The Politics of Institutional Failure in Madagascar's Third Republic 0739181602, 9780739181607

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The Politics of Institutional Failure in Madagascar’s Third Republic

The Politics of Institutional Failure in Madagascar’s Third Republic Richard R. Marcus

LEXINGTON BOOKS

Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Rowman & Littlefield A wholly owned subsidiary of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com Unit A, Whitacre Mews, 26-34 Stannary Street, London SE11 4AB Copyright © 2016 by Lexington Books All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Marcus, Richard R., author. Title: The politics of institutional failure in Madagascar’s Third Republic / Richard R. Marcus. Description: Lanham : Lexington Books, 2016. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2015042692 (print) | LCCN 2015046249 (ebook) | ISBN 9780739181607 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780739181614 (electronic) Subjects: LCSH: Ravalomanana, Marc. | Political culture—Madagascar—History. | Power (Social sciences)—Madagascar. | Madagascar—Politics and government—1992-2010. Classification: LCC DT469.M343 M375 2016 (print) | LCC DT469.M343 (ebook) | DDC 320.969109049—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015042692

™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992. Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Acknowledgments vii Preface xi 1  Introduction

1

2  Malagasy Political Space as Victim

23

3  The Political Institutions of the Third Republic (1992–2010)

41

4  The Legislature and Elections: Moving Popular Voice to the Center

87

5  Institutionalizing Personalized Political Parties

109

6  Civil Society Unable to Engage

131

7  The Presidency of Marc Ravalomanana

175

8  The Fall of Marc Ravalomanana and the Rise of the Fourth Republic

195

Selected Bibliography

219

Index 223 About the Author

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v

Acknowledgments

This book is long in coming. Rather than reflecting a single study or group of interviews, it is a culmination of many studies conducted through two decades of work in Madagascar. There are just too many wonderful people in my personal and professional life that have influenced my thinking or contributed to this effort to include them all here. I nonetheless single out a few who have significantly impacted this work, contributed over a long period of time, or have been seminal partners on particular aspects of this effort. My most profound intellectual debt goes to the members of the African Politics Conference Group whose friendship and critiques have been seminal to my development as a scholar and the thoughts in this book. Goran Hyden chaired my doctoral dissertation committee a decade and a half ago now but has remained a stalwart supporter, inspirational colleague, and wonderful friend. Richard Sklar and Michael Lofchie, my MA readers, helped me develop my early thinking on Malagasy political dynamics. Peter Von Doepp, one of my oldest colleagues and a dear friend, has read more drafts of papers and chapters I have written over the years than anyone should have to endure. Leonardo Arriola, Jérôme Bachelard, Catherine Boone, Stephen Burgess, John F. Clark, Dennis Galvan, John Harbeson, Parakh Hoon, Carl LeVan, Rene Lemarchand, Staffan Lindberg, Bruce Magnusson, Anne Pitcher, Robert Press, Laura Seay, Leonardo Villlon, and Beth Whitaker have all offered valuable feedback over the years. I fear I have built a reputation of delivering papers to panel discussants that are slightly past due and far longer than expected and at once thank all of these people for their patience while clarifying the profound debt I owe them. I also wish to acknowledge other academic colleagues including Christian Kull (with whom I co-edited a Madagascar Special Issue of African Studies Quarterly), Ken Mease (my onetime co-author and the person responsible for teaching me statistics in his vii

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spare time), Adrien Ratsimbaharison (who co-authored an earlier version of the political party chapters of this volume), Joel Raveloharimisy (a onetime and again collaborator), and Joseph Onjala (who co-authored a comparative paper between Kenya and Madagascar with me). I never had the pleasure of writing with Stephen Ellis before his passing, but conversation and, of course, his seminal writings have been important to me. To them all: my profound gratitude for being my colleagues, my teachers, and my friends. It is nearly impossible to thrive in academic life without the strong support of colleagues at your home institution creating a nurturing environment. At Yale University I owe a particular debt of thanks to my postdoctoral chair, Jeffrey Park, and at The University of Alabama, Huntsville, Kathleen Hawk, Andrée Reeves, John Pottenger, Allen Spitz, Richard McNider, and John Christy who all taught me how to balance research, teaching, and administration. California State University, Long Beach, has been my academic home since 2006 and the warmth of environment comes from more than just the fifty weeks of sunshine. Yousef Baker, Laura Ceia, Norma Chinchilla, Kenneth Curtis, David Dowell, Caitlin Faralt, Larry George, Barbara GrossmanThompson, Paul Laris, Karen Nakai, Charles Noble, Kimberly Walters, Teresa Wright, and countless others have helped create an atmosphere that is beyond collegial to the point that I have become one of the fortunate few that gets to wake up every morning excited to go into work. Surely Peter Drucker was right when he argued that workers who are satisfied and contented are more productive. In Madagascar my first thanks go to my research assistant since 1999, Paul Razafindrakoto. He is responsible for regularly keeping me up to date when I am in the U.S., helping me organize survey teams, translation between Malagasy and French, and myriad other activities. Bemananjara Rafaralahy, then director of the Institut de Linguistique Appliquée at the Université de Madagascar was, in 1992, my first academic contact in Madagascar and my language teacher. His friendship and cultural insights have influenced me greatly. Serge Radert, Voara Randrianasolo, Solofo Randrianja, Jean-Eric Rakotoarisoa, Yves Rakotoarison, Narindra Mitantsoa Rakotoniaina, Juvence Ramasy, and many others have been wonderful interlocutors, collaborators, colleagues, and friends. I have had the great opportunity to serve as a lead researcher for several World Bank studies. This experience was important to my thinking about Madagascar, provided me additional opportunities in the country, and gave me tremendous colleagues without whose collaboration this book simply would not have been possible. Hajarivony Andriamarofara’s intellect, passion, and compassion has, to my mind, not only made an indelible impression on me but on the World Bank’s Antananarivo’s office. Working very



Acknowledgments ix

closely with Sarah Keener and Anne-Lucie Lefebvre as task managers has shown me what dedication means. Adolfo Brizzi gave me a new definition for the “intellectual” country manager. Razafimandimby Andrianjaka, Jurgen Blum, Guenter Heidenhof, Marco Larizza, Tuan Minh Le, Jacques Morisset, Kathrin Plangermann, Bienvenue Rajaonson, Voahirana Hanitriniala Rajoela, Tiana Rakotondraibe, Harisoa Danielle Rasolonjatovo, Hasina Rakotomandimby, and Maryann Sharp all have contributed in different ways. I want to particularly acknowledge the big picture thinking and long-term view provided by the late, much missed, economist Dieudonne Randriamanampisoa. My greatest acknowledgements go to my wife Yael, my son Eitan, and my daughter Aravah. I suffer from the professorial affliction of organizing, postulating, supporting, and defending arguments about even the most mundane aspects of daily life. When I am writing the disease intensifies and no one likes a know-it-all. Then there is the travel. Working in a profession that requires I go to another country for weeks at a time multiple times per year is very taxing on family life. My kids have grown up with this as normal but still have to live with my missing teacher meetings, skinned knees, and school plays. My wife has had to pick up the slack more times than I can count. They have nonetheless provided me the boundless support, joy, and unconditional love that makes life worth living. No words can express my gratitude for their patience.

Preface

I arrived in Madagascar for the first time at the beginning of the constitutional convention of March 1992. It was an electric time. The Second Republic of President Didier Ratsiraka, in place since 1975, was in its final throws. Scientific socialism was being abandoned in favor of democracy, even if it was unclear what that meant. The urban strikes of 1991 had turned into a fullblown social movement: the Hery Velona (Living Forces) installed a parallel government led by the charismatic professor Albert Zafy; and the Panorama Convention of October 31, 1991, was signed, recognizing a diminished form of cohabitation and an eighteen-month timetable for a new constitution and elections. Hot off my first-year graduate school lectures, I believed I was witnessing democracy’s third wave in action. I was wrong on almost everything. On the surface, Malagasy political culture appears highly unique. However, as I probed deeper, I realized that what appeared to be epiphenomenon was actually Malagasy incarnations of common political manifestations. Big families held unusually heavy sway. Trade unions were small but organized enough to be a force in the capital. Churches dominated what there was of a civil society long suppressed by an at best nominally socialist autocrat. Personal networks were critical to political ascension at every level. International donors saved the country from the abyss but in turn grew a neoliberal private sector that fed the politics of the personal. In 1994 I completed my first surveys and focus groups in Madagascar. It was very apparent in the data that Malagasy political culture is highly sophisticated and abundantly liberal. In contrast to the assumptions made in the academic literature of the time of almost every Sub-Saharan African country, the community spirit was not strong in order to create a common end. The xi

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community spirit was strong enough however in order to facilitate a competitive social and economic structure at every level of governance. Living in Madagascar in the late 1990s, I came to realize that I would never be Malagasy no matter what I did and there are elements of being Malagasy that would continue to elude me. Yet, it became a second home for me and this land offers a kinship that I feel to this day. The notion of freedom in a country long repressed by autocracy fills most conversations on a daily basis. How this freedom manifests itself, how individualized or communal it is, how universal or relative its norms are, how it is interpreted, and the mechanisms used to achieve it vary, but a longing for freedom is woven into the moral fabric of humanity, contributing to the mosaic of human will. The advanced industrialized democracies of the world assume this to be true. They propagate the spread of democracy not just for the extension of their own beliefs or for the betterment of Western civilization, but out of a perceived duty towards the greater human good. Western progenitors of democracy think of themselves as proponents of the right, the small, and the just, battling against those that glorify sectoral insularism and the oppression of the many by the few. The norms and institutions of Western democracy have offered a universal salve to enduring and overcoming suffering. Surely Madagascar was an ideal proving ground for testing this theory I held? In a much larger survey that I conducted in three rural areas in 1997– 1998, civil society was laid bare. Participation in formal groups necessary to root Western democracy group participation was low and fleeting. The vast majority (65 percent) of people defined democracy not in terms of elections or common to the African politics literature, economic goods, but in terms of personal freedoms. Nearly half (41 percent) of the 1,204 respondents answering the question stated that they were willing to give up a strong president if it meant an increase in personal freedoms. In some areas, particularly in the northeastern vanilla-growing region, a clear distinction was made at community levels that personal freedoms mean more market opportunities. The rule of law was seen as more important than empowering a personal leader (61 percent). High voter turnout rates were explained by a felt obligation (41 percent) or an individual right (31 percent). The two most important explanations of a person’s political views reflected the cannons of the literature on advanced industrial democracies: income and education. How could a constitution reflecting such ideals created in a hybrid of French and American images create such discord? The Malagasy constitution of 1992 was the wrong document. At its founding, it was a relatively unsophisticated political compromise where the prime ministerial powers trumped presidential powers, but the safeguards on political excess were few. The creation of new political structures—a new bicameral legislature,



Preface xiii

presidency, judicial structure, relationship between provinces, and political freedoms—were democratic in every institutional sense of the term but they actually encouraged predatory personal networks, particularly from the emergent business class. The constitution didn’t serve its fundamental purpose. It didn’t safeguard the institutional space for competition. Instead, its focus on what institutions were without considering why they were in place, culturally-bound organizational norms, and fluid personal networks led to a narrowing of the groups that could compete for power. In short, the constitution of Madagascar’s Third Republic was not Malagasy. Every time a new president was elected he changed the constitution to suit his political needs. As the institutional space for political competition closed and the constitution itself became a malleable document, the opposition reacted by taking to the streets. Over the years, the basic tendencies of Malagasy political culture have not changed markedly. Surveys that I conducted in 2002, 2006, 2010, and 2011 all reflect similar patterns of liberalism and disjuncture. This is merely confirming what people in Madagascar express on a daily basis—that government isn’t serving public needs, it is serving itself, and the people pay the price. Madagascar’s Third Republic did not live up to its promise. It did not create the space within institutions for real political competition nor did it allow the development of a sophisticated political culture to extend public expression into the political sphere. Instead, predatory politics fed the expansion of elite wealth. The regime of Andry Rajoelina didn’t create these structural realities. It grew them while extirpating the democratic veneer. The debate over the Constitution of the Fourth Republic was real, involving some of Madagascar’s greatest constitutional and legal experts from across the policy, juridical, and academic spectrum. There was a clear realization that the 1992 constitution, and its revisions in 1994, 1998, and 2007, created an unworkable instrument. Alas, the final product, approved by voters on November 17, 2010, after a veil of secrecy, did not reflect the vibrant conversation that led to its creation. It too became a political compromise, obfuscating roles and jurisdictions while further empowering one of the most constitutionally powerful presidencies in the world. I approach this book by observing and commenting upon the institutional challenges in Madagascar. Each chapter describes the institutional foundations, its political metamorphoses, and its challenges. It also thus runs the risk of telling several stories. Where the narrative comes together is in the political challenge. In this sense, each chapter describes the ways in which the failure of the institution to reflect a Malagasy process (and often a MalgachoMalgache dialogue about the process) has led to a system in which a relatively

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Preface

weak and co-opted civil society has little room to grow. Individual decisionmakers are beholden to leaders in higher political office and sometimes, an interwoven private sector to the extent that it is more likely the institutions will serve as cover for the few than safeguard of the many. The result is an unraveling of state capacity to serve Malagasy needs and the subsequent disintegration of governance in key sectors with the mass of the population left to the margins. The reasons, as discussed throughout the book, are both internal and external to Madagascar. This is a tale of woe written in a period of Malagasy history where the mood of the population was perhaps at its lowest since independence. The anger and frustration of 2009 had given way to an ennui born of years of political infighting without solution and well-intended but poorly thought out international responses. It is also a tale of hope. No country should be judged by its politicians. High political sophistication despite rurality, a tremendous amount of public patience, a strong technical class, vibrant market activity, a broad-reaching sense of the relationship between culturally-bound Malagasy norms (often varying by kinship, ethnicity, and region) and political expression, and remarkable stamina by emergent young leaders has protected Madagascar from going the way of Côte d’Ivoire and Mauritania or worse, Somalia or the Democratic Republic of Congo. Not only does Madagascar hold the natural resources to turn the economic tide, it has the human resources to turn the political tide. The Fourth Republic, in its first incarnation, has virtually no chance of doing that but the opportunity nonetheless remains to reinvent a Malagasy political sphere that will serve the needs of its population.

Chapter One

Introduction

After nearly two decades of euphoria over the potential offered by new political competition, it is becoming increasingly clear that there is a dark underside for soft states. In Kenya, the fall of President Daniel T. Arap Moi led to significant growth in transparency that in turn shed light on the absence of a Weberian state. The rule of law rapidly changed into a process of inserting juridical networks as part of the patronage of the state. Actors became involved in an increasingly complex and profitable network of arenas. Somalia, long the continent’s political bête noire, also witnessed active disengagement from the state-strengthening project. This example has demonstrated that building a state to maximize power doesn’t always work. The state itself—how it is imagined—has lost meaning creating multiple layers and types of civil war concurrent and over time. The risk of warlordism remains high because the process of state-seeking is more profitable than actual state-strengthening. Kenya, Ethiopia, Burundi, Djibouti, France, the U.S., al-Qaeda, the list of exogenous interests in the country is significant and, collectively, further destabilizing. In Eritrea, new efforts at extracting gold and copper have exacerbated uncertainty in democratization and development processes. Development is commonly held as a barometer of government success. These, and new multinational agricultural ventures, hold real potential for raising profitability through export markets. In recent years, coup d’états have undermined gains in Mauritania, Côte d’Ivoire, Central African Republic, Guinea, Guinea Bissau, Sao Tome e Principe, and Niger. In all of these cases, statecraft has been the victim. Regime security has diminished, the stakes have gotten higher, and time has served individuals more than institutionalization. Against this backdrop the issues aren’t unique but the importance of the stakes are laid bare. Madagascar is on a precipice. The concept would appear to indicate a temporally-bound event, a moment, a flash in time that will 1

2

Chapter One

endogenously resolve one way or another. Yet, for Madagascar this is just not the case. The country is perennially on a precipice—not falling off, not stepping back, but wavering in the political wind. The fundamental problems remain the same. The forces that can potentially send the country off into the crevasse shift but the nature of the forces, their roots and their motivations, have become a constant. Civil society, the private sector, the military and other commonly exogenous forces have proven embedded players in a long-term game which have thwarted the ability of individual leaders from stepping onto terra firma and moving a vast, diverse country with significant resources towards economic growth, stability, and an improved quality of life for its more than twenty million citizens. Between 1971 and 1991 real per capita income dropped by 40 percent. There were real gains made in the 2002–2008 period such as reducing poverty, diversifying its placement in the global marketplace, embarking on programs to link nascent natural resource exploitation and development, and improving access to education and health care, but then between 2009 and 2011 poverty levels increased by above 9 percentage points to engulf 77 percent of households (World Development Indicators 2012). Export-oriented activities fell at the end of the Third Republic (down 50 percent 2008–2010), the ease of doing business plummeted (140/183 in Doing Business 2011), infrastructure investments were disproportionately needed compared to budgetary resources, a large fraction of official aid, which represented 40 percent of the budget and 75 percent of the public investment program, remained on hold due to the political crisis, leading to significant cuts in investments, a decline in the delivery of social services and further deterioration of growth prospects. Nearly all Millennium Development Goals, including education and health care access, missed the 2015 mark. The risk of a failed state remained low. A lot of hope was placed by the international community and some parts of civil society in the potential of elections, but this proved an eidolon as electoral processes have proven a solution to state weakness. The way out of Madagascar’s politics has become as confounding as the Kenyan, Somali, and Eritrean cases. The reasons are both internal and external. Internally, the unconstitutional change of power in March 2009 from President Marc Ravalomanana to President of the High Authority for the Transition Andry Rajoelina was an important trigger for state weakening and the most confounding struggle in modern Malagasy history but it is most accurately viewed as part of a cycle not an individual event. Governance weaknesses across the three branches of government have developed over decades and have significantly contributed to political instability. Fundamental constraints in the functioning of all three branches of government have also posed a significant impediment to any fundamental governance reform.



Introduction 3

The executive branch of the government, particularly the presidency, has traditionally been very dominant in the context of a culture descendant from monarchic rule. The president has a near-imperial role with minimal checks on accountability and does not allow institutions to compete with it. Each president has changed the constitution, including the territorial divisions of the country to suit his needs. The president and political parties are tied into a neopatrimonial and rent–seeking mechanism based on patron-client relations that deliberately blur the boundaries between public and private spheres. The legislature is unable to constrain presidential authority, and has become a marginal part of the system, in service to, rather than in check of, presidential power. The judiciary does not effectively play its role as an independent branch of government and as a defender of citizen rights. The president has significant power of the judiciary and the supreme court in particular, weakening judicial independence. Selective application of the legal framework has led to a perception of widespread impunity. Madagascar entered the 2000s with reasonably solid governance in comparison to Sub-Saharan African countries. In the aggregate Madagascar remained steady with modest gains in critical areas through 2006–2007. It then began to decline in 2006–2007, falling precipitously with the onset of the political crisis in 2009. In the period of 2006–2008 many of the gains made during President Marc Ravalomanana’s first mandate started to falter. This timeline is important because many of the governance challenges today across sectors—in mining, forestry, water, health, education, and others— hold roots that precede the fall of President Marc Ravalomanana in March 2009. In this sense the overthrow of Ravalomanana by forces supporting Andry Rajoelina significantly exacerbated rather than invented the governance challenges. Human development started backsliding as did political participation, accountability, rule of law, and health and welfare. By mid-2009 the rapid change in leadership and destabilization of political institutions led to a sudden and significant fall off in virtually every indicator. Madagascar became one of the most sanctioned countries in the world. In the notable Mo Ibrahim Index of the quality of governance, transparency and accountability dropped Madagascar from eleventh place to thirty-nine of fiftythree countries. Private sector development, sustainable economic opportunities, human rights, gender access, and personal safety all became more challenged. In short, during the political crisis of 2009–2013 the state stopped providing many core functions. The loss of the relatively few accountability mechanisms led to gains in personal rule at the expense of effective power to govern, the rule of law, anti-corruption programming efforts, and social stability. Today there is no formal strategic plan to serve as a roadmap to development. The political crisis showed primary indicators of leaning towards a

4

Chapter One

failed state but instead Madagascar saw transparency, accountability, governability and public policy across key sectors whither rather than collapse. A vicious circle of limited accountability has further undermined government and development effectiveness. The lack of effective checks and balances by the legislature and judiciary, together with the weakness of informal oversight through social accountability mechanisms by civil society enable limited accountability of political leaders in Madagascar. The fabric of the government is being unwoven, abandoning not just the networks of actors but the knowledge to make policies that regulate and create subjectivities. When knowledge wanes, power becomes fluid. This, in turn, threatens the diverse structures and sectors of the Malagasy polity. The loss of Malagasy stateness and precipitous budget decline did not lead to the Somali condition where state-seeking is more profitable than statecreation; the judiciary remains too fragmented and subject to the winds of executive change to provide significant opportunities for embedded networks or large scale rent-seeking as in Kenya. Yet, the role of the state lies at the heart of the conundrum moving forward. On the one hand there does exist technical capacity across sectors with clear mechanisms. Policy sectors such as health, education, water, and mining breathe through complex organisms insufflating from the ministry level on down through devolved systems touching even the most rural communities. The neopatrimonial state at best undermines public management efforts and at worst empowers individual networks of power. While the 2009 unconstitutional change of power exacerbated this problem, it is sufficiently structural and institutional in nature that elections are highly unlikely to produce a rapid resolve. It would appear imprudent for the international community to bet on the Malagasy state for the foreseeable future. On the other hand, the alternative is to consider Madagascar a “fragile state.” It would be more accurate to define the Malagasy state as suffering from fragility.1 By virtually any measure, despite elections Madagascar is at high and increasing state risk. Donors have played an important role in Madagascar’s political development. Yet, they are changing for reasons exogenous to Madagascar as much as endogenous ones. The World Bank, the country’s largest donor by far with a portfolio crossing $1 billion by 2009, is a perfect example of this. There is a greater mix of government and market-based interventions. There is more of a focus on knowledge assistance rather over policy prescription. There is greater focus on diversity in approaches to match the diversity of African economic, political, and social environments. The 2011 Africa Regional Strategy looks towards a transformative strategy focusing on three pillars: competitiveness and employment; vulnerability and resilience; and Governance and public sector capacity. The 2012 Interim Strategy Note for Madagascar



Introduction 5

pointed out that the “[n]eed for external support and dialogue as the cost of inaction far outweighs the benefits. Conditioning support until the demonstration of participative democracy through elections may be a restricted view on what is needed to promote citizen security.” It structured a medium term strategy around one foundation (governance and public sector capacity) and two pillars (resilience and vulnerability; employment and competitiveness). On the supply side, this means counter-balancing the concentration of power in the presidency with strengthening the parliament, judiciary, state auditors, and anti-corruption agencies. Communes will see an increased role in service delivery. Hitherto incipient demand-side efforts will be strengthened. As a result of the disjuncture between funding and communication, such activity creates as much political erosion as it does economic opportunity. There is no formal strategic plan by the government comparable to the Madagascar Action Plan that served as a roadmap for the administration of President Marc Ravalomanana.2 The political crisis (2009–2014) never showed primary indicators of leading towards a failed state and it suffered from few of the most critical fragile state symptoms such as demobilized soldiers threatening to become state-breakers or a Lumpenproletariat or pseudo-Lumpenproletarian3 youth seeing no way out of unemployment but violence. However, despite the fragile resolve to the crisis created by the 2013 elections, the intractability and repetitiveness of crisis has shown profound structural deficiencies at work drawing into question the viability of future leadership and begging the question “How do we stop the cycle?” HOW DID WE GET HERE? Madagascar is enormous. At 587,000 square kilometers it is larger than continental France and is the fourth largest island in the world. There are six climate zones with rainfall ranging from less than 300 millimeters in parts of the south to 4,000 millimeters in parts of the northeast. As a result, Malagasy flora and fauna is highly diverse. Species evolved over millennia in isolation. Phylogenetic, genetic, and anatomical evidence suggest that Madagascar’s famed lemurs separated from other primates on the African continent 54 million years ago. Over time, lemurs diversified into the fifty variations we see today. This is a representative experience as nearly 80 percent of all flora and fauna in Madagascar is endemic, making a biological hotspot. This has long shaped human relationships with their land, public policy around land use dating back more than two centuries, and donor funding to Madagascar since the 1980s. Madagascar’s population is also unique and diverse. There is evidence of human settlement dating to 405 CE but it is likely that this can be attributed

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Chapter One

to transient maritime settlers and it is more likely that permanent settlement began in the late seventh century CE (Randrianja and Ellis 2009). In all likelihood, the earliest settlements were of Austronesian peoples. In evidence, the Malagasy language today is not in the same language family as any other living language but it shares closest ties with Austronesian languages such as those spoken in Indonesia and Malaysia. There is, however, a Bantu substraight in the Malagasy language owing to migration from East Africa in what is estimated to be the ninth century CE. By the tenth century CE there was significant Arab and Austronesian trade throughout the Mozambique channel and the written evidence from the period reflects a clear linguistic and cultural hybridity (Larson 2000). It is notable that Madagascar began as a trading center with commerce on the island predating permanent settlement. Early settlement, likely on the northeast and northwest coasts, reflected maritime culture. Far from the commonly perceived end of the earth, the people of Madagascar were engaged in international trade from the earliest years of cultural development. It should therefore not be surprising that Madagascar has an economically liberal political culture. As people moved inland they began growing crops. Rice in particular was developed using swidden agriculture techniques founded in Southeast Asia. This continues to have a dramatic impact in that tavy, a form of shifting cultivation by slash and burn methods, has been the focus of conservation efforts in this ecologically fragile country as it has deleterious impacts on endemic flora and fauna. Yet, tavy is not just a method of farming it is an historically embedded cultural practice. Prayer to zanahary (ancient spirits on the land which can harm farmers) and andrimanitra (God) is undermined by the replacement of tavy with terraced wet rice and intensive rice irrigation systems. Madagascar—its peoples, cultures, societies, languages, economies, and political systems—continued to expand and grow more complex throughout the first millennium of human habitation. Islam grew along the coasts. The slave trade came to Malagasy shores in the thirteenth century. A seminal shift took place in December 1648 when Etienne de Flacourt arrived in Southern Madagascar as a representative of the Campagnie Francaise de l’Orient. He founded a permanent settlement on Madagascar’s southern coast, Fort Dauphin, and forever changed the system of taxation, rice cultivation incentives, and even caste relationships of the region. De Flacourt wrote a book about his experience and it is from his work that the name Madagascar was (mistakenly) derived. A critical observation in de Flacourt’s writing is the race distinction between those who are fotsy (white) from those who are mainty (black) with a hierarchical caste system. De Flacourt’s policies as de facto governor, and, later French policies, exacerbated this cleavage. Today



Introduction 7

skin color and associated race markers hold political, cultural, and economic importance in Madagascar. This is most commonly discussed in the divide between those of Merina ethnicity in the central highlands and those of côtier (coastal) ethnicities, but it is far from a geographic or black-white issue with highly regionalized, intra-ethnic, and extended kin (karazana) dimensions. Monarchism rose in the belly of feudalism. A complex system led by ray aman-dreny (elders) and ampanjaka (kings) began to emerge in distinct iterations around the island as rovam-panjakana (king’s palace). The Sakalava kingdoms of the northwest (and particularly the Maroseraña dynasty) developed first in the sixteenth century. By the early eighteenth century the Sakalava king Taokafo grew the wealth of the region through trade and domination. Fombandrazana (ways of the ancestors) became regionalized customary practices that are often present today. The Malagasy language itself has significant dialectic variations across the island but it is here in the cultural meaning amongst speech communities that imbue meaning and create different, often competing identity groups. When the first French governor of the colonial period, Joseph Gallieni, divided the territory into a politique des races, he created eighteen different “tribes” that were superimposed on top of far more differentiated political and cultural systems. In many parts of the country, particularly in rural areas, the ampanjaka still holds informal authority in parallel to the formal system of government and “tribalism,” as it is often seen by Western countries, is really a manufactured identity reality that holds limited political or cultural import. The Merina period began in earnest with the rise of Queen Rangita Rangitamanjakatrimovavy in 1520, marking the rise of important hilltop monarchies. However, it was King Andrianampoinimerina (1787–1810) who began the process of consolidation. He used the international slave trade to grow his power and dominate the highlands. He created Antanananarivo (“City of a Thousand”) as the capital which stands until this day. His son Radama I (1810–1828) continued Merina expansion across the island, creating schools, hospitals, (Anglican) churches, and military centers. His wife Queen Ranavalona I (1828–1861) and grandson Radama II (1861–1863) followed in his footsteps, often relying upon British support. By the time Queen Ranavalona III was deposed by French military forces in 1897 the Merina monarchy had come to dominate nearly all of the country. More importantly, the Merina system of politics and statecraft superceded that of other regionalized monarchies creating a single prize for colonial powers and an economic advantage for Imerina that would be held for centuries. The French colonial period lasted from 1896 to 1960. Randrianja and Ellis (2009) discuss the first stage as one of conquest with the larger Malagasy royal army folding rapidly in the face of French and Francophone soldiers.

8

Chapter One

As in much of Francophone Africa this early period of conquest was as much of the mind as the body. A concerted effort was made to transform schools, places of worship, civil administration, and other public institutions to conform to French norms of administration of values. French colonial settlement was significant but there was hardly conformity between settlers and the French military. This debate dominated the social and political spheres, leaving the role of Malagasy elites to the margins. From the outset there was a Third Estate but it often devolved into disparate groups of localized rebel movements, banditry, and insurgency. Armed groups of the Malagasy political elite were rapidly dispatched by the army of then-governor Joseph Gallieni. Perhaps most critical in this period is the creation of a politique des races. Gallieni created eighteen ethnicities out of existing pseudo-ethnic, kinship, and feudal identities, further dividing them into Merina (of the highlands around Antananarivo) and côtiers (the combination of the other seventeen groups). This created an enduring definition of “tribe” still in common use today. Yet, the identified groups have largely never been homogenous given the predominance of kin-ties, geographic orientation, and other factors. Over time a discussion of civil rights and the role of individuals emerged. It was notably an urban conversation in a predominantly rural country, but it led to incremental reforms. Political parties, discussed in chapter 5, began emerging in earnest between the world wars. A nascent Fourth Estate began to flourish during World War II, and a constituent assembly was formed in 1945. There was an open quality to Malagasy society with a rising entrepreneurial class, market system, and international reach. Despite a highly centralized colonial project, international political networks became strong. By 1947 political party identity, international political networks, and ethnic identity crafted by the force of the Merina Monarchy and French Colonial Government, grew into a full-fledged insurgency in Eastern Madagascar. The goal of insurgents was to expel France. The insurrection was short lived but it became one of the bloodiest and most divisive of the colonial period. According to Jacques Tronchon (1986), still the seminal work on the subject, upwards of 100,000 people were slaughtered by French forces between March and July 1947. The event continues to shape the way in which Malagasy think of their relationship to themselves and the world (Sharp 2003). On the one hand 1947 is important today because memory of it has aided in keeping social movements largely contained to urban areas. On the other hand it helped cement a politics of difference and the notion of political networks tied to enduring acts of retaliation, and an inextricable tie between not foreign powers and the Malagasy government but particular foreign interests and particular socially embedded Malagasy political interests.



Introduction 9

Madagascar’s First Republic was born out of this particularistic relationship between foreign interests and specific Malagasy political elites. The economics of colonialism had begun to transform in the 1950s and the enterprise was much less attractive than it once was. In this sense the prodigious Malagasy nationalist movement can be viewed as contributing to a global anti-colonial dialogue more than a successful political or military campaign. In 1956 French Premier Guy Mollet signed the loi-cadre which paved the way for elected territorial governments throughout Francophone Africa. Charles de Gaulle rose to power in 1958, rapidly terminating the French colonial project. He was given emergency powers by the French National Assembly on June 1, 1958, and in September the French colonial government in Madagascar wrote a constitutional referendum which passed by a large margin. The PADESM (Party of the Disinherited of Madagascar) party supported the referendum while the AKFM (Congress Party for the Independence of Madagascar) party opposed it. As a result, the PADESM enjoyed significant French support. When its leadership split and Philibert Tsirinana formed the PSD (Social Democratic Party) a bond was formed by which the French government supported a côtier president but the role of Madagascar’s so-called “big families” (largely of Imerina) in the economy. Tsirinana was elected Madagascar’s first president and, on September 4, 1960, the PSD dominated the legislative elections. Administratively speaking, there was little differentiation from the semi-autonomous government established by France. As a practical matter, the PSD ruled from a position of strength derived from the perpetuation of a Merina-côtier divide. With this and French dominance of Malagasy trade, Madagascar’s First Republic is viewed by most Malagasy as an extension of the French colonial period. Starting in 1971 social movements, a peasant uprising, and a downward economic spiral eroded what was left of Tsirinana’s legitimacy. Left-leaning youth movements, particularly the ZWAM (Zatovo Western Andevo Malagasy), gained strength. On May 13, 1972, security forces opened fire with live ammunition on demonstrators in Antananarivo—the similarity of the February 7, 2009, firing of the presidential guard on unarmed protestors in the waning days of the Marc Ravalomanana presidency is not lost for many Malagasy and one could argue that the events of 1972 helped shaped popular interpretation of events in 2009. Five days after the May 13, 1972, event, President Tsirinana was forced to hand over a collapsing Malagasy government to the military leader General Gabriel Ramanantsoa. This is seen by many in Madagascar as the true independence. Military factionalism was apparent and on February 5, 1975, Ramanantsoa was forced to hand power over to General Richard Ratsimandrava. Ratsimandrava was known for his role in repressing uprisings in the

10

Chapter One

waning days of the Tsirinana administration and ruled with little legitimacy or popular appeal. He immediately created a new system of village councils made up of fokonolona to create a rapid and dramatic system of decentralization. Ratsimandrava ruled for six days in 1975 before he was assassinated. Vice Admiral Didier Ratsiraka, Minister of Foreign Affairs under Ramanantsoa, was appointed head of state by the military junta on June 15, 1975. President Didier Ratsiraka was both head of state and President of the Supreme Revolutionary Council. He rapidly released a “red book” outlining a Scientific Socialist government and created sweeping change to the Malagasy political sphere through a popular referendum held on December 21, 1975. This established the Second Republic. The socialist policies almost immediately led to a period of capital flight and a dramatic collapse of the Malagasy currency. Terms of trade dried up and, by the time Ratsiraka called the International Monetary Fund in 1981, the economy was in tatters. By the elections of 1982 he had all but abandoned red book and he held on through a combination of charismatic authority and autocratic rule. While both his election in 1982 and his reelection in 1989 have been challenged as fraudulent, Ratsiraka was successful at reforming the constitution and creating a decentralized system based on the power of the six provinces and the role of the fokonolona. Madagascar’s Third Republic was built largely on the ashes of the Second Republic. In this sense, the institutions of the Third Republic discussed in chapter 3, and the subsequent institutional framework for the events of 2009, were a reaction to the failures of the institutions of the Second Republic. 2009: THE YEAR THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING (OR DID IT?) On March 17, 2009, Malagasy President Marc Ravalomanana renounced power under significant military threat and thirty-three-year-old Antananarivo Major Andry Rajoelina, nicknamed “TGV” after the French high-speed train, became President of the High Authority for the Transition (HAT). The international community reacted in strong and unusually unified condemnation, effectively freezing aid and diplomatically isolating the new government. The American ambassador at the time, the most influential in the international community, saw the events of March 2009 as a coup d’état largely because of the military backing and the harrowing chain of events for Marc Ravalomanana. As he described on March 18, 2009: The transfer of power from the short-lived military directorate to another unnamed entity with Rajoelina as its president occurred Tuesday, and today Madagascar’s High Constitutional Court (HCC) has ruled—outrageously but expectedly—that it is constitutional. The Ambassador (among other diplomats)



Introduction 11

expects to be convoked very soon by the new government and requests Department guidance on this expected situation. In terms of how to respond to what was clearly an unconstitutional transfer of power, splits are already visible in the positions likely to be taken by the French, AU, UN, EU, Francophone, and bilateral partners, which suggest a need for urgent coordination with other capitals/organizations. . . .4

He followed up on this statement on March 24, stating: The St. Paddy’s Day coup here ended the initial phase of Madagascar’s political crisis, but the crisis itself is far from over: months of instability, often masquerading as normalcy, probably lie ahead for the long-suffering people of this extremely poor nation. In the wake of the coup, Madagascar now has a young, untested, naïve leader who enjoys unreliable support from those who pushed him forward, and almost no support or even familiarity beyond the capital: his ability to retain the reins of power is uncertain, especially as his odds of success are low. The military is now fractured horizontally and especially vertically, with virtually all flag officers removed from power under extreme intimidation from armed enlisted men, often literally at the point of a gun; colonels remain in tenuous charge of those beneath them.5

There has been significant scholarly effort to unpack the notion of a coup in this context. Then legal scholar Jean Eric-Rakotoarisoa (now Chief Justice of the High Constitutional Court) characterized the overthrow as a mixture of popular uprising and mutiny. Ravalomanana was, to his view, a deeply flawed leader who sowed the seeds of his own demise, but Rajoelina was a “hostage to a coalition of the revengeful.” 6 Perhaps the most substantive scholarly work on the topic, a volume edited by Solofo Randrianja (2012),7 argues that Andry Rajoelina organized the overthrow of the legitimate Ravalomanana regime backed by part of the business world and part of the army. The eleven notable Malagasy scholars contributing to this volume argue jointly that the timing and mechanisms of this extra-constitutional action predates 2009 and is in fact tied up in a longer political struggle with democracy. The volume is inherently partisan (with perhaps the exception of the contribution by Mathilde Ginger on the role of churches) in its characterization of a coup d’état without further nuance but it brings out the important point that the rivalry between Ravalomanana and Rajoelina is a cause of profound social trauma. The population became victim yet again as it seems to at least once per decade. A vacuum of power was created that needed to be quickly filled as vague regulations of judicial power and corrupt executive orders led to an uncertain future. Such work brings out the great complexity of the events leading to the fall of the Third Republic and the characterization of a coup d’état. An elucidation

12

Chapter One

of events will hopefully make clear why March 2009 should be viewed as part of the longue durée of Madagascar political history and even perhaps how the international community contributed to both destabilization and the social trauma that ensued. A coup d’état is probably not technically an accurate characterization for this event. Typically, a coup d’état is characterized by a sudden overthrow by a small group, most commonly within the military. Yet, there was nothing sudden in the events of March 2009 and the military role was marked by late entrance and rapid departure from the political events. On March 17, 2009, President Marc Ravalomanana issued Presidential Ordinance 2009–01 handing power over to a faction of the military led by Vice-Admiral Hyppolite Ramaroson. As the Ordinance states: Article 1: Full powers are given to a Military Directorate, headed by the eldest member of the highest rank of all armed forces. He is the president. Article 2: The composition and organization of this Military Directorate are left to the president’s discretion. Article 3: The Military Directorate exercises cumulatively the functions of president of the Republic and those of the Prime Minister, which are granted to them by the Constitution. Article 4: The Military Directorate has the following mission: Organize a national conference in order to discuss the eventual modifications of the Constitution; Prepare revisions to the Electoral Code; Prepare the law on political parties; Organize elections in at least twenty-four months; The Military Directorate can take all other measures that it deems necessary in order to restore public order, and ensure an authentic national reconciliation permitting true economic and social development.

This ordinance is probably best conceived as a failed event. Article 52 of the 2007 constitution states unequivocally that “upon finding the vacancy of the Presidency of the Republic, the functions of Head of State shall be temporarily exercised until the inauguration of the president-elect or until the lifting of the temporary incapacity, the president of the Senate or, in case of vacancy or incapacity of the president of the Senate established by the Supreme Constitutional Court, the Government collectively.” The correct protocol would have been handing power to Yvan Randriasandratriniony, President of the Senate. However, Randriasandratriniony was the head of Ravalomanana’s TIM party and more importantly, closely associated with the president in both the public and private sector. While such a change would have done little to secure a peaceful transition, sate the opposition, or appease the military, the constitution doesn’t waive Article 52 if confronted with difficult politics in implementation. Presidential Ordinance 2009–001 lasted only a matter of hours. Under significant pressure from more junior officers, Ramaroson, signing as “President,” Major General Ranto Rabarisoa, and Major General Rivo Razafindra-



Introduction 13

lambo issued Presidential Ordinance 2009–002 in which “Full powers are given to Mr. Andry Rajoelina to manage the country, in place of the Military Directorate Installed by ordinance 2009–001 of March 17, 2009 [sic]. Article 3: Mr. Andry Rajoelina has as his mission the organization of a transition regime towards a Fourth Republic, and to take all measures necessary to this end.” Andry Rajoelina sent the two Presidential Ordinances to the High Constitutional Court (HCC) that same day. Decision N°79-HCC/G of the HCC the following day declared: Mr. Rajoelina Andry Nirina exercises the powers of the President of the Republic of Madagascar under the provisions set out in Article No. 53 and following of the constitution, and the ordinances mentioned above and the HCC ratified Rajoelina as president.

The argument of the Court was that Ordinance 2009–01 amounts to the resignation of the president, forgoing his responsibilities under Article 44 of the constitution to act as Head of State. That resignation negates all that follows including Article 45, which states that the president is elected by direct universal suffrage for a term of five years. They saw Ordinance 2009–002 as a way out of a political quagmire and potential instability through the creation of a civilian transitional authority that the military will accept. The same declaration that accepted Rajoelina as president also accepted Rajoelina’s appointing of Monja Roindefo Prime Minister (a power granted the president under Article 53). The legal grounds for the HCC’s findings are at best questionable. They instead seem to draw on socio-political concerns. However, they did draw attention to the murkiness of the crisis and the weakness of the court itself. It should be noted that the composition of the HCC remained to the 2002 HCC that controversially ratified Marc Ravalomanana as president in 2002. It also ratified Ravalomanana’s reelection in 2006 despite legal challenges from, among others, Monja Roindefo. More important to the events is the primary issue that the Third Republic failed to address fundamental structural issues and the combination of economic crises, and political challenges; the state was already unraveling under Marc Ravalomanana’s unilateral decision-making, increasingly narrow base of power, and highly conflated public and private sector interests. THE GOAL OF THIS BOOK This book is neither history nor lore. It doesn’t seek to support a particular political leader, type, or even regime type. It is an exploration of how

14

Chapter One

Madagascar has come to remain marred in a cycle of seemingly intractable conflict, neither completely dissolving nor finding a way forward. Only once I reached the conclusion did I realize that it is not just an analysis of the failings of the Malagasy elite, it is a reflection of the failures of those of us in the scholarly community to build efficient tools. We have made tremendous strides in understanding fragile states and state collapse, mechanisms of participation and democracy, and the interface between economic, political, and social drivers. We have come to describe rapid change in its many hues. Where we have not yet succeeded in understanding stagnation. How can a country repeat elections, grow a technical class, bask in a rich entrepreneurial spirit, benefit from untold natural resources, enjoy rich layers of cultural and social interconnectivity and still fail to either collapse or move forward? Why would such a country produce perennial social movements capable of bringing down governments without creating change—without stepping back from the precipice? This book doesn’t answer this important theoretical question. It does, however, attempt to lend to a greater understanding of the ways in which institutional factors have served to protect the status quo in Madagascar at the expense of the population. Chapter 2 explores the ways in which the Malagasy state has been victimized by its leadership. It lays out the theoretical foundation of the book while considering the role of Malagasy political history. The conventional wisdom is that the Malagasy political sphere is explained by a persistent divide between the people of Merina (ethnicity of the Central Highlands) and côtier (collective term for coastal ethnicities). This chapter explains why this is a poor, obfuscating lens for analyzing Malagasy political dynamics. While identity politics are at play, this dynamic is largely trumped by the politics of favor and individuation. The history of Austranesian and Bantu immigration and racial blending, and the history of Merina domination through the monarchy are very real parts of political history that have shaped the modern Malagasy political sphere, and play a critical role in Malagasy identity formation, but they neither describe nor defend the actions of leaders nor explain the malleability of institutions. Before the rise of Marc Ravalomanana in 2001 it was unthinkable that someone who is Merina could win a popular elections that relies on votes outside of the Antananarivo region. Yet, he was amongst the most successful of Madagascar’s new business elite, young, charismatic, and offered hope that had been lost. Ravalomanana’s rise was not, however, pure populism. He was lay-vice president of The FJKM (Protestant Church) that held power of the country’s powerful church collectivity, the FFKM. He garnered the support of the business community by striking private sector deals between his company (The Tiko Group) and others, and he garnered the confidence of the



Introduction 15

elite Merina families. The prevalent divide in the military since 1973 between low officers and high officers persisted but he won over low officers through promises of pay and opportunities. While Ravalomanana’s downfall in 2009 appeared to take the international community by surprise, scholarly analyses warned of this potential in publications as early as 2004. When things fell apart in 2008 it was clear that it was the “profit of democracy”8 that served as the most important driver. Street protests and the ultimate ouster of Ravalomanana in 2009 was not a sudden manifestation of the charismatic mayor of Antananarivo, Andry Rajoelina, but rather the culmination of losses in support networks and the erosion of institutions that were more façade than capable of offering alternatives to executive excess. Those networks hold roots that date at least to the 1947, insurgency if not, in some cases, the nineteenth century. Chapter 3 focuses on the role of political institutions. It ambitiously seeks to disaggregate the distribution of powers between political institutions as carved out informally and ascribed formally. This chapter explores the unusually powerful presidency and the subsequent relationships between the president and the legislature and the president and the judiciary. In Madagascar jurisdictional arrangements have been changed by every elected president until the roles and powers of regional and provincial governments have become obfuscated and the offices themselves a challenge to manage. Why and how this happens is seminal to the role and relationships of political institutions. It also explains how regional differences in the perceptions of governance can be as dramatic as they are. This chapter goes on to consider those institutions which lie beyond the immediate balance of power including the structure of the economy, the role of so-called “big families,” and the military before turning to the way in which the failure of institutional reforms have aided and abetted predatory politics. Chapter 4 focuses on the nexus of two patterns: the geographic shift of political power from the outlying regions to the capital and the rise and fall pattern of popular discontent and apathy. A careful analysis points towards a seismic shift in Madagascar’s voter eligibility during the Third Republic and, particularly, during the Ravalomanana years. This chapter argues that such a shift is not explained by birth rate or migratory patterns, but rather marginalization as a strategy for power centralization, particularly for the cases of the political hotbeds of the provinces of Toamasina and Tulear. The ethnic divide (Merina-côtier) falls more or less along demographic lines with Merina in command of the Central Highlands (which includes Antananarivo) and côtier controlling the four littoral provinces (Antsiranana, Tulear, Toamasina, and Mahajanga). Fianarantsoa, adjacent to Antananarivo, partially within the Central Highlands and historically better placed to prosper beside the Merina population, have provided a political swing. Comparing

16

Chapter One

political perceptions from sample regions of Ambovombe (an opposition region in the ancient province of Tulear) and Antananarivo (the capital and Ravalomanana’s stronghold) is illuminating. Madagascar’s liberal political culture drove popular support for Ravalomanana’s privatization programs even in opposition strongholds. Yet, in the main the perception is that Ravalomanana systematically ignored the south and even actively diverted resources from it. This stands in contrast to popular perceptions in the capital where, in more than a dozen questions considering government activity in 2006, only one indicator showed a decline from five years earlier: legitimacy. The divide in perception is concerning because it takes place in the context of an electoral pattern which shows a shift in registered voters over time in favor of the capital region at a disproportionate rate to the population. Further, the shift in voter eligibility, driven by draconian registration laws (such as the maintenance of a multi-ballot system in which each candidate must pay for the printing and distribution of his own ballots) and systematized malfeasance (a lack of distribution of national identity cards in opposition strongholds, etc.) has meant that someone who is Merina could conceivably win the presidency without winning the provinces at all. It also supports the claim that Ravalomanana intentionally ignored the south, primarily because it is a net economic loss with little political gain. As dramatic as this is for the executive, the impact is even greater on the legislature. During the Ravalomanana years we witnessed not just the rise of his TIM party in control of the legislature but the rise of loyalists and geographic centrists in control of the legislature. As opposition formed within the TIM in 2007, the president quickly invoked a new constitutional power to dissolve the legislature and force immediate new elections that could purge opposition in his own party. The result was extreme governance from the center. The High Authority for the Transition of Andry Rajoelina that followed the demise of Ravalomanana and the TIM was a melting pot of regional interests but hardly an effort to reform the system to be more geographically inclusive. Chapter 5 considers why political parties continue to serve the individual. Parties are commonly defined by their ability to recruit candidates, aggregate interest in candidates, and increase the electoral prospects of candidates, as well as by their ability to maintain political leaders in power. In Madagascar major political parties have been created almost exclusively for the latter purpose. They have quickly been manipulated by elites to act as nexus for political patronage towards the maintenance of power. Far from providing the institutions necessary for democratic participation, Madagascar’s political parties have served as neopatrimonial tools. This chapter disaggregates the role of political parties in Madagascar. It looks at the roots of political parties in Madagascar, early in the twentieth century, and why they have taken this form,



Introduction 17

before turning to assess the rise and fall of the key parties of the Third Republic including the AREMA party of Didier Ratsiraka, The Tiako i Madagasikara (TIM) of Marc Ravalomanana, and their cognates. The chapter concludes by considering the splintering of parties in 2009 and the potential for change in the rising Fourth Republic to eschew this inchoate pattern in favor of institutionalized parties that represent collective political interests rather than individuals. This chapter results from elite interviews conducted by the author in 1994, 1998, 2002, 2006, and 2009. Portions of this chapter appeared in a 2005 article published in Party Politics with Adrien Ratsimbahorison. However, the content has been both narrowed and significantly updated for this book. Chapter 6 explores the weakness of civil society as a political interlocutor in Madagascar. It considers how civil society is on the one hand a large and important part of Malagasy political life and on the other fails to shape the body politic as we have seen in other countries such as Zambia, Tanzania, Ghana, Chile, Bolivia, and Thailand. At root, democracy is about the pursuit of freedom. How this freedom manifests itself, how individualized or communal it is, how universal or relative its norms are, how it is interpreted, and the mechanisms used to achieve it vary. Freedom, it seems, is woven into the moral fabric of humanity, contributing to the mosaic of human will. The advanced industrialized democracies of the world assume this to be true. They propagate the spread of democracy not just for the extension of their own beliefs, or for the betterment of western civilization, but out of a perceived duty towards the greater human good. Western progenitors of democracy think of themselves as proponents of the right, the small, the just, battling against those that glorify sectorial insularism and the oppression of the many by the few. Yet, the rebirth of democracy has brought out the old problems of application. The political ideal has been matched with a set of institutions designed to realize that ideal. These institutions have been much more difficult to agree upon than the political ideal itself. Eventually, this has led to the association of democracy with elections, multiparty competition, and laws that guarantee political equality. With the institutional goals came the need for an expansion of the political ideal to include, beyond rule by the people, elements of equality, moral and intellectual development and, most critical herein, civic mindedness (de Tocqueville 1966). Citizens have the right to form relatively independent association or organizations and this is a participatory concept not a liberal one. Where elections broaden democracy, civic associations deepen it by providing profound roots stemming from the highest levels of the political sphere to base associations in rural hamlets and urban community groups with myriad interests. Civil Society Organizations in Madagascar are comparatively few and weak. Few have a history of playing roles in participatory budgeting, acting

18

Chapter One

as watchdogs, or serving other aspects as bulwark to the state. This chapter considers various intellectual schools interpreting civil society, its definition, and its application before settling on notions popularized in recent years that considers civil society as a “realm of organized social life that is voluntary, self-generating, (largely) self-supporting, autonomous from the state, and bound by a legal order or set of shared rules” (Almond 1966; see also Putnam 1993). Pluralistic civil society is not just about communicating the will of the state but generating a wide range of cross-cutting (horizontal) interests by aggregating beliefs and reducing conflict. Civil society serves to recruit and train new political leaders. It has specific democratic features such as eliminating fraud, monitoring elections, ensuring transparency, etc. Civil society, it seems, can disseminate information, encourage economic reforms necessary for democracy to thrive, and help actuate freedom of association. Legally, under ordinance 60–133, a Malagasy founding document, civil society organizations in Madagascar are associations. This would make them volunteer organizations separate from the state. In practice, however, civil society is divided. The majority of the civil society organizations are indeed “associations.” However, while associations can be an integral part of civil society they don’t necessarily play the critical role ascribed. With a few notable exceptions, the most powerful civil society operands in Madagascar can scarcely claim de Tocquevillian independence from the state. They are part of the political apparatus in many ways and cannot be popularly observed, however voluntary their base, as independent organizations capable of articulating interests completely independent of state influence. Chapter 7 explores the rise of Marc Ravalomanana in 2001 as a watershed moment in Malagasy history. As of June 2001 it looked as if President Didier Ratsiraka would run without any significant challenger. However, by August Ravalomanana, with less than two years experience in politics as mayor of the capital, was a rising national force. September to November 2001 saw the legal manipulation of institutions by Didier Ratsiraka, but ultimately the December 2001 elections came off relatively problem-free. The problem came when it was clear that Ravalomanana was outperforming Ratsiraka. The president closed the vote-counting process leading to a six-month conflict, Balkanizing the country largely on Merina-côtier lines. This chapter examines the events of 1992 in an historic context, and the efforts of Marc Ravalomanana, in order to better understand the institutional, social, and personal factors that are influencing Madagascar’s political direction. It considers the rise of Marc Ravalomanana and the crisis of 2002, delineating the events of 2002 and their importance. It then considers changes in the Malagasy MacroPolitic Environment as a direct result of the 2002 crisis before delving into who Marc Ravalomanana is, his nationalistic views and their importance, his



Introduction 19

relationship with the legislature and the judiciary, his performance, and rise of challenges that he faces during his first mandate. This chapter then turns to consider the December 2006 reelection of President Marc Ravalomanana. These elections brought new opportunities by a reform-seeking “new democrat.” But, the risk came in the lack of checks on the leadership itself, opposition to reforms, and historical and contemporary structural imbalances and cleavages. What is unusual about the Ravalomanana case in Madagascar or elsewhere is that the power of the president to operate outside the rules was rooted in the private sector. There are both immediate and intermediate challenges to democratic consolidation created by this public-private sector fusion. In order to consider this variant in neopatrimonial rule the author conducted elite interviews and public opinion surveys in the lead-up to elections and the subsequent legislative elections of 2007. While Madagascar has opened up space for political and economic change it is blocked by a recurrent pattern of personalized rule. President Ravalomanana has used his private sector to build neopatrimonial rule through business networks. Ravalomanna’s effort appeared to be to legally use donorsupported market reforms to gain control of virtually every major economic sector ensuring unprecedented power. Ravalomanana liberalized trade but fused public and private networks in the informal realm to the benefit of his formal political and economic positions. The result was the rise in the number of hybrid regimes that marry expanding democratic practices and norms in the formal political sector with these informal networks in the political realm. Chapter 8 explores the fall of Marc Ravalomanana and the rise of the Fourth Republic. On March 18, 2009, Madagascar’s High Constitutional Court (HCC) confirmed Andry Rajoelina as president after the overthrow of Marc Ravalomanana. Rajoelina promptly dissolved the National Assembly and the Senate. Most of the international community was taken off guard and quick to condemn Rajoelina. Yet, the roots of Marc Ravalomanana’s failure is clearly traceable to the shift in key sectors—the Catholic Church, the private sector, the Merina elite, and the organization of low military officers—to Andry Rajoelina. Surely Rajoelina couldn’t have overthrown the president on his own. The events cited by the international community, including the unpopular effort to lease a significant portion of arable Malagasy land to a Korean conglomerate and the purchase of an excessive presidential airplane, could not have driven a thirty-three-year-old entrepreneur to take over the country. This chapter considers how the same networks that rose through the twentieth century have married private sector interests to support an extraconstitutional change. Elite interviews carried out in 2006, 2008, 2009, 2010, and 2012 serve to outline the individual networks that made the fall of Marc Ravalomanana inevitable. At the same time, this chapter considers the eco-

20

Chapter One

nomic drivers and specifically the ways in which political economic calcification drove a popular acceptance of change (even if the mechanism for change has been largely criticized). Finally, this chapter considers the narrow vision of the international community. At first, looking towards the Fourth Republic it took a stand for “constitutionalism” that meant the return of Ravalomanana even while so-called “legalists” in Madagascar looked towards new elections that would produce new leadership while getting the country back on a constitutional path. While the international community—including the European Union, the United States, the African Union, the Southern Africa Development Community (SADC), and, more quietly, multilateral donors—have sought a reversion to the ways of Ravalomanana’s Third Republic, the path was already blazed amongst both interest groups and the populace for a new republic. The Fourth Republic was two years old by the time the international community came to understand this and then the epiphany led to fracturing of approaches by members of the international community and disharmony that came at the expense of the country. The chapter ultimately considers why the 2013 elections and the election of President Hery Rajaonarimampianina brought immediate resolve to the crisis but did little to create a path towards new, more stable institutional growth or dissuade a return to the cycle of crisis that has left Madagascar unable to purge its political demons. NOTES 1.  Stewart and Brown (2010) point out that failed states can be defined along three dimensions: authority failures, service failures, and legitimacy failures. They generalize that few countries sit on all three dimensions. Madagascar is consistent with that finding. This is sufficient to meet the Bank definition of a fragile state: “countries facing particularly severe development challenges: weak institutional capacity, poor governance, and political instability. Often these countries experience ongoing violence as the residue of past severe conflict. Ongoing armed conflicts affect three out of four fragile states” (World Bank website, accessed February 26, 2012). Stewart and Brown, consistent with OECD, CIFP, and USAID, point out that fragile states are “defined as states that are failing, or at risk of failing, with respect to authority, comprehensive access to basic service provision,” or governance legitimacy. While Madagascar has weak institutional capacity and declining quality of governance by any measure, the state doesn’t appear to be failing. The state appears to suffer from diminishing capacity and an increasing crisis of authority. The definition has been going through significant shift across academic and donor landscapes as a result of concern that a static concept over-generalizes situations, simplifying the complex political, economic, and identity-building of diverse countries. 2.  The Madagascar Action Plan was the hallmark development plan of the Marc Ravalomanana administration. Designed for the period 2007–2012, it sought to build



Introduction 21

a national vision around eight commitments linking economic and political goals. At root, the Plan sought to use Madagascar’s substantial natural resource wealth as an engine of growth and tool to meet the Millennium Development Goals. It was codified in a Poverty Reduction Strategy Paper, IMF Country Report No. 07/59 of February 2007. 3.  “Lumpenproletariat” is a term coined by Karl Marx to describe that part of the working class which is unlikely to ever achieve class consciousness, is lost to socially useful production, and is therefore of no use in revolutionary struggle. Marx saw them as an impediment to the realization of a classless society. Cabral (1974) notably described members of this class as beggars and prostitutes. He actively recruited the lumpenproletariat into the national liberation struggle of mainland Guinea and the Cape Verde archipelago. Fanon (1963: 129) saw the lumpenproletariat as more broadly déclassé—“that horde of starving men, uprooted from their tribe and from their class, constitutes one of the most spontaneous and the most radically revolutionary forces of a colonized people.” In recent years the term has been used to refer to disenfranchised urban victims of war recruited into struggles in countries such as Sierra Leone (Bolten 2009). A pseudo-lumpenproletariat is a revisionist term for social groups increasingly disenfranchised and driven into struggle but who are in themselves not truly déclassé. For instance, in 2009 the term was used by the French left to champion the role of students protesting education reforms leading to substantial losses in support. 4.  Embassy cable. March 18, 2009, 13:14 UTC. 5.  Embassy cable. March 24, 2009, 10:49 UTC. 6.  L’Express Madagascar. “Un coup d’Etat à la Malgache.” 19 mars 09. 7. Randrianja, Solofo (2012). Madagascar, le coup d’Etat de mars 2009. Paris: Karthala. 8. This phrase comes from an interview with a farmer in the Anosy region of Madagascar’s extreme south interviewed by the author on September 22, 2001.

Chapter Two

Malagasy Political Space as Victim

One day in the village of Ankoba, twenty fiery young men between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five came storming into the village looking for the deputy mayor. They found him sitting on a rock under a tree next to his vegetable garden talking with a small group of villagers. All of the young men sat down near the deputy mayor. The leader of the charge held up a deflated soccer ball. “It has been punctured,” he stated tersely. Many of the young men started speaking all at once. The reason for their rage, they argued, was that the president1 of their nearby village had confiscated the other soccer ball. When asked for it, the president would not release the second ball to the play of the young men. The young men were determined to resume their game so they walked to Ankoba to speak with the deputy mayor. They complained to the deputy mayor that the president was being unreasonable and that his decision must be overridden. Their desire to achieve this end was so strong that it united the will of the young men. They rapidly set a common goal, outlined a way of obtaining that goal, seeking that goal, and actuating that goal through the local government. A natural ad hoc leader stepped forward to speak for the group. In the end, the deputy mayor agreed to speak with the president the following day in an effort to resolve the dispute. The spokesperson for the group thanked the deputy mayor for his help by giving his wife a small gift. His aunt thanked him.

INFORMAL STRENGTH, FORMAL WEAKNESS—A GOVERNANCE OVERVIEW Governance in Madagascar is both formal and informal. Whereas an argument can be made that this is true for every country, Madagascar is amongst the handful of countries in which the dysfunction in the formal-informal relationship sits at the root of its ongoing crises. As a result, coup d’états should 23

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not be interpreted as military control or opportunism as in Côte d’Ivoire or the Comoros. Big Men are far from it with leaders stumbling over themselves to repurpose their personal networks into formal institutional arrangements already in place before they fall backwards into an abyss. Social movements have not been primarily a product of a rising economic disenfranchisement or resurgent nationalism; they have been a product of the failure of institutions to serve as a mediating force between public and private interests. As Zelig and Dwyer note (2012: 2), African social movements “have often sought to utilize the democratic ‘space’ they have helped win, only to find their activities hampered by elected governments that replicate the authoritarianism of their predecessors. Their efforts to speak for the ‘masses’ or the ‘people’ are limited by profound inequalities (of resources, power, and social capital) that pervade their structures.” Since the rise of Madagascar’s Third Republic, high technocracy has mixed with virile personal networks of power to form malleable institutions that appear democratic but serve the leader in power. Real political competition within—let alone between—the legislature, executive, judiciary, civil society, military, or political parties becomes a fiction. In this sense the social movements of 1972, 1991, 2002, and 2009, albeit dramatically different in size, scope, nature, and legitimacy, all reflect a form of last result participation outside of formal institutions which have failed them. They should be viewed as part of the governance process as opposed to the antithesis of it. Informal institutions in Madagascar are mediated by fihavanana or the values of interpersonal relationships. Whereas formal institutions are meant to elucidate the rules of the political and administrative game, fihavanana guide daily interactions. As argued by Raveloharimisy (2011 and personal communication), fihavanana form both structural (social network) and attitudinal (principle of trust) social capital. It determines the scope of social network that people belong to, and defines the boundary of trust between them. The developed level of trust within the fihavanana can build the necessary bonds for governance to succeed. It doesn’t take long even for a foreign scholar living in rural areas to become a welcome part of the daily material exchanges (labor and gifts) and conceptual exchanges (blame, punishment, revivification) that make life not only work but worth living. However, the same social networks often facilitate exclusion, nepotism, and favoritism. This may come along kinship or ethnic (or more likely pseudo-ethnic) lines similar to Kenya or Nigeria, but equally likely they become embedded in private sector and business exchanges. Identity in Madagascar can be remarkably fluid with long-standing community members turned to vazaha gasy (Malagasy foreigner) and foreigners (from other ethnicities, kinship group, or even countries) embedded in community dina (rules) or fihavanana.



Malagasy Political Space as Victim 25

The broad impacts of the fluidity of identity have been well documented.2 Didier Ratsiraka was accused in both the Malagasy and foreign press of using his Bestimisiraka roots to foster a divide between the “Merina” capital and the côtier regions. Marc Ravalomanana was accused by his detractors of setting up a “Merina” oligarchy. Yet, these ethnic characterizations mask not only ethnic malleability but also the nature of personal alliances. They are, as Koter (2013) finds in Senegal, adaptive strategies that straddle across varied social structures and used as tools of political survival. While Ratsiraka gave trust to few Merina, he also gave trust to few in coastal Toamasina. This became clear in 1998 when leadership of new autonomous provinces went to a relatively close coterie of the president. In 2002, Ratsiraka even went so far as to have Betsimisiraka installations attacked so that he could blame “Merina” and stimulate a (pseudo-) ethnic divide. Ravalomanana’s government, particularly during his second mandate (2006–2009), did rely very disproportionately on Merina leaders but his lack of trust neared levels of paranoia. Those close to his family, close to his rule as mayor of Antananarivo, or close to his business, The Tiko Group, benefited from his particular brand of nepotism. This led to significant conflict in business and politics alike within elite Merina communities. The common sentiment in Madagascar has been that the 2009 conflict is a conflict between two (Merina) houses. That more accurately reflects both the personalization of the conflict and the complexity of it as an institutional rather than ethnic problem. Further governance challenges stemming from identity comes in the nature of vertical relationships. Horizontal relationships generally remain horizontal. They represent relationships on race, ethnicity, class, clan, cast, and religion lines. Civil society, where pockets of power exist, interact across these divides both within and between geographies but rarely with constituencies let alone rural constituencies. Private sector activity is historically dominated by so-called “big families” as in the post-First Republic period (1972–1977) the Merina Bourgeoisie replaced the French in key markets; today such markets (for rice, other food products, minerals, new industry, etc.) are increasingly controlled by a young business class. The centers of commerce remain in the capital, political power remains largely in the capital, but economic exchange (particularly rice, historically) is controlled from the coast. The economic exchange is horizontal between elites regardless of ethnicity, not vertical. Vertical networks are inevitably rural. The 2009 conflict has its roots in a crisis of society and extreme factions—early on there was the persistent fear that the conflict would take on a vertical dimension in which kinship groups of the majority rural population would begin to challenge the nature of rule. This would likely have created the sort of large scale violence not felt

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in Madagascar since 1947 and would have the impact of requiring a complete reinvention of the Malagasy state in order to restore order. The institutional issue, once again articulated by Ravaeloharimisy (2011), is that imbalances between the strength and set of institutions drive interaction mechanisms. The interaction is complex because it is a blend of weak formal institutions and strong informal institutions. Enforcement mechanisms deteriorate or become co-opted. The incentives for leaders to govern fall to molding the formal institutions to serve extant fihavanana. This can go a long way in explaining the failure of international mediation in 2002 and 2009 as the focus was on the fit of the individual leader or leaders to the constitutional process to the expense of personal networks. More to the point, it helps explain why the three different regimes types of the First, Second, and Third Republics (nominally post-colonial democratic, scientific socialist, and “new” democratic) have all failed to find adequate mechanisms for assuring stable governance despite an eager, patient, engaged population and thriving technocratic and business classes. The Challenge of Malagasy Governance In well-consolidated democracies public sector institutions serve as points of mediation between leaders across sectors. In patrimonial states these public institutions are subservient to political networks guided by (often selfaggrandizing) leaders. Madagascar’s Third Republic survived four presidential and parliamentary elections and three balloted constitutional revisions since its inception in 1992. The state survived the impeachment of President Albert Zafy in 1996 and executive meddling in the High Constitutional Court in 2001. Even as social movements threatened the foundation of the Malagasy state in 2002 and 2009 (as well as significant actions in 1997, 2006, and in other more limited cases), the technocratic competence of the ministries and, by extension, the civil service has assured the continued operation of key state functions. Madagascar is a hybrid regime (Ottoway 2003).3 The personalized networks of powerful leaders commonly threaten the institutional structures. Democracy has not proven the only game in town but, while sitting, presidential leadership has. It is possible to frame the political economic drivers in Madagascar with four sets of questions (Levy 2009) that cover the roles of the public sector, private sector, civil society, and elites: •  What are the formal political institutions that are intended to govern interactions among elites, and in what ways (and with what relationship to informal political arrangements, do they serve this function?



Malagasy Political Space as Victim 27

•  What are the formal economic institutions that govern relationships among producers, consumers, and factor production? •  Who are the principal elites, and what are their relationships with one another? •  What are the principal sources of rent? How are they allocated? As Levy (2009) points out in relationship to the cases of Zambia and Mozambique, the first two questions above address what North et al. (2009) hypothesize to be the proposition that LAOs and OAOs each are characterized by distinctive, and aligned, political and economic institutions.4 Levy argues that sustainability requires a balance among all four elements. This would appear to be particularly the case for neopatrimonial regimes where leadership is reified, creating a disproportionate driver of rent distribution outcomes. However, in Madagascar it is not just political institutions that have been highly malleable but the basis of rents. The consistency doesn’t come by regularized source of rents (as is the case where there is a “natural resource curse” such as oil that each successive political network can profit from). It comes from maximizing the opportunities of the moment to the benefit of the political network of the period (Table 2.1). The Malagasy State Madagascar has yet to lay claim to the Weberian fundamentals of a legal, rational system guided by a system of universally accepted laws. The role of the state is most famously defined by Max Weber as a “monopoly on the legitimate use of physical force within a given territory.” The strength of the state and the ideology of the regime are not necessarily related. Some of the world’s most fragile states hold elections (Lebanon) while some durable states are notoriously authoritarian (North Korea, Burma).5 Madagascar has seen competing neopatrimonial networks build institutions that slowly grow the capacity to govern sectors while remaining subservient to the leaders who created them. Marc Ravalomanana succeeded in doing so by keeping his friends close and his enemies very far away. The High Authority for the Transition, and particularly Andry Rajoelina, which overthrew Ravalomanana in 2009 didn’t have that luxury. It had to continuously negotiate challenging political divides and rent-seeking opportunities. The Malagasy state is not, to use James Scott’s (1999) term, legible. In discussing eighteenth-century Prussia, Scott says that there is a negotiation between the state for “vast, complex, and negotiated social uses of the forest for hunting and gathering, pasturage, fishing, charcoal making, trapping, and collecting food and valuable minerals as well as the forest’s significance for

• Government Formal Structure Political Institutions • Electoral Code • Constitution • Party/Party System • Decentralization • Regionalism • Collectivités rurales autochtones (CAM)/ institutionalization of fokonolona

Key Indicators

2009– • “Transitional” (indeterminate) government • Electoral Code unclear • Constitutional Convention pending • No party for leader/party system inchoate • Region system maintained —unclear prospects • Clear regionalization of leadership • Neopatrimonial marked by fusion of public-private networks

2002–2009 • Multiparty democracy— limited space for competition • Highly centralized • Altered/narrowly accepted electoral code • Constitutional provisions altered without due process in 2004; constitutional change in 2007 • Strong presidential party/party system inchoate • Deconcentration over decentralization • Regionalism somewhat obviated 

1992–2002 • Multiparty democracycompetition leading to instability • Limited decentralization (to communes) • Altered/ narrowly accepted electoral code • Constitutional alterations to leadership benefit 1995, 1998 • Strong presidential party/party system inchoate • Autonomous provinces not serving decentralization or federalism

1975–1992 • Single-party autocracy • Limited decentralization • Irrelevant electoral code • Constitutional alterations 1975–1977; decree changes • Strong presidential party/party system inchoate • High Regionalism • Neopatrimonial • Fokontany as decentralized unit

1972 • Military directorate • High centralization • Irrelevant electoral code • Party system inchoate • High Regionalism • High intraregional (Merina) factionalism • Fokonolona as local decentralized unit

1960–1972

• Multiparty democracycompetition leading to instability • Centralized • Accepted electoral code • Constitution accepted at first/ then considered too close to France • Strong presidential party/party system inchoate • High Regionalism • Patrimonial

Table 2.1   Governance Key Features

• Private Sector Formal Dynamics Economic Institutions • Market Economy • Property Rights • State

Key Indicators

1972

1975–1992

• Centralized • Market economy • Economy (“Scientific largely in the • Limited market Socialist”) hands of a reach economy central elite • Generally • Limited private • Generally favorable sector first half, unfavorable business some growth business environment second half environment • Generally unfavorable business environment • First Half: Nationalization Second half: focus on agricultural technology, selective industrialization, export promotion

1960–1972

2002–2009

• Neopatrimonial • Increasing marked by regionalism fusion of • Neopatrimonial public-private networks • Opening market • Market system system marked • Generally favorable by opportunism business • Generally environment favorable business environment

1992–2002

(continued)

unstable/ unfavorable business environment

•  Market system •  Generally

2009–

• “Big Families” • Private Sector Actors • Exogenous Actors

•  Corruption high •  Elite capture • Corruption high • Corruption high • Elite capture (elite capture diversification of rice, poultry, from rice, cash crops, and poultry, cash light industry) crops and light industry to public contracts • Rise of extractive industries potential

shifting hands/ networks •  Continued rise of extractive industries potential

• “Big families” • Private Sector elites • Sous-officer military leadership •  EKAR

• Regionalization • Early: increased role of “big of predatory families” networks • Later: increased • FFKM role of private • Donors sector elites • Growing private (largely close to sector the president) • FJKM • Foreign investors • Donors • Foreign embassies

• First France, then USSR, then France dominated trade • “Big” Merina families scaled back importance (exceptions such as Col. Victor Ramahatra) • Betsimisiraka/ coastal elites rise • Catholic Church • Second Half: • Donors • Youth as vanguards • Corruption high (elite capture of rice, poultry, cash crops) e.g., PROCOPS (blending state and private activity)

• “Big” Merina Families prominent • French trade • Youth as vanguards

2009–

• Merina-France dominated • Military factions (which shifted twice) • FFKM

2002–2009

1992–2002

1975–1992

1972

1960–1972

• Mineral • “Rents” as Principal production privatization Sources of (graphite, mica) • “Rents” from Rents low; start of privatization precious stones • Natural Resources • Cash Crops (coffee, vanilla, rice, sugar) • Low agribusiness • Sisal in the south • 13.5%/year low industrialization) • Aid 3.5% of export earnings

Principal Elites

Key Indicators

Table 2.1  (continued)



Malagasy Political Space as Victim 31

magic, worship, ritual, and so on.” State strength is determined by its ability to bring about its desired outcomes from its citizenry. To use his metric to look at Madagascar today, the state can map, plan, and organize, even regulated uses. Where it fails is at bargaining and enforcement. As a result, the state has a hard time focusing on the center and legitimating power. It struggles to transfer on-state spaces into the state system. The result of such state weakness is a long history of private elite capture. Politicians or, more specifically, political networks, enter the fray. It is far easier for individual networks to capture a resource or negotiate an outcome with the citizenry for an immediate term than to consolidate a state system that can survive changes in leadership. Madagascar’s so-called “big families,” parts of civil society (particularly churches), and the new business class, all discussed below, have each taken a role. Madagascar has seen more than two decades of institution-building activities, many with donor support. There has been a positive effect. There is state capacity at lower levels. The permit system in the mining sector is accused of begging corruption but it does, in the main, work. The mining law may be flawed but it did immediately show effect as communes at the point of extraction did receive the due from the first exports. Duane inspectors have documented each shipment out of the new Port of Ehoala in the extreme south of the country. However, there is precious little oversight and even less capacity to take action if egregious activities are found. Similarly, the Ministry of Environment and Forest has had the ability to stop trucks carrying illicit timber out of national parks in Sava and count, measure, and weigh the logs even as the Madagascar National Park service has been able to create GIS maps of nearly every felled tree. The Duane has shown the strength to hold up exports of illicit timber when the paperwork is not in order. However, all of the above are subject to the vicissitudes of the executive branch at the ministerial level and above. Once again, the state can plan, organize, and regulate, but it can’t bargain or enforce. Drivers of governance weakness in Madagascar are thus tied to institutional malleability. At core there is a disjuncture between how institutions function at the top from how they function at the bottom. There is reasonably strong technical capacity in Madagascar. Some institutions have shown tremendous strength in accomplishing their core missions in recent years. However efforts at lower levels of governance are ultimately answerable in a hierarchy to the executive. Above the fairly professionalized level of Secrétaire Général, ministers have tended to serve the needs of the executive network more than the goals or welfare of the ministry. Ministers gain power, prestige, and profit through this service. Leaders within the executive tend to recycle, moving between

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political networks as opportunities present themselves. Under President Marc Ravalomanana it did appear that ministers often sought to win personal position while serving their institutions. However, with eleven cabinet shuffles in Ravalomanana’s first mandate alone it was clear that efforts outside of the president’s were not welcome. Thus even while individual activities might have lent to institutional strengthening, individual needs ultimately eroded it. The persistent pattern is thus the building of institutions to the point that they don’t threaten executive power and undermining them where they do. As long as institutions remain subservient to the interests of shifting individuals in public office, capacity will continue to suffer and governance will continue to be weak. This comes into focus as we consider the role of legitimacy, the changing sources of rents, elite support for reforms, and in places where rents control violence. Questions of state capacity and effective authority turn on the legitimacy of the government itself. The state can only govern authoritatively and with minimal coercion if its citizens accord it legitimacy. Elections are intended to provide that legitimacy. They don’t necessarily bring democracy but they do tend to foster liberalization of the regime, promote an increase in democracy, and support institutionalization, and hold a causal link to democratic practices (Lindberg 2006). As in most neopatrimonial regimes, on the face of it there are such elections in Madagascar. The constitution accords all adult citizens the right to vote. There is an effective apparatus for polling countrywide. Voter turnout, while in decline over the past decade, is well within the bounds of expectations set by the experience of advanced industrial democracies. Where fraud is of concern, it is rarely tied to election day: Ballots are not commonly stuffed or found down river, intimidation at the polls is scant. However, from a popular perspective the process in Madagascar is strong but ambiguous. Democracy is considered good in Malagasy political culture but its definition, while universally liberal, is not universally the first end game. The population is highly suspect that the process is functional, producing a representative end (unpublished author survey data 2005–2010; Afrobarometer 2005b). Indeed, support for democracy and rejection of military rule are lower in Madagascar than any of the other nineteen countries analyzed by Afrobarometer (2009), and the perceived extent of democracy was second lowest only to Zimbabwe. Why does Madagascar run counter to the electoralist norm? The process is viewed as transparent, but the political class is roundly discredited and accountability is perceived as low. Contrasting the process in Mali (Wing 2008), Madagascar has neither seen a National Conference that has embedded democratic ideals nor benefited from an elite seeking inclusivity. In short, a reasonably competitive process is perceived to take place



Malagasy Political Space as Victim 33

between a limited number of elites each of which is looking out for their own political network to keep them in power rather than the population at large. “Deeper” aspects of legitimation such as a de Tocquevillian network of civil society associations at the grassroots expressing the will of the electorate and shaping the actions of the ruling class are, as discussed above, insufficient vehicles, and the critical spaces for political competition, such as within the political party system, are not perceived of as competitive at all. As put by Afrobarometer (2005b): 84% of Citizens say politicians make (always or often) only promises to get elected. . . . 64% said they would donate gifts for campaigns. Meanwhile, only 10% say they keep their promises once elected and 11% think they are doing their best in terms of development after the elections. These results support the idea that there is a general discrediting of the political class, a striking deficit between supply and demand policy, [and] intermediaries that are democratic parties and politicians, without which representative democracy can not work, do not play a role.

The process of legitimatizing fragile competition takes place outside of institutional bounds. As social movements are a place for competition, not a wholesale rejection of democracy or the regime itself in Madagascar, they are urban and not revolutionary. With the executive in Madagascar inside the presidential apparatus and however challenged, a reasonably transparent electoral process there is a common conflation between legitimate revenues and illegitimate “rents.”6/7 The revenues of The Tiko Group of former President Ravalomanana, for instance, were part of legal business transactions and the taxes collected went into state coffers. However, at the same time the growth of Tiko Group contracts at the expense of other companies supported the president’s personal network. This is emblematic of Madagascar’s recent history of an economy driven by agricultural exports and light industry. Now extractive industries are poised to eclipse those two economic engines. Research on the political economy of the resource curse suggests that it is most probable when natural resources constitute the predominant economic “game in town,” when the benefits from resource exploitation are likely to alight with existing economic and political cleavages, when institutions concentrate political power in the hands of the executive, and when price volatility makes policy commitment more difficult (Dunning 2009). All of these indicators save the last are present in Madagascar. This would appear to suggest that avoiding the resource curse in Madagascar would take an ongoing balance with other sectors and competitive networks across stakeholder groups, identity groups, and geographic regions. Short of massive reform to the power of the executive transparency

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and accountability, mechanisms in the extractive resource sector are critical to providing demand side checks on excess executive capture. Madagascar is a state with regularized patterns of violence. It is notably muted in comparison to many African countries and is not characterized by large-scale deaths or an unraveling of the social fabric. Rather, violence is urban, limited, causing generally scores of deaths, and shifting the claimants to power but not the status quo. In this sense violence is highly disruptive. North et al. (2009: 254–255) argue that limited access orders provide a solution to violence “by embedding powerful members of society in a coalition of military, political, religious, and economic elites. Elites possess privileged access to valuable resources or valuable activities and the ability to form organizations sanctioned by the larger society.” It is personal relationships in the natural state that extend control over the dominant coalition. While eloquently woven, this is not a new argument. It is consistent with Huntington’s (1968) well-trodden argument that separates out political forces from political institutions such that the latter run check over the former. For him institutions need to be autonomous from social forces and adaptable to new circumstances. Where they are, states are modern, competitive, and comparable much like North et al.’s competitive open access orders. Where social forces are dominated by coalitions of ethnic, territorial, status, or economic groups, violence occurs because these forces compete for political and economic dominance. As resources shift there is a disruption to those fragile coalitions and violence becomes more likely. Peter Evans (1995) offers a more nuanced explanation that states are not monolithic—institutions can be more functional in some sectors than others. Coherent organization with strong societal linkages in some sectors can lead to “embedded autonomy.” From this long lineage of conceptualizations we can come to see the pattern of concern over where rents—or at least the capture of economic resources by elites, whether for state gain, personal gain, or both—come to control violence. Certain sectors in Madagascar do see greater embedded autonomy. Generally these are sectors with significant international investment driving greater global governance (the relative success of Madagascar National Parks, the Mining Cadestra, and BIANCO [Independent Anti-Corruption Bureau] serve as examples). However, in the main, agricultural trade and light industry have provided opportunities for elite capture. For instance, rice is the country’s food staple and rice imports are a source of both significant economic proceeds and market control. In late 2004 Madagascar was in a rice shortage with prices skyrocketing (ultimately by 350 percent). Government rice imports had long been handled through a (single) distribution agent owned by one family, which had since come into conflict with the president. Ravalomanana intervened and his company



Malagasy Political Space as Victim 35

Magro walked away with the contract. Magro received a tax holiday on rice imports while other private importers did not, making them uncompetitive and losing them key markets. Magro then offered a government subsidy on rice, bringing the price down artificially at the expense of remaining competitors. While this action by the president is exemplar of the seeds that sewed his demise, it did at the time both win him significant market share and an opportunity to satisfy a critical client base while making populist gains. The January 2009 executive decree allowing for limited rosewood export was not significantly different. A key constituency of thirteen families was to benefit for a limited period of time effectively producing revenues while staving off possible instability in Sava due to unforgiving vanilla prices. In the short term the statist issue is the stabilization of rents (in this case the passage of Decree 2010–141 halting illicit timber exports). The challenge is that these rents serve as backbone for the political networks that keep the state functioning. A decree banning illicit timber exports is only as valuable as the executives enforcing it. In the long term, the answer is improvement in state structure. The near imperial role of the presidency, competition within the political party system, arcane elements in the electoral code, and constitutional discrepancies need to be addressed to ultimately ensure that it is the institutions of the state, not the executive, that has the final word. This is far from a normative exercise. Governance is about the management of public space (Bratton and Hyden 2002). It “is epitomized by predictable, open and enlightened policy making; a bureaucracy imbued with a professional ethos; an executive arm of government accountable for its actions; and a strong civil society participating in public affairs; and all behaving under the rule of law.”8 MALAGASY POLITICAL INSTITUTIONS AND THE UNTAMED PRESIDENCY In Madagascar, the state does not have a secure monopoly on violence, and society organizes itself to control violence among the elite factions.9 The fragility of this arrangement appears to be increasing. First, the private sector and political interests are closely intertwined (Marcus 2010) and sometimes inseparable. Second, political change in Madagascar has been cyclical and complex. A study of political economic change in Madagascar therefore needs to consider the underlying social currents driving instability along an historic continuum (1972, 1991, 2002, and 2009). In Madagascar, it is not a question of unoccupied political spaces where citizens act without consideration of the legal and juridical state structure. While there is a long history

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of local resistance to state efforts to enslave, tax, and conscript (Cole 2001; Larson 2000; Rakotoarisoa 1998; Esoavelomandroso 1995), the success of the Merina Monarchy and subsequent French colonialism, and particularly the violent end to the insurrection of 1947, is that the ability of communities—ethnic and social constructs—to strategically position social organizations, livelihood systems, ideologies, and oral histories against the extending reach of the state has largely been muted. The state in Madagascar is weak and slowly unraveling due to its own internal dynamics not external sociocultural or political resistance.10 Leadership favoring clientele is a primary governance driver. In Madagascar constitutional distribution of power, discussed below, is a destabilizing force but the specific form of clientalism, is characterized as neopatrimonial, has proven insurmountable. Following Erdman and Engel (2007), neopatrimonialism is a hybrid political regime between authoritarianism and democracy.11 It is understood as a mix of patrimonial12 and legal-rational bureaucratic domination in Max Weber’s classical sense (Weber 1978). “The distinction between private and public interests is purposely blurred” (Bratton and Van de Walle 1994, p. 458). The Malagasy state can be characterized as neopatrimonial in distinction from other forms of clientelistic rule. Madagascar has not suffered from kleptocracy (as for example the Democratic Republic of the Congo) or as shadow states where leaders exist in lieu of state institutions (e.g., as in Somalia), and it does not have a history of “big men” (e.g., as in Zimbabwe). Instead in neopatrimonial Madagascar, there are formal institutional structures but they are embedded in personalized networks of powerful leaders. In Madagascar, personal relationships (rather than ideology or law) ascribe power, the president is obsessed with controlling fiscal streams, loyalty and dependence are tied to a formal political and administrative system and patterns of reward are exclusive to loyalists (straddling corporate and public spheres).13 Legitimacy was less conferred by the disputed December 2001 elections than by the December 2006 elections in which few alternative candidates had the opportunity to emerge or, at least, emerge out of their regional bases. The product of such rule is inevitably elite fragmentation followed by a rapid personalization of power. Formal competition comes off relatively unfettered in Madagascar, but institutional manipulation, foreign backing, and private sector arrangements undermine it. Competition fails to ensure that the rules curtail personal behavior and even good, open elections are of little value. There was marked improvement under Marc Ravalomanana where the business environment improved, the economy grew, and transparency increased. Yet, in the sense that political networks at the executive level could substitute for the rule of



Malagasy Political Space as Victim 37

legally ascribed institutions, it was largely old wine in new bottles. What was new under Ravalomanana was not his approach to the presidency but rather how he actualized it. Whereas it is common in neopatrimonial regimes to see a private appropriation of public goods, for Ravalomanana the confluence of economic liberalization and his own well-placed business interests afforded him the opportunity not only to benefit in growing his corporate position but to exercise his private goods to build private networks for the purpose of gaining public authority. The space between the public and the private became blurred as the network agents move between the two sectors in service to President Marc Ravalomanana or CEO Marc Ravalomanana. The private sector came to substitute for the bureaucracy, military, and other common bases of neopatrimonial rule in Madagascar to allow President Ravalomanana to create a personalized economic political fusion in a democratic context. In a practical sense this meant that Ravalomanana generally acted within the law but the legislature didn’t act without presidential vetting. The Independent Anti-Corruption Bureau (BIANCO), formed in 2004, was meant to regularize institutional oversight and reign in the politics of individual excess. It specifically targeted hafaliam-po (gratitude), looking to normalize acceptable behavior in the public sphere. BIANCO was rapidly active at routing low-level corruption. However, throughout the Ravalomanana era it remained housed in the president’s office and was constrained from upwards accountability. Accountability is necessarily a counter-power. It is any power that constrains the power of office holders (Agrawal and Ribot 1999). As such, any measure of organizational effectiveness, including BIANCO’s, would have to consider its power not just to note (transparency) but also to constrain the power of the executive branch. By this definition BIANCO might be one of the most important accountability mechanisms but its reach is limited. Of the 34,670 complaints it received between September 4, 2004, and April 31, 2009, it was only able to investigate 2,633 of them, sending 875 on for judicial review. Of those 77 percent were in Antananarivo and none were at or above the level of Secretary General. We can therefore conclude that BIANCO is both predominantly active in the capital and that it has little power to curtail corruption at higher levels. The former Director General of BIANCO has pointed out that the relatively low budget14 limits the reach of the organization. However, he also points out an authority problem. BIANCO is not free from politics with the Director General serving at the pleasure of the president. BIANCO suffers from limits on information and limited capacity. It is a young organization that has not received the space to flourish. And, it suffers from a public credibility problem as it is accused of being selective in which cases it investigates.15

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In the waning days of the Third Republic Andry Rajoelina did not improve the institutions of accountability. Whereas Marc Ravalomanana changed the nature of political networks to win the 2001 elections and maintain power, Andry Rajoelina, in many ways, built the Fourth Republic by following Ravalomanana’s playbook. He won the support of many disaffected former followers of Ravalomanana, the popular support of the capital, and much of the new business elite. He built a network from his business position. Where the presidency has changed, however, is that in order to win power and survive Rajoelina has had to build an expansive base of elite support. More importantly, whatever the electoral challenges Ravalomanana did come to power via the ballot box and reaffirm it through his second mandate. While Rajoelina continued to draw on the instruments of government marking his form of patron-client ties as neopatrimonial, the line became much less clear. Neopatrimonialism is distinguished from other forms of patrimony and clientalism by the coexistence of modern state infrastructure (Eisenstadt 1973). The longer the current administration goes without returning to the ballot box and the longer it goes without establishing and legitimating a legislature the more the bureaucracy becomes accountable to the leader rather than the state. Were this to happen the leadership would become obliged to seek greater rents (in this case from mining, forestry, and new business opportunities) to maintain power and a shadow state would begin to emerge. This becomes clear as we consider institutional formation in Madagascar. In contrast, certain segments of Merina’s big families flourished at the apex of the private and public sector. The tensions felt between families throughout Ravalomanana’s second mandate stem largely from competition from emergent players in light industry and trade. As a result, nearly all-powerful families are in Antananarivo today even if the family originated on the coast. Centralization has become key to maintaining influence on political, economic, and social life. NOTES 1.  In the Malagasy local government hierarchy the president answers to the deputy mayor who answers to the mayor. 2.  See for instance: Marikandia, Mansaré. “Une approche de l’histoire du peuplement de l’espace littoral du fiherena au XVIIIo et XIXo siecles: Les Vezo.” Talily Astuti, Rita. People of the Sea: Identity and Descent among the Vezo of Madagascar. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1995; Sharp, Lesley A. The Possessed and the Dispossessed: Spirits, Identity, and Power in a Madagascar Migrant Town. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993; Heurtebize, Georges. Histoire des Afomarolahy: Clan Tandroy, extreme-sud de Madagascar. Editions du Centre na-



Malagasy Political Space as Victim 39

tional de la recherche scientifique (1986); Bloch, Maurice. From Blessing to Violence. History and Ideology in the Circumcision Ritual of the Merina of Madagascar, Cambridge Studies in Social Anthropology 61. Cambridge University Press: Cambridge, 1986; Esoavelomandroso, Manassé (1979) La Province Maritime Orientale de la Royaume de Madagascar à la Fin du XIX Siècle. Antananarivo: FTM Antananarivo, Madagascar; Kottak, Conrad Phillip. “Social Groups and Kinship Calculation among the Southern Betsileo.” American Anthropologist, New Series, Vol. 73, No. 1 (Feb., 1971), pp. 178–193.  3. Ottaway, Marina. Democracy Challenged: The Rise of Semi-Authoritarianism. Washington, DC: Carnegie Foundation (2003).  4. Work by other scholars has made a similar point. See Przeworski, Adam. Democracy and the Market: Political and Economic Reforms in Eastern Europe and Latin America. New York: Cambridge University Press (1993).  5. While these states meet the Weberian threshold of a durable state some scholars would argue that it is a mirage. Rather, they are “shadow states” where the strength of the leaders or junta substitute for the state itself. The importance is what happens to the state when the leader is gone. In some cases (Syria) a successful progression of traditional authority ensures continuity. In other cases (Zaire under Mobutu Sese Seko), the system itself falls apart. See William Reno, Warlord Politics and African States (Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1998).   6.  North et al. 2009 (19) define rents to include a return to an economic asset that exceeds the return the asset can receive in its best alternative use regardless of whether it is peaceful or violent, formal or informal (North et al. 2009:19).   7.  There is Madagascar-specific work on this question. For instance, in discussing artisinal mining in Madagascar Rosaleen Duffy (2007) argues that the distinction between global/local, legal/illegal and traditional/modern have lost much of their explanatory power. She points out that the Government of Madagascar, the World Bank, and USAID have argued that if gem mining were properly regulated and carried out by international mining companies then the revenue could be used to invest in economic development. However, she argues that such mining is a product of the very globalization donors’ support and that state capture can merely shift the location of exclusion, marginalisation, violence and poverty as there is little separation in President Ravalomanana’s network from the state apparati. She argues that this is partly due to the systemic extraversion by sections of the political and economic elite in Madagascar.   8.  World Bank 1994: Governance: The World Bank’s Experience.   9.  This description is in keeping with what North et al. 2009 refer to as a “Limited Access Order.” 10.  For a discussion of spaces beyond the reach of the state and what they look like see Scott (2009). 11. The concept of the “hybrid” regime was originally conceived by Marina Ottoway (2003) as a blend between authoritarian and democratic features (semiauthoritarian). Broken into characteristic parts of competition and personal rule this is consistent with North et al. (2009).

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12.  Following Erdman and Engel, under patrimonialism, “all power relations between ruler and ruled, political as well as administrative relations, are personal relations; there is no differentiation between the private and the public realm” (Erdmann and Engel 2007). 13.  This language draws on the seminal conceptual work on the concept by Bratton and Van de Walle (1994). 14.  The public operating budget of BIANCO has remained steady around $4.9 billion ariary ($2.18m in 2012) but international support, particularly from Norway, dropped precipitously following the overthrow of Marc Ravalomanana in 2009. 15. Author interview with Director General of BIANCO, February 2, 2010. It should be noted that DG Faly Rabetrano served as Brigadere General of the Police and Police Inspector General prior to holding the position. His predecessor, René Ramarozatovo, was head of President Ravalomanana’s Military Cabinet prior to becoming SG of BIANCO.

Chapter Three

The Political Institutions of the Third Republic (1992–2010)

Madagascar’s social movements define its political space. The nature of Zaire’s polity has been shaped by its history of big men such as Patrice Lumumba, Mobutu Sese Seko, and Laurent Kabila. Robert Mugabe in Zimbabwe, Jomo Kenyatta, and Daniel Arap Moi in Kenya, Gnassingbe Eyadema in Togo, Said Barre in Somalia, Jean-Bedel Bokassa in the Central African Republic, and the parade of military leaders in Nigeria have not only left their mark but are responsible for the political spheres inherited by current regimes. Madagascar’s pattern is different. No leader has had as much influence on the nature of the Malagasy political system or its dynamics as the anti-colonial uprising of 1947, the military ouster of the First Republic in 1972, the strikes of 1991, or the populist support for “democracy” that balkanized the country in 2002. Former President Didier Ratsiraka was the single largest figure in Malagasy politics from 1975 to 1992. Yet, the nature of his rule was defined by the events of 1972 and the way he came to office, just as the rule of Madagascar’s first president, Philibert Tsirinana, was defined by 1947. Albert Zafy’s 1993–1996 presidency was defined by 1991. President Marc Ravalomanana created the 2002 uprising that brought him to power even as it reversed to define him. France colonized Madagascar in 1896. The island had been largely centralized under the Merina monarchy of the central highlands. As an earlier attempt by the French to govern indirectly through the Merina failed, the French colonial government chose a direct rule model. However, Merina administrative personnel were recruited and relied upon throughout the country. The result is a marked divide in privilege between the Merina and the seventeen other ethnic groups, nominally grouped as côtier. The impact of this divide continues to be felt today. 41

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On September 28, 1958, Madagascar held a successful referendum to determine if it should become a self-governing republic. A presidential election was held, under French auspices, on April 27, 1959. Philibert Tsiranana and his Parti Social Démocrate de Madagascar (PSD) won. On June 26, 1960, Madagascar gained full legal sovereignty from France with Tsirinana at the helm. Madagascar’s constitution created at state closely resembling the French system but with cohabitation consigned to a more powerful presidency. Madagascar’s First Republic (1960–1975) was tumultuous. Tsirinana, an ethnic Tsimihety, maintained close ties with France. Much of the populous disapproved of these ties. A Merina elite that would stand to benefit from decreased competition from French companies, and which chaffed under new opportunities the president afforded côtier business leaders, linked with a rural poor, which felt beyond the pale of the political and economic changes that had taken place. Many argued that the independence was in name only. By the end of the decade the country sank into difficult economic ties, further eroding the president’s base. The political sphere degenerated until a general strike, led by student protestors, shut down much of the country in 1972. On May 13, government troops opened fire on student troops, killing more than a dozen and wounding scores. The president declared a state of emergency and dissolved the parliament. Unable to maintain control of a country falling apart at the seams, Tsirinana turned over power to General Gabriel Ramanantsoa on May 18, 1972. An aristocratic Merina bureaucrat, Ramanantsoa was able to placate the aristocracy, but was not able to stave off economic hardship or appease an angry populace. On February 5, 1975, he turned over power to Colonel Richard Ratsimandrava, a Merina commoner. Ratsimandrava was assassinated five days later and power was given to the oligarchic National Military Directorate. To date many Malagasy consider the 1972–1973 period to be the real independence revolution. And, in fact, the linkages between the aristocracy and commoners fed up with a power-usurping, economically unviable state, does hark to the tones of the great French estates. This was not a revolution, however. The fundamental social and institutional change experienced by France, Russia, and others during revolutionary periods were not present in Madagascar. Indeed, the continued role of an oligarchic military directorate, and the lack of fundamental institutional change, would lead the period of 1972–1975 to be better characterized as a slow coup. The military directorate installed Lieutenant Commander Didier Ratsiraka, a Betsimisiraka from the Toamasina coast, on June 15, 1975. He became head of state and president of the Supreme Revolutionary Council (SRC). A referendum on Ratsiraka’s leadership (as opposed to an election where there



The Political Institutions of the Third Republic (1992–2010) 43

is electoral competition) and his call for a new socialist government was held on December 21, 1975. The Second Republic was born. Ratsiraka quickly doffed his fatigues in favor of a Leninist “scientific socialism” in which a strong-armed administration leads the social revolution. Following his red book, Charter of the Malagasy Socialist Revolution, his “revolution” called for benefiting the poor while decentralizing administrative functions (away from his Merina competition in the capital). His AREMA party won a commanding 90 percent of seats in March 1977, the country’s first local elections. Shortages of basic goods started the same year even as he constructed white elephant manufacturing facilities throughout the provinces and nationalized private industries. By 1979, the country was bankrupt and suffering from the throws of capital flight. He called for the assistance of the International Monetary Fund and, shortly thereafter, the World Bank, and bilateral American and European donors. The result was an abandonment of the economic ideals of socialism and the retention of a strong, autocratic presidency resilient to competition. By 1991, Ratsiraka had become so weak that opposition leader Albert Zafy was able to lead an 80,000 strong civil servants strike in Antananarivo. In August 400,000 people marched on city center. Malagasy economic life came to a crashing halt as banking, trading, and governance sectors ceased to function. The government was unable to stem the crisis. In the wake of Ratsiraka’s loss of control, Albert Zafy set up a shadow government proclaiming himself Prime Minister and the Haute Authorité, a political body of the sixteen parties in the opposition coalition the Hery Velona (Living Forces), the National Assembly. Many embassies, including the United States and France, started sending official correspondence to “both” governments. While this was done in order to “remain neutral,” it had the effect of legitimizing Zafy’s efforts. The surprisingly rapid and successful challenge of this parallel legislature forced President Ratsiraka to the bargaining table. On October 31, 1991, he signed the Panorama Convention for a government transition. The terms of the Convention left Ratsiraka as president, but removed the majority of his powers. The Haute Authorité effectively became the legislature. A constitutional convention was held in March 2002 and the new constitution was approved by 70 percent of the population in a referendum on August 19, 1992, creating Madagascar’s Third Republic. Multiparty presidential elections were held on February 10, 1993. Zafy Albert won a resounding victory with 66.74 percent of the vote to Ratsiraka’s 33.26 percent. He was sworn in on March 27, 1993. The Hery Velona parties won a clear majority in the June 16, 1993, legislative elections. Madagascar became a “democracy.” The institutional structure of Madagascar’s Third Republic was defined by the 1992 constitution. The delegation of powers was loosely based on the

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French system. The prime minister was appointed by the National Assembly and responsible for domestic affairs. The president was the head of state and responsible for all issues pertaining to international relations, primary executive relations, and the maintenance of sovereignty. Article 41 of the 1992 constitution stated that “the structure of the State shall include: the executive power, consisting of the President of the Republic and the Government; the legislative power, formed by the National Assembly and the Senate; the judicial power, exercised by the Administrative and Financial Constitutional Court, the Supreme Court, Courts of Appeal, Tribunals, and the High Court of Justice.” This remained unchanged throughout the Third Republic. The nature of the relationship between the structures has been tampered with so much as to be unrecognizable. The institutional relationships and the concomitant powers of the presidency were first altered in 1995. The initiation was by President Albert Zafy who chided the government for the restraints placed upon the powers of his office. Specifically, he was battling for power with Prime Minister Francisque Ravony. The decision to affect a shift in the constitution came not from a desire to improve institutional relations, but to divert power from his rival. Unable to shift the constitution through a two-thirds vote in the legislature, Zafy resorted to another constitutional mechanism, the popular referendum. The referendum led to changes to seven constitutional articles: 53, 61, 74, 75, 90, 91, and 94. Most important were Articles 53 and 90. Article 53.1 read, “The President of the Republic shall appoint the Prime Minister under the conditions established in Article 90.” Article 90 made the president’s powers in Article 53 a formality. It was the National Assembly that chose the prime minister. The referendum altered the articles to afford the National Assembly the opportunity to choose three potential candidates from whom the president could select the prime minister. If the president did not like the choices he could refuse them and demand three new names. Further, the president gained the power to dismiss the prime minister without necessarily creating the need for new elections. As a result, Madagascar’s democracy became one in which the president could exert a great deal of power not only over executive matters, but legislative matters. This constitutional shift was the first of many efforts by Zafy to centralize authority in the hands of the president and create a unitary government secured in his Antananarivo power base. These efforts caught up to him when he was accused of corruption and exceeding his constitutional powers. This was the official reason the National Assembly impeached him in July 1996;1 the High Constitutional Court ratified the impeachment on September 5, 1996. Article 52 of the constitution passes power to the president of the senate. Norbert Ratsirahonana, then prime minister and former president of



The Political Institutions of the Third Republic (1992–2010) 45

the High Constitutional Court, became acting president until elections could be held in December. Ratsirahonana ran for the presidency in his own right, but his Merina ethnicity, lack of provincial appeal, and technocratic nature ensured his campaign would never take off. Despite his impeachment, Albert Zafy was permitted to run and the second round of elections came down to Zafy and Didier Ratsiraka, the strongman of the Second Republic. This time, Ratsiraka won.2 The elections were a model of the power of personal politics. Ratsiraka won for three reasons. First, Zafy was the only viable contender and he had recently been impeached for corruption. Second, Zafy was seen as having presided over an economic downturn in the country. And, third, voters were largely ill-informed on substantive issues. The only four candidates of mention for president were former president Ratsiraka, acting president Norbert Ratsirahonana, former industrial promotion minister Herizo Razafimahaleo, and former president Zafy. Ratsirahonana and Razafimahaleo (Leader Fanilo party) did not have the stature or name recognition to win the necessary votes outside of the capital and the regional capital of Fianarantsoa (also in the Central Highlands). Adding to this, ethnopolitics played a role in their downfall as Norbert Ratsirahonana is from the much despised Merina highlands of Antananarivo and Herizo Razafimahaleo is Betsileo from Fianarantsoa. Their highest votes were in their home provinces, which afforded them 10.1 percent and 15.1 percent of the vote respectively. For his part, Albert Zafy, though from the northern province of Antsiranana, has long derived his base of support from the capital. His ouster from power, played so well in the capital, undermined his electability. In the end Ratsiraka won the first round with a less than convincing 36.6 percent, skewed heavily by the vote in his home province of Toamasina where he captured 59.6 percent of the vote. Albert Zafy lost the election more than Ratsiraka won it. Whereas in 1992 he secured 46 percent of the vote in Antananarivo province, in 1996 he secured less than 10 percent, indicating his base of support was squandered. The lack of informed voters means that the political debates over the socialism of the Second Republic, the expansion of democracy, and the platforms of the candidates themselves, were immaterial. People who voted their conscience in the 1996–1997 Presidential Election did so because they thought life was better under the then former President Ratsiraka. The constitutional changes resulting from the 1998 referendum were far more sweeping than those in 1995. Presidential powers once again increased. Under Article 53 the president gained the power to name the prime minister without reference to the legislative provisions of Article 90. Further, he gained the power to name the other members of government without legislative consultation. Under Article 54 he gained the power to name the Council

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of Ministers without consultation and to sign all Council decrees. Though, he can, should he want, delegate these powers to the prime minister. The 1998 constitution created “autonomous provinces.” Articles 126–138 added to the constitution spelled out the role of the autonomous provincial leadership as managers of Madagascar’s new democracy in detail. What is left vague in a single Article (139) is the cooperation intended between the central authority and the provinces, thus subject largely to presidential interpretation. The institutional vacuum left in Antananarivo allowed President Ratsiraka to expand the reach of his control. As regional government remains subservient to the national government in Ratsiraka’s form of decentralization, and few constitutional guarantees exist to protect regional governments from encroachment from the center, regional governors have little power to challenge the president’s expanded authority. In the aftermath of the constitutional shift the majority of provincial governors were not only from the president’s AREMA party but his close allies and even family members, so this question of regional authority was left relatively moot. By June 2001, Ratsiraka’s powers were extensive. He was not the autocrat he was during the Second Republic. However, through institutional manipulation, including constitutional and electoral code reform, he could pass his agenda effortlessly through the legislature, ensure legislative leadership answered to him, and guide provincial efforts at management reform. With no charismatic challenger surfacing, a fractured opposition, an entrenched neopatrimonial network, and such significant institutional control, Ratsiraka was unconcerned about the looming December presidential elections in June 2001. Marc Ravalomanana changed that. He was then the popular mayor of Antananarivo, who had been in this post, his sole political position, for less than two years. In early July there were open ruminations within the Merina political community that Ravalomanana would oppose Ratsiraka. Yet, Ravalomanana’s campaign didn’t come together until September—just three months before the election. Once it did, however, the great public distaste for Ratsiraka, the strong desire for a new populist leader, and Ravalomanana’s own personal wealth, meant that Ravalomanana could build a base even in the côtier provinces despite his ethnicity. The president took legal measures to gain control over the judiciary. Article 98 of the 1992 Constitution read: “The judicial power shall be independent of the executive and legislative powers. The Administrative and Financial Constitutional Court and the Supreme Court shall assure this independence.” However, under the 1998 constitutional revision Article 98 begins: “The President of the Republic is guarantor of the independence of Justice,” before granting the power to name and remove magistrates to the president. Ratsiraka exercised this power on November 22, 2001, when he approved Decree No. 2001–1081. This law ratified the High Constitutional Court’s appointment



The Political Institutions of the Third Republic (1992–2010) 47

of Georges T. Indrianjafy to the President of the High Constitutional Court (HCC) and Benjamin Rakotomandimby to the post of HCC justice. Indrianjafy was Ratsiraka’s first Minister of Population and Social Conditions when he took power in 1975. He was a member of Ratsiraka’s Conseil Supreme de la Revolution and one of the founders of the AREMA party in 1976. He held diverse ministerial posts before Ratsiraka appointed him to the Court in 1991. Rakotomandimby is another close associate and sometime AREMA leader. Indian Ocean Newsletter characterized this at the time by saying that “Intervening as it does right before the campaign for the presidential election of December 16 begins, the nomination of a former Ratsiraka minister to the head of the HCC illustrates the incumbent’s determination to keep a sharp eye on the institution that will be in charge of validating the electoral results and of verifying cases of electoral fraud, should any arise.”3 Ratsiraka leveraged his presidential power to create significant reform to electoral law. On September 3, 2001, he announced that the elections would be held December 16, 2001. While he went out of his way to state that he will respect the constitution, he was accused of “poor governance” by civil society groups for simultaneously announcing decrees to guide the electoral process. First, candidates had to fix their candidature by October 27. With this came a significant, and unexpected, rise in the candidate registration fee. Many independents and candidates of smaller parties were not able to raise the money that rapidly. Second, candidates were only allowed to campaign between November 25 and December 15 of that year. This made it difficult for the voices of lesser-known rivals to be heard. Third, the only news allowed to directly cover the electoral process was comprised of journalists chosen by the president. Fourth and finally, no posters could be affixed to public buildings or structures and no political advertisements could be associated with purchasable goods. This last edict was directly aimed at the candidacy of Marc Ravalomanana. As founder of Tiko, the country’s largest dairy products company, his greatest potential to increase recognition outside the capital was to employ the supply lines established by his company. Ravalomanana cleverly skirted this law through clever word play. He introduced his “Tiako i Madagasikara” campaign slogan (“Love Madagascar”; later the TIM party) parallel to his new Tiko slogan “Tia Tiko” with Madagasikara written under it. For his part, Ratsiraka outright violated his own law by giving a public address on election day warning of dire consequences should he lose. THE CRISIS OF 2002 Marc Ravalomanana is a charismatic leader. However, his rapid rise from obscurity in the provinces from September 2001 until December 2001 is

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an indication that the population was yearning for change. In fact there was great frustration with Ratsiraka. Ratsiraka won back his office not due to his popularity but due to his opponent’s lack of popularity. Not long before Ravalomanana’s role as a business tycoon would have made him seem unable to understand the common man, and Ravalomanana’s Merina ethnicity would have put him on the wrong side of the country’s single largest divide in political culture. Yet, taking the stage when he did, the majority of the population appeared to look on his business success as a harbinger of what he could do for the country. His ethnicity was eclipsed by his sense of nationalism and his call for a united Malagasy people. Ratsiraka was unable to stave off the challenge from Ravalomanana despite spending his entire second presidency manipulating institutions and deepening his personal attachments. THE 2010 CONSTITUTION The end of the Third Republic came with the passing of the 2010 constitution. Some 2.33 million people turned out (49.83 percent of registered voters) on November 18, 2010, to approve it 70.54 to 29.46 percent. Notably, the victory was complete with twenty-one of twenty-two political regions approving it. Only Bongolava, a small, rural region in the ancient Antananarivo Province voted against it (55.58 to 44.42 percent). Despite the population affirmation and the closure of a long awaited constitutional rewrite project, it would nonetheless be hard to argue that the Fourth Republic formed a sea change from the Third Republic as opposed to yet another recasting of it. The preamble of the 2010 constitution starts from a perspective of Malgachéité went along these lines: “ny fitiavana, ny fihavanana, ny fifanajana, ny fitandroana ny aina, ny marimaritra iraisana” (love, friendship, union, to help one another). It vaguely includes a sustainable development language (lines 6 and 12) while leaving the door open to changing the approach to conservation in place since the late 1980s and apparent in the First, Second, and Third Environment Programs. Where it starts to run astray is in line 7 where it says the constitution has reinforced the power of governments to the detriment of the interests of the population causing cyclical violence.4 Nothing could be more true. However, the constitution itself launching the Fourth Republic is more obfuscating than illuminating. Rather than fixing the structural problems of the past to safeguard against extra-constitutional activities leading to violence, it virtually assures that the space for such activities grows. Analyzing the effects of different constitutions is a mainstay topic in political science (Sartori 1994; Lijphart 1994; Powell 1982). Scholars do not agree on the most basic question: What must a constitution contain? However, there



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are some basic foundation points and places where theoretical development is stronger than others. It is in the link between constitutional rules and political outcomes that the field of inquiry has the most to offer. For instance, most conclude that that the choice between majoritarian and proportional elections is a trade-off between accountability and representation (see, for example, Powell 2000). A constitutional design must, therefore, consider the impact of proportionality. Italy, for instance, serves as a case where constitutional analysis led to constitutional reform in which proportionality is carefully spelled out (Articles 56–57) and a revision of electoral law followed. As developed as the literature is on the relationship between the constitution and political consequences, the literature on economic consequences is still very nascent. Does, for instance, better accountability lead to less corruption and better representation within a particular economic sector? In an import contribution on the topic, Persson and Tabelline (2005) argue that economic policies can provide benefits to many citizens, a small group of citizens, or only a specific group of politicians. The third type here is of concern in Madagascar as it is the policy structure that generates rents. The depth of consideration given rents has become significant in recent years. In some cases the rents are part of the state apparatus. Politicians benefit first but they are the mechanism for financing the mode of government to the benefit of the population. Taxes collected by the region on illicit timber sales and used for legitimate governing purposes for instance. In other cases rents are embedded in the political process. Salaries for politicians and financing political parties are a good example of this. While the population wants to limit the collection of rents extracted by politicians, this poses a significant challenge in a country like Madagascar where the significant quantities of rents are the core economic mechanism for governing and growing the country. Economic policy becomes the equilibrium outcome of a delegation game in which the interaction between rational voters and politicians is formally modeled as a game on extensive form. “The principals have some leeway over their agents because they can offer them the rewards of election or reelection. But these rewards are mostly implicit, not explicit, so that the constitution becomes an “incomplete contract,” leaving the politicians with some power in the form of residual control rights” (Persson and Tabellini 2005). Any consideration of the 2010 Malagasy constitution, therefore, must consider the rules of the game. What are the effects of changing the existing rules and replacing them with the new rules? “[M]odern constitutions typically organize a state apparatus, provide for representative democracy, define certain rights for citizens, and sometimes provide for some degree of distributive justice (often through so-called economic and social rights, as distinct from the historical political rights of civil

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liberties)” (Hardin 1994). Assessing a constitution is inherently normative but the process must consider the consequences. The conventional wisdom today is that constitutions are best viewed as coordinative.5 A constitution does not commit us in the way that a contract does (Hardin 1989). “It merely raises the costs of doing things some other way through its creation of a coordination convention that is itself an obstacle to re-coordination. More often than not our interests are better served by acquiescing in the rules of that constitution than by attempting to change it” (Hardin 1994). The constitutions of Madagascar’s Third Republic (1993, 1998, and 2007) are codified. As such they are intended to make explicit the rules of the games. Laws are subservient to the constitution. It is therefore common practice to put the basic assumptions about the ways in which the country should be governed into the constitution, leaving details of implementation and timeline to the legal or statutory process. Relatively few constitutions have limitations on its modifications. Where there are limitations it is generally to protect core values. For example, Germany’s constitution bans amending the human rights elements in the constitution (Articles 1 to 20). This makes the 2010 Madagascar constitution unusual. While under Articles 162–164 the constitution can be changed by either a referendum or a three-fourths majority vote in both houses, under Article 165 no changes can be made for ten years except under unusual conditions. The republic form of the state, the national territory, the (interpretation of) the balance of powers, the autonomy of the Decentralized Territorial Collectivities, the duration and the number of terms of the President of the Republic cannot be revised under any circumstances. Article 165 is perhaps the most explosive part of the 2010 constitution. Most Malagasy interest groups agree on decentralization but not on how. The separation of powers is vague, with large parts left to a matter of law. Party politics are not commonly defined by constitution (rather than law), but the parameters commonly are. This 2010 constitution gives no guidance even on having multiple parties. None of these elements can be corrected without a new (fifth) republic. Moreover, issues regarding jurisdiction are not resolved by the 2010 constitution and the points of tension will continue to spark as shifts in leadership will mean, inter alia, changes in law (and decree) to the benefit of those in power. Insisting Madagascar remain a “republic” is not controversial. However, defining republicanism has in the past been a point of conflict in Madagascar and could be again. The root comes from an anti (Merina) monarchical sentiment. Some in Madagascar today see this through a Francophile lens: republicanism stresses civic virtue and the common good as part of a distinction from the (quite American) economics and individualism of liberalism. To still others “republicanism” just means the rule of law (a



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notion which challenges the Kantian notion that the rule of the majority is singular and thus a strong democratic character is antithetical to republicanism). The point of tension in the past in Madagascar is what it has meant for the role of monarchists and, in a much softer language, “big families” in Imerina. Constitutions almost by definition must also delineate claims of sovereignty, the separation of powers, the lines of accountability, and, usually, what happens in a state of emergency. As theorist Giovanni Sartori (1976) has argued, constitutions must provide the mechanisms for protecting citizen rights and processes articulated in the constitution. Where the protections and benefits of a constitution are ultimately provided by government, rather than written terms, the constitution can be considered a façade in service to an autocratic regime. While not implying that this 2010 constitution is autocratic, it is notably vague on details of this sort, clarifying only the powers of the president with any regularity (detailed under presidential powers below). This leaves very shaky grounds for oversight. There is also a lack of independence of oversight institutions vis-à-vis the presidency as one of the important governance challenges in Madagascar. The 2010 constitution identifies several key oversight institutions, but their constitutional mandates do not appear to safeguard the independence of their functions. For example, the 2010 constitution establishes the High Council for the Defense of Democracy and the Law (“Haut Conseil pour la Défence de la Démocratie et de l’État de Droit”). Yet, the membership, roles, and responsibilities will be defined by future legislation. The “Cours des Comptes” is attributed under Articles 93 and 128 and does not provide clarity on its independence vis-à-vis the presidency. The president of the Republic is the President of the High Court. Therefore, the “Conseil Supérieur de la Magistrature” can be influenced by the presidency. There is a new “Inspection Générale de la Justice” (General Inspection of Justice), but its roles and responsibilities will be defined by future legislation not the constitution. Membership excludes the president. However, given Madagascar’s history of a strong presidency there is no reason to assume that this body, or any other poorly articulated body, will be relatively independent from the presidency until there is clarity about the future legislation. Electoral Rules The importance of electoral rules cannot be overstated. They determine the leadership of the country and the direction of the polity. More recent studies also point to a conclusion that electoral rules influence corruption and the efficacy of rents extraction (Persson and Tabellini 2005: 196). In Madagascar the Electoral Code has a history of empowering the presidency over the other

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branches of government. Malagasy electoral codes have been a strategy for incumbents to remain in power. Organic Law No. 2000–014 of August 24, 2000, was regularly debated and challenged from inception as was Loi organique No. 2010–003 and, subsequently, 2012–005. The 2010 Malagasy constitution does little to address these electoral concerns. It neither provides electoral rules nor parameters to guide the rewriting of an electoral law. There are three key variables in identifying electoral systems (Cox 1997): (1) the nature of electoral institutions; (2) the nature of political actors’ preferences; and (3) the nature of actors’ expectations. The role of the constitution is to consider the rules guiding these three variables while the electoral code is the mechanism for implementing them. In the 2010 Malagasy constitution the path to power is opaque. The size of both houses of the legislature is determined by the Council of Ministers—serving at the will of the president without legislative or judicial check—not the constitution. Fora for discussion include legislative leadership but do not necessarily include opposition, including the elected leader of the opposition. There are some elements of electoral rules implicit in the 2010 constitution. Rules on eligibility and compatibility, considered requisite by scholars for a constitution, are present. The citizenship of the presidency is articulated. Universal suffrage is identified (though absent from provincial elections). The relationship between the president’s powers and the power of the elected legislature to appoint a prime minister is clear. The number of days between electoral rounds is stipulated (Article 51), addressing an issue, which led to crisis in Madagascar’s 1996 presidential elections in which neither the constitution nor the electoral code clearly provided these parameters. THE ROLE OF THE PRESIDENT This chapter references the untamed Malagasy presidency—a turn of phrase that identifies unusually large amounts of constitutional power given to a neopatrimonial leader, but perhaps something slightly less than an “imperial” presidency. The neopatrimonial aspects of the Malagasy presidency result not in autocracy but rather a relatively narrow reciprocal exchange between leaders competing for lines of powerbrokers in society with whom to reciprocate. A narrow group of leaders and citizens (the “winners”) receive benefits as there is an increased efficiency of rent-seeking activities. These are not constitutional powers but rather the relationships developed by the president and his cabinet as a way or manner of doing business. A constitution can do little to change neopatrimonialism but it can offer oversight mechanisms that help manage it.



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Madagascar has a semi-presidential system. Beyond informal or network considerations the president enjoys a high number of specifically constitutional powers. While the 1992 constitution significantly limited presidential power, the revisions of 1995, 1998, and 2007 reversed that. Notably, each of these referenda was designed and executed by the Executive. The power of the presidency in Madagascar has transcended scholarly banter in recent years and rather has become a regular conversation in the press and in the populace. One would expect, therefore, that a constitutional change would address presidential excess. “Arguably the most important aspect of constitutionalism for modern nations, especially those that have had histories of autocracy, is in placing limits on the power of government” (Hardin 1994). Madagascar’s 2010 constitution does not do this. In fact, it renders unintelligible even some of the relatively soft mechanisms for limiting power of the government and specifically that of the president that are apparent in the existing constitution. In the 2010 constitution, many of these powers are not articulated. The general trend, however, is the expansion of power without constitutionally clear oversight mechanisms. For instance, under Article 80 the President of the Republic has the sole authority to convene an extraordinary session of the legislature. Rather than a third of seats in the Senate, the President of the Republic, under Article 85, appoints half the seats. The president can propose referenda without check from the legislature or judiciary (Article 164). As in constitutions of the Third Republic, the president can be impeached (Article 50). Veto overrides are left unclear while (Article 63) the president reserves the right to force the parliament to re-deliberate on laws. The president continues to have the right to dissolve the assemblies (Article 64)—he must consult with the presidents of the assemblies and the “Cercle de Préservation du Fihavanana” but it is only consultative.6 The president maintains the power to proclaim an “Exceptional Situation” (Article 65) giving him emergency powers but the term is to be set by law—the constitution doesn’t give either parameters or time for reversal. Decree Powers are high. The president can delegate powers to the prime minister and decree rights to the cabinet (Article 59). The Council of Ministers fixes the number of members of the National Assembly (without judicial or legislative review) and the division of the country into electoral jurisdictions (Article 70). If the 2010 budget law for a year was not filed in time, the Prime Minister is authorized to collect taxes by decree (Article 92). The new and somewhat vague Economic, Social and Cultural Council, controlled by the executive, has the right to pass draft legislation and decrees (Article 105). The president only appoints three of the nine members of the High Constitutional Court (HCC), and the HCC itself elects the president of the HCC, but this election and the appointment of

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other members are recognized only by decree of the president of the Republic (Article 114). Most relevant aspects of budget management are left to law (Article 98). As in the existing constitution the president can create or dissolve his cabinet, and the extent of ministerial roles, at will without oversight (Articles 58 and 59). Given the maintenance of existing powers, the expansion of some Executive powers, the constitutional obliqueness of oversight institutions, the weak balance of powers, and the large number of elements left to law we can determine that the presidency has not weakened and, if anything, has strengthened. Most of the above mentioned powers of the president could be found in respected constitutions throughout the world. The challenge isn’t any one of them, the challenge is the combination of all of them—and the limitations and oversight not given—that create a propensity towards strength in the presidency. DECENTRALIZATION AND POLITICAL STRUCTURES Decentralization has a history as old as Madagascar and it is important to consider any structural change in historic perspective. Under the First Republic the country was divided into provinces with some limited autonomy. During the 1972–1975 military interludes, provinces saw their right to impose direct uniform taxes on individuals and cattle. The relative weakness of the provinces continued during the Second Republic. The Third Republic effectively abolished provinces in the 1992 constitution (looking towards a unitary system). The constitutional change of 1998 created autonomous provinces. The 2007 constitution revision abolished provinces formally. Parallel to this process, communes that were directly elected local government existed in some form throughout the First and Second Republic but received significant empowerment under the Decentralization Law of 1994 (1994–07, taking effect in 1996). Communes gained rights to taxation, a role in environmental and forest management, recognition of tribunals, and other powers. Madagascar remained a centralized country fiscally. Most (over 80 percent) of capital transfers from the central government were block grants. This meant about 1 or 2 percent of total revenues (0.1–0.2 percent of GDP) were transferred even while responsibilities were added (in education, health care, resource management, etc.). Moreover, the delay in transfers increased over time to more than ten months in two-thirds of communes (World Bank 2004). The 2007 constitutional change augmented the role of the fokontany



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(below the commune level). This was followed by decree making the presidents of the fokontany answerable to the region rather than the communes. In effect, the power of the communes was marginalized. The autonomous provinces were never really put in place in a meaningful fashion. They became associated with secessionist attempts by Ravalomanana’s opponents (Andrianirina 2002). Some have argued (Rajaonesy 2008) that there was significant fear that autonomous provinces would lead to an increase in power to regional political elites, stoking an ethnic dimension to politics. Parallel de-concentrated structures were intended to impose a series of checks on the actions of communes but effectively undermined provincial efficacy in the process. This is a legacy problem of the Second Republic where both structures were merged into one territorial body. By March 2009 Madagascar’s deconcentrated and decentralized entities formed a confusing hodgepodge of overlapping jurisdictions superimposed on legally fluid institutional rights. Rather than clarify and delineate clear boundaries between deconcentrated and decentralized entities, the 2010 constitution clouds the issue further by attempting to merge aspects of the 1998 design with aspects of the 2007 design (no doubt to appease the fairly broad, fairly fragile group of actors with some hold on power today). The way in which it is designed appears reactive (against Ravalomanana). It is an unusual mix of the communal reforms (non-constitutional following 1994–007) of the Zafy administration, the constitutional revision of 1998 (led by Didier Ratsiraka to form autonomous provinces) and the 2007 constitutional reform installing the regions (led by Marc Ravalomanana).7 The 2010 constitution confirms the creation of Communes, Region and Provinces and identifies theses structures as “Collectivités Territoriales Décentralisées.” Article 141 defines broadly the roles and responsibilities of decentralized structures (public security, land management, economic development, environmental protection and social well-being) and specifies these responsibilities will be assumed with the support of the State. In the constitutional text, the government will be responsible to clarify the roles and responsibilities of the State and “collectivités territoriales” as well as the future allocation of resources. Legislation will determine the level funding allocated to the various level of government. Communes in Madagascar will continue to see representatives elected by universal suffrage but the actual roles and responsibilities of communes, as well as their institutional structure, will be defined by future legislation. There has been a lack of clarity in public financial management (including in public procurement) at the commune level and we can expect the ambiguity

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of roles, responsibilities and structure of communes to only reinforce the importance of ensuring capacity and systems matches attributions. Perhaps most surprising is that the constitution does not define jurisdictions.8 The jurisdiction of the provinces is fixed by law in accord with the President of the Republic and the Senate (Article 155). It is not unusual to have a province subservient to the central government—see Belgium for instance. However, this neither articulates the nature of the relationship between the state and the province nor between the province and the region; it also appears to muddy the role of the Délégué vis-à-vis the provincial leadership. Moreover, the section of the 2010 constitution delineating local governing structures (Articles 147–154 in particular) have no discussion of the relationship between the provinces and the regions. Organic law fixes the structures, competences, resources, and patrimony of provinces so what exactly the provinces can do is not part of the constitution (Article 146). The state is represented in the provinces by a Délégué who is chief of deconcentrated services in the province (Article 145). This is not an unusual design in itself but in Madagascar this has proven a point of friction in the past. Now it is likely to further cloud the de-concentrated/decentralized issue Madagascar has been facing. If an organ of the autonomous province violates the constitution or the law, the President of the Republic—not the HCC—can take whatever measures necessary to address the situation (Article 143). Resources (at the local level) are not articulated but will be determined by (national) law. This is a foundation problem for countries with a “Natural Resource Curse” challenge (Article 139). In summary, decentralization efforts in Madagascar over the years have created an unmanageable patchwork of overlapping structures. The opportunity for a new republic is to correct these mechanics. Instead, this 2010 constitution obfuscates more than it illuminates, leaving the fight to worsen in the years to come. THE UNTAMED PRESIDENT AND THE LEGISLATURE Under Article 41 of the 1992 Constitution forming the Third Republic, Madagascar has a bicameral legislature divided into the National Assembly and the Senate. The Senate is the upper chamber. The President of the Senate is the intended successor to the President of the Republic in times of crisis. However, a third of the seats are appointed by the President of the Republic (the remainder are elected proportionately by region) and, more importantly, it was not created until 2001 (and was subsequently lost again in 2009). The National Assembly has a history of greater legislative sway and continues



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to be the center for legislative activity. It is highly politicized and subject to the direct institutional manipulations and end-runs of successive executives. It remains highly influenced by the vacillations of both the party politics law and the electoral law. Under the 1992 constitution the National Assembly elected the Prime Minister and presidential powers were largely marginalized. Albert Zafy won the 1992–1993 presidential elections. He followed by sponsoring a successful constitutional referendum in September 1995 restoring presidential power. The Executive already held the primary competences in international affairs, with the Council of Ministers, and head of the military. He could also, under Article 58, dissolve the National Assembly. Even though the president could appoint the Prime Minister the latter maintained great authority in both the executive and the legislature including the execution of laws and judicial decisions, oversight of the public service, defense policy, head of the Council of Government, and lead in economic development. After the referendum Zafy substantially overstepped his powers and the legislature showed its first and only significant sign of power, voting to impeach him a year later. The subsequent constitutional revision sponsored by President Didider Ratsiraka (1998) and Marc Ravalomanana (2007) cemented the role of the president while expanding the powers of the executive in the legislature. These were legal processes with relatively low concerns over electoral fraud. They were, however, legal manipulations and were married to public campaigns of misinformation.9 Today, under II.1.67, the president not only names the prime minister but determines his functions (I.1.53). In addition to his former powers he determines, in lieu of the prime minister, the “national character,” and determines the general politics of the state (I.1.54). In practice this has meant that rather than the prime minister sharing executive and legislative functions, the president now does. As put by one leader in the National Assembly under Ravalomanana (who was also a TIM party leader and notoriously close to Ravalomanana): There are strong differences of opinion between TIM members, but at this moment, it is one vote. Like in France, there are currents [sic]. At the level of government there are no députés, ministers . . . TIM [sic]. If a député has a desire to propose a law contrary to what is being done [the president’s reforms] that député is put in his place. Or else, it is discussed with him before. The proposed law is received before [it is proposed]; that which does not correspond with the line of the party [is removed]. Thus he arranges his text so that it will be ok at the level of the president of the republic and then it is no longer at the level of the Députés. It is really the party that enters into the game.10

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The most critical functions of the legislature are left to organic law including the conditions of eligibility for deputies, the organization and functioning of the National Assembly, the mode of electing Senators and their eligibility, the electoral code, and limitations on public liberties (Article I.3.85). Organic laws do not require a referendum to change and have proven malleable. The 2007 legislative elections were amongst the most significant examples of legislative weakness. The president invoked his right to dissolve the National Assembly (Article I.1.59) and set both the electoral timetable and the statutes for party qualification. The president’s TIM party dominated the National Assembly already, but the legislative elections routed competition within the TIM seeking to establish a national platform independent of the president. Many legislators accused the president of hurrying up elections to avoid his own impeachment. The number of deputies was reduced from 160 to 127. Opposition party leaders, the FFKM (umbrella church organization) and the independent KMF/ CNOE (National Commission for the Observation of Elections) criticized the president for announcing a new election without internationally advocated electoral code reforms seeking to ensure electoral legitimacy. The TIM won 106 of the 127 seats (84 percent) compared to 108 of the 160 seats (67 percent) in the previous assembly and party members close to the president came to control key legislative constituencies including the opposition strongholds of Tulear and Tamatave. In this context the subsequent power play over prime ministers by Andry Rajoelina in 2009 can be seen as an endgame in the consolidation of executive and legislative powers within the presidency. Malagasy are critical of the National Assembly: “of all public institutions in Madagascar, the National Assembly is most often cited as engaging in corrupt behavior: 42 percent of Madagascans claim it engages in corrupt behavior (including 78 percent of survey respondents with a view on the subject).” The rural poor feel the failure of the National Assembly most acutely, whereas in urban areas presidential corruption is perceived a bigger threat.11 The Senate is scarcely considered by the population. Sixty-four percent of Antananarivo residents find representation by the National Assembly to be low and 70 percent reject the 2007 legislative elections.12 The fundamental crisis of the legislature in Madagascar is that over time it has become a marginal part of the governing process in service to, rather than in check of, the president. In every election in the Third Republic the National Assembly has followed the party of the president,13 but the role of the president has increased. Constitutional reform will need to better address the separation of powers. The political parties’ law, discussed in this chapter, is critical to the make-up of the legislature, particularly the National



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Assembly. Without improved avenues of competition and interest aggregation by parties the legislature will continue to be dominated by the executive. The electoral code, also discussed in this chapter, has significant impact on legislative composition. If all parties aren’t playing by the same rules, don’t know what those rules are in advance, and don’t see even application of those rules in rural to urban areas (dispersion of ballot papers and voting cards) and the capital to opposition regions, then the opportunities for competition in the legislature will be stymied. There have not been significant interventions to date by donors in the legislature. The driving factors for this lack of sufficient intervention are not economic (as with BIANCO and other oversight institutions); and they are neither salary-related nor do they pertain to technical capacity (as with the judiciary). The strong-arm tactics of successive presidents revamping the legislative make-up is a sign that extending rent-seeking opportunities to legislators is a relatively new phenomenon.14 The entry points at this stage are limited. Transparency at the ballot box can be improved but it is not a core concern as institutional manipulation, not Election Day malfeasance, is the primary issue. Increased capacity at the commune level to ensure the distribution of ballots compliments other needed efforts at the commune level discussed in this report. The reform agenda should include efforts at broadening the public space. Given the dominance of network-based politics in Madagascar there is a high risk of new institutions becoming tools for particular new leaders (as continues to be the case with political parties). To protect against that requires careful charter, mission, and platform creation, but it also requires careful diversification of institutional leadership and staff. The 2009 conflict was the first intra-Merina conflict. Seventy-four percent of the population is not Merina. The new legislature will be under significant pressure to diversify on ethnic and ethno-regional lines and there is a strong possibility that whoever is ultimately elected president in Madagascar will follow the model set forth by the HAT and use rent-seeking opportunities to diversify a loyal legislative base of power. The lack of fiscal devolution as part of the Malagasy decentralization process, discussed in this chapter, ensures that those rents are largely controlled in the capital. Augmented fiscal streams outside the capital region thus will serve not only long-term economic development goals but also to immediately offer an alternative to rent-seeking legislators, promoting greater autonomy from the president. In short, what were once considered mechanisms for integrating conservation and development, local engines of growth, and economic alternatives to deleterious local land practices are now potentially critical tools for expanding the political sphere and promoting avenues of formal competition.

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THE UNTAMED PRESIDENT AND THE JUDICIARY The judiciary in Madagascar has a record of significantly greater consistency than the other branches of government. Individual justices across levels have largely survived regime changes even though they are politically appointed and do not hold life tenure. The institutional framework of the courts has been little altered by successive political leaders. Nonetheless, the courts struggle with judicial independence, corruption, and poor public image. The Malagasy judicial system is loosely based on the French system. The High Constitutional Court is considered the judicial branch of government and the Supreme Court, Courts of Appeal, and the lower courts are attached and the High Court of Justice charged with helping it carry out its functions (Article III.1.41 of the Malagasy Constitution). There are 823 judges across levels in Madagascar, far too few given the nation’s juridical needs. Through the Second and Third Republics there has also been an effort to integrate culturally embedded traditional courts (dina rule-making institutions15) to adjudicate civil disputes and there has been an increased effort to use dina systems for criminal cases to make up for justice shortages. Decisions by dina are not subject to the formal procedural protections of the formal court system. The President of the Republic plays three primary roles in the judicial branch marking far reach across the balance of powers. First, he is the guarantor of judicial independence (Article III.1.103 of the constitution). Second, he is the President of the Superior Council of the Magistrature (Conseil Supérieur de la Magistrature) and appoints its governing magistrate charged with upholding judicial independence and managing the careers of justices. High court justices have little trust in the CSM and are wary of its role (author interviews with HCC justices, 2008). Third, the President of the Republic names three of the nine members of the HCC and has indirect influence over the two other members named by the CSM. The National Assembly and Senate each name two of the remaining justices (Article III.2.110 of the constitution). The President of the Republic also names the President of the HCC. HCC justices serve at the will of the appointing body and can be removed by that body at will or by the president in extreme cases of justice malfeasance. There has been no change in the composition of the HCC since 2002. Part of the reason for the consistency is the flexibility of the court to act to “avoid violence” by drawing on common law to interpret and reinterpret what it sees as unclear passages in the constitution. This was how the court defended its recognition of Marc Ravalomanana in 200216 and the method it followed in its recognition of Andry Rajoelina in 2009.17 Outside the court this use of common law is often considered a lack of juridical independence. The African Union has, for instance, barred the travel of all members of the high



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court as a result of their role in the 2009 conflict. Since most of the court’s members were appointed by Didier Ratsiraka or Albert Zafy and the current court controversially approved the investiture of Marc Ravalomanana, it would appear the court was not necessarily in the “Rajoelina Camp.” Instead, it would appear that the court was earnestly trying to move between the gray areas of Malagasy law and weak institutional cover through the invocation of common law, its members seek political opportunity, or both. Either way it points to an ongoing effort by the court to reach conclusions popular with the sitting president. After all of the problems of the 2001 elections no significant institutional reforms were undertaken to the juridical process or role of the HCC. There are safeguards in the text (observers at polling stations, etc.) and they do a reasonable job of assuring transparency. However, transparency does not mean accountability. The dominant view amongst justices of HCC is that “electoral fraud, and apart from this, corruption is present at all levels” (author interviews with HCC members, 2008; 2010). The members of the HCC perceive procedural challenges and institutional barriers to overcome to succeed in their jobs. As put by one justice (author interview, 2006): Transparency is always a great way to work and a guarantee for everyone. But when we talk of neutrality, you know, being completely neutral, it is not true. Impartial “yes and no.” The same justice further points out that “the spoilssystem [in politics] is not really applicable to us in so far as the best people are almost the same. Just the work that has changed.” The work that has changed is that which the executive prescribes. Thus the court must flex to the administration in place.

The Anti-corruption Judiciary Unit (ACJU) is tasked to prosecute, investigate and judge cases of corruption that are referred to them, mainly by BIANCO. Like BIANCO, the ACJU is underfunded and can review only a small number of cases brought before it, and lacks the power to hold accountability upwards. Its focus has almost exclusively been on local tribunals. Arguably, the reasons for judicial corruption can be traced to low salaries, lack of training, and (overly) complex legal procedures. Where there has been crisis—political or fiscal—there has often been delay in salary payment as well. “One of the feelings that prevail among the general public is the impunity of corruption perpetrators, even those that are notorious in the matter. Such impunity can be interpreted as the existence of interference of politicians to protect those perpetrators from investigations or prosecution.”18 In this sense it does not appear that the judiciary is largely captured by executive rents but rather is powerless against those that are. Reported corruption is consistently in the form of petty bribery at lower court levels.

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From 2005 to 2008 already low perceptions of Malagasy attitudes towards government efficiency decreased in every sector measured by the Afrobarometer.19 “Nearly 60 percent of Malagasy state that at least some judges and magistrates engage in corrupt behavior. Leaving out the survey respondents who claim they have no evidence for answering this question, the proportion of Malagasy who state that at least some judges and magistrates engage in corrupt behavior reaches 89 percent.”20 In an unrelated recent survey 64 percent of Antananarivo residents described justices as between somewhat and very corrupt. In the same 2010 survey respondents viewed justices as corrupt 69 percent of the time and ten years before 72 percent of the time. Asked the same question in a 2006 survey, Antananarivo residents found justices to be corrupt 55 percent of the time while 46 percent of the people polled, found justice to be dealt unevenly amongst citizens.21 Donors, the European Union in particular, have invested in the judicial sector including physical infrastructure, computerization, judicial officers, neighborhood justice initiatives, and legal assistance to the public. Despite gains in these areas this investment has not led to an amelioration of the rule of law or of challenged juridical procedures. Executive reach has continued to be significant in the sector due to both the constitutional power of the president in court activities and interpretation of law by the high courts in ways that—whether due to protection of the public through common law or political opportunism—favor the executive in power. Intervention efforts aimed at confronting judicial independence would need to consider root drivers at lower court levels—low salaries, lack of training, complex legal procedures, and payment regularity. The overload for tribunals in the Sava region with even limited rosewood enforcement points to a capacity problem. At higher court levels the concerns of the HCC need to be addressed (the limits of the constitution), then technical assistance in the role of common law in the separation of powers, and finally an expanded role for the ACJU increasing capacity in terms of number of reviews, role in holding justices accountable, and ability to expand upward accountability. Public opinion appears to be savvy. If accountability increases with transparency, public trust—and the concomitant ability of the judiciary to carry out its functions—will likely improve. THE ELECTORAL CODE The first Electoral Code of the Third Republic (1992–005) promised “sincerity and liberty in the vote,” “equal chances for candidates,” “regularity of smooth elections,” and the “neutrality of the administration.” The administra-



The Political Institutions of the Third Republic (1992–2010) 63

tive composition was made up of delegates from the firaisampokontany and presided over by a delegate of the fivondronampokontany (both now defunct administrative levels). However, while in 1992 these were elected positions they rapidly became appointed ones. Electoral challenges were heard at the most local level, the fokontany, but the president of the fokontany became appointed by a devolved process soon after a new commune level was created above the fokontany in 1996. The electoral lists were left to the fokontany without sufficient financial or technical support to ensure process validity. The electoral lists, kept by the delegate of the fivondronampokontany (1992– 005.22), were regularly accused of being manipulated. A multi-ballot system was maintained instead of a single-ballot system. Central to the debate in the latter part of the Third Republic and beginning of the Fourth was most notably at the behest of the FFKM (umbrella group of churches) and partnering “centrist” parties such as AVI and the RPSD. President Ravalomanana staunchly defended the presidentialism in the code even in the face of organized opposition and significant criticism from the international community in the lead up to the 2006 presidential elections. The two oft-cited electoral concerns have been balloting and voter registration.22 Balloting: Until the 2013 elections Madagascar used a multi-ballot system. Ravalomanana fought against significant pressure both internally and externally (EU, US, and UNDP) against moving to a single-ballot system. In a multi-ballot system there is a separate ballot paper for each candidate. The ballot papers are coded by color, picture, name, and, where appropriate, party identification. Voters take the ballot paper of their candidate of choice to put in the ballot box and dispose of the remainder. This system is in contrast to a single-ballot system where all the names are on a single ballot and a pen, punch, or electronic tool is used to select the candidate of choice. Scholars point out that the advantage of the multi-ballot system is that it is simpler for the voter and less prone to voter error. However, there is significantly greater opportunity for fraud in this system. Ballots can more easily be “stuffed.” In Madagascar the cost of printing a ballot for each of the 7.4 million registered voters falls to the candidate and can be a financial barrier to universal application. As a result, during the Third Republic only the wealthiest could compete. Moreover, only for the presidential elections of 2006, under significant pressure, did Ravalomanana accept that the electoral commission, not the candidates, must distribute the ballots. The capacity of someone from outside of the capital region to distribute the ballots nationwide is limited. Yet in this election there were also widespread accusations that some polling stations received late ballot papers—or didn’t receive ballot papers—for opposition candidates, but did receive the ballot papers for President Ravalomanana.

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VOTER REGISTRATION Under Ravalomanana a voter registration system was set up with the individual mayors of communes responsible for registration. They, however, required support from the region (appointed leadership) by way of funds and the cards themselves. According to the independent electoral observer organization the CNOE upwards of 35 percent of citizens in some areas may have experienced irregularities with the electoral card and registration process in 2006. Comparing adult population to voter registration demonstrates that these areas were largely in opposition strongholds (Tamatave and Tulear). The level of disagreement over the electoral code is profound. To the degree that Didier Ratsiraka was accused of using the electoral code to manipulate his position in the 2001 elections and Marc Ravalomanana was similarly accused of using the electoral code to manipulate his position in the 2006 elections, it is hard to imagine a presidential election producing widely accepted results unless the electoral code is confronted first. The challenge is that the current system universally benefits the center in a system struggling to maintain power at the center. A change in electoral code that creates a single ballot and reforms voter registration creates new opportunities, particularly for less known candidates and smaller parties. As rent opportunities for regional networks as opposed to wealthy political networks in the capital increase with electoral code reform this will remain a contentious yet critical issue. DECENTRALIZATION AND CONSTITUTIONAL REVISIONS Every president in the history of postcolonial Madagascar has changed the constitution to suit his own individual purpose for a total of nine constitutions since 1960. As a result, constitutionalism in the country should be treated as relative. Philibert Tsirinana, Madagascar’s first president, helped create the 1960 constitution. Didier Ratsiraka, upon taking power in 1975, jettisoned that constitution in favor of one supporting his Scientific Socialist design. The constitution of the Third Republic was a product of the constitutional convention of March 1992. However, President Albert Zafy fundamentally altered it in a September 1995 referendum giving the president substantially increased powers including the right to appoint the prime minister. Albert Zafy’s base of power was in his home region of Antsinanana and a core constituency in Antananarivo. The other provinces provided him significant challenge. These constitutional changes not only increased his power but pushed competition to the margins through a process of centralization. After winning back the presidency in the 1996 elections Didier Ratsiraka sought



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to once again move power away from the center to his provincial power base. To this end he created a series of changes based on the concept of autonomous provinces. The constitutional changes of 1998 ensured increased power at the provincial level but because elections were indirect the president could still hold undue sway over who would sit atop provincial leadership. Notably, Madagascar has an active federalist movement that has roots going back before independence. The federalist movement did not support Didier Ratsiraka’s provincial system instead arguing that it was just another tool for presidential empowerment. Marc Ravalomanana came to power as the first Merina president, the first Antananarivo president. In historic context this was a significant break in political philosophy established by the French and perpetuated during the First Republic that the roughly one-quarter of the population who are Merina from the central highlands would continue to dominate the economic sphere but côtier would control the presidency. It was a twenty-first-century campaign arguing a post-politiques des races against Didier Ratsiraka’s (perhaps ironic in historic context) strategy of exploiting ethnic difference. Ravalomanana was a new political breed for Madagascar but he was virtually unknown in the provinces before June 2001. Marc Ravalomanana did not win the critical province of Tamatave in the 2001 elections and his most significant challenges came from beyond the pale. He answered this challenge in September 2004 by creating a system of twenty-two regions that would supersede the provinces established in the waning days of the French colonial period. Provinces were tied to the system of power established by Didier Ratsiraka during the Second Republic. Lengthy parallels could be drawn between the role of decentralization herein within the party system of the longue durée (chapter 5) and a new system of regional decentralized entities more firmly ensconced in a decentrated system in which regionally chiefs hold greater upward accountability than downward accountability. President Ravalomanana resisted seeking changes to the constitution until the April 2007 constitutional referendum. The 2007 constitution did solidify the regions, but it did not clarify the newly empowered role of the fokontany (the lowest level of governance). President Ravalomanana’s Décret 1097/2007 articulated that the presidents of fokontany would be appointed by and answerable to the Chefs de Region rather than the immediately superior mayors of communes. The power and influence of the mayors was thus significantly hemmed in as their subordinates were no longer answerable to them. As the mayors were the last level of local governance to be directly elected by the population, popular voice was a casualty of these institutional changes.23

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Changing a constitution in Madagascar requires a popular referendum but every constitutional change has been spearheaded by the sitting president, every campaign has provided little information on the changes and instead has focused on how the constitutional changes will help development, and every constitutional referendum has passed. The quality of elections, in this case, has not been equated with the power of competition (in the sense of moving towards an open access order in which the system abrogates rentseeking political networks in favor of legal-rational authority) and the poor information dissemination leads to the conclusion that voting for the constitutional changes has not meant popular acceptance of the most fundamental institutional shifts. If the citizenry does not accept the most basic constitutional tenets—down to how to geographically divide the country—it is not possible for the state to gain strength or for institutions embed. For instance, the current mining law contains in its distribution a share for the province even though the level of province no longer exists. This leads to concern about both apportionment and empowerment in the decision-making process. There is reason to believe the system of regions established in 2007 and maintained in the Constitution of the Fourth Republic was difficult to embed. In a survey conducted by the author in Antananarivo,24 80 percent argued that they prefer the system of autonomous provinces (created by Didier Ratsiraka in 1998) as opposed to 18 percent who prefer the system of regions (created by Marc Ravalomanana in 2004 and written into the 2007 constitution). Using other data collected by the author in 2008–2009 it is possible to gain some insights into the level of acceptance of governing bodies and perceived voice to those bodies as expressed by civil society leadership. The findings are of concern. (See table 3.1.) In general, few groups sought intervention at the regional or national level as the regions were not generally seen as transparent or a place to voice concerns. Depending on the indicator, under Ravalomanana less than half saw the regions or national governance as transparent, accountable, or willing to interact with their constituents. More importantly, this varied tremendously by region with Tamatave, historically the most at odds with the capital and perhaps the biggest regional threat to Rajoelina, perceiving a disproportionately high perception of marginality. The data also appears to indicate that across regions the higher the level of governance the worse it was perceived, with communes accepted about two-thirds of the time and the national government about one-third of the time. This, and the comparative strength in the couple stray fokontany (most local level of governance), indicates that the fokontany is generally perceived by the population (as opposed to civil society organizations) as accountable, the commune less so, and higher levels of governance virtually not at all. While further exploration of the data is

2.08 (about 6 mo.) 17% 35% 18% 53% 40% 63% 25% 33% 63% 2.75 2.89 48% 45% 59% 2.91 32%

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