Struggling for Recognition: The Psychological Impetus for Democratic Progress 9781501301698, 9781441195173

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Illustrations Diagram 1 The Standard Approach to Democratic Progress Diagram 2 Conditions of Self-Esteem and Political Resistance Diagram 3 An Integrative Approach to Democratic Progress Image 1 Image 2 Image 3

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The Human Political Experience in a One-Day Scale The Montgomery Bus Segregation System June 16, 1976, Soweto, Death of 12-Year-Old Schoolboy Hector Peterson

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Number of Abuses on Buses Indicated in King’s Trial Montgomery City Lines Inc. 1947–1956 Parents’ Attitude about Children’s Political Involvement

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Preface and Acknowledgments Every book has an untold story. People and events that do not appear in the body of the book itself may have contributed to the content of the book or to its very appearance. To tell some of the untold story, authors normally write a preface; to thank people, they write acknowledgments. I will follow this tradition, combining the two. This book developed from what was originally supposed to be a chapter within a larger project illustrating the importance of recognition striving in a number of political phenomena. I initially wrote this chapter as a paper I presented at the annual meeting of the American Political Science Association (APSA) in early September, 2005. My academic supervisor Daniel McDermott recommended that I make this paper the focus of my Ph.D. thesis at the Politics & IR Department in the University of Oxford. I thank him for this suggestion because it led me to begin developing expertise in the fields of comparative democratization and political psychology. The narrower scope of the project seemed to me a bit easy at the time, but this did not turn out to be the case. There were research challenges, funding challenges, and not least, there were serious procedural delays on the side of my department. Nevertheless, I managed to submit my thesis by mid-August of 2007 and my examiners, comparative democratization scholar Nancy Bermeo and political psychologist Tom Bryder, approved it in November of that year with no additional hurdles, for which I am thankful. The summer of 2006 was especially fruitful in terms of advancing the project. I spent that summer in Washington DC as a visiting fellow at the APSA Centennial Center, and a visiting fellow at the School of Public Policy of George Mason University, where I presented an earlier draft of what is now Chapter 3 in this book. I thank Jack Goldstone for arranging my invitation to George Mason University and being my host there. Francis Fukuyama was very gracious to make time to meet with me several times over that summer and to have offered his comments on early drafts. After Oxford, I spent two years as a postdoctoral fellow at Emory University. At first, my teaching obligations did not leave much time for developing the research but putting a project aside and reading it afresh at a later point has advantages too, if one can afford the time gaps. Several people were kind to me in Atlanta. Sara Miller read drafts of papers and encouraged me to aim high.

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Paul Rivlin gave useful advice on the book proposal and Benny Hary on the research grant. Ursula and David Blumenthal invited me to live in their lovely home where I completed the chapters on the Montgomery bus boycott. My friend Yudit Jung was attentive to what I was working on and contributed her own thoughts and analytic expertise over weekend walks. I gained further encouragement to continue and develop this project following a book contract with Continuum Press and a research grant from the International Center on Nonviolent Conflict (ICNC). I thank Marie-Claire Antoine, the book editor, for believing in this book and being patient with its delivery. I also thank Maria Stephan, Jack Duvall and Hardy Merriman of the ICNC for their comments and support. The book contract and the grant enabled me to develop the political psychological approach to democratic progress, and to rethink the structure and scope of the book. I began with four case studies but I focused on two cases primarily in order to meet deadlines and keep a sensible word-count. The cases that have been dropped were the transition to democracy in Spain and the Kuwaiti women’s struggle for suffrage in 2005. I intend to pursue these case studies elsewhere. My thanks go to the research assistants who were involved in the research during 2009: Ryan A. Davis, Kara Tanenbaum, Robert G. Brooking, Anni Pullagura, and Narsay Bello. I also thank Daniel Bar-Tal for commenting on the theoretical apparatus and for sharing thoughts and references in the field of social psychology. An important development in the research began with my concentration on the origins of the Montgomery bus boycott. I realized that if I managed to decipher the origins of this struggle, I could gain broader insight into democratic progress. As I began to better understood the complex origins and distinct stages of the boycott struggle, my understanding of democratic progress developed as well. I then decided to change focus to the social-psychological realities of people struggling on the local level. This decision is not merely methodological; it is a choice resulting from a new understanding of how democratic progress occurs, of its historical and social-psychological nature, and of the levels of analysis that are most appropriate to explain its different stages. This new phase of the research on the origins of mass mobilization in the US Civil Rights struggle turned into two chapters on the Montgomery bus boycott, including a new explanation of this landmark event. I thank Mills Thornton III for his advice on archival materials on Montgomery. I also thank Ariela Levinger-Limor for commenting on these chapters and for sharing her personal collection with me. Equipped with lessons about the Montgomery bus boycott, I decided to focus on the origins of resistance against apartheid in South Africa in a specific place and time. I contacted Janet Cherry, former anti-apartheid activist, for assistance. I owe Janet a great debt for her help, encouragement, and hospitality. Janet’s extensive knowledge of the struggle and amazing kindness enabled me to get right down to research shortly after I arrived in Port Elizabeth. She got me connected with mid-1970s anti-apartheid activists and together we thought aloud,

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considering the political-historical developments in Port Elizabeth and South Africa more broadly. Thanks to Janet I also made connection with the Red Location Museum in Port Elizabeth. Chris Du Preez arranged an office for me in the museum and it is there that I presented my findings to the public and to several former activists who were interviewed. Janet also put me in touch with Richard Haines, Head of the Department of Development Studies at the Nelson Mandela Metropolitan University, where I enjoyed important university services. Adam Mwamayi from the Department of Development Studies assisted me with several university matters and was always willing to help during my stay. Filmmaker Mike Vincent shared his experiences and archive, and crafted for Janet and me a DVD capturing uses of music in the struggle. Last, but certainly not least, my thanks go to all the former anti-apartheid activists who agreed to be interviewed and to share their personal stories with me. Their names and stories are noted and told in this book.

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Introduction The expansion of democracy has occurred at an unprecedented rate during the twentieth century. While there were no states with universal suffrage and free and periodic elections at the beginning of the previous century, more than 120 prevailed at the close of that century and this trend persists despite various obstacles and occasional setbacks.1 Furthermore, social movements pursuing democratic goals have appeared in almost all parts of the world within democratic and nondemocratic political systems alike, and they continue to improve and advance the control of the people over the political process.2 The two phenomena are closely related because social movements have spearheaded a majority of the transitions to democracy, especially since the second part of the twentieth century. How can this remarkable development in human history be explained? Why did ordinary people risk their lives and life opportunities in costly resistance against oppressive political systems? And how was resistance converted into political pressures leading to democratic progress? These are central questions in the puzzle of democratic progress to which this book is devoted. The importance of understanding the causes and paths of democratic progress can hardly be exaggerated. The right to participate in, and shape political decisions that affect one’s own life is widely recognized as a basic human right enshrined in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948, Article 21) and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (1966, Article 22). Democracy has become a universal value which forces even the most dictatorial regimes to allege that they represent “the people” and have their consent. Understanding democratic progress is hence not only an important scholarly undertaking but also a goal with practical implications for those who are actively engaged in bringing about political change and fostering democracy at home and abroad. The initial idea and inspiration for this book started a decade ago when I first read Francis Fukuyama’s (1992) book, The End of History and the Last Man. Building on the philosophy of G. W. F. Hegel and of Alexandre Kojève, Fukuyama argues that a central aspect and propelling factor of democratic progress is the psychological facet of human nature known as the pursuit of recognition, a yearning to be positively recognized and not to be dominated. This argument seemed intuitively 1

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correct to me and also applicable to a range of social and political behaviors. After years of exploring, developing, and testing the idea, the end product is this book that presents, I believe, the first empirical vindication of Fukuyama’s argument about the connection between recognition and democratic progress.3 In the process of exploring this hypothesis I developed, what I hope is, a useful approach to thinking about the topic of democratic progress and related phenomena. This approach involves several levels of analysis and brings together different bodies of scholarship. It also offers new explanations for the emergence of mass mobilization in landmark cases of democratic progress. As such, the book calls for a revision in our understanding not only of these historical events but also of democratic change more generally. In this chapter, I present and define the topic of democratic progress and explain which political phenomena it includes. I will then elaborate on the purpose of the book, its structure, and chapters. The general research approach and methodological issues will then be noted. I will conclude this chapter with a few preliminary remarks and clarifications about the topic and the approach of this book.

The Phenomenon of Democratic Progress The literature on democratic progress is vast and goes by different names in separate bodies of scholarship. The definition of democratic progress in this book is the development of a political system into a democratic or into a more democratic system. This definition includes transitions of entire political systems to democracy and gradual transitions toward more democratic systems. By the term political system I refer to persistent ways in which political power is structured, namely, the degree to which people regularly have influence over decisions and resources that affect their own lives. In dictatorial political systems most people do not have influence over decisions that affect their lives compared to democratic systems in which they do have various degrees of influence. The term democracy comes from the Greek word Demokratia, which means the rule or power of the people. By the term democratic, accordingly, I refer to people’s control over the political process by which power is regulated. According to these parameters, both nondemocratic and democratic systems can undergo democratic progress by way of enhancing the people’s rule, such as through increased participation in and access to political power; improved rule of law; enhanced control over the government; upholding formal but unrealized democratic rights; greater public transparency; and other factors that enhance the control of the people over decisions and resources that affect their lives. In this section I explain why it is useful to endorse this definition of democratic progress and with which qualifications. The nature of definitions is that they confine and constrain the cases that are deemed part of a certain phenomenon. The normal function of this delineation is to help us be clear about the issues that we are trying to explain. The usefulness of a definition, therefore, can be appreciated by whether it advances or constrains

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our understanding of the phenomenon we are interested in or trying to explain. I propose that the definition of democratic progress, as described above, is useful in the sense that it broadens and advances our understanding of the causes of democratic progress and several related phenomena. The issue of defining, measuring and explaining democracy has been discussed and debated over decades. The understanding of what can and should be termed “democracy” has been changing, and being refined since the inception of this idea and practice. Democracy, as the rule of the demos (people or public), has taken on so many forms and norms that any non-contextual and a-historical definition immediately fails to capture some manifestations of democracy (Grugel 2002; Whitehead 2002). For instance, the Athenian democracy, together with all other pretwentieth-century democracies, would clearly not qualify as a democracy by today’s standards of democracy, but we regard them, and term them, as democracies in the context of their time. Indeed, our understanding of what democracy must entail in institutional, legal, and moral terms has changed considerably over the past centuries and it is likely to continue to change along with historical trends and changing cultural conditions (Whitehead 2002: 14). Since the second half of the twentieth century, a procedural definition of democracy has become accepted as a standard for distinguishing democratic from nondemocratic regimes. A procedural democracy, as the name suggests, is characterized by the existence of certain procedures, among the most important of which are free, fair, equal, and periodic elections in which adult citizens can directly or indirectly elect their government and run for office (Dahl 1998, 2006; Huntington 1991). A procedural democracy must ensure the protection of a core cluster of political rights such as freedom of expression, freedom of assembly and association and the right to vote and run for office in free, fair and periodic elections, as also stipulated in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948, Articles 19–21) and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (1966, Articles 19, 21–22). Liberal democracy is a political system that on top of the criteria of procedural democracy ensures civil and political liberties beyond the minimal procedures and rights that define a democracy. For example, a liberal democracy also ensures freedom of religion, freedom of occupation, and other parameters of freedom. According to Freedom House 2010 report, there were 116 procedural (or electoral) democracies in 2009, which constitute about 60 percent of a total 194 countries in the world.4 Furthermore, there is a strong nexus between procedural democracy and liberal democracy: eighty-nine countries which make up about three quarters of the world’s current 116 procedural democracies are classified as liberal democracies (or free countries). Democracies are also in a much better position to become liberal democracies relative to nondemocratic regimes (see also Diamond 2003, 2009). The remaining 40 percent of the world’s countries in 2009 did not meet the minimal procedural characteristics of democracy and are therefore classified as not free and nondemocratic. The definitions of procedural democracy and liberal democracy, therefore, are very useful for the purpose of mapping and monitoring the global status and trends of democracy. This is an example of the usefulness of definitions.

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One central purpose of this book is to understand the causes of transitions from nondemocratic to more democratic or to fully democratic systems. For this purpose, the definitions and variants of democracy are not the key issue. The question we are concerned with is whether there are indeed shared causes for such transitions and what we can learn from them. Focusing solely on full-scale transitions from nondemocratic to democratic rule naturally excludes many other cases of transitions to more democratic systems that may have very similar causes which can possibly inform us about the nature of what we are trying to understand. For example, one emerging conclusion of scholars in political science is that transitions to democratic rule, also known as democratization, should not be construed only as a phenomenon that occurs by way of rapid transitions from nondemocratic to democratic rule but also “as a complex, long-term, dynamic, and open-ended process. It consists of progress towards a more rule-based, more consensual and more participatory type of politics” (Whitehead 2002: 27; see also Williams 2003). As Larry Diamond notes, “we must see democratization not simply as a limited period of transition from one set of formal regime rules to another, but rather as an ongoing process, a perpetual challenge, a recurrent struggle” (1999: 219). I endorse and have used this latter process-oriented definition of democratization and it largely overlaps with my definition of democratic progress. Yet the concept of democratic progress is preferable to democratization for a number of reasons. Democratic progress includes both the rapid and the gradual transitory meanings of democratization. On top of that, democratic progress also denotes significant processes and events that advance democratic parameters below the state level. This is especially relevant to parameters of inclusion of formally excluded groups in the political process and the removal of obstacles to their share in political power on local levels (e.g., city, region) or national levels. As such, democratic progress brings together studies in sociology and political science. My intention of using the concept of democratic progress in this broad meaning is precisely to argue that there is shared causality underlying transitions to democracy, gradual progress toward democracy, liberalization of the political system, and local democratic movements struggling against nondemocratic systems, even in cases that the latter three phenomena do not lead to democracy in the short term. A new way of comparing the causality of these very different manifestations of democratic progress may yield new insights into this complex phenomenon. Nevertheless, a few clarifications and qualifications of the definition are in order. Not all democratic movements lead to democracy and not all democratic transitions have occurred due to strong social movements. Yet a majority of the most important and lasting democratic developments in the world have been closely related to, and brought about by, democratic social movements (Karatnycky and Ackerman 2005; Stephan and Chenoweth 2008). Democracy, like citizenship and rights more generally, has not been granted without a struggle, normally of social movements (Foweraker and Landman 1997). One intended goal of this book is, therefore, to fuse the study of social movements with the study of democratization. A larger ambition is to explain why bottom-up pressures emerge and to demonstrate how these pressures are converted into political pressures leading to democratic

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progress. The qualifying condition that follows is that cases of democratic progress that are most relevant to the approach proposed in this book are cases that involve bottom-up pressures, namely, some form of struggle or legitimacy crisis between a group of citizens and the ruling elite. While this qualification removes many cases of democratic progress on the local and national levels that do not involve contentious politics, it still leaves a substantial pool of case studies. Furthermore, it should be clarified that my definition of democratic progress refers to transformations whose origins are within the political system (I follow the advice of Rustow 1970: 348). Democratic systems that were installed through military occupation, such as postwar West Germany, Japan, and present-day Iraq and Afghanistan, or by other impositions from outside the political system are caused by different factors and as such constitute a different phenomenon. This is not to say that outside pressures for democracy are irrelevant to democratic progress; in many cases they are very relevant indeed. One need to only single out unique cases where outside pressures took the form of imported or imposed democratic institutions. Finally, although I include contentious struggles within existing democracies, this definition is not intended to include the issue of democratic consolidation: the process by which citizens and political players internalize and adhere to democratic rules and norms (Diamond 1999). As Rustow (1970) argued, the factors that may consolidate democracy after it has been established may be entirely different from the factors that give rise to it. For example, democratic movements and mass mobilization are important in transitions to democracy but they tend to demobilize in the period and process of consolidation that follows (Hipsher 1998). In general, democratic progress involves contentious politics and social movements, and democratic consolidation requires political stability. In fact, effective democratic consolidation often requires the moderation of civil society and long-term enhancement of its capacities by way of fomenting democratic culture and education, and increasing the legitimacy of existing institutions (rather than only criticizing and checking their power). The improvement and strengthening of state institutions, thus, are central features of consolidation that often contrast with struggles against nondemocratic systems (for additional features see Diamond 1999: 239–250). As such, democratic consolidation requires a separate conceptual apparatus that will not be perused here. In sum, cases in which an advancement of the rule of the people have involved contentious politics or social movements are covered by my definition of democratic progress. I hope that the usefulness of this definition (which builds on previous scholarly efforts) will be demonstrated by the comparison of the cases that are examined in this book.

The Purposes and Structure of the Book In this book I take on several related questions: Why do people rise up against nondemocratic systems and oppressive practices? What keeps their momentum of resistance and commitment to resistance going? In which ways can resistance from civil society be converted into political pressures leading to democratic progress?

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The task of examining all these questions both theoretically and empirically is highly challenging and cannot be concluded in a single book. Nevertheless, even if this book does not solve the puzzle of democratic progress in its entirety, it is hoped that it will advance research in new directions and new ways of thinking about these questions. The hypothesis of this book is that a complicated psychological facet of human nature, the pursuit of recognition, is a general motive and motivator underlying struggles for democratic progress. A complex phenomenon such as democratic progress obviously involves many factors beyond the pursuit of recognition. The book deals with these factors as well but clearly cannot do justice to all of them by an elaborate discussion. In order to meet these challenges I conducted a multidisciplinary review of theoretical issues that are relevant to the various arguments, stages, and level of analysis that are included in this book. Next, I conducted in-depth research on two case studies, the Montgomery bus boycott of 1955–1956 in Alabama and the struggle against apartheid in Port-Elizabeth, South Africa, in 1976–1977. A more detailed structure of the book is as follows. The first part of the book (Chapters 1–3) deals with theoretical issues. In Chapter 1, I begin by reviewing the existing scholarship pertaining to democratic progress and I point to the main attempts that have been made to explain democratic progress as a general phenomenon. I note some particular shortcomings of several theories as well as a more general diagnosis of the shared behaviorist assumptions of human nature underlying standard models of democratic progress. In order to better understand what the pursuit of recognition is and what it consists of, I develop the topic in light of different bodies of scholarship in Chapter 2. I begin by recapping a long and extensive tradition of political philosophers who argued that the pursuit of recognition is part and parcel of human nature. I then examine the issue from a multidisciplinary perspective involving scholarship from biological anthropology and social psychology. I address arguments against the universality of the need for positive self-esteem. I also discuss experiments in social psychology that were wrongfully presented as supporting evidence for the idea of a disposition of obedience to authority. I indicate how these experiments actually provide interesting evidence for an inherent aversion to being dominated. This conception of human nature is consistent with the bulk of human history and prehistory. In order to demonstrate this point, I present a macro-level analysis of human social organization from the Last Glacial until the emergence of modern democracy in Chapter 3. This third chapter summarizes the findings of a fascinating project I was involved in which explored the scope and causes of social organization in prehistory (Shultziner et al. 2010). The second part of the book (Chapters 4–7) deals with actual struggles for democratic progress. Chapters 4 and 5 are about the Montgomery bus boycott of 1955–1956, which was the constitutive event of the modern U.S. Civil Rights Movement in terms of mass mobilization. Chapters 6 and 7 are about the struggle against apartheid in the Port-Elizabeth metro area in South Africa following the Soweto uprising in 1976. Each case study is explored in two chapters: one about the origins of mass resistance and the other focusing on the momentum of resistance. This type of investigation aims to reconstruct and highlight psychological factors

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related to recognition striving that are most relevant to distinct stages in the process leading to democratic progress. The third and final part of the book (Chapters 8–9) returns to theoretical lessons and conclusions. In Chapter 8, I combine previous scholarly contributions with the lessons of this study. The chapter begins with theorizing the psychological conditions that may explain why and when people are more likely to rise up and resist oppressive systems and practices. The chapter then explains how psychological factors are converted into political pressures leading to democratic progress while interacting with macro-factors. I draw final conclusions about the nature of democratic progress in Chapter 9. I emphasize elements that render democratic progress very complex, difficult to generalize about, and hard to predict. I also stress the importance of internal causes of democratic progress, such as psychological factors and dispositions of recognition striving. The distinction between the stages of the process of democratic progress is elaborated upon as well. Finally, the role of human agency in generating democratic progress and determining its time of occurrence is discussed.

The Challenges of Reconstructing Psychology in History Psychological factors were not seriously considered as causes of democratic progress. Although advances were made by scholars of social movements (e.g., Gamson 1991, 1992a,b; Mansbridge 2001; Morris and Braine 2001; Tarrow 1994: chapter 7), this has not amounted to a theory of democratic progress, and research on the topic is still underdeveloped and under-theorized. This situation is not special to the study of democratic progress. The exclusion of psychological factors from theoretical perspectives in political science has been mainly on methodological grounds: Psychological factors are not easy to discern, measure, and evaluate. As Przeworski and Teune (1970: 102) put it, “[i]t is rarely possible to observe general concepts of presumed theoretical importance, such as aspirations, stability, or status. These can be ‘seen’ only through indicators. This fact poses special difficulties in comparative research.” Others have completely dismissed the idea that psychological factors may be important but without actually exploring the issue. Samuel Huntington, for example, argued that “some attributed the democratic transitions of the 1980s to a deeply felt and widespread ‘yearning for freedom’ by people oppressed by authoritarian rulers. The presence of this yearning [. . .] cannot explain why democratization occurred when it did” (Huntington 1991: 44–45). The de facto exclusion of psychological factors from theoretical apparatuses due to methodological difficulties and prior assumptions has meant that psychological factors were denied any causal validity and explanatory role, and their importance has not been acknowledged or explored. The fact that psychological factors such as motivations, emotions, perceptions, domains of self-esteem, and other factors are more difficult to discern relative to physical indicators does not mean that they are therefore irrelevant to democratic

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progress. As Scott (1990: 183) remarks, hidden psychological motivations are like infrared rays that lie outside our natural visible spectrum, but exist and affect reality nonetheless. For example, a strong motivation to resist domination may be concealed underneath the seemingly obedient and docile behavior of slaves. This motivation for resistance is not static and may fluctuate or expand in the populace. Moreover, this motivation may reveal itself in a burst of sudden uprisings. Alternatively, a psychological preparedness to engage in resistance activity may affect politics when the slave master becomes aware of, and hence pressured by, the slaves’ motivations. Scott refers to this phenomenon as infra-politics (analogous to infrared rays), which is a useful metaphor to capture one causal function of psychological factors in politics. Like infrared rays, psychological factors or infra-politics affect political processes by conditioning and regulating behavior among those who strive to bring about political changes and by shaping decision making among elites who control the political system and who are pressured by the existence or appearance of certain psychological factors. The political scientist usually observes only the results of psychological factors when mass collective-action occurs and when political institutions change. But as I argue in this book, psychological factors have independent explanatory meanings, and are a separate level of analysis, that cannot be substituted by, or reduced to, other factors of assumed importance such as material or structural factors. It is certainly true that the challenge of tapping into and following psychological factors in processes leading to democratic progress remains difficult despite advances in psychology. This is especially true in cases where activists and ruling elites are no longer alive. Even when the people who were involved in a certain case of democratic progress are alive, there remain methodological issues of incomplete memory, reconstruction of past events in light of ideological or personal motives, and contradictory narratives. One should certainly be mindful of these issues and other difficulties of historical research (Carr 1961). Yet these challenges should not deter us from exploring psychological factors in democratic progress. In order to begin meeting this challenge I have applied different methodologies for each of the two case studies depending on the type of evidence that exists for each case and the possibilities to produce new evidence. In the case of the Montgomery bus boycott, there is rich historical documentation of this event coming from a number of archives and personal narratives written by some of the main black activists. There are also a number of books and articles about this case that are based on primary historical materials and interviews. The possibility to produce new evidence is limited, however. It is very difficult to conduct additional interviews with activists and other protagonists because not many of them are still alive and others may be reluctant to give additional interviews. However, the rich material that already exists can be analyzed in new ways and, not less important, with new questions in mind. The situation of data availability in the case of the struggle against apartheid in Port Elizabeth in 1976 is quite the opposite. There are not many historical materials that allow the type of psychological reconstruction which is possible in the case of the Montgomery bus boycott. Yet many activists are still eager to be interviewed precisely because they feel that their personal stories have been somewhat historically neglected or forgotten. This enables the production of new evidence through

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interviews guided by questions that these activists were not asked before. The two case studies, therefore, require different inquiry methods that are best suited to the availability of data and to reconstructing the psychological factors and developments in these cases of democratic progress. I used methods of historical process tracing, in-depth interviews, and content analysis, on the one hand, and analysis of statistical data, on the other, to demonstrate key points in the reconstruction of the social-psychological origins of mass resistance in the two case studies (for relevant methods see George and Bennett 2005; Gerring 2004, 2007).

Preliminary Remarks At this point it is also important to stress what this project is not about and to dispel some prevalent misconceptions about this type of undertaking. The preliminary remarks below echo useful comments and common feedbacks that I received in the course of working on this book. The understanding that psychology does matter to democratic progress stems from an acknowledgment of a more basic fact about human beings: Humans are endowed with certain heritable biological and psychological traits and needs. These basic characteristics are shared among human beings; they are human universals (see also Brown 1991, 1999, 2004). Stated differently, the underlying assumption of this book is that there is such a thing as human nature, and the properties of human nature can be, and in fact are, studied empirically in modern branches of science. Yet it is important to stress that this is not a study of the biological roots of social behavior, also known as sociobiology. Humans are not automated robots preprogrammed to begin struggling immediately when they are confronted with a nondemocratic system. Human beings are highly complex and their perceptions about humiliation and human dignity are diverse and may change more than once in the course of one’s lifetime, as I argued in my earlier work (Shultziner 2003). Universal biological dispositions of recognition striving cannot explain all the questions of democratic progress because these dispositions are mediated through cognition which in turn could be influenced by multiple sources. Furthermore, the motivation to resist nondemocratic systems does not simply erupt into a surge of resistance activity after perceptions of humiliation and human dignity become more sensitive. People may be too afraid to engage in resistance activity, may lack the resources to resist, or may underestimate the strength of a nondemocratic system and be quelled before any resistance activity can be registered in the receptors of the international media. This reality makes the relationship between biology, psychology, and politics highly complicated and often unpredictable (see also Chapter 9). Hence, instead of focusing solely on the pursuit of recognition, I examine and trace how its related dispositions give rise to political pressures through interaction with an array of external social and political factors. I also discuss distinct stages in the process leading to democratic progress and the appropriate factors and levels of analysis for each stage. The book thus integrates evolutionary-psychological dispositions,

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social-psychological factors, political factors, as well as the human agency factor into a unified approach of democratic progress (Chapter 8). In so doing I try to give concrete multidisciplinary and interdisciplinary expression to a research tradition that looks for the unity in science (e.g., Homans 1964; Masters 1990; Wilson 1998). This tradition begins in ancient Greek whose philosophers tried to gain insight into human behavior by observing nature, and continues along the centuries with political philosophers who discussed political systems in light of their understanding of human nature and the “state of nature” (see also Chapter 2). It is important to stress, however, that this is also not a project in normative political philosophy. I am not attempting to decide between the various definitions of democracy or to suggest how we should classify and evaluate democracies that are not yet fully liberal (or “illiberal democracies”; Zakaria 1997). These distinctions are important in other contexts but they do not yield explanatory insights about the causes of democratic progress. I am also not making any prescriptive claims about whether or not people should pursue recognition or in what ways they should go about doing so. Specifically, this book is not about the discourse in moral philosophy on whether people should be recognized as equal or different (e.g., Taylor 1992; Honneth 1995). My personal beliefs are that values of equal recognition and dignity are imperative to any healthy liberal-democratic society, but this normative issue might divert attention from the task of explaining why democratic progress occurs. In fact, democratic progress can occur through a convergence of various groups that may not respect each other’s values but do share a common goal not to be oppressed and humiliated by any other group. In other words, democracy can be, and often is, the outcome of people fighting for recognition of their own worth, not for others’ equal worth. An internalization of liberal democratic norms and universal recognition of all people as equals can surely facilitate democratic progress, but they are not preconditions for such progress. Moreover, I do not propose that people can always overcome oppression because they are propelled by an unstoppable demand for recognition, no matter what the odds are and how unfavorable the conditions. I do not argue that democracy is in our genes, so to speak, or that democracy must proceed from a pursuit of recognition under all circumstances. Some struggles for recognition may be successful, others will fail. The argument is not deterministic in the sense that a pursuit of recognition must yield democracy and produce a unidirectional history in which liberal democracies cannot possibly retreat to nondemocratic regimes. History has already shown that under severe strain democratic regimes can degenerate into horrific despotic regimes. Rather, the argument is probabilistic in that nondemocratic systems are likely to deprive recognition because of their inherent hierarchical logic and the humiliating practices that tend to be associated with them. Due to these latter factors, nondemocratic systems and practices tend to conflict with people’s desire for recognition and hence these systems and practices suffer from a whole set of problems that democratic systems tend to avoid. Democracies are less prone to inflict a sense of low self-esteem in the population whereas nondemocratic systems are very likely to inflict various sorts of physical and psychological harm on citizens

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owing to their unchecked tendency to misuse power, to arbitrarily exclude citizens from political and social life, and to abuse people’s basic human needs. It is not that democracies are problem-proof. In trial and error terms, however, democracies tend to be more successful not simply because they outperform nondemocracies in generating wealth and solving crises (Sen 1999). Democratic systems are more successful primarily because they structure social and political relations in ways that provide basic formal and equal recognition to each citizen, on the one hand, and tend to provide practical protection and solutions against situations of mistreatment and humiliation, on the other. This is also my reading of Fukuyama’s argument (1989, 1992, 1995). The final preliminary remark concerns the argument that the pursuit of recognition might generate political phenomena that are antidemocratic, and specifically that it can lead to authoritarian systems. If the pursuit of recognition generates demands that lead to democracy and demands that lead to authoritarianism, so this counterargument goes, then the pursuit of recognition cannot be the engine of democratic progress. It is certainly true that the pursuit of recognition is relevant to the study of many other political phenomena, such as conflict resolution, on the one hand (Burton 1972, 1990, 1993), and less benign phenomena such as the causes of homicide and violence, on the other hand, as discussed in more detail in Chapter 2. Indeed, for some people the pursuit of recognition may involve the protection of their sources of status and privileges, which may be derived from nondemocratic systems or practices. Yet the fact that the pursuit of recognition is involved in so many social and political phenomena is by no means an argument against it being a central causal factor of democratic progress in certain contexts, and of different outcomes in different contexts. For comparison, economic developments and economic setbacks have been argued to be associated with cases of democratic transition and democratic breakdown but this has not led political scientists to argue for the disutility of using economic determinants as basic explanatory factors for both of these (e.g., Acemoglu and Robinson 2006; Inglehart and Welzel 2005; Przeworski and Limongi 1997). Similarly, that the pursuit of recognition is involved in other political phenomena actually is additional reason for taking it more seriously rather than to dismissing it out of hand as incapable of explaining anything. As this book suggests, the pursuit of recognition is involved in democratic progress in more ways than one. I hope that these preliminary remarks clarify what this book is about. Struggles for democratic progress are complex because human life and consciousness is highly complex. Complexity, however, should not be confused with the lack of causality and it should not blind us to the interesting patterns that characterize democratic progress in different stages and levels of analysis. At basis, I argue that struggles for democratic progress involve, and are about, people who are struggling for recognition. There is nothing simple or obvious about this argument, as the following chapters will demonstrate. The lessons from these struggles can hopefully serve as valuable tools for those seeking to gain democratic progress in their own political systems.

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Notes 1. The number of twentieth-century democracies is reported in Democracy’s Century: A Survey of Global Political Change in the 20th Century by Freedom House (Karatnycky 2000). 2. There are general gradual improvements in the components of democracy around the world. These tendencies are closely observed in the Bertelsmann Transformation Index that evaluates the development of democratic characteristics in 119 countries. See http:// www.bertelsmann-transformation-index.de/. 3. The first systematic stage of this inquiry was between October 2004 and August 2007 and resulted in my Ph.D. dissertation at the University of Oxford (Shultziner 2007a) and which formed the basis of this book. 4. Freedom House is the most well-established institute for the monitoring of democracy worldwide. See its Freedom in the World reports and analyses that are available online at www.freedomhouse.org.

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1 Theories of Democratic Progress and Conceptions of Human Nature The complexity of democratic progress has led political scientists to argue that “[t]he causes of democratization differ substantially from one place to another and from one time to another” (Huntington 1991: 38); and “[i]nconveniently enough, transitions [to democracy] have no single precipitating cause” (Friedhiem 1993: 489); and “[i]t now seems clear that there is no single path to democracy, and, therefore, no generalization is to be had about the conditions that give rise to it” (Shapiro 2003: 80). In this chapter, I review the literature on democratic progress and the main scholarly avenues in which it has traveled. I begin by highlighting the element of bottom-up pressures which are assumed and are part of all theories of democratic progress. I also note several shortcomings of previously offered explanations and conclude by suggesting how these shortcomings are related to an implicit behaviorist conception of human nature.

Democratic Progress and Bottom-Up Pressures In order to review a vast literature on democratic progress and to appreciate why it has reached an explanatory dead-end, it is first necessary to return to basic questions and reexamine what it is exactly that we are trying to explain. Clearly, a theory of democratic progress sets out to explain why political systems transform into democratic or more democratic systems. Democratic progress as an outcome is the phenomenon (or dependent variable) we are trying to explain. But in order to explain the outcome, a theory of democratic progress normally involves an explanation of (or at least assumes) bottom-up pressures. Bottom-up pressures are political pressures by the oppressed directed against power holders and ruling elites. These pressures are manifested in three main forms: negative attitudes toward the political system and its ruling elite; the type and degree of motivations to resist the nondemocratic system; and actual resistance activity. Resistance actions are commonly associated with civil society groups that produce organized and coordinated 13

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pressures on political elites.1 Bottom-up pressures are part and parcel of the chain of events leading to democratic progress and are its main driving force. Indeed, the idea that these pressures are vital for political change is basic to political science, as the science of understanding political power. The latter is not easily given away by ruling elites and privileged groups unless they are forced to give it up or to compromise over it. Political systems do not change automatically and abstractly because some factors change; political systems become more democratic because real people struggle to make them more democratic. For this reason, theories of democratic progress attempt to explain, or at least to indirectly account for, why, how, and when people develop political attitudes congenial to democratic progress; and, why, how, and when people develop a motivation to actually engage in risky and costly struggles leading to democratic progress. The standard approach and logic of most theories in the scholarship on democratic progress is depicted in Diagram 1. Existing theories conceptualize bottom-up pressures—both those pertaining to political attitudes and motivations, and those pertaining to political behavior—as outcomes of macro-factors. Examples of macro-factors are economic considerations (level of economic development, material strain, and resource inequality), social circumstances (social cleavages and conflicts), and structural determinants (state strength or weakness, elite cleavages, and social organizations). Points of disagreement between the various theories are not whether bottom-up pressures lead to democratic transitions (e.g., compare

Diagram 1 The Standard Approach to Democratic Progress

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Inglehart and Welzel 2005: 210–230; to Tilly 2007; and Acemolgu and Robinson 2006: 65–80). Rather, the differences are which general factors create, enable, or enhance bottom-up pressures. Bottom-up pressures are seen as case-specific outcomes that are predicated upon underlying factors. Little attention has been paid to the psychological sphere of democratic progress and to empirically testing whether people’s attitudes, motivations, and political behavior toward it actually result from the various factors and preconditions that are hypothesized in the literature. In the following sections I will discuss some of the theories of democratic progress.

Modernization Theory The first and probably the most influential theory of democratic progress is modernization theory. Symour Martin Lipset’s (1959) “Some Social Requisites of Democracy: Economic Development and Political Legitimacy” is the seminal work of this theory, which proposes, as the title implies, that the general cause and prerequisite of democratic progress is economic development. Modernization theory proposes the following causal chain. Economic development dictates accompanying processes of urbanization, industrialization, education, and most importantly, the growth of a middle class. These general processes cause a decrease in traditional forms of identification and transform the range of human needs and political attitudes. Traditional forms of government are bound to suffer crises of legitimacy and are eventually replaced by more democratic systems because they are inefficient in coping with the complexity of a modernizing society and are thus unable to satisfy new human needs that ensue from modernization (Deutsch 1961; Lipset 1959). Democracy, in other words, is explained as a result of a free market economy and the accumulation of wealth (see also Grugel 2002: 47). The main measures and indicators of modernization theory are levels of education, economic development, urbanization, and industrialization. Lipset and others found strong correlations between these indicators of economic development and democracy compared to nondemocratic regimes. Many scholars of democratic progress saw these findings as a strong proof of modernization theory. Modernization theory, however, gradually came into disrepute. Scholars began doubting whether the correlations between economic development and democratic progress were actually of a causal relationship. Rustow (1970: 343) gave an early warning about the validity of this assumed causal connection. Although Rustow’s paper has been very influential, modernization theory continued to serve as the main framework of explaining democratic progress in the 1980s. By the 1990s, however, it became clear that the proposed relation between economic development and transitions to democracy is false: no level of economic development was found as either sufficient or necessary for a democratic transition to occur. Przeworski and his colleagues (Przeworski et al. 1996; Przeworski and Limongi 1997) have shown that accelerated economic development is related to sustaining an existing

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democracy and preventing it from degenerating into a nondemocracy, but it is very weakly related to engendering democratic progress. The more important matter is that modernization theory cannot explain why many of the world’s most underdeveloped and poor countries have made surprising transitions to democracy, such as Benin (since 1991), Mali (since 1992), Mozambique (since 1994), and Senegal (since 2000). These democratic transitions occurred regardless of the stipulations and economic requisites of modernization theory. Larry Diamond (2009: 27) clearly articulates this point when he shows that according to the United Nations Development Program’s classification of “Low Human Development” thirteen of the thirty-six least developed countries have democratic systems. Among the bottom third of the world’s least developed countries the percentage of democracies rises to 42 percent (twenty-five of fiftynine). Diamond concluded already in 2003, “That there should be so many democracies among the world’s least developed countries is a development at least as noteworthy as the overall predominance of democracy in the world, and one profoundly in defiance of established social science theories” (2003: 6–7). Furthermore, while democratic systems have been established in very poor and underdeveloped countries, the threshold of procedural democracy has not been achieved in some of the world’s wealthiest and fastest developing countries such as Singapore, China, and the oil-rich countries (Diamond 2009: 74–79). This has led many scholars of democratic progress to argue that modernization theory does not provide a complete or accurate explanation to the actual causes of democratic progress (see Bratton and van de Walle 1992: 430; Dahl 1998; Diamond 2003; Fukuyama 1992; Harrison 2000; Huntington 1991: 59; Przeworski and Limongi 1997; Vanhanen 2003; but compare to Ingelhart and Welzel 2005 who continue to defend modernization theory).

Multivariate Theories and Models Other theories of democratic progress have begun to emerge due to the decline of, and the dissatisfaction with, modernization theory. These new theories called attention to new variables or overlooked factors. Tatu Vanhanen (2003) groups them under the title “multivariate models.” Multivariate theories and models are not general explanations of democratic progress and they are not presented as such. They represent a wide set of factors, some of which are contradictory, that were found to be correlated with transitions to democracy (see Huntington 1991: 37–38). Multivariate theories are often mapped according to clusters of cases that are characterized by a significant cause or set of causes (Vanhanen 2003: 22). In what follows, I classify major efforts in the literature into five categories. This is not an attempt to make an exhaustive review of all the factors that have been associated with democratic progress because the list is extremely long and beyond the scope and purpose of this project. Rather, this section provides a broad overview of the main avenues in which the literature on democratic progress has traveled following (and parallel to)

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modernization theory. The review also serves as a background to the discussion below about the shared behaviorist assumption underlying these theories.

Structuralism Since the 1970s, structuralism or historical sociology has emerged as an alternative approach to explaining political change (Grugel 2002: 51–56). This general approach assumes that changes in political structures are often the crucial origins of political change and democratic progress in particular. This wide approach can be divided into two main structural emphases which in practice became separate theories and distinct bodies of scholarship (Goldstone 1998). The first may be termed the statecentered theory and the second, organized-resistance theories.

The State-Centered Theory The first structural trend in the literature had located the crucial origins of democratic progress in destabilizing factors of nondemocratic systems, usually at the state level. This theory has been identified with the idea and title of “bringing the state back in” to the center of political analysis (Skocpol 1985) and for this reason I term it the state-centered theory, though it could be applied to political systems within the state unit as well. The explanatory logic of the state-centered theory is that strong systems can repel pressures for democratic progress, suppress dissatisfied social classes, and prevent reform. Weak states, on the other hand, are less capable of meeting such challenges and hence enable more possibilities for democratic progress, such as by enabling or unleashing forces opposing the nondemocratic system. The main destabilizing factors mentioned in this literature are economic decline, economic growth and industrialization, military defeats, demographic pressures, and international pressures and constraints. Scholars of comparative revolutions often refer to the factors above as crucial causes of political change including those of democratic progress (Goldstone 2003: 6–9; Sandoval 1998). Scholars of social movements such as Doug McAdam, Charles Tilly and Sidney Tarrow have also referred to destabilizing factors as prerequisites for the emergence and success of social movements, though these scholars also emphasize additional prerequisites internal to movements as will be discussed below (Goldstone and Tilly 2001; McAdam 2007; Tarrow 1994). Destabilizing factors are said to change the spectrum of political opportunities that enables political change. Political opportunities are defined broadly as “[a]ny event or broad social process that serves to undermine the calculations and assumptions on which the political establishment is structured” (McAdam 1982: 41). These processes, events, and factors include the general examples mentioned above. In reality, however, many democratic transitions and other meaningful social changes have occurred in cases in which the state did not experience a crisis or was not destabilized. Paradoxically, some states experienced structural transformations precisely when they became stronger or appeared to be at the height of their power (Davidheiser 1992).

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Organized-Resistance Theories The second structural trend locates the crucial origins of democratic progress in the “level of organization within an aggrieved population” (McAdam 1982: 40). Accordingly, I term this line of explanation as organized-resistance theories. Social movement scholars have advanced these explanations which emphasize factors internal to social movements such as their ability to organize, and to mobilize collective action and resources (McAdam 1982; Morris 1984; Zald 1992). Whereas the state-centered theory highlights destabilizing factors as crucial elements that change the spectrum of political opportunities and enable political change, organized-resistance theories emphasize the role of resistance organizations in exploiting these political opportunities. Organized-resistance theories brought the analysis of social movements into the study focus of transitions to democracy (e.g., Hipsher 1998; Sandoval 1998). This has been an important development in identifying factors at the level of civil society that have been missing from the abstract approaches of modernization theory and democratic theory more broadly until the late 1970s. The importance of this literature is in increasing our understanding of how democratic processes unfold, how underpowered oppressed groups can win over mighty nondemocratic systems despite all odds, and how skills and tactics can overcome unfavorable conditions. These are all important aspects, elements of which will be observed in the empirical chapters in this book as well. Nevertheless, organized-resistance theories are best equipped to answer the question of how social groups manage to exert pressure and curb the power of nondemocratic systems. They do not tell us very much about why social movements suddenly appear on the stage of history in the first place. The social movement literature is silent about the psychological background that gives rise to new resistance organizations and broad-based movements (for honest insiders’ reflections on this literature see McAdam 2004; Morris 2000). An explanation of democratic progress is incomplete without an understanding of the sources of bottom-up pressures that precede and give rise to organized resistance.

Top-Down Theories In 1986, O’Donnell and Schmitter presented their explanation for democratic progress in an extensive study entitled Transitions from Authoritarian Rule. They concluded that the crucial causes of democratic transitions are found in decisionmaking processes and divisions among ruling elites. O’Donnell and Schmitter (1986: 19) “assert that there is no transition whose beginning is not the consequence— direct or indirect—of important divisions within the authoritarian regime itself, principally along the fluctuating cleavages between hard-liners and soft-liners.” I term this line of explanation top-down theories given that the critical causes of democratic progress are located in the realm of ruling elites. O’Donnell and Schmitter did not argue that a breakdown of authoritarian rule necessarily results in democratic transitions: some transitions result in new

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authoritarian rule, pseudo-democratic regimes, or other hybrid regimes. Democratic transitions are said to be part of a larger phenomenon of the breakdown of authoritarian rule. According to top-down theories a transition to democracy occurs when competing political elites learn to respect new and tolerant rules of the game whereby conflicting interests are solved rationally and not by force. This new set of rules is the basis for the emergence of democracy. In some instances, an agreement between competing players is struck in the course of long negotiations. This type of transition is termed “negotiated pacts.” It is an agreement to share political power “on the basis of mutual guarantees for the ‘vital interests’ of those entering into it” (O’Donnell and Schmitter 1986: 37). In other instances, as O’Donnell and Schmitter admit, previous rulers may be too discredited and unable to negotiate at all (Ibid: 39). Top-down theories emphasize the rational calculations of, and negotiations between, rival elites as critical factors in democratic progress. These are the main factors because they “determine whether or not an opening will occur at all and because they set important parameters on the extent of possible liberalization and eventual democratization” (Ibid: 48). Large-scale mobilization and pressure from social organizations—or the “resurrecting of civil society” in O’Donnell’s and Schmitter’s terms—are said to result from, rather than cause, divisions in the ruling elites. Yet O’Donnell and Schmitter warn that strong resistance activity against an authoritarian regime may hinder democratization (Ibid: 27; see also Bermeo 1990: 361; Share and Mainwaring 1986: 198). Three years after the publication of Transitions from Authoritarian Rule, a democratic wave began sweeping through the world. This period witnessed the surge of civil society and resistance activity around the world. Many regimes could not withstand the eruption of mass social action and protests such as in the former Czechoslovakia, East Germany, and Bulgaria. Their communist governments caved in to public pressures, one by one. In many other instances of democratic transitions it was quite visible that cleavages within the ruling elite did not matter much to democratization and that competing elites tried to eliminate each other instead of cooperating and respecting democratic rules of game (Bermeo 1997; Bratton and van de Walle 1992; Grugel 2002: 61; Friedheim 1993; McFaul 2002). Top-down theories have little explanatory power regarding these varieties of democratic progress.2 Whereas in some cases (e.g., Chile) existing divisions among ruling elites did serve as a facilitative factor, it became evident that most divisions elsewhere were in fact the outcomes of dynamic struggles against nondemocratic systems and not vice versa. This applies to the most paradigmatic cases of the top-down model (Diamond 1999: 233–237; see also the section entitled “Pressures on Ruling Elites” in Chapter 8 of this book). In sum, elite divisions are not the root cause of democratic progress; they are only a form or an avenue in which democratic progress may unfold.

The Third Wave Samuel Huntington (1991) introduced the wave metaphor in the study of democratic transitions. In The Third Wave: Democratization in the Late Twentieth Century,

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Huntington argues that democratization comes in waves. “A wave of democratization is a group of transitions from nondemocratic to democratic regimes that occur within a specified period of time and that significantly outnumber transitions in the opposite direction during that period of time” (Huntington 1991: 15). According to Huntington, the world has experienced three waves of democratic transitions since 1828. Each wave consists of a relatively small number of countries and is followed by a reverse wave from democracy to nondemocratic rule. Huntington focused on what he termed as “the third wave” of democratic transitions, from 1974–90, in which approximately thirty countries made a transition to democracy and many others underwent democratic progress but did not meet the procedural definition of democracy. Huntington argues that the progress toward democracy in that period is part of a global phenomenon and that it “appears reasonable to assume that these transitions were produced in part by common causes affecting many countries . . .” (Ibid: 44). He proposes five global changes that explain why democratic progress transpired when it did. Those changes are: (1) deepening legitimacy problems of authoritarian systems in a world dominated by democratic values; (2) global surge of economic growth; (3) doctrinal change in the Catholic Church opposing authoritarianism; (4) growing importance of international pressures on nondemocratic systems; (5) “snowballing” effects precipitated by new means of communications. Huntington notes that these factors are specific to the third wave and not to previous cases of democratic progress, and possibly not to future cases. One conclusion of Huntington’s study is that there is no general explanation for democratic progress and that the “causes of democratization differ substantially from one place to another and from one time to another” (Ibid: 38). At least two points are noteworthy regarding Huntington’s wave-theory. The third wave that was supposed to consist of a limited number of countries in the period 1974–1990 has not stopped following this time frame. In 1990, the number of democratic states was 76 (about 46 percent) of the total number of states and it has risen to 116 (about 60 percent) by the end of 2009 (notwithstanding a slow erosion of democracy in some parts of the world since 2007).3 Although Huntington (Ibid: 290–294) cautiously anticipated a reversal wave, democratic transitions continued to expand in sub-Saharan Africa, Islamic countries, Asian countries, and even the most underdeveloped countries. In other words, the reality of tenacious democratic progress contradicted the wave-theory’s definitions and predictions (Ibid: 294–316). The wave metaphor may be very illustrative of the sudden rise in the number of democracies after 1974, but a metaphor is not an explanation or a theory. Huntington’s five global factors say very little about why bottom-up pressures arise where and when they do. The five theoretical conditions are also far too general to explain the time of occurrence of democratization beyond the scale of about two and a half decades. This is not a very helpful explanatory or practical guide. Huntington’s conclusion that the causes of democratic progress differ from place to place and from time to time heralds the abandonment of the search for a general explanation for democratic progress. This conclusion is quite striking when put straightforwardly: Cases of democratic transitions are in fact incomparable

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regarding their most crucial aspect, causality. Cases of democratic transition that have been studied as, and conceived to be part of, the same phenomenon are now conceived as discrete phenomena occurring in different periods of time and regions but lacking any common cause. It is in this respect that the literature on democratic progress has reached an explanatory dead-end or an “explanatory vacuum” (Harrison 2000).

Economic Factors, Rational Choice, and Game-Theoretic Models The most recent proposed explanations of democratic progress are game-theoretic and rational-choice models that have reintroduced material or economic factors as determinants of individuals’ assumed preferences and strategies toward democratic and nondemocratic systems (Acemoglu and Robinson 2006; see also Boix 2003; Boix and Stokes 2003). Levels of discontent and bottom-up pressures, as well as the rational calculations and motivations of ruling elites, are assumed to be dictated according to material configurations such as levels of inequality, the size of the middle class, and other economic-related factors. This line of explanation is quite similar to modernization theory and other materialistic explanations in the sense that behavioral and ideological changes are predicated on a set of macro-material conditions. As Acemoglu and Robinson (2006: 86) argue, “individuals function within social and economic systems that both constrain their actions and condition incentives.” The highly abstract game-theoretic models “treat individuals’ preferences as given but allow people to differ with respect to their income, wealth, the form in which they hold their wealth, or their options and alternatives”; and, based on these assumed preferences and material conditions people are assumed to “derive individual preferences over regime types” (Ibid: 86–87). This simplistic way of modeling complex processes leading to democratic progress has several shortcomings. This approach intentionally ignores complicated historical and noneconomic factors that often generate crucial shifts in public opinion and mass mobilization, leading to democratic progress. These complicated factors are reduced to mere outcomes, side effects, or dynamics of material configurations, all in the name of parsimonious explanations.4 Yet game-theoretic models do not test if these important aspects are indeed outcomes of material configurations. Aside from the empirical question, even if they succeed in providing mediumrange theories, let alone a general explanation of democratic progress, game-theoretic models of regime-type preferences are not equipped to explain why democratic movements begin where they do and not in nearby locations with equal or comparable economic conditions. Nor do these models explain why democratic progress occurs at one point of time and not at another even when economic conditions are quite similar. The material configurations that supposedly cause bottom-up pressures are vague and the time-scales of these models are either undefined or too long to be analytically and practically useful. Furthermore, the factors that rational

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choice or game-theoretic models rely on, such as economic inequality and elite calculations, are not entirely new and were previously explored in the context of democratic transitions (e.g., Haggard and Kaufman 1997). These models do not disclose new factors or realities about democratic progress. Much of the puzzle of democratic progress, thus, remains unexplored and unresolved, especially in relation to what transpires in the minds of actual individuals who struggle for democratic progress. In the following section, I offer my diagnosis of the shortcomings of this generic approach to the study of democratic progress that focuses exclusively on macro-factors and ignores internal dimensions of human nature and psychology.

The Behaviorist Conception of Human Nature in the Standard Approach to Democratic Progress That human nature has been deemed unimportant and irrelevant to the explanation of democratic progress is manifested in the simple fact that most theories have ignored the topic completely. The issue of human nature is not discussed in any of the theories of democratic progress mentioned above. In relation to this, psychological transformations and resistance actions during processes of democratic progress are usually seen as the sole result of larger macro processes, usually of economic factors or various structural changes (e.g., Huntington 1984, 1991; Przeworski et al. 1996; Haggard and Kaufman 1997). People’s angers and frustrations, needs, political attitudes, demands for political reform, and the actual social pressures leading to democratic progress have been commonly seen as resulting dynamics or side effects of underlying macro-factors and preconditions. According to most theories and approaches of democratic transitions, ordinary people do not have an independent causal effect because they are seen as merely reacting to macro-factors which are themselves beyond ordinary people’s control. Yet because scholars of democratic progress avoided the topic of human nature they ended up unintentionally embracing a behaviorist conception of human nature, namely, an approach that sees human behavior as an outcome of external stimuli alone (Skinner 1972).5 Modernization theory is perhaps the best example of this behaviorist approach. Modernization theory was proposed at the height of the behavioralist methodological revolution in political science, a revolution characterized by a shift to objective measurements of observed phenomenon and rejection of subjective psychological motivations as explanations (see also Dahl 1961). According to modernization theory, human beings begin to prefer and demand democracy only following significant changes in social and economic parameters that erode traditional ways of life. These changes are considered prerequisites for the emergence of democracy, as explained above. Namely, people do not have an innate preference for democratic systems and practices over nondemocratic ones. Preference for dictatorships and preferences for liberal democracies are determined by economic development. This is an example of a typical behaviorist theory that assigns causality only to factors external to human beings.

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Karl Deutsch made the connection between the behaviorist approach and modernization theory explicit. Deutsch argued that human needs are subject to change under conditions of modernization: Social mobilization also brings about a change in the quality of politics, by changing the range of human needs that impinge upon the political process. As people are uprooted from their physical and intellectual isolation in their immediate localities, from their old habits and traditions, and often from their old patterns of occupation and places of residence, they experience drastic changes in their needs. (Deutsch 1961: 498—emphases added) Whereas human needs and preferences regarding social and political practices are seen as malleable and flexible in modernization theory and in other theories that rely on macro preconditions, human beings’ heredity traits and needs are seen as nonexistent or irrelevant to the explanation of democratic progress. In naturenurture terms, only nurture (or in this case macro preconditions) counts. The behaviorist understanding of human nature is no longer tenable. Scientific research since the late 1950s has persistently shown that behavior is not solely conditioned by environmental factors. Hereditary structures (the genotype) enable, mediate, and also affect external attributes (the phenotype), from the acquisition of language and the causes of many diseases, to various aspects of behavior (see further discussion in Chapter 2). Contrary to the assumptions of modernization theory about human needs and political preferences, oppressed people are often not complacent about nondemocratic traditional systems, especially when they realize that they are being exploited, pushed around or worse. Negative attitudes and struggles against nondemocratic practices and systems often precede modernization, and demands for democracy exist even among highly impoverished groups that have not been modernized yet. The problematic reliance on macro conditions as predictors of democratic progress is also ironically demonstrated by Huntington who surveyed the preconditions to democratic progress in the mid-1980s and concluded that “with a few exceptions, the prospects of the extension of democracy to other societies are not great” (1984: 218), only to explain a few years later why a “third wave” of democratic progress was sweeping the world based on similar macro conditions. The problem with the behaviorist approach to democratic progress is that it sets its lenses only on external visible aspects such as structures and economic parameters, from which a unidirectional causality is deduced for people’s behavior. This approach neglects internal factors such as psychological dispositions, social comparisons, and different modes of self-evaluation that may explain why people react differently to similar environments or instigations. Namely, more advanced and sophisticated understanding of human behavior from branches in psychology and evolutionarypsychology remained outside the scholarship on democratic progress. The cognitive and motivational origins of resistance to nondemocratic systems are therefore an empirical reality that current theories of democratic progress do not fully capture.

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Conclusions Theories of democratic progress are meant to explain why nondemocratic systems were transformed into democratic or more democratic systems. Theories of democratic progress normally involve an explanation of, or at least a hypothesis about, the origins of bottom-up pressures. Particularly, these theories locate changes in certain factors as the primary causes for psychological and behavioral changes that are converted into pressures leading to democratic progress. The standard approach has sought the origins of democratic progress in macro-factors, usually in the form of material or structural conditions. The unintended result of this general approach has been a paradigmatic acceptance of a behaviorist conception of human nature whereby individuals under nondemocratic systems are pushed and pulled by macro-factors over which they have little control. This behaviorist approach depicts passive and helplessly oppressed people who must wait for economic processes to mature, for structural conditions to change, for ruling elites to appreciate the utility and moral value in democracy, or for other material configurations to develop. In this context, there was never really a choice between theories of democratic progress that involve a conception of human nature and those that do not. By neglecting the topic or deeming it unimportant altogether, the scholarship on democratic progress has embraced a behaviorist approach which implicitly assumes that causes of democratic progress are completely external to the people who actually bring about change. Research was structured along this logic and hence restricted the types of questions that were asked and the types of data that were collected. An alternative approach to the study of democratic progress considers external factors but also internal dimensions such as innate dispositions, existing psychological orientations toward the political system, types of self-esteem, and the kind of action-oriented emotions that are involved in the process. These internal dimensions may better explain or at least provide new insights and enrich our understanding of the origins and process of democratic progress. This approach may be relevant to explaining democratic progress, for example, by highlighting certain dispositions that are triggered in specific social interactions, regardless of macro-factors. Psychological mechanisms and cognitive states may also explain why people react differently to similar external conditions or why uprisings and mass mobilization emerge suddenly in periods wherein the macro-factors of the system are stable. In sum, human nature was not merely missing in some metaphysical or philosophical sense from the study of democratic progress; it was missing in methodological and empirical respects. The entrenched view and misconception that human needs are completely malleable and that human nature is a “blank slate” shaped a certain generic approach, a paradigm, which became constrained in identifying or recognizing certain factors and empirical realities of democratic progress. One such crucial element of democratic progress, I suggest, is a central psychological facet of human nature, the pursuit of recognition. In the following chapters this idea is developed. I begin by exploring what the pursuit of recognition

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is from several perspectives. I then demonstrate its importance in concrete case studies of two democratic progress struggles: the Montgomery bus boycott in the United States, and the struggle against apartheid in Port-Elizabeth, South Africa. I return to the methodological and theoretical aspects of democratic theory in the final two chapters.

Notes 1. “Civil society is the realm of organized social life, that is open, voluntary, self-generating, at least partially self-supporting, autonomous from the state, and bound by a legal order or a set of shared values” (Diamond 1999: 221). 2. See also the exchange between Carothers (2002) and O’Donnell (2002) and the other contributions in that volume. 3. See “Freedom in the World” reports by Freedom House (online at www.freedomhouse. org). 4. See also: “We abstract from many interesting details and also leave some equally important questions out of our investigation. Our hope is that this gambit pays off by providing us with relatively sharp answers to some interesting questions” (Acemoglu and Robinson 2006: 16). These methodological issues will be further explored in Chapters 6 and 9. 5. It is beyond the purpose and scope of this chapter to explain the historical and sociological reasons that led to the exclusion of human nature from empirical political theory and to the restriction of the discussions on human nature to normative political philosophy and intellectual history. For discussions and reviews about these important issues consult Pinker (2003, 2004); Tooby and Cosmides (1992); Masters (1990); Somit and Peterson (1998, 1999); Alford and Hibbing (2004); and McDermott (2004).

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2 Human Nature and the Pursuit of Recognition The notion that human beings have a strong desire for recognition has been a common theme since the early days of political philosophy. Since the end of the nineteenth century, this topic has also become the subject of empirical inquiry in several disciplines, often under different titles. The term “recognition” has usually denoted a person’s psychological and behavioral striving for social acknowledgment: to be noticed by others, to be esteemed by others, to maintain social prestige or honor, and to avoid disrespect and humiliation. Recognition is therefore related to many different terms and is used interchangeably with concepts such as a pursuit of, or desire and striving for, honor, esteem, dignity, fame, pride, glory, prestige, status, respect; as well as saving face, avoiding shame, disrespect, humiliation, and other terms. The extensive linguistic usages pertaining to the pursuit of recognition already suggest that this phenomenon lies at the heart of social life. It has been described on different levels of analysis and in various fields of scholarship, such as philosophy, psychology, sociology, political science, economics, anthropology, and biology. Considering the topic from many perspectives naturally requires using the appropriate terms for each discipline, but taken as a whole, this chapter provides support for the idea that the pursuit of recognition is a fundamental facet of human nature. By the term pursuit of recognition I refer to specific dispositions of seeking social status, avoiding loss of status and prestige, and an aversion to being dominated and humiliated. I refer to them collectively as the dispositions of recognition. The chapter proceeds as follows. I begin by noting the prevalent occupation with the pursuit of recognition in political philosophy. I then discuss the dispositions of the pursuit of recognition and I explain their evolutionary bases. Next, I present the pursuit of recognition from a social-psychological perspective and I stress the universality of the pursuit of, and need for, positive self-esteem. I also discuss the possible meaning of genetic correlates of self-esteem properties as well as the

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function of the various costs involved in the pursuit of positive self-esteem. Finally, I review social psychological research on obedience to authority with lessons drawn about the aversion to being dominated.

Recognition in the History of Political Philosophy The preoccupation with of recognition has a long tradition in political philosophy. Plato, Cicero, Aquinas, Hobbes, Locke, Hume, Burke, Kant, Adams, and many others, all stressed the centrality of behavior associated with recognition striving and ascribed it to human nature (see also Brennan and Pettit 2004: 23–25; Shultziner 2007b). Plato identified recognition striving with the Thymos, the enthusiastic part of the soul that seeks honor and pride. Thomas Hobbes argued that people are led by a natural human passion for fame and praise. G. W. F Hegel discussed recognition in the context of the relationship between a master and a slave and suggested that equal recognition is the key for the development of human freedom over the course of history. Several political philosophers were influenced by Hegel’s conception of recognition, including Karl Marx and Alexandre Kojève. Isaiah Berlin (2002: 201– 202) also captured the connection between recognition striving and the demand for freedom in a section entitled “The Search for Status” in the framework of his treatise “Two Concepts of Liberty”: The lack of freedom about which men or groups complain amounts, as often as not, to the lack of proper recognition. [. . .] What I may seek to avoid is simply being ignored, or patronised, or despised, or being taken too much for granted—in short, not being treated as an individual, having my uniqueness insufficiently recognised, being classed as a member of some featureless amalgam, a statistical unit without identifiable, specifically human features and purposes of my own. This is the degradation that I am fighting against—I am not seeking equality of legal rights, nor liberty to do as I wish (although I may want these too), but a condition in which I can feel that I am, because I am taken to be, a responsible agent, whose will is taken into consideration because I am entitled to it, even if I am attacked and persecuted for being what I am or choosing as I do. This is a hankering after status and recognition. Charles Taylor (1992) introduced the idea of recognition in the context of the debate on multiculturalism and differential treatment of minority groups. In the opening of his treatise, The Politics of Recognition, Taylor argues that contemporary politics have become significantly shaped by needs and demands for recognition. Taylor argues that recognition is not only a matter of moral obligation to others; it is a vital human need because identity and self-respect are affected by others’ recognition or the lack thereof, and because nonrecognition or misrecognition can inflict real harm and serve as a form of oppression (see also Honneth 1995).

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Following Hegel and Kojève, Francis Fukuyama (1992) discussed the importance of recognition in The End of History and the Last Man. Fukuyama argues that recognition is the irrational engine of democratic progress. Nondemocratic regimes tend to inflict a sense of negative self-esteem in the population and hence the oppressed become motivated to regain a sense of recognition and human dignity, posits Fukuyama. A stable political order can only be established by a liberal democracy that ensures recognition and respect through equal human rights to all citizens. The perennial attention devoted to the topic of recognition in political philosophy is impressive. Many political philosophers attributed the yearning for recognition to human nature and the contexts in which the idea of recognition has been discussed have widened. Brennan and Pettit (2004: 23) comment that “[i]t is hard to believe that a tradition of this kind can fail to reflect something deep about our human nature. The tradition provides evidence, in itself, that people are deeply attached to the esteem of others.” The discussions in political philosophy are indeed instructive in showing the extent of intellectual interest in the pursuit of recognition and they serve as an indication of its prevalence in social and political life. There are, however, additional sources of scholarship establishing the idea that the pursuit of recognition is rooted in human nature.

Interdisciplinary Explanations for the Pursuit of Recognition In this section, I present the evolutionary logic for the behavior of the pursuit of recognition. Yet the idea that genetic attributes may affect social and political behavior is still controversial in the social sciences. There remains much suspicion and even rejection of the idea that human beings’ hereditary attributes are somehow related to social and political phenomena. I therefore begin the exploration by explaining the logic underlying this interdisciplinary approach.

Universal Heritable Dispositions and Behavior in Political Science Nowadays, it is common knowledge in biology that an organism’s physical and behavioral attributes which are expressed externally, namely its phenotype, are shaped by a combination of genetic structures, namely the genotype, and environmental factors. The genotype specifies a spectrum of characteristics that an organism can (and cannot) attain. The interaction of environmental factors with the genotype determines which phenotypic traits will develop, and to what extent. For example, a normal genotype in bees specifies two possibilities for the larva to become either a worker-bee or a queen-bee. The remarkable physical and reproductive differences between a worker-bee and a queen-bee are determined by the quality and quantity of food that a larva receives when it is nurtured, namely through an interaction between the genotype and the environment. Some phenotypic characteristics are predominantly affected by the genotype, such as the development of physical parts, basic physical processes (e.g., sleeping, metabolism), and basic psychological

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predispositions (e.g., for eating, drinking, sex). Other phenotypic characteristics that involve behavior are more sensitive to environmental effects such as group composition and size, availability of food, and climate (for discussion about these issues see Tooby and Cosmides 1992; Pinker 2003, 2004; Plomin et al. 1994; Ridley 2003; Turkheimer 2000). Since the late 1950s, the realization that genetic factors affect human behavior has gradually spread in the social sciences. Developments in cognitive psychology, neuroscience, and social psychology have demonstrated that hereditary attributes are sophisticatedly and intricately associated with human behavior and cognition. Specific mechanisms and parts in the brain were mapped and associated with the regulation of certain types of behaviors, bodily parts, and cognitive capacities. Chomsky’s idea that the ability to acquire grammatical structures in all human languages is innate was the first crack in commonly held views that language is an entirely cultural skill acquired by external stimuli (or learning) alone. Chomsky’s idea gained additional support after neural-circuitry in the Broca area of the brain was found to be associated with acquiring grammar (Pinker 1997). The language that one acquires (e.g., English or Japanese) is indeed an entirely environmental matter, but the ability to learn the structure of language and to create sentences beyond the ones that one hears is part of human nature. In the late 1980s, the understanding of the role of genetic factors in human behavior and cognition entered a new phase in the social sciences with the emergence of evolutionary psychology (Tooby and Cosmides 1992). Evolutionary psychologists set out to learn about innate psychological mechanisms (or cognitive programs) that underlie social phenomena. Their assumption is that certain behavioral patterns are generated by specific information-processing mechanisms and psychological predispositions that evolved because they helped our prehistoric ancestors to solve recurrent problems they confronted. Evolutionary psychologists thus argue that the interaction between genetic and environmental factors is often necessary for understanding complex social behavior. In sum, the logic of an interdisciplinary approach in the study of politics is that it is helpful to consider nature and nurture in order to fully understand human behavior. It may therefore also be useful to approach the pursuit of recognition from this interdisciplinary perspective which explains its evolutionary bases. This approach will be consistent with a long tradition of political philosophers and modern scientists who attributed this striving and behavior to human nature.

Pursuit of Recognition: An Evolutionary-Psychological Perspective The pursuit of recognition can be analyzed according to three psychological dispositions: seeking social status, avoiding loss of status and prestige, and an aversion to being dominated. The functions of these dispositions of recognition can be explained according to the benefits that such psychological mechanisms (proximate factors) confer on an individual in biological terms of fitness (ultimate factors). According

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to this evolutionary-psychological perspective, an individual is disposed to seek the esteem of others, to avoid losing others’ positive regard, and to avoid being dominated because these dispositions increase one’s biological fitness, normally measured by the number of reproducing offspring that an individual produces. Recognition striving can be frequently observed in behavior associated with seeking social prestige and status (see also Barkow 1989: 191; Frank 1985; Hill 1984: 78). Prestige and status (as manifestations of social esteem) are not easily nor equally granted because individuals differ in their abilities to demonstrate socially esteemed qualities due to natural variability of qualities, traits, and luck. The most highly socially esteemed qualities and functions are also the most difficult to perform. Individuals who demonstrate these highly valuable qualities or functions enjoy social esteem. Social esteem thus serves as a signal, a type of advertisement, which not every group member can easily and equally acquire. Degrees of social prestige and status provide essential information for group members about one’s qualities, abilities, and characteristics. In this way, social prestige and status function as important selection criteria in partner (or sexual) selection. In other words, high prestige and status improve reproductive prospects relative to lower prestige and status.1 The importance of social status and prestige is apparent in many living species. Social birds such as Arabian babblers fiercely compete over social prestige and status through displays of altruism and physical conflicts (Zahavi and Zahavi 1997). Evidence comes from our closest living evolutionary relative, the chimpanzees. Frans de Waal (1982: 183) quotes Jane Goodall on the chimpanzees’ pursuit of status: “Quite clearly, many of the male chimpanzees expend a lot of energy and run risks of serious injury in pursuit of higher status.” The pursuit of social status among chimps may take on aggressive competition or more benign forms such as altruism and food-sharing (Stanford 2001). De Waal (1983) documented how pervasive recognition striving is in Chimpanzee Politics. A chimpanzee alpha male will routinely engage in show-off displays, namely, running with his hair on end, hooting and other physical displays in front of other group members. Lower ranking group members will respond with gestures of recognition: submissive grunting, kissing the legs of the alpha male, and bringing gifts. A chimpanzee alpha male (and often his coalition partners) monopolizes sexual access to females in the group and hence enjoys a reproductive advantage. Similarly for females, top-ranking chimpanzee females tend to have better reproductive and progeny survival rates relative to lower status females and hence conflicts over status exist among females as well (Hannagan 2008; Pusey et al. 1997).

Pursuit of Recognition: A Biological-Anthropological Perspective The argument that human beings are disposed to pursue social prestige and status because of fitness-related factors was suggested by Irons (1979) and has been supported by a number of studies across cultures. Kaplan and Hill (1985a, 1985b) found that the most successful hunters among the Ache, hunter-gatherers of

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Paraguay, enjoy high prestige and status, and, as a result, more reproductive opportunities. Hawkes (1991) corroborated this finding and argued that the Ache hunters forage to “show-off ” their hunting qualities and enjoy reproductive advantages. Similarly, Smith and Bliege-Bird (2000) found that turtle hunting among the Meriam, Melanesian people of Torres Strait in Australia, is a competitive pursuit of status in which individuals signal their qualities in order to attract mates. Hill (1984) attempted a comprehensive study to find out whether prestige and reproductive success are correlated in a number of human societies. The correlations were strong in all the societies he tested: !Kung (South Africa), Murngin (Northen Australia), Tlingit (Pacific Coast of North America), Yanomamo (Venezuela), Nuer (Sudan), Tallensi (Ghana), Nupe (Central Nigeria), Rajputs (central India), China, and also in the United Kingdom (although to a lesser extent in the latter). Hill concludes that “[h]umans are genetically programmed to seek prestige because this brings reproductive success with it” (1984: 91). Additional supporting findings have been reported in many anthropological studies which disclose the connection between the disposition for social prestige and reproductive success in humans.2 Concomitantly to the disposition of seeking social status and prestige, the pursuit of recognition also involves the closely related dispositions of aversion to loss of status and prestige, and aversion to being dominated. The reproductive advantages which are involved with high prestige and status reflect the fitness disadvantages of their opposite: Individuals of lower prestige and status have lower reproduction prospects relative to individuals of higher prestige and status. The pursuit of recognition therefore involves a disposition to defend one’s prestige and status; to avoid and resist being pushed to lower status and lower social prestige, including resistance to being humiliated; and generally to be averse to others’ attempts to dominate, subordinate, and exploit oneself. These recognition dispositions are manifested in an array of behaviors that indicate special sensitivity to insufficient recognition, disrespect, losing prestige, and to others’ attempts to dominate. In hunter-gatherer groups, resistance to domination is expressed by an array of leveling practices, such as rebuking overassertive individuals or removing overaggressive individuals from the group, which are social mechanisms preventing individuals from elevating their prestige and status by diminishing that of others (see further discussion in Chapter 3). The quest for social prestige starts at an early age and so do leveling mechanisms (Hold-Cavell 1996; Lee 1979: chapter 8). Individuals who excel in esteemed social functions are closely observed by their fellow group members, female and male. In general, social monitoring is common and individuals appear to be very sensitive to changes in status and prestige within the group, especially if these changes come at someone else’s expense (Boehm 1993). The element of curbing others’ power is a pervasive, crosscultural phenomenon (Boehm 1999; Scott 1990). Self-constraint in pursuing social prestige is also a norm expected of huntergatherer group members. Successful hunters, for example, tend to diminish their own achievements due to social pressure and they are often ridiculed or teased by

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their fellows for their “poor” performance as a means of social control and to ensure that success does not translate into self-assertion and become socially damaging to others (Lee 1979: 240–249; Wiessner 1996b). On the other hand, serious challenges or insults to one’s social status and esteem may trigger strong emotional reactions. For example, when the !Kung San people are personally offended or publicly shamed they threaten to commit suicide or to assault the perpetrator, and many tensions and conflicts result from honor-related issues (Lee 1979: 372–373). In general, overassertive or aggressive behavior is seen as a threat to all group members, and females are as likely as men to check this type of behavior on the side of males or females (Hannagan 2008). In recent years, social scientists who are informed by the life-sciences approach to politics have also tested the notion that people have an innate aversion to being dominated and an aversion to power-hungry individuals in general. In their experiments of ultimatum games, Hibbing and Alford found that people are more averse to “decisions made by people who appear to be taking advantage of them than they are of identical decisions that did not entail decision makers intentionally using their position to benefit themselves” (2004: 71). Hibbing and Alford also found that people are willing to endure personal costs (credits distributed in the game) in acting against those who are perceived to abuse power. In a similar type of experiment, Larimer et al. (2007) found that overassertive power seekers trigger mistrust and loss of legitimacy, and a general aversion to authoritative decisions. This experiment also found that female and male ambitions to power are perceived differently, and that participants were more likely to select an ambitious woman to counter an over-assertive and self-interested man. The disposition not to lose prestige and status is also commonly manifested in modern societies. In many condensed urban centers, the “code of the streets” revolves around being treated with honor and deference, and not losing face. For many young people living in poor inner-city areas, the code of the streets is “a framework of negotiating respect” (Anderson 1994: 82). One is less likely to be bothered and harmed when maintaining “respect,”and vice versa. Respect is seen “as almost an external entity that is hard-won but easily lost, and so must constantly be guarded” (Ibid). To defend one’s respect is to maintain the right image in terms of dress, manner of walking, manner of speech, etc. Violent behavior against those who are perceived to be showing disrespect or insufficient recognition is also a common way of defending one’s sense of respect. Many young men, in particular, “crave respect to such a degree that they will risk their lives to attain and maintain it” (Ibid: 89). Generally, in these poor urban districts, disrespect (or, to be “dissed”) is a source of great concern, and it may trigger violent retaliation. Similar behavioral patterns can be found elsewhere in the world. For instance, the issue of respect is of great importance among members of Peruvian youth street gangs in Lima. Group identification and symbols are sources of esteem to gang members and deadly gang fights often occur in order to maintain honor and respect. Gang members tend to “equate status with respect and admiration from the inhabitants of their community by inciting fear and terror through violent actions, such as: assaults, robbery, and vandalism” (Garza 2005: 74).

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This last point brings us to the connection between denials of recognition and forms of aggression and contentious action more generally. Wilson and Daly (1985; Daly and Wilson 1988) found that the underlying cause of homicide is the issue of honor and face-saving. Most homicide cases involve men who perceive another person as not showing adequate respect, challenging their status or offending their honor. While the immediate trigger to committing homicide often seems petty (e.g., access to a pool-table), Wilson and Daly argue that “male-male disputes are really concerned with ‘face,’ dominance status, and . . . ‘presentation of the self ’ in highly competitive social milieu” (1985: 59–60). They also posit that the special sensitivity to respect and disrespect among males is a natural disposition explained by the importance of social status to reproduction. A public challenge to one’s honor cannot easily be ignored, and a perceived insult or disrespect can rapidly escalate into violence and can easily lead to homicide (Ibid: 69). Yet the dispositions of recognition are also connected to more benign phenomena. Scholars of conflict resolution have highlighted the importance of recognition in successful conflict resolution (Burton 1990, 1993; Sites 1990; Wedge 1986). For instance, studies have revealed that many conflicts that are seemingly about material interests are in fact about a desire for recognition and their solution involves symbolic gestures rather than material compensation. Group conflicts are also closely associated with collective demands for recognition in past wrongs or in a group’s particular unique existence. Accordingly, successful conflict resolution often involves addressing the other side’s need or demand for recognition. Various types of recognition exist in conflict resolution, from material compensation to symbolic public apology (du Toit 2000; Löwenheim 2009).

The Pursuit of Recognition: A Social-Psychological Perspective An extensive body of scholarship exists about the psychology of the pursuit of recognition. As Bryant Wedge (1986: 59) argues, “The need for recognition is solidly rooted in the psychology of the self.” This mechanism is referred to in social psychology as the pursuit of positive self-esteem, self-respect, self-worth, or self-regard. The term “self-esteem” refers to one’s evaluations of oneself. Evaluations of self-esteem have three main characteristics that are relevant to this work: general and domain specific self-esteem, positive and negative self-esteem, high and low selfesteem (for additional distinctions see Kernis 2003; Crocker and Bylsma 1995; Crocker and Park 2003). General (or global) self-esteem is one’s overall evaluations of oneself. Domain-specific self-esteem is a specific dimension (or contingency) which may affect one’s general self-esteem. For example, sports, academic achievement, family, and politics, are domains that may affect one’s overall evaluations of oneself. The more importance one ascribes to a certain domain, the greater the impact that changes in this domain may have on one’s general self-esteem, and vice versa (see Crocker and Park 2003 and the references there). One scale of self-esteem is the degree to which one has positive or negative feelings, thoughts, and emotions when evaluating oneself. Another scale of self-esteem

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is self-evaluations of one’s abilities, skills, or prospects of success in a certain domain. One can have high evaluations of one’s skills in a one domain (e.g., “I am a good runner”) and low evaluations in another (e.g., “I am a bad cook”). High or low evaluations of one’s competence in a certain domain may or may not affect general self-esteem, depending on the importance of this domain to one’s life and many other factors. Importantly, it has been shown that low and high self-esteem are related to expectation about outcomes in a given goal achievement, to performance in the attainment of that goal, and therefore to the outcome itself.3 Finally, when social psychologists discuss self-esteem they often refer to a motivation to pursue, maintain and defend positive evaluations of oneself, and an aversion to having negative self-esteem. These two latter characteristics will be a focus of this section, while the role of domain-specific self-esteem, and low versus high selfesteem (or self-efficacy; Bandura 1977), will be demonstrated and discussed in later chapters. The pursuit of positive self-esteem is intricately intertwined with recognition striving because a person’s self-esteem is predominantly affected by the degree or type of recognition from others (Wedge 1986; see also Taylor 1992). Namely, people normally do not have self-esteem independent of society and of social comparisons (Suls et al. 2002; Wood 1989). Positive or negative social attitudes and actions are core determinants of one’s self-esteem and when people pursue positive self-esteem they often seek to fulfill certain socially esteemed functions, goals or achievements, and they try to gain others’ appreciation and positive regard. Due to this close nexus between self-esteem and social recognition, the pursuit of positive self-esteem involves various costs and efforts on the side of an individual who pursues recognition, as will be explained below. The following review of social-psychology studies suggests the following features about the pursuit of positive self-esteem: It is a universal phenomenon, an innate psychological motivation, and a basic human need. Each of these characteristics will be discussed in turn.

The Universality of the Pursuit of Positive Self-Esteem There is substantial evidence in social-psychology indicating that pursuit of positive self-esteem, henceforth PPSE for short, is a universal human characteristic (Baumeister and Leary 1995; Crocker and Bylsma 1995; Kernis 2003; Leary 1999, 2004; Maslow 1970; Pyszczynski et al. 2004a; Pyszczynski and Cox 2004; Sedikides et al. 2003; Sheldon et al. 2001; Sheldon 2004). Even those who deny that PPSE is a universal psychological need (see below) admit that the majority of people, at least in Western societies, do actually pursue positive self-esteem in either healthy or unhealthy ways (Crocker and Nuer 2004a, 2004b; Crocker and Park 2003, 2004a, 2004b; Ryan and Deci 2004). The main objection to the universality argument is the counterargument that PPSE is a Western cultural construct. For instance, Crocker and Park (2004a: 405) claim that “the pursuit of self-esteem is a particularly American phenomenon, born

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in the nation’s founding ideologies” and that the active quest for positive self-esteem resembles a bad addiction or a bad habit rather than a universal psychological need (Crocker and Park 2004b: 431).4 Crocker and Park base their claim on Heine et al. (1999) who argue that Japanese are not as preoccupied with the pursuit of positive self-esteem as Americans are. However, in their study, Sedikides et al. (2003: 73) found that Japanese actually do pursue positive self-esteem no less than Americans do: “People in all cultures strive to maintain and achieve positive selfregard. Humans use different tactics to do so, but their goal remains the same. In a similar vein, both individualistic and collectivistic cultures permit self-enhancement, but they do so through different norms.” In a further research, Sedikides et al. (2005) extended their study to seven Eastern and eight Western cultural samples and reinforced the argument that the pursuit of positive self-esteem is pan-cultural: Eastern cultures tend to do so in collectivist terms and Western cultures tend to do so in individualistic terms. In another recent study entitled “Apparent Universality of Positive Implicit Self-Esteem,” Yamaguchi and his colleagues (2007) strengthen the universality argument by comparing university students from Japan, China, and the United States. Furthermore, Sheldon et al. (2001) conducted cross-cultural research to test different contending candidates for basic psychological needs and also found that positive self-esteem ranked first as the most “satisfying event” for American and Korean subjects alike. Sheldon and his colleagues conclude that positive self-esteem can be considered a basic need, contrary to their earlier hypotheses. These empirical findings are inconsistent with the cultural-relative approach which proposes that PPSE is strictly a Western phenomenon or a unique cultural construct. Indeed, the domains (or contingencies) upon which people’s self-esteem depend can vary within and between cultures. The psychological motivation to pursue positive self-esteem, however, appears to be universal based on cross-cultural research. The universality argument gains additional support from anthropological research. Given that “seeking prestige remains the major subgoal in the pursuit of self-esteem” (Barkow 1989: 191), it is possible to observe many cultural manifestations of PPSE. For example, positive self-esteem is pursued by demonstrating qualities and show-off displays in hunting, fighting, wealth accumulation, by affiliation with a strong family or boasting a respectable familial lineage, showing fierceness, maintaining a large household, and a host of other social practices (see Barkow 1989; Hawkes 1991; Hill 1984; Irons 1979; Kelly 1995: 172–181; Kim 1994; Turke and Betzig 1985). Donald Brown (1991, 1999, 2004) who studies human universals through cross-cultural comparisons also found that PPSE is a human universal (see also Pinker 2003: 326–329, 439).

Social Psychology and Genetic Factors of Self-Esteem An additional indication of the innateness of the pursuit of positive self-esteem may come from social-psychological studies that combine genetic factors. These studies

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control for genetic factors by comparing self-esteem properties between identical (monozygotic) and fraternal (dizygotic) twins (Neiss et al. 2002, 2005, 2006).5 These studies demonstrate that variation in properties of self-esteem (such as level and stability) between identical and fraternal twins can be explained by a combination of genetic factors and environmental factors. The identification of the genetic factor as a determinant of self-esteem is important because if subtle variations in selfesteem properties are shown to have genetic basis, the same holds true of the overwhelming cross-cultural similarity of self-esteem properties. If the genotype mediates intricate properties of self-esteem, this strongly suggests that the universally observed motivation to pursue positive self-esteem, which is a fundamental property of self-esteem, is also genetically based. The universality of PPSE strengthens, and is strengthened by, the discovery of genetic factors of self-esteem: It is unlikely that a psychological phenomenon on such universal scale is not a heredity trait, and given the effect of genetic factors on self-esteem properties, it is similarly unlikely that the most common property, which is the motivation to pursue positive self-esteem, is not at least partly hereditary (see also Sedikides and Skowronski 2002; Sedikides et al. 2003). The biological explanation above proposes why we can expect the PPSE to be heritable and hence have a genetic expression in research.

The Pursuit of Positive Self-Esteem as a Basic Human Need Human needs are innate tendencies whose fulfillment is essential for effective functioning, mental health, and general well-being (Ryan and Deci 2004). “Functionally, we expect to observe optimal development and well-being under facilitating conditions that support need satisfaction, and to observe degradation or ill-being under conditions that thwart basic need satisfaction” (Deci and Ryan 2000: 229). According to these parameters and social psychological research, PPSE is a universal human need. The influence of positive self-esteem on well-being has been extensively researched and repeatedly demonstrated. There is a substantial body of scholarship that demonstrates that positive self-esteem advances optimal functioning, higher efficacy, development (self-enhancement), happiness, satisfaction with life, better performance, and persistence at tasks. Conversely, negative self-esteem has been shown to be strongly associated with mental disorders, malfunctioning, antisocial behavior, suicidal tendencies, aggression, delinquency, and general traits and effects opposite to those generated by positive self-esteem (Bandura 1977, 1982; Crocker and Bylsma 1995; Donnellan et al. 2005; Kernis 2003; Maslow 1970: 45; Pyszczynski et al. 2004a; Sites 1990). There is also agreement that positive self-esteem reduces anxieties, and vice versa (Crocker and Nuer 2004b; DuBois and Flay 2004; Leary 2004; Pyszczynski et al. 2004a, 2004b; Pyszczynski and Cox 2004; Ryan and Deci 2004; Sheldon 2004). Positive self-esteem, thus, appears essential to well-being, not least because of its functional benefits but also in light of the strong negative effects of negative self-esteem on well-being. As such, positive self-esteem qualifies as a

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basic human need. It is hard to claim that the scope and magnitude of these positive and negative psychological aspects are only a result of culture, especially given that similar psychological effects exist cross-culturally (Pyszczynski et al. 2004a, 2004b; Sheldon et al. 2001). Despite the strong affinity between well-being and positive self-esteem, not all scholars agree that positive self-esteem is a psychological need on the grounds that pursuits of positive self-esteem involve not only benefits but costs as well. Crocker and Park (2003, 2004a, 2004b; see also Ryan and Brown 2003) highlighted several dimensions in which people endure costs while pursuing positive self-esteem: costs to autonomy, learning and competence, relationships, self-regulation, physical and mental costs. Crocker and Park (2004a) doubt that PPSE can be considered a basic psychological need given this dimension of costs. These costs could be explained in light of the preceding sections. As Crocker and Park (2004b: 431) note, positive self-esteem is achieved by “proving or demonstrating the qualities that the self does or does not have.” It is hardly surprising, therefore, that one is likely to endure some type and degree of costs by attempting to prove or demonstrate qualities. After all, physical and psychological costs are involved in most, if not all, pursuits of social esteem. The ability to endure psychological and physical costs is a central characteristic and condition involved in obtaining social esteem. This feature hold true across cultures (e.g., in hunting, sports, academia, arts, maintaining friendships and partnerships, etc.) and it is hard to conceive how pursuit of positive self-esteem would not involve some type and degree of costs or self-imposed handicaps. The fact that it is commonly defined as a pursuit of a goal already implies that achieving positive self-esteem is not an effortless activity. Social psychology research has already shown that PPSE and self-handicaps are closely related. For instance, people with claims to high esteem tend to take more risks and to handicap themselves in order to heighten and stress their achievements and successes (Crocker and Bylsma 1995: 507; Tice 1991). The definition of positive self-esteem as a fundamental psychological need is not jeopardized due to the costs involved in pursuits of positive self-esteem. The fact that people are willing to take many chances and endure various costs and handicaps in order to achieve, maintain, and defend positive self-esteem actually testifies to the strength and innateness of this human need. In extreme cases, people may risk their lives defending and pursuing positive self-esteem as the aforementioned examples of the “code of the streets” and the research on homicide suggest (Anderson 1994; Wilson and Daly 1985; Daly and Wilson 1988). It should also be remembered that not all costs involved in PPSE are negative or severe. Many costs could be classified as benign or even positive such as physical endurance and overcoming injuries in sports; overcoming stress and anxiety in facing difficult goals; taking chances and learning from mistakes in trying to fulfill one’s life project; and sacrificing immediate rewards for long-term capacity enhancing and personality enhancing goals. As Kennon Sheldon remarked, “it is not that self-esteem striving is always a problem, rather it is always a risk” (2004: 423). That people are disposed to pursue positive self-esteem on the one hand and endure costs and risks on the other

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hand is quite consistent with evolutionary logic and with the realities of our evolutionary past, as will be further explained in the next chapter.

Evidence of Obedience to Authority? The above explanation of the dispositions of recognition striving, including the aversion to being dominated, is not intended to contend that human beings are unable to obey to authority. It is an undisputed empirical fact that people have obeyed despotic rulers and cooperated with agents of dictatorial structures in human history. Yet whether or not obedience to authority constitutes a human disposition, as often argued in scholarly and non-scholarly contexts, is a completely different matter. In this section, I discuss an argument against the disposition of aversion to being dominated. I do so by discussing the often-cited argument that Stanley Milgram’s (1974) experiments supposedly disclose a human disposition of obedience to authority. Milgram’s research is probably the best candidate for this counter argument because it is the most systematic and most well-known example for this type of argument. In Milgram’s experiments, unaware subjects were invited to a lab to participate in what they thought was an experiment testing learning abilities. The unaware subjects were then requested to deliver increasing levels of electric shocks every time the learner failed to answer correctly. The electric shocks were not real. The learner was an actor whose answers and responses were prerecorded; and the experimenter in the room from whom the subject received instruction was also an actor who presented himself as a doctor. The experiments tested how far subjects were willing to continue cooperating with the experimenter as means to test inclinations for obedience. On the one hand, the subjects experienced personal negative feelings resulting from the learner’s prerecorded protests. On the other hand, the subjects confronted the repeated orders and reassurance of a person who presented himself as a certified doctor. Milgram’s experiments do not lend support to the notion that humans are disposed to blind obedience to authority and, in fact, Milgram did not make such claim. A fundamental condition in Milgram’s experiments is that authority is perceived to be legitimate and not just any type of authority (1974: 51). The experiments, by definition, did not test obedience to coerced and arbitrary authority or for a generalized type of legal authority. Furthermore, obedience to legitimate authority is also much broader than what Milgram actually tested in his experiments. As critics correctly pointed out, legitimate authority may be that of a person who is in a position of authority solely by being in charge. Alternatively, a person may be an authority by virtue of having special expertise. Milgram acknowledged the validity of this critical distinction not long before he passed away (see Blass 1999: 958–963). In actual fact, Milgram tested obedience to the latter type of expert authority. The experimenter who gives instructions to the subjects and politely encourages them to continue is perceived to be a qualified expert who, as such, has the right to instruct on health matters. This expert is also perceived to be rational, trustworthy, and well intentioned (i.e., advancement of science). This is a critical condition that contextualizes the meaning of the whole experiment.

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Beyond this very basic distinction of the type of authority which is involved in Milgram’s experiments, the process of the experiments and their results also undermine conclusions about a disposition for submissiveness or obedience and suggest other possible explanations for the results. It is important first to note that in the standard mode of the experiment (i.e., in which the subjects hear prerecorded vocal feedback from another room) 37.5 percent of the subjects actually refused to cooperate with the expert until the end of the experiment. This is not an insignificant number given that in the standard mode there is no eye contact between the subjects and the learner. The subjects disobeyed authority despite being prompted to continue four times. Furthermore, compliance with the expert authority decreased the closer the subjects were to the learner. For instance, compliance rates dropped to 10 percent when additional planted actors rebelled against the experimenter next to the actual subject (Milgram 1974: 35, 119). These results show that even under conditions of obedience to expert authority, such as a doctor, rates of cooperation vary significantly depending on the constellation of the experiment, and in any case obedience is far from universal and automatic. Milgram (1974: 132–134) pointed to psychological mechanisms that facilitate obedience in his experiments, such as seeing oneself as merely helping an expert to carry out a well-intentioned and worthy cause (what Milgram terms as an “agentic state”) as well as lacking blame and liability for one’s own actions due to following the instructions of a certified expert who explicitly admits to taking full responsibility for the situation. But there were other factors in these experiments that facilitated the subjects’ cooperation. The most central facilitative factor in the experiment is the cooperation of the learner who was being electrically shocked. The experiment was designed in a way that the learner continued to cooperate by providing answers to the questions he was being asked up to the level of 330 volts despite his escalating protests and signs of agony. The learner answered some questions correctly and some incorrectly; he also complained as the level of shock increased and his protests escalated, but in fact the learner cooperated into the most dangerous voltage levels. The subjects were almost at the end of the voltage scale by this point in the experiment, while the demands that were placed on them increased very gradually and they became habituated into this unusual situation. There are other complicating factors in Milgram’s experiments such as conflation between obedience to authority and avoidance of being seen as impolite, disrespectful to the doctor’s expertise, disappointing the doctor, breaking a promise to carry out an important task for which the subject was paid and other possible motivations. But the cooperation of the learner is a crucial factor that has not been addressed in this context. Finally, it is noteworthy that subjects who did follow through with the experiment until the end did so while protesting and not implementing the instructions in full. The experiments measured disobedience only when a subject persisted in refusing to cooperate after being prompted to do so four times. But there were other more subtle forms of disobedience; some are mentioned in Milgram’s book and others are seen in the documentary on the experiments (Milgram 1969). For instance, some subjects signaled the correct answer to the learner in the other room

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by vocally emphasizing the correct answer. Other subjects lied about the level of shock that they administered. Some pushed the electric shock button only halfway in order to avoid delivering a full or lengthy shock. Aside from these acts, many subjects confronted the expert in varied ways and intensities: standing up, threatening to discontinue, requesting to check up on the learner, arguing with the expert, and more. Not least significant is the fact that most subjects experienced discomfort, anxiety, and stress during and immediately after the experiment until they were told that the learner had not been harmed. The fact that the subjects were acting with strong mixed emotions manifested itself in facial expressions and spasms, impulsive tense laughter following a learner’s cry of pain, signs of helplessness, sweat, holding one’s head or mopping one’s brow, and other such signs. In fact, Milgram’s research design was later deemed unsuitable for reproduction due to the high degree of psychological and physical stress experienced by the subjects.6 Milgram’s experiments inform us about the phenomenon of disobedience and aversion to acting against one’s will no less than they teach us about obedience (see also chapter 5 in Milgram’s book). The conditions under which varied levels of obedience to legitimate expert authority were documented suggest that obedience does not come easy both in terms of external social prerequisites and internal psychological mechanisms that tend to push one away from obedience. The experiments also suggest that obedience to illegitimate authority would be much harder to generate. Given that two out of three subjects cooperated with a legitimate expert authority in Milgram’s experiments (aside from the influence of other factors that have just been mentioned), it is obvious that cooperation with illegitimate or even nonexpert authority under comparable conditions would result in overwhelming noncooperation (see also Hibbing and Alford 2004; Larimer et al. 2007). The types and intensities of anxieties, stress, and physical symptoms involved in being ordered by an illegitimate authority would also be too severe to pass any current ethical guideline. Such severe symptoms of physical and psychological distress occurred in Zimbardo’s prison simulation experiment of the early 1970s which had to be stopped after six days due to concern for the well-being of the subjects who played the role of prisoners (Haslem and Reicher 2003). Milgram’s and Zimbardo’s experiments are often conflated and misconstrued as proof of human dispositions to domination and obedience. Domination is a malignant symptom of the pursuit of status and rank, but not its most common manifestation. There are far more common and benign expressions of this disposition, for instance, in competitiveness in sports, education, and arts. Moreover, that in special situations, and in turbulent historical periods, power can become highly concentrated and certain individuals can come to dominate others by force does not lend any logical support to the notion that human beings are disposed to be dominated or to accept it. What tends to be forgotten and ignored is that Milgram’s and Zimbardo’s experiments provide plentiful examples of a disposition to avoid being dominated. Subjects who find themselves in inferior positions or who are ordered to act against their will develop symptoms of physical and psychological distress that

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endangers well-being. These are hardly the symptoms that support a disposition to obedience, let alone willing subjugation. People obey and disobey authorities on various levels the world over. They obey and disobey family rules, societal norms, and state regulations on a daily basis. Sometimes under democratic systems and more often under nondemocratic systems people confront situations in which they are required to obey, or to cooperate with, different authorities. The question is whether this behavior can be attributed to, or conceptualized as, a natural human disposition. From the combined perspectives of biology, anthropology, and psychology, and the analysis of social psychological experiments on obedience, there is not much evidence to suggest that the answer is positive. There is, however, plenty of evidence from varied disciplines to suggest that there is a disposition to avoid being dominated.

Conclusions Political philosophers since Plato have argued that the pursuit of recognition emanates from human nature. A multidisciplinary perspective reveals that this common philosophical assertion is most probably correct. The disposition for social prestige and status is biologically beneficial because status and prestige are important criteria for partner selection and confer fitness advantages. Consistent with the biological level, the psychological disposition to pursue positive self-esteem appears to be universal, as well as the need for positive self-esteem. This disposition is regulated by gratification from obtaining or maintaining positive self-esteem and by negative feelings associated with low and negative self-esteem. The mechanism disposes people to prove and demonstrate qualities in order to obtain recognition and maintain the esteem of others which then feeds back into one’s own self-esteem. Culture-specific factors define what esteemed qualities are and how to prove or demonstrate possession of these qualities, while the general psychological disposition to pursue, maintain, and defend positive self-esteem is universal. People are very sensitive to changes in their self-esteem and are disposed to defend it, even at high costs and by risking their lives. The empirical chapters of this book demonstrate the role of these dispositions of recognition striving in the context of contentious politics where political action is costly and risky. I argue that we cannot fully understand how people overcome fear and endure costs and risks that are involved in struggles leading to democratic progress without considering these dispositions of the pursuit of recognition. Finally, the popular argument of a disposition to obedience and submissiveness was discussed for its seeming contradiction to the disposition of aversion to being dominated. This counterargument is quite weak on both theoretical and empirical grounds. In this context it is not obvious that there are no experiments that show willing obedience to illegitimate authority. Nevertheless, the idea of a disposition to submissiveness continues to be popular. It is often equated and conflated with

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the motivation to dominate others. Some point to the prevalence of hierarchical systems in human history and induce an often contradictory depiction of human nature which includes a disposition to dominate on the one hand and a disposition to submissiveness on the other. The next chapter deals with this popular perception and misrepresentation of the human past.

Notes 1. The impact of prestige and status for reproduction appears more pronounced for males than for females in some species, but it strongly exists in both genders in humans (Freedman 1980; Grammer 1996; Hannagan 2008). For further elaboration of this point see also Chapter 3. 2. Those studies will not be discussed here to avoid repetition and for considerations of length, but for those interested in the topic, see Chagnon (1979); Grammer (1996); Cronk (1991); Kelly (1995); Lee (1979); Turke and Betzig (1985); and Wiessner (1996a, 1996b). 3. Alfred Bandura (1977, 1982) developed and demonstrated this theory under the concept of self-efficacy, which largely overlaps with the concepts of low and high self-esteem. 4. See also Ryan and Deci (2004: 476) who go as far as to claim that the pursuit of positive self-esteem is a characteristic of “individualistic, competitive, and performance-contingent cultures” and that “the motive to gain self-esteem, and the culture preoccupation with, is a reflection of a social sickness.” 5. Nonidentical twins may experience different levels of self-esteem in the same environment, because their different genetic makeup mediates their level of self-esteem: “A conclusion from our literature review is that shared environment has little effect on self-esteem. Non-shared environmental effects, however, are substantial. One implication of this conclusion is that individuals within a family can hold very different internal representations of the family” (Niess et al. 2002: 360). 6. The experiment was not repeated until the early 2000s when it was conditioned by a much stricter research design and ethical guidelines. Aside from a media sensation in a BBC documentary, the results from 12 subjects (only 3 of whom disobeyed) were relatively similar and did not provide new insight into the phenomenon.

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3 From Prehistory to the End of History: Democratic Systems in the Human Experience1 One major “stylized fact” that many scholars and non-scholars often allude to without having examined the issue is that “most of the world for most of its history has not been democratic” (Shapiro 2003: 78). Some have even suggested that democratic practices and systems have been totally absent from most of our history and evolution due to the deep conflict between egalitarian forms of organization and basic natural dispositions to hierarchical structures, a biological legacy from chimpanzees, our closest living evolutionary relatives (Somit and Peterson 1997). Indeed, it appears that many political scientists presume that human democratic experience and heritage begin with the Athenian democracy, about 2,500 years ago, and that democracy is a relatively recent and fragile cultural invention which was absent from, more than it was prevalent in, human history and evolution (see for example Dahl 1998: 25). I encountered this prevalent conception of a “hierarchical human past” not only in political science books and articles but also on several occasions when presenting this chapter to political scientists and noting that the pursuit of recognition is completely compatible with a politically egalitarian outcome. I found that many scholars’ initial reactions are that recognition striving and democratic practices are inconsistent with each other and also inconsistent with hierarchical systems that presumably dominated the overall human experience until the emergence of modern democracy in the twentieth century. This perception reveals a lack of awareness of the actual empirical reality surrounding the topic of social organization during the bulk of human existence. In certain respects this perception also blocks new ways of thinking about democratic progress and frames the emergence of modern democracy as an unprecedented historical event in the human experience. It is therefore worth examining this topic from a macro-level perspective that considers theory and evidence pertaining to human existence in its entirety. A macro-level 43

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analysis of this sort shows that democratic practices and politically egalitarian systems have a very long legacy in the overall story of human existence. It should be stressed, however, that the argument for the predominance of politically egalitarian social organization in the ancient past is far from being my own novel claim; in fact, it is part of mainstream theories in several disciplines. The discussion about the prevalence of politically egalitarian structures through the majority of human history and evolution obviously does not in itself explain the complexity of the process of democratic progress. The explanation of concrete cases of democratic progress in the following chapters is independent of, and stands solid even without, the analysis of this chapter. However, this chapter can provide useful insights into relevant social dynamics, leveling practices, biological dispositions, and psychological mechanisms that are relevant to a wide range of social and political phenomena, including democratic progress. In contrast to the social-psychological level of analysis that will be explored in the following chapters, this chapter provides a refreshing and thought-provoking perspective that situates contemporary democratic progress within the larger context of human social organization on global time-scales that are not often considered in thinking about the topic. The analysis in this chapter builds on and summarizes the Political Egalitarianism Project (PEP) (Shultziner et al. 2010).2 PEP is a multidisciplinary project that investigates social organization during the Last Glacial, a climatic period that begins 74,000 years ago (calculated by carbon dating) and ends 11,500 years ago with the onset of the Holocene period (11,500 years ago until present). In this period, fully modern human beings (anatomically and psychologically) begin their voyage out of Africa (Wells 2002). Contrary to very common, yet very mistaken, speculations about pre-social and pre-political human existence (also referred to as the “state-ofnature” by political philosophers like Hobbes and Rousseau), solitary and pre-social life never existed for either humans or for their hominid ancestors. Human beings lived in highly mobile groups and had social organization during the Last Glacial. The question is not if human beings organized themselves in socially meaningful ways, but whether there was a common type of social organization during that long period of human experience. This is a scientific question that can be answered by integrating knowledge from several disciplines. By the term “social organization” I refer to social and political systems, namely, the general and persistent ways in which a group of people is organized in terms of social divisions and political power, respectively. The type of social organization can be defined by its location on a spectrum or continuum with political egalitarianism on the one end and political hierarchy on the other end. Political egalitarianism is a social organization in which decisions are reached through deliberation and consensus; individuals do not command authority over, or coerce other group members; social status, honor, and positions (if and when they exist) are voluntarily granted or withdrawn and not inherited; and individuals can freely leave their group peers or residence location. Political hierarchy is a social organization with opposite characteristics.

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In this regard, it is important to distinguish between social organization characteristics and personal characteristics. Social organization, as defined above, is the systematic ways in which a group of people is organized and political power is distributed. Personal characteristics are such things as traits, capabilities, and social prestige, all of which can and do ordinarily vary between individuals. Social organization is separate from personal qualities and it can be politically egalitarian while personal characteristics are varied and unequal. Differences in personal characteristics should not be confused with hierarchy, and indeed, as this chapter shows, strong politically egalitarian systems exist alongside variability of traits and characteristics, just as democracy exists alongside various sorts of social heterogeneity. The chapter proceeds as follows. In the first section, the climate conditions of the Last Glacial are shortly noted. In the second section, an anthropological perspective on social organization during the Last Glacial is presented through a discussion of political egalitarianism among nomadic hunter-gatherers. In the third section, the evolutionary bases of political egalitarianism are presented. In the fourth section, the possibility for early origins of egalitarian social organization among our nonhuman ancestors is suggested according to hominid’ fossil records. I then summarize the archaeological record of the Last Glacial, and what it can tell us about human social organization. Following this, I discuss the transition to political hierarchy in the Holocene and I explain how this transition and the climatic factors that facilitated it reinforce the predominance of political egalitarianism in the Last Glacial. Finally, I suggest new ways of thinking about the democratic boom of the twentieth century by situating it within a macro level of analysis.

The Climate Conditions of the Last Glacial The climatic conditions of the Last Glacial were very different than our present Holocene climate conditions which have persisted only for the last 12,000 years. In contrast to the Holocene, the Last Glacial was characterized by highly unstable climate conditions with major shifts in the climate occurring even up to decadal time-scales. Last Glacial conditions were generally more arid and colder than the Holocene (COHMAP Members 1988; NGRIP Members 2004). This view of the climate has been reconstructed and corroborated by data from different regions and climate proxy sources all over the world, including reconstructed past lakelevels, tropical and polar ice cores, ocean cores, wind-blown and lake sediments, and speleothems. These records indicate that rapid climate changes were common during the Last Glacial worldwide (see also deMenocal et al. 2000; Leuschner and Sirocko 2000; Mcintosh and Mcintosh 1983; NGRIP Members 2004). These climatic conditions affected human search for water and edible vegetation. It also affected hunting of animals that migrated in search of water and food. Furthermore, these harsh and rapidly changing climatic conditions made agriculture quite impossible (Richerson et al. 2001). Last Glacial conditions, therefore, necessitated

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the formation and preservation of small nomadic bands that were readily mobile and relied on hunting and gathering as means of subsistence.

Political Egalitarianism among Nomadic Foragers Due to the forced nomadic life that the climate dictated to human subsistence over the Last Glacial, the best comparable model to infer about human social organization in that epoch is that of nomadic hunters and gatherers, henceforth nomadic foragers for short. This is not to say that groups of nomadic foragers that have been documented worldwide are considered living relics of the past. Documented foragers have been in contact with, and influenced to various degrees by, sedentary and modern ways of life, perhaps except for some of the San people.3 The reason for focusing on nomadic foragers, other than non-nomadic or seminomadic foragers, is that small-scale nomadic foragers’ ways of life represent an adaptation to certain ecological conditions, an adaptation most suitable to cope with, and dictated by, unpredictable and unstable ecological conditions. Nomadic foragers live in small-scale groups and periodically migrate in search of fluctuating food resources and water supplies. This adaptation most probably reflects human beings’ way of living during the Last Glacial. It is in this sense that nomadic hunter-gatherers “represent the original condition of humankind, the system of production that prevailed during 99 per cent of human history” (Leacock and Lee 1982: 5; see also Marlowe 2005: 65; Murdock 1968: 13). In terms of social organization, a core characteristic of nomadic foragers, which was identified already in the late 1960s4, is their political egalitarianism. Namely, nomadic foragers have no fixed social stratification or centers of political power; decisions are reached through deliberation and consensus; informal leaders (if they exist) have little, if any, real authority over other group members; rotation of roles and functions can occur regularly; people can come and go as they please; and no person can command or subject group members to act according to one’s political wishes and aspirations (Barclay 1982; Boehm 1993, 1999, 2003; Cashdan 1980; Gardner 1991; Knauft 1991; Leacock 1978; Leacock and Lee 1982; Lee 1979, 1982; Power 1991; Service 1979; Silberbauer 1982; Turnbull 1968; Woodburn 1982). Women and men in foraging bands have influence over political decision making, conflict resolution, and they can also be found in leadership roles (Boehm 1999: 7–9; Kelley 1995; Freedman 1980: 336–337; Leacock 1978; Lee 1979; Power 1991: chapter 6; Turnbull 1968). Christopher Boehm, who made an extensive survey of nomadic hunter-gatherer societies, asserts that these were “societies of equals, with minimal political centralization and no social classes. Everyone participated in group decisions . . .” (1999: 4); and, “this egalitarian approach appears to be universal for foragers who live in small bands that remain nomadic, suggesting considerable antiquity for political egalitarianism” (Ibid: 69). Elsewhere, Boehm (2003: 209) states a “rule of thumb” regarding nomadic foragers’ political structure:

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Ethnographers have documented the behavior of several hundred hunting bands worldwide, for extant foragers have been available for study on all continents—save for Europe and the Middle East. The great majority are nomadic, just as their prehistoric precursors surely were. With respect to politics, there is a rule of thumb that applies to every last group of these nomads: they are politically egalitarian. Political egalitarianism among foragers is accomplished by sophisticated practices known as leveling mechanisms. Leveling mechanisms are social-cultural practices which are aimed at controlling overassertive individuals and keeping them from boasting about and exploiting their success, traits, status or positions (e.g., in hunting, see Wiessner 1996a). If an individual tries to dominate other group members or to misuse a position of status, group members may tell him that he makes them laugh (ridicule tactic), they may walk away, disobey, or simply ignore that individual. Other tactics are to rebuke, rebel against, remove, ostracize, or expel an overassertive individual from the group, and, in extreme cases, execution is also an option. Different forager groups exercise different leveling techniques (Boehm 1993, 1999; Kelly 1995: 295–297; Lee 1979: 244–249, 343–354; Power 1991: 178–186; Service 1979: chapter 4; Turnbull 1968: 24; Wiessner 1996a; Woodburn 1982). Sedentary horticultural societies employ an array of leveling practices as well (e.g., Howe 1978; Mahdi 1986; Mitchell 1978, 1988). Leveling mechanisms are the natural checks and balances of nomadic forager people that help keep the social organization as close to being flattened as possible, despite the variability in personalities, physical traits, and capabilities, and notwithstanding competition between individuals. The connection between nomadism and political egalitarianism can be summarized as follows: Nomadic life restricts the accumulation of personal possessions and wealth because all belongings must be carried by the individual, along with offspring. Nomadism also limits the accumulation of large quantities of food, and encourages the practice of food sharing (Testart 1988; Woodburn 1982). Furthermore, nomadism restricts the size of the group due to the fact that children up to the age of four are carried on the backs of their parents until they are capable of walking the entire migratory distance on their own.5 These limitations on group size simplify and ease social relations, for example, by reducing or eliminating the need to concentrate power in the hands of individuals who can resolve conflicts by coercive authority. Small band-size is also ideal for close communication between, and inspection of, group members and their intentions. This characteristic helps discern and discipline over-ambitious tendencies from an early age, and generally limits opportunities for social domination (Hold-Cavell 1996; Lee 1979: 246). Nomadic life also involves a highly flexible and fluid social composition that renders the group label too ambiguous to be analytically useful in some explanatory contexts (Palmer et al. 1997: 300). Individuals occasionally visit friends and relatives in varied locations and distances, and marry across disperse (and fluid) bands (Draper 1973; Tanaka 1980: 116–127). Band fluidity mutes competition over in-group status and makes domination very difficult, and arguably irrelevant, given that an

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individual may waste important energy, jeopardize social status, and risk injury, trying to control individuals who can leave when they please.

Evolutionary Bases of Political Egalitarianism Leveling mechanisms are a central feature of political egalitarianism but they leave an open question about why this system is universal among nomadic foragers. As Richard Alexander has said about cultural evolution, the important issues are “who or what decides which novelties will be perpetuated, and how is this decided? On what basis are cultural changes spread or lost?” (Alexander 1979: 73). In the context of this chapter, the question is on what bases leveling mechanisms and politically egalitarian structures were selected as prevalent cultural practices instead of hierarchical practices and structures. An answer can be found in an evolutionary perspective. Political egalitarianism among nomadic foragers is most probably not the invention of human beings, but rather a persistent pattern and outcome of a long evolutionary process. There is no direct evidence about the social structures or practices of our evolutionary ancestors. It is known, however, that our nonhuman ancestors evolved anatomically through several evolutionary trajectories: skeletons were adapted to terrestrial environments, bipedal locomotion (upright walking) evolved, and brain-size increased considerably relative to body size, that is, encephalization (Krogman 1997; McHenry and Coffing 2000). It is also known from archeological evidence that about 2.6 million years ago our evolutionary ancestors began using, and experimenting with, stone tools, and later created bifaces, namely small stone hand-axes, whose function is still not well understood (Klein 2000). Given that these complexities did occur, the question is then what may be the relationship between these increasing complexities of our evolutionary ancestors and the political egalitarianism of nomadic foragers. The emergence and maintenance of an egalitarian social organization can be explained in an individualselection logic which pertains to ultimate factors of fitness. Basically, the individual tendency for dominance behavior and hierarchy counterbalances itself when applied to all group members (Erdal and Whiten 1994). An individual in the group will have a biological advantage over other individuals should that individual manage to dominate the social organization. Indeed, there are considerable advantages to those who monopolize high rank and status in hierarchical structures in terms of fitness through enhanced reproductive success, higher progeny survival rates, and increased access to food and safe spatial localities, as is evident from research on many species including chimpanzees (de Waal 1982; Pusey et al. 1997), social birds (Zahavi and Zahavi 1997), and biological-anthropological research in human groups (Chagnon 1979; Grammer 1996; Hill 1984; Irons 1979; Kaplan and Hill 1985a, 1985b; Turke and Betzig 1985; Wiessner 1996a, 1996b). Namely, each group member will benefit from upholding high rank and status due to the privileges that come with it (see also Chapter 2).

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Conversely, each individual member also has a biological interest, so to speak, not to be dominated for exactly the same reasons that give the advantages to the dominant individual. Being dominated involves considerable disadvantage to the subordinate individual and may result in a complete lack of reproductive ability. Individuals, thus, have a biological interest in achieving high status and rank in their groups which will maximize their fitness and at the same time individuals have an interest in resisting being dominated because this reduces their fitness. This individual- selection logic underlies the inherent conflict of interest of subordinate members with their dominants and it is manifested in the continual tacit and explicit competition (sometimes to death) in many species of primates (de Waal 1982), birds, and even social insects (Zahavi and Zahavi 1997). This logic applies to female as much as males because hierarchy can cause constraints on reproduction and lower offspring viability (Hannagan 2008). There are, of course, limitations to an individual’s capabilities to uphold high or top rank and also to an individual’s capabilities to resist subordination. These factors are determined both by an individual’s specific genetic and phenotypic traits and by particular ecological and social constraints (see also Vehrencamp 1983). For example, alpha males and females in an array of species (e.g., chimpanzee, wolves, Arabian babblers) often confront challenges from lower ranking individuals. These challenges may result in changed group composition and rankings owing to the weakening of the alpha individuals or the coming of age of young and strong individuals, to name only a few possibilities. Similarly, lower ranking individuals may leave a group in which their chances for reproduction are slim and move to another group or establish a new group if environmental conditions permit (e.g., abundance of food, change in composition in other groups, etc.). According to these complex fluctuations, considerations, and constraints, some individuals are more likely than others to occupy a high rank at a given time. However, the fact that individual traits vary due to natural genetic variation, and that not every individual in every species is equally capable of being the alpha male or female at any given time due to the species’ specific ecological niche, does not change the basic matrix of interests for each individual member: occupying the highest rank and status possible and resisting domination by other members. The benefits of top rank engender fierce and at times deadly competition (even between close kin) over the alpha and beta roles in many species. For the same reason, top ranks in many species are highly changeable and alternate between competing individuals. This basic individual-selection logic tends to be forgotten by those who conflate submission with willing consent (rather than a lack of choice in given conditions) and hence group-selection explanations—which assert that an individual’s biological interests are dictated by or subordinated to the groups’ overall genetic interest vis-à-vis rival groups—are then introduced in order to try and explain why submission is adaptive (e.g., Somit and Peterson 1997: chapters 5–6). In biological terms, however, individual traits that entail willingness to accept the role of a subordinate will result in reduced or total lack of reproductive success relative to dominants and these traits are less likely to be transmitted to following generations.

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The dispositions to gain high status and rank, and at the same time to avoid being dominated, are also evident in the ongoing dynamic of maintaining political egalitarianism. Political egalitarianism among nomadic foragers is not an effortless or static state in which all members accept the egalitarian ethos and refrain from deviating from it. As Boehm (1993, 1999) skillfully depicts, political egalitarianism among hunters and gatherers is accompanied by repeated attempts by individuals who test the limits of the egalitarian ethos and try to utilize their special potencies in order to gain advantages over others. At the same time, tacit and explicit leveling mechanisms are employed in order to put boastful and assertive individuals back in line. These mechanisms are employed by males and females alike (Boehm 1999: 8–9; Power 1991; Erdal and Whitten 1994; Knauft 1994). The disposition to seek status and the disposition to level down overassertive individuals both begin at an early age (Hold-Cavell 1996; Lee 1979: 246). Perhaps the most prevalent example of such tendencies involves status seeking through hunting, which is a vital and esteemed practice in nomadic foragers. Young and boastful hunters are taught by their elders not to show off their success in hunting and not to diminish others’ hunting skills (Wiessner 1996a, 1996b). Lee (1979: 246) quotes a !Kung San member who explains the motivation behind the leveling of young hunters: When a young man kills much meat, he comes to think of himself as a chief or a big man, and he thinks of the rest of us as his servants or inferiors. We can’t accept this. We refuse one who boasts, for someday his pride will make him kill somebody. So we always speak of his meat as worthless. In this way we cool his heart and make him gentle. By the time they are adults, most hunters learn to show restraint and modesty, for example, by stopping their hunting when their success becomes too obvious. Alternatively, hunters may play down the size of their catch when they announce that they have caught a large animal and ask help from their group members to carry it to camp. Among the San people, those who help bring the catch to camp often tease the hunter as part of a leveling tactic and in order to observe his reactions (Lee 1979: chapter 8). Moreover, the conflicts between overassertive individuals or informal position holders and their groups can be so tacit that they may escape the attention of an outsider (Boehm 1993: 233–234). Indeed, the prevalence and multiplicity of leveling mechanisms are themselves a strong testimony for these two countervailing tendencies: the tendency of some individuals to overstep their rank and status, and the tendency to thwart others’ attempts to gain power which may become dangerous and harmful to oneself (see also Wiesnner 1996b: 12). The concurring existence of these two opposing yet complementary tendencies strengthens the idea that political egalitarianism is not a sudden departure from our close evolutionary ancestors’ behavioral patterns and social organization. Political egalitarianism emerged because dominance behavior became more restricted and

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leveled-down in the course of evolution, and because strict hierarchical structures became maladaptive in comparison to egalitarian social organizations. Overassertive individuals may put themselves at risk of being injured by both males and females who do not share the overassertive individual’s biological interests of domination. Furthermore, a band of nomadic individuals is hard to control and monopolize: individuals can exit and move to another band and they can form manifold coalitions that practically prevent any one individual from controlling other members. Physical force is insufficient in this regard as the use of hunting tools, especially projectiles, evens out physical differences and puts a premium on social skills. Under these conditions, competitive tendencies for rank and status generate a no-win situation in which conflicting interests thwart each other and leave the social structure as close to remaining flattened as possible. As Erdal and Whiten (1994: 177) succinctly put it “dominance behaviour was not entirely lost in evolution but was balanced by counterdominant tendencies which only evolved because they provided fitness advantages in the ecological and social environments of the time.” Upon changing the ecological conditions, however, the same causal factors may become unchecked and leveling mechanisms may become ineffective, and consequently hierarchy may ensue. Such were the consequences of the ecological transformations of the Last Glacial period and the beginning of the Holocene era. The psychological “phobia” of others’ domination (Boehm 1993; Wiessner 2002: 262) and the intricate cultural leveling mechanisms are consistent with the disposition to avoid being dominated and oppressed. Accordingly, a psychological disposition to resist and refrain from being dominated on the one hand and to seek high rank and status on the other, reflect the biological dispositions that were mentioned above. That is, the biological level of analysis and the psychological and cultural aspects of political egalitarianism are complementary: biological factors underlie psychological predispositions and leveling mechanisms (culture), which together work to balance and inhibit a hierarchical outcome and to maintain a politically egalitarian social organization.

Fossil Records, Evolution of Hominids, and Political Egalitarianism Fossil records of hominid skeletons and dental changes in canine teeth are telling types of evidence to infer about social organization during the ancient past. Both these factors are components of “sexual dimorphism”: the morphological differences between females and males of the same species. The evolution of these morphological aspects in hominids suggests a gradual reduction of our ancestors’ social organization (Erdal and Whiten 1994) or a refinement of early egalitarian systems. A strong correlation exists between “the levels of sexual dimorphism and the type of social organization” (Lewin and Foley 2004: 182). In general, species which exhibit pronounced differences in body-size ratios or difference in length of canine teeth

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between males and females tend to have more hierarchical social organizations, such as in gorillas and baboons in which one male dominates the group. Species with relatively low degrees of sexual dimorphism tend to have a more egalitarian social structure, such as in bonobos (Susman 1987). This rule applies not only to primates. Sexual dimorphism is correlated with social organization among fowl such as peacocks and peahens, and among ruminants such as different types of deer in which one male dominates reproduction. With regard to the human evolutionary lineage, the fossil records show a reduction in body-size ratios and a reduction of canines, both of which imply a trend toward more leveled-down social organizations. By this logic, and in light of the fossil records, egalitarian social organization could have already originated 1.9 million years ago with Homo erectus, a species characterized by a low degree of body sexual dimorphism and a tooth system similar to that of Homo sapiens (Lewin and Foley 2004). In this context, political egalitarianism in humans is probably not a departure from social organization in previous evolutionary lineages but rather a continuation of, or possibly refinement of, social organization in previous hominids.

Archaeology and Political Egalitarianism Archaeological entities from the Last Glacial provide the only empirical evidence about human life in that period. These entities also enable inferences to be drawn about social organization in that period, notwithstanding difficulties in reconstructing ancient social organization from archaeological records alone. In general, there is very little archaeological evidence suggesting sedentary life, social stratification, or political hierarchy during the Last Glacial. The bulk of archaeological entities from the Last Glacial indicate temporary hunting and gathering camps occupied by people with egalitarian social structures. Specifically, the archaeological record shows domestic spatial organization comparable to that of documented nomadic forager campsites. In some sites, it is possible to identify behaviors characteristic of egalitarian foragers such as food sharing. Therefore, the overall picture that emerges from several decades of archaeological research is that disperse groups of nomadic foragers with politically egalitarian social organization prevailed at least during the Last Glacial. As for evidence pertaining to non-egalitarian social organization, archaeologists typically detect political hierarchy or social stratification according to the following indicators: differential burials; differential dwelling structures in terms of size and/or elaborateness; monumental architecture; prestige goods; and evidence for conspicuous consumption. There is scant evidence for any of these indicators before the end of the Last Glacial. The notable scarcity of hierarchical indicators is not merely a matter of poor preservation because when social organization changes occurred at height of Last Glacial they did register in the archaeological record. This suggests that social stratifications and hierarchies were rare in the period, if they existed at all. Indeed, there are only a handful of archaeological entities from Europe and Southeast

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Asia that may possibly be interpreted as glimpses of non-egalitarian practices or structures, the strongest of which are a small number of graves of children and adults who were buried with ornaments and ochre. Yet these examples could also be interpreted as examples of ascribed status rather than inherited status. In any event, the scarcity of such examples in both space and time makes it doubtful that they constitute evidence for established, long-standing structures of political hierarchy. Such an argument has also not been made in the literature. These examples are confined to Europe and Southeast Asia, and evidence of social stratification and political hierarchy is not forthcoming from the rest of Asia, Africa, and the New World during the Last Glacial. As such, these few examples constitute the exceptions that prove the rule of political egalitarianism during the bulk of human prehistory.

Political Egalitarianism and the Transition to Political Hierarchy The spectrum of possible social organization forms have changed dramatically since the end of the Last Glacial. The Last Glacial was followed by the Holocene geological period, which began about 12,000 years ago and is still the world’s present climate system. Holocene climate ameliorated from cold, dry, and unstable conditions to generally warm, wetter, and stable conditions. In addition, the end of the Last Glacial is marked by the end of the Paleolithic era and the onset of the Neolithic era. This transition is defined according to, and accompanied by, technological innovations such as the domestication of animals and plants, and the beginning of agriculture. The Neolithic is also marked by a general transition to more sedentary forms of living, either semi-sedentary or yearlong occupation of the same location. This revolution, which is also known as the agricultural or Neolithic revolution, was followed by faster technological innovations involving the use of copper, bronze, and iron, each marking as a distinct phase in human development and history. As opportunities for subsistence economy were broadened by the amelioration of the climate, the spectrum of possible social organization was impacted as well. Social stratification and political hierarchies were gradually replacing politically egalitarian structures. It is important to remember, however, what the transition to social hierarchy evolved from. In fact, the factors that generated huge social transformation in the Holocene onwards also reflect the reasons that political egalitarianism was the predominant form of social organization prior to the end of the Last Glacial. Most basically, the emergence of political hierarchy occurred when some individuals managed to exploit opportunities that affected the distribution of political power while leveling mechanisms ceased to be effective. There are many new conditions, opportunities, and constraints that may have facilitated the emergence of political hierarchy (for review see Wiessner 2002). However, two factors seem particularly important: subsistence changes that propelled the accumulation of wealth, and population growth. The discussion of these factors also sheds light on the possible spectrum of social organization during the Last Glacial.

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Wealth and Social Organization Subsistence economy of sedentary life enables wealth accumulation, a practice rarely characteristic of nomadic foragers. The accumulation of wealth tends to be a facilitative factor and opens opportunities for individuals to deviate from egalitarian structures and practices. Whereas nomadic foragers who try or begin to accumulate wealth are leveled-down or leave the group (see for example Lee 1979: 458), a sedentary economy of food storage allows the accumulation of wealth both in the sense that it is physically feasible to gather possessions in one place (impossible in nomadic life) and to manipulate resources and food sharing (Testart 1988; Woodburn 1982). With wealth accumulation, social stratification begins. When resources become predictable, dense, and stable, sedentary life and territoriality may emerge in the long run and facilitate the emergence of hierarchical social organization. Some individuals are better than others at hunting, gathering, herding, cultivating land, and so on, and hence those differences can translate into social hierarchy in the absence of effective leveling mechanisms. Furthermore, sedentary forms of subsistence economy introduce a whole new range of competition and costly signaling practices associated with status seeking (Bliege-Bird and Smith 2005: 234). A clear case study for such a pattern is Richard Lee’s study of the transitional effects to sedentary life in the strongly egalitarian bushmen, the !Kung San: “with the transition to village life the old mechanisms have proved quite inadequate. The process of moving to a new mode of production involved the !Kung not only in changes in the economic base but also has necessitated the emergence of new kinds of political relations, new forms of leadership, and new methods of resolving disputes” (Lee 1979: 369; see also Barth 1952 and compare Asad 1972; Layton 1986). The argument that social organization during the Last Glacial was politically egalitarian is strengthened by the fact that political hierarchy is strongly associated with, and tied to, a completely novel form of subsistence economy which is dependent upon sedentary life. As indicated above, sedentary life was generally unfeasible during the Last Glacial, a time period characterized by a very different climatic system compared to the Holocene. The prevailing climate, in most instances, would not have permitted enough time for sedentary forms of living to be established (see deMenocal et al. 2000; Mcintosh and Mcintosh 1983; Richerson et al. 2001; Stiner et al. 1999). It is for this reason that anthropologists normally reconstruct social organization during the Last Glacial based on the model of nomadic foragers, rather than on models of semi-nomadic or sedentary foragers (e.g. Boehm 1999; Leacock and Lee 1982; Lee 1979, 1982; Marlowe 2005; Murdock 1968).

Population Size and Social Organization Population size is also strongly associated with the formation of political hierarchy. Environmental limitations, such as the unpredictability of food and water supplies, normally dictate small and disperse groups that can easily migrate in search of new resources (Dyson-Hudson et al. 1978; Stiner et al. 1999). Moreover, internal and

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external affairs are easier to maintain and conflict resolution is more flexible in smaller groups that can split when tensions rise. For example, in case of violence or tensions between members of nomadic groups, some members may simply decide to leave the congregation. This tendency is apparent when several nomadic groups come together for short periods for purposes of pairing, trading, and celebrating. These voluntary and temporary congregations require more coordination and cooperation on the side of group members and specifically more effort on the side of food suppliers who need to feed more people (Boehm 1999; Draper 1973; Lee 1979: 354–369; Shostak 1981: 194). In contrast, an increase in population and its density generate several pressures on social organization. Conflicts become more frequent due to the intensity, complexity, and heightened efforts required of large sedentary populations. The division of labor is one such outcome and with it come opportunities for social stratification as well. Large groups must solve the problems of coordination, cooperation, conflict resolution, and possibly also compete over and defend territory and primeresources against neighbors who exhausted their own resources (Smith and Wishnie 2000: 505). Hence, increased group size may facilitate and cement the concentration of political power in the hands of an individual or a few individuals who can resolve these constraints and problems of large sedentary groups. Furthermore, population growth may create dependency relations once resource distribution becomes unequal. In contrast to nomadic foragers, sedentary population size becomes mainly limited by food and water supplies. Indeed, human population began growing rapidly following the Last Glacial and the agricultural revolution. Under these conditions of increased sedentism and population growth, and coupled with the instability and shortage of natural resources and prime food resources, inequality and hierarchy may ensue. Those who do not have enough resources for subsistence can become dependent upon those who have accumulated resources or have better capacity to acquire food due to natural variation in skill, varied inheritance resources (e.g., livestock), or luck. It is in this context that food supply can transform from a matter of right and obligation as in nomadic foragers to a matter of dependency, submission, and hierarchy. For example, some group members may be unable to reciprocate “gifts” and hence be driven into permanent lower status and rank. Some may become completely dependent on others for their subsistence due to a lack of ability to support themselves, severe impoverishment, or owing to the complex divisions of labor of some sedentary societies (e.g., Monaghan and Just 2000: 112; Service 1979: 18). It is interesting to note that in the modern context there also appears to be a correlation between smaller population size and political egalitarianism. For many centuries, smaller societies seem to have had more success with democracy than empires and big societies (Whitehead 2002: 253). Many seminal democracies, however, lost their independence to strong empires and states, probably as a result of wealth accumulation that enabled rulers to build big armies and strengthen their coercive regimes (Brown 2002: 23–24). On the other hand, the fall of empires served in many cases (but certainly not in all cases) as a catalyst toward more democratic

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societies. The breakdown of big empires or nondemocratic entities into smaller units is no guarantee for democratic change, but it does seems to be associated with it, most probably because members of smaller groups can more easily communicate and cooperate (Deutsch 1961) and also set in motion leveling mechanisms which can shape democratic practices and characteristics. The strong association of political hierarchy with rapid population growth in dense sedentary societies reinforces the association between political egalitarianism and small-scale dispersed nomadic societies. Only a few million human beings populated the planet in low densities and in nomadic bands prior to the end of the Last Glacial. In fact, genetic research suggests declines in human population densities in that period, reflected in genealogical lineages that were probably the result of population bottlenecks, genetic drift, and gene flow (Behar et al. 2008; Boone 2000; Churchill et al. 2000; Hawks et al. 2007; Klein 2000; Mellars 2006a, b; Morin 2008; Wells 2002). Recent analyses of Mitochondrial DNA also support the view of fast migration rates of our human ancestors in their voyage out of Africa and beyond (Behar et al. 2008; Forster 2003; Mellars 2006a, b). Analyses of cranial morphology, body and shape stature, and robusticity of limbs in Upper Paleolithic Europe also suggest that European populations were highly mobile and in frequent contact with each other during the Last Glacial (Churchill et al. 2000). Thus, also according to inferences drawn from factors of population size and mobility, most of the human experience appears to have been politically egalitarian.

The Reemergence of Political Egalitarianism When some argue that most human history and evolution have not been democratic, they do not merely mean to say that universal suffrage and human rights are a new cultural innovation. Rather, they have in mind the notion, or they explicitly argue, that human prehistory has been predominantly hierarchical and non-egalitarian. According to this common assertion, the twentieth-century democraticboom is a new phenomenon altogether in the overall human experience. In the last part of this chapter, I offer two alternative ways of thinking about the emergence and eventual dominance of democracy in the twentieth century. The first subsection locates the phenomenon in relation to macro time-scales. The second complementary subsection contextualizes examples of political egalitarianism in past centuries within the macro-level perspective of this chapter.

The Emergence of Democracy in Macro Time-Scales From the beginning of the Neolithic era to the rapid expansion of democracies in the twentieth century about 12,000 years have passed. However, the escalation of political hierarchy and the appearance of great civilizations in Mesopotamia, East Asia, Africa, and Mesoamerica, began rather late, approximately 6,000 years before the present, which is a very short time compared to the entire human experience

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since the Last Glacial. Within those last 6,000 years the picture is of complex and unstable dynamics between social forces that perpetuate political hierarchy and social forces that resist it. In fact, the escalation of political hierarchy and the surge of democracy in the twentieth century are encapsulated within a very short historical interval, relative to the overall human experience with political systems. In macro time-scales, democracy reappeared rather quickly in human history as a cultural adaptation to conditions of mass sedentary societies and social and technological flux. A helpful illustration of this point would be to compare the relative portion of historical periods to their equivalent in a scale of a single day that begins 74,000 years ago with the onset of the Last Glacial and ends at present day (see Image 1). For over than twenty hours of the day, which constitute 84 percent of human existence, human beings (Homo sapiens) lived in small nomadic bands that to the best of our knowledge were predominantly politically egalitarian. The beginning of the Holocene and the Neolithic era, and the emergence of agriculture occurred only four hours before the end of the day. The escalation toward political hierarchy and

Image 1 The Human Political Experience in a One-Day Scale

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the emergence of great civilizations started in the last two hours of the day. The Athenian democracy briefly emerged and disappeared about forty-nine minutes before midnight. The modern territorial sovereign state system that began to crystallize after the Peace of Westphalia (1648) was created in the last seven minutes. Modern democracy, according to twentieth-century procedural definitions, emerged barely two minutes ago! Nevertheless, looking at the development of human social organization from another angle, the twentieth-century democratic boom occurred just over three hours after the Neolithic revolution and its hyper-technological and troubled aftermath, and barely five minutes after the modern state system was formed. Thus, in macro time-scale, political egalitarianism in the form of democracy reemerged quite fast, and after only a very short interruption. This fast achievement attests to human beings’ incredible adaptationist capacities to learn and control new environments that were not part of our prehistoric past. Perhaps not less important, the reemergence of democracy and the victory of democratic ideals on many fronts and in many places illustrate the deep and inherent aversion to being dominated and oppressed. The overwhelming percentage of political egalitarianism in human existence would be even greater if we include archaic human beings prior to the Last Glacial, let alone evolutionary ancestors from whom humans probably continued egalitarian social organization.

Egalitarianism was Always Around A second, and complementary, line of thinking about the emergence of democracy is that human dispositions that underlie political egalitarianism were always at work and democratic practices were not absent even under conditions of social and political upheaval. The aversion to being dominated did not disappear with the transition to Holocene climate conditions nor was it muted by technological leaps and innovations. Human experimentations with democratic and nondemocratic systems, through a trial and error and learning processes, gradually transformed political systems into twentieth-century democratic forms and standards.6 Yet the existence of democratic systems and practices can also be observed in periods when nondemocratic political systems seem to have been the rule. The most well-known example is, of course, the Athenian democracy which was alive and kicking already 2,500 years ago, as were other democratic Greek city-states. Although it would not be considered a democracy by today’s standards, Athenian democracy is the first notable and well-documented democratic adaptation for large-scale sedentary life, though there were likely many other prior undocumented sedentary democratic settlements (Boehm 2003). Rome is another example where ordinary people (plebeians) struggled for their place in decision making and eventually achieved it. Democratic practices in Rome lasted even longer than in Athens, though after Rome grew in population and power, the democracy turned into a despotic empire. Moreover, for more than two centuries, between 1100–1300 C.E., small democratic city-states surfaced in nowadays Italy. These small democracies

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were later subdued and submerged within larger authoritarian political units. Additional European examples exist. Around 800 C.E., small communities of peasants, in what is today a canton in Switzerland, “found themselves in a uniquely egalitarian situation . . . they developed a sense of equality wholly at odds with the hierarchical, status-conscious thrust of medieval feudalism. This distinctive spirit was to dominate the later emergence of democracy in the Raetian Republic” (quoted in Dahl 1998: 19–20; the examples of Athens and Rome are also noted by Dahl). England is also an interesting example of a slow gradual transition to more egalitarian political structures. Dahl (Ibid, 21) describes the growth of English democracy as a “product less of intention and design than of blind evolution. Parliament grew out of assemblies summoned sporadically, and under the pressure of need, during the reign of Edward I from 1272 to 1307.” Other than England, small communities of farmers, peasants, middle-class merchants and raiders, such as the Vikings, produced local egalitarian assemblies (which later demanded participation rights) in many other parts of Europe, such as in Norway, Denmark, Sweden, Florence, Venice, and elsewhere. Moreover, prior to the eighteenth century there were established democratic practices of direct participation in communal decision making and plebiscites in Switzerland’s cantons, and local democratic assemblies well before the establishment of the United States. The French Revolution’s (1789) motto of “Liberté Égalité [egalitarianism or equality] Fraternité” symbolizes more than yet another democratic ideal. The French Revolution was a turning point and a catalyst for the transition from absolute regimes to nationalism and democracy in Europe. Although these examples are not democracies by today’s standards, the common denominator between them is that they are associated with (or started as) smallscale local societies that produced or enhanced democratic practices and characteristics. Also, in all these examples, leveling mechanisms were involved in the form of demands for elections and representation by the rank and file or through popular revolutions. The successful activation of these collective leveling mechanisms curbed political power and modified social structures. Politically egalitarian systems were established and politically hierarchy was flattened and contained in terms of the concentration and wielding of power. Perhaps more importantly, it should be stressed that the above-mentioned examples are supplemented by the continued existence of hunter-gatherer bands with fiercely politically egalitarian social organization in Africa, East Asia, North, Central and South America, the Mediterranean, Oceania, New Guinea, and Australia (Boehm 1993, 1999). In fact, in some regions the emergence of political hierarchy occurred quite recently in human history, with centralized political power emerging gradually only within the last 6,000 years. As Boehm explains, “[a]t the beginning of the eighteenth century, there were still major regions of the world where this transition from egalitarian tribes (or bands) to the hierarchical types that followed had not yet begun” (2003: 212). These examples are consistent with the human aversion to being dominated. Political egalitarianism, therefore, was always around to some degree. Forms of political egalitarianism among pre-state societies were continuous in many parts of the world for centuries. It is easy to forget about or even ignore this fact when faced

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with the drama and splendor of great historical civilizations and mega-states, and of meteoric conquerors that rose and fell in an eye-blink of history. Nevertheless, the stylized-fact that most human history and evolution has been predominantly hierarchical is as incorrect as it is popular. Democracy may be a new phenomenon by twentieth-century concepts and standards. As a politically egalitarian cultural innovation and adaptation to sedentary and population density conditions, however, democracy has deep roots and ancient foundations in the overall human experience.

Conclusions Small groups of nomadic foragers most probably maintained politically egalitarian social organization under conditions of semi-continuous migration, which existed in the Last Glacial. In view of the absence of conditions that may have facilitated political hierarchy, the human disposition to avoid being dominated coupled with the conditions of the Last Glacial inhibited the formation of hierarchies in that period. Archeological records of human existence in prehistory are consistent with this generalization. Fossil records from much earlier periods in human evolution also suggest that social organization of hominids was gradually leveled down or that it was refined from an early egalitarian stage in hominid evolution. The “default” position of our human ancestors’ social organization was probably the political egalitarian model, a form of social existence that Homo sapiens continued and made more sophisticated following nonhuman ancestors. Francis Fukuyama (1992) argued that liberal democracy marks the type of social organization which human societies appear to be converging at due to the psychological facet of human nature, the pursuit of recognition, which makes people resist hierarchical political systems that subjugate and deprive them of their liberties and dignity. Fukuyama argued that there are no serious alternatives or challengers to liberal democracy because nondemocratic systems such as fascist regimes, communist regimes, or fundamentalist theocracies have failed to pose compelling ideological alternatives to liberal democratic ideals. This macro-level explanation suggests that different types of political systems and practices were selected, by way of trial and error, according to their compatibility with the aversion to being dominated. Systems that are not compatible with this disposition are more prone to be replaced because they tend to trigger resistance among the oppressed and hence they face ongoing pressures. Systems that are more compatible with this disposition tend to endure because they are less likely to produce practices that clash with the aversion to being dominated. Fukuyama termed this eventual convergence point in the history of human social organization as the “end of history.”7 This chapter adds another angle to this macro-historical perspective. Liberal democracy may be the end of history; its roots are surely in the predominance of political egalitarianism in the bulk of prehistory. The macro-historical analysis of democratic systems in the human experience and the relation to human dispositions is important to opening up new ways of

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thinking about democratic progress. Specifically, I propose that the dispositions of the pursuit of recognition are also relevant to the micro-level understanding of democratic progress. These dispositions can be observed in concrete cases that involve contentious struggles against nondemocratic systems, as the following chapters demonstrate.

Notes 1. Earlier versions of this chapter were presented at the American Political Science Association Annual Meeting, Washington D.C. (Shultziner 2005), and at the Mercatus Center of the George Mason University, September 14, 2006. 2. The Political Egalitarianism Project (PEP) is in fact an outgrowth of early versions of this chapter. The PEP members are the author, Thomas Stevens, Martin Stevens, Brian Stewart, Rebecca Hannagan, and Giulia Saltini-Semerari. Several paragraphs are adapted from the PEP paper (Shultziner et al. 2010). 3. The San, the profoundly egalitarian nomadic foragers of the South African region, probably do represent a group which has been quite isolated from, and not affected by, population migrations and mixing. The San “have a strong [genetic] signal of the diversity that characterized the earliest human populations” as well as similar ancient genetic lineages in mitochondrial DNA and unique and complex language; these features “strongly suggest that the San represent a direct link back to our earliest human ancestors” (Wells 2002: 56–57). 4. The late 1960s is the time when the study of pre-state hunters and gatherers was emerging as a distinct and structured field of scholarship. The conference and later book “Man the Hunter” is an important landmark in the study of hunter-gatherers (see Lee and DeVore 1968). 5. Nomadic forager females normally have birth intervals of about four years, which are enabled by daily breast feeding that suppresses the emission of a new egg for potential fertilization. At about the age of four, the child is weaned from breast feeding and the woman can get pregnant again (Kelly 1995: chapter 2; Lee 1979: 442–443). 6. Modelski and Gardner (1991, 2002) have also proposed the idea of democracy as a learning process on a macro-scale, though their model is different than the general approach of this book. 7. Fukuyama’s provocative title “the end of history” has been frequently misunderstood and interpreted to mean that history itself will come to an end or that no significant political events or conflicts will occur in the future. Fukuyama, of course, did not argue anything of that sort (see Fukuyama 1989, 1992, 1995).

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4 Recognition and Humiliation: The Origins of Mass Mobilization in the Montgomery Bus Boycott On the first day of December 1955, Mrs. Rosa Parks, was arrested for refusing to give up her seat to a white man on a city bus in Montgomery, Alabama. “I was tired of being humiliated,” she explained in an interview to a Fisk University undergraduate, Willie W. Lee on February 5, 1956, exactly two months after the launch of what was originally planned as a one-day bus boycott in protest of Parks’ arrest.1 The boycott became a dramatic struggle that lasted 381 days and captured national and international attention; it made Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. [henceforth “King”] a world celebrity and carved him an unprecedented leadership position in the African American community in the years to come; and it helped facilitate a District Court ruling which was ratified by a Supreme Court ruling banning segregation between whites and blacks on public buses in Alabama. The Montgomery bus boycott was the constitutive event of the mass mobilization phase in what is now called the Modern American Civil Rights Movement, 1955–1965.2 Lessons from the bus boycott were consciously applied in other campaigns. Two such struggles led to the Civil Rights Act (1964) and the Voting Rights Act (1965) that re-enfranchised Africans Americans living in the US South. The story and lessons of the Montgomery bus boycott also fueled several decades of research on social movements and on the tactics of nonviolent struggles. These stories and lessons have inspired activists and have been studied and put to work around the world by those pursuing democratic progress. Egyptian human rights activist Dalia Ziada, for example, translated into Arabic a comic book depicting the Montgomery bus boycott and its hero King, and these comic books have been distributed all over the Middle East from Yemen to Morocco since 2007. She learned about the idea at a conference in Cairo where she heard about other activists in Vietnam, Iran, and Spain who had done the same thing.3 Indeed, activists continue

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to transmit and to universalize the lessons that have been accumulated from and since the Montgomery bus boycott. The historical importance of the boycott, thus, goes beyond its being an opening shot for mass mobilization in the American Civil Rights Movement; it has been a landmark for half a century of democratic progress all over the world. This chapter focuses only on the psychological origins of mass mobilization preceding the boycott, a topic that has not yet been fully deciphered. The next chapter will deal with the psychological factors that sustained the momentum of the struggle, as well as the main tactical maneuvers and mistakes made by the white and black elites. In order to approach this topic I used historical data materials such as interviews, audio data, personal participants’ memoirs, and data from archives. The use of historical research to tap into psychological aspects and causes poses obvious challenges and sometimes requires a greater degree of extrapolation and interpretation compared to more contemporary and easily accessible data. Yet there has been vast interest in the Montgomery bus boycott and a corresponding quality and quantity of available data. This enables reevaluating existing materials with new theories and new questions in mind. For example, most explanations focused on changes in the black community but little attention was paid to changing realities on the buses and to changes on the side of white bus drivers. Research in this direction proposes new discoveries about the origins of mass mobilization in the Montgomery bus boycott and their relationship to the pursuit of recognition.

Puzzles of the Montgomery Bus Boycott Two main questions have puzzled scholars and participants of the modern American Civil Rights Movement: Why did this movement begin where it did and not elsewhere? And why did the struggle begin when it did? In other words, why Montgomery in December 1955? King discussed these questions in his book Stride Toward Freedom, written not long after the conclusion of the boycott. King notes several factors affecting the black community in Montgomery before the onset of the boycott and notes that they cannot explain either why the movement occurred in Montgomery or its time of occurrence. He concludes, “every rational explanation breaks down at some point. There is something about the protest that is suprarational; it cannot be explained without divine dimension” ([1958]: 51). Social scientists and historians of the modern American Civil Rights Movement have offered explanations to its emergence based on macro-factors such as economic factors, modernization, industrialization, migration, new national and international political opportunities, and World War II (e.g., Garrow 1989; McAdam 1982; Morris 1984). Yet these important scholarly works do not explain why mass mobilization began in Montgomery, Alabama, and not elsewhere nor why in December 1955. Another shared problem of the literature is the neglect of specifying the causal mechanisms that connect these hypothesized factors to the psychological dimensions of people who actually engaged in activity leading to democratic

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progress (for insiders’ reflections on the scholarship see McAdam 2004; Morris 2000). The task of predicting the emergence of a mass movement in timeframes as narrow as a day, week, or month, and geographical locations as narrow as a city seems to be beyond the reach of social science. It is often very difficult even to explain social and political phenomena after the fact. There is certainly an element of contingency and chaos in social and political phenomena that makes predictions very difficult. With regards to social movements and transitions to democracy, those often emerge when they are least expected and do not occur where they are most expected. This does not mean that no useful explanations and predictions exist to understand these phenomena or that they are suprarational. There are in fact factors that have differentiated Montgomery, AL., from other locations in the South in terms of the psychological potential for mobilization, as will be argued below. But one answer to the question “why Montgomery in December 1955?” is that it did not have to be Montgomery in 1955. A very similar boycott began two years earlier in Baton Rouge. This boycott is instrumental in helping us understand some puzzles of the Montgomery bus boycott and beyond.

Precursors to the Montgomery Bus Boycott The public bus service in Baton Rouge, the state capital of Louisiana, was similar to the bus service in Montgomery, the state capital of Alabama. These public transport systems were based on segregation and stipulated that blacks had to give up their seats to whites whenever the front section of the bus was full, and blacks were not allowed to sit in the front section even if there were empty seats and no more seats available in the back section (Morris 1984: 17). Contrary to common belief, this type of bus segregation was not very common. This system combined with abuses of the bus drivers led the black Baton Rouge community to petition for a change in the bus segregation system in 1953. The Baton Rouge city officials actually accepted the black community’s petition and allowed system of segregation based on firstcome-first-serve basis in which blacks began sitting from the back and whites from the front with no reserved seats. In response to the new city ordinance, the bus drivers, all of whom were white, went on strike. The Louisiana Attorney General followed with a ruling that the new city ordinance conflicted with the Louisiana state laws and was therefore illegal. The decision angered the black community and prompted a decision to boycott the bus system on June 19, 1953 under the leadership of a black minister, T. J. Jemison.4 The dramatic boycott involved mass meetings and a sophisticated car-pooling system. However, the Baton Rouge boycott lasted less than a week because the city officials were again ready to compromise and reach a new agreement on a segregation system in which blacks began sitting from the back of the bus and whites from the front with an addition of four reserved seats for whites in the front and the row of seats in the rear of the bus reserved for blacks. The black leadership recommended the adoption of the compromise to the black community. A majority voted in favor but many were dissatisfied and wanted to continue the boycott (Morris 1984: 24–25).

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Had the black leadership in Baton Rouge decided to press for complete desegregation or had the white leadership been unwilling to compromise, Baton Rouge may very well have caught Montgomery’s spotlight. Beyond the fact that there was a potential for the onset of a movement in Baton Rouge and perhaps Memphis5 (see also Thornton 1989: 342), there is also the question of why the Montgomery boycott began when it did. Certainly there were elements of contingency in determining the occurrence of the boycott. Conceivably, the boycott could have begun in Montgomery earlier. On March 2, 1955, nine months before Rosa Parks was arrested, a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl named Claudette Colvin was also arrested for refusing to give up her bus seat. Emotions ran high in the black Montgomery community when the news of her arrest began to spread. Not only did the young girl refuse to give up her seat but she also resisted arrest and was subsequently manhandled by two policemen who dragged her to the police car while she was screaming and kicking.6 Jo Ann Robinson, then the president of a black academic women’s organization known as the Women’s Political Council (henceforth WPC), explains that the black women of Montgomery were ready to boycott after the Colvin incident: “The women felt not that their cup of tolerance was overflowing, but that it had overflowed; they simply could not take it anymore. We were ready to boycott” (Robinson 1989: 39). In fact, Robinson recounts in her memoir that the WPC already planned on printing leaflets announcing a boycott and threatened the city officials and the bus company with a boycott (Ibid). And yet, due to factors such as Colvin’s young age, disagreements about timing and preparedness, disagreements between the black organizations, and fear of failure, the idea of the boycott was put on hold and then dropped. In between Colvin’s arrest and Parks’ arrest there were two additional opportunities that could have triggered the boycott. When Claudette Colvin was convicted, despite promises of city officials that she would not be, there was again anger in the black Montgomery community and “[f]or a few days, large numbers refused to use the buses, but as they cooled off somewhat, they gradually drifted back” (Ibid: 42). In October 1955, Mary Louise Smith, an eighteen-year-old black girl was arrested, fined, and convicted for refusing to give up her seat on the bus, but no one heard about the incident until after her conviction. She paid the fine and continued riding the buses (Ibid: 43). These two events could have also potentially served as triggers for the Montgomery boycott.

Why Montgomery, Alabama? In the section above I have explained why it was not unavoidable that the modern American Civil Rights Movement would begin in Montgomery, AL., in December of 1955. Yet a more interesting and difficult task is to explain why it did happen there and then. Notwithstanding contingent factors that can make or break opportunities for mass mobilization, there were in fact factors that made the bus situation in Montgomery, Alabama, a very likely setting for mass mobilization compared to other places. The special system of segregation on buses in Montgomery involved distinctive social interactions with a daily potential of being humiliated, as will be explained below.

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The bus company Montgomery City Lines Inc. in 1955 was part of the National City Lines Corporation which had the franchise to run public bus service in fortytwo cities in thirteen states, including two branches in major Alabama cities, Mobile and Montgomery.7 In most Southern cities that practiced segregation on public buses the seating arrangements were relatively predictable and secure, and black customers knew where they could and could not sit on the bus. For example, Mobile City Lines Inc. (Montgomery’s sister bus; company owned by National City Lines) had a seating arrangement whereby whites began sitting from the front of the bus and blacks from the rear of the bus; wherever they met was the dividing line and passengers would be asked to relinquish their seats. Although this type of segregation still constitutes a form of racism, it was at least a predictable and stable arrangement that reduced the tension in an already very problematic setting. Ironically, it is precisely this Mobile-type of seating arrangement that the black Montgomery leadership had asked for over some time before the Montgomery boycott began and also during its first two months. In Montgomery, on the other hand, riding the bus was a psychologically unpredictable and intense experience with a lurking potential for public humiliation in more than one way. Black customers had to pay in the front of the bus and then get off the bus and board it again from the back door. Sometimes the bus driver decided to drive off before the black customer managed to get back on board. It is unclear if, and how many, other Southern cities practiced this humiliating form of segregation. Some bus drivers used dehumanizing names to refer to the black people whom they were supposed to serve, the same people who were basically paying the money for the drivers’ salaries. The phenomenon of name-calling in the public domain was practiced against individual riders or shouted at against a whole group of black passengers in the back of the bus.8 Beyond these forms of humiliation to which blacks were subjected, there was the unique issue of the unpredictability of seating arrangements. The Montgomery bus segregation system involved three sections in the bus (see Image 2)9: a front section containing ten reserved seats for whites; a back section containing ten reserved seats for blacks; and a middle section containing sixteen seats which both whites and blacks could occupy on a segregated basis while whites sat as close as possible to the front section and blacks as close to the back section. The actual line between whites and blacks in the middle section was not fixed. It was a flexible line that the bus drivers would determine based on the ratio between blacks and whites on a given line, the hour of the day, or even the specific stop on the route (French 1989: 175; Gilliam 1989: 199–200; Thornton 1989: 341; 2001: 41–45). Bus drivers were entrusted with police-power authority and were allowed to carry weapons. By law, bus drivers could order customers to evacuate their seats and move to another seat in the front or back of the bus and it was unlawful for a bus passenger to refuse the reseating orders of the bus driver.10 In practice, the crucial majority of passengers who were ordered to relinquish their seats were blacks. There were additional complications in the Montgomery bus segregation system. The policy concerning reseating in the middle section was not entirely clear. The

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Image 2 The Montgomery Bus Segregation System

dividing line was left to the discretion of the bus drivers and they could determine a new dividing line further to the back of the bus and order black passengers to evacuate their seats accordingly. Although bus drivers were generally instructed to reseat a person only if there was another vacant seat, this practice was regularly ignored. The drivers could order black passengers to stand up in order to accommodate more white passengers and some of them simply ignored the bus company’s instructions and used their authority to order black riders to stand up even if there were no seats available in the back. Sometimes the line would even be stretched into the black reserved section of the bus. In other words, some drivers would often violate the bus company’s guidelines about reseating, as the manager of the bus company, James, H. Bagley, acknowledged.11 The drivers’ custom of reseating was such that white

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people were not supposed to stand while blacks were seated. For example, it was unacceptable or even unthinkable that a white woman should stand while blacks were seated.12 Hence, the middle sixteen seats of the bus were very insecure and unpredictable positions for black passengers. Whether the reason was the ambiguity of the regulations about reseating or bus drivers’ breach of those regulations, the outcome was the same: black passengers were often ordered to relinquish their seats for white passengers and then remain standing. Despite the assumption that this humiliating practice and form of segregation were common in the South, it was in fact exceptional. The strongest evidence for this comes from an interview with James J. Bailey, a white member of the Mayor’s special committee for resolving the bus boycott: I don’t know why, but it had just happened that her[e] in Montgomery we have the reserved seat sections in the front and the back—most places in the South use the first come, first served seating. But for whatever reason, we started out on the other basic here . . .13 Similarly, when Jo Ann Robinson sent a letter of complaint to the mayor asking for modifications in the Montgomery bus segregation system she explained: “Many of our Southern cities in neighboring states have practiced the policies we seek without incident whatsoever. Atlanta, Macon and Savannah in Georgia have done this for years. Even Mobile, in our own state, does this and all the passengers are satisfied” (Robinson 1987: iix). This humiliating type of social interaction on buses was the single most important issue affecting most black Montgomerians. There were, of course, grievances about bus segregation elsewhere prior to 1955. A court case was filed against the illegality of bus segregation and park segregation laws in Columbia, South Carolina in 1954. Other cities in the South had some form of segregation on public buses and there were surely instances where black passengers were required to give up their seats. But the special bus segregation system in Montgomery made it a more likely place for mass mobilization because it involved social interactions and psychological experiences far worse in their magnitude and intensity than in other African American communities. The only other city that had a similar seating arrangement appears to be Baton Rouge where indeed a similar bus boycott occurred two years earlier. When Claudette Colvin and Rosa Parks were arrested they were sitting in the middle section of the bus (see Image 2 for Parks’ seat). In both cases the bus drivers were violating company policy when they ordered their clients to give up their seats even though there were no available seats in the back. These were common incidents of the misapplication of the formal bus seating policy. What was uncommon is the fact that these two brave women chose to be arrested rather than to cave in to pressure and threat. The special segregation system in Montgomery explains why it was a likely place for mass mobilization and especially over the bus system. In order to understand the timing of the struggle, we need to examine the timing and causes of escalating anger among black riders.

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Why December 1955? The common account regarding the boycott’s time of occurrence is that there had been a slowly developing dissatisfaction over injustices on buses for many years and that black Montgomerians eventually got tired of being humiliated, their “cup of tolerance had run out” and they decided to challenge the system (King [1958]: 50–51). Indeed, a sense of humiliation and dissatisfaction did not emerge overnight in Montgomery. Nevertheless, the assumption that abuse of blacks on Montgomery’s buses was a constant or unchanging feature, and that black Montgomerians were slowly and gradually getting tired of it, is not accurate.14 The actual time-span of the growing unrest in Montgomery seems to have been narrower in time-scales and much closer to the emergence of the bus boycott. Additionally, the severity of this unrest was new. In a nutshell, the period between late 1953 and December 1955 was much harder for many black families in Montgomery due to a worsening situation on the buses. The number of humiliating experiences appears to have increased substantially and the psychological strain and anger felt by ordinary Montgomerians worsened as well. This new social-psychological reality is manifested in a number of ways. When Jo Ann Robinson became President of the WPC in 1952, one of her first initiatives was to map and document specific areas of contention in Montgomery. The issue of abuses on the buses does not appear to have been at the forefront until late 1953.15 In early 1954, Robinson and her WPC colleagues asked the city officials for limited access to the segregated public parks; swimming pools; the hiring of black bus drivers in predominantly black neighborhoods at night; and that buses would stop at every street corner as they did in white neighborhoods. Police Commissioner Dave Birmingham, who was elected to office in January 1954 with the help of black votes, was sympathetic to their appeals (see also Chapter 5) and allowed black representatives on the parks’ boards.16 The city officials also instructed the bus company to stop at every corner in black neighborhoods, but ignored the other appeals. This latter concession, however, may have contributed to the growing abuse on the buses, as will be explained below. The WPC first raised the issue of abuses on the buses with city officials and the bus company at the end of 1953 or the beginning of 1954.17 It was only at this point in time, in February 1954, that the WPC also began presenting evidence of humiliating experiences inflicted on black passengers by bus drivers.18 Similarly, Edgar N. French, a minister in Montgomery and central activist in the boycott, recounted that “[b]y 1953, there was a peculiar kind of social unrest . . . It was not at all uncommon to hear a colored citizen say . . . ‘WE are tired of this!’” (French 1989: 174). Furthermore, a number of social and psychological phenomena began or substantially increased from late 1953. For example, “[the] number of Negro men walking increased during 1954 and early 1955. They walked to and from work, to town, to movies, to see their girlfriends, because of fear of riding the buses” (Robinson 1987: 37). There also emerged an obsession with the bus seating arrangement. The ten reserved seats for whites were becoming increasingly offensive to the black passengers:

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STRUGGLING FOR RECOGNITION The practice of reserved seats had become an ultimate humiliation. The ten empty seats became an obsession to weary workers, whose tired feet and aching backs urged them to sit down. The number ten became a damnable number. [. . .] it signified bad luck. Nobody wanted that number on anything that belonged to him. It loomed large, formidable. It was actually a mental, a psychological omen: Threatening! Deadly! (Robinson 1987: 35)

Robinson’s account indicates a transformation (i.e., “had become” rather than “always has been”) in the perception of the bus situation and the emotional responses triggered by it. She indicates a new state of mind related to these practices that were not detectable before. Robinson also reports an escalation in the level of unrest “during the 1954–1955 period, when complaints multiplied” and she adds that it was then “that the WPC prepared to stage a bus boycott . . .” (1987: 25–26). The WPC’s documentation of the bus situation also found that “pent-up emotions resulting from bitter experiences on local transportation lines often were released upon husbands, wives, or children, resulting in injuries that necessitated hospital care” (Robinson 1987: 36). Robinson notes that these incidents of domestic violence, as well as adult and child delinquency, had been on the rise but she does not indicate an escalation point of these social problems. An approximation can be set for after 1952, the year Robinson became president of the WPC. Robinson recalls that on particularly difficult days grown men picked petty fights with their wives or children; women “gave their children unnecessary beatings”; and children “resentfully fought other children” and “beat their pets severely for no apparent reason” (Ibid: 36–37). The growing difficulty on the buses seems to have generated these social-psychological problems as an unconscious way to release the felt humiliation and nerve-wracking experiences that they had endured. After the bus boycott began, however, the number of domestic violence incidents reported to the local hospitals decreased substantially. As Robinson (Ibid: 37) recalls, “the superintendent of a local hospital, which customarily treated many weekend fight victims, told a reporter that since the boycott began, the hospital had fewer such patients.”19 The view that unrest over abuse on buses had been on the rise since late1953 is also reinforced by the testimonies in the court case State of Alabama versus Martin Luther King Jr. in which the causes of the bus boycott were discussed. The defense called thirty-three witnesses who used to ride the buses. Almost all of them were asked whether they had experienced unpleasant treatment on the buses and to indicate the year in which it had occurred. The answers provided fifty-one indications of years in which the witnesses had experienced abuse on the buses, thirty of which (58 percent) were for the years 1953–1955 and the remaining twenty-one were for the years 1937–1952 (see Chart 1).20 The testimony of James H. Bagley, the manager of the bus company Montgomery City Lines, also corroborates the view that dynamics were changing on the buses. When he was asked about the bus seating arrangement and complaints over sitting,

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Chart 1 Number of Abuses on Buses Indicated in King’s Trial Bagley testified, “We had some complaints about seating. I would say the last two years it has been nearly all [about] seating.”21 The examination of the bus situation and the psychological climate surrounding it in the period before the boycott suggest that grievances about the bus situation in Montgomery were not constant. Although a degree of abuse on the buses did exist over decades, it was multiplied and amplified in the two years preceding the boycott. To put it in the words of Beatrice Charles, a former black bus rider, “this stuff has been going on for a long time. To tell you the truth, it’s been happening every since I came here before the war (World War II). But here in the last few years they’ve been getting worse and worse . . .”22 A growing sense of agitation and psychological strain was experienced among many black Montgomerians from late 1953 in relation to the bus situation and a question then arises as to the source of this new socialpsychological reality.

The Situation on the Buses 1953–1955 A shared theme in previous explanations of the growing unrest in the black community in Montgomery, and black communities across the South more generally, is that it was due to some sort of rising expectations. According to this line of argument, local changes such as opportunities in local politics (Thornton 1989, 2001), or national and international changes such as War World II and the defeat of fascism, and the Cold War and ideological battle against communism (e.g., Abernathy 1989b; McAdam 1982), had shaken the Jim Crow system of segregation and domination while opening opportunities and raising expectations for progress.

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This argument has several limitations. First, local and international considerations did not necessarily help the civil rights Movement. The racial issue was exploited and brought more conservative politicians to power (Thornton 1989, 2001). Cold War politics put civil rights activists under government surveillance, enabled anti-movement politicians to close branches of the NAACP and other organizations in the South, and often put King and other leading activists on the defensive, facing allegations that they were propagating Communism (Skrentny 1998). Second, even if local, national, and international factors were considered by black leaders, it still does not prove that this was the source of growing unrest among ordinary people who were little informed of these complicated macro-factors that did not directly affect their daily lives. Third, these factors are too general to explain the specific timeframe of unrest in Montgomery. A different explanation to the growing sense of agitation could be found in worsening social interactions and experiences on the Montgomery buses. There appear to be at least three factors that changed social interactions and realities on the buses: the ill structure of the bus segregation policies in face of the changing ratio of black and white passengers; the growing frustrations of the bus drivers over labor conditions; and the drivers’ reactions to the Supreme Court decision banning segregation in public schools. Each of these factors will be discussed in turn.

Bus Policies and the Decline of White Passengers The situation on Montgomery’s public buses had changed considerably between 1946–1955. In 1946–1947 the bus company was at its peak in terms of the number of passengers. In July 1946 there were complaints of overcrowding on the buses and a group of railroad men even tried to convince the city commission to force the bus company to put curtains in the buses to completely segregate whites from blacks.23 From late 1947, however, the Montgomery City Lines Inc. bus company was constantly losing customers, most of whom were whites who had bought private cars. Between 1947–1952 alone, the bus company lost over seven million (7,242,855) annual passengers and close to six and a half million (6,475,372) annual revenue passengers compared to 1947 (see Chart 2).24 In order to enable the bus company to remain profitable the city allowed it to increase bus fares several times between 1952–1954. In 1948 the fare was still five cents flat-rate, while in 1952 the cash-rate fare rose to ten cents and the economy tokens were now sold at twenty cents per three tokens.25 Additional increases in bus fares occurred between 1952–1954, not without formal protest on the part of the black leaders.26 The fare increases augmented revenues to just above one million dollars in 1953, and helped slow down the continued decrease in revenue from 1954 until the boycott began. The fact that the bus company’s revenues continued to decrease after 1953 despite rising fares suggests that the bus company was still losing passengers. The situation in Montgomery reflects the general trend of decrease in bus transportation and increase in private cars in the United States at the time.27

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Chart 2 Montgomery City Lines Inc. 1947–1956 This change was substantial in Montgomery because those who stopped using the public buses were predominantly white customers and those who remained using this service were black. It is unclear whether the number of black passengers was increasing or decreasing during that time. What is known for certain is that black passengers constituted the crucial majority of passengers on Montgomery’s buses. On some routes the percentage of blacks was over 90 percent. This percentage seems to have been the standard on at least 63 percent of the total company buses because out of sixty-seven company buses, forty-two were immediately laid up following the boycott.28 Furthermore, given that the buses had thirty-six seats and ten of them were reserved for white passengers at all times, this means that the bus segregation system was becoming conspicuously detached from the actual number of white passengers, except for rush hours on certain routes. To keep the ten reserved seats occupied the percentage of white on the buses should have remained at least 28 percent on all bus routes (see also Image 2). Evidently, the actual percentage of whites on the buses dropped far below 28 on most routes. Whites constituted a tiny minority on many routes and were completely absent on other lines that served the black neighborhoods of Montgomery. The whites-only-seats became conspicuously and humiliatingly empty. On April 1954, a Montgomery daily published a short comment by Rev. Uriah J. Fields who wrote, “[t]he Negro citizens of Montgomery are fed up with having to stand up on buses when there are empty seats in the front. Especially buses going to and from areas

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which are predominantly inhabited by Negroes.”29 Robert S. Graetz, a white pastor who came to Montgomery in 1955, also noted, “[t]here were never enough white people on board to fill the bus, but no Negro was ever allowed to sit in those front seats, even if there was not a single white passenger on board” (1991: 41). This was not a long-standing situation. Rather, it was a new phenomenon beginning toward the mid-1950s, and certainly it was new in its scope. It is in this context that we should understand Robinson’s account that “[t]he practice of reserved seats had become an ultimate humiliation” (1987: 35—emphasis mine). Another factor that contributed to the growing sense of humiliation was the strict enforcement of the segregation policies and the harsh reactions of many bus drivers once black passengers attempted to sit down in the empty seats of the white section. While a few lenient bus drivers allowed black passengers to sit in the white section of the bus when they entered predominantly black neighborhoods, others were ruthless and cruel. Robinson’s account captures those moments on the buses and their psychological repercussions: Black riders would often forget pride and feeling, forget the terrible offensive names they were so often called when they dared to sit in one of the ten reserved seats. Hurting feet, tired bodies, empty stomachs often tempted them to sit down. Names like “black nigger,” “black bitches,” “heifers,” “whores,” and so on, brought them to their feet again. [. . .] Whatever the case was, they would be badly shaken, nervous, tired, fearful, and angry. (Robinson 1987: 36) Many bus drivers did not consider black customers as equal to them on the basic category of being fully human. Black passengers were often not considered as having equal human dignity to whites; they were seen in a separate category. Blacks experienced and perceived the treatment that was inflicted on them as if they were indeed not human beings but animals. The comparison to animals is a common feature in the accounts of blacks regarding the treatment on the buses (e.g., Burns 1997: 221–233; Robinson 1987: xiii). These situations generated psychological strain and unrest among black bus riders from late 1953. It is important to stress at this point, however, that not all bus drivers were always rough with their black customers. There are reports that some bus drivers acted kindly and fairly within the bounds of the segregation system.30 Bus drivers would sometimes move white passengers to accommodate blacks. There were bus drivers who actually waited for their regular clients and did not always slam the doors in their customers’ faces when they were late in catching the bus. There are reports of drivers who allowed black passengers to take the empty seats in the front section when entering predominantly black neighborhoods, and other acts of human kindness. In stark contrast to these acts of kindness, however, there were many more humiliating acts of frustrated low-paid bus drivers from the white lower class who drew positive self-esteem from feeling superior to blacks and could unleash their own frustrations, fears, and angers against black passengers. The instances of kind treatment were probably overshadowed by the many acts of humiliation and also made the arbitrariness and ill will of other bus drivers ever more stark and painful.

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Labor Consciousness and the Frustrations of Bus Drivers The work of the bus drivers was not made easier given the special segregation policies on the Montgomery buses. Compared to drivers in less vicious segregation systems where whites began sitting from the front and blacks from the back on a first-come-first-served basis, the Montgomery bus system placed the bus driver in a far more demanding and complicated position. The Montgomery bus drivers had a whole set of issues to handle beyond the regular tiring responsibilities of dealing with thousands of passengers daily and a long working day. The bus drivers had to be concentrated on traffic in front of the bus but they also needed to be constantly aware of what was going on the bus itself. They were required to ensure that black passengers would not sit in the front ten seats. They needed to be conscious of the changing ratios between whites and blacks on the bus as it moved between different sections of Montgomery and to change the dividing line accordingly. Bus drivers’ jobs were more demanding than those of their peers in other cities because they were supposed to always be ready to order white and black passengers to move so as to optimize the number of available seats in this peculiar type of segregation system. If the passengers did not comply, the bus drivers would need to confront them. Several white passengers who refused to move were arrested and fined, most of whom were white men from the Maxwell Field Army base near Montgomery where segregation was banned.31 In practical terms, however, reseating usually meant that bus drivers were required to order black passengers to move to the back of the bus or to stand up. And despite the overall compliance of lawabiding black passengers with the bus segregation policies, it was a reluctant compliance and they tried to avoid these abusive orders whenever possible. Gladys Moore who testified in State of Alabama v. King gave an example of how this social interaction would be played out: “[Y]ou are toward the rear of the bus and when the driver tells you to move you look the other way.”32 These bus company employees in Montgomery, thus, had two jobs: bus drivers and police enforcers of segregation. Therefore, bus drivers played a major role in the onset the Montgomery bus boycott. Most research on the boycott examined the intricate details and dynamics on the side of black Montgomerians and specifically the dynamics between the black and white leadership. The most “obvious suspects” received very little attention in the research on the boycott. To date, there is no research dealing with the bus drivers in Montgomery.33 The assumption has been that the bus drivers always behaved in a similar way, as good or as bad as it was. And if the bus drivers behaved similarly, the change must have originated in blacks. “The niggras started it” or “outside agitators started it” was the common language and notion that many white Montgomerians and bus drivers in particular used to explain why the boycott occurred. Ironically, it is probably truer that the “whites started it,” some of the white bus drivers to be specific. The rise of indignities on the Montgomery buses toward the end of 1953 is coincident with a growing dissatisfaction on the part of the bus drivers. All ninety-four bus-company drivers were blue-collar, low-income white men. In 1953 they were making one dollar and forty cents an hour and working eight and a half hours a day,

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six days a week, without any paid vacations. Living costs were getting higher and labor-related disputes and unrest in the South were intensifying in the early to mid1950s. This led to serious disruptions in public transportation such as a sixty-nine-day strike of disgruntled bus drivers in Montgomery’s sister bus company in Mobile, 1950; and a eight-week railroad strike in Louisville and Nashville, 1955, marked by violence.34 The growing labor consciousness, rising expectations, and dissatisfaction regarding salaries, work benefits, and conditions were affecting the bus drivers in Montgomery as well. The drivers of the Montgomery bus company were organized in an affiliate (local 765) of the Amalgamated Association of Street and Electric Railway and Motor Coach Employees of America. In October 1950 they had their first major dispute over salary increases.35 In December 1952 they threatened to strike seeking improved salaries.36 In 1953 they realized that their bus driver peers in Birmingham were enjoying better benefits (such as a two-week paid vacation and six-day sick leaves) and were making more money (some twenty cents an hour more). Dissatisfied about the new contract offers they received from the bus company, they stopped driving the buses during the busy Christmas shopping season, on December 12, 1953. They returned to the buses four days later, after compromising on a two-phased eight-cent-an-hour salary increase.37 In early 1954, following complaints that were raised by the WPC, the city officials instructed the bus company to stop at the street corners in black neighborhoods, just as they did in white neighborhoods. While black riders may have momentarily “felt proud and happy that the City Fathers have acted favorably on their behalf . . . the joy was short-lived. The mumblings started again, as unhappy stories of unhappy experiences began to circulate once more” (Robinson 1987: 32). A very possible explanation is that the bus drivers resented these new working conditions, especially because the extra work involved making life easier for black customers. Many bus drivers detested their black passengers and probably gave expression to their anger against them. White citizens also felt signs of frustration and strain on the side of bus drivers. In September 1954, a white citizen wrote to a local newspaper, submitting a short article addressed to the manager of the bus company. He noted tension among bus drivers on two newly extended routes: “The strain is noticeable on the bus drivers, too. They are hard pressed to meet the new schedule imposed on them . . .”38 Another complaint from a white citizen in that same month accused bus drivers of incivility and abuse of little children on school buses.39 Aside from their interactions with the white passengers, bus drivers had easy targets in a convenient setting to give vent to their frustrations. Black passengers were powerless against the police authority of the bus drivers who knew they could get away with humiliating black passengers. As work-related frustrations grew, the first to feel the brunt were innocent black passengers whose interactions with hard-working blue-collar white bus drivers began to worsen. The reported agitation on the buses from late 1953 onwards, and the growing frustration and demands of the bus drivers, appear to be therefore related.

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The Impact of Brown v. Board of Education A concrete escalation point in the bus drivers’ behavior toward black passengers began on Monday, May 17, 1954. On this day the US Supreme Court gave its famous ruling in the court case Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka (henceforth Brown) declaring that segregation in schools is unconstitutional.40 The decision of “Black Monday,” as it came to be called by segregationists, triggered a massive backlash in the South. The organizational and institutional reactions were manifested in the rise of the White Citizens’ Councils (WCC), an extremist organization whose goal was to actively fight back against integration. The psychological backlash that underpinned the rise of the WCC could be explained in terms of “siege mentality,” a collective behavior whereby individuals of a given group believe that those who are outside of the group have harmful or negative intentions toward them (Bar-Tal and Antebi 1992: 49–50). Siege mentality has several characteristics and consequences: (1) developing negative attitudes toward the outside world; (2) developing mistrust; (3) sensitivity to information that may indicate negative intentions; (4) developing mechanisms to cope with potential threats by increasing pressures among group members toward conformity and unity; (5) using all necessary means to protect against threat (Ibid: 59). All of these characteristics of siege mentality were manifested in the reactions of many white Southerners to the 1954 Brown decision. In this instance, the outside world was those pushing for integration: the Yankees, the Supreme Court, left wingers and communists, and of course blacks and the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP). In the minds of segregationists the ultimate intentions of those pushing for integration were to destroy the “Southern way of life” and push for “intermarriage” and “the mixing of the races,” shared taboos and abominations that needed no further explanation. The Brown decision was a very sensitive issue because it involved children. The so-called mixing of white and black children in the same classroom was inconceivable to many white Southerners and would indeed take years to be implemented even symbolically in Mississippi and Alabama.41 Others thought of Brown as just one step short of marriage between blacks and whites. The general perception among whites who supported segregation was that Brown was morally wrong. It was seen as an aggressive attack against whites and an attempt at a Second Reconstruction, the first being the policies against the South after the American Civil War. These attitudes are vividly expressed in a pamphlet of the Central Alabama Citizen’s Council located in Montgomery, AL: The Citizen’s Council is the South’s answer to the mongrelizers. We will not be integrated! We are proud of our white blood and our heritage of sixty centuries. [. . .] This integration scheme ties right in with the new, one world, one creed, one race philosophy fostered by the ultra-idealists and international leftwingers. [. . .]

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STRUGGLING FOR RECOGNITION If we submit to this unconstitutional, judge-made integration law, the malignant powers of atheism, communism and mongrelization will surely follow, not only in our Southland but throughout our nation. [. . .] What decision are you going to make for those baby children at home?42

Reactions to the Brown decision depended on many factors. Yet, as Neil McMillen explains, a community’s white-black ratio was a major factor in the reaction of the white community to the Brown decision. In areas where blacks were a small minority relative to whites, the decision did not yield much resistance. However, “racial tensions ran highest and white intransigence was greatest where the Negro population was the most dense” (McMillen 1971: 6). Montgomery’s black community was between 40 and 50 percent of the city’s total population by the mid1950s. The geographic and historic location of Montgomery as the capital of the eleven states that seceded from the United States (the Cradle of the Confederacy), and the city’s very conservative white elite, were additional factors exacerbating the sensitivity to, and fears of, Brown among white Montgomerians compared to other Southern cities. Accordingly, there were strong pressures for social conformity and intransigence among many white Montgomerians.43 If the lower-class white bus drivers were not representative of other white Montgomerians, it was surely not because they were more moderate in their views of the Brown decision, quite the contrary. The information about the bus drivers suggests that their ideology was to the right of the white middle class and it appears that many of them joined the White Citizens’ Council in Montgomery. Accordingly, it is very reasonable that their reactions to Brown had worsened the treatment of black passengers. Challenges to the segregation system were routinely discussed in the press following Brown and this raised fears over possible integration (Thornton 1989: 343). As a result, bus drivers attempted to “put blacks back in their place,” as was commonly said after Brown. This argument is exemplified by juxtaposing three sources of evidence: the views of white Montgomerians on the bus drivers; interviews with the bus drivers themselves; and the timing and content of Jo Ann Robinson’s letter to Mayor Gayle concerning the bus situation. Members of the white middle class and the upper class attributed the outbreak of the bus boycott to the behavior of the bus drivers and to the Brown decision. Former Police Commissioner Dave Birmingham explained in a private interview to Anna Holden that the Brown Supreme Court ruling “agitated the separation issue and generated a lot of misunderstanding between the races. There is more unrest over segregation than there used to be”; he also added that “some of those fellows [bus drivers] are mean as hell and they didn’t ask them [black passengers] to get up or to go back in a nice way. I would say that five or six of them are as mean as rattlesnakes and they did all kinds of things that made the niggas mad . . .”44 Birmingham’s statement is further confirmed by an interview with C. T. Fitzpatrick, a businessman and member of the Men of Montgomery, a committee of concerned white businessmen who tried to find compromise between the city and the black leadership. Fitzpatrick mentioned that the committee investigated the charges against the bus drivers and discovered that “the company had some rough necks who were rough with

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everybody” and that the bus company “discharged five of the troublemakers during the session.”45 Furthermore, James J. Bailey, a white business manager and also a member of the mayor’s committee on the bus situation explained: The drivers were rude to both white and Negro passengers but they were ruder to the Negroes . . . I, personally, think that discourteous treatment brought about the demand for change in the seating arrangement. I think that was the main source of dissatisfaction and that the desire for change in seating would never have come about if the drivers had treated Negro passengers with respect and dignity. I don’t think enough Negroes were dissatisfied about the seating arrangement for that alone to cause the boycott . . .46 Furthermore, Dave Norris, a phone engineer and president of a local workers’ union council, told Anna Holden about the ideological orientation of the bus drivers. When he was asked about the bus drivers’ relations to the White Citizens’ Council he answered: “I am sure that a good proportion of them belong. Men in the lowest income level seem to be the ones who are joining . . . the type of men who do nothing but drink and talk about the ‘niggers’ for recreation.”47 Another source of information about the bus drivers comes from Anna Holden’s interviews with, and observations about, the bus drivers, not long after the boycott began. Two bus drivers were interviewed on January 21, 1956. The first driver stated that “this NAACP [which stands behind Brown] is what started it” while the second was previously spotted by Holden at a WCC mass meeting.48 Another bus driver told Anna Holden that “[t]hey already had all the buses and they weren’t satisfied with that. They want to get in the schools and everything else. This is just the first step.”49 Holden also interviewed William C. Welch, the president of the bus drivers’ local union. He would use the word “nigra” and “nigger” to refer to blacks, other than “Negro,” the normal term that was used at the time. Holden reports that she had also seen him with another bus driver at a WCC rally.50 All these reports suggest that the bus drivers were effected by Brown and reacted more strongly than other white segregationists and retaliated against their black passengers. Finally, the increasing humiliation of black patrons on the buses following the Brown decision is vividly captured in a letter from Jo Ann Robinson sent to Mayor Gayle only four days after the ruling was announced. In that letter Robinson protests the situation on the buses and reminds the city officials of earlier requests of the WPC, among which was a “city law that would make it possible for Negroes to sit from back toward front, and whites from front toward back until all the seats are taken” and that “Negroes not be asked or forced to pay fare at front and go to the rear of the bus to enter.” Robinson also wrote that “[m]ore and more of our people are already arranging with neighbors and friends to ride to keep from being insulted and humiliated by bus drivers. There has been talk from twenty-five or more local organizations of planning a city-wide boycott of busses” (Robinson 1987: iix). That this letter on this specific grievance came almost immediately after Brown is not incidental. It reinforces the causal link between the Brown decision and the reported aggravation of abuse on the buses. This abuse, in turn, is reflected in the issue that

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Robinson chose to protest about only four days after the Brown decision, rather than raising the issue of school integration that was the subject matter of Brown and that was widely discussed in the press.

Montgomery’s “Unlikely Generation” and the Results of Humiliation The emergence of the Montgomery bus boycott is a remarkable phenomenon given the generation composition of the people who participated in it. The people who refrained from riding the buses were neither the leaders of the boycott nor the black middle class that owned private cars. The unsung heroes were regular hard-working, lower-class blacks. The majority of black passengers were women because many black men migrated to find work in the industrialized North (Thornton 2001: 32). The men and women who used the buses were demographically, socially, and cognitively least likely to begin such mass action. Many of them were very poor and depended on the buses as the main or sole means of transportation to get to their source of livelihood. They could ill afford to confront or alienate their white employers on whom most blacks depended for minimal bread-and-butter salaries. Adult black riders normally had huge responsibilities at home: children to nurture, dress, and school. Moreover, this was a generation that grew up under the King Cotton industry, when lynching of blacks was still openly practiced, a generation that were taught by their parents never to talk back to a white person. Standing up, talking back, and getting arrested was considered by many blacks as irresponsible and dangerous, not least because they had little trust that the formal legal system would do them justice. In the words of Ralph Abernathy, who would become a central civil rights leader, people like him agreed to be drafted into the US army in World War II because “we were an obedient generation” (1989a: 34). This generation was characterized by overall obedience, passivity, and often complacency. For example, Rosa Parks did not receive much sympathy in 1943 when she had her first incident on a bus in Montgomery with the same bus driver who would have her arrested twelve years later. Parks paid her fare in the front and then went straight to the back instead of getting off the bus and re-boarding it from the back as was the rule. The driver, James F. Blake, aggressively made her get off the bus. But as she left the bus, Parks overheard people in the back saying “She ought to go around the back and get on”; and she also recounts that the pressure for social conformity at the time was strong: “They always wondered why you didn’t want to be like the rest of the black people. That was the 1940s, when people took a lot without fighting back” (Parks and Haskins 1992: 79). This attitude, however, persisted in the early 1950s as well. When Reverend Vernon Johns, an old pastor of Montgomery’s Dexter Avenue Baptist Church (the same church that King would lead after Johns) had a confrontation with a bus driver in 1950, he courageously defied the driver and addressed the black passengers on the bus and asked them to follow him off the bus in protest. Yet no one followed him. King writes in his book that when Johns rebuked a woman from his own church who was on the bus and did not follow him she responded “You ought to knowed better”

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(King [1958]: 22). Ralph Abernathy recounts that Johns was highly frustrated with the complacency of the black community to these injustices, saying that “[e]ven God . . . can’t free people who behave like that” (Abernathy 1989a: 117). In fact, Johns’ church members eventually dismissed him due to his aggressive rhetoric for social change, and for rebuking the community about their apathy to injustice (see also Burks 1993: 73). Many middle-class blacks also thought that E. D. Nixon, another outstanding activist, was “a little too aggressive” (Gray 2002: 45). Even after the 1954 Brown decision, the NAACP found it hard to find plaintiffs for a class action suit in order to enforce integration in Montgomery (Thornton 2001: 40). Generally, the black middle class was complacent and inactive with regard to the injustices in the city, save a small minority of brave men and women (King [1958]: 20, 194; Robinson 1987). Mary Fair Burks reports complete apathy of middle-class black women (many of whom would later be engaged in the struggle) thirty-six hours before the boycott began (Burks 1993: 83). The uneducated black lower class was also highly passive and complacent about segregation. As King, who came to Montgomery in 1954, explains, “the largest number [of black lower class citizens] accepted it without apparent protest. Not only did they seem resigned to segregation per se; they also accepted the abuses and indignities that came with it” (King [1958]: 21). For this reason, King was highly skeptical and ridden with doubts that the black community would be able to unite behind a boycott. King and his wife Coretta thought that even 60 percent compliance with the boycott would be a success, and as such, he saw the overwhelming compliance with the boycott as a sheer “miracle” (Ibid: 37, 39–40). All this evidence attests that the people who actually boycotted the buses in Montgomery were an unlikely generation to engage in such a contentious form of politics. How can this reported apathy be reconciled with the evidence of growing unrest among the black community in Montgomery? And how is it that a rather conservative generation became (at least for a year) engaged in such bold contentious politics? The answer goes to the heart of the phenomenon. When individuals experienced humiliation and denial of basic recognition they experienced it as individuals; they experienced it as a personal problem (see also Evans 1980). The humiliation randomly happened on a specific bus route, somewhere in the city, at some random time, and people carried their sense of humiliation back home. People got angry and frustrated at having suffered from this abuse; but they experienced it as individuals in isolation. They also had to carry on with life and meet their responsibilities. If a person becomes so consumed with anger and humiliation that he or she cannot have anything else in mind other than that experience, that person will not be able to properly function. The nervous system mechanism for emotions is such that anger eventually subsides and people “cool off.” This enables normal life to resume. That is not to say that the experience of humiliation becomes insignificant or unimportant to future mobilization. The memory can be retrieved and its accompanying emotions can be awakened and channeled into action. When people all get angry at once, however, the potential for mass mobilization significantly increases. It is at these moments that humiliation and anger can be experienced as a collective problem and not as a personal problem. The potential for black Montgomerians

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to become angry all at once had been increasing since 1953. Furthermore, this potential for mobilization was increasing with regard to the domain of the buses, and not against all the social and political injustices that existed in Montgomery. In fact, aside from the struggle against the bus segregation system, this community did not participate in another mass mobilization. The reason that the potential for mobilization against the bus segregation system was increasing is related to two interrelated factors. First, the overall apathy was being eroded on the personal level of experience by the sheer amount of abuse that blacks had experienced in Montgomery from late 1953, principally (but not only) on the buses. The amount of abuse and humiliation had to be mightier than generational, ideological, social, and economic barriers to mobilization put together. These barriers had frustrated dedicated community leaders like E. D. Nixon, Rufus Lewis, Mary Fair Burks, Jo Ann Robinson, Vernon Johns, and others who had tried to mobilize black Montgomerians over many years. The origins of the growing unrest were a combination of three factors: buses became empty of white passengers, leaving black passengers staring at empty reserved seats; bus drivers were venting their frustrations over labor disputes against their black clients; and there was a siege-mentality backlash after the Brown decision. In other words, the psychological origins of the bus boycott were not due to increasing sensitivity to segregation or rising expectations on the part of black Montgomerians; rather, blacks had been increasingly abused and humiliated. This is basically the reason that even this unlikely generation became actively involved in challenging a long-established form of oppression in the public transport system but did not challenge beyond it. Second, the growing number of incidents of humiliation and abuse also produced more dramatic stories that could come to the attention of the whole community and serve as triggers to mass mobilization. In the psychological climate that existed in Montgomery between 1953–1955 such triggers created window opportunities in which apathy and private experiences could be turned into collective anger and collective experience, and subsequently be harnessed into patterned forms of resistance. Organized resistance was almost inconceivable in the minds of most black Montgomerians because a conducive psychological climate did not exist prior to 1953. Yet the potential for harnessing the emotional energies of many people who were affected by experiences of humiliation on the buses was already evident in the reactions to Claudette Colvin’s arrest and conviction. Her case tapped the personal experiences and memories of many black Montgomerians and released emotions of anger all at once. Some people spontaneously stayed off the buses. But since these emotions were not harnessed into a structured form of action, the emotional energies subsided and the immediate potential for mass mobilization passed. When Rosa Parks was arrested this was in many respects a replay of the Colvin case, only this time the black leadership harnessed these energies into a one-day boycott which was so successful that it was prolonged and lasted for over a year. The psychological elements that were involved in sustaining the long struggle were different than the psychological causes behind the rise of the boycott, as will be explained in the next chapter.

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Notes 1. Willie W. Lee, interview with Mrs. Rosa Parks, February 5, 1956, page 1, Preston and Bonita Valien Papers (located at the Amistad Research Center, see Appendix A). 2. The word “modern” is meant to distinguish the movement of the mid-1950s and 1960s from a long legacy of struggle by established organizations such as the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) from 1909, and various other forms of resistance by African Americans well before the mid-1950s. See also Fairclough (2004); Harding (1983); Rodriguez (2007); and Scott (1990). 3. Dalia Ziada, personal communication; see also Noah Mendel, “Can a Comic Book About MLK Change the Middle East (At Least a Little)?”, History News Network published online on May 11, 2009 (http://www.hnn.us/articles/80834.html accessed on May 23, 2010). 4. See also “100 Bus Drivers Strike Over Seating of Negroes” New York Times, June 16, 1953, p. 15; and “Bus Boycott Effective” New York Times, June 21, 1953, p. 65. 5. See “Negro Protest Planned” New York Times, December 26, 1953, p. 21. 6. For more information about the Claudette Colvin arrest see (Gray 2002: 47–49; Robinson 1987: 37–39; and for Claudette Colvin’s own account see Eliza Gray, “A Forgotten Contribution” Newsweek March 2, 2009). 7. National City Lines, Inc. Reports to Stockholders, 1945–1967 (located at the University of Chicago Library, see Appendix A). 8. See the testimonies of the defense witnesses in the court case State of Alabama v. Martin Luther King Jr., (in the Circuit Court of Montgomery County, Alabama, 1956, No. 7399) pages 337–469 (located at the Fred Gray Collection, King Library and Archives; and at the Alabama Department of Archives and History, see Appendix A). 9. The bus image is adapted from “Exhibit A” in the case file of Browder v. Gayle 142 F. Supp. 707 (1956) (located at the National Archives, South East Region, see Appendix A). The text additions to the image are the author’s. 10. Sections 10 and 11, Chapter 6, Code of the City of Montgomery 1952. Exhibit “B” in court case Browder v. Gayle. 11. See James H. Bagley’s testimony in State of Alabama v. Martin Luther King Jr., pages 229– 235 and 523. 12. Anna Holden interview with Tom Johnson, January 20, 1956, page 3, Anna Holden Reports Folder, Perston and Bonita Valien Papers. 13. Anna Holden interview with Mr. James J. Bailey, February 2, 1956, page 3, Anna Holden Reports Folder, Perston and Bonita Valien Papers. 14. The idea that abuses on the buses were relatively constant and that people gradually got tired of them has been popularized in Volume 1 of the highly successful series Eyes on the Prize (PBS Video 2006), see also (Williams 1987: 60). 15. S. S. Seay (1990: 147–148), however, reports meeting with the bus company manager to complain about the bus drivers’ behavior in 1949–1950. Seay notes that nothing came out of the meeting and the issue was not raised until two years later. 16. Anna Holden interview with Dave Birmingham, January 31 and February 1, 1956, page 3, in Ann Holden Reports folder, Preston and Bonita Valien Papers. See also Thornton (1989, 2002).

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17. It is not entirely clear whether the WPC formally approached the city and bus company officials at the end of 1953 or the beginning of 1954. The first letter objecting to the increase in bus fares and the bus situation, signed by Jo Ann Robinson and seven other black leaders, was sent to the Mayor and City Commissioners on February 22, 1954, Minutes of the City of Montgomery, Volume “October 1, 1951 through September 30, 1955,” page 1128 (located at the Montgomery City Clerk Office, see Appendix A). 18. A detailed and high quality historical account of the Women’s Political Council was written as a Ph.D. thesis in Hebrew by Levinger-Limor (2001). Jo Ann Robinson’s memoir (Robinson 1987) is one of the best participants’ accounts but it is also ambiguous and not always accurate about dates (this is understandable given that the memoir was based mostly on memory and published about thirty years after the boycott). 19. Robinson’s account is supported in an interview by Anna Holden with C. T. Fitzpatrick—a member of the Men of Montgomery, a group of white businessmen who tried to help the city and the black leadership reach a compromise—who reported that “[a] Negro nurse said that she has been able to go to church on Sunday for the past five or seven weeks, though she used to hardly ever go. A hospital attendant said that the number of knife cases they received over the weekend has decreased a great deal since the boycott.” See in Anna Holden interview with C. T. Fitzpatrick, July 22, 1956, page 2, Anna Holden Reports Folder, Perston and Bonita Valien Papers. King ([1958]: 164) too notes that since the boycott “[t]here has been a decline in heavy drinking. Statistics on crime and divorce indicate that both are on the wane.” 20. Three of the thirty-three defense witnesses did not indicate years; eight mentioned two years; three mentioned three years; one mentioned 1945 and the five years preceding the boycott. It should also be noted that eight witnesses stopped riding the buses after the year of their reported experience. Furthermore, in the five last testimonies, the defense lawyers changed their question from “when was your first experience” to “when was your last experience.” This may tilt the results slightly toward 1955. But of those who were asked the former question, the majority answered 1953. The testimonies are in the trial transcripts of State of Alabama v. Martin Luther King Jr., pages 337–469 (located at the Fred Gray Collection, King Library and Archives; and the Alabama Department of Archives and History, see Appendix A). 21. State of Alabama v. Martin Luther King Jr., page 354. 22. Willie M. Lee interview with Beatrice Charles, January 20, 1956, Folder: “Reports— Random Observations, 1956” in Preston and Bonita Valien Papers. 23. See “Two Lines Get Extra Buses” Montgomery Advertiser, July 20, 1946; and J. H. Bagley letter to Mr. F. Norman Hill, subject “Weekly Report,” July 30, 1946; both items are in National City Lines Inc. Southern Region Collection, box 509 (located at the Georgia State Special Collections and Archives, see Appendix A). 24. Data for this chart was obtained from the National City Lines Inc. Southern Region Collection at the Southern Labor Archives, Georgia State University, and from National City Lines Inc. Reports to the Stockholders at the University of Chicago (for more details see Appendix A). 25. “Bus Firm Asks 10-Cent Fare” Alabama Journal October 7, 1952; “City Approves Hike in Fares of Buses Here” Montgomery Advertiser November 26, 1952. A four-volume

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collection of original newspaper clippings about the Montgomery City Lines Inc. constitutes the Daniels Collection, which is part of the Archives and Special Collections of the Alabama State University (see Appendix A). Other clippings are located at the Alabama Department of Archives and History. 26. “Bus Fare Hike Hearing Called” Alabama Journal February 17, 1954; “Some City Lines Runs Will Be Eliminated” Alabama Journal February 13, 1954; “Hike in Bus Fare to Begin Sunday; Token Sales End” Montgomery Advertiser March 17, 1954; “Bus Fare Hike Okayed By City” Alabama Journal March 17, 1954. On February 22, 1954, Jo Ann Robinson and seven other notable black leaders sent a complaint to the Mayor and City Commissioners about the increase in fare and noted the poor bus service and the empty seats reserved to whites, Minutes of the City of Montgomery, page 1128. 27. Public Transit Equipment, Passengers, and Passenger Revenue, 1922–2000, Detapedia of the US, Issued by Bernan Associates, 2004, page 317. 28. Anna Holden interview with James H. Bagley (manager of the Montgomery City Lines Inc.), January 21, 1956, in Preston and Bonita Valien Papers. 29. Rev. U. J. Fields “Senseless Bus Segregation” Montgomery Advertiser April 6, 1954. 30. “Bus Driver Thoughtfulness” Montgomery Advertiser, September 8, 1947. See also (Burns 1997: 231; Graetz 1991: 41; Robinson 1987: 34). 31. Anna Holden interview with Dave Birmingham, January 31 and February 1, 1956, pages 3–5, in Ann Holden Reports folder, Preston and Bonita Valien Papers. 32. State of Alabama v. King, p. 368. 33. Research on the bus drivers would have been difficult due to their own traumas and suspicions following the boycott and the turbulent 1960s, and yet in-depth interviews with the bus drivers would have probably revealed valuable details. See also Paul Hendrickson’s account of his attempt to interview James F. Blake, the bus driver who led to Rosa Parks’ arrest; “The supporting Actors in the Historic Bus Boycott” The Washington Post, July 24, 1989. 34. For the railroad strike see Alabama Journal May 11, 1955. 35. This conflict appears to have been resolved relatively quickly and there was no recourse to strike. See “Newspaper Clippings Concerning Labor” Folder, box 580 in National City Lines Inc. Southeast Region Collection. 36. “City Bus Stoppage Here Undecided Early Today; Talks Apparently Bogged” Montgomery Advertiser December 13, 1952; “Bus Driver Slate Strike Here Saturday” Montgomery Advertiser December 14, 1952; “Bus Drivers’ Strike Averted in Montgomery” Alabama Journal December 13, 1952. 37. On the 1953 bus drivers’ strike see Montgomery Advertiser, December 12–16, 1953; Alabama Journal December 12, 14–15, 1953. 38. Johnny Reb, “Mr. J. H. Bagley, Mgr., City Bus Lines” Alabama Journal September 15, 1954. 39. Jack Latham, “Bus Drivers’ Incivility” Montgomery Advertiser September 5, 1954. 40. Interestingly, in this decision the Supreme Court took into consideration psychological factors in deciding the case. Justice Earl Warren wrote the majority decision on behalf of all nine judges that “[t]o separate them [black children] from others of similar age and qualifications solely because of their race generates a feeling of inferiority as to

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41.

42.

43.

44. 45. 46.

47.

48. 49. 50.

STRUGGLING FOR RECOGNITION their status in the community that may affect their hearts and minds in a way unlikely ever to be undone” Brown et al. v. Board of Education of Topeka et al. 347 U.S. 483 (1954). The “South” here refers to West Virginia, Virginia, Maryland, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Tennessee, Mississippi, Arkansas, Texas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, and Kentucky. “The Citizen’s Council,” Central Alabama Citizen’s Council, Montgomery, AL., published by the Association of Citizen’s Councils, Winona, Miss. (Headquarters). The pamphlet was collected by Anna Holden in early 1956 and can be found in Preston and Bonita Valien Papers. See interviews by Anna Holden with Rev. Thomas R. Thrasher, January 23, 1956; with the Durrs, February 2, 1956; with Dr. G. Stanley Frazer, pastor, St. James Methodist Church (and member of the Central Alabama White Citizens Council), February 3, 1956; with Mayor W. A. Gayle, February 10, 1956; with Clyde Sellers, Police Commissioner, February 10, 1956; all in “Folder: Montgomery Interviews by Holden, Anna 1955–1956” in Preston and Bonita Valien Papers. Anna Holden interview with Dave Birmingham, January 31 and February 1, 1956, page 5, in Ann Holden Reports folder, Preston and Bonita Valien Papers. Anna Holden interview with C. T. Fitzpatrick, March 27, 1956, page 1, in Ann Holden Reports folder, Preston and Bonita Valien Papers. Anna Holden interview with James J. Bailey, February 2, 1956, page 2, in Ann Holden Reports folder, Preston and Bonita Valien Papers; see also Anna Holden interview with Mrs. Leach, Folder “Montgomery Interviews by Holden, Anna 1955–1956” page 2. Anna Holden interview with Dave Norris, February 11, 1956, page 5; see also interview with J. H. Bagley, V. D. King, and bus drivers, January 21, 1956, pages 3–6; interview with Mr. Day, ex-bus-driver, February 11, 1956, page 2; in Ann Holden Reports folder, Preston and Bonita Valien Papers. Anna Holden interview with J. H. Bagley, V. D. King, and bus drivers, January 21, 1956, pages 3–6, in Ann Holden Reports folder, Preston and Bonita Valien Papers. Anna Holden interview with a bus driver, February 1, 1956, Folder: Montgomery Interviews by Holden, Anna 1955–1956, Preston and Bonita Valien Papers. Welch was interviewed while in bed and half-asleep when the interview started. Anna Holden interview with W. G. Welch, February 9, 1956, page 1, in Ann Holden Reports folder, Preston and Bonita Valien Papers.

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5 Keeping Momentum: Leadership, Psychology, and Tactics In the previous chapter, I discussed the psychological origins of the Montgomery bus boycott and traced those origins to increasing humiliation of black passengers on the buses. This chapter will begin with a discussion on some shared psychological aspects pertaining to the black leadership, including individual effects of humiliation and relative deprivation. I will then turn to cognitive transformations among black Montgomerians regarding the bus situation on and after December 5, 1955. The discussion will also focus on the ways in which the black leadership was effective in understanding this psychological transformation by appealing to the human need for recognition in order to maintain momentum in this second stage of the boycott. Finally, I will explore the importance of understanding strategy and tactics as key to making or breaking a struggle.

Leadership Motivation, Social Comparisons, and Relative Deprivation The humiliation on the Montgomery buses affected mostly the lower socioeconomic class but not so much the black middle class or upper class, who used private cars like their white counterparts. The leadership in particular hardly used the buses.1 Nevertheless, there are also interesting common characteristics underpinning the motivations of boycott leaders and other leading black activists in Montgomery. The first characteristic involves humiliating experiences in one’s life history. For example, Burks and Robinson report incidents from their personal life experiences that made them devoted to the cause of democratic and social progress. Burks recounted that the “Women’s Political Council was the outgrowth of scars I suffered as a result of racism” (1993: 76). Burks explains that as a child she was exposed to the notion of racism and became increasingly bitter. She then began personal “guerilla warfare” against segregation. The critical event that triggered the establishment of the WPC was a traumatic and humiliating experience in which Burks was cursed by a white

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woman and then manhandled and arrested by the police for allegedly initiating the incident (Ibid: 76–79). Similarly, Jo Ann Robinson, one of the most important black leaders and mobilizers in Montgomery prior to and during the boycott, was introduced to activism through a traumatic experience that transformed her life. Robinson, a university faculty member who normally used a private car, was on her way to celebrate Christmas with her family and friends in Ohio in December 1949. She boarded an almost empty bus from her campus to the airport. Just before boarding the bus she “never felt freer or happier” (Robinson 1987: 15). Unaccustomed to riding the Montgomery buses, she absentmindedly sat in the whites-only section. When the bus driver awakened her from her daydreaming by yelling and making physical threats, she suddenly realized what had happened and rushed off the bus feeling humiliated and traumatized. This humiliating experience transformed Robinson: “In all these years I have never forgotten the shame, the hurt, of that experience. The memory will not go away” (Ibid: 16). She explains that this personal experience hounded her in the years leading to the boycott and was the root of her personal motivation (see also Ibid: xiii–xiv, 26). A second characteristic involved in the motivation of boycott leaders and leading activists falls in the realm of social comparisons and relative deprivation (Gurr 1970; Wood 1989). In this context, social conditions are perceived as more humiliating or as less tolerable because the individuals in question compare existing conditions to new standards and expectations. The individuals may feel increasingly deprived not necessarily because conditions have changed but because subjective experiences have made the individuals more sensitive to existing injustices. This characteristic applies to several central figures in the bus boycott: Mary Fair Burks, Jo Ann Robinson, Martin Luther King Jr., Ralph Abernathy, Uriah Fields, and Fred Gray, as well as to Rosa Parks and Claudette Colvin. All of them, except for Colvin, had experienced better relations between whites and blacks outside Montgomery prior to the bus boycott. Burks studied at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor where for the first time she “knew what it meant to feel and live like a whole human being” (1993: 76). Yet her studies at Ann Arbor also “made it that more difficult to accept the segregated south. When I came back to Montgomery, I was even more embittered by its unrelenting racism” (Ibid). Jo Ann Robinson studied in Macon and Atlanta (Georgia), New York, Los Angeles, and then taught in Texas before arriving at a new rewarding faculty position at the Alabama State College for Negroes in 1949 (since 1972 renamed Alabama State University). Robinson’s unfamiliarity with the bus system shortly after her arrival in Montgomery demonstrates the different social experiences and categories she had in mind. Similarly, Martin Luther King Jr., Ralph Abernathy, Uriah Fields, and Fred Gray all experienced very different relations with whites in the North or outside the United States. King [1958] studied for his Ph.D. in Boston and Fred Gray (2002) studied for his law degree in Cleveland, Ohio. Abernathy (1989a) and Fields (2002) were drafted into the army during World War II and were influenced by their service. Fields, for example, recalls that after

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experiencing integration in the army he “detested segregation even more” and that “[e]xperiencing integration had increased my self-esteem, given me a heightened sense of dignity and caused me to feel freer than I had remembered feeling before” (Fields 2002: 19). Although all four men held prestigious positions in Montgomery and enjoyed high social esteem they were nevertheless less tolerant of, and more active against, segregation compared to those who suffered more of it. Their motivations were grounded in earlier life experiences and resulting expectations of how whites and blacks should interact with one another. New social comparisons and relative deprivation could also be identified in the case of Claudette Colvin and Rosa Parks. Sixteen-year-old Colvin refused to give up her seat in March 1955, which also happened to be “Negro History Month.” Her high-school teacher Geraldine Nesbitt taught the students about the Fourteenth Amendment and heightened Colvin’s resistance ideology and motivation: “It just so happens they picked me at the wrong time—it was Negro History Month, and I was filled up like a computer . . . I felt like Sojourner Truth was pushing down on one shoulder and Harriet Tubman was pushing down on the other—saying, ‘Sit down girl!’ I was glued to my seat.”2 Similarly, Rosa Parks attended a seminar on intergroup relations at the Highlander Folk School only a few months before her refusal to give up her bus seat. Her experience at the Highlander Folk School was unique and transformative. Parks recounts, “it was one of the few times in my life up to that point when I did not feel any hostility from white people. I experienced people of different races and backgrounds meeting together in workshops and living together in peace and harmony. I felt I could express myself honestly without any repercussions or antagonistic attitudes for other people” (Parks and Haskins 1992: 106–107). This experience played a part in her reaction to the hostile tone of the bus driver who demanded that she give up her seat. Parks notes that contrary to popular knowledge she was not physically tired on that day: “[T]he only tired I was, was tired of giving in” (Ibid: 116).

December 5, 1955: A Transformative Day The news about the arrest of Rosa Parks aroused the anger of lower, middle, and upper classes in Montgomery. Contrary to Claudette Colvin’s arrest, the black leadership was now more united around the idea of a boycott, at least a one-day boycott. The WPC and Jo Ann Robinson in particular would not wait for the black ministers to agree on the idea of a boycott or even for Rosa Parks’ consent; they began distributing thousands of leaflets urging blacks to avoid riding the buses on December 5 which coincided with Parks’ trial (Robinson 1987: 43–47). Nobody knew whether the call for a one-day boycott would be successful, but by the evening of December 5 it became clear that this had become a transformative day in the life of black Montgomerians. According to McAdam and Sewell, “the key feature of transformative events is that they come to be interpreted as significantly disrupting, altering, or violating

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the taken-for-granted assumptions governing routine political and social relations” (2001: 112—original emphases). Morris adds that transformative events “can produce radical turning points in collective action and affect the outcome of social movements” (2000: 452). The unfolding of December 5, 1955 certainly involved both these features. The overwhelming agreement with the call for a one-day boycott altered blacks’ assumptions about the bus situation and about themselves. The realization that the buses were almost completely empty of black passengers on December 5 constituted a psychological turning point for blacks in Montgomery and beyond. In order to fully understand the impact of December 5 and the nature of transformative events more generally, the psychological aspects of this day need to be spelled out. Three significant events occurred on December 5: the surprising success of the one-day bus boycott, the conviction of Rosa Parks on charges of disorderly conduct, and the mass meeting on the evening of that day. Each of these had a separate psychological impact on black Montgomerians and together they transformed the community. The realization that the one-day boycott was becoming a success generated joy and enthusiasm among many black Montgomerians. Initially, many gathered around bus stops to witness for themselves the extent of the boycott success. King ([1958]: 40) notes that “[a]t first they stood quietly, but as the day progressed they began to cheer the empty buses and laugh and makes jokes.” The sight of the empty “yellow monsters,” as many called them, lifted the spirits of blacks because this was considered a victory. Each individual retaliated or took revenge against previous abuse by the simple act of abstaining from the buses. This was a surprising victory because no one really knew what to expect or they thought the attempted boycott would fail. But beyond the sudden taste of victory, the success on December 5 changed how black Montgomerians evaluated themselves with relation to the abuse and humiliation that they had previously suffered on the buses. This change could be explained in psychological terminology pertaining to self-esteem. For many black Montgomerians, the bus situation became a major domain that affected their general self-esteem.3 The abuse on the buses had appeared as a reality over which black passengers had no control. As a result, many black Montgomerians suffered from negative general self-esteem and from other psychological and social strains which were also a direct result of the abuse and humiliation to which they were subjected (see Chapter 4). On December 5, however, the surprising victory improved both domain specific and general self-esteem. Namely, individuals realized that they are not powerless regarding the situation on the buses (domain specific) and that they could actually fight back and win. In social-psychological terms, many black Montgomerians gained a new sense of self-efficacy (Bandura 1977) and high self-esteem. This realization, in turn, improved their overall selfevaluations (general self-esteem). Black Montgomerians surprised even themselves by what they had actually done and achieved (see also Abernathy 1989a: 150). This was beyond anyone’s expectation. The abuse on the buses no longer seemed inevitable and therefore the motivation to fight it was amplified. It is one thing to fight against something one believes there are no prospects of winning; it is a whole different motivational mindset when one believes that the opposite is true. This

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mindset of improved self-efficacy can enhance the capacity and inclination for resistance actions as well as their degree and length of time (Bandura 1977, 1982). Accordingly, blacks were not about to return to the buses so long as they were improving their self-capacities and also gaining positive self-esteem by boycotting. The second event on the morning of December 5 was the conviction of Rosa Parks on charges of disorderly conduct.4 The judge found her guilty and fined her ten dollars plus four dollars for court costs. This event angered many of the hundreds of blacks who came to hear the trial and it reinforced the image of Parks as a victim whose calm and dignified character strikingly contrasted with the injustices of the system. Parks was presented later that day at a mass meeting and became a symbol of the Civil Rights Movement (Parks and Haskings 1992). She would symbolize how an ordinary, calm, dignified, and nonconfrontational person can suddenly become a victim of arbitrariness and ill will. If this happened to Rosa Parks, it could happen to anyone in the black community (Burks 1993: 72). The third event was the mass meeting at Holt Street Church on the evening of December 5. This event was important for a number of reasons. The skepticism and doubts that still lingered in the minds of blacks in general, and the black church ministers in particular, about the general motivation to continue the protest were dispelled. The thousands of participants who jam-packed the church and its surrounding area for hours before the mass meeting was scheduled to begin reaffirmed collectively what each felt individually. The mass meeting turned personal experiences into a collective experience and made participants realize all at once the extent to which their personal problems were in fact a collective problem. Moreover, by coming together for the first time in such numbers and for such purpose, the participants were introduced into a political struggle that most of them did not even dream was possible. The mass meeting (and the many that would soon follow) injected new meaning, perspective, and point of reference to the lives of black Montgomerians. It situated their personal experiences within a new and far more politicized worldview. This cognitive turning point also forced many complacent black church pastors to stop explaining why one should suffer quietly in this world and wait for a reward in the afterlife, and to begin tackling social and political issues that they tended to avoid. The more politically oriented ministers such as King and Abernathy turned these established notions of quiet suffering and patience into protest frames of “redemptive suffering” involved in standing up against injustice (Abernathy 1989a: 157; King [1958]: 20–21). In other words, the mainstream conservative gospel of the day gave way to the social gospel. In these new frames of injustice, riding the buses could never again be the same experience. The shared understanding of what had happened in Montgomery on December 5 preceded the formal proposal by the black church leaders to continue the bus boycott protest. There was little left to convince the people who came to that historic meeting, but to unanimously reaffirm what the black community now felt, knew, and demanded. Some leaders suggested calling off the boycott by the evening of the first day and reaping the fruits of its initial success vis-à-vis the city’s white establishment. Yet this option became irrelevant given the overwhelming enthusiasm of the masses who urged the leaders to continue to boycott. As King put it,

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“[t]he question of calling off the protest was now academic. The enthusiasm of these thousands of people swept everything along like an onrushing tidal wave” ([1958]: 47; see also Gilliam 1989: 221, 281). These new frames of injustice coupled with the massive enthusiasm and protest motivation gave rise to a new organization which took on the function of coordinating the boycott enterprise, the Montgomery Improvement Association (henceforth “MIA”), led by twenty-seven-year-old King. The church leaders could not withstand the pressure from below demanding to continue the boycott, even if they had wanted to. As King wrote several years later from a Birmingham jail, “It was the people who moved their leaders, not the leaders who moved the people” and “[a] leader who understands this kind of mandate knows that he must be sensitive to the anger, the impatience, the frustration, the resolution that have been loosed in his people. Any leader who tries to bottle up these emotions is sure to be blown asunder in the ensuing explosion” ([1963]: 122). In the December 5 mass meeting, the participants staked their self-esteem on the continuation of the boycott. Blacks got immediate satisfaction and positive self-evaluations of themselves by staying off the buses. The domain that had caused humiliation for so many people over the last two years was suddenly under their control and they had no intention of giving up this new sense of power, autonomy, and positive self-esteem. The change in this domain-specific self-esteem boosted their general self-esteem from negative to positive and from a low to high evaluation of their capabilities to deal with the bus situation. For these reasons they wanted to continue the protest regardless of other goals that the boycott might or might not yield. The ability to continue protesting was in itself a pivotal goal: By not riding the buses they were gaining recognition and restoring their damaged sense of selfesteem.5 The protest became cognitively entwined with a pursuit of positive social status and an aversion to being dominated. The protest itself was a demand for recognition, a demand more basic than the actual issue of segregation and equality. This point is vividly captured in the cross-examination exchange between Mr. Knabe, the lawyer representing the City of Montgomery, and Susie McDonald, a seventyseven-year-old black woman who was one of four plaintiffs in the civil-action suit against the illegality of bus segregation: Mr. Knabe:

Susie McDonald: Mr. Knabe: Susie McDonald:

Mr. Knabe: Susie McDonald:

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And their grievances at that time [December 5] said that they wanted more courteous treatment, that was one of the main things, wasn’t it? Yes, sir. And that had nothing whatsoever to do with the segregation issue, did it? That is what we asked for, we didn’t want no social equality, we wanted what we asked for, we wanted recognition. I see, in other words, you stopped, you did not want equality of any type, but you merely wanted recognition? That is right.6

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The new situation, in which blacks defied the city officials and the bus company, was itself an act of recognition because it forced the authorities to admit, whether they wanted to or not, that they needed blacks’ compliance and that blacks could deny from the authorities something they wanted. Black leaders had been demanding an acknowledgment of the importance of black customers for some time and were largely ignored.7 By refusing to use the buses, however, blacks forced the white officials to recognize their importance. Blacks could no longer be taken for granted, ignored, or seen as mere invisible statistics. The initial boycott demands were merely a translation of the demand for recognition to certain concrete claims: courteous treatment on the buses, a new seating arrangement, and the hiring of black bus drivers. Blacks could decide to compromise on these demands or to modify them but the very act of standing up and preventing the bus company and city officials from what they wanted (i.e., unconditional return to the buses) was already perceived by blacks as recognition in their importance compared to the previous situation in which they were objects of random abuse and humiliation. Indeed, the mild demands that blacks initially made against the city commission (see below) illustrate that the struggle was not fixed on or confined to a set of demands but was for an outcome that could count as an act of recognition or victory. Boycott leaders understood this underlying impetus of the boycott and used it effectively as means to keep the momentum of the boycott.

Riding on Recognition: Effective Leadership and Psychological Factors Events caught King by surprise when he was suddenly proposed as president and spokesperson of the MIA on the afternoon of December 5, yet he stood up to the challenge. Following his nomination, King was left with twenty minutes to prepare the speech of life. He realized that the expectations of him on this occasion were huge and that the media would be recording his every word. The anxiety and panic that followed chipped away five more minutes of the preparation time. In the remaining fifteen minutes King was faced with a dilemma: “How could I make a speech that would be militant enough to keep my people aroused to positive action and yet moderate enough to keep this fervor within controllable and Christian bounds?” (King [1958]: 45). With only a few minutes left, King evoked a fundamental psychological element that he believed would speak to people’s shared sentiments. He aroused the dispositions to defend and maintain positive self-esteem and the aversion to being dominated. As King put it, “I would seek to arouse the group to action by insisting that their sense of self-respect was at stake and that if they accepted such injustices without protesting, they would betray their own sense of dignity and the eternal edicts of God himself ” ([1958]: 46). King also talked to the participants’ personal experiences and memories of insult and humiliation. The reactions to these psychological motifs were so powerful that King continued to employ them not only in Montgomery but also in many speeches for the rest of his career. This impressive ability was an important part of why he became the mouthpiece for African

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Americans. The common motifs and terms King used to articulate the desire for recognition were dignity, worth, respect, and self-respect, sombodyness, standing up against humiliation, and recognition (see Baker-Fletcher 1993; Carson et al. 1997; King [1958, 1963]). There was not a public speech in which King did not use at least some elements and terms of this “language of recognition.” The element of humiliation was salient in King’s December 5 speech in which he spoke to blacks’ sense of humiliation by emphasizing the metaphor of being walked over and put down. This metaphor of being physically pushed down or being underneath someone else is a common expression of people who experienced humiliation (Linder 2006: 5). King invoked this metaphor often. It was also this part in King’s speech that received the strongest emotional responses on the evening of December 5: And you know, my friends, there comes a time when people get tired of being trampled over by the iron feet of oppression. [thundering applause] There comes a time, my friends, when people get tired of being plunged across the abyss of humiliation, where they experience the bleakness of nagging despair. (keep talking) There comes a time when people get tired of being pushed out of the glittering sunlight of life’s July and left standing amid the piercing chill of an alpine November. (That’s right) [applause] There comes a time. (Yes sir, Teach) [applause continues]8 After the participants of this mass meeting unanimously affirmed that the oneday bus boycott would be extended until their demands were met, new psychological factors came into play. The anger and agitation that preceded the boycott were supplemented by additional sentiments of pride and satisfaction in being able to abstain from riding. This was no small deed for many blacks who walked miles daily despite the MIA’s efficient car-pooling system. The people kept walking because they were deriving pride and respect from this act. As King noted, “[S]ometimes they even preferred to walk when a ride was available. The act of walking, for many, had become of symbolic importance” ([1958]: 59). Yet some people did need reminding as to why they were walking and many needed assurance and encouragement to continue due to the difficulties they faced. The anger stemming from Rosa Parks’ arrest alone could not sustain momentum for a whole year. And indeed after the first month of the boycott the leaders needed to work harder to keep the momentum (Abernathy 1989a: 154). In order to do so, King and other leaders reinforced and amplified the connection between individuals’ selfesteem and the boycott. They stressed that one gains self-worth and respect by not riding, and vice versa. In his speeches, King quite often spoke about the contrast between two personality-types, the “Old Negro” and the “New Negro.” The “Old Negro” lost self-respect, had very low self-esteem, and accepted the inferior role that was forced upon him or her: “Negroes lost faith in themselves and came to believe that perhaps they really were what they were told they were—something less than men” and as such accepted “injustice, insult, injury and exploitation.”9 The “New Negro,” in contrast, has self-respect and a new sense of dignity. Individuals with

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“New Negro” mentality are those who have reevaluated themselves and feel that they are somebody.10 Throughout the boycott King would stress that God forbids blacks to feel inferior to anybody and that they had a duty to themselves and their selfrespect. Months after December 5, King spoke about the psychological significance of the boycott: “. . . [W]e’ve been struggling for eleven months, but I want you to know that this struggle has not been in vain . . . If it has done any one thing in this community it has given us a new sense of dignity and destiny. (That’s right) And I think that in itself it is a victory . . . And I want to urge you tonight to keep on keeping on . . .”11 King understood and clearly articulated the feeling of pride and positive self-esteem that blacks drew from being able to keep on protesting regardless of tangible gains. He understood what the struggle was about psychologically: a struggle for recognition. This understanding enabled the leadership to be more effective in their appeals. One such rhetorical technique was to emphasize and magnify the importance of each individual as struggling for a much larger altruistic goal. Leaders portrayed the struggle in Montgomery as the focal point of a historic struggle with worldwide meaning. The participants of the bus boycott were cast as historical figures in a crusade for justice and freedom on the national and even international level. For example, King concluded his speech on December 5 by telling black Montgomerians that they were making history and they were given the role of representing all black people and all those who stand up for their rights: Right here in Montgomery, when the history books are written in the future (Yes), somebody will have to say, “There lived a race of people (Well), a black people (Yes sir), ‘fleecy locks and black complexion’ (Yes), a people who had the moral courage to stand up for their rights. [applause] And thereby they injected a new meaning into the veins of history and civilization. And we’re gonna do that. God grant that we will do it before it is too late. (Oh yeah) As we proceed with our program let us think of these things.” (Yes) [applause]12 Similarly, Ralph Abernathy energized his listeners and heightened their resolve to continue the boycott by telling them that their struggle had national and international significance: “This show is your show. [applause] Not only is this show the show of negroes in Montgomery, but this is the show of negroes all over America. [applause] And then I want to go a little further than that, and tell you that truly this show is the show of all freedom loving people all over the world. [thundering applause].”13 The meaning of success or failure meant far more than their local boycott to the protesters. These responsibilities and the historical significance empowered the former black bus riders because from feeling helpless they were suddenly given power to help oppressed people elsewhere. The protest leaders, thus, amplified the sense of autonomy and power among black Montgomerians. People outside Montgomery were now expecting them to succeed. Recognition (or the lack thereof) from the world beyond Montgomery depended on the outcome of the boycott.14

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The recurrent reference to the world outside Montgomery raises another dimension pertaining to recognition: Black Montgomerians became the actors and heroes of a reality-show and enjoyed the world’s attention and respect. Local media coverage preceded and helped the one-day boycott on December 5. The national and international spotlights soon followed. The boycott received newspaper, radio, and television coverage. Television broadcasting became particularly popular and widespread in the mid-1950s (Roberts and Kalibanoff 2006: 54, 156; see also Abernathy 1989a: 170). This coverage put pressure on the city officials and it also improved the position of the boycott leaders, but most importantly, it turned black Montgomerians into national and international celebrities. Before the boycott their humiliation and abuses were ignored; now their struggle was capturing the attention and imagination of the nation and beyond. As Abernathy said, this was truly their show now. The transition from being an unknown oppressed person to being a protagonist in a national and international story heightened blacks’ resolve to continue the boycott because it brought the respect of millions of people outside Montgomery, aside from the generous material donations to the MIA as acts of identification. Positive media coverage gave black Montgomerians attention and recognition they had never received before. The world outside Montgomery looked up to them and their heroic willingness to suffer. This show had all the ingredients of a high-rated reality drama and black Montgomerians were certainly its stars. The nation and the world were closely watching and expecting them not to stop. This attention and recognition were highly gratifying and further reinforced the connection between not riding the buses and positive self-esteem. A section from a motivation speech (“pep talk”) by Jo Ann Robinson in a mass meeting illustrates this psychological factor: Why have we attracted so much attention? This is the first time in the history of the Negro he has ever risen up. [. . .] The whole world is watching the boycott we are carrying on here in Montgomery. France, England, India are sending reporters here, because this is not a case, it is a social movement. The whole world respects us. I have never been so proud to be a Negro before. Never again can anyone look down on us. We command respect. You go downtown and people show respect. Negroes are proud now. They hold their heads up high and strut. [. . .] This is not a local movement. It has spread all over the United States. We can’t get tired now. We can’t quit now. There is too much to do.15 Indeed, many black Montgomerians participated in the mass meetings in order to be updated on the latest news and hear about the reactions of the outside world to their struggle. Some collected newspapers and magazines to read what the press was saying about their struggle (e.g., Burns 1997: 224). The attention of the world, and maintaining positive representation in the media, were thus important facilitating factors in keeping the momentum of the boycott.

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Mass meetings were also very important to the momentum of the movement (Gilliam 1989: 224). The meetings were held weekly and bi-weekly and they served as the main platform for information, communication, social cohesion, and most importantly to sustain and amplify the emotional energies of the participants. An important technique that the leaders employed was to stress the participants’ sense of power and control over the movement. While leaders of course made critical decisions, they tended to bring the resolutions before the participants in mass meetings for ratification. Leaders also let participants reaffirm their determination by asking them somewhat rhetorically if this was indeed what they wanted the leaders to do. As Dr. Yokley had put it, “they [the leaders] put the masses in front by asking them ‘are we doing what you want us to do’ or ‘do you want us to continue in this present course of action or do you want us to stop?’, and so on.”16 Anna Holden similarly reported from a mass meeting that Rev. Bennett asked the congregation three times “Do you want to go back?” and the audience shouted back each time “no,” as well as “we’re not going back” and “send the buses back to Chicago.”17 Beyond the empowerment of the people in such ways, the mass meetings also helped cultivate a strong sense of community and shared fate. Whereas before December 5 the black Montgomery community was divided between the middle and lower classes, the boycott brought them close together. There was no place where they were physically and spiritually closer than being together in the same church. Singing was especially important in this respect. “Men and women who had been separated from each other by false standards of class were now singing and praying together in a common struggle for freedom and human dignity” (King [1958]: 68). This musical activity was a way for social bonding whereby the individual felt as one with others. In this way a new social identity was generated and intensified as well.18 The psychological factors mentioned above helped sustain a protest that lasted over a year. This is not to say, however, that the course of this protest depended solely on blacks’ determination. The strategic and tactical aspects of this protest played an important role in enabling the Montgomery bus boycott to develop the way it did.

Strategic, Tactical, and Psychological Factors The ability of the boycott protest to last as long as it did and end in the way that it did was also affected by a combination of political maneuvers and mistakes on the part of the white and black leaderships. Only in retrospect can we determine what was a political mistake and what was a clever maneuver. The decision makers themselves could not know for certain what their actions and decisions would yield. Nevertheless, political decisions were critical to the social dynamics in which the bus protest developed, to the political means to which the players resorted, and indirectly to the psychological effects of these decisions on both blacks and whites. The first issue is setting strategic goals and deriving the appropriate political targets. A strategic goal of the white city leadership was to protect the system of segregation in Montgomery. The strategic goal of the black leadership ideally was to

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eradicate it. The black leadership, however, initially asked for a solution within the segregation system, namely, they asked for a new segregated seating arrangement similar to the one that existed in Mobile, Alabama. As Abernathy (1989a: 154) explains, “[W]e were not even asking that the buses be desegregated—only that a more acceptable form of segregation be adopted, one used throughout the state and region.” As such, the black leadership’s initial demands were not to end segregation but, only to make it less humiliating. In this respect, the black and white leaderships both erred at this initial stage of the boycott. The positions and targets that the two leaderships chose did not match their strategic goals. The black leadership’s initial demands were a risky choice of targets. Had the white leadership agreed to these demands the protest would have probably been nipped in the bud within a matter of days, similar to what had happened in Baton Rouge two years earlier when the city officials had agreed to very similar demands. The white elite in Baton Rouge had avoided a longer, more costly, and riskier challenge, and their system of segregation remained intact. The Montgomery city officials could have acted in a similar way to protect the system of bus segregation in their city, which was essentially their ultimate goal. The prices of these mistakes, however, were not equally as costly to both sides. The white city officials were raising the stakes on a relatively marginal modification within the system of segregation thereby enabling the black leadership to reevaluate the relationship between their strategic goals and their actual demands. For example, King wrote that after seeing the city officials’ intransigence he began to reflect upon the system more broadly: This experience . . . taught me a lesson. I came to see that no one gives up his privileges without strong resistance. I saw further that the underlying purpose of segregation was to oppress and exploit the segregated, not simply to keep them apart. Even when we asked for justice within the segregation laws, the “powers that be” were not willing to grant it. Justice and equality, I saw, would never come while segregation remained, because the basic purpose of segregation was to perpetuate injustice and equality. ([1958]: 94) Indeed, not long after this meeting the black leadership hardened its position and was not willing to compromise even on its demand for black bus drivers that was originally raised mainly for a better initial bargaining position (Abernathy 1989a: 144–145; Gilliam 1989). Thus, the white city officials turned a minor request for modification within the segregation system into an opportunity to dramatize and challenge the segregation system as a whole, which was in fact in the best interests of their opponents. This intransigence has puzzled scholars of the bus boycott (Thornton 1989, 2001; Gilliam 1989). Why did the Montgomery city officials and their legal advisers insist that the implementation of a segregated seating-arrangement identical to that of Mobile violated the Alabama state laws when the Mobile code already existed under the Alabama state laws? If these Harvard graduate lawyers failed to see the illogic of their argument it was certainly not due to lack of legal expertise, as Thornton rightly

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points out (1989: 363). There are two possible and complementary answers to this puzzle from a psychological standpoint. First, three of four top white officials— Mayor Gayle, City Police Commissioner Sellers, and the bus company’s attorney Crenshaw—seem to have viewed the demands of the black leadership through a “siege mentality” worldview (see Chapter 4). Namely, they perceived even these very moderate demands as a full-fledged rebellion and attack against their way of life.19 They could not accept the idea that whites would have to stand when blacks were seated and they feared that by giving an inch the blacks would want a whole mile (Gilliam 1989: 240–242). Furthermore, the white leadership had a strong aversion to publicly giving in to the demands because of fear of losing face and self-esteem. King reports that in a closed meeting, attorney Crenshaw revealed the underlying reason for his objection to blacks’ demands: “If we granted the Negroes these demands . . . they would go about boasting of victory that they had won over the white people; and this we will not stand for” ([1958]: 93; see also Gilliam 1989: 240–242; Gray 2002: 61–62). Attorney Crenshaw’s central position in this initial discussion and those that followed is important in a second explanatory sense. At the initial stage, the view of the four white officials was not yet unanimous. In fact, Crenshaw’s quote above came in response to Commissioner Parks who confided to his fellows “I don’t see why we can’t arrange to accept the [black leadership’s] seating proposal. We can work it within our segregation laws” (King [1958]: 93). At this point, Crenshaw immediately stepped in to quash possible dissent in the group by using his legal authority. He pressured and assured Commissioner Parks that this would be illegal and the only way to grant the blacks’ request was by changing the Alabama state laws. Parks yielded to this pressure and fell into the line with the others.20 This group dynamic is a symptom of what is known as “groupthink”: a mode of thinking characterizing small cohesive groups whereby pressures for unanimity trump the motivation for rational decisions (Janis 1983; Baron 2005). The defects of groupthink are that group members do not survey their objectives; their discussion is confined to only a few alternatives; and they fail to reexamine the course of action once chosen. This appears to have been the fate of the city officials who refused the mild demands of the black leadership. Once they had fixed their minds on the false idea that it was legally impossible, the white elite was trapped in a groupthink syndrome, even though granting the black leadership’s demands would have best served their interests in protecting segregation (Thornton 1989: 363). The combination of siege mentality and groupthink syndromes among the city leadership was a major contributing factor to the development of the bus boycott. This is not to say, however, that it was the only way the white leadership could have responded. In a slightly different political constellation the Montgomery bus boycott would have probably been averted. To understand why this is so, it is worth mentioning Dave Birmingham. Birmingham, the former Police Commissioner, presented a more sophisticated alternative to the hardheaded approach of his successor in the job, Clyde Sellers. Both men were committed to segregation but

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contrary to the roughness and incivility of Commissioner Sellers, Birmingham’s commitment to segregation was accompanied by good manners and political sophistication. Birmingham was far more politically experienced in garnering the votes of blacks for his election and in utilizing acts of good will to win over the black leadership.21 He also knew how to demonstrate commitment to fair play and how to pacify black leaders when trouble occurred, and all that while remaining principally committed to segregation. During his term in office (January 1954–October 1955), Birmingham appointed the first four black police officers, though they did not have authority over white people; he pushed for the appointment of a black representative on the segregated parks commission; and he reduced police brutality against blacks. In the Colvin case, some eight months prior to the boycott, Birmingham managed to assuage the angry black leadership and to assure them that he would do everything in his power to reprimand the bus driver and to clarify the law on bus seating. Birmingham was so successful that even King who attended the meeting left it hopeful, but later acknowledged that nothing came out of Birmingham’s promises (King [1958]: 26).22 Birmingham’s acts of good will were indeed seen as significant relative to existing conditions at the time (Thornton 2001: 39–40). In fact, Birmingham became so popular among the black leadership that when he decided to drop out of the race for reelection as police commissioner (due to an intense campaign and health concerns) the Montgomery black leadership held a special public event to honor his term in office on September 27, 1955, less than three months before the bus boycott. Interestingly, among the organizers were the WPC and among the honorary speakers were the top black leaders of Montgomery and of the boycott to come: Martin Luther King Jr., Fred Gray, Rufus Lewis, E. D. Nixon, and other leading figures in the black community.23 While Birmingham was highly valued by black leaders and his acts of good will did involve some personal political risks (some rivals called him “nigger lover”), it is important to stress that Birmingham was no integrationist. He was a sophisticated segregationist. In revealing interviews to Anna Holden on January 31 and February 1, 1956, Birmingham reveals his ideology on the ideal relationship between blacks and whites and his approach to the bus situation. In his view, the root cause of the bus boycott and of the social tensions in the South more generally are in what he calls the “tendency of mulattoes [children of former black slave women and white fathers] to want to bring about integration.”24 Yet Birmingham was very pragmatic in his approach to solving the bus situation without coming close to advocating integration. He argued that all three demands of the black leadership were reasonable and could be accommodated because they did not contradict segregation. He even endorsed the idea of black bus drivers in black neighborhoods: “I recommended that two years ago—it gives them a sense of pride in their own race and makes them feel good—like the Nigga police—the same thing.”25 Birmingham also asserted that the boycott had been unnecessarily prolonged because “the city commission turned a deaf ear to all of them [demands]. We are in this fix we are in now because of poor leadership.”26 Had Birmingham remained in the race for reelection as police commissioner and won or had someone else with a similar political

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understanding been in office, the groupthink symptoms that characterized the city commission might have been overcome, and the bus protest might have been cut short by minor concessions on the part of the white elite.27 Ironically then, the black leadership were lucky that they dealt with an intransigent and unsophisticated city commission that helped them reveal the crude face of segregation and dramatize the struggle for over a year. This strategic aspect of the protest was not the only mistake of the white elite. On the tactical level, too, the city commission made wrong decisions. I will highlight only the major ones. The city commission allowed the bus company to halt its bus lines in the black neighborhood and reroute other lines merely four days after the boycott began.28 By so doing the city commission sought to protect the bus company from further revenue losses but the implications of that decision were that blacks in predominantly black neighborhoods could not use the buses even if they changed their minds. Blacks who may have wanted to continue using the buses would have been required to actively organize and demand them rather than simply using them and this could have prevented unity of action in its initial stage.29 Moreover, when it became clear to both the black and white leaderships that the talks were deadlocked, the city officials tried several tactics to stop the boycott, all of which backfired. The first tactic was to break the consensus within the black community by reaching a compromise with three black ministers who were not members of the MIA. Yet the white officials underestimated the cohesiveness of the black community and this divide-and-rule tactic backfired when the three black ministers went back on their word and the scam was revealed even prior to hitting the press. The mayor was portrayed as a liar and the black community felt it had endured yet another challenge. Following this incident the city officials declared a “get tough” policy with the protest but they were ineffective in this approach as well. The city officials instructed police harassment against blacks who participated in the MIA’s car pool and took no measures to protect King (who was terrorized daily by phone) before his house was bombed. Beyond that, Mayor Gayle and Commissioner Sellers publicly joined the White Citizens’ Council. These actions increased the sense of victimhood among black Montgomerians, cemented King’s image as a living martyr, and rekindled anger about the dishonesty of the city leaders who joined a racist organization and still argued to objectively represent all citizens of Montgomery. Another tactic that the Mayor tried was to discourage white citizens from driving their black maids to work and back, or giving them compensation for taxis. He did so interestingly by trying to invoke in whites the sense that blacks disrespected and belittled them for doing this: “The Negroes are laughing at white people behind their backs—the white people who haul the maids and cooks to and from work. They think it’s very funny and amusing that whites who are opposed to the Negro boycott will act as chauffeurs to Negroes who are boycotting the buses.”30 The Mayor’s appeal had very limited success, however, as most white households did not heed his call for a counter-collective action. The importance of tactics could perhaps best be seen in comparing two legal actions taken by the city officials. The first legal action against the boycott was a

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lawsuit against King and eighty-nine others for violating an old Alabama law called the Alabama Anti-Boycott Statute. King was the only person actually tried whereby the other cases were supposed to be decided based on the outcome of King’s case.31 What is peculiar about this tactic is that the city leadership did not seem to seriously consider what this lawsuit could achieve. King was found guilty and fined five hundred dollars, as was expected by King’s lawyers. The defense motioned for a new trial but was denied and the appeal was dismissed several months later.32 Yet the conviction had no adverse effects on the boycott. As attorney Fred Gray (2002: 87) puts it, “No fine was ever paid and no one served any time as a result of these indictments.” In fact, the arrest of the people who were indicted in this case and particularly King’s trial had a positive effect on the protest. When the word spread about the arrest of boycott leaders and activists, including prominent ministers, many blacks saw it a badge of honor to be arrested. Some even went to the sheriff ’s office and were highly disappointed that they were not on the police lists and therefore were not considered important enough to be arrested (Gray 2002: 83). This event emphasized the emotion of pride involved in not only being part of the struggle but being in its forefront. As King put it, “A once fear-ridden people had been transformed. Those who had previously trembled before the law were now proud to be arrested for the cause of freedom” ([1958]: 126). Furthermore, the trial itself put Montgomery back in the national spotlight. The legal charge against people who were executing their constitutional rights to organize and protest on the grounds that their protest was violating some long-forgotten Alabama statute was seen for what it was, a hypocritical attempt to abuse the law. The trial also gave a platform to the boycott attorneys to summon over thirty black witnesses whose stories caught the attention of the nation and even reached international audiences.33 This exposure brought the most significant donations to the MIA. By choosing King as the only defendant to be tried among the ninety who were indicted, the city officials contributed to his martyr image and to “chisel King’s heroic stature into the national consciousness” (Roberts and Kalibanoff 2006: 140). Never was a person so happy to be convicted in court. As King recounts the moments after the conviction, “I left with a smile. I knew that I was convicted a criminal, but I was proud of my crime. It was a crime in joining my people in a nonviolent protest against injustice. It was a crime of seeking to instill within my people a sense of dignity and self-respect” ([1958]: 129). King indeed made effective use of his conviction speaking at a mass meeting later that day. He framed his trial as a conviction of all those who detested segregation thereby stressing their personal stake in his conviction. Then King channeled the anger and other emotional energies stemming from this conviction into a heightened determination to the struggle. This is how King put it: As I look at it, I guess I have committed three sins. The first sin I have committed is being born a Negro. The second sin that I have committed, along with all of us, is being subjected to the battering rams of segregation and oppression. The third and more basic sin which all of us have committed is the sin of having the moral courage to stand up and express our weariness of this

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oppression. . . . Thank God we are no longer content to accept second-class citizenship, but we are determined to struggle for justice and equality.34 In contrast to this failed legal action, the city officials could have probably hindered or possibly even stopped the bus boycott had they employed a different tactic with different timing. The city officials understood that the boycott protest relied on the MIA’s car-pooling enterprise that provided free transportation to thousands of blacks who had to get to and from work for their livelihood. The city officials began by harassing and arresting some of those who participated in the car-pooling system and they later managed to prevent the MIA vehicles from receiving coverage from local insurance companies. Both these barriers were relatively easy to overcome given the determination of the boycotters and the network connections that King and his fellows established. Yet the city officials did manage to shut down the car-pooling system on November 5, 1956, exactly eleven months after the boycott began and on a charge that was far more straightforward and easier to establish than the conspiracy allegations against King. The city alleged that the car-pooling system was, in fact, a private enterprise operating without license or franchise and paying no fees.35 This allegation was relatively easy to prove because the MIA made the mistake of formally asking the city officials for a formal franchise for its car-pooling system and continued to operate it after being denied the permit.36 Additionally, the outcome of this political maneuver was very swift as the injunction against the carpooling system was immediate and the MIA was enjoined from operating the enterprise unless the local court overturned the injunction. This type of outcome was very unlikely and an appeal would have taken more time than the protesters could afford, leaving them without an alternative system of transportation. As Attorney Fred Gray remarked, “It is interesting that the city had not filed such a lawsuit earlier. If such a case had been filed in December 1955 or January 1956, the Bus Protest perhaps might never have garnered the necessary support, financial or otherwise, to sustain itself ” (2002: 92). King also realized that such a move to enjoin the car-pooling system might deliver a fatal blow to the whole protest. He wrote that “[f]or the first time in our long struggle together, I almost shrank from appearing before them [the people in the mass meeting]” and that despite his assurances to the audience that they must trust in God he felt “the cold breeze of pessimism passing through the audience. It was a dark night . . . a night in which the lights of hope was about to fade away and the lamp of faith about to flicker” (King [1958]: 138, 139). Despite its destructive potential, the injunction against the car-pooling system was employed too late to destroy the boycott. The discussion in court over the legality of the system happened to be held on the same day that the Supreme Court announced its decision to ratify the Alabama District Court ruling declaring segregation on buses in Alabama unconstitutional (Rieff 1988). At this point the main legal victory was won and the injunction against the car-pooling system became less important. Former black bus riders knew they had won and anticipated that the buses would be integrated in a matter of days (which ended up being over a month). The leadership used this time to hold workshops preparing riders for integrated

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buses. At this point, the city officials were also left with little incentive to investigate if the MIA was upholding the injunction or not because the main battle was lost. The injunction against the car-pooling system illustrates, however, that tactics are considerably important. There was a tactical solution to the challenge of the bus boycott that the city officials could have used, but they did not realize it until its effect had become muted. The same tactic used earlier could have literally stopped the wheels of the car-pooling system and of the Montgomery bus boycott. The other tactics that the city officials used tended to embolden the black Montgomery community rather than to deter it. The boycott, thus, was sustained for over a year thanks to clever psychological and organizational tactics of the black leadership, combined with the mistakes of the white political elite who failed to see that it was in their best interest to accept the initial black leaders’ modest demands or to find more creative legal ways to enjoin the MIA enterprise early on.

Conclusions The potential for mass mobilization exists when emotional energies of many individuals are amassed at a particular point in time. Then, experiences of a personal nature may turn into an understanding that this is in fact a collective problem that should be dealt with as such. When opportunities do arise, as they did after Claudette Colvin’s and Rosa Parks’ arrests, these emotional energies need to be channeled into a patterned form of protest and then sustained. Otherwise, people will eventually cool down and mass mobilization will become more difficult, as happened after Claudette Colvin’s arrest. In this respect, leadership, organization, and planning are extremely important when the psychological potential for mass mobilization exists. Although the black leadership in Montgomery was not subjected to ongoing abuse on the buses as was the lower socioeconomic class, the leaders too were motivated by painful experiences of racism and their expectations and sense of deprivation rested on social comparisons beyond the South. The combination of their life histories with their special skills, talents, and high self-esteem made them powerful players in the struggle against Jim Crow. This finding echoes Bandura’s argument that, compared to laypersons, those who initiate or lead political struggles “are generally better educated, have greater self-pride, have a stronger belief in their ability to influence events in their lives, and favor coercive measures, if necessary, to improve their living conditions” (1982: 143). This finding also means that when humiliation and denial of recognition afflict people who are capable, powerful, charismatic, intelligent, or special in some other important way, they may bring these personal resources with them to a struggle, thereby amplifying it in a nonlinear fashion. The stories of Mary Fair Burks and Jo Ann Robinson are illustrative in this respect. Had they not been humiliated in the late 1940s they might not have developed such strong motivation and determination to struggle against segregation; and had they not entered the struggle, the Montgomery bus boycott might not have started or might have looked very different.

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These leaders, and Jo Ann Robinson and the WPC in particular, were ready to harness the emotional energies following Rosa Parks’ arrest by declaring a one-day bus boycott. This action gave the simple yet brilliant pattern of protest and resistance that would last for over a year. It was simple and brilliant because it managed to involve masses of people through a daily act of abstention and noncooperation. The one-day boycott and the mass meeting on the evening of that day transformed the way black Montgomerians viewed the bus situation and more importantly, how they viewed themselves. Although the abstention from the buses was more difficult for some people than for others, all those involved enjoyed positive self-esteem stemming from their ability to protest and the respect they received from millions in the nation and beyond. As the content analysis of leaders’ speeches shows, they understood that self-esteem and recognition were the root causes of the protest and its main motives and they combined rational planning while crafting emotional appeals that echoed these motives and rekindled emotions of anger, pride, shame, and enthusiasm, which served as the fuel for the movement. Finally, the bus boycott also rested on the strategy and tactics that were employed by the black and white leaderships. The black leadership’s initial tactical mistake in asking only for an arrangement within the segregation system was offset by an even greater mistake of the white leadership in refusing those demands. This latter mistake allowed the black leadership to correct their own mistake by hardening their positions and filing a class-action lawsuit against segregation on buses following the bombing of King’s house. Yet Dave Birmingham’s “minor concessions approach” represents a model of how the protest could have been cut short. The suppression of the car-pooling system by legal injunction represents another model. Either concessions or repression, however, can backfire or be ineffective depending on various contingent factors such as timing, the people involved, and the opponents’ responses. The adversaries cannot precisely predict which tactic will work and which will backfire but careful consideration of the strategic goals and tactics can reduce the inevitable degree of contingency and uncertainty involved in contentious struggles.

Notes 1. For example, King in his important speech at a MIA Mass Meeting at Holt Street Baptist Church on December 5, 1956 is quoted saying, “I’ve never been on a bus in Montgomery” (Carson et al. 1997: 79) and in his testimony in State of Alabama v. Martin Luther King Jr. trial transcript, p. 492, King says he rode the bus only once (transcript located at the Alabama Department of Archives and History; and Fred Gray’s collection at the King Library and Archives, see Appendix A). The other black leaders also owned cars and did not use the buses. 2. Interview with Claudette Colvin see Eliza Gray, “A Forgotten Contribution” Newsweek March 2, 2009. 3. See discussion on self-esteem in Chapter 2. 4. Rosa Parks was not tried for violating segregation laws as is commonly assumed. She was tried for disorderly conduct in order to technically prevent her case from becoming a

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5. 6.

7. 8.

9. 10.

11. 12. 13. 14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

19.

STRUGGLING FOR RECOGNITION legal springboard and test-case against the validity of bus segregation as a whole (see Gray 2002). See also interviews with former black passengers in (Burns 1997: 221–233). Transcript of Browder v. Gayle, 142 F. Supp. 707 (1956), page 9 (a copy of the Browder v. Gayle trial transcript is located at the Rosa Parks Museum, see Appendix A). See also the reflection of the WPC founder, Mary Fair Burks (1993: 81): “[W]e were not fighting segregation as much as the abuses of Negroes who constituted the buses’ major patrons.” Black leaders went to meet with city officials and the bus company manager several times before the boycott but to no avail (Robinson 1987). King’s speech at the MIA Mass Meeting at Holt Street Baptist Church on December 5, 1955 was transcribed from a live tape recording. The reactions of the crowd are in brackets and parentheses (quoted in Carson et al. 1997: 72). See also King’s ([1958]: 47) own account. King, “Our Struggle,” April 1956, quoted in Carson et al. (1997: 237). For example see King, “The Montgomery Story,” June 27, 1956, and “The ‘New Negro’ of the South: Behind the Montgomery Story” June 1956, see in Carson et al. (1997: 299–310, 280–286) and see also Baker-Fletcher (1993). King, “Address to MIA Mass Meeting at Holt Street Baptist Church” November 14, 1956, in Carson et al. (1997: 432). King’s speech at the MIA Mass Meeting at Holt Street Baptist Church on December 5, 1955 in Carson et al. (1997: 74). Ralph Abernathy, speech in a Montgomery church, Eyes on the Prize (PBS Video 2006). Date is possibly December 5, 1955, by considering Robinson’s (1987: 62) account. Rev. Glasco also expressed this sentiment at one of the mass meetings when he explained that someone had donated a station wagon to the MIA “with the requirement that Negroes stay off the buses ‘until justice is secured’.” See in Anna Holden notes from “Mass Meeting, Montgomery Improvement Association, March 26, 1956, Rev. Bennett’s Church, Holt Street,” page 3, in Anna Holden Reports Folder, Perston and Bonita Valien Papers, Amistad Research Center (see Appendix A). Anna Holden notes from “Mass Meeting, Montgomery Improvement Association, March 26, 1956, Rev. Bennett’s Church, Holt Street,” page 6, in Anna Holden Reports Folder, Perston and Bonita Valien Papers. “Dr. Yokley’ Account of His Finding on a One-Day Trip to Montgomery, Alabama, on January 17, 1956, in Connection with the Montgomery Bus Protest Movement” in Perston and Bonita Valien Papers. Anna Holden notes from “Mass Meeting, Montgomery Improvement Association, March 26, 1956, Rev. Bennett’s Church, Holt Street,” page 2, Anna Holden Reports Folder, Perston and Bonita Valien Papers. For a fuller discussion on social identity, and music and psychology see Chapter 7. For other examples of the use of music in Montgomery see King ([1958]: 40, 68), Robinson (1987: 157). For discussions about music in the Civil Rights Movement beyond Montgomery see Eyerman and Jamison (1998: chapters 4 and 7) and many examples in Lewis and D’Orso (1999: 81, 96, 149, 160, 166–167, 195, 257, 268). When Anna Holden interviewed Mayor Gayle and asked him what he thought was the basic issue involved in the bus boycott his answer was “Segregation. They want to destroy

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21. 22.

23.

24.

25. 26. 27.

28. 29.

30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

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our whole social fabric.” Similarly, Commissioner Sellers answered the same question by saying that “Everyone agrees that it is part of a plan to get rid of segregation”; see in “Folder: Montgomery Interviews by Holden, 1955–1956” Perston and Bonita Valien Papers. See also Joe Azbell “Mayor Stops Boycott Talk” Montgomery Advertiser January 24, 1956. See King’s account: “But Parks had hardly closed his mouth before Crenshaw rejoined: ‘But Frank. I don’t see how we can do it within the law. If it were legal I would be the first one to go along with it; but it just isn’t legal. The only way that it can be done is to change your segregation laws’” ([1958]: 93). For detailed discussions of local politics in Montgomery, Alabama, see Thornton (1989, 2001) and Gilliam (1989). See also Birmingham’s account of that meeting: “I understand psychology and how people can’t talk when they’re mad, so I got them all seated in a circle around the desk and I started talking about something else” and “Well, we went and talked to the bus company and we talked it over some more and we settled it so that everybody went away satisfied. I saved the bus company a suit and we saved lot of trouble and we didn’t have a boycott. I think that Reverend King was in the delegation that came that time. King is a smart nigga . . .” in Anna Holden interview with Dave Birmingham, January 31 and February 1, 1956, quotes from pages 2–3 and 3–4, in Anna Holden Report Folder Perston and Bonita Valien Papers. An invitation to the event to honor Commissioner Dave Birmingham, September 27, 1955, Holt Street Baptist Church, in Perston and Bonita Valien Papers. Birmingham took great pride in the respect shown to him by blacks. See his interview with Anna Holden in the previous reference. Anna Holden interview with Dave Birmingham, January 31 and February 1, 1956, page 4, in Anna Holden Report Folder Perston and Bonita Valien Papers. Birmingham enumerates three other more proximate causes for the social tensions: the breaking down of segregation in the army; the Brown Supreme Court ruling; and the behavior of the bus drivers (see also chapter 4). Ibid, page 6. Ibid, page 5. On the other hand, it is also possible to argue that Sellers and not Birmingham was elected precisely because Sellers better represented the social and political attitudes of white Montgomerians. Minutes of the City of Montgomery, Alabama, December 9, 1955, page 69. Several bus lines were indeed reinstated at the end of January 1956 in black neighborhoods, allegedly as a response to “numerous requests for resumption of service to the Negro sections” but only a few black riders returned to ride them now. See Joe Azbell “Mayor Stops Boycott Talk” Montgomery Advertiser January 24, 1956. “‘Free Rides’ End Asked By Mayor In Bus Boycott” Alabama Journal January 25, 1956. See trial transcript State of Alabama v. Martin Luther King Jr. See also Gray (2002: 82–87). King v. State of Alabama, April 30, 1957, 39 Ala.App. 167, 98 So.2d 443. “Score of Newsmen Flock To Boycott Trials,” Montgomery Advertiser March 20, 1956. “Address to MIA Mass Meeting at Holt Street Baptist Church,” March 22, 1956, in Carson et al. (1997: 199).

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35. The initiative to enjoin the car-pooling system actually came from a private white citizen, Jack D. Brock, who learned that the city officials in Tallahassee, Florida, had, in this way, effectively shut down a similar enterprise that had been inspired by the Montgomery bus boycott (Gilliam 1989: 274–275; Thornton 2001: 92). 36. Minutes of the City of Montgomery, Alabama, January 31, 1956, on page 123.

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6 Prevention of Status and Police Brutality: The Origins of Mass Mobilization against Apartheid In Chapter 4, I mentioned that the Montgomery bus boycott has been a source of inspiration to activists in many other historical and contemporary democratic movements. Such influence also existed in the struggle of Africans against oppression in South Africa. Political activists used the story of the bus boycott (among other stories) in order to instill hope that they too could be victorious against mighty forces. Africans in South Africa were struggling against a political system in which one’s legal status, rights, and life opportunities were defined on the basis of one’s skin color according to four major categories: whites, blacks, Indians, and colored (people who did not fall in the other group demarcations). By law, people who were not white could not vote.1 The regime also suppressed attempts to challenge the system or to protest its policies in nonviolent ways. This system was known as apartheid and it was declared a crime against humanity by the United Nations General Assembly on November 1973. The struggle against apartheid began after the implementation of apartheid laws in 1948 but was muted in 1960 with the killing of sixty-nine protesters in Sharpeville, the banning of the main opposition party, the African National Congress (ANC), the arrest and exile of opposition leaders, and the forceful suppression of any other internal challenge. Mass resistance openly renewed on June 16, 1976, when schoolchildren in the Soweto township at the outskirts of Johannesburg protested the forced introduction of the Afrikaans language in certain taught subjects. The South African police were caught unprepared by this protest and shot into the crowd killing many children. The reactions to the June 16, 1976 events continued and spread until late 1977 and are commonly known as the Soweto uprising. The Soweto uprising is important to the struggle against apartheid in a number of ways. It broke the ideological backbone of apartheid and left it hanging on pure

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considerations of maintaining white power (Price 1991: 58–58, 81–83).2 This ideological breaking point was manifested in three main ways. First, the ruling elite devised a reform program that altered the institutional and legal apparatus of apartheid while enabling more representation to Indians and Coloreds, granting limited representation to Africans on local councils, canceling some racial laws, and allowing free unions. The latter development facilitated the emergence of civil society organizations, most of which assembled in 1983 under the United Democratic Front (UDF), an umbrella organization for coordinating protest activities among those groups. Second, Soweto resulted in the ideological disintegration of the white community and turned many former apartheid supporters to outspoken dissenters.3 Third, the Soweto uprising and the subsequent struggle further alienated the international community as well as disowned apartheid from the religious legitimacy it enjoyed from the Dutch Reform Church of South Africa.4 The main impact of Soweto, however, was in generating a new phase in the struggle against apartheid. The struggle after Soweto had periods of clandestine organization and surges of public mobilization, violent and nonviolent protests, local successes and setbacks. On the whole, the apartheid regime faced constant and often fierce resistance in different shapes and forms from June 1976. Resistance paved the way to secret negotiations between the regime and ANC leaders already during the mid-1980s (Harvey 2001). By the end of the 1980s it became clear that the regime could not break the strong spirit of resistance. The political stalemate led to the release of political prisoners, including Nelson Mandela, to the intensification of negotiations, and the resulting transition to democracy in 1994. June 1976, thus, marks a critical transformation from inaction to action and from political stability to a phase of contentious politics. In this chapter, I explore the nature and origins of this transformation. The research is based primarily on in-depth interviews I conducted with anti-apartheid activists most of whom were in their secondary school years in 1976 and became deeply involved in the struggle thereafter. I refer to them collectively as the 1976generation. The purpose of interviewing the 1976-generation is to try and reconstruct their political views and feelings before and after June 16, 1976 in order to understand the origins of this contentious phase in South African political history. All twenty-three interviews5 were conducted in what is today called the Nelson Mandela Bay metropolitan area in the Eastern Cape province consisting of Port Elizabeth, Uitenhage, and Despatch (henceforth P.E. for short).6 The interviews were conducted during a field research in September 2009.7 In my interviews I sought to identify the specific factors and causal mechanisms that underlay the 1976 transformation from inaction to resistance. The interviews were structured and guided by questions about the situation before and after 1976: the interviewees’ feelings, attitudes, and aspirations as pupils; their views about the political system, their schools and their educational environment in particular; their level of political consciousness and types of political influences prior to 1976; how, if at all, they were affected by the introduction of Afrikaans as a language of instruction in schools in March 1976; and how they reacted to the Soweto events. I also asked the

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interviewees how their parents reacted to their activism; what kept them active in difficult times; how they mobilized others; and how important music was for them in the struggle. The research reveals new findings that sharply contrast with previous explanations. This chapter begins with noting the Black Consciousness Movement’s attempt to tackle the issue of self-esteem among African pupils before 1976 as key to resistance. I then summarize the materialistic account of the 1976 uprising and compare it to the actual lived experiences of the 1976-generation. I follow by examining the build-up of anger around the introduction of Afrikaans as a compulsory language of instruction in schools, and then by suggesting why the 1976 uprising began in Soweto and not in P.E. I then explore the reactions of the 1976 P.E. generation to the news about the events in Soweto and the developments in P.E. thereafter. In the final section, I discuss the cognitive and emotional developments that occurred during the events of 1976–1977.

The Black Consciousness Movement: Self-Esteem and Self-Respect The 1976-generation did not witness the Sharpeville massacre and the subsequent suppression of internal opposition to apartheid. The parents of the 1976-generation who did witness the regime’s brutality against people who challenged the “pass laws” (laws restricting and regulating blacks’ freedom of movement) did not want their children to know about Sharpeville, let alone be engaged in dangerous resistance. Parents encouraged their children to keep their minds and goals focused on education and work. The Sharpeville parents’ generation also discouraged their children from getting into politics and into trouble, which meant the same thing. Given the nature of the regime, parents did not want their children to risk their lives and life opportunities by getting involved in politics. Yet ideological developments in the segregated black universities in the late 1960s began to percolate down to pupils. These ideological developments came to be known as the Black Consciousness Movement (henceforth BCM). The main focus of BCM was to foster cognitive liberation among blacks by instilling a sense of pride in their identity and increasing their assertiveness and self-confidence (Biko 1978; Davies et al. 1988: 302–308; Fatton 1986; Hirschmann 1990; Marx 1991, 1992). The initial BCM vehicle was the South African Student Organization (SASO) formed in 1969. SASO leaders formed the Black People’s Convention in 1972. These organizations fostered an ideology of self-liberation, self-respect, nonviolent assertiveness, pride in African culture, and group solidarity between blacks. The chairman of SASO and the main political philosopher of the BCM, Stephen Bantu Biko (henceforth Biko), realized that in order to generate political change the oppressed must internalize the degree of injustice in their situation, and they needed to become more sensitive to threats to their self-worth. Biko (1978: 91–92) explained that Black Consciousness (BC) principles express a determination of black people to stand up and achieve true humanity. The psychological process of inward-looking

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leads the oppressed individual to realize that “he cannot tolerate attempts by anybody to dwarf the significance of his manhood” (Ibid: 92). Biko acutely identified that a basic prerequisite for democratic progress in South Africa was to change the way blacks thought about themselves and to restore their positive self-esteem: It becomes more necessary to see the truth as it is if you realise that the only vehicle for change are these people who have lost their personality. The first step therefore is to make the black man come to himself; to pump back life into his empty shell; to infuse him with pride and dignity, to remind him of his complicity in the crime of allowing himself to be misused and therefore letting evil reign supreme in the country of his birth. (Biko 1978: 29) The resemblance and connection of BC philosophy to the philosophy and social gospel of Martin Luther King Jr. are not incidental. King often contrasted the passive “Old Negro” who lacks positive self-esteem and self-respect with the “New Negro” who has both and is inclined to struggle for a just democratic society. Indeed, the struggle against apartheid was strongly influenced by, and borrowed from, its American counterpart.8 While not all aspects of BC philosophy were understood by pupils in their primary and secondary school years, the simple messages and slogans of BCM were well received, such as “black person you are on your own,” “black is good,” and other messages to that effect saying that one should be proud to be black. Black Theology, a religious philosophy with BC motifs, also disseminated new ideas which raised critical thinking and self-pride. For example, Mandla Madwara, who would become a youth leader following 1976, recounts the meaning of BCM for him as a young sixteen-year-old school pupil: I think for me, back those days, it [BCM] was about the fact that we had to be proud to be black . . . [it] was quite a revelation . . . [Author: It’s a new idea?] Yeh, a new idea to now start to look at yourself differently. And, as I say, in the literal sense, becoming conscious of the fact that there’s nothing wrong being black . . . and then of course there was the issue of a book that was talking about Jesus being black . . .9 Kholekile Mhlana, who would become an ANC underground activist after 1976, also notes the influence of BCM on him: “Definitely, due to speakers like Steve Biko, we had . . . high profile Black Consciousness people here in Port Elizabeth. And then it was, yes, very much exciting to be associated with Black Consciousness. It kind of gave one a measure of confidence and esteem.”10 The BC ideology helped foster positive self-esteem among young blacks before the 1976 uprising and thus prepared and politicized some of the minds of the 1976 uprising generation. Some pupils were exposed to BC ideas through evening discussion groups in their schools, debating societies, or the South African Student Movement (SASM). Others heard about BC through word of mouth or pamphlets or direct contact with activists.

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For example, Moki Cekisani, a close friend of Biko, was a central activist in P.E., especially in the Walmer township. He was a role model of courage and determination to several of the 1976-generation activists. All these forms of interaction with BCM helped those who were exposed to see themselves as possibly capable of bringing about change, in contrast to their parents who had no such illusions. It is in this sense that BCM was most important before the 1976 uprising. Despite the close connection of BC ideology to the thesis of this book, however, the rise and influence of BCM by itself cannot fully explain the 1976 transformation. First, BCM remained largely confined to university students and many high-school students did not hear about BC. For example, about one-third of the twenty 1976generation leaders I interviewed did not hear about BCM before the 1976 events. Some leaders who did hear about BC before 1976 had only a vague understanding of what that ideology meant. This is indicative of BCM’s limited impact because the 1976-generation leaders were generally more politically conscious than their peers who were therefore even less influenced by BCM. Second, there were other factors that helped foster a sense of hope in challenging apartheid, such as messages from Radio Freedom (the ANC radio broadcasts from exile) and stories about the defeat of colonial rule in Angola and Mozambique by African revolutionaries in the mid1970s. Third, some of the interviewees stated that similar ideas to those of BCM emerged through daily experiences with apartheid and living in a racist society, and not through BCM which became clandestine and small-scale due to increasing state repression. Finally, the ideology of BC and the other sources of influences cannot explain why the uprisings in Soweto or P.E. started when they did, and developed the way they did. A more comprehensive explanation of the 1976 transformation is therefore needed.

The Materialistic Account of Anger Build-Up in 1976 Most accounts of the build-up and explosion of anger on June 1976 attribute the causes to worsening material conditions. The shared argument in these explanations is that soaring unemployment rates and a struggling South African economy as well as worsening conditions in black schools created anger among schoolchildren. It is commonly assumed that the introduction of Afrikaans as a compulsory language of instruction was merely the last straw on top of a considerable amount of existing anger over material conditions. The introduction of Afrikaans finally broke the camel’s back, as this “last straw” metaphor and hypothesis go.11 This materialistic line of explanation raises difficulties. It appears that the effects of the world recession on South Africa began to be felt only toward the end of 1976, namely after the Soweto uprising (Kane-Berman 1981: 51). These economic realities are downplayed in the literature in favor of restating the hypothesis that the coincidence of the two factors must be somehow related, although direct connections or causal mechanisms between the economic slowdown and the anger of the 1976generation have not yet been demonstrated. Moreover, unemployment was not the

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immediate concern of many young schoolchildren who took to the streets over the issue of Afrikaans and were not about to enter the market. Furthermore, the older generation, that would have felt the brunt of the economy the most, remained highly passive and continued to discourage youth from action. Indeed, a common characteristic of the materialistic account is the untested assumption that material conditions that mostly affected adults necessarily also generated unrest among schoolchildren who took to the streets across different areas in South Africa. This assumption is not supported according to the lived experiences of the 1976-generation, as the following discussion proposes.

The 1976-Generation World In order to detect the actual sources of unrest and anger leading to the events of 1976 we need to reconstruct the world of the 1976-generation. By “world” I refer to the schoolchildren’s views, attitudes, goals, aspirations, interactions, experiences, and feelings in their immediate environment and of course toward the people in it, and especially teachers, parents, and police. The exploration of the world of those who were about to become leaders of the 1976-generation in P.E. can also potentially inform us about the build-up of anger in Soweto. One element that clearly stands out from interviewing leaders of the 1976-generation is that schoolchildren in 1976 experienced their childhood as normal and happy. This positive experience began to change for some pupils only after March 1976 and in direct relation to the introduction of Afrikaans and not due to assumed deteriorating material conditions, as will be explained in the next section. For example, Mthiwabo Ndube who would become an ANC underground military activist after 1976 recalls that “the whole environment then [before the Soweto uprising] was very nice, happy children, normal children who go to school, want to play, get high marks . . .”12 Similarly, Thabo Veto who would become a member of a number of resistance organizations and of the Walmer township youth guerrillas (the Amabuthu13) recounts, “[before Soweto] I was the most happiest child through my family, the way I was living and the way I was supported by my family.”14 Also, Mike Xego whose family could not even afford to buy him shoes and proper clothes for the winter remembers that “I enjoyed my environment and I enjoyed my school . . .”15 Mkosinam Makasi, a central activist from Uitenhage, also recalls that there was constant poverty, unemployment, and that as a pupil he had to work after school because often there was not enough food at home. He nevertheless recounts that before the 1976 events “we were happy people and we went along with our friends, there was no problem.”16 This general mood of happy and normal childhood is shared by all former leading activists who were asked about their experiences and feelings in school before March 1976. Central to pupils’ lives was sport, which was also a major ingredient in the school academic curriculum. For example, Mandla Madwara remembers that “for me it [school] was quite interesting in many ways. One, just being . . . a normal teenage concentrating on your schoolwork, and then there was sport: we were playing

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soccer, and we would watch of course rugby, and cricket . . .17 Phil Goduka, who became a leader in the Port Elizabeth Black Civic Organization (PEBCO), also recalls that during his school time “there was a high level of sport . . . rugby was quite at a high level, soccer . . . the sports kept you occupied.”18 Bicks Ndoni, who became a youth leader in Uitenhage and later Deputy Mayor of P.E., also recalls that he “always enjoyed rugby . . . it was very central, rugby used to bring us together, we used to play with schools in P.E. and around the province and our school was one of the best in rugby, so we were really mobilized around rugby, we really enjoyed rugby at the time.”19 In other words, sports played a major role in schoolchildren’s social lives and kept their bodies and minds occupied with the immediate concerns and joys of normal children. Despite the undeniably serious economic and social problems that constantly afflicted black communities, it was an environment that black pupils grew into and the only environment they knew at the time. Their schooling conditions were almost without comparison to white schools but most black pupils were not yet fully aware of that due to strict geographical segregation. The best example is the issue of overcrowding in schools, which is mentioned in the literature as a major source of anger among black pupils.20 None of those interviewed mentioned overcrowding in school as a source of anger. As activists Sitoto Griffiths says about overcrowding in his school, “we grew up in those conditions . . . at that time, the level of challenging that was not a question because it’s a matter you enter into already, others before you are already in that situation.”21 In those days, having many students in one class was perceived to be normal and pupils adjusted to these conditions by organizing evening classes and weekend studies for themselves, and by teaching each other what they might not have picked up in class due to noise. Furthermore, overcrowding was actually reduced the longer a pupil stayed in school. In primary school there could be as many as seventy pupils in class but as schoolchildren progressed, there were in fact less pupils in class due to a high dropout rate, either because pupils did not pass their exams or because their parents could not afford the school fees. Hence, by the time pupils got to write their high school exams, their classes were in fact less crowded relative to their earlier education levels.22 With regards to the level of education and the quality of teachers, interviewees were of the opinion that they received very good education at the time. Many still consider that their teachers were far better than current schoolteachers in South Africa. Most teachers were held in high regard as role models, and many pupils aspired to become teachers themselves. Although conditions were poor in the townships, teachers were committed to their pupils’ education and they encouraged pupils to achieve high grades and to excel in sports. For example, Thabo Veto recalls, . . . the way our teachers was handling the matter in the schools was very pride for us and everything was right for us . . . They could teach us discipline, how to respect, we respected the elder people . . . we known that everybody would got to care to everybody, and we were learn to speak English at the school premises. That is why today, being a standard three boy, I can speak English. It was because of the teachers who were there in the 1970s . . . They gave us a

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STRUGGLING FOR RECOGNITION good education, for instance, it was forced to go to church, it was forced to be at school, it was forced to go and play each and every sport . . .23

Despite a very conservative approach, abstention from political matters, and the practice of disciplinary physical punishment in many schools, pupils still held most of their teachers in very high regard. Apartheid’s inferior Bantu education system was objectively inferior and underfunded relative to white education. Yet even critics of the system like the ANC Regional Chairperson, Nceba Faku, admit that the teachers at the time were “very good teachers, very committed teachers, both in terms of academic and extramural classes, they really were; but again, to the best of what was available.”24 The experiences of the 1976-generation revolved around schools for two reasons. First, schools were the only facilities, underfunded as they were, where youth could socialize with their friends and engage in recreational activities like debating societies and various sports. These social activities were already an integral part of their lives through the school curriculum. Schools also provided an evening facility with electricity and light, where the pupils could study after school hours. Therefore, schoolchildren spent a substantial part of their day in school. Their time in school was valued and attitudes and feelings regarding school were highly positive. Second, Bantu education, despite its inferiority, was considered by blacks as the main avenue to a better future. For this reason, many rural children came to urban centers trying to obtain a high-school education which was not available in their villages. For example, Stone Sizani, Member of Parliament and a major former P.E. activist, was born in the farm area of Alexandria in the Eastern Cape where he could not get a highschool education. Like many other youth, Sizani came to P.E. and constantly strived to overcome barriers to his education in order to enhance his life possibilities: I come from a very poor background with many children and I didn’t want to grow up in that environment. I wanted to get out of poverty through education, there was no other means by which I was going to be able to get out . . . even though the economic prospects for black people during our time were bleak, but at least if you had the opportunity to get education you would be able to negotiate life via your ability to sell your labor to the highest bidder. Similarly, Mkhuseli Jack, a future youth leader in P.E. was one among thousands of farm children who came to the city searching for a high-school education. In 1975, he and several hundred youth were told that they do not qualify for school education because they came from the farms and therefore were not supposed to be in P.E. under apartheid laws. Jack daringly protested on behalf of the whole group of these would-be pupils: “I raised my hand and said to the principal, for the first time, I said: I rather go and rot in your prisons than go back to slavery on the farms.”25 After the intervention of African church leaders, the pupils were accommodated in an inadequate deserted police building where they continued their education.

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Education was perceived to be the means by which blacks could find employment, support their families, and escape poverty more generally. It is for this reason that many youth (and their families) invested time, money, and hard work to be accepted, and then to remain, in the inferior Bantu education system, despite various sorts of hardship.26 Africans knew that Bantu education offered them very limited prospects of employment—mostly as teachers, nurses, or policemen—and yet these positions were very competitive and accorded high social status within black communities. Schoolchildren therefore competed for high grades and took their studies extremely seriously believing it was their key to a better future and social status. For the same reasons that it was often very difficult to get education, black pupils felt privileged to be in school, both compared to their parents (many of whom did not enjoy formal education) and compared to unfortunate children whose parents could not afford education for their children. Former activist Buyisuio Hlazo, for example, recalls that before March 1976 she was eager to learn because she came from a poor background and to gain access to education was not obvious for her and her peers: “. . . when we are being sent to school, we had that feeling that you are more privileged than the others, because there were those that were even struggling to go to school because of the poverty.”27 This type of social comparisons means that contrary to becoming increasingly angry, as the materialistic explanation suggests, pupils in fact held positive views regarding their education and thought they were advancing socially and that new socioeconomic opportunities would open up for them after school. One conclusion that could be drawn about the world of the 1976-generation is that they held generally positive rather than negative attitudes about their immediate environment well into 1976, despite objective material hardship. This means that the pupils who took to the streets in 1976 were protesting against something other than material conditions or their inferior education.28 Education was in fact a source of pride, privilege, and hope to most black pupils, and schools were associated with the most positive aspects of their lives: friends, sport, and better future. It is in this context that we can understand the first phase of anger and unrest among pupils following the forced introduction of Afrikaans as a language of instruction in March 1976.

The Introduction of Afrikaans as a Prevention of Social Status Since 1975 most pupils were already adjusting to learning subjects such as mathematics, history, geography, and biology in a second language, English. Pupils readily adjusted because English because it was useful for both economic and practical daily uses. From March 1976, however, they were forced to adjust once again and learn these subjects in a third language, Afrikaans, that for most of them until that point was only a neglected topic on the curriculum lacking much practical use (Ndlovu 2006). The introduction of Afrikaans severely disrupted the education of many pupils, violated and impaired what they perceived were the rules of game

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concerning success in school, and basically narrowed the prospects of social mobility and higher social status in the eyes of those pupils. The resulting psychological effects among the pupils were first a sense of uncertainty and frustration concerning their future, and then anger over the violation of the rules of game in the Bantu education system, as will be explained in this section. African pupils experienced the policy of introducing Afrikaans in diverse ways. Schools in the so-called autonomous black homelands (Bantustans) were in fact exempt. Also, not all schools in urban areas that were required to apply the policy in March 1976 could do so due to shortage of Afrikaans-speaking teachers and textbooks. Pupils in such institutions were therefore not affected as well. Moreover, not all pupils that were affected by the introduction of Afrikaans necessarily rejected it. Among the P.E. future youth leaders who were interviewed, two actually accepted the introduction of Afrikaans and two were neutral, either because they were still young or because they had prior knowledge of Afrikaans. For example, future youth leader Themba Mangqase, who was only 14 when Afrikaans was introduced, recalls that the introduction of Afrikaans was not an issue in his class due to the high confidence he and his peers had in their teachers. The minute they introduced Afrikaans to us, to be honest with you, it did not really . . . cross our minds that, no no, this is wrong, it cannot be like that. But we were feeling that this thing is difficult . . . But at that age we could not politicize it. We said fine . . . maybe it is a necessary change by the authorities . . . [Author: You gave Afrikaans a try?] It was not a question of giving it a try. We just accepted it, we thought it was normal. [laughs]. We were political naives at that time. We didn’t know what’s wrong, what’s right . . . whether this thing was forced on us or whatever. It was a situation where the teacher was the authority. So whatever he’s doing is right. We never questioned our teachers . . . Similarly, Lulu Johnson, Member of Parliament and former youth activist, was only twelve-year-old at the time. Johnson remembers that Afrikaans caused some difficulties in primary education but all in all he and his peers “did not feel much, if anything, at the time, save to be talking on our own, not voicing it out . . . we did not arrive at the stage where we would to take action” because, as Johnson continues, the effect of Afrikaans on them was not as detrimental as it was for the higher classes.29 It is important to note that pupils were not against Afrikaans in principle. Afrikaans was in fact taught as a separate subject and in some black schools Afrikaans had been used as a language of instruction in certain subjects before March 1976.30 All interviewees who were asked about the reason for their rejection of Afrikaans noted the practical educational aspect, and among them only five also added the symbolic aspect of Afrikaans being the language of the oppressor. Despite their anxieties about Afrikaans, pupils initially tried to cope but most of them found it too difficult. Mzolisi Dyasi, who would become a leader in the Congress of South African Students (COSAS) and then in the Port Elizabeth Youth

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Congress (PEYCO) as well as an ANC guerilla, recalls how he and his peers coped with Afrikaans: We tried it . . . we gave it a shot, especially in Port Elizabeth. We went through it. It was difficult. Some children who were brought up in the farms . . . could really cope . . . they spoke Afrikaans because their masters spoke Afrikaans . . . But in the cities, no way . . . We just couldn’t cope; it was difficult. One result of these difficulties was that some pupils began dropping tough subjects, such as mathematics, which became tougher once they were taught in Afrikaans. Pupils also resorted to their own after-school study groups where they tried to understand what was taught in class. Yet dropping mathematics or switching subjects was not always an option, especially to the high-achievers who dreamed of becoming doctors, accountants, or lawyers. Nor could pupils completely avoid being taught in Afrikaans toward the end of their high school when they were already studying for their final exams in certain subjects. Indeed, high-school pupils who were preparing for the stage beyond high school, whether that was work or the university level, felt the worst effect. It is among these pupils that the level of frustration began to rapidly rise. Former Uitenhage activist Nobuzwe Mofokeng remembers her frustration when Afrikaans was introduced at the beginning of the year in her private Catholic school: “I was very frustrated because I was one of the top students in class. Maybe it is my personal thing, I always want to win but with that I was having problems, and as a class we were frustrated.”31 Mandla Madwara also recalls that before the introduction of Afrikaans there was just “a normal day to day school programs, school environment. The only shocking thing for us was the introduction of Afrikaans as a language of instruction. It became very tense . . . students were in shock. It brought tension and kind of uncertainty.”32 And Mthiwabo Ndube recounts, “they introduced it [Afrikaans] but it was quite difficult. After a month or so then people said we must boycott the classes . . . a group of students moved from one school to another . . . the most advanced ones were those who . . . started going to disrupt classes all over the schools, around May, June, July, before Soweto . . . ”33 A most telling account of how Afrikaans caused anger and led to protest actions in the higher classes is the case of Mike Xego and his peers in a class of gifted pupils at the Kwazakhele high school in P.E. These senior pupils were at the forefront of the resistance to Afrikaans, parallel to developments in Soweto. They eventually became central resistance leaders. According to Xego, Afrikaans was the sole issue that disrupted the pupils’ lives, angered them, and led them to organize and then to protest. His vivid account is worth quoting here at length: Now 1976, I am now doing metric, grade twelve. I am writing exams in October-November so I am studying very hard because next year, 77’, [is] my first year in law, so I’m tuned. So they introduced [Afrikaans], strong mathematics, in history, in geography, in everything.

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STRUGGLING FOR RECOGNITION [Author: Did you understand it?] Nay, no, no, that was the worst mess in my life! I get angry with that thing. Because, here are we: nice great trousers, smart shirts, nice ties, you listen. Then suddenly now, you are taught on something which doesn’t exist. [How did you cope?] We were failing! We were failing. We started to be angry, obviously, because your mark was bad, we started to be crossed. The teacher [Dennis Siwisa] was also politicizing us in a beautiful way. My class was a cream of your “A” students, so I was in that “A team” . . . one great beautiful class of brilliance: good in English, good in math and geometry . .. Then, that class decided to rebel . . . [laughs]. My class, it was my class that started it . . . Then, we met, a few of us just met. We can’t take it anymore . . . Then in July there was a series of meetings of clever guys or politicized guys . . . [Author: But that was in reaction to Soweto?] Reaction to the Afrikaans! . . . Soweto became number one school to start and then we became number two. Second high school in the country to follow. [Author: So you were protesting mainly because of Afrikaans?] Afrikaans. Afrikaans. Nothing else but Afrikaans.34

The introduction of Afrikaans, thus, disrupted the education routine of many pupils who were at first unable to understand what was taught in class and then found that they were failing in their studies. Pupils generally accepted the system’s rules of game believing that working hard and proving oneself in school would give one better life opportunities and a way out of poverty, at least relative to those who were too poor to even afford education. The introduction of Afrikaans violated these rules of game and many pupils became increasingly frustrated as they watched their dreams fade away after years of hard work and investment. It is ironic yet very revealing that top-achievers such as Xego ended up leading the protests. Those pupils invested most of their time and energies under the inferior Bantu education system believing it was a merit-based avenue to higher social status. Yet just as those pupils were about to graduate and begin their next phase in life, the system hindered their efforts for a better future and dashed their hopes. This explains why unrest began to develop among pupils and why high-school students who were preparing for their exams were also those most angry with the system. Nevertheless, it should be emphasized that pupils’ anger after March 1976 and before June 16 of that year was not yet directed at the entire apartheid system but mainly against the issue of Afrikaans, as will be explained below.

Why Soweto and not Port Elizabeth? The build-up of pupils’ anger around the Afrikaans issue raises the interesting question of why pupils took to the streets first in Soweto and not in P.E. Although this is not the main concern of this chapter, two explanations could be briefly offered. One possibility is that under slightly different conditions the pupils’ planning in the

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Kwazakhele High School would have crystallized into a demonstration before June 16, given that they were in advanced stages of preparation. In this line of explanation, several Soweto schools managed to organize several schools to converge in one place at one time (Motapanyane 1977), whereas the Kwazakele high school in P.E. had not yet managed to connect with other schools. A different possibility may lie in the varied impact of the Afrikaans policy. The implementation of this policy varied considerably between regions, schools and sometimes even between classes of the same school. These variations affected pupils differently. A comparison between the Kwazakhele High School in P.E.’s New Brighton township and Limekhaya High School in neighboring Uitenhage can illustrate this explanation. The government’s policy on Afrikaans was implemented in Kwazakhele but it was not implemented in Limekhaya because the school had neither enough teachers who could teach in Afrikaans nor textbooks in Afrikaans. So the pupils at Limekhaya continued to be taught in English.35 Senior pupils at Limekhaya in 1976 were also the first cohort to write examinations toward matriculation and they were intent on not letting anything disrupt their graduation. When a nucleus of active pupils in the lower classes pushed to politicize the school in 1976 tensions arose between these young activists and the senior pupils who would normally be the ones leading the protests.36 The seniors were determined to graduate and since their studies were not disrupted by the introduction of Afrikaans they not only remained quiet during 1976 but some of them even went as far as to discourage the younger activists from causing trouble. It took another year until Limekhaya would literally be in flames due to developments which will be discussed below.37 In Kwazakhele, on the other hand, tensions ran high among pupils who were affected by the introduction of Afrikaans, and especially among those who were about to graduate as was explained above. The apparent relationship between the degree of Afrikaans implementation and the level of pupils’ anger and activity suggests that more pupils may have been negatively affected by the introduction of Afrikaans in Soweto than elsewhere. The idea is that where more people spoke Afrikaans it was technically possible to force it in schools (e.g., available teachers, books) and there was more demand for the implementation of this policy on the side of local white authorities. The ability to implement the policy, however, did not prevent the adverse effect on the pupils, most of whom did not speak Afrikaans. Stone Sizani offers an explanation along this line: It [Afrikaans] was not a uniform thing in all schools. Especially in that area called the Transvaal at that time, it [resistance] was more rife there because people speak more Afrikaans in that area than English, whereas here in the Cape people speak more English than Afrikaans. In KwaZulu-Natal . . . it is virtually non-existent at all, Afrikaans. So it is not by mistake that the uprising found more concentration in Johannesburg than in other areas.38 Beyond the level of schools’ preparedness in terms of Afrikaans-speaking teachers and textbooks, the degree of Afrikaans implementation may have also depended on the ability of black teachers to avoid the new policy, the degree of eagerness on the part

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of different local authorities to enforce it, or a combination of other factors. Regardless of specific factors pertaining to each school, the general connection between the degree and scope of the adverse effects of Afrikaans on pupils may hold the answer to why there was a build-up of anger in certain schools and not in others, even when the schools were in the same area (e.g., Kwazakhele versus Limekhaya high schools). This connection may also explain why pupils first took to the streets in Soweto.

Police Brutality and the Transformative Phase of June 16, 1976 Given that unrest among pupils was primarily over the issue of Afrikaans and that the issue did not affect many pupils, there was no necessary reason for the explosion of violence on, and following, June 16, 1976. As a former Soweto pupil remembers, “Our original plan was just to get to Orlando West [Junior Secondary School], pledge our solidarity [for pupils on strike over the issue of Afrikaans], sing our song and then we thought that is it, we have made our point and we go home . . . Neither did we expect the kind of reaction that we got from the police that day.”39 The occurrences on the streets of Soweto, however, infused this limited protest for reform within the boundaries of Bantu education with new dimensions and meanings and turned it into a full-blown resistance against the political system itself. The story of what happened in the Soweto township near the city of Johannesburg on June 16, 1976 has already been told in great detail (e.g., Kane-Berman 1981; Ndlovu 2006). For the purpose of this book, suffice is to mention that the police was caught unawares confronting thousands of pupils carrying signs “down with Afrikaans” and shouting slogans to that effect. As the protest grew in size and heated in temper, the outnumbered local police force panicked and fired tear gas and then live ammunition into a crowd of pupils. Complete havoc ensued and the pupils’ protest turned very violent against the police, government buildings, as well as innocent white citizens who were caught in the middle. The result was a death toll of dozens of pupils and many more injured. June 16, 1976 came to be commemorated annually in South Africa as Youth Day. That day had a transformative impact in South Africa. News about the killing of the children of Soweto quickly spread to other parts of South Africa through newspapers, radio, television, and word of mouth. Dramatic images from Soweto captured the imagination and emotions of youth elsewhere, especially the picture of twelve-year-old schoolboy Hector Peterson who was photographed after he was shot, fatally bleeding, and carried in the hands of eighteen-year-old pupil Mbuyisa Makhubu, as Peterson’s sister, Antoinette, was running alongside (see Image 3).40 This picture became an icon of the struggle and invoked strong emotions that served as an impetus for action among pupils who were not necessarily affected by Afrikaans and who may not have been inclined to protest otherwise.41 Interviews with the leaders of the 1976-generation in P.E. reveal three strong reactions to Soweto. The first was solidarity of many pupils with their peers in Soweto. The related psychological factors were empathy and sympathy: the former

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Image 3 June 16, 1976, Soweto, Death of 12-Year-Old Schoolboy Hector Peterson being the ability of youth elsewhere to feel the pain of the Soweto pupils as if it was their own, and the latter being the positive identification with their pupil peers. For example, Buyisuio Hlazo recalls her reaction to seeing the picture of Hector Peterson, “I was paining and saying . . . if this can happen to Hector Peterson I can be the next victim . . .”42 Similarly, Kholekile Mhlana says, “[T]hat, in fact, was the situation that stimulated or motivated us to also embark on the uprisings because we took it as a show of solidarity”; and Mhlana adds that seeing the picture of Hector Peterson was “a revealing experience about the apartheid system, it was moving, it was an emotional situation with black people.”43 A year later, on the anniversary of the Soweto uprising, Themba Mangqase recalls how he felt when seniors at his high school came to convince the younger pupils to boycott their classes: “So we were told let’s go out to show solidarity with Soweto . . . So I couldn’t say no to that.”44 In other words, youth elsewhere strongly identified with the Soweto pupils because they perceived the attack on those pupils as an attack on them personally, as blacks. The second reaction to the news and pictures that came from Soweto involved a new sense of domain-specific self-esteem regarding the ability to confront the system. The idea that the police could actually be challenged was far from obvious before June 16. The system seemed invincible and resistance was perceived costly

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and futile, a legacy of Sharpeville. The fact that youth stood up successfully against the mighty police for the first time, facing tear gas and bullets with stones and bin lids, captured the imagination of African youth. The events of that day broke many negative stigmas and even taboos about challenging the system. Pupils elsewhere began thinking differently and more positively about their own abilities to challenge the system and to improve their situation. The dramatic confrontation between the pupils and the police was also a source of pride and courage to other youth who now also wanted to feel brave and proud by taking action. As Mandla Madwara recalls, The pictures [of Soweto] . . . encouraged one to see first the bravery of people . . . people were charging the police with stones and dust bin lids as a kind of a cover . . . [Author: What do you feel when you see those pictures?] Well, I think for me, at that time, I must say that the one saw bravery basically. Because, I mean, if you look at a police and soldiers wearing uniform that alone was intimidating, and to stand up to that is just like somebody standing up to a bully, you feel encouraged . . . You actually believe in yourself that you can stand up to a bully.45 Similarly, Mthiwabo Ndube recalls how he and his friends drew pride and courage from learning that youth stood up to the police in Soweto. [Author: How do you respond to the news in Soweto?] Well, then we became full of solidarity. Yes! We are good. And then the slogans changed also, talk about freedom . . . liberation, justice, and so on. So the whole thing for us started from Afrikaans and then it snowballed to other demands.46 The third reaction to Soweto was moral shock and anger over the police brutality and the disregard and disrespect to the human value of young blacks that this brutality symbolized. Mthiwabo Ndube recounts his reaction to the killing of Hector Peterson, “I was so devastated, we’re scared also of getting involved into, people die, and we then started to hate the system . . . and saying that something must be done.”47 Monde Mtange recalls that seeing the picture of Hector Peterson “created an emotional reaction” in him and his peers and that “it made us to be angry and to be recommitted in our cause . . . They were charging to the students as if it was army versus another army.”48 This complex set of reactions to Soweto paved the way to various acts of protest elsewhere in South Africa. Pupils got organized, planned rallies, or launched demonstrations. The dynamics from that point depended on the local security forces’ reactions. “The behavior of the police appears to have been a crucially important determinant of whether an initially more or less orderly demonstration remained peaceful or became violent” (Kane-Berman 1981: 17). Where police did not shoot young protesters, such as in Durban, anger eventually subsided and the area remained quiet (Ibid). In P.E., on the other hand, security forces used a heavy hand

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in trying to restore order and in the process did kill youth. Police brutality and the killing of youth in particular had the crucial effect of transforming the world of many pupils and irreversibly drawing them into the struggle. These youth, who were immersed in their schoolwork before June 16, had become the spearhead of the struggle against apartheid as leaders and foot soldiers after they confronted the police. This reaction was far less, if at all, related to long-standing material conditions and far more related to the experience of seeing one’s peers getting killed or being personally subject to police brutality.49 These personal experiences and brutal interactions with the state’s law enforcement agents triggered emotions of hate and desire for revenge among the youth and produced heightened frames of injustice regarding the political system. The critical transformation point in the struggle against apartheid, therefore, occurred due to the brutality of the security forces.50 The P.E. youth who first took to the streets did not know that these confrontations would change their lives. In particular, most of the leaders of the 1976 P.E. generation were ordinary pupils on June 16. But the dynamics of the struggle in the weeks and months that followed caused a radical change in their views about their schools and about the political system more generally. Confrontations with the police played a major role in this transformation. Mzolisi Dyasi’s account of his first confrontation with the police in the New Brighton township captures this transformative moment. After that tear-gassing we burnt everything on our way that belonged to the municipality . . . we burnt the buses, we burnt the trucks that belong to the businesses in town, burnt tires on the road, we were just very angry. [How did it feel to do all these things?] Oh, It felt very good [laughs] feeling very very good. We felt that there is this fight that my uncle told me about . . . this confrontation that we’ve always wanted against these whites, and here’s my time . . . I even spent four days not sleeping at home, after that. I was with friends . . . planning and in fact executing our mission, burning just anything that we could burn, even our own school. [Author: So this is when you turn against the school?] That’s right. That was where we being felt that this Bantu education, that’s when we were being told to be taught in Afrikaans, that’s where the enemy is using this institution against us now. . . . I thought about it [Bantu education] now in a much different way . . . we were then taught about what this Bantu education system was all about . . . what did it intend to do to me and my children… one lost interest in the whole [system] . . . I knew that this was an instrument to oppress me even further. A similar cognitive transformation from struggling to be accepted into Bantu education to its rejection was experienced by youth leader Mkhuseli Jack and his peers following a confrontation with the police outside a boxing match in the Kwazakhele township on August 1976 (see also Cherry and Gibbs 2006: 584).

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STRUGGLING FOR RECOGNITION Then in August of that year, here in Port Elizabeth, we had big big boxing fight and a major soccer match at the stadium and in the great Centenary Hall. There was a fight between the best boxers of the country . . . During the day, there was a soccer match . . . We were all there at the stadium and there was a flamboyant manager . . . He was a very very proud man and also a good role model . . . he came from Soweto and he told us what happened in Soweto firsthand . . . we got motivated by this. Then that night we went to that boxing match, funny enough every corner, every schoolboy at that time decided mostly that they are going to that fight. The reason was that we anticipated that could give us an opportunity to start a riot . . . The police were in full force waiting for us there. Then the crowd outside went to a police van and started to pick up a police van . . . one two, one two, wham! . . . lifting the van up . . . Then they took this van . . . and put them all together . . . just like that . . . I’ve never seen anything like that before . . . and they put fire on it . . . When they went to round number five the police moved . . . at round number six . . . the police now and us it was a gun battle and stones and all that . . . the police now, they panicked, they threw a tear gas inside the hall . . . all pandemonium broke, bang . . . and that crowd of people came out . . . and the police was here chasing all of us . . . I was under a car . . . and a policeman come with a gun [shooting down], the stones hit me in the face and everywhere . . . luckily the bullet didn’t hit me . . . I counted myself the luckiest person that day . . . while still going [home] I saw close to my house a school burning . . . and we said yes, yes, yes . . . The boxing match was a turning point for me and for everybody . . . I knew nothing about the inferiority of Bantu education at the time [before June 16]. [Author: So when did that come about?] Yah, 1976 when the whole thing now, the fight started to happen . . . It [Soweto] informed us . . . then we started to focus “what are the issues?” in a structured way, and then we started to know . . . Bantu education was designed for this purpose and this purpose . . .51

A similar transformation following confrontation with police forces would repeat itself a year later in Uitenhage which remained relatively quiet during 1976. The anniversary of Soweto, and later anger over the killing of Black Consciousness leader, Steve Biko in September 1977, culminated in confrontations with the police. From that point the perceptions and political awareness of many pupils changed and they became more radicalized and deeply involved in the struggle. Bicks Ndoni went through such a transformation when his school first took to the streets in June 1977. The first anniversary of Soweto uprising is the day when we gathered. I remember that some were writing exams around that time. And we start calling each other, “no let’s go out”. And some didn’t want to be called out and then we managed to get everyone outside the classes, we assembled in a field . . . I was not [active] politically at that time, I was just part of the crowd . . . Then we just broke out from school and we started to rampage . . . a bus coming . . . Then there were riot police that assembled . . . And we went straight to the riot

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police carrying stones and that was a moment that I will never forget. I vividly remember how we were like gang students confronting police . . . They started chasing us now, they arrested a few of the students. So that’s how it started and then the whole place was in fires, people were burning bottle stores, and burning all over, and it was just chaos. [. . .] That experience, on its own, it strengthened me, it gave me more encouragement . . .52 The confrontations transformed both pupils who were already politically conscious as well as those who knew little about politics. Confrontations with the police were a form of participation, communication, and education put together because they exposed and exemplified the true relations between blacks and apartheid, and they also opened temporary spaces in which blacks could talk freely about the true nature of the system. The act of mass participation infused new meaning into what was up until that point only a protest against the introduction of Afrikaans. This is not to say that all pupils now completely turned their backs on Bantu education and refused to study. There were those who burnt down their schools but still recognized that Bantu education was still better than no education at all. They demanded new schools, improvements in schools, and studied in alternative hours in other schools where necessary.53 Nonetheless, the 1976–1977 confrontations did expose the true face of the system. The orientation changed from seeing apartheid as an unchangeable reality to generally rejecting and confronting this system whenever possible. In sum, the cognitive transformation of the 1976-generation was a new psychological phenomenon. It constituted a critical departure from past patterns of thinking about, and interacting with, apartheid. As a result of this transformation a few thousands of pupils left South Africa to join the ANC military wing. Others stayed inside the country and engaged in various underground activities and set up organizations and networks that could withstand repression and continue operating even when leaders were arrested. This transformation, thus, underlay the renewed and persistent resistance against apartheid since 1976, notwithstanding periods of quiet organization, planning, and underground activity.

Conclusions The common explanation that the transition from inaction to action among black South Africans was a combined result of an ideological groundwork of BCM and worsening material conditions fails to both capture and explain the complexity of the psychological transformation that occurred in 1976. This common explanation contrasts with a general positive and normal mood that persisted in the period before the introduction of Afrikaans and with a high degree of commitment to, and appreciation of, the system of Bantu education despite its inferior resources.

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It is precisely within the context of accepting the limited path to social mobility and social status that one should understand the initial build-up of anger over the forced introduction of Afrikaans in March 1976. Afrikaans was not a trigger unleashing existing anger over worsening material conditions, if such a material decline was at all felt before June 16, 1976. Afrikaans was the primary cause of the initial build-up of anger among pupils in certain regions, schools, and classes that were negatively affected by this new policy. Pupils who were not affected by Afrikaans did not develop anger before June 16 compared to their less fortunate peers, and the schools of the unaffected remained quiet before, and some even after, June 16. Despite its boldness, it is important to stress that the initial protest against Afrikaans was still within the confines of apartheid. It was a call for maintaining the system of education as the pupils knew it and accepted its rules of the game before June 16. Most pupils did not yet see the Bantu education system as means to oppress them, as they would after the events of June 16. The Soweto pupils and their counterparts elsewhere were also not planning to challenge the entire apartheid system on June 16. The common saying in Soweto and elsewhere has been that the events in Soweto “caught us by surprise.” The surprise was twofold. First, the notion that pupils were intent on taking on the whole system of apartheid was highly surprising if not unthinkable. Indeed, the initial June 16 protest was strictly against the new imposition of Afrikaans, and not against other targets, let alone the apartheid system as such. Second, the children of Soweto did not envision that their limited protest over Afrikaans would develop the way it did and that the response would be so brutal. Yet the violent confrontations between the youth and the security forces opened an entirely new phase of resistance. Anger and rage in reaction to a surprised and panicked police response pulled many youth into violent confrontations in Soweto and elsewhere. The consequences of these confrontations impacted their lives irreversibly. At that point, the childhood of many youth ended and they began living like adults, being fully aware of the costs and dangers of their actions, often against their parents’ wishes and authority (see next chapter). The 1976 transformation was not an unavoidable outcome of the work of BCM or of material conditions. The transformation would have occurred even if material conditions were constant or improving given that the psychological impact was directly related to the police brutality. This also suggests that the transformation of 1976 could have been averted or delayed had the police reaction in Soweto and elsewhere been less brutal. Once Soweto occurred, however, the dynamics of the struggle took a life of their own. The meaning and impact of the 1976–1977 events, thus, should not be measured and evaluated by the sheer number of protest actions or their length in time, but in their unique and lasting psychological effects on the youth who would carry the struggle well into the 1980s. The origins of the struggle against apartheid in 1976, thus, lay in two distinct reactions to violations of the pursuit of recognition. The first was the reaction to the introduction of Afrikaans in March 1976 which violated many pupils’ prospects of higher social status. Those pupils aspired to become policemen, nurses, teachers, or dreamed of becoming the top echelon of black doctors, lawyers, and accountants. In 1976, these opportunities were not taken for granted and black teachers, nurses, and

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policemen were accorded high social esteem, let alone the few that succeeded in becoming lawyers or doctors. The prospects for higher social status were curtailed for many pupils with the introduction of Afrikaans. This led to the initial build-up of anger and accordingly the initial protest stemmed from a desire to cancel this specific policy, restore the previous situation, and let pupils continue with their future plans for better social status based on merit within the limited space that apartheid enabled. The second reaction followed the killings of Soweto pupils as was dramatized in the image of Hector Peterson. The police response exposed the crude nature of the political system regarding the human value of black schoolchildren in Soweto and elsewhere. These brutal experiences invoked basic aversions to being humiliated and dominated. The outcome was a cognitive transformation to a perception of a full-fledged inter-group conflict. The confrontations were interpreted and taken to their inescapable conclusion that whites (and their assistants) were ready to kill blacks in order to continue to oppress blacks under apartheid. The state institutions were also now perceived as means to maintain blacks’ oppression and inferiority. This transformative point is where the decisive struggle against apartheid was born and persisted until the road to negotiations and democracy was opened.

Notes 1. From the early 1980s those defined as Indian and Colored were allowed to vote for separate houses of representatives in an attempt to gain internal and international legitimacy to apartheid, though this attempt largely failed. 2. De Klerk was quite explicit about this underlying logic at the outset of public negotiations in 1990: “We did not wait until the position of power dominance turned against us before we decided to negotiate a peaceful settlement. The initiative is in our hands. We have the means to ensure that the process develops peacefully and in an orderly way” (quoted in Rantete and Giliomee 1992: 518). 3. Sampie Terreblanche is a representative example of the ideological disintegration following Soweto. A prominent and committed apartheid supporter in the 1970s, Terreblanche became a dissenter after being a member of the parliamentary committee that investigated the causes of the Soweto uprising. He publicly resigned the NP in 1987 (Harvey 2001: 7–10; see also Giliomee 1992, 1994, 1995; Rantete and Giliomee 1992). 4. After being expelled from the World Alliance of Reformed Churches, the Dutch Reform Church distanced itself from apartheid and eventually declared that apartheid was inconsistent with Christian ethics (Davies et al. 1988: 274–276; Giliomee 1995: 90). 5. The former activists who were interviewed for this research are: Aubry Mali, Bicks Ndoni, Buyisuio Hlazo, Kholekile Mhlana, Lulu Johnson, Mandla Madwara, Nceba Faku, Mkhuseli Jack, Michael Mthiwabo Ndube, Mike Xego, Mkosinam Makasi, Monde Mtange, Mzolisi Dyasi, Nobuzwe Aurelia Mofokeng, Phil Goduka, Sitoto Griffiths, Stone Sizani, Thabo Veto, Themba Mangqase, Zola Mtatsi, as well as two central activists who were beyond their school years in 1976, Mike Ndzotoyi and Moki Cekisani, and one 1980s activist, Mzolisi Hliso. For the list of interviews and short backgrounds on the interviewees see Appendix B. I also received valuable help, advice, and enjoyed frequent discussions with former 1980s activist, Dr. Janet Cherry. The selection of the interviewees was initially

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6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

27. 28.

29. 30.

STRUGGLING FOR RECOGNITION based on the recommendation of Dr. Cherry and then through a snowballing method. In order to select interviewees in the appropriate age group I also used as reference two pamphlets of exhibitions on P.E. activists in the Red Location Museum: David Goldblatt, “1990 Activists—Port Elizabeth ∙ Uitenhage” Red Location Museum; Jon Riordan, “Forgotten Faces” Red Location Museum. For a history of the struggle in P.E. and the Eastern Cape see Cherry and Gibbs (2006) and Riordan (1988). Twenty out of twenty-three interviews are with pupils of the 1976-generation in P.E. whose years of birth range from 1955 to 1964; 18 of them were born between 1955 and 1962. Author interview with Moki Cekisani, September 17, 2009. Moki is a former BCM activist and was a close friend of Steve Biko. Author interview with Mandla Madwara, September 21, 2009. Author interview with Kholekile Mhlana, September 23, 2009. For works that partially or primarily rely on the materialistic argument in accounting for the occurrence of the 1976 uprisings see Price (1991); Lodge (1983: 325–328); Marx (1992: 61–62); Sisk (1995: 63). Author interview with Mthiwabo Ndube, September 21, 2009. For more information about the townships youth guerillas of the mid-1980s see Lodge and Swilling (1986). Author interview with Thabo Veto, September 16, 2009. Author interview with Mike Xego, September 21, 2009. Author interview with Mokisinam Makasi, September 29, 2009. Author interview with Mandla Madwara, September 21, 2009. Author interview with Phil Goduka, September 22, 2009. Author interview with Bicks Ndoni, September 29, 2009. See for example: “Squeezed into the schools and with increasingly bleak prospects for employment, the students grew angry . . .” (e.g., Marx 1992: 62–63). Author interview with Sitoto Griffiths, September 28, 2009. Author interviews with Monde Mtange, September 22, 2009; with Bicks Ndoni, September 29, 2009. Author interview with Thabo Veto, September 16, 2009. Author interview with Nceba Faku, September 22, 2009. Author interview with Mkhuseli Jack, September 10, 2009. Nine out of nineteen leaders of the 1976 P.E. uprising who were asked about the issue reported difficulties getting into or staying in school due to age restriction on registration, economic hardships, or for “causing trouble.” Author interview with Buyisuio Hlazo, September 22, 2009. It is still unclear whether the effects of a world recession were at all felt by pupils before the 1976 events, but even if a worsening South African economy was somehow related to the unrest of pupils, one would expect to find a gradual increase in the level of anger in 1976 rather than a general sense of happiness and a sense of feeling privileged for being in school. Author interview with Lulu Johnson, September 17, 2009. For example, Kholekile Mhlana recalls that he was taught history, mathematics, and geography in Afrikaans as far back as 1973. Author interview with Kholekile Mhlana, September 23, 2009.

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Prevention of Status and Police Brutality 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

50.

51.

52. 53.

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Author interview with Nobuzwe Aurelia Mofokeng, September 29, 2009. Author interview with Mandla Madwara, September 21, 2009. Author interview with Mthiwabo Ndube, September 21, 2009. Author interview with Mike Xego, September 21, 2009. Information on the Limekhaya High School is based on the author’s interview with Sitoto Griffiths, September 28, 2009. Ibid. Author interview with Bicks Ndoni, September 29, 2009. For more on the struggle in Uitenhage see Cherry and Gibbs (2006: 591–598) and Cherry (2004). Author interview with Stone Sizani, September 19, 2009. Quoted in Ndlovu (2006). The image is adapted from a picture of an ANC poster, which the author took at a memorial service for the PEBCO 3 and COSAS 2 in Port Elizabeth on September 24, 2009. The ANC poster itself is based on the picture that Sam Nzima took in 1976 when working for the African daily, The World. See also Frederikse (1986) for interviews with Soweto veterans who were politicized after June 16. Author interview with Buyisuio Hlazo, September 22, 2009. Author interview with Kholekile Mhlana, September 23, 2009. Author interview with Themba Mangqase, September 18, 2009. Author interview with Mandla Madwara, September 21, 2009. Author interview with Mthiwabo Ndube, September 21, 2009. Ibid. Author interview with Monde Mtange, September 22, 2009. This is not to say that material conditions could not have contributed indirectly to the violence that ensued. Certainly, there were participating youth who were too poor to be in school and some of them looted and vandalized property when the opportunity presented itself. Yet the very first, major, and organized resistance came from the ranks of the pupils. This is somewhat ironic because those same pupil warriors were working hard to advance socially and economically via the Bantu education system only shortly before June 16. Kane-Berman made a similar argument regarding the question why the townships revolted in June 1976: “Any attempt to answer must assign overwhelming weight to the shooting itself. It instantly transformed a protest which might otherwise have been confined to the Afrikaans issue and to Soweto into a generalised nation-wide revolt against the total situation in which black South Africans find themselves. Thereafter, inevitably, events gained a momentum of their own” (1981: 48). Author interview with Mkhuseli Jack, September 10, 2009. The last quoted paragraph preceded the ones before it in the actual interview. The last paragraph is from a part of the interview where I was puzzled by the fact that Mkhuseli Jack was actually struggling to be accepted into Bantu education only about a year before the Soweto events and asked him about this change of attitude (see earlier quote about this issue above). Author interview with Bicks Ndoni, September 29, 2009. Ibid. The phenomenon of a single school building serving as a facility for two separate schools in different hours of the day was termed “platooning” at the time.

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7 Maintaining Commitment: Leadership, Cultural Change, and Music In the previous chapter, I discussed the origins of the struggle against apartheid and I explained that there were two phases leading to the 1976 transformation. The first phase consisted of anger over the introduction of Afrikaans and the second was a reaction to the killing of youth in Soweto and elsewhere. The struggle against apartheid continued until the transition to democracy in 1994 and it was based on the cognitive transformation that occurred among many young blacks following the Soweto events. Naturally, there were additional psychological dynamics that occurred during this long struggle. In this chapter, I focus on psychological factors involved in maintaining commitment to this long struggle. I begin by exploring the factors underlying the commitment of the 1976-generation leaders. I then discuss the issues of an intergenerational gap and the cultural change following 1976. The role of music in the struggle is a striking example of culture innovation and of the utilization of this new culture to maintaining commitment to the struggle. In the final section I will highlight several psychological aspects involving music in the struggle.

Leadership Motivation The personal transformations and the emerging commitment among 1976-generation leaders were complex and evolving phenomena. In many respects, these leading activists represent their age-group because most of them were in fact ordinary schoolchildren in 1976 and were drawn into the struggle without planning it. The first stage of these personal transformations involved joy and pride in confronting the police for the first time. At that early stage, the pupils were not aware if and what consequences these actions might have. The initial emotions were excitement, happiness, joy, and positive self-esteem that were derived from standing up against the security forces. Confronting the police with stones and other improvised 132

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weapons, and burning government buildings and beer halls, were initially exciting and highly satisfying actions to the youth. For example, Mike Xego recalls how he and his peers enjoyed giving expression to their frustration over Afrikaans by taking to the streets for the very first time: “That one was unstoppable . . . We felt very proud. We were happy. We were challenging a bigger regime. For the first time Africans were taking whites . . . face to face with stones and guns. It was nice, I enjoyed it. We didn’t think about death at the time.”1 Themba Mangqase experienced the same feelings at the first anniversary commemoration of June 16: Yes, it was the first time for me to attend a rally. Obviously I was pleased because this what was happening to me, it was a good response . . . I said here something must be done to express our displeasure of what was happening here and elsewhere in the country. And so to me, it was an opportunity to express that. And, I really did not plan it and I didn’t know that it was the beginning of a long road for me in the struggle for the liberation of my country. It was like something must be done now and what happens tomorrow . . . I didn’t care, I didn’t even know. I was just doing it and if it happens again tomorrow I will participate again and so on and so on.2 This first stage of enthusiasm and joy did not last long. The security forces’ brutality and killing of young blacks enraged the youth. Personal experiences of loss were especially transformative and brought activists into a whole new level of engagement and commitment. Youth who lost close friends developed strong determination to continue the struggle despite all costs and against all odds. Activists reported losing fear or becoming fearless and ready to accept death. Mike Xego’s account vividly captures that moment of transformation. After sensing power and pride in taking to the streets for the very first time, Xego’s positive emotions were replaced by anger: That day was the biggest day of my life . . . On that day suddenly death had no meaning, no meaning whatsoever on that day. Because I was sought with my school uniform in the school premises by white policemen who I respected and feared so much: that fear disappeared. That was the beginning of a new Mike, the beginning a total different Mike . . . from that day I became different. On that day for the first time I defied my mother and my father, something I never thought I will do. I defied them! [laughs]. They will stop me to go back; I went back by force. So they tried to persuade me, I was not persuaded . . . I was now prepared to die . . . didn’t get scared of being arrested, didn’t get scared of dying . . . because some of the students were shot. I saw that. And the tear gas was suffocating your lungs . . . Though we were running they were still prepared to shoot us . . . And that changed me . . . So all that quagmire became a turning point of my life. [It] changed me completely because I knew South Africa from the point of view of violence versus violence.

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STRUGGLING FOR RECOGNITION [Author: Would you say that was true for many other children?] For all of us, for all of us. That day became a day where the parents, for the first time, would take a secondary role to our thinking. Our thinking became supreme. On that day, the church could not make a difference to stop. No, nobody could make a difference at the time. For the first time, I didn’t go to church . . . That day was Wednesday, the 14th of August, 1976.3

Mthiwabo Ndube experienced a similar psychological transformation in 1978 when his friend was murdered right in front of him after being caught in a house where both of them were hiding: . . . we were all gathered in the school and we were planning the boycott . . . then when the police came to the school, they chased us. And then myself and my friend left, ran away, jumped through a fence. We went into a house in New Brighton . . . I was hiding [laughs] in a wardrobe; he was under the bed. They pulled him out. They shot, bang . . . he died . . . I wanted to leave the country when I heard that people were being trained by the ANC somewhere . . . I said I must leave the country and fight back. So 1978, the killing of my close friend, who was one of the top soccer players in the city, so he died there and we buried him . . . and then every week people were killed . . . So there was a community struggle taking place around our communities. [Author: How did the killing of your friend influence you?] It made me more resolve, you see, I wanted to die too. [There were other events] But that killing of that guy changed my attitude towards the system . . . It was violent. People in that school went underground . . .4 The killings fostered a strong sense of community and group identity among blacks. Young blacks, especially, forcefully realized through participation and confrontation that they shared a common predicament and a common struggle with other South African blacks, and even with blacks struggling elsewhere in the African continent. The self-conception and group identity of blacks became entwined with the struggle of other blacks because the new reality did not allow them to disassociate themselves from the social category “black”. The attack against blacks was perceived to be simply on the basis of their skin color.5 As a reaction to these new conditions of inter-group violence, new positive self-conceptions involving group-identity were developed and strengthened, especially along the lines of Black Consciousness ideology stressing pride of being black (see Chapter 6). The strengthening of group identity as a reaction to the contentious reality after June 16 confirms a central idea of social identity theory that “the need for positive selfesteem motivates social comparisons that differentiate oneself from others in terms of positively valued group characteristics and to differentiate one’s own group from other groups and thus play a role in both intra- and intergroup behavior” (Turner 1982: 17; see also Tajfel and Turner 1979).

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In other words, the brutality against black youth was perceived as an attack against oneself and as such became entwined with self-conceptions and selfevaluations. The killings of young blacks generated a desire for revenge against the perpetrators, namely, the security forces and state agents more generally. Mass public funerals were central in this regard. Clashes with the security forces would often begin immediately after a funeral would end. These experiences tied one’s sense of self-esteem to the continuation of the struggle. Stopping the struggle became psychologically more difficult than continuing it despite the known costs and risks that such actions might involve. Zola Mtatsi’s account captures these intertwined aspects of group-identity, personal self-esteem, and desire for revenge: There was a guy of the name Lungile Tabalaza6 from New Brighton . . . Then he was arrested . . . Then he was thrown out of the window but the police alleged that he jumped out of the seventh floor . . . That was the first funeral that we had in P.E. . . . It was quite a moving thing, you know, with the political speeches made at that funeral. As a result, we felt that his soul must not go alone. We felt that those who killed him had to pay, no matter what price. As a result, when Lungile Tabalaza was buried, one guy . . . whom the community had viewed as a police informer, but before that people could not do anything about it . . . people went for him . . . he was caught there, he was beaten and killed. So it was like, if they kill one of us we’ll get one of them . . . [Author: Revenge] Yes . . . his body lay there in the street naked, the whole day.7 It is significant to note that group-identity and inter-group conflict were more complex than simply blacks versus whites or vice versa. Blacks made the distinction between those who supported the struggle (actively or passively) and those who opposed or acted against it. For example, anger was directed against “insiders,” that is, black people who were accused of being informers and collaborators. This complex distinction can already be found in the later ideology of the Black Consciousness Movement which defined “black” not by skin color but by a state of mind and political orientation.8 Mzolisi Dyasi also vividly explains why his personal devotion became unstoppable and inseparable from the larger struggle after June 16. It was too strong for me and there was no way I could stop by the time. [Author: Why couldn’t you stop?] Man, I have seen people die; I have seen people spending time in prisons; I’ve seen people sacrificing their lives . . . I also had this mentality that said: “If you stop then you’re siding with the enemy, why would you stop when the enemy doesn’t stop . . . you are selling us out or you’re being bought by the enemy”, you know, so you just can’t . . . [Author: Was it the same thing for your friends?] Same thing for my friends, oh yes. You know, we lost our very closest friends in the process . . . You see a friend today, the following day you are told that he’s dead . . . It became more and more emotional; you wanted to fight even more; you want to fight even further . . . it strengthens your resolve, doesn’t scare you at all.

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STRUGGLING FOR RECOGNITION There were two things that we knew . . . either you go to prison or you die. Those were the only two things that kept us going . . . there was no turning back because we knew that our enemy wanted to maintain the status quo; they wanted to pursue apartheid by all means. But, they were not prepared to die for that. And, on the other hand, we were struggling under very difficult conditions and we were prepared to die for that . . . because we knew that one day we would be free.

These accounts reveal cognitive developments that occurred following the events of 1976 whereby one’s own liberation became entwined with the liberation of one’s group and hence, paradoxically, it became more difficult to stop struggling than to continue. Namely, the commitment to the struggle became a central determinant in one’s general sense of self-esteem and one would experience negative emotions and negative self-esteem if one would think about ending the struggle. Another interesting fact which became intertwined with activists’ self-esteem was a strong moral obligation to those who remained in prison or who had sacrificed their life-opportunities. 1976-generation activists who were sent to Robben Island for several years of imprisonment noted their commitment to those who remained in prison.9 The young and radical activists who arrived at Robben Island were gradually converted to the ANC’s nonracial and inclusive political vision for South Africa as expressed in the Freedom Charter of 1955. Though the ANC educated and moderated these young activists’ political views, their passion and commitment to the struggle was in fact amplified due to a strong sense of obligation and debt that they developed toward the veterans who remained in prison. Mike Xego was one of those young converts to the ANC who came out of Robben Island empowered mentally and intellectually, and determined to fight until those imprisoned for life would see freedom as well: On Robben Island, I was received by people who were doing life sentence imprisonment. They looked after me. They gave me economics . . . at the university level; they gave me political philosophy at university level; they exposed me to chess . . . Bach . . . Pavarotti . . . the Beatles . . . the 1967 war . . . the Munich Olympics in Germany . . . all these things . . . But on leaving Robben Island, I look here, these comrades are going to die there, including Nelson Mandela. How are they going to be free if I go out and regret? I couldn’t take it. So then I was already convinced in my mind that I’m going to die. I was convinced that I won’t last. And it would be a pain for me to be given such tools to expose apartheid and suddenly run a way and hide and submit. [Author: It was not an option?] It was not an option to me, definitely not!10 Nelson Mandela himself was very effective in articulating the ultimate psychological goals of the struggle in the language of recognition. Mandela conveyed the sentiment that the racial arrogance of apartheid “reduces the majority of the

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population to a position of subservience and inferiority, and maintains them as voteless chattels to work where they are told and behave as they are told by the ruling minority” (Mandela 1978: 150). Indeed, a central psychological impetus for the struggle against apartheid was a struggle against “a lack of human dignity,” as Mandela said (Ibid: 171). Similarly, Desmond Tutu conveyed the experience and feelings of humiliation induced by South African policemen when they mistreated him and his wife despite his standing as Noble Prize Laureate and Bishop of Johannesburg: “It is not just that your dignity as a human being is rubbed in the dust. It is trampled underfoot to boot. If they treat me like that, what do they do to so-called ordinary people?” (Tutu 1986: 27). The ultimate goal of ending apartheid in order to gain freedom, self-esteem, and recognition also finds its expression in the testimonies of P.E. activists. For example, Nobuzwe Mofokeng explains that “[t]he ultimate goal I have was to overcome the apartheid laws; how we black people were treated as non-citizen, [as] inhuman.”11 Similarly, Thabo Veto noted that the denial of citizenship “killed my dignity. It killed it . . . it’s in every black person’s dignity.”12 This language of recognition was also very characteristic of the Black Consciousness Movement and its philosophy, as was explained in the previous chapter. However, due to the killings and other forms of state brutality against its black citizens, it became clear and visible to youth and young activists that the state was not only reluctant to recognize and respect the dignity of its nonwhite citizens but that apartheid was in fact based on overt violence. This realization gave the struggle its militant inter-group dimension. The commitment of leaders to the struggle was thus related to these ultimate psychological goals of recognition striving.

Intergenerational Gap and Cultural Change The 1976 events had important implications to an emerging intergenerational gap and to a cultural change that was more in line with the emergence of youth activism and militancy. In the previous chapter, I discussed the common material explanation which stipulates that worsening material conditions were the general root cause for the growth of unrest, both among the youth and adults. I explained that growing unrest and anger among the pupils who first took to the streets was not over material conditions but primarily over the issue of Afrikaans. It is also important to note that black adults remained passive in 1976. Many adults persisted in discouraging the youth from action until the late 1970s. This intergenerational gap behavior was characteristic of the parents of the most energetic 1976-generation activists. An analysis of the interviews reveals that the majority of 1976-generation activists who were still living with their parents (or adult relative in one case) were subjected to some level of negative sanction and discouragement (see Chart 3).13 Restraining and discouraging behavior was also characteristic of most school teachers and principals. This behavior is understood in the context of the Sharpeville

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Chart 3 Parents’ Attitude about Children’s Political Involvement generation’s harsh experience with the state response to peaceful protests (see also Lodge and Nasson 1992: 68) and parents’ natural disposition to protect their children and keep them from harm’s way. This finding reveals that Soweto and its contentious aftermath had very different and complex effects on the 1976-generation compared to their parents. Pupils and youth were transformed but adults were not. Children were drawn into action and resistance but their parents remained passive. Many pupils gave up on their life dreams and stopped their education but most adults continued to pursue their daily responsibilities and struggled to maintain their jobs. In this regard, the 1976-generation did not only rebel against the apartheid system but also against what they perceived as their parents’ complacency and acquiescence to apartheid. These intergenerational differences led to changes in shared values and patterns of behavior which had been transmitted from generation to generation (i.e., culture), and which had characterized South African culture until 1976. These changes included the invention of a new culture of resistance that was more consistent with, and suitable for, the assertive political attitudes and behavior of the youth. Lodge and Swilling (1986: 4) rightly termed these cultural changes as a “cultural revolution.” The first major change was defiance of adult authority. The norms concerning intergenerational relations before 1976 were of strict deference to and respect for adult authority. Beating of children for purposes of discipline and maintaining adult authority was not uncommon in schools and outside schools (see also Tetelman 1997). However, blind deference to adult authority was replaced with an unprecedented set of values and practices. Initially, some of the leaders of the 1976-generation hid the fact that they were engaged in resistance activity from their parents. Others who could not hide their activity defied their parents and some experienced sanctions such as being expelled from home. Then activists openly defied their parents and adult authority more generally. They refused to heed the warnings, they refused to stay off the streets and avoid trouble when ordered to do so, and they no longer agreed to be beaten by teachers and to listen to teachers and school principals who scolded them for their actions. As Riordan puts it, “[t]he revolution they have won is their independence from adult restraint, and even from the traditional obligation of deference to age” (1988: 64). The 1976-generation began to lead the resistance to apartheid, initially without direction or much organization. They set an assertive tone to the struggle and began developing their own ideas and culture of resistance.

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A striking example are funerals which were transformed from a solemn sermon dominated by adult priests who would praise the deceased’s achievements in life to dynamic public events led by the young: “The young predominate among the speech-makers, the time allotted to family grief and religious consolation is severely rationed, and the coffin is no longer borne away in a creaking Cadillac, but carried instead on the shoulders of young mourners . . .” (Lodge and Swilling 1986: 5). The carrying of the coffins on the shoulders of the young is perhaps the best symbol of the cultural revolution that occurred in South Africa from 1976. The young were spearheading and dominating the resistance to apartheid compared to older generations and they were also mainly those who were putting their lives on the line. In that process they invented and revolutionized their own culture. After the 1976–1977 events led the South African government to reform apartheid and allow civil society organizations to operate legally, the young also took a predominant share in the organized phase of civil resistance to apartheid. The early composition of the umbrella organization, United Democratic Front (UDF), illustrates the importance and weight of youth in the struggle: Out of 565 affiliates, 313 (55 percent) were youth organizations and an additional 47 (8 percent) were student organizations (Lodge and Nasson 1992: 51; see also Davies et al. 1988 Vol. II). These numbers also reflect the growing share of young blacks in the demographics of urban areas. For example, in 1980, 56 percent of the urban black population was under twenty years of age, and in 1985 the percentage climbed to 72 percent (Lodge 2007: 12). At the height of this cultural revolution in the mid-1980s, black youth grouped together in township battalions (Amabutho) that sometimes served as the executive arm of township street courts which exercised retributive and educational justice in black townships. Young activists also mobilized and led local communities in consumer boycotts and the amabutho often used force against black township residents who did not comply with boycotts. In general, this was a generational consciousness infused with “anti-authoritarian iconoclasm and susceptibility for really brutal violence, each quite unprecedented feature in the culture of black South African political organizations” (Lodge 2007: 11). The generational consciousness-gap was also felt by the older generations, sensing that the revolution of the young was getting out of hand (Ibid: 15). The innovation and transformation of South African culture both contributed to and reflected the growing commitment of young activists to the struggle. The central role accorded to young activists and the higher status that came with it sustained that commitment and removed cultural barriers that were hindering the resistance. Another such example of this cultural revolution is the utilization of music in the struggle.

Music and Struggle Singing and experiencing music with other people, accompanied by gestures and muscular expression, can generate physical and emotional processes and symptoms

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such as shivers, chills, tingling, changes in heart-rate, breathing, posture, or locomotive. Strong experiences in reaction to music are usually also positive (e.g., joy, elation, bliss). Hence, music can arouse positive feelings and thoughts that overcome negative feelings such as fear or helplessness. Music can also help redefine negative emotions—including negative emotions that arise from insubordination—and transform these feelings into more desirable self-conceptions and emotions. In this respect, music can be employed as means to preserve positive self-esteem, to assist in optimal functioning, and to help overcome difficulties or obstacles. Music can also intensify emotions such as enthusiasm, thereby shaping or facilitating action. Finally, music in rituals can help maintain emotionally charged boundaries that define group identity and solidarity.14 These psychological elements with relation to music can be observed in the struggle against apartheid. This struggle was propelled by a singing and dancing social movement. The scope, innovation, and functions of music in the struggle were probably unprecedented in the history of social movements, notwithstanding the importance of music in the US Civil Rights Movement which also built on and borrowed from this African cultural heritage. As this section shows, music was part and parcel of maintaining and generating commitment during the struggle against apartheid. Music was a feature of African and South African culture long before apartheid came into being. After 1976, however, activists drew on this central cultural element and applied it in new ways, in new songs, in new settings, and in new intensity to the benefit of their struggle.15 Freedom songs, songs that were written during and for the struggle, were especially important in this regard. All the activists who were interviewed and were asked about the role of music in the struggle noted the significance of music and of freedom songs in particular. Some had had strong personal experiences with music during the struggle and others noted its general importance in a number of ways.16 A major facet of music in the struggle was generating and strengthening group identity and group solidarity among black people who may not have previously seen themselves as part of the struggle or even as part of a defined group. This phenomenon is similar to the role that music played in black churches throughout the Montgomery bus boycott and during the US Civil Rights Movement period more generally. Singing was the simplest act of participation in collective action by ordinary people and their most direct way to show solidarity with those who were at the forefront of the struggle. Singing together was the least risky and perhaps the easiest form of collective action for people of various personalities and varied capabilities for costly action (in terms of their age, occupation, family, and other restrictions) who nevertheless shared common background and problems. Singing at mass rallies and funerals helped break down or mute in-group distinctions and barriers: between women and men, youth and adults, workers and the unemployed, laypersons and leaders. They all sang freedom songs and danced side by side at various public events. This form of direct participation increased group identity and solidarity because singing and dancing together can be a highly

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positive, emotional, and even intimate experience that both requires and fosters confidence in, and closeness with, the other participants. As Stone Sizani recalls: [Singing] is the best way of collective participation and find solidarity with each other. So singing was bringing all of us together as one . . . if the singing, words, the lyrics of the songs were sharing our common experience, our hopes and aspirations for the future, then the singing it became even much more effective . . .17 The lyrics of freedom songs are simple to learn as they are often based on repetitive chants combined with vocal harmonies. Many songs also involve clapping and some degree of body movement. Each person could easily sing along and not worry much about singing out of tune given that one’s voice is submerged in countless other voices. In this way, a person could give expression to his or her negative feelings and transform them into positive feelings toward the group, and thereby maintain positive self-esteem. The practice of music in political settings is unimposing and one can softly sing alone or even remain quiet and passive. On the other hand, a person could be easily swept away by the experience of hundreds and sometimes thousands of people, laypersons and top leaders, singing together in beautiful rich harmonies. Normally, there is no band with musical instruments; the voices of the people themselves are the main instruments and the music and song would not exist without them. The music arises mainly from the crowd rather than from loudspeakers and a low bass-sound wave reverberates among those who are present. The experience with music may depend on a number of factors: the number of participants, the intensity of the singing and dancing, and the type of music played. The experience with music could also be affected by the context of the event and the type of feelings and state of mind prior to the event. To put it in the words of Moki Cekisani, “it’s the type of music’s impact on a state of mind because it’s depending [on] what you’re thinking on that moment.”18 Freedom songs are not written for a lead singer and in fact some songs can only be performed with other people or they work best if they are sung in harmony. Even when a person is leading the singing, his or her role is mostly in terms of starting the song and coordinating the tempo and the structure of the song. The song leader may sing a few words or a sentence and then the crowd responds and this happens at known intervals, but most of the singing is performed by the crowd. Freedom songs also had the function of disseminating information considering the lack of other open public channels of communication. These songs told the simple stories of the struggle: they introduced the main protagonists and the leaders who were in jail or in exile; they introduced Nelson Mandela, Oliver Tambo, Govan Mbeki, Chris Hani, and others, and cemented them as undisputed authentic leaders of the black majority; and they connected black South Africans to other struggles beyond their country. Furthermore songs helped foster nonracial political consciousness

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through the repeated mention of Joe Slovo, the white Jewish leader of the ANC guerilla army.19 In this context, songs served an educational function to the masses by broadening their understanding of what was happening in the struggle through participation. Stone Sizani puts it in the following way: “. . . a new song will be introduced which said certain things that would make us aware of our own environment, of other people like us elsewhere. It does not make that solidarity only stronger but it also makes the awareness a little bit wider . . .”20 One effective way to broaden political consciousness and make people think about their predicament was through very short lyrics that were recited over and over again. The best example for this is the song Senzeni Na? (what have we done?). This famous solemn song was frequently used in the struggle, especially during funerals of those killed in clashes with security forces. The words of this song consist of a question and an answer: Senzeni Na? Sonosethu bubunyama (What have we done? Our only sin is being black).21 These simple words are repeated over and over again and encourage the person singing to contemplate about the question and the answer. Lulu Johnson, for example, recalls the effect that “Senzeni Na?” had on him when he attended one of the funerals: [In] 1977, when I would have been attending some of these funerals, especially the Black Consciousness period of time, you know the song I have just sang now [Author: “What have we done?”] Exactly. You know, you would really feel it inside you, and really getting to ask that question, genuinely. Somebody is dead, somebody has been shot, somebody has been killed, and you really ask yourself that question when everyone is singing, Senzeni Na?22 Mthiwabo Ndube adds that another effect of sad songs such as Senzeni Na? was to “remind us about those who died, about our friends and our colleagues . . . it also set us not to forget where we are and where we want to go.”23 Sad songs could tap into memories about the fallen and about close friends who had died and they could bring back and elicit strong emotions that sustained the commitment to the struggle. Another way that freedom songs helped foster political consciousness was by encouraging black people to think positively about their prospects for cognitive and physical liberation from the yoke of apartheid. These songs emphasized that there was a real battle going on with prospects of success, rather than a complete domination of the situation by the regime. They inspired listeners with visions of success in the struggle and fostered the belief that the resistance was on the right path to victory, thereby transforming negative emotions into positive ones. A good example of a popular freedom song that characterized this mood is “Marching to Pretoria” (Siya ePitoli), meaning, we are on our way to capture the capital. Compared to “what have we done?,” “Marching to Pretoria” has a faster and happier tempo that suits and encourages positive thinking about the prospects of liberation. Black Consciousness activist, Moki Cekisani, recalls this cognitive impact: “we composed revolutionary songs which really helped in sustaining the momentum of the revolution . . .

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Spiritually, they were helping in reinforcing the beliefs that we can achieve . . . They were very positive songs, they were motivating us to carry on because with the way we were moving we can achieve.”24 The ability to transform negative feelings into positive ones can also be observed in the way music was used by activists in difficult moments. Activists found themselves in highly stressful situations, or were close to slipping into helplessness, and they often needed to face those difficult situations on their own. This was especially relevant in cases of activists who were in administrative detention or prison. Those activists often used singing in order to overcome these difficult moments. For example, Mike Xego recalls,“I was alone in the cell, that is 1983 . . . my second imprisonment from Robben Island . . . sitting there along . . . you must sing a Freedom Song, Senzeni Na? . . .”25 Mike Ndzotoyi had a similar experience in Robben Island: “[Music] kept us alive in prison; we would sing right through in the morning until at night, forget about those pangs of pain in the stomach, you know. We would sing going out . . . at Robben Island to work . . . Music changed us . . . even if you are going to give up it change yourself to say ‘no, I’m going forward’. . . it gave you the drive to move, to go on . . .”26 And Sitoto Griffiths also recounts that “in prison . . . when interrogation is sort of carried through. And then you are alone in a cell, there is no way that you can communicate. Whilst you are alone, then the words just get out, they get echoed, and you begin to sing and you forget about this loneliness.”27 Probably the most prevalent and effective function of music was as means to elicit action. Building on the centrality of music in their history and culture, blacks (especially the young) utilized music to overcome fear in dangerous settings. Music was used to build emotional energies and enthusiasm among activists and also among those who might be afraid to act. Music was especially important before and during confrontations with the security forces when physical danger was imminent in the form of beatings, tear-gassing, and bullets. The active participation in singing, clapping, and dancing at mass meetings, rallies, and funerals would often generate and amplify the emotional energies that were necessary for confronting such dangers. Music would help one lose fear of what otherwise was a very dangerous and irrational action. As Mthiwabo Ndube notes, “songs were very important: they inspired us, they tell stories, they bring that warrior out of you, they bring that fire in you, when you sing.”28 Similarly, Lulu Johnson recalls, “the role that music played was more like a life blood. So that when you are going to engage the soldiers, when you are going to engage people out here on the ground, when they march, they march with those songs.”29 Stone Sizani also gives insight into the psychological function of music as mediating between the cognitive aspect of understanding what the issues were about and the emotional energies which were required for translating this understanding into action: Singing agitated us to do and act together. Remember that the participation that is in one meeting can make us go out of that meeting to go and do things so even those that may be afraid get almost what the authorities call a mob-spirit. Because if you want to agitate, it is better to agitate via a song.

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STRUGGLING FOR RECOGNITION The speech would have introduced the issues, the speech would have explained the issues, but a connection has to be there between the speech and the song, so that the people must be willing to go and do something.

One of the most interesting and powerful innovations in the struggle was toyi-toyi. Toyi-toyi is a song-dance performed with other people, usually in mass meetings, and it involves chanting political slogans and stomping of the feet in rhythm. One version of toyi-toyi for the fittest, known as ninety degrees, includes lifting legs in rhythm and holding one leg folded in an angle of ninety degrees to one’s body while bouncing on the other leg, and then jumping forward while alternating legs, and so on. Toyi-toyi sometimes involved a simulation of military action such as throwing grenades, shooting RPG-7 rockets, and using bazookas and AK47s even though activists inside South Africa did not normally possess these weapons. There are several reports about the exact origins of toyi-toyi and its year of appearance in the struggle. Toyi-toyi seems to have been adapted from military training of guerilla soldiers in Zimbabwe and spread among anti-apartheid activists from the early to mid-1980s. When done collectively (often hundreds or thousands of people), toyi-toyi can generate a sense of uplifting and energizing sensations. Young activists often continued to sing after they were arrested and their friends would continue to cheer them on while singing and dancing too. As Themba Mangqase recalls, “[Toyi-toyi] used to inspire and raise spirits even of the elderly people. Just to watch those guys . . . When you see them you just want to be part of it, you are carried away. You could toyi-toyi from Walmer to Zwide, but it would be difficult for you to just walk on your own [laughs].”30 The innovation of toyi-toyi was a highly effective technique in overcoming fear and maintaining commitment to the struggle. Toyi-toyi helped generate physical and emotional processes and symptoms that would bring a person into a state of mind whereby the person could forget about (or override) fear and rational calculations that tend to inhibit action. These processes and this state of mind prepared one emotionally to confront the security forces. As a war-like technique, toyi-toyi carried people into confrontations against heavily-armed security forces; except that the activists were armed mostly with their emotional energies. They faced and often charged the security forces while toyi-toying, and then some would pick up rocks and Molotov bottles. The security forces would be forced to either fall back and retreat or shoot into the crowd. The latter reaction often opened the next cycle of mass funerals and resistance. These psychological aspects of the struggle have been vividly reported by the 1976-generation leaders. For example, Mzolisi Dyasi notes the mental state that one can reach when singing in a mass rally: “When such [freedom] songs are being sang, you don’t see the enemy, you just go straight to the bullet . . . and you accept it, and it would be a joy if you die in that situation.”31 Similarly, Zola Mtatsi explains that toyi-toyi resembled the function that music played in traditional contexts: You know, it’s a long tradition with us. When we are going to war, it’s an African thing, when people are going to war, it kills that fear . . . Toyi-toyi is a

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war dance . . . when you are going to war you’ve got to sing so that you can carry on your shoulders even the cowards, you know, singing and dancing kills . . . it does away with fear. So toyi-toyi was that dance transplanted into that war situation. Indeed, in many respects toyi-toyi was war music. It was a song-dance that prepared the foot soldiers for the battle and instilled fear in the state security forces. It functioned as a psychological tool to overcome fear and it generated emotional energies and commitment that kept these foot soldiers going against serious risks and costs. Like any tool of war, however, the ways in which the tool is used could be positive, defensive, and nonviolent or vice versa. As was noted above, toyi-toyi was used to maintain a stand against oppression and preserve the necessary emotional energies that were needed for such risky contentious struggle. Yet it should also be noted that toti-toyi and other songs were also used in harmful ways such as by mobilizing youth to attack and kill informers, collaborators, councilors, and engage in necklacing (Cherry 1993). Still, toyi-toyi exemplifies how people who lack conventional material means and technologies can invent effective technologies through innovating from their own culture and learning from others’ experience.

Conclusions Several factors were involved in the ongoing commitment to the resistance against apartheid after June 1976. The initial enthusiasm and positive feelings associated with being able to stand up against the regime turned into anger over the killing of one’s friends and peers in one’s age group. Those killings were probably the most important experiences that transformed one’s worldview about the system. The determination appears to have been strongest among those who experienced close loss. The killings also fostered a strong sense of group-identity, originating in the perception that the lives of black people were disregarded only because of their skin color. The strengthening of one’s self-identity as being part of a collective of black people made one experience attacks against other blacks as an attack against oneself. Strong feelings of anger and revenge were then evoked and fueled further resistance. In addition, activists developed a strong sense of commitment and obligation to those who sacrificed their lives and life-opportunities. Those who were lucky to avoid imprisonment and those who were lucky to be released from prison maintained commitment because inaction would have been perceived as a betrayal of one’s group and hence involve negative emotions in them. Activists’ self-esteem thus became tied with the attainment of basic freedoms, the abolishment of racist laws and humiliation, and hence with the struggle more generally. Thus, when activists were released from prison in the early 1980s, they helped mobilize others and brought more sophistication to the struggle through the education and training they received in prison. Whereas the 1976 events radically transformed many of the youth at that time, an intergenerational gap remained. Tensions developed between the passive and conservative older generations and the highly politicized 1976-generation. These

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tensions persisted but gradually many parents of young activists were drawn closer to the struggle as they realized that they could no longer control the young and felt that they needed to protect the youth from state brutality. Some adults were also inspired by the courage of the youth and gradually lost fear, while others joined to give advice, to moderate the young, as well as to protect the black community from some negative aspects of youth radicalism, such as violent actions by undisciplined youth guerillas (the Amabutho). The dynamics of the struggle generated notable cultural changes that helped sustain commitment to the struggle. One notable change pertains to the defiance of adult authority and the radicalization of the struggle. The 1976-generation rekindled the fire of the struggle and infused it with energy, strength, and strong moral conviction imbued in a black and white worldview that tended to characterize idealistic youth. Another manifestation of this cultural revolution was the predominant share of youth organizations under the umbrella organization of the UDF. The second cultural change that I focused on was the evolution of and innovation in music and its important functions in keeping struggle momentum. Among its main functions, music sustained and strengthened group identity and group solidarity; educated the masses about the struggle; fostered the belief that the struggle could succeed; aided individuals to overcome difficult moments; and helped to overcome fear and to build enthusiasm before dangerous confrontations with security forces. Music is an established feature of black South African culture but the ways it was applied in the context of the struggle were novel and highly effective. The repertoire of music was also broadened and developed along with the dynamics of the struggle. New freedom songs were written and the tempo of the songs accelerated and reflected the faster rhythm of the struggle toward the mid-1980s. Somber tunes such as “What have we done?” were supplemented by faster rhythmic songs like “Marching to Pretoria” and then climaxed with toyi-toyi.32 This cultural innovation and revolution of music is part of South African culture to this day. Music can be seen as a technology of struggle in three main ways. First, music was used to alter mental states very similar to the way a pill could change chemical processes in the body and brain, and hence affect a person’s state of consciousness. Strong experiences with music also generated physical processes that helped overcome fear or created enthusiasm for action. Furthermore, many activists intentionally used music at difficult moments as means to maintain their determination and self-esteem and to protect themselves from falling into depression or breaking down. In addition, music was used to turn singing and dancing into a semi-military technique in the form of toyi-toyi which was used in confrontations with security forces. These cultural innovations demonstrate how activists can borrow and invent effective tactics and technologies to the benefit of their struggle. There are of course other noteworthy psychological factors that were involved in the struggle and which were not explored here and deserve further research. One such factor is networks of support. Most activists did not face the situation completely on their own and they could often find support by talking with other

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black activists, with white activists and supporters, and sometimes with lawyers. Mandla Madwara’s account on this topic is rich and insightful and may motivate new research in this direction: . . . at one point when we were detained from one of the meetings from the bay committees and you got intimidated by the security police, they will tell you that you’re still young, you’ll spend the rest of your life in jail, and that they would really kill you now. And then you started to think whether, is it the time to stop . . . I think basically at that time also one of the therapies was to talk about your experience with your comrades and then you hear worse stories than yours and you feel that your story almost was nothing. And sometimes you would laugh about it and make it light and when you hear about other heroes who died in detention and the fact that sometimes they were buried as heroes, that was also a kind of a therapy; the fact that there are lawyers that can defend you and therefore basically there were some limited support systems. As long as people they know that you’ve been detained, there is a chance that you could be saved. The most fearful thing that I was scared of was being kidnapped by the security police because we know that there were people that just disappeared . . . And I think just the spirit of comradeship, you get a visit from Janet [Cherry]33 and other people, you talk about these things, then you get the encouragement as well. So it was not just about leaving everything to your own devices because fear is fear, you know, and at that time you were young so all sorts of thoughts would come to your head naturally. I mean we can’t be romanticizing these things, we are human beings. You get scared, you think about your parents and, as you said, your loved ones. But I think the affinity for the struggle was far much greater than the option of opting out. The level of consciousness was greater than the theory of justifying why you must opt out, and therefore if you opt out you’re rather safer. The fact that also your colleagues are still there carrying on, you know, now looking just from a peer point of view why you must opt out when they’re there as well, and that whole environment, you know, contributed in one’s decision to carry on, so it was a combination of those factors basically.34 Lastly, further research may be conducted on the inspiration and hope that activists drew from using video materials and telling stories about successful struggles elsewhere, such as the Castro’s Cuban revolution, Martin Luther King Jr. and the Montgomery bus boycott (and the US Civil Rights Movement more generally), the struggle in Zimbabwe, Angola, and more. Additional research can also be done on the way activists made effective connections between the larger struggle for recognition and daily issues around schools, township conditions, and the work place, in order to mobilize people in their immediate and day-to-day environments.

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Notes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

6. 7.

8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

14.

15.

16.

Author interview with Mike Xego, September 21, 2009. Author interview with Themba Mangqase, September 18, 2009. Author interview with Mike Xego, September 21, 2009. Author interview with Mthiwabo Ndube, September 21, 2009. For example, Harrison Masedi’s notes that “Another thing it [participation in a workers’ strike] did teach me is that we are so many different kinds of nations, so before the strike, if I am Tswana and the other one is Xhosa, if I saw him here in the street, suffering, I don’t care. But now, if I saw him there, I would just know that black is black, he’s my friend, so I must help him” (quoted in Frederikse 1986: 26). See also the discussion about the song Senzeni Na? below. Lungile Tabalaza died while in security police detention in 1978. Author interview with Zola Mtatsi, September 15, 2009. Note that the definition of “us,” namely, blacks, does not include blacks who were collaborating with the security forces. Blacks who were perceived to be working with the regime were targeted and many had to flee from their townships with their families; others were brutalized or killed. In the mid1980s these attacks reached a climax with the brutal way of killing known as “necklacing,” namely, killing by placing a burning wheel over one’s neck. Author interview with Black Consciousness activist, Moki Cekisani, September 17, 2009. Robben Island is located off the coast of Cape Town. It is also the name of the prison in which top ANC leaders, including Nelson Mandela, were imprisoned. Author interview with Mike Xego, September 23, 2009. Author interview with Nobuzwe Mofokeng, September 29, 2009. Author interview with Thabo Veto, September 16, 2009. Data for this chart comes from my interviews with 1976-generation activists (see Appendix B). Data was obtained from 17 activists; the remaining six were either beyond the age group or were no longer under their family supervision. For theoretical discussions on music and psychological effects see the papers in Juslin and Sloboda (2001) and especially Gabrielsson (2001); see also Denora (2001) and Brader (2005). Amandla: A Revolution in Four-Part Harmony (Hirsch et al. 2003) is an excellent documentary that vividly captures in audio and video the evolving role of music in the struggle against apartheid. See also Cherry (1993). This part of the research was initially informed and motivated by the documentary Amandla (Hirsch et al. 2003). Mike Vincent was gracious in sharing with me his Jasmin Films company archives, and he edited a special DVD for me with Freedom Songs of the 1980s and 1990s. The following analysis is also based on my interviews with participants and not least on my own participant observations of events commemorating the return of the remains of five young anti-apartheid activists who were murdered, burnt, and whose remains were discarded members of the apartheid’ security forces. The remains were brought to burial in Port Elizabeth and public events took place from midSeptember 2009 until October 3, 2009.

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22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32.

33. 34.

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Author interview with Stone Sizani, September 19, 2009. Author interview with Moki Cekisani, September 17, 2009. I owe this point to Janet Cherry. Ibid. Another song about being black is Vuyisile Mini’s “Nants’indod’inyama, Vorster” (Here comes the black man, Vorster!) which was written in the 1950s (Cherry 1993; Hirsch et al. 2003). Author interview with Lulu Johnson, September 17, 2009. Author interview with Mthiwabo Ndube, September 21, 2009. Author interview with Moki Cekisani, September 17, 2009. Author interview with Mike Xego, September 23, 2009. Author interview with Mike Ndzotoyi, September 16, 2009. Author interview with Sitoto Griffiths, September 28, 2009. Author interview with Mthiwabo Ndube, September 21, 2009. Author interview with Lulu Johnson, September 17, 2009. Author interview with Themba Mangqase, September 19, 2009. Author interview with Mzolisi Dyasi, September 16, 2009. Beyond the freedom songs and toyi-toyi, there were also influences of “illegal music” such as reggae (especially Bob Marley), rock music (e.g., Pink Floyd), the Beatles, and more. Activists drew from anything that could inspire and give hope to them and to others. Freedom songs, however, were the most prevalent and important. Janet Cherry, friend of Mandla Madwara and a leading anti-apartheid activist who also spent time in prison in the mid-1980s. Author interview with Mandla Madwara, September 21, 2009.

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8 Recognition Striving and Democratic Progress: An Integrative Approach In the preceding chapters I highlighted psychological factors that were involved in both the origins and the persistence of two landmark struggles against nondemocratic systems. In this chapter I offer theoretical observations on the connection between recognition striving and democratic progress. I begin by focusing on three internal sources of political contention, which are independent dispositions that underlie resistance actions. I then discuss the external sources of political contention, which are types of instigations and processes that come into conflict with the internal sources of political contention. I proceed by elaborating on two psychological facets of political contention: injustice-frames and resistance motivation. These concepts help to explain the multiple paths by which political contention can engender democratic progress. Finally, I specify three general causal mechanisms (or paths) that connect the psychological aspects of political contention with other factors that have been noted in the scholarship on democratic progress.

The Internal Sources of Political Contention Pursuit of social status, aversion to being dominated and humiliated, and defense of positive self-esteem are important dispositions that were observed in preceding chapters. We cannot fully understand the origins of political contention leading to democratic progress without considering the functions of these independent internal dispositions, as will be explained below.

Pursuit of Social Status and the Formation of Group-Identity The pursuit of higher social status and prestige may seem almost obvious to struggles against nondemocratic systems given that people generally prefer to be in a better or higher social position than in a lower one, let alone to be of low 150

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socioeconomic status which restricts life-opportunities and might threaten one’s physical and psychological well-being. Indeed, in the two case studies of this book, members of the oppressed group were striving to improve their social status, and this seems to apply to most, if not all, cases of inter-group conflict (see also Horowitz 1985; Huddy 2001, 2003; Tajfel and Turner 1979; Turner 1982). The nonobvious aspects of this social-psychological phenomenon are the individualistic nature of status striving, and the formation of group identity from this individual pursuit. Blacks in Montgomery and in Port Elizabeth were competing against each other more than they were competing as a group against whites prior to decisive moments that transformed this in-group competition into an inter-group struggle. In Montgomery, the black community was economically, geographically, and socially divided. Even in the field of religion, black Montgomerians prayed in churches according to their social standing.1 Similarly, before the Soweto events in 1976, young blacks in Port Elizabeth were competing with each other over access to the narrow social mobility paths that were offered to them by the apartheid Bantu education system. In a basic sense, the individualistic nature of the pursuit of social status is transformed into a collective pursuit of shared goals once certain cognitive shifts occur. Those shifts may be caused by a variety of contingent historic incidents, events, or processes (see below). In Montgomery, the incentive for action was the arrest of Rosa Parks, and in South Africa it was police brutality in Soweto. Yet those cognitive shifts may also occur through a more gradual process. The common denominator of these instigations is that they bring individuals to perceive their personal problems and others’ problems as collective problems (see also Evans 1980; Gamson 1992a, b). On the individual level, a person comes to see that he or she has issues, interests, and/or sympathies in common with other individuals who may have been perceived as dissimilar or possibly even disliked beforehand. Individuals’ perception of reality changes in the sense that they acquire a new understanding of what actually happens in their own life and in society, and this may also involve changes in how individuals evaluate their own capacity to change social and political realities that they have previously seen as unchangeable. These cognitive transformations are part and parcel of the formation of group (or social) identity. This suggests that group identity is generated not through abstract macro-factors and material configurations but primarily through personal experiences, social interactions, and real observations that feed into one’s self-conception. Through these actual experiences individuals either begin to see themselves as part of a group for the first time or their existing group identity gains new meanings.2 A related process that tends to accompany the pursuit of higher social status is the attempt to change negative meanings that may be associated with the individual’s relevant social category and self-conception and ascribe new positive meanings to that category. This finding is consistent with social identity theorists’ argument that group identity formation is rooted in the human desire to maintain positive self-esteem (Horowitz 1985; Tajfel and Turner 1979; Turner 1982). In Montgomery this manifested itself in King’s philosophy of the “New Negro” who finds dignity and

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pride in being black. Similarly, in South Africa group identity was strengthened along the lines of Black Consciousness philosophy which emphasized pride and self-respect in being black. The formation of group identity, thus, demonstrates that the pursuit of social status motivates social-psychological processes that play an important role in leading to democratic progress.

Aversion to being Dominated and Emotional Energies The aversion to being dominated is a central impetus for democratic progress. As the case studies show, an oppression and humiliation increase the potential for resistance because averse social relations tend to trigger strong emotional reactions that could be harnessed into mass mobilization. Although some degree of opposition to nondemocratic systems always exists, the actual degree of unrest both within a single individual, as well as in an aggregate of people within the relevant group, may fluctuate considerably. Changes in the level of unrest may occur due to various contingent historical factors. In Montgomery during the mid-1950s, for example, blacks were subjected to increasing humiliation inflicted on them by the bus drivers. In South Africa, the killings of children in Soweto and the police brutality elsewhere exposed the oppressive nature of the regime in a blatant and real manner to a new generation of black youth. This is not to say that the intensification of feelings of oppression and humiliation are sufficient to the outbreak of resistance activity and mass mobilization. Members of the oppressed group may experience the symptoms of increasing oppression and humiliation and yet be unaware of the causes of those feelings or unaware that other group members share such feelings. Perceptions of the source of harm are important in this regard. Growing oppression and humiliation open window opportunities for resistance actions. When a collective of people undergoes oppression and humiliation, knowingly or unknowingly, experiences of abuse, insult, or humiliation will more likely culminate in collective anger directed against a perceived (real or imagined) source of harm. Furthermore, in contexts of increasing humiliation or sudden dramatic events of oppression, it is more likely that group members will gain a new understanding of their situation and develop new or stronger group solidarity. Awareness of others’ shared experiences is not that obvious as events of abuse and humiliation can escape the attention of group members either because the abused person prefers not to make his or her story known, or because communication channels of the group are controlled and blocked by the authorities, or because news does not spread fast enough due to various contingent factors. An experience of humiliation or other forms of active denial of recognition can elicit strong emotions such as moral indignation, empathy and sympathy for abused people, anger and rage, hate and revenge. Emotions that are triggered by an experience of oppression, or a perception of basic denial of recognition, are central to

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resistance activity and collective action. Emotions can push and pull people to action or to abstain from action, and they can also have an impact on the cognitive system in areas such as reasoning and attention (see also Damasio 1995; Jasper 2007; Lau 2003; Marcus 2003; Westen 2007). Emotions are involved in chemical and electric physical conditions in the body (e.g., levels of serotonin and adrenalin) and brain (e.g., activation of certain parts of the brain). Certain emotions such as enthusiasm and anger can override cognitive calculations and types of rationality, while other emotions such as fear or anxiety can hinder action. In essence, emotions are a form of energy and in context of social and political struggles that involve action they can be termed emotional energies. One type of emotional energy is action-oriented feelings that can overcome fear and elicit action. This type of emotional energy is the boost of electricity, so to speak, that is needed to kick-start uprisings and the fuel that keeps social movements going. I will discuss the issue of emotions in more detail in the next section in relation to the mechanisms of self-esteem.

Mechanisms of Self-Esteem The topic of self-esteem has much theoretical and practical importance to democratic progress. Three conditions of self-esteem can be identified in relation to the potential for resistance actions leading to democratic progress (see Diagram 2). One prevalent condition is general positive self-esteem regarding the sum domains in one’s life (domains such as work, family, sports, and social activities) but with neutral or low domain-specific self-esteem regarding the domain of politics. In this condition, a person can choose a strategy of detachment or disengagement from the domain of politics because he or she does not care much about it. In addition, the person may hold the belief that he or she has no control over this domain and hence chooses to avoid threats to self-esteem similar to avoiding a sports competition in which one knows that he or she is bound to lose or finish in last place (see also Bandura 1977, 1982). In this condition of self-esteem, reactions to possible instigations associated with the political system are apathy and indifference and therefore the outcome is inaction and passivity. A second condition is negative domain-specific self-esteem in relation to politics and also general negative self-esteem. General negative self-esteem can be related to the domain of politics if a person cannot detach or disengage from the negative psychological effects of this domain or if other domains in one’s life cannot compensate for these detrimental effects. Alternatively, general negative self-esteem can result from low socioeconomic conditions and the lack of life opportunities that deprive a person from a sense of efficacy and vitality. This condition is sometimes accompanied by socially induced inferiority complexes by which one sees oneself as unable to accomplish socially esteemed goals and incapable to improve one’s situation, namely, low self-esteem (or low self-efficacy, see Bandura 1977, 1982). Under this condition one may also see oneself as unworthy of a better life relative

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Diagram 2 Conditions of Self-Esteem and Political Resistance

to those who are better off, or even as deserving a lower status. Such inferiority complexes were common among blacks before the Montgomery bus boycott and prior to the Soweto uprising. When a person in this low self-esteem condition is confronted or threatened by the system, the resulting emotions are likely to be anxiety, fear, helplessness, or despair. Therefore, this condition discourages resistance and leads to inaction and passivity. It might also involve negative clinical and social phenomena (see discussion on positive self-esteem as a basic human need in Chapter 2). The third general condition is the most conducive to political behavior leading to democratic progress. In this condition, the person has general positive self-esteem but negative domain-specific self-esteem in relation to politics. The person is either unable to dissociate from politics (e.g., the involvement of family or close friends, encroachment by state agents or policies, etc.) or he or she chooses not to disengage from politics. In this condition, the person is sensitive to the domain of politics because this domain threatens the person’s general self-esteem. People of both general and high self-esteem (that is, people who generally evaluate themselves positively and have high self-evaluations of their capabilities to act effectively to improve their situation) are especially likely to confront threats to their self-esteem, and vice versa. It has already been demonstrated that confidence in personal abilities (or high self-efficacy) affects expectations of outcomes, performance, and hence affects the outcome itself (Bandura 1977, 1982). Furthermore, Bandura showed that “[j]udgments of self-efficacy also determine how much effort people will expend and how long they will persist in the face of obstacles or aversive experiences”

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(Bandura 1982: 122). Contrary to the two previous conditions, a person of positive and high self-esteem who confronts instigations is more likely to respond against the perceived source of harm and to attempt to improve one’s situation. There are two additional psychological mechanisms that should be emphasized in relation to self-esteem. The first mechanism is the positive feelings of pride and joy that many activists draw from participation in resistance activity. Taking pride in action is often an emotional benefit which demonstrates how the pursuit of positive self-esteem can facilitate and maintain long-term resistance activity (see also Wood 2001). People who have endured severe economic neglect and social problems, and as a consequence suffer from general negative self-esteem, can also enjoy boosts to their self-esteem by engaging in local or national struggles and as such, they develop a commitment to the struggle more generally. The struggle itself becomes an avenue for reasserting their sense of dignity, self-respect, and social recognition. No less important is the mechanism that causes negative feelings when an activist contemplates quitting the struggle. This is the flipside of the previous mechanism and yet distinct and in certain contexts could be more powerful. It is not easy to disengage from politics after one has already experienced humiliation firsthand or defined the struggle as a central objective. A person who was involved in the struggle, or whose friends were involved, could experience feelings of shame or guilt about ending the struggle. That person may feel deep guilt and other negative emotions when confronted with the possibility of quitting especially if he or she has lost close friends or seen peers sacrifice their lives or life-opportunities in the process. Even those who did not lose close friends can find it difficult to quit the struggle after the system has been exposed in a new light. If a person suddenly experiences the system through confrontation and violence or if a new way of seeing the system comes about through another form of experience, event, or process then stopping the struggle can become more difficult than continuing it. This mechanism is somewhat similar to an obsession with revenge against a perpetrator of harm. The psychological process that appears to be occurring in the two mechanisms above is that a person’s self-esteem becomes tied to and defined by the willingness to continue the struggle and to achieve certain objectives. Namely, carrying on with the struggle maintains and sometimes even boosts the activist’s self-esteem whereas the option of voluntarily stopping the struggle threatens the person’s self-esteem and is accompanied by negative sensations that tend to pull one away from such option. The activist’s honor, pride, and social esteem are at stake in his or her own self-perception, as well as in the perception of the activist’s peers. These psychological mechanisms are apparent in both the Montgomery bus boycott and the struggle against apartheid in Port Elizabeth. The P.E. activists could not stop the struggle due to the sacrifices of their peers who were killed or had been sentenced to life in prison. In Montgomery, the leaders of the boycott maintained momentum for the struggle by frequently appealing to people’s sense of self-esteem and stressing that the participants’ dignity, pride, and continued social recognition by wide

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audiences inside and outside Montgomery depended on the persistence of the struggle. This is an example of a conscious attempt to tie self-esteem to struggle goals and to structure positive and negative feelings in relation to the continuation of the struggle. The integration and maintenance of struggle goals in one’s overall self-esteem, as the examples above illustrate, are related to concrete experiences and reminders in one’s life. These reminders can take the form of regular mass meetings or other forms of mass communication, such as the media, in which a cognitive connection between self-esteem and certain goals is reinforced. Institutionalized ways of generating and reinforcing this connection are through products and innovations in various forms of culture, such as visual art and music, which can shape political consciousness. Music is often very effective in this context because it is experiential in nature and its physiological-psychological aspects may amplify political messages, as explained in Chapter 7 (see also Juslin and Sloboda 2001; Gabrielsson 2001; Denora 2001; Brader 2005). Not least important are daily interactions and conversations between members of the group, and daily experiences with out-group members, such as law enforcement agents. These experiences and discussions are probably the most prevalent aspect of reminding people what the struggle is about. In this way the struggle becomes part of daily life and the link with self-esteem is perpetuated. These mechanisms of connecting struggle goals to selfesteem exist in other forms of inter-group conflict, including intractable conflict (Bar-Tal 2007: 1444–1445). The three general conditions of self-esteem that were specified are not static. A person can experience changes in, and move between, these self-esteem conditions due to the dynamics of struggle. For example, an unsuccessful and discouraging resistance attempt may cause a person to disassociate from politics in order to protect physical and psychological well-being. Alternatively, a person who has been apathetic or unconcerned about the political system may be drawn into a struggle following new information, moral shock, positive experience in bringing about change, or other personal experiences. That person’s general self-esteem is likely to be affected or even to become dominated by the domain of politics. The important point is that the transition between the different conditions of self-esteem affects the propensity of the person toward resistance actions and the susceptibility to mobilization. In fact, it can be concluded that a major psychological change associated with the appearance of social movements and organized resistance activity is the transition to a situation in which struggle objectives become tied to a person’s maintenance, defense, and pursuit of positive self-esteem.

The External Sources of Political Contention In the previous section I explained the internal workings of psychological factors in the context of politics and democratic progress. In this section I elaborate five types of external instigations that may clash with and trigger the psychological

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dispositions of the pursuit of recognition. Instigations are actions, practices, incidents, events, or processes that come to be perceived as threatening or diminishing self-esteem. These external factors may give rise to resistance actions only to the extent that they come into conflict with or trigger the internal psychological factors that were explained above. The first general factor involves acts of humiliation against oppressed people. Acts of humiliation are attempts to diminish another person’s social esteem and selfworth, and to inflict or maintain self-perceptions of inferiority in that person (see also Femenia 2007). Acts of humiliation may be organized and planned by the authorities as public rituals in order to test or to confirm the degree of submissiveness among the oppressed. When the oppressed cooperate with certain demeaning public rituals they signal a confirmation of submissiveness to the authorities, and vice versa (see also Scott 1990). Alternatively, acts of humiliation may be sporadic and unplanned. Members of the group may suffer humiliation by low-ranking employees (e.g., bus drivers) who give vent to their own frustrations against the people with whom they come in daily contact. This type of social interaction can occur under the open and approving eye of the regime or alternatively despite and against the interests and formal policies of the ruling elite. Feelings of humiliation can find their expression in several ways. The humiliated person might give expression to these feelings by directing anger towards his or her own environment (e.g., family or close community) unconsciously. Alternatively, the person might become consumed with hate and obsessed with anger and might also suffer from diminished psychological and physical well-being. Another option is that feelings of anger, rage, or hate caused by a sense of humiliation will be directed toward the perceived source of harm and its proxies. Given the right contingent factors (e.g., timing), a shared feeling of humiliation or empathy with and sympathy to a group member who was humiliated, may explode in the form of a disorganized violent uprising or a coordinated nonviolent collective action. A shared experience of humiliation, either sudden or ongoing, may also produce new frames of understanding the degree of injustice in the system (see below). The second general type of instigation is state actions, which refers to the actions or policies taken by representatives of a nondemocratic system at the level of the town, city, or state. These actions may be preconceived and carefully planned or they may be the result of policy mistakes with unforeseen consequences. The forced introduction of Afrikaans in black South African schools in March 1976 is a striking example of a policy mistake resulting from overconfidence and vanity on the part of the government. As a result, the best black pupils who were striving to succeed through the system turned against the system and became the leaders of the 1976generation in the struggle against apartheid. The policy was revoked only after the damage to the system (in the eyes of the system itself) had been done and this forced the government to introduce reforms in apartheid. Other general examples of such policy mistakes are state brutality; the ruling elite’s insulting dismissals of the oppressed; and the ruling elite’s unwillingness to compromise on insignificant issues.3

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The third general source of contention is the dynamics of struggle, namely, the ongoing interactions between activists and their targets. This category refers to a wide spectrum of events and processes that intensify existing struggles against nondemocratic systems and in which repression often backfires. The dynamics of struggle, thus, include the related cycles of protest, the sequences of escalating protest activity that spread through society and in which the speed of contention is the outcome of interactions between protest movements (Tarrow 1994; Snow and Benford 1992; Tilly 2007). The importance of the dynamics of struggle is that they draw into the cycle of resistance, members who were uninvolved or unaffected. A real-life experience with the struggle can change the perception and emotions of a newly involved person regarding the system. The experience could be positive in the sense that the individual feels joy, satisfaction, achievement, empowerment, and draws pride from joining the struggle. Alternatively, the experience might be negative and may expose the person to a new side of the system, which the person may have not known or experienced before. This type of social interaction can spread resistance in society and escalate the level of contention. In these situations, the changing dynamics of struggles become the defining factors of contention. Struggles gain a life of their own and the objectives of the struggle can become entangled with activists’ self-esteem through contentious social dynamics. Under the dynamics of struggle one can also include various mechanisms of groupidentity formation and elements of inter-group conflict including the construction of a culture of conflict, collective memory, ethos of conflict, siege mentality, and more.4 The fourth source of contention can arise from transformative events (McAdam and Sewell 2001; Morris 2000). Transformative events are dramatic and symbolic events that substantially change the degree and sense of injustice and motivation for resistance in the population. This concept was coined by McAdam and Sewell who note that “the key feature of transformative events is that they come to be interpreted as significantly disrupting, altering, or violating the taken-for-granted assumptions governing routine political and social relations” (2001: 112—original emphasis). Transformative events change attitudes of complacency or even agreement with nondemocratic systems or practices into widespread attitudes of dissatisfaction and rejection among the oppressed. As such, transformative events “can produce radical turning points in collective action and affect the outcome of social movements” (Morris 2000: 452). Notwithstanding similarities between the two phenomena, transformative events differ from “dynamics of struggle” in two main ways. First, the magnitude of transformative events distinguishes their causal importance compared to other events and dynamics in the sense that transformative events affect the political outlook and emotional energies of masses of people in a very short period of time. These events constitute a departure from previous patterns of political thinking and behavior, and levels of radicalization. Transformative events can also be seen as tipping points (Gladwell 2000) in which the political environment is irreversibly transformed and radicalized. December 5, 1955 in Montgomery, AL., and June 16, 1976 in Soweto are clear examples of transformative events.

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Second, transformative events may also be external to the political system and hence independent of the actions of the oppressed and the ruling elite. These latter types of events may be termed external transformative events. Probably the most well-known example of multiple external transformative events is the collapse of the Eastern Soviet block in 1989. The democratic revolutions of 1989, which began in Poland, spilled over into Hungary, West Germany, the former Czechoslovakia, Bulgaria, Romania, and eventually led to the collapse of the Soviet Union itself. These events invigorated democratic progress in other parts of the world as well. Various terms were used to describe this phenomenon in political science: contagion, diffusion, emulation, domino effects, snowballing or demonstration effects (Huntington 1991: 100). Yet the argument is essentially the same whatever term is chosen. A sudden direct experience (positive or negative) within one nondemocratic system can generate political contention in other locations because people are significantly shocked and angered, inspired and encouraged, or suddenly come to believe that the time to rebel has come, and that liberation is imminent. A fifth possible source of contention may arise from exacerbating macro-factors, which are events or processes that occur on a macro-scale of the economy, state structures, or demography. A meltdown of the economy, a breakdown of state services and infrastructure such as health services, water supply, electricity, sewers, overcrowding, and similar factors can possibly worsen the lives of people living under nondemocratic systems. When such processes or events occur, more people may possibly come to perceive the political system as the source of their personal predicament, given the right framing of the situation.5 Alternatively, the political system and the ruling elite can lose their sources of legitimacy if these are primarily based on economic performance and provision of services (Haggard and Kaufman 1997). There are nevertheless limitations and problems with explanations that rely on macro-factors. I discuss these issues in more detail in the next chapter. Here, I submit the possibility that in certain cases macro-factors can sometimes have a facilitative impact on generating or exacerbating existing contention that eventually leads to struggles for democratic progress.

Injustice-Frames and Resistance Motivation In the previous sections I discussed the internal and external sources of political contention. Yet the concept of political contention itself is complex and has multiple relations to democratic progress. In order to better understand these connections, I first elaborate on two main elements: injustice-frames and resistance motivation. The causal mechanisms that connect these two elements to the outcome of democratic progress are explained in the next section. When external instigations clash with internal dispositions, the interaction produces two interrelated outcomes in the context of democratic progress (see Diagram 3). The first outcome is the development of injustice-frames. Injusticeframes are defined here as a set of political attitudes consisting of values, norms, and ideas by which the oppressed define their problems and then ascribe their

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grievances to certain individuals, groups, systems, or practices. Specifically, injustice-frames connect one’s personal grievances with a target and determine the degree to which the target is perceived to be unjust and illegitimate. As such, injustice-frames are essentially cognitive maps by which individuals develop moral expectations and sensitivities regarding their interactions with others.6 Instigations can change injustice-frames in two ways. They can bring oppressed individuals to adjust their injustice-frames and accept harsher moral standards and practices. The result of such cognitive adjustments are less sensitivity to certain instigations and hence fewer prospects for resistance activity. On the other hand, instigations can form injustice-frames with heightened expectations and sensitivities to violations of old and new moral standards. Put differently, practices and norms that have been accepted may cease to be tolerated following certain instigations and could even come to be seen as forms of humiliation. New standards, ideologies, or expectations may suddenly become prevalent following a collective experience of humiliation, state action, dynamics of struggle, or a transformative event. There could be far reaching changes even in people’s perceptions of what human dignity means and entails due to historical developments. The legal, political, and philosophical meanings of human dignity have developed substantially during the last two hundred years and quite remarkably following the utter disregard and violations of human worth during World War II. Since this harsh period in recent human history, human rights standards that give concrete content to human dignity in national and international human rights instruments have emerged and have broadened substantially (Shultziner 2003). The development of injustice-frames is important to resistance activity both directly and indirectly. The direct way will be discussed in the following section dealing with causal mechanisms. The indirect way involves the relation between cognition and action-related emotions. The clash-potential between oppressed people and nondemocratic systems increases when injustice-frames develop and people are more sensitive to attempts to diminish their self-worth; or alternatively, when people’s standards about what constitutes threats to self-esteem become more sensitive. This cognitive platform mediates between external instigations and the emotional reactions that are necessary for resistance activity. Perhaps the best way to observe the importance of injustice-frames is after transformative events. Both the Montgomery bus boycott and the reinvigoration of the struggle against apartheid in 1976 began in transformative events that radically changed the way the oppressed thought about themselves and about the system. Following December 5, 1955 in Montgomery, African Americans could no longer tolerate any mistreatment on the buses; and, following June 16, 1976 in South Africa, the black schools were seen as institutions of oppression by many black pupils. Accordingly, long-standing norms and practices became sources of anger that fueled resistance activity. New injustice-frames, thus, can result from experiences of mistreatment by out-group members or agents of the political system and thereby set the targets for retaliation or revenge against nondemocratic systems and practices.7

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The second outcome of the clash between external instigations and internal dispositions of self-esteem is the development of resistance motivation, which is the degree of motivation to engage in resistance actions leading to democratic progress. Resistance motivation can also be seen as a state of mind that prepares and propels one to oppose, act against, or reform unjust practices and systems.8 A person can have a developed injustice-frame but be unwilling or unmotivated to do anything about it. Central to resistance motivation are emotional energies. These emotions tend to push one in the direction of action and, as such, they are at the heart of political action. Different emotions may be an impetus for action at different stages of a given struggle. Anger, rage, and enthusiasm may provide the initial impetus for action whereas emotions of pride and desire for self-respect and social recognition may keep people in struggles after initial emotions have subdued. However, resistance motivation does not consist of or depend solely on emotions; it also has a cognitive side. There are many cognitive impediments to resistance action: fear of punishment and anxiety9; being unaware of others’ similar experiences; not believing in the prospects of protest success or in one’s capacity to make a difference; and choosing other coping mechanisms such as detachment from the source of harm. Yet there are also cognitive incentives for action: a sense of positive prospects for success and liberation; a heightened sense of purpose and solidarity; new framing tactics; and higher self-esteem (Aminzade and McAdam 2001; Chong and Druckman 2007b; Gamson 1991, 1992b; Gross and D’Ambrosio 2004; Huddy et al. 2007; Marcus 2003; McAdam 1982: 40–51; McGraw 2003; Taber 2003). Resistance motivation is not a constant factor; it is a matter of degree and development. It can culminate in short periods of strong emotional reactions to experiences of humiliation and transformative events. This usually finds its expression in uprisings and short cycles of mass mobilization. Alternatively, protest motivation can increase or decrease more slowly. Whereas resistance motivation is necessary for resistance activity (almost by definition given that a person who resists is motivated to do so), it is impossible to define a specific degree of resistance motivation which is sufficient for the emergence of resistance activity. Paradoxically, an oppressed person may be highly aggrieved but might be unaware of similar feelings and experiences among group members or these people may not yet attribute the source of their agitation to the political system. Furthermore, high degrees of protest motivation are hard if not impossible to maintain over the long haul. While a dose of anger is very conducive to resistance activity, an overdose of continuous and uncontrollable anger can have detrimental affects on a person’s normal life and healthy interactions with society. The impetus for resistance activity usually changes during the course of a struggle. Typically a struggle begins with a surge of action-oriented emotions that give rise to uprisings or short waves of mass mobilization. The initial negative emotions are supplemented or replaced by more positive emotions such as pride, enthusiasm, and joy that keep the momentum. After initial emotional energies subside,

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resistance motivation becomes regulated by mechanisms of self-esteem. Namely, the continuation of the struggle becomes an important domain that affects a person’s general self-esteem. Resistance action maintains or boosts self-esteem and the thought of stopping threatens a person’s self-esteem and invokes negative emotions and negative self-conceptions such as betrayal, defeat, and unworthiness (see more in the section Stages of Democratic Progress and their Levels of Analysis in Chapter 9).

Psychological Factors and Causal Mechanisms So far I have delineated the internal and external origins of political contention and have elaborated on the outcome of this contention in the form of two psychological factors, injustice-frames and resistance motivation. The next stage is to elaborate on the paths leading from these two factors to democratic progress. This relationship is normally termed causal mechanisms or causal paths. There are three broad causal mechanisms by which injustice-frames and resistance motivation lead to democratic progress: pressure on ruling elites; direct action; and facilitative factors. The three mechanisms are complementary and can exist within the same case study simultaneously or during different periods in the same struggle. This part of the discussion also integrates contributions from other fields of scholarship.

Pressure on Ruling Elites: Public Opinion and the Threat of Political Upheaval Injustice-frames and resistance motivation are by themselves sources of political instability and destabilization. Injustice-frames directly affect the level of legitimacy that a political system enjoys and hence the system’s strength and power. A basic premise in political science is that legitimacy—people’s acceptance of a political system, law, or authority as valid—is an important component of the ability to govern and to maintain structural integrity (e.g., Lipset 1959: 86–87). Internal legitimacy is a central pillar of power. The type and degree of power that ruling elites can command depends on the amount of legitimacy that they enjoy. Systems that lack popular legitimacy are forced to rely more on military power to enforce their rule. Systems that enjoy popular legitimacy can utilize it to mobilize supporters and to implement policies. External or international legitimacy is also a source of power that affects the degree of resources and networks available to political elites. Especially since the second half of the twentieth century, international legitimacy has increasingly become an important component in a regime’s power and a main concern with practical effects as such (e.g., Brown 2002; Bratton 1999). Resistance motivation is an additional potential source of political instability as it is the potential fuel of popular uprisings, violence, and revolutions. In fact, the reason that ruling elites are concerned about the degree of motivation to resist their rule, even if it is not manifested in activity, is precisely because of the unpredictable,

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eruptive, disruptive, and destabilizing potential of these factors. The degree of resistance motivation in people affects such factors as the degree and type of resistance activities, the ability to recruit and mobilize activists, the amount of sacrifice that individuals are willing to take, and the degree of solidarity among activists. Therefore, resistance motivation also determines the degrees and types of pressures that are brought to bear on a nondemocratic system, with implications for the ability of unelected ruling elites to prevent democratic progress. The loss of legitimacy and the threat of political upheaval constitute one path in which injustice-frames and resistance motivation may cause democratic progress through pressure on ruling elites (see Diagram 3). Ruling elites’ perceptions of injustice-frames and resistance motivation in the population is central in this respect. Ruling elites who are aware or perceive that they are facing an ever-growing circle of motivated people, who demand political change, often do not wait until a wide cycle of protest ensues. Elites act precisely because they fear the dangerous potentialities and consequences involved in high degrees of injustice-frames and resistance motivation in the populace. While one possible reaction to this political concern is increased suppression, another typical outcome is to initiate democratic progress and prevent a probable or anticipated political upheaval. In Spain, for example, the ongoing struggle against Francoism in the late 1960s and into the 1970s gradually eroded the legitimacy of the ruling elite, primarily due

Diagram 3 An Integrative Approach to Democratic Progress

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to its inability to restore peace and order (Balfour 1990; Bermeo 1997; Blinkhorn 1990; Carr and Fusi 1981; Foweraker 1989; Maravall 1978; Powel 1990; Preston 1986). At no point did the types and levels of resistance activity pose the serious threat of a violent removal of the Francoist elite. Nevertheless, the continued struggle gradually shifted public opinion and decreased the legitimacy of Francoism to the point of near evaporation. Opinion polls from that period show that public acceptance of political parties rose from 12 percent in 1971, to 37 percent in 1973, 56 percent in April 1975, and to 67 percent in May 1976 (López Pintor 1980: 14). More importantly, interviews conducted with Francoist transition-leaders confirmed that the evaporation of legitimacy, and increasing pressures involved in maintaining public order, did have a decisive impact on their initiative to vote themselves out of power, and commit what former transition Prime Minister Adolfo Suárez termed “political suicide” (Alexander 2002: 150–151; Preston 1986: 101). That is to say, injustice-frames and resistance motivation can force unelected elites to democratize the system similar to the way public opinion can force democratically elected officials to change their policies or to step down from their positions altogether. In the context of the global human rights regime (Donnelly 1982), the questions is not if unelected power holders are affected by internal and external public opinion; the question is to what extent they are and how (see also Keck and Sikkink 1998). Ruling elites are more likely to be forced to democratize the system (partially or fully) when their legitimacy is absent or very low, or when the eruptive potential of resistance motivation becomes salient. Beyond Spain, Cape Verde (1991), Croatia (1999), Guyana (1990–1992), Indonesia (1998–1999), South Korea (1987), and Taiwan (1992) are examples of this causal path (Karatnycky and Ackerman 2005). In these cases, ruling elites anticipated that their reign would increasingly become unmanageable or severely difficult to maintain, or they lacked enough legitimacy to remain in power in the long haul given the challenges they faced. In order to avoid worse-case scenarios, these ruling elites decided to initiate democratic progress. The calculations of power holders depend on their estimations and perceptions of the degree of injustice-frames and resistance motivation in the population. Ruling elites may come to perceive that there is an urgent need for democratic progress due to real information about people’s attitude and motivations (e.g., possible uprisings). Alternatively, ruling elites may deem democratic progress inevitable because of false or partial knowledge, exaggeration of the threat of uprising, making decisions under high uncertainly and stress, and due to other factors that may become involved in the decision-making process.10 While these actions of unelected ruling elites may sometimes appear voluntary, they are typically the result of pressure generated by injustice-frames and resistance motivation.

Direct Action, Resistance Activity, Social Movements, and Resistance Skills and Tactics The second mechanism in which injustice-frames and resistance motivation are involved in democratic progress is by motivating resistance activities, resistance movements, and to new resistance tactics. Indeed, there is no clear reason why

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people would join costly and risky struggles against nondemocratic systems, the price of which is often severe. Rational individuals would be better-off not to act themselves but to free-ride on a collective good for which they did not struggle (see also Klandermans 2003). Strong resistance motivation consisting of emotions and self-esteem mechanisms provides the impetus for resistance activity and the irrational incentive to overcome the cognitive inhibitions and rational calculations that might otherwise discourage activists from enduring these costs and risks. Injustice-frames and resistance motivation may be converted into political pressures leading to democratic progress in various forms of direct action, such as social movements and nonviolent action, through mass mobilization and tactical maneuvers, and through media means. High degrees of resistance motivation in the population can erupt in a surge of resistance leading to a democratic revolution in which people’s power movements force nondemocratic elites to step down or to adopt a democratic constitution. Such was the case in the Philippines in 1986, South Korea in 1987, Chile in 1988, the former Czechoslovakia in 1989, Benin in 1990, Thailand in 1992, Indonesia in 1999, Yugoslavia in 2000, and recent democratic revolutions in central Asia (Karatnycky and Ackerman 2005; Binnendijk and Marovic 2006; Kuzio 2006; Bunce and Wolchik 2007, 2008). This pattern does not require negotiations with power holders who are often too discredited to negotiate. In extreme cases of a democratic revolution, the former power holders may even be executed (e.g., Ceausescu in Romania 1989). Alternatively, direct action can expose worldwide (via networks and media channels) the degree of illegitimacy and contention toward a nondemocratic system and this may force nondemocratic elites to step down, to declare new elections, to draft a new constitution, or to allow more freedom in the public sphere. Direct action against nondemocratic systems tends to be most effective when it is organized and carefully planned. Especially in the second half of the twentieth century, the most successful path to democratic progress appears to have been collective-action organized by nonviolent social movements. Freedom House research from 2005 reveals that “[t]he force of [nonviolent] civil resistance was a key factor in driving 50 of 67 transitions” from authoritarian rule (Karatnycky and Ackerman 2005: 6; see also Stephan and Chenoweth 2008). The deepening of injustice-frames and the heightening of resistance motivation in citizens are the factors that underlie the emergence, strength, and success of resistance activity and social mobilization. The more illegitimate the system is perceived in the population, and the more motivated the people are to resist it, the higher the prospects of the formation (or strengthening) of social movements, of successful mobilization, and of sustaining resistance activity in the face of danger and costs. Put simply, social movements often reflect, and are the outcome of, increases in injustice-frames and resistance motivation in the relevant population. In the Montgomery bus struggle, the surge of injustice-frames and resistance motivation following Rosa Parks’ arrest gave rise to the Montgomery Improvement Association, which was the main vehicle for organizing the struggle and negotiating with the city officials. In South Africa following the 1976–1977 uprisings, the struggle gave rise to numerous civil society organizations that sustained the struggle into the 1980s.

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Yet once formed and underway, social movements and entrepreneurial activists often play an independent function in augmenting, deepening, and radicalizing injustice-frames and resistance motivation.11 Social movement activists achieve this goal by using their social networks and utilizing international networks. For example, media exposure of the cruelty of nondemocratic systems to international audiences has been skillfully used as a boomerang weapon of the weak against nondemocratic systems (Keck and Sikkink 1998: 12–13). In this context, the media is a main vehicle to disseminate injustice-frames and heighten resistance motivation as well as a main forum for using shared social narratives (or master-frames) as tactical tools to mobilize public support, delegitimize opponents, set political agendas, and generally pressure nondemocratic elites (Chong and Druckman 2007a, b; Gamson 1991, 1992a, b, 1998; Levin 2005; Ryan and Gamson 2006; Snow and Benford 1992). Finally, injustice-frames and resistance motivation propel entrepreneurial activists to learn, invent, innovate, and plan resistance skills and techniques, as well as to analyze the weak aspects of the nondemocratic system and execute carefully thoughtout plans. This tactical component is often key to the initiation and success or failure of struggles.12 New political opportunities can emerge from a deep political crisis that was planned and skillfully executed in good timing. Examples range from Gandhi’s nonviolent resistance against English rule, to the descent of hundreds of thousands of Serbs on Belgrade to depose Milosevic from power in 2000 (Popovic et al. 2006) and many more in between. Indeed, a wealth of evidence from the study of social movements and contentious politics demonstrates the importance of human agency in generating political change despite the most unfavorable conditions (Ackerman and DuVall 2000; Roberts and Garton Ash 2009; Zunes et al. 2004). It is important to note that the tactical component can work both ways. Just as activists can and do plan their actions and analyze the weak points of the political system, so too can unelected ruling elites. Both sides can succeed and fail in choosing tactics. Bad choices may backfire against ruling elites and escalate the struggle and bad choices on the part of the opposition might bring a struggle to an end prematurely. The more skillful, organized, and innovative activists are, the better able they will be in confronting challenges from their opponents and hence the more likely they are to succeed in obtaining their objectives. Yet a high degree of uncertainty and unpredictable outcomes surely accompany struggles against a nondemocratic system for both power holders and their opponents, and usually only in retrospect can we tell what was a good decision and what was a bad decision for either side.

Facilitative Factors The third causal mechanism involves facilitative factors. Facilitative factors are the medium by which resistance actions are converted and amplified into political pressures leading to democratic progress. I briefly delineate three facilitative factors: international pressures, structural strain, and cleavages within the ruling elite (see also Diagram 3).

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Often, resistance activity causes international pressures from other states, the United Nations, various NGOs, and international publics. International pressures may shame, pressure, threaten, or force a nondemocratic system to democratize. For example, international pressures on apartheid were largely reactions to the degree of contention within South Africa: sanctions, condemnations, and disinvestments were markedly punctuated by the longitude and magnitude of resistance activity (Schock 2005: 84–88; Stultz 1987, 1991). These international pressures were one of the factors that facilitated negotiations between the government and the opposition. Similarly, major events in the US Civil Rights Movement drew fire from international allies and foes, and also served to pressure the federal government to act against the Jim Crow system (McAdam 2007; Skrentny 1998). The scholarship on this issue with relation to democratic progress shows that “[b]y leveraging more powerful institutions, weak groups gain influence far beyond their ability to influence state policies directly” (Keck and Sikkink 1998: 23). The abilities and skills of protest groups to use the media and utilize international pressure to their benefits are key in this context. A second facilitative factor is structural strain. Resistance activity can create various structural strains, such as burdening the state security forces, preventing implementation of policies, and depleting state resources. Widespread protests, for instance, may require channeling armed forces from the busy state borders to internal law enforcement missions. Passive resistance, such as various forms of noncooperation and strikes, can severely damage the state economy and deprive the ruling elite of important resources needed to maintain power and quell resistance in the long run. These structural strains often factor into the considerations and calculations of ruling elites when they consider whether or not to allow or to initiate political reform. Such were, for example, some of the considerations of power holders in Spain (Powel 1990) and in South Africa (Giliomee 1995; Price 1991) who realized that ongoing civil resistance was causing grave structural damages. A third facilitative factor that results from resistance activity is cleavages within the ruling elite. Weaknesses or indecision on the side of the ruling elite may facilitate negotiations with the opposition or it may lead to unilateral reforms in hopes of avoiding a worse situation. The cohesiveness and uniformity of opinion among ruling elites tend to break down when they face a surge of civil resistance and political crises. Cleavages will be created or significantly intensified by structural strains and international pressures resulting from civil resistance. For example, in Mali in 1991 the army eventually refused to obey the military elite after a series of confrontations with, and the shooting of, unarmed demonstrators. This led to a military coup and the drafting of a democratic constitution. In Hungary, resistance activity deepened cleavages within the ruling elite and led to roundtable talks with the opposition in 1988, and a new surge of protest in 1990 led to the collapse of the old order and to a full transition to democracy. In Poland and South Africa, civil resistance also led to negotiations with the Solidarity movement and the ANC, respectively, and talks then led to democratic elections and constitutional reforms. Contrary to previous assumptions, strong resistance activity is not a hindrance to democratic progress.

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Strong and enduring resistance is the prime factor in forcing ruling elites to the negotiating table and getting them to making concessions that they would otherwise not have made (for further discussion about elite factors and democratic progress see Alexander 2002; Bermeo 1997; Carothers 2002; Friedheim 1993; O’Donnell and Schmitter 1986; O’Donnell 2002; Share and Mainwaring 1986). The common denominator of these three facilitative factors is that they are all results of resistance activity. Thus, resistance activity can bring about democratic progress indirectly (i.e., in comparison to a democratic revolution) by severing vital sources of political power at home and abroad from the state, by spurring structural strains, and by creating or deepening cleavages within the ruling elite. These facilitative factors are mediums by which resistance activity amplifies pressures on ruling elites to democratize the political system. The foregoing discussion and chapters suggest why an integrative approach to democratic progress can be useful in the study of this complex and broad phenomenon. Parts of this approach are likely to be relevant in explaining other social and political phenomena because the psychological aspects that were highlighted are not unique to democratic progress. In the next chapter I discuss additional theoretical reflections and conclusions about the complex nature of democratic progress, its stages, and levels of analysis.

Notes 1. The practice of affiliation to a religious congregation based on one’s socioeconomic status is still prevalent in the United States and elsewhere. One such filter to membership is the differential membership fees which different congregations charge. 2. An extensive literature exists about intricate processes of individual identity and collective identity formation, the relationship between the two, the role of the media in this relationship, and how these factors are converted to collective action (Abdelal et al. 2006; Bar-Tal 2007; Gamson 1992a, b; Hobson 2003; Huddy 2001, 2004; Melucci 1995; Mueller 2003; Reed and Foran 2002; Ryan and Gamson 2006; Taber 2003). 3. This source of contention overlaps with Zhao’s (2001) conceptualization of state-society relations, though here I emphasize only the nondemocratic system’s actions as a potential source of contention (see also Goldstone and Tilly 2001). 4. There are several group-identity process-theories that are relevant in this context (Bar-Tal 2007; Bar-Tal and Antebi 1992; Gamson 1998; Huddy 2001, 2004; Melucci 1995; Mueller 2003; Tajfel and Turner 1979). However, dynamics of struggle do not necessarily involve identity formations and not every element of cultural innovation entails identity changes. Some of the cultural elements and innovations of struggles are tactical and do not change self-conceptions. 5. The regime may also frame these conditions as a result of “evil outside forces” that want to humiliate the nation and hence reinforce its legitimacy from the predicament of the people.

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6. This conceptualization is constructed from Abdelal et al. (2006); Chong and Druckman (2007a, b); Eidelson and Eidelson (2003); Gamson (1991, 1992a, b, 1998); Huddy et al. (2007); McAdam (1982); Morris and Braine (2001); Polletta and Ho (2006); Reed and Foran (2002); Snow and Benford (1992); and Tarrow (1994). 7. This analysis holds for the individual and the group level, for the two are related. See also discussions in Eidelson and Eidelson (2003: 183–197); and Taber (2003: 434–439). 8. This concept borrows from Huddy et al. (2007); Mansbridge (2001: 4); Morris and Braine (2001: 25–26). I originally (Shultziner 2007a) termed it “oppositional consciousness” but chose a more straightforward concept to avoid ambiguity and confusion with similar concepts (e.g., Reed and Foran 2002). 9. Anxiety relates more to injustice-frames whereas anger relates to resistance motivation. As Huddy et al. (2007) explain, anxiety tends to lead to a detachment from the source of harm and search for information whereas anger tends to motivate action against it. Hence, the two emotions seem to lead to different political behavior. 10. Unelected power holders and elites are susceptible to faults of “groupthink” (Janis 1983; Baron 2005) just as democratically elected representatives are. Groupthink may lead to resistance to democratic progress (see also Chapter 5) but it can also lead to accepting it as inevitable. 11. Such dynamics are well documented in the political sociology literature; see Aminzade and McAdam (2001); Chong and Druckman (2007b); Gamson (1992b); Gross and D’Ambrosio (2004); Huddy et al. (2007); Levin (2005); McAdam (1982: 40–51), Polletta and Ho (2006), Tarrow (1994), Zhao (2001). 12. For literature on nonviolent resistance and the tactical component in the success or failure of struggles see Ackerman (2007); Ackerman and DuVall (2000); Keck and Sikkink (1998); Schock (2005); McAdam (1983, 2007); Morris (1984); Roberts and Garton Ash (2009); Ryan and Gamson (2006); Sharp (2007); Stephan and Chenoweth (2008); Tarrow (1994); Zunes et al. (2004).

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9 The Complexity of Democratic Progress and Levels of Analysis

It is no secret that democratic progress is a very complex phenomenon. Each case has some unique aspect. A factor or a set of factors that appear crucial in one case may be absent from most other cases of democratic progress, whether these factors involve the ruling elites, the economy, the structural characteristics of the political system or of the resistance movements. This reality has led many scholars to argue that there are no shared causes for democratic progress. In this final chapter, I conclude with theoretical observations beyond the theoretical approach that was suggested in the previous chapter. These observations explain the sources of complexity in democratic progress but also provide new ways to think about general patterns within this inherent complexity. I highlight two elements of this complexity: contingency and transformative events. I then discuss the importance of the dispositions of the pursuit of recognition and of psychological conditions. I emphasize the element of social relations and personal experiences as the most direct interface between internal and external sources of political contention. I also offer a distinction between different stages in the process leading to democratic progress: origins, resistance momentum, and outcome. I then explain which level of analysis—evolutionary-psychological, social psychological, and political—is best suited and most appropriate to answer the questions pertaining to each stage. In the final section I conclude with a discussion about the role of human agency and its relation to all three levels of analysis.

Elements of Complexity in Democratic Progress The complex nature of democratic progress results from many elements. One major element that makes democratic progress difficult to explain and to generalize about is the high degree of uncertainly of how events and situations will unfold, 170

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namely contingency. Among the sources of contingency are political actors’ actions and mistakes, as well as local conditions. The actions and decisions of ruling elites and resistance leaders may make or break a struggle for democratic progress. Decisions are normally made with a degree of uncertainty about the outcomes. Neither ruling elites nor resistance leaders can know for certain if their decisions will quell resistance or spur it. In fact, many significant political outcomes may result from haphazard and unplanned actions or from mistakes. For example, the Montgomery bus boycott of 1955–1956 persisted for over a year despite the fact that it was in the best interest of the Montgomery city officials to concede to the very modest requests that were initially made by black leaders. This was a strategic mistake that not only prolonged the struggle but also escalated it from a matter of minor modifications to a challenge to the very legality of the entire bus segregation system. In very similar circumstances, the city officials of Baton Rouge had conceded to similar demands two years earlier and in so doing they pacified the city’s black community and avoided escalating a confrontation that could have ended quite differently. The mistakes are not confined to ruling elites alone. Resistance leaders can also make mistakes by demanding too much or too little. The element of contingency, thus, prevents both sides from being certain about the outcomes of their actions and decisions. This element of democratic progress applies to local struggles such as Montgomery and to national struggles such as South Africa, though the distinction is somewhat artificial because national struggles often consist of and develop from local struggles. Local conditions also contribute to the contingency and complexity of democratic progress. Examples for contingency in local conditions can range from capable leaders who are in the right place at the right time, through the political orientation of existing social organization, to the varied effects of a single policy on different regions. For instance, the ousting of the Montgomery pastor Reverend Vernon Johns for rebuking his congregation on being too passive and not standing up against the injustices of segregation resulted in his replacement with the young and (at that time) unknown Martin Luther King Jr. whose various skills and very presence in Montgomery at the time not only contributed to the success of the bus boycott but also cemented him as a central player in the larger civil rights movement over the next decade. Furthermore, the preparedness and orientation of existing social organizations such as churches, sport clubs, or women’s associations can be affected by various personal stories and unique circumstances of the people who lead these organizations. A change in leadership by an individual with a more aggressive or more passive approach can yield different outcomes under volatile conditions when the role of personality gains more weight (Greenstein 1992; Sheng 2001; Westen 2007; Winter 2003). For example, the Women’s Political Council (WPC) in Montgomery became very active in pursuing political objectives in the early 1950s after Jo Ann Robinson succeeded Mary Fair Burks as president. The WPC played an important role in the events leading to the Montgomery bus boycott. In another example, local conditions in the schools of the Port Elizabeth metro area during 1976 generated contentious emotional climates in those schools that implemented the edict of introducing

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Afrikaans as an obligatory language of instruction compared to those that did not. That is to say, slightly different local conditions can bring about very different outcomes even under similar and stable macro-conditions. Another general factor that explains the complexity of democratic progress is the impact of single unexpected events that radically change political consciousness and motivations for resistance action. This is the phenomenon of transformative events whose importance has been identified in later developments in political sociology (McAdam and Sewell 2001). Transformative events affect the ways in which struggles for democratic progress often unexpectedly begin and the nonlinear fashion in which resistance activity develops. I identified two types of transformative events in the previous chapter, internal transformative events (events that emanate due to dynamics within the political system) and external transformative events. The important point is that both internal and external transformative events may cause a significant departure from previous political thinking, behavior, expectations, motivations, and configurations of power. In the example of internal transformative events, local conditions and haphazard mistreatment or killing of a member of a certain group can radically change the general degree of injustice frames and resistance motivations if knowledge about such events is spread and framed in effective ways. This brings to mind the inspiring impact of the Montgomery bus boycott story on other struggles within and outside the United States. The killing of the schoolboy Hector Peterson in Soweto on June 16, 1976, and the anger that his picture generated in various regions in South Africa and beyond is another notable example. In a somewhat similar fashion, events in one state can affect political consciousness and motivations within various other states as demonstrated by the snowballing collapse of dictatorships in the eastern Soviet bloc of the late 1980s. Transformative events, thus, occur on various levels: transformation of a small community due to the mistreatment of one of its members; the transformation of several communities following an inspiring local struggle; and the transformation of people in one state due to a dramatic event in another state. Such examples are actually quite common on various levels and as such they constitute a recurrent pattern in chaotic processes leading to democratic progress. The importance of transformative events is precisely in the fact that this is essentially a psychological phenomenon. The events themselves are unique but their impacts on political consciousness and political behavior are similar. Previous scholarship has tended to ignore transformative events or to conceptualize them as mere triggers to deeper existing unrest which has been caused by macro-factors. In many cases, this conceptualization is not only inaccurate but also misleading. For example, the argument that the Soweto uprising and those that quickly followed were caused by macro-material conditions misses the fact that most schoolchildren were not angry before March 1976, and not even before June 16. Material conditions were relatively constant in their environments and in fact many felt privileged to be able to attend school. Accordingly, Afrikaans was not a trigger to existing unrest; it was the first main source of unrest due to its disruptive effects on schoolchildren and on their life prospects. Following the initial demonstrations, violence was spurred by clashes of unprepared and aggressive police forces with schoolchildren and the

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killing of many. These contingent historical events produced the transformation of the 1976-generation. It is quite misleading to explain this radical transformation as the result of abstract macro-factors. This point is especially blatant when considering cases of radical turns in political consciousness while there is relative stability in macro-factors. The explanatory limitations of macro-factors is also exemplified when considering the case of people who are not themselves affected by assumed macro-factors or are in a high socioeconomic status but are drawn into a cycle of resistance due to strong emotional reactions and personal experiences that transform their lives nevertheless. The way transformative events are conceptualized, therefore, reflects more broadly on our understanding of the complex process leading to democratic progress.

Internal Causes and Personal Experiences As I argued in Chapter 1, the theoretical choices we face are not between approaches to democratic progress that include a theory of human nature and those that do not. Theories that ignore or sidestep the issue are in fact applying an outdated behaviorist conception of human nature whereby bottom-up pressures are determined by external factors alone. The behaviorist explanation of democratic progress accordingly focuses only on macro-factors as preconditions to explain changes in people’s attitudes and political behavior. According to this approach, internal dispositions and psychological conditions need to be explained; they are not part of the explanation. The behaviorist approach therefore involves an implicit yet crucial general conceptualization of where causes of democratic progress are situated and where they cannot be situated. The alternative approach explains democratic progress by considering the dispositions of the pursuit of recognition; mediating psychological mechanisms involving self-esteem and other cognitive and emotional factors; and personal experiences involving instigations against the former two factors. This approach reveals new elements and patterns about the origins and the processes leading to democratic progress. One general element is personal experiences and social relations that invoke the aversion to being dominated and humiliated. The sources of these experiences and social relations are extremely varied and even haphazard. For example, increasing and worsening experiences of humiliation and insult on the Montgomery buses from late 1953 to December 1955 were crucial to the growing unrest among the black community and yet irreducible to macro-factors. These worsening daily experiences eventually pushed many passive and conservative blacks to confront the situation on the buses, but interestingly not to challenge the larger issues of political domination and economic exploitation. This finding echoes Honneth’s (1995: 163) suggestion that “motives for social resistance and rebellion are formed in the context of moral experiences stemming from violation of deeply rooted expectations regarding recognition.” Personal experiences and social relations that involve humiliation are, thus, an example of how unplanned and even haphazard denials of recognition can foment agitation and trigger acts of resistance among people who would otherwise remain passive.

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Ordinary citizens are normally unaware of changes in macro-factors such as geopolitics, national politics, economic, and structural factors. People’s perceptions of the injustice of the system and their degree of motivation to resist it depend on their actual experiences on a day-to-day basis and on traumatic experiences that they cannot forget. These experiences can occur due to various independent developments on one’s immediate local social setting where experiences matter most. Although the local and macro levels are often connected, they are separate domains nonetheless. Increasing acts of humiliation against oppressed people can raise the level of unrest even if the objective material situation is getting better, and vice versa. The most troubling aspect of oppression, at least initially, is not abstract concepts of lacking the vote, or lacking freedom in the theoretical, legal, or philosophical sense (though these can be certainly troubling too) but practical and personal encounters with oppression in earthly forms: insults in the street, sudden and arbitrary interferences with one’s life, and violation of existing moral codes and expectations. These forms of denial of recognition can become triggers for action-oriented emotions. These are the building blocs of contentious processes leading to democratic progress.

Stages of Democratic Progress and their Levels of Analysis In order to more fully understand democratic progress we need to have conceptual clarity about what it is exactly that we are trying to explain and which level of analysis is best suited to explain it. The question of what is the most appropriate level of analysis for various questions is not an issue that would be easily agreed upon. Indeed, a degree of confusion in the puzzle of democratic progress could be attributed to attempts to answer certain questions and to explain certain stages by inappropriate levels of analysis and factors. I propose a delineation of the stages in the process leading to democratic progress. I then suggest the appropriate level of analysis for each stage and the questions associated with it. The process leading to democratic progress consists of several stages. The first stage involves the generation or intensification of bottom-up pressures and the outbreak of resistance, which could be termed the origins stage. The second stage involves the momentum and length of resistance. The third stage is the occurrence of democratic progress as an outcome. The fourth stage is the consolidation of democratic progress after it had occurred but this stage is beyond the scope and purpose of this book (see Introduction). The first level of analysis deals with the origins of bottom-up pressures and accordingly is best suited to answer the question why democratic progress occurs as a general phenomenon. It should be stressed at the outset that this question is quite different than the question of why democratic change occurs when it does. While this distinction may seem obvious, a conflation of these different questions characterizes earlier scholarship in political science. The answer to the general question of why political systems transform into democratic or more-democratic political systems is essentially a derivative and rephrasing of the question of why people reject

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non-democratic systems and decide to resist them until they are replaced by a more democratic system. Only a high level of abstraction can provide an answer to these questions. This point brings us back to Fukuyama’s (1992) argument that the engine of democratic progress is the pursuit of recognition. The only general explanation for the origins of bottom-up pressures that lead to democratic progress is that they originate from universal dispositions to strive for social status and avoid being dominated. The logic, structure, and practices of nondemocratic political systems are such that they eventually clash in various ways with these general human tendencies. This is the underlying principle and cause of struggles leading to democratic progress. There are no other causes that can answer the question of why democratic progress generally occurs. This explanation obviously does not answer important questions such as why democratic progress occurs when it does, but the two questions should be distinguished because their answers require different levels of analysis. The explanatory use of the dispositions of the pursuit of recognition may seem either too obvious or too controversial. It may seem too obvious that people do not feel sufficiently recognized under oppressive systems that deprive them of basic freedoms and rights. Yet the argument is not as obvious as it may seem. Most scholars ascribe different ultimate motives than recognition to people who struggle against nondemocratic systems. The most commonly assumed ultimate motive is the rational pursuit of material gain. While pursuit of recognition can also be defined as achievement of material gains in certain situations, it is broader than material objectives and in fact often defies rational-material calculations. Instead, the objectives of the pursuit of recognition are usually the practical and symbolic modification of daily problems and social relations that inflict a sense of negative self-esteem and humiliation. For instance, despite various forms of economic exploitation, black Montgomerians in the mid-1950s simply demanded to be treated with basic courtesy on the public buses. Young black activists who led the 1960s sit-in movement also demanded simple courtesies and putting an end to the numerous indignities in the South. As one activist pointedly put it, “We don’t want brotherhood . . . We just want a cup of coffee—sitting down” (quoted in Walzer 1960: 112). The pursuit of recognition thus draws attention to psychological motives of democratic progress that have not been thoroughly studied or understood. The human need to avoid domination and demand higher social status is not a rational utility function that people reflect on and then voluntarily choose to have after weighing other ultimate goals. Rather, it stems from innate dispositions that shape and affect people’s motives and motivations, often quite independent of the odds, costs, and risks involved. Many people who struggle against nondemocratic systems do so at risk of suffering material, psychological, and physical costs. In this sense, recognition striving provides the irrational impetus for high-risk political behavior. This independent impetus also solves the collective action problem and explains why many people are eager to achieve a collective good that many other people would benefit from but none has a rational interest in actually pursuing. In other words, the problem of the free rider is solved when the impetus for action stems from innate dispositions and not from rational calculations about which

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ultimate motives are most beneficial. The fact that the pursuit of recognition produces political behavior that can be considered irrational does not mean that recognition striving is antithetical to rationality, detailed planning, and sophisticated struggles. The pursuit of recognition is not itself a rational choice but in order to obtain recognition people must often put their best rational capacities in the service of this irrational impetus and goal (see discussion about human agency below). The pursuit of recognition may also appear too controversial as it evokes evolutionary-psychological factors. Philosophers have ascribed the disposition for recognition to human nature ever since Plato. Modern science has provided us with new tools to think about human nature in terms of psychological and behavioral dispositions that are expressed in different situations. As I explained in Chapters 2 and 3, the dispositions of the pursuit of recognition are manifested in the social dynamics among nomadic foragers who level down members who attempt to gain status, power, or to boast at the expense of their peers. Similarly, this disposition underlies acts of aggression that are common in response to insults, loss of face and humiliation in contemporary urban contexts. The origin of resistance activity leading to democratic progress is thus another wide phenomenon in which dispositions of recognition striving are involved. Recognition striving certainly does not explain all there is to explain about democratic progress, but it is the most plausible and probably the only answer to the general question of why democratic progress has occurred the world over. The second stage of the process leading up to democratic progress involves the momentum and length of resistance. The relevant question here is how bottom-up pressures are sustained. The most appropriate level of analysis to answer this question is social-psychological. Prior to the emergence of resistance activity people may be completely unaware that they are in for a long struggle. The first public act of protest may have only limited purposes, such as a single demonstration or a one-day boycott to vent pent-up frustrations. The motivations and emotional energies behind the first occurrences of resistance can run out quickly unless the momentum of resistance is sustained in effective ways. Long-term resistance cannot be based only on short-term emotions such as anger or hate. People cannot properly function and their well-being (and that of their peers) might be jeopardized if such negative emotions are constantly held at the highest levels. In order to sustain or increase the momentum of the initial stage of resistance, activists’ self-esteem needs to be tied to the continuation of the struggle. There are several ways in which this cognitive process can come about. For example, transformative events or other spontaneous developments in the dynamics of struggle may expose the activists to strong negative personal experiences such as the loss of friends, and hence make the continuation of the struggle an end in itself. In this situation, the thought of stopping the struggle results in negative feelings. Positive feelings are also important for the continuation of resistance when one draws positive self-esteem and enjoys feelings of pride and joy from being able to retaliate against the perceived source of injustice. The formation of group-identity is a related cognitive process whereby a person comes to define self-esteem according to the attitudes and treatment toward one’s group. An attack against one’s peers, for

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example, may be perceived as an attack against oneself. The development of sympathy and empathy are accompanying psychological mechanisms that strengthen commitment to group peers. These cognitive mechanisms of self-esteem gain broader theoretical meaning under the umbrella of the pursuit of recognition (see Chapters 2 and 8). The social-psychological level of analysis gives new insights into particular social relations that cause anger and spontaneous mass mobilization. This level of analysis also helps to identify effective methods that leaders and social entrepreneurs use in order to maintain the momentum of democratic movements. In Montgomery, for example, struggle leaders strongly emphasized the selfimportance of participants and boosted their self-esteem. King and other leaders made frequent appeals to laypersons’ sense of worth and dignity, and reminded them that the world was watching them. In this reality show, they were suddenly the heroes and their self-esteem was accordingly tied to the continuation of the struggle. Psychological methods that build on existing cultural practices are also important. Spiritual social activities such as religious and musical sermons can provide appropriate environments that intensify the effectiveness of political messages and encourage continued resistance. The third stage is the occurrence of democratic progress. The relevant question here is why democratic progress occurs when it does. The most appropriate level of analysis to answer this question involves political factors. It should be emphasized that this part of the explanation assumes that bottom-up pressures exist. Namely, a discussion about factors that determine the time in which democratic progress occurs presupposes that pressures have already been exerted against the relevant nondemocratic system. The factors that give rise to these pressures and the factors that determine when these pressures lead to the outcome of democratic progress are not necessarily the same. Put differently, human dispositions and social-psychological factors alone do not determine if or when bottom-up pressures will lead to democratic progress. Conversely, factors that determine when democratic progress occurs do not usually explain why bottom-up pressures emerged and were sustained. As was noted earlier in this chapter, elements of contingency in the decisionmaking process, including mistakes and luck, can determine if a struggle for democratic progress will fail or succeed. The same complication applies to the issue of timing the occurrence of democratic progress. For example, ruling elites may realize that it is in their best interest to quickly compromise and pacify the opposition by insignificant concessions. Alternatively, power holders can become trapped in misconceptions or groupthink and as a result the occurrence of democratic progress may be significantly delayed. In the case of South Africa, the transition to democracy occurred during 1993–1994 but negotiations over this transition began eight years earlier at the height of the mid-1980s uprisings, and internal discussions in the government about reforms of apartheid began following the Soweto events in 1976. Arguably, the transition to democracy could have occurred at some point in the 1980s as well. In Montgomery, the bus boycott lasted over a year and ended in success when the Supreme Court finally ratified a lower court ruling. The struggle

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could have ended quite differently, however, had the white city officials taken a more conciliatory approach like their counterparts in Baton Rouge two years earlier. The time of occurrence of full-scale transition to democracy may involve various other sorts of factors and contingencies, some of which are complicated outcomes of bottom-up pressures, as was explained in Chapter 8. Among those are factors that enable bottom-up pressures to emerge such as state weakness; factors that precipitate the fall of an authoritarian regime such as the death of a dictator and conflicts within the ruling elite; factors that amplify the struggles of weak groups such as international pressures. Each of these sets of factors, let alone multiple combinations of them, can affect the time in which democratic progress occurs, and that reality makes this phenomenon extremely difficult, if not impossible, to predict. In this context it is understandable why previous theories of democratization have failed to find a general explanation of the time in which democratization occurs. Adding to the confusion is the fact that these theories were supposed to explain all three stages of democratic progress that were noted above, despite the unique nature of each stage.

The Human Agency Element Beyond the levels of analysis and complexities of democratic progress there is another important element that involves all three levels of analysis and can also have a crucial impact on the momentum and length of resistance as well as on the time in which democratic progress occurs. This is the human agency element. By the term human agency I refer to the use of human capacities for invention, innovation, planning, learning skills, and executing resistance actions. This feature is relevant to the democratic progress in the following ways. The impetus for using human agency capacities in order to pursue democratic progress is closely tied to the disposition for recognition. People who have been humiliated or feel traumatized in other ways due to the actions and practices of nondemocratic systems tend to be inclined, or even make it their life goal, to use all their personal resources, skills, and energies to retaliate against the perceived source of harm. This is especially relevant to people of general positive and high self-esteem who have experienced some form of humiliation or have been denied recognition in other ways. These individuals often serve as valuable resources to weak or oppressed communities. Their high degree of motivation (compared to other members of their community) can play an important role at critical junctures of unrest and point of political contention. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. is an obvious example of a person who was important to the success of the Montgomery bus boycott and to struggles of the Civil Rights Movement more generally. But before King arrived in Montgomery there were other capable local leaders like Mary Fair Burks and then Jo Ann Robinson who led the Women’s Political Council. It was actually Jo Ann Robinson who went ahead and declared the famous one-day boycott that turned into the yearlong Montgomery bus boycott even before the black ministers gave their blessing and support to the cause. The young attorney Fred Gray also made a

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private pledge to “return to Montgomery and use the law to ‘destroy everything segregated that I could find’” (Gray 2002: 19). Scars of humiliation or experiences of racism drove these key figures to act and to mobilize others. The same phenomenon appears in the struggle against apartheid in South Africa and in many other struggles. The impetus for these activists’ political behavior and their contributions to struggles for democratic progress was rooted in their desire for recognition and their deep aversion to the denial of recognition in their lives. The element of human agency also finds its expression in the second stage of democratic progress, namely, in keeping the momentum of struggle. At this stage, leaders’ capacities to understand the psychological yearnings or plight of their peers, to learn and apply effective appeals to encourage resistance, and to invent and innovate new skills and tactics, are key factors in the length and intensities of struggles. The second stage resembles psychological warfare between those who try to maintain and increase resistance motivation and those who try to suppress it. Social-psychological sensitivity on the part of leaders plays a role in this regard. The Montgomery bus boycott provides a high-resolution picture to the type of appeals that help sustain struggles. It is not incidental that appeals focused on pride, honor, historical importance of the struggle, and turning physical difficulties into psychological joy and positive self-esteem. It is also not incidental that a major pillar in King’s philosophy and speeches was the call for self-transformation from low self-worth to reasserting one’s dignity, and to gaining recognition for accomplishing this transformation. These concepts are part of the “language of recognition” and they are often used because they elicit the relevant dispositions of recognition striving and the emotions that enable leaders to sustain struggle momentum. The challenge that struggle leaders often face is to convince those with negative or low self-esteem to believe that they can actually improve their situation. People whose self-esteem is neutral or apathetic with regards to the domain of politics are also not easily mobilized. Resistance leaders and social entrepreneurs need to effectively connect the problems and frustrations of daily lives to the context of politics in order to meet these challenges. In other words, leaders need to make people aware of the injustice of their situation, and to channel people’s angers against the nondemocratic system. Finally, the occurrence of democratic progress can also be affected or even dictated by human agency. Effective leadership has the capacity to analyze, plan, and execute sophisticated confrontations that can result in a democratic revolution, in garnering support and political pressures from outside the system, or in a negotiated transition to a more democratic system. In the case of Montgomery, resistance leaders knew how to overcome various challenges by the white city officials and even to utilize some of these challenges to increase resolve among the black participants. A carefully devised car-pooling system was a key to the maintenance of the yearlong struggle. King and his fellow strategists drew lessons from their struggle in Montgomery and from other struggles afterwards and they became experts in nonviolent resistance. This learning process climaxed in a highly elaborate, coordinated, and well-executed plan to confront the issue of segregation in the U.S. which they

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termed Program “C.” The letter C stands for a planned “confrontation” with the tough approach of Birmingham’s Commissioner of Public Safety, Eugene “Bull” Connor (King [1963]: 40, 107; Morris 1984: 277). The tactics in the Birmingham campaign included a gradual build-up of national drama, massive arrests including King’s planned arrest, boycotts, marches, and involvement of school children. Moreover, contrary to their Albany campaign, the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (chaired by King) accurately predicted that the notorious hot-tempered “Bull” Connor would respond violently and ensure close media coverage and impact. Program C worked as planned. The media captured pictures of police water-hoses and dogs set up on peaceful demonstrators. The televised drama shocked the American public and created immense public pressure. The Birmingham campaign, strengthened by the March on Washington (1963), led to the legislation of the Civil Rights Act (1964) that was effective in ending many practices of segregation and discrimination which were prevalent in the US South. A similar pattern, even if less organized than Program C, was the confrontation in Selma in 1965 which resulted in the Voting Rights Act that practically re-enfranchised millions of Africans Americans. Human agency is important in determining the occurrence of democratic progress in cases ranging from local practices to national and international systems. In recent decades the use and importance of nonviolent resistance has been growing (e.g., Ackerman 2007; Karatnycky and Ackerman 2005; Roberts and Garton Ash 2009; Sharp 2007; Stephans and Chenoweth 2008). Nonprofit organizations such as the International Center on Nonviolent Conflict, the Albert Einstein Institution, Canvas, Nonviolence International, and other organizations have been disseminating lessons from nonviolent struggles from the world over. The learning process thus occurs across boarders, regions, and time. Activists gain ideas and inspiration from previous struggles and knowledge is spread through books, the Internet, and DVDs. The huge potential of the force of nonviolent struggle in democratic progress has been clearly demonstrated in the US Civil Rights Movement and the fall of authoritarian role in Eastern Europe since the late 1980s. In the first decade since 2000, additional dramatic events of nonviolent resistance have resulted in democratic revolutions such as forcing out Slobodan Milosevic in Serbia in 2000; the Rose Revolution in Georgia, following the 2003 elections; and the Orange Revolution in the Ukraine, following the 2004 elections, notwithstanding democratic setbacks in some of these cases and others. In fact, activists in authoritarian regimes have realized the democratizing power of elections, even (or especially) when elections are held under authoritarian or semi-authoritarian regimes. Instead of providing the regime with the (fake) legitimacy it needs, the democratic opposition can turn the elections into a periodic challenge and into a possible turning point toward real elections and regime change. The focus then moves to the strategic and tactical competition between regime and their democratic opposition (see Binnendijk and Marovic 2006; Bunce and Wolchick 2007, 2008; Kuzio 2006). This reality is important in theoretical and explanatory terms. Whereas a political system may remain constant in all the important parameters, the human agency

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capacities to analyze the weaknesses of the system and make use of them for the benefit of the struggle can result in the reconfiguration of power-relations between the oppressed and the oppressors and also to create turning points for democratic progress. The success of democratic movements is not dictated by macro configurations of economic or structural conditions but by the skills and ingenuity of activists. “[S]trategies of civil resistance are incremental and their effects cumulative. The versatile use of nonviolent tactics can unfreeze unfavorable conditions and so raise the temperature underneath autocrats” (Ackerman 2007: 8). Human agency is not a passive capacity that merely responds to, or whose effectiveness is completely dependent upon, changing macro conditions. Human agency is an active, opportunity seeking, and more importantly, a creative capacity. Activists may discover new ways by which to challenge the system, invent or borrow new resistance methods, and learn from their mistakes and devise more informed and sophisticated resistance tactics. Opportunities for democratic progress are thus not merely realized; they are often created, even under the most unfavorable conditions.

Conclusion The current state of scholarship on democratic progress is in need of rethinking and revision. Decades of scholarship on macro-factors have not yielded a general theory that solves the puzzle of democratic progress. Weak correlations on the one hand and unexpected rapid transformation of people’s political consciousness, behavior and systems on the other hand, have shown the limitations and shortcoming of existing models and theories of democratic progress. This book calls for an integrated approach to democratic progress. This approach has touched upon several aspects of the phenomenon. Democratic progress needs to be thought of in broader terms if we are to understand its shared causal factors. If a local bus boycott and a national struggle for democracy share so many aspects, this suggests that there is good reason to unify the study of social movements and the study of transitions to democracy into a single approach. A set of analytical and methodological tools appropriate for comparative historical political psychology must be further developed. This goal is beyond the scope of this book but the different methodologies have been applied in each case study can be part of that toolkit. An approach to democratic progress must acknowledge the inherent complexity of the phenomenon. Practical lessons can come from the field of nonviolent action and from examining the psychological aspects of the psychological warfare that occurs between democratic movements and autocrats. Each democratic movement may face challenges on a different front or stage of struggle: generating bottom-up pressures, maintaining momentum, or forcing illiberal elites to step down. The levels of analysis that were suggested above may be a step in the right direction to gain a more systematic understanding of each stage. I hope that this analysis will also be of some practical use to activists who are struggling to achieve democratic progress in their political systems.

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Appendix A: List of Archives for the Montgomery Bus Boycott Alabama Department of Archives and History, Montgomery, Alabama, 36130. http://www.archives.state.al.us/ Alabama State University, Archives and Special Collections, 915 South Jackson Street, Montgomery, Alabama 36101. http://www.lib.alasu.edu/archives/ Amistad Research Center, Tulane University, Tilton Hall, 6823 St. Charles Avenue, New Orleans, LA 70118. www.amistadresearchcenter.org Georgia State University Special Collections and Archives, Southern Labor Archives, Georgia State University Library, 100 Decatur St. SE, Atlanta, GA 30303. King Library and Archives, The King Center, 449 Auburn Avenue, NE, Atlanta, GA 30312, http://www.thekingcenter.org/ProgServices/Default.aspx Montgomery City Clerk Office, City of Montgomery, City Hall, Room 133, 103 North Perry Street, Montgomery, Alabama 36104. National Archives, South East Region, 5780 Jonesboro Road, Morrow, Georgia 30260. http://www.archives.gov/southeast/ National City Lines, Report to Stockholders 1945–1967, University of Chicago Library, call number HE5623 Z7N3. Rosa Parks Library and Museum, 252 Montgomery Street, Montgomery, AL 36104.

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Appendix B: List of Abbreviations, Interviews, and Background Information about Former Antiapartheid Activists in the Port Elizabeth Municipal Area, South Africa Abbreviations Amabuthu ANC BCM COSAS NECC PAC P.E. PEBCO PEYCO SASM UDF

Township Youth Guerillas African National Congress Black Consciousness Movement Congress of South African Students National Education Crisis Committee Pan Africanist Party Port Elizabeth municipal area Port Elizabeth Black Civic Organization Port Elizabeth Youth Congress South African Student Movement United Democratic Front

Author Interview with Mkhuseli Jack, September 10, 2009, Beach Hotel, Summerstrand, Port Elizabeth. Mkhuseli (Khusta) Jack was born on May 31, 1957. When he was a child he moved to Port Elizabeth from a farm in Humansdorp to get education. He joined COSAS in 1979. He also served as the President of PEYCO and led the Port Elizabeth Consumer Boycott in the mid-1980s. He was detained from 1986 to 1989 under the State of Emergency. Author Interview with Zola Mtatsi, September 15, 2009, Zwide, Port Elizabeth. Zola Mtatsi was born in 1962. He first became involved in 1976 while in school. He was an activist in COSAS and PEYCO. 183

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Author Interview with Mzolisi Hliso, September 16, 2009, Walmer, Port Elizabeth. Mzolisi Mliso joined COSAS in 1985 during his high-school years. Author Interview with Thabo Veto, September 16, 2009, Walmer, Port Elizabeth. Thabo Veto was born on August 28, 1963 in the Walmer township in Port Elizabeth. He was influenced by Black Consciousness ideas promulgated in his township by activist Moki Cekisani. Thabo led pupils in revolt in the township in 1976 after the shock and anger of seeing Hector Peterson’s picture from Soweto. He was then arrested and jailed but was later released. He joined PEYCO and then the UDF. He was also a member of the amabuthu guerillas and was wounded in the struggle several times. Author Interview with Mzolisi Dyasi, September 16, 2009, Humewood Hotel, Summerstrand, Port Elizabeth. Mzolisi Dyasi was born on December 6, 1958 in New Brighton, P.E. He began political resistance in 1976 and got involved in COSAS in 1979. In 1982 he helped establish PEYCO and youth organizations elsewhere. He was also an underground ANC guerilla activist. Author Interview with Mike Ndzotoyi, September 16, 2009, Port Elizabeth. Mike Ndzotoyi first got involved in the struggle around 1974. He was involved in the ANC underground networks and was also a PEBCO activist. Author Interview with Moki Cekisani, September 17, 2009, Walmer, Port Elizabeth. Moki Cekisani was born on February 29, 1943. He first joined the struggle in the 1960s. He was originally attracted by the ANC but joined a youth group of PAC in the mid-1960s. He was later influenced by BCM and became close friend of Black Consciousness leader Stephan Bantu Biko. Cekisani was a PAC Member of Parliament. Author Interview with Mlungisi (Lulu) Johnson, September 17, 2009, Humewood Hotel, Summerstrand, Port Elizabeth. Lulu Johnson was born on February 5, 1964. He became involved in the struggle in 1979 and joined the Young Christian Workers (YCW). He became President of COSAS from 1984–1985 and was detained 1986–1989 under the State of Emergency. He is currently an ANC Member of Parliament. Author Interview with Themba Mangqase, September 18, 2009, Walmer, Port Elizabeth. Themba Mangqase was born in the Walmer township in Port Elizabeth on January 16, 1962. He became active in 1977 and joined a number of youth organizations in P.E., and was a COSAS leader in the 1980s.

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Author Interview with Stone Sizani, September 19, 2009, Summerstrand, Port Elizabeth. Stone Sizani was born in 1955 in Alexandria, Eastern Cape and came to Port Elizabeth to pursue a high-school education. He was politically active from the early 1970s. In 1975 he was involved in organizing a school boycott and was on the run from police from October 1975 to January 1976. He was caught and sent to Robben Island where he was introduced to the ANC. He was released from prison and rejoined the struggle as a PEBCO and UDF leader in 1980s. He is currently an ANC Member of Parliament. Author Interview with Mandla Madwara, September 21, 2009, Walmer, Port Elizabeth. Mandla Madwara was born in 1960 in New Brighton in Port Elizabeth. He became a leader in PEYCO and was forced to flee into exile when the security forces came looking for him in the 1980s. Author Interview with Michael Mthiwabo Ndube, September 21, 2009, Humewood Hotel, Summerstrand, Port Elizabeth. Michael Mthiwabo Ndube was born on October 16, 1962 in Port Elizabeth. He became an executive member of the Port Elizabeth Student Council in 1977 after attending Stephan Bantu Biko’s funeral. He was drawn deeper into the struggle in 1978 after his close friend was shot before his eyes. He was a PEYCO and NECC member in the 1980s and joined the ANC military underground and fled to exile in 1985. Author Interviews with Mike Xego, September 21 and September 23, 2009, Humewood Hotel, Summerstrand, Port Elizabeth. Mike Xego was born on October 15, 1955 in Port Elizabeth. He was a top pupil in the KwaZakhele high school and planned to become a lawyer. He and his friends began organizing against the introduction of Afrikaans in 1976. In August of 1976, they planned to throw a chemical bomb and a petrol bomb in the center of P.E. but were caught before the act could be carried out. He was sentenced to five years on Robben Island where he was recruited to the ANC. In 1982 he was released and became a leading activist in PEYCO. He was arrested again in 1985. Author Interview with Buyisuio Hlazo, September 22, 2009, Khanyisa School for Visually Impaired Learners, Algoa Park, Port Elizabeth. Buyisuio Hlazo was born in Capetown in 1959. She came to P.E. with her mother and was introduced to the struggle in 1976 by Siphiwo Mtimkulu, a COSAS activist who was kidnapped by the police and murdered. Siphiwo Mtimkulu is also the father of Hlazo’s firstborn son. She became involved in

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APPENDIX B COSAS and PEYCO and was on the run from the security forces in the 1980s. She was arrested in 1984 but remained active in the struggle.

Author Interview with Nceba Christopher Faku, September 22, 2009, ANC Offices, Port Elizabeth. Nceba Faku was born on February 11, 1956 in Port Elizabeth. He grew up and studied between P.E. and Alice. He was arrested in 1976 and could not complete his studies. He was sent to Robben Island where he became an ANC member. He was released from Robben Island in 1982 and rearrested again in 1983 for ten years. Author Interview with Monde Mtanga, September 22, 2009, Port Elizabeth. Monde Mtanga was born on August 2, 1958 in New Brighton where he did his schooling. He became active against apartheid in 1976 following exposure to BCM. He was detained for a year from September 1976. He was active in PEYCO during the 1980s. Author Interview with Phil Goduka, September 22, 2009, Port Elizabeth. Phil Goduka was born in January 1957 in Port Elizabeth. He did his primary education in New Brighton and continued to high school in Transkei. Yet he was expelled from school in 1974 for political activity. He then worked and studied part time. In 1978–1979 he got involved with PEBCO and became its representative for the KwaZakhele township. He was a trade unionist during the 1980s. Author Interview with Kholekile Mhlana, September 23, 2009, Humewood Hotel, Summerstrand, Port Elizabeth. Kholekile Mhlana was born on February 2, 1955 in Port Elizabeth. He grew up in the KwaZakhele township and was educated in the KwaZakhele high school. He was influenced by Black Consciousness and by his uncle who was an ANC underground activist. He did not finish his formal educations due to the uprising in 1976. He joined the ANC underground and served seven years on Robben Island. Author Interview with Aubrey Mali, September 23, 2009, Humewood Hotel, Summerstrand, Port Elizabeth. Aubrey Mali was born in Uitenhage in 1955. He studied in Limekhaya High School in Uitenhage where he became active in 1977. He joined the underground resistance and was a singer at mass political rallies. Author Interview with Sitoto Griffiths, September 28, 2009, Uitenhage. Sitoto Griffiths was born in 1958 in Uitenhage where he was also educated. He became politically active in 1974–1975 and became a member of

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SASM. He was part of a small nucleus of active pupils in Limekhaya High School and was involved in establishing a number of organizations including COSAS, the Uitenhage Residents Civil Organization (URECO) and NECC. Author Interview with Bicks Ndoni, September 29, 2009, Pleinhuis Building, P.E. City Hall, Port Elizabeth. Bicks Ndoni was born on May 7, 1958. He grew up and did his schooling in Uitenhage and graduated from Limekhaya High School in 1979. He joined SASM in 1977 and participated in the resistance that began in Uitenhage that year. He was arrested and jailed but persisted in the struggle. Author Interview with Nobuzwe Urelia Mofokeng, September 29, 2009, Uitenhage. Nobuzwe Urelia Mofokeng was born in February 1962 on a farm outside Uitenhage. She attended a private Catholic school in Uitenhage in 1976 and became active during 1978 as a Limekhaya High School pupil. She politicized youth on the farm when she went back for visits. Author Interview with Mkosinam Makasi, September 29, 2009, Uitenhage. Mkosinam Makasi was born in 1957 in Uitenhage. He was educated in Uitenhage and was exposed to BCM before 1976. He took a central role in resistance in June 1977 when pupils began clashing with the police. He went to study at the university and came back to Uitenhage as a teacher. He then resumed his part in the struggle through various civil organizations including NECC.

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Index autonomous black homelands (Bantustans) 118 autonomy 37, 92, 95, 118

Abdelal, Rawi 169n6 Abernathy, Ralph 81, 88, 95, 96, 98 Acemoglu, Daron 21 Ackerman, Peter 4, 164–6, 169n12, 180–1, 188, 197 Africa 56, 59 African National Congress (ANC) 109, 110, 112, 114, 134, 136 Afrikaans language 113, 128, 157, 172 as prevention of social status 117–20 agricultural revolution see Neolithic revolution Alabama Anti-Boycott Statute 102 Albert Einstein Institution 180 Alford, John 25n5, 32 Amandla: A Revolution in Four-Part Harmony 148n15, 196 Aminzade, Ronald 169n11 anger 22, 64, 65, 74, 76, 81, 89, 91, 94, 105, 133, 135, 169n9, 177 built-up 113–14, 127, 128 collective 82, 152 and humiliation 157 and moral shock 124 of pupils 119, 120, 121, 122, 151 and resistance 145, 161 sources of 114, 115, 160–1 and struggle 102 see also rage anxiety 36, 40, 93, 118, 153, 154, 169n9, 161 apartheid see mass mobilization against apartheid, origins of apathy 81, 82, 153, 156, 179 Athenian democracy 58 Australia 59 authority and obedience 38–41

Bagley, James H. 67, 70 Bailey, James J. 68, 79 band fluidity 47 Bandura, Alfred 34, 36, 42n3, 90, 91, 104, 153, 154, 155 Bantu education 116–17, 125 126, 127 Baton Rouge 64, 98, 171 behaviorist 10, 41, 47, 124, 137–8 behaviorist conception of human nature 6, 13, 17, 22–4, 173 Benford, Robert D. 169n6 Benin 16, 165 Berlin, Isaiah “Two Concepts of Liberty” 27 Betzig, L. L. 42n2 Biko, Stephen Bantu 111–13, 126, 130n8, 184–5, 189 biological-anthropological perspective of recognition pursuit 30–3 Birmingham, Dave (Police Commissioner) 69, 78, 99, 100, 105 Black Consciousness Movement (BCM) 135, 137 self-esteem and self-respect 111–13 Black Theology 112 Blake, James F. 80 Bliege-Bird, Rebecca 31 Boehm, Christopher 46, 50, 59 bottom-up pressures 13–15, 21, 174–6, 178 Braine, Naomi 169nn6, 8 Brennan, Geoffrey 28 Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, impact of 77–80

209

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INDEX

Bulgaria 19, 159 Burks, Mary Fair 81, 82, 87, 88, 104, 171, 178 Canvas 180 Cape Verde 164 Carothers, Thomas 25n2 car-pooling system 103, 180 Cekisani, Moki 113, 141, 142 Central Alabama Citizen’s Council 77 Central America 59 Chagnon, Napolean A. 42n2 Charles, Beatrice 71 Chenoweth, Erica 169n12 Cherry, Janet 130n6, 131n37 Chile 165 China 16, 35 Chomsky, Noam 29 Chong, Dennis 169nn6, 11 Civil Rights Act (1964) 62, 180 Civil Rights Movement 62, 72, 140, 167, 180 civil society 25n1 Colvin, Claudette 65, 68, 88, 89 commitment, maintaining of freedom songs 139–45 intergenerational gap and cultural change 137–9 leadership motivation 132–7 conflict resolution 33 Congress of South African Students (COSAS) 118 Connor, Eugene 180 consolidation, democratic 5 contingency 64, 65, 105 contingency and complexity of democratic progress 170–2 Cosmides, Leda 25n5 courage 113, 123, 124, 125, 146 moral 95, 102 Crenshaw, Jack (attorney) 99 Croatia 164 Crocker, Jennifer 33, 34, 35, 36, 37 Cronk, Lee 42n2 cultural revolution 138, 139, 146 Czechoslovakia 19, 159, 165 Dahl, Robert 59, 192 Daly, Martin 33 D’Ambrosio, L. 169n11 Deci, Edward 42n4

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democratic progress complexity elements in 170–3 human agency and 178–81 human nature and 22–4 integrative approach to 163 internal causes and personal experiences of complexity in 173–4 and recognition striving 150 significance and importance of 2–5 stages of 174–8 standard approach to 14 democratization 4 waves of 20 Denmark 59 De Waal, Frans 30 Chimpanzee Politics 30 Diamond, Larry 4, 16 dignity 9, 10, 28, 79, 89, 93, 94, 95, 102, 112, 137, 152, 155, 160 direct action 164–6 disobedience 39, 40 disposition 24, 37, 38, 40, 41, 51, 58, 60, 138, 150, 160, 161, 173, 175–7 of aversion to being dominated 51, 125, 175 of obedience 6, 38, 40, 41 psychological 29–30, 41, 157 of recognition striving 7, 9, 26, 31, 33, 38, 176, 178, 179 for social status and prestige 31–3, 41, 50, 175 universal heritable 28–9 see also individual entries disrespect 26, 32, 33, 101, 124 Druckman, James N. 169nn6, 11 Dutch Reform Church of South Africa 110, 129n4 DuVall, Jack 166, 169n12, 188 Dyasi, Mzolisi 118, 125, 135, 144 East Asia 56, 59 East Germany 19 economic factors 11, 14, 15–16, 17, 20, 21–2, 23, 24, 54, 63, 82, 113, 115, 159, 174, 181 Eidelson, Judy I. 169nn6, 7 Eidelson, Roy J. 169nn6, 7 elites, ruling cleavages in 167 pressure on 162–4

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Index emotions 153, 161 see also individual entries empathy 122, 157, 177 England 59 enthusiasm 27, 90, 91–2, 105, 133, 145, 161, 162 music and 140, 143, 146 Erdal, David 51 esteem group identification and symbols and 32 see also self-esteem evolutionary psychology 29–30 external transformative events 159, 172 Faku, Nceba 116 fear 32, 69, 74, 78, 99, 140, 147, 154, 161, 163 disappearance of 102, 133 overcoming of 41, 143, 144, 145, 146, 153 Fields, Uriah J. 73, 88 Fitzpatrick, C. T. 78 Florence 59 Foran, John 169n6 Freedom House 2010 report 3 research (2005) 165 freedom songs 139–45 and toyi-toyi dance 144–5 French, Edgar N. 69 French Revolution 59 frustration 22, 72, 74, 81, 82, 119, 120, 133, 157, 176, 179 of bus drivers 75–6 Fukuyama, Francis 27, 60, 175 The End of History and the Last Man 1, 28 game-theoretic models 21–2 Gamson, William A. 7, 151, 161, 166, 169nn6, 11, 12 Gardner, Perry 61n6 Garton Ash, Timothy 169n12 Gayle, W. A. (Mayor) 99, 101 Gibbs, Pat 130n6, 131n37 Gilliam, Thomas J. 107n21 Goduka, Phil 115, 186 Goodall, Jane 30 Graetz, Robert S. 74 Grammer, Karl 42n2 Gray, Fred 88, 100, 102, 103, 178

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211 Griffiths, Sitoto 115, 143 Gross, K. 169n11 group conflicts 33 group identity 32, 134, 140, 141, 146, 150–2, 168n4, 177 groupthink 99, 101, 169n10, 177 Guyana 164 Hani, Chris 141 Hawkes, Kristen 31 Hegel, G. W. F. 1, 27 Heine, Steven 35 heritable dispositions, universal and behavior, in political science 28–9 Hibbing, John 25n5, 32 hierarchical human past 42–3 hierarchy 10, 48, 49, 51–2 political 44, 45, 52, 53–7, 59 social 53, 54 Hill, J. 30 Hill, Kim 31 historical sociology see structuralism Hlazo, Buyisuio 117, 123 Ho ,Kai 169nn6, 11 Hobbes, Thomas 27 Holden, Anna 78, 79, 96, 100 Holocene period 44, 53, 57 homicide, causes of 33 Homo erectus species 52 Homo sapiens 52, 57, 60 Honneth, Axel 173 honor 26, 27, 32, 33, 44, 155, 179 Huddy, Leonie. 169nn6, 8, 9, 11 human agency 178–81 momentum of struggles 179 motivation for recognition 178–9 and occurrence of democratic progress 179–81 human dignity see dignity human disposition 38, 40, 41, 58, 60, 177 human nature authority and obedience 38–41 behaviorist conception of 22–4 biological-anthropological perspective of recognition pursuit and 30–3 evolutionary-psychological perspective of recognition pursuit and 29–30 and recognition in political philosophy history 27–8

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212

INDEX

human nature (Cont’d) social-psychological perspective of recognition pursuit 33–8 universal heritable dispositions and behavior in political science 28–9 humiliation 9, 10, 26, 62, 68–70, 79, 81, 87, 88, 94, 104, 137, 152, 160, 173, 179 acts of 74, 157, 173, 174, 179 public 66 results of 81–2 Hungary 159, 167 Huntington, Samuel 7, 20, 23 TheThird Wave 19 illegitimate authority 40–1 individual-selection logic and subordination 49 Indonesia 164, 165 infra-politics 8 injustice 91–2, 102, 157 injustice-frames 160–1, 162, 165 dissemination of 166 instigation 23, 151, 153, 173 confrontation of 155 external 156–9, 160, 161 injustice-frames and 160 intergenerational gap and cultural change 137–9 internal transformative events 172 International Center on Nonviolent Conflict 180 International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (1966) 1, 3 international pressures 167, 178 Iran 62 Irons, Williams 30 Jack, Mkhuseli 116, 125 Japan 35 Jemison, T. J. 64 Johns, Vernon 80–2, 171 Johnson, Lulu 118, 142, 143 joy 76, 90, 132–3, 140, 144, 155, 158, 177, 179 Juslin, Patrik N. 148n14 Kane-Berman, John Stuart 113, 122, 124, 131n50 Kaplan, Hillard 30

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Keck, Margaret E. 169n12 Kelly, Robert L. 42n2 King, Martin Luther Jr. 62, 81, 88, 90, 92, 93, 94, 95, 98, 99, 100, 102, 103, 112, 171, 178 Stride Toward Freedom 63 Knabe, Walter J. 92 Kojève, Alexandre 1, 27 !Kung San people 32, 50, 54 Kwazakhele High School 119–21, 185–6 language and human nature 29 Larimer, Christopher W. 32 Last Glacial 44, 51, 52, 53, 54, 56 archaeological entities from 52 climate conditions of 45–6 leadership, effective 179 and psychological factors 93–7 and strategies 97–101, 105 and tactics 101–2, 104, 105 leadership motivation 87–8, 132–7 Lee, Richard B. 31–2, 42n2, 46, 50, 54–5, 61nn4, 5 legitimacy 5, 110, 162 and authority 38, 40, 41 loss of 159, 163, 164 leveling mechanisms 47, 48 collective 59 and status seeking 50 Levin, David 169n11 Levinger-Limor, Ariela 84n18 Lewis, John 106n18 Lewis, Rufus 82, 88 liberal democracy 3, 28, 60 Limekhaya High School 119–21, 185–6 Lipset, Symour M. Some Social Requisites of Democracy 15 Lodge, Tom 130n11, 138–9 macro-factors exacerbating 7, 14, 22, 24, 63, 72, 159, 172–4, 181 macro time-scales, emergence of democracy in 56–8 Madwara, Mandla 112, 114, 119, 124, 147 Makasi, Mkosinam 114, 129n5, 130n16, 187 Makhubu, Mbuyisa 122 Mali 16, 167 Mandela, Nelson 136–7, 141, 148n9

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Index Mangqase, Themba 118, 123, 133, 144 Mansbridge, Jane 169n8 Marx, Anthony 130n11 Marx, Karl 27 mass mobilization against apartheid, origins of 109 1976 incident and anger 113–14 1976-generation world 114–17 Afrikaans as prevention of social status 117–20 Black Consciousness Movement 111–13 police brutality and transformative phase 122–7 Soweto as place of protest 120–1 mass participation 126–7 Masters, Roger D. 25n5 Mbeki, Govan 141 McAdam, Doug 17–18, 63–4, 71, 89, 90, 158, 161, 167, 169nn6, 11, 12 McDermott, Rose 25n5 McDonald, Susie 92 Mhlana, Kholekile 112, 123 Milgram, Stanley 38–40 Mobile, Alabama (city) 66, 68, 98 Mobile City Lines Inc. 66, 76 Modelski, George 61n6 modernization theory 15–16, 22–3 Mofokeng, Nobuzwe 119, 137 Montgomery bus boycott black leadership 97–8, 100, 104 Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, impact of 77–80 bus policies and decline of white passengers 72–4 labor consciousness and frustrations of bus drivers 75–6 precursors to 64–5 puzzles of 63–4 reasons to take place in Montgomery 65–8 timing of 69–71 unlikely generation of Montgomery 80–2 Montgomery City Lines Inc. 66, 70, 72, 73, 84–5n25 Montgomery Improvement Association (MIA) 92, 94, 96, 101, 102, 165 on car-pooling system 103 Moore, Gladys 75 moral shock 124, 156

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213 Morris, Aldon D. 7, 18, 63–4, 90, 91, 158, 169nn6, 8, 12, 180 motivation 34, 50, 89, 96, 178 leadership 87–8, 132–7 personal 88 to pursue positive self-esteem 36 resistance 161–2 Mozambique 16 Mtatsi, Zola 129n5, 135, 144, 148n7, 183 multivariate theories and models 16 structuralism 17–18 third wave metaphor 19–21 top-down theories 18–19 music and emotional aspects 140 and group identity 140–1 and Montgomery bus boycott 97, 106n18 and political action 143–5 and political consciousness 141–3 and struggle against apartheid 111, 132, 139–45, 146 National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) 72, 77, 79, 81, 82n2 Ndoni, Bicks 115, 126 Ndube, Mthiwabo 114, 119, 124, 134, 143 Ndzotoyi, Mike 143 negative emotions 33, 38, 41, 136, 141, 145, 161 music and 140 struggle and 155, 156, 176 transformation of 142, 143 negative feelings, transformation to positive feelings 140, 141, 143 negative self-esteem 28, 36, 41, 90, 91, 136, 153–4 negotiated pacts 19 Neolithic revolution 53, 57 Nesbitt, Geraldine 89 New Guinea 59 “New Negro” mentality 94–5, 112 Nixon, E.D. 81, 82, 100 nomadic foragers (hunter-gatherers) 45, 46–8, 50, 51, 57, 60, 61nn3, 5, 176 and archaeological evidence 52 and population size 54–6 and subsistence economy 54

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214 nondemocratic political systems 1, 2, 41 direct action against 165 international pressures on 167 liberal democracy and 60 media and 166 and oppressed people 23, 28, 160 and recognition deprivation 10 resistance to 9, 13, 18, 23–4, 150, 152, 158, 160, 163, 165, 175, 178 transformative events and 158 transition from 4, 20, 58 Nonviolence International 180 Norris, Dave 79 Norway 59 obedience and authority 38–41 O’Donnell, Guillermo A. 19, 25n2 Transitions from Authoritarian Rule 18 “Old Negro” 94 oppression 10, 27, 82, 94, 102–3, 129, 145, 152, 153, 160, 174 Orange Revolution 180 organized-resistance theories 18 overassertive individuals and leveling mechanisms 50–1 seeking power 32 Paleolithic era 53, 56 Park, Lora 34, 35, 37 Parks, Frank (Commissioner) 99 Parks, Rosa 62, 65, 68, 80, 82, 88, 89, 104, 105n4, 151, 165 passive resistance 167 Peace of Westphalia 58 Peterson, Hector 123, 124, 129, 172 Peterson, Steven 25n5 Pettit, Philip 28 Philippines 165 Pinker, Steven 25n5, 29, 35 Plato Thymos 27 Poland 159, 167 political contention sources aversion to dominance and emotional energies 152–3 external 156–9 facilitative factors 166–8 injustice-frames 160–1

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INDEX public opinion and threat of political upheaval 162–4 resistance activities and tactics 164–5 resistance motivation 161–2 self-esteem mechanisms 153–7 social movements 165–6 social status pursuit and group-identity formation 150–2 political egalitarianism 44, 61n2 archaeology and 52–3 evolutionary bases of 48–51 and fossil records and hominid evolution 51–2 among nomadic forgers 46–8, 50 reemergence of 56–60 and transition to political hierarchy 53–6 Political Egalitarianism Project (PEP) 44, 61n2 political hierarchy 44, 59 escalation of 57 transition to 53–6 political opportunities 17, 18, 63, 166 political philosophy history, recognition in 27–8 Polletta, Francesca 169nn6, 11 Port Elizabeth Black Civic Organization (PEBCO) 115 Port Elizabeth Youth Congress (PEYCO) 119 positive emotions 33, 143, 145, 155, 156, 162 music and 140 replacement of 133 resistance and 176 transformation into 141 positive self-esteem 41, 92, 95, 96, 105, 112, 134, 141, 153, 154 basic human need and 36–8 universality of pursuit of 34–5 power seekers, overassertive 32 prestige and status 26, 29, 30, 31, 32, 35, 41, 42n1, 45, 150 Price, Robert M. 130n11 pride 102, 105, 112, 123, 124, 132, 133, 152, 155, 158, 162, 177, 179 procedural democracy 3, 16 Program “C” 180 Przeworski, Adam 7, 11, 15, 16, 22

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Index rage 128, 153, 157, 161 see also anger rational choice 176 rational-choice models 21 Reed, John-Pierre 169n6 resistance motivation 161, 162–3, 164, 165, 166 respect 10, 26, 28, 32–3, 79, 94, 96, 105, 107n23, 115, 133, 137, 138 Riordan, Rory 130n6, 138 Roberts, Adam 169n12 Robinson, James A. 21 Robinson, Jo Ann 65, 68, 69, 78, 79–80, 82, 88, 89, 96, 104, 105, 171, 178–9 Romania 159 Rose Revolution 180 Rustow, Dankwark. A. 5, 15 Ryan, Charlotte 169n12 Ryan, Richard 34, 36, 37, 42n4 Schmitter, Philippe C. 19 Transitions from Authoritarian Rule 18 Schock, Kurt 169n12 Scott, James C. 7–8, 31, 83, 157 sedentary economy 54 Sedikides, Constantine 34, 35, 36 self-constraint, in pursuing social prestige 31–2 self-efficacy 91, 42n3, 154 self-enhancement 35 self-esteem 42n5, 89, 104, 135, 145, 146, 177, 179 domain-specific 33, 123, 153, 154 general 33, 90, 156 mechanisms 153–6 negative 28, 36, 41, 90, 136, 153–4 positive 34–5, 36–8, 41, 92, 95, 96, 105, 112, 134, 141, 153, 154, 155 scale of 33–4 and self-respect 111–13 self-evaluation 23, 34, 90, 92, 154 self-handicaps 37 self-perception 155, 157 self-respect 27, 93, 94, 102, 152, 155, 161 and self-esteem 111–13 self-worth 94, 111, 157, 160 Sellers, Clyde 99, 101 Senegal 16 Serbia 180

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215 Sewell, William H. Jr. 90, 158 sexual dimorphism 51–2 shame 26, 32, 88, 105, 155, 167 Sharp, Gene 169n12, 180 Sharpeville massacre 109, 111, 123, 138 Sheldon, Kennon 35, 37 siege mentality 77, 82, 99 Sikkink, Kathryn 169n12 Singapore 16 Sisk, Timothy D. 130n11 Sizani, Stone 116, 121, 141, 142, 143 Sloboda, John A. 148n14 Slovo, Joe 142 Smith, Eric Alden 31 Smith, Mary Louise 65 Snow, David A. 169n6 social attitudes 34 social bonding 97 social comparisons and relative deprivations 88 social esteem 30, 37, 128, 155, 157 social identity 97, 134, 152 social interactions 24, 65, 72, 75, 157–8 social mobility 118, 127, 151 social mobilization 23, 165 social movements 1, 4, 5, 17, 18, 64, 90, 140, 156, 158, 165–6 social organization 44 egalitarian 48 and liberal democracy 60 non-egalitarian 52 and personal characteristics 45 and population size 54–6 and sexual dimorphism 51–2 and wealth 54 social prestige 30 self-constraint in pursuing 31–2 social-psychological perspective, of recognition pursuit 33 and genetic factors of self-esteem 35–6 positive self-esteem pursuit as basic human need 36–8 positive self-esteem, universality of pursuit of 34–5 social recognition 34, 155, 156, 161 social status 30, 31 through hunting 50 prevention see mass mobilization against apartheid, origins of

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216

INDEX

solidarity 111, 122–3, 124, 140–1, 146, 152, 161, 177 Somit, Albert 25n5 South Africa 113, 152, 165, 167, 177 see also mass mobilization against apartheid, origins of South African Student Movement (SASM) 112 South African Student Organization (SASO) 111 South America 59 South Korea 164, 165 Soweto uprising 109–10, 122, 126, 172 Spain 62, 163, 167 state actions 157–8 state-centered theory 17 State of Alabama versus Martin Luther King Jr. 70, 75 Stephan, Maria 4, 165, 169n12, 180 structuralism 17–18 structural strain 166–7 struggle dynamics 156, 158, 160, 168n4, 176 submissiveness 39 see also obedience subordination and individual-selection logic 49 resisting the 51 subsistence economy 53 sedentary forms of 54 Sweden 59 Swilling, Mark 130n13, 138 sympathy 69, 80, 122, 151, 157, 177 Tabalaza, Lungile 135, 148n6 Taber, Charles 169n7 Taiwan 164 Tambo, Oliver 141 Tarrow, Sidney 17, 169nn6, 11, 12 Taylor, Charles 10, 27, 34 The Politics of Recognition 27 Terreblanche, Sampie 129n3 Teune, Henry 7 Thailand 165 third wave metaphor 19–21 Thornton, Mills J. 99, 107n21 Tilly, Charles 15, 17, 158, 168n3 Tooby, John 25n5, 29

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top-down theories 18–19 toyi-toyi 144–5 transformative events 158–9, 172–3, 176 transition, to democracy 19 wave of 20 Tubman, Harriet 89 Turke, Paul W. 42n2 Tutu, Desmond 137 Uitenhage 110, 114, 115, 119, 121, 126, 130n5, 131n37 United Democratic Front (UDF) 110, 139, 146 United States 35 Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948) 1, 3 Vanhanen, Tatu 16 Venice 59 Veto, Thabo 114, 115, 137 Vietnam 62 Voting Rights Act (1965) 62 Wedge, Byrant 33, 34 Welch, William C. 79, 86n50 well-being and positive self-esteem, affinity between 36–7 West Germany 159 White Citizens’ Councils (WCC) 77, 78, 171 white leadership (inMontgomery, AL.) 98, 99 Whiten, Andrew 51 Wiessner, Polly 32, 42n2, 47, 48, 50, 51, 53 Wilson, Margo 33 Women’s Political Council 65, 87, 89, 104 Xego, Mike 114, 119, 133, 136, 143 Yamaguchi, Susumu 35 Yokley, Dr. 97 Yugoslavia 165 Zhao, Dingxin 168n3, 169n11 Ziada, Dalia 62 Zimbabwe 144 Zunes, Stephen 169n12

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