distribution of social and political power in particular countries, and the Internet is no exception (for example, research in many countries has demonstrated clear gender imbalances in Internet use UNDP, 1999:62). In addition, national investment strategies can be government responsibilities, especially in less developed countries, and of course the poverty that prevents many nation-states from joining the Internet revolution is largely a condition of political decisions taken at both the domestic and international levels. The Internet is impossible to institute without adequate information and communications systems already in place; users must possess relative amounts of education to use the Internet; and unless computers and access to them are provided free of charge by companies not expecting return on their investment, using the Internet requires a minimal standard of living. This directs us to understanding why governments managing the economies of less developed countries do face very difficult decisions of investment priorities. Heather Hudson (1997:238) concluded that creating modern telecommunications infrastructures in Eastern Europe amounted to US$67 billion. That’s US$67 billion. Can we honestly agree that new ‘digital international switches’ and ‘packet-switched data networks’ are legitimate investment priorities in a region rebuilding its economy and trying to consolidate democracy? There are market and social conditions that must be satisfied before the choice whether to join the information revolution becomes relevant. Before settling the ‘digital divide’, is it not more appropriate to solve the ‘hunger divide’ or the ‘literacy divide’? The digital divide does not contribute to the creation of deep-seated poverty, and access to the Internet is not its solution. Most disturbing is evidence of a growing digital divide within the advanced economies with democratic political systems, and within societies that experience high rates of Internet penetration. ‘Falling Through the Net’ was the appropriate and telling title given to a much cited comprehensive survey of Internet use by the US Department of Commerce between 1995 and 2000. 14 The data presented an unsettling picture of a growing digital divide in modern America – between the educated and under-educated; between the

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wealthy and poorer families; between white, black and Hispanic families (Lekhi, 2000); and between the disabled and the able-bodied. Falling Through the Net confirms the suspicions first raised by Manuel Castells (1998) that the information revolution is contributing to the creation of a Fourth World, one that is characterised by the absence of access to the information age between and within societies.15 The problem is that those excluded are not just information poor; they are also denied access to the trickle down of benefits promised by the champions of ICTs. For example, in developing countries where the spread of ICTs is fastest, a new class is emerging; growth in the information technology sector, and therefore the growth of incomes for those who are investing and working in it, means that income inequality is unavoidable (Morley, 2001). The production and consumption of ICT-related products and services perpetuates the existing class divisions whereby the poor, the illiterate and the socially impoverished remain on the periphery. This gives rise to a process of dualism, meaning in this case the existence of two separate economic and social sectors operating side by side. Dual societies typically have a rural, impoverished and neglected sector operating alongside an urban, developing or advanced sector, and there is little interaction between the two. The Internet amplifies the dual nature of many less-developed societies where ICTs and ICTrelated industries are concentrated in urban areas and have little impact beyond city boundaries. In short, we can conclude that a great many people in the world have no choice whether or not to participate in the process of political communications offered by the Internet, as demonstrated by Table 7.2. Their poverty is the deciding factor. There are signs of limited progress: Lekhi (2000:82) documents what might be done to encourage African Americans to go ‘on-line’, such as programmes to subsidise the cost of access, and community-based initiatives to provide ICTs for low income groups in public places. However, Lekhi raises the crucial point about economics: what happens if it is just not profitable for private companies to invest in such endeavours? Do the costs of provision outweigh the immediate benefits for the provider? In March 2001, Hewlett-Packard announced the launch of its World e-Inclusion programme to try and bridge the global digital divide. In reporting this, the Far Eastern Economic Review (29 March 2001:42–3) exercised caution by focusing on the businessside: ‘Nice idea, but will it pay?’ noting that HP would access to a ‘virgin market’ and ‘damn little competition’.

196 Political Communication and Democracy

Lekhi (2000:89–90) also reinforces the elitist access to the Internet and ICTs, echoing the concerns of David Agnew that began this chapter: … while the Internet offers the means by which to tailor political appeals and communicative and informational resources to specific constituent interests, what it in practice reinforces are already existing … failures within ‘real world’ politics to address issues of primary concern to African Americans. In this way, the long-standing failure within American politics more generally to engage the concerns of African Americans simply repeats itself in the on-line activities of mainstream political actors. And here, the growing disillusionment of African Americans with mainstream political activity is only likely to be reinforced on-line. … … much of the evidence suggests that the Internet is the preserve of already dominant social groups and political interests and that inequitable patterns of access remain the crucial determinant of the extent and type of participatory opportunities it gives rise to. In this quotation, Lekhi brings us full circle back to the discussion of Chapter 1. We should not expect the Internet to solve all the problems we identified at the beginning of this book – apathy, ignorance, unwillingness to engage in political processes – because the Internet may simply reinforce inequalities that prevent certain groups of citizens believing that their participation counts. The Internet is an instrument of communication that is most useful to, and used by, citizens already interested in the processes and institutions of modern politics: it is another vehicle of participation, not a panacea for the problems in democratic government. The argument for the emancipating power of the Internet is attractive and exciting but not particularly convincing nor grounded in empirical evidence. While it is possible to find a correlation between access to the Internet and political freedom, it is less easy to find proof of causation. It is one thing to say the Internet reduces the ability of states to check and control flows of information, but it is quite another to claim that the Internet weakens or reduces the political power of states. While great swathes of the democratic and non-democratic world remain outside the Internet revolution (either by political choice or economic necessity) democratic forces cannot depend on the Internet to engineer political change. For democratisation to occur there needs to be a whole series of other changes taking place within

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society, such as freedom of the press, of assembly, electoral competition and accountability. In other words, the Internet is not necessarily liberating, empowering or democratising, but it can help to strengthen governance and the institutions charged with the task of government and civil administration. The momentum for political change lies with other factors, particularly with the choices made by political elites or within civil society. The Internet may contribute to the mobilisation of these forces and the distribution of ideas – little more. Certainly Harry Rheingold, too often falsely criticised as the father of the utopian approach to the Internet, provides a fitting summary of why the Internet is limited as an instrument of civic renewal. In many ways, he echoes the famous vague quotation by Berelson reproduced in Chapter 1. Rheingold says of the Internet: We temporarily have access to a tool that could bring conviviality and understanding to our lives and might help revitalise the public sphere. The same tool, improperly controlled and wielded, could become an instrument of tyranny (Rheingold, 1993:14). This book began with a simple premise: that current cynicism is misplaced and that people throughout the world – from different societies, cultures, religions and political systems – want to participate in politics. They possess the desire to communicate their grievances, interests, anxieties and opinions to policy-makers who make decisions about their lives. As I reach the end of this book, my optimism remains undiminished. There are causes for concern: elections in many parts of the world are far from free or democratic. In Zimbabwe, for example, the elections in 2005 were scarred by record levels of intimidation and corruption, and the result was reportedly a forgone conclusion. Freedom of association in Zimbabwe is curtailed by the Public Order and Security Act (POSA) which prohibits political gatherings without prior police approval. The effects on campaigning are obvious. Moreover, the intimidation of journalists there (POSA has been evoked to arrest a reported 400 reporters, while a separate press control law has closed down four newspapers and arrest more than 100 journalists) as well as in Russia, China and other places, is deeply troubling and undermines western advocacy of press freedom. Since King Gyanendra seized power in February 2005, basic civil liberties, including freedom of thought, speech and the press have been suspended in Nepal. Moreover, any form of protest against the King or his new government

198 Political Communication and Democracy

is also prohibited. Even in the United Kingdom, these are worrying times. Although we only knew for certain on 12 April 2005 that the General Election would be held on 5 May, the political parties have been in campaign mode since January. Their quest for the vote of Middle England means that the Conservative party is confronting the kind of issues which, as we saw in Chapters 3 and 4, provoke an emotional response in public opinion: asylum seekers, immigration, abortion, and the rights of ‘travellers’ (‘Are you thinking what we’re thinking?’). Easy propaganda requires easy scapegoats, and no doubt we will experience the same kind of posturing once the British government finally decides to hold a referendum on adopting the Euro. Will voters be appropriately informed to make rational and reasoned judgements? Or will they be swayed by the tabloidisation of a very complex issue? At the beginning of the election campaign the parties outlined their strategies for mobilising support and communicating with voters. Michael Howard, the Conservative leader, personalised the election by attacking the ‘smirking politics of Mr Blair’ and questioning public trust in the Prime Minister, while setting out the party’s so-called ‘five commitments’ that would be the core of its campaign. The Labour party has decided on a localised campaign structured around the Prime Minister trying to communicate the message that he has not lost touch with the concerns of the grassroots. All the parties express concern with the prospect of a lower turnout than that recorded in 2001 and, along with the media, are seeking ways to animate voters into action (the Daily Telegraph on 6 April 2005 published the famous picture of General Kitchener from the First World War with the words ‘Your country needs you). At the same time, the power of new social movements has not weakened. I write these concluding remarks on the second anniversary of Operation Shock and Awe, the 2003 military campaign against Iraq. Throughout the world, demonstrators have again taken to the streets of major cities (45,000 marched through London) to communicate their continued opposition to the military occupation of Iraq and express their dissatisfaction with the explanations governments continue to give in justifying the war. In Zimbabwe, the political opposition may have lost the election before the campaign had even started, yet one week before the vote the Catholic Church called for a peaceful popular mass uprising to remove President Mugabe (The Independent, 28 March 2005, p.1), while the regime’s policy of trading food for votes provoked a groundswell of civil society dissatisfaction. The Sunday Times (27 March 2005:20)

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reported that during a speech by Mugabe in Gwanda, ‘a low chant of “hungry, hungry, hungry” reverberated through the crowd. Agitated secret service men … started to take names … [Mugabe] was hustled away. But the damage was done.’ In Krygystan, an authoritarian government was overthrown in March 2005 during what became known as a ‘tulip revolution’, the third former Soviet republic (after Georgia and Ukraine) to experience a popular revolt in less than 18 months following allegations of rigged elections. Clearly Samuel Huntington’s demonstration effect still has regional, if not international consequences. In Nepal, the King has suspended civil liberties but at the end of March 2005 protestors took to the streets of Kathmandu (having arrived in the city using regular bus services, thus getting through army checkpoints) chanting ‘Down with autocracy. We want democracy’ outside the Prime Minister’s office. Although many protestors were arrested, the opposition still planned to continue to stage demonstrations. Meanwhile, five sisters from Belfast have confronted the might of the Provisional Irish Republican Army (IRA) in a global campaign to seek justice for their murdered brother. They do not mobilise the tens of thousands at the disposal of the anti-war social movements or the popular protests in Krygystan, but the international sympathy for their cause indicates their communication of a powerful message using simple means: standing up for what they believe, people can make a difference in politics. And to do so they have a range of tools at their disposal, from traditional party and group organisations, through the organisation of referendums, to protest and the blogging on the Internet. Harold Lasswell reminded us that political communication is about who says what, to whom, through which channel and with what effect. These are still contested arenas in many parts of the democratic and non-democratic world; as the 2004 Hutton Inquiry demonstrated, even established democracies must face-up to the consequences of their political communication strategies. Answering Lasswell is not easy, for he missed out a number of qualifiers in his famous statement: who should or can say what to whom … The first is a normative question, addressed not always satisfactorily by the political theorists we encountered in Chapter 2. The second, who can say what to whom, is decided by political fiat; by elite consensus, by the slow evolutionary process of democratic consolidation, by authoritarian command, or by the people deciding for themselves that they have a right to speak through whichever channel they want.

Notes Chapter 1

Introduction: Crisis? What Crisis?

1 Langdon C. Stewardson, ‘The Moral Aspects of the Referendum’, International Journal of Ethics, Vol. 13, 1903: 147. Quoted in Zimmerman, 2001, p. 5. 2 The literature on this idea is quite extensive. See Dalton & Wattenberg (eds), 2000; Nye, Zelikow & King (eds), 1997; Pharr & Putnam, 2000; Hibbing & Theiss-Morse, 2001. 3 In his 1973 discussion of democracy, M.I. Finley (1973:3) wrote: ‘Perhaps the best known, and certainly the most vaunted “discovery” of modern public opinion research is the indifference and ignorance of a majority of the electorate in western democracies’. Finlay then added a footnote: ‘I write “discovery” in inverted commas because the phenomenon was already well known to older political analysts’. Commentators were particularly fond of their ‘discovery’ of this ‘crisis’ in the 1960s and 1970s. See Crozier, Huntington & Watanuki, 1975. 4 This is still better than the lowest recorded turnout in a parliamentary election. In a by-election in Leeds in July 1999, turnout was a mere 19.6 percent. At the 1999 European elections the constituency of Liverpool, Riverside recorded a 10 percent turnout. 5 The South Korean media were also pleased that the 59 percent turnout in the 2004 parliamentary elections was an increase of 2 percent over the last general election. This was considered ‘a reflection of the high emotions generated by [President] Roh’s impeachment – the country’s first since its founding in 1948.’ ‘Roh supporters clean up in poll,’ South China Morning Post, 16 April 2004, A10. 6 ‘The figures show voting in Chorley up from 32 percent in the comparable election to 53 percent, in Gateshead from 30 percent to 46 percent, in Middlesborough from 29 percent to 34 percent, in South Tyneside from 27 percent to 46 percent, in Stevenage from 29 percent to 46 percent, in Trafford from 36 percent to 42 percent’. ‘Postal voting boosts turnout in local polls,’ The Guardian, 1 May 2002. 7 ‘A Turkish tycoon who is leading his political party into a general election campaign … has found an enterprising way to boost his ratings: he is text messaging voters via his family’s mobile phone company. … Customers … have been inundated with emotive texts such as: “If I fail, may God strike me down.”’ ‘Turkish tycoon drums up votes by text message,’ The Sunday Times, 29 September 2002:28. India’s Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) likewise launched an ‘e-campaign’ in the 2004 federal elections: ‘ “I was in the gym when my mobile rang and it was the prime minister calling. I was completely thrown,” said a fashion exporter after Mr Vajpayee’s recorded message began going out last week on India’s fast-expanding phone network.’ In particular, the BJP used new technology to get its message 200

Notes 201

8 9

10

11

12 13

14

15

16

17

18

across to younger voters. ‘Vajpayee rings changes in latest polling campaign,’ South China Morning Post, 12 March 2004: A12. India’s federal elections, held between 20 April and 10 May 2004, used more than one million electronic voting machines for the first time. And it doesn’t just happen in Florida. Monica Trow of London wrote to the Sunday Times (13 June 2004) after voting had closed in the local, European and London mayoral polls: ‘How easy it is to be disenfranchised. I had returned my registration form but I had a visit from a charming officer who had no record of it. I confirmed the names of the people at the address and we agreed the form must have been received after her list was compiled. At the polling station I was told I could not vote because my name was not on the list. The officer there tried to be helpful and gave me the electoral officer’s phone number. When I rang I learnt that somebody had crossed out the names and written that the house was empty. … I have lived here for 10 years.’ In the 2004 presidential election, Florida promised to be ‘almost entirely chad-free. In the big cities the old punch-cards have been replaced by voterfriendly touch-screens, a sort of electoral equivalent to cash machines …’ ‘Blacks aim to avenge Florida’s 2000 poll’, The Guardian, 2 November 2002:15. This was a new problem confronting Germany in its 2002 general election. Traditionally dominated by issues, this election was, for the first time, based on the personality, leadership qualities and image of the two main contenders. One reason was the arrival in Germany of the televised debate. For a comprehensive discussion of the how the media has affected American voters, see Cappella & Jamieson, 1997. The Jo Moore controversy prompted the publication of a critical report by the Commons Public Administration Committee, and sparked an independent inquiry into the government’s information services. Dr Kelly apparently committed suicide after he was identified as the source of a BBC report quoting an unnamed official as saying the British government had exaggerated the case for war against Iraq. In response to the victory of the Far Right British National Party in a council election in Halifax (January 2003), the home secretary, David Blunkett said: ‘I have said there is a real problem that the people do not believe and do not feel that their concerns are being addressed. … We need to persuade people that the solution cannot be answered by these far rightwing groups and that the answers they are putting forward are dangerous’ (‘Triumph for BNP sounds alarm bells’, The Guardian, 25 January 2003:11). On Saturday 30 August 2003, the day after Campbell’s resignation, the Sun newspaper devoted 11 pages to David Beckham; the following day, the People devoted 16 pages to the same subject. Today’s newspapers really are tomorrow’s fish and chips paper. Report of the Inquiry into the Circumstances Surrounding the Death of Dr David Kelly C.M.G by Lord Hutton (House of Commons, 28th January 2004), 12, pp. 320–1 (2:i); p. 322 (3:ii). ‘The effect of the mutual spinning-war engaged in by the politicians and the media is not a proper scepticism that nourishes a questioning electorate, but a weary cynicism that makes people want to stay as far away

202 Notes

19

20

21

22 23

24

25

from the political process as possible.’ ‘The crucial task of restoring trust’, The Guardian, 4 September 2003:4. ‘Disengagement of young people from party politics was threatening the lifeblood of democracy, Labour’s general secretary [David Triesman] said’. ‘Labour inquest on membership loss’, The Guardian, 29 January 2002. ‘Millions turn out for Nigerian elections’, The Independent on Sunday, 13 April 2003. Still, many ballot papers and boxes were stolen or simply failed to turn up at the voting stations in several south-eastern states of Nigeria. The election was also marred by extensive violence, with 12 people dying in election-related violence. Echoing the sentiments of citizens in many ‘consolidated’ democratic political systems, one Nigerian voter said: ‘I will vote, but I know that nothing will be different. All our politicians are the same’ (‘A weary Nigeria pins few hopes on poll marred by violence,’ The Independent, 10 April 2003:19). ‘Malta and Uruguay gain pride of place as the countries with the world’s highest turnout [in the 1990s] with over 96 percent of their eligible population voting.’ www.idea.int.vt/survey/voter_turnout1.cfm. For the most recent country-by-country figures, see www.ifes.org/eguide/turnout2003.htm and www.ifes.org/eguide/turnout2004.htm. For classification of democracies, see the Freedom House website, www.freedomhouse.org ‘[M]any of the ideas connected with the general theme of Duty to Vote belong properly to the totalitarian camp and are out of place in the vocabulary of liberal democracy’ (Morris Jones, 1954:25). Apathy should be understood as having a ‘beneficial effect on the tone of political life’ because it is a ‘more or less effective counter-force to the fanatics who constitute the real danger to liberal democracy’ (Ibid.:37). ‘In March 1990, 2,534 East Germans voted for the German Beer Drinkers’ Union, and in October 1991, 3.27 percent of the Polish electorate voted for the Polish Beer Lovers’ Party and won 16 seats in the Sejm – evidence of disillusionment with conventional politics even before democracy is firmly established (Hill, 1994:272). While Hill’s conclusion is unsubstantiated, he nevertheless draws our attention to one of the problems of pluralism and democratic procedures in competitive party systems. This is the conclusion of Shaun Bowler & Todd Donovan, 2002. Frequent exposure to a range of sources of information means that voters are increasingly sophisticated consumers. ‘Television advertisements, then, may not be as inconsequential as is feared by their critics.’ Ibid.:790.

Chapter 2 Guarding Against the ‘Deep Slumber of a Decided Opinion’ 1 John Stuart Mill, On Liberty, in Utilitarianism, 1969 edn.:170): ‘The fatal tendency of mankind to leave off thinking about a thing when it is no longer doubtful, is the cause of half their errors. A contemporary author has well spoken of “the deep slumber of a decided opinion”’. 2 Women were classed as citizens, but not active citizens. Thus they were likewise denied an opportunity to participate in politics.

Notes 203 3 David Held (1996:16), has noted that this speech was ‘probably “composed” by Thucydides some thirty years after its delivery’. 4 ‘Governance is to be a continued effort in mass education’ (Davis, 1964:40). Or, ancient democracy was predicated on an effort to give all citizens, regardless of background and wealth, an opportunity ‘to express and transform their understanding of the good through political interaction’ (Farrar, 1992:38). 5 However, until the late 5th Century, there was an age qualification to speak in the Assembly, with participants over 50 years old being invited to do so first. 6 C.B. Macpherson (1973) and Carol Pateman (1970) would disagree, believing that genuine democracy requires us to pay greater attention to introducing as much direct forms of participation as we can. Some Swiss cantons still practice direct democracy through the Landsgemeinden in which all citizens can participate in debates. Ian Budge (1996) has discussed how the Internet is likely to make a positive contribution to the development of direct democracy. 7 Actually, the Assembly had a quorum (the minimum number required for business to be legal, and therefore legitimate) of 6,000 citizens. 8 I am grateful to Dr Susan McManus of Queens University, Belfast for drawing this to my attention. 9 ‘Take only the example of Islam: if Maguindanao met Berbers in Mecca, knowing nothing of each other’s languages, incapable of communicating orally, they nonetheless understood each other’s ideographs, because [sic] the sacred texts they shared existed only in classical Arabic.’ Ditto Christianity and Latin. 10 A useful discussion of the relationship between the development of the printing press and the Protestant reformation is provided in Thompson, 1995, Chapter 2. 11 On debates concerning the legitimacy of this label, see Lively & Reeve, 1989:64–71. 12 It is interesting, however, that Locke’s toleration did not extend to Catholics or atheists. See McClelland, 1996:243. 13 Later, John Stuart Mill likewise dismissed the idea that an Athenian direct democracy was compatible with the demands, size and spread of modern society. See his Consideration on Representative Government. pp. 175–6, 179–80, 217–18. 14 Thomas Paine, The Rights of Man. Paine was writing in response to Edmund Burke who believed that a constitution created, practiced, and passed down by the ruling classes was good for England, and that the liberalism of the 18th century was responsible for the subversion of Europe that made it the century of revolutions. See his Reflections on the Revolution in France. Also see J.G.A. Pocock, ‘Burke and the Ancient Constitution – A Problem in the History of Ideas’, in Lively & Reeve, 1989:159–182. 15 Schumpeter focuses on the procedural dimensions of democracy. That is, democracy is synonymous with elections, and the role of the citizen is limited to casting a ballot for government every four or five years. Between elections, voters had no responsibility because they had transferred their power to their elected politicians.

204 Notes 16 Berlusconi’s opponents, including many in Italy’s coalition government, have tried to force through Italy’s legislative process constitutional amendments that would prevent anyone – including the Prime Minister – from owning more than two television channels. Paul Statham (1996) provides an excellent discussion of the basis of Berlusconi’s power and its consequences for Italian politics. 17 This discussion is based on ‘Media alert: In the labyrinth of illusion’, Media Lens Media Alert, www.medialens.org/alerts/2004/040219_Labyrinth_Illusion.html. 18 In 2003, the British government tried to introduce the Communications Bill. This included what became known as the ‘Murdoch clause’, designed to ease restrictions on cross-media ownership to allow a major newspaper group to buy Channel 5 Television. Current legislation prevents anyone owning over 20 percent of the newspaper market from buying the station, a clause that applies only to Rupert Murdoch. The Bill also proposes lifting restrictions on non-EU companies buying the ITV network, which would open the British television market to Disney, AOL, and Time Warner. Critics believe that the government’s plan to introduce the ‘Murdoch clause’ is designed to keep his newspapers on side so they will be less hostile to the government in a referendum on the Euro. In June 2003, the Federal Communications Commission in the United States voted to make it easier for media companies to buy more television and radio stations. 19 Louis Althusser (1971) also talks of ‘Ideological State Apparatuses’, including religion, education, family, the legal and political systems, trades unions, and media/cultural systems. 20 In particular see Marcuse’s One Dimensional Man, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1964; and Adorno & Horkheimer’s essay on ‘The Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception’, in The Dialectics of Enlightenment, New York: Herder & Herder, 1972. 21 The best history of the Frankfurt School is Wiggershaus (1994). 22 Thus we contest the proposition put forward by Dahlgren (in Bennett & Entman, 2001:36), that ‘any a prori exclusions of any segment of the population [from the public sphere] collides with democracy’s claim to universalism’. As originally conceived, the public sphere was not universal, but bourgeois. Moreover, as we have seen, the notion that democracy implies universalism is a recent and still vigorously contested notion. 23 Adlai Stevenson said, ‘The idea that you can merchandise candidates for high office like breakfast cereal is the ultimate indignity to the democratic process’, quoted in Roll & Cantrill, 1972:36–7. 24 I am grateful to both Alison Edgley, Chomsky expert and author of the wonderful Social and Political Thought of Noam Chomsky (London: Routledge, 2000), and to an anonymous referee of this chapter for clarifying my thinking on Chomsky and Herman.

Chapter 3

Public Opinion

1 This is especially important if we agree with Walter Lippmann (1997 edn.:31) that public opinion can be created. 2 Lane and Sears (1964:10) draw our attention to how the judgement of ‘extreme’ or ‘moderate’ is always relative. What does everyone else think in that particular society at that particular time? Lane and Sears use the

Notes 205

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example of anti-Semitism: a Nazi in Germany who believed that Jews should be ‘publicly identified’ but did not wish to treat them in a ‘discriminatory’ fashion would not have been considered extreme. The same opinion expressed in the United States would be considered extreme. In August 2003, citizens were able to log on to the website of the British Prime Minister and leave an electronic message. ‘The prime minister will not read each one – or reply to any – but officials will screen out the abusive, submit the most pertinent, and compile regular reports on the contents of the rest’ [emphasis added]. ‘[email protected],’ The Guardian, 29 August 2003:13. In the run-up to the 2003 war on Iraq, leaked memos from Spain’s ambassador in the United Nations said Britain’s government was increasingly ‘nervous’ and ‘exclusively obsessed’ with domestic public opinion. ‘The British effort … is an attempt to show to their public opinion that London has made, right up until the last moment, a major effort to seek peace …’ ‘UK “nervous of public opinion”,’ The Guardian, 15 March 2003. During research in Taiwan at the time of the 1996 presidential election campaign, I asked a twenty-something graduate living in the capital, Taipei, how he had voted. He voted not for the candidate he favoured, but for the candidate his parents, living at the other end of the island, told him to. When reminded that it had been a secret ballot and his parents need not know how he voted, he responded that Chinese ‘culture’ would not have allowed him to lie to his parents. The classic text that examines peer/primary group pressure on voting behaviour is Berelson, Lazarsfeld & McPhee (1954). Andrain & Apter (1995:245–6) suggest that educational institutions and churches have the greatest influence in instilling tolerance of civil liberties. As the level of education increases, so does political tolerance (Wolfinger & Rosenstone, 1980). However, certain fundamentalist churches reveal a greater tendency towards being less tolerant because of their ‘theological monism’. In 2002, the Conservative Party launched a drive to ‘make it fashionable to be Conservative’ among young voters. Of a party membership of around 320,000 in 2002, only 10,000 were under 30. In the 2001 General Election, the Conservatives lost to the Labour Party most severely in the 18–34 age group. ‘Tories take direct line in hunt for youth vote,’ The Guardian, 5 February 2002. There was widespread reported concern that media coverage of immigration and asylum seekers had encouraged support for the Far Right in British local elections, 2001–3 – characterised by sensationalist alarmism in the right-wing press. ‘Civil society consists of those groups which are “above” the personal realm of the family but “beneath” the state. … Such institutions … are voluntary in character and autonomous from the government’ (Hague & Harrop, 2001:119). Civil society is characterised by autonomous groups that are allowed by the state to organise and articulate their interests; a public sphere in which this articulation and discussion can occur. See Gill, 2000:59. See the work of the French cultural anthropologist and sociologist, Pierre Bourdieu, for a more theoretical approach to socialisation, especially ‘The Genesis of the Concepts of Habitus and Field,’ Sociocriticism, Theories, and Perspectives II, (1985: 11–24).

206 Notes 11 Citizens ‘actively filter, sort, and reorganize information in personally meaningful ways in the process of constructing and understanding of public issues’ (Neuman, Just, & Crigler, 1992:77). 12 Lippmann is here quoting from Richard Berenson, The Central Italian Painters of the Renaissance, p.60. 13 In 1961, Gerhard Lenski wrote: ‘ … it is clear that religion in various ways is constantly influencing the daily lives of the masses of men and women in the modern American metropolis. More than that: through its impact on individuals, religion makes an impact on all the other institutional systems of the community in which these individuals participate. Hence, the influence of religion operates at the social level as well as at the personal level’ (Lenski, 1961:289). For a more up-to-date account see ‘A portrait in red and blue,’ The Economist, 3 January 2004:30–32: ‘Out in Chicago suburbs some churches have thousands of members. … San Francisco, by contrast, has been closing churches for years. There was a time when the Roman Catholic archbishop was one of the most powerful political figures in town. Today, he is not merely a marginal figure in a largely secular city, but also just one voice amid a religious cacophony that praises everything from Buddhism to the Church of Satan’. 14 Weakening trades union power was a central aim of the New Right conservatives of the 1970s and 1980s. The 1979 Conservative party election manifesto described how ‘outside groups’ had seized the powers of Parliament (See Judge, 1993). Consequently, the role of parties and parliament in the political system had diminished. Successive Conservative governments after 1979 passed legislation to curb union power and influence. 15 On 17 July 2002, 750,000 council workers across the United Kingdom staged a one-day strike. The next day’s headlines suggested a deteriorating relationship with the Labour government: ‘Unions to confront Labour’, ‘Tony Blair’s rapidly deteriorating relationship with the trade unions …’; ‘cash-strapped Labour knows the unions will threaten further cuts in donations if the government does not make the required concessions’. The Guardian, 18 July 2002. The Labour party announced that membership fees would have to rise to offset the decline in donations from the unions. ‘Labour plans big rise in fees for members’, The Guardian, 12 July 2002. Also see ‘Rail union cuts cash support to Labour’, The Guardian, 26 June 2002. In June 2002, the RMT, Britain’s main rail union, voted to cut donations to the Labour party by £700,000 over five years in protest of the government’s transport policy. The Guardian suggested this was ‘a significant step towards severing its [the RMT] historic links to the Labour party’. Backbench MPs who opposed the government’s plans continued to receive RMT sponsorship. 16 Ministers should never forget the correlation between polls and elections: ‘In 1969, Dick Crossman, the secretary of state for social services, announced a 25% increase in the cost of health service teeth and spectacles 48 hours before polling day, and then admitted that he had forgotten about the municipal elections. His diary does not give the details of the following Thursday’s catastrophe.’ Roy Hattersley, ‘Why I wish my vote was in Llangollen’, The Guardian, 28 April 2003. 17 An ICM/Observer poll in the run-up to the 2001 General Election discovered that two-thirds of Labour voters planned to support the Liberal Democrats if they were more likely that Labour candidates to unseat sitting Conservative MPs.

Notes 207 18 For a very brief discussion of sampling see Rosenblatt, 1999:32. Generally speaking, there is a profound trade-off between cost, speed and accuracy. A random, or probability sample gives everyone an equal opportunity to be selected to take part, but they are expensive in time and money. The second type of sample is the quota, when the respondents are chosen from census data as representative of a particular demographic or geographic group. The speed at which politics moves – especially during elections – does not provide sufficient time for a good probability poll, therefore quota polls tend to more popular. 19 In an opinion poll with a sample of 1,000 people, the margin of error is +/– 3 percent; with a sample of over 3,000, the error falls to less than +/– 2 percent.

Chapter 4

Instruments of Expression (I): Group Politics

1 Mass parties ‘originate outside the assembly, in groups seeking representation in the legislature … The working-class socialist parties that spread across Europe around the turn of the twentieth century were prime examples … The German Social Democratic Party (SPD), founded in 1875 in hostile conditions, is the classic case. … The United States, almost uniquely among consolidated democracies, never developed mass parties’. Hague & Harrop, 2001:168–9. 2 The continuing relevance of parties is suggested by their rapid proliferation in former authoritarian political systems. The first elections held in the German Democratic Republic in 1990 were contested by 30 parties; the Hungarian elections the same year by 65 registered parties, and 32 other parties and associations were identified; the 1991 elections in Poland and Bulgaria were contested by 90 and 60 parties respectively (Ronald J. Hill, ‘Democracy in Eastern Europe’ in Budge & McKay (eds) 1994:267–283). 3 It is important to note, however, that powerful arguments have been made against parties. Ostrogorski (1902, Chapter 8) for example, expressed his opposition to political parties because they are permanent groups that continue to exist after the issue that prompted their organisation has been resolved. Therefore, they come to represent the interests of a narrow elite that is not genuinely representative of voters. 4 More detailed data on European party membership can be found in Peter Mair and Ingrid van Biezen, ‘Party membership in twenty European democracies, 1980–2000’, Party Politics 7(1), 2001:5–21. The figures presented here from Hague and Harrop are taken from Mair and van Biezen (Table 1, p. 9, Table A1, p. 15) but rounded up to the nearest whole figure. 5 In the Soviet Union, for example, the military-industrial complex became an institutionalised interest group, seeking to further its own interests in relation to government policy. 6 Readers should also see S.E. Finer’s 1958 classic, with a second edition published in 1966, Anonymous Empire: A Study of the Lobby in Great Britain, London: Pall Mall Press. 7 Parkinson’s important and enlightening article details the participation of citizen juries and interest groups in a public debate about hospital reconfiguration in Leicester in 2000.

208 Notes 8 The all-powerful National Rifle Association (NRA) in the United States has an annual budget of $40 million and employs 275 full-time staff (Hague & Harrop, 2001:157). Its members also believe they have the American constitution on their side. This leads Hague & Harrop to conclude that ‘Despite public sympathy, the coalition of gun control groups cannot match the NRA’s “fire power”.’ 9 The most notorious example from recent British politics that insider groups can influence government policy but do so at the expense of other groups’ interests (and even government’s own principles) is the so-called ‘Bernie Ecclestone affair’. In November 1997, Formula One racing tycoon Eccelstone donated £1 million to the Labour party. It was then alleged that the Labour government decided to discard its election manifesto promise to ban on tobacco advertising (Formula One racing being sponsored by that industry). This precipitated a discussion about the role of business lobbying in the British political system, and in particular the way cash donations can be used to buy influence. It seems that access to the system is determined by the resources at a group’s disposal. At the same time, when Britain’s biggest transport union, the RMT, voted to cut its donations to the Labour party in June 2002, Tony Wright (Labour chairman of the public administration select committee) said, ‘If the deal is money for policies, I hope we shall say, “Thank you, but no thank you.” ‘ ‘Rail union cuts cash support to Labour’, The Guardian, 26 June 2002. 10 Perhaps the most blatant examples of insider groups are found in the European Commission. The Economist (23 October 2004:42) reported that ‘Many of the NGOs that Brussels likes to consult are directly financed by the commission itself’ and tend to be supportive of Commission-led policy initiatives. 11 The Blair government has taken measures, via the so-called Nolan Report, to limit the influence of lobbies and to regulate the contact that ministers and civil servants have with lobbyists. They were told not to privilege one lobby over another, nor to accept or give hospitality to lobbies in return for information or favours. The ‘cash for questions’ controversy arose when two Sunday Times journalists posed as businessmen to find out whether MPs would raise questions in Parliament in return for cash payment. 12 A useful introduction to (new) social movements is Tarrow, 1998. 13 Activist/author George Monbiot has said of the anti-globalisation movement: ‘I think the great majority of people who have joined this movement started off with a vague sense that something was wrong and not necessarily being able to put their finger on what it was. Having a sense that power was being removed from their hands, then gradually becoming more informed, often in very specific areas because what you find in our community of activism is that some people who are very concerned about farming, those who are very interested in the environment, or labour standards, or privatisation of public services, or Third World debt. These interests tie together and the place they all meet is this issue of corporate power’ (‘Where did all the protestors go? The Observer, 14 July 2000). 14 In 1996, 41 percent of respondents in a British Social Attitudes survey said that they should obey the law without exception. In 1983, the figure was 53 percent. 55 percent in 1996 agreed that on exceptional cases they should

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follow their conscience even if this meant breaking the law. In 1983, the figure was 46 percent. Curtice & Jowell, 1996:95. Tormey (2004:50–61) credits the origin of social movements to the fracturing of the European left after the Prague Spring and the protests that erupted in Paris, both in 1968. In December 2002, demonstrations in central London by an estimated 5,000 people are thought to have contributed to the Prime Minister’s decision to back-down on charging students top-up fees (though Cabinet ministers were also allegedly against the proposal). For a view on the different approaches to political activism across the United States, see ‘A portrait in red and blue,’ The Economist, 3 January 2004:30–32. The report contrasts the political cultures of two different cities in the United States, demonstrating the importance of not generalising about such a geographically and demographically diverse country. The anti-war protest that marched through London on 15 February 2003, described as the biggest in British political history, likewise attracted a range of participants that one would not otherwise expect to find in demonstrations. This was a poll conducted by the Roman Catholic Church in December 2003. It found that 90 percent of people aged 14–24 favoured a direct election of the Chief Executive in 2007; almost 94 percent wanted direct elections for all lawmakers by 2008. See David Lague, ‘Democracy Tolls for Tung’, The Far Eastern Economic Review, 15 January 2004:28–32. This is consistent with the models developed by Westley & MacLean (1957) that examined the versions of news and events published by media based on editorial selections that are themselves determined by assumptions made of audience interest. This was the 12th annual Autumn March, launched by the Committee for Action for Labor Legislation to ‘remind the government of the kind of difficulties workers face every year’. ‘Angry unemployed create a stink’, Taipei Times online edition, http://www.taipeitimes.com, 11 November 2002. The failure of the fuel protests can be explained by ‘poor tactics and a lack of solidarity’ that meant the protestors ‘were unable to win major concessions from government and, in that sense, their impact was … limited.’ Doherty et al. 2003:19.

Chapter 5

Instruments of Expression (II): Referendums

1 Comparative research has identified a correlation between states that have historical experience of direct democracy and the continued use referendums (for example, Switzerland and several states of the US). Butler & Ranney, 1978:6. 2 See how President Charles de Gaulle justified their wide use in France. Vincent Wright, ‘France’, in Butler & Ranney, 1978:144. 3 ‘The sheer complexity and density of the [Nice] treaty [on EU enlargement] makes it a soft target for misleading simplifications. “This is not easy to sell,” confesses … a junior minister of [Ireland’s] ruling Fianna Fail party … “It is not very user-friendly” ‘. ‘Irish keep Europe guessing on enlargement’,

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The Guardian, 12 October 2002:4. The issue of voting conservatively is tackled by Qvortrup (2001:191) who found that ‘50.9 percent of all referendums in western Europe since 1945 have resulted in a no vote.’ This does not, however, detract from the main reservations of referendums from the perspective of political communication. We shall quickly gloss over Alderson’s remarkably unempirical statements that: ‘In general British electors are better educated and more sophisticated than Italian’ (p. 67), and ‘The Italian electors are less sophisticated than the British’ (p. 80). The proposition that referendums encourage voting for the status quo is tested by Christin, Hug and Sciarini (2002) using quantitative methods. On the subject of television advertisements in citizen initiated referendums, see Bowler & Donovan, 2002. Similarly in the 2002 Irish referendum on the Nice Treaty, the ‘No’ campaign used scare-monger tactics that focused on the possible threat to Irish neutrality. For example, voters were told that the Treaty would make Ireland subservient to NATO; one leaflet asked: ‘Why should young Irish lives be lost in a conflict which is not of our making, such as in a war between the US and Iraq?’ ‘Irish ayes smiling on a bigger EU’, The Guardian, 21 October 2001:15. Also, the ‘Yes’ campaign in the 2002 Irish referendum on the Nice Treaty was supported by a coalition of pro-EU political parties, industries and unions. Moreover, the government organised a large-scale information campaign that included a so-called ‘travelling forum’ that took pro-Europe speakers to debates staged throughout Ireland. Ibid. Each household received ‘a single document containing a statement of between 1,000 and 2,000 words of each of the opposing views, together with answers given by each side to the same set of questions’. Alderson, 1975:86. The result of the referendum: 67.2 percent in favour of staying in EEC, 32.8 percent against with a turnout of 64.5 percent. ‘ “He [Blocher] went for gut arguments which appealed to the conservative, rainy-day types of which this country is full.” ‘ ‘Switzerland decides to join UN’, The Guardian, 4 March 2002:15. The national vote was 55 percent Yes and 45 percent No, with 12 cantons voting Yes and 11 voting No. Research on the 1999 Australian referendum has suggested that ‘the fixed nature of a referendum – choosing to vote YES or NO to a single proposition – is conducive to greater voter certainty than is a fluid and shifting election campaign in which multiple issues, some of them cross-cutting, are discussed.’ Higley & McAllister, 2002:852. ‘At 60.4 percent, it was enough to withstand potential gripes that the people of Scotland had not demonstrated sufficient interest for the project to go ahead wholeheartedly’. Brian Taylor, ‘Scotland Decided – The Referendum’, http:// www.bbc.co.uk/politics97/devolution/scotland/briefing/scotbrief2.shtml. In 1979, Welsh devolution was ‘decisively rejected – only 20 percent of voters (12 percent of the electorate) voted YES. In Scotland, a narrow majority of voters (51.9 percent) supported the proposals, but this represented only 32.9 percent of the electorate’. Denver, 2002:828. For the full details, see ‘Towns and their poll positions’, The Guardian, 3 April 2002:8; and ‘Fringe candidates win mayor elections’, The Guardian, 19 October 2002:9.

Notes 211 15 Attlee made this statement in response to Churchill’s suggestion that a referendum be held on the prolongation of the coalition government in 1945 (Goodhart, 1971:48–9). 16 On timing one should consider the murder of the Swedish foreign minister, Anna Lindh, on the eve of the 2003 referendum on whether or not to adopt the euro. Reports had predicted that there would be a sudden outburst of emotional voting that would swing Swedish voters to endorsing the euro, as advocated by Lindh’s spearheading the ‘Ja’ campaign. Eve of referendum polls showed suggested that although the voters had inclined towards rejecting the euro, Lindh’s murder had narrowed the gap between the yes and no camps, meaning the result was uncertain. In the end, however, the Swedish voters resolutely rejected adopting the euro: 41.78 percent voted yes, and 56.15 percent voted no (turnout was 83 percent) suggesting that the coincidence of Lindh’s murder with the referendum was not as politically significant as many observers had speculated. 17 In a House of Commons debate on 21 November 1991, Douglas Hurd quoted Thatcher quoting Attlee. See Hansard, 21 November 1991, Column 440, http://www.parliament.the-stationery-office.co.uk/pa/cm199192/ cmhansrd/1991-11-21/Debate-2.html. I am grateful to my colleague, Phil Cowley, for helping me locate this. 18 In June 2003, Poland held a referendum on membership of the European Union. A 50 percent turnout was required to give the vote legal force. Hence, the Polish government sought to boost participation by organising the vote over two-days. Hungarians held their own referendum on EU membership on 13 April 2003. Although less than half of those eligible to vote did so, membership was supported by 83.8 percent. For criticism of the minimum turnout rule, see Uleri, 2002. 19 The prospect in 2004 of a referendum in France to decide whether Turkey should join the European Union provoked a number of interesting questions: How would this be organised? What questions would be asked to solicit a genuine opinion? Would the French be exposed to emotional and increasingly racist campaigning? How would the decision translate into a decision at European level on Turkey’s entry? Should French populism decide Turkey’s fate? 20 In 1911, Governor Woodrow Wilson of New Jersey railed against ‘the great inextricable jungle of organizations intervening between the people and the processes of their government’, meaning a ‘loss of the purity and directiveness of representative government’ (quoted in Zimmerman, 2001:234). 21 Pier Vincenzo Uleri (2002:863) has suggested that the frequent use of referendums subjects political systems to constant strain. 22 Political science’s approach to referendums in Switzerland is represented most presciently by Vatter (2000). See also the quantitative approach offered by Christin & Hug (2002). 23 See www.idea.int.vt/survey/voter_turnout1.cfm. Data provided by International IDEA refute the idea that compulsory voting laws have a dramatic effect on differential turnout: ‘A somewhat surprising result of this study is that the 24 nations which have some element of compulsion associated with voting have only a small lean in turnout over the 147 nations without any compulsory voting laws’. Pier Vincenzo Uleri (2002:881) is critical of compulsory voting in referendums as it ‘impairs the quality of political life … Strong voter turnout is desirable provided it is an expression of the

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elector’s attention and interest in the res republica, rather than a result of coercion.’ Even in Switzerland, referendum capital of the world, the average turnout in referendums between 1978 and 1986 was just 37 percent (Austen, Butler & Ranney, 1987:139). This increased to 48.2 percent (1987–1989) before dropping again to 45.1 percent between 1990 and 1993 (Kris W. Kobel, ‘Switzerland’ in Butler & Ranney, 1994:135). The referendums that asked should Switzerland abolish its army, or withdraw from the European Union attracted a bigger turnout; the 1992 referendum on EU membership attracted a 78.3 percent turnout, the highest in Switzerland for 45 years. Political scientists analysing this data have concluded that there is a correlation between turnout and issue, with more ‘important’ constitutional issues that will affect the future of Switzerland naturally of more interest to voters. See Ibid. Provisions for initiative and referendums are detailed in Chapter 2 of the Swiss constitution. ‘In voting to repeal a local law that protected homosexuals from discrimination … the people of Miami, Florida, sent an unintended message. They reminded us that the rights of minorities are too important to be trusted to the passions of passing majorities’. Anthony Lewis, ‘Tyranny of a Majority’, New York Times, 13 June 1977, quoted in Zimmerman, 2001:247. Switzerland is an exception to this rule: ‘ … modern Switzerland contains virtually every ingredient needed to produce social instability – deep linguistic, ethnic and religious differences … combined with the temporary presence … of one million foreign workers and residents … Despite the presence of so many factors which have produced instability elsewhere, Swiss stability is taken for granted’ (Goodhart, 1971:87). This has not prevented campaigning and voting along ethnic lines. In the 2002 referendum on whether Switzerland should join the United Nations, the Yes campaign was supported in French-speaking areas, while the No campaign found its support in the German- and Italian-speaking areas. ‘Switzerland decides to join UN’, The Guardian, 4 March 2002:15.

Chapter 6 Political Communications and Democratisation: ‘Paladins of Liberty’? 1 Gunther, Montero and Wert (2000:51) 2 Regime change or regime transition is not just concerned with democratisation. One authoritarian regime may replace another, or an authoritarian political system may supplant democracy (for example, by military coup). This chapter is concerned with another type of regime change, that is, the replacement of authoritarian government by one committed to democracy (the process known as democratisation). Under certain conditions, regime change is still possible; young democracies are vulnerable to ‘backsliding’ towards authoritarianism until the democratic culture is ‘consolidated’. 3 ‘Freedom House is a clear voice for democracy and freedom around the world. Founded over 60 years ago by Eleanor Roosevelt, Wendell Willkie and other Americans concerned with mounting threats to peace and

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democracy, Freedom House has been a vigorous proponent of democratic values and a steadfast opponent of dictatorships of the far left and the far right. … Freedom House is a non-profit, non-partisan organization …’ Its website address is www.freedomhouse.org Mallet (1999:84) recounts that James Nichols, honorary consul in Burma for several European nations, died in prison there after being sentenced for using a fax machine without permission. Unauthorised use of a modem there can result in 15 years imprisonment. ‘In the contract’ with Channel 2, ‘Montesinos purchases full control over news broadcasts for a monthly payment of US$50,000. The channel agrees to allow Montesinos to review each day’s news programs before they air, and not to broadcast anything about presidential or congressional candidates, or any program referring “explicitly or implicitly to political issues,” without Montesinos’s written approval’ (McMillan & Zoida, 2004:9). An interesting discussion of propaganda campaigns in Singapore around political development strategies is in Mallet, 1999:75. Sükösd (2000:138–9), presents a set of data to demonstrate the popularity of western made entertainment programmes in Eastern Europe during the 1980s and compares this to audience reaction to the entertainment produced in the Eastern bloc itself. The situation is very different in Hong Kong. See Willy Wo-Lap Lam, ‘The media in Hong Kong: on the horns of a dilemma’ in Rawnsley & Rawnsley (eds), 2003: 169–189. Also Anthony Fung, ‘Media economics of the Hong Kong press in political transition: towards a new viable political economy’ in Ibid.:190–214. C.C. Lee (1998:57) defines self-censorship as ‘a set of editorial actions ranging from omission, dilution, and change of emphasis to choice of rhetorical devices by journalists, their organisation, and even the entire media community in anticipation of currying reward and avoiding punishments from the power structure.’ The First Wave, says Huntington, occurred 1828–1926 and involved such powers as Britain, France, America, Canada, Australia and the Netherlands. The Second Wave lasted from 1943–1962 and embraced India, Israel, Japan, Austria, Japan and West Germany. The First Wave was partly reversed between 1922 and 1944 (in Austria, Germany and Italy). The Second Wave was likewise reversed between 1958 and 1975 (in much of Latin America and postcolonial Africa). This remains a powerful and influential argument in democratisation studies. See Lipset, Soong and Torres, 1993; Moore, 1995. This process occurred, for example, in South Korea after land reform began in 1950: ‘… many rural dwellers did not return to the villages but instead entered a new urban environment, where an urban-oriented mass media and education system increasingly exposed them and their children to notions of social equality, political democracy, market economics and contractual relationships’ (Buzo, 2002:118). Correlation is not causation. While there seems to be a correlation between affluence and stable democratic political systems, the exceptions (poor and democratic India; rich and authoritarian Singapore and Saudi Arabia) are important enough to prompt further inquiry.

214 Notes 14 Useful introductions to this debate are Todd Landman (2000), Issues and Methods in Comparative Politics: An Introduction, London: Routledge, Chapter 4; D. Rueschmeyer, E.H. Stephens and J. Stephens (1992), Capitalist Development and Democracy, Cambridge: Polity Press. 15 This refers to a conclusion of Gunther and Mughan (2000:413) that in none of the cases examined by the contributors to their volume of essays, ‘did the governing elite initiate … liberalization as the first step in a deliberate strategy of democratization, and yet that was the outcome in each of these cases’. 16 In Poland too, splits within the government about the speed and scale of reform, together with freer media system, allowed journalists to be more critical than at any time in the past. This is consistent with Hallin’s (1986) understanding of how the fissures in the American political elite over the Vietnam war provided space for a more critical media there. 17 Although there were very clear links between the Church, the young and the working class in the early 1970s, it would be erroneous to call the Church in Spain the centre of opposition politics (Heywood, 1995:50, 69). 18 Atkins (2001, Chapter 6) provides an excellent discussion of the relationship between foreign programming and governments in Asia. See also Page & Crawley (2001). 19 Kurt R. Hesse (1990), ‘Fernsehen und Revolution: Zum Einfluß der Westmedien auf die politische Wende in der DDR’, Rundfunk und Fernsehen, 38: 328–42. 20 The CPA has since transferred power to the Iraq Communications and Media Commission, an independent and non-profit organisation.

Chapter 7 Towards a New Democratic Political Communication: Information Communication Technologies and Politics 1 Connectivity refers to the process whereby separate and previously autonomous units are integrated into a highly structured network that is connected by computer systems. This structure represents a new form of horizontal organisation that is less dependent on functional hierarchies and centralised decision-making. See Arquilla & Ronfeldt (eds) (1997). 2 I am grateful to Dr Andrew Robinson of the University of Nottingham for bringing to my attention the use of rhizomatic theory in explaining political organisation and behaviour. See his 2005 paper, ‘The Rhizomes of Manipur’, available at www.nottingham.ac.uk/iaps/manipur%20illustrated.pdf. 3 See for example Salem Pax (2004), Baghdad Blog, London: Atlantic Books. 4 An excellent discussion of the Zapatista movement and its use of the Internet is Harry Cleaver’s detailed study, ‘The Zapatista and the Electronic Fabric of Struggle,’ available at www.eco.utexas.edu/faculty/Cleaver/zaps.html. 5 These stories from the computer age echo those told in previous leaps in information technology. For example, during the Communist crackdown against the Polish Solidarity movement in 1981, academics and students used a computer terminal connecting the Polish Academy of Sciences with the Mathematical Centre in Vienna to feed information exclusively to the

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BBC Polish service, thus ensuring that news seeped out of Poland and then flooded back in (Walker, 1992:132). A short and useful history of the Internet from its origins as ARPANET in 1969, can be found in Castells (2001, chapter 1). The joint Electoral Commission/Hansard Society report, An Audit of Political Engagement 2 (London, 2005) documents how people are interested in local issues, but have difficulty in relating these to politics. Politics is something that happens in London in Parliament among elected elites and not with the involvement of ordinary people. Mankind currently produces an estimated 1 exabyte of data per year; 1 exabyte is the equivalent of 1 billion gigabytes or 1,000,000,000,000 books. One the web, 2.5 billion fixed documents supply the equivalent of 7.5 million gigabytes of data or 7,500,000,000 books. In July 2001 there were more than 30 million web domains – the equivalent of over 800 million pages of information. And it never stops growing! See Noveck (2000:23, 26, 30) and ‘Web Statistics and Information Overload’, available at http://www.pendergast.k12.az.us/dist/cking/ GrenY/infoPage6A.pdk. A personal anecdote: When teaching classes on Chinese politics I require students to discuss the political situation in Tibet. Students inevitably base their discussion of this issue on pro-Tibet websites, especially Amnesty International, for two reasons. First, these websites conform to their image and understanding, if not their belief, about the political situation in Tibet (reinforcement). Second, the Amnesty International website is easy to access; it takes little time and effort to find, unlike sources of information promoting the Chinese version of politics in Tibet. Anderson and Tracey’s 2001 unpublished research report is called ‘Digital living: the impact (or otherwise) of the Internet on everyday life,’ prepared for BTaxCT Research. For an example of the battleground rhetoric that China uses, see the People’s Daily, 9 August 2000. One of the first to discuss in a meaningful way the ‘digital divide’ was Wresch (1996). BusyInternet is an American company that is establishing technology centres in some of the poorest countries in Africa. Falling Through the Net, 1998 and 2000 are published in Washington DC by the US Department of Commerce and are available online at www.digitaldivide.gov/ reports1998.htm and www.digitaldivide.gov.reports2000.htm Castells (2001) is more optimistic about the information age. Discussing ‘Falling Through the Net’, he recognises that while gaps in access in the US are closing, the very poor are still denied access to the information age.

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Index absolutism, 32–3, 34, 55 Adorno, Theodor, 54 Almond, Gabriel, 46 Anti-Corn League (1846), 34 anti-globalisation, 111, 114 anti-poll tax federation, 110 anti-poll tax riots (1990), 110 apathy, 14, 19, 58, 63, 135–6, 138, 185, 202n Aristotle, 23, 30–1, 32, 41 On Rhetoric, 30–2, 41 Athens, 22–5, 26–7, 28, 32, 35, 38, 58, 63, 65, 203n Australia, 14, 121, 122, 123–4, 210n authoritarianism, 142, 145–6, 147–57, 176, 197–9, 212n internet and, 179–80 journalism and, 153–4, 155–6, 197 Baker, James, 188 Bangkok Post, 50 Baudrillard, Jean, 61, 62 Benn, Tony, 5, 16 Bentham, Jeremy, 39, 41–2 Berlusconi, Silvia, 50, 81, 144, 204n Black Panthers, 118 Blair, Tony, 14, 97, 102, 129, 198 Blumer, Herbert, 67 Bourdieu, Pierre, 71 Brazil, 4, 182 British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), 8, 14, 15, 29, 50–1, 142–3 World Service, 171, 180, 215n Brittan, Samuel, 101 Burke, Edmund, 37, 132, 203n Burma (Myanmar), 171, 213n Byers, Stephen, 5 Cable News Network (CNN), 51 Campbell, Alastair, 5–6, 8, 201n Castells, Manuel, 180, 185–6, 195, 215n censorship, 145–6, 151, 158, 213n

Chang, Gordon C., 188–9 Chile, 162, 169, 170 China, People’s Republic of, 4, 81, 140–1, 146, 149–51, 168, 171 internet in, 181–2, 188–90 Chomsky, Noam, 59–60 church catholic, 81 democratisation and, 166–7 power of, 33 printing press and, 32, 203n socialisation, 205n, 206n civic culture, 47 civil society, 56, 74, 100, 198–9, 205n authoritarianism, 149 global civil society, 113, 178 liberalisation, 161, 163, 165–6, 167–8 Spain, 166 Taiwan, 165, 166 Clinton, Bill, 6 cognitive theory, 72–3, 80–1, 82 Corriere della Sera, 50 cultural imperialism, 47, 51–2, 147 Czechoslovakia, 168–9 Dahl, Robert, 105, 142 Daily Mail, 18, 118 Daily Telegraph, 78 democracy, consolidation of, 16, 141–2, 172–4 democracy, direct, 15, 20, 23, 25, 32, 35, 37–8, 42, 63–4, 65, 120, 132, 139 democracy, electronic, 63–4 see also internet democracy, representative, 38, 40, 41–2, 57, 58, 61, 64, 70, 85, 101, 123, 132, 136, 181 democratisation, 141, 157–74, 212 ‘backsliding’, 143–4, 162 church and, 166–7, 198, 214n Chile, 162

234

Index 235 Czechoslovakia, 168–9 demonstration effect, 171–2 Freedom House, 143–4, 213n internet, 197 journalism, 142 Krygyzstan, 199 liberalisation and, 168 media and, 168–74, 175 modernisation and, 158–60, 214n nation-building, 175 Philippines, 142 Russia, 49–50, 144 sequential approach, 160–1, 168, 172, 174 Spain, 162, 173, 214n Taiwan, 174 The Third Wave, 158, 160, 176, 213n dependency theory, 47 Dicey, A.V.C., 29 direct action, 68, 108, 109–10, 113, 114, 115–16 see also protest Downs, Anthony, 69 EarthFirst!, 115 education, 47, 159 e-government, 181–2 see also democracy, electronic; internet E-voting, 4, 182 elections, 13, 16, 45, 120, 203–4n American presidential 1952, 10 1992, 89 1996, 2 2000, 2, 4, 201n 2004, 92, 201n Australia, 14 Belgium, 13 British general 1974 (February), 78 1987, 78 1992, 17, 78, 90 1997, 2, 17, 87, 96 2001, 2, 17, 87 2005, 198 British local 2002, 4 2003, 3, 80 2004, 3–4

Iceland, 13 India, 200–1n Iraq, 16 Italy, 13 Korea, South, 200n Nigeria, 12–13, 202n Russia, 13–14 South Africa, 10–11 Taiwan, 12, 21, 205n Turkey, 200n Zimbabwe 2002, 9, 12, 16 electoral systems, 14 elitism, 28–9, 31, 37, 86, 103 Enlightenment, the, 33–4 factions, 40 Fan, David, 82 Festinger, Leon, 72–3 filtration, 58–9 Finivest, 50 Foucault, Michel, 61, 62 France, 12, 87–8, 90, 211n Frankfurt School, 48, 54–7, 58 Freedom House, 143–4, 153, 202n, 213n Friends of the Earth, 26, 102, 108 Germany, East, 172, 202n Gilligan, Andrew, 8 glasnost, 162–3 globalisation, 51, 61, 178, 187 anti-globalisation, 111, 114 Golding, Peter, 25 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 162 Gramsci, Antonio, 48, 52–3, 54, 71 Grant, Wyn, 100, 103 Greenpeace, 106 The Guardian, 78 Habermas, Jürgen, 48, 55–7, 58 Hall, Stuart, 53–4 Hallin, Daniel spheres of influence, 104–5 Hearst, Randolph, 49 hegemony, 53, 71 Held, David, 29, 34, 39, 45 Herman, Edward, 59–60 Hestletine, Michael, 110

236 Index Heywood, Paul, 166 Hong Kong, 92–4, 112 Constitutional Development Task Force, 92, 94 Hungary, 143, 148, 173, 174 Huntington, Samuel, 6 The Third Wave, 157, 158, 160, 165–6, 176, 213n liberalisation, 166 Hutton Inquiry, 5, 8, 14–15, 50–1, 84, 134, 199 ideology, 53–4, 55 interest groups see pressure groups; also trades unions improvability, 44 Institute for Public Policy Research (IIPR), 63 Indonesia, 150, 152, 157, 164 internet, 4, 15, 21, 25, 58–9, 63–4, 119, 146 Africa, 193 American elections, 119 authoritarianism, 180 B92, 180–1 ‘bloggers’, 179 China, People’s Republic of, 181–2, 188–90 commercial control, 184 democracy, 178, 182, 196 ‘digital divide’, 190–6 e-government, 181–2 e-voting, 4, 182 expansion of, 183 government control of, 186–90 Iran, 179, 187–8 mobilisation through, 112–13, 115 problems with, 183–96 Singapore, 187 United States, 194–6 Zapatistas, 180 Iowa Electronics Market (IEM), 92 Iran, 179, 187–8 Iraq, 5, 16, 150, 153 1991 war, 61 2003 war, 8, 51, 80, 81, 84, 89, 105, 110–11, 115, 134, 175–6, 198, 205n and ‘blogging’, 179 Italy, 13, 50, 81, 122–3, 144, 204n

Jiang Zemin, 150–1 Kelly, David Dr, 5, 51, 201n Korea, South, 154, 213 Krygyzstan, 172, 199 Lane, Robert, 76–7 Laswell, Harold, 20, 83, 199 Lazarsfeld, Paul, 81 Le Pen, Jean-Marie, 88, 90 Lerner, Daniel, 46 Lewinsky, Monica, 6 liberalisation Chile, 162 democratisation and, 161–3, 165, 167–8, 174 media, 155, 170, 174 Russia, 49–50 Soviet Union, 162–3 Spain, 155, 162, 167, 174 Taiwan, 174 liberalism, 32–46, 48, 51, 55, 63, 71 Lippman, Walter, 25, 77 Lipset, Seymour Martin, 46, 47, 158–9 lobbyists, 107–8 Locke, John, 34–5, 39 Madison, James, 40 Malaysia, 4 Marcuse, Herbert, 54, 55 Marx, Karl, 47 Marxism, 46, 47–9, 51–3, 55, 56, 58, 60, 62 The German Ideology, 48 Maxwell, Robert, 49 McCargo, Duncan, 83–4, 164 McClelland, John, 35, 76, 83 McLuhan, Marshall, 19 McQuail, Denis, 20, 146 media, 16–20, 22, 47, 49, 52, 53–4, 55, 56, 60, 61, 83 agency approach, 84 authoritarianism, 142, 145–6, 148–57, 168, 170 Britain, 49, 78 see also British Broadcasting Corporation Chile, 162, 169, 170 China, People’s Republic of, 140, 146, 149–51, 168

Index 237 church and, 167 Cuba, 147, 152 Czechoslovakia, 168–9 economics of, 141, 143, 152, 173 France, 88 free press, 41–2, 55–6 Freedom House, 143–4, 153 Hungary, 143, 148, 173, 174 Indonesia, 147–8, 150, 152, 157, 164 Iraq, 150, 153, 175–6 Italy, 50, 144, 204n Korea, South, 154 Peru, 145 Philippines, 142, 167 Poland, 158, 174 public opinion and, 74, 82, 87–8 Romania, 148 Russia, 49–50, 144, 153–4, 155 Samizdat, 163 Singapore, 147 Soviet Union, 149, 162 Spain, 148, 155, 162, 173, 174 Taiwan, 151–3, 154, 155, 164, 174 Thailand, 50, 144, 164 United States, 59–60, 79, 105 Zimbabwe, 156 Microsoft, 184 Miliband, Ralph, 48 Mill, James, 40, 41–2, 55–6 Mill, John Stuart, 22, 24, 29, 30, 39–40, 41, 42–4, 66, 75–6, 202–3n modernisation theory, 46–7, 158–60, 214n Montesqieu, Baron de, 35, 38–9 Moor, Jo, 5 Mugabe, Robert, 12, 13, 16, 156 Murdoch, Rupert, 49, 51, 140, 141, 203n Nepal, 197–8, 199 new right, 101 new social movements see social movements News of the World, 18 Newsnight, 14 Nigeria, 12–13, 108, 202n Norris, Pippa, 19, 112–13 ‘packaging of politics’, 57–8 Paine, Thomas, 40–1, 203n

Parkinson, John, 100–1 Paxman, Jeremy, 8 Pericles, 23, 24 Peru, 145 Philippines, 116, 142, 167 Phillis Review, 8, 9 Plato, 23, 26, 28, 29–30, 32 Poland, 158, 174, 211n church in, 167 Solidarity, 167, 215n Political Action Committees (PAC), 107 political parties, 10, 36–7, 38, 45, 56, 62, 65, 74, 164, 203n British National Party (BNP), 78–9, 98–9, 201n Chinese Communist Party (CCP), 149–50, 189, 190 Communist Party of the Soviet Union, 163 Conservative, 2, 78, 90, 198, 205n, 206n Italy, 50 Labour, 2, 17, 78, 80, 90, 97, 98–9, 102, 121, 128, 133–4, 147, 206n, 208n membership, 2, 98–9, 100, 207n Kuomintang (KMT), 151–2, 165 Persatuan Wartawan Indonesia (PWI), 150 Pro-Life Alliance, 96 Referendum Party, 96 postal voting, 3–4 postmodernism, 60 pressure groups, 36, 40, 45, 56, 62, 83, 96, 100–1, 102 access, 103, 108 Fathers for Justice, 107 ‘fire brigade’ and educational, 103 insider and outsider, 103, 105, 107, 208n media and, 104, 105, 106–7, 108 Shelter, 106 Snowdrop campaign, 106 see also trades unions primary groups, 37, 54, 73, 79, 81, 83, 149 propaganda, 28, 31–2, 47, 59, 77, 79, 80, 150, 169 protest, 111–12, 116, 163 anti-globalisation, 111, 208–9n

238 Index protest – continued anti-Iraq war (2003–5), 10, 11, 80, 110–11, 115, 198, 209n anti-poll tax, 109–10 fuel protests (2000), 111, 118, 209n Hong Kong (2003 & 2004), 112, 209n media and, 113–14, 118, 170 Soviet Union, 163 student top-up fees, 209 Taiwan, 165 pseudo-events, 107 public opinion defined, 66–7, 68, 70, 71, 75 elites and, 81–2 equality and, 68, 69 internet, 183–4 measurement of, 66, 85–6, 89, 93–4 political access and, 67 ‘two-step’ model, 81–2 public opinion polls, 68–9, 85–8, 89, 90, 91, 120, 206–7n ‘adequacy of information’, 69 cognitive theory of, 72, 80–1, 82 media and, 74, 81–2, 89–90 policymaking and, 70–1, 82, 83, 85, 117, 205n primary groups and, 73, 79, 81, 83, 205n socialisation and, 72–9, 80–1, 82, 205n sources of, 72–83 ‘spiral of silence’, 90 public sphere, 43, 56, 58, 177–8, 185 Putin, Vladimir, 144 Radio Free Europe, 170 Radio Veritas, 167 Rawnsley, Andrew, 5–6 referendums advisory and mandatory, 137, 138 Attlee, Clement, 131–2, 211n Australia, 121, 122, 123–4, 210n Britain, 124, 125, 128–9, 131, 133–4, 137, 138–9, 210–11n campaigns, 123–6, 127, 137 Chile, 169 conservative politics, 121, 130–2 Denmark, 126, 127

devolution, 128–9, 210–11 East Timor, 130 educative functions, 121, 134 elites and, 125–6 elitism, 133 France, 211n frequency of, 135 Gibraltar, 129 government power and, 133 incumbency and, 126 initiative, 134 Ireland, 126, 138, 210n Italy, 122–3 Norway, 124 Poland, 211n popular interest, 122–3, 137–8, 139 populism, 131–3 questions, 123 representative democracy, 132 Romania, 130–1 South Africa, 125–6, 128 Slovenia, 138 Sweden, 137–8, 211n Switzerland, 121, 126, 134–5, 137, 139, 212n Thatcher, Margaret, 132 turnout, 135–7, 138, 212n United States, 132–3, 134, 138 Venezuela, 126 reformation, the, 33 Reith, Sir John, 29 Representation of the People’s Act (2000), 88 Rheingold, Harry, 177, 179, 183, 184, 186, 197 rhetoric, 27, 28, 30–2 Rhodes, Jane, 117–18 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 35–6, 37–8, 42, 70, 75, 134 Russia, 13–14, 49–50, 144, 153–4, 155 Samizdat, 163–4 Schultz, George, 180 Schumpeter, Joseph, 45, 203–4n Seymour-Ure, Colin, 84 Shapiro, Andrew, 58–9, 184–5 Shelter, 106 Simpson, O.J., 7 Singapore, 4, 147, 160, 187

Index 239 Snowdrop campaign, 106 social movements, 10, 62–3, 80, 99, 108–9, 110, 111, 112, 118, 166, 178, 186, 198–9 socialisation, 37, 72–9, 80–1, 82, 159, 167 socialism, 46, 53 Socrates, 28 Solidarity, 158, 167 Sophists, 27–8, 30 South Africa, 10–11, 125–6, 128 Soviet Union, 149, 162, 206n Spain, 148, 155, 162, 166, 167, 173, 174, 214n Stone, Deborah, 117 Sun, 74, 78 Sweden, 137–8, 211n Switzerland, 121, 126, 134–5, 137, 139, 212n

Thatcherism, 49, 101–2 Thucydides, 23, 27, 203n Time Warner, 51 Tocqueville, Alexis de, 2 Today, 5 Tormey, Simon, 111–12, 209n trades unions, 81, 97, 98, 101–2, 206n see also pressure groups Trilateral Commission (1975), 6 urbanisation, 47, 213–14n Verba, Sidney, 47 Vietnam war, 104–5 ‘virtuous circle’, 19 Wolfsfeld, Gadi, 67 Xinhua news agency, 149

Taiwan, 12, 21, 87, 104, 116, 151–3, 154, 155, 163, 164, 165, 166, 174, 205n Thailand, 50, 144, 164, 171 Thaksin Shinawatra, 50, 144 Thatcher, Margaret, 132

Yelland, David, 9 Young, Hugo, 12 Zapatistas, 180 Zimbabwe, 9, 12, 13, 156, 197, 198–9