When Parties Prosper: The Uses of Electoral Success 9781685857783

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WHEN PARTIES PROSPER

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W HEN PARTIES PROSPER The Uses of Electoral Success EDITED

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Kay Lawson Peter H. Merkl

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

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Published in the United States of America in 2007 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 1800 30th Street, Boulder, Colorado 80301 www.rienner.com and in the United Kingdom by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 3 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London WC2E 8LU © 2007 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data When parties prosper : the uses of electoral success / edited by Kay Lawson and Peter H. Merkl. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-58826-534-0 (hardcover : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-1-58826-510-4 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Political parties. I. Lawson, Kay. II. Merkl, Peter H. JF2051.W48 2007 324.2—dc22 2007002451 British Cataloguing in Publication Data A Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library. Printed and bound in the United States of America The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1992. 5

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Contents

1 Political Parties in the Twenty-First Century Kay Lawson and Peter H. Merkl Part 1

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Parties on the Left

2 Britain’s New Labour Party: Prospering in an Antiparty Climate David McKay

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3 Sweden: Still a Stable Party System? Tommy Möller

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4 European Social Democracy: Failing Successfully William E. Paterson and James Sloam

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5 Poland’s Democratic Left Alliance: Beyond Postcommunist Succession Hieronim Kubiak

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6 The Lithuanian Social Democrats: A Prosperous Postcommunist Party Algis Krupavicˇ ius

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7 The Uruguayan Party System: Transition Within Transition Jorge Lanzaro Part 2

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Parties on the Right

8 Germany’s Christian Democrats: Survivors in a Secular Society Frank Bösch

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9 Japan: Why Parties Fail, Yet Survive Haruhiro Fukui

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10 Russia’s Political Parties: Deep in the Shadow of the President Anatoly Kulik

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11 Mexico: Helping the Opposition Prosper Mark A. Martinez

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12 Israel’s Shas: Party Prosperity and Dubious Democracy Yael Yishai

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13 Chile: From Individual Politics to Party Militancy Alfredo Joignant and Patricio Navia

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Part 3

Comparing Opposing Parties

14 Italy: A Tale of Two Parties Gianfranco Pasquino

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15 France: Antisystem Parties vs. Government Parties Florence Haegel and Marc Lazar

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16 The US Two-Party System: Using Power to Prosper Robin Kolodny

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Part 4

Conclusions

17 Becoming the Party of Government Peter H. Merkl

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18 When Parties Dedemocratize Kay Lawson

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List of Acronyms References The Contributors Index About the Book

367 371 397 399 431

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Political Parties in the Twenty-First Century KAY LAWSON

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PETER H. MERKL

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ajor changes in the world have changed the rules of the game of party politics, as well as the players and the arenas in which the game is played. New forms of communication and new ways to finance ever more expensive campaigns characterize the spread of globalization and domestic politics alike. New parties have proliferated, and older parties have come back to life by adding new leaders, new followers, new policies, and sometimes new names, even as they maintain strong links to the ideas and programs of the past. Have these changes reversed what so many, ourselves included, once described as the decline of parties (Lawson and Merkl 1988)? Do they mean that parties are now prospering as never before? Perhaps, but then what does it mean for parties to prosper? Does it mean parties are now better able than ever to discover the popular will, incorporate that will into their programs, educate and guide, and ensure that public policy is consistent with the resources, needs, and hopes of those they represent? Are they working better than ever to enhance the workings of democracy, and the spread of democratization? Or does the parties’ new strength conceal new weaknesses as agencies of linkage? Are parties and party systems in fact continuing to decline, as voter abstention grows, as social movements and nongovernmental organizations take on more and more of their representative roles, and as special interest groups control the selection of their candidates and the agendas of those who win election? Has party renewal come at the cost of abandoning their supposed most essential functions: the aggregation and articulation of interests, and the selection and election of representatives with close links and strong ties to a popular base? Is their prosperity limited to the size of their campaign treasuries and the fortunes they make for their leaders and those they serve? We remain convinced that vital, resilient democracies are not possible without 1

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strong, prosperous parties. Their obvious capacity for successful adaptation to the changes that have taken place is no doubt worth a few lapses, perhaps even to the extent of being willing to overlook some instances of corruption. But have they gone too far? Are they in fact now serving more as agencies of dedemocratization than of democratization? Clearly the time has come to give the ongoing debate about whether or not political parties are still in decline—or quite the opposite—a more modern, more discriminating, and more realistic focus. In order to sort out what it means to prosper, we can begin with the recognition that the word “prosperity” may or not be synonymous with “success” in the world of party politics. Winning an election is a sign of success, of course, but then again some party or combination of parties wins every election that is not instantly overturned by the military. Gaining the right to govern is another sign of success, but so is the ability to join others who do so. Does a small party prosper when it gains a foothold, however small, in a coalition government, when it changes the outcome of the electoral battle between larger parties, or simply when it gains representation for a minority or keeps an unpopular ideology alive? On the other hand, how successful is a consistently winning party when it amasses power and wealth for itself and its major donors by choosing policy paths contrary to its campaign promises and the will of its followers? Can one kind of prosperity be gained at the cost of another? At the cost of democracy? In keeping with our own past work, together and separately, we have chosen the method of comparative study to seek answers worthy of the complexity of these questions. When Parties Prosper relies on the ability of eighteen experts in a wide range of nations to address these and related questions in substantive and analytical depth, to provide historical context, but also to take a hard look at parties as they exist today, and to give us and the readers of this book their answers, clearly and straightforwardly. We have organized their chapters by partisan identification: Part 1 addresses parties of the left, Part 2 addresses parties of the right, and Part 3 compares parties from both sides of the spectrum. We have chosen this plan in recognition of the fact that left-right identification is as important for organizations as for individuals. From the very beginning of party history, successful parties were those that overcame existing dominant structures (based on aristocratic, colonial, or corporate hegemony) by identifying and taking sides in the cleavages predominant among those who contested for power, and these cleavages were clearly identifiable in left-right partisan terms (Lipset and Rokkan 1967; Rokkan 1970). Thus, in Part 1 we begin with studies of prospering parties on the European left: Britain’s New Labour Party (David McKay, Chapter 2), the Swedish Social Democrats (Tommy Möller, Chapter 3), and a comparative study of several Western European social democratic parties (William E. Paterson and James Sloam, Chapter 4). In all cases, we find that prosperity is strongly linked to a

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careful edging away from socialist dogma, a careful co-optation of parts of the capitalistic order, and inevitably a growing difficulty in maintaining the support of their formerly most devoted followers. It is also in Part 1 that we find the postcommunist left-wing parties or coalitions of Poland (Hieronim Kubiak, Chapter 5) and Lithuania (Algis Krupavicˇius, Chapter 6), organizations pulled together out of the remnants of old communist parties, mass organizations, military forces, and former bureaucracies, against the background of postcommunist chaos and anarchy. Their leftwing character sometimes seems more a reflection of distant and earlier communist campaigns against nationalism and clerical and feudal leftovers of 1945 than of any present anticapitalistic sentiments. However, once launched on the sea of democratization they must inexorably jettison some baggage and take on some unfamiliar passengers (and policies), modernizing their electoral strategies in order to achieve and maintain their own prosperity, even as they find themselves unable to keep the glorious promises of their new beginnings. Concluding Part 1, Jorge Lanzaro (Chapter 7) demonstrates that the task of building a viable left-wing party after right-wing dictatorship can follow a similar path when that dictatorship has been military rather than communist. Leftist politicians in Uruguay also began their rise to electoral success by bringing together a coalition of left-wing forces long before right-wing dictatorship had fully come to an end, and they too are prospering by responding effectively to the catchall demands of democratic electioneering. Prosperous parties on the right are the subject of Part 2. Long gone are the days when the conservative rhetoric of Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan dominated the messages, if not always the actual policies, of most of the ruling parties of Europe. In Britain itself, the years of moderate conservative hegemony were followed by conservative fragmentation and strife, and similar patterns are found across the continent. But not throughout the world, and even in Europe some right-wing parties have overcome this tendency, as Frank Bösch (Chapter 8) shows to be the case for Germany’s Christian Democrats. In this case, the renaissance has been brought about by many years of moderate consensus building involving business, agriculture, and the churches, plus the development of a program for governing that, if not instantly admired on the left, nonetheless avoided the kind of extreme polarization found in US politics during the same period of time. The politicians working within Japan’s Liberal Democratic Party are similarly allied with farmers, bureaucrats, bankers, and business, against a rather protean opposition, but Haruhiro Fukui (Chapter 9) helps us to see how the ability of this party to dole out its favors with blithe disregard for ideological purity or unity has placed it in a league of its own when it comes to maintaining party prosperity, despite years of rampant and undisguised corruption. Even when seeming at last to be really down-and-out, this party made a swift return to power. Fukui tells us how.

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The four remaining studies of prosperous right-wing parties in Part 2 illustrate how varied are the paths to a measure of electoral success on the righthand side of the ledger. Russia’s Unity Party, the subject of Anatoly Kulik’s analysis (Chapter 10), is in fact a party with no distinguishable ideology or policy of its own beyond offering support to a right-wing politician, an identity that makes it by far the most prosperous party in the nation. The various Mexican parties that Mark A. Martinez writes about (Chapter 11) all claim to serve the people (as what party does not?), but Martinez shows how even the most avowedly leftist of the three inadvertently gave aid and succor to the National Action Party, the business-oriented right-wing opposition to the corporatist right-wing Institutional Revolutionary Party, helping to bring it electoral success and the more callow forms of prosperity, licit and illicit, that traditionally accompany such success in that nation. It is a complicated but interestingly illustrative story about the seemingly unstoppable flow of power to the right in Mexico. Israel’s Shas party has, as Yael Yishai points out (Chapter 12), yet another modus operandi. It has no hope of becoming a party of government in the broader sense, but has every hope, in every election, of becoming one of the parties of almost any coalition the Israelis may patch together. Its religious ideology is on the right, but it seeks to serve that system of belief not by helping to guide government policy, even when incorporated into a ruling alliance, but rather by putting the wealth it gains from that government into the hands of those who most devoutly serve the mission it has set for itself. Another small party whose prosperity is based on the role it takes—or periodically threatens to take—in determining electoral outcomes is the Independent Democratic Union of Chile. It is unambiguously right-wing, if indeed not far-right, with the requisite bourgeois-military backing, hints of unrepentant fascism, and firm commitment to neoliberal/libertarian economic preferences. Alfredo Joignant and Patricio Navia (Chapter 13) show how its power to maintain itself in the post–Augusto Pinochet era rests on the old-school ties of its leaders and their strong technocratic tradition, producing a combination of obedience and efficiency that still serves to bring them the votes of the other unregenerate supporters of a bloody legacy. Part 3 consists of chapters written by authors who chose to compare ruling parties of the left and right in Italy (Gianfranco Pasquino, Chapter 14), France (Florence Haegel and Marc Lazar, Chapter 15), and the United States (Robin Kolodny, Chapter 16). In Italy, Forza Italia owes its success to a kind of establishment opportunism that has allowed the business classes and the media under Silvio Berlusconi to forge stable alliances with former neofascists (the Italian Social Movement, now renamed National Alliance) and the regionalist, far-right Lega Lombarda. But Forza Italia is also united by an abiding hatred of the labor unions, the former communists and socialists, and the leftist intelligentsia. On the left, the Democratic Socialists have managed to create the Olive

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Tree coalition and come to power, but it has never had the easy capacity to jettison conflicting issue stances among its members and partners that Forza brings to the game of winning power. Indeed, there are those who say that only the embarrassment that Berlusconi’s tactics and criminal indictments caused to Italians who were in touch with international opinion—and not the superior tactics or greater appeal of the Olive Tree—sufficed to tip the scales against Berlusconi at last. France has also been characterized in recent years by a right-wing party, the Popular Movement Union, which is stronger than its main opponent on the left, the Socialist Party. But the constitutional possibility of “cohabitation” between a prime minister of one party and a president coming from the other has kept the two in closer balance than were the Italian left and right during the reign of Berlusconi. Furthermore, both sides suffer from continuous fragmentation, never more damning than when the Socialists lost the presidency in 2002 simply because they were so unable to make common cause with their putative allies on the left that they allowed extreme-right leader Jean-Marie Le Pen to supplant their own candidate, Lionel Jospin, in the runoff. And this leads to a key point that Haegel and Lazar insist upon: that we must recognize that the kind of prosperity winnable by minority “antisystem” parties is very different from that of the major parties, but may, in certain circumstances, be no less significant for the direction that national politics will take. The final chapter in Part 3 is, like the nation and the parties it studies, sui generis, dedicated as it is by Kolodny to analyzing why the Republican and Democratic Parties of the United States are the only US parties capable of attaining national power. The answer is both crystal-clear and largely unknown: it is the laws of the realm—of all fifty states as well as of the nation—that have so secured the duopoly of the monoliths. Can it ever be broken? And if so, what will be required to break it? Kolodny has taken the trouble to find out. This rich and fascinating array of parties, and perspectives on what makes them prosperous, leaves us with far more than we could say in a single concluding chapter. Peter H. Merkl has chosen in Chapter 17 to concentrate on what we can deduce about how a party may become a party of government. Drawing from both his knowledge of other nations’ politics and the cases discussed in this book, he considers the particular significance of coalitions, powerful minority parties, the reputation of being “a natural party of government,” and successive autocracy and/or a meltdown of the preceding party system. On the whole, Merkl finds that today’s parties serve the existing democracies as well as one can reasonably expect. Kay Lawson is less sanguine. In Chapter 18 she suggests that parties all too frequently serve as agencies of dedemocratization. She lists four means that parties consistently employ to achieve lasting prosperity for themselves and their supporters—strengthening party leaders and central authority, policy centrism, self-protection by legal means against the possibility of meaningful opposition,

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and outright corruption—and finds multiple examples of each throughout the chapters of this book. These practices, she argues, weaken and eventually remove the direct linkage between an active democratic citizenry and its government that parties are expected to provide, contributing to the growing autonomy of the rulers from the ruled. Which is to say: they dedemocratize.

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PART 11 Parties on the Left

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Britain’s New Labour Party: Prospering in an Antiparty Climate DAVID MCKAY

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n the fourteen-year period from 1987 to 2001, something quite extraordinary— and almost wholly unexpected—happened to the British party system: for the first time in its hundred-year history, the Labour Party replaced the Conservatives as the dominant, democratically prosperous party in British politics. Until 1997, Labour had been in power for just twenty years, and had never served out two full, consecutive terms. In contrast, the Tories had ruled for sixty-one years, and had prevailed for long and crucial periods of the century, including 1931– 1945,1 1951–1964, and 1979–1997. Table 2.1 shows the share of parliamentary seats won by the three major parties during this 105-year period. By the early part of the twenty-first century, the Conservatives, long regarded as “the natural party of government” or as an inclusive Volkspartei championing the public interest, had, at least in the minds of voters, degenerated into a sectional single-issue party, incompetent in economic matters and devoted to protecting British sovereignty against the European behemoth. By way of contrast, voters increasingly saw Labour as the party of economic competence and of the broader public interest. Its historical image as the creature of the trade unions, and an outdated socialism, had all but vanished. Hence the unofficial but almost universally adopted change in nomenclature. “New Labour” did genuinely appear to be new. This chapter will attempt to explain how this apparent transformation came about. Special attention will be paid to the sustainability of New Labour’s dominance, and to whether the election of 1997 qualifies as a critical one representing a long-term realignment from Conservative to Labour. Very broadly, I will argue that, although Labour successfully moved toward the median voter after 1987, the 1997 and 2001 victories owe as much to the unpopularity of the Conservatives as to a deep voter commitment to New Labour and its program. In this sense, British electoral politics and the party 9

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Table 2.1 Election 1900 1906 1910 1923 1931 1945 1955 1964 1970 1974a 1979 1987 1992 1997 2001 2005

Distribution of Seats in Britain’s House of Commons, Selected Elections, 1900–2005 Conservative

Labour

Liberal Democrat

Other

402 157 272 258 521 210 344 303 330 276 339 375 336 165 166 196

2 30 42 191 52 393 277 317 287 319 268 229 271 418 412 353

184 400 271 159 37 12 6 9 6 13 11 22 20 46 52 62

82 83 85 7 5 25 3 1 7 27 17 24 24 30 29 35

Source: Author, and Butler and Butler 2000. Note: a. October 1974.

system remain volatile in a political context that is increasingly characterized by voter disillusionment with politics in general, and with political parties in particular. This thesis seemed to be confirmed by the much more lackluster electoral performance by Labour in the general election of 2005 and by the (albeit) limited recovery of the Conservatives’ poll fortunes under the leadership of David Cameron in 2005 and 2006.

The British Party System in Context: The Rise of New Labour Historically, Britain has always been regarded as the archetype of democratically prosperous two-party politics (see Ware 1996, chap. 5). In addition, the system has always been viewed as essentially stable. Until the 1920s, the dominant parties were the Conservatives (Tories) and the Liberals (and previously the Whigs). Since the 1920s, Labour and the Conservatives have dominated. Constitutional rules and conventions always appeared to bolster this two-party dominance. Britain has a unitary parliamentary system that encourages the concentration of power at the center. Plurality electoral rules discriminate against third parties—although not those with geographically concentrated support. Making the transition from minor party to one competing for national power requires building support across many constituencies in order to win a majority in the House of Commons.2 Such transitions have typically been precipitated

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by major social and economic changes, such as the industrial revolution and the move to free trade that created the nineteenth-century Conservative and Liberal Parties. At the turn of the twentieth century, it was the rise of mass trade unionism, with a specific commitment to democratic socialism, that enabled the Labour Party to replace the Liberals as the radical alternative to the status quo. Though for almost all of the twentieth century the ideological battle lines were clear—Labour was the party of socialism, the Tories were the party of tradition and the market—both parties were in effect coalitions of interests and ideologies. Within their ranks, the Tories accommodated internationalists and nationalists (on such issues as Europe and trade). At times, the party was dominated by social paternalist reformers (such as Harold Macmillan, prime minister from 1956 to 1962) and at others by free marketeer reformers infused with notions of individualism and self-reliance (Margaret Thatcher, prime minister from 1979 to 1990). Labour was equally diverse in its makeup. Pragmatic socialists (Clement Attlee, prime minister from 1945 to 1951) have been replaced by more ideological socialists (Michael Foot, leader of the Labour Party from 1981 to 1983), who in turn have been replaced by “Third Way” pragmatists such as Tony Blair (prime minister, 1997–2007).3 These intraparty differences have been reflected (and indeed are a reflection of) considerable changes in party organization and local party support. Over the twentieth century, Labour transformed from a party dominated by powerful trade union and cooperative society clubs and organizations into one dominated by the party leadership in London. The Conservatives changed from an elitist, centralized party at midcentury to a more populist, less centralized party under Margaret Thatcher and her successors. Although clearly dominated by two main parties, Britain’s third national party, the Liberal Democratic Party, now consistently wins 15–20 percent of the vote, and in 2005 had sixty-two members in the House of Commons. Indeed, in the 2005 election the Liberals won 22.1 percent of the vote, compared with 32.4 percent for the Conservatives and 35.2 percent for Labour. In addition, Northern Ireland has always had a completely distinctive party system. Until the 1970s, the Unionists (the pro-British Protestant party) were affiliated with the Conservatives. Indeed, the Tories’ official name was the Conservative and Unionist Party. Even so, they were organizationally and ideologically distinct. The other Northern Irish parties have always reflected the sectarian divide in that province. Until later in the twentieth century, both the Welsh and the Scottish party systems broadly resembled the national picture—although the Conservatives were always weak in Wales. By 2000, however, major changes had occurred. Wales had developed into a three-party state (Plaid Cymru [nationalist], Liberal, and Labour), as had Scotland (Scottish Nationalist, Labour, and Liberal). Perhaps the most important development here is the effective demise of the Conservatives in Scotland. In 1997 they failed to win a single seat in Scotland,

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and managed only one in 2001 and in 2005. In 1955, by way of contrast, they polled more than 50 percent of the vote and won thirty out of seventy-one Scottish seats. Indeed, the electoral map of the UK has changed quite dramatically since 1974. The Conservatives win very few seats in Scotland, Wales, and the North of England. Effectively they have become a party of the South, and in particular the rural South (sometimes they are called the “party of the shires”). By way of contrast, Labour’s appeal is genuinely national in scope. Devolution to the Welsh, Scottish, and Northern Irish assemblies is likely to make the party systems of the “Celtic fringe” even more distinctive.4 One final feature of the English (although not British) party system is the relative absence of protest and single-issue parties. Parties of the extreme right and left are very small and electorally insignificant, as are the Greens. There are two main reasons for this: the electoral system militates against third parties unless, as with the nationalists, their vote is geographically concentrated; and both major parties have historically represented themselves as “broad churches” that accommodate many interests and ideological perspectives. Most observers agree that the spectacular rise of the Labour Party masks other trends in the British party system that parallel developments elsewhere in Europe and beyond. These include a dramatic decline in interest in elections and the political process. The most important manifestation of this has been the decline in turnout. In 2001 it fell to just 59.5 percent, down from 71.3 percent in 1997.5 In addition, party membership has been falling, as has party-related participation. We will return to these questions later.

Explaining Labour’s Renaissance Labour’s renaissance was the result of three major changes in the political environment. First, following defeats in 1979 and 1983, Labour leaders set about the business of reforming the organization and constitution of their party. Second, starting in the late 1980s but accelerating fast after 1992 and in government after 1997, Labour’s policies and programs were redesigned to appeal to the median voter. In this sense, they moved to the right. But they also increasingly embraced “valence” issues such as low inflation, economic growth, and law and order. Third, after 1992, Labour was fortunate to benefit from a relatively benign economic climate and from the serious internal problems that beset their main rivals, the Conservatives. Organizational and Constitutional Reform Reflecting its trade union and socialist past, the Labour Party has always been officially governed by the National Executive Committee (NEC), subject to the “control and direction” of the Annual Conference (Ingle 2000, p. 137). The NEC originally comprised trade unions and socialist societies elected by the

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Conference. During the first part of the twentieth century, women’s groups and the constituency parties were added, but trade union members, elected on a bloc-vote basis, dominated voting in the Annual Conference. By the 1950s, it was the norm for representatives of constituency and women’s groups to be sitting members of parliament (MPs), including, when in office, leading members of the government. At the same time, the NEC had become the leading forum for the airing of ideological differences between socialist fundamentalists and social democratic reformers. Whether in or out of power, Labour leaders were often embarrassed by these battles. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, Labour leader Hugh Gaitskill worked to dissociate himself from a rank-andfile majority intent on unilateral nuclear disarmament. During Labour’s 1964– 1970 period in office these battle lines were redrawn on the issue of trade union militancy and reform. Briefly, after the Labour defeat in 1970, a fundamentalist program became official party policy (see Coates 1980, pt. 2).6 With falling party membership, many local parties had been taken over by militants, or “entryists” as they were known, who were determined to use the procedures of the Conference to advance their cause. But damaging electoral defeats in 1979 and 1983 led to a major reappraisal of the way in which the Labour Party was governed. With the replacement of leftist leader Michael Foot by reformer Neil Kinnock, the NEC had by the late 1980s been remodeled into a forum more for the expression of leadership views than for airing intraparty grievances (Seyd 1992). Alternative forums for the formulation of party policy were created, and would eventually be dominated by the parliamentary leadership. Sometimes called “strategic communities” surrounding the leader, these included the Shadow Communications Agency, established to help create an election and public relations strategy, and the National Policy Forum (NPF), which by the 1990s had effectively become a mouthpiece for the leadership. Cleverly, the NPF comprised almost the same constituency as did the NEC and the Conference, but almost all of its work took place in policy commissions chaired by shadow ministers and, later, government ministers. Following Labour’s resounding 1997 election success, the leadership’s grip on the NEC was strengthened further with the publication of Partnership in Power (Labour Party, 1997), which, although approved by the Annual Conference and the NEC, actually strengthened the policy role of the NPF. Reforms of the Conference were, if anything, even more dramatic. Most significant was the move to a “one member, one vote” system. Previously, delegates from local parties often represented left-wing activist members only. Now, all constituency party members were entitled to vote, but were obliged to cast their ballots for the party leadership and the NEC before the Conference convened. This weakened the role of left-wing activists, who traditionally used the Conference to advance a radical socialist agenda. In addition, the union bloc vote was reduced to 70 percent in 1992, and to 50 percent in 1997. Given that

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by the 1990s most unions were in any case moderate and supportive of the New Labour agenda, this presented little in the way of an obstacle to the leadership. And as noted, the NPF greatly weakened the policymaking role of the Conference and its executive arm, the NEC. A joint policy committee, chaired by the prime minister, oversaw the work of the NPF and ensured policy unity and continuity. New rules and procedures for the Conference further reduced its agenda-setting powers in relation to those of the NPF (see the discussion in Hughes and Wintour 1990). The Labour Party’s symbol was also changed, to a red rose, and in 1995 the fourth clause of the party’s constitution, which proposed wholesale nationalization—or “the common ownership of the means of production, distribution and exchange”—was abandoned. Blair forced the measure through by amending the constitution via a ballot of individual Labour Party members. This, more than anything, symbolized the shift from a party wracked by internal division and a running war between left and right7 to a party that gave the impression of unity around the causes of social democracy and market capitalism. Policy Shift to the Right, the “Third Way,” and the Search for Valence Issues Labour’s organizational and constitutional reforms were very much more than merely procedural—they left the way open to a wholesale shift in policy. This is amply illustrated by Figure 2.1, which shows the left-right movement of the three major British parties from 1945 to 2005 based on a coding of manifestos. Note that even by the early 1990s, Labour apparently remained a party of the left. However, by 1997 the party had moved sharply to the right— indeed further right than the Conservatives had been for most of the 1945– 1975 period. Admittedly this analysis is based on election pledges rather than actual policies, and of course the salience of issues changes through time and not all issues can be placed on a left-right continuum. Nonetheless, the change is dramatic. In the 1945–1983 period, the Labour agenda had been dominated by such questions as the expansion of the welfare state, social justice, and nationalization. In 1997 the dominant issues were government effectiveness and law and order, with welfare state expansion placing third (Budge, in Evans and Norris 1999b, pp. 10–11). Of course, government effectiveness and law and order are traditional Tory issues, so this did represent a real change. They are also what political scientists have long called “valence issues,” or issues that by definition are desiderata. No one argues against law and order or in favor of ineffective government. And while Labour was moving toward the position occupied by the median voter, the Conservatives were moving away from the median. Indeed, they were to the right of the median voter for almost all of the 1980s and the 1990s (Budge, in Evans and Norris 1999b, pp. 10–11). Their earlier electoral success owed more to the fact that Labour was perceived to be far too left of the

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Britain’s New Labour Party Figure 2.1

15

British Parties: Ideological Movements Along a Left-Right Scale, 1945–2005

40.00

Net Approval

20.00

0.00

–20.00

–40.00

2005

1997

1987

1979

1974

1966

1959

1951

1945

–60.00

Election ——

Labor

— —

Conservative

Liberal Democrat

Source: Bara 2005, fig. 1.

median voter for most of this period, and thus was seen as incompetent in economic management, than to some realignment toward the political right. Once in office, New Labour set about the business of establishing themselves as an effective government. They announced that they would stick to the Conservatives’ spending plans, and Chancellor Gordon Brown, in his first budget, promised to bring the basic rate of income tax down by 2000. At the same time, he granted independence to the Bank of England to set interest rates to meet a target inflation rate of 2.5 percent. No attempt was made to renationalize the many enterprises privatized by the Conservatives, including the railways. Although some other taxes were increased, this agenda closely followed the manifesto commitments and represented a sharp break with past Labour programs. To facilitate policy, Prime Minister Tony Blair radically reformed the way in which Downing Street coordinated policy. He gathered around him a group of personal advisers whose main functions were to enforce absolute compliance with the government’s program and to project an image of unity and purpose to

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the media and the country at large. Cabinet meetings were drastically reduced in length, and were often replaced with bilateral meetings between ministers and the prime minister. Blair even introduced an adaptation of the ministerial code that required ministers to clear major interviews and media appearances with No. 10 before they were given. More broadly, New Labour espoused a political philosophy that has been called the “Third Way.” First elaborated by sociologist Anthony Giddens, this perspective argues that it is possible to create a fair and just society without espousing the redistributive, state-centered policies associated with old Labour (see Giddens 1998, 2000). Although it is difficult to pin down exactly what the Third Way is, implicit in it is the assumption that maintaining steady economic growth is the essential prerequisite for policies that are designed to help all members of society. The welfare state should be more selective and target aid to those most in need. Above all, citizens should become more directly involved in decisionmaking, especially in their own communities and schools. Third Way advocates are also multilateral interventionists in foreign affairs. Whether it be protecting the environment or ridding the world of terrorism and troublesome dictators, the UK should take a lead by using the UN and other multilateral organizations as a vehicle for change. Certainly Tony Blair believes in such a philosophy, as events in Afghanistan, Iraq, and elsewhere have shown. In sum, New Labour was determined to follow its new Third Way, centrist, or Volkspartei agenda to the letter. Its past reputation for internal wrangling and an unthinking socialism would, it was hoped, be banished forever. Conservative Weakness One of the most interesting myths of modern British politics is the belief that Margaret Thatcher rebuilt the Conservative Party in her own image while in power. With the benefit of hindsight, we can confidently conclude that the Thatcher reforms of the Conservative Party were much less thoroughgoing than the subsequent Labour reforms. This is true both of the Conservative Party and of the way in which Thatcher conducted her government. For one thing, she started from a much weaker position than did Blair. This applied not only to the size of her majority in 1979, but also to her control over her cabinet. Wets (or centrists) dominated her first cabinet, and she never managed to rid herself of actual or potential dissenters. These were, moreover, policy as well as personal dissenters, with Europe looming increasingly large as the source of conflict. When she was forced to resign in 1990, her cabinet retained a number of pro-Europe ministers, including Kenneth Clarke and Douglas Hurd (for a discussion, see King 1993). Trouble was also brewing for the Conservatives among the constituency parties. Many of these had been transformed since the 1970s from sleepy and compliant organizations to more militant supporters of Margaret Thatcher and her increasingly anti–European Union and populist policies. In 1990 Thatcher

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had been very reluctantly—and temporarily—converted to the view that Britain would benefit from membership in the exchange-rate mechanism (ERM) of the European Union’s monetary system. Britain duly joined, but was forced out of the ERM during the speculative chaos that came to be known as “Black Wednesday” in September 1992. This event, more than any other, was to damage the Conservatives’ long-held reputation for economic competence and sound government (Sanders 1996). By that time, Thatcher had of course resigned and been replaced by John Major, who against all expectations had narrowly won a general election earlier in 1992. The ERM crisis pushed Europe to the forefront of Conservative politics, and for the remainder of his term Major was forced into fighting a rearguard action against an increasingly anti-European party. Instead of projecting an image of unity as the “natural party of government,” the Conservatives were wracked with internal conflict that showed itself in policy division and dissent (King 1998). Following the 1997 defeat, things hardly improved for the Conservatives. William Hague, a Thatcherite and committed Euroskeptic, replaced Major as leader, and quickly appointed a cabinet of like-minded people. For the first time, the shadow cabinet was apparently united on the Europe issue, and was determined to keep Britain out of the Monetary Union. However, for most voters, Europe was hardly the dominant issue. The economy and the quality of the public services (particularly health and education) dominated. Unfortunately for the Tories, they continued to be viewed as uncaring on public service issues, and as incompetent in economic affairs (Bartle 2002, p. 194). In contrast, Labour’s approval rating in both areas remained high: they were viewed as competent economic managers, and as more caring than the Conservatives on public service provision—even if most voters remained unhappy with healthcare, education provision, and the state of public transport. The Conservatives also suffered from two further disadvantages in relation to Labour. First, their new leader, while a polished public speaker and debater, lacked the gravitas and charisma of Blair. Second, despite the effective purge of pro-Europeans, the shadow cabinet remained deeply divided on how best to counter Labour’s popularity. Much of the conflict centered on the figure of Michael Portillo, a senior minister in the Major government who until he lost his seat in 1997 had been widely tipped as the next leader. With Portillo’s return to Parliament in 2000, Hague had little choice but to bring Portillo into the shadow cabinet, where he became the leading spokesperson for a more compassionate and socially inclusive form of conservatism. These problems came graphically to the fore during the 2001 election campaign. Hague stuck doggedly to his anti-European and stridently anti-Labour script. Labour stuck to its agenda, stressing valence issues such as improved public services and continued economic growth. The ensuing Conservative defeat was as spectacular as that of 1997, with the Conservatives gaining just one seat in the House of Commons (see Table 2.2).

Source: House of Commons Research Paper no. 01/54, tab. 15. Notes: a. Great Britain. b. United Kingdom.

42.0 32.7 18.8 6.5

2001 –2.4 +1.2 +1.6 –0.4

Change in Vote Share (%), 1997–2001 418 165 46 30

1997 412 166 52 29

2001

Seats in Parliamentb

–6 +1 +6 –1

Change in Parliamentary Seats, 1997–2001

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44.4 31.5 17.2 6.9

1997

Share of Votea (%)

The British General Election of 2001

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Labour Tories Liberal Democrats Others

Table 2.2

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Although the 1997 and 2001 election results look like a resounding triumph for a democratically prosperous Labour Party, the victories mask a number of problems that will almost certainly produce electoral difficulties for Labour in the future, and indeed they were apparent in the 2005 election results, when Labour’s majority was much reduced. Some of these problems are specific to the Blair government and the Labour Party. One development—the decline of interest in politics—is more general in nature and holds implications for all British political parties.

But There’ll Be Troubles Ahead? The Blair Government and the Labour Party While Labour retained its lead over the Conservatives for the whole of this first term, both Blair’s and the government’s net approval among the public declined quite dramatically during the course of the Parliament (see Figure 2.2). Indeed, one estimate was that the Blair leadership effect was worth just six seats (Bartle 2002, p. 186). This was combined with an increasing sense among voters of disunity in the government. Indeed, by the end of the first term, Labour was perceived to be almost as divided as were the Conservatives (Bartle 2002, p. 186). Labour’s continued success owed more to the electorate’s distaste for the policies of the Conservatives—and for their leader—than to the intrinsic popularity of Labour. Only once during the first term did Labour falter. During the so-called fuel crisis in the autumn of 2000, the Conservatives almost caught up with Labour in the polls. High taxes on petrol, combined with a hike in the world price of oil, led to blockade of refineries by haulers. Shortages soon appeared, and the government was forced to back down by announcing first a reduction, followed by a freeze on petrol taxes. What this episode showed was just how vulnerable the government was to a shift in public opinion. During its second term, Labour was plagued by complaints about the condition of public services. As a result, the government made a number of promises, some of which may end up as serious hostages to fortune. These included raising the number of people entering higher education to 50 percent of the age group, radically improving public transport within ten years, and, in April 2002, a promise to produce a significant drop in London street crime by September of the same year!8 But these pledges pale in significance compared with plans to improve national healthcare. Public disquiet with healthcare had been growing steadily for over a decade. Britain spends significantly less on healthcare (about 6 percent of gross national product) than do other comparable countries, and the government promised to raise expenditure to at least the average in the European Union (around 8 percent). What this meant was almost a doubling of expenditure over a five-year period, and taxes were duly raised to pay for this in the 2002 budget. Most commentators agree that this strategy carries with it many

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Figure 2.2

The Declining View of Blair, 1997–2001

80

60

Net Approval

40

20

0

——

Blair net approval

— —

Jan. 2001

Oct. 2000

July 2000

Apr. 2000

Jan. 2000

Oct. 1999

July 1999

Apr. 1999

Jan. 1999

Oct. 1998

July 1998

Apr. 1998

Jan. 1998

Oct. 1997

–40

June 1997

–20

Government net approval

Source: Gallup data as reported in Bartle (2002), fig. 7.3.

risks. Labour continues to insist that the health provision should be based on universalist principles, free at the point of delivery. But real change in health provision depends in part on capital investment, which will bear fruit only in the long term. Should the Conservatives or Liberal Democrats produce a more workable and shorter-term strategy, they could steal votes from Labour on this issue. By 2003, some of the issues that had plagued earlier Labour governments returned to haunt the Blair administration. One of these was renewed trade union militancy, especially among public sector workers. Prolonged industrial action by the firefighters’ union in 2002 and 2003, and continuing unrest among teachers and health service professionals, exposed the reality of a government struggling to modernize important parts of the public sector. Labour’s own backbenchers were often split on this issue, as were many party workers in the country. Blair’s stridently pro-US stance on Iraq was a further cause of intraparty dissent. However, these problems should be put into perspective. Given Labour’s massive majority in the House of Commons, the size and

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depth of the dissent were insufficient to constitute any sort of threat to the government. For the most part, the Labour cabinet remained highly supportive of government policy, as did most Labour MPs. Even the political troubles that followed the 2005 general election, when Labour’s majority was reduced to sixty-five seats, were not, at least by early 2007, of the politically fatal variety that plagued the Conservative government of 1992 to 1997. Opposition to the government’s role in the Iraq War remained high among both voters and Labour backbenchers. This undoubtedly caused some electoral damage in 2005, especially in areas with large Muslim minorities (see King, in Bartle and King 2005). Labour backbenchers were also increasingly assertive on a range of issues, including plans to introduce identity cards, hold suspected terrorists for long periods without trial, and censor incitement to religious hatred. The government was actually defeated in the House of Commons on the latter two proposals. In addition, Blair’s plans to devolve more powers to secondary schools, especially discretion on admissions, sparked furious opposition among Labour MPs. But none of these issues remotely resembled Conservative disputes over Europe that had almost torn the party apart by 2001. By 2007, Labour was undoubtedly more vulnerable, but it remained firmly in power. Sleaze and the Labour Party Two other developments are worthy of note. In 1997, Labour politicians were quick to brand the Conservatives the party of “sleaze” and of corruption. This followed a number of celebrated cases of (usually) minor Tory corruption during the 1980s and 1990s, involving party donations, sex scandals, and, most seriously, the “cash for questions” affair, in which a journalist posing as an Arab shaikh persuaded several Tory MPs to ask questions in the House of Commons in exchange for cash. But by 2005, Labour, too, had been tarred with sleaze allegations. Some were relatively minor affairs involving junior ministers. Others, such as the resignation of Northern Ireland secretary Peter Mandelson, were more serious.9 As were the two resignations of David Blunkett, first as home secretary, after he was found to have fast-tracked a visa application for his lover’s nanny; and second as secretary of work and pensions, after it was revealed that he had been paid for advising companies very soon following his first resignation. Most damaging of all, however, were claims that the Labour Party continued to receive large cash donations from individuals and companies who may have subsequently benefited personally or from changes in policy. For example, the government’s initial refusal to ban cigarette advertising in Formula One racing was linked to the fact that racing tycoon Bernie Eccelstone had donated large sums to the party. Even more serious were accusations relating to “cash for honors” or the granting of honors, including seats in the House of Lords, in return for cash donations to the party. By 2007 a lengthy police inquiry was under way, involving the questioning of

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several senior Downing Street officials and even the prime minister himself. Similar accusations had been leveled by Labour at the Conservatives when they were in power, and derived from the simple fact that no limits exist on the size and sources of donations in Britain—although, along with the nonparliamentary interests of individual MPs, donations have to be registered. This largely unregulated area suggests that British parties may not be quite as democratically prosperous as most outside commentators assume. Declining Interest in Politics Labour’s performance in these policy areas will likely determine its showing at the next election. At the moment, in 2007, voters prefer Labour to the Conservatives, but this could change very quickly should the policy environment change. Other indicators support this view of a potentially volatile electorate, and also one that is increasingly turned off by politics. Party membership is falling. For the Conservatives, the decline has been precipitous. During the early 1980s, the party had around 1 million members, but by 2005 its membership had fallen to just 320,000 (Allen 2005, tab. 3.4). Labour Party membership peaked in the early 1950s and then declined slowly, to just 289,000 in the 1980s (Ingle 2000, p. 144). The party recovered by the mid-1990s to around 400,000 members, but has declined since, to around 215,000 members by 2005 (Allen 2005, tab. 3.4). More serious has been the decline in turnout, to just 59.5 percent in the 2001 general election—a figure that is a true statistical outrider. Turnout fell by 12.5 percent between 1997 and 2001, much more than between any other two elections in the post-1945 period. Moreover, the decline was pervasive, affecting all parts of the country and all types of constituency (Bartle 2002, p. 196), and in the 2005 election, turnout notably failed to recover to the historical average, reaching just 61.5 percent. While low turnout is not necessarily inimical to democracy, it does show low voter interest in politics and elections. Labour’s resounding victories were not the equivalent of the shift to the Conservatives in 1979, when 78 percent of the electorate voted. Labour is almost certainly less deeply embedded in the electorate and in society at large. By implication, at least, the Labour surge could just as quickly recede.

Continuing Conservative Weakness While Labour continues to be exposed to potentially difficult electoral problems, these cannot be compared to those of the Conservatives, whose standing in the polls remained resolutely below 30 percent for two years following the 2001 election. In contrast, the Liberal Democrats experienced something of a renaissance—at least until 2005. Under the leadership of Ian Duncan Smith, the Conservatives remained mired in electoral disappointment and intraparty conflicts through mid-2003.

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Indeed, more of the voting public regarded Liberal Democrat leader Charles Kennedy as suitable prime ministerial material than they did Duncan Smith. The main problem for the Conservatives was their inability to establish an appeal on any one issue that resonated with voters and that gave them a comparative advantage over Labour. Many voters felt strongly on the Europe issue, and were particularly opposed to the Monetary Union. But those who felt the strongest were already committed Conservative voters. For most other people, the issue had low salience. The Conservatives have also continued to fail to carve out a distinctive position on the welfare state. They are still associated with reduced levels of welfare state spending, and with a greater use of the market to deliver services. At least until 2005, Labour’s reputation for economic competence remained secure, especially given the high public regard for Gordon Brown, chancellor of the Exchequer and Tony Blair’s heir apparent. In foreign affairs, the Conservatives have had little choice but to support Blair’s hawkish position on such issues as Afghanistan, the war against terrorism, and Iraq. Indeed, Blair has received much more criticism from his own backbenchers on these questions than from the Conservatives. But the most serious problem for the Conservatives is their failure to find an effective and charismatic leader. There is little doubt that the succession of weak leaders since the resignation of Margaret Thatcher in 1990 is related to the continuing splits in the party. John Major was chosen as a mediator between the pro- and anti-Europeans. William Hague failed to break out of his resolutely anti-European stance. And while Duncan Smith quietly dropped the Europe issue, he inspired little confidence either among potential voters or within his own parliamentary party. His successor until late 2005, Michael Howard, also downplayed the Europe issue, but failed to establish himself as a serious threat to Blair. His replacement (the fifth Tory leader in eight years) was much younger (thirty-nine), and set about trying to recapture the middle ground for the Conservative Party. Whether he will succeed in doing so, however, remains to be seen. None of this is to imply that the Conservatives are a spent force. As noted earlier, the depth of support for Labour remains shallow, and the extent of voter volatility high. Until 2005 it was widely thought that any future electoral shift might result not in revived Tory fortunes, but in an upsurge of support for the Liberal Democrats. Already, tactical voting involving informal constituency pacts with Labour to squeeze out the Conservatives had resulted in a sharp increase in Liberal Democrat representation in the House of Commons, to fiftytwo seats in 2001 and sixty-two in 2005—their best showing since the 1920s (for a discussion, see Evans, Curtice, and Norris 1998; Allen 2005). The willingness of voters to shift allegiance in this way again shows how volatile the electorate is. Many voters have been less attached to New Labour than they have been opposed to the Conservatives. Thus, what is essentially negative voting has helped both Liberal Democrats and Labour. But the electoral terrain

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could shift again, with both the Liberal Democrats and the Conservatives being seen as a credible alternative to Labour. Alone among the major parties, the Liberal Democrats propose increased income taxes to fund public services. They also support extensive devolution to the English regions as well as electoral reform. On foreign affairs, they are broadly opposed to military intervention in such places as Iraq—a position that resonated with a majority of voters in 2005. However, later in 2005 the reputation of the Liberal Democrats was badly damaged politically following the resignation of their leader, Charles Kennedy, who had admitted to an alcohol problem. Further damage was caused when two of the leading contenders for his job, Mark Oaten and Simon Hughes, admitted to sexual improprieties. It is unlikely, therefore, that the Liberal Democrats are about to replace the Conservatives as the main opposition party. Apart from the leadership scandals, their support continues to be thinly spread across the country, thus disadvantaging them in relation to both Labour and the Conservatives. In order to win more than 100 seats, they would have to poll over 30 percent of the votes, a figure that they have fallen far short of both in elections and in opinion polls. And while many of their policies may have looked appealing to voters in 2005, they may look less attractive in the context of an economic downturn or some other major dislocation. Ultimately, of course, their fortunes depend on what happens in the other parties, particularly the Conservative Party. Because the Liberal Democrats have only onethird the number of seats held by the Conservatives, it is the latter who have the substantial base on which future growth can be built. The Liberal Democrats have very much further to go. It should be noted that in Scotland and Wales, new electoral arrangements for local assemblies have already resulted in four-party politics (Labour, Liberal Democrats, Nationalists, and Conservatives), with the Tories as the smallest party in both assemblies. Politics in these regions, especially in Scotland, is likely to become more distinctive. The upshot may be that the Conservatives will effectively have to abandon hope of reestablishing themselves as major players in Scotland and Wales. This will, of course, make their job of returning to a position of dominance in the UK as a whole all the more difficult.

Conclusion: New Labour—Democratically Prosperous, but for How Long? No informed academic commentator believes that the elections of 1997 and 2001 represented a realignment toward Labour. None of the conditions for a classical realignment—a major social or economic upheaval producing a crosscutting cleavage in the electorate, increased participation, and the squeezing out of third parties—were present (for a review of this literature in the British con-

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text, see Crewe and Thompson 1999). Instead, the victories were the result of major changes in Labour Party organization and policies, combined with increasingly negative perceptions of the Conservatives. Both election results were as much a vote against the Tories as they were a ringing endorsement of New Labour. Much of the credit for the victories must be attributed to Tony Blair and his determination to change the party in ways that were likely to optimize the Labour vote. He was greatly aided in this project by the circumstances of the time. The Conservatives remained wedded to a dated conception of politics based on taking positions on such issues as Europe.10 Blair, sensing that most of the electorate was not interested in this issue, and also sensing that the classbased politics of old Labour was no longer appropriate, instead emphasized valence issues. This new valence politics has changed the agenda from one based on ends such as nationalization versus privatization to one based on the means whereby universally popular ends such as efficient public services are achieved. The Conservatives have at last understood this sea change in British politics. They have downgraded the importance of Europe and now join battle with Labour over such questions as the quality of public services and law and order. How long this new sort of politics will last is anybody’s guess. It depends on a number of factors, including the continuation of economic prosperity and sound public finances. It is interesting to note, however, that although the electorate remains fickle and volatile, and although they show no great devotion to New Labour or to Tony Blair, Labour was only a few percentage points behind the Conservatives in the opinion polls in early 2006. Under their new leader, David Cameron, the Conservatives have enjoyed something of a renaissance. However, Labour, due to the changes it instituted in the 1988–1997 period, has captured the middle ground in British politics, and Tony Blair’s successor in waiting (in 2005, Blair announced his intention to stand down by 2009, and he later promised to stand down by the summer of 2007), Chancellor Gordon Brown, is unlikely to relinquish the political center to the Tories. In terms of electoral survival, therefore, Labour continues to prosper. It may be in a much less comfortable position than the one it enjoyed in 1997 and 2001, especially given the unpopularity of the government’s policy on Iraq, but it still holds the trump cards—incumbency and a defendable record—compared to the Conservative Party, whose leader remains untried and untested.

Notes 1. Although this was nominally a period of national government, it was dominated by the Conservatives. Most Labour MPs refused to follow their leader, Ramsay McDonald, into coalition with the Tories in 1931, and remained on the opposition benches. 2. The Commons is an unusually large legislature consisting of 650 seats. This number varies with population and other changes (such as the proportion allocated to Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland).

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3. The Third Way describes the search for an alternative between socialism and the free market. The most distinguished academic proponent of this view is Anthony Giddens (2000). 4. Indeed, the Scottish Assembly has already taken on a distinctive character under a government led by a Labour Liberal Democratic coalition, with the Scottish nationalists as the official opposition. 5. Turnout in European and local elections has also sunk to new lows. In the 1999 elections for the European Parliament, turnout was 24 percent—the lowest in the Union, and in the 1999 local elections just 23 percent of the electorate bothered to vote. 6. This was based on a very radical document, the Labour Programme, of 1973, published in opposition. For a discussion, see Coates 1980. 7. In the early 1980s, a group of more moderate Labour politicians broke off to form the Social Democrats. The Social Democrats eventually merged with the Liberals, but almost all of their policies have been adopted by New Labour. 8. This apparently rash promise was based on the assumption that the imminent introduction of new mobile phone technology would render the theft of phones—a major source of the upsurge in street crime—pointless. 9. Mandelson had obtained a large mortgage from a rich Labour MP (Geoffrey Robinson), but he failed to declare this to the first mortgage lender on the property. 10. I am indebted to Tony King for his insights into the ways in which Tony Blair shifted the agenda from position-taking to valence issues.

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Sweden: Still a Stable Party System? TOMMY MÖLLER

M

odern democracy is routinely described in textbooks as popular governance through political parties. However, the parties in established democracies have had difficulties fulfilling their most important function throughout recent decades: acting as links between the voters and governing bodies. Participation in party activities is declining rapidly, and the democratic process is increasingly being formed outside the party sphere. The parties are simply failing at the task of acting as vital democratic arenas in a way that is perceived to be meaningful. But at a time when old parties in power are tending to lose much of their support at election time, Sweden is bucking the trend. The parties that have been described as “established” for a long time are still dominating the scene. In fact, the party structure has been almost completely intact since the party system was created more than a century ago. Could this kind of stability be considered as a form of prosperity? The answer in my view is uncomplicated: yes, as long as the old parties are dynamic organizations, and as long as they are capable of change.

A New Political Landscape Since the introduction of the proportional electoral system in 1911, the party structure in Sweden has remained almost completely intact. The political scene has been dominated by five parties: the Social Democrats, the Moderates (Conservatives), the Liberal Party, the Center Party (Agrarian Party), and the Left Party (Communists). Despite the division into five parties, a two-party element has pervaded Swedish politics. Two equally large, though not particularly cohesive, blocs—a nonsocialist and a socialist bloc—have vied with each other for power for most of the past century (Ruin 1985; Möller 1986).

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Viewed over time, the relative sizes of the parties and the constellations of cooperation that have structured the political landscape have been surprisingly constant. Since 1917 the Social Democrats have been the largest party. However, with the exception of a few years during World War II when the country was governed by a grand coalition under the leadership of popular Social Democratic prime minister Per Albin Hansson, the party has only had an absolute majority in the parliament (Riksdagen) on one occasion: after the 1968 election, during which the Social Democrats received 50.5 percent of the vote. Otherwise, Sweden has experienced minority parliamentarism, though with majoritarian features. One party—the Social Democrats—has continuously received about 45 percent of the vote, a circumstance that has left its mark on Swedish politics. With the passive support primarily of the Communists, and occasionally even of the Center Party, in the parliament, the Social Democrats have been able to govern during sixty-five of the seventy-four years from 1933, when Hansson became prime minister, to 2007. Still, throughout this period, Swedish politics has displayed significant elements of cooperation and accommodation, at both the national and the local level (Rustow 1955; Lewin 1998). Both of these circumstances—a division into two blocs vying for power, on the one hand, and minority parliamentarism necessitating cooperation over party as well as bloc boundaries, on the other—have led to a kind of hybrid form of government. Sweden is commonly described as a mixture of the United Kingdom and Switzerland: the political system combines features of both the sharp dualism that is characteristic of the Westminster model and the comprehensive cooperation that is characteristic of the Swiss system (Ruin 1968). An additional element of consensual democracy is a strong tradition of corporative arrangements (Lewin 1992). Thus stability is closely connected with the dominance of the Social Democratic Party. This dominance has been made possible largely by previous electoral rules. As the largest party, the Social Democrats have had an advantage due to the fact that, until 1950, the d’Hondt method was used in Sweden. After that, the adjusted Sainte-Laguë method was introduced. The new method reduced the comparison number more quickly in the distribution of seats, which disfavors the largest party in relation to the previous system. In addition, the old bicameral system, which was replaced by a unicameral system in 1970, operated in practice as a constitutional safety net for Social Democratic governments. The first chamber was appointed indirectly by the county councils in accordance with an incremental replacement model, which resulted in a time lag, making changes of government more difficult. After the 1946 election to the first chamber, for example, the Social Democrats controlled 56 percent of the seats in that chamber, despite receiving only 44.4 percent of the vote. In addition to these institutional factors, the strategic ability of the Social Democrats to forge class coalitions has contributed to this protracted period of dominance. When support from the working class was not sufficient to achieve

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a majority, an alliance was entered into with the agrarians. Beginning with the so-called crisis arrangement of 1933, the Social Democrats and the Agrarian Party/Center Party have cooperated intimately over the years through government coalitions as well as through institutionalized forms of collaboration in the parliament. When the alliance with the agrarians was not sufficient to obtain an electoral majority, the Social Democrats focused on civil servants. Since the 1960s, this has occurred with increasing success: the Social Democratic Party today is a pronounced middle-class party. On the whole, it would not be an exaggeration to claim that the Swedish party system has been one of the most stable in the world. However, it is doubtful whether this is still the case. With reference to Seymour Martin Lipset and Stein Rokkan’s classic 1967 work, it can be said that early on, during the transformation from an agrarian society to an industrial society, the developing party system became frozen, and that only during the past decade has this frozen system begun to thaw. Three new parties have managed to gain entrance to the parliament since 1988: the Green Party, the Christian Democrats, and New Democracy. In the case of New Democracy, its stay in parliament has been limited to only one election period. An institutional reason for the difficulty new parties have in succeeding is the threshold that was introduced in 1970, requiring that a party receive a number of votes corresponding to at least 4 percent of the votes cast in order to receive any seats in parliament (or that a party receive at least 12 percent of the votes cast in a single constituency, in which case the party may compete for the seats within that constituency). This threshold proved to be difficult to pass during the period when the old party structure was subjected to threats and challenges. It has been strengthened by the fact that only those parties that have managed to pass the threshold are entitled to public financing, which now constitutes the most important source of party financing in Sweden. Consequently, this has been referred to as a “dual threshold” to the extent that the financing rules are designed to systematically favor the established parties at the expense of the challengers. Thus it was not until 1988 that another party received representation in parliament. In that year, the Green Party managed to pass the threshold and gain entrance to parliament, the first new party since the 1910s to do so. In contrast to previous times, in this election campaign there was great interest in a nonestablished party. The nuclear power disaster in Chernobyl in 1986 affected Swedish territory and gave rise to anti–nuclear power sentiments, something that favored the Green Party. The election was also preceded by a few environmentally related events that received national attention, including algae blooming and incidents of dead seals. In addition, there was a marked increase in distrust of the political establishment, which opened the way for a challenger with clear antiestablishment features. A significant portion of Green Party supporters voted for the party primarily as a form of protest (Vedung 1988).

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Protest voting continued in the next election, in 1991, during which confidence in the established parties reached an all-time low. Almost one-fourth of voters abstained from voting for any of the parties—six at that time—that had held seats in parliament prior to the election. The Green Party lost its place in parliament (though it returned in 1994), but this time two new parties managed to gain entrance. One of them was the Christian Democratic Party, which ever since its founding in 1964 had never managed to receive more than 3 percent of the vote (whereas in 1991 it received 7.1 percent). The other was the newly established New Democracy, which only six months after being formed entered parliament. New Democracy can be described as a right-wing populist protest party that addressed itself directly to people who had lost faith in the established parties. In the 1991 election the party received 6.7 percent of the vote; however, in the 1994 election, it only managed to obtain 1.2 percent. After that, New Democracy disappeared from the political scene completely. Since the turbulent period in the early 1990s, stability seems to have returned, at least at the national level. Since 1994 there have been seven parties in the Swedish parliament. However, at the local level the established parties have continued to lose their grip. There is also a threshold in local elections, although it is lower: in municipal elections the threshold is 2 percent, and in county council elections the threshold is 3 percent. Alongside the established parties, there are 141 local parties represented on municipal councils throughout the country. In most cases they show clear signs of being protest parties. These are often parties of a pragmatic and nonpolitical nature. The main reason that these local parties have arisen is that the established parties have shown themselves to be incapable of dealing with local issues. Instead of focusing on problems that are of concern to citizens at the local level, the established parties have initiated programs concerning national matters, often without any direct connection to local conditions. However, the previous stability in Swedish politics has decreased during the past decade. The political landscape has changed. In addition to new parties managing to enter parliament, the Left Party has come to play a more prominent role than previously. With this, a fundamental aspect of the previously stable party structure—Social Democratic dominance—has been affected, even though the Social Democrats succeeded in reversing the negative trend with a victory in the 2002 election, during which the party’s electoral share increased from 36.4 to 39.8 percent. The change in the political landscape is a result of the Left Party being transformed from a communist party, with close ties to old Soviet communism, into a modern leftist party, as has occurred with several European parties. Despite the fact that support for the Left Party decreased from 12.0 to 8.3 percent in the 2002 election, the party is still twice as large as it was in the beginning of the 1990s, and the political isolation that existed before has been broken. Its previous electoral successes have occurred at the expense of the Social Democrats. The Left Party has exploited

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dissatisfaction with Social Democratic policies during the 1994–1998 period by marketing a populist leftist policy, focused on groups of voters who have traditionally been Social Democratic. For the Social Democrats, this development has involved a fundamental change in terms of strategy. The party is now forced to fight on two fronts at the same time, one facing the nonsocialists and one facing the Left Party. Consequently, the party finds itself in an electoral dilemma: too much focus on winning votes on the left runs the risk of limiting support from voters in the political middle, and vice versa. Since early 2006, however, the Social Democrats have been more successful in dealing with this dilemma.

A Growing Distrust Among Citizens In comparison to many other countries, Sweden has been spared from serious political scandals. There have not been any events comparable to the Watergate scandal in the United States, the Lockheed affair in Japan, or the events that took place in Italian politics in the beginning of the 1990s. Sweden is one of the countries in the world that—essentially—can be said to be free from corruption. However, Swedish politicians, as with their colleagues in most other established democracies, have suffered a growing lack of public confidence. An increasingly greater number of citizens are assuming a skeptical or even cynical attitude toward those in power. This development began in the 1960s, but accentuated during the 1990s (Holmberg 1999a, 1999b; Möller 2000). There are several reasons for this decreasing confidence, including longterm changes in values and an increasing gap between expectations and outcomes in relation to public welfare policy. However, the decline in confidence is also related to a decrease in trust in the moral character of those in power. During the 1990s there were some political scandals that, although they may appear less significant in a broader international perspective, nonetheless received widespread attention, and in a Swedish context served to further undermine confidence in politicians. It was revealed that leading local politicians in various municipalities had been systematically indulging in luxurious trips, extravagant business dinners, and visits to strip clubs, all at the expense of the taxpayers. This gave rise to an intense debate over morality, autocratic behavior, and lack of judgment, and a large number of politicians were forced to resign from their posts. Several of the scandals led to prison sentences for fraud, embezzlement, and breach of the public faith. These scandals were preceded by the so-called Sahlin affair, during which it was revealed that the vice prime minister, Mona Sahlin, who was expected to succeed the outgoing prime minister, Ingvar Carlsson, had used the government’s credit card for private purchases. Despite the fact that this only involved minor sums of money, which Sahlin immediately paid back to the state, and that it was apparent that Sahlin’s behavior was merely the result of carelessness (she had confused her private

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card with the government card), the public reaction was so strong that she was forced to resign. The Sahlin affair was the starting point for an intense journalistic investigation of those in power. It was this investigation that led to the local scandals being revealed. It is difficult to determine the exact effects these scandals had on the political system in terms of legitimacy and authority. What can be said is that the leaders themselves have taken the consequences very seriously. When electoral participation in the 1998 election declined from 86.8 percent to 81.4 percent, many political analysts argued that the scandals were a contributing factor. In the 2002 election, voter turnout continued to decline, to 80.0 percent. The state of democracy has become the object of comprehensive debate in Swedish politics in recent years. A special minister for democracy has been appointed, and a number of commissions of inquiry, with significant resources at their disposal, have been appointed, with the task of finding ways to invigorate democracy and increase the confidence of citizens in elected representatives. The issue of democracy has thus become a policy area of its own in Swedish politics; one can speak of the development of a special “democracy policy” with the overall goal of restoring the faith of citizens in the political system. The declining faith in politicians seems to have been an especially significant problem for the Social Democrats. This is not merely due to the party having been in power since 1994, and thus feeling a greater responsibility to take action. From a more ideological perspective, the tremendous decline in trust naturally represents a special problem for the Social Democrats, as it involves a declining trust in politics in general, which the party has attributed to economic crisis and greatly increased unemployment. In 1994, in order to give the government greater leeway and to facilitate longer-term thinking in politics, the Social Democrats pushed through legislation to extend the term of office to four years rather than three.

A New Electoral System Swedish democracy may be described as unusually party-centric, in part stemming from the design of the electoral system. Until recently, voters were presented with a slate of political parties, with no opportunity to specify a preferred candidate. Even as voters became better informed about party platforms and conduct, candidate recognition remained remarkably low. Fewer than half of Swedish voters can routinely state the name of any candidate immediately after an election (Holmberg 1999a, p. 239). However, Sweden has recently instituted a new electoral system, which first took effect with the 1998 election. Voters can now vote for a particular candidate, in addition to casting their party vote. A key issue, of course, is how the new electoral system will affect the party-centric political culture. Like the

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Belgian and Danish electoral systems, on which Swedish reform efforts were frequently based, the Swedish individual candidate system is based on voluntary participation. Advocates of the new electoral system saw the reform as an opportunity to vitalize a democracy that was slowly petrifying. More candidates would be spurred to action by the incentives available to them in the new system, and voters and those they elect would be brought into closer contact as a result. It was also hoped that a livelier dialogue would promote more trust in politicians. However, it was a cautious reform that bears all the hallmarks of compromise. Those who were hesitant about the introduction of individual candidate election were worried that the pivotal role of the political parties in representative democracy would be undermined. They were afraid that an electoral system that worked rather well would be replaced by a system that opened the door to a political culture considered alien to the strong party-centrism of traditional Swedish politics. The central position of the parties was considered a guarantee for smoothly functioning democracy. These critics believed that if individualism flowered too abundantly, interest in issues would decline. Politics would become more superficial and the democratic dialogue watered down. They also felt there was a clear and present danger that an individual candidate system would give money greater and undesirable power in the political system. In their view, the party-centric electoral system had to be safeguarded to avoid gutting democracy. Accordingly, introduction of the individual candidate option to the electoral system had to proceed with considerable caution. Emphasis was to remain on party election. There is an inherent complication in the hybrid electoral system that is aimed at maintaining party-centered election campaigns while also providing scope for personalized campaigns. The complication may be described as a problem of rationality akin to the Prisoners’ Dilemma. All candidates have a vested interest in their own parties winning as many votes as possible, which is an incentive for cohesiveness. A party forced to accommodate candidates’ solo performances during an election campaign, performances that may be inconsistent with the party’s election platform, will find it difficult to win credibility. Still, the number of seats is limited, and candidates may be tempted to build their images at the expense of other candidates. Thus the new electoral system entails an incentive for candidates to build their images in contrast to the other candidates of the same party and on the same ballot. If one or more candidates do so, the tendency for others to follow suit will naturally rise. In unfavorable circumstances, the fight for the seat may consequently degenerate into an internal power struggle. In fact, there are already some indications that the parties’ capacity to function as coordinating instruments in the political decision process has been affected. In a survey about the expected impact of the reform, party officials were asked whether they believed that members of parliament who were elected by

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individual vote could be expected to be less loyal to their parties. Almost half the officials, 41 percent, believed that was a likely scenario. A majority, 58 percent, also believed that party influence would decline as a result of the individual electoral system. Overall, the changes are modest so far, but there are strong expectations of future effects. For example, 83 percent of surveyed party officials expected improved relationships between voters and elected representatives as a consequence of the reform (Möller 1999, pp. 79–108).

Two Vigorous and Dominant Parties Two parties have dominated Swedish politics since the 1900s: the Social Democrats and the Moderates. These two parties are still Sweden’s largest. As of 2006 the Social Democrats had been in power for sixty-one of the past seventy years. The Moderates were the second largest party during the majority of this period. Since 1979, the Moderates have clearly been the dominant party on the nonsocialist side of the continuum. In the 2002 election, however, the party lost one-third of its voter support, though still remaining the largest party after the Social Democrats. It is useful to compare these two parties on the basis of election results and membership trends, financing and campaign activities, and internal democracy (with regard to the processes of nomination of candidates and formulation of party programs), as well as to discuss the strategy that the Social Democrats have used in order to maintain their position as the governing party. Election Results and Membership Trends During the postwar period, electoral support for the Social Democratic Party has remained at around 45 percent. However, during the past decade, support for the party has fluctuated significantly: in the 1991 election, support declined from 43.2 to 37.7 percent, and then returned to the “normal” postwar level (45.3 percent) in the following election, in 1994. In the 1998 election, the worst election results since the 1920s were recorded—36.4 percent support— but in the 2002 election the party recovered impressively, increasing its support to 39.8 percent. Subsequently, the party continued to recover lost ground, approaching “normal” postwar-level support. Both of the declines took place during times of disadvantageous financial conditions for the state. In 1991 this led to a change of government, since the losses in electoral support for the Social Democrats went to the nonsocialist parties. In 1998, however, the party was able to remain in power, since the losses in electoral support went to the Left Party. During the 2002 election campaign, the condition of state finances was significantly more favorable, even though the election took place during an economic slump. Against that background, it is interesting to note that the Social Democrats lost power in the 2006 election, despite the fact that the economy was stronger.

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Since the end of the 1970s, the Moderates have attracted slightly more than 20 percent of voters, with the exception of the 1988 election, in which the party received 18.3 percent, and the 2002 election, in which it received only 15.2 percent (see Table 3.1). The party’s best result was recorded in the 2006 election: 26.2 percent. During the past decades, the Moderates have received strong support in opinion polls between elections, often above 30 percent (in some polls the Moderates have been the largest party), but have lost significant support, almost invariably, during the actual election campaigns. This pattern has given rise to internal frustration. Great effort and significant resources have been put into improving election campaigns, and in the 2006 election the pattern was broken: the Moderates managed to keep up the support throughout the campaign. In terms of membership, both parties have declined during the past decades. The dramatic decline for the Social Democrats in the beginning of the 1990s was a consequence of so-called collective affiliation being abolished. Until 1991, the majority of the labor unions within the Swedish Confederation of Trade Unions affiliated their members with the Social Democratic Party. It was possible to withdraw, but relatively few people made use of that possibility. According to critics, withdrawal was taken as an indication that the person leaving supported a different political party, which thus involved a threshold effect. Since one-third of the confederation’s members, according to research results, voted for a party other than the Social Democrats, there is good reason to believe that the critics were correct. Even since the temporary reduction occasioned by the elimination of collective affiliation, the decline in membership has steadily continued. The same tendency has been found within the Moderates. The decline in party membership is to some extent related to the change that has taken place within the parties. From having been membership-based organizations, parties have gradually been transformed into voter-oriented organizations. Previously there were more internal activities, more time was devoted to work on party programs and educational activities, and activities between elections were more comprehensive. Now the parties have started to become “Americanized,” in the sense that election campaigns have taken over. A development in the direction of professionalized campaign parties has thus occurred. From this perspective, having a large number of members no longer seems as important (Panebianco 1988). Financing and Campaign Activities The single most important source of income for Swedish parties since the 1960s has been public financial support, which the state as well as municipalities and counties provide. A study of municipal party support shows that it constitutes almost 80 percent of the revenues of local party organizations: in the case of the Moderates, this support constitutes 83 percent of party revenues, while in the case of the Social Democrats the figure is somewhat lower,

18.3 21.9 22.4 22.9 15.2 26.2

43.2 37.7 45.3 36.4 39.8 35.0

2.9 7.1 4.1 11.8 9.1 6.6

25,000 29,000 29,000 23,000 24,000 25,000 24,000

Christian Democrats

12.2 9.1 7.2 4.7 13.3 7.5

45,000 41,000 31,000 24,000 23,000 22,000 21,000

Liberals

11.3 8.5 7.7 5.1 6.2 7.9

215,000 191,000 144,000 76,000 99,000 98,000 50,000

Center Party

5.4 4.5 6.2 12.0 8.3 5.9

13,000 12,000 11,000 12,000 11,000 11,000 11,000

Left Party

5.9 3.4 5.0 4.5 4.6 5.7

8,000 8,000 6,000 7,000 8,000 8,000 7,000

Greens

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Sources: Data for membership trends from Bäch and Möller 2003, p. 107 (1990–2001) and Swedish Association of Local Authorities and Regions 2005. Data for election results from the Election Authority of Sweden.

143,000 138,000 119,000 85,000 88,000 85,000 59,000

Moderates

1,034,000 259,000 260,000 203,000 177,000 174,000 125,000

Social Democrats

Party Membership Trends and Election Results in Sweden

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Members 1990 1992 1995 1997 1999 2001 2005 Election results (%) 1988 1991 1994 1998 2002 2006

Table 3.1

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at 69 percent. The remainder of revenues come primarily from membership fees (Gidlund and Möller 1999, pp. 93–102). The rate of increase in municipal party support is impressive: in 1970, revenue in the amount of 28 million SEK (approximately US$2.8 million) was granted, whereas in 1995 this figure had increased to almost 300 million SEK (US$30 million). In total, the state, municipalities, and counties pay about 800 million SEK (US$80 million) annually to the political parties. In addition, funds for political secretaries and other forms of indirect support—for example, funds for premises and for equipment—are provided. A survey conducted in 1992 on behalf of an institute tied to the Ministry of Finance—the Expert Group for Studies of Public Economics—showed a total amount paid to the political parties, in direct and indirect support, of about 1.3 billion SEK (US$130 million). Until the introduction of public financial support to political parties, the Moderates received comprehensive support from private business. In practice, 100 percent of party revenues came from individual companies. In a similar way, the labor union movement made generous contributions to the Social Democrats. In 1968 these contributions represented 30 percent of party revenues, with the rest coming from membership fees. Public financial support to political parties was introduced for two main reasons: first, to provide the parties with greater resources in order to increase their opportunities for communicating with the citizens; and second, in order to make them less dependent on wealthy interests. It seems, though, that public support has not only diminished the dependence of parties on such interests, but also made them less dependent on their members. Membership fees constitute an increasingly small portion of party revenues. As a result of the relationship between public support and election results, the parties have reoriented themselves away from membership and more toward voters. A decrease in membership has much less effect on the finances of a party compared to a poor election result. Party campaign costs almost doubled from 1998 to 2002. In 1998 the parties spent a total of approximately 100 million SEK (US$10 million) on election campaigns. In 2002 they spent 140 million SEK (US$14 million). The increase for the Social Democrats over this period was rather limited: from 43 to 50 million SEK (US$4.3 to US$5 million). The Moderates, on the other hand, almost doubled their election budget, from 25 to 45 million SEK (US$2.5 to US$4.5 million). With the transformation from membership-oriented parties to voter-oriented parties, activities directed outside the party organizational structures have become increasingly important. Furthermore, these activities are conducted to an ever greater extent under the auspices of professional public relations consultants, who are commonly independent of the parties. When the Social Democrats hired US consultants in their successful election of 1994, it drew considerable attention. Even internal campaign activities have changed.

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Both the Social Democrats and the Moderates now conduct their own opinion polls and focus-group studies; however, the smaller parties lack the economic means to do this. Internal Democracy According to Maurice Duverger (1964), the origin of a party is important to the organizational structure the party establishes. Of particular importance is whether parties have developed within parliamentary assemblies (internally formed) or outside them (externally formed). The former tend to develop a decentralized organizational structure that allows for significant influence in internal decisionmaking for the parliamentary group of the party. Externally formed parties, on the other hand, tend to develop a structure in which the party organization is more centralized and in which the parliamentary group plays a more subordinate role. The Moderates are an example of an internally formed party, the Social Democrats of an externally formed one. There is reason to question Duverger’s hypothesis, however, in relation to the Swedish case. In Sweden, the Social Democratic Party did not initially assume the hierarchical principles that were characteristic for its German counterparts, which Duverger used as an analytical model. In contrast to the Moderates, the Social Democrats have always been an explicitly popular-movement party and have emphasized the value of internal democracy and member influence. This would seem to suggest that direction from the top down is more marked within the Moderates. The picture is more ambiguous, however. According to a study of what decisionmaking is like within these two parties, both in conjunction with the so-called crisis agreement in the fall of 1992 and in connection with the parties adopting party programs, top-down direction is very prevalent in both. The Moderates in particular have a weakly developed internal democracy. However, the parties differ from each other in a way that supports Duverger’s hypothesis. Within the Moderates the parliamentary group plays a central role, while in the case of the Social Democrats the groups within the party organization itself (the party board, the executive committee, etc.) dominate the decisionmaking process (Teorell 1998, pp. 328–350). However, top-down direction does seem to have diminished within the Moderates, according to a different study on how relations between the local and central levels have developed (see Table 3.2). The Moderates have gone from being a very top-down party—the most top-down of all parties in Sweden—to a party in which the local organizations work more independently during offelection years as well as during election campaigns. In 1988 a clear majority— 55 percent—of the representatives of the local party organizations felt that the issues focused on during the election campaign were to a “great extent” or to a “very great extent” determined centrally. A decade later, only one-third of the representatives felt this way. In the case of the Social Democrats, this situation

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Assessments of the Extent to Which Swedish Policy Is Initiated at the Central Level, 1988 vs. 1998 (percentages) Very Great Extent

Social Democrats 1988 1998 Moderates 1988 1998

Great Extent

Some Extent

Little Extent

12 11

33 56

38 28

17 5

13 5

42 31

36 41

9 23

Source: Gidlund and Möller 1999, p. 91.

is rather the reverse: in 1988, 45 percent felt that policies were to a great extent or to a very great extent designed centrally, while in 1998, 67 percent felt this way.

The Social Democratic Strategy Many have wondered how long the Social Democratic Party would continue to maintain its dominant position of power in Swedish politics. After the electoral defeat in 1991, there was a broad consensus that the days of glory for the Social Democrats had come to an end, and again after the 1998 election it was claimed that they had lost their unique position and become just one political party among others. It was said that the Social Democrats had become a “normal-sized” European social democratic party: still a large and influential party, but without its almost hegemonic position in the Swedish party system. The same may be said after the 2006 election, although now the Social Democrats found themselves at a support level clearly below its average for the surprisingly successful postwar period. After the electoral defeat in 1991, it was easy for the Social Democrats to make a comeback. The party was in opposition during the most difficult period for the Swedish economy since the beginning of the 1930s. There was great dissatisfaction with the nonsocialist government, and the credibility of the Social Democrats to govern, according to corroborating opinion polls, led to a major victory in the 1994 election. After that, support declined when the Social Democrats resumed power. In the 1998 election the Social Democrats lost votes to the Left Party, which through populist methods was able to exploit strong dissatisfaction with the government to great success. However, this trend has been broken. The Social Democrats have won back these voters. At the same time, the party has continued to gain support among middle-class voters at the center of the political spectrum. The electoral dilemma appears to have been resolved: the Social Democrats gain support from both the left and the right.

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The key to success among middle-class voters is a conspicuous pragmatism. Under the leadership of former prime minister Göran Persson, the party annexed nearly all the potential election-winning issues from the nonsocialist opposition. The government reduced property taxes, changed the direction of education policy, and supported the demand for guaranteed access to healthcare. At the same time, the Swedish chairmanship of the European Union during the spring of 2001 was viewed as a great success for the government. In a time when concrete results and the ability to solve problems are considered to be of greatest importance in politics, Sweden has been led by an active and pragmatic government. By closely cooperating with the Left Party, the Social Democratic government has simultaneously wrested the populist weapon from the hands of the Left Party. As the party that has supported the government in parliament, the Left Party has gained a hearing for some of its proposals, but at the same time the party’s freedom of action has been limited. Thus the Left Party no longer has the same opportunities to attack the Social Democrats from a populist, leftist position, as it shares responsibility for the policies being pursued. Why has there been no shift to the right in Sweden as in other Western democracies? The primary explanation for this is the pragmatism that has characterized Sweden’s Social Democratic Party for almost its entire existence. Since the 1930s the party has been the dominant force in Swedish politics; it has developed into a party of the state that has generally chosen to de-emphasize its ideological profile with the aim of achieving consensus. Together with other political parties, the Social Democrats have often entered into long-term arrangements over bloc boundaries. When right-wing winds in public opinion blew over Sweden during the 1980s, as in other parts of Europe, the Moderates strengthened their position among the voters, but this occurred exclusively at the expense of the other nonsocialist parties. However, the Social Democrats managed to retain a majority, together with the Left Party, during this period, largely due to this pragmatism. The Social Democrats held their ground against the privatization offensive that the Moderates launched in the field of welfare policy, but a degree of adaptation took place. In addition, the Social Democrats changed their policies in other areas: the currency market was deregulated, a radical tax reform was undertaken in collaboration with the Liberal Party, and the attitude toward Swedish membership in the European Union was reconsidered. The Social Democratic Party also enjoyed great public confidence for its ability to govern, in contrast to the nonsocialist parties. This was a decisive factor in the party returning to power after the 1994 election, despite the rightwing winds. Another factor, however, was that the nonsocialist government under the leadership of Carl Bildt, former head of the Moderates, was forced to govern the country during a time of difficult economic problems, which made it more difficult for the government to get reelected.

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How have the Social Democrats managed to maintain party unity during this difficult period? To start with, a significant portion of the left-wing voters of the party, at least during the difficult period of unpopular cutbacks within various welfare programs, abandoned the Social Democrats and voted for the Left Party. This situation should be placed in historical perspective. The Social Democratic Party has since the 1950s been a class coalition. The party has succeeded in integrating conflicting societal interests within itself, even though its electoral base has for the whole time comprised the working class. But when the party slipped down under 40 percent support as a result of dissatisfaction in the wake of the economic crisis, it was primarily the unionized workers, the core group of the party, who deserted it. Following the crisis in state finances, after which the Social Democrats returned to more traditional party policies, their core voters returned.

Conclusion The party structure in Sweden has been extremely stable over time. Five parties have dominated the political scene since the beginning of the twentieth century, and during the past fifteen years only two more parties have been added to the system. This stability must be considered a great success, and is proof that the Swedish political party system has worked well in fulfilling its central function: linking the citizens and the state. However, during the past decade three new parties have managed to gain entrance to parliament, and two of these parties have apparently been established as permanent members of parliament. At the local level the dominance of the old, established parties has diminished strongly. At the same time, confidence in politicians as well as established parties has decreased. Since 1917 the Social Democrats have been the largest party. Due to the prolonged period of Social Democratic dominance, the Swedish party system can—on the whole—be characterized as something between what Samuel Huntington (1968) called a “hegemonic party system” and what Giovanni Sartori (1976) called a “predominant party system.” The political landscape has changed. For example, following the end of the Cold War, the Left Party was transformed from a communist party with close connections to the old Soviet communism into a modern leftist party with a populist profile. Consequently, the Social Democratic party is now forced to fight on two fronts at the same time, and even if support for the party has fluctuated strongly during the past decade, the Social Democrats have once again been successful in reversing negative trends. A dramatic decline in terms of membership has taken place in the Swedish party system during the past decade. The decline in party membership is to some extent related to an organizational change that has taken place within the

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parties. From having been membership-based organizations, all parties have— more or less—gradually been transformed into voter-oriented organizations. Previously there were more internal activities, more time was devoted to work on party programs and educational activities, and activities between elections were more comprehensive. Now there has been a development in the direction of professionalized campaign parties. There are, however, several rays of light. The decline in party membership has slowed somewhat, and the parties have succeeded in renewing and reforming their activities, not least of which through use of the Internet. Trust in politicians has increased somewhat since the traumatic autumn of 2001 (Holmberg and Weibull 2002), and voter participation in 2006 increased. Though these developments should not be exaggerated, neither the Swedish party system nor Swedish democracy in general appears any longer to be in crisis, at least not to the same extent as some years ago.

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European Social Democracy: Failing Successfully WILLIAM E. PATERSON

M

AND JAMES

SLOAM

uch of the literature on political parties in Western Europe in the 1980s and early 1990s focused on the failure of social democratic parties. The predictions of some commentators that these parties were doomed to electoral failure, because of the shrinkage of their “blue-collar” social base (Przeworski 1985), were proved untrue by the sweeping success of social democratic parties across Western Europe in the late 1990s. In fact, even in the 1980s, social democratic parties had made significant headway in the so-called Roman countries—France, Italy, and Spain (Merkel 1992). In the late 1990s, social democratic parties appeared to have successfully adapted their policy programs to meet the changing political environment as they swept to power across Europe. But at what cost? In seeking to represent the views of a broader range of domestic actors outside their traditional electoral constituencies, did they remain the left in any meaningful sense (Paterson 1995)? This chapter will consider social democracy in the three most prominent states in the European Union (EU)—the United Kingdom, Germany, and France—to explain how these parties manufactured electoral success, but also to comment on the stability and nature of this success after recent reverses in all three countries. The British Labour Party came to power in 1997, after eighteen years in opposition, to win two landslide victories (1997 and 2001) and a narrower success in 2005. The German Social Democratic Party (Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands [SPD]) recorded victories in 1998 and 2002 (after sixteen years in opposition), forming a coalition with the small Green Party (1998–2005), and managing to cling to power in 2005 as the smaller party in the Grand Coalition with the center-right Christian Democrats. The French Socialist Party (PS) came to power in the 1997 legislative elections (after a crushing defeat in the 1993 legislative elections and the end of President François Mitterrand’s second term in office in 1995) in “cohabitation” with 43

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Gaullist president Jacques Chirac. The PS led a plural-left (gauche plurielle) coalition until 2002, when it was soundly beaten in both presidential and legislative elections. The framework in which these parties have operated has changed substantively on three planes. The first plane is the institutional context, where the organizational structures of social democratic parties have come under increasing pressure to be instrumentalized in favor of the party leadership. A second change has been the adoption of more effective vote-winning strategies by these parties with regard to their national context. Finally, they have had to modify their policies to the rapidly changing European and international context (especially when in power) and the constraints of Europeanization and globalization (real or imagined). The short-term electoral success of these parties was characterized by their adaptation to this environment. We will argue that, as a consequence of contextual changes, driven largely by European and international processes, the convergence of social democratic policies is somewhat “inevitable” rather than “remarkable” (Sassoon 1999). This is not, however, convergence toward a set of unipolar global norms, but convergence toward a “corridor” of Europeanized values, within which social democracy may still have several different futures (Paterson and Thomas 1986). The adaptation of social democratic parties to a changing environment has been captured by programmatic and policy changes. This can be seen most vividly in three traditional areas of social democratic policy—the welfare state, labor market policy, and macroeconomic policy. Whatever their leanings, most European social democrats have come to recognize the need for modernizing the welfare state, pursuing active policies to reduce unemployment, maintaining state intervention in areas where markets fail, and (increasingly) creating an EU in which their particular models of a dynamic social state can thrive. All three parties in this study have moved away from traditional social democratic values to some extent, and embraced the international markets (though the gap between their positions on this issue remains quite wide). Given that the Labour Party, the PS, and the SPD were all in power in the late 1990s and early 2000s, it is also necessary to refer to policy outcomes to judge whether these parties have succeeded in delivering social democratic goals. Added to this is the question of whether the failure to maintain “links” with core constituencies, identified in the 1980s (Lawson and Merkl 1988), presents a particular problem for social democratic parties that have moved to the center of the left-right political spectrum. How fragile is their success? We agree that these links have been weakened, and further argue that electoral success since the late 1990s has been transient, relying heavily on charismatic leaders and their ability to capitalize on the poor economic performance of previous administrations. Initial electoral success has masked a failure to offer a distinctive social democratic approach capable of maintaining a loyal sup-

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port base in the long term. The convergence of social democratic policy has furthermore been a characteristic of a reactive approach to the Europeanization of national public policy.

Political Contexts The political contexts in which parties operate are crucial in determining the ways in which they may become successful in the sense of realizing both their electoral and their policy goals. Political analysts in the 1980s and early 1990s put the electoral failure of social democratic parties (or the differentials in their successes) down to the lack of intellectual mobility to adapt to a changing environment (Kitschelt 1992; Paterson 1995). In the early 1990s, the aim of the Labour Party and the SPD was to gain power after long periods in opposition, and for the PS it was more specifically to build enough votes to support a stable center-left majority in the National Assembly. Political parties have not only been constrained by the national systems of electoral politics in which they compete. In the terms of this chapter, this is but one dimension of the political context. It is necessary to understand the institutional context in order to explain programmatic change. Herbert Kitschelt (1994) wrote that the nature of party organization, for instance, may determine whether the party makes a rational choice in terms of party strategy within a domestic political system. In other words, we must examine the policy context within parties as well as between them. We must also investigate the broader European and international planes, where increased integration has set further parameters for social democratic policy. This has been particularly true for these parties in government. The institutional contexts of the three parties discussed have been crucial in determining their strategic options and capacity for success. The differentiated levels of leadership autonomy, for instance, have placed widely varying constraints on their ability to pursue what might otherwise have been seen as optimum strategies. While social democratic parties have traditionally been seen as delegate democracies with “bottom-up” organizational structures, electoral success has been dependent on the party leadership creating cohesion and—in a fast-moving media world—leading from the top. The Labour Party, prone to infighting between left- and right-wing groups until the mid-1980s, underwent the most dramatic transformation, beginning under the leadership of Neil Kinnock (Westlake 2001). David McKay explains in Chapter 2 how power was taken away from the more extreme activists (i.e., militant tendency) and the trade unions, and a formal party structure was developed that provided for greatly enhanced leadership autonomy. The SPD emerged from “loosely coupled anarchy” in the 1980s and early 1990s (Lösche and Walter 1992) to exert party discipline through a compromise between left and right in the form of the dual leadership of Oskar Lafontaine (party chairman) and Gerhard Schröder (chancellor candidate) by the time of the 1998 federal elections.

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The anarchy stemmed from loose, federal party structures and the influence of ambitious regional premiers within the party (Sloam 2004). Similarly, the PS is a party with natural “federating tendencies” (Knapp and Wright 2001) that manifest themselves in disputes between factions “rallied” around different party leaders (e.g., Lionel Jospin and Laurent Fabius) (Bell 2000). Unity was broadly maintained by Jospin through the duration of the Socialist-led government (1997–2002) by his ability to find both intraparty and interparty (within the coalition) compromises. Internal cohesion was nevertheless unsustainable beyond the presidential and parliamentary election defeats of 2002. Social democratic parties have, since the 1980s, moved further toward Angelo Panebianco’s model of an “electoral-professional party” with a “preeminent” and “personalized” leadership (1988, p. 264). The increased party discipline and leadership autonomy that had come about by the late 1990s were driven by the trauma of electoral failure. This was not only due to the desire of the party leaderships to appear attractive and cohesive to the voting public, moving away from the more partisan positions of grassroots activists. It was also a functional necessity of the media age and the decreasing number of voters who identified strongly with one political party (voter dealignment). Political decisions have to be taken more quickly than ever, in response to breaking news. Politicians have to make policy statements through the media without recourse to the lower levels of the party. This forms a more direct relationship between leadership and membership, and leadership and electorate, that circumnavigates the traditional delegate democracy. Furthermore, as a consequence of a more diverse society in terms of the labor market and individual lifestyles, voter dealignment has taken place (especially in the UK and Germany). This has increased the need for parties to appeal to the growing number of floating voters, most commonly found in the center-ground of politics. The linkages to the parties’ core supporters and insider organizations have been weakened. This has occurred most emphatically in the Labour Party, which—with the defeat of the unions in the 1980s and the weakness of the Tories since the mid-1990s— has had ample opportunity to try to woo the median voter. In responding to these challenges, social democratic parties have often sought to optimize and instrumentalize the leadership-membership axis through the informal changes mentioned above, but also through formal efforts to reform party organizations. The Labour Party has been most successful at carrying through reforms, as with the introduction of the “one member, one vote” system for the party conference and the dismantling of the trade union bloc vote. The SPD and the PS—without the advantages of the entrenched leadership and hierarchical structures of Labour—failed to achieve or decided against significant formal changes. In this sense, the success of the German and French parties in maintaining internal cohesion has been highly dependent on electoral success. If the leadership-membership is too highly instrumentalized by Labour, on the other hand, the freedom to move to the cen-

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ter creates resentment and exacerbates problems of linkage with core voters and the unions (who continue to contribute a large proportion of the party’s funding). The national context is crucial for determining the approach of social democratic parties. This plane determines the identity and programmatic features of political parties and the political options that they are likely to take. It is worthwhile to draw out here some of the key differences between the national systems. The electoral success of social democratic parties in the late 1990s hinged not only on the mastering of their own institutional networks, but also on their greater ability to appeal to a broader set of domestic actors. The profiling of the party became more effective through the better use of modern campaigning and media techniques. In the two-horse race in the UK, Labour took this “professionalization” to an extreme—the Campaigns and Communications Directorate not only marketed party policy, but became a central component of the policymaking machinery. While the SPD likewise developed its Kampa electoral communications machine as a rapid-reaction policy unit, its exponents were not as close to the party leadership. In the PS, the use of media campaigning around the person of the party leader is essential within the context of the presidential system. For the PS, unlike Labour and the SPD in the late 1990s, the need to produce leaders capable of unifying a fractious party could still outweigh the need for a media-friendly candidate. Voter dealignment, furthermore, has led to social democratic parties adapting themselves to electorates that identify less with parties’ past records and more with their “programmatic appeal and strategic stance,” thus encouraging them to “tap new demands and interests” more effectively (Kitschelt 1992, pp. 194–195). All three parties have, to some extent, moved beyond their electoral constituencies to offer themselves as effective managers of capitalism. They sought to mobilize broader coalitions of voters, whether it be through New Labour, the Neue Mitte (new center), or the gauche plurielle, while maintaining support within core electoral constituencies. In government, however, the parties have had the more difficult task of proving themselves capable of meeting the social demands of core supporters (to prevent apathy) while satisfying the country’s wider economic interests, and this will be addressed later in the chapter. Parties that win elections will tend to have a good knowledge of the national political context in which they operate. In terms of “electoral space,” the three parties have faced quite different challenges. Labour was in the strongest position because—thanks to the winner-takes-all electoral system—it had no serious challenger to the left at the national level. It could therefore move toward the electoral ground of the Conservative opposition with seeming impunity. The implosion of the Tories in the late 1990s furthered this impression. At this time, the German Social Democrats, though having to contend with the Green Party and—in the east—the Party of Democratic Socialism (PDS), also

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found their most fertile ground at the center of politics. Despite some tensions within the Red-Green coalition over trade-offs between ecological policies and jobs, the Greens diverged relatively little from the SPD along the traditional left-right spectrum. The PS’s formation of the gauche plurielle succeeded in holding together a majority in the National Assembly for five years. While the potentially volatile mixture of Socialists, Communists, Greens, and smaller parties certainly constrained policy choices at times, the high dependency of the junior partners on Socialist support for their candidates in the second round of national and local elections gave the PS a great deal of leverage. Moving to the center has nevertheless hidden certain risks. The peculiarities of the French electoral system, combined with Jospin’s attempt to deliver a centrist message (including a denial that his policies were “socialist”!), led to his humiliating defeat in the first round of the 2002 presidential elections, as core PS voters failed to turn out (or voted for the far left). François Hollande, first secretary of the Socialist Party, argued that the subsequent parliamentary elections should be fought on “simple, concrete objectives” like the efficacy of public services (Le Monde, August 5, 2002). Labour and the SPD have also been punished for moving too far from their “genetic model” (Panebianco 1988) and placing too much emphasis on “dimensions of competition” rather than “dimensions of identity” (Sani and Sartori 1983). The SPD leadership was savagely attacked for what were seen as promarket policies in the summer of 1999 (after the resignation of Lafontaine). More dramatically, the launch of the SPD’s reform program—“Agenda 2010” (see below)—at the start of its second term in office in 2002 led to the defection of many supporters on the party’s left-labor wing and the formation of the Alternative for Work and Social Justice (WASG) (Sloam 2006). The alliance between the WASG and the PDS for the 2005 federal elections established a serious challenge to the left of the SPD on a national level. The Labour Party—despite the lack of electoral competition— saw fit to invest an extra 6 percent per year over three years in public services in its April 2002 budget (Labour Party 2002c) after the failure of core voters to turn out for the 2001 elections. Further losses in 2005—caused by the personal damage inflicted on Tony Blair by his support for the Iraq War, the partial revival of the Conservative Party, and the strong performance of the Liberal Democratic Party in Labour heartlands—gravely undermined the implementation of Blair’s public sector reform program. Ties with core social democratic supporters were thus unmistakably loosened during the parties’ periods in power. In terms of socioeconomic settings, the UK, German, and French social democratic parties formulate their policies in very different national systems (Esping-Anderson 1990). In 2003, social spending was recorded at 22 percent of gross domestic product (GDP) in the UK, 27.5 percent in Germany, and 28.5 percent in France, while spending on education accounted for 6 percent of GDP in France, and 5.5 percent in Germany and the UK. At the same time,

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the national debt had reached 71 percent of GDP in France, 63 percent in Germany, and only 42 percent in the UK (Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development [OECD] 2005). Although these figures may be distorted by national peculiarities (e.g., Germany’s massive transfer payments to its poorer regions in the East), they provide a broad indication of the different starting points for these parties, which helps to reveal how divergent policies may mask convergence toward similar socioeconomic models. The nature of economic systems and economic interests within the national context also goes a long way toward explaining the very different approaches of UK, French, and German social democrats on, for instance, the harmonization of taxation at the EU level. Labour’s firm objections to the “communitization” of policy in this area rest on the comparative advantage the UK enjoys in relation to corporate tax. To this extent, parties’ ideological positions will be superimposed on what are seen to be national interests (particularly if they are in government). Economic conditions also shape the success or failure of social democratic parties, since the economic climate will influence the extent to which social democratic governments can pursue state spending programs and the economic climate on which government parties are judged. For the SPD, programmatic reforms were in fact dictated by economic pressures in government—low growth, high debt, and high unemployment—which led to weakening linkages to core supporters. Politics in Western Europe has become increasingly defined by deeper integration within the European Union, as EU norms are “downloaded” onto the national level (Ladrech 2003). This refers not only to the formal integration measures that have led to the Single Market and Monetary Union, but also to the growth in trade—and therefore economic interdependency—among member states. Peter Mair suggests that Western European democracies face similar policy alternatives, because—despite differences in political competition— they are faced with a “more or less similar balance of social classes and demographic profile,” so that while parties differ in what they are, there are marked similarities in what they do (1997: 25). Social democratic parties face similar external challenges in the EU and broader international context with regard to policy implementation in government. The European Union’s monetary stability criteria (limiting public spending deficits to 3 percent of GDP) and the stability-oriented monetary policy of the European Central Bank have reduced the scope for demand-side economic policies, creating a high degree of conditionality for social democratic governments, which—despite low growth and high employment when they came to power in the late 1990s—did not seek to increase public spending (Dauderstädt 2000). Labour has fewer constraints in this regard, since the UK is a nonparticipant in the Monetary Union and has a significantly lower public debt than France or Germany. The party has been able to significantly increase the UK’s relatively low level of public investment as a result. A further dimension of the European context has been the increasing

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penetration of EU Single Market policies. Here, French and German state ownership and subsidization of enterprises have been strongly challenged by the EU Commission (e.g., leading to deregulation in the telecommunications, postal, and energy sectors). In the German case, the imposition of EU competition policy and the attempts to set common rules for European industry increasingly antagonized the SPD and its leader, Chancellor Schröder, who repeatedly accused the Commission of “attacking his country’s industry” (The Financial Times, June 24, 2002). Similarly, the PS resisted EU demands to open up France’s energy markets, controlled by the state-owned electricity company, Electricité de France. The Lisbon Process, initiated in 2000, nevertheless illustrated the purpose of EU governments to coordinate economic policy and encouraged further liberalization of the Single Market. Globalization pressures (real or imagined) such as market liberalization and labor market flexibility have raised tough questions for social democrats. Labour is most at home with these forces, and—from a post-Thatcherite perspective—supports the “inevitable” adaptation to these market forces. In a more deregulated economic system, the UK government must pay greater attention to the reaction of the markets than its peers on the continent. In the PS, where the belief in volontarisme (an active, independent state) is strong, national freedom of action from external constraints is emphasized (Hincker 1997). Yet in the context of globalization, the party’s more recent programs have spoken of the EU as the “major terrain” on which socialist policies can still be pursued (Hanley 2001). Increased integration has led to increased incentives for all three parties to “upload” their own political models onto the EU plane (Ladrech 2003), for the further liberalization of markets in the case of Labour and the extension of social standards (e.g., workers’ rights) and economic policy coordination for the PS and the SPD. EU policy goals have increasingly permeated the policy programs of the SPD, the most integrationist of the three parties, leading to the placing of European policy (uniquely) in the first section of its 2002 manifesto (Sloam 2004). The battle of ideas at the European level has manifested itself in fierce debates within social democracy. In 2005, Chancellor Schröder and Prime Minister Blair argued publicly about the future of Europe. Schröder made plain that “Europe is more than a successful market: it is a successful societal and social model,” attacking British policy for its efforts to “reduce the European Union to some kind of free trade zone” (in reference to the UK’s economic reform agenda) (Das Bild, June 22, 2005). Blair (2005) responded in a speech to the European Parliament the next day: “some have suggested I want to abandon Europe’s social model. . . . [W]hat type of social model is it that has 20 million unemployed in Europe, productivity rates falling behind those of the USA?” The PS, on the other hand, has become disaffected by what is increasingly seen as the advancement of a neoliberal (and Anglo-Saxon) European integration process. This explains the opposition of a significant sec-

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tion of the party and its supporters—led by former prime minister Laurent Fabius—to the European constitution, contributing to its defeat in the referendum of May 2005. Yet in a Europe of 25, given the integration of the marketoriented economies of East Central Europe, the prospects of “positive integration” in social standards (Scharpf 1999a, 1999b) appear ever more remote. Despite these obvious differences, convergence has taken place in European policy. While Labour is prepared to accept closer coordination of economic and social policy through “peer review” and “benchmarking,” the PS and the SPD have been increasingly willing to accept the principle of liberalization within the European Union’s Single Market (in practice if not in rhetoric).

Programmatic Change: Policy Outcomes Programmatic change has been a major feature of European social democracy since the late 1990s. Spurred by a desire to improve their electoral performances and engage more effectively with actors and structures on the institutional, national, and EU planes, these parties have attempted to interpret socioeconomic dynamics through policy change. Given secular processes like the aging of populations and the increasing expense of healthcare provisions, it has generally been accepted that welfare systems will have to be overhauled. With the backdrop of high levels of unemployment in the late 1990s, active labor market policies were also brought to the fore. These problems were set in the context of external pressures for budgetary stability (the EU stability criteria and inflation-oriented ethos of EU monetary policy), deregulation of state-run industries (by the EU’s Single Market), and the increasing internationalization of capital and production (outsourcing) in the global economy. Social democratic parties, often ambivalent toward EU integration in the past, have sought to define a new role for the state within the political architecture of the Union. While accepting several key market principles, they have also sought to “reestablish the ideological initiative enjoyed in the social democratic era” (Paterson 1995) by presenting the advantages of the newly packaged “Third Way,” Neue Mitte (New Centrism), and réalisme de gauche (realism of the left). As these parties entered office, they had to see their policies more in terms of outcomes. They therefore had to be pragmatic with respect to policy implementation as well as the new networks of pressure and influence in government, which strongly orient government parties toward representing the national economic interest. The Welfare State Differences between social democratic parties in this area result from their divergent views of the role of welfare. Labour does not see welfare as a means of redistribution to achieve greater equality of outcomes (contrary to the party’s position in the 1980s). In fact, the passive nature of entitlements is believed to

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lead to dependency (Giddens 1998). The welfare state is a means for countering social exclusion, to provide the opportunity of work or training (“welfare to work”). The benefits system thus should be “structured around work” (Labour Party 2001) through a system of incentives for low-paid work (e.g., tax credits, low tax rates) and penalties (cuts in benefit) for those not accepting work. Blair (1998) has thus linked “opportunity” to “responsibility.” The PS has seen the welfare state in the broader sense of l’état providence (state providence), which emphasizes the role of the state in shaping individuals’ destinies (Jospin 1999). Welfare provides for both redistribution of wealth and equality of opportunity. Furthermore, responsibility is deemed to pertain to the state rather than the individual, with individuals enjoying rights to social security. The question of whether redistribution should be the central aim of welfare has proved a hot topic within the German SPD. The position adopted by the most fervent advocates of the Neue Mitte, that welfare should act as a “trampoline” rather than a “safety net” (Hombach 2000), was not initially sustainable within the party. This was illustrated by the internal bickering after the publication of the BlairSchröder paper in 1999. Out of necessity in government, given the resource crunch in German public finances, the party nevertheless embarked upon a revision of its position. The support of the SPD-led government for “welfare to work” policies (known collectively as the “Hartz reforms”) and cuts in public spending led to an increasing focus on an “active state . . . that helps people to lead an independent life” (SPD 2005, p. 9). Many of the differences between social democratic parties discussed in this chapter have arisen from the different starting points within their national contexts. For instance, one of the key areas of the welfare state is the issue of state pensions. For Labour in the UK, with a pensions system that has for many years been linked to inflation rather than earnings, the party has actually managed modest increases in pension rates. The low rate of pension provision, furthermore, has convinced a relatively high proportion of UK employees of the need to participate in private pension schemes. The high level of female participation in the work force and the raising of the retirement age for women (to the same level as men) are also factors that could avert a future crisis. In France and Germany, relatively generous pension provisions continue to be provided, while employees continue to rely on the state for future provision, and female participation in the labor market is low. Here, social democratic parties have long avoided facing inevitable reforms. The prospects look rosier in Germany, where the private pension market is growing fast and the Grand Coalition agreed (in 2005) to gradually raise the retirement age to sixty-seven (a controversial measure sponsored by SPD minister for labor and social affairs Franz Müntefering). The PS has maintained that the level of pensions can be guaranteed (Jospin 2002), while admitting that it is looking at new ways to link pensions to savings (Jospin 1999), but in opposition after 2002 the party has been able to sidestep the issue.

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Despite differences between the degrees of support for redistribution, the fact is that similar welfare policies have been implemented in many respects, oriented toward encouraging people back to work by ensuring a minimum level of income. Furthermore, all three parties have strongly worded policies on the need for “social investment” (to create equality of opportunity), which the Blair-Schröder paper described as the “top priority” for social democratic governments. National contexts play an important part in how these ideas have been translated into policy outcomes. For example, despite Labour’s early emphasis on fiscal prudence, the relatively low levels of public funding for education and health in the UK caused the Blair government to substantially increase investment in public services. On the other hand, Labour has increasingly sought to introduce the private sector into public services by, for example, introducing private finance initiatives for school and hospital building programs and “extending patient power and choice” through greater involvement of the private sector (Labour Party 2005, p. 60). Therefore, while policies have converged in a quantitative sense—as with the conscious attempt by the Labour government to deliver “world-class public services” and bring spending up to the EU average (Labour Party 2001)—they continue to differ somewhat in qualitative terms (i.e., on the role of the private sector in public provision). Yet even qualitatively there has been some convergence. For example, Jospin’s dictum “yes to the market economy, no to the market society” (Cole 2002) emphasized the social role of the state rather the expansion of the public sector. Labor Market Policy The European left has tried to come up with answers to the high levels of unemployment in the EU, peaking in the mid-1990s. Social democratic parties not only saw this as unjust, but also recognized that mass unemployment was a huge drain on the benefits system and the welfare state. The Labour Party, the PS, and the SPD have all argued for the state to play an important role in the labor market. While Labour and—more recently—the SPD have tied active labor market policy to an active welfare state, social democrats in France have argued for maintaining a division between the two. Views on the labor market have been defined by existing national employment structures. The UK enjoys high levels of employment, but has a high percentage of low-paid and short-term work, and relatively low levels of worker protection. In France and Germany, unemployment has been comparatively high in recent years, but inequalities are relatively small and workers enjoy high levels of protection. The programmatic priority of working against social exclusion, or working for social justice, has led to government action by the parties with the aim of creating more job and training opportunities. The “New Deal” program in the UK concentrated on youth unemployment through subsidizing job creation in the public and private sectors, while at the same time increasing the number of training places available. Tax relief was also given for low-paid jobs to

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provide incentives for people to take up those positions. The Red-Green government in Germany similarly established a training and jobs program called “JUMP,” focused on the young (accompanied by tax breaks for low-earners). The PS took a dirigiste path (state economic planning and control), with the state providing the vast majority of funds for Martine Aubry’s program to create 700,000 jobs over five years. Despite the more outwardly statist French strategy, all three parties enacted demand-side employment programs. The fact that the New Deal was funded by a “windfall tax” on privatized utilities shows that Labour’s policies in this area were closer to social democratic principles than is often depicted. A further challenge to social democratic policy has been the set of ideas that are promoted as norms in the global economy. One such concept is that of “labor market flexibility.” Labor market flexibility, as an ideal type, promotes the setting of wages by the market and the minimum of interference from social regulation and industrial relations (from legislation on working hours to rules covering the hiring and firing of employees). From the perspective of the relatively flexible UK labor market, Labour argues that low-paid or part-time work is better than no work at all (a message echoed in the Blair-Schröder paper). Within the context of the German system and the SPD, however, this line of reasoning has proved problematic. The argument that “any job is better than none” (HansMartin Bury, minister of state for Europe, in Vorwärts, November 1999) was countered by a response that the “necessary flexibility may not lead to a lowering of social standards” (SPD 2001, p. 20). Only at the beginning of its second term in 2002, in the face of burgeoning unemployment (rising above the politically sensitive 5 million mark), did the SPD embark upon a series of measures to promote labor market flexibility (the Hartz reforms). Official party policy stated in 2005 that “whoever has not found their desired job . . . must be prepared to accept another job offer” (SPD 2005, p. 29). The PS has seen the concept of labor market flexibility, as is commonly formulated from the perspective of the employer, as an evil emanating from Anglo-Saxon capitalisme sauvage (savage capitalism). They argue that they can “accept no flexibility” that promotes “unstable working relations” (PS 1999). From the perspective of the individual, however, flexibility is seen as a positive thing, allowing citizens more “lifestyle flexibility” (Chambers 2000). This was the logic behind the introduction of the thirty-five-hour week in France, to provide more leisure time for citizens as well as more jobs for the work force as a whole. PS policy in government nevertheless contradicted its leftist “spin” on several points. Employer groups were mollified by gaining an agreement, hand-inhand with the thirty-five-hour week, for unions to moderate their wage demands. While pledging to make companies with “precarious” jobs pay higher rates of social insurance, the PS also presided over an easing of regulations for the termination of fixed-term contracts. The PS and the SPD have been more forthright than the Labour Party in seeking to lay down or entrench minimum

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standards for workers, and workers’ rights, on both a national and a European level. The SPD, for instance, extended workers’ councils domestically and sought to promote this onto the EU plane. Labour has tended to prioritize entrepreneurial concerns over union concerns, as illustrated by its redrafting of the “fairness at work” proposals (Sassoon 1999). Even here, however, we can see some convergence. Where the SPD and the PS have sought to maintain high levels of social protection, Labour has implemented social measures like the minimum wage and the working-times directive to improve on the low levels of workers’ rights in the UK. Although economic globalization is often held to be the driving force behind current socioeconomic change, in terms of increased trade the process of European integration within the Single Market is more dynamic. Labour’s more open approach to the EU (compared to the approach of its Conservative predecessors) also allowed the launch of EU employment policy coordination at the Amsterdam European Council in 1997. Economic Policy Social democratic parties have initiated programmatic change in two key areas of economic policy. First, in the area of budgetary politics, they have developed policies within strict budgetary limits. Second, they have adapted their policies so that they are no longer ideologically opposed to the privatization of state-run industries. These are both areas where EU conditionality has been strong. All three social democratic parties have recognized the limits of demandside economic policy. While demand-side spending has been sanctioned in the context of “social investment” for the labor and welfare programs mentioned above, government spending has not increased unsustainably when these parties have been in power. Although the PS spent money on new social programs like the Aubry plan, this was achieved through a “leftist savings policy” (Merkel 2000), taking money away from “nonsocialist” policy areas like defense. The SPD was faced with the task of managing the high levels of state debt built up as a result of German unity. Despite the party’s relative failure in dealing with this situation under the Red-Green governments, Peer Steinbrück—SPD finance minister under the Grand Coalition—committed the German government to a balanced budget in the medium term. The Labour Party, following several years of budgetary restraint after coming to power (initially following Conservative spending plans), effected the largest spending increases of the three parties, but only in the context of the UK’s relatively low levels of spending and public debt. A more controversial area has been the deregulation of erstwhile state-run public industries. First, it is an important development that even the avowedly dirigiste PS has conceded that it is not against privatization in principle. Jospin wrote that if defending the objectives of “growth and employment” and improving the position of France mean “opening up the capital of a public undertaking or even privatizing it, then so be it” (1999, p. 7). The pace of privatizations under

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Jospin was in fact noticeably quicker than under his center-right predecessors. Saying this, efforts by the EU Commission to force France to accept liberalization measures met with resistance from the left wing of the gauche plurielle, as in the case of the domestic energy market. The SPD leadership post-Lafontaine began to accept the idea of deregulation (even if implementation has been less than comprehensive). Given the high number of intermediary services and institutions backed in one way or another by the state, the party was more concerned with the implications of competition policy for subsidized public services (Daseinsvorsorge) like local transport, or state-sponsored institutions such as the local savings banks (Sparkassen). The Labour party, however, has been an unambiguous proponent of liberalization in the EU, which is a pragmatic position bearing in mind the considerable deregulation that had already taken place under the governments of Margaret Thatcher and John Major. While the PS and the SPD have had to come to terms with Single Market pressures for deregulation in the European context, they continue to believe in the idea of economic governance—that is, directing investment and establishing a “social dialogue.” The former was attempted by the PS, seeking to attach handpicked “friendly partners” to companies due to be privatized (Clift 2001). The SPD approach to these pressures has been more ambivalent—attempting to avoid alienating its core supporters while allowing the country to adjust to new EU norms. While the SPD, in the light of the Vodaphone takeover of Mannesmann, sought to put barriers in the way of hostile takeovers of German firms, it—more significantly—had earlier eased the way for the extension of shareholder value through the abolition of capital gains tax on the sale of cross-shareholdings. In the context of European Monetary Union, the social dialogue among governments, central bankers, employers, and trade unions, supported by the PS and the SPD, will now have to take place on the EU plane, which brings the Union to the forefront of social democratic policy. From the point of view of the Labour Party, deeper economic integration increases the logic of economic “coordination” rather than governance at the EU level.

Failing Successfully? The social democratic parties of the UK, Germany, and France were successful in the late 1990s at propelling themselves to power at the ballot box. The argument that parties fail for generational reasons (Lawson and Merkl 1988)—for example, the inflexibility of their leaders and their incapacity to adapt to socioeconomic change—is not a claim that could be consistently leveled at the three parties analyzed in this chapter. In fact programmatic flexibility was one of the hallmarks of social democratic party leaderships in the late 1990s. In electoral terms, Labour, the SPD, and the PS have been successful in pitching their programs to the structured context at the national level. Former SPD party

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manager Matthias Machnig stated frankly that “a new programme has no consequence if the party is not in the position to mobilize the majorities for it. . . . [T]hat means it must analyze social trends at the time, taking up new options and chances in central policy fields” (2000). Social democratic success at the polls was a testament to their achievements in adapting their policies to the domestic demands of a more heterogeneous working population. Another reason cited for the decline of parties has been their failure to maintain their links to their core supporters (Lawson and Merkl 1988). The dramatic decline in party membership (Mair and van Biezen 2001) and party identification among social democratic parties certainly bears out that these ties have been loosened. Adding to this effect, party leaderships have appealed more directly to members and voters through the media, often bypassing the formal party structures that value local activists (particularly the party conference). Social democratic parties through the 1980s and 1990s (particularly in the UK and Germany) acted on the need to appeal to the increasing number of floating voters by broadening their programmatic platforms. Of the three parties examined in this chapter, the UK Labour Party has achieved the most striking electoral success at the polls, enjoying two landslide victories and a more marginal victory in 2005. The question must therefore be asked: Why has Labour been so successful? The simple answer is that the party, aided by a highly competent communications team, has excelled at moving toward the center of politics and the median voter. But we must look to the institutional and national contexts to find deeper reasons behind this success. Labour has been less constrained in its strategic autonomy: internally, the party achieved substantive internal reforms that have allowed a great degree of leadership autonomy; externally, it has profited enormously from the lack of an effective challenge from the left or the right, leaving the center-ground more or less free. This fortuitous position was aided and abetted by the British electoral system, dramatically enhancing the party’s margin of victory and eliminating the need for coalition government. The PS has had to deal with a far more hostile political environment. Competition on the left has made it hard for the party to move to the middle ground, which is hotly contested by its mainstream rivals. The difficulty for the PS in moving beyond its natural electoral constituency was illustrated by the 2002 presidential elections. In the institutional context, the party’s federating tendencies and internal political rivalries over the candidacy for presidential elections have not helped its electoral maneuverability. The SPD leadership has been more constrained by their party than have the Labour elite by theirs. Although the consensual nature of German politics and the lack of real competition on the left in the 1990s allowed a centrist chancellor to define its 2002 program for government as the “politics of the center in Germany” (Schröder 2002), the emergence of serious electoral competition on the left—reflected in the party’s losses at the 2005 elections—clearly showed the limits of this strategy (Sloam 2006).

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The electoral successes and failures of all three parties have been characterized by the images of the party leaders: Blair and Schröder have both portrayed themselves as politicians of the center, while Jospin—due to contextual restraints—could not successfully pursue this political strategy. The fact that the PS supported a leader who lacked media charisma was indicative of the party’s institutional weakness—the choice was made for a leader who could hold the party together rather than win the presidency. Conversely, relying too much on personal charisma has its risks if the image of a leader is undermined (e.g., Blair over Iraq), electorally defeated (e.g., Schröder in 2005), or relinquishes power (e.g., Blair’s planned handover to Gordon Brown). In these cases, the ending of charismatic leaders’ time in charge runs the risk of creating significant political damage through succession crises. The SPD’s victory in 2002 owed everything to Schröder, as did the damage-limitation exercise in 2005. In the Labour Party, Gordon Brown is likely to be less effective in capturing the floating voter compared to Tony Blair. A central development in social democratic parties in recent years has been the increased effectiveness of campaigning and use of the media to promote the party’s message. This has been a cause of their success, but has also proved to be a crucial weakness. For Labour this has meant “spinning to the right” when— as we have shown above—many of their policies are moving the UK to the left (e.g., spending on public services). The PS, in the framework of the gauche plurielle majority, tended to “spin to the left” while acting to the right (e.g., over market liberalization). Although these media techniques have proved effective in gaining political power at the national level, they have also furthered despondency among the parties’ traditional supporters over the nondelivery of goals in government, leaving a bitter impression of unfulfilled promises. Paradoxically, the SPD leadership’s strategic focus on the median voter led to its complete inability to sell tough but necessary reforms during its second period in power. The problem is that the broad programmatic platforms designed to hold together voter coalitions have failed to link delivery with purpose in a way that traditional supporters can understand. The creation of voter apathy among core social democratic supporters can be a major problem if parties move (or appear to move) too far away from their natural constituencies. The “demobilization” of Jospin’s core voters after a too “prudent” campaign was seen as a key reason behind his failure in the first round of voting for the 2002 presidential elections (Liberation, April 22, 2002; Le Figaro, April 22, 2002). Long-term electoral success is therefore closely related to the content of party policy and the implementation of political goals. A successful future also depends on maintaining links between the party and its core supporters, as these represent the voters, fundraisers, and activists on whom the party must rely. This is why the current success of the Labour Party may be sowing the seeds for its own failure. Its political strength has rested on three short-term political factors: the weakness of the Conservative Party in the battle for the center, the relative strength of the economy, and leadership autonomy. With

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the election of David Cameron as leader of the Conservative Party in 2005, the center-ground of British politics became more fiercely contested. In addition, recent increases in public spending are beginning to look unsustainable in the long term. Furthermore, strong levels of leadership autonomy, so organizational theory tells us, will lead to an elite who do not feel the need to heed the views of the lower echelons of the party (Bandelow 2005). The strength of the leadership will undermine the cohesion of the party as the elite find it difficult to share power—for example, the selection of the Labour candidates for the leadership of the Welsh (1998) and London (1999–2000) assemblies—and are tempted to ride roughshod over internal opposition—for example, over Iraq, public sector reform, and university top-up fees. In fact, the more centrist a social democratic party becomes, the more its core supporters feel “pushed to the edge” (Walter 2002). This led to the dramatic decline in membership after 1997 and a drop in funding from trade unions, which together provide over 40 percent of the party’s income (Labour Party 2002b). One possible way forward for all three parties to increase the likelihood of lasting success is to reform the decisionmaking structures of party institutions. Herbert Kitschelt (1994) argued that social democratic parties, for maximum effect, need a two-way communication process between the leadership and the lower levels of the party. Given the effects of the modern media and voter dealignment, it may be more effective for parties to open up their structures to a broader range of groups, to establish a system that can bring individuals and groups into a more participatory relationship with the party. This could also be adapted to national contexts—to “civil society” in Germany, to the broad French notion of “public services” (PS 2002), and to a more committed attempt to renew “community spirit” in the UK (Prowse 2000). The idea of an “opening up” of the party has been a recurrent theme among German social democrats, but has not taken place in a major way since Willy Brandt’s efforts to absorb the extraparliamentary opposition in the late 1960s and early 1970s. There are signs, however, that all three parties are trying to promote these ideas as a response to party weaknesses. Machnig (2000) wrote of the need for the SPD to become a “network party” that can engage with a wide range of societal groups; Labour produced a document on “democracy, citizenship, and political engagement” to address this very problem within the context of its “Partnership in Power” consultation strategy (Labour Party 2002a); while François Hollande of the PS spoke in 2002 of the need to “rally” the left within a “permanent structure of dialogue and debate regardless of the forthcoming elections” (Le Monde, May 8, 2002).

Conclusion This chapter has illustrated that a corridor for social democratic policies is emerging in the European Union, as marked by the slow yet steady convergence of policy goals. Convergence is unsurprising given that social democratic

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parties have had to face similar challenges in government posed by European integration and broader global pressures. Yet within these parameters, social democracy can still pursue different paths defined by parties’ institutional and national contexts. Social democratic parties succeeded in electoral terms in the late 1990s, and there can be no doubt that these were major achievements in themselves. However, the linkages between party and core constituency have, if anything, become weaker since the first analyses of this phenomenon in the 1980s (Panebianco 1988; Lawson and Merkl 1988). Party identification has fallen further, voter volatility has increased, and parties have sought (explicitly in the case of Labour and the SPD) to strengthen their relationship with party members and the electorate at the expense of party delegates and traditionally affiliated groups. Ties with core supporters were further weakened by the adoption of more market-oriented policies not easily reconciled with social democratic values. The parties’ relative failure to deliver on social democratic goals in government has endangered their electoral success, as core supporters have been led to electoral apathy or political antipathy. This partly explains the defeat of the PS in 2002 and the reduction in support for the SPD and Labour Party in 2005. The response of social democratic parties has been twofold. First, they have tried to produce policy programs for “social investment” that can better appeal to their core supporters by concentrating on public services (Labour), the creation of employment (PS), and the safeguarding of the European social model within the context of globalization (SPD). Second, they have sought to engage their own members and society as a whole in a participatory dialogue. The latter is the more ambitious strategy of the two, as in order to prosper it would require commitment in a two-way interaction between party leaderships on the one hand and members and voters on the other. If the three parties can, in this way, restore the “social” element of social democracy, they may yet be able to reverse their diminishing appeal and begin to succeed.

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Poland’s Democratic Left Alliance: Beyond Postcommunist Succession HIERONIM KUBIAK

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his chapter deals with the development of the Polish “new” left during the 1990s. In brief, this process runs from a political grouping, socially rejected and highly stigmatized by the new political class that emerged in 1990 (at the outset of the systemic transformations), to a position of being the biggest and twice-governing party of the Third Republic of Poland. The process under consideration draws on the nine-year existence of social democracy in the Republic of Poland (Socjaldemokracja Rzeczypospolitej Polskiej [SdRP], registered as a political party on August 28, 1990) and its gradual transformation to the Democratic Left Alliance (Sojusz Lewicy Demokratycznej [SLD], which formally came into existence as a party on April 26, 1999). To uncover and explain such a phenomenon, it is not enough to concentrate solely on political parties—on their institutionalization, leadership, doctrine, program, resources, electoral success, ability to establish parliamentary and governmental coalitions, and the like. The broader context, social as well as economic, political, and legal, has to be taken into account. When the SdRP came into existence, political parties were mushrooming across the region of Central and Eastern Europe mostly for strictly political reasons: the prevailing will to escape from what was known as “real socialism,” the unique period of regained national sovereignty and the first stage of social self-organization. Today’s SLD, on the other hand, emerged and received its electoral strength in 2001 as well as defeat in 2005, under pressure of structural cleavages and tensions typical for a newly formed free market economy and capitalist social relationships, as well as, more generally, within the context of economic globalization and European integration. During the first three years of transition, the SdRP was treated by its political competitors as a bunch of “Polish People’s Republic (Polska Rzeczpospolita Ludowa [PRL]) orphans” with no future. When it managed to create 61

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a powerful electoral bloc composed of over thirty independent organizations (registered for the 1991 parliamentary election as the “Democratic Left Alliance coalition” and victorious in the 1993 election),1 the SdRP was still perceived by political protagonists and the majority of political scientists as the successor party of the Polish United Workers’ Party (Polska Zjednoczona Partia Robotnicza [PZPR]), drawing its strength primarily from the formerly privileged social strata and the “red cobweb.” But this type of explanation proved to be, even for ardent anticommunists, useless after the SLD’s 2001 electoral success. Yet if it was not due to the legacy of the previous system, then how could the SLD phenomenon be explained? Considerations presented in this chapter are based on an assumption that any investigation into the main source of the strength of the new Polish left, and the SLD in particular, must go beyond the postcommunist legacy. What is more, neither the program nor the electoral support nor the leadership of the SLD can be traced solely to the PZPR or other aspects of the PRL political heritage.

Contextual Framework The systemic changes of 1989 began with a vision of a common good (derived largely from the social teaching of the Roman Catholic Church) and a common enemy: the pre-1989 political system, its parties, elite, and international relations. Hopes were placed on an affluent society (understood as a mixture of Western buying power with the social security safety of “real socialism”) and a concept of self-organizing civil society. However, by the mid-1990s it became obvious that after the disappearance of the common enemy, the vision of a common good had begun to vanish. While affluence was the privilege of a few, most Polish citizens had to face the crude reality of the new economy. The formerly extensive state social security net had begun to shrink and disintegrate, while, for instance, the healthcare system became, for large segments of society, prohibitively expensive. The growing cost of education meant that young people from low-income families, and those living in the countryside and small cities, were facing exclusion from institutions of higher learning. Yet the most alarming and far-reaching problem was (and remains) the dramatic rise in unemployment. When the SdRP began its march from a Leninist-type party-state to a Western-type social democracy, the unemployment rate was a little over 5 percent. By mid-2001, when the SLD won the parliamentary election, unemployment had climbed to 17 percent. Regional differentiation ranged from over 26 percent in some western and northern regions to approximately 13 percent in the Mazovia and Little Poland provinces. At the end of 2001, the Polish unemployment rate, as measured by International Labour Organization (ILO) standards, had already exceeded 18.5 percent (3.186 million people), about two times higher than within the Czech Republic. Regional differentiation had

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crept up to 29.3 percent in Warmia-Masuria and 13.4 percent in Mazovia (Central Statistical Organisation [CSO] 2002, p. 50). Young people faced a particularly traumatic time. While 36 percent studied, 12 percent combined study and work, 25 percent worked, and about 27 percent lacked the opportunity to undertake either. The overwhelming majority in the latter category came from families occupying the lowest social status (families with the lowest education and income per capita, living mostly in small villages). As though this were not bad enough, a majority of these young people were already married with children.2 During the 1990s, anti-egalitarian tendencies grew dramatically. At the outset of systemic transformation, the majority of Polish society shared a kind of egalitarian poverty mixed with a dream for a rapid betterment. Taken together, these two facts—initial egalitarianism and a bright vision of the future—created a powerful rationale behind the miracle of 1989 and generated electoral support for the new political forces. Twelve years later, wealth and poverty became highly polarized: wealth in the hands of thousands, and poverty in the homes of millions. The extent of material poverty in Poland, as measured by four indices, leaves no doubt that the standard of living of the substantial part of Polish families collapsed drastically from 1990 to 1992. Although it was slowly rising from 1993 to 1997, it subsequently deteriorated after 1997. Studies of family household budgets revealed that in 2000, over 8 percent of all Polish people belonged to families living below the level of the existential minimum.3 This percentage almost doubled during the next four years. What is more, the same studies have demonstrated that in 2000, only 46.2 percent of Poles lived above the social minimum.4 Four years later this category stood at 48 percent. As one might imagine, the individuals living below the existential as well as social minimum are more likely to be women, to have lower educational attainment, and to live in villages (CSO 2001, pp. 93–98, 183–190). Drastic inequality of income and standard of living is evident, and is on the increase (see, for example, Henryk Doman´ski, Antonina Ostrowska, and Andrzej Rychard’s 2000 study on the dispersion of average monthly income per capita from 1987 to 1998). It would be irrational to expect that this situation would not produce social cleavages and, consequently, would not influence electoral behavior or the performance of political parties. At the same time, privatization (based on ideological assumptions regarding its economic rationality and seen as the only available and predictable source of state budget income) plus reprivatization (motivated by the notion of “historical justice”) have been associated with corruption on a scale unknown until now. With a corruption index value of 3.6 for 2003, according to Transparency International, Poland occupied the sixty-fourth place among the world’s countries and twenty-fourth place among the countries of the European Union (EU) (taking into account the old EU members as well as those aspiring

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to be included in the EU in 2004; Marshall 2003). Generalizations made by Susan Rose-Ackerman in her 1999 book Corruption and Government are particularly informative. Not only is it an economic problem, it is also a cultural and political problem: corruption jeopardizes the moral fabric of society. As Magdalena S´roda noted, “Corruption is more and more felt in everyday life. According to popular wisdom, ‘everybody steals,’ ‘everybody takes bribes,’ ‘everybody is a trickster.’All of these expressions expose the essence of the corruption phenomenon, its permanent presence and at the same time, the absurdity of its supposed universality” (2001, p. 5). This was perhaps compounded by the naiveté associated with the beginning of the systemic transformation whereby “a group of people, who had never before done this, had to sell state property, the price of which was unknown to them . . . as fast as possible to pass this property into the hands which could take care of it” (Kuczyn´ski 2000, p. 137). But quite soon privatization also became a chance for acting in legal lacunae as well as contra legem. Sometimes it was simply a decision favoring a businessman who, as part of an unwritten contract, was expected and inclined to support financially a certain political party or party candidate during the parliamentary or presidential election. Now and then it was commercialization— for example, of a factory to give a lucrative position to the ruling-party activist on a board of trustees of that factory. At other times it was a public contract or concession. Whatever the exact parameters, the results always appeared to be the same: a state treasury robbed of revenue and an overnight fortune handed to some individuals or corporations. In such an environment, politics became, for many, a synonym for usurping property rather than a way for mobilizing social resources. Of course, those closer to the governmental institutions could count on a bigger piece of the cake. Quite often, the pattern of action was such that “while profits were privatised, losses were nationalised” (Kuron´ 2002, p. 20). The idea of civil society, so powerful an idea during the 1980s when the democratic opposition was fighting for political power, lost its charm when power was won.5 For some politicians, society was simply not competent enough to have the decisive voice in state affairs, for others it was ungrateful visà-vis the leaders of the former political opposition or, despite systemic changes, remained poisoned by the communist legacy. In sum, according to these politicians, with this viewpoint a society composed of Homo Sovieticus–type individuals was not able to recognize its real interests, nor was it able to use rationally its newly gained political and economic freedom. Concomitantly, society itself soon became disappointed with politics and politicians. Under the pressure of these conditions, the process of social self-organization brought forth two contradictory faces. On the one hand, new organizations were emerging by the thousands. On the other hand, huge segments of society withdrew from politics. Despite such a proliferation of nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) and hundreds of political parties, three of every four Poles do not belong to any of them. Statistical data for successive parliamentary elec-

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tions (1991, 1993, 1997, 2001, 2005) reveal that only about 50 percent of Poles participate regularly in elections, approximately 30 percent irregularly, and 20 percent never or almost never (Wasilewski 1999, p. 90).6 Yet, already in the mid-1990s, over 86 percent of all Poles over age eighteen were of the opinion that “election attendance is important for a functioning democracy” (KolarskaBobin´ska and Markowski 1997, p. 21). To date, Polish voters have yet to allow the same political party or coalition the chance to govern the country for two successive terms in office. Disappointed, distrustful, and irritated, they have largely voted not so much for a new political force, but against “those in power,” regardless of their political identity.7 Does this not conform to a situation that once was called an “uncoupled democracy” (Lawson, Roemmele, and Karasimeonov 1999, pp. 31–33)? As already noted, the newly gained civic freedom resulted in the emergence of a myriad of NGOs and political parties. The legal background had been established by the constitutional acts of October 17, 1992, and April 2, 1997, and by statutory acts such as those of July 28, 1990, June 27, 1997, and April 12, 2001. All these acts meet the requirements of the European Union and provide citizens with possibilities for an effective political self-organization, as well as endowing political parties with a legal ability to form “stable, honest, democratic governments.” Nevertheless, there is an evident discrepancy between the quality of the legal structure provided and the prevailing civic culture. In practice, citizens exercise very limited control over elected representatives. Parties, while in power, tend to treat state institutions like a “conquest of war,” to be used, as a result, as extended “employment agencies” for their activists. Moreover, the parliamentary opposition often sees itself not as a cocreator, but as an enemy.

The Polish Political System The immediate context within which the SLD must function is the Polish political system. But the evolution of that system in the years following the fall of communist rule was dependent to a large extent on the new party law (of 1990 and of 1997), social cleavages caused by the transition process, and gradual changes of electoral law. As was already evident from the Spanish case, the collapse of totalitarian and authoritarian political systems in the late twentieth century was commonly accompanied by a dramatic change in the number of political parties, their legal status, and how they functioned. As a rule, while the parties of the ancient regime (in the case of Poland, the PZPR and its satellites the United Peasant Party [Ziednoczone Stronnictwo Ludowe] and the Democratic Party [Stronnictwo Demokratyczne]) dissolved themselves or underwent reconstruction as “successor parties,” hundreds of newborn groups and parties emerged, dreaming of electoral success. Up to 2004, these can be grouped under seven general types:

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1. Those that existed illegally under the previous regime (e.g., Confederation for an Independent Poland [Konfederacja Polski Niepodleglej]). 2. Reemerging historical parties that were prohibited at the time of real socialism (in Poland this included social democratic, liberal, Christian democratic, and nationalistic movements). 3. Those returning from abroad, where they had moved after 1945–1947 (such as the Polish Socialist Party [Polska Partia Socjalistyczna]). 4. Those emerging on the basis of newborn value systems, interests, and cleavages (e.g., different parties of pensioners, Self-Defense [Samoobrona], the Polish Families League [Liga Polskich Rodzin]). 5. Parties born out of the disintegration of the Solidarity camp (e.g., the Civic Platform [Platforma Obywatelska] and Law and Justice [Prano i Sprawiedliwos´c´]). 6. Those representing ethnic minorities (e.g., the German Minority Party). 7. Those emerging due to personal ambitions of certain individuals.

Legislative Acts Regulating Political Parties, and Their Consequences Under the party law of 1990, it was enough to submit to the registry of the Warsaw Voivodeship Court “the forenames, surnames, addresses and signature of at least 15 persons with full legal capacity.” Not surprisingly, this greatly facilitated the process of party formation: by the end of 1990 there were 40 parties, by 1992 there were 169, and by 1996 there were 262. The proliferation was stemmed by the new act of 1997, which required that an application for registration as political party be supported by at least 1,000 persons. The new act also obliged already existing parties to renew their legal status. When after half a year vacatio legis the new law went into force (January 1, 1998), only about 40 parties were able to meet its requirements. It was not long, however, before new parties began to register. Among them were, for instance, Lech Wal´˛esa’s Christian Democracy of the Third Republic (Chrzes´cijan´ska Demokracja III Rzeczypospolitej Polskiej) and Marian Krzaklewski’s Social Movement–Electoral Action Solidarity (Ruch Spol´eczny–Akcja Wyborcza Solidarnos´c´, which would go on to play a crucial role in the government of Jerzy Buzek).8 During the next three years, the total number of parties reached about 100. Yet, rather interestingly, public opinion surveys continue to show that more than half of all Poles still think that none of the existing political parties represent their interests. Maybe this is one of the reasons why so many citizens refrain from voting. A large majority of the registered parties (under both the old and the new law) had and still have, at least in terms of self-ascription, a right-wing character. As a rule, numerous right-wing politicians defeated under one party

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name simply reemerged under a new name. Still others of these self-appointed leaders wandered, like Odysseus listening to the songs of the sirens, from one party to another. Therefore, many right-wing politicians now have, in their biographies, at least three or four political identities (e.g., Jan Maria Rokita, a fifth-term member of parliament [MP], has served under a different party name for each of his terms of office). Another astonishing fact is that Poland, a country that is 95 percent nominally Catholic,9 has not had a strong and prospering Christian Democratic party. All attempts to create such a party, and there have been several, have resulted in either failure or only limited success. Lech Wal´˛esa’s attempt to establish a hundred thousand–member Christian Democratic party was one such failure. The Polish Families League (comprising several small Christian Democratic parties, movements, groupings, etc., now openly backed by some Polish Roman Catholic priests), organized just before the 2001 parliamentary election, managed to obtain only 7.9 percent of votes during that election. An earlier incarnation, the “Motherland” Catholic Electoral Action (also then supported by the church hierarchy), obtained 8.7 percent of votes in 1991 and 6.4 percent acting under the name “Motherland” Catholic Electoral Committee in 1993. To explain these failures, I offer a twofold hypothesis: First, a strong and directly involved Roman Catholic Church hierarchy already active in the political life of the country and controlling several organizations such as Opus Dei, Catholic Action (Akcja Katolicka), and Caritas left little or no room for any meaningful Christian Democratic party activity. Second, while the rhetoric and affiliation (including international) of these parties were and still are of a right-wing orientation, a substantial majority of their potential clients had and still have interests located on the left side of the political scene. Some parties with ambitions to become Christian Democrats (e.g., Marian Krzaklewski’s Social Movement–Electoral Action Solidarity) tried to overcome this contradiction by combining right-wing identity with a left-wing social policy. But attempts to harvest support during the 2001 election (as the main force of a new coalition named the Right-Wing Electoral Action Solidarity) failed. Obtaining only 5.6 percent of votes, while the threshold for coalitions was 8 percent, Social Movement won no seats in the Sejm. In any case, the majority of the registered parties had only a virtual existence. Nevertheless, up to forty parties, mainly as electoral coalitions, were able to gain representation, at least once during the 1990s, and ten of them participated once or twice in governmental coalitions (all Polish governments since 1989 have been coalitions).10 Establishing and breaking coalitions seem to be endemic in Polish politics. This is especially the case when right-wing parties are in power. Interestingly enough, while the new Polish left managed to evolve from a coalition of forces into the homogeneous, centralized, and effective Democratic Left Alliance, all similar steps taken by right-wing political forces brought only further fragmentation.

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The Party System in the Context of Social Cleavages Still another important tendency of party evolution is directly related to rapidly mounting economic and social problems. It appears that under pressure of drastically growing unemployment, accompanied by a sharp anti-egalitarian drive and exclusion on a mass scale, parties of the political center are losing political support. Even the Freedom Union (Unia Wolnos´ci), whose genesis stemmed from the Democratic Action “Civic Alliance” (Ruch Obywatelski Akcja Demokratyczna) and the Democratic Union (Unia Demokratyczna), so important at the initial stage of systemic transformation, now exists only as a small extraparliamentary party. Because of new social cleavages, the Polish political scene until 2005 was undergoing a process of bipolarization. But the effect of this process was not, as one would expect, a classical bipartism as in the United Kingdom or the United States. Polish “polarized pluralism” was somewhat of a hybrid system composed, on one side, of one strong left party and, on the other, of myriad small political entities unable to collaborate effectively one with another. After the parliamentary election of 2001, the new leftist coalition of the SLD and the Union of Labor (Unia Pracy [UP]) now has to face: • The liberal Civic Platform. • Andrzej Lepper’s Self-Defense, a highly populist party that advocated economic autarky and opposed integration with EU and the “domination of foreign capital.” • Lech Kaczyn´ski and Jarosl´ aw Kaczyn´ski’s Law and Justice (Prawo i Sprawiedliwos´c´ [PiS]), which sees the remedy to present problems in “enforcement of the law” and “penalization” to the full extent of the law, and accepts European integration, but on the basis of a Europe of nation-states. • The Polish Peasant Party, a postclass party representing Polish peasants, nationalistic and ethnocentric, whose genesis stems from the former United Peasant Party. Until February 2003 this party was in a parliamentary and governmental coalition with the SLD-UP. • Polish Families League, composed internally of several groupings, orthodox Catholic in terms of beliefs, populist by social and economic demands. • The small (two-seat) German Minority Party. Moreover, whereas the vast majority of Civic Platform, Law and Justice, and Polish Families League deputies had already been MPs before 2001 (although under different banners), politicians from Self-Defense lacked any parliamentary experience. Despite the fact that the SLD-UP has a dozen political competitors and enemies, the latter have yet to coalesce into a coherent and organized opposition. For a short time during and after the 2001 parliamentary

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election, it seemed that the Civic Platform could become the focal point of a future united right-wing political party. When that prospect faded, some SLD political opponents cast Law and Justice in this challenging role. Still other political forces (paradoxically, previously deeply rooted in the SLD electorate) saw Self-Defense as a potential SLD successor. Later, beginning at the end of 2003 especially, all three of these parties—the Civic Platform, Self-Defense, and Law and Justice—were already seen as possible winners during the next parliamentary election. Political Parties and Electoral Law Polish electoral law, now in force, favors medium and small parties. This stems from the legislation of 2001, which replaced the d’Hondt way of converting valid votes into parliamentary mandates into a modified Sainte-Lague system.11 Paradoxically enough, the new law was enacted while right-wing and centrist parties held a majority in the Sejm and Senate, and was intended to prevent the SLD-UP coalition from forming a government by itself. There is also an elaborate set of norms regulating the financial aspects of political parties’ performance, although this does not mean that the system is free of corruption. Documents of the State Electoral Committee and court rulings provide rich sources for studying the mechanism and systemic consequences of this phenomenon. Legal regulations designed to eliminate corrupt practices from Polish political life were introduced by the July 28, 1990, political party act. Later, they were enlarged and reinforced by two successive acts, of August 19, 1997, and April 12, 2001. Changes introduced during those years were aimed mostly at making the funding sources and spending of political parties more transparent and open to public inspection. Yet further regulations are under parliamentary consideration. The law now in force covers almost all aspects of a party’s financial operations, including everyday activities, political marketing, and election campaigning. Under the provision of the act of 1990, “The assets of a political party dedicated to the accomplishment of its goals may be derived from membership fees, donations, bequests, legacies, income from property, and income from economic activity as well as from public contributions.”12 Under the regulation, donations were capped and were to be deposited in a bank account. The law also states clearly the following three restrictions: 1. Political parties may not benefit from material or financial support from foreign persons as defined by the foreign-exchange law, or from legal persons with exclusive participation of foreign subjects.13 2. Political parties may not spend more on election campaigning than the sum defined by the electoral law.14 3. Political parties may not accept donations from state budget, state treasury, and other state legal persons; self-government institutions;

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state organizational units; state-owned or co-owned business; or other legal persons subsidized by the state during the two years preceding the intended donation. However, electoral victory produces two important exceptions to the third restriction. First, when lists of a given political party in all constituencies obtain more than 3 percent of all valid votes turned over on all political parties’ lists in the country, that party is entitled to a certain sum paid in installments during the four-year term of the Sejm.15 Second, when a political party or electoral committee wins seats in a parliamentary election, its campaign expenditures shall be refunded from public sources proportionately to the number of seats won in the Sejm and the Senate.16 In light of the above and based on National Electoral Commission documentation and cases disclosed to the public, no political party is totally immune from corruption, which tends to take the form of undocumented donations that exceed the limits from private- and state-owned (or partly owned) businesses, contributions of individuals not transferred through a political party’s bank account, clientelistic linkages, and overspending for election campaigning and for political marketing. Why is this the case? As election campaigning becomes more and more expensive, many parties, particularly those that are small and new, are simply unable to meet the costs.17 From time to time, corruption takes place during the process of collecting supporters’ signatures, something required for registration of party lists or independent candidates. Quite often it takes the form of a corruption of political discourse, but this is already a different story. It is not easy to construct any clear-cut, meaningful typology of political parties presently active on the Polish political scene. The legacy of “real socialism” (which continues to produce strong antiparty prejudices), the specific Polish route of extrication from the former system (i.e., the roundtable negotiation between the reformist faction within the ruling PZPR and the already well-organized antisystemic opposition, as well as mass mobilization), plus tensions caused by the systemic transition and some international processes (e.g., globalization of the economy, collapse of the former regional network of economic cooperation, rapid transnational integration, the Polish economic recession after 1997, and the like) all serve to blur known and convenient leftright distinctions. Under these conditions it seems safe to state that, until the beginning of 2004, the Polish political scene comprised the following: • Four leftist parties: the SLD (with 201 MPs in the 460-seat Sejm immediately after the 2001 election), the Union of Labor (with 16 seats, and doctrinally closer to traditional social democracy than the SLD), the Polish Socialist Party (formerly represented in the Sejm and Senate, but now totally marginal), and finally the Communist Party “Pro-

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•

•

•

• • • •

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letariat” (again an extraparliamentary party with 2,000–3,000 members who do not participate directly in political life at the national level). One orthodox liberal party, the Civic Platform, which won 66 seats during the 2001 election. It subsequently transformed from an electoral citizen committee having over 170,000 members into a political party that was, at its beginning, approximately ten times smaller, but is now becoming one of the most influential political parties in Poland. Two or three centrist parties, of which the Freedom Union and the Polish Peasant Party seem to be the most important. The first, despite its electoral defeat, is a party of opinion-making via the Polish intelligentsia, and the second, with 41 MPs, was until February 2003 the third member of the governing coalition. A dozen populist parties of either left-wing inclination (e.g., Andrzej Lepper’s Self-Defense, which has risen from a marginal and folkloristic grouping to a position as the third most significant force in the Sejm, with 52 seats) or right-wing identity (e.g., Lech Kaczyn´ski and Jarosl´ aw Kaczyn´ski’s Law and Justice, with 47 MPs). One Weltanschauung party, the Polish Families League, a coalition by its internal structure (with 38 MPs). Three ethnic-minority parties, of which only the German Minority Party (with 2 MPs) has any parliamentary representation. Several parties representing interest groups (owners, pensioners, regions, etc.). A dozen small but well-reported right-wing parties that lack parliamentary representation.

Events in 2005 changed the composition of the Polish political scene dramatically. Voters turned the Polish political scene upside down. By majority vote, the outgoing president, Aleksander Kwas´niewski (the symbolic figure of the Polish reformed left), was replaced by Lech Kaczyn´ski, one of the two leading personalities of Law and Justice. Prime Minister Marek Belka, the successor for a few months (May 2004–October 2004) of Leszek Miller (prime minister from October 2001 to May 2004), was succeeded by Kazimierz Marcinkiewicz (a Law and Justice politician in office from October 2005 to July 2006) and soon after by the second of the Kaczyn´ski twins—Jarosl´ aw. While the Kaczyn´skis’ Law and Justice, along with Andrzej Lepper’s SelfDefense and Maciej Giertych’s Polish Families League, established the new ruling coalition (parliamentary and governmental), the Civic Platform, the Democratic Left Alliance, and the Polish Peasant Party, competing with one another, found themselves in the parliamentary opposition. Other political parties, with the exception of the German Minority Electoral Committee, ended up with no parliamentary representation at all. The conservative, populist, and orthodox Catholic forces replaced the left, liberal, and centrist

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groupings and took full control of the executive and legislative branches of state power.

A Prospering Party: The SLD Way to Public Support and Government Power Several factors have facilitated the transformation of social democracy in the Republic of Poland into today’s prosperous SLD. From a small and negatively stigmatized group of former, rather lower-ranking PZPR activists in January 1990 (immediately after the last congress of PZPR), it has evolved into the powerful Democratic Left Alliance (1999), which after the 2001 parliamentary election was short of only a few mandates to be able to form, for the first time after 1989, a one-party government. The name “Democratic Left Alliance” appeared on the Polish political scene on July 16, 1991. Yet at the very beginning it referred only to a coalition that was formed as an electoral committee and participated in governing Poland (together with the Polish Peasant Party) from 1993 to 1997. Later, from 1997 until 1999, this coalition acted as a parliamentary opposition. Only after the congress of November 4, 1999, did the SLD emerge as a political party able to win parliamentary election, in 2001, and govern Poland, until 2004. How did the SLD become so successful in the 2001 election, and why did the party lose so much in 2005? Possible answers to these questions involve three dimensions: the party’s programmatic identity, its internal life, and the nature of its hard-core electorate. The SLD’s Programmatic Identity It can certainly be argued that the SLD’s success owes less to the talents of its leaders, the quality of its members, or extraordinary party politics than to the gradually growing disillusionment of large segments of Polish society with the performance of the “post-August camp” (i.e., the second Solidarity camp, plus political parties and groupings without postcommunist succession). United in the pursuit of power, that camp began to disintegrate once in power. After the first seven years of systemic transition, it became obvious that the immediate cost of change for many segments of society (blue-collar workers of heavy industry, employees of liquidated state farms, small farmers, pensioners, young people from low-income families entering the labor market for the first time, and those living in small towns and villages) outstripped the possible future gains. Disappointed, they simply refused to pay the price of systemic changes and placed their political hopes in the party that they perceived as an alternative to the politics of the governing “post-August camp.” It happened to be the SLD electoral coalition from 1993 to 1997, and then, since 2001, the SLD party. There are good reasons to assume that the pendulum swing was not so much due to the programmatic appeal of the new Polish left, but rather to the pressure of the unbearable consequences of policies run by liberal and right-wing politi-

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cians. In any event, the total number of votes cast for the new left kept growing until 2005, from one election to the next. While in the 1991 election the SLD received 12 percent of the popular vote, in 1993 its share rose to 20 percent, in 1997 to 27 percent, and in 2001 (with the SLD in a coalition with the UP) to a dramatic 41 percent. But by 2005 this percentage had fallen to 11 percent. A rather interesting aspect of this left turn (built on the structural premises demonstrated previously) is that the SLD was, at least at the beginning of its existence, seen by the Polish people, contrary to the party’s real program and policies while in power, as a much more leftist entity than the UP.18 Such a view is held by the university-educated (those having average incomes), by employees of state institutions, and last but not least by housewives, yet, somewhat ironically, not by the younger generation, the uneducated, blue-collar workers, and small farmers. Does the SLD in fact deserve such a perception? The Polish left has undergone a profound programmatic evolution after the symbolic shift in 1989. Immediately after the PZPR dissolved itself during the country’s eleventh congress (January 1990), the more orthodox members of the former ruling party withdrew from the political game. The attempt to create a new political party, integrating some former members of the Solidarity camp and some former adherents of the PZPR reform wing, had only limited success, despite the support of people such as Lech Wal´˛esa.19 The effort to restore the historical Polish Socialist Party was also only a minor success. Thus the mainstay of the new Polish left was in fact built on, and out of, the ashes of the PZPR, not, paradoxically, by the well-known PZPR liberals and reformers of the 1980s, but mostly by some second-rung activists and journalists in their thirties. Initially, the SdRP was headed by Aleksander Kwas´niewski and, among others, by Józef Oleksy and Leszek Miller. It was this group who managed to depart from the reformed doctrine of a post-Leninist party and build a pragmatic programmatic party compatible with modern European social democratic parties. This new identity was legitimized by Socialist International when the SdRP became a member in 1996 (Iwin´ski 1999, pp. 87–97). In sum, the programmatic evolution of the new Polish left can be described as a farewell to revolution (as a means of social and political change), to a nationalized, centrally planned economy, and to philosophical materialism, simultaneous with growing support for a parliamentary democracy, the European code of human rights, private property, a free market economy, European integration, and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO). The only continuity was the belief in state interventionism, though even here this was limited mainly to issues of social policy orientation.20 One of the touchiest and at the same time complex programmatic problems for the SLD in the 1990s was keeping a balance between long-lasting state interests and the current expectations of the SLD electorate. Unfortunately, these two perspectives are highly contradictory. Moreover, while the

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SLD Warsaw elite are inclined to pay attention first to interests of state, the party base is mostly responsive to demands of particular social, occupational, and local groups. In the spring of 2002 this discrepancy was quite visible during the dispute on proposed changes to the labor code affecting salaries, the maximum permissible hours of work, hygienic conditions of work, age of retirement, the right to social security, and so forth. A year later, these proposals, supplemented by the idea of limiting state expenditure on health and social policy, and thereby reducing substantially the state budget deficit, were already known as the “Jerzy Hausner plan.” While those in the SLD government (of which Jerzy Hausner became the cabinet minister of labor and social policy at first, and then deputy prime minister some months later) considered all these limitations to be preconditions for making the national economy more effective, for many social groups they were perceived simply as violations of elementary constitutional rights. The contradiction between these two very different perspectives gradually cut the SLD off from the lower strata of its own 2001 electorate and created at the same time a kind of political vacuum, which was soon filled by populist parties, such as Lech Kaczyn´ski and Jarosl´ aw Kaczyn´ski’s Law and Justice, Marek Kotlinowski and Maciej Giertych’s Polish Families League, and Andrzej Lepper’s Self-Defense especially. It seems that in the case of Poland, there was a historical turnaround. While Western European social democratic parties emerged mostly as countercapitalist protest forces, Polish social democrats had to build capitalism under the pressure of systemic transformation. The price for this was paid at the time of the 2005 parliamentary election. Inside the SLD At the beginning of its existence, the SLD had approximately 115,000 members, making it the second largest party in the country. With the exception of Mazovia (with just under 17,000 members), the territorial distribution of SLD members was (and remains) highly correlated to the level of electoral support. In both cases, the SLD was stronger in the western and central provinces than in southeastern Poland.21 Among all SLD members at the beginning of the twenty-first century, three groups can be distinguished. The first consists of former PZPR activists who joined the SdRP from the outset. These people make up the so-called old guard. The second group also consists of former PZPR members, but unlike the first group, these are members who withdrew from the public sphere after 1989 only to reengage in active political life a decade later. Finally, the third group is made up of individuals who have not belonged to any political party, but have accumulated some political experience acting in self-governmental institutions, trade unions, and other types of NGOs.22 These activists are largely younger than those belonging to the first two groups, and therefore

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their vision of reality is shaped not by the legacy of the PRL, but by the pressure of today’s social and political cleavages. At the turn of the century the SLD has both direct and indirect party membership, the latter via membership in one of five independent youth organizations that cooperate with the SLD: the Young Left Alliance (6,000 members), the Young Democratic Left Association (6,000 members), the “Young for Poland” Civic Movement (800 members), the Union of Polish Socialist Youth (data on membership not available), and the Polish Students’Association (8,000 members).23 Does this mean that the SLD, from 2001 to 2003, in terms of the age of its members and close supporters, was a young party? Yes and no. Yes because its activists below the age of thirty comprised, in those days, approximately one-quarter of the total party’s membership, and today this proportion, also due to high unemployment among graduates of secondary and higher schools, is growing. No because of the age structure of its leaders and parliamentary representation. SLD leaders are largely in their fifties. The age composition of the party’s parliamentary representation after the election of 2001 showed that 4.5 percent of its MPs were age 29 and younger, 6 percent were 30–39 years old, 31.5 percent were 40–49 years old, 52 percent were 50–59 years old, and 5.5 percent were age 60 years or older. Also judging by the age composition of its electorate, the SLD is still being perceived by Polish society as a party representing the interests of an older rather than younger generation.24 Although the SLD pays much attention to gender issues, it remains a party dominated, among leaders as well as members, by men. In the 2001 election there was only one female party leader (but six parties in all), and only 18.5 percent of all SLD members of parliament were women.25 Interestingly, at the same time, there are many more former PZPR members among the SLD leadership and members than among its MPs.26 In terms of party structure and internal democracy, particularly when it comes to handling disputes and implementing programmatic changes, leaders’ selection procedures, and the like, today’s SLD is not greatly different from a typical EU social democratic party. This includes the presence of internal conflicts. Although the SLD appeared to be a highly disciplined political party with a strong and dominant leader (Prime Minister Leszek Miller), a closer look at the internal life and performance of the party shows several divisions and even cleavages. Usually these are conflicts of old versus young, men versus women, central activists versus regional and local activists. They often arise over the process of candidate selection for all types of elections and for state positions. Some conflicts are of a programmatic character; others are related to the party’s relationship with the leftist All-Poland Alliance of Trade Unions (Ogólnopolskie Porozumienie Zwia˛zków Zawodowych) and to natural competition between leaders and various SLD interest groups at the national and local levels.

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Up to 2005, the SLD’s general programmatic issues seemed to have been settled or at least were not in the spotlight. Ideological disputes, so typical of the old left, had been replaced by controversies over electoral tactics and the sheer technology of exercising political power. One of the most evident examples of this is the debate on political priorities: the raison d’état versus the wants of different segments of their own electorate. Whereas the first dictates a medium- and long-range perspective, the other calls for action aimed at solving—hic et nunc—the myriad problems of disappointed people. While concentrating on the needs of the state may merit a place in future textbooks, neglecting to deal with problems here and now may well result in the loss of the next election (as was the case in 2005). The chance for such a course of events is perfectly well seen from public opinion surveys: from 2001 until the middle of 2004, the SLD lost about two-thirds of its previous supporters. But Leszek Miller still advocated his doctrine. In October 2003, during the SLD Country Council meeting, he proposed radical revision to the hierarchical order of the main social democratic principles. According to him, economic growth must be treated by the SLD as a more important strategic aim than social justice and social policy. This approach should be adopted because “the key to fulfilment of the SLD social vision lies in the economy.”27 Conflict over the labor code is another perfect illustration of this Gordian knot. As a governing party, the SLD had to reduce the cost of labor and make the economy more effective. By reducing the functions of a protective state, it created a chance for lowering taxes and making the state less expensive. This made the SLD situation quite similar to that of the German Social Democratic Party. All these steps looked indeed like a prerequisite for revitalizing the national economy. Therefore, the Leszek Miller government proposed far-reaching changes of the labor code, as well as of social and taxation policy. Yet from the point of view of organized workers, this was the last element left from the previous social safety net, and trade union activists within the SLD, as well as their Solidarity competitors, were not ready to relinquish this. In the spring of 2002, Marian Krzaklewski’s Solidarity camp was able to mobilize thousands of protesters in demanding maintenance of the status quo.28 At the end of 2003 and during the first half of 2004, the same was done by the All-Poland Alliance of Trade Unions. From 2001 until the end of 2003, Miller’s government withstood the pressure of all the traditional trade unions and of a new form of protest initiated outside the unions by employees belonging to over a hundred big but not prospering state-owned factories (mostly heavy and extractive industry). The same kind of conflict exists between the SLD leaders at the national and regional levels, and local party activists. While the first are inclined to pay more attention to the state interests and opinion of the liberal intelligentsia, the others are much more empathetic to the moods and needs of their own electorates. Furthermore, after electoral victory in 2001, political life moved from the SLD compounds to the offices of state administration at the national and

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regional levels. This very fact also caused a personal problem for Leszek Miller. As well as being Poland’s prime minister, he was a charismatic party leader who was able to mobilize the highest level of mass popular support in his electoral district. Whose interests would prevail in his decisions, in the face of claims that “partisanship ought to be secondary to the country’s interests”?29 But at the end of 2003, it became obvious that Miller had lost his game, both as the SLD’s leader and as Poland’s prime minister. Although under his rules the Polish economy started to develop again (at a speed of almost 6 percent a year by mid-2004), the level of unemployment had not declined. And although Poland became a member of the EU on May 1, 2004, this fact too was not seen as a personal success for Miller. At the time when his government coalition took power in October 2001, 63 percent of Poles trusted him. But soon public opinion became less favorable for Miller. By March 2002 only 50 percent trusted him; in July 2002 only 45 percent; in December 2002, 36 percent; in March 2003, 36 percent; in June 2003, 26 percent. By September 2003 trust in him had dwindled to 25 percent.30 To overcome these problems, the SLD leadership tried to separate the majority of party positions from state and regional government posts. Of course, this initiative met resistance from the provincial “barons” (party bosses) and other local leaders, but Miller’s will prevailed.31 At the beginning of 2003, only one of the barons managed to survive as a regional party leader and, at the same time, a cabinet minister. Still, there are two other reasons for internal conflict between the leaders of the SLD. The first is related to the organizational background of today’s party leaders. During the 1980s, the majority of them were twenty to thirty years old: too young to occupy important positions in the PZPR and to develop the experience required for performing public roles. Instead, they generated these skills and feelings of companionship in two youth organizations, the Polish Students’ Association (Zrzeszenie Studentów Polskich) and the Polish Socialist Youth Union (Zwia˛zek Socjalistycznej Mlodziezy Polskiej). Although both were under PZPR political influence, they were nevertheless quite different. The first, the Polish Students’ Association, was an exclusive brotherhood, organic and pragmatic by style of its activities, with its own cultural clubs and international contacts. It supplied the national economy with managers, the national culture with creative talent, and state institutions with well-trained, foreign language–speaking officers. The second, the Polish Socialist Youth Union, was an inclusive hierarchical organization, devoting significant time to ideological disputes and developing skills of verbal communication. Many of its leaders followed a beaten track to the PZPR “apparatus.” When systemic change began, leaders who had a background in the Polish Students’ Association adjusted themselves to the new reality much more easily than those from the Polish Socialist Youth Union. Two politicians of the new Polish left symbolized these different groups: Aleksander Kwas´niewski, the president of Poland from

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1995 to 2005, and Leszek Miller, the prime minister from 2001 to 2004. While Kwas´niewski created the SdRP,32 Miller, ten years later, brought to a successful end the process of building the SLD as a modern social democratic party. Until the electoral victory of 2001, these two left-oriented politicians cooperated effectively. But it is not irrational to assume that they might become competitors in the quest for public trust and the role of leader of the new Polish left on Poland’s political scene (both domestically and internationally). In 2003 the past ideological and political consonance between the two had been eroded to a “rough friendship,” as Miller put it metaphorically. The second divide among SLD top activists (since the time of the SLD’s registration as a political party) is between those coming from the SdRP, “the party of friends,” and those who have no SdRP antecedents. It is also seen in the SLD parliamentary club, where only 22.5 percent of all SLD members of parliament have an SdRP background. Corruption, involving some well-known activists, casts still another shadow on the future of the SLD. To free the party of its influence, the SLD decided in 2003 to establish a process of internal verification. However, this new program has not created a new image of the SLD, and its membership has continued to decrease. Things came to a head with the so-called Lew Rywin bribe affair, the Starachowice leak of state secret information, and the Opole and Bydgoszcz corruption in local administration, among other events. This chain of affairs, overexposed by the right-wing parties for political reasons, gradually convinced the public and some prominent SLD figures that there were too many dishonest politicians and unacceptable developments within the SLD. Thus the stage was set for an SLD internal split. Electoral collapse was imminent in 2005. Maintaining and Building a Stable Electorate We have already seen that the electoral strength of the SLD grew systematically over the 1991, 1993, 1997, and 2001 parliamentary elections. The SLD (like its predecessors) has the most stable hard-core electorate of any of the Polish parties. While the behavior of the electorates of the right-wing and centrist political parties is highly erratic, approximately 90 percent of voters who cast their votes in 1997 for the SLD as a coalition also voted for the SLD as a single party in the 2001 election. But this trend broke dramatically in the first half of 2004. Despite the evident recovery of the national economy and the access of Poland to the EU, under the Miller government the percentage of Poles who still wanted to vote for the SLD dropped by May 2004 to 6 percent (Center for Public Opinion Research [CBOS] 2004). During the 1993 and 1997 parliamentary elections, a very specific territorial pattern of voting behavior could be observed: Little Poland and the socalled Eastern wall of Poland voted constantly for right-wing political forces

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(at least for those self-ascribed as such)33 until the 2001 election, when this regularity was nullified. The SLD gained headway in all constituencies, though the victory ranged from over 44 percent of all votes in those constituencies where the new left was traditionally strong to over 30 percent in those constituencies that had been the strongholds of right-wing parties. Furthermore, the SLD politicians’ ability to mobilize electoral support increased from one election to the next. At the time of the 1997 parliamentary election, the list of the fifty newly elected MPs who received the biggest share of votes in their constituencies included twenty-seven SLD parliamentarians; during the 2001 election this number increased by ten. Moreover, leaders of the SLD occupied six of the top ten positions for deputies who obtained the highest number of votes.34 This success was not repeated in 2005. Among people voting for the SLD, older cohorts and pensioners, women, inhabitants of middle-size towns, graduates from higher education, and selfemployed individuals are overrepresented. Underrepresented are voters of ages eighteen to twenty-four, ideological and religious militants, the unskilled, those with elementary and occupational education, farmers, and blue-collar workers. It may mean that the SLD is moving to the center of the political scene, losing those who consider themselves to be the losers of the transformation. This certainly brings with it space for populist political parties on the left as well as the right. As has already been noted, two populist parties—Lepper’s Self-Defense and the many-headed Polish Families League—are already represented in the Polish parliament. This type of SLD political evolution might also be the reason why all attempts to establish a strong right-centrist party or at least a coalition of rightcentrist groupings, until the beginning of 2004, fell flat. According to a CBOS public opinion survey of May 7–10, 2004, Civic Platform was already a leading force, and could count on 26 percent of voters. Moreover, even the populist parties, such as Self-Defense (pledged support of 20 percent), Law and Justice (13 percent), and the Polish Families League (7 percent), have now taken over the SLD. The parliamentary election of 2005 brought the following results: Law and Justice, 27 percent of votes and 155 seats in the Sejm; Civic Platform, 24 percent and 133 seats; Samoobrona, 11 percent and 56 seats; the SLD, 11 percent and 55 seats; the Polish Families League, 8 percent and 34 seats; the Polish Peasant Party, 7 percent and 25 seats; the German Minority Party, 0.4 percent and 2 seats. Seats won by the German Minority Electoral Committee need some additional explication. Pursuant to Article 5 of the constitution of the Republic of Poland, the electoral committees of registered organizations of national minorities do not have to cross the 5 percent threshold established for other committees in order to gain seats in the Sejm. In order to be granted this right, national minorities must submit the appropriate declaration to the National Electoral Commission no later than five days before election day. The committee expressed its approval, thus permitting the German minority to have its own MPs.

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Conclusion The logic of divisions and cleavages in today’s Polish society may lead to the opinion that the SLD’s success is not an ephemeral episode related to an early phase of systemic transition. Born of a diminishing PZPR legacy and of emerging new structural cleavages, the SLD appears to be an integral part of a posttransitional era. Institutionalized in full, with its regional and local structures spread throughout the country, with an able leadership, rather more pragmatic than ideological in terms of programmatic appeal, efficient in mobilizing electoral support and in aggregating individual interests, and with two terms in office (1993–1997 and 2001–2005), the SLD was able to bring systemic transition to a close by integrating Poland within the European Union on May 1, 2004. While this will give the SLD a permanent place in future school textbooks, it could not prevent electoral defeat in the 2005 parliamentary election. Some warning signals were given during the autumn 2002 regional government election. Although the SLD-UP electoral coalition preserved its leading position on all levels of self-government, it still lacked enough mandates to govern by itself. In all regional capital cities, the left coalition secured fewer votes than the SLD electoral coalition received four years earlier. Moreover, the SLD-UP coalition held the office of mayor in only four of seventeen big cities. It appears that the SLD is doing much better as a disciplined, Warsaworiented organization than as a political movement deeply rooted in local communities. In any case, it has not yet generated an army of well-known local leaders, so necessary for a participatory form of democracy. On May 2, 2004, under the pressure of internal tension (due to the unfriendly mood of public opinion), Leszek Miller was forced to resign as SLD chairman (for reasons very similar to those that forced Germany’s Gerhard Schröder to do the same; Schaube 2004; Mitraszewska 2004). He was replaced by Krzysztof Janik, former minister of home affairs in Miller’s government, but only for a short time (2004 to 2005). On May 29, 2005, Janik was replaced by Wojciech Olejniczak, a younger-generation politician and formerly minister of agriculture to Leszek Miller and Marek Belka. The main problem that the SLD must now face under the leadership of Olejniczak is by no means new. It is the antinomy between being a party of power and, simultaneously, being a party of social sensitivity. SLD leaders’ style of policymaking, and their successful drive for achieving nonpartisan ends, like effective preparation for Poland’s access to NATO (during its first term in power),35 integration with the EU (during its second), and successful steps taken to revitalize the national economy (at the end of 2002), although in full accordance with the goals of the Polish state, have nevertheless alienated the party from an essential part of its natural supporters (e.g., from social categories who earn a living by selling work and from retired people). These steps cannot be taken without limiting post-PRL employees’ privileges, ration-

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alizing employment, backing entrepreneurs, and stimulating entrepreneurship. Yet these necessities are not fully recognized by big segments of Polish society and the trade unions, which therefore oppose them. These are exactly the same problems that Europe’s older social democratic parties are currently trying to deal with. The SLD is becoming similar to other EU social democratic parties, at least from one perspective. In gradually moving to the center of the political spectrum, the SLD no longer stresses secularism and anticlericalism. For instance, while the SLD’s attitude toward abortion is rhetorically much closer to feminist movements’ demands than to the traditional teaching of the Roman Catholic hierarchy, when in power SLD leaders, for the sake of avoiding direct confrontation with the church, have declared that liberalization of the abortion law now in force must be postponed until the next SLD term in power—after 2005—a term that did not come. All of the aforementioned does not mean that the SLD fails to pay attention to the technology of obtaining and exploiting power for multiplying its own political capital. It should not be forgotten that such capital is an important asset for every political party. Yet at the time of systemic transformation, power also improves individual and collective social status and brings substantial financial profits. In essence, it is nothing new. Gaining access to political power was, for a long time and in all Central and Eastern European countries, an instrument for both upholding one’s social standing36 and getting richer. Nevertheless, while at the time of “real socialism” it was somehow tempered by puritan politicians like Wl´adysl´aw Gomul´ka, or kept secret behind “yellow curtains,” in the 1990s the drive for getting richer became a highly prized, if not the only, virtue. Of course, some SLD members and politicians at the state and local levels are not immune to this tendency, and this fact was—at least in public declarations—recognized as early as 2002.37 Is it possible to foresee how the SLD will develop in the future, and whether or not it will continue to be a prospering party? Yes and no. It seems that the party tries to open itself to the younger generation and promote politicians in their thirties to the Executive Committee, as well as to regional and local ruling bodies. By doing this, SLD leaders want to limit the influence on party politics of all former PZPR activists who, after about ten years of total absence from the political scene, returned en masse after the 2001 electoral victory, wishing to “make up for lost time.”38 Between those “old” activists and new “young” party members is a “mental, ideological and civilisational gap.”39 This strategy may work due to the feeling of deprivation growing among a substantial segment of Polish youth, as well as due to the aging process: many of the young PZPR politicians from the 1980s are now simply retiring from active political life. But for the parliamentary election of 2005 it was already too late. Trying to stop devastating processes and force internal changes within the SLD, as well as trying to improve the popular image of the Polish left and

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regain the lost electorate during the spring of 2004, many MPs and prominent members left the SLD and established a new political party, Polish Social Democracy (Socjaldemokracja Polska [SdPl]), registered on March 26, 2004. Headed by Marek Borowski (deputy prime minister, minister of finance, and Sejm speaker until May 2004), the SdPl did quite well during the first months of its existence, generating more public attention than the SLD. Public opinion surveys indicated that during the election to the European Parliament (held on June 13, 2004) and the subsequent legislative election to the Sejm, the new party might overtake its predecessor. But as the results of the 2005 parliamentary election showed, this did not take place. As a result of the split, Poland now has three social democratic parties: the SLD (with about 80,000 members in mid-2006), the UP (which is also undergoing profound changes, but its membership number remains unknown), and the SdPl (which declared a membership of about 4,000 at the beginning of 2007). What is more, the UP and the SdPl are much more left-oriented than the SLD. The SLD, being already far beyond the postcommunist political party formula, is now being seriously challenged from the right as well as from the left. Until the spring of 2004, it had no competitors on the left, because “in Poland, unlike in Hungary, the Czech Republic or the Slovak Republic, no neo-communist party emerged able to rival social-democracy.”40 Moreover, the historical Polish Socialist Party failed to reestablish itself after 1989 in any meaningful way. The same can be said for the Union of Labor. It came into existence at the beginning of the 1990s, won forty-one seats in the Sejm in the election of 1993, but was unable to cross the 5 percent threshold in 1997. Following the election of 2001, its sixteen MPs became part of the coalition with the SLD. But now the situation has changed drastically. The SLD not only is in the parliamentary opposition on its own, but also has new left-wing competitors outside the Sejm. Until 2005, the SLD was not confronted by strong centrist, liberal, or right-wing parties. But it has to face the competition now. Notably, none of the groupings in competition has taken on the form of a modern centrist Christian Democratic party. Due to the level of religiosity of Polish society and the social cleavages present, there is certainly a political space for this type of party, but despite myriad groupings using the name and some ambitions of Law and Justice, such a party has yet to emerge. Meanwhile, real competitors are among liberal and populist political parties. As long as social democratic parties are divided and a strong Christian Democratic party is not established, the scene for these political forces is open. Paradoxically, under these conditions, the only effective enemy of the SLD becomes the SLD itself. The SLD lost the 2005 parliamentary election, obtaining almost four times fewer votes than in the 2001 election. With 11.4 percent of votes and 55 MPs, it is now not only behind the Kaczyn´skis’ Law and Justice (26.9 percent

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of votes and 155 MPs), but also Donald Tusk’s Civic Platform (24.1 percent and 133 MPs) and Lepper’s Self-Defense (11.7 percent and 56 MPs). Where are the former SLD voters now? About 30 percent of them withdrew from voting. Some better-educated and younger voters opted for the Civic Platform. Many older and less-educated voters, disappointed with the SLD’s performance while in power and its inability to deal effectively with new free market reality, opted for Law and Justice and its vision of solidarne pan´stwo (a state that is sensible to social needs). Only about 20 percent of those who voted for the SLD in 2001—some of the better-educated and those living in cities with populations between 50,000 and 200,000—stood by the SLD in the 2005 election as its core group of voters. In order to counter the process of political marginalization, the SLD has engaged in negotiation with the SdPl, the UP, and the Democratic Party. The Democratic Party, a centrist party headed by Janusz Onyszkiewicz, though registered as an independent political entity only recently (May 7, 2005) and with only about 1,000 members in 2007, has a long and prestigious tradition on the Polish political scene, evolving from the former Freedom Union (which functioned from 1990 to 1994 as the Democratic Union). From a historical perspective, it is the party of such prominent Solidarity figures as Tadeusz Mazowiecki (the first noncommunist prime minister after 1989), Bronisl´aw Gieremek (minister of foreign affairs from 1997 to 2000 and now an MP), Wl´adysl´aw Frasyniuk and Zbigniew Bujak (charismatic leaders of the first Solidarity), and Marek Edelman (the last commander of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising). Just before the 2006 election to self-government institutions, leaders of the SLD, SdPl, UP, and Democratic Party decided (September 3, 2006) to create an electoral coalition named the “Common Poland” Left and Democrats Agreement (Porozumienie Lewicy i Demokratów “Wspólna Polska”). On January 18, 2007, leaders of these four parties called into being the permanent Political Committee (Polityczny Komitet Porozumiewawczy). In the 2006 election, Common Poland did not attain particularly promising results. According to official data of the State Electoral Commission, only 66 Common Poland candidates were elected to the regional councils (11.8 percent of the overall number of elected councillors), 468 to the county councils (7.5 percent), and 42 to positions as village heads, city mayors, or presidents (1.7 percent). Nevertheless, the establishment of Common Poland may have far-reaching consequences for the Polish political system. There are two reasons for this. First, Common Poland might be seen as an important symptom in overcoming the political cleavages generated by the process of systemic transformation after 1989. Second, Common Poland may create a solid background for finally erecting a modern centrist political grouping with leftist inclinations in terms of human rights, the common good, and policies aimed especially at social needs.

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In Poland’s current highly bipolarized political system (with the Civic Platform on the one side and the Law and Justice–Self-Defense–Polish Families League coalition on the other), deeply infected with a “barricade mentality” as well as very low electoral turnout (40.6 percent in the 2005 parliamentary election), there seems to be a vast political void that a Common Poland–type coalition could occupy. If nothing unpredictable happens, such a coalition could become a major challenge and a real alternative to current political forces. And this is also a chance for the Polish left to become a civilized social democratic political party of the postmodern European Union—that is, socially sensitive and rational in economic policy. These two dimensions of today’s social democratic identity are contradictory only on the surface. Social sensitivity is needed because 25 percent of Poland’s citizens still live below the objective poverty line (with 57 percent below the subjective poverty line). About 21 percent of family households (calculated at 3.1 persons per household) have a net monthly income of less than 900 Polish zlotys (approximately US$300). This means that about 33 percent do not buy prescribed medicines, 30 percent do not go to dentists, and 35 percent are forced to deny themselves any form of active cultural life. About 78 percent have no savings whatsoever (Czapin´ski and Panek 2004). Without a rational economic policy, these and similar social problems will remain unsolved. Therefore, any far-reaching promises made during election campaigns, unless backed by reliable economic reasoning, are nothing more than a form of corrupted political discourse. The Polish left has already learned this painful lesson, and now, with the young generation of leaders (some of whom joined politics only after the breakdown of 1989), it is trying to invent a new way, in many respects similar to Tony Blair’s experiments and to Anthony Giddens’s quest for the “Third Way.” But they also remember Lionel Jospin’s warning that “no social democracy movement can be dissociated from its national setting” (Jospin 1999, p. 4).

Notes 1. Among them were, for instance, several trade unions, youth organizations, and civic movements; the Polish Association of Retired Employees and Crippled People; the Polish Green Party; the Working People’s Movement; the Women’s Democratic Union; and the Christian Social Union. 2. Data taken from the Institute of Market and Public Opinion Study (Instytut Badania Rynku i Opinii Publicznej) SMG/KRC, based on empirical investigation conducted from January 14 to February 10, 2002, on 1,062 persons—a representative allPoland sample. See Gazeta Wyborcza, April 12, 2002, pp. 1, 3–4. 3. “Existential minimum,” estimated each year by the Institute of Labor and Social Issues, covers only satisfaction of those needs that, due to biological necessities, cannot be postponed. Living below this poverty line leads to biological dilapidation. Therefore, it is used to mark the scope of poverty in the extreme.

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4. “Social minimum” should allow someone to buy a basket of goods and services enabling satisfaction of biological, cultural, and social needs on a level estimated each year by the Institute of Labor and Social Issues. It is considered to be the line of indigence. 5. Mirosl´awa Grabowska and Tadeusz Szawiel (2001) note that in Poland at the beginning of the twenty-first century, citizen activism is low, political parties are rickety, nongovernmental organizations do not develop, and citizen concerns about state affairs are well below expectations. 6. The Polish turnout for the entire decade of the 1990s was lower than in other countries of the region. The highest turnout was during the presidential elections (60.6 percent in the first round of 1990 and 68.2 percent in the second round of 1995). The lowest was at the time of local government elections (42.3 percent in 1990, 33.8 percent in 1994, 45.4 percent in 1998, and 44.3 percent in 2002). During the parliamentary elections, turnout was 43.2 percent in 1991, 52.1 percent in 1993, 47.3 percent in 1997, 46.3 percent in 2001, and 40.6 percent in 2005. 7. It seems that a similar pattern of voting behavior prevails in all new democracies across Central Europe. 8. Social Movement–Electoral Action Solidarity was discontinued in April 2002. Yet over 14,000 of its members decided to reemerge under the name Social Movement and the leadership of Krzysztof Piesiewicz, a well-known lawyer and scriptwriter. Piesiewicz wants to build a right-centrist political party. See Kalukin 2002, p. 9. 9. See Annuarium statisticum ecclesiae (2000) and Adamczuk and Zdaniewicz 1992. 10. Polish governments in the 1990s were decidedly unstable. Until the changes introduced by the 1997 constitution, Poland had seven governments. The shortest was the cabinet of Jan Olszewski, which governed for only half a year. But still, “the American Freedom House lists Poland among countries considered to be entirely free and democratic.” See Wiatr 2002, p. 16. 11. Act of April 12th, 2001, on Election to the Sejm and Senate of the Republic of Poland, art. 166. 12. Act of July 28th, 1990, on Political Parties, art. 6, point 1. 13. Ibid., art. 6, point 3. 14. The Act of April 12th, 2001, pt. 13, art. 114, point 2, says that the limit of spending shall be counted for each constituency in the following way: (1) For each voter listed in the country there is a limit of 1 Polish zloty. (2) For establishing the limit of spending for a given constituency, the total number of all voters registered in the country should be divided by 560 (i.e., the total number of all seats in the Sejm and the Senate), and the result of it should be multiplied by the number of MPs and senators who should be elected in this constituency. The limit for the entire country is the sum of all limits counted for every constituency separately. 15. The algorithm by which this sum is counted is contained in the Act of June 27th, 1997, pt. 4, art. 29, point 2. 16. According to the Act of April 12th, 2001, the sum of refunding shall be counted in the following way: Dp = (W : 560) × M, where Dp is the sum of the due allowance; W is the sum of the campaign expenses of a given party or election committee, assuming that the sum does not overrun the established limit and that this party secured at least one seat; the number 560 constitutes the total number of seats in both parliamentary chambers; and M is the total number of seats secured by the party or committee under consideration. 17. Data published in Monitor Polski (January 31, 2002) show how much the following electoral committees, for example, spent during the 2001 election campaign for

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one mandate: SLD-UP, approximately US$23,000 (one US dollar was then worth approximately four Polish zlotys); Civic Platform, US$63,000; Self-Defense, US$8,000; Polish Peasant Party, US$51,000; Law and Justice, US$30,000; Polish Families League, US$3,000; German Minority Party, US$61,000. At the same time, some electoral committees had spent much more than collected for this purpose. For instance, Self-Defense spent 1.8 million Polish zlotys, but collected only 270,000. Analogous figures for the Polish Families League were 500,000 and 75,000. In the case of the SLD-UP coalition, expenses (approximately US$6.7 million) exceeded the collected sum (US$120,000). Over US$2 million from the global sum was spent by the SLD-UP on political marketing through television, radio, and newspapers. 18. A public opinion survey conducted on December 15–16, 2001, shows that the SLD was scored at 2.69 on a 7-point scale in which 1 indicated an extreme-left position, and 7 extreme-right. The UP was scored at 3.09. See Rzeczpospolita, December 31, 2001, p. A4. 19. This party was organized by Tadeusz Fiszbach. Later, a similar function was played by UP. 20. According to the SLD’s ideological declaration of April 1999. For a detailed discussion on the programmatic evolution, see Kubiak 2000, pp. 65–89. 21. Data given by Krzysztof Janik in his farewell speech as SLD secretary-general, delivered at the time of the national party convention (February 23, 2002). See Trybuna, February 25, 2002, p. 3. For an explanation of this phenomenon, see Kubiak 1998, pp. 357–370. 22. This point of view is also presented by Marek Dyduch, who replaced Krzysztof Janik as SLD secretary-general. See his interview published in Gazeta Wyborcza, March 29, 2002, pp. 21–22. 23. For data on similar organizations affiliated with the other political parties, see Mikol´ajewska 2001. 24. While during the 2001 parliamentary election 51.8 percent of all retired voters cast their votes for the SLD-UP coalition, the proportion of voters aged eighteen to twenty-four who voted for the coalition was below 40 percent. 25. Although the share of women on the party list during the 2001 parliamentary election was almost two times higher. 26. For instance, while only one of the party’s six deputy chairmen was never a PZPR member, 51.6 percent of SLD members of parliament had no PZPR roots. 27. Quoted from Leszek Miller’s interview in Trybuna, September 22, 2003. 28. Marian Krzaklewski, the leader of the Warsaw “Solidarity” demonstration of April 26, 2002, proclaimed, “We are ready for a long fight. The Labor Code will not be changed as long as we live.” Gazeta Wyborcza, April 27–28, 2002, p. 1. 29. Krzysztof Janik’s phrase, quoted by Gazeta Wyborcza, March 29, 2002, p. 21. 30. Jacek Z˙akowski, “Zejs´cie smoka” [Exit of the Dragon], Polityka 43 (October 25, 2003), pp. 24–28. 31. This is evident from decisions taken during the last SLD convention (February 23, 2002). 32. For the history of the SdRP, see, among other sources, Day 1998. 33. This provoked some interpreters to call this phenomenon the “new Polish sociopolitical space.” See, for example, Zarycki 1997, 2002a, 2002b, or Wendt 2001. For an evaluation of such a point of view, see Kubiak 1998. 34. In first place was Leszek Miller, with 42.3 percent of the votes; in second place was Krystyna ´Lybacka (the cabinet minister of education), with 26.9 percent; in fourth place was Jerzy Szmajdzin´ski (the cabinet minister of defense); in sixth place was Marek Borowski (Sejm speaker); in ninth place was Wl´odzimierz Cimoszewicz (prime

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minister of Poland, 1996–1997, and later cabinet minister of foreign affairs and Sejm speaker); and in tenth place Józef Oleksy (prime minister of Poland, 1995–1996). 35. See Kuz´niar 2001. 36. See Tischner 1992. 37. This awareness is evident, for instance, from President Aleksander Kwas´niewski’s interview by Polityka, May 4, 2002, pp. 24–26, and from SLD secretary-general Marek Dyduch’s interviews in April 2002 by two leading newspapers, Gazeta Wyborcza and Rzeczpospolita. 38. Quoted in Marek Dyduch’s interview by Gazeta Wyborcza, May 2–3, 2002, p. 5. 39. Ibid. 40. Wiatr 2002, p. 23.

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The Lithuanian Social Democrats: A Prosperous Postcommunist Party ALGIS KRUPAVICˇ IUS

F

rom a theoretical perspective, a stable party system dominated by prosystemic political parties is a prerequisite of successful democratization (Morlino 1995). The history of democratization in Western Europe, once constitutional government was established, was a story of demands made by civil society institutions to expand representation; political parties emerged as institutions of representation of collective interests. In Eastern Europe, however, contemporary political parties appeared on the political stage as the outcome of conflict on the elite level, and before the existence of an organized civil society (Rose and Munro 2003). The new parties, established from the top, had yet to establish their electoral basis, build an extraparliamentary organizational infrastructure, and clarify their ideological stances. The postcommunist polities were characterized as taking an antiparty stance, political parties as lacking responsiveness and accountability, and party systems as being in flux and unconsolidated. Nevertheless, here as elsewhere parties are viewed as the political actors “most capable of forming, maintaining, expressing and deepening attitudes related to regime legitimacy and illegitimacy” (Morlino 1995, p. 315). Recently Richard Rose and Neil Munro have argued that “the stable party system is completely institutionalized when there is a stable equilibrium between supply and demand, in which the same parties compete at successive elections and votes change only a few percentage points from one election to the next” (Rose and Munro 2003, p. 71). However, the situation within most Eastern European party systems, including Lithuania, is better named by another term coined by Rose and Munro (2003): “structural disequilibrium,” a condition in which there is plenty of competition between parties but the supply of parties changes substantially from one election to the next. However, even in an environment of highly fluid party competition, some political parties may nonetheless show a certain stability in organization and 89

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voter choices. The Lithuanian Social Democratic Party (LSDP) is such a party. Since the first competitive elections in 1990, the LSDP has survived considerable ideological and leadership changes, and has established one of the nation’s largest rank-and-file organizations. Studying this party permits us to examine how a party in an oversupplied political environment may manage nonetheless not only to survive as a formal organization, but also consistently to win enough votes to retain its status as a respected organization among political partners and voters. Moreover, the LSDP was in the position of the ruling party alone or in a coalition for almost a decade during the sixteen years after the restoration of Lithuania’s independence in 1990. The average duration of the Social Democratic governments was significantly higher, and their socioeconomic performance while in power was the most efficient in comparison to all other cabinets. These facts allow us to say that the LSDP not only survived political changes, but also was in fact one of the most truly successful parties not just in the country, but across all the Baltic states as well.

Historical Development of Social Democratic Parties in Lithuania The Lithuanian Social Democratic Party, founded in Vilnius in 1896, was the first political party in modern Lithuania, emerging at the same time as many of the left-wing parties in Western Europe and basing its program on the ideas of Second International as well as the programs of German, Austrian, and Polish social democratic parties. From the beginning the LSDP declared the independence of Lithuania as a major political goal, and in February 1918 the party drafted a declaration of independence. In the Constituent Seimas (1920–1922) the LSDP occupied 13 of that body’s 112 seats, and by 1925 it had 1,500 individual members in 145 local groups. Throughout the interwar period (1918–1940), when Lithuanian politics were dominated by the Christian Democratic Party and the Lithuanian Nationalists’ Union, the LSDP continued to attract an average of 10 percent of the total votes, and in 1926 the party joined the ruling center-left coalition led by the social-liberal Peasant People’s Party. After the coup d’état in 1926, the political activities of the LSDP were restricted, and finally the party was banned in February 1936. Under the German occupation (1941–1944) the LSDP renewed its activities, but was forced into exile in 1945. Its return to Lithuania became possible only with liberalization policies in the former Soviet Union. The formal initiative to restore the LSDP in Lithuania was launched by a group of former dissidents and intellectuals on April 27, 1989, and less than four months later the LSDP was formally restored by a reconstituent conference. During the first democratic elections of 1990, nine representatives of the LSDP were elected to the Supreme Council of the Re-Constituent Seimas,

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where they made up the second largest parliamentary group (after that of the Independent Communist Party). In June 1990 the LSDP members of parliament (MPs) were among the principal organizers of the first faction in the constituent parliament, Sa ˛ ju¯dis (a centrist mass opposition movement in Lithuania founded in 1988), representing moderate positions within that organization. In the succeeding parliamentary elections of 1992 and 1996, the party won eight and twelve seats respectively. Ideologically, the party drew from the traditions of Lithuanian social democracy and the influence of Socialist International. It was the first Lithuanian party to join transnational party networks (recognized as a full-fledged member of Socialist International in October of 1990), and it has consistently advocated traditional social democratic values and issues such as solidarity, social justice and social welfare, employment, and municipal housing. Today’s LSDP traces its roots as well to the reformist and moderate wing of the former Lithuanian Communist Party (LCP). Strong reformist and nationalist tendencies had already appeared within the ranks of the LCP after the appearance of Sa ˛ ju¯dis. The LCP adopted a new program rejecting communism as an ideology and calling for a reorientation toward social democratic principles, thus helping to delegitimize the old regime. Not satisfied, its moderate and reformist wing broke away in December 1989 and founded the Independent Lithuanian Communist Party (ILCP), taking with it some 55,000 of the LCP’s 220,000 members. In 1990 the breakaway party completed its transition to an independent social democratic party by establishing itself as the Lithuanian Democratic Labor Party (LDLP), and won 46 of the 141 seats in the new Constituent Assembly. Despite a subsequent slump, when the LDLP faction in parliament fell to a mere nine members, the 1992 general elections restored the party to a powerful position, giving it, in coalition with the Lithuanian Future Forum and the Agricultural Union, 73 out of 141 seats in the Seimas (parliament). Although its membership had dropped to 15,000, it remained Lithuania’s largest political party. The LDLP’s efforts immediately after the 1992 Seimas elections to form a broader center-left coalition were not successful, but in December of that year it was able to form an interim government, giving itself only the Ministries of Foreign Affairs, Agriculture, and Culture and Education. Nine ministers remained from the Sa ˛ ju¯dis cabinet. This cabinet, identified as a government of specialists and professionals, remained largely in place even when a new prime minister was appointed after the presidential elections of February 1993. Despite their ideological similarities, the revived LSDP and the LDLP remained separate parties. The LSDP, along with other emerging parties of the political center and moderate right, avoided cooperating with the “ex-communist” LDLP, even as the two parties competed for the same sociodemographic constituency and made the same kind of ideological appeals. During the 1992–1996

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period of LDLP rule, the LSDP adopted tactics of limited cooperation in parliament, but rejected all proposals to enter into government. When both parties went into opposition during the period of Conservative and Christian Democratic rule (1996–2000), more active cooperation between them developed. Common grounds were found on a wide range of policy issues such as social welfare, privatization, and education. The turning point came in the 2000 local elections, when both parties were less successful than the hitherto unsuccessful Liberal Union and a new party, the New Union/Social Liberals (NU/SL). At this point the LSDP and the LDLP began to merge, forming an electoral coalition for the same year’s parliamentary elections. The coalition won 31 percent of the votes and fifty-one seats in parliament, but the NU/SL, the Liberal Union, and a few small centrist parties formed the parliamentary majority.1 At the beginning of 2001 the LSDP and LDLP completed their merger (taking the name of the LSDP) and chose former president Algirdas Brazauskas as its leader. Thus the new party was ready when a government crisis in June 2001 brought down the NU/SL and Liberal Union coalition. The long-predicted coalition of the NU/SL and LSDP became reality as a new government was formed. Brazauskas was appointed prime minister, and other positions were divided almost equally between the two parties. However, the LSDP secured most of the strategic positions in the cabinet, including the Ministries of Finance, Economy, and Interior Affairs. Thus once again the Social Democrats were in power, this time not as a single party but as partners in a coalition government, and were led by one of the nation’s most popular political leaders. The Social Democrats and Social Liberals took part in the 2004 parliamentary elections as a coalition of Algirdas Brazauskas and Artu¯ras Paulauskas “working for Lithuania.” Despite losing a huge number of seats—the total number of seats of the two parties was down 56 percent from the 2000 Seimas elections—the two groups managed to stay in power in a new coalition with the Labor Party and the Union of Peasants and New Democracy Parties. Furthermore, the 20.7 percent of total votes gained by the incumbent party was the second best result since the first real multiparty Seimas elections in 1992. Only Sa ˛ ju¯dis as an incumbent party in the 1992 Seimas elections had ever received higher support, with 21.2 percent of total votes cast. Moreover, the Social Democrats and Social Liberals were the first incumbent parties to enter a newly formed parliamentary majority since 1990. Two incumbent parties, the LSDP and NU/SL, received substantially more influential positions in the new cabinet as well as in the parliament than did the Labor Party and Union of Peasants and New Democracy Parties. Paulauskas, leader of the NU/SL, was reelected to chair the Seimas, while Brazauskas as the leader of the LSDP preserved his position as prime minister. Together the LSDP and the NU/SL, despite having received slightly less

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than 40 percent of the seats in the parliamentary coalition, received 57 percent of positions in the cabinet. The LSDP alone received five ministerial positions (Environment, Communications, Education and Science, Finance, and Defense) out of the total of thirteen cabinet ministers.

The LSDP as Party in the Electorate Although the constitutional and institutional framework of party activity in Lithuania was relatively stable and favorable for party elite consolidation, the mixed electoral system (adopted in 1992), and the low threshold of only 400 individual members required for establishing a new party, opened opportunities for splits within the existing parties and the founding of totally new parties, and thus led to increased party competition.2 In any case, electoral volatility has remained high in most of the new democracies of the world as compared to the advanced democracies, and Lithuania is no exception. For instance, in the 2000 Seimas elections, the total volatility was equal to 46.2 points (Novagrockiene˙ 2000, p. 55). Bloc volatility indicates the electoral stability of party blocs and has implications for the office- and policy-related maneuvering room of political parties (Pennings, Keman, and Kleinnijenhuis 1999). Owing to LDLP and LSDP dominance, volatility within the left-wing bloc of parties was relatively low in the 1992–2000 period. The real challenge for the left-wing parties was the electoral interchange between party blocs. In 1996 the left-wing bloc suffered from slightly increased voting for the center-right and right-wing parties. But volatility scores do not fully reflect real voting behavior in the 1996 elections, when many potential left-wing voters simply did not vote—voter turnout decreased by more than 20 percent compared to the 1992 Seimas elections. Bloc volatility was a more important explanatory variable during the 2000 parliamentary elections, when the Social Democratic coalition suffered from a voting swing to center-based parties. Among those who in 1996 voted for the LDLP, or for the LSDP in 2000, as many as 24.9 percent decided to choose the NU/SL and 19.1 percent the Liberal Union (Degutis 2000). In general, the “golden age” of support for social democratic parties in Lithuania seems to have passed. The “golden election” for social democratic parties was in 1992, when together they captured almost a million votes— more than half of all votes cast (see Table 6.1). Since 1992, competitiveness in the Lithuanian party system has increased and the constituencies of individual single parties have tended to decrease. How stable is the electorate of the Lithuanian Social Democrats? On the basis of postelection surveys, the LDLP constituency seemed to be relatively stable after 1992 in comparison to other Lithuanian parties. Of the LDLP supporters who voted for the party in 1992, 32.6 percent voted for it again in 1996; from 1996 to 2000 the figure was 42.6 percent. Only supporters of the Lithuanian

214,000 52,000 — — 44.84

March 1995 (L) 130,837 90,756 — 9,985 52.92

October 1996 (P) 122,000 85,000 — — 39.92

March 1997 (L) 120,622 99,250 — — 54.20

March 2000 (L)

250,778 n/a — 53.82

7,219 — 58.63

December 2002 (L)

457,294

October 2000 (P)

3,977 — 46.08

246,852a

October 2004 (P)

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Source: Calculated by author from data of the Central Electoral Commission, http://www.vrk.lt. Notes: For 2004, turnout is calculated from valid votes; for all other cases, turnout is calculated from total votes. (P) = parliamentary elections; (L) = local elections. a. The LSDP took part in the 2004 Seimas election in a coalition with New Union. b. Social Democracy 2000 was renamed the Lithuanian Social Democratic Union. n/a = data not available.

817,331 112,410 — — 75.29

October 1992 (P)

Electorates of Lithuania’s Main Social Democratic Parties: Local and Parliamentary Elections, 1992–2004 (number of voters)

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LDLP LSDP Social Democracy 2000b Socialist Party Turnout (%)

Table 6.1

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Conservatives have displayed a higher degree of cohesion. At the same time, the LDLP has been able to attract a significant portion of protest votes, in large part owing to the charismatic leadership of Brazauskas (Degutis 2000). Thus it is no surprise that the ability of the LSDP to play a strong role in Lithuanian politics beginning in 1990 was highly dependent on the personal attractiveness of Algirdas Brazauskas, the former and only leader of the Independent Communist Party and later the LDLP (see Figure 6.1). He was one of the most popular politicians in the country from 1988 to 1992, and his popularity played an enormous role in securing the 1992 victory of the LDLP (identified by many voters simply as the “Brazauskas party”). Respect for his moderate political behavior, which contrasted sharply with the right-wing radicalism of 1990–1992, combined with his personal charisma, helped lure many professionals from the state bureaucracy and academic institutions to join the party list, thus improving the human resources as well as the image of the party. Trust in Lithuania’s Brazauskas and LDLP/LSDP, 1996–2006

M ay

19 97

Figure 6.1

Source: Drawn by author from data of Market and Opinion Research Centre, “Vilmorus Ltd.”

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Brazauskas’s election to the presidency in 1993 was a serious loss to the party.3 While he has remained one of the country’s most popular politicians, the LDLP was no longer able to use his personal popularity to build voter support for the party. In addition, a mass exodus of former party organizers to political and administrative positions in government agencies in 1992–1996 significantly weakened the LDLP organizational cohesion and capabilities. However, Brazauskas’s return to the political scene in 2000 as a leader of the LSDP and LDLP electoral coalition was a factor that considerably strengthened the party and social democratic identities within the electorate. The continuing importance of personalized politics in support for the contemporary LSDP is also apparent when we compare voter support under proportional representation (PR) and single-member districts (SMDs) in the mixed electoral system used in parliamentary elections. The attractiveness of the LSDP as a party list in the PR system indicates popularity based on the party leader’s image. On the other hand, the performance of the individual LSDP candidates in single-member districts shows the strength of the organization, especially its local branches. The electoral data show that the LSDP, including its predecessors, is more attractive when presented to voters as a party list in the PR part of the system. The LSDP candidates in single-member districts were less competitive compared to the right- and center-right candidates (see Figure 6.2). In the Figure 6.2

Party Attraction in Lithuania’s Multi- and Single-Member Districts, 1992–2000

20 15 10 5

Lithuanian Christian Democratic Party

Lithuanian Peasants’ Party

0 New Union/ Social Liberals

–5 –10

Lithuanian Center Union

Homeland Union/ Lithuanian Conservatives

Lithuanian Liberal Union

Lithuanian Democratic Labor Party

Lithuanian Social Democratic Party

Difference between percentages of votes in MMD and SMD systems, 2000 Difference between percentages of votes in MMD and SMD systems, 1996 Difference between percentages of votes in MMD and SMD systems, 1992

Source: Calculated by author from data of the Central Electoral Commission, http://www.vrk.lt.

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2000 Seimas elections, the party received 457,000 votes for the party list and only 293,000 votes for the party candidates in SMDs. Thus it seems fair to say that neither Lithuania in general nor the LSDP in particular is yet ready for thoroughgoing organizational depersonalization. However, the LSDP nevertheless had relatively high support rates for its individual candidates in the parliamentary elections from 1992 to 2000 when compared to the other parties. During the 2004 Seimas elections, the LSDP showed relatively better performance in single-member districts compared to previous parliamentary elections. This time, eleven of the twenty seats won by the LSDP (55 percent) were seats won in districts with a single mandate, whereas in the 2000 parliamentary elections only 32.4 percent of seats for the Social Democratic coalition came from single-member districts. However, even the “Brazauskas factor” was not enough to prevent a new populist turn in Lithuania’s politics. Altogether, new and mostly populist parties took 46.1 percent of total votes in the 2004 Seimas elections. The main populist opponent of the LSDP was the Labor Party, founded in 2003 and led by Viktor Uspaskich, Russian-born businessman and member of parliament since 2000. The Labor Party was regarded as a political organization with no clear ideological direction and identity, yet it won 30.2 percent of votes in the European elections in 2004, whereas the LSDP came in second with only 14.4 percent. Furthermore, this election proved to be the overture to the success of the Labor Party in the forthcoming parliamentary elections: in the 2004 Seimas elections the Labor Party received 28.4 percent of total votes, again leaving the LSDP in second position. Moreover, most support for the Labor Party in the Seimas elections came from traditionally Social Democratic areas and segments of the electorate: rural and periphery districts, especially in central Lithuania, as well as from low-income and socially insecure voters. Nevertheless, opinion polls show that support for today’s LSDP remains relatively stable and high: the party captures around one-third of the vote among the five most popular parties (no more than six parties have overcome the PR threshold4 in parliamentary elections since 1992). Thus, despite high total and interbloc volatility scores, fluctuations in numbers of voters supporting the Social Democrats, and an environment of decreasing political mobilization (see voter turnout data in Table 6.1), the current LSDP has been able to build a significant number of followers over the past decade, suggesting that this party will retain strong positions in the Lithuanian political arena. As Maurizio Cotta has pointed out, the existence of the party in the electorate is “a resource for the other components of the party, the parliamentary party and the membership party. In this way parties have a support base which can be relied on at every election. Up to a point, the stronger the ‘party in the electorate’ the greater the freedom of action of the other components; but there

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are limits to this freedom: like the ballast of a sailboat, the ‘party in the electorate’ enables the other components to fluctuate according to the wind but eventually pulls them back towards the center which is determined by the position of the ballast: the ‘party in the electorate’ is thus also a constraint” (1999, p. 13). What are the attitudes and values of the Lithuanians who nonetheless trust the LSDP with their vote? One very common stereotype about the followers of the Social Democrats some years ago was that the stable electorate of the LDLP was primarily based on former members of the Communist Party, and indeed about half of Lithuania’s former communists reported that they were willing to vote for the LDLP but not for other parties. However, the contemporary LSDP is far removed from the old regime. First, more than half of the former communists tend to identify themselves with moderate centrist positions (from 4 to 7 on a 10-point left-right scale), and very few (from 1 to 2 percent) identified themselves with strong left or strong right positions. Second, the supporters of the historical LSDP were always strongly anticommunist and thus the ex-communist dimension of the party’s electoral support has even less significance since the merger of the LSDP and the LDLP. According to New Baltic Barometer surveys that identified political attitudes using four cultural and economic cleavages (promarket, social democratic, communist, and nationalist), and measured satisfaction or dissatisfaction of respondents with the performance of democracy, the following features of the LSDP supporters were revealed: First, almost two-thirds of the LSDP supporters identified themselves with social democratic ideas and thus were in agreement with the LSDP’s ideological appeal (see Table 6.2). Second, many of the LSDP supporters were critical of the performance of democracy in Lithuania. Third, LSDP supporters came from the lower socioeconomic layers of society, and were less satisfied with their material situation than were followers of other leading Lithuanian parties.

The LSDP’s Internal Organization and Membership To prosper a party needs not only a strong electoral base, but also a strong internal organization. Three variables are important in measuring a party’s organizational strength: its age and continuity, its size, and the degree of organizational depersonalization it has achieved. As we have seen, the LSDP has strong historical roots, dating back to 1896 when the historical LSDP was founded, and continuing through a long period of existence as party-in-exile with branches in Western Europe and the United States during the Soviet occupation of Lithuania. Because of the continuity of the LSDP in exile, this party reappeared on the Lithuanian political scene as early as in 1989. The LDLP side of the party, despite its communist origins, also brought historical legitimacy to the current LSDP, having worked its way through its trans-

64.1 37.0 9.8 18.1 12.5 10.1

13.9 23.9 67.1 40.3 25.0 40.5

3.4 6.5 — 1.4 3.6 3.4

2.6 — 3.8 2.2 4.9 16.7 8.0 8.8

10.2 29.2 41.6 33.3 59.3 43.4 33.9 42.7

43.2 59.4

58.3 66.9 40.7 56.5 66.1 57.4

56.7 40.6

Source: Calculated by author from data in New Baltic Barometer, Market and Opinion Research Centre, “Vilmorus Ltd.,” 2001.

26.7 4.6

34.8 50.0 50.6 55.7 36.2 35.8

40.8 55.6

Performance Performance Current Material of Democracy: of Democracy: Situation of Family: Communist Nationalistic Satisfied Dissatisfied Relatively Good

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32.8 46.2

Social Free Market Democratic

Political Attitudes and Outlooks in Lithuania, October 2001 (percentages)

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All Homeland Union/ Lithuanian Conservatives Social Democratic Party New Union/Social Liberals Liberal Union Christian Democrats Did not vote Don’t know

Table 6.2

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formation from the moderate wing of the former communist party to the ILCP, and later to the LDLP, and in the process bringing with it not only the strong leadership of Brazauskas, but also invaluable party-building know-how gained during its years as a component of the old regime. Thus along both criteria—age and continuity—the LSDP has had important advantages, and has been widely perceived as one of the most stable parties in the emerging multiparty system. Membership trends in Lithuanian parties are very contradictory, but most parties are rather small and weak entities; average party membership as a proportion of the size of the electorate was 4.5 percent in Lithuania in 2003. The historical LSDP was a party of small membership for a long period of time. The average size of major Lithuanian parties in 1996 was around 3,000 individual members, but the LSDP had only 1,500 (see Table 6.3). However, by 1999 the LSDP’s individual membership had increased to about 4,000. This branch of the current LSDP never established corporate memberships, but maintained intensive cooperative relations with the largest Lithuanian trade union, the Center of Lithuanian Trade Unions (about 140,000 members), and even closer relations with the Union of Lithuanian Trade Unions (about 40,000 members). The ILCP (later the LDLP) inherited a relatively developed organizational network and some 55,000 individual members from the former LCP. However, with each new cycle of transformation, the party membership dropped substan-

Table 6.3

1990 1992 1993 1994 1995 1996 1997 1998 1999 2000 2001 2002 2003 2004 2005

Size of Lithuanian Political Parties, 1990–2005

LDLP

HU/LC

LSDP

LCDP

29,000 13,600 8,100 9,400 9,200 9,200 9,300 9,500 9,400 8,300 — — — — —

— — 11,398 13,141 14,606 16,164 17,260 17,210 16,419 19,487 13,470 14,003 12,269 12,300 11,574

400 500 600 950 1,200 1,500 2,000 2,000 4,000 4,000 15,000 15,000 12,506 13,246 14,317

4,500 5,251 8,000 10,000 10,000 10,500 10,500 10,500 10,500 10,500 10,000 10,000 10,000 4,000 4,368

LCU

LLU

— 400 — 550 600 700 800 800 1,200 800 1,500 1,000 2,000 1,000 3,000 1,000 3,500 1,000 3,000 2,000 2,800 2,000 3,100 2,300 3,640a 4,500 4,863

NU/SL — — — — — — — 1,500 2,500 3,500 3,500 3,500 4,503 4,467 4,898

Source: Calculated by author. Notes: LDLP = Lithuanian Democratic Labor Party; HU/LC = Homeland Union/Lithuanian Conservatives; LSDP = Lithuanian Social Democratic Party; LCDP = Lithuanian Christian Democratic Party; LCU = Lithuanian Center Union; LLU = Lithuanian Liberal Union; NU/SL = New Union/Social Liberals. a. The LCU and the LLU merged in 2003.

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101

tially: to 29,000 in late 1990 after the ILCP was reorganized into the LDLP, and to 15,000 before the 1992 parliamentary elections. During the 1992–1996 period in power, the LDLP’s organizational crisis continued, and by late 1993 individual membership had decreased to 8,100. Only toward the end of 1994 did membership begin to rise again, reaching 9,200 in 1995, still about a third less than before the elections of 1992. For a short time after the 2001 unification, the contemporary LSDP overcame trends of decline in individual membership, but in late 2003 again dropped to 12,506 members. However, in 2004 the LSDP membership began growing again, and at the beginning of 2006 it reached 14,400. Outside observers of Lithuanian party development conclude that there is “apparently some correlation between membership numbers and the parties’ success in the elections” (Smith-Sivertsen 1997, p. 27). Despite small numbers absolutely, in combination the two components of the current LSDP have maintained a respectable showing and a relatively broad political organization. Moreover, the organizational philosophy of the social democratic parties, and especially of the LDLP, has always included the assumption that it is important to maintain organizational cohesion and discipline and to build up strong local branches. At least for a decade, the LDLP was an example of unified and broad party organization in Lithuania. Despite the fact that voter support developed unevenly, the strong membership concept helped it to survive and to a certain extent to stabilize its own electoral base. Traditionally, organizational depersonalization is conceived as a necessary element of party development. Only parties that can survive after their founding fathers leave the political arena can be considered to be institutionalized and continuous organizations. However, the personality of the leader has usually been a very strong factor of voter identification for emerging parties in new democracies. In some cases the entire appeal of the party to voters was based not so much on trying to explain political alternatives as on the name recognition of its leaders. In the established parliamentary democracies, voter evaluations of leaders do not appear to have become a substitute for their evaluations of parties in deciding how to vote (Curtice and André 2001). But this is only partly true in Lithuania. For instance, the electoral successes of the Homeland Union/Lithuanian Conservatives (HU/LC) have been strongly associated with the name of Vytautas Landsbergis, the LSDP was very much perceived as Brazauskas’s party, and a victory of the New Union/Social Liberals in local and parliamentary elections of 2000 was hardly imaginable without reference to its leader, Artu¯ras Paulauskas. Continuity of personalities is a strong and sometimes essential factor for the stability of individual parties in new democracies. An underdeveloped civil society, weak and inadequately embedded party organizations, and voter distrust of all parties contribute to the importance of individual leaders. Modern election campaigning via television also plays a role in enhancing the attention

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given to a party’s leaders (Muller and Meth-Cohn 1991), as does the worldwide tendency to campaign in parliamentary elections as if they were presidential contests (Curtice and André 2001). The LSDP has been successful in having charismatic leadership and developing a relatively strong rank and file in comparison with other political parties in Lithuania. The interplay of these two factors is a major source of success for political parties in most postcommunist polities.

The LSDP as Party in Parliament As Robert Michels observed at the beginning of the twentieth century, parties “have a parliamentary aim. . . . They pursue legal methods, appealing to the electors, making it their first aim to acquire parliamentary influence, and have for their ultimate goal the conquest of political power” (Michels 2001, p. 54). Parliamentary representation of a party is a crucial indicator of its electoral strength. Although the LDLP was the strongest social democratic party in Lithuania in 1990–2000, its parliamentary representation was extremely cyclical: every vigorous upswing was followed by a significant decline in political influence. Having secured 34 percent of the seats in parliament in 1990 and 52 percent in 1992, this party’s share in 1996 fell to a mere 9 percent (see Table 6.4). But the LDLP-LSDP coalition together won 31 percent of the seats in the 2000 parliamentary elections, taking first place among the Seimas parties with fifty-one seats. And in the 2004 Seimas elections, the joint list of Social Democrats and Social Liberals received 22 percent, or thirty-one seats, making it the second strongest coalition in parliament. Discipline and cohesion of parliamentary parties are essential elements shaping the consolidation and stability of the emerging political elite in new democracies. Members of the party in parliament usually come from the membership party, and “the parliamentary component of the party is obviously the one most directly subjected to electoral influence” (Cotta 1999, p. 6). On the one hand, this is a constraint, as the party depends on electoral results for its strength; on the other hand, the electoral connection is obviously also a resource, as elections provide the members of the parliamentary party with a democratic legitimacy and an authority that other components of the party do not have. But if MPs are too independent, the parliamentary party as a whole comes to be at risk and can become a loose confederation of powerful and independent barons, thus being little more than a tool in the hands of the parliamentarians (Cotta 1999, p. 6). In this situation the main loser is the party as an organization. The relationship between the extraparliamentary and parliamentary segments of the LDLP varied over time. In 1990–1992 the extraparliamentary party dominated the parliamentary group, despite the fact that the party’s MPs were well represented in the main party institutions. From 1993 until 1996, the LDLP achieved a relative balance of power between the extraparliamentary

— 73 8 81

Number of Seats — 51.77 5.67 57.44

Percentage of Seats — 12 12 24

Number of Seats — 8.69 8.69 17.38

Percentage of Seats

1996

— 36.17 36.17

51

Percentage of Seats

— 51

Number of Seats

2000

20

— 20

14.18

— 14.18

Percentage of Seats

2004 Number of Seats

Source: Calculated by author from data of the Central Electoral Commission, http://www.vrk.lt. Notes: a. LCP/CPSU = Lithuanian Communist Party/Communist Party of the Soviet Union (i.e., nonreformed Communist Party). b. In 1990 the LDLP was still named the Lithuanian Communist Party (reformed). c. Some members of the reformed LCP were supported by Sa˛ju¯dis and the LCP, and were also on the lists of both organizations in 1990. d. LSDP candidates competed with the support of, as well as on a joint list of, Sa˛ju¯dis members.

5.19 34.07 6.67 45.93

Percentage of Seats

1992

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7 46c 9d 62

Number of Seats

1990

Parliamentary Strength of Lithuania’s Social Democratic Parties, 1990–2004

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LCP/CPSUa LDLPb LSDP Total

Table 6.4

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and parliamentary segments of the party organization. In 1996 the party organization responded to widespread dissatisfaction with the parliamentary record of the MPs by explicitly excluding them from the decisionmaking process of the extraparliamentary party. As early as 1993, internal party regulations made it mandatory for the LDLP parliamentary faction to comply with the policy position of the extraparliamentary party, and the National Council had been given the right to expel from the party any MP who deviated from the party line. As for accountability, this principle had been established from the very outset in 1990, and the extraparliamentary organization gradually created a number of institutions for the purpose of controlling the parliamentary faction. Thus the extraparliamentary organization was the very center of power of the LDLP from its earliest days. At the same time, it would be wrong to assume that the parliamentary party was marginalized or had only very limited impact within the LDLP. As noted, MPs were well represented in central party institutions, and this is apparent in the highest permanent institution of the LDLP, the National Executive, where 47.9 percent of its members were MPs in 1992–2001. Note, however, that the number of MPs in the National Executive tended to increase in the periods when the party was in a ruling position. A completely different organizational logic was characteristic of the LSDP. The LSDP members of parliament were not accountable to the extraparliamentary party organization and could deviate from the party line with impunity. It was only after the merger with the LDLP in 2001 that LSDP representatives in parliament were required to follow the party line and become more accountable. Now they potentially face sanctions if they deviate from the party’s policy positions. Cohesion tended to be higher among MPs when the party was in opposition, and centrifugal trends increased after the party became involved in government. When in power from 1992 to 1996, the LDLP suffered major splits within the parliamentary faction and a 20 percent decrease in the size of the parliamentary group owing to the departure of dissenting MPs. During the same period the LSDP suffered even greater losses, losing 41 percent of the members of its parliamentary party, when a splinter party, Social Democracy 2000, was established. In comparison to the center and center-right parties, the Social Democrats were much more cohesive in parliament. Table 6.5 shows that splits within the right-wing parties were more frequent than among the Social Democrats. One possible explanation here is that disagreements on the leadership level were common to all types of political parties, but parties having leadership with charismatic elements and able to achieve success on the national scale were in a better position to sustain intraparty unity. The LDLP under Brazauskas’s leadership in 1990–1996 was an example of such a party. On the other hand, extremely high personalization of party politics seems to be counterproductive

— — 24 12 2 — —

7 14 — 10 2 — —

0 — —

+2

0 0

0

–13

Change, 1992–1996

14 3 —

16

— 70

12

12

1996

17 3 —

12

— 49

7

13

2000

+3 0 —

–4

— –21

–5

+1

Change, 1996–2000

3 33 28

2

— 9

48

—

2000

3 19 22

2

— 10

53

—

2004

0 –14 –6

0

— +1

+5

—

Change, 2000–2004

11:49 AM

Sources: Lukosˇaitis 1993, 1994, 1996, 2000; Zˇe˙ruolis 1998, p. 145. Notes: a. In 1994, on the basis of the Sa˛ju¯dis faction, the Faction of Homeland Union (Lithuanian Conservatives) was established. b. In 2003 the Lithuanian Center Union and the Lithuanian Liberal Union merged into a united political party.

60

1996

73

1992

Intergroup Mobility in Lithuanian Parliamentary Parties, 1992–2004 (number of dissenting MPs)

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Lithuanian Democratic Labor Party Lithuanian Social Democratic Party Sa˛ju¯disa Homeland Union (Lithuanian Conservatives) Lithuanian Christian Democratic Party Lithuanian Center Union Lithuanian Liberal Unionb New Union (Social Liberals)

Table 6.5

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to party unity, as the example of the highly personalized HU/LC, which suffered a split in 1999–2000 that led to the creation of both the Homeland People’s Party and Union of Moderate Conservatives, serves to demonstrate. Another possible explanation for intraparliamentary splits is the party’s experience in parliamentary representation. This rule might be formulated in the following way: longer experience of party representation in parliament means higher resistance to attempts by MPs to dissent. Stricter internal party regulations, a better sense of common values and beliefs, and higher individual costs of dissent are developed. Certainly, the general stability of the party system and the degree of consolidation of the party have the utmost importance. In the case of a fluid party system and unconsolidated parties, the gains of individual parliamentary dissent (in office payoffs) cases may be higher than the costs. The strength of linkage of the parliamentary party to the electorate can be assessed by examining incumbency rates. Prior to the unification, the LDLP and the historical LSDP had the highest incumbent reelection rates. During the 2000 Seimas elections the total incumbent reelection rate was slightly less than 30 percent, but the figure for the LSDP alone was 41.2 percent (see Table 6.6). After the 2004 parliamentary elections the incumbency rate for the LSDP candidates increased to 80.0 percent while overall party representation in the Seimas decreased by 17.7 percent, that is, from 31.9 to 14.2 percent. Overall, we may say that compared to the other parties in Lithuania’s fragmented party system, the LSDP secured relatively broad and permanent representation in parliament in its first postcommunist decade, especially when one considers how fragmented the party system was (as many as twenty-five parties winning at least 1 percent of the list vote) (Rose and Munro 2003, p. 79). Organizationally the LSDP built up an equilibrium between the two main components of the party—the parliamentary faction and the membership party—and maintained a clearly collective leadership, with a strong and popular leader at the very top during almost the entire period of the party transformation and consolidation.

The Social Democrats in Government Maurizio Cotta has observed that “the ‘party in government’ is temporary since no party is sure to govern forever” (1999, p. 14). In Western European democracies an appointment to a ministerial job after winning an election is a traditional form of payoff for the party leadership. A position in the government in many cases is considered to be the apex of a political career for most party politicians. In new democracies this logic of political activity has not been so straightforward, in large part because recruiting a governmental elite was difficult for political parties that had only limited human resources to completely fill the suddenly opened political and administrative vacancies in the transforming countries.

86.8 13.2 100.0

59 9 68

2 10 12

8 4 12

Number of MPs

16.7 83.3 100.0

66.7 33.3 100.0

Percentage

— — —

30 21 51

Number of MPs

Source: Calculated by author from data of the Central Electoral Commission, http://www.vrk.lt.

12.5 87.5 100.0

Percentage

1996

— — —

58.8 41.2 100.0

Percentage

2000

— — —

4 16 20

Number of MPs

— — —

20.0 80.0 100.0

Percentage

2004 11:49 AM

1 7 8

Number of MPs

1992

Incumbency Rates for Lithuanian Social Democrats, 1992–2004

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Lithuanian Social Democratic Party Not incumbent Incumbent Total Lithuanian Democratic Labor Party Not incumbent Incumbent Total

Table 6.6

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The LDLP and LSDP members participated in various governments as early as 1990. Juozas Olekas, member of the LSDP, was appointed minister of healthcare in several governments of Sa ˛ ju¯dis in 1990–1992. At the same time, Brazauskas was invited to the position of deputy prime minister in the 1990 Sa ˛ ju¯dis government. On its own, the LDLP formed three cabinets (an interim cabinet under Bronislovas Lubys and two permanent cabinets under Adolfas Sˇlezˇevicˇius and Mindaugas Stankevicˇius) in 1992–1996. However, during the period of the building of institutional democracy, 30–45 percent of all ministers were nonparty members. Moreover, the numbers of nonparty ministers tended to increase in short-lived governments, and most governments were in fact short-lived. Ministerial jobs were a “kind of accident rather than the normal outcome of political activity” (Cotta 1999, p. 14). Because of the parties’ lack of human resources within their own organizations, nonparty members received a large number of ministerial portfolios under most ruling parties, a practice that in turn lowered the motivation of party elite members to strive for ministerial positions. Nonetheless, the major parties—the HU/LC, LCDP, LDLP, and LSDP— were much more likely to find future ministers among their own members, and unsurprisingly there has been a positive correlation between the size of the party and its experience in government on the one hand, and its ability to recruit ministers on the other. Party strategies for recruitment of cabinet ministers differed significantly. The right-wing parties—the HU/LC and LCDP—tended to rely on party members, while the LDLP and after 2001 the LSDP sought a balance between professionals and politicians. In 1992 only 23 percent of the Lubys cabinet were LDLP ministers. The party’s share of the cabinet ministers increased to 33 percent in the late Sˇlezˇevicˇius government and to 50 percent in the Stankevicˇius and Brazauskas cabinets, but still the proportion did not exceed half of the cabinet members (see Table 6.7). In Lithuania the most politicized cabinets were formed by the right-wing HU/LC, while the Social Democrats invested more in technocratic-managerial cabinets. It should be noted in passing, however, that the tendency of ruling left-wing parties to look for ministers outside party ranks is found in other European nations. Technocratic-managerial cabinets of left-wing parties are found in the Netherlands, Sweden, and Austria, where political elites have often preferred depoliticized cabinets in order to appease social conflicts. In the Netherlands, as in Scandinavia, there is a constitutional rule stipulating that members of parliament who are appointed ministers have to resign from parliament when they take office (Pennings 1999a, p. 10). (Lithuania has no such legal regulations about resignation from the Seimas.) We turn now to the complex question of party performance in power. Adam Przeworski and Fernando Limongi have complained that linear analyses of the relationship between development and the presence of democracy

Sa˛ju¯dis Sa˛ju¯dis Sa˛ju¯dis Interim, LDLP LDLP LDLP HU/LC, LCDP HU/LC, LCDP HU/LC, LCDP LLU, NU/SL, LCU LSDP, NU/SL

Kazimiera Prunskiene˙, 1990–1991 Gediminas Vagnorius, 1991–1992 Aleksandras Abisˇala, 1992 Bronislovas Lubys, 1992–1993 Adolfas Sˇlezˇevicˇius, 1993–1996 Mindaugas Stankevicˇius, 1996 Gediminas Vagnorius, 1996–1999 Rolandas Paksas, 1999 Andrius Kubilius, 1999–2000 Rolandas Paksas, 2000–2001 Algirdas Brazauskas, 2001–2004 Total 19 32 21 17 32 20 40 14 15 16 14 14

Number of Ministers 0.6842 0.5313 0.5714 0.2353 0.2500 0.5000 0.8000 0.6429 0.6667 0.4375 0.5000 0.6429

Mean

0.4776 0.5070 0.5071 0.4372 0.4399 0.5130 0.4051 0.4972 0.4880 0.5123 0.5189 0.4972

Standard Deviation

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Source: Calculated by author from data of the government of the Republic of Lithuania, http://www.vrk.lt/main_en.php?cat=38&d=2005. Notes: HU/LC = Homeland Union/Lithuanian Conservatives; LCDP = Lithuanian Christian Democratic Party; LCU = Lithuanian Center Union; LDLP = Lithuanian Democratic Labor Party; LLU = Lithuanian Liberal Union; LSDP = Lithuanian Social Democratic Party; NU/SL = New Union/Social Liberals. Legend: 1 = parliamentarian, 0 = nonparliamentarian.

Party/Coalition

Parliamentary Background of Lithuanian Ministers, 1990–2004

Prime Minister

Table 6.7

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are a waste of time, because the variable of democracy has certain characteristics that simply ask for a nonlinear function (1997, p. 155). However, Davide Grassi has stressed that “wealth and economic growth may decisively ease the permanence in time of democratic institutions, especially in developing countries. Once democracy is established, its survival chances are higher if the country is richer. Yet even current wealth is not decisive: if they succeed in generating development, democracies can survive even in the poorest nations. Resuming growth at stable and moderate levels of inflation is the key criterion to evaluate the success of economic reforms undertaken by new democracies and to sustain the democratic regimes in the long run” (2000, p. 6). What then has been the performance of the social democratic parties with respect to development issues when in power? In 1992–1996 the LDLP carried out free market reforms on the one hand, and stabilized socioeconomic development in the country on the other. Still the party failed to produce the significant economic growth and improve the social safety net that had been expected by many supporters of the party in 1992. In the area of foreign and defense policy the LDLP formulated as strategic priorities Lithuania’s integration into the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) and the European Union (EU) as well as expansion of cooperation with neighboring countries, and took steps to begin to implement this decision. These priorities remained in effect after the LDLP was voted out of power in late 1996. When the LSDP and New Union/Social Liberals formed the parliamentary majority and the cabinet in late June 2001, further steps were taken. At the end of 2002, Lithuania was invited to join both NATO and the EU. From 2001 to 2004, Lithuania’s gross domestic product increased by 7.7 percent annually, the best result among newcomers to the European Union from East Central Europe. Annual inflation rates at the same time were low (0.7 percent), and real incomes increased by about 4.4 percent per year. These figures indicate that, this time, the coalition government of the LSDP and NU/SL was addressing issues of economic and social growth more successfully, and not focusing as heavily on foreign and defense policy matters as in the 1992–1996 period of power. The strong showing of the LSDP in the 2002 local elections—the first time leftwing parties have been able to win local elections during their term of office in national politics—suggested a positive response within the electorate to social and economic changes achieved in the LSDP years in power.

The LSDP and Ideology Programmatic crystallization by mainstream parties is an important precondition of democratic consolidation, but not always easily achieved. Institutional arrangements, economic reforms and economic performance, and the quality of leadership, plus historical variables such as the type of former regime, the nation’s past experience with multiparty politics, and the vitality of historical

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cleavages, all play an important role in determining how soon and how effectively parties will be able to formulate ideologically consistent programs. In the new democracies it is common for many parties to present multidimensional platforms “fragmented along up to half a dozen different dimensions” (Rose and Munro 2003, p. 50). Such fragmented appeals are frequently characterized as fuzzy-focus political outlooks. If in Western democracies institutionalization of parties and development of their ideologies were closely connected to the freezing of social cleavages, the picture was very different in the new democracies of Eastern and Central Europe. These societies have been described as “flattened societies,” where socialclass identities play a marginal role in the development of party loyalties, especially in the initial phases of the postcommunist transition. Class identities were replaced by various sociocultural and purely political identities such as the old regime versus the new, national independence versus dependence, autocrats versus democrats, and so on. Moreover, “political parties which operated in the period immediately following the political transition may have articulated only theoretical interests of social groups that did not exist at the time. Class certainly was a weak predictor of electoral behavior, far behind age, education, union membership and, in particular, religion” (Berglund, Tomas, and Frank 1998, p. 11). However, the political scene in new democracies tends to change rapidly, and it was not long before a clear-cut programmatic identity became almost a necessary condition for a party’s survival and future success. Party competition and political mobilization gradually came to be more and more based on ideological premises, and the left-right socioeconomic dimension gained new importance. In the case of the LSDP and its predecessors, consolidation as programmatic parties started in the early 1990s, well ahead of many of their political competitors. The historical LSDP simply took over the historical legacies of Lithuanian social democracy, and legitimized its ideological leanings by joining Socialist International in the early 1990s. The LDLP was in a more difficult situation as it sought to move away from its communist heritage. For a time in the early 1990s one would have been able to find close followers of social democratic, liberal, conservative, and even nationalistic ideas within the party. The years in power only exacerbated the problem. The historical social democrats rightly posed questions about the lack of social democratic principles in the policies actually carried out by the LDLP. Yet the dynamics of the transition from communism to democracy, from command economy to free market, left very little space to implement social democratic principles. Market reforms, privatization, and disintegration of the old welfare system were seen as unavoidable costs of political, economic, and social transformations, which meant that most of the necessary steps were closer to what we normally identify as right-wing rather

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than left-wing policies. If the left-wing party is in power during the period of crucial reforms, as was the case for the LDLP in 1992–1996, it will inevitably find it difficult to defend itself against charges of an asymmetry between its programmatic social democratic identity and its actual political actions. In the prolonged competition for the social democratic ideological niche with the historical LSDP, the LDLP was in a less advantageous position also because of its roots in the former communist party. On the other hand, competition between the LSDP and the LDLP as relatively strong parties prevented the multiplication of new parties within the social democratic ideological space. A brief look at the electoral manifestoes of the LSDP and the LDLP over a decade of competitive politics in contemporary Lithuania is another way to examine the change and stability of their ideological preferences. As the sole authorized statement of party-collective policy preferences, party manifestoes can give an exact picture of parties’ ideological progression and shifting policy stances (Budge 2001, p. 185) over the postindependence period. Data from party manifestoes testify to significant ideological variations over time,5 as the LDLP and the LSDP gradually moved from a center-right position back in 1992 to a clear-cut center-left position in 2000 (see Figure 6.3). Ideological discussions were less significant during the 2004 election. Instead of presenting clear programmatic positions to voters, most of the parties chose to advertise general slogans and the faces of well-known party leaders. However, these conclusions about the ideological positioning of the LSDP and the LDLP need to be considered in the context of the general trends in postcommunist polities seeking to build democracy and a market economy. In all such systems, the policy agenda is a priori dominated by rightist issues such as privatization, decreasing the state’s role in many areas of economic and social life. After the transitional political agenda is more or less implemented, political parties are freer to articulate programmatic positions closer to the values and policies of their original ideological tradition: social democrats tend to become more social democratic, conservatives more conservative, and so on. This tendency is clear in the post-1996 shift of the LDLP to a more center-left position. One more clarification is needed here. A median or programmatic center within the party system always needs to be seen as a “moving target” that depends on various factors framed by space and time. This means that there are periods and situations even in the stable democracies, when, for example, social democrats take more right-wing positions but later move back to more leftist stances. In the case of the LSDP and the LDLP, it is clear that both parties have been gradually moving back to the left since 1992. In summing up these brief observations on ideological developments within the Lithuanian social democratic parties, we may say that after more than a decade of changes, they have succeeded in creating a single strong party, itself strongly identified with the Western social democratic tradition.

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Figure 6.3 Programmatic Evolution of Lithuania’s LDLP and LSDP, 1992–2004 0.20

LSDP-LDLP coalition, 2000

0.15

•

0.10 Conservative

•

LDLP, 1992

LSDP-NU coalition, 2004

•

0.05 Median, 2000

0 –0.15

–0.10

–0.05

•0.05

0

0.10

–0.05

Liberal

• LDLP, 1996

–0.10

Median, 1992

• Median, 2004 –0.15

• •

Median, 1996

–0.20

• LSDP, 1996

–0.25

• LSDP, 1992

–0.30 Left

Right

Source: Drawn by author based on analysis of party manifestoes.

Clear programmatic identity is now one of the significant sources of the relative prosperity of the contemporary LSDP.

Conclusion: The LSDP Within Today’s Lithuanian Party System Electoral statistics show that despite substantial fluctuations on average, the social democratic parties of Lithuania managed to attract around one-third of the votes in parliamentary elections from 1992 to 2000. During the 2004 Seimas elections, the joint list of the LSDP and the NU/SL received slightly more than one-fifth of the total vote after more than three years in power. In local elections the LDLP and LSDP shares combined have been equal to almost 22 percent of seats since 1995, when the proportional electoral system was introduced.

0.15

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In three parliaments out of four, Social Democrats secured parliamentary majorities: the Lithuanian Democratic Labor Party in 1992; in coalition with the New Union/Social Liberals from 2001 until 2004; and in a four-party coalition—the LSDP, the NU/SL, the Labor Party, and the Union of Peasants and New Democracy Parties—since November of 2004. Among nine governments from 1992 to 2006, five were center-left or dominated by the Social Democrats, three were center-right, and only one was centrist. However, after 1993, when Brazauskas was elected president, the Social Democrats failed to win three presidential elections, in 1998, 2003, and 2004. Until the 2000 Seimas elections, many researchers of Lithuanian party politics, looking at the effective numbers and shares of the largest parliamentary parties, concluded with Zˇe˙ruolis Darius that “the Lithuanian party system is not characterized by the kind of fragmentation typical of Latvia and Estonia; the underlying structure of the Lithuanian party system is rather reminiscent of that of Poland. Party labels, at least those of mainstream parties, sound familiar to students of West European politics. In fact, Lithuanian political parties have a tendency to imitate West European, particularly Scandinavian, parties. This may result in programmatic and social profiles not conducive to converting existing divisions into lasting cleavages. Yet the simple structure of the Lithuanian party system has proven a major source of political stability. In the Lithuanian context of low-density civil society, political parties may even serve as vehicles of political modernization” (1998, p. 139). However, the wave of party fragmentation that took place at the time of the 2000 Seimas election disturbed this model of the “perfect and stable” Lithuanian party system, as two new political parties, the Liberals and the New Union/Social Liberals, suddenly entered parliamentary politics, each taking approximately 20 percent of the vote. The second wave of the political earthquake came in the general elections of 2004. This time the new challenger was the Labor Party. The outcome of these changes is that the Lithuanian party system must now be defined as a multiparty system without a dominant party. Moreover, the Lithuanian party system is no longer characterized by a pendulum effect of rendering power to a dominant party after each election, as it was from 1990 to 2000. Instead, the four largest parties now control 72 percent of seats, and parties with at least 5 percent of the vote via proportional representation hold over 90 percent. The nature of party competition has changed as well. In the terms of Giovanni Sartori, the party system is moving from moderate to polarized pluralism, and from centripetal to centrifugal competition (Jurkynas 2005, p. 776). Between two parliamentary elections (2000 and 2004), the number of effective parliamentary parties increased from 3.4 to 6.1 points. All this means that party competition is much more intense, and that Lithuania’s Social Democrats face many new challenges. Still, after a decade of transition to and consolidation of democracy, the Social Democrats have be-

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come a unified and ideologically Europeanized party. Despite certain historical, ideological, and political differences, both the mainstream parties now constituting today’s LSDP perform the same essential function: moderating political and social conflicts during the period of political change. Their own political moderation helped to increase the social and political responsiveness of the new democratic political institutions, thereby increasing the legitimacy of the democratic political system in general. To a large extent the LSDP successfully implements multiple functions of the effective party: structuring electoral choices, organizing and mobilizing campaigns, articulating and aggregating disparate interests, channeling communication, recruiting and selecting candidates, structuring parliamentary divisions, and organizing government (Dalton and Martin 2002). The contemporary LSDP is a party with relatively strong membership, a popular party leader, and a cohesive and disciplined parliamentary faction and grassroots. It is a prosperous party, contributing to the stability and development of Lithuanian democracy.

Notes 1. This move of the center-leftist NU/SL came as a surprise not only to the Social Democrats, but also to about two-thirds of the NU/SL’s own electorate, who had expected a postelection coalition with the LSDP and LDLP. 2. The Lithuanian case is an interesting illustration of the truism that although ruling parties seek electoral system designs that will work to their own partisan benefit, the real consequences of electoral rules quite often are the opposite of those projected. The LDLP had long favored the first-past-the-post system or the two-round system, but in fact did better under proportional representation; Sa ˛ ju¯dis, which had become the leading party on the political right, favored PR and did better in single-member districts. 3. A person elected president of Lithuania is constitutionally required to suspend his membership in a political party. 4. In 1992 the PR threshold was equal to 4 percent, but in 1996 it was increased to 5 percent for a single party and to 7 percent for a party coalition. 5. The party manifestoes were analyzed according to a scheme developed by Michael Laver and John Garry (1997).

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The Uruguayan Party System: Transition Within Transition JORGE LANZARO

I

n times of changement d’époque—as is the current experience in Latin America and all over the world—the transformations in politics and models of development require and provoke party changes, which can be analyzed case by case, considering the evolution of a single party, but are also related to the characteristics and changes recorded in the overall party system.1 Comparative analyses provide examples of parties or party systems that have not survived such “critical junctures” (Collier and Collier 1991) as those at present. There are also examples of parties and systems that manage to make it through and lead the changes by embarking on a path of self-transformation, with all the difficulties entailed in being “mutants” themselves, and with varying degrees of success. These periods of “political Darwinism” (Coppedge 2001) may involve all or some of the previous members of the party system, or may create space for the emergence of new parties and even entirely new party systems. The current times, like other historic phases of change, delineate a “structure of opportunity” that does not necessarily bring about a decline of the parties, as some authors suggest.2 It may lead to situations of crisis, but can also pave the way for the renovation of the parties and the development of the party system, even in countries where parties or party systems have hitherto been weak. These alternatives (“party-ness”—“party-less”) are determining factors in the quality of the democracy and the quality of the reform processes. The Uruguayan party system—originally a biparty system, with a 150year history and a high degree of institutionalization (Mainwaring and Scully 1995)—has enjoyed long periods of prosperity.3 However, it experienced a period of trouble during the 1930s and a major crisis in the 1960s, which ended in the breakdown of democracy. In recent years, parties and the party system have recovered their role and centrality—providing the keys to “party government”4—during a period of 117

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“dual” transition that has included a restoration of democracy after more than ten years of dictatorship, and an agenda of structural reforms (state, economic, and social policies). This “second” transition is dominated by neoliberal trends, in the terms of the so-called Washington consensus (Williamson 1990). Nevertheless, due to political competition, the reforms are of a gradualist and moderate bend, which puts limits on such liberalization and maintains state economic and social functions to a relatively large extent (Lanzaro 2000b). In this context, Uruguayan parties have experienced a sort of “transition within transition” having two dimensions. First, there has been a realignment within the party system, from traditional bipartism to a moderate multipartism, as a result of the development of the leftist Broad Front (Frente Amplio [FA]), challenging the senior parties—the Colorado Party (Partido Colorado [PC], the “Colorados”) and the National Party (Partido Nacional [PN], the “Blancos”)5— which continue in the running, but now tend to form a political bloc. Second, there have been substantial changes in party functions, organization, and political strategies. Connecting both dimensions, this chapter analyzes the evolution of the two party blocs and the “prosperity” that each achieved in government and opposition, pointing out the paradoxes resulting from their own performances. We will discover that the traditional parties have led an effort to carry out structural reforms and, in doing so, have undergone a reconversion. They turned away from Keynesian and welfare policies (state intervention and protectionism, patronage, and corporatism), pushing toward state reform and market-oriented policies, hand-in-hand with changes in patterns of leadership and citizenship, linkage, and legitimization. As the leftist opposition has grown, the traditional parties have also innovated in the modes of government—setting up coalitions in the presidential regime—and promoting a major reform of the electoral system, in 1996. These strategies have proved costly. As a bloc, the traditional parties still maintain important electoral support, but they have systematically been losing votes (from a combined total of 76 percent in 1984 to 55 percent in 1999). This loss of support will be explained as the result of two factors in play: (1) the liberal transition that the parties themselves promote, in particular the transformation from their old condition of “state” and “Keynesian” parties, through a process that is not without its positive outcomes, but implies a reduction of their traditional political resources; and (2) the patterns of competition and cooperation—provoked by the development of Frente Amplio as a challenging third party—which led the traditional parties to political association and ideological convergence. Also important are the effects of the new electoral system, tending to reinforce bipolar competition, based on the rightleft cleavage. At the left of the spectrum, Frente Amplio has become the major opposition force and has achieved a notable electoral ascent (from 21 percent in 1984

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to 40 percent in 1999). The prosperity of this party can be explained as a function of, first, its development as a “catchall” and “electoral” party, maintaining nevertheless a “brotherhood” with trade unions and social movements; second, its structure as a “coalition party,” unifying all leftist groups; and third, its “two-pronged” strategy, which combined opposition against liberalization and privatization, in defense of the statist tradition, with trends toward ideological moderation and the competition for the center. We shall see as well, however, that the FA operates in a context of demanding competition and must now face the contradictions deriving from its own development. It seeks to affirm itself in the opposition and simultaneously present itself as a government alternative. It now assumes political positions that are increasingly “pragmatic,” yet must maintain its identity and the “logic of difference” vis-à-vis the other parties. Within these parameters, the experience of the Uruguayan left can be compared to that of other leftist parties in Europe and Latin America, taking into account the different path that the more successful leftist parties in this region have followed to reach government (especially in Brazil and Chile). This work provides an overview of the patterns of change as well as the vitality of the Uruguayan party system, conditioned by its historical background and the distinctive political processes of the past decades. The framework of bipolar competition and the strategies the parties pursue in government and opposition, combined with the gradualist path of liberal transition—within a pattern of change that preserves state centrality and political resources to a greater extent than in other Latin American countries—has made the case of the Uruguayan party system a unique example of how parties prosper.

Traditional Bipartism Partido Colorado and Partido Nacional emerged in the nineteenth century as the founders of the nation-state and, based on an equation of relatively balanced power, built a pluralist—“consociational”—democracy.6 That system was based on four pillars: (1) an electoral regime with “double simultaneous vote” (for the party and for candidates within the party);7 (2) presidential election by plurality and “integral” proportional representation in parliament; (3) coparticipación by both parties on the councils of state services and in control boards (with a distribution of seats between majorities and minorities, similar to the Austrian proporz);8 and (4) special parliamentary majorities for strategic laws and appointments. Most of these principles of competition and coparticipation were agreed on by the party elite before acceding to democratization and universal suffrage. Uruguay thus followed the path of a “polyarchy” (Dahl 1971), with neither a hegemonic party nor the creation of privileged relations with the workers and the other “included” popular sectors.

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Constitutional rules guaranteed effective competition and despite the fact that the Colorados dominated for many decades, the parties maintained a certain electoral balance, in a context of shared powers, with plural access to the state and to the governmental process, which encompassed the majority and provided places for minorities. Uruguay had a “pluralist” presidential regime that engaged in a few experiences of coalition government, but largely functioned as a “compromise presidentialism,” shaped by coparticipación and transversal agreements between government and opposition.9 Both parties have been “state-parties” in a “party-state” (parteienstaat), with a dual function of representation and government, together controlling the public circuits for political decisionmaking and resource allocation.10 Linked to their capture of the state, the parties had their own densely structured organization and were firmly embedded in the most diverse areas of civil society.11 In Uruguay—as in other small and dependent countries—the state has historically played a strong central role. Early on, at the beginning of the twentieth century, it became a “wide” state, taking on strategic functions in the development of the economy and society (nationalization of banks, enterprises, and services, regulation of the markets and labor, public education, social security). State interventions multiplied, creating a “creole” Keynesianism.12 Since democratization, political integration has been tied to social integration, through linkages that leave lasting marks on citizenship (political and social) and civic culture. The traditional parties participated in the building of the state and negotiated its expansions, shaping its political structure and acting as ongoing “officiants,” in a position of dominance vis-à-vis the bureaucracy and with a strong connection to social agents and interest groups. More than other actors, parties in Uruguay act as the holders of political leadership, determining national prospects, economic development, and social integration, in a small “new” country wedged between two large neighbors (Argentina, Brazil) and highly dependent on the world’s centers of power. Dating back to the 1930 economic crisis—and even before, avant la lettre—they developed as “Keynesian” parties (Lanzaro 1994),13 meaning that national design, political leadership, and government were combined with direct responsibilities in the production and distribution of public goods, economic regulation, and mediation of social conflicts—as strategic axes of the capitalist model of development during the Keynesian era. Parties led these activities through general public programs, universal social benefits, and state services, but also through selective assignments and “particularism,” patronage, and corporatist links, with a broad margin for discretionary decisions. These policies and practices sealed the state-society relationship, maintaining the class alliances and the compromiso nacional on which the development model was based. They also drove the powers and strategies of the parties, their political resources and linkages, their supports, and the patterns

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of legitimation. The parties controlled the state and in turn they depended to a large extent on the state. Summing up, throughout the twentieth century, the electoral regime and the rules for competition between parties and party factions, coparticipation, and the pluralist system of government, as well as the central role of the state, complete with Keynesian rectorship and welfare benefits, all contributed to perpetuate the hegemony of the traditional parties as state parties and key linkages to civil society. Electoral turnout was very high, and so was the commitment of the citizens to politics and parties. However, the political course has changed and the actions of the traditional parties themselves—vis-à-vis structural reforms and Frente Amplio’s challenge—have now eroded these bases of supremacy.

Realignment of the Party System In the 1960s the exhaustion of the development model led to a structural economic crisis and paved the way for political crisis. The failure of the party system was decisive in this process. Traditional parties failed to find ways to renew themselves or to renew the political design, the state, or the economy. They lost centrality, their leadership role, and their capacity to combine interests. The inertia of their previous habits and the burden of particularism weighed heavily upon them. They ran into insurmountable difficulties in building an alternative project, a new political compromise, and new social alliances. Reform initiatives were blocked by competition between parties and factions in a cycle that intensified political fragmentation and social opposition. There was intensive activism by pressure groups and class associations that turned into a sort of “corporatization” of politics. The trade unions joined forces under a single confederation and acted as a hub of political mobilization. It is in this context that the first advances of the left took place, through elections and mass movements, as well as some guerrilla actions. In 1971 the older ideological parties (Socialists, Communists, Christian Democrats) united with independent groups, and with factions coming from the traditional parties, to found Frente Amplio, which in the elections of that year opened the first gap in the bipartisan system. As a result of centrifugal competition, ideologic distancing, and radical oppositions, Uruguay entered—according to Giovanni Sartori’s “cartography” (1976, pp. 135–145)—a polarized pluralism that unfolded into the 1973 coup d’état and a military dictatorship from which the country did not emerge until 1985. The realignment was upheld in the new stage of democracy, but with a moderate pluralism, given the number of parties, their ideological positions, and a pattern of competition toward the center. The effective number of parties in parliament grew from 2.7 in 1971 to 3.1 in 1999. From the traditional biparty system (the PC and the PN) Uruguay

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moved on to a system of three large parties, given the development of the FA. To them is added a fourth, small party, the New Space (Nuevo Espacio [NE]), made up of the centrist groups that in 1989 voluntarily left the FA to organize on their own. After several ups and downs and breakaways, the NE joined the FA again in 2003, with scant electoral support. A 1999 survey records a relatively moderate ideological distance in this party spectrum, with Frente Amplio located at the left (3.3), Nuevo Espacio at the center (4.94), and Partido Nacional and Partido Colorado at the centerright (7.48 and 7.59, respectively). The maximum ideological distance is 4.3, and no party is located at an extreme.14 In any case, the two party blocs tend to align themselves in a competition for the center of the ideological spectrum, where most of the electors are to be found (as we shall see below). This center-oriented competition can be seen in the programs of the different political sectors and in their leaders’ speeches. It also derives from the government’s agenda and reform initiatives—of a moderate neoliberalism—that the traditional parties have set forth on a national level (Lanzaro 2000b). The strategy of the FA itself, both in the exercise of the opposition and in the municipal administration of Montevideo, responds increasingly to this purpose. Indeed, the FA has left behind the traditional claims of the 1960s (for example, land reform, nationalization of banks, breaking away from the International Monetary Fund [IMF], nonpayment of foreign debt) and has adopted an increasingly moderate ideological profile with which it seeks to conquer center voters. This ideological moderation can be seen in the formal party program and—more importantly—in the positions of the leaders and the pragmatism with which the FA has carried forth the municipal government in Montevideo. The FA developed as an ever stronger third party. Despite the excision of Nuevo Espacio, the FA enjoyed sustained growth, with two major leaps in electoral support at the national level and three consecutive victories in the government of the capital, Montevideo (home to 42 percent of the population), as well as a more recent expansion in the rest of the country (see Tables 7.1–7.3). At the same time, electoral volatility at the national level was quite moderate (see Tables 7.4–7.5).15 Thus the realignment occurred through a series of “critical” elections, but it unfolded gradually, without abrupt mutations. The same has been true of the evolution of the FA itself, whose political initiation experiences included three periods in the municipality of Montevideo and increasing representation in parliament, as well as seats in the Electoral Court and the Tribunal of Auditors. This gradual development promoted socialization among FA cadres and relationships with other elite cores, cradling an eventual stage in national government and preparing the party to assume this responsibility.

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123 Table 7.1

Votes in Uruguayan National Elections, 1971–1999 (percentages)

Frente Amplio Nuevo Espacio Partido Colorado Partido Nacional

1971

1984

1989

1994

1999-Ia

1999-IIb

18 — 41 40

21 — 41 35

21 9 30 39

31 5 32 31

40 5 33 22

46 — 54 —

Source: Instituto de Cienca Política–Data Bank. Notes: a. First round. b. Second round.

Table 7.2

Uruguayan National Elections: Votes in Montevideo, 1971–1999 (percentages)

Frente Amplio Nuevo Espacio Partido Colorado Partido Nacional

1971

1984

1989

1994

1999-Ia

1999-IIb

30 — 39 30

34 — 36 27

34 13 25 27

44 7 27 21

52 5 30 13

56 — 44 —

Source: Instituto de Cienca Política–Data Bank. Notes: a. First round. b. Second round.

Table 7.3

Uruguayan Municipal Elections: Montevideo, 1971–2000 (percentages) 1971

1984

1989

1994

2000

30 — 40 30

34 — 36 27

37 13 25 25

45 7 27 21

58 1 28 12

Frente Amplio Nuevo Espacio Partido Colorado Partido Nacional

Source: Instituto de Cienca Política–Data Bank.

Table 7.4

Volatility

Uruguayan Electoral Volatility, 1971–1999 (Pedersen index) 1971

1984

1989

1994

1999

8.9

5.2

13.3

11.6

10.0

Source: Chasquetti 2000.

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Volatility

Page 124

Parties on the Left Uruguayan Interbloc Electoral Volatility, 1971–1999 (Pedersen index) 1971

1984

1989

1994

1999

4.6

3.9

8.0

5.6

8.7

Source: Instituto de Ciencia Política–Data Bank.

The FA challenge to the traditional parties took place within a context of democratic stability. It did not bring about the disarticulation of the party system. The senior parties continued in the running, and the FA evolved in a scenario of political integration and rigorous competition, comparable to that of European social democracies and other Latin American left parties (Brazil, Chile, Mexico).

The “Second” Transition The parties reconstituted themselves as the main characters of the democratic transition. At the close of the dictatorship, they confronted the challenges of a “second” transition: the process of structural reforms—long and laborious— which altered the model of development that had predominated throughout most of the twentieth century, and which entailed significant changes in the political design and in the party system itself. The Traditional Party Bloc The PC and the PN took the initiative in carrying out the liberal transition. As agenda-setters, they pushed reform of politics, the state, and the economy through government, ideological debate, and electoral campaigns, by means of both “negative” and “positive” policies that included fiscal adjustment, privatization, changes in state functions, and economic liberalization—“rolling the state back” and “return to the market”—as well as setting up new modes of regulation of economy and society. Furthermore, in order to put these new forms of government and economic regulation into practice, the parties were forced at the same time to reconvert themselves and to set aside their condition as “Keynesian” parties. These processes have been marked by struggle between and within the parties, involving the “modernizing” and “conservative” sectors. To drive reforms and confront the resistance this process causes, movements toward centralization occurred within the parties and within the government, tending to reinforce the executive. However, despite these trends toward concentration— which are universal and have had perverse effects in other Latin American countries—Uruguay maintained a certain balance of power. There was no governing “by decree,” and reforms moved through parliament and the processes

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of party bargaining. In addition, there were several cases of significant citizen participation, including plebiscites on constitutional matters and referendums to block privatization of major public enterprises. As the leftist opposition grew, the alliance between the PN and the PC was reinforced, giving rise to a “politics of blocs.” The traditional parties each had turns at the presidency and engaged in a learning process of cooperation, weaving compromises, and beginning to build coalition governments that are increasingly consistent.16 This allowed them to form parliamentary majorities, sustain liberal policies, and promote reforms of the state, which nevertheless were incremental: the competition between the coalition partners and with the FA opposition tended to impose a gradualist path (“muddling through”), with moderation of political initiatives (ex ante and ex post). In order to delay the FA’s access to the government—or at least to make such a possibility dependent on greater political support—the traditional parties pushed through a constitutional reform in 1996 that dismantled the electoral regime that had allowed them to develop since the early twentieth century. The new design eliminated the double simultaneous vote and, instead of the former plurality principle, adopted majority rule with two rounds for the presidential elections (ballottage), allowing only one candidate per party (chosen through compulsory and simultaneous primaries for all parties). However, it maintained the system of proportional representation for parliamentary elections, held concurrently with the first presidential round. The double logic of this system fosters the reproduction of party plurality and also alignment in blocs. All may compete in the first round for proportional representation in parliament, and for a chance in the presidential runoff election. And neighbor parties may regroup for the second round. The design induces electoral coalitions—called on to become government coalitions— and tends toward bipolarity: bipolar multipartism, not necessarily bipartism or polarization.17 The Evolution of Frente Amplio The “second” transition provided a “structure of opportunity.” The FA proved able to take advantage of this, evolving into a successful party with sustained electoral expansion, and turning itself into a party that could be expected to win the national government. This progress can be explained, first, by the fact that the FA was able to capitalize on the “discontent” created by the main orientations of the government (González 1999), depicting itself as an alternative. The FA presented itself as a champion of the values that are deeply rooted in the country’s political culture, defending the statist, distributive, and egalitarian stances that had developed in Uruguay in the twentieth century. Indeed, the FA competed for these traditions against the traditional parties.18 At the same time the FA was also undergoing a political transformation into a catchall party, having the typical characteristics that Otto Kirchheimer

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(1966) describes, albeit with specific traits arising from its own history and current path (Lanzaro 2000a). Following Kirchheimer’s synthetic sketch, this change implies “abandoning . . . encadrement of the masses . . . turning more fully to the electoral scene, trying to exchange effectiveness in depth for a wider audience and more immediate electoral success” (1966, p. 184). Frente Amplio has succeeded in affirming its identity while also engaging in a significant metamorphosis, combining the old and the new in the lineage of the left.19 It has moved away from the traits of ideological parties to adopt more pragmatic and increasingly moderate political positions. Notwithstanding, it upholds the generic elements of the left-wing repertoire, some of which—particularly statism and egalitarianism—are age-old components of Uruguayan political culture. Although it retains in part its mass-party traits, it has become more of an “electoral” party (Kirchheimer 1966; Panebianco 1982).20 Its status as an “integration” party, having class referents and a strong “brotherhood” with the labor movement, has given way to a “politics of citizens” and a new “popular” profile. Yet it has maintained its ties with trade unions (even when mutual relations are increasingly autonomous). It has cultivated its calling as a “social” left, through discourse arguments and through a network of relationships with old and new groups, renewing its old roots and taking up some spaces where traditional parties used to reign. At the same time, there are changes in its organization, decisionmaking processes, and leadership structure, involving a certain decline of the “apparatchik” and the emergence of new leaders who build careers and power as electoral candidates and public officers. As a result, Frente Amplio, which began as a coalition of parties, has been transformed into a “party of coalition” (Lanzaro 1996).21 Alongside the founding parties of the FA, other groups have emerged as new sectors within the coalition, and carry political weight. But neither the new sectors nor the old parties are autonomous; they are truly factions of a conglomerate that is greater than the sum of its parts and that constitutes a unified structure with an encompassing identity and its own tradition. Even as a new party, the FA has nevertheless constructed a strong identity and its own tradition. This process of “traditionalization” is based on the historical legacies of the left and the FA’s trajectory, beginning with its creation, continuing through resistance against the dictatorship, and carrying into the period of democratic transition. The process of political and ideological “nationalization” (in Antonio Gramsci’s sense, 1971) of the left movement—which began in the 1960s and gave birth to the founding of the FA in 1971—is thus affirmed. In recent years the FA has been the party that retains the most voters and best cultivates socialization: through generations, collective organizations (trade unions, social movements, nongovernmental organizations [NGOs]), the “capturing” of public education, and its influence in the cultural milieus, as well as its insertion in institutional circuits (particularly in the government of Montevideo).

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The decisionmaking processes of Frente Amplio follow this parable of unity, throughout arduous contention. The “federal” and consensus-based regime, with equal representation and veto rights, has given way to the majority principle, with the votes in the internal and national elections weighing increasingly more. The leadership structure has helped to consolidate this evolution. Although collective decisionmaking practices persist, personalized leadership stands out, exercised by the common presidential candidates, who gain autonomy and represent the whole. These profiles have become more acute with the ascent of Tabaré Vázquez, a presidential candidate with a populist bent and a novel leftist caudillismo. Within this coalition-based unity, the FA nonetheless exhibits a high level of factionalism, with several political groups coexisting at its core. But rather than weakening the movement, this factionalism serves as a strong electoral dragnet, allowing the FA to diversify its attractions and maintain supporters while pulling in new voters. The FA’s political accumulation is based on a “two-pronged” strategy. Its success is greatly due to its performance as a hegemonic opposition force, confrontational vis-à-vis the traditional parties, that rejects commitments and grows ever stronger as its electoral chances increase. But this strategy is articulated with the FA’s political transformation and its development as a catchall party, marked by ideological reconversion and competition for the center. Step-by-step, inter- and intraparty competition, political learning, and the experience of governing Montevideo have induced ideological moderation and pragmatic positions, in a movement that affirms a new political identity and at the same time conquers voters in the center. Indeed, from 1988 to 1999 the FA doubled its votes (reaching 40 percent in the 1999 first round, and 46 percent in the second round), but the proportion of citizens who self-identify with left or center-left positions remains around 25 percent.22 This means that Frente Amplio has extended to the center—without having had, as yet, “flights” to the left23—and the frontier of its growth lies in that segment of the electorate. These parameters condition the strategies of the left in its struggle to arrive at government, as has happened in other countries and most notably in the race that gave Lula da Silva his victory in Brazil. It is relevant here to mention Maurice Duverger’s observations on the growth of the left in France during the 1930s (the “real” and the “apparent” slides to the left). This serves as a kind of political theorem, applicable to evolutions such as the one in Uruguay or Brazil: “Sous la Troisième République les Français ont glissé à gauche, bien sûr; mais la gauche a glissé vers les Français, également: elle a fait la moitié du chemin” (1951, p. 340).24 My arguments, as well as Duverger’s sentence, match Anthony Downs’s spatial models of voting and party competition (1957, p. 96) for cases such as

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Uruguay, which show a normal curve of ideological distribution, with a majority of voters placed at the center of the left-right scale. In a bloc-versus-bloc competition, within a nonpolarized format, the logic of difference and opposition coexists with the trend toward ideological moderation and the contending for the center. The majority presidential election (with ballottage)—adopted by most Latin American countries—has an inductive effect in this sense, and it tends to lessen the chances of the “Salvador Allende syndrome,” that is, of the leftist candidates making it to government with scant electoral support (or with a “bad third”). Among other determinant factors, these political and electoral rules shape the “ways” toward government and, in doing so, also contribute to design the margins for maneuvering (posibilismo) of leftist governments in the Latin American competitive democracies.

Paradoxes of Prosperity Costs and Benefits of Moderate Reformism The traditional party bloc has performed reasonably well in renovating modes of government, managing reform agendas, recycling its elites, and restructuring its programs and patterns of leadership. Furthermore, the 1990s were a period of economic stability, declining inflation, and cumulative growth. Then the economic crisis—which entailed a drastic change of this scenario—began to be felt after the 1999 election, and exploded in 2002. Paradoxically, the success that traditional parties could have regarding those issues has proved costly, and the bloc’s electoral support has systematically declined. In the year the FA appeared (1971), the PC and the PN together drew 80 percent of the vote (while before 1966 they used to reach around 90 percent). At the close of the dictatorship (1984), their combined support was 76 percent. Three elections later (1999), their combined support was 55 percent (see Table 7.6).

Table 7.6

1971 1984 1989 1994 1999

Uruguayan Electoral Support for Blocs, 1971–1999 (percentages) Partido Colorado + Partido Nacional

Frente Amplio

Frente Amplio + Nuevo Espacio

81.2 76.3 69.2 63.6 55.1

18.3 21.2 21.3 30.6 40.1

18.3 21.3 30.2 35.8 44.7

Source: Instituto de Ciencia Política–Data Bank.

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Two related factors help explain this trend. First is the reform of the state and the liberalization of the economy alter the secular nature of state parties of a “Keynesian” cut, resulting in a certain reduction of the state’s resources of power, particularly regarding the scope, form, and extent of discretionary faculties in the political allocation of public goods. This modifies the system of linkages to citizens, economic agents, and social groups. Second is the new parameters of competition and cooperation generated by the emerging Frente Amplio, which have in turn been reinforced by the new electoral system, set up in 1996. Thus it may be said that the electoral descent of traditional parties appears in part as a result of their own strategies, first in the neoliberal offensive they led, and second in the defensive reactions they adopted vis-à-vis the growth of the left (political cooperation and coalitions, change in electoral rules). Of course, these factors operate in a scenario that is marked by the emerging FA: the transformation of the left and its competition strategies are central elements to explain electoral realignment.25 But it is no less true that in this “critical juncture,” the traditional parties—through action or reaction—weakened the pillars on which their domain was anchored throughout the twentieth century. Concerning the first dimension mentioned, the “ills of the era” play a part that is evident in contemporary political systems and that is often perceived as one of the causes of the “decline” of parties. Privatizations, market-oriented reforms, and economic liberalization, together with the impact of regional integration and globalization, limit the capacity and autonomy of the national state, altering its relations with civil society and the internal market. The guidelines of regulation change, aid for private capital is weakened, and the flow of public goods declines. Many services that were previously granted to workers and citizens, as welfare-state benefits and social integration mechanisms, are transferred to private agents and, even where they remain in charge of the public sector, subjected to a flow of “mercantilization” that undercuts the logic of political assignation. By virtue of the changes under way and as a result of their own reformist efforts, the parties lose the resources that were provided by the state intervention during the Keynesian era. Powers arising from their direct participation as public agents and linkages between the state and social actors are weakened. Selective assignments, made via clientelism and corporatist networks, do not disappear, but change form and are reduced in scope. Universalist programs and public investments, regulatory and distributive policies, interest intermediation, conflict arbitration, job creation, and the like are all affected.26 The state parties that are more Keynesian, whose organization and array of functions depended on their settlement into the state apparatus, are ever more limited in their political capacities. They need to adjust to changes and generate new patterns for economic and social regulation, which thus require

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new expertise and institutional resources. They run into difficulties in reformulating their organization and in assuming representational tasks and renewing their political functions, leadership patterns, and moorings. Politics and politicians are no longer what they used to be. The attitudes of the citizens and economic actors toward politics and political parties are changing. Market individualism absorbs social energies and diminishes collective action. As occurs at other historic junctures, there is social anomie and “malaise,” together with a certain “disenchantment” with politics and indifference toward the parties, or even antiparty feelings. In the Uruguayan case, these processes have an important incidence, but at the same time they have been relatively limited, due to the characteristics of liberal transition, for reasons that concern, as already noted, the performance of each party bloc, the patterns of competition, and the vitality of the party system as a whole. It is clear that since the 1990s, the changes in the state and the economy have gone together with the transformation of the political authority and the functions of parties, their resources of power, and the discretionary margins they used to have. This has altered linkage patterns, clientelistic networks, and corporate relationships. It is also clear that economic liberalization and the reform of the state have been a privileged axis in political conflict and party competition. Remarkably, in a profoundly “statist” society, the proposals for privatization have been very central, and a decisive factor in political alignments.27 This composite transformation helps explain the electoral descent of traditional parties.28 But there have been, in turn, other factors that mitigate or compensate for its effects. As explained, the traditional parties assumed leadership in the processes of change and retained voters via renovated ideological proposals and programmatic linkages. This recycling led them to act quite effectively as opinion parties and government agents, based on a shift in the “grammar” of politics and legitimation, a shift that empowered the opposition but at the same time maintained the audience of these parties among a considerable segment of the citizenry. In addition, given the absence of an acute crisis—which has in other countries triggered more abrupt adjustments—and especially as a result of the balanced political dynamic, the neoliberal impulse was “cushioned.”29 State reforms were gradual and moderate. Privatization and the rollback of public services and welfare have not reached the magnitude evident in other countries. Formal public employment has been reduced, but not drastically cut, and along the way there have appeared “lateral” modalities of state and “parastate” contracts, often with new forms of clientelism. The decade of economic growth was accompanied by social policies that reduced poverty and mitigated inequalities, achieving a certain improvement in income distribution.30 Privatizations, “contracting out,” and nongovernmental organizations have reformulated the system of links that had long existed among the state, the mar-

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ket, and civil society. But enterprises and social services remain in the hands of the state, though it no longer holds monopoly status. Within the public sector there is a market drive and a penetration of private logic and “new public management” (“soft” privatization, “mercantilization”). The influence of managers and technocracy is growing, setting new terms for the old dichotomy between politics and administration. Nevertheless, the parties remain at the head of public management, keeping their posts on the boards of state enterprises and other government bodies. Thus, even with tighter limits, there are still margins for political “steering,” and also for old and new forms of patronage. Implications of the Left-Right Cleavage The actions of the FA have had a major impact regarding the path of reforms and the consistency of the political system. First, its power of opposition—in addition to the resistances that emerge within the parties of the establishment— has contributed to preventing the reforms from having a more pronounced liberal bend, limiting the initiatives of privatization, or blocking them through popular referendums. Second, its development as an emerging party with growing electoral yields encompasses the forces of opposition and tends to monopolize them, preventing fragmentation and providing a receptive structure for the groups that desert the traditional parties. This development raises expectations of alternation and change in the government’s course. It does channel “discontent” and serves to contain—to frame or to slow down—the actions of trade unions and social movements, as well as the emergence of new forms of organization and of “spontaneous” or “savage” protest. Although the weight of labor unions has worn thin and party control is more lax, the links of the leftist sectors come into play with the workers and other groups. FA influence tends even to ramify, encompassing old and new issues (cooperatives, feminism, human rights, etc.). The actions of the FA in the government of Montevideo are also important: the expansion of public services and of social policies—entrusted to municipal offices, decentralized communal centers, and politically related NGOs—has produced electoral yields and has renewed clientelistic and parentela networks. These direct links are combined with indirect repercussions that arise as a result not of affinity, but of dissent. The increasingly moderate positions of the left have reduced the “potential of threat” that the FA could pose for entrepreneurs and business associations. The latter have tempered their resistance, initiating relations with leaders of the left (although if faced with an eventual electoral victory, most will tend to close ranks with the traditional parties). Also indirectly, the opposition pressure contributes toward maintaining the integrity of the party system and its aggregational capacity. The new composition of the party system maintains the polarity and “attraction” of political competition. Even without polarization, within a scheme

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of moderate ideological distances and of battling for the center, the left-right cleavage serves as an axis of interparty competition and of electoral alignment. The explicit recognition and differentiation of the party elite and of voters follow this spectrum, based on discourse and programs, as well as attitudes related to values and strategic issues on the political agenda, especially state reform and privatizations.31 This trend helps re-create the competitive pattern of the traditional bipartism era, between the most conservative positions of the PN and the social liberalism of the PC, within which the “progressivism” of the batllista factions used to weigh heavily.32 This change suggests a new standard of bipolarity, which the electoral regime established by the 1996 constitutional reform helps to consolidate. To the extent that the FA grows, Blancos and Colorados—who have been rivals throughout Uruguayan history—are now going through a process of “convergence.” They contrive compromises and coalitions, comprising a political pole and an ideological family, with mutual proximity and relative lack of differentiation.33 As a result of the ideological overlapping and of political association, it becomes more difficult for them to cultivate their own identities and traditions, or to articulate different options and compete against each other. Internal differentiation also diminishes, and with it the dragnet possibilities formerly provided by the coexistence of right and left wings within each of the traditional parties. Diversity has persisted within both, and internal dissidence imposes compromise and obstructs certain political initiatives. But the competition of the FA and the duties of government—given the narrowing of electoral support and of parliamentary representation—foster greater convergence among factions and the need for greater party discipline. Bipolarity generates phenomena of internal concentration and has hurt the more progressive wings of the two traditional parties. The electoral regime established by the 1996 reform feeds these complications and imposes new demands. Although the presidential election by majority could have a unifying effect, the double logic of the system is conducive to party plurality: all parties may compete in the first round for proportional representation in parliament and for a chance in the presidential runoff election. Nevertheless, this requires that the neighbor parties have a certain political weight and their own programmatic offers, and are thus able to compete effectively. The new limit of one presidential candidate per party reduces the possibility of political differentiation between party factions, which must line up behind the winner of the primary elections. This affects the individual profile of each internal sector, reducing the party’s electoral reach. Although both the establishment parties and the two combined have lost votes, the political pole they form finds a fulcrum in the right-left structure of competition. The FA’s development as the challenger party provides elements

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of vitality to the party system. Even though it subtracts votes from the traditional bloc, it paradoxically may also serve as an incentive for its reproduction. The evolution of each party, the relations between them, and the profile of the bloc they comprise—the possibility of retaining votes and even of reversing the electoral decline (which is not an inevitable fate)—depend on the productivity they develop in this competitive framework, on their reorganization, on their political platforms, and on their alternatives for leadership.

Frente Amplio: The Contradictions of Prosperity The FA has emerged as a successful party, but faces challenges that originate from its own growth and from the parameters of competition. These are similar to those confronting parties of opposition—especially if they are “newcomers,” and particularly if they are leftist parties with aspirations of reaching the government—when they act in frameworks of competitive democracy, within an institutionalized and consistent system, without extremes of polarization. The growth of the FA has been based on the logic of opposition, combined with ideological moderation and its evolution as a catchall party. Through political action, parliamentary work, and participation in municipal administration it has achieved a certain experience in governmental function. But in the competition with the traditional parties and the ruling coalitions, it has had more incentives to oppose than to cooperate. “Policy-seeking” has lost ground to “voteseeking,” which favors confrontation, without radical posturing but with a level of “antagonism” that intensifies regarding structural reforms, strengthening a culture of opposition based to a large extent on defensive stances. These premises of accumulation have produced results and will surely continue to do so. However, the constraints of competition and the dynamic of political development require that the FA also refine the combination of opposition and ideological moderation, improving its image as a politically reliable government actor capable of “positive” initiatives.34 A key factor in this sense lies in the institutional rules. The majoritarian presidential election imposes, ex profeso, a higher bar for winning the presidency. Furthermore, although it reinforces political bipolarity, this regime does not necessarily lead to ideological polarization. On the contrary, it generally results in a centripetal competition, if not a certain programmatic convergence, aiming at the moderate preferences of an “average” citizen and particularly of center voters, who become decisive. Finally, the changes that brought about the current historic transition of the economy, state, and politics must be kept in mind. In opposition to the parties that lead this “modernization,” the FA has cultivated the “logic of difference,” with a footing in traditional values, and it has benefited from doing so. But these changes foster a certain level of cultural assimilation that weighs on

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the FA ranks and on the segments of “modern” voters that it targets in the battle for the center. There are new values and disciplines, internal and international constraints, requirements of political responsibility, that set the conditions for the government, but also for those who seek to win it. If the alternation of power were to occur, the FA would be faced with these conditions and the traditional parties would become the opposition, in a scenario that would lead to a reformulation of the political system’s coordinates, resulting in other challenges and new questions. In this perspective, the experience of left-wing parties that have reached government in Chile and Brazil provides a significant reference point.

Notes 1. An analysis of “persistence and change” in parties and party systems, which encompass both dimensions in an approach to a classic political science topic, can be found in Mair 1997. 2. About the party-decline hypothesis, see Montero and Gunther 2002, pp. 3–8. Regarding continuity or stability of parties in Latin American countries, see Alcántara and Freidenberg 2001. 3. Mariana Sotelo (1999) confirms that the Uruguayan traditional parties are among the oldest of the Americas and of Western Europe (second or third, depending on criteria used). In regard to party systems, if they are ranked according to “successful longevity”—average age of the two most-voted parties in the previous election included in the study (1994)—Uruguay is in first place, followed by the United States and Colombia. 4. The building of the “party government” (see, among other sources, the ensemble of works edited by Francis Castles and Rudolf Wildenmann, such as 1986a, 1986b) is a permanent process of political productivity that is subject to extraordinary challenges in times of change, involving the transformation of politics and the restructuring of parties. 5. Colorados and Blancos: “Reds” and “Whites,” from the colors of the badges that identified each party during the civil wars of the nineteenth century, when they were born. 6. Arend Lijphart (1969) coined his well-known concept of “consociational” democracy in reference to the processes of “associative” nation building, in societies traversed by social cleavages (nationality, ethnic, religious, class). I believe this notion can be applied to processes of nation building that are based on a center-periphery cleavage, even in cases like Uruguay, in which the parties are not simply representing social and economic divisions, but operate as catchall parties, articulated in truly political conflicts, originally related to the establishment of the central power of the state. The lines of cleavage are based on political traditions and subcultures, in a composition similar to that of Colombia. 7. The national elections included a sort of internal election: the factions within a party competed with each other, while also accumulating votes together to compete with the other parties. This formula applied to all posts—with several candidates by each party (for the presidency, parliament, and municipalities)—favoring the permanence of factions and electoral “dragnet.” 8. In two periods (1919–1933 and 1951–1967), coparticipation reached the apex of the executive branch, through a council government similar to that of Switzerland.

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9. Taking into account the experience of Uruguay and the United States, as well as the recent evolution of some Latin American countries, I have contended that presidential regimes—as well as parliamentary regimes—can be categorized as “majoritarian” or “populist,” but also as “pluralist” democracies, based on the distribution of power, government institutions and party systems, leadership styles, and political culture (Lanzaro 2000b, 2001). This approach follows Robert Dahl (1956) and Arend Lijphart (1984), but departs from the belief that presidential systems are by nature majoritarian. In the texts mentioned, I also distinguish between presidencialismo de coalición (coalition presidentialism), which has multiparty cabinets, and presidencialismo de compromiso (compromise presidentialism), in which one party executive seeks parliamentary accords with other parties, legislative factions, or single representatives, case-bycase or along the lines of alliances, but without making up a coalition government. 10. Although there may be certain similarities, the notion of state-parties is not to be confused with that of “cartel-parties” (Katz and Mair 1995). The idea of state-parties is broader and harkens back to extensive periods of history, encompassing different models of development, state forms, and party functions. 11. In the 1930s, state institutions dominated by the traditional parties in the coparticipación regime became articulated with other regulatory bodies, with class representatives, forming a corporative segment (coparticipación corporativa). Nevertheless, the Blancos and Colorados maintained their profile of citizen-based parties. In this context, they received broad voter support from the working class, but did not control the trade unions, whose leadership remained in the hands of the leftist parties. 12. Beginning in 1930s, we see an advance in “assisted” capitalism, with a “closed” economy that maintained its agricultural export focus, while developing an industrialization aimed at the internal market (import substitution industrialization). 13. The denomination as “Keynesian” parties (Lanzaro 1994, pp. 44–48) may be applied in general, beyond Uruguay’s case, to parties that operate in similar terms, as has usually happened when Keynesianism was strong in Western Europe, the United States, and several Latin American countries. This outlook is similar to that presented by Alessandro Pizzorno (1980, pp. 165–171) with regard to the functions of trade unions during the Keynesian era. 14. Equipos-Mori public opinion survey of ideological party identification, based on the left-right continuum, with cells in a scale from 1 to 10. El Observador, March 13, 1999. 15. A table of Scott Mainwaring and Timothy Scully’s (1995, p. 8), of twelve Latin American countries for the period 1971–1989, shows that Uruguay had the lowest volatility (9.1 percent). 16. This debut is added to the coalition experiences in presidential regimes recorded in other Latin American countries, as a novelty or with precedents (Lanzaro 2001). Beginning in the 1980s, presidencialismo de coalición emerged as a product of certain political conditions of the new “wave” of democracy: multiparty systems, generally with the president elected by majority in two rounds, economic adjustments, and structural reforms, in a cycle of substantive transformations of politics and parties. Counter to what some authors predict, the “difficult combination” of presidentialism and multipartism (Mainwaring 1993) does not necessarily lead to stalemate or threats to democracy, but often finds appropriate routes for the government and the reforms, even in periods of turbulence and sharp change. It also becomes clear that government coalitions are not exclusive to the parliamentary system, as is generally believed. 17. These are the effects commonly found in two-round majority elections combined with proportional representation (Duverger 1951; Sartori 1994). Bipolar multi-

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party systems—which “give order to” plurality in the party system—also prosper in other Latin American countries, notably Brazil and Chile. 18. The defense of the state and the opposition to privatizations is one of the FA’s “warhorses” (although this is less so in the context of municipal government). This situation fits well with the strong statist culture of the Uruguayan people, extending far beyond the scope of FA supporters. Leftist voters have a net preference for the state and oppose privatizations, but not all pro-state citizens are aligned with the left. The proof is in the pudding. In a 1992 referendum, more than 70 percent of the voters favored the annulment of the law authorizing the privatization of some public enterprises (particularly the sale of the telephone company). Eleven years later, in another referendum held in 2003, almost 60 percent of the voters favored the annulment of a law authorizing the association of the public oil company with private capitals. 19. The FA is a structure in motion, in which its “genetic model” (Panebianco 1982) holds significant weight. This means that the process of political development and electoral growth is fulfilled through the existing structure of the FA, which in the same movement undergoes an important transformation. This transformation—which combines old and new traits—is a competitive phenomenon in itself, causing internal tensions, resistance, and conflicts, which in turn affect national political dynamics. 20. The privilege of electoral objectives is an essential element and most relevant in Otto Kirchheimer’s characterization of the catchall party (1966, pp. 184–185). Years later, on the basis of Kirchheimer’s work, Angelo Panebianco (1982) built his model of the electoral-professional party. 21. The hybrid nature of a “coalition party” could be compared to that of other leftist groupings. But the coalitional or federative (“tribal”) scheme may be found in parties of other tendencies, especially during formative periods. 22. Agustín Canzani (2000) shows that from 1988 to 1999, the segments of the citizenry’s ideological self-identification maintained relatively stable proportions: a third in the center, with the left and center-left never surpassing a quarter of the electorate. 23. The only split that occurred (1989) came from the more moderate wing, but did not halt the growth of the FA. The unity of the left was recently recomposed through an agreement with Nuevo Espacio. At the same time, support among workers is maintained; the social democratic “electoral dilemma” (Przeworski 1985)—labor constituency versus diversified growth—is not mainifest. 24. “Under the Third Republic the French moved gradually towards the Left, it is quite true; but the Left moved gradually towards the French too: it went halfway to meet them” (Duverger 1965, p. 307). 25. Otherwise, the liberal transition could have led to different political evolutions, as has occurred in other Latin American countries, depending precisely on the characteristics and solidity of the party system, the performance of the parties guiding the process, and the development of the left. 26. For a discussion about current changes in parties and linkages, see Lawson, “When Linkage Fails,” in Lawson and Merkl 1988; Katz 1990; Kitschelt 2000. 27. Calculations based on the statistics of Latinobarómetro for 1995–2002 (Lanzaro and Luna 2002) confirm that in Uruguay the state-market cleavage, and public opinion about privatizations in particular, constitute the best indicators of voter intent. With an electorate that has a high level of pro-state affection, the FA voters are more state-centric than the voters of the PC, PN, and NE. Correspondingly, while the FA is consistently associated with the defense of the state, the traditional parties have assumed more market-centered positions. 28. It would be worth a separate analysis to delve into the “rationality” that inspires political behaviors in Latin America and in other regions. There is an abundance

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of normative literature in support of the neoliberal model, but less is known about the concrete causes that lead parties to “tie their hands” and apply the “recipes” or “packages” that entail a reduction of their own political resources and often imply a “U-turn” with respect to their normal practices: endogenous and exogenous causes, international constraints and pressure from multilateral organizations, economic and fiscal crises, “cultural revolution,” ideological contest and “contagion effect,” the force of “ideas” and political competition, as well as types of parties and party systems, features of the previous state form, and modes of development. 29. The economic crisis that was unleashed beginning in 2000 and reached its climax in 2002 may have given rise to a more radical thrust. However, although the crisis led to very strict adjustments, a moderate tone continues to predominate with respect to the economic measures, social policies, and privatizations: in function with the political balances and Uruguayan gradualism eppur si muove! 30. In the 1990s, Uruguay was the only Latin American country that saw income distribution improve when gross domestic product grew. According to available reports (from the United Nations Development Programme [UNDP] and the Economic Commission for Latin America and the Caribbean [ECLAC]), its social indicators show a favorable evolution, earning first-rank positions on the UNDP’s Human Development Index and Poverty Index (see United Nations Development Program for Latin America [PNUD] 1999). 31. Uruguay is one of the Latin American countries in which the left-right ideological cleavage shows consistent significance and is accepted as such in public opinion polls and political culture surveys, with respect to identity and the self-identification of the elite and the citizenry (Lanzaro and Luna 2002, based on Latinobarómetro statistics). 32. Batllismo—founded by President José Batlle at the beginning of the twentieth century, and continued under the presidency of Luis Batlle as of the 1940s—was a very progressive current of the Partido Colorado, promoting the expansion of a strongly state-centered development and an early welfare state that became famous. The mark of this political movement has been so intense that “batllista Uruguay” is often mentioned when referring to twentieth-century Uruguay. Paradoxically, Jorge Batlle—winner in the 1999 presidential elections and himself a descendant of those illustrious men—has been one of the champions of neoliberalism, bent on destroying the state and changing the development model that his ancestors built. In what constitutes an important component of his opposition practices, the FA has taken up typical batllista banners, which have strong roots in Uruguay’s political culture. 33. The superposition between the PC and PN, which in 1984 was 77 percent of the electorate, in 1999 reached 90 percent. In the same period, the ideological distance between the two fell from 12 percent to 3.3 percent. According to Giovanni Sartori’s criteria, a family circle is drawn when the superposition surpasses the 85 percent mark and the distance is less than 5 percent (Lanzaro 2000b, calculations based on EquiposMori and Cifra surveys). 34. In this regard, the economic crisis that began in 2000 and that seriously worsened in 2002 may improve the FA’s electoral chances, but it also presents greater demands in a horizon riddled with difficulties. It is worth mentioning that the economic growth of the 1990s was to a great extent based on the expansion of Uruguay as a banking center for the region (mostly for Argentina) and the increase of exports, basically to Brazil and Argentina. The drop in the international prices of the export products, Brazil’s devaluation, and the Argentine collapse that followed had grave consequences for Uruguay. In 2002 the crisis dug in sharply, resulting in economic paralysis, enclosures in the banking system, a decrease in employment levels, and a drop in salaries.

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PART 2 Parties on the Right

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Germany’s Christian Democrats: Survivors in a Secular Society FRANK BÖSCH

T

he German Christian Democratic Party is one of the most successful democratic parties in Western Europe. From 1953 to 1990, the Christian Democratic Union (Christlich-Demokratische Union [CDU]) and the Christian Socialist Union (Christlich-Soziale Union [CSU], only in Bavaria) regularly gained at least 44 percent of the electorate. This success story was not expected to continue into the following decades, however. By then, the CDU/ CSU was saddled with a corruption scandal, encumbered with debts, and rapidly losing voters, while its policies had failed to curtail the rising unemployment rate. By 1989 also, as in other Western countries, extreme right-wing parties had begun to succeed in some regions of Germany that are traditionally Christian democratic. Nevertheless, whereas Christian Democratic parties in other European countries have continued to lose supporters in recent years because of growing secularization, the CDU/CSU survived not only the effects of modernization and the end of the Cold War, but also its own crises. Even the great funding scandal in 2000 did not spark a real decline in popular support. After it lost governmental power in 1998, the CDU/CSU also managed a difficult transformation and an almost complete turnover in its leadership. However, since then it has won most of the federal elections and regained the chancellorship in 2005. Although it lost voters in recent national elections, it became the strongest party. The populist right-wing parties, which had succeeded in other Western European countries, had no chance in Germany. What was the basis of the Christian Democrats’ continued success in comparison to other Western European countries? This chapter will analyze how the CDU/CSU achieved its position and managed to overcome new challenges. It is my thesis that the party’s success cannot be explained by the political system or social structure. Rather, it is a direct consequence of the integrating power of 141

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the Christian Democrats’ politics, their skillful organization, and their deft campaigning. Also, the German reunification solved many of the party’s problems. Of course, in recent years the Christian Democrats have lost members and voters, but they still enjoy excellent electoral results. My definition of “prospering” means keeping electoral stability at a high level.

The Christian Democrats and the German Party System The German Christian Democrats are a federal people’s party with conservative, liberal, and social elements of ideology. They are organized into two parties: the Bavarian CSU, which is more conservative, and the CDU in the rest of the country. Although the CSU is formally an independent party, it is closely connected to the CDU. The two have never competed in the same area in an election and have always shared a common parliamentary group. They also have some common party organizations, like the youth organization Junge Union. These two parties should not be treated as political rivals, but as two branches of a common political group.1 The structure of postwar German society was not especially favorable to the rise of a Christian Democratic party, because it would depend for most of its support on the Catholic middle classes. Yet even in the 1950s only 44 percent of the population was Catholic in Germany. Meanwhile, the Protestant popular majority belonged mainly to the Lutheran Church and was less religious than the Calvinists in the Netherlands or Switzerland (Schmitt 1989). Furthermore, half of the German population were workers, and they were not organized in Christian trade unions after 1945. Unlike Italy, Belgium, or the Netherlands, where trade unions often supported Christian Democratic parties, German trade unions supported mostly social democrats. After the Christian trade unions were reinvented in 1955, they remained an unimportant, small Catholic group (Schroeder 1992). Instead, the CDU/CSU was supported by organizations of the self-employed and farmers, but these groups especially were shrinking during the 1950s. In addition, even the electoral system reflected few advantages for Germany’s Christian Democrats. Indeed, the CDU/CSU repeatedly tried to introduce a majority electoral system. This would have been a great advantage for uniting the bourgeois camp against the left and to prevent the rise of small, right-wing parties. Several times the CDU/CSU could have changed the proportional electoral system, but did not. At least the 5 percent threshold for representation helped prevent populist right-wing parties from entering parliament. The great stability of the German party system itself was an advantage for the Christian Democrats. The liberal Free Democratic Party (Freie Demokratische Partei [FDP]) was the only bourgeois party that reached the necessary 5 percent in the national parliament after 1957. The FDP remained

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a small party because it favored a still-unpopular free market economy with less social security, and did not appeal to law-and-order issues as they did in other Western countries (Lösche and Walter 1996, pp. 209–216). The memory of the Nazi past helped to curb the growth of the extreme right, while the parties of the extreme left were often fighting among themselves. The success of the CDU/CSU was often the by-product of other parties’ weakness. The German Social Democratic Party (Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands [SPD]) was suffering great internal dissension during its turn in power in the 1970s and its years of opposition in the 1980s and 1990s (Lösche and Walter 1992). The new Green Party, which entered parliament in 1983, was preoccupied with internal debates as well (Raschke 1993, 2001). After 1994, the SPD was competing not only with the Green Party but also with a postcommunist party, the Party of Democratic Socialism (Partei des Demokratischen Sozialismus [PDS]) on the left (Merkl 1999). While the Social Democrats suffered from this fragmentation of the left, the CDU/CSU could maintain power from 1982 up to 1998 in a coalition with the Liberals. Beginning in the late 1990s, these circumstances changed. The Social Democrats and the Green Party have come to terms, and both have moved toward the middle of the political spectrum. As a result, the Social Democrats also have the choice between two different partners for a coalition, the Greens and the FDP. The Christian Democrats have often reacted to changes in society. When the party system changed slightly, they changed their appearance. The history of the CDU can be divided into five periods. During its foundation, from 1945 to 1949, it was a grassroots party of religious milieus. It had many members and carried on intensive programmatic debates. Left-wing and socialist ideas of the Catholic trade unions had a strong influence. Between 1950 and 1968 the CDU became a political-merger movement that relied on the authority of the chancellor, especially Konrad Adenauer. Its party machine was weak because the government was the main actor. It avoided programmatic debates. Conservative and liberal positions were dominant. Its membership decreased while ample donations and public money financed its intensive campaigns. During the opposition years, 1969–1982, the CDU completely reformed the party. It started intensive programmatic debates and invented a highly organized party machine. In this way it reacted to the decline of the religious milieus. Its membership again rose sharply and the left wing of the party once more became influential. During the Helmut Kohl years, 1982–1998, the CDU again was a well-organized party of the chancellor. It had a well-developed party organization and published many programs, but after 1990 the chancellor again dominated the party. Finally, since the CDU’s fall from office in 1998, a fifth period can be discerned. The debates on the programmatic and organizational reform of the party started up once more. In contrast to the 1970s, the membership and party bureaucracy were continuously decreasing while new strategies of direct approach to the voter were under discussion. On the

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whole, the CDU became more liberal in this period (Bösch 2002b). The history of the CSU has some similarities, but also differences. It started its organizational reforms in the mid-1950s after it had lost office in Bavaria (Mintzel 1999). Since 1957 it has controlled the state government. Although it could rely on a strong governmental administration, it has also kept its strong party organization to this day. As in other Western European countries, the early successes of the CDU/CSU relied mainly on Catholic voters (Rohe 1990). Up to today, the majority of Catholics still vote for it (see Table 8.1). In comparison to other Christian Democratic parties in Europe, however, the CDU/CSU has stronger elements of both liberalism and conservatism, because it managed to integrate the Protestant middle classes during the 1950s among its followers. This was achieved not only by the spectacular success of Konrad Adenauer’s government (1949–1963), but also by careful organizational strategies. The German Christian Democrats invented an internal system of strict proportional representation dividing power fairly between Protestants and Catholics. They also made political compromises and used a new political language acceptable for both denominations. A strong anticommunism helped to bridge differences as well. Finally, massive campaigns in Protestant areas, special financial efforts, and a decentralized party organization helped to integrate these voters and their parties into the CDU/CSU (Bösch 2001a). This wide range of political traditions strengthened the flexibility of the CDU/CSU in times of social and ideological changes. The growing distance between the Catholic Church and Christian democracy after the second Vatican Council in 1965 was less painful because the CDU/CSU did not rely exclusively on the Catholic network. This was a great advantage in comparison to the Christian Democratic parties in other Western European countries, many of which suffered great losses after the transformations of church and society in the late 1960s. However, the Christian Democrats still succeed, especially in the Catholic and rural regions in the west and the south, while the Social Democrats have better chances in the industrialized and Protestant areas. The federal structure of the German party system has often been helpful to the CDU/CSU. The losses of power in 1969 and 1998 were compensated by the strength of Christian Democratic leaders in the federal states, the Bundesländer. Even in these times of national opposition, the CDU/CSU was still part of the government, because it maintained a majority in the second chamber, the Bundesrat, which had grown in power. Federalism also helped to compensate for crises in the party itself. While the national party organization of the CDU suffered (e.g., from its financing scandals), the independent party organizations in the federal states showed their strength and started organizational reforms. The young party elite in the regions could gain public attention with their independent actions.

58 n/a 65 69 62 50 63 56 65 55 55 52 49 52 49

33 n/a 37 41 36 22 34 32 40 32 39 39 32 37 33

38.9 44.6 40.4 42.1 40.6 43.0 47.2 44.2 47.7 42.5 42.0 40.6 34.9 40.0 35.0

Men 47.2 53.5 49.6 51.7 50.6 46.0 48.8 43.7 49.2 45.1 44.8 42.2 35.0 37.0 35.0

Women 47 n/a 50 58 52 39 57 52 58 47 52 37 29 37 30

Catholics 22 n/a 25 31 31 11 24 17 33 25 36 n/a n/a n/a n/a

Protestants 61 n/a 64 70 58 53 65 51 67 58 55 38 30 35 31

Catholics 40 n/a 41 42 33 25 34 36 47 35 34 42a 35a 36a 38

Protestants 66 n/a 74 75 90 61 76 68 76 71 72 52 44 47 42

Catholics 39 n/a 47 46 64 43 52 48 45 45 52 n/a n/a n/a n/a

Protestants

Self-Employed

58 n/a 77 92 72 82 87 92 68 77 78 64 63 — —

Farmers

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Sources: 1953–1990: Datenhandbuch zur Geschichte des deutschen Bundestages; 1994: Forschungsgruppe Wahlen; 1998–2005: Infratest dimap Wahltagsbefragung. Notes: a. Does not include their religious denomination. n/a = data not available.

45.2 50.2 45.3 47.6 46.1 45.8 48.6 44.5 48.8 44.3 43.8 41.5 35.1 38.5 35.2

Protestants

White-Collar Workers and Officials

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Catholics

Workers

The Voters of Germany’s CDU/CSU, 1953–2005 (percentages)

CDU/CSU

Table 8.1

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Since German reunification in 1990, the German party system has shown one great change: East and West are politically divorced. While the party system in the former Federal Republic of Germany hardly changed, in the East the former German Democratic Republic (GDR) has a completely different party system and political culture. Party identification is extremely weak in the East. Consequently, the voters are switching more easily between the SPD and the CDU. Traditional cleavages show little impact. The Christian Democrats cannot rely on a social structure with a close connection to the party: only onequarter of the voters are members of the church, and the well-off middle classes are weak. The CDU succeeded in the first elections after 1990, but since 1998 has lost many of its erstwhile East German voters. Atheist workers sometimes preferred the CDU, sometimes not. Liberals and Greens are almost nonexistent in the East. The only East German party with consistent support is the postcommunist PDS, which has until recently gained about 20 percent in the former GDR. Its traditional communist networks have preserved the old loyalties. It also succeeds as a protest party that defends the regional interests of the East German part (Hough 2001). On the whole, the East German party system shows more similarities to the party systems in Eastern Europe than it does to the West German system (Birsl and Lösche 1998, p. 16). These mainly atheist regions, possessing one-fifth of Germany’s voters, are another new challenge for the Christian Democrats in a secular society.

Direct Approach to Voters: Campaign Techniques Until the 1960s the mass mobilization of the CDU/CSU depended on its auxiliary organizations. Catholic groups, patriotic clubs, and especially interest groups supported its campaigns on the ground. Also in the Protestant areas, a network of clubs and voluntary associations contributed to its success (Bösch 2002b). In comparison to other Western Christian democratic parties, the CDU/ CSU was early on looking for additional campaign techniques. During the 1950s it founded professional advertising groups secretly financed by the government (Hoffmann 1995). It campaigned with films, meetings, and speeches, even between elections. Moreover, the CDU/CSU was the first German party to introduce media campaigns utilizing US techniques. Experts in product advertising and opinion research were advising the campaigns already in the 1950s. Short slogans, stories about the private life of the chancellor, and government-financed movies were circulated in public. Although the CDU/CSU was a conservative party, it did not hesitate to invent modern ways of using the media. It had the courage to simplify matters and to make informal arrangements. A strict anticommunism focused on the SPD, and “unpolitical” support for national security and economic prosperity was a typical message. The CDU was also the first German party to use opinion polls. All these campaign techniques pre-

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pared the CDU/CSU for a secular society. It was at an advantage in comparison to the Social Democrats as well. The majority of SPD members were reluctant to turn away from using their traditional posters, assemblies, and long programmatic explanations. Most of them also distrusted the polls and advertising agencies for quite a long time after the war (Hettering 2000). Since the 1970s, the influence of external auxiliary organizations has decreased, and the CDU/CSU has lost its exclusive connection to them. The Christian Democrats reacted to these changes in society in three ways. First, the CDU/CSU replaced reliance on its grassroots supporters with a strong party machine. The size of the federal and regional staff was doubled. Even in the local districts, full-time party secretaries worked to ensure a permanent connection between party and society and organized the campaigns (Schönbohm 1985). Second, the CDU/CSU tried to imitate the traditional forms of the grassroots campaigns. To compete with the peace movement, for instance, it organized local meetings and mass demonstrations “for peace and security with fewer arms.” In 1999 it succeeded in regional elections by collecting signatures against the introduction of a dual citizenship (Schmitt-Beck 2000, p. 7). Third, the CDU/CSU improved the use of the media in its campaigns. It invented political uses for commercial electronic media, and started a new kind of cooperation with these techniques in the early 1990s. Party chairman Helmut Kohl, who usually had problems communicating on television, appeared on television shows regularly and was even given his own show, Zur Sache Kanzler, on his friend Leo Kirch’s channel, SAT I. At the same time, conventions of the CDU were presented by famous moderators from television. Leading advisers of the chancellor were recruited from the tabloid press. The CDU/CSU campaign in 2002, for instance, was not led by a party secretary but by an independent journalist, Michael Spreng, chief editor of the biggest tabloid in Europe, Bild-Zeitung. Finally, for the first time ever, in summer 2002, a discussion solely between Chancellor Gerhard Schröder and CDU/ CSU candidate Edmund Stoiber was broadcast on television. The Christian Democrats also improved their direct approach to the voters. Mailings to selected social groups, for instance to all priests, were quite common following the foundation of the CDU/CSU. But in the 1990s the CDU also started direct mailings to selected nonmembers. The letters were addressed to upper-class neighborhoods and asked for donations (Römmele 1999, p. 308). The CDU tried new telephone campaigns and Internet chats with its prominent politicians. It was also the first German party to use professional Internet services, in 2002—such as the “direct response” known from the campaigns of the US parties (http://wahlfakten.de). However, this technique was seldom utilized. The CDU/CSU obviously increased its campaigning and representation in the media, but since 1998 the Social Democrats have presented a much more sophisticated performance. Gerhard Schröder succeeded because of his innovative

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campaign (Klingemann and Kaase 2001). In the campaign of 2002, his challenger, Stoiber, was weaker in presenting himself on television compared to the “Chancellor of the Media” (Meng 2002). The chairwoman of the party, Angela Merkel, had the same problem in the 2005 campaign, which might explain some recent difficulties of the CDU. Altogether, the close connection to some tabloids and to the commercial electronic media helped to save the position of the German Christian Democrats, but not enough to win the 2002 elections.

Party Organization and Leadership The CDU/CSU succeeded as the first Volkspartei (people’s party) in Germany. It managed to integrate different social groups through special party organizations that participated in the selection of candidates and elites. A proportional system improved the balance between Catholics and Protestants, employees and employers, and the left and right wings of the party organization. These different wings were organized in independent auxiliary organizations, the Vereinigungen. Different points of view among these groups were tolerated to quite a large extent (Bösch 2002b, pp. 73–155). Consequently, the organization of the CDU/CSU was a loose one. It is still a federally organized party (Schmid 1990). The existence of the independent CSU in the state of Bavaria is the most obvious result of this federal organization. The strength of its regional groups followed not only from the principle of Catholic subsidiarity, but also from the different regional political traditions of the CDU/CSU, which were united after 1945. The federal structure enabled it to cover a broad range of political ideologies. In regions with conservative attitudes, like Bavaria, Hesse, or Schleswig-Holstein, it became a rather conservative party, and in liberal regions, like Baden-Württemberg, it became a liberal one; indeed, in regions steeped in social Catholicism, like Nordrhein-Westfalen or the Saarland, it became a rather leftist party. In regions with right-wing attitudes, it reacted by making regional political concessions. Consequently, the CDU/CSU covers a broader ideological field than other Christian Democratic parties in the smaller countries in Western Europe (Veen 1983–2000). At the same time, the federal party relied on the strong political leadership of its chairmen, who were usually federal chancellors or state prime ministers. In comparison to other countries, the long tenure in office strengthened their position. Chairmen Adenauer (1946–1966) and Kohl (1973–1998) held especially strong positions, which led to a common direction in central questions. Kohl’s leadership relied on two different sources of power. On the one hand, he had a large number of loyal party secretaries in the local districts. He kept in close contact with these representatives on the ground to protect his position in the states and in party meetings. On the other hand, Kohl also used the resources of his office as chancellor, rather than making decisions in the com-

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plicated and weak party committees (Clemens and Paterson 1998; Dreher 1998). Patronage was a common way to preserve loyalties, because German parties have a certain privileged position in society. The minister-presidents in the states also preferred to use their chancelleries, the Staatskanzleien, rather than their party headquarters (Schneider 2001, pp. 282–306). A strong executive can compensate for the loose structure of the party. Close connection to the parliamentary group completes the system of control. From 1990 to 1994, just after unification, the CDU again became a “chancellor’s party,” with the chancellor now making all the major decisions. Party committees met less and less frequently (see Table 8.2). The national party headquarters, with more than 200 members employed full-time, helped to organize the party and campaigns, though they had no influence on political decisions. Consequently, the loss of the elections in 1998 was a great problem. Since that time, the CDU has tried to strengthen the positions of the party headquarters again and, currently, the party committees are meeting much more regularly. Yet party chairwoman Angela Merkel had difficulty keeping the different wings and regions in line, until she gained authority as candidate and chancellor in 2005. During the opposition period, it was not the headquarters and the party committees that took charge, but the minister-presidents of the states. They met regularly in the Präsidium (central executive committee) to coordinate their strategies. While the staff of the headquarters had to be reduced by more than 40 percent, the large staffs in the Staatskanzleien of the ministerpresidents and of the parliamentary groups could expand their positions. Consequently, it was not Chairwoman Merkel but (Bavarian) minister-president and candidate Stoiber who managed to restore the cohesion of the party in the Table 8.2

1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 1995 1996 1997 1998 1999 2000 2001

Number of Meetings of Germany’s CDU Executive Committees, 1990–2001 (absolute and per month) Präsidium (central executive committee)

Bundesvorstand (executive committee)

16 (1.3) 13 (0.9) 9 (0.9) 13 (1.2) 5 (1.0) 9 (0.5) 14 (1.2) 18 (1.8) 26 (2.0) 10 (1.7) 29 (2.4) 40 (2.0)

14 (1.2) 17 (1.2) 5 (0.5) 7 (0.6) 4 (0.8) 9 (0.5) 11 (0.8) 13 (1.3) 20 (1.5) 6 (1.0) 20 (1.7) 26 (1.3)

Source: Berichte der Bundesgeschäftsstelle.

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campaign of 2002. Only his failure and the decline of the Social Democrats gave Merkel a chance to lead the party back into government in 2005. The CDU/CSU also managed to stay the course because democratic participation in party affairs is weak in Germany. The programs are mainly created by the party elite. Since the 1980s, discussions at party meetings have usually been quite short (Reichardt-Dreyer 2000). The 2002 election platform was created by a small group, and was rarely discussed in the party committees. Candidate selection inside the party rarely relies on democratic election. The official election of the candidates for parliament is done by party delegates in the party organization of the individual German states. However, those candidates have been chosen in internal meetings of the party headquarters and executive committees. Even the chancellor candidate for the national election is rarely chosen in a free election. In 1997, Kohl simply announced to the media that he wanted to be the candidate for a fifth term. In 2002 the two rivals, Merkel and Stoiber, decided between themselves that Stoiber should be the candidate. The opinion polls for Stoiber had the greatest influence on this decision. This way the CDU/CSU was able to maintain harmony between the different wings. An open debate on the programs or a free election of the candidates would only have exacerbated differences. In 2005 an open debate was again avoided. Merkel just waited, and finally became a candidate, because no one dared to risk a conflict between the wings. Besides the integration of regional and political wings, during the past decade the CDU has also improved the participation of women within the party. In this way the CDU has responded positively to a new challenge. For a long time the success of the Christian Democrats relied on the female electorate, because women voters used to be more religious (see Table 8.1). The more recent secularization of the female electorate as well as the feminist movement has reduced this advantage for most of the Christian Democratic parties in Europe. The CDU also appeared to be too much of a male party, and too conservative on issues of women’s rights. In the 1990s the CDU reacted to this development by increasing the number of women in leading positions. Since 1996, one-third of the CDU party elite and the candidates are supposed to be female, although not in the CSU. This quota system has proved quite successful. Since 2000 there has been not only a chairwoman leading the CDU, but another one also leading the Junge Union. For a Christian and conservative party, this was a small revolution. The number of females among the executive committees and party secretaries in the regions has also increased significantly (see Table 8.3). The new members of the East German CDU have also promoted female participation in the party elite and in the membership, because the East German women are much better organized than in the West. Compared to other conservative and Christian parties in Europe, the elite of the CDU now has a high percentage of women (Hoecker 1998). However, although this might help stop the loss of female voters in the future, it did not

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Women in Germany’s CDU, 1989 vs. 2001 (percentages)

Type of Organization

1989

2001

Präsidium (central executive committee) Bundesvorstand (executive committee) Bundestag (parliament) Ausschußvorsitzende (chairwomen in parliamentary committees) Landesvorsitzende (chairwomen of regional party organizations) Landesgeschäftsführerinnen (party secretaries of regional organizations) Kreisgeschäftsführerinnen (party secretaries of district organizations) Kreisvorsitzende (chairwomen of district party organizations) Ortsvorsitzende (chairwomen of local party organizations) Members of the party

15.3 21.2 7.7 0.0

28.6 34.1 18.4 0.0

0.0

0.0

0.0

13.3

17.2

27.5

2.3

9.7

—

13.3

22.8

25.2

Source: Frauenberichte der CDU Deutschlands.

stop the decline in the female share of the electorate in 2002 und 2005. Moreover, the CDU, and especially the CSU, still have fewer women in leading positions compared to the German left-wing parties. Like all parties in Western Europe, the CDU/CSU has organizational problems on the ground. The CDU started as a party that was mainly organized in church and interest groups, but had only a small number of members. The organizational efforts during the opposition period of the 1970s led to a growth in membership until 1983. Since then, not only has the political interest of the German voters declined, but also the need for members, because the CDU/CSU has been back in government. The membership decline could be stopped only in 1990, by integrating the strong membership of the CDU in East Germany, even though many of those had a communist past. This unification was highly controversial at the beginning, but was accepted quickly as the Christian Democrats realized the advantages. Not only did they absorb new members through this action, but they also inherited a strong party organization from the East German CDU. This was a great advantage in comparison to the Social Democrats, who had to start from zero in East Germany (Grabow 2000, p. 295). Since then, the departure of members has continued (see Table 8.4). But compared to other European parties, the German Christian Democrats still have a strong membership (Mair and Biezen 2001, p. 18). Thus while the membership of the Christian Democrats is continuously becoming older and smaller, it is not declining as rapidly as that of the Social Democrats.

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Parties on the Right Membership of Germany’s CDU, 1955–2001 (not including Bavaria’s CSU)

Year

Membership

Change per Year (%)

1955 1958 1964 1967 1968 1969 1970 1971 1972 1973 1974 1975 1976 1977 1978 1979 1980 1981 1982 1983 1984 1985 1986 1987 1988 1989 1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 1995 1996 1997 1998 1999 2000 2001

197,142 234,725 279,770 285,804 286,541 303,532 329,239 355,745 422,968 457,393 530,500 590,482 652,010 664,214 678,286 682,781 693,320 708,116 718,889 734,555 730,395 718,590 714,089 705,821 676,747 658,411 789,609 751,163 713,846 688,343 671,497 657,643 645,786 631,700 626,342 638,056 616,722 604,135

5.9 8.4 8.5 8.0 18.9 8.1 16.0 11.3 10.4 1.9 1.7 1.1 1.5 1.7 2.0 2.2 –0.6 –1.6 –0.6 –1.2 –4.3 –2.7 19.9 –4.9 –5.0 –4.0 –2.0 –2.1 –1.8 –2.2 –0.8 1.9 –3.3 –2.0

Source: Zentrale Mitgliederkartei/Berichte der Geschäftsstelle.

Since the 1990s the CDU has started to react to this new challenge. On the one hand, the rights of the party members have been strengthened. Today, members of several party districts are allowed to elect candidates directly, or to decide in party referendums on important political questions. The CDU has so far rarely used this method. On the other hand, the CDU has opened the party to

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nonmembers, who have been allowed to participate in local party meetings for a certain amount of time (Scarrow 1996, p. 199). As in other parties, it has also become more common to offer government ministries to nonmembers. However, the prosperity of the CDU/CSU has never relied on its members, most of whom are quite passive and rarely know much about the programs of their own party (Bürklin et al. 1997, p. 31). Perhaps this passive behavior is another key to the success of the CDU/CSU. Whereas the Social Democrats have often protested against the policy of their own party (Lösche and Walter 1992, pp. 339–364), the Christian Democrats are more easily satisfied. Thus the CDU has appeared more united than it actually ever has been—a major requirement for a party to succeed.

Managing Party Finances and Financial Scandals The funding of German parties is based on donations, membership fees, and, since 1959, public money. In recent years, about 20 percent of the income of the CDU/CSU has come from donations. One-third comes from public money and about 40 percent comes from fees and fixed contributions from members of parliament (see Table 8.5). Since the 1990s, donations exceeding 10,000 euros have to be publicly declared. Although public payments for the German parties are already rather high, until 1980 the funding of the CDU/CSU was based partly on additional illegal donations. They were transferred regularly by special organizations to avoid taxes and protect the anonymity of the donors. Consequently, the Christian Democrats had the highest income of all German parties, but their prosperity was based on questionable methods (Bösch 2001b; Bösch 2002b, pp. 156–184). In the 1980s these practices were revealed in the “flick scandal,” one of the greatest scandals in German party history, which almost led to the collapse of the Christian Democratic leadership. Corruption could not be proved but was at least suspected. The Christian Democrats were lucky that the FDP and the SPD were also involved in the scandal. The losses in membership, elections, and public trust finally led to high debts for the CDU in the late 1980s (see Table 8.5). Once more, it was German unification that helped to avert bankruptcy. Unification with the formerly communist East German CDU brought new paying members, more public money, and some (controversial) new properties for the party. Party finances have become much more transparent since the scandals in the 1980s. The income of the CDU/CSU is still much higher than that of the Social Democrats. However, in 2000 the CDU was once again accused of tax evasion and offenses against Germany’s strict party finance laws. It was revealed that Helmut Kohl, while party chairman and federal chancellor, had used more than US$1 million in hidden donations to strengthen his position inside the party. His notorious minister of interior, Manfred Kanther, was blamed for keeping more than US$10 million of illegal money in Swiss banks. Again, corruption

42.5 39.5 60.1 48.2 43.6 57.1 89.8 51.7 49.5 56.0 67.8 52.8 62.2 56.0 65.5 63.7

CSU 189.1 193.7 199.1 214.0 195.8 241.2 353.8 339.6 262.6 280.7 353.3 285.1 283.0 280.9 304.4 306.0

SPD 11.0 12.6 19.5 16.0 13.6 21.6 21.9 18.1 17.6 19.5 20.3 16.5 16.2 15.5 24.5 25.2

Donations (%) CDU 38.3 46.0 49.9 45.3 49.4 42.3 26.3 43.8 44.1 42.4 33.4 45.3 45.3 46.1 37.3 40.7

Membership Fees (%) CDU 33.0 31.3 25.0 31.0 27.7 25.0 43.0 24.8 26.7 27.2 41.4 33.7 32.7 33.6 27.4 29.6

Direct Public Money (%) CDU 140.1 139.9 151.5 148.3 157.4 146.2 185.5 175.8 173.3 201.8 172.3 169.1 179.8 202.7 242.5 226.1

Property (million deutsche mark) CDU

34.0 40.1 81.2 92.8 98.1 115.4 104.2 84.0 64.0 57.5 51.7 37.1 30.1 24.5 107.8 127.4

Debts (million deutsche mark) CDU

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Source: “Rechenschaftsberichte 1984–2000,” in Drucksachen des Deutschen Bundestages.

292.7 176.6 192.1 193.0 174.0 198.2 330.4 212.8 213.5 225.8 279.9 218.3 221.7 218.2 270.1 258.9

CDU

Revenue (million deutsche mark)

The Finances of Germany’s CDU, 1984–1999

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1984 1985 1986 1987 1988 1989 1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 1995 1996 1997 1998 1999

Table 8.5

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was suspected, but was not proven in court, despite strong evidence (Leyendecker, Prantl, and Stiller 2000, pp. 189–244). As a consequence of this second scandal, immense distrust of political parties developed within German society, and support for the CDU declined. This time the CDU reacted resolutely to save its moral and financial basis. Those involved in the scandal immediately had to resign their leading positions. The chairman, Wolfgang Schäuble, had to quit because he had not revealed smaller illegal donations of US$50,000. Former chancellor Kohl, who also refused to reveal the identity of the donors, lost his position as honorary chairman. A new kind of transparency was introduced, and financial control was improved through new statutes. The high debts were reduced by staff layoffs and budget cuts. In this way the Christian Democrats quickly restored the trust of the voters. But in the 2002 election campaign they were still rather short of cash. Above all, for the first time within twenty years, they could not spend government money as did the Social Democrats. However, the financial reforms built a moral foundation for the future, justifying the CDU’s claims to have become a “prosperous democratic party.” Furthermore, the CDU was lucky that, in 2002, illegal funding of the Social Democratic Party was discovered as well. Does money matter in the German party system? The history of the German elections shows that there is a connection between the prosperity of the party and its electoral success. The crises of the CDU—whether in the late 1960s, the late 1980s, or even 1998—have always gone hand-in-hand with great debts. Consequently, the recent consolidation of the party’s financial resources might be an indicator for its chances in the future.

Policy and Party Programs As a long-term party of government (1949–1969 and 1982–1998), the Christian Democrats highly influenced the history of the Federal Republic of Germany. The anticommunist orientation of the party to the West, its “social market economy,” and its conservative family and educational values might be seen as its most important issues. The success of the Christian Democrats did not rely on their vague programs, but on their politics and symbolic representations. The CDU succeeded as the party that founded a democratic Germany after 1949. In the memory of German voters, it was the party that initiated prosperity, stable prices, and safety in foreign policy, while helping to guide Germany through the crises of the postwar period. Its strict anticommunism helped to integrate different political groups. And in a divided country, this was all the more effective. Therefore, no official programs were necessary until 1968 (Pridham 1977). An intensive programmatic debate was started in the opposition period of the 1970s. It led to the first “basic” program in 1978. After 1982, as the party in power, the CDU continued to pass several programs, but they

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became more and more insignificant. Once more it was governmental policy that shaped its political direction and the public image of the CDU/CSU (Bösch 2002b, pp. 29–65). By the late 1980s, however, the historical merits of the Christian Democrats were diminishing in the public memory. The end of the Cold War reduced the popularity of anticommunism in German society. The economic policy of the Christian Democratic government was successful, but the party had no historical goals. Unemployment remained high (Zohlnhöfer 2001). However, the CDU/CSU was lucky. It managed a second time to become the party of national foundation. Since 1989 it has promoted itself as the party of German reunification, and has created a new national myth. The CDU/CSU claimed that it was the only party that had always wanted to reach unification and finally achieved it—although unification did not play a significant role in the Christian Democratic policy of the 1980s (Korte 1998, p. 482). This way the CDU/ CSU could appeal to patriotic emotions without becoming a nationalistic party. Once more, Christian Democrats could accuse the leftist parties of a historical failure and blame them for their skepticism about German reunification. Both tactics helped to integrate the voters of the right wing. Stricter laws and a stricter rhetoric against immigrants completed this process. Reunification also helped to explain the economic crises in the early 1990s. Economic problems in West Germany could be attributed to problems in the East. The CDU/CSU also found a new way to keep anticommunism alive, through intense campaigns against the postcommunist party, the PDS, that helped to mobilize bourgeois voters. Thus the rise of a new left-wing party enhanced the prosperity of the Christian Democrats. Domestic social and economic policy was always the most central issue in Christian Democratic politics. CDU policy supported the free market, to be sure, but it also offered generous support for several social groups. More than anyone else, it was the farmers and the civil servants who profited from its politics and therefore continued to vote Christian Democratic. Still, in the 1980s the CDU/ CSU reduced the social net and the rights of the employed, while its neoconservative turn improved the position of employers (Wewer 1998). Strong protests by the trade unions, and losses in the elections, soon followed. Consequently, the CDU/CSU gained an unfavorable image of social callousness. Its major problem was the continuously high unemployment rate, which finally led to its defeat in 1998. However, the CDU did not risk social cuts as severe as those undertaken by other conservative or liberal parties in Western Europe. After the defeat in 1998, it reacted to popular opinion. Although the government was highly indebted, its platform of 2002 offered generous social promises to all kinds of voters: taxes were to be lowered, and the regions of the former GDR were to receive more money. For families, an extremely high child allowance, 600 euros monthly for each young child, was promised.2 The CDU/CSU has

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never hesitated to offer popular promises to gain support. However, it did not change its traditional close support of the Western allies during the Iraq War. The CDU/CSU has also succeeded as a party of Christian values. Its programs and public speeches seldom refer to God, as is often done by the Republicans in the United States and by Christian Democrats in other European countries, such as the Netherlands. Still, talk of values in the basic party platform gives certain hints of religiosity. This way the CDU/CSU has avoided appearing too metaphysical in its policy, stressing rather its Christian positions. The protection of religious education in schools, tax breaks for marriage and families, and the banning of some abortions and homosexual marriage have been the key elements of this policy. Recently, the debate on embryonic research has been used as a new issue to appeal to Christian values. Although its positions are rather close to those of the churches, the CDU/ CSU has kept itself comparably independent from them. This has been necessary in order to integrate the Protestant middle classes. Especially in East Germany, the Christian Democrats have embraced a secularized society. They are not campaigning with specifically Christian ideas, but with bourgeois values. The conflicts between the churches and the German Christian Democrats have been especially strong in the Netherlands (Lucardie and ten Napel 1994, pp. 65). The CDU/CSU has tried to compromise; for example, in 2002 it managed to quell internal coalition differences on immigration policy and embryonic research. On other moral questions, the Christian Democrats have become more tolerant in recent years. Marriage is to be supported by tax reduction, but unmarried or divorced persons are explicitly accepted as families if they have children. The CDU still wants to prevent homosexual marriages, but has supported greater rights for homosexuals.3 So the CDU/CSU has succeeded as a Christian party of traditional values that is quite open-minded toward cultural change. The biography of party chairwoman and federal chancellor Angela Merkel underlines this development: she is a divorced woman without children, and a Protestant from East Germany who rarely practices her religion (Boysen 2001). Since 1989, the CDU/CSU has also responded to the rise of right-wing parties through its political efforts. On the one hand, it strictly forbids coalitions with extremist parties, even at the local level. Christian Democrats banned public assemblies by the right wing, labeling them as “extremists” and requiring their observation by the secret police.4 On the other hand, the CDU/CSU has often adopted some of the issues of those right-wing parties. It introduced stricter laws against refugees and criminals, stressing publicly the need for reducing immigration and the more rapid assimilation of foreigners. In public, it has appealed quite successfully to patriotic emotions. The colors of the German national flag cover its posters. Although the Christian Democrats claim to be

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the party of a united Europe, they still sing the national anthem at public assemblies to show their patriotism. On the whole, the CDU/CSU has maintained its position and prospered after crises, because its policy, programs, and public representation of politics have shown an enormous flexibility. The party has reacted to switches in public opinion and shown an ability to compromise. Thus the Christian Democrats have maintained their electoral success, even though they have not managed to solve major problems like unemployment, public debt, or the future of social insurance.

Conclusion: Survival of the Christian Democrats in a Secular Society Why has the CDU/CSU survived in a secular society while other Christian Democratic parties in Western Europe have failed? My analysis has pointed out several reasons, all of which suggest the great flexibility of the CDU/CSU in reacting to changes in society. The success of the German Christian Democrats has relied on their politics, organizations, and campaigning, rather than on the political system or the structure of German society. The CDU/CSU had many chances—like the economic miracle and reunification—and it used them to promote itself. Five main characteristics might be summarized. First, the CDU/CSU can cover a broader range of ideological positions, because it is the party of Catholic as well as Protestant political tradition. Its ideological complexity has been facilitated by its decentralized structure, its rare programmatic debates (except in the 1970s), and the rare democratic participation in the party. At the same time, it has made generous policy concessions to the conservative, liberal, and social wings of the party in order to keep the political majority. Second, the CDU/CSU had the luck not only to govern during German unification, but also to be able to use unification to continue an anticommunist and patriotic campaign against the left, and to restore its reputation, its finances, and its organizations. Third, the CDU/CSU has maintained its power through its organizational efforts. Especially during crises, it has unfailingly modernized its organization. The great authority and high political influence of the chancellor and the state prime ministers have kept the different wings and groups in line. Fourth, the CDU/CSU has invented new campaign techniques and adopted modern ways of using the media, which eventually replaced the religious milieus. Fifth, the Christian Democrats have been able to survive great financial scandals by reacting with reforms. Although the CDU/CSU did acquire illegal donations in the past, on the whole it must be seen as a prosperous democratic party. The future of the German Christian Democrats seems uncertain. Unification temporarily helped solve some of the political, organizational, and finan-

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cial problems that arose in the late 1990s. And just as reunification has helped the party, its sudden electoral slide in 1998 was also a result of the volatile voters in East Germany. The CDU/CSU’s loss of voters in national elections in the past decade might be seen as a sign of decline, but only in comparison to the German Social Democrats and to other Western European Christian Democratic parties.

Notes 1. This chapter will concentrate on the CDU, which is commonly regarded as one party on the national level, because it is one parliamentary group and the two do common campaigns. 2. “Leistung und Sicherheit: Zeit für Taten,” Regierungsprogramm CDU/CSU 2002/2006, May 2002, p. 6. 3. See especially “Beschluss des Bundesparteiausschusses: Lust auf Familie— Lust auf Verantwortung,” December 13, 1999. 4. See the record of the 1989 Parteitag and the strategy paper of the party headquarters (Bundesgeschäftsstelle): “Die Rep: Analyse und politische Bewertung einer rechtsradikalen Partei,” May 18, 1989; “Rep: Analyse und politische Bewertung einer rechtsradikalen Partei,” May 18, 1989.

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Japan: Why Parties Fail, Yet Survive HARUHIRO FUKUI

A

political party may be said to be “successful” if, in the case of a minor party, it wins representation or if, in the case of a major party, it wins a majority or large plurality of seats in a nation’s parliament. One may thus say that the party “succeeds” in winning representation or a majority position in parliament. By such a generous criterion, the five Japanese parties currently represented in the Japanese parliament (Diet), especially the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP), which has consistently won Japan’s parliamentary elections for more than half a century, may be said to have been very successful. The same may be said of most parties represented in most other nations’ parliaments. To be said to “prosper,” especially in a democracy, however, a minority party must, commonsensically, win sustained and growing parliamentary representation, and a major party must maintain its strong position in a series of elections, rather than just one or two. In order to do so, either type of party must necessarily win and maintain stable and, in the case of a minority party, growing electoral support and trust. In the discussion that follows, I show that, while the five Japanese parties currently represented in the Diet have been “successful,” none of them can be characterized as “prospering” in the sense suggested above. As the title of this chapter implies, they have in fact failed, but manage to survive without stable and sustained, much less progressively growing, electoral support. In order to illustrate and substantiate this conclusion, I first describe the Japanese political and party systems; second, trace relevant recent developments in Japanese electoral politics; and third, interpret and explain those developments in terms of my key argument and conclusion.

161

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The Japanese Political System Japan under the post–World War II constitution is a parliamentary democracy cum constitutional monarchy. The latter provides it with a purely ceremonial head of state, while the prime minister, elected by a majority of members in each house of a bicameral parliament, is the effective head of government. He—so far, no woman has ever been elected as Japan’s prime minister—appoints and heads a cabinet of no more than twenty ministers, which is collectively responsible to the Diet. All but three of the prime ministers elected since the mid-1950s have been leaders of the LDP, a conservative but highly pragmatic catchall party founded in 1955 through the merger of two major antecedent conservative parties and one minor centrist party (McKean 1993, p. 95). Of the two houses of the Diet, the larger and the more powerful is the House of Representatives, or the lower house, with the power to override the other house’s objections in approving or disapproving the passage of the annual government budget and the ratification of international treaties. At present, it has 480 seats, 300 of which are filled with members elected from single-member districts (SMDs) by the first-past-the-post formula, and 180 by those elected from 11 multimember districts by an open-list proportional representation (PR) method. The lower-house member’s normal term of office is four years, but the house may be dissolved by the prime minister virtually at any time he chooses, so that its members seldom serve the full legal term. The House of Councilors, or the upper house, currently has 242 seats, 146 of which are occupied by members elected by the single nontransferable vote (SNTV) method from the nation’s 47 prefectures, each of which is allocated 2, 4, 6, or 8 seats depending on its voter population, while the remaining 96 seats are filled with those elected from the nation at large by a closed-list PR method. Half of the seats in each category are contested every three years. Unlike the lower house, this house may not be dissolved, and its members normally serve a full six-year term of office. An eligible person (age twenty-five or older Japanese citizen in a lowerhouse election; age thirty or older citizen in an upper-house election) may run for a Diet seat either as an independent or as a candidate of a particular party. An independent candidate, however, may not run for a PR seat and, as explained in a later section of this chapter, suffers from several legal restrictions, which do not apply to candidates affiliated with a party, in the conduct of his or her election campaign for either an SMD seat in a lower-house election or a prefectural seat in an upper-house election. As a result, the numbers of independent candidates and winners are very small in any Diet election. In the most recent upper-house and lower-house elections, for example, only 28 of 320 candidates, or 8.7 percent, and 70 of 1,131 candidates, or 6.2 percent, for the upper and lower houses respectively, and 5 of the 121 winners, or 4.1 percent, and 18 of the 480 winners, or 3.8 percent, for the upper and lower houses

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respectively, were independents (Asahi Shimbun, July 10, 2004, p. 1; July 13, 2004, p. 1; September 10, 2005, p. 1; September 13, 2005, p. 6). Moreover, 40 of the 70 independent candidates and 13 of the 18 independent winners in the 2005 lower-house election had sought but been refused the LDP’s endorsement, thus reducing the numbers of bona fide independents to 30, or 2.7 percent, of the candidates and five, or 1.0 percent, of the winners. Virtually all candidates in a Japanese Diet election—and those in a prefectural or local election for that matter—seek to win votes by organizing as many constituents as possible into blocs of voters committed in advance to voting for them. These blocs are generically known as “support associations” (koenkai). Obviously, the larger and the better organized a koenkai is, the more effective as a campaigning organization it must be, but it takes a great deal of work and money to build and maintain a large and well-organized group. It is small wonder, then, that election campaigns in Japan, especially campaigns in Diet elections, are notoriously expensive. As I have pointed out elsewhere, in the late 1980s the mean cost of a candidate’s campaign in a Japanese lower-house election was about ten times the cost of a campaign in a parliamentary election in Canada, and sixty times those in Great Britain and the Netherlands (Fukui 1997, p. 103). This gives a well-funded candidate a decisive advantage over a less well-funded one; and, since few candidates can or will pay the entire costs, or even the bulk of them, out of their own pockets, most depend on funds provided by a party and, in addition, a trade or professional fundraising group or groups. The dependence of most candidates on a party, a local koenkai organization or organizations, and a trade or professional group or groups of fundraisers for their successful bids for a Diet seat also gives a significant advantage to those who inherit from incumbent or former Diet members, typically their own fathers, both personal connections with party leaders and support groups. In the 2005 lower-house elections, such “heir” or “heiress” candidates accounted for 26 percent of all winners and 34 percent of the LDP-affiliated winners (Asahi Shimbun, September 13, 2005, p. 6). Their conspicuous and entrenched presence, especially among the LDP’s top leaders, who, to a large extent, control legislative politics in the nation, renders the Japanese parliament a substantially hereditary institution and a Diet election less than a fully democratic exercise. A Diet member thus elected with the help of a political party, the koenkai, and one or more fundraiser groups would feel, particularly in a society with a strong gift-exchanging tradition, morally and pragmatically obligated to reward those groups and their members with as generous and tangible services as possible, such as brokering pork barrel legislation or projects for the benefit of the constituents and fundraisers. Thanks to their control of the Diet and the easy access to government ministries afforded them, LDP members of the Diet have been, for the greater part of the past half century, in the best position to reward their constituents and fundraisers with such benefits.

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Many LDP members of the Diet, especially veterans among them who have been reelected a number of times, hone their pork barrel political skills by serving on particular Diet committees for years, often decades, and thus becoming experts in the specific areas of policymaking and administration, such as agriculture, construction, transportation, postal services, telecommunications, social welfare, education, and the like, and in forming among themselves cabals of like-minded specialist legislators, popularly known as “tribes” (Inoguchi and Iwai 1987; Fukui and Fukai 1996). Each tribe develops close ties with, on the one hand, leaders of fundraiser groups, usually based in a particular industry or profession, and on the other, bureaucrats in the government ministry with jurisdiction related to the industry or profession. By the middle of the 1980s, the tribes had divvied up virtually the entire domain of policymaking and administration into a score of bailiwicks or fiefs, each under the jurisdiction of a particular government ministry or agency catering for a particular type of industry or profession. The tribes would compete for government attention, policy, and especially public funds on behalf of their supporters in the constituencies, industries or professions, and the government bureaucracy. The electoral and legislative politics thus dominated by the koenkai and the tribes begot, probably inevitably, “money politics,” that is, widespread corruption and recurring scandals, nearly all involving briberies or other forms of illegal or illicit use of money. To be sure, political corruption and scandals were neither novel nor unusual in Japan’s political chronicle. In fact, both had been among the most familiar, if highly discordant and discomforting, refrains in the nation’s political history ever since political parties, parliament, and elections were introduced, in that order, in the nation in the late nineteenth century (Fukui and Fukai 1997, pp. 43–44; Christensen 2000, p. 19). A widely publicized bribery case uncovered in 1988, known as the “Recruit scandal,” was just another example, in which a large number of politicians, including top LDP leaders, were charged with receiving illegal contributions and gifts from an advertising, a publishing, and a real estate company (Fukui 1989, pp. 10–11). But it was followed in 1992 by still another scandal, in which the LDP’s vice president was charged with and convicted of receiving a bribe from a trucking firm, Sagawa Express (Kohno 1997, pp. 136–137). These two scandals, one hard on the heels of the other, shocked the Japanese public enough to give rise to serious and sustained demand for political reform in general, and electoral reform in particular, in the early 1990s. Less sensational but more important in its medium- to long-term implications for Japanese politics was the policy- and budget-making gridlock, dubbed by some observers as “immobilism,” that resulted from the intense and constant competition among the policy tribes of more or less equal political and legislative clout inside and outside the Diet and government ministries (Stockwin et al. 1988). By virtually freezing the status quo in the allocation of public funds among the tribal fiefs, the gridlock forestalled any significant policy innovation

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that required a new allocation of funds. This was not a serious concern to the Japanese public during the good times, when the status quo did not threaten the average citizen’s vital economic interests in any serious way. When hard times arrived in the 1990s, with increasing bankruptcies, especially among small businesses, rising unemployment rates, skyrocketing public debts, and ever cloudier economic prospects, the public began to worry, then became angry, about the apparently worsening conditions of life in the nation and the government’s apparent inability or unwillingness to put together and implement a bold reformist agenda that the times clearly called for. Asked in an Asahi Shimbun poll in January 2002 how much they were worried about the possibility that they might lose their job or that their income might substantially decline in the future, 49 percent of respondents said they were worried very much, and 41 percent said they were worried somewhat; that is, 90 percent were worried to varying degrees (Asahi Shimbun, January 29, 2002, p. 5). The growing public frustration at the government’s inaction in the face of the increasingly worrisome and threatening economic conditions intensified the public demand for political reform earlier triggered by recurring scandals, and led to several notable developments in Japanese party and electoral politics in the last decade of the twentieth century and the first few years of the twenty-first century. The first major development that resulted directly from the growing public frustration and discontent was the LDP’s loss of control of the lower house in the 1993 general election, and the formation of the first non-LDP cabinet in nearly forty years, in the wake of the Sagawa Express scandal (Kanagawa 1995; Kohno 1997, pp. 136–155). The new government and its immediate successors, however, failed to develop and implement a practical reformist agenda, and helped only further deepen the public distrust of and antipathy toward the government and politicians. Not surprisingly, the LDP lost the 1998 upper-house election, too, and its share of the house’s seats fell from 47.6 percent before the election to 40.5 percent after the election (Asahi Shimbun, July 13, 1998, p. 1). Asked in a May 1998 Asahi Shimbun poll whether they trusted politicians, two-thirds of the respondents said they did not, and asked to characterize the typical politician, they did so overwhelmingly in negative terms (see Table 9.1). All this cynicism or hostility, however, did not necessarily reflect political apathy, that is, a genuine lack of interest in politics. In fact, a large majority of Japanese voters were interested in, but dissatisfied with, the current state of politics (see Table 9.2). The people were obviously fed up with the rule of the oldguard politicians, who were committed to the continuation of the politics and policies that had failed, and wanted to have reformers take over to change the course. In a poll taken by another major daily newspaper, Nihon Keizai Shimbun (Nikkei), in early 1999, the most popular candidates for a future prime minister were all those known as outspoken advocates of radical policy changes,

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Table 9.1

Japanese Voters’ Impressions of Politicians, May 1988 (percentages)

Do you trust politicians? Yes, very much. Yes, somewhat. No, not much. No, not at all. What kind of person do you think of when you hear the word “politician”? An unreliable person. A sly person. Somebody with a profitable job. An arrogant person. An energetic person. What interests do you believe a Diet member gives highest priority? Personal interests. Local constituents’ interests. National interests. [Don’t know or no answer.] Have you ever wanted to contribute money to or otherwise help a politician? Yes. No. [Don’t know or no answer.]

2 29 54 13 45 13 10 7 7 66 16 11 7 19 88 2

Source: Asahi Shimbun, May 31, 1998, pp. 1, 10–11.

Table 9.2

Japanese Voters’ Impressions of Politics, January 2000 (percentages)

Are you interested in the present state of politics? Yes, very much. Yes, somewhat. No, not much. No, not at all. [Don’t know or no answer.] Are you satisfied with the present state of politics? Yes. No. [Don’t know or no answer.] Do you want the present state of politics to change or not to change? Change. It is all right as it is. [Don’t know or no answer.] Source: Asahi Shimbun, January 5, 2000, p. 8.

18 45 28 8 1 11 75 14 82 13 5

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such as Ichiro Ozawa and Junichiro Koizumi, both of the LDP, Naoto Kan of the Democratic Party of Japan (DPJ), and Takako Doi of the Social Democratic Party (SDP) (Nihon Keizai Shimbun, February 3, 1999, p. 2). The respondents apparently did not care whether their candidates were conservative nationalists, such as Ozawa and Koizumi, or liberal internationalists, such as Kan and Doi. Ideology and foreign policy were apparently largely irrelevant. In earlier decades, public distrust of and disgust with corrupt politicians not only did not extend to bureaucrats, but also were largely made up for by public trust in bureaucrats’ moral rectitude as well as their reputedly superior knowledge and ability. Up until the mid-1980s, senior bureaucrats in the two dozen central government ministries and agencies had seemed to steer the ship of state with great skill and unquestionable integrity on behalf of the people and their elected representatives (Vogel 1979, pp. 55, 85; Johnson 1982, pp. 68, 315). In the more recent period, however, bureaucrats in the key ministries, including the reputedly most powerful Ministry of Finance and the Ministry of International Trade and Industry, were discredited for a series of serious policy errors, as well as involvement in scandals. They were accused of first letting a huge “bubble economy” develop in the nation’s real estate and stock markets in the last half of the 1980s, then letting it burst and plunge the entire national economy into a deep and protracted recession in the 1990s and beyond. A seemingly endless series of bankruptcies and closures among the nation’s businesses since the mid-1990s, including many of its largest banks and securities companies, were also blamed on the policy failures resulting from the bureaucrats’ misjudgment (Asahi Shimbun, January 1, 2000, p. 13). To salvage the troubled economy, the succession of cabinets kept spending more than ¥120 trillion (US$1 trillion) per year from 1991 to 2001, no doubt on bureaucrats’ advice, but to no avail (Asahi Shimbun, April 15, 2001, p. 13). Public trust in the bureaucrat’s technical acumen and skill dissipated as fast and as completely as public trust in the politician’s: asked how much they trusted the bureaucrat in a March 1998 Asahi Shimbun poll, 1 percent of respondents said “a great deal” and 25 percent said “some,” while 50 percent said “not much” and 21 percent said “not at all” (Asahi Shimbun, March 4, 1998, p. 1). With the departure of the able and trustworthy bureaucrat to cover for the bumbling and corrupt politician, the public discontent with the economic and political status quo and demand for sweeping reform have prompted two contrasting responses from the Japanese parties, one institutional and the other idiosyncratic. The first has taken the form of the publication of formal and detailed statements of policies, labeled “manifestos,” on the eve of a Diet election. Prior to the 2003 lower-house general election, the LDP issued its first manifesto, promising to achieve 2 percent annual economic growth by 2006, bring the annual government budget into basic balance by 2010, substantially decentralize fiscal policymaking power, privatize public corporations, reform

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and rehabilitate the nearly bankrupt pension system, and the like, while the DPJ promised in its manifesto a 4 percent reduction in the unemployment rate, a substantial cut in public works spending, decentralization of fiscal policymaking power more drastic than that proposed by the LDP, creation of a taxsupported national pension system, and the like (Asahi Shimbun, September 25, 2003, p. 1). These precedents have since been followed by all major parties, and the practice has become something of an established convention in Japanese party and electoral politics. The second type of response has taken the form of the rise of what may be called reform-populism and emergence of a reform-populist politician. The meteoric rise, and temporary fall, of the LDP leader and prime minister since the spring of 2001, Junichiro Koizumi, exemplify this phenomenon. Unlike most of his fellow LDP Diet members, he enjoyed a reputation among the electorate and in the media as a rare, and a bit quirky, politician interested in neither money nor tribal or factional politics (Otake 2003, p. 78). He was known to shun close personal relationships with both bureaucrats and businessmen, and to attend only infrequently meetings of the tribe-dominated LDP policy board-committees (Otake 2003, p. 97). In fact, his campaign slogans in the April 2001 LDP presidential election, in which he defeated the former prime minister, Ryutaro Hashimoto, included calls for the demolition of the LDP as it existed (Otake 2003, p. 90). Following his victory in the LDP presidential election and the parliamentary election of the new prime minister in the spring of 2001, Koizumi enthusiastically and fairly successfully went about changing the basic rules of Japanese party and electoral politics. He managed to break through the policy gridlock and had some, though not all or even most, of his reformist proposals not only incorporated into the LDP’s electoral manifestos, but also actually translated into legislation, by appealing to and mobilizing disgruntled public opinion to defeat obstructionist tribes entrenched both in his own party and in the Diet.

The Japanese Party System For nearly forty years, from the mid-1950s, when the LDP was founded, to the early 1990s, Japanese party politics was remarkably stable and predictable. There were always several viable parliamentary parties, but the LDP dominated both the Diet and local legislative assemblies. The booming economy no doubt helped the party in power earn and retain the support of the generally satisfied electorate. The opposition parties—consisting in the early 1990s of the Japan Socialist Party (JSP; renamed Social Democratic Party of Japan in February 1991 and Social Democratic Party in January 1996), the Democratic Socialist Party (DSP), the Clean Government Party (CGP), and the Japanese

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Communist Party (JCP)—were perennially divided and bickering among themselves, unable to present a credible challenge to the LDP. Divisions and rivalries did not characterize the opposition camp alone, however. The LDP, too, was known as a party dominated by several entrenched rival factions of affiliated Diet members, which wielded powerful, often decisive, influence in the election or appointment of not only party leaders but also Diet officials and even cabinet members, including the prime minister (see Table 9.3). Until very recently, nearly all LDP Diet members were members of one faction or another, and all the LDP factions were made up exclusively of LDP members of the Diet. They were therefore relatively small groups, their memberships ranging, as of the end of 2000, from a dozen to about a hundred (Asahi Shimbun, December 3, 2000, p. 4). In the eyes of most voters, they were the behind-the-scenes conduits of power and money, which bred or encouraged corruption as well as appointment of mediocre party and government leaders. The public impression of the LDP factions and their role was wellfounded. They had in fact chosen all LDP presidents cum Japanese prime ministers and members of their cabinets, until, as discussed below, Koizumi won the leadership of the party and appointed members of his cabinet in the spring of 2001 for the first time independently and in defiance of them (Richardson 2001, p. 150; Stockwin 1999, p. 148). As a rule, the leader of a major faction, supported by several allied factions and forming together a “mainstream” group, would win the top leadership position and then distribute cabinet posts among the allied factions in proportion to their relative strengths (memberships). An “antimainstream” faction would normally get punished to a greater or lesser extent. Koizumi’s immediate predecessor, Yoshiro Mori, for example, reshuffled his cabinet at the end of 2000 according to this old rule. Most of the

Table 9.3

LDP Factions and Cabinet-Post Allocation in Japan, December 2000

Alignment

Faction

Number of Members

Number of Cabinet Posts

Pro-Mori

Hashimoto Mori Eto-Kamei Ex-Komoto Kono Kato Yamazaki

101 60 56 13 12 62 23

5 2 3 1 1 2 0 2 1

Neutral Anti-Mori Non-LDP parties Non-Diet member

Source: Asahi Shimbun, December 3, 2000, p. 4; January 8, 2001, p. 9.

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prime ministers and members of their cabinets who earned their office thanks to this system failed to pass muster in public opinion polls. For example, in a series of Asahi Shimbun polls, the succession of cabinets led by three LDP prime ministers that immediately preceded Koizumi left their office with approval-to-disapproval ratios of 26 percent to 51 percent (Hashimoto, June 1998), 36 percent to 45 percent (Obuchi, March 2000), and 19 percent to 63 percent (Mori, January 2001) (Asahi Shimbun, June 23, 1998, p. 2; March 23, 2000, pp. 1–2; January 23, 2001, p. 4). In every case, those who disapproved outnumbered those who approved and, in the last case, by a margin wider than three to one. Along with the politics by policy tribes, “faction politics” (Belloni and Beller 1978) had become a moniker for politics under the LDP’s rule, and was blamed for the government’s apparent incompetence and policy failures. Not surprisingly, the LDP began to lose control of electoral and legislative politics, as the Japanese economy fell into a protracted recession in the early 1990s. The party’s share of the PR vote in lower-house elections thus declined from 46 percent in 1990, to 37 percent in 1993, to 33 percent in 1996, to 28 percent in 2000, while the party’s share of the PR vote in upper-house elections declined from 33 percent in 1992, to 27 percent in 1995, to 25 percent in 1998 (Curtis 1999, pp. 247–250; Asahi Shimbun, October 23, 2000, p. 3). As mentioned already, the party lost its exclusive control of government following the 1993 lowerhouse election. The coalition cabinet that took over, however, lasted for only eight months, and its immediate successor—another multiparty coalition cabinet without the LDP’s participation—for only fourteen months, before the LDP returned to power in coalition with its long-standing adversary, the JSP, and a new party, Sakigake (the “Harbingers”), formed by a group of defectors from the LDP on the eve of the 1993 lower-house election (see Table 9.4). Both of the LDP’s “strange bedfellows” left the coalition cabinet by the end of 1996, but the LDP soon co-opted other parties and continued to stay in power. It has also managed to remain the most successful electoral party, despite the progressive erosion of support for its candidates among the electorate. Until it joined the LDP in June 1994 to form a grand coalition government led by its own leader, the JSP had been the LDP’s main rival, relentlessly attacking the latter’s major foreign and defense policies, such as the steady expansion of the postwar Japanese armed forces, known as the Self-Defense Forces (SDF), and the military alliance with the United States based on the bilateral mutual security treaty originally signed in 1951 and revised in 1960. Its partnership with the LDP in the coalition government was thus a totally unexpected and shocking event to everybody except a handful of top LDP and JSP leaders privy to the secret negotiations that had preceded it. The event put an abrupt end to the JSP’s long-standing public image and reputation as a principled opposition party, not only causing great consternation among Japanese voters, especially the party’s traditional supporters, but also costing the party

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Seats Won by Major Japanese Parties in Recent Diet Elections Seats Won in the House of Representatives (%)

Party Liberal Democratic Party Democratic Party of Japan Clean Government Party Japanese Communist Party Social Democratic Party Others Independents Total

2003 232 (49.4) 174 (37.0) 34 (7.2) 9 (1.9) 4 (0.9) 6 (1.3) 11 (2.3) 470 (100.0)

2005 296 (61.7) 113 (23.5) 31 (6.5) 9 (1.9) 7 (1.5) 6 (1.3) 18 (3.8) 480 (100.2)

Seats Won in the House of Councilors (%) 2001

2004

65 (53.7) 49 (40.5) 26 (21.5) 50 (41.3) 13 (10.7) 11 (9.1) 5 (4.1) 4 (3.3) 3 (2.5) 2 (1.7) 7 (5.9) 0 (0.0) 2 (1.7) 5 (4.1) 121 (100.1) 121 (100.0)

Source: Asahi Shimbun, July 31, 2001, p. 3; November 10, 2003, p. 1; July 13, 2004, p. 1; September 13, 2005, p. 6. Note: Percentages may not sum to 100% due to rounding.

dearly in credibility and electoral support among the electorate at large (Stockwin 1999, pp. 85–86). The JCP used to stand nominally further left than the JSP and maintain an even more rigidly hostile attitude toward the LDP and its policies throughout the pre-1993 period of the LDP’s one-party rule. In practice, however, it was far more pragmatic, flexible, and adaptive than it appeared to the casual observer, especially in its electoral and parliamentary strategies and actions (Fukui 1978). Since the “great upset” of 1993, it has shifted its ideological and policy positions as boldly and extensively as, if not more than, the JSP, but not as abruptly or unexpectedly. In most voters’ eyes, the party has simply kept adjusting and modifying, as it had begun to do by the early 1970s, its ideological views and commitments that had become obviously obsolete, irrelevant, and irrational under the rapidly changing circumstances of both domestic and international politics. The pace of the adjustment substantially accelerated following a leadership change in the fall of 1997, when the newly elected chairman declared the party’s readiness to join “capitalist forces” in a coalition government. Then, in the summer of 1998, he told reporters that his party no longer demanded the repeal of the US-Japanese Mutual Security Treaty and, in the spring of 1999, that the Japanese constitution did not forbid the SDF (Asahi Shimbun, June 27, 2001, p. 5). The JCP thus became nearly indistinguishable in its ideological orientation and policy commitments from the LDP, not to mention the SDP. Unlike the SDP, however, it has not been seriously punished at the ballot box for its apostasy. This may have been partly because the JCP has not gone so far as to become a coalition partner of the corruption-tainted LDP or, for that matter, of any other party. As shown below, however, the CGP has been a partner in the

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latest LDP-led coalition cabinets, as well as in the JSP-led coalitions that had preceded them, and yet has not visibly suffered from a voter revolt and defection either. In fact, and as Table 9.5 shows, the JCP and the CGP have been the two most successful parties in recent local legislative elections. There must therefore be other, and more important, differences that set the SDP apart from the JCP and the CGP. Two such differences come to mind: one is that the changes in the JCP’s and the CGP’s issue positions and policies have come about gradually over a long period; and the other is that the JCP and the CGP depend for their electoral support nearly exclusively on solid blocs of faithful partisan voters. In the pre-1993 era of the LDP’s one-party rule, the CGP was regarded as a “centrist” party and was not as vociferous or consistent an opponent of the LDP government as either the JSP or the JCP, but it was nonetheless counted as a member of the opposition camp. After all, it was the political voice and parliamentary mouthpiece of the intensely sectarian and tightly organized lay Buddhist organization Sokagakkai (value-creation academy), which was engaged in incessant trench warfare with the rival Buddhist organizations allied with the LDP. Besides, the CGP was a partner in the two post-1993 anti-LDP coalition cabinets, and when the JSP entered the “unholy alliance” with the LDP in 1994, the CGP chose to stay out of it. In the summer of 1999, however, the CGP gave up its oppositionist role and joined the LDP-led ruling coalition. As mentioned already, however, it managed to retain the allegiance of its traditional supporters, who were nearly all Sokagakkai members and said to represent about 8.2 million families, a number that roughly matched the vote the party won in recent Diet elections (Asahi Shimbun, June 27, 2000, p. 9; June 27, 2001, p. 5; July 31, 2001, p. 10). The CGP today plays the role of the LDP’s junior partner, and perhaps not so strange a bedfellow, with its loyal supporters’ approval.

Table 9.5

Winners in Japanese Municipal Assembly Elections, 1999 vs. 2003

Party Liberal Democratic Party Democratic Party of Japan Clean Government Party Japanese Communist Party Social Democratic Party Others Independents Total

Seats Won in 1999 (%) 881 (8.2) 301 (2.8) 1,117 (10.4) 1,033 (9.7) 295 (2.8) (1.1) 122 6,948 (65.0) 10,697 (100.0)

Source: Asahi Shimbun, April 28, 2003, p. 3. Note: Percentages may not sum to 100% due to rounding.

Seats Won in 2003 (%) 625 (7.8) 106 (1.3) 922 (11.5) 675 (8.4) 179 (2.2) (0.9) 73 5,469 (68.0) 8,049 (100.1)

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Of the remaining extant Japanese parties, by far the most successful as a parliamentary party has been the DPJ, founded at the end of 1998. On most domestic and foreign policy issues, however, its positions are very similar to and hard to distinguish from the LDP’s, a fact that disadvantages the party in its competition with the LDP. Moreover, composed largely of defectors from the LDP, the JSP/SDP, and minor parties, DPJ Diet members have been divided among themselves ever since the party was founded in 1998 (Asahi Shimbun, December 17, 1998, p. 7). “Unionists” with close ties to the labor movement and “anti-unionists” associated with various citizens’ groups and movements have been engaged in a constant tug-of-war over a variety of ideological, policy, and personnel issues (Asahi Shimbun, June 27, 2000, p. 4; November 1, 2000, p. 5). The combination of the party’s espousal of and commitment to a policy agenda distinguishable from the LDP’s only in emphasis, and the wellpublicized internal divisions and squabbles among its leaders, has hurt the DPJ’s image and reputation among the electorate and its effectiveness as a parliamentary party. The contemporary Japanese parties are thus very much alike on major policy issues. The only important exception is their divergent positions in the ongoing debate over the issue of constitutional revision. Interesting as these differences are, the JCP and the SDP opponents of constitutional revision have been vastly outnumbered not only in the Diet but also among the general public (see Tables 9.6 and 9.7). The issue thus helps further marginalize the two erstwhile left-wing parties, rather than serving as a serious guide for voters to use in choosing candidates in elections. By contrast, the parties in the Cold War period could be far more clearly divided between the right (pro–United States) and the left (pro–Soviet Union and/or pro-China) and, within each camp, between the more and the less strongly committed. Their positions on major domestic issues were, or could be, tied to or buried under their positions in the sharply polarized East-West relations. The end of the Cold War has robbed many Japanese voters of the handy yardstick by which to size up and choose between the parties and their candidates. This development has helped Table 9.6

Constitutional Revision in Japan: Views of Lower-House Members Elected in 2003 (percentages)

Party Liberal Democratic Party Democratic Party of Japan Clean Government Party Japanese Communist Party Social Democratic Party

Revise

Consider Revision

50 25 3 0 0

42 69 85 0 0

Source: Mainichi Shimbun, November 11, 2003, p. 19.

Don’t Revise 2 5 0 100 100

Neither/ Don’t Know 7 2 12 0 0

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Poll Date 1994 (December) 1996 (December) 2000 (September) 2002 (September) 2004 (September)

Support Revision

Oppose Revision

28 32 43 47 46

27 20 13 14 19

Source: Mainichi Shimbun, September 8, 2004, pp. 5, 11.

diminish the significance of partisanship and increase volatility and unpredictability in Japanese electoral politics since the beginning of the twenty-first century. The presence and actions of a large contingent of independent and nonpartisan voters add further to the volatility and unpredictability, although this is hardly a new development. Japanese party politics in the 1960s and 1970s was already characterized by the conspicuously larger percentage of independent voters than in most other industrial nations (Miyake 1991, p. 226). Accounting for more than one-third of the nation’s electorate, they were as numerous as the partisan supporters of the LDP and far more numerous than the supporters of any other party at that time (Allinson 1993, p. 32). According to the results of Asahi Shimbun polls, their ranks had swollen to well over 40 percent of the electorate by the end of 2000, while LDP partisans’ had fallen to below 30 percent, and, at the end of 2002, they stood at 50 percent and 33 percent, respectively (Asahi Shimbun, December 13, 2000, p. 4; December 17, 2002, p. 4). Japanese independent voters have been known to be generally better educated and more interested in, though cynical and antipathetic about, politics in general and elections in particular, than the average Japanese voter (Miyake 1991, p. 227). The results of another Asahi Shimbun survey show that about one-third of the Japanese electorate on the eve of each of the two lower-house and two upper-house elections held in the period from 2000 to 2004 were strongly interested in those elections (Asahi Shimbun, July 9, 2004, p. 4). They have played a significant, often decisive, role in the successes and failures of the major parties by “swinging” from one party to another. For example, in the 2003 lower-house general election, only 19 percent of independent voters voted for LDP candidates and 55 percent for DPJ candidates, and the two parties won, respectively, 35 percent and 37 percent of the total vote, and 49 percent and 37 percent of the seats. By comparison, in the 2005 lower-house election, 33 percent of independents voted for LDP candidates and 37 percent for DPJ candidates, and the two parties won, respectively, 38 percent and 31 percent of the vote, and 62 percent and 24 percent of the seats (Asahi Shimbun,

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November 10, 2003, p. 1; September 12, 2005, p. 1). Independent voters thus held the virtual casting vote in the two lower-house elections. Partisanship has been unimportant in Japanese local politics and elections, in which most candidates run as either independents or with the support of more than one party. It has become a common practice in recent local elections for the major parties, with the exception of the JCP, to jointly sponsor and campaign for a bona fide or nominal independent candidate, a practice that helps further diminish the importance of partisanship. In the mayoral elections of spring 2003, for example, 66 of the 123 elected city mayors and 1 of the 14 elected metropolitan-ward mayors had run as independents, 29 of the successful city mayors and 10 of the successful ward mayors had run as joint candidates of four or more parties, 28 of successful city mayors and 3 of successful ward mayors had run as joint candidates of three parties, and none of the successful city or ward mayors had run as a candidate of a single party (Asahi Shimbun, April 29, 2003, p. 7). The multiparty cosponsorship of a candidate is possible because most Japanese parties today are very similar, both ideologically and with regard to their positions on major policy issues. That, however, in turn makes elections and party politics uninteresting to the average voter and encourages abstention. When, however, a large number of independent voters vote for one reason or another, they may exert a decisive, and often unforeseen, influence on the results of an election.

The Liberal Democratic Party vs. Koizumi As Table 9.8 indicates, the LDP remains by far the most popular party among Japanese voters. As of January 2005, it outpolled, three to two, the second most popular party, the DPJ. No other party ever came close, in recent years, to presenting by itself a credible challenge to the LDP in a popularity contest. The only such challenge came from the very large group of independent voters.

Table 9.8

The Japanese Electorate: Partisan and Nonpartisan Voters, 2001–2005 (percentages)

Party Supported Liberal Democratic Party Democratic Party of Japan Clean Government Party Japanese Communist Party Social Democratic Party None (independents)

January 2001

January 2003

January 2005

26 12 3 2 3 45

33 6 3 1 1 50

29 19 3 3 1 38

Source: Asahi Shimbun, February 19, 2001, p. 2; January 28, 2003, p. 5; February 1, 2005, p. 4.

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The LDP maintains a nationwide network of party branches, the basic units of which exist roughly at the rate of two per town or village, vastly outnumbering their counterparts maintained by the other parties (see Table 9.9). Each unit serves as the hub of local koenkai groups, which help get out the vote for a particular candidate at election time and canvass constituents for him or her between elections. The network as a whole thus functions as a huge, if highly decentralized and disjointed, vote-gathering machine in both Diet and local elections. Thanks largely to the presence and activities of this perennially campaigning organization, the LDP has maintained its status as the most successful parliamentary party. By early 2001, however, it had become evident, even to LDP members inside and outside the Diet, that politics under the old rules was fast losing popular support, if it had not done so already. Such a realization and fear led to an unconventional and unlikely outcome in the election of the new LDP leader in the spring of 2001. The electorate for the two-round LDP presidential election consisted of 346 LDP members of the Diet and 141 representatives of the party’s 47 prefectural federations of party branches—three representatives per prefecture. In the primary contest, only the Diet members would vote, not to eliminate any contender, but simply to let all contenders test the water and decide whether to stay for the real contest or withdraw. The winner was to be chosen by the simple first-past-the-post rule. On the eve of the election, the Diet members were divided into four competing groups: a three-faction, 158-member group sponsoring a former prime minister, Hashimoto; a three-faction, 98-member group rallying behind Koizumi, a former minister of health and welfare with a reputation as a reformist zealot; one minor fraction with 12 Diet members sponsoring one of its own members, Taro Aso; and another faction with 55 members ambiguously sponsoring one of its leaders, Shizuka Kamei (Asahi Shimbun, April 8, 2001, p. 2). Twenty-three Diet members were not affiliated with any faction and were undecided about whom they would vote for. Most prefectural

Table 9.9

Japanese Parties: Number of Branches, January 2002

Party Liberal Democratic Party Democratic Party of Japan Clean Government Party Japanese Communist Party Social Democratic Party Others

Number of Branches 7,122 463 438 n/a 311 218

Sources: Asahi Shimbun, February 20, 2002, p. 4; Yano 2004, p. 61. Notes: There were about 2,540 towns and villages in Japan in January 2002. n/a = data not available.

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representatives had varying degrees of relationship with one Diet member’s group or another, but how they would vote was unknown. According to the results of an Asahi Shimbun poll, public opinion, unlike the opinion among the LDP Diet members, favored Koizumi over Hashimoto four to one, and both over Aso and Kamei by wide margins. Even among LDP supporters, Koizumi beat Hashimoto two to one. However, when asked whether they thought the LDP factions would, as usual, pick the next LDP president, 60 percent said yes, 24 percent said no, and 16 percent said they didn’t know (Asahi Shimbun, April 16, 2001, p. 3). As it turned out, Koizumi pulled 123 votes in the test run against Hashimoto’s 15, Kamei’s 3, and Aso’s 0; in the real election, Koizumi won 177 votes against Hashimoto’s 138 and Aso’s 31, while Kamei withdrew from the competition (Asahi Shimbun, April 24, 2001, p. 1). To the great surprise of the majority of the respondents in the Asahi Shimbun poll, and no doubt also the majority of the nation’s voters at large, public opinion beat the long-established rule of the LDP-style “faction politics” (see Table 9.10). Koizumi’s victory was an upset in a sense broader than simply the surprising outcome of the April 2001 LDP presidential election. As one newspaper would remind its readers several months later, he ran and won as a candidate explicitly and vociferously opposed to and committed to destroying “LDPstyle politics” (Asahi Shimbun, December 14, 2001, p. 5). That was, it appears, precisely why public opinion rallied to his support, and against Hashimoto, with so much enthusiasm. Asked whether they supported Prime Minister Mori in December 2000, 18 percent of the respondents said yes and 66 percent said no; asked whether they supported Prime Minister Koizumi in May 2001, 79 percent said yes and 10 percent said no (Asahi Shimbun, May 17, 2001, p. 28). Ironically, the LDP benefited by riding on its avowed enemy’s coattails. Support for the party rose from 30 percent in December 2000, to 37 percent in May 2001, to 42 percent in June 2001 (Asahi Shimbun, July 8, 2001, p. 1). Table 9.10

Public Support for Candidates in Japan’s April 2001 LDP Presidential Election (percentages)

Candidate Koizumi Hashimoto Aso Kamei None of above Don’t know or no answer

Public at Large

LDP Supporters

CGP Supporters

Independents

51 12 5 3 9 20

50 24 n/a n/a n/a n/a

23 29 n/a n/a n/a n/a

49 9 n/a n/a n/a n/a

Source: Asahi Shimbun, April 16, 2001, pp. 1, 3. Note: n/a = data not available.

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The Koizumi boom lasted for the next nine months or so. It did so despite the new government’s apparent failure to turn the stagnant economy around: the Koizumi government’s own report on the state of the economy published in mid-November 2001 showed that the annualized growth rates of GDP, newly built housing units, and consumer spending were, respectively, –2.6, –2.9, and –4.7 percent, while the levels of unemployment and the amount of outstanding bad bank loans were at all-time highs, respectively, of 5.3 percent and ¥32.5 trillion (US$270 billion) (Asahi Shimbun, November 14, 2001, p. 9). It is not that Koizumi was indifferent to, much less unaware of, the serious economic problems. In fact, not only was he well aware of them, but he did propose to resolve them by overhauling the nation’s financial, tax, banking, social security, and public service systems, as well as the constitution itself (Asahi Shimbun, May 14, 2001, p. 1). Not surprisingly, his reformist agenda enjoyed overwhelming public approval. In a poll taken at the end of June 2001, it was approved by 76 percent and opposed by 9 percent of respondents (Asahi Shimbun, June 28, 2001, p. 5). As soon as Koizumi tried to begin implementing his reform program, however, it generated strong and determined opposition from the policy tribes that had close ties with public agencies, and from private-sector special interest groups that would be adversely affected by the program, such as the postal service, housing, road, and other public corporations; doctor and dentist associations; and the like (Asahi Shimbun, November 16, 2001, p. 4; November 21, 2001, p. 5; November 29, 2001, p. 3; November 30, 2001, pp. 3, 11). Fifty or so younger LDP Diet members affiliated with the Hashimoto and other antiKoizumi factions formed a new intraparty group to resist and block most of Koizumi’s reform plans (Asahi Shimbun, November 17, 2001, p. 5). Soon, the LDP’s official decisionmaking organ, the Executive Council, began to charge Koizumi with “exercise of dictatorial power” at the expense of intraparty democracy (Asahi Shimbun, November 29, 2001, p. 5). Even the LDP’s Headquarters for Administrative Reform joined the growing chorus of objections to the immediate implementation of the proposed reforms (Asahi Shimbun, December 18, 2001, p. 2). Koizumi continued to push his reform agenda in the face of widespread opposition from his own party, but increasingly in words only rather than in action, with no tangible results. The boom was nonetheless sustained through the end of 2001. Early the next year, however, it ended as suddenly as it had begun nine months before. The immediate cause of this change was the sacking of Makiko Tanaka, an immensely popular woman foreign minister whose performance during her brief tenure of office had been nearly disastrous, but who had earned a reputation as a genuine and dedicated reformer battling corrupt bureaucrats in her own ministry and corrupt politicians in her own party (Otake 2003, pp. 169–188; Kruger 2002, p. 20). Koizumi apparently wanted to put an end to the disputes between Tanaka and her opponents in the ministry

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and the party, which were getting nastier and distracting the attention of both politicians and the public away from his main policy agenda. By firing the most popular member of his cabinet, however, he lost, at least temporarily, both the trust and the love of those who had supported him not as the leader of the LDP or the LDP-led government, but as the champion of a bold and sweeping political and economic reform program. From the beginning of his prime-ministerial tenure, Koizumi’s popularity was based not on his membership in or identification with the LDP, or in any other organization for that matter, but on his apparent commitment to a radical reform program. In an Asahi Shimbun poll taken about a month after he became prime minister, 8 percent of respondents attributed their support of his cabinet to his being the LDP leader, while 31 percent attributed theirs to the prime minister being Koizumi and 27 percent to his policy commitments (Asahi Shimbun, May 17, 2001, p. 2). In a still earlier poll, taken just after he became prime minister, 14 percent of respondents expected and 71 percent didn’t expect the LDP to change under Koizumi’s leadership (Asahi Shimbun, April 16, 2001, p. 3). In short, an overwhelming majority of Japanese citizens had apparently given up on the LDP, and the other parties as well, to serve as a reliable vehicle for the radical reform of the nation’s politics and economy that they felt was essential for the nation’s survival as a successful industrial democracy. They had come to rely instead on the personal qualities, such as ability, initiative, integrity, drive, and, above all, policy preferences and commitments, of a particular politician or politicians, such as Koizumi and Tanaka. The sacking of Tanaka sent them a powerful negative message: Koizumi was not the dedicated reformer that they had assumed him to be. Besides, he had also failed to deliver on his commitments to privatize the banking and insurance businesses that were run by the public postal service, substantially curtail wasteful public works spending, especially new construction of highways and railroads, and force banks to dispose without further delay of their piles of nonperforming loans (Asahi Shimbun, September 7, 2002, p. 11; “Roads to Ruin” 2002, p. 35). The change in the climate of public opinion was dramatic; the proportion of supporters of the Koizumi government among respondents of Asahi Shimbun polls fell overnight from nearly three-quarters to less than one-half, while that of nonsupporters more than doubled (see Table 9.11). The sudden and sharp fall in the Koizumi government’s popularity in February 2002 was followed by further, albeit more gradual, erosion in the next three and a half years, with a temporary reversal of the trend in the fall of 2002, when Koizumi paid a surprise visit to North Korea and its reclusive leader, Kim Jong Il. In the summer of 2005, however, Koizumi’s and his cabinet’s popularity suddenly rebounded, and the LDP won a landslide victory in a snap lower-house election called by Koizumi virtually on the single issue of postal service privatization. Since the early 1990s, Koizumi had been calling for the privatization of the postal services, which included highly lucrative government-operated banking

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2001 April June August October December 2002 January February March April

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Nonsupporters

78 81 69 71 72

8 8 17 13 17

72 49 44 40

16 36 40 44

Source: Asahi Shimbun, June 28, 2001, p. 5; August 4, 2001, p. 1; October 16, 2001, p. 3; January 29, 2002, p. 5; February 4, 2002, p. 2; April 4, 2002, p. 4. Note: The exact language of the question was “Do you support the Koizumi cabinet?”

and life insurance businesses as well as a monopoly mail service. He had unsuccessfully run for LDP president as an advocate of postal service privatization in 1995 and 1998, before he won the office at long last in 2001. Under his leadership, the services ceased in April 2003 to be operated directly by the government, and were transferred to a new public corporation, named Japan Post. Koizumi, however, kept pressing for a complete privatization of the services and his cabinet introduced, in the lower house in April 2005, a set of six related bills to achieve the goal, in the face of strong opposition among LDP members as well as among nearly all opposition-party members. The bills barely passed by five votes in July, but 37 LDP members voted against the bills and 14 either abstained or absented themselves from the vote (Asahi Shimbun, July 6, 2005, p. 1). When the same set of bills was put to a vote in the upper house a month later, it was defeated 108 to 125, with 8 abstentions, thanks to the negative votes cast by 22 LDP members (Asahi Shimbun, August 9, 2005, p. 1). As he had warned in advance, Koizumi immediately proceeded to dissolve the lower house and call a new election. Moreover, the LDP leadership under Koizumi’s tight control refused to endorse any of those who had voted against the bills in July as the party’s candidates and, where they ran for reelection either as independents or candidates of newly formed miniparties, sponsored rival candidates to defeat them. The LDP and its candidates campaigned on the single issue, arguing that if privatization of the postal services was not possible, no reform of any other moribund, inefficient, and corrupt public service would be possible. The result was, as Table 9.4 shows, the LDP’s landslide victory, which gave the impression that public trust of and support for the LDP, if not for any of the other parties, had been restored.

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Such an interpretation is not very persuasive, however. What appeared to be the LDP’s victory in September 2005 was actually Koizumi’s victory, or the victory of the reformist posture he skillfully and believably assumed. In an Asahi Shimbun poll taken in the wake of the lower-house election, 58 percent of respondents attributed the LDP’s victory to Koizumi and 18 percent to the LDP, while 24 percent attributed the DPJ’s defeat to its leader, Katsuya Okada, and 49 percent to the DPJ (Asahi Shimbun, September 14, 2005, p. 1). In other words, a majority of the Japanese people believed that LDP candidates had won not because they were candidates of a party they strongly preferred, but because they were candidates endorsed by a man they preferred for his apparent commitment to reform, whereas nearly half the people also believed that DPJ candidates had been rejected not because they were candidates of a leader they disliked, but because they were candidates of a party they did not like. In one case, the party was irrelevant to its own victory; in the other, the party was a negative factor.

Conclusion The foregoing discussion makes it difficult to characterize either any of the individual Japanese parties, including the LDP, or the Japanese party system as a whole as “prospering” in the sense of the term explained at the beginning of this chapter. There is widespread and deep dissatisfaction with, and distrust of, party politicians and politics. It is also difficult, however, to characterize them as either defunct or likely to become defunct in the foreseeable future. One must say that they have failed but are surviving. This apparently illogical and confusing state of the contemporary Japanese parties and party system may be interpreted and explained with the help of a simple model of political actors adapting to the changing political environment made up, for the sake of simplicity, only of two large variables: political culture and political institutions. Political actors may be either individuals or organizations. In the present case, they are the several Japanese political parties discussed in this chapter. “Adapting” is defined here broadly and flexibly enough to include both “evading” and “exploiting.” The term “political culture” is used in the sense of collectively shared political values and attitudes, as in Gabriel Almond and Sidney Verba’s famous 1963 work. “Political institutions” refers to sets of rules that govern political actions and transactions; that is, the term “institutions” is used in the sense of “the rules of the game in a society,” as Douglas North puts it (North 1990, p. 3; Ostrom 1995, p. 175; Thelen and Steinmo 1992, p. 2). Culture and institutions are the key elements of the social environment to which social actors must successfully adapt in order to survive, not to mention prosper. Those that fail to do so are doomed to oblivion, if not extinction. Political culture and political institutions, or, more generally, culture and institutions, are closely related to each other. In fact, “informal institutions,” in

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the sense of “norms, conventions, and codes of conduct,” form on the border between institutions and culture, and may be considered types of either one or the other (North 1990, p. 36; Knight 1992, pp. 97–108). It is nonetheless possible for institutions, or at least such formal institutions as laws and ordinances, and culture to be in conflict with or divergent from each other. The state of party politics in today’s Japan may be best understood and explained as such a case of institution-culture conflict or discordance. The discussions in the preceding sections of this chapter, especially the public opinion data presented in Tables 9.1, 9.2, and 9.8, point up the strongly antiparty and even antipolitical overtones of political culture in contemporary Japan. If the same parties and same politicians were once popular and respectable in the nation, they must have failed to adapt successfully to its changing political-cultural environment. The fact, however, that they have not passed away so far, nor are likely to pass away anytime soon, suggests that they must have more successfully adapted to the other key element of the environment— that is, the political-institutional environment. The validity of this proposition may be inferred from such circumstantial evidence as follows. The political-institutional environment in contemporary Japan is replete with incentives for the formation, consolidation, and perpetuation, and disincentives against the dissolution and elimination, of political parties. To cite only the most obvious, 180 of 480 lower-house seats, and 96 of 242 upperhouse seats, are reserved for members elected by the PR method; that is, they are reserved for those affiliated with parties. Once elected, a Diet member may not participate in his or her house’s legislative work by himself or herself alone. The law requires that a bill introduced into either house of the Diet be cosponsored by a certain number of members—20 and 10, respectively, in the lower and upper houses, if the bill does not involve a budget appropriation, 50 and 20 if it does (Diet Law, art. 56, sec. 1). Members of either house must serve on at least one standing committee and may serve on any number of ad hoc committees. The memberships of each committee and its board of directors, however, are allocated to parties in proportion to their shares of the total membership of the house concerned (Diet Law, art. 42, sec. 2; art. 46). Party-sponsored candidates in lower-house SMD and upper-house prefectural district elections enjoy significant legal advantages in their campaigns over independent candidates. According to law, an independent candidate in such elections may use only one sound-truck at any time while campaigning, while a party-sponsored candidate may use one or more additional vehicles provided by the party (Public Office Election Law, art. 141). Likewise, the numbers of franked postcards and campaign posters granted to an independent candidate are less than two-thirds of those granted to a party-sponsored candidate (Public Office Election Law, arts. 142, 143, 144). As important as, or even more important than, any of the above is the parties’ role as providers of political funds for most politicians. For example, the

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average LDP Diet member depends on funds provided by the party, both by the party headquarters in Tokyo and by local party branches, for about 60 percent of his or her annual income, exclusive of his or her salary (Asahi Shimbun, December 21, 2001, p. 5). For Diet members of most other parties, the degree of dependence on the largess handed out by the party treasury is even higher: it is about two-thirds in the case of the average DPJ and CGP Diet member. The parties can afford to be as generous as they are and make themselves as attractive to their Diet members—in fact, indispensable for most of them—thanks, in large measure, to the funds they receive from the government. Since 1994, the government has been mandated to set aside each year ¥250 (US$2.3) per citizen, or about ¥32 billion (US$290 million) in total as of 2005, to distribute among qualified parties in proportion to their shares of Diet seats (Grants to Parties Law, arts. 7, 8). All major Japanese parties, with the exception of the JCP, have been receiving these grants since 1995. As membership dues and individual and corporate donations received by political parties have diminished under the prolonged recession, the parties’ dependence on public subsidies has steadily grown (Asahi Shimbun, January 12, 2002, p. 4: September 13, 2002, pp. 2, 5). In 2005, they amounted to about 18 percent of the CGP headquarters’ 2004 annual income, 48 percent of the SDP’s, 60 percent of the LDP’s, and 83 percent of the DPJ’s (Asahi Shimbun, September 14, 2005, p. 3; Yomiuri Shimbun, September 29, 2005, p. 1). The above-listed formal institutional incentives, by no means exhaustive but merely representative and illustrative as they are, help us understand and explain why the Japanese parties that have apparently failed continue to survive. As a former DPJ upper-house member observes: “If one wants to participate in [Japanese] national politics, one has no choice but to belong to an existing party”; and, “Today’s politics is unavoidably party politics” (Kawahashi 1998, pp. 114, 152). The parties may be culturally obsolescent and irrelevant, but institutionally they are still highly relevant and indispensable. Japanese parties thus appear bound to remain for a long time to come, if not forever. An interesting question worth further observation and analysis, then, concerns the long-term impacts the apparent conflict between the two key dimensions of the nation’s political environment, political culture and political institutions, may have on the future of Japanese democracy.

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Russia’s Political Parties: Deep in the Shadow of the President ANATOLY KULIK

I

n the elections of 1999 to Russia’s State Duma (the lower chamber of the bicameral Federal Assembly), the Unity (Yedinstvo) electoral bloc—composed of various minor political groupings that had come into existence less than three months before the ballot—had no distinctive program and no renowned politicians in its ranks. Regardless of its recent birth, Unity placed second in the election, after the Communist Party of the Russian Federation (CPRF). Once in the Duma, Unity constituted the second largest faction. Shortly thereafter, it managed to build up affiliate branches in all regions of Russia, including rebellious Chechnya, and to transform itself into a legal party. Many more recent rivals to Unity hurried to join the winner in order to share fruits of victory. In early 2001, leaders of Fatherland (Otechestvo) and Entire Russia (Vsya Rossiya), Unity’s previously hard-nosed adversaries, came to a decision to join Unity by merging these parties. By the end of the year, the founding congress of the new party declared the emergence of a new superparty, United Russia (Yedinaya Rossiya). Its leaders proclaimed that the superparty would number 2 million members by the end of 2003, and would gain a strong majority command of the next Duma. The pro-presidential Coordination Council, comprising, in addition to Unity’s faction, the factions of its main rival Fatherland–Entire Russia (OVR) and two parliamentary groups of deputies from single-member districts (SMDs), was established in the Duma. The total votes of its members were greater than those of the oppositional CPRF along with its left-wing ally the Agro-Industrial Group. Once this was clear, the Coordination Council initiated a campaign to redistribute committee chairmanships at the expense of the CPRF. This move resulted in the most serious crisis to the CPRF leadership in the 1990s. The Duma speaker, Gennady Seleznev, withdrew his membership

185

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in the CPRF in order to remain in office. Soon after, in September 2002, he initiated his own party, the Party of Russian Revival, appealing to the same moderate procommunist constituency. This development significantly weakened the position of the CPRF as the main challenger to United Russia in the parliamentary elections of 2003. Thus Russia has witnessed the rapid rise of a newly formed party with no strong roots in society and, at the same time, the fading of another party that had the most numerous and most stable partisan constituency and was widely considered, by scholars and public opinion alike, as the only real party in Russia. Therefore, the narrative of the United Russia Party can be regarded as a triumph. But is this in fact a prospering party, and if so, is its prosperity, even if gained via “free and fair” elections, actually consistent with democratic consolidation? Among the signs that the answer to the second question must be no are data from public opinion polls indicating that respect for the primary institutions of government in Russia has frozen at a rather low level, while public interest in elections as well as voter turnout and confidence in political parties has dropped so low that the president recently initiated an amendment to the law on electoral rights decreasing the minimum level of voter turnout to 20 percent, and making it compulsory for all regional legislatures to guarantee half of their seats to members of political parties, which are in fact the least trusted public institution. In this chapter I look for fuller answers to both questions by tracing the post-Soviet development of the Russian multiparty system and examining the complex institutional and structural context in which parties are placed, paying particular attention to such factors as the legacy of the pre-Soviet and Soviet past, constitutional design and informal rules of conducting politics, the personalities of leaders, socioeconomic development, and mass political attitudes. In conclusion I will contend that the current party system was in large part imposed by Boris Yeltsin’s “elective autocracy,” which emerged from the bits and pieces of the collapsed communist rule in a society that remained mostly indifferent to political parties. The party system, having neither strong roots in the unstructured post-Soviet society (with the exception of the CPRF) nor real power in the constitutional design manufactured under Yeltsin, was created to be fully dependent on the president in order to maintain the concentration of power in the president’s hands while providing a formal legitimacy to the ruling regime. The tendency toward presidential power grew even stronger during the course of a consistent transformation of Yeltsin’s “democracy of disorder” into the “managing democracy” under Vladimir Putin. This latter example is tailored on a model of a bureaucratic, “neocorporatist” state where the party system constitutes only one of the agents of the government, the others being business associations, trade unions, and even structures of civil society, all receiving acceptance by the Kremlin in exchange for their conformity. The pros-

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perity as well as the failure of any party must thus be viewed against the pattern of constant manipulation by the Kremlin, shifting political situations, sporadic occurrences, and human elements that comprise the complex backdrop of Russia’s political scene.

A Short Prehistory of the Russian Party System In March 1990 the Congress of People’s Deputies of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) ratified the amendment to the constitution depriving the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) of its dominating position, and in October a law on popular political associations gave a green light to the institutionalization of a multiparty system. Actually, this was the second attempt during the past century to modernize Russia’s political system on a Western pattern. Both attempts were undertaken during times when the ruling regime was unable to maintain control over crucial political developments. In the first instance, the political transformation had been imposed by Russia’s defeat in the war against Japan, a defeat that revealed the sheer inefficiency of Russia’s political and economic system and resulted in the revolution of 1905. In order to survive, the ruling regime was forced to liberalize. Based on the model of a European-style parliament, the State Duma was established, and the political parties that had first emerged in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were legalized. However, this first attempt failed. The ruling power turned out to be incapable of transitioning to a representative democracy driven by parties. At the same time, the largely traditional Russian society, composed mainly of rural inhabitants dispersed across a vast territory, failed to adopt the newly created democratic institutions as well. The initial process of transformation halted—political parties made no considerable impact on politics, and the Duma was dismissed twice during its twelve years of pre-Soviet existence and never developed into a full-fledged political institution. Yet the regime, having returned to authoritarian methods, could no longer maintain control over society, and the deterioration of social stability was sharpened by World War I. In February 1917 a transition government came to power, and parties reemerged in the political arena. The spectrum of parties revealed the following alignments: (1) parties desiring the establishment of a proletarian dictatorship; (2) social democratic parties; (3) parties supportive of moderate, liberal, capitalist modernization; and (4) parties desiring the restoration of the monarchy. Playing on the unpopularity of war, economic constraints, and the paralysis of the state, the Radical Communist Party (the Bolsheviks) overturned the transition government in October 1917, and soon after violently dismissed the Constituent Assembly, which had been entrusted with drafting a new political structure for Russia. All other political parties were banned. The history of the development of party politics in Russia was interrupted for several generations.

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The communist rule that replaced the rather patriarchal autocracy had outlived itself by the early 1980s. It became evident that in an era of late industrial development, the communist model of governance was yielding in efficiency to the global challenge of Western democracies. After unsuccessful efforts to transform the communist regime, there appeared no alternative except to embrace multiparty democracy as a means to modernize the obsolete political system. The fact that political parties have played a key role in the first wave of democratization inspired many to believe that the emerging multiparty system would act as a vehicle driving the newly liberated society to a prospering democracy. Riding this new wave of liberalization, numerous “informal” clubs and popular movements emerged. As the first alternative elections to the Congress of People’s Deputies approached in March 1989, a number of these initial amorphous groupings developed basic organizational structures and began working to field candidates against the communist “nomenclatura.” Later these groups institutionalized into political parties, composed, as a rule, of a few representatives in the national legislature, a small group of managers and ideologists, and a party information component. The Social Democratic Party was first to emerge and was soon followed by the Democratic Party, the Constitutional Democratic Party, the Christian Democratic Party, the Socialist Party, the Republican Party (created by the reformist wing in the CPSU), and some additional parties. Although some parties may have taken their names from parties that existed in precommunist Russia, one could hardly trace continuity among their political elite, social base, or agendas. Communist rule radically altered the social and political structure of society. Once it seized power, the regime expelled abroad or exterminated a majority of the most creative intelligentsia, who had comprised the backbone of the opposition, and weeded out all roots of ideological differences among the wider population as well.1 The regime likewise eradicated the initial sprouts of civil society that had appeared after 1905, monopolized the mass media, and disrupted the flow of information from outside the country. During the long duration of communist rule, the process of mass Soviet political socialization was accomplished. In a country with a state-owned economy, there was no legal private property or a free market or free enterprise. So, by the beginning of “perestroika,” instead of having a developed class structure, there were only two main interest groups represented in the bulldozed society—a party-and-state “nomenclatura” and an immense group of state-dependent employees. The national system of wealth distribution was based on one’s position in the hierarchy for the first group, and on a guaranteed modicum of commodities and social security for the latter. By 1990 it became evident that the CPSU, whose leader, Mikhail Gorbachev, endorsed the values of “socialism with a human face,” was incapable

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of reforming itself and promoting fundamental changes in the political system and economy. In the struggle for power against the CPSU, radical partisans of reform rejected not only communist ideology but all socialist perspectives for Russia as well. “No communism, no socialism” was their catchphrase. Their choice was vigorously supported by the independent mass media, a child of Gorbachev’s “glasnost.” By the late 1980s, the glamorous image of the West overshadowed the dull everyday socialist reality. Public opinion was disaffected by the official ideology, and the vacuum was replaced with mass sympathy for Western democracies, although associated mostly with high levels of consumption. The failure of the coup d’état, attempted in August 1991 in order to reverse the seemingly spontaneous process of decay, resulted in the final collapse of the Soviet Union and a realignment of the Russian political elite around Yeltsin. In order to eliminate his most powerful challenger and to free the way for the consolidation of power for the new regime, Yeltsin immediately suspended the functioning of the CPSU in Russia, and deprived it of a large amount of property as well. The keystone of the mobilizing strategy that brought victory to Yeltsin was his promise of a rapid transition to a market economy without any significant deterioration in the standard of living nor a loss of the system of social protection. However, the first step immediately pushed a majority of the population below the poverty line, as prices increased by ten to twelve times. The privatization of state property, initially predicted to create a mass “middle class” of shareholders who would support reforms, failed. The abrupt reduction of state financing inflicted great damage on Russian culture, science, and education, sectors of society from which many of the strongest initial supporters of reforms had come. Within a year, “wild” privatization produced extreme inequality in the distribution of national income and provoked a strong mass feeling of frustration directed against the government, which had failed to advance reforms without a drastic decline in the quality of life.2 The Russian Communist Workers’ Party (RCWP), which emerged a few months after the ban of the CPSU, called for the dismissal of the government, the cancellation of “robbing” prices, the cessation of “inhumane” privatization, the “re-Sovietization” of the economy, and the immediate reconstitution of the Soviet Union as well. In February 1992 the RCWP managed to gather 40,000 to 100,000 people for street demonstrations in Moscow.3 The popular support for alleged democracy at the beginning of the Gorbachev period disintegrated, and democratic symbols and slogans became worn out and lost all credit with the people, as did the political institutions of democracy. In 1992, 49 percent of Russians did not sympathize with any political party, while another 40 percent did not know anything about political parties or did not identify themselves with any of them.4 The traditional path for a party into national politics is to nominate candidates in elections under its

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name. However, until December 1993, there had not been elections of that kind in Russia. Even if a candidate adhered to a party, he still had to present a personal “program.” Among the 1,032 people’s deputies of Russia in January 1993, only 195 declared their party identification. The parties that had emerged were actually kept mostly apart from public politics—away from elections and from running for public offices. Such parties were doomed to internal struggles with endless maneuverings, platform changes, and splits and mergers, and scandal was the only way to gain mass media attention. Actually, parties performed only two functions—aiding the self-actualization of political entrepreneurs and providing a platform for intra-elite communication. The political process reflected not so much the clash between supporters and adversaries of declared reforms, but rather the struggle for power among the old elite and the different fragments of unconsolidated new elites. Parties were not able to play a role in the worsening relations between Yeltsin and the Supreme Soviet on the matter of power distribution. The legislative branch assumed the right to amend the constitution and, benefiting from this innovation, began to take charge of state property and to retake power from the president and the government. On September 21, 1993, Yeltsin dismissed the Supreme Soviet and ordered elections to the State Duma, a new Russian parliament with a new corps of deputies. The Supreme Soviet judged this move a coup d’état, and political collision evolved into a direct clash. The active resistance of the Supreme Soviet was suppressed by armed troops, with approximately 150 officially avowed victims. As far as one could tell, however, Russian society in general had absolutely no interest in the fate of parliament (Sheinis 2000, p. 75).

Emergence of the Contemporary Russian Party System Constitutional Design A popular referendum on the new constitution that would ratify the new parliament was scheduled by Yeltsin for the same day as the parliamentary elections. Thus a negative outcome had been excluded a priori. The constitution solidified Yeltsin’s victory over the Supreme Soviet under the winner-takes-all formula. The president had become the head of state and guarantor of the constitution, with wide-ranging yet quite loosely defined powers.5 The president holds full executive power, including the right to appoint and dismiss federal ministers, whereas the Duma not only lost all capacity to affect the composition of the government, but was also deprived of its oversight function. The president can terminate the powers of the Duma ahead of time in any case where it rejects the nomination of a prime minister three consecutive times. Although the Duma maintains the right to vote no-confidence in the government, this step also retains the risk of the Duma’s own dissolu-

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tion. The Duma has never attempted to resort to this constitutional provision— the instinct of self-preservation has always proven stronger than the interests of parties, factions, and leaders (Lysenko 2000a, p. 219). Even in 1995, when the left controlled nearly half of the votes, the Duma never crossed this dangerous line. The legislative power of the Duma is also limited with the double veto—either of the president or of the Federation Council. On the whole, the constitutional design makes the Russian president much more powerful than his counterparts in other presidential republics. At the same time, he is practically unaccountable to any political or representative institution. The First Parliamentary Election By presidential decree, half of the 450 members of parliament (MPs) in the State Duma were to be chosen on the basis of proportional representation (PR) from a single, nationwide district. Parties were also eligible to field candidates in single-member districts for the other half of the seats. Rendering half of the seats in the Duma to party lists was, in essence, a move imposed on Yeltsin in his confrontation with the Supreme Soviet. In order to avoid any risk of loss, he issued another decree, on the measures of state and public safety during the electoral campaign, that actually excluded from the election those parties who backed the Supreme Soviet. Thus Yeltsin expected to guarantee a stable, propresidential majority in the Duma and at the same time to reestablish the legitimacy of his ruling. To be registered for the ballot, a party (or an electoral association or bloc) had to gather 100,000 or more signatures over a very short time. For most aspirants this was a rather hard task to accomplish without the support of federal and regional authorities. At the same time, the most recent prime minister, Egor Gaydar, headed the pro-presidential bloc Russia’s Choice. Some leading members of the cabinet joined another bloc, the Party of Russian Unity and Consent (PRES), created by the deputy prime minister. From thirty-five pretenders only thirteen were admitted by the Central Electoral Commission (CEC) for election, and only eight eventually surmounted the established 5 percent threshold. Four parties were among the winners—the Liberal Democratic Party of Russia (LDPR), the CPRF, the Agrarian Party of Russia (APR), and the Democratic Party of Russia (DPR), whereas the other four—Russia’s Choice, the political movement Women of Russia, the Yabloko (Apple) bloc, and PRES—were all electoral groupings assembled just before the elections. For instance, Women of Russia had been constructed from the Union of Russia’s Women, the Association of Russia’s Female Entrepreneurs, and the Union of the Navy’s Women. Many experts predicted that no less than 60 percent of the votes would go to pro-presidential Russia’s Choice and PRES. However, despite the enormous efforts of the presidential team, they received only eighty-six seats in total. First came the LDPR, with 22.9 percent of votes. This surprisingly fair performance can be explained in large part by the deep frustration held by a large

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part of the population. LDPR leader Vladimir Zhirinovskii dissociated himself from both his “democratic” rivals, whom he accused of the great-power breakdown, the worsening of living conditions, and political instability, and the communists, due to their odious heritage. He lavished everyone with all sorts of promises and gained the votes of many socially deprived people, who did not want to support parties related to either the former or the current ruling regimes, but who could not find a positive choice among the given set of parties. So, these first elections were not fully normal, not perfectly “free and fair,” and not really “party elections” either. Nevertheless, parties became parliamentary and, therefore, motivated to compete for votes. Political Development Even after having deprived the Duma of any power, Yeltsin nevertheless considered it as a personal threat. The Duma constantly underwent public humiliation at Yeltsin’s hands. Yeltsin also tried, a number of times, to withdraw the proportional system of representation and to lessen the number of seats filled by the party lists, but the party factions did not concede their acquired privileges. Neither did they agree to lower the 5 percent minimum vote requirement for Duma party membership to the 1–3 percent proposed by nonparliamentary parties, thus demonstrating “cartel solidarity.” This first post-Soviet Duma was elected for only half the regular term, and the anti-Yeltsin opposition hoped to acquire a majority in the “normal” election of 1995. To counter them, Yeltsin ordered—as he declared publicly—the creation of two centrist blocs prior to the beginning of the electoral campaign. The prime minister, Viktor Chernomirdin, was commissioned with establishing the right-centrist bloc, and the Duma speaker, Ivan Ribkin, who by that time had drifted away from the communist grouping toward the president, was commissioned with establishing the left-centrist bloc. (The mass media nicknamed the two blocs the “parties of the right and left hands of power”). The evident purpose of the combination of a strong pro-presidential party and a soft opposition party of the social democratic species had been to force the hard-liners under the 5 percent minimum barrier and thus create a compliant Duma. In May 1995 a loose conglomeration of thirty-two collective members, from the sport association Spartak to the Union of Oil and Gas Industrials, had been registered under the name of the all-Russian popular and political association Nash Dom Rossia (NDR; Our Home–Russia). The social base of this “party of power” encompassed numerous bureaucrats from the presidential, governmental, and regional administration; those in business who benefited from tight links with the administration; and a portion of the state-dependent employees who still maintained their paternalist expectations in regard to the state, but did not want the resurrection of communist rule. However, the cre-

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ation of the left-centrist bloc failed completely. With the CPRF having solid support of about 23 percent of the constituency on the left, there were no significant actors who would risk supporting a new leftist party. During August and September 1995, numerous electoral blocs were emerging and splitting, with politicians jumping from one list to another in search of more profitable positions.6 Electoral manifestos of forty-three contestants had much in common: all of them promised social security to pensioners, increased earnings to workers, savings to depositors, incomes to entrepreneurs, and increased power to the state. The manifestos of the national communists and national patriots appealed to the habitual stereotypes of Russia as a nation with a strong tradition of devotion to communitarianism (sobornost) and as a great power.7 And all rivals demonstrated their opposition to the acting government. Even the NDR, whose leader, as the head of the government from December 1992, shared the responsibility for the current socioeconomic situation, joined with critics of the executive power. Ordinary people usually perceived the “party program” as being particular ideological clichés associated with a particular party or its leader. In addition, voters often assigned their own beliefs to their favorite party. So, for instance, 11 percent of CPRF partisans, when asked, “What political system do you consider to be the best?” indicated “Western democracy.” At the same time, 21 percent of the right-centrist Yabloko voters chose “the Soviet (before 1991).”8 The public’s knowledge about the basics of democracy and a market economy was rather confused. Thus people might approve of a transition to a market economy and, at the same time, favor rigid state control over prices. Unlike the first electoral campaign, this second one was conducted by professionals rather than by party bureaucrats. Campaign managers and consultants with expensive electoral “know-how,” as well as polls, were widely employed by the main stakeholders. The NDR gained the obvious advantages for its candidates, such as the information, communication, and transportation resources of the federal and regional administration. The financial resources and access to the mass media that had been controlled mostly by the authorities since 1993 (Lysenko 2000a, p. 217) proved to be significant factors of success. Of the forty-three parties, electoral associations, and blocs competing for the PR half of the seats, thirty-five were entirely new for voters. Only four overcame the 5 percent threshold, and these four gained 50.5 percent of the votes. The CPRF, the LDPR, and Yabloko succeeded in maintaining their former position in the Duma. From 1993 to 1995 the CPRF increased in size by one and a half to two times. The LDPR won support from lumpenized layers of the population, playing on the traditional Russian view of politics as “Power and Us.”9 The pro-presidential Russia’s Choice was replaced by the pro-presidential NDR, which placed third with the rather modest result of 10.1 percent of votes. The election demonstrated the failure of the attempt to reanimate the social democratic idea. All political groupings of social democratic

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orientation gained in total only 1–2 percent of the votes, for the socialist niche in the political arena was occupied by the CPRF, whose partisans aspired to the restoration of the system of state socialism. The attempt to mobilize the electorate under the banners of Christian Democracy failed likewise. The Christian Democratic Union–Christians of Russia bloc gathered only 0.3 percent of votes. Socioeconomic Context and Mass Political Attitudes On the eve of the election, according to the Russian public opinion monitor VCIOM, 47 percent of the country’s population did not feel capable of adapting to the new economic system, and another 28 percent failed to answer whether they could find a place for themselves therein. The long-lasting inability or unwillingness of the regime to limit the social burden caused by the economic transition alienated people from the authorities. In mid-1994 the Institute of Sociology of Parliamentarism found that the most frequent feelings of Russians in regard to authorities were as follows: Mistrust, fear Disregard Offense, opposition Apathy

73 percent 60 percent 63 percent 50 percent

In answering the question “Who executes the power?” respondents indicated: Criminal groupings, mafia Government Bureaucracy and state administration Federal Assembly President People

43 percent 13 percent 30 percent 6 percent 24 percent 2 percent

Alienation encompassed the entire sphere of politics. It was found that up to 40 percent of the adult population had no strong political beliefs, and that every fifth person was completely apathetic with respect to political developments in the country. A considerable part of the constituency was disaffected from political participation due to mistrust toward political parties, leaders, and ideas.10 These findings were generally confirmed by monitoring data obtained just before the election.11 The next presidential electoral campaign, in 1996, was designed so that in its final stage voters faced a dilemma: to cast their ballot either for Yeltsin, thereby preserving some hope for further positive changes, or for the CPRF’s leader, Gennady Zyuganov, which would mean turning back to the past and risking an unpredictable outcome. The business and political elite who had

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emerged under Yeltsin did not want to risk their own well-being. They thus expended immense efforts to back him. Much of the population also preferred to maintain what they had, even if they felt nostalgic for times of state social security, scant yet guaranteed incomes, as well as the privilege of identifying themselves as citizens of a great power. In the end, voter turnout was 68.9 percent of the population, and 53.8 percent of the turnout was in favor of Yeltsin; 40.3 percent of votes went to Zyuganov, and 4.8 percent of ballots were cast “Against all.”12 The CPRF did not risk disputing the official election results, although it had strong reasons to do so. Evidently the CPRF remembered the lesson of 1993.

Party Development Under Vladimir Putin In 1998, Yeltsin dismissed Prime Minister Chernomirdin, thus triggering the process of decay of the standing “party of power.”13 Political crisis, multiplied by the financial default of August 1998, led to the Kremlin’s weakening. Once the “party of power” lost control, initiative transferred over to the regional bureaucracy. Governors began to desert the NDR for the Fatherland, a new political movement that Moscow mayor Yuri Luzhkov, a presumed presidential candidate, created on the eve of the forthcoming parliamentary elections. In August 1999 the Fatherland and the second governors’ bloc, Entire Russia, established by several heads of the national republics, merged under the popular politician Evgenii Primakov. One of the key points of his political program supported the redistribution of power, namely the transition from a presidential to a presidential-parliamentary republic. The Kremlin responded to the threat that Primakov posed to its power. In August 1999, Yeltsin appointed Putin, the director of the Federal Security Service (FSB), as head of the government. Soon after, public opinion was shocked by the Chechen invasion in Dagestan and a number of explosions that killed numerous victims in some of Russia’s major cities, including Moscow. The invasion and explosions created a strong popular demand for personal security and order as well as for vengeance. The default of 1998 and concurrent blossoming of organized crime that, by 1999, controlled more than 40 percent of private business, 60 percent of state-owned enterprises, and 50–80 percent of banks, further strengthened the popular sentiment (Dmitriev 1999, p. 22). Putin’s resolute antiterrorist actions quickly brought him growing popularity. The visible comparison of this young and determined politician with the infirm and discredited Yeltsin also worked in Putin’s favor. Still, in September 1999, Putin trailed all other presidential contenders in the polls. A little more than two months before the elections, the presidential administration created its own stakeholder in the run for the State Duma, the interregional movement Unity/Bear (Medved). It was assembled from several minor political groupings. In reality, no one from these minor groupings had a

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chance to win more than 1 percent of the total votes if running as independent actors. Putin publicly articulated his support for Unity, and the bloc fully profited from this publicity. Its rating was rising along with the growth of Putin’s reputation. The electoral campaign of Unity was neither programmatic nor ideological, its main mottoes being “Strong state” and “Struggle against corruption and criminality,” and its most sound raison d’être being “We are the party of Putin.” Unlike in the campaign of 1995, the Kremlin was wrestling for power not with communists, but with another clan of the state bureaucracy. Since there were no ideological divergences between the two rivals, the Kremlin’s strategy was to discredit the OVR’s leaders. The clash was extremely brutal, often bordering on and frequently overstepping the bounds of acceptable practices.14 Possessing the nearly unlimited financial resources and backing of the presidential administration, the media support of two federal television channels (ORT and RTR) controlled by the Kremlin, and the intellectual support of an experienced analytical center, Unity won the information war against Fatherland–Entire Russia. Under the rigid pressure of the Kremlin, most regional heads changed their support from the OVR to Unity. In addition to these two main rivals, the CEC registered in total twentysix participants for elections, six of whom gained electoral seats. The CPRF not only preserved its former constituency but increased it, from 15.4 to 16.2 million votes (see Table 10.1). Unity came close behind the CPRF, with an outcome that no other new party had been able to achieve during the prior decade. The governors’ bloc Fatherland–Entire Russia trailed far behind. The elections significantly altered the alignment in the State Duma, creating the composition shown in Table 10.2 (McFaul, Petrov, and Ryabov 2000, p. 394). To further increase its supremacy over the OVR, Unity, in spite of the customary principle of proportional distribution of committees among factions and groups, concluded a separate agreement with the CPRF that remained neutral during the Kremlin’s fight for control of power. This arrangement gave the CPRF the post of speaker and one-third of the committees, while depriving the OVR of an appropriate share of the portfolios.15 Some analysts compared this union to the “Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact” (McFaul, Petrov, and Ryabov 2000, p. 380). Many of the regional leaders who had recently supported the OVR hurried to prove their loyalty to the Kremlin by creating local branches of Unity in their regions. The Kremlin had successfully wrested back full control over the fragmented political elites on the eve of the presidential elections. Its domination was confirmed three months later when Putin prematurely won the presidential elections in the first round, with 52.8 percent of the votes. Once in the Duma, Unity transformed itself into a legal party. A top functionary of Unity, S. Popov, declared that 95 percent of the party’s ideals mirrored those of the president, and that the party was seeking to help the president to create an efficient system of executive power in Russia.16 Having

67 64 37 24 17 16 225 — — 225

46 8 30 5 0 4 93 16 106 215

113 72 67 29 17 20 318 16 106 440

Total

Source: “Vybory v Rossii” [Elections in Russia], http://www.vybory.ru/spravka/results/duma99procent.php3. Note: a. There is a long theoretical discussion, based on concepts of traditionalism and innovation, about authentic meanings of left and right in the contemporary Russian political context. However, de facto communists and their allies identify themselves customarily as leftist, and parties and groupings of liberal currents identify themselves as rightist. Numerous progovernmental groupings avoid any ideological definiteness and prefer to identify themselves as centrist.

24.29 23.32 13.33 8.52 5.98 5.93 81.38 — — 81.38

From SingleMandate Districts

Number of Seats

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16,196,024 15,549,182 8,886,753 5,677,247 3,990,038 3,955,611 54,254,855 — — 54,254,855

Number of Votes

From Percentage of Proportional Votes from Representation Turnout List

Electoral Associations in Elections to the Russian State Duma, 1999

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Communist Party of the Russian Federation Unity Fatherland–Entire Russia (OVR) Union of Right Forces (SPS)a Zhironovsky’s Bloc (Liberal-Democratic Party of Russia) Yabloko Subtotal Other electoral associations/blocs Nonpartisan Total

Table 10.1

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Parties on the Right Party Factions and Deputy Groups in Russia, 1999 Number of Seats

Communist Party of the Russian Federation Agro-industrial Group (procommunist) Unity People Deputy (pro-Kremlin) Fatherland–Entire Russia (OVR) Regions of Russia (pro-OVR) Union of Right Forces (liberal) Yabloko (social-liberal) Zhironovsky’s bloc (nationalist-patriot)

88 42 83 58 48 41 32 21 16

Source: “Vybory v Rossii” [Elections in Russia], http://www.vybory.ru/spravka/results/duma99 procent.php3.

accepted the Kremlin’s victory, many politicians and political groupings, including those who in the past had pretended to play “party of power,” and those who struggled against Unity in the recent elections, sought to adhere to it now. Among them were Entire Russia, the NDR, PRES, the Russian Socialist Party, and the National Patriotic Party.17 In April 2001, leaders of the OVR also made the decision to merge into Unity, and thus to create a “dominating” superparty that hoped to obtain a solid majority in the next Duma. By the end of 2001 the founding congress declared the emergence of this new party— United Russia (Yedinaya Rossiya [YeR]). “We are going to build a mass party as a pillar that the president can lean on,” declared the head of its general council.18 In August 2002, United Russia leaders claimed to have 1 million members and promised to double this number by the end of 2003.19 To strengthen control over the Duma, the Coordination Council was established. Besides the Unity faction, it includes the originally pro-Kremlin parliamentary group People Deputy, the faction of its main adversary in the recent elections the OVR, and its satellite parliamentary group Regions of Russia. By spring 2001 the total membership of the council outnumbered that of the CPRF, with its leftwing ally the Agrarian Group, by 237 to 125.20 The alliance with the CPRF had been necessary to enact the laws strengthening Putin’s “vertical axis of power.” Having obtained what it wanted from this pact, the Kremlin no longer needed it. As noted earlier, in April 2002 the Coordination Council initiated a campaign aimed at redistributing the Duma’s portfolios, this time at the expense of the CPRF, and thereby provoked a serious crisis in the CPRF’s top layer when Duma speaker G. Seleznev, who had been nominated to this post by the CPRF, together with some other heads of committees from the CPRF, left the party in order to preserve their offices in the Duma. By mid-2002, the YeR and the CPRF were the most significant parties. The YeR initiated an amendment to the law on election of deputies to the State

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Duma, raising the margin for a party list up to 7 percent. This amendment aimed to transform the Russian multiparty system into a few-party system with the pro-presidential YeR dominant, the less influential CPRF as the domesticated left opposition, and a few secondary parties. One can see in this a reincarnation of Yeltsin’s unimplemented dream of a system of “parties of the right and the left hands of power.” The current difference is that the party of power is profiting today from Putin’s steady high rating. The CPRF, on the contrary, is gradually losing its left electorate. The Duma’s peripheral position in the political system does not permit the party to work on its program. Ceaseless compromises of the communist faction with the Kremlin on the budget and other laws vital for social sphere, as well as the disappointing results of CPRF activities in the “red belt” regions where it occupies key offices, are contributing to the shift of state-paternalist expectations of those moderate constituents, who cannot adapt to the ongoing transformation from the CPRF to the “party of Putin,” or the “president of hope.” This evident success of Unity and the less evident fading of the CPRF are a victory for Putin’s administration, but that is not all. In broader terms, it is the triumph of federal ruling establishment that has put Putin ahead to preserve its own domination in politics. There are different judgments of the 1999 Duma election. The most pessimistic statements are that this election and the following 2000 presidential election finalized the eleven-year phase in the course of which the former “nomenclatura” adapted to elections and created (or rather, re-created) a kind of manipulative-decorative democracy reminiscent of Soviet times. The authors of a detailed analysis of the 1999–2000 electoral cycle came to the conclusion: “The short-lived blossoming of the Russian democracy, like summer in the tundra, has come to an end. The question which needs to be asked now is whether any aspect of democracy has taken roots and will survive” (McFaul, Petrov, and Ryabov 2000, p. 611). Furthermore, even if the Kremlin obtained an even much more compliant Duma, there is no reason to believe this would lead to a significant change for the better in the living conditions of the wider population, nor slow down the process of further social polarization. According to official statistics, in the first quarter of 2000, 20 percent of the rich obtained 49 percent of total monetary income, whereas 20 percent of the poor obtained 5.9 percent. In that same year, 59.9 million people, 41.2 percent of population, lived below the subsistence level.21 In October 2000, the independent research agency ROMIR asked whether power was now closer to the people; 7 percent of respondents answered yes, 46 percent had not noticed any significant change, and onequarter did not understand what the question was about.22 Political process engages only a very limited part of the population. According to a 1998 poll by the Institute of Sociopolitical Studies (Russian Academy of Sciences), no more than 7 percent of the population considered themselves as “politically active” (direct participation in electoral campaigns,

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attending political meetings), 72 percent characterized themselves as “passive observers of political life” (via television and radio broadcasting, newspapers), 8 percent were “completely indifferent,” and 13 percent were “rather indifferent” (McFaul and Ryabov 1999, p. 203). In a poll in March 1999, only 1 percent of respondents admitted that they personally took part in some political activities (meetings, manifestations, strikes, party actions) throughout 1998 (McFaul and Ryabov 1999, p. 201). Thus changes in party politics under Putin have not transformed the parties’ dependent nature as established in Yeltsin’s time. The only significant difference between the two patterns is that, in the new “authoritarian-bureaucratic” regime, public confrontation of the president with the Duma has given way to a latent but more efficient pressure.23

Conclusion: Nonparty Politics in Post-Soviet Russia Soon after the 1995 elections it became evident that neither Gorbachev’s “perestroika” nor Yeltsin’s “regime system” had contributed to the development of parties that function as an institution linking the constituency and the government together. The collapse of communist rule did not result in a far-reaching change of ruling establishment.24 Moreover, with the exception of some of the most notorious, the majority of the former elite managed not only to preserve their positions but also to strengthen them, having taken in their hands both the power and the privatized state property. Russia’s transformation took the path of serving mostly the survival of “nomenclatura,” which split into a plurality of interest groups wrestling for resources and spheres of influence. Another feature of the transformation is the status-rent acquired by the state bureaucracy, who “privatized” the state and are benefiting from its control over the nation’s resources, without which private businesses could not otherwise survive.25 The federal and regional bureaucracy is increasing, trying to expand the scope of its commission. Its intervention in business inevitably generates crime.26 Historically, power in Russia has always been concentrated in the hands of one person, either a monarch or a CPSU secretary-general, this person being the nucleus of the power galaxy. The constitution of 1993 returned Russia to this traditional monocentric model of power. As always, Russian politics is mostly a process of bargaining over interests of different business-bureaucratic and other clans (military, regional, etc.) in accordance with unwritten rules, as all actors seek to occupy a more gainful place near the center of decisionmaking. There is no place left in this model either for a genuine parliament entitled to power equal to that of the executive branch, or for efficient political parties. Since neither parliamentary majority nor parliamentary coalition is able to form a government and to take responsibility for its performance, elections have become a mere formality. In Russia, as in many other electoral democra-

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cies, the link between the outcome of voting and alteration of policy is highly questionable. One criterion of a strong and prosperous party is its ability to influence the direction of policy, but in that sense there are no strong parties in Russia, not even the YeR or the CPRF, whatever their electoral performance. When electoral triumph gives a party no chance to act on its program, the programmatic component of party success vanishes. And since the Duma status does not allow a party (or a parliamentary coalition) to form a government, such an important criterion for rational choice as socioeconomic performance of party government when in office is lost.27 In February 2000, only 3 percent of the population was of the opinion that the Duma was passing vital laws and making key decisions, whereas 17 percent believed that no matter how important the laws discussed by the Duma were, it was not in the position to make them work, and 60 percent supposed the Duma was mostly engaged in futile quarrels with the government.28 The peripheral place of the Duma in the political system determines the steadily more marginal rank of parties in public opinion. In late 2000, 55 percent of respondents considered parties to be of no use for Russia, whereas 25 percent held the opposite opinion. And 77 percent thought there were too many parties in Russia.29 In Spain’s transition, by contrast, the portion of constituents who believed parties were useful increased from 12 percent in 1971 to 67 percent in 1976 (Przeworski, 1999, p. 199). The Kremlin, having granted parties in parliament rather significant privileges, did not relinquish any share of power, and thus created a vicious circle. Having no considerable power, parties cannot expect to establish stable linkages with constituencies, but without their support they cannot expect to play a significant role in the political system. At the same time, parliamentary status is extremely attractive for a party and its leaders as a crucial factor of collective and personal survival, since it opens access to state resources (administrative, financial, informational, communicational, transportation, etc.). It also guarantees the unceasing attention of mass media, the loss of which is killing for a party both physically and metaphorically, since it has no other involvement in public life worth mentioning. Therefore, parties seeking success are doomed to political conformity. They must worry much more about their relations with the Kremlin, which holds control over regional authorities, electronic mass media, financial flows, and distribution of resources, than about public opinion. Besides, the basic laws on parties and elections that set up the rules of the game change before each election, so that they better suit the Kremlin, as well as the incumbent parties. Not only the YeR but many other parties are declaring their centrist position. However, that is not a position in the programmatic or the ideological space, but in the space of power. It is rather a manifestation of total and unconditional loyalty to the acting president. For the LDPR and the CPRF, opposition to power serves today mostly as an electoral brand, for both parties have mastered tactics of compromising:

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every time there is a vote on a budget, a motion of no-confidence in the government, or any other crucial issue, a sufficient number of party members are appointed to cast their votes with the leadership, regardless of the officially declared party position (Rimskii 2000a, pp. 151–152). The CPRF, despite its populist rhetoric, no longer sees opposition to capitalist reformation as the primary goal in politics; like the other parties, it is after a profitable distribution of privileges under a current regime of power. This suits the Kremlin perfectly, for the CPRF is attracting and damping down protest attitudes that would otherwise cause voters to switch to more radical parties. Given that campaign expenses are steadily growing, the electoral success of a party heavily depends on its external financial sources. At the same time, active involvement of the state in economics in the form of export quotas, licenses, particularized benefits, state guarantees, and so on, up to direct investments in business, in the absence of a legal procedure of lobbying, inevitably generates corruption. Moreover, it makes the Duma factions that are positioned close to the real centers of decisionmaking as vulnerable to corruption as the administrative bureaucracy. When the Duma factions pass a law, the interests of the nation’s oligarchy rank second in the system of priorities, whereas those of the Kremlin rank first (Rimskii, in Lysenko 2000c, p. 39). According to the head of the Duma’s corruption commission, legislative activities have become a stable and sound source for MPs to fill up personal and party budgets. The blossoming of corruption in the Duma has been admitted by G. Pavlovsky, the éminence grise of the current regime, as well.30 Nevertheless, the Duma has not yet adopted a law on lobbying. So on the whole, the multiparty system is seriously alienated from society, and its changing composition mirrors not social cleavages but the still-unsettled fragmentation of the near-the-power establishment. For the Kremlin it serves as a tool of regime stabilization, as it contributes to its formal legitimacy, to channeling protest attitudes and public demands into the ballot, and to control over power ambitions of different business-bureaucratic clans. For politicians it serves as a venture in which to invest efforts and resources in order to gain profit. Most parties, notwithstanding their declared ideology, are of the personalist type (the only exception being the CPRF) and are built up by leaders and for leaders; the referent organizational model for them remains the mass CPSU, with its strict subordination and discipline. The July 2002 law on political parties, initiated by the Kremlin, contributes to the formal mass model in that it requires a party to have 10,000 or more members in no less than fortyfive regions.31 The Duma is a sort of political club in which the speaker and the leaders of party factions and deputy groups haggle about the important decisions while the rest of the deputies serve as the attentive crowd (Lysenko 2000b, p. 221). Putin has inherited from his predecessor a party system that fits perfectly into his “system management approach” to politics (Sakwa 2002). This ap-

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proach is based on the belief that numerous problems of Russia’s modernization can be solved by efforts of the top nonpartisan, “new managerialism”–style federal bureaucracy, headed by the president. To make this idea work, and to overcome the disorder left by Yeltsin’s decrepit rule, a step-by-step reinforcement of the so-called vertical axis of power has been undertaken. Putin endorses the strong state as a guarantor of civil freedoms, but the Kremlin’s activities in fact strengthen the regime of personalized rule. The legislative and judicial branches are dependent on the executive branch in the hands of the president. Business, administration, and politics are deeply interwoven. According to Freedom House monitoring, the index of democratization has been falling since 1998.32 In the political gray zone, Russia is drifting toward a sort of “neocorporatist” state. Civil society itself has been replaced by a limited set of larger interest groups licensed by government, including, foremost, the Federation of Independent Trade Unions, which is the descendant of the Soviet trade unions, and by a few business associations that are granted secure positions in exchange for “good behavior,” that is, for acting as agents of the Kremlin in its quest to improve its control over both capital and labor. The new law on political parties, and amendments to laws on elections, have started the process of transforming the multiparty system into a few-party system that will be even more manageable. An increasing gap between the steadily high legitimacy of President Putin and the low level of trust in other state institutions and political parties creates a belief that the regime can do without them. In 2000, 50 percent of respondents to a poll said that the most convenient system of government for Russia would be that of unbiased experts.33 However, the model of state management without public policy and mechanisms of social self-regulation, including political parties, does not work as efficiently as was hoped by the managers. Putin has been elected to presidency as a man who, in public expectation, will solve once and for all the Chechnya problem, reform the armed forces, and fight corruption and crime. However, there is no light at the end of the tunnel with respect to the Chechnya war. The armed forces remain in disarray, plagued by mass desertion and theft.34 And although the word “order” is one of the most recurrent in Putin’s lexicon, there has been no progress in fighting organized crime and corruption. Recent research has revealed that 82 percent of Russian businessmen have been involved in giving a bribe. According to the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the damage to the state caused by bribery is growing from year to year, and 70 percent of all criminal offenses are concealed. Organized crime is prospering in business, particularly in the sphere of natural resource distribution, and in law enforcement bodies.35 The Russian bureaucracy is incompetent and corrupt and can stifle any reasonable initiatives coming from the top. However, the Kremlin cannot use bureaucracy to fight corruption in bureaucracy.

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The Kremlin has succeeded in creating a party system in which only those subsumed within the ruling regime, either as “parties of power” or as “parties of systemic opposition,” are eligible to participate. Richard Katz and Peter Mair suggest that parties in modern democracies are heading in the direction of becoming the state apparatus itself (1995, p. 14), working together to privatize the state in order to benefit from its resources for their collective survival. In Russia it is the parties themselves that have been privatized and transformed by the ruling regime into its personal appendages, guaranteeing its own survival and leaving no place in the foreseeable future for genuine party politics. The Kremlin has invested immense resources in the YeR. However, it is not actually a “party of power,” since it cannot make policy, nor can it check the exercise of power by those who lead. Putin is trying to modernize Russia from the top and integrate it into the community of Western developed countries. To advance toward the West, Russia must, one way or another, adopt democracy as the only game in town. The question remains as to whether this is possible without viable political parties.

Notes 1. According to the Commission for Rehabilitation, about 98 percent of the “otherwise-minded,” mostly of social democratic orientation, had been eliminated in the Soviet Union by 1941. See Gorbachev 2000, p. 136. 2. Facing this broad rejection of ongoing transformation, Yeltsin was compelled to distance himself from his own former declarations: “What I want to say to those who claim that Russia is going to capitalism, is that we do not lead Russia to any capitalism. Russia is simply unable to be capitalist. It will not be either in socialism, or in capitalism.” See Argumenti i Facti no. 42 (1992). 3. The leading role in left opposition went later to the CPRF, the CPSU successor reestablished in February 1993. The main issue of its agenda was reconstitution of state socialism and revitalization of Russia as a great world power. 4. Izvestiya, June 13, 1992. 5. The chairman of the Constitutional Court interprets this as the “broad right of President to act from his own decision following not only the letter, but the spirit of the Constitution and laws, filling gaps in the law system and responding to situations that are not anticipated by Constitution. . . . [T]he President ought to act resolutely following his own understanding of his duties as the guarantor of the Constitution” (Sheinis 1997, p. 116). 6. As Gorbachev mentioned, “A politician may be today in the list of one [electoral] bloc, tomorrow—of another, and the day after tomorrow—of the third list. Utter, cynical pragmatism. Only to get pork, nothing more. So, people get engaged in corruption” (2000, p. 140). 7. The motto “Great Power, Empire, Viva Russia” found support of 65 percent of a national sample, with 17 percent against. Monitoring VSIOM 1, no. 21 (1996), p. 18. 8. Monitoring VSIOM 2, no. 22 (1996), p. 5. 9. The success of the LDPR in 1993 elections contributed to its growth and made it very attractive for many dubious businessmen with criminal ties as well (Korgunyuk 1999, p. 287).

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10. “Vlast’ i narod” [Power and People], Rossiiskaia Federatsia no. 18 (1994), pp. 9–11. 11. Monitoring VSIOM 2, no. 22 (1996), p. 5. 12. http://nns.ru/res2/res-e.html. 13. In the elections of 1999, it obtained 1.2 percent of the votes. 14. One of the main campaign managers of the OVR, Sergey Yastrzhembskii (later Putin’s aide on Chechnya), accused the Kremlin of offering US$700,000 to one of the nominees for leaving the OVR list two weeks before the ballot. See http://www .polit.ru/documents/149401.html. 15. Justifying this action, the CPRF leader declared in a television interview that “democracy is power of the majority.” 16. Nezavisimaya Gazeta, July 12, 2000, http://ng.ru/politics/2000-07-12/3_ show.html. 17. Argumenty i Fakty no. 21 (2000). 18. http://www.edinros.ru/press1.php?first=1023436800&last=1025703600 &did=54. 19. Izvestiya, August 17, 2002, p. 4. 20. See http://www.krvgosvet.ru/articles/103/1010313/1010313as.htm. 21. S. Babaeva, “Bogachi i bednyaki” [The Rich and the Poor], Izvestiya, July 4, 2000. 22. A. Stepanov, “Meteorologicheskii optimizm” [Meteorological Optimism], Izvestiya, October 23, 2000, p. 3. 23. The notion of “authoritarian-bureaucratic regime” was introduced in Shevtsova 2002. 24. By 1995, 69.9 percent of the ruling elite consisted of former nomenklatura: in government, 74.3 percent; in regional elite, 82.3 percent; and in party leaderships, 57.1 percent. O. Krishtanovskaya, “O transformacii staroi nomenklatury v novuyu politicheskuyu elitu” [On the Transformation of the Old “Nomenklatura” into a New Political Elite], Obshestvennye Nauki i Sovremennost [Social Sciences and Contemporaneity] no. 1 (1995), p. 65. 25. L. Shevtsova, “Dilemy postkommunisticheskogo obshestva” [Dilemmas of the Postcommunist Society], Polis 5 (1996), p. 81. 26. In October 2002 the governor of the Magadan region, the vast gold-mining region of Russia, was shot in the very center of Moscow. In the most widespread version, this ordered murder was the consequence of the victim’s involvement in business. As Izvestya states, the number of victims among heads of local authorities, vice governors, vice majors, deputies, judges, top police officers, and heads of departments of natural (state-owned) monopolies was close to 100 (http://www.izvestia.ru/incidents/article 25351). 27. In a conference on political PR in May 1998, managers of electoral campaigns noted that political programs usually comprised the campaign components least demanded by both candidates and voters. 28. VCIOM (special issue), February 17, 2000. 29. Public Opinion Foundation, poll of November 4, 2000, http://www.fom.ru/ reports/frames/d002932.html. 30. See, for instance, the interview with G. Pavlovskii in Ogonek magazine, December 7, 2001. 31. Only those who enjoy the protection of authority and the support of business can afford to launch and maintain such huge and expensive structures. 32. http://www.freedomhouse.org/research/nattransit.htm. 33. http://www.romir.ru/socpolit/socio/03_2000/doklad.htm.

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34. By 2002, according to the Committee of Soldiers’ Mothers, the number of fugitives totaled about 40,000. According to the Right of Mother Foundation, 2,000– 3,000 military personnel perish annually, not counting military losses in Chechnya. Many have committed suicide, and theft by top officers runs rampant (Izvestya, June 13, 2002, http://izvestia.ru/politic/article19460). 35. Izvestia, May 21, 2002, http://izvestia.ru/politic/article18450.

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Mexico: Helping the Opposition Prosper MARK A. MARTINEZ

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hen reviewing the evolution of the US party system, Larry Sabato (1988) argued that the growth of the two-party structure throughout the United States was spurred less by strengths within the challenging parties than by weaknesses within the dominant parties in each region. By prodding us to look beyond party competition, Sabato reminded us that conventional models of party realignment may not always be the most useful tool for understanding party dynamics. For example, if we use a traditional approach to analyze Mexico’s Institutional Revolutionary Party (Partido Revolucionario Institucional [PRI]) and its fortunes over the past decade, the PRI can be viewed as a oncesuccessful party that lost its capacity to energize the electorate during the 1990s. However, when we consider that the PRI remains competitive after losing the presidency in 2000 and again in 2006, we cannot simply focus on elections or patterns of civic mobilization to understand party success and failure in Mexico. Following Sabato’s lead, I argue that single-party systems need to be judged by different criteria from those used to evaluate mature, competitive party systems. In an effort to move beyond traditional gauges of party success and failure, I concentrate on explaining how entrenched patterns of decisionmaking within the once-formidable PRI had deteriorated to such a degree by the end of the twentieth century that the party undermined its own electoral interests. By focusing on organizational patterns within the party, I illustrate not only how success eluded the PRI, but also how the party’s missteps have helped the National Action Party (Partido Acción Nacional [PAN]) prosper. This approach is especially pertinent because the long-range success of the PAN—Mexico’s primary opposition party in the twentieth century—has not yet been secured. Indeed, despite helping to bring a sense that genuine democracy was on the horizon in Mexico in 2000, Vicente Fox found his entire sexenio (six-year presidential term) to be a constant battle, even within his 207

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own party. This suggests that traditional approaches used to track civic mobilization and party loyalty are not yet sufficient for understanding party politics in Mexico. Indeed, data from the July 2003 elections show that the PRI and its coalition partner (the Green Party) secured more votes than the PAN nationally, 36.8 percent to 30.8 percent—the first time since the Mexican Revolution that the president’s party failed to win a plurality of votes in a midterm election (see Appendix). To be sure, there is little doubt that traditional models of political parties can shed light on some aspects of the PAN’s presidential political victories. However, they cannot fully explain why, given its long history of corruption and broken promises, the PRI remains a viable political option for many Mexicans. This is interesting when we consider how political crisis in 1988 both undermined the PRI’s legitimacy and pushed President Carlos Salinas de Gortari (1988–1994) to remake Mexico’s state-led economy into a market-friendly system. Faced with voter disappointment and a stagnant economy, President Salinas was convinced that the primary challenge facing the nation was “financial populism.” To shore up lagging electoral support Salinas attacked statism, believing this would help solve the PRI’s mounting political problems. To do so he gutted popular but expensive programs that for years acted as Mexico’s postrevolutionary social contract. Ernesto Zedillo would continue the same policy pattern during his presidential term (1994–2000). Unforeseen at the time was how the consequences of economic transformation and gutted social programs would remind people of the broken promises of the Mexican Revolution. Also unanticipated was how political corruption and violence— both reliable state and party tools from the past—would come under increased scrutiny as the country opened up to the world, thus undermining their utility by the end of century. With Mexico’s postrevolutionary social contract under attack, and with state-sponsored violence and political corruption increasingly scrutinized, political space for opposition parties and other civic groups opened. All of this would become a catalyst for change in Mexico. On the surface, these dynamics appear to sustain Guillermo O’Donnell and Phillipe Schmitter’s claim (1986) that political opening leads to civic mobilization and to the “resurrection of civil society,” which might explain the PAN’s presidential victory in 2000. However, the relationship between cause (political opening) and effect (increased party competition) is not so simple when we consider that numerous changes in electoral laws during the 1960s and 1970s did not lead to party dealignment or realignment in Mexico in the 1970s. There is no doubt that opposition parties made some gains at the time, but the PRI continued to trounce their closest opposition by 40 percent in congressional elections as late as 1991. Traditional party models are limited here because they do not consider, for example, how new opportunities are lost when voters fail to vote or distribute their support in a manner that maintains the status quo. Put another way, conventional approaches do not explain why

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citizens and groups postpone acting in their best interests when presented with political openings. To understand, for example, why legal changes that encouraged opposition parties to grow did not lead to significant political change in the 1970s, we need to look at additional factors—like how system stress and other triggers push voters to begin abandoning a political party. I show here how policies developed by the PRI at the national level in the 1980s alienated lifelong supporters, as a result of which the party became more insular and lost touch with political developments on the ground. By reviewing the political life stories of two national-level politicians—Mariano Palacios Alcocer and Fernando Ortíz Arana, competing political players from the state of Querétaro—I will show how political decisions made in Mexico drew little, if any, inspiration from what the people wanted. We can better understand why there was no discernible or immediate impact on the structure of power when Mexico implemented electoral reforms in the 1960s and 1970s, and how weaknesses within dominant political parties create fertile ground for opposition parties to prosper. What we will also see is that the O’Donnell/Schmitter civic mobilization thesis is limited in helping us understand why opposition parties did not prosper in Mexico until the end of the twentieth century. To understand how and why the PAN and the Party of Democratic Revolution (PRD) have been able to prosper in a one-party system, it is necessary to look at how the political missteps of the PRI triggered opposition-party mobilization and realignment at the end of the twentieth century. To do this we need to understand how strategists and policymakers in the PRI handled, and mishandled, their charge over time. This means concentrating on the divisions and deterioration within the PRI that led to internal intrigue, palace scheming, and the party’s focus on short-term goals. To understand the dynamics of internal deterioration within the PRI we must turn to the insights of Herbert Simon (1982) and others on organizational sociology, organizational anthropology, and cognitive psychology. What we find is that while policymakers and defenders of the throne in Mexico may have had relevant information, the organizational norms and culture that evolved within party (and state) structures prevented party strategists from using that information efficiently. How did this happen to a highly evolved party like the PRI, which had guided Mexico from postrevolution chaos in 1917 to relative economic and political stability? Most scholarship focuses on the demands of economic crisis in the 1980s and the PRI’s subsequent decision to change its ideological direction. Other scholarship focuses on the dynamics behind party consolidation within the PAN and in the PRD (at least in the late 1980s). I break from this pattern by following the political careers of Ortíz Arana and Palacios Alcocer. This approach helps to explain both detachment (political dealignment) and reattachment (political realignment) at the state and national levels by focusing on political missteps made by the PRI that ultimately contributed to the PAN’s successes.

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More generally, I offer here an analysis of macro-level political dynamics and a case study of micro-level political processes in the state of Querétaro. Using partial life stories of key political players, opposition-party successes in Mexico are explained by focusing on the relationship between political careers at the state level and party dynamics within the PRI at the national level. This approach combines the archival and personal tools of the anthropologist with the conceptual and institutional tools of the political scientist. The result is a more nuanced and interdisciplinary understanding of both structure and process at the micro (local and personal) and macro (national and institutional) levels. At the same time, I provide here a deeper understanding of the context behind the successes and prosperity of Mexico’s opposition parties as the country heads into the twenty-first century.

Macro-Level Dynamics A Twentieth-Century Overview of Mexico’s Political History Referred to alternately as “authoritarian,” “corporatist,” “statist,” a dominant one-party system, and somewhat admiringly as “the perfect dictatorship,” the Mexican political system during much of the twentieth century was designed to bring stability to postrevolutionary Mexico. To do so, Mexico’s postrevolutionary leaders had to bring rogue generals and regional warlords (caudillos) under state control. Democracy was a long-term “poststability” goal. In 1929, President Plutarco Elias Calles (1924–1928) created the National Revolutionary Party (PNR), made everyone in the country a member, and tied the party to the state by providing official patronage that effectively undermined opposition groups who could not gain state legitimacy. The end product was a multi-tiered, highly disciplined party that relied on state patronage, coercion, co-optation, and fraud to maintain control. During the 1930s, with the revolution becoming a distant memory, the rationale for the party (and the state) went from centralizing power to mass mobilization and social reform. Specifically, President Lázaro Cárdenas realized that the party needed to find a way to control its power base, so he reorganized the PNR, in the process changing its name to the Mexican Revolutionary Party (Partido Revolucionario Mexicano [PRM]). At this time he shaped the party along corporatist lines and created four sectors to provide a structured and hierarchical process for expressing popular demands: a popular sector, a peasant sector, a worker sector, and a military sector (which withered and was abolished by 1946). By offering patronage, economic benefits, and, perhaps most important, political protection for key groups, these sectors eventually became the instruments of political control and electoral manipulation. As long as benefits and protection were provided by the state, the party could depend on the votes of these popular sectors. With stability secured, the PRM sponsored economic development and social welfare programs, building in the process the basis of Mexico’s social contract between state and society.

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Once political centralization and social stability were secure, the revolutionary goals of Cárdenas were put aside after 1940 by successive presidents, who were more interested in economic growth. To illustrate the shift in state goals, and to emphasize that stability had become “institutionalized,” the party once again changed names, becoming the Institutional Revolutionary Party in 1946. With stability secured, the government initiated a state-sponsored development strategy that created economic growth rates averaging 6 percent in the 1950s and 1960s. Mexicans, who could only dream of improved standards of living in previous generations, began to see material and qualitative improvements in their lifestyles or in the lives of their children. These visible signs of progress helped sustain and legitimize the growth and power of the PRI, which the party was more than happy to take advantage of politically. With rogue caudillos under control, and with sustained economic growth a reality, many believed the goal of building a modern democratic state could be pursued. But power-brokers within the PRI had other thoughts. In particular, party leaders who had grown accustomed to power believed the party should be rewarded for the successes of the state, and demurred on the issue of democracy, preferring instead to strengthen the PRI’s hold on state power. It was at this time that the party began the bureaucratization process that would eventually help delink it from the people. The primary reason for delinkage is that in the process of bringing stability and economic growth to the nation, the PRI also created a highly centralized, hierarchical system that was tied together by patronage networks, corruption, and various forms of political coercion. All of this contributed to a complex culture of political arrogance that was largely forgiven as long as growth and benefits were achieved. A political labyrinth, the genius of the PRI party structure lay in how it created a system that was rigid in its approach to maintaining power but had the capacity to rejuvenate itself. Managed by Mexico’s president, recruitment and co-optation tactics were combined with timely policy shifts, which helped provide flexibility. Elections were won by the PRI on a regular basis and were legitimated by the principle of no reelection of presidents, which promised opportunity and upward mobility for those who participated and were loyal to the system. Discipline became the hallmark of the PRI’s cadres, who patiently waited to be nominated by the party to run for office, and dutifully pointed to regular electoral cycles and a changing of the guard as evidence of Mexico’s adherence to democratic principles. With regular elections and new blood flowing into the system every election cycle, one could hardly claim that Mexico did not practice democracy, at least in principle. In reality, however, a set of rules and institutions masked the undemocratic nature of the Mexican state. The first thing most observers noted about Mexico’s highly centralized political system was that the president operated with relatively few constraints on his authority. A modern-day caliphate, Mexico’s president was propped up by a highly structured and servile group of politicos (cabinet members, governors,

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senators, etc.), who served because they knew or caught the attention of the president, and those within the party who hoped to climb up the PRI’s political ladder. Party members who filled both houses of Congress owed their allegiance to the president and, by extension, to the networks organized and controlled by the party. Left out of this democratic square dance were the people. The process of delinking elected officials from the general population was endemic throughout Mexico. Mexico’s presidents regularly appointed and removed governors and other elected officials with little or no input from local or state citizen groups. In the process, the PRI went from being a responsive institution committed to stability (in the immediate postrevolutionary period) and social reform (the Cárdenas era) to a centralized but hydra-headed body committed to cronyism and promoting personal careers by the 1950s. Unconcerned with accountability and democracy, over time a governing elite with distinct functions was formed within the PRI, which permeated every level of the system. As the system created by the PRI became institutionalized at the national level, state and local political processes fell into place and were dominated by decisions made in Mexico City. While exact dates can be debated, by the 1940s state- and local-level players from the governor on down played by rules dominated by the president and carried out by party and other officials at the state and federal levels. State governors understood that they were at the beck and call of the incumbent president and made sure their state conformed to the wishes of the president. Those who opposed the status quo—as defined by the president and carried out by the party—were ostracized or eventually removed from the system. By this time, Mexico’s revolutionary and progressive ideology came in a distant third behind party survival and political careerism. Because there was no opposition party strong enough to challenge the PRI’s hegemonic position early on, any candidate who was nominated to run for office by the PRI was virtually assured election. Interestingly, while the structure and processes within the PRI became entrenched, socioeconomic changes in society began to undermine cohesion and uniformity within the PRI. As frustration with the unresponsive and undemocratic nature of the system grew, the PRI’s responses to challenges from within would undermine party discipline, while assisting the emergence of alternative groups and organizations in Mexico. Challenge to Hegemony: The “Technocratic Revolution” Within the PRI Having had partial success with state-led development policies in the 1950s and 1960s (Calva 2001), Presidents Luis Echeverría (1970–1976) and José López Portillo (1976–1982) developed a series of programs they believed would speed up Mexico’s development effort (Riding 1989; Krauze 1997). Because these policies were not well thought out, were extravagant, and were plagued

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by bad luck, they created financial pressures that undermined public confidence and led to challenges from within the party. While opposing parties had always questioned the institutional authority of the PRI, most damaging were whispers from within that questioned the direction of the state. Those who questioned the system from within cannot be codified as party hacks, committed to protecting the ideals of the revolution. Rather, a group of technocrats (tecnocratas) rose through the party because of their specialized knowledge (as opposed to their commitment and work within the party), and began questioning approaches to problem solving within the party (Centeno 1997; Camp 2003). This group would eventually create fissures and factions that would contribute to splitting the party between new-style tecnocratas and old-style politicos. Each group had distinct functions, backgrounds, and professional profiles within the PRI. The politicos represented the grassroots vanguard. Labeled as “dinosaurs” because they preferred state-led efforts from the past, this group understood the PRI’s working-class and peasant roots. Many politicos, who served as ward bosses for the system, were disdainful of the new elites and their policy approaches. They quickly became annoyed that many in this political group came from the upper echelons of Mexico’s economic and political elite, but were not party militants. To be sure, when tecnocratas found it useful to become party members, they did so, but most often not until late in their careers. Many studied economics at private universities (or at the National Autonomous University of Mexico), moved on to postgraduate studies at prestigious and private universities in the United States, and, due in part to their political contacts, were able to enter the party and the state bureaucracy at relatively high levels early in their careers. As the tecnocratas assumed positions of leadership and power in the 1980s, they would recast the PRI so that both its ideology and its policies became unrecognizable to many of the partyfaithful. These dynamics, especially the tecnocratas’ rapid promotions over politicos, raised the ire of traditional party supporters. Making matters more difficult, the new technocratic elite—who included Presidents Miguel de la Madrid (1982–1988), Carlos Salinas de Gortari (1988– 1994), and Ernesto Zedillo (1994–2000)—believed they understood Mexico’s troubled economic history better than anyone else. Many even exhibited a sense of contempt for those who did not share their views. In all cases, by the mid1980s the party found itself challenged by dissension and an internal power struggle. With oil shocks and the debt crisis of the 1970s and 1980s undermining development policies, the political hand of the tecnocratas was strengthened by the 1980s. Alternative policy routes like socialism and state-led populism had been discredited by the populist excesses of previous administrations (and the decline of the leftists globally). Now the tecnocratas argued that a scientific and rational approach to development had to be undertaken. Their plan for fixing and modernizing the country was relatively simple: discard state-led development and open the economy to free trade.

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Because many had overseas training and connections, and were buoyed by global trends toward market-oriented strategies, the tecnocratas were able to claim a special connection to, and a unique understanding of, the market policies needed to modernize Mexico. Aided by the support of the Ronald Reagan and George H. W. Bush administrations in the 1980s, successive technocratic administrations used the power, discipline, and structures of the PRI to push market-oriented policies through Congress. Aided by a political and cultural milieu that thrived on secrecy and continued to stifle dissenting opinion, the tecnocratas promoted policy changes that were unthinkable a decade earlier (Weintraub 2000). For example, Mexico joined the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT) in 1986, which broke with past principles that mandated independence from foreign influence. This ideological shift forced conservative and populist-oriented factions within the PRI to the margins of the political arena and, later, marginalized them from recruitment and agenda-setting. In the process, an unwritten rule of the party and the revolutionary family, political inclusion, was broken. Another unwritten rule, no open criticism from within, also fell to the wayside, which would contribute to splitting, transforming, and undermining Latin America’s longest-standing political regime. Particularly damaging was the infighting that would damage the party’s electoral prospects at the end of the twentieth century. Political and Organizational Challenges from Within the PRI Dislodged from the primary positions of power, and uncomfortable with the party elites’ “neoliberal” policy prescriptions, the politicos began to complain and fight back. One of the first to openly express displeasure with the neoliberal policies promoted by the tecnocratas within the PRI was Cuauhtémoc Cárdenas. Son of legendary president Lázaro Cárdenas, and backed by an influential group within the PRI, Cárdenas believed that the principles of the revolution were being undermined by the party’s new political elite. Angered by Mexico’s entrance into GATT, and later by the new elites’ attempts to marginalize their influence, traditional and leftist leaders within the PRI formed the Democratic Current (Corriente Democratica [CD]) within the party in 1986. Many within the CD became frustrated when their demand for more democratic process went nowhere within the PRI. The CD soon found itself in a difficult position when the National Assembly of the PRI met in March 1987. At this meeting the PRI’s new hierarchy met and issued an ultimatum to the CD’s membership: shut up or get out of the party. To ensure that everyone understood they were not bluffing, a few days after the assembly broke up, the PRI expelled Cárdenas from the party. This forced the hand of Cárdenas’s supporters within the party, which would lead scores of disaffected politicos to follow Cárdenas out of the party. Most of them would eventually become key supporters of Cárdenas’s presidential run

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in 1988. In this manner, one of the key operational constituencies within the party, the politicos, split along two lines. One group of politicos considered themselves political pragmatists, and went along with the technocrats in opposing internal democratization. Another group of politicos left the party and would become integral to creating the base of the PRD. Indeed, many of those who left were elected to office in the early 1990s and reaped the benefits of the 1994–1995 economic crises when the PRI lost the congressional elections and the mayor’s office of Mexico City in July 1997. At the same time, things were becoming more difficult for the PRI throughout the rest of the nation, as the PAN began winning elections at the state and local levels. Amid these developments, many questions began to be raised throughout Mexico. On one level, people wanted to know if the PRI could solve the economic problems that confronted Mexico. On another level, political pundits wanted to know whether the PRI had the institutional wherewithal to withstand the political hits they were now taking in the larger political arena. How the PRI handled these questions would help determine its fate in future elections. In all cases, one thing was clear: the political world had changed for the PRI. In hindsight, the new elite chose a relatively simple and predictable path. Party leaders continued to deepen market-oriented policies, while using the political tools and weapons crafted over fifty years of PRI domination to maintain social order. And why not? The structure and logic of the party remained, which meant that discussions continued to take place in small insider groups, which the new technocratic elite dominated. Also at the same time, talented groups within the PRI, and other civic groups who were close to the people, continued to be systematically excluded. It was at this point that organizational habits began to fail the PRI, as past methods of control were used in spite of information that clearly demonstrated that the PRI’s political world was crumbling. With the benefit of hindsight, these dynamics suggest that rather than following old political roadmaps—like redistributing meager resources and engaging in efforts to negotiate elections—the PRI should have begun remaking itself. Specifically, instead of promoting insiders preferred by the tecnocratas, the PRI should have promoted the candidates with the best ideas. Instead, the party’s new elites were more concerned with consolidating technocratic gains, which they could only do by employing the worst tactics of the party. This was hardly a recipe for long-term electoral success in a rapidly changing political environment. At this point, the PRI’s political strategies and candidate selections are interesting not so much because of what they tell us about the new elites’ ideology. Rather, they are interesting because they tell us about decisionmaking dynamics, which, as James Wilson (1989) notes, helps us see how easy it is for seemingly rational strategists and decisionmakers to be constrained by an organizational environment clouded by the need of one group—the tecnocratas—to maintain power. In this manner, the PRI’s failures were not in gathering relevant

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information, but in how one group within the party analyzed and used it within a larger organizational context. Put more bluntly, by becoming more and more insular, the PRI had started to rot from within. To better understand these dynamics, we need to look at how the organizational dynamics of the PRI compelled leaders to make decisions that alienated Mexico’s citizens and their own supporters. I will return to the topic of organizational behavior in the conclusion.

Micro-Level Processes Partial Life Stories in the State of Querétaro Historically the state of Querétaro is critical because of its acquiescence to the nation’s authoritarian and hierarchical political culture, which was played out here even before the dominant political party was formally unveiled in 1929. Stories of state delegates being called on to switch their support for presidential candidates after the Mexican Revolution are well-known. More recently, complaints leveled against the PRI nationally—hierarchical, disconnected from the citizenry, undemocratic, and the like—found fertile ground in the state when candidate Manuel Camacho Guzmán, who was from out of state, was imposed as the PRI’s gubernatorial candidate in 1980. These and other examples make Querétaro an interesting case study because state and local political affairs have often preceded or mirrored national-level political developments. This is why the political careers of Fernando Ortíz Arana and Mariano Palacios Alcocer—both federal senators who became presidents of the PRI nationally—are so important. Their careers help us understand the context of decisionmaking in the PRI at the end of the twentieth century. However, it is not the decisions these men made while in office that shed light on political processes within the PRI. Rather, it is the internal decisions that led to their appointments and promotions that help us understand decisionmaking, political calculations, and the increasingly distorted political picture the PRI developed over time. The Early Political Careers of Palacios and Ortíz A standout wherever he went, young Mariano Palacios Alcocer won numerous awards for public speaking and became known as a “winner among winners” (Bustillo 1992, p. 31). His speaking eventually caught the attention of Querétaro governor Antonio Calzada Urquiza (1973–1979), who sponsored Palacios for state assembly, where he won office in 1973 at the age of twenty-one and quickly became assembly speaker. With the support of the governor, Palacios was nominated to run for mayor (i.e., county president) of the state’s capital, a post he won handily and served in from 1976 to 1979. By this time, Palacios had also caught the attention of people close to President Luis Echeverría, which allowed Palacios to be seen at Los Pinos with influential members of Echeverría’s camarilla. In the company of powerful people at such a young

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age, Palacios was viewed as a rising star in Querétaro. This brought followers, as aspiring state and local politicians wanted to attach themselves to the growing Palacios camarilla—which further increased his influence and prestige in the state (Bustillo 1992, p. 32). Having developed a legitimate and strong camarilla in his own right, after leaving the county president’s office Palacios became rector of the Autonomous University of Querétaro in 1979 at the age of twenty-eight, making him the youngest known university rector in the history of postrevolutionary Mexico. With access to national forums as rector of the university, he was again recognized and courted in important political circles in Mexico City (Bustillo 1992, p. 32). At the same time, Palacios became a trusted political ally of Querétaro governor Manuel Camacho Guzmán (1980–1986), who had been picked for the post by President José López Portillo (1976–1982). Because of his relationship with Governor Guzmán, Palacios was then nominated to run for a federal deputy post (equivalent to a seat in the US House of Representatives). It was here that the career paths of Mariano Palacios Alcocer and Fernando Ortíz Arana crossed. At this time, Fernando Ortíz Arana and Silvia Hernández Enriquez were vying for the federal Senate candidacy in Querétaro. Unfortunately for both Ortíz and Hernández, Governor Rafael Camacho Guzmán openly opposed them. Because he especially disliked Ortíz, the governor actively proposed Palacios as the alternate candidate. With the support of the governor, Palacios won the Senate race handily at the age of thirty-one. Palacios’s speaking talents in the Senate chamber soon caught the attention of then-president Miguel de la Madrid (1982–1988), who through his secretary of internal affairs, Manuel Bartlett Díaz (governor of Puebla, 1992–1998), let Palacios know he was interested in his political career. When it was time to select a successor to Governor Guzmán, the paths of Palacios and Ortíz crossed once more, because Ortíz was one of the strongest candidates for governor. Again Guzmán opposed Ortíz’s nomination and, as before, nominated Palacios as the party’s candidate for governor in Querétaro. In this manner, and with the support of President de la Madrid, widely recognized as Mexico’s first technocrat president, in 1985 Palacios became the PRI’s gubernatorial candidate in Querétaro at the age of thirtythree. Admired for his rapid political trajectory, youth, and growing national political contacts, and respected for what he had done as rector of the Autonomous University of Querétaro, Palacios literally was the “pride” of his state. Palacios would win the governorship with what even opposition-party members considered a legitimate 99 percent of the vote. It is at this point that Palacios moves from a classic case study of camarilla politics within the PRI to being a representative of all that would eventually go wrong for the party. Initially confident and respectful, Palacios became powerful and even arrogant with the resources at his disposal. He was convinced that except for the president, he could not be touched—primarily

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because this is the way the system worked—and began granting generous concessions and favors to family and friends on an unprecedented level. By the time Palacios left the governor’s office, he was considered the most corrupt state executive in the history of Querétaro, and would leave the governorship as a political liability for the party in that state. For all his talents and relative youth (he was only thirty-nine when he left the governor’s office), after a brief stint in the bureaucracy in Mexico City, Palacios was shipped off to Portugal as Mexico’s ambassador. What is critical to understand here is that just as Palacios had become a negative symbol of all that was wrong in Mexico, the PRI found itself a party whose reputation had been tarnished by corruption, assassination, and political intrigue in 1995. Yet the party continued to operate according to past practices. In fact, at the same time that Palacios was being shipped off to Portugal (in Mexico, with the exception of a handful of appointments, an ambassadorial appointment under the PRI was often viewed as a way of removing political liabilities), Fernando Ortíz Arana’s political star began to rise in Mexico City. A persistent man, Ortíz became a federal senator and quickly became a leading player in the party at the national level. At the end of Carlos Salinas’s presidential term (1988–1994), Ortíz was appointed president of the PRI, which meant he would be delivering the PRI’s announcement of the next presidential candidate. While everyone understood that the president of the PRI was only doing the bidding of President Salinas, the fact that Ortíz was selected to do so by such a popular president (populist at the time) was a sign that he was in the president’s good graces. President Salinas selected Luis Donaldo Colosio as the PRI’s presidential candidate, which Ortíz dutifully announced to the nation. After Colosio was assassinated on a campaign stop in Tijuana in March 1994, many believed that as president of the PRI at the national level, Ortíz had both the position and trust of the party to legitimately lobby for the presidency. Many also believed that Salinas needed an old hand and trusted “party dinosaur” to keep the party-faithful in line. However, Ortíz proved to be too much of an old-style politico for Salinas. Instead, Salinas selected Colosio’s campaign manager, Ernesto Zedillo, to be the PRI’s postassassination candidate. Once Ortíz had lost out to Zedillo, the conventional thinking was that he would dutifully accept his fate, regroup, and attempt to win the party’s presidential nomination in 2000. Part of this strategy included either going back to Querétaro to become governor or challenging Cuauhtémoc Cárdenas for mayor in Mexico City in 1997, which would give him a national stage. Cognizant of Cárdenas’s popularity in Mexico City, Ortíz opted to consolidate his power and run for governor of Querétaro. It was at this time that factions within the party, competing agendas, and the organizational logic of the party began to backfire on Ortíz’s political aspirations, and on the PRI’s political life.

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The Return of Palacios: The Party Weakens and Rots from Within At the time Fernando Ortíz Arana’s political star was rising, Mariano Palacios Alcocer returned from Portugal. Because he played by the rules of the game and left quietly, Palacios expected to be rewarded by the party after the 1994 presidential elections. However, since Palacios was a disgraced former governor, most observers understood that he could not win a seat if he ran on his own in the state of Querétaro. As such, the best the party could do was place Palacios on the state’s party slate as a plurinominal (at-large) candidate in 1997. Being rewarded for good behavior, however, only explains the outcome of party behavior. To understand why Palacios became an imposed candidate, it is necessary to focus on the dynamics of what one informant said were “larger political realities [within the PRI] in Mexico City.” In all cases, the following helps illustrate that the PRI had become so consumed with internal intrigue and palace brinksmanship that the party was not only out of touch with the Mexican people but also in decline. And this would make all the difference in the world for the increasingly organized and efficient opposition party, the PAN. Commenting on the reputation of Palacios and his appointment as an atlarge candidate by the PRI, one informant said, “Even the most blind príistas [supporters of the PRI] had to recognize that Mariano was going to seriously damage their chances to win [in the state].” Others commented that because of Palacios’s tainted reputation in Querétaro, he had to be “imposed from above.” While most everyone understood this practice, few high-level players had openly acknowledged the PRI’s nomination process. This is why many observers were surprised when the president of the PRI at the state level in Querétaro, Marco Antonio Leon Hernández, made an uncharacteristically public comment acknowledging that Querétaro’s slate of candidates would come from Mexico City. After being asked when he was going to announce the PRI’s 1997 candidates for statewide office, he remarked: “We’re just waiting for the phone call from Mexico City. The call from the Secretaría de Gobernación, or the presidency of the PRI, will go to the governor, and he’ll instruct the leader of the party . . . the way it’s always been done” (El Nuevo Amanecer de Querétaro, 1997). While it was difficult to find príistas who would shed light on internal candidate selection processes, these comments help to explain who selected Palacios as an at-large candidate. However, they don’t explain why the PRI would risk losing a state by placing someone as radioactive as Palacios on the ballot. In interviews, several people commented that the PRI was just too arrogant and did not believe it was going to lose in Querétaro. In this scenario, Palacios wasn’t seen as a gamble. Others said that losing a small state like Querétaro was not such a big deal for the PRI because Ernesto Zedillo had bigger things in mind for Palacios at the national level, where Palacios would

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eventually become national president of the PRI and a cabinet minister in the Zedillo administration. Those who took the latter position—which most highlevel state politicos did—also provided a historical sequence and political rationale that help us understand the insular nature and organizational dynamics of party politics as the PRI headed into the twenty-first century. While running for governor would have been a good option twenty years earlier, the need of the new factions and the technocrats to consolidate power worked against the interests of Fernando Ortíz Arana. For example, while everyone understood that Ortíz was not a tecnocrata, his real problem was that he had made powerful enemies within the PRI while in Mexico City. Among those was Secretary of Interior Emilio Chuayfett, one of the most powerful men in President Ernesto Zedillo’s administration (1994–2000). Chuayfett understood quite well that Ortíz had presidential aspirations. He also knew that, as a powerful and nationally recognized politico, Ortíz also had the potential to rally key antitechnocratic príistas around him. As such, Chuayfett wanted to ensure that Ortíz would not gain the platform from which to begin a campaign for the PRI’s presidential nomination in 2000. This required a strategy that would derail Ortíz and make it difficult for him to develop a national political base. Part of this technocratic strategy included blocking several of Ortíz’s political lieutenants from key political appointments. In fact, by early 1997, all of Ortíz’s handpicked candidates for key posts throughout Mexico had been shot down by Chuayfett, which prevented Ortíz from building a national-level camarilla that would help him maintain a national presence while in Querétaro. But many observers believe that the key blow to Ortíz’s national political aspirations came when the PRI announced its statewide candidates for the 1997 elections in Querétaro. First, the PRI offered few new names on the state ballot that might prove attractive to the younger generation of PRI supporters. Second, almost all candidates nominated to run for office were associated with a past that most Queretanos did not want to return to. Of the nominees, many agreed that Palacios brought back the most negative memories and guaranteed a popular backlash against the PRI in 1997. Ramon Lorence, president of the PAN in Querétaro at the time, recounted his sentiments when he heard of the Palacios nomination: “When we heard that Mariano was going to be one of the at-large candidates for the PRI we were elated. Nobody in Querétaro wants him here except for his family . . . he’s an embarrassment to the state. However, his selection served our interests because people saw that the PRI didn’t care about what the people think. It reinforced the non-democratic nature of the party” (personal interview, July 1997, Querétaro). Telling in those sentiments is that several petition drives were initiated with the sole goal of removing Palacios’s name as the PRI’s at-large candidate. Commenting on the Palacios candidacy and the reputation of the PRI, one party supporter commented: “If the PRI had won they would have left us with

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nothing, they would have stolen everything. Where they got the balls to put [Palacios] on the ballot we’ll never know, but it sure made me think twice about voting for the PRI because it just showed how arrogant they were” (personal interview, July 1997, Querétaro). When the PRI lost both the governor’s office and the two most important counties in the state in 1997, people began to look for answers. Some of the micro-level factors (detailed in the following section) are tied to the state party’s incoherent campaign strategy, lack of leadership and unity, arrogant campaigns, and an inability to understand popular local sentiment. Among the macro-level reasons given for the PRI’s loss in Querétaro were problems in the national economy (tied to the 1994 devaluation), political assassinations, the rise of the PRD and Cuauhtémoc Cárdenas in 1988, and the politics of Carlos Hanks’s political camarilla, the Grupo Atlocomulco, to which Secretary of Interior Emilio Chuayfett belonged. While all of these factors had a hand in the defeat of the PRI in Querétaro, the one that gained currency among Querétaro’s political insiders was the intervention of Chuayfett and Grupo Atlocomulco. Palacios and National-Level Camarillas: “Machiavelli would have been proud . . .” This role of Chuayfett and Grupo Atlocomulco is also critical because it helps us understand both how distant PRI managers had become from local-level realities and the insular nature of decisionmaking at the national level. Organizational and decisionmaking dynamics within the PRI had deteriorated to such a degree that party leaders were blinded to the long-term ripple effects that their arrogance in Querétaro would have. A closer look at the type of campaign run in Querétaro and the reasons behind Mariano Palacios Alcocer’s selection as an at-large candidate is particularly useful in helping us understand why the PRI lost on all levels in the state and saw the PAN rise to political power in a fashion that left even PAN supporters stunned. Demonstrating how distant high-level party leaders had become, the style and excessive expenditures of former party president Fernando Ortíz Arana’s gubernatorial campaign were seen as obnoxious, especially for a developing country in the middle of an economic crisis. One family told me that they were invited to attend an Ortíz campaign “rally” in their colonia in the city of Querétaro. They declined to go because they had heard that these campaigns were “fancy events.” However, out of curiosity, they drove by and saw nothing but luxury cars and waiters wearing tuxedos and white gloves. Those who went commented that the colonia “rallies” had more of an upper-class party atmosphere than a political event. On another level, there was also the palpable arrogance of the people who worked in the Ortíz campaign, which turned even the party-faithful away. One state government worker who was transferred to Ortíz’s campaign told me:

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All of this did not go over well, and suggested to the electorate in Querétaro that a crisis of leadership and vision existed within the PRI. As one observer put it, “It showed that the PRI was rotting from within and didn’t even know it.” There is no doubt that, on the surface at least, making Ortíz the party’s gubernatorial candidate in 1997 made a lot of sense. He had been a viable presidential hopeful after the assassination of Luis Donaldo Colosio in 1994 (before Salinas selected Ernesto Zedillo), and there were numerous other individuals with high name recognition, including former governor Palacios, on the statewide PRI ticket. These political heavyweights were running against unknown politicians, like the PAN’s Ignacio Loyola. However, by selecting or approving a slate of candidates who had less than stellar reputations within the state, the PRI demonstrated a level of political arrogance that locals could no longer abide. In particular, it suggests that the PRI of 1997 believed it could still control events, and people, that were clearly beyond their control. Evidence of this was the gubernatorial candidacy of José Ortíz Arana, Fernando’s brother, who ran under the Frente Cardenista banner. His campaign siphoned off 3 percent of the vote and ignited stories of political intrigue dominated by Mexico City. There was also the attitude of outgoing governor Enrique Burgos, whose indifference toward massive demonstrations by public schoolteachers contributed to undermining the PRI’s credibility with a group who traditionally supported the party. Interviews with party insiders and other political observers suggest that the actions of Governor Burgos and the candidacy of José Ortíz Arana were orchestrated from Mexico City, with the primary goal of undermining the campaign of Fernando Ortíz Arana. The primary reason for these tactics? While Fernando Ortíz Arana was a loyal príista, he was seen as an uninspiring proponent of neoliberalism and had made several powerful enemies in Mexico City. In an era when party factionalism and technocratic agenda consolidation dominated the political scene in Mexico City, loyal party men could become expendable if they were viewed as a long-term threat. Simply put, Ortíz’s potential as a candidate for the PRI’s presidential nomination for 2000 made him a threat to the technocrats in power. With the powerful secretary of interior, Emilio Chuayfett, on the side of the technocrats, it should come as no surprise that a slate of candidates who would hurt Ortíz’s candidacy in the state would be approved at the national

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level. Considering these calculations, the president of the PAN in Querétaro, Ramon Lorence, commented not only that this was possible, but also that if this was in fact what the PRI planned, then “what the Atlocomulco group did to Fernando was Machiavellian pure and simple. Machiavelli would have been proud” (personal interview, July 1997, Querétaro). What the political careers of Mariano Palacios Alcocer and Fernando Ortíz Arana tell us is that the PAN’s gubernatorial victory in 1997 had as much to do with internal developments within the PRI as with developments in the primary opposition party, the PAN. In particular, by 1997 the appointment of Palacios helps us see how the PRI had become consumed with internal party dynamics and egos, which helps illustrate the logic behind the disconnect that developed between party leaders and the Mexican people, both nationally and at the state level in places like Querétaro. For my purposes, this suggests that party decline—whatever its causes—needs to be viewed as a serious factor in political competition. Political parties don’t always win because they are stronger or more efficient; rather they might win because of weaknesses and political missteps made by formerly dominant parties, like the PRI. Unfortunately for the PRI, they failed to learn the state-level lessons from Querétaro in 1997, and could not understand the nature of their decline, which goes a long way in explaining the decisions and mistakes made before the presidential elections in 2000 and 2006. In the end, the political careers of Palacios and Ortíz help us understand that decisionmaking cannot be explained by simply looking at individual choices. We need to understand larger motives, which is a complex undertaking, whether in a long-standing bureaucracy or in a small group. To be sure, there is no doubt that political science—especially the field of US politics— has gained much from employing a rational-actor framework. However, traditional rational-choice models do little to help us recognize how it was that intelligent and highly capable leaders within the PRI could ignore Mexico’s new political realities. How, for example, do we explain how actors pursuing a rational end (electoral victory) tamed their better instincts so that they continued to make decisions and promote agendas that were parochial and better suited for another era? To understand this we need to investigate how professional habits and professional expertise can betray those who have spent careers developing them within a single context. Sidney Weintraub (2000), in a perceptive book on financial decisionmaking in Mexico, touches on this and writes of a cultural milieu that did not allow for dissent and thrived on secrecy. The end result was a series of fateful economic decisions made by arrogant policymakers who believed they alone understood the world. The end result was the peso collapse of 1994. Secrecy and arrogance within the PRI go a long way in explaining larger political decisions that led to the PRI’s presidential defeat in 2000 as well.

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Conclusion This chapter began with a brief overview of Mexico’s political system in the twentieth century to establish the structure and successes of the Institutional Revolutionary Party. Hierarchical, hegemonic, and secretive, the party was able to sustain its undemocratic nature as long as the country enjoyed steady growth rates while the middle class grew. Indeed, the primary reason the PRI was able to succeed for so long during much of the twentieth century was that it brought stability to postrevolutionary Mexico. In the process of bringing rogue generals and regional warlords under state control, the party promised democracy as a long-term “poststability” goal. This pacified many Mexicans, who grew accustomed to a party dependent on both state patronage and weak opposition parties who were either co-opted or denied state legitimacy. The end product was a multi-tiered, highly disciplined party that relied on state power, coercion, and fraud to maintain control. Once political centralization and social stability were secure, the revolutionary goals of the state changed to embrace economic growth, which averaged 6 percent in the 1950s and 1960s. As economic growth visibly enhanced the standards of living of many Mexicans, the growth and power of the PRI became institutionalized. This helped the party succeed politically at all levels within the country. With social and political stability secured, many came to believe that Mexico’s success was tied to keeping a single party in power, because the PRI, after all, kept the peace and maintained discipline within the political system. Adding to the strength and attractiveness of the PRI was how the party rewarded loyalty with political and economic privilege, which made the PRI the most attractive vehicle for social, economic, and political mobility. Stability, opportunity, and economic growth—all absent through the 1920s—legitimized one-party rule and helped the PRI succeed through most of the twentieth century. Unchallenged power, however, only served to reinforce the more negative aspects of the party’s undemocratic culture, which was compounded with arrogance when a new political elite, the technocrats, came to power in the 1980s. During the party’s political transformation from representative party to aloof and increasingly distant technocratic party, it began making strategic decisions that reflected the organizational and institutional logic of the PRI rather than the concerns of the Mexican people. This is critical for three reasons. First, while party leaders and the president had always operated in an environment of decisionmaking secrecy, at least there had been a modicum of consultation with out-groups (both inside and outside the party). Second, as the selection of Querétaro’s political candidates for 1997 revealed, decisions at the national level were made in a way that demonstrated that the PRI had little understanding or respect for local-level political realities. Third, internal

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dynamics within the PRI had evolved to the point that power-brokers were more concerned with their groups’ political survival, which blinded them to growing external threats, like the growing popularity of opposition parties. In sum, despite President Salinas’s declaration that one-party rule had come to an end, decisions continued to be made in a political vacuum, which demonstrated that the PRI’s organizational and decisionmaking processes no longer reflected the demands of the new competitive political world. These three realities suggest that if we are to understand the success or prosperity of the PAN, and other opposition parties, at the end of the twentieth century, we must start by analyzing how the organizational dynamics of the PRI led to strategic failures, which ultimately undermined public confidence in the party. To be sure, as numerous authors have pointed out, there is no doubt the PAN had matured both organizationally and politically, which allowed it to take advantage of the political opening created by the PRI’s failings. In addition, while rational-actor frameworks might be useful for helping us understand the activities of Mexico’s opposition parties, we gain a more complete understanding of party prosperity (and failures) if we recognize how bureaucratic dynamics and arrogance within the PRI contributed to the strategic decisions that undermined public confidence and led to detachment and reattachment in Mexico. By following the political careers of two high-level politicians, we get a good look at internal party dynamics, which reveals a party more concerned with maintaining old-style discipline and cronyism than with finding a realistic strategy to deal with Mexico’s new political environment. Indeed, the party’s decisions regarding Mariano Palacios Alcocer and Fernando Ortíz Arana reveal how the PRI had become a distant, bureaucratically driven organization focused on promoting power-driven agendas rather than assessing and reacting to the new realities. A rational-actor framework—the idea that people and groups act rationally in an effort to promote their interests—does little here, because there is no doubt that PRI leaders believed they were working to guarantee their party’s future success. However, to explain the party’s decision to promote a tired and discredited political slate in the state of Querétaro in 1997, we must turn to methods that are often ignored or downplayed in political science: organizational anthropology and organizational psychology, among others. Here, Irving Janis’s discussion (1972) of group dynamics also helps us understand how organizational failures can occur and lead to suboptimal results for any political party. To be sure, there is no doubt that the PAN was able to take advantage of opportunities the PRI handed it, because it had matured both politically and institutionally. However, the PAN’s political victories, which began in the northern states in the 1980s and continued through the 1990s, would not have been possible—or at least would have been much more difficult—if the PRI had not handcuffed itself to the policymaking patterns of the past. Specifically these patterns included:

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• An undemocratic culture of secrecy, which led decisionmakers within the PRI to insulate themselves from new opinions and internal dissent by removing troublemakers and making sure committed technocrats managed key decisions. • Protecting the interests of the political camarilla, which led to focusing on the interests of the group, rather than the dynamics of growing popular dissent in the electorate. • Believing in the superiority of decisions made by elites, even when pertinent information and new ideas from local-level groups were brought forward. • Ignoring new realities that had long been recognized (like the end of one-party rule declared by President Salinas in 1988). • An inability to acknowledge the worst possible outcomes, because unchallenged elites wanted to believe that disaster and electoral failure would not occur on their watch. If any one or all of these patterns had been addressed, different slates might have been selected and electoral outcomes would have changed on many levels. However, as we know, party leaders chose to ignore emerging political realities because of entrenched bureaucratic processes. Data from the 2003 midterm election—in which the PRI gained at least fifteen seats in the National Assembly while the PAN lost as many as fifty-four seats in the lower house—suggest the PRI may have begun to learn some of the lessons from its 2000 presidential loss. In particular, it appears that the biggest change is the PRI’s new openness and accessibility. From open primaries to new campaign techniques, which compelled the PRI “to knock on doors again” (Kraul 2003), the PRI gives the impression that it has begun to distance itself from habits and faces from the past. Unfortunately for the PRI in 2003, open primaries and a new, humbler approach by the PRI’s gubernatorial candidate, Francisco Ortíz Arana, could not cleanse the past, and Ortíz lost once again (45.1 percent to 42.0 percent) to the PAN’s gubernatorial candidate, Francisco Garrido Patron. The PRI also lost the county presidency in the state’s capital, and three out of four National Assembly seats. These developments suggest that rational-choice frameworks alone cannot explain how it was that intelligent and politically astute party leaders in 1997 and 2000 could ignore changes that began to undermine the authority and hegemony of the PRI as far back as 1968. To understand this, we need to have a better understanding of how intelligent people, working within bureaucracies, disarm or normalize pertinent and potentially threatening information over time. This is especially the case when we find that for the 2003 midterm elections, the PAN held closed nominating conventions and, in the case of the state of Nuevo Leon (where the PAN lost by 20 percentage points), forbade

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candidates from criticizing either President Vicente Fox or the unpopular incumbent PAN governor (Kraul 2003). Why did the PAN do this? Now may be a good time to bring the ideas of bounded rationality and group-think back into the study of political science.

Epilogue In 2006 the PAN’s Felipe Calderon was the acknowledged winner of Mexico’s closest presidential election, with 35.9 percent of the vote (15.0 million votes). The PRD’s Manuel López Obrador had secured 35.3 percent (14.7 million votes) (Instituto Federal Electoral 2006). Making things interesting on election night was that both the PAN and the PRD presidential candidates jumped the gun and declared themselves the winner well before the ballots had been officially counted. Both were widely criticized on election night for these “errors in judgment.” Making things almost surreal election night was watching the PRI’s national president, Mariano Palacios Alcocer, speaking on television on behalf of the PRI and mute PRI candidate Roberto Madrazo (who stood oddly silent next to Palacios), calling on the nation to respect the law and allow the process to work itself out. The PRI, it should be noted, could not join in declaring its candidate the winner, because Roberto Madrazo garnered only 22.6 percent of the presidential vote (9.3 million votes). What is important to acknowledge are three developments. First, with 35.9 percent of the vote, it is clear that the PAN did not capture the hearts of the majority of Mexicans. Second, it appears that Mexico may be on its way to a three-party system. Third, in what is especially pertinent to this chapter, it became clear during the presidential campaign that internal strife and open political divisions within the PRI helped ensure that the PRI would not occupy Los Pinos (the presidential mansion) in 2006. Indeed, after Mariano Palacios Alcocer was appointed president of the PRI in 2005, he was immediately criticized—along with Roberto Madrazo— for the way the “new” party leadership muscled its way to the top. Apart from the criticisms from within the party’s rank and file, former governors were also outspoken about their discomfort with internal bickering and the leadership’s direction. Some even went so far as to openly suggest that the PRI was on “the path toward defeat” (Perez Silva 2005). While some of this can be chalked up to personal agendas and sour grapes, the reality is that many of the tactics, personalities, and political ghosts from the PRI’s past were rejuvenated. From tapping Palacios to lead the party’s renovation, to the haughty removal of “troublesome” party members (like Elba Esther Gordillo), to accusations of “unexplained wealth” against a pre-presidential candidate (Arturo Montiel Rojas), it was clear that there were open divisions and internal intrigue within the party. This would undermine the PRI’s once-famed organizational coher-

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ence and doom its presidential prospects in 2006. There were even concerns that Roberto Madrazo would once again yield the dedazo (nod of approval) for the PRI’s political candidates (Perez Silva 2005a). More simply, it appears the PRI learned very little from its presidential loss to Vicente Fox in 2000. Several developments during this election cycle are also significant for what they tell us about democracy in Mexico. • Apart from the early claims of Manuel López Obrador and his supporters, very little was said about electoral fraud across the country. This is a positive development. • With the election results upheld by Mexico’s Federal Election Institute, there can be no denying that Mexico came within one-half a percentage point (243,934 votes) of having its third political party legitimately elected to the presidency since 1994. Competitive elections are also a positive development. • Anyone who closely watched how the PRI-dominated Congress pursued Manuel López Obrador for his actions while mayor of Mexico City could argue that Mexico has matured as a democracy. Going after a political opponent with innuendo and slander speaks more to Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton than it does to Porfirio Díaz and authoritarianism. • Fourth, President Vicente Fox was attacked often, and had many of his initiatives blocked in Congress. This, too, is a positive development. At the time this book went to press, initial claims of fraud and demands for a recount by the PRD had largely been dismissed. Months after the 2006 elections, Manuel López Obrador would often complain that he was the winner. But if demands for recounts, rather than boycotts and widespread claims of fraud, are any indication of political advancement, then Mexico may be on its way to a competitive party system. This suggests that whatever benefits continuity may bring, the type of political change Mexico is now experiencing bodes well for Mexico’s political future. In the end, no one can deny that the PAN was able to secure very comfortable pluralities in the Chamber of Deputies (33.4 percent, PAN; 29.0 percent, PRD; 28.1 percent, PRI) and the Senate (33.5 percent, PAN; 29.7 percent, PRD; 28.1 percent, PRI) (Instituto Federal Electoral 2006). All of this suggests that while Mexico might still claim to have a “delicate” democracy, it appears very close to creating a viable, competitive, three-party system. What appears certain then is that while the PRI and its dinosaurs remain stuck in their own political tar pit, the electoral openings created by the PRI’s political missteps are going a long way in helping Mexico’s party system prosper.

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Appendix Percentage of Total Votes Won in Mexico’s Chamber of Deputies, by Major Party, 1961–2006 (percentages) Election Year

PRI

PAN

PPS

PARM

PRD

Othera

1961 1964 1967 1970 1973 1976 1979 1982 1985 1988b 1991 1994 1997 2000c 2003 2006

90.2 86.3 83.3 80.1 69.7 80.1 69.7 69.3 65.0 50.4 61.4 50.3 39.1 36.9 36.8d 28.1

7.6 11.5 12.4 13.9 14.7 8.5 10.8 17.5 15.5 17.1 17.7 25.8 26.6 38.2 30.8 33.4

1.0 1.4 2.8 1.4 3.6 3.0 2.6 1.9 2.0 10.5 1.8 0.7 0.3 — — —

0.5 0.7 1.3 0.8 1.9 2.5 1.8 1.4 1.7 6.2 2.1 0.9 0.7 0.7 — —

— — — — — — — — — — 8.3 16.1 25.7 18.7 17.6 28.9

— — — — — — 9.7 9.7 11.2 14.9 6.1 4.4 6.3 — 11.4 —

Sources: For 1961 to 2000, Camp 2003; for 2003, Instituto Federal Electoral 2003; for 2006, Instituto Federal Electoral 2006. Notes: Figures represent percentages of valid votes and may not sum to 100% due to rounding, the omission of votes to nonregistered candidates, and, for 1988, exclusion of parties that did not receive 2 percent of the vote. PRI = Institutional Revolutionary Party (Partido Revolucionario Institucional); PAN = National Action Party (Partido Acción Nacional); PPS = Popular Socialist Party (Partido Popular Socialista); PARM = Authentic Party of the Mexican Revolution (Partido Auténtico de la Revolución Mexicana); PRD = Party of Democratic Revolution (Partido de la Revolución Democrática). a. Through 2000, this column refers to the vote of “parastatal” parties, which were small parties that cooperated with and sometimes received support from the PRI. The independence of many of these parties can be questioned, because several times they have conominated the PRI’s presidential candidate. The number of “Other” parties varied from election to election, but in general they comprised primarily the following six: PDM (Democratic Mexican Party), PSUM (United Socialist Party of Mexico), PST (Socialist Workers Party), PFCRN (Cardenista Front for National Reconstruction Party), PT (Labor Party), and PVEM (Green Party). In 2003, “Other” parties were the new and independent parties: Convergence, PVEM (Green Party), PSN (National Socialist Party), PAS (Social Alliance Party), PMS (Socialist Party of Mexico), PLM (Mexican Liberal Party; i.e., classical liberals), and FC (Civic Force). b. The 1988 presidential election can be seen as the official “coming out” party for the PRD, which was formed under the leaderships of disaffected PRI party members like Cuauhtémoc Cárdenas. The vote of the 1988 Cárdenas coalition listed here was 31.2 percent and included three parastatals—the PPS, PARM, and the PST/PFCRN group—plus the PMS (formerly the PSUM) and the PRT. c. The Federal Electoral Institute (Instituto Federal Electoral [IFE]) calculates percentages on the basis of electoral alliances. As a result, the percentages for the PT, the CD (Convergence for Democracy), the PSN, and the PAS are reported under the percentage for the PRD as the “Alliance for Mexico.” Similarly, the PVEM’s percentage is incorporated with the PAN’s as the “Alliance for Change.” d. For the 2003 elections, the PRI and the PVEM formed a coalition in many states and localities. While the PRI often ran independent candidates with no PVEM coalition, the numbers for the PRI and the PRI/PVEM coalition are combined here. Independently, the PRI won 23.2 percent of the vote for the National Assembly, while the PRI/PVEM coalition won 13.6 percent. As an independent party, the PVEM won 4.0 percent of the vote in the National Assembly elections. This number is included in the “Other” category for the 2003 elections.

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Israel’s Shas: Party Prosperity and Dubious Democracy YAEL YISHAI

T

hat political parties are essential for democracy has long been an undisputed premise. Parties are the primary institutions of representative democracy (Sartori 1976; Rose 1984; Beyme 1985; Dalton 1988). They define and articulate public concerns, they inform the public, and they exercise control over the policymaking process. Consequently, Elmer Schattschneider (1942) once concluded that democracy without parties is unthinkable. Democracy without at least some prosperous parties is also inconceivable. Prosperity, in the sense discussed here, is defined by parties’ survivability (Rose and Mackie 1988), electoral attainments (Jin 1995), and influence on public policy (Therien and Alain 2000). Some parties are naturally more prosperous than others, because one’s gain is the other’s loss. Yet there has been a general sense of disenchantment with partisan life. Scholars and politicians alike have lamented the decline of parties and the concomitant deterioration in the quality of democracy. The case described in this chapter demonstrates the equivocation of this assertion. Taking into consideration the two faces of political parties—one looking toward the state and the other toward society—it will be shown that their contribution to democracy varies depending on the goal. A prosperous party may serve democracy by providing channels of access to disadvantaged constituencies, making them legitimate “insiders.” At the same time, internal processes and values, which are indeed undemocratic, may cast a shadow on the party’s benefit to democracy. Israel serves as a case study to demonstrate the equivocal contribution of party prosperity to democracy. In the past, this country has been described as a typical party-state, in which parties play a predominant role in shaping both political and social life. The importance of parties derived from their traditional role in setting the foundations for national independence, their critical role in socialization and political mobilization, and their rule over the policy231

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making process (Arian 1989). The parties, however, have not maintained their vigor. Israel has not escaped the universal process of party decline. In fact, its experience may have been ruder than in other Western societies. Rapid socioeconomic development, globalization of the economy, expansion of education and mass communication, and the change in the value system have all contributed to the decline of parties on the national power scene. Yet within this decline there are parties that are doing amazingly well in all parameters of prosperity: they have survived the test of time, they are increasing their parliamentary representation, and they influence government policy. This chapter addresses one Israeli party, Shas, which stands out in its prosperity: it has survived six elections, it has grown into a middle-size party by gaining significant Knesset representation, and, except for a few brief intermissions, it has been a member of the governing coalition. The party reflects the attempt of individuals marginalized economically, politically, and culturally to reassert their pride and improve their life. Shas entered the political scene when its constituency, Jews from Asia and Africa (Sephardim), was severely deprived politically and economically. The party’s leaders were part and parcel of the ultrareligious world, controlled by Ashkenazi (of European origin) rabbis, but were discriminated against financially, socially, and even intellectually. A successful attempt to run for local elections in 1983 tempted Shas’s leaders to contend at the national level (Tessler 2003). The sources of the party’s success are presumably to be found in the political, economic, cultural, organizational, and social conditions. Shas offered a relevant program (Lucardie 2000) to a constituency thirsty for political mobilization. The party accomplished its participatory linkage, providing citizens an avenue to the locus of power. It also took pains to ensure that government officials paid heed to the needs of its constituency (Lawson 1988). At the same time, however, it failed to socialize its adherents into democratic processes and norms, because the internal structure of the party and its mobilization practices were utterly undemocratic. The chapter will show how and why Shas was successful, and why it may be considered a prosperous party. It will also demonstrate that the contribution of Shas’s prosperity to democracy is dubious. Democracy profited, but it also faces a grave danger should this prosperity, in its present form, persist.

The Israeli Political Regime Israel is a parliamentary democracy with a unicameral legislature (Knesset) on whose vote of confidence the government depends. Once elected, the Knesset approves the formation of a government, headed by a Knesset member who has been nominated for that purpose by the president. The government can be removed from office by a vote of no-confidence. Members of the Knesset (MKs) are elected by an extreme “strict list” proportional system (PR), in which the whole country serves as a single electoral district. Until 1992 the

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electoral threshold was 1 percent of the vote; that year it was raised to 1.5 percent of the vote (as of the next elections, the threshold will be raised to 2 percent of the vote). The heritage of the prestate institutions, coupled with persisting ideological and social cleavages, contributed to the formation of a multiparty system. During Israel’s nearly six decades of independence, no single political party has ever won a majority of the votes. All governments have been formed on the basis of coalitions, whose stability fluctuated. By and large Israel may be considered a stable democracy. From 1949 (the first general elections) to the 2003 elections, only sixteen Knessets and twenty-eight governments served in Israel. Only once in its history (March 15, 1990) has the Knesset removed a government by a vote of no-confidence. Only in a minority of cases have new governments taken power due to coalition crises. Notwithstanding the political stability, there has been a large measure of frustration and dissatisfaction regarding legislative politics. At stake primarily is the dependence of the coalition on the cooperation of small parties or even of individual MKs, who at times are overrewarded for their participation in the government (Diskin 1999). Such criticism mounted after the no-confidence vote of 1990 and led to a change in the law that regulates the formation of the government. The crux of the change (approved in 1992 and practiced first in the 1996 elections) was the direct election of the prime minister by a popular vote, thereby differentiating the vote for lists from the vote for premier. The purpose of this legislative amendment was to reduce the power of small parties, because the Knesset would be reluctant to call for new elections. The new procedure, however, could also contribute to the consolidation of minor parties and increase their power, because it enabled the voters to split their vote between the prime minister, who presumably represented the national interest, and a small party, which might represent sectarian or other narrow interests. The possibility, or rather the threat, of a second round if no contender won a majority further increased the power of the small parties trying to pressure the candidate for premiership prior to the elections (Diskin and Diskin 1995). The new electoral system of direct election did not survive the test of time. Three prime ministers were elected under this reform: Benjamin Netanyahu (1996), Ehud Barak (1999), and Ariel Sharon (2001). The political rivalry between the two major contenders was fierce and acrimonious. Corrupt financial practices were allegedly used to win the vote, and the number of parties increased rather than declined. Disenchantment with the reform grew to the extent that on March 7, 2001, the new law was rescinded by a majority of Knesset members.

The Israeli Party System The results of the sixteen general elections held in Israel from independence to 2003 represent the major characteristics in the party system: multipartyism, instability, ideological density, and high competition. The fact that fourteen parties

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were elected to the sixteenth Knesset in a country the size of Israel (with an electorate of 4.7 million in 2003) demonstrates the fragmentation of the partisan scene. This number was not a record. In 1977 the number of parties represented prior to that Knesset’s dispersal reached a high of twenty-four. A prominent characteristic of Israel’s party system is the decline of the two main parties, Labor and Likud. These two parties, which have actually controlled the political arena since the state’s beginning, have consistently lost power since 1984. In 1981 the combined power of the two parties was 94 MKs (out of 120); in 2003 it was only 59. The annulment of direct election of the prime minister was aimed, among other things, at strengthening the power of the big parties and at reintroducing stability into the partisan milieu to facilitate the forming of viable coalitions. This goal was not achieved. Worth noting, however, is that until 2000, notwithstanding partisan volatility, the system maintained its ideological contours, with the electorate split almost evenly along one of the biggest rifts in Israeli polity: between the pro-peace voters and the supporters of Greater Israel. Parties mushroomed, but the ideological divide stayed almost intact. This changed in 2003 with a major shift of the Israeli public toward hard-line policies on security issues. The number of parties, as well as their proliferation, reveals the density of the partisan map, which raises the level of interparty competition. Partisan makeup in Israel reflects with great accuracy the map of social and political cleavages. Parties represent the two peoples living in the country (Jews and Arabs), the religious and the secular, the affluent and the blue-collar workers, the new immigrants, the advocates of considerable territorial concessions, and the proponents of hard-line policies toward the Palestinians. Many parties cater to narrow social or ideological interests. Beside the two “big” parties, there are three Arab parties, two “Russian” lists, and three parties representing the religious constituency. In addition, there is one anti-religious party whose sole purpose is to counter religious demands. The trade unions are represented by a party, and the advocates of severely militant solutions to the Israel-Palestine conflict by another small party. These circumstances raise the ideological temperature and increase the competition between parties actually vying for the vote of the same constituency. Parties accentuate and radicalize their message in their attempt to muster support. The mobilization undertaken by political parties yields effective results, at least in terms of voter turnout. In the elections held during the 1990s, an average of 79.5 percent of eligible voters cast a ballot. This figure is impressive in view of the fact that some 20 percent of the Israeli population had immigrated from the countries of the former Soviet Union during that decade and had not yet been fully absorbed. Voter turnout, however, is not an indication of party activism. Surveys show a drop in the proportion of party members in the population, from 18 percent in 1969, to 16 percent in 1973, to 13 percent in 1981, to 8 percent in 1984 (Arian 1989, p. 118). In 1988 the proportion decreased to

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7 percent. A survey conducted in 1998 revealed that the proportion of respondents stating they were active party members amounted to a mere 5 percent (Yishai 1999). Parties have also encountered a leadership crisis, with the founding fathers failing to recruit effective successors (Shapiro 1984). Likud is presently led by a veteran politician of the past. Labor has been buffeted by an unprecedented crisis, with disqualification of internal elections. Many other parties, especially the veteran ones, face similar crises, finding it difficult to replace the champions of the past. Party vulnerability is both a cause and a consequence of changes in campaign techniques. During the past decade the strategies and the contents of the electoral campaigns have changed substantially. Although electoral laws forbid political parties to advertise on a commercial basis, the availability of sophisticated communications techniques has paved the way to application of impersonal strategies during the electoral campaign. In the elections of the 1990s, a great stride was taken toward professionalization of the campaign. Israeli parties adapted to the communications revolution by making television propaganda a major form of persuasion. Parties in Israel could splurge on their campaigns, because they had one certain and unfailing source of funding: the state treasury. The introduction of public subsidies to political parties has often been described as one of the important developments of modern democracy (Pierre, Svasand, and Anders 2000). Israel was one of the first countries to introduce fixed party financing. The number of MKs in a party serves as the basis for funding, but financial aid is also given to aspiring lists, to provide them with seed money that will enable them to transmit their message. From 1973 to 1998, a steady increase in party funding was evident. The penalties for overspending were small fines, which were worth the investment in lucrative electoral campaigns. Public party financing reached unprecedented heights in 1994, when the parties decided on a raise of one-third of the total to enable them to recover their deficits accumulated during the election campaign. Relative to the number of voters nationwide, the public grants allocated to political parties in Israel are the highest in the world (Hofnung 1996:74). The parties that initiated public funding hold the purse strings by assuring themselves absolute discretion in the use of money. The generous state funds have no conditions attached to them, and the parties are not obliged to publish their accounts, only to report to the state comptroller. State funding was initially galvanized by strict limitations on public donations, verging on their elimination. The maximum party donation for an off-election year is equal to about US$150 per household. During the electoral campaign the sum is doubled. Contributions from abroad or from corporations and public associations are totally banned. No tax exemptions are granted; all forms of encouraging citizens to take part in the political process through monetary participation are forbidden.

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Shas as a Prosperous Party Prosperity, in the sense discussed here, has three manifestations: surviving the test of time, increasing (or maintaining) electoral gains, and influencing government policy. Table 12.1 shows Shas’s electoral gains from its first appearance on the parliamentary scene in 1984 to the 2003 elections. When Shas first contested the national elections, most of its candidates were unknown. In a documented analysis of election results, Shas was termed “the surpriser” (Greilsammer 1986, p. 92) because it won four Knesset seats. Since then, the surprise has mounted. In 1988 the party increased its representation to six seats, sustaining this attainment in 1992. In 1996 it won ten seats, and in 1999 it won seventeen. Shas’s success was evident also in coalition membership starting after the 1984 elections. Following the elections to the eleventh Knesset (1984), the party joined a government headed by Yitzhak Shamir; this was the case again in 1988 (twelfth Knesset). In 1992 (thirteenth Knesset), Shas was included in the governing coalition led by Yitzhak Rabin (Labor). It also became a member of the coalitions led by Netanyahu (1996), Barak (1999), and Sharon (2001), the last being formed upon Sharon’s election to the premiership. The picture is thus clear: over this period, no government was formed in Israel without including Shas in the coalition, and Shas was the sole party that was always a member of the governing coalition. All other parties made stipulations on social or ideological grounds. The antireligious party would not serve in the same government with the ultraorthodox; pro-peace parties could not join a Likud-led coalition; right-wing parties refrained from entering a Labor-led coalition. Shas enjoyed the benefits of all worlds. It cared little who was ruling the country. What it wanted primarily was to jump on any wagon that would acknowledge the rights and privileges of its constituency. The fact that Shas had no firm commitment to either the left or the right increased its negotiating power. In joining the government coalition, Shas was guaranteed its choice of portfolios, which served as the foundation for influTable 12.1

Representation of Israel’s Shas in the Knesset, 1984–2006

Knesset 11 (1984) 12 (1988) 13 (1992) 14 (1996) 15 (1999) 16 (2003) 17 (2006) Source: http://www.knesset.gov.il.

Number of Votes (% of total)

Number of Seats

3.1 4.7 4.9 8.5 13.0 9.2 9.5

4 6 6 10 17 11 12

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encing government policy and securing benefits for the party’s constituency. The party leveraged its position to gain the most from coalition agreements with the larger parties. Traditionally, Shas occupied ministerial positions in the social domain and those relating to the country’s religious affairs. Controlling the Ministries of Health and Welfare enabled Shas to apply a wide patronage system and to benefit its constituency, in dire need of social services. Shas was also responsible for the Ministries of Interior and Religious Affairs, both of which were beneficial in developing and strengthening the party’s institutions on the local level. The success of Shas is clearly reflected in the direct and indirect government financial allocations transferred through various ministries and channeled to the party’s satellite associations. In 1984, when Shas first appeared on the scene as a national party, direct funding for its associations was around NIS 5.6 million (US$514,000). From 1992 to 1996, when Shas enjoyed the status of being the only religious party in the Labor-led government, its funds were increased to NIS 104 million (US$35 million). From 1996 to 1998, direct funding to Shas associations increased to over NIS 1.5 billion (US$441 million), more than twentyfold the sum it received at the end of the previous government’s incumbency (Tessler 2001, p. 259). The chief beneficiaries of state funding were Shas’s educational institutions (discussed below). Religious learning institutions catering to the needs of the Shas constituency had received less than their rightful share prior to Shas’s establishment. Only through the party’s attainment of political power was it possible to channel state funds to benefit them. Data on the growth and expansion of Shas’s educational services are hard to obtain. It has been reported, however, that the school system associated with Shas is the most expensive of all school systems for the state, because of the small number of students in each class (Haaretz, November 18, 2001). By the three indicators under review—endurance, electoral gains, and influence on government policy—Shas is obviously a party that has experienced remarkable and impressive prosperity.

The Political Setting: Windows of Opportunity Israel’s political structure offered Shas ample opportunity to emerge, grow, and prosper. To begin with, the tradition of multipartyism, coupled with the low threshold for entrance to the legislature, served as a necessary condition. These structural properties, however, were not sufficient for prosperity. They allowed entrance, but they did not guarantee survival. Other regime characteristics were also favorable. Undoubtedly, the law mandating the direct election of the prime minister played an important role in the party’s prosperity, because the dual ballot system neutralized the potential impact of national policy considerations in the Knesset elections. Traditionally, the Shas constituency, consisting overwhelmingly of Jews from Arabic-speaking countries, tended to support Likud

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(Arian and Shamir 1995). But the split enabled them to have their cake and eat it. It made it much easier to change one vote (for the party) and leave the other (for the prime minister) intact. The partisan map served as another window of opportunity. As noted, the map is very crowded and dense. But Shas found its niche: religious Sephardi Jews. It utilized the legitimacy of multipartyism and it conducted an effective mobilization process made possible by state subventions, which made funds available for campaign purposes. The party did not have to worry about soliciting contributions from a constituency who was mostly poor. Public money contributed to democracy by enabling unprivileged people to enter the electoral arena and win parliamentary representation. Finally, Shas, unlike many other parties in Israel, enjoyed a charismatic leadership whose members were a source of admiration and even worship for the party adherents. The party’s spiritual leadership, headed by Rabbi Ovadia Yosef, promised to renew and revitalize the glorious tradition of Sephardi Jewry and to return its lost dignity (Don Yehiya 1998). Arye Deri, Eli Yishai, and others were skillful organizers and political manipulators. These leaders established and sustained a wide network of social institutions that served as the backbone to Shas’s political infrastructure. Finally, Shas benefited by being available to any coalition, right or left. The party held a pivotal position in coalition formation because of the political constellation and because of its nature. As noted above, the two major parties were in dire need of coalition partners. Neither of them had sufficient “natural” allies with which they could coalesce. Both had to rely on parties with which they had little in common. Shas was a convenient coalition partner. Its leadership was eager to show its independence from the established orthodox world, and was even more anxious to secure benefits for members and adherents. Partnership with Likud was only natural, because most of the Sephardi constituency held tough positions on security issues and opposed conciliation (Herman and Yaar 2001). But Shas could (and did) combine with Labor as well, because its leaders pledged their support for the Oslo agreements. A public statement issued by the Shas leader, Rabbi Yosef, emphasizing that life was more important than territory, revealed a clearly compromising mood (Cohen and Susser 2000, p. 60). With first priority being given to religious education, the future of the territories was of less concern. This made Shas an ideal partner in a polity where the territorial issue was of prime importance. To sum up, the opportunities offered to Shas by the political system were evidently ample. The legitimacy of multipartyism, the low threshold for entering the Knesset, the charismatic leadership, and the pivotal role in coalition formation all presented a congenial environment for Shas’s prosperity.

The Economic Setting: Persistent Cleavages The economic scene provided fertile soil for the emergence and ensuing success of Shas. The party’s constituency consists overwhelmingly of Sephardim,

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many of whom reside either in urban distress neighborhoods or in development towns located mostly on the outskirts of the country. Upon arrival in Israel in the early 1950s, the majority of immigrants from Asia and Africa lacked the educational and occupational skills required for integration into a modern technological economy. Very soon a “gap” developed between the veteran Israelis, mostly Ashkenazim, and the Sephardim, which was reflected in all indicators of socioeconomic status. The coming to power of Likud (1977) further widened the social gap. A model of a liberal market was introduced into the Israeli economy (Shalev 1992) whose benefits have been more pronounced for the affluent segments of society. Gradually Israel has integrated into the global market, shifting the core of production from traditional labor-intensive industries, such as textiles and food, to technological and financial enterprises. The burgeoning high-tech industry has further contributed to the misery of the poor. Apparently Israel has joined the prestigious club of countries with economies based increasingly on advanced technology. The prosperity associated with this development, however, has skipped the Sephardim, many of whom remain disadvantaged. In 2001, among those whose fathers were born in Asia-Africa, only 21.0 percent were employed in academic or professional occupations. The proportion among those whose fathers were born in EuropeAmerica was nearly twice that: 40.6 percent. The share of blue-collar workers (in agriculture, industry, and nonskilled jobs) among the Sephardim was 27.5 percent. Comparatively, the proportion of Ashkenazim was a mere 14.0 percent (Statistical Abstract of Israel 2001, pp. 12–36). Disparities are noticeable in the educational domain as well. A recent survey revealed that, in 2001, the proportion of those holding a matriculation certificate in veteran towns inhabited mostly by Ashkenazim was 56 percent. By contrast, in the development towns, whose residents are mostly Sephardim, the proportion was only 29 percent (Maariv, November 26, 2001). Fifteen years prior to tabling these data, economic differentials between Sephardim and Ashkenazim were even more noticeable. These circumstances provided Shas with an ideal political hunting ground. Only a minority among the Sephardim enjoyed the fruits of globalization; only a few were part of the new technological class who benefited from the fortunes derived from integration into the dazzling world of high-tech industry. Shas successfully tied together economic distress, leading to frustration and resentment, and the desire for ethnic self-esteem.

The Cultural Setting: Ethnic Pride and Religious Revival The extremely dense partisan map had several parties representing the religious cause and several parties with whom Sephardim affiliated traditionally, particularly Likud. Consequently, Shas had to carve itself a space between non-Sephardi orthodoxy and Sephardi-oriented Likud. The message delivered

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by Shas proved extremely efficient for constructing a niche on the crowded party map and in mobilizing the vote. The people at whom Shas targeted its mobilization efforts included four segments (Bick 2001). The first consisted of the hard-core fundamentalist supporters, who were strictly observant. The second was composed of traditional individuals not necessarily orthodox but with strong affiliation to and identification with religious symbols. The people forming the third segment had only remote linkage to tradition but were (or wanted to be) proud of their ethnic origin. And the fourth segment consisted of people who held a deep grudge against what they perceived as Ashkenazi control of society and the economy. Shas catered to the interests of all these groups by emphasizing both ethnic deprivation (economic and cultural) and religious revival. Shas utilized mobilization strategies to suit the needs of each of these segments. For the first segment, the religious zealots, the spiritual leaders of Shas (particularly Rabbi Ovadia Yosef), were the ultimate authority in both religious affairs and daily practices. The original founders of Shas belonged to that group. But emphasis on religiosity also promised a bright future for the party. Data reveal that, in 2001, the percentage of young people (aged eighteen to thirty-five) defining themselves as ultraorthodox (12 percent) was threefold higher than in the older age groups (aged thirty-six and older), at 4 percent. Nearly one-third of the parents in the younger age bracket preferred that their children receive religious rather than secular education (Ilan 2001). For the members of the second group, who did not practice religion meticulously but observed some of the tenets, Shas accentuated the need to revive religious glory. The observant believed that life in Israel should be more embedded with religious content. Reportedly, in 2001, some 67 percent of Shas voters listed among their reasons for voting for this party their wish for a “religious state” in Israel (Yediot Aharonot, May 28, 1999, quoted in Bick 2001, p. 60). For them the slogan adopted by Shas, “to return the crown to its glory,” was most appealing. For the third segment, Sephardi culture and heritage were of prime importance. A vote for Shas was an expression of ethnic protest rather than a manifestation of religious practices. Shas responded by underscoring ethnic pride and articulating interests associated with Sephardi traditions. The party portrayed itself as a “people’s movement” with a mandate for social self-respect and spiritual renewal (Willis 1995). Finally, the members of the fourth segment were those who adamantly resented the allegedly Ashkenazi-led establishment and wanted to give vent to this resentment. They also strongly supported the quest for Sephardi power in politics after years of alleged ethnic discrimination. Shas exalted ethnic identity by accusing its two major rivals, the orthodox parties dominated by Ashkenazim and Likud, of discriminating against Sephardim. Both religious revival and ethnic pride resonated well in Israel in the 1980s and 1990s. Collective values, traditionally underlying Israel’s political culture, had lost much of their vigor, and had been replaced by partial identities. Social

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movements representing women, environmentalists, and local grassroots groups mushroomed (Yishai 1999). Absent from the list were those sharing ethnic identity based on common heritage and culture. In the past, major efforts at establishing ethnically based voluntary associations or parties had proved futile (Herzog 1990). The few that had emerged failed to draw significant electoral support, turning into “flash parties.” But as Israel matured, partial and particular bases for identification were no longer stigmatized. In fact, Shas was not the only group that became relevant politically. Parties were formed by the Russian immigrants and by the Arabs, both of which groups turned the Israeli political arena into a conglomeration of partial identities. But the materialization of ethnic identity by political means was not the whole story. Modern Israel, which Shas voters resented, was a Western, secular, pleasure-seeking, materialistic society. They abhorred what they considered public sexual promiscuity, and shied away from conspicuous consumption they could not afford. For them, turning back “to the roots” was a solution to be promoted, if necessary by political means. The combination of religious revival and ethnic pride proved to be an effective means of attaining mobilization, which yielded the evident party prosperity. The message disseminated by Shas fell on alert ears.

The Organizational Setting: Campaign Techniques In contrast to other orthodox parties, Shas takes advantage of all means available to mobilize the vote. The party utilizes the television and radio time allocated by the state. It hires professional media personnel and, unlike other orthodox parties, disseminates its message through visual and audio broadcasting. The religious ban on viewing television does not apply to the majority of Shas voters, who are not “orthodox” in the strict sense of the word. Shas, however, has added its special touch to the campaign by employing means suited to the needs of its constituency. These include mainly the dissemination of religious symbols, whose consumption guarantees wide electoral fortunes. Shas purveys its religious symbols through two means: effective leadership and personal appeal. The leader of this religious party, Rabbi Yosef, served ten years as Israel’s chief rabbi and as chief rabbi of Tel Aviv. Although the rabbi is the single and unchallenged authority, he is aided by the Council of Sages and by political figures, the foremost of whom was previously Arye Deri, who proved to be gifted and politically astute, as well as totally loyal to Rabbi Yosef (Bick 2001, p. 74). He was a charismatic and forceful speaker, playing a leading role in the Shas campaign. Unfortunately, Deri was accused of bribery, and after a long and tenuous trial was convicted and sentenced to four years in prison. His indictment and subsequent imprisonment, however, did not cause turmoil in Shas, because Rabbi Yosef held the reins and selected an heir, who, although less charismatic, enjoyed his confidence. The trial, furthermore, invigorated support

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in Shas, whose adherents were persuaded to believe that Deri had been convicted only because he was Sephardi. “He Is Innocent” became a major campaign slogan during the 1999 elections. Deri’s trial was used by Shas to sustain ethnic identity and to mobilize resentment of the allegedly Ashkenazi-led establishment (note that two of the three judges sitting on Deri’s trial were Sephardim, a fact disregarded by Shas). Rabbi Yosef has played a major role in using the mass media as a campaign technique. Besides national radio and television, Shas has three additional channels for transmitting its message: satellite transmissions, pirate radio stations, and rallies. The transmissions, broadcast from a synagogue in Jerusalem, are received in about 600 locations throughout the country. Their impact is enhanced by some ten pirate radio stations linked to Shas. All legal attempts to stop the illegal broadcasting have failed, and the number of watchers and listeners is constantly growing (Gilboa and Katz 2001, p. 235). Rallies are organized during religious holidays, attracting throngs of believers eager to see and hear their spiritual leaders. Shas, however, does not stop at modern technologies, also making use of tactics that play on emotions and superstitions. Since the 1992 elections Shas has used good-luck charms carrying religious blessings. As these practices are considered illegal, they were terminated in the 1999 elections. Shas has continued, however, to play on the chords of religious sentiment. In the 1999 campaign it “sold” one letter of the Torah to each voter for a tiny sum of money (one shekel). Purchasing the letters entitled the buyers to God’s blessing, mediated through Shas’s spiritual leaders. Although there was no legal misdeed in selling the letters, this campaign strategy was incompatible with democratic practices. Potential voters were not persuaded that the party under consideration intended to promote their interests or cater to their values. They were enticed to affiliate with the party because of its direct links to the Almighty. There was no exchange of ideas or even mundane benefits, only the promise of divine approval. The means for conducting campaign activities have been provided by the state. Like other parties in Israel, Shas leans heavily on state funding. A report submitted to the state comptroller on party finances for the six months preceding the 1999 elections (January 13 to May 17, 1999) revealed that only 0.3 percent of the party’s income had been derived from sources other than the state budget. This is an extremely low amount even by Israeli standards. The total sum of contributions received by Shas during the 1999 election campaign was about NIS 5,000 (US$1,250). A subsequent report on current accounts (from June 1, 1999, to February 28, 2001) revealed that Shas had not solicited any contributions at all. The underlying question is whether Shas abides by the party-finance law and does not use corrupt methods to secure the money necessary for its activity. The answer may be sought in the reaction of the state comptroller to the annual financial reports submitted by political parties. Judging by these reports, it appears that Shas does not deviate from the general practices of party

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funding in Israel. During 1992–1993 (August 1, 1992, to December 31, 1993), Shas received a contribution from the Labor party, legally defined as a corporation whose contributions are banned. In the 1996 elections, Shas once again violated the law, but its violation was trivial compared with other parties. During that election campaign, seven out of the twelve parties represented in the Knesset received a “negative report,” followed by financial fines. The two major parties, Labor and Likud, were severely reprimanded (Report 1998). In the two subsequent years, Shas had a budgetary surplus. Its attainments in the 1996 elections filled up its treasury. In the elections to the fifteenth Knesset (1999), Shas received a negative report once again. But the number of parties that failed to pass the test of the state comptroller grew to ten. In fact, all major parties in Israel, including Likud, Labor, and many others, did not comply with the word and letter of the party-finance law (Report 2000). Shas was thus no exception. It occasionally broke the law, occasionally obeyed it. One can say with great certainty that it did not win elections and become prosperous because it was financially corrupt.

The Social Perspective: Satellite Associations An important and growing political asset of Shas is the social network, in the form of satellite associations, that it runs throughout the country, but particularly in development towns and urban distress neighborhoods. The purpose of establishing the satellite associations was to penetrate potential constituencies. Offering welfare and educational services to some of the most vulnerable socioeconomic strata of society made this provision an effective means of mobilization. Shas is involved in the provision and distribution of tangible and intangible services, including childcare, education, and other community services, ordinarily provided by the state, for which recipients are charged symbolic fees or no fees at all. The Parties Law (1991) strictly forbids the transfer of funds from voluntary associations to political parties, but does not ban ideological affiliation between parties and groups. Of all the Israeli parties, Shas has excelled in establishing satellite associations, which serve as a means for mobilizing the vote. A small nucleus of educational institutions preceded the establishment of the party, but the main progress was achieved during its Knesset incumbency. The funds enabling these associations to operate are derived from the public purse. Shas’s representatives utilize their political clout to divert resources to “their” associations. Specific and detailed data regarding the activities of the associations linked with Shas are hard to obtain. According to one estimate, the number of associations linked to Shas was as high as 956 (Tessler 2001). The advantage for Shas was clearly visible. First and foremost, Shas was perceived as the source of services vital to the community. Notwithstanding the fact that these services were funded by the state, only Shas determined eligibility and registration practices. Relevant ministries would not be involved unless they were controlled by

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Shas. For example, the party’s educational enterprises bypass the Ministry of Education and are neither supervised nor guided by the state (Doron and Kook 1999). The educational system constitutes the focus of Shas’s associational activities. Through its units—kindergartens, elementary schools, secondary religious institutions, and adult education programs—the party imparts its values to its potential adherents. Shas takes advantage of its satellite associations to raise funds, not listed as “contributions” in the strict sense of the word, to receive state subventions and to enlist electoral support. The associations play an increasingly important role in the lives of those enjoying their services. They provide an accessible address for personal redress, a framework for symbolic reference of collective identity and pride, guidance for day-to-day practical behavior, and pragmatic solutions for people in economic distress (Doron and Kook 1999, p. 75). Shas is not the only party to regard associations as an effective means for mobilization. Israeli political history abounds in integrative parties with social branches that covered all domains of life (“from the cradle to the grave”). Contemporary parties, too, want to consolidate their relations with the electorate by linking themselves to social movements and by providing welfare services. But Shas has enjoyed a clear advantage over these parties for two reasons. First, its “hunting ground” includes individuals in dire need of services, which the state obviously has failed to provide. Second, Shas cements its adherents to these services by cloaking them in religious symbols. These are not simple services provided by the welfare state, but heavenly ordained indulgences affording their users (some) relief from economic distress on earth, and also promising them divine grace in the afterlife.

Shas and Democracy The main argument presented in this chapter is that Shas constitutes a mixed blessing for democracy. The party may be typified as one that represents interests of disadvantaged and marginal constituencies. However, precisely because its potential adherents are underprivileged, the means by which mobilization takes place are undemocratic. Shas has both served and damaged democracy. The bad news is that Shas portrays the undemocratic aspects of the Israeli polity. First, its leaders have been involved in highly publicized criminal investigations into their conduct while in office. As noted above, accusations of fraud, falsification of corporate documents, and violating the public trust resulted in a four-year prison sentence for Shas leader Arye Deri. Aaron Willis captured the situation thus: “Video images of thousands of Shas supporters reciting prayers or blowing the shofar at the Western Wall were overdubbed with the sound of police sirens” (1995, p. 123). Indicting a party leader while

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in office may not necessarily be detrimental to democracy. One person’s sin does not stain the whole community. But in the case under discussion, the party promulgated resentment of the judicial process, the cornerstone of democracy. Deri’s trial was presented as a case of discrimination against the Sephardim, although it was conducted in word and letter in accordance with the criminal code. Delegitimizing the court clearly had a negative effect on democracy in Israel. Worth noting is that in 2001, according to a survey, one out of five young Sephardim, with Sephardim constituting Shas’s natural constituency, supported a state governed by religious law (Ilan 2001). Should this come to pass, Israel would change from a democracy into a theocracy. Second, the process of financial allocation to Shas satellites was shady, to say the least. Various ministries channeled money to the party’s associations. The Ministry of Religious Affairs financed religious learning institutions, the Ministry of Interior funded municipalities where Shas had a strong holding, the Ministry of Welfare and Labor financed hostels for youth, the Ministry of Health funded complementary health services, and the Ministry of Housing paid for housing associations, all tied up with Shas’s constituency. This funding, targeted at useful social ends, was cloaked in corrupt practices. In the annual report for 1996, the state comptroller found that over 600 associations were registered more than once and therefore received undue funding. Furthermore, there were reports on false statements, fictitious accounting files, duplicity in diverting funds, and allocation of funds to associations “in the process of establishment,” without this process ever being concluded (State Comptroller 1996). Worth noting is the weakness of the associations inspection system required by law (Yishai 1998), resulting in uncontrolled, often corrupt forms of soliciting and spending money. On the basis of this evidence, it has been concluded that Shas ignores the elementary rules of public administration (Tessler 2001). Third, Shas practices democracy in the national arena. It has taken part in democratic elections and has adhered to democratic norms in its legislative activities. Within, however, Shas evinces no trace of democracy. Its governing institutions consist of self-nominated rabbis who have never stood the test of elections. Their deliberations, cloaked in secrecy, have never been subject to public scrutiny. Not a single woman is represented in the party’s decisionmaking bodies. Shas members are never asked about their preferences, and besides a small nucleus of activities, are never given a chance to participate in the party’s activities, let alone to influence its policy. Shas satellites substitute for party branches, but as consumers of welfare, party affiliates are clients rather than free citizens choosing to identify with a political group. Shas members have been socialized to become passive consumers of services rather than challenging individuals whose views or demands prompted them to identify with a political party. The importance of internal group or party democracy to national politics has been highlighted by Harry Eckstein (1961). Shas has failed to stand up to this test offered to assess democracy.

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These detriments should not overshadow Shas’s positive contribution to democracy. The party challenges dominant values and structures. By performing this function it gives vent to frustrations that have been subdued if not suppressed, and it represents a large constituency generally denied access to the corridors of power. The fact that Shas is represented in all decisionmaking forums, and that its representatives hold important positions on the national scene, has a double effect on democracy. Gates have been opened wide to the representation of the disfranchised. The appearance of new faces, heretofore associated with misery and distress, in the national and international arenas may also amplify tolerance and diversity in Israeli society, whose forbearance for the “other” is not exceedingly high. Shas has turned a constituency whose interests have been overlooked and whose rights have been violated into an important member of the power community. It clearly has widened the circle of “insiders” regarded as legitimate and having ample opportunities to raise their voice.

Conclusion For nearly two decades now, Shas has been a stable and increasingly successful party on the Israeli political scene. Shas, furthermore, has played a pivotal role in the formation of government coalitions, its leaders holding important cabinet portfolios. Israel has been preoccupied since its establishment with problems of security. But processes both within the country and in the international arena have generated a shift of focus. Identity has become a core issue. The political opportunity structure has also been congenial for Shas’s success. The electoral reform, which enabled the voters to split their vote and express a preference for a specific party independent of the choice on national affairs, was a critical inducement. Shas proved effective in both challenging the political order and mobilizing the vote on the basis of existing cleavages (Rochon 1985). By mobilizing a marginal segment of society, according to some commentators, it turned into the first “civil party” in Israel (Golan 2001). The prosperity of Shas, representing encumbered people, is clear evidence of the double role of political parties facing both state and society. It shows how effective political parties can be in providing a linkage of access. It is no accident that no viable social protest movements have emerged on the Israeli scene, as only parties can enter the power game and join the decisionmakers. By providing access, Shas has played an integrative role in Israeli society (Peled 1998) and has contributed to diversification of the political leadership. It has also increased the legitimacy of ruling coalitions, now representing almost all shades of Israeli (Jewish) voters. The case of Shas also indicates, however, that providing access is not tantamount to disseminating the message of democracy. Shas has not practiced, nor has it preached, democracy as regards its own hearth, because the spread of democratic norms may have threatened the very basis for its prosperity. In this respect, the party has played a separatist role, distinguish-

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ing its electorate from the secular mainstream of the country. These undemocratic manners, if they endure, may jeopardize not only the polity’s efficacy but also its stability. To ameliorate democracy the Gordian knot binding access with bigoted and illiberal practices should be severed.

Recent Elections Owing to domestic pressures, early elections to the sixteenth Knesset took place in January 2003. Shas lost six seats, falling from seventeen to eleven. Did this decline invalidate its status as a prosperous party? This does not appear to be the case for two reasons. First, in 2003 the Israeli constituency was preoccupied with one major issue: personal security. Fear of taking a bus, shopping in the mall, or strolling in an isolated area overwhelmed all other considerations. Real or imagined threats to life and property had turned security into a major electoral issue, and many voters rallied around the flag, overlooking ethnic or religious identities. Consequently, Likud, headed by reserve general Ariel Sharon, known for his militant views and perceived as having the best chance of fighting terrorism, doubled its gains from nineteen to thirty-eight Knesset seats. It was precisely the underprivileged who inclined to lean on an ostensibly strong leader (Sharon) and strong party (Likud). The expectation was that identity parties would have no appeal. Polls predicted a severe blow to Shas. The fact that it came out as a middle-sized party and passed the threshold of ten mandates indicates that Shas has a solid and faithful base of support. In comparison, the Russian constituency, which had thirteen representatives in the fifteenth Knesset, was reduced to two only. Second, Shas encountered an internal crisis when its popular leader, Arye Deri, who was released from jail but was still facing another trial, was advised by his lawyers to refrain from political activity. His absence (and latent friction with the incumbent leadership) could have dealt a severe blow to Shas’s popularity. The party overcame this obstacle too. The effect of the electoral losses encountered by Shas fade in the face of its survivability. The elections to the seventeenth Knesset (March 3, 2006) took place in the shadow of Ariel Sharon’s retreat from politics. His successors, including incumbent prime minister Ehud Olmert, committed themselves to retreat from the occupied territories, thereby once again raising the Arab-Israeli conflict to the foremost position in Israeli electoral politics. Nonetheless, Shas, focusing on ethnic-religious identity, was able to increase its representation by one mandate, from eleven to twelve. The party’s subsequent membership in the government coalition proves once again its continuing strength in Israeli politics. The mere fact of its endurance through six consecutive elections reveals the depth of its social foundations, indicating that “success” should not always be evaluated on the basis of electoral gains only. Survival is also a significant achievement.

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Chile: From Individual Politics to Party Militancy ALFREDO JOIGNANT

AND

PATRICIO NAVIA

A

party that goes from winning 9.8 percent of the vote in a parliamentary election in 1989 to 25.2 percent in 2001 and 22.3 percent in 2005 can be safely considered a prosperous party. However, when that party achieves such expansion despite its strong public adherence to the unpopular legacy of a military dictatorship, the prosperity of the party worries those concerned with democratic consolidation. In this chapter we discuss the rapid electoral growth of the Independent Democratic Union (UDI) in Chile. We describe its electoral strengths and analyze the homogeneity of its leadership and parliamentary delegation.

Historical Background Historically, the Chilean party system comprised five to six strong parties aligned on a right-left continuum, with two parties catering to the conservative electorate. The Conservative and Liberal Parties firmly held control of the conservative vote until 1964, when they abstained from having their own presidential candidate and instead chose to support Eduardo Frei Montalva, leader of the centrist Christian Democratic Party (PDC). That choice came in response to concern over the electoral strength of Socialist candidate Salvador Allende. In the end, Frei won a sweeping victory, but did not bring right-wing parties into his government cabinet. In the 1965 parliamentary election, the PDC won a large plurality of votes, while the Conservative and Liberal Parties lost most of their seats in both chambers. That electoral defeat forced both parties to merge into a single unified conservative party, the National Party (PN), in 1967. With the election of Allende as president in 1970, the PN actively led the opposition, forming an alliance with the PDC.1 When the military overthrew Allende in 1973, many PN leaders and militants joined the new government as ministers, advisers, ambassadors, or local government officials, 249

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and the party was officially dissolved. During the Augusto Pinochet dictatorship (1973–1990), political parties were made illegal.2 The dictatorship actively prosecuted leftist parties, but tolerated the existence of the centrist PDC. The PN, however, did not make an effort to regroup after the coup, creating an opportunity for new conservative political movements to emerge. The dictatorship sought to create a new political order free of the threat of communism. A new constitution, approved in a controversial plebiscite in 1980, became effective in 1981, when General Pinochet was inaugurated for an eight-year presidential term. Although limited political party activity was allowed for in the new constitution, transitional articles delayed the adoption of the appropriate laws that would regulate party activity.3 The 1982 economic crisis hit Chile severely, bringing unemployment close to 30 percent and causing a recession that shrank the economy by 14.2 percent (Constable and Valenzuela 1991, p. 185). Popular discontent with the regime skyrocketed, and protests and strikes became daily occurrences. The PDC openly joined the opposition and led the formation of a wide front of opposition parties. Although the ban on political parties was formally lifted in 1987, the protests that erupted in 1982 forced the dictatorship to hold talks with opposition political parties. Together with the PDC, leaders from the Socialist and Radical Parties formed a unified front that would later evolve into the Concertación. With political party activity openly flourishing among opponents to the regime, its supporters resurrected the old PN and created new groups to defend the ideological vision of the dictatorship. This is the context in which the UDI was created. Officially founded as a group in 1983, the UDI’s roots can be traced to the mid-1960s, when a group of students from the Catholic University of Chile became politically active. The gremialistas, headed by law student Jaime Guzmán, promoted conservative Catholic values, authoritarian order, and traditional principles. Vehemently opposed to the reformist PDC and having staunch anticommunist stances, gremialistas were correctly identified as sympathizers with the Francisco Franco regime in Spain, and with the most conservative wing of the PN. Many gremialista leaders joined the military dictatorship after 1973 (Huneeus 2001; Cristi 2000). The gremialistas continued to operate as a homogeneous group and exerted strong influence in the writing of the 1980 constitution. In addition, gremialistas took control of the government’s Youth Secretariat and filled many appointed posts as local mayors and provincial governors. These appointments became very important in terms of electoral gains in the 1990s, and partially explain the successful political consolidation and electoral growth of the UDI during the 1990s. When political parties reemerged, the gremialistas eventually formed the UDI as a group of Pinochet loyalists who sought to build support for the dictatorship in urban shantytowns and who aspired to build a new conservative

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party. The UDI did not become a formal political party until 1987. That year, the UDI joined other conservative groups to form National Renewal (RN). Taking advantage of the political opening forced on the government by the democratic opposition, the RN began the legal process to acquire official recognition as a political party. The joint effort undertaken by all major conservative groups led many to believe that the past history of fragmentation of the conservative forces would be overcome. However, the life of the united conservative party did not last long. In mid-1988, as a result of a political quarrel to control the party, some UDI leaders were expelled from the RN for tampering with internal party elections. The entire faction abandoned the RN and formed a new party, the UDI. The UDI sought to differentiate itself from the RN by strongly campaigning for Pinochet in the 1988 plebiscite. Although it also endorsed Pinochet, the RN had preferred a “consensus” conservative candidate other than Pinochet. The UDI positioned itself as the dictatorship-loyalist party.4 After supporting Pinochet’s losing bid in the 1988 plebiscite, the UDI opposed the efforts championed by the democratic opposition to reform the 1980 constitution. A coalition of centrist and leftist parties, most notably the Christian Democratic Party, the Socialist Party (PS), and the Party for Democracy (PPD), known as the Concertación, won the presidential election in 1989 and achieved majority control of the Chamber of Deputies and among the elected members of the Senate. With the support of appointed senators, the conservative opposition—comprising the UDI and the RN—gained control of the Senate and, because of appointments made by the outgoing dictatorship, retained control of most municipal governments. From 1988 to 2005, the Concertación won all presidential, parliamentary, and municipal elections. Yet because of appointed senators (abolished in 2005) and a number of deadlock provisions in the 1980 constitution, up until 1997 the conservative coalition (Alianza) had more power over the political system than its poor electoral performance would have suggested. In 1999 the Alianza came barely short of defeating the Concertación in a very competitive presidential election. A mere nine years after the Pinochet dictatorship ended, the UDI had positioned itself as a credible political alternative to the Concertación government. Even though the UDI suffered a setback in 2005 as its presidential candidate finished third in the presidential race, the party managed to maintain the largest delegation in Congress.

First Explanations for Success How has the UDI been able to achieve such success? Several factors contributed to its rise: changes in electoral law, changes in the strategies and the electoral appeal of its competition (from other parties of the right as well as from the left), and the evolution of a growing gender gap.

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Changes in Electoral Law After the 1988 plebiscite, several reforms were approved to make the 1980 constitution more democratic, among them new electoral rules for the Senate (with thirty-eight elected and nine appointed members) and the Chamber of Deputies. The chamber comprised sixty districts of two seats each, while the Senate comprised nineteen districts of two seats each.5 The “binominal” system makes it very difficult for any party to clinch both seats in any district. To secure one seat, a party needs to obtain a one-third share of the vote, plus one. To secure both seats, a party needs to obtain twice as many votes as the runner-up. The system was designed to overrepresent the forces loyal to Pinochet, but it also helps parties divert from the hypothetical median voter, because one can “buy” 50 percent of the seats in every district with one-third of the votes. In addition, parties had incentives to form electoral alliances and maximize their chances of passing the one-third vote threshold that would guarantee one of the two seats in every district. When the Concertación worked out an electoral coalition, right-wing parties were forced to do so as well (coalescing into the Alianza). Changes in Electoral Competition Having won all elections held since 1989, the Concertación is the most successful electoral coalition in the country’s history. The conservative opposition, on the other hand, experienced difficulties as it tried to overcome Pinochet’s 1988 electoral defeat and its authoritarian legacy. The Alianza first had a chance to contest the Concertación’s hegemonic rule in 1997. That year, the Concertación obtained barely over 50 percent of the vote. Although the Alianza obtained only 36.3 percent support—well short of Pinochet’s strong 44 percent in 1988—the weakness of the Concertación seemed to have awakened the conservative coalition. Because the Concertación chose Socialist Ricardo Lagos as its candidate in 1999—signaling an ideological shift toward the left—the Alianza directed its message to moderate voters. In the first-round 1999 presidential election, the Alianza candidate, the UDI’s Joaquín Lavín, obtained an impressive 47.5 percent, surpassing Pinochet’s 1988 record of 44 percent. Although the Concertación candidate won the runoff election with 52 percent, the 1999 election was the first truly contested election since the 1988 plebiscite. Since the 1999 election, the Alianza has fared well. It lost by 12 percent in the 2000 municipal elections, the narrowest margin for municipal contests so far. In the 2001 parliamentary election, the Alianza obtained 44.3 percent, 3.6 percent less than the Concertación. Although the results of the 2004 municipal elections represented an electoral setback for the UDI, it has remained a prosperous party. In 2005, when the Alianza fielded two presidential candidates, the combined vote for conservatives was slightly higher (48.6 percent) than that received by Concertación’s Michelle Bachelet (46.0 percent). Moreover, despite the fact that

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the UDI presidential candidate ended up third, the UDI consolidated its position as the party with the most votes in the country and the most seats in Congress. Even though the Alianza lost electoral ground in 2004 and 2005, the UDI consolidated its position as the strongest right-wing party and barely lost its first place as the party most voted for in Chile. The success of the Alianza can be directly linked to the electoral fortunes of the UDI. While the UDI took only 9.8 percent of the vote in 1989, it climbed to 14.5 percent and 25.2 percent in 1997 and 2001, respectively (see Table 13.1). In 2005, its 22.3 percent was sufficient to retain the title of the most popular party in Chile. Running in districts where it could find competitive candidates, recruiting among local leaders, and forging alliances designed to limit the influence of the RN rather than to increase its own, the UDI can be characterized as an obstructionist party until 1996. Rejecting the notion of political party militancy as a tool to foster accountability, most UDI candidates ran as independent candidates within the Alianza in the 1996 municipal elections. For that reason, the UDI fell from 10.2 percent of the vote in 1992 to 3.4 percent in 1996. Notably, Joaquín Lavín, one of the UDI’s best-known mayors seeking reelection, chose to run under the party label in 1996 in the wealthy municipality of Las Condes. Lavín won reelection with 77.6 percent. His 86,000 votes accounted for 40 percent of all UDI official votes that year. His electoral victory and his loyalty to the party allowed him to easily become the party’s presidential hopeful in 1999. In the 1997 parliamentary election, the UDI obtained 14.5 percent of the vote and elected five senators (plus four independent conservative senators and four of the nine appointed senators). That helped consolidate the UDI over the RN as the leading conservative party. Counting both elected and appointed senators, the Alianza held a majority of twenty-four to twenty-two seats in the Senate (twenty to eighteen in favor of the Concertación among elected senators). The UDI had the support of fourteen of the twenty-four conservative senators (the RN had the remaining ten). Thus, despite having lower levels of electoral support than the RN, the UDI still had more political clout than its coalition partners. The retirement of General Pinochet from the army in 1998 and his entry into the Senate as a lifetime member made it difficult for conservative parties to leave the authoritarian legacy behind. But Pinochet’s arrest in London in October 1998 eventually helped the UDI. Although the UDI expressed outrage at Pinochet’s arrest and demanded decisive government action to ensure Pinochet’s return to Chile, the arrest of the aging dictator may have been a blessing in disguise for the party, which took pride in identifying with the Pinochet legacy. UDI presidential candidate Lavín surprised many when he declared that he thought Pinochet should be tried in Chile for human rights abuses committed during his seventeen-year dictatorship. The UDI successfully presented itself as defending Pinochet’s legacy rather than Pinochet himself. That distinction

29.4 24.4 47.5 23.2

2,052,116 1,701,324 3,352,199 1,601,169

2,052,116 2,132,274 3,352,199 3,353,035

3,114,923 2,323,581 1,901,815 2,471,789 2,046,001 2,101,392 2,612,307 2,703,701 2,197,847 2,522,558

Number of Votes

29.4 30.6 47.5 48.6

44.0 34.2 29.7 36.7 32.5 36.3 40.1 44.3 37.7 38.7

Percentage

Alianza

3,850,571 4,040,497 3,383,339 3,167,939

3,963,088 3,499,713 3,417,154 3,733,276 3,536,842 2,927,692 3,396,274 2,925,800 2,795,839 3,374,865

Number of Votes

55.2 58.0 48.0 45.6

56.0 51.5 53.3 55.4 56.1 50.5 52.1 47.9 47.9 51.8

Percentage

Concertación

6,979,859 6,968,950 7,055,128 6,893,583

7,078,011 6,797,122 6,410,906 6,738,859 6,301,298 5,795,773 6,515,574 6,107,140 5,835,031 6,518,001

Total Valid Votes

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Source: http://www.elecciones.gov.cl.

0.0 9.8 10.2 12.1 3.4 14.5 16.0 25.2 18.8 22.3

Percentage

0 667,369 652,954 816,104 211,840 837,736 1,040,349 1,538,835 1,096,341 1,456,430

Number of Votes

Independent Democratic Union

Electoral Results in Chile, Selected Parties and Coalitions, 1988–2005

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Nonpresidential elections 1988 (plebiscite) 1989 (Chamber of Deputies) 1992 (municipal) 1993 (Chamber of Deputies) 1996 (municipal) 1997 (Chamber of Deputies) 2000 (municipal) 2001 (Chamber of Deputies) 2004 (municipal) 2005 (Chamber of Deputies) Presidential elections 1989 1993 1999 2005

Table 13.1

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allowed Lavín to call for Pinochet’s trial in Chile while at the same time arguing against significant changes to the constitutional framework left in place by Pinochet. Although Lavín did attempt to court moderate voters with proposals long advocated by the Concertación, the UDI’s presidential success emanates from Lavín’s strategy to separate Pinochet’s fate from the structure devised by the dictatorship that sought to establish a model of protected democracy in the country. From 1989 to 1999, the UDI always managed to impose its presidential candidate on the RN, the larger coalition partner. In 2005, however, the UDI was unable to do just that. Former senator and wealthy businessman Sebastián Piñera entered the race as the RN candidate, thus splitting the Alianza into two camps. Even though the conservative coalition agreed to a unified slate of candidates for parliament, the split in the presidential election proved costly to the UDI. Piñera edged Lavín by a 25.4 percent to 23.2 percent margin in the first round. In the runoff, Piñera lost against Bachelet (by a vote of 46.5 percent to 53.5 percent). We do not seek here to explain all political developments in Chile,6 but to outline what lies behind the electoral success of the UDI. We have constructed two general hypotheses focusing on the relationship of the party to its competition. First, some have claimed that the UDI is becoming the hegemonic party within the right simply by capturing the electoral support previously enjoyed by independents and the RN. While Pinochet obtained 44 percent of the vote in the 1988 plebiscite (out of 7.1 million voters), in the most recent Chamber of Deputies elections in December of 2001 and 2005, conservative parties obtained 44.3 percent and 38.7 percent of the vote respectively. Even the strong electoral performance of Lavín in 1999 barely surpassed the vote obtained by Pinochet in 1988. And in 2005, the two conservative presidential candidates combined to obtain 48.6 percent of the vote (3.3 million voters), just slightly over what Lavín had received alone in 1999. According to this view, the growth of the UDI has come at the expense of the RN and other conservative candidates. The other hypothesis stressing the role of the competition links the electoral growth of the UDI to a fall in the support for the Concertación. After safely obtaining a majority in all elections until 1996, the Concertación has wavered around 50 percent since 1997. This fall in electoral support, and most specifically the fall in support for the PDC, certainly helps to explain the UDI’s electoral prosperity. The absence of a PDC presidential candidate in 1999 (when Socialist candidate Ricardo Lagos defeated PDC candidate Andrés Zaldívar in the primaries to become the Concertación’s presidential candidate) and in 2005 (when Socialist candidate Michelle Bachelet secured the coalition nomination due to her popularity in preelectoral polls) tilted the decision of many centrist voters in favor of the UDI candidate. And after casting votes for the UDI in 1999, they continued voting for that party in the 2000 and 2004

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municipal elections, the 2001 parliamentary contest, and the 2005 presidential election. The two hypotheses need not be mutually exclusive. On the one hand, the UDI could successfully position itself as the largest conservative party and attract the support of conservative voters who previously cast votes for the RN. On the other, the UDI might have also made gains among voters who previously cast votes for the Concertación, especially for the PDC. We claim that, in fact, both things happened concurrently after 1996 and especially starting with the 1999 presidential election. We underline how the UDI came to gain majority control of the electoral support of conservative voters and how it made inroads among centrist Concertación voters. We highlight in particular how the UDI has increased its support among women, restoring a pattern observed before 1973, when women voted overwhelmingly for conservative, particularly PDC, candidates. By targeting women voters, the UDI has lived up to its stated objective of replacing the PDC as the most important centrist and Catholic party in Chilean politics. Figure 13.1 shows evidence that is consistent with both hypotheses. The UDI has advanced over the years from capturing about one-third of the Alianza’s vote in 1989 to more than half of the total conservative vote in 2005. Yet the total conservative vote was lower in percentage and smaller in number in 2005 than in the 1988 plebiscite. With the exception of the 1999 presidential election (not shown here), the conservative parties have not successfully obtained more votes than Pinochet did in 1988. The growth of the UDI comes, to a large extent, at the expense of RN and independent conservative candidates. Overall, the Alianza has grown little compared to its 1988 peak, although it has grown significantly compared to its 1992 low, but the UDI has successfully captured the bulk of the conservative vote. The growth of the UDI vote has occurred concurrently with a slight but definite decline of the Concertación, particularly of the PDC. Having reached its peak in 1992, the PDC has seen its share of the vote decline in every parliamentary and municipal election since (although the party experienced a much celebrated but marginal comeback in 2004 and 2005). Because PDC votes have fallen at a faster rate than the overall Concertación vote, most analysts have correctly concluded that a number of former PDC sympathizers are now voting for other Concertación parties. But because the overall Concertación vote has fallen, and the vote for the left has not grown, most analysts suggest that the PDC has lost votes to the Alianza as well. Because overall electoral participation has declined—more people cast valid votes in the 1988 plebiscite than in any election since, despite a 28 percent increase in the number of eligible voters in the 1988–2005 period—the absolute numbers of votes going to the Concertación and Alianza have also declined over time. While almost 4 million people voted against Pinochet in 1988 (and 3.1 million voted yes in the plebiscite), only 3.4 and 2.5 million

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Chile Electoral Support for Various Chilean Parties, 1988–2005

Percentage of votes

Figure 13.1

257

1988 (pleb.)

1989 (dep.)

1992 (mun.)

1993 (dep.)

Independent Democratic Union (UDI)

1996 (mun.)

Right

1997 (dep.)

2000 (mun.)

2001 (dep.)

Christian Democratic Party (PDC)

2004 (mun.)

2005 (dep.)

Concertación

Source: Author calculations based on data from http://www.elecciones.gov.cl.

voted for the Concertación and the Alianza in 2005, respectively. Several analysts have argued that the Alianza, and particularly the UDI, have made little real inroads in winning over Concertación (and specifically PDC) support. If anything, they argue, Alianza voters have abstained at lower rates than the rest of the population, and this is what explains the Alianza’s renewed electoral strength. The Growing Gender Gap Table 13.2 shows the behavior of women voters. Because men and women vote at different precincts, and votes are tallied separately, genderspecific results are readily available. While the UDI went from 9.8 percent to 22.3 percent in its national share of the vote from 1989 to 2005, Lavín’s party did much better among women voters. With 10.8 percent of the women’s vote in 1989 and 23.6 percent in 2005, the UDI has always obtained a higher percentage of votes among women than among men. Overall, women regularly cast about 56 percent of UDI votes. Because there are more women voters than men, about 53 percent of all votes are women’s. Yet the UDI is the only party to consistently obtain higher levels of support among women than among men. That trend of larger conservative support among women than men was also present before 1973. Salvadore Allende obtained 36.1 percent of the vote in the 1970 presidential election, edging out conservative Jorge Alessandri by a

Source: http://www.elecciones.gov.cl.

10.8 10.9 12.9 4.3 15.5 16.8 26.6 19.5 23.6 — — — 24.9

— — — 913,345

Percentage of Women’s Vote

1,181,565 949,407 1,883,621 1,799.578

1,312,233 1,047,917 1,357,075 872,766 1,118,553 1,439,422 1,517,409 1,205,328 1,400,510

Women Voting Alianza

32.5 26.0 50.6 49.0

37.0 10.2 38.3 33.4 38.1 41.6 46.4 38.8 40.1

Percentage of Women’s Vote

Alianza

— — — 57.0

57.5 55.8 56.1 52.9 57.2 56.1 56.7 55.1 56.7

Percentage of UDI Votes Cast by Women

57.6 55.9 56.2 54.0

56.5 55.1 54.9 55.3 56.3 55.1 56.1 54.8 55.5

Percentage of Alianza Votes Cast by Women

52.0 52.4 52.8 53.3

52.1 52.3 52.5 53.2 53.5 53.3 53.6 53.2 52.2

Percentage of Total Votes Cast by Women

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383,964 364,478 458,351 112,030 479,369 583,368 872,154 604,313 824,421

Women Voting UDI

Independent Democratic Union

Women’s Voting Behavior in Chile: The UDI and the Alianza, 1989–2005

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Nonpresidential elections 1989 (Chamber of Deputies) 1992 (municipal) 1993 (Chamber of Deputies) 1996 (municipal) 1997 (Chamber of Deputies) 2000 (municipal) 2001 (Chamber of Deputies) 2004 (municipal) 2005 (Chamber of Deputies) Presidential elections 1989 1993 1999 2005

Table 13.2

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1.1 percent margin. However, Allende widely defeated Alessandri by a 41.5 to 31.7 percent margin among men voters, and lost decisively by 38.6 to 30.5 percent among women. In 1988, Pinochet lost much more narrowly among women (49.7 to 50.3 percent) than among men (52.5 to 47.5 percent). In the 1989 presidential election, the gender gap decreased as Patricio Aylwin, of the Concertación, captured 51.6 percent of the women’s vote and 55.2 percent of the total vote. In 1993 the gender gap almost vanished, with Concertación’s Eduardo Frei capturing 58.0 percent of the overall vote and 57.5 percent of the women’s. Yet when in 1999 the Concertación’s candidate was no longer a PDC but a Socialist, the gender gap reemerged. The Alianza’s Lavín obtained 50.6 percent of the women’s vote in the first round, safely defeating the Concertación’s Lagos, who obtained only 45.4 percent of the women’s vote. In the runoff, Lavín once again did slightly better than Lagos among women, but lost so decisively among men that Lagos went on to win the presidency. The gender gap appeared again in the 2001 parliamentary election, when the Concertación obtained 49.1 percent among men and 46.9 percent among women. The Alianza obtained 41.9 percent and 46.4 percent, respectively. Although the gap was lower than in 1999, it was sufficiently large to have altered the distribution of seats in the Chamber of Deputies.7 However, in 2005 the Concertación did much better among women. Michelle Bachelet obtained 44.8 percent of the male vote and 47 percent of the female vote. Conservative candidates, however, also did better among women than among men (with the Communist candidate doing much better among men than among women). Thus, even though the Concertación did make inroads among women voters by having a woman presidential candidate, conservative candidates continued to have stronger support among women than among men. In the runoff election, where communist voters threw their support behind Bachelet, she obtained a slightly higher share of the votes among men than among women. However, the UDI candidate also did well among women. In the first-round vote, Joaquín Lavín (23.2 percent) placed third, behind Sebastián Piñera (25.4 percent). But among women voters, Lavín (24.9 percent) placed second, ahead of Piñera (24.1 percent). Lavín failed to pass on the runoff, but he did place second among women voters. * * * Although the UDI has experienced electoral growth since 1990, and although there is some evidence to suggest it is making gains among segments of the population that previously voted for the PDC (as in the case of women), we have not yet discussed the underlying reasons that can account for this electoral phenomenon. An analysis of the UDI’s parliamentary delegation and candidates is needed to shed light on the social properties and political attributes of its members. It is ultimately the appeal of individual candidates—however

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closely they might be associated with a given political party and in some cases precisely because they are associated with it—that explains electoral support. In understanding what makes the UDI parliamentary delegation different from that of other parties, we seek to identify potential explanatory causes for the UDI’s recent electoral success.

The Political, Social, and Cultural Conditions of UDI Success Since 1990, despite being a relatively new party, the UDI has successfully built an objectified capital that goes beyond its immediate material expressions (party local offices) and symbolic expressions (flags, traditions). Although a good number of UDI legislators entered the party with baggage acquired outside the organization (profitable professions, names linked to traditional and prestigious families, extended social networks built by family relations and by homogeneous educational and religious background), the growing party political capital, permitting the party to influence its members rather than the other way around, now undermines and subordinates the individual assets of its members, whose value and sense of belonging depend ultimately on an organization that distributes and gives value to them. It is in fact the extraordinarily homogeneous individual resources and assets that its members have brought to the party that have made the UDI a disciplined and orderly political force. UDI legislators can present a caricaturized image of “just one man,” because of a common political and cultural identity that antecedes the organization itself: a predominance of Catholic schooling among its legislators, attendance at Catholic universities, a strong generational homogeneity, and, consequently, similar political experiences, limited professional pluralism, similar tools and training, and strong experience as local government appointees during the dictatorship, particularly as mayors. Together with analyzing the party’s electoral evolution, one needs to consider the social properties and characteristics of its leadership, overwhelmingly composed of senators and deputies.8 Although UDI benefits from the hard local work carried out since the 1980s by its leaders, whose objective has been to induce a “vertical cut” in society aimed at ending the “old understanding that identified the wealthy with the right and the poor with the left,”9 it is impossible not to identify a vicious-virtuous circle composed of nondemocratic (vicious) resources and social (virtuous) properties that makes the UDI legislative delegation an exceptionally homogeneous group. Insofar as nondemocratic tools are concerned, we must correctly measure the return of the political resources available to UDI leaders at the beginning of the transition period: intensive use of territorial positions occupied during the dictatorship, such as appointed mayors, governors, and deputy regional ministers;10 use of malapportioned electoral districts; and effective use of the binomial electoral

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system, which has allowed conservatives to win 50 percent of the seats with just one-third of the votes in a district. Yet it is also important to explain the party’s social characteristics during the early stages of its transformation, reconstructing the social-political relations that have made possible its transformation and played so important a role in its success. We compiled biographical data on the forty-two UDI deputies elected from 1989 to 2001 (four four-year parliamentary periods), based on data from the National Congress Library, UDI data, and data from reports in Chilean newspapers (El Mercurio and La Tercera). We also conducted a similar study for deputies from the five other largest parties for the period from 1989 to 1997. In sum, our sample comprises forty-two UDI deputies, fifty RN deputies (not including three new deputies who were elected in 2001), seventy-one PDC deputies (not including six elected in 2001), twenty-seven PPD deputies (not including eight new deputies), twenty-one PS deputies (excluding three most recently elected), and eight deputies of the Social Democratic Radical Party (PRSD) (excluding five new deputies). Catholic Socialization in Schools and Universities Although the UDI is not a confessional party, there is a strong predominance of Catholic educational background among UDI legislators. Over 73 percent of UDI deputies attended Catholic schools, and two Catholic institutions account for one-third of all educational institutions attended. UDI deputies attended Catholic schools more so than the deputies from the conservative RN and PDC. Although part of the reason might be that many PDC deputies come from lower- and middle-class families—and therefore could not afford private Catholic education—the marked homogeneity in the Catholic schooling of UDI deputies is no accident. Wealthy families are more likely to send their children to private schools, but that does not necessarily imply Catholic schools. Taking into account the historical importance of universities as avenues of political socialization, one cannot help but establish a connection between attending Catholic schools (see Figure 13.2) and universities (see Figure 13.3) and the likelihood of becoming a militant of the UDI, especially attending the Pontificial Catholic University (PUC): 31 percent of all UDI deputies attended the PUC, and an additional 7 percent attended other Catholic universities. In addition, as discussed, the UDI origins can be intellectually traced back to the gremialismo movement in the 1960s, precisely within the PUC. There seems to be an important cohesive function of UDI religious values, which, paraphrasing Jon Elster (1989), work as “cement” in the UDI, to the point of becoming a Weltanschauung. That moral and value cement, which allows UDI members to recognize each other as equal or at least as equivalent, explains the need to contrast the cultural homogeneity of this party with the greater heterogeneity observed in other parties, particularly the PDC. That is what we attempt with the index of cultural homogeneity of the UDI parliamen-

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262 Figure 13.2

Religious Affiliation in Chile, by Political Party Delegation, Chamber of Deputies, 1990–2002

Percentage affiliation

100 90 80 70 60 50 40 30 20 10 0

Source: Compiled by authors from official legislators’ biographies and other press sources. Notes: Party religious affiliations sum to more than 100 percent because deputies who attended both Catholic and non-Catholic (public) schools are counted twice; the category “Other” includes foreign and private nonconfessional schools. Legislative elections in Chile are held in December, but newly elected officials start their jobs three months later, in March.

Figure 13.3

University Affiliation in Chile, by Political Party Parliamentary Delegation, Chamber of Deputies, 1990–2002

Percentage affiliation

60

50

40

30

20

10

0

Source: Compiled by authors from official legislators’ biographies and other press sources.

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tary delegation. The contrast between the UDI and its competitors, the RN11 and the PDC, is striking, as shown in Table 13.3. This index includes three attributes: (1) attending Catholic elementary or secondary schools, (2) attending Catholic universities, and (3) having served as president or vice president at the national, regional, or local level of the party before being elected deputy. In 1990, half of the UDI deputies possessed at least two attributes, more than twice as many as RN deputies and almost twice as many as PDC deputies. By 1998, only 34 percent of UDI deputies scored at least two attributes, slightly more than the RN (28.6 percent) and the PDC (22.5 percent). There is a considerable homogeneity over time. If we restrict the index to only the first two attributes, we find that only 7.1 percent of UDI deputies did not go through the Catholic school system in 1990. Because a high proportion (one-third) of those who attended Catholic schools went primarily to two different educational institutions, the homogeneity is even more striking. This type of cultural integration explains a good deal of what many analysts have referred to as the UDI parliamentary “discipline.” It is really a moral-based community. Yet the importance of a common schooling and university background does not explain everything. There is an important generational component as well (see Table 13.4). From Moral to Political Community We can identify two UDI generations of deputies. Although classifying political actors by age just by virtue of a biological association might be misleading—

Table 13.3

Cultural Homogeneity in Chile: UDI, RN, and PDC Deputies, 1990–2002 (percentages) Attributes

Parliamentary Period 1990–1994 1994–1998 1998–2002

Political Party

0

1

2

3

UDI RN PDC UDI RN PDC UDI RN PDC

7.1 23.3 7.9 17.6 22.2 11.3 19.2 21.4 12.7

42.9 53.3 57.9 41.2 47.2 54.7 34.6 45.2 53.5

42.9 20.0 23.7 35.3 27.8 24.5 34.6 28.6 22.5

7.1 3.3 10.5 11.8 2.8 9.4 11.5 2.4 9.9

Source: Compiled by authors from official legislators’ biographies and other press sources. Notes: Attribute 1 = percentage who attended Catholic elementary or secondary schools. Attribute 2 = percentage who attended Catholic universities. Attribute 3 = percentage who served as president or vice president at the national, regional, or local level of the party before being elected deputy.

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Parties on the Right Institutional Resources Available for Electoral Use in Chile: UDI Deputies and Senators, 1990–2006 (percentages) Attributes

Period

UDI Office

1990–1994

Deputies Senators Deputies Senators Deputies Senators Deputies Senators

1994–1998 1998–2002 2002–2006

0

1

2

— — 11.8 20.0 23.2 50.0 33.3 46.2

64.3 50.0 64.7 60.0 61.5 40.0 57.1 38.5

35.7 50.0 29.4 20.0 19.2 10.0 11.9 15.4

Source: Compiled by authors from official legislators’ biographies and other press sources. Notes: Attribute 1 = percentage who held positions in business (gremiales) and trade organizations. Attribute 2 = percentage who were appointed mayors by the dictatorship.

especially if we refer to certain “time period effects”12—it is pertinent to utilize this index here because there are certain common political experiences that render that distinction relevant. Just over half (52 percent) of all UDI deputies were born between 1950 and 1959 (see Figure 13.4). That generation experienced the historical transition, in the context of university student movements, from a polarized democracy in which the PDC and the left led the movement to a political authoritarian order that eventually became institutionalized during the dictatorship. The parliamentary delegations of the other parties are on average ten years older, which means that their first political experiences and the genesis of their political competence (Joignant 2004; Gaxie 2002) correspond to a historical order whose biographical impact came before that of the UDI deputies. The second generation of UDI deputies is marked less by its youth than by a community of political experiences characterized by the struggles around the transition to democracy of the late 1980s and the “pragmatic” preservation of an ever more distant direct association with the authoritarian legacy. Thus, 21 percent of UDI deputies born in the 1960s entered politics in the context of a declining military dictatorship or with the UDI already in the opposition. Together, the two generations represent two-thirds of the UDI deputies, significantly higher than the other parties and distinct enough to feed the public discourse of rejection of “old-style politics” and promotion of “modern” approaches. This political community, funded on homologous biographical experiences, does not prevent the emergence of different ways of entering professional politics (see Table 13.5). Even though there is overwhelming evidence of utilization of public sector positions and appointed political posts to gain electoral advantages by the time first-generation UDI deputies were elected in 1989, that trend falls progressively over time as independents and

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Birth Years in Chile, by Political Party Parliamentary Delegation, Chamber of Deputies, 1990–2002

60 52

50

Percentage born

43

40

44

37 37

37 32

30

28 23 20

20

24 21

19 17

14

14 12

10

11

10 10 7

11

9 10

12

7 5 2

0 1920–1929

1930–1939

1940–1949

1950–1959

1960–1969

1970–

Year

UDI

RN

PDC

PS

PPD

PRSD

Source: Compiled by authors from official legislators’ biographies and other press sources; not all figures available.

Table 13.5

Electoral Competency in Chile: UDI Deputies and Senators, 1990–2010 (percentages) Attributes

UDI Office and Period Deputies 1990–1994 Senators 1990–1998 Deputies 1994–1998 Senators 1994–2002 Deputies 1998–2002 Senators 1998–2006 Deputies 2002–2006 Senators 2002–2010

0

1

2

3

— — 5.9 — 11.5 20.0 21.4 23.1

35.7 — 47.1 40.0 46.2 40.0 40.5 30.8

64.3 100.0 52.9 60.0 42.3 40.0 38.1 38.5

— — — — — — — 7.7

Source: Compiled by authors from official legislators’ biographies and other press sources. Notes: Attribute 1 = percentage who had business and trade associations before being elected. Attribute 2 = percentage who held party leadership positions before being elected. Attribute 3 = percentage who held government-appointed posts (as mayors, governors, and/or regional governors) before being elected.

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younger candidates find their way to the party lists with credible chances of winning office (11 percent in 1993, 23 percent in 1997, and 33 percent in 2001). The later generations came to power under the influence of, and guided by, a different set of socializing experiences. The evidence should not obscure the dynamics that antecede an electoral contest. In fact, if we take as constitutive elements of an electoral competence those variables that help one build a political machine and amass a sufficiently large electoral war chest of money, resources, and connections, the tools at hand for UDI deputies and senators are also striking (see Table 13.6). Table 13.5 includes all territorial positions and party leadership positions held by an individual, assuming that access to those positions is evidence of constitutive knowledge of an acquired electoral competency in three institutional areas that make them better prepared to face an election. UDI deputies have a type of preelectoral competency that amply transcends the mere experience of being an appointed mayor, since at least two-thirds of them had two or more attributes. Certainly, as time progresses and the importance of independent deputies who lacked these attributes grows—although it is still small—the trend of candidates with access to resources and constitutive preelectoral experiences (which are naturally updated at the time of running in an election) remains. The importance of this preelectoral competency is confirmed even if we eliminate the attribute of occupying territorial positions during the dictatorship, with the objective of singling out the properties of the agents who won a Chamber of Deputies seat in 2001, that is, only among those who could only benefit from leadership experiences in business and trade associations and in the political party. Those attributes are present in more than half the deputies.13 Table 13.6

Electoral Competency in Chile: UDI vs. RN Deputies, 1990–2006 (percentages) Attributes

Period 1990–1994 1994–1998 1998–2002 2002–2006

Political Party

0

1

2

UDI RN UDI RN UDI RN UDI RN

35.7 40.0 47.1 41.7 46.2 35.7 42.9 n/a

42.9 53.3 41.2 52.8 38.5 59.5 33.3 n/a

21.4 6.7 17.6 5.6 19.2 4.8 23.8 n/a

Source: Compiled by authors from official legislators’ biographies and other press sources. Notes: Attribute 1 = percentage who had business and trade associations before being elected. Attribute 2 = percentage who held party positions before being elected. n/a = data not available.

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The comparison with RN deputies is telling, because even though both groups tend on average to go toward equilibrium, UDI deputies present three times as many attributes that make up this preelectoral competency index, regardless of the parliamentary period. In synthesis, UDI deputies have possessed a solid level of competency before they face an election. This does not contradict the well-established trend of incorporating a broad number of independent candidates into the party list. In that sense, the characteristic UDI attribute, in its public discourse as much as in its socialization tools for its leadership recruits, consistent with efficiently performing functions that articulate corporative interests in student, professional, or business interest areas, can also be understood as a mass identity and competence principle capable of rivaling the traditions of social mobilization in the parties of the left (see Table 13.7). The corollary of the competencies involved in the socialization experiences of the UDI parliamentary delegation is expressed in the increasingly objectified form of the party whose existence is imposed on its members. In that sense, an approximate indicator of the importance and objectification of the trademark and the organization may be derived from the number of deputies who, before being elected, occupied individual party positions at different territorial levels. As Table 13.8 shows, UDI deputies come last among parties in the ranking of individual party positions, with only 31.7 percent of deputies having previously occupied UDI leadership positions at the local level. Unlike the other parties, in which local leadership seems to be a condition for legislative political careers, legislators in the UDI do not need to start out at the grassroots level. Their political careers are sanctioned by the centralized party leadership taking into account previous political experience, but not necessarily previous service at the UDI local party level.

Table 13.7

Chilean Deputies Who Held Leadership Positions in Trade, Business, and Social Organizations Before Being Elected, 1990–2005

Party Christian Democratic Party Independent Democratic Union National Renewal Party for Democracy Social Democratic Radical Party Socialist Party

Percentage 45.1 47.6 27.9 55.6 57.0 47.6

Source: Compiled by authors from official legislators’ biographies and other press sources. Note: Includes leadership positions in student federations.

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Parties on the Right Individual Leadership-Position Occupancy Rates at the National, Regional, Provincial, or Local Level, 1990–2005

Party Christian Democratic Party Independent Democratic Union National Renewal Party for Democracy Radical Party Socialist Party

Percentage 77.5 31.7 44.2 48.1 71.0 80.9

Source: Compiled by authors from official legislators’ biographies and other press sources. Note: Includes leadership positions in youth political organizations.

The 2005 Parliamentary Election The 2005 presidential and parliamentary elections constituted a serious threat to the electoral prosperity enjoyed by the UDI since 1990. For the first time since 1993, presidential and parliamentary elections were held concurrently. Because the UDI presidential candidate, Joaquín Lavín, had lost popular appeal, the UDI feared to lose ground in its parliamentary presence as well. In addition, the emergence of a second conservative presidential candidate, the RN’s Sebastián Piñera, further threatened the electoral chances of both Lavín and UDI legislators. These conditions led many to anticipate a UDI defeat that would include both Lavín and the party’s parliamentary delegation. Although Lavín did go on to be the biggest loser in the election, as he was edged out by Piñera and came third, failing to qualify for the runoff, the UDI nonetheless did fairly well in the parliamentary election. Although Piñera went on to lose against the Concertación’s Michelle Bachelet, his victory over Lavín equivocally led some to believe that the UDI had also suffered an electoral defeat at the polls in the parliamentary contest. However, the electoral appeal of the UDI—though not Lavín’s—proved strong enough to resist both the popularity of the Concertación’s presidential candidate (Chile’s first woman president) and the electoral strength shown by Sebastián Piñera. The strong cohesion of the UDI’s parliamentary delegation proved sufficient to keep the UDI the most voted party in Chile. The competence of the UDI parliamentary delegation allowed the party to retain the largest share of seats in Congress. The homogeneous political socialization of the UDI legislators helped the party resist an electoral wipeout despite the dismal electoral showing of its presidential candidate. Although the Concertación managed to obtain a comfortable electoral victory in the parliamentary election,14 the UDI did fairly well. The government coalition obtained 51.8 percent of the vote, winning 65 seats in the 120-seat

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Chamber of Deputies. The Alianza obtained 38.7 percent of the vote, securing 54 seats in the chamber, a decrease of 5.6 percent in vote share and 3 seats. Because it had more votes (25.2 percent) and seats (35) than the RN in 2001, the UDI stood at a greater risk of losing seats. Although the UDI did obtain fewer votes (22.3 percent), it was able to retain most of its seats, as it went from 35 to 33 seats in the Chamber of Deputies. Furthermore, as it continued to outnumber the RN in seats and votes, the UDI remained the commanding party in the Alianza. The strong showing by the UDI is evident when analyzing the results in the districts where it defended seats. UDI deputies sought reelection in thirtytwo districts, more than any other party (see Table 13.9). In twenty-seven of those districts, the UDI deputies were reelected. In five other districts, UDI deputies lost their seats. Although overall the UDI had the second largest loss of incumbent deputies, it also had the highest percentage of returning deputies among all political parties. A total of 79.4 percent of UDI elected deputies in 2005 were already serving in the Chamber of Deputies before the election. The higher success rates among other parties should not be associated with a weak showing by UDI deputies. Because the UDI had the largest parliamentary delegation, it was also the party with the most vulnerable seats. In addition, the UDI presidential candidate admittedly constituted somewhat of an electoral liability. Nonetheless, because of their sociological homogeneity, the UDI parliamentary delegation resisted what many expected to be a resounding defeat and setback for the highly ideological party. Moreover, UDI legislators constitute the most experienced party delegation elected in 2005: 80 percent of them had already served in the Chamber of Deputies. The seven new deputies elected in 2005 who joined the UDI parliamentary delegation also exhibit, unsurprisingly, most of the same attributes discussed above for previous UDI parliamentary delegations. The objectified capital of the UDI parliamentary delegation helped the party survive an admittedly difficult electoral challenge. That delegation is where the UDI homogeneous ideological training and socialization are best expressed.

Conclusion The growth of the UDI can be partially attributed to its ability to attract the support of conservative voters. Yet even in the midst of growing abstention levels in the electorate, the UDI has also been successful at reducing the number of dissatisfied voters and at making inroads among voters who previously preferred centrist Concertación candidates. Particularly among women, the UDI has led the Alianza effort to capture the support of centrist women voters and attain its electoral objective of replacing the PDC as the leading “centrist party.” By catering primarily to centrist women voters, the UDI has achieved a position from which even greater electoral prosperity seems likely in the future.

19 32 13 16 5 8 — 93

7 5 2 1 0 0 — 15

Number Defeated 12 27 11 15 5 8 — 78

Number Reelected 63.2 84.4 76.9 100.0 100.0 100.0 — 83.9

Success Rate (%) 9 7 9 7 2 7 1 42

Number Elected for First Timeb

57.1 79.4 55.0 68.2 71.4 53.3 — 65.0

Returning Deputies (%)

11:59 AM

Source: http://www.elecciones.gov.cl. Notes: a. Excludes those who switched districts. b. Includes those who switched districts.

Christian Democratic Party Independent Democratic Union National Renewal Party for Democracy Social Democratic Radical Party Socialist Party Others Total

Number Seeking Reelectiona

Success Rates for Chilean Deputies Seeking Reelection, 2005

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Party

Table 13.9

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On the other hand, different lessons can be drawn from the social and political properties shared by the UDI parliamentary delegation. The cultural homogeneity of the UDI deputies is reflected in the behavior of many UDI leaders, a behavior marked by such conviction of righteousness as to border on intolerance. That conviction, sometimes dubbed “zealousness” and even “fanaticism,” is linked to the conditions that gave birth to the party during the period when the military regime sought to deny the need for any political parties. It is certainly paradoxical that an electorally successful political party emanates from such a regime, even as its initial linkage with that regime grows weaker and weaker. The UDI constitutes an interesting expression of an objectified trademark that brings together individuals endowed with capital and vital resources, both quantitatively and qualitatively, but who at the same time join without restrictions in the formation of an objectified capital valued by everyone. Without a doubt, the indelible print left by its founding leader and the historical conditions surrounding the birth of the party explain the UDI characteristics and electoral rooting (Panebianco 1990). That framework continues to play a role several years later in the party’s organizational forms and social homogeneity, which together strongly inhibit all possible expressions of dissident voices. The inhibition is not achieved within the party through the articulation of deliberate will, but through the tacit convergence of social properties and homologous experiences of its leaders. In this respect, the UDI may be termed a conservative vanguard party, a particular type of Leninist party, founded on a community of values, biographies, and competencies rather than on a coherent project developed within a globally utopian framework. Although the UDI was able to retain most of its electoral support in 2004 and 2005, it failed to continue growing.15 The electoral strength of the Concertación raised many doubts about future electoral chances of the Alianza coalition and the UDI in particular. Joaquín Lavín sank in the election and ended in third place with a poor showing in 2005. Yet because the UDI managed to maintain its vote and seat share in the legislature, and because its parliamentary delegation continues to present a high level of discipline and strong cohesion, both in ideology and in terms of social origin, the same model that made the UDI the most successful conservative party in modern Chilean history will likely be found again. As the UDI prepares for future elections, its cohesive parliamentary delegation will constitute the basis on which the future electoral strength of the party will be built.

Notes 1. For Chilean history before 1973, see Valenzuela and Valenzuela 1976, 1986; Collier and Sater 1996; Gil 1966. For conservative parties before 1973, see Moulian and Torres Dujisin 1988. 2. For a history of the Pinochet dictatorship, see Huneeus 2001; Cavallo, Salazar, and Sepúlveda 1997; Constable and Valenzuela 1991.

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3. For a discussion of the 1980 constitution, see Barros 2002. 4. For a description of the conflicts between the UDI and the RN, see Durruty 1999 and the analytical and semiautobiographical Allamand 1999. 5. For a discussion of the Chilean electoral system and its countermajoritarian incentives, see Magar, Rosenblum, and Samuels 1998; Rahat and Sznajder 1998; Siavelis 1997, 2000; Siavelis and Valenzuela 1997. 6. For the transition and democratic consolidation periods, see Cavallo, Salazar, and Sepúlveda 1997; Cavallo 1998; Otano 1995; Constable and Valenzuela 1991; Portales 2000; Huneeus 2001; Barros 2002; Drake and Jaksic 1999. 7. For two different points of view concerning the gender gap, see Lewis 2004; Altman 2004. 8. The percentage of those holding leadership positions in the UDI (a president, five vice presidents, a general secretary, and since 1994, a prosecretary) and legislative office concurrently went from a low of 57 percent in 1989–1994 to a high of 75 percent in 1994–1998. Because of the incorporation of elected municipal mayors in the UDI leadership, that figure has fallen since 1998. 9. Alfredo Galdames (a prominent figure in the UDI’s work in Santiago’s popular sectors) interview, conducted by Emmanuel Falcon for a political seminar taught by Alfredo Joignant in the International Studies Institute of the University of Chile in 2001. 10. In 1989, 71.4 percent of UDI deputies had been appointed mayor during the dictatorship. In 1993, the number went down to 70.6 percent. By 2001, the number stood at 33 percent, although one of the sixteen newly elected deputies had been an appointed mayor during the dictatorship. This same aspect can be found in Morales and Bugueño 2001, pp. 228, 235. 11. There seem to be two different cultural universes for the RN and the UDI delegations that served in Congress from 1989 to 2001. Although the data are inconclusive, there are more marked nationalist and traditional associative trends among RN deputies: 20.9 percent of RN legislators occupied leadership positions in country clubs and in cowboy and traditional rodeo clubs, compared to only 7.3 percent for UDI legislators. 12. On delineation of the frontiers between fluctuating categories, see Percheron 1985; Delli Carpini 1989. For analysis that relates generational logics with the socialization “surroundings,” “contexts,” and “networks,” see Joignant 1997, pp. 541 ff. 13. Five (31 percent), aged thirty-two to thirty-five at the time of election, had their first political experiences—or at least the most explicit ones—in a historical context of transition to democracy. These are agents who could not have held territorial functions during the dictatorship. 14. Although we are only analyzing the results for the Chamber of Deputies election, the elections for half of the Senate seats also gave the Concertación a clear majority. The government coalition obtained 56.1 percent of the vote among 4.6 million voters in half of all the senatorial districts. The Alianza obtained 37.5 percent, the Communist-Humanist coalition 6 percent. 15. The lower-than-expected electoral performance of the Alianza sharply contrasts with the optimism that preceded the promulgation of the law that introduced many democratizing reforms to municipalities in Chile, as shown in Eaton 2004.

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PART 3 Comparing Opposing Parties

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Italy: A Tale of Two Parties GIANFRANCO PASQUINO

F

rom 1947 to 1992 almost all Italian parties could, within limits, prosper— that is, they enjoyed the fruits of power and, to a large extent, of opposition. By all measures, Italy was an important and peculiar case of party government. The peculiarity was represented by the lack of alternation in office. As a consequence, party government without alternation became partitocrazia—that is, the degeneration of party government into pervasive and exaggerated control by the parties over the economy and society (Pasquino 1987). The collapse of the party system, which has often been analyzed (the two best books are Gilbert 1995 and Bufacchi and Burgess 2001), was due to a combination of socioeconomic and political factors. In my opinion, the most relevant political factors were, first, the collapse of the Berlin Wall in November 1989, and second, the electoral referendums (1991 and 1993). More precisely, the second electoral referendum, held in April 1993, led to a new electoral law (whose details and implications are analyzed in Katz 1995) and seemed to open the path to an overall restructuring of the parties and the party system. With the benefit of hindsight, it is now possible to state that the national elections of 1994, 1996, and 2001 have not succeeded in shaping a truly new party system. Moreover, in December 2005 the governing coalition House of Freedoms (Casa delle Libertà) passed a new electoral law largely based on proportional representation (PR) in large constituencies and a majority bonus. While its effects have yet to be fully evaluated after the 2006 national elections, it is well-known that PR has no constraining impact on the proliferation of parties and the party system. As a consequence, after the 2006 elections it may be easier to assess which Italian parties are truly prospering or not (see chapter epilogue). In this chapter I analyze and compare the two very different political forces. On the one hand is the Italian Communist Party (PCI), now called the

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Democratic Party of the Left (PDS) and the Democrats of the Left (DS); these oldest parties, while transforming themselves, have survived, but cannot be said to be thriving. On the other hand is Forza Italia, the newest party of them all, which in a flash suddenly conquered, then lost and reacquired, governmental power and became the most successful of the new parties. However, at the end of its long governmental tenure (2001–2006), Forza Italia’s prestige appears tarnished, its power eroded, its prospects unpromising. My proposed measure of the kind of party success leading to “prosperity” comprises several indicators, as suggested below. For both Forza Italia and the Left Democrats, prosperity is measured essentially in terms of votes and offices. While the Left Democrats provide useful material to understand why, under certain conditions, a party cannot prosper, the experience of Forza Italia seems to contain most of the elements necessary to explain how a party can prosper and thrive and, vice versa, how it may suffer reversals. I end my analysis by suggesting that as long as the political and institutional transition continues, no Italian party will be in a position to reach and claim prosperity and, for the time being, all are bound to remain in a state of flux.

Political Factors Leading to the Transition Though at the time surprisingly underestimated in its impact on Italian politics, the fall of the Berlin Wall of November 9, 1989, must certainly be considered the triggering event of the crisis of the Italian party system. Its immediate consequence was that the Italian Communist Party felt obliged to change its name and logo and to launch a political and programmatic transformation (Hellman 1992; Ignazi 1992; Pasquino 1993) that still cannot be considered fully completed. Because the functioning and, perhaps, even the nature of the Italian party system had largely been shaped by the confrontation between, on the one hand, the Christian Democrats and their minor centrist allies and, on the other, the PCI, the transformation of one of the pillars of the party system produced consequences for the other pillar as well. How much the Christian Democrats needed and successfully exploited the “threat” of communism in order to acquire and retain a large electoral following during the entire postwar period was not fully understood and appreciated. That there was a significant percentage of voters who accepted the propaganda theme of the Christian Democrats, who presented themselves as the bulwark against communism, was precisely revealed by the sharp decline of votes for the Christian Democrats in the 1992 general elections as well as by the electoral expansion of the Northern League exactly in many areas where the Christian Democratic vote used to reach its peaks. The beginning of the transformation of the PCI into the Democratic Party of the Left also meant that the new party could play a different institutional game and acquire a new role. The PCI had been a very conservative party from

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the point of view of institutional reforms. It had consistently advocated the defense and the implementation of the 1948 constitution as it was. And it had adamantly opposed any change, above all any revision of the proportional electoral law that “sincerely” reflected its electoral strength. However, throughout the 1980s the criticism of the proportional system had mounted, focusing on two specific aspects: (1) to a large extent, its Italian variant was substantially freezing the political alignment, and (2) Italian parties and, specifically, the governing parties (the Liberals, the Christian Democrats, the Republicans, the Social Democrats, the Socialist Party) had become more and more complacent and insensitive to the voters, and were manipulating the processes of coalition formation, especially at the local level, but also at the national level. In order to “unbloc” the political system, an electoral reform appeared indispensable, and indeed a composite committee of several parliamentarians and representatives of different social and cultural organizations launched the drive to collect the necessary (500,000) signatures to put on the agenda a referendum that would repeal some clauses of the electoral law and reshape it. The reactions of all the parties and their leaders, with the partial exception of the PDS and its secretary Achille Occhetto, who officially supported the intended change, were negative. The outcome of the referendum in June 1991 was surprisingly positive for the sponsors and, though the revision that was achieved affected only a minor element of the Italian PR system, the response of the voters was widely and correctly interpreted as full support for a more incisive change in the plurality direction. Indeed, the Electoral Referendum Committee launched a more ambitious attempt focused on several referendums meant to curtail and redefine the power of the parties. The second important political factor leading to the transition and, in fact, opening it from a political and institutional perspective was the wave of referendums of April 18, 1993. The referendums were intended not just to repeal the proportional electoral law, but to eliminate several ministries, among them the infamous Ministry of State Participations, widely considered the main source of illegal funds going to the (governing) parties, and especially to put an end to the system of state funding of political parties (revived in different forms a few years later). The irony of history has it that, exactly forty-five years after the “founding elections” of 1948, when the Christian Democrats had won their decisive victory over the Socialist-Communist Popular Front, the fundamental “clause” of the regime of the so-called First Republic of Italy—that is, proportional representation—was almost fully repealed by the voters. The stage was set for a major political and institutional transformation. Moreover, the overall social climate was characterized by the condition of “collective anxiety” that, according to Max Weber, is a prerequisite for the emergence of charismatic leadership. Indeed, it is exactly because Silvio Berlusconi provided an answer to the collective anxiety of many voters, deprived of their party representatives and preoccupied by the prospect of a victory of the left, that his new

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political movement, called Forza Italia, succeeded immediately in becoming a viable political organization.

The PDS and Forza Italia in the 1994 Elections The decisive factor of the 1994 elections must be identified in the new electoral system, the opportunities it offered, and the constraints it imposed on all party and political actors. The disappearance of PR created an entirely new ball game. At the time, few protagonists fully understood the implications of the new electoral system. Indeed, even the parliamentary drafters of the laws had worked on questionable premises, rejecting, for instance, the French two-ballot runoff electoral system only because it was supposedly inimical to centrist parties. Leaving aside what was a complex debate carried out under serious time constraints and imbued with partisan preferences (and several erroneous assumptions), the result could not be but an unprecedented and never previously tested electoral system. An additional difficulty was represented by the existence of a bicameral parliamentary system in which the House of Deputies and the Senate enjoyed the same powers and performed the same functions. Under this condition, it would have been very risky to resort to two different electoral mechanisms possibly leading to the appearance of two different parliamentary majorities conducive to political stalemate. In the end, the result was the product of several compromises and of the search for a minimal common denominator. The electoral laws allocated seats by combining a formula of threefourths plurality and one-fourth proportional (for the important technical details, see Katz 2001), but the law for the House of Deputies contained some clauses favoring the election of powerful politicians who could run in one single-member constituency as well as obtain relatively safe places on the proportional ballot. Paradoxically, because of the existence of a 4 percent exclusion threshold, the new law offered minor parties the possibility of effective bargaining with larger parties for safe single-member seats where even their limited electoral contributions might make the difference. Politically, several phenomena appeared or seemed to be clear and foreseeable. Fundamentally, all the old parties, with the exception of the Unreformed Communists and the former neofascists, who had just transformed themselves into the National Alliance (formerly the Italian Social Movement), had declined, if not totally disappeared. In any case, their electoral strength was minimal. The Christian Democrats had gone through a complicated phase involving the transformation of the party into the Italian Popular Party, and entailing a couple of splits that had almost halved their electoral strength. However, they still hoped to retain enough parliamentary clout to be in any case indispensable for the formation of any governmental coalition. Representing the only national party organization left, PDS leaders were rather confident in their likely electoral victory. After a halfhearted attempt to reach an agreement

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with the Italian Popular Party, they proceeded to the formation of a coalition with left-wing groups only. The most important of these groups was represented by Rifondazione Comunista, that is, the unreformed Communists who had split from the new party at the moment of its founding. Given that the Northern League appeared both unable to enjoy a breakthrough and not likely to go south of the Apennines, the left-wing coalition seemed to be destined to reap for the first time in its history the fruits of an electoral victory. However, the pool of available voters who were left without representation, following the collapse of their parties, was very large indeed and could not be underestimated. Together, the former voters for the Socialist, the Social Democratic, the Republican, and the Liberal Parties accounted for more than 20 percent of the Italian electorate. Had this electorate remained disbanded, the left-wing coalition, simply called the Progressives, would have easily won in most single-member constituencies. It was also because of this realization, in addition to his own personal-entrepreneurial interests and his profound hostility to the (former) Communists, that media tycoon Silvio Berlusconi decided, in his own words, “to take the field.” He announced his fateful decision at the end of January 1994, only two months before the date of the general elections. However, in November 1993 he had already launched a very clear and important political message: had he been a voter for the mayor of Rome, he would have chosen Gianfranco Fini, at the time still the neofascist leader of the Italian Social Movement, over the Green Party’s Francesco Rutelli, supported by the left wing. Once he had founded his own political movement, Forza Italia, Berlusconi proceeded to the construction of two apparently mutually incompatible coalitions: in the north, Forza Italia and the Northern League gave birth to the Pole of Freedoms (Polo delle Libertà); in central and especially southern Italy, Forza Italia joined forces with the newly created National Alliance, heir to the neofascist Italian Social Movement, in the Pole of Good Government (Polo del Buongoverno). Following a very aggressive campaign conducted with the full use of the conspicuous firepower of his Fininvest television channels, aimed against the left, Communists, former Communists, and post-Communists and focused on seemingly unrealistic promises in terms of jobs, pensions, and education, Berlusconi won a majority of seats in the Italian parliament and his political movement became the most voted party, surpassing even the PDS (see below). Leaving aside Berlusconi’s subsequent inability to govern and the quick and sudden demise of his first government, the 1994 elections taught several lessons. First, Berlusconi’s Forza Italia convincingly filled the political vacuum in the center of the political alignment and provided for the representation of interests and preferences that would have otherwise been overlooked and forgotten. Second, he played the coalition game much more skillfully than the leaders of the PDS and the Italian Popular Party. Finally, it became more apparent than at any time in the past that the disappearance of the official

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Communist Party had by no means eliminated widespread and powerful anticommunist sentiments. Most Italian voters still believed that the solutions to their problems formulated by a coalition led by the former Communists were either unconvincing or harmful.

Five Comparative Features In order to provide a convincing comparative assessment of the PDS and Forza Italia, I turn my attention to five features: (1) their respective leaderships, (2) the dynamics of both organizations over time, (3) their electoral performance, (4) their coalition capabilities, and (5) their overall strategy and platforms. This kind of comparison will allow us to identify the two parties’ strengths and weaknesses, assets and liabilities, to suggest their likely futures, and to predict the consequent transformation of the party system and of Italian democracy. As will be seen, there has been no precise and stable trend in these features. On the contrary, there have been ups and downs all related to the electoral results and the governing performance of both parties. This is exactly as it should be when there exists true democratic competition. Leadership Silvio Berlusconi is the founder and leader of Forza Italia. No Italian politician, perhaps with the exception of Socialist Party secretary Bettino Craxi, has ever acquired as much control of his party as Berlusconi. Critics would add that his power derives from the fact that he is the owner of his political movement as well as the main source of funds and political resources for his coalitional allies. Except for a brief period following his electoral defeat in 1996 and some welldisguised health problems, he has remained prominently in charge. However, in the wake of visible electoral losses in the 2004 European elections and especially the 2005 regional elections, and an unsatisfactory governing performance as prime minister, his leadership of the renamed House of Freedoms came under criticism and even attack from his allies, especially the former Christian Democrats. Because he had personally chosen, and replaced, his ministers (Campus 2002a) and selected, reselected, and dismissed the parliamentarians for Forza Italia (Lanza and Piazza 2002), the responsibility for the malfunctioning of the governmental and parliamentary majority was his. Once considered a decisive asset in influencing Italians’ electoral behavior, his leadership had become controversial and his personal prestige tarnished. Moreover, with the exception of the Northern League, Berlusconi’s allies were no longer convinced that his personality is the greatest asset their coalition may enjoy. They are less willing to follow and to extol his leadership. Last but not least, the new proportional electoral law allows them to run their autonomous party lists and to compete against Berlusconi’s Forza Italia. As a result of the 2006 elections, Berlusconi’s supremacy within the House of Freedoms has come to an end. Not only is a suc-

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cession crisis within Forza Italia bound to take place, but the very future of the party is at stake. The Italian Communist Party has certainly profited from the existence and the supply of leaders endowed with political and personal prestige and lengthy tenure: Palmiro Togliatti (1944–1964), Giuseppe Longo (1964–1972), Enrico Berlinguer (1972–1984), and Alessandro Natta (1984–1988). With the exception of Natta, who was forced to resign, all previous leaders remained in office as long as they wanted—that is, until their death—while Longo left office prematurely for health reasons. The same story of broad prestige and unchallenged tenure cannot be told for their successors. All of them began their political careers within the Italian Communist Party and rose through it. Fifteen years after the founding of the PDS, this persistent Communist political culture is in itself not a positive quality, because it suggests a limited amount of party renewal. Achille Occhetto (1988–1994) was largely responsible for launching the transformation of the PCI. He suddenly resigned in June 1994, ostensibly because of the party’s defeat both in the national elections of March and in the European elections of June. More likely, because he was tired of being criticized and challenged by Massimo D’Alema. Perhaps he also hoped to be called back. In any case, Occhetto was replaced by D’Alema (1994–1998), who stayed in office until he became prime minister in October 1998. His successor was Walter Veltroni (1998–2001), former deputy prime minister in Prodi’s government, who in his turn resigned ostensibly because he was elected mayor of Rome. In fact, he resigned because he was considered one of the leaders responsible for the defeat in the May 2001 national elections. Following a protracted party debate that led to the national party convention, Piero Fassino was elected party secretary in November 2001 with a sizable majority of about 70 percent of the delegates, and reelected in February 2005. However, the vocal left-wing minority has not ceased challenging him. Thus the renamed Left Democrats remain, in a more or less subdued way, a party divided on several important issues, among them its very future, as will be argued later, as an independent political organization. The lesson to be learned from the sequence of four PDS/DS party secretaries in a decade is twofold. First, none of these successions has been due to predictable, anticipated, statutory regulations. On the contrary, the level of internal conflict regarding the type of party to be constructed and the kind of coalitions to be created has always remained significant, though declining in the wake of the positive electoral performance of 2004 and 2005. Second, with the brief exception of D’Alema’s secretariat, in striking contrast to all previous Communist secretaries, no party leader has succeeded in acquiring full control over the party. Moreover, so far, no DS secretary has been capable of steering a consistent political course. Only recently, perhaps because of the prospect of a forthcoming electoral victory, Fassino has acquired a position of predominance.

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Party Organization In theory, the contrast between the organization of Forza Italia, whose features have often been criticized, and the organization of the DS, a “light” mass party, as its activists and leaders think of it, could not be more stark. According to many political commentators and analysts, Forza Italia is a “virtual party” (McCarthy 1995), a “media-mediated personality party” (Seisselberg 1996), or a party having adopted the business firm model (Hopkin and Paolucci 1999). As for the DS, though it is a much smaller organization than its ancestor, the PCI, in terms of votes, party members, and party workers, it has never renounced the label “mass party.” In reality, it can no longer be this type of party and in several areas of the country it is almost absent. To a more or less significant extent, none of the various definitions utilized captures the practical nature of the organization of these two parties. All of them are, in fact, quite misleading. Before proceeding to the identification of the most important features of the two organizations, it is necessary to understand why these definitional problems, which are indeed substantially political, have appeared. More or less consciously, the great majority of scholars, starting with the now classical theorists, especially in Europe—Moisei Ostrogorski, Max Weber, Maurice Duverger—have always thought that the dominant organizational model for parties that wanted to become significant political actors had to be the mass party model of the classic German social democratic party. For several reasons, in Italy it was the PCI that became the true mass party: millions of members, thousands of party activists, many of them paid, leaders who were professional politicians (that is, living off politics), a wide network of territorial sections. In a different fashion, the Italian Christian Democrats could also be characterized as a mass party relying on many flanking associations and the ready-made network of the Catholic Church. Hence, when Forza Italia made its appearance and achieved its first conspicuous electoral success, the surprise could not have been greater. A party fundamentally without dues-paying members, without selected activists, without territorial roots, whose candidates were professionals, but not at all professional politicians, constituted (almost) a total novelty. Perhaps only the Gaullist party of the early days to a certain degree had represented a similar novelty. Most of the definitions that were proposed to interpret the new phenomenon were meant to criticize Forza Italia and had, as a term of comparison, “decent” mass parties. All of them, it is now clear, missed the point. Incidentally, in the meantime, the transformation of the PCI into the DS had, first of all, seriously weakened its territorial organizations: many party sections had to be closed for lack of personnel. The DS has been obliged almost completely to deprive itself of paid party activists for lack of money. The motivation and the nature of the attachment to the party had profoundly changed, because no substitute could be found for the (Marxist-) communist

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ideology. The organization that survived, though claiming 600,000 members, was, and remains, weak, highly uneven from the point of view of its territorial presence, and capable of functioning only when and where it could rely on personnel elected to political offices at the various levels: city, provincial, regional councils, and parliaments, national and European. Paradoxically, the efforts to recruit new party members have declined with the passing of time. In 1997, 28.6 percent of the delegates to the national party convention admitted that there had been little or no commitment to reach out to potential party members. The figure jumped to 42.8 percent in 2000 (Bellucci, Maraffi, and Segatti 2000, p. 106). In any case, no new organizational model has appeared or has been tried within the DS (for a preliminary assessment, see Baccetti 1997). At the most, it was decided to give more autonomy to local party organizations following the timid process of political decentralization, and in order to get rid of what remained of “democratic centralism.” However, not only is there no “federal” party, but two negative consequences have surfaced at all party levels. The first is that local secretaries and their collaborators, often the only party activists who are full-time and paid, have acquired a lot of power. This power is often exercised, in the best implementation of Robert Michels’s “iron law of oligarchy” (Michels 1957, 2001), in order to silence internal opposition and debate. This is starkly revealed by the fact that 57 percent of the delegates to the 2000 national convention of the party recorded small or no differences of opinion in their federation, and 13 percent of them stated that there had been no debate at all. Moreover, the evaluation of 46 percent of the delegates is that there is little or no democracy within the party (Bellucci, Maraffi, and Segatti 2000, pp. 107–108). The second consequence is that the demise of democratic centralism has opened the way to the appearance and consolidation of party factions. Today, the DS is, if anything, organized along more or less flexible factional lines. Party offices, elective positions, and parliamentary candidacies are all identified with factional affiliations and allocated by applying a proportional method. The internal decisionmaking process is slow, cumbersome, and opaque, and the opposition continues expressing its dissent even after a decision has been made. Party organizations at all levels have largely lost contact with outside social, cultural, and professional associations, with the exception of the left-wing Italian General Confederation of Labor (CGIL). Indeed, in many areas, the CGIL is strong enough to have some of its prominent members elected to various offices as DS candidates, and even to impose them. So much so that outgoing secretary-general of the CGIL Sergio Cofferati was first widely mentioned as the likely next secretary of the DS, then offered the very visible office of mayor of Bologna (and took it). In fact, today the CGIL is by far the most powerful left-wing organization, and it has surpassed the DS. Probably it could not be otherwise. Once the strength of the ideology—which

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stated that only the party can imbue the workers with class conscience—is gone, political power can only derive from the strength of numbers. Over 5 million CGIL members are bound to count much more than approximately 600,000 DS members, figures that have not changed much over the past decade. Several attempts have been made to enhance the organization of the DS. However, none of them became a concrete project, and no enthusiasm could be created in the wake of mergers of party bureaucracies and under the aegis of several professional politicians unable to convince the rank and file and to mobilize the voters. Moreover, due to their numbers as well as their superior organizational capabilities, the former Communists have continued to dominate the party and to fill the most important offices (Massari and Parker 2000). In contrast to the DS, the organization of Forza Italia has shown a remarkable process of change and improvement. Membership grew from about 140,000 in 1997, to 160,000 in 1998, to 190,000 in 1999, to a booming 313,000 in 2000 (Poli 2001, p. 250). It is likely that in 2000 there may have been two factors responsible for the skyrocketing membership: (1) an accelerated and intense recruitment drive in preparation for the 2001 national elections, and (2) an inflow of new members hoping to take advantage of the very predictable forthcoming electoral victory. Whatever Forza Italia might have been in the past (contrary to some expectations or wishful thinking, it never was just a “flash party”), it should be clear that by 2001 it was a well-entrenched electoral mass party of some kind. If one defines a party as any organization of men and women competing for votes in order to obtain seats and gain offices, then Forza Italia is indeed a party of this kind. Of course, at the beginning in 1994 its pool of candidates and its web of support had to be built up by the wide-ranging marketing network of Publitalia. No party can, in fact, be expected to emerge wholly from scratch. With the passing of time, the conquest of political offices and the realization on the part of its leader that some organized territorial presence was indispensable, Forza Italia has strengthened itself in a significant way. According to some official figures (Poli 2001, p. 206), by the end of June 2001 there were 8,136 Forza Italia city councilors, 530 provincial councilors, and 243 regional councilors. Among them one can also find 869 mayors, 17 presidents of provinces, and 8 regional presidents (Poli 2001, p. 225). In a series of successive local elections, however, Forza Italia has seen some of its support significantly affected. While it is impossible to trace all the changes, all 2001 figures must be somewhat downsized. One of the most damaging of Forza Italia’s electoral defeats has been the one suffered at the regional elections of April 2005, after which there were only two regional presidents, one of whom was blatantly behaving in a very independent way. At the national level there are 83 senators and 187 deputies; in the European Parliament there are 16 Forza Italia representatives. Fundamentally, the organizational thread is in the hands of 20 regional coordinators, 9 of whom have occupied their office un-

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interruptedly since 1994, offering a remarkable example of stability and persistence (largely due to the fact that they enjoy Berlusconi’s confidence, as it is he who personally appoints them). By 2003, Forza Italia appeared to be well entrenched and reasonably powerful. Its organization was the product, at the same time, of the recruitment of professionals and of the inflow of some “traditional” politicians coming from previous centrist parties. What must be stressed is that within Forza Italia, both the new professionals and the old politicians, though in a different way, have created and rely on specific electoral committees. To a large extent, they raise their own money and run their own electoral campaigns. On the whole, at this point one could probably define Forza Italia as an organization composed of electoral committees and kept together by the personality, the quality, and the activities of its leader. This point must be stressed. In the five years in which he was confined to the opposition, his self-defined traversée du désert (“crossing of the desert,” quoting, knowingly or not, General de Gaulle when he was out of office from 1946 to 1958), Silvio Berlusconi engaged in a number of activities aimed at enlarging and solidifying his support among selected groups. Very much like a “traditional” politician, he delivered speeches to the “seniors of Forza Italia,” to the wives of Forza Italia members, to Forza Italia local officeholders, to Forza Italia youth, and of course to the entrepreneurs, to the shopkeepers, and to small farmers. He seemed to have been far more active, and definitely more ingenious, than the leaders of the DS, who were too absorbed in their governing chores to pay attention to the organization of their own party and their supporting groups. However, Berlusconi’s unsatisfactory governmental performance seems to have negatively affected his relationship with many of the associations that had welcomed his gaining office. In sum, whatever Forza Italia had been in 1994, now it is an organized political party, spread over the Italian territory, relying on hundreds of thousands of members and revolving around several thousand ambitious officeholders. While, of course, the immense patrimony of its leader and founder and the visibility offered to the organization by Berlusconi’s television channels are very important, Forza Italia has acquired some autonomous life of its own. It seems to be an organization bound to persist and to survive over time, at least as long as Berlusconi retains an interest in his political role and the ability to perform it (for an overall or critical assessment, see Hopkin 2005). Electoral Performance For the old Communist Party, there always existed a close and significant relationship between the number of party members and the figures of electoral results. For the DS, the situation has definitely changed, also because the secession of the unreformed Communists took away many full-time activists. Moreover, the organizational and political consequences of that split continue

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to constitute a thorn in the flesh of the DS, especially, but not only, in the most important areas of its entrenchment. Looking at Table 14.1, two aspects deserve special attention. The first is that, taking as a starting point 1994, throughout the various subsequent national elections the DS experienced a continued decline, with only one very minor exception, in 1996. The second aspect is that not even the party’s participation in the government has boosted its electoral fortunes. On the contrary, the loss of votes from 1996 to 2001 has been very significant. Table 14.2 provides the results for the twenty-six proportional constituencies where the voters can precisely choose their favorite party. In only one constituency, the traditional stronghold of Tuscany, has the DS polled more than 30 percent of votes (and just barely). There are four other constituencies in which the DS percentage has been above 20. In the past, taken together, these five constituencies (in fact, regions: Tuscany, Emilia-Romagna, Liguria, Umbria, and the Marches) were called the “red belt,” because, approximately from the early 1950s to the end of the 1980s, the PCI polled over 40 percent of the vote there. Today, in seventeen constituencies, the DS has polled from 10 to 20 percent of the vote. In four it has received less than 10 percent. The electoral performance of Forza Italia has been positive, even when compared to the most dynamic of its European counterparts—that is, moderate/ conservative parties in a multiparty system. From the very first national election, Forza Italia has polled more than 20 percent of the national vote. After suffering a small decline in 1996, it has consistently gained votes. Looking to its performance in 2001, in only one constituency did Forza Italia poll less than 20 percent of the votes. In twelve constituencies it received more than 20 percent, and in thirteen constituencies it polled more than 30 percent—that is, more than its national average of 29.4. While the strength of the DS is concentrated in five regions, Forza Italia thus appears to be a truly national party. Moreover, it is

Table 14.1

1994 1994a 1996 1999b 2001 2006

Electoral Performance of Forza Italia and the PDS/DS, 1994–2006 Votes Received by Forza Italia (%)

Votes Received by the PDS/DS (%)

8,136,135 (21.0) 10,076,595 (30.6) 7,715,342 (20.6) 7,799,328 (25.2) 10,923,431 (29.4) 5,977,313 (17.5)

7,881,646 (20.4) 6,285,752 (19.1) 7,897,044 (21.1) 5,379,832 (19.3) 6,151,154 (16.6) 9,045,384 (23.7)

Source: Ministry of Interior official data. Notes: a. European elections. b. Senate only.

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Distribution of Forza Italia and the DS Votes, per Constituency, 2001 National Elections (percentages)

Forza Italia Vote Share Sicily 1: 37.6 Campania 1: 35.8 Sicily 2: 35.8 Lombardy 1: 33.7 Veneto 1: 33.6 Piedmont 2: 33.5 Latium 2: 33.5 Lombardy 3: 33.0 Campania 2: 31.5 Lombardy 2: 30.7 Piedmont 1: 30.6 Apulia: 30.2 Sardinia: 30.2 Veneto 2: 29.8 Liguria: 29.3 Molise: 29.2 Abruzzi: 29.1 Friuli Venezia-Giulia: 28.1 Calabria: 25.7 Basilicata: 25.6 Marches: 24.9 Emilia-Romagna: 23.8 Latium 1: 23.7 Tuscany: 21.7 Umbria: 21.5

Trentino Alto-Adige: 16.6

Source: Ministry of Interior official data.

DS Vote Share

Tuscany: 30.9

Emilia Romagna: 28.8 Umbria: 25.9 Liguria: 23.9 Marches: 22.5 Lombardy 3: 18.6 Calabria: 17.9 Latium 1: 17.9 Basilicata: 17.8 Piedmont: 17.6 Abruzzi: 17.4 Campania 1: 16.8 Molise: 16.4 Sardinia: 16.1 Latium 2: 15.7 Piedmont 2: 14.0 Lombardy 1: 13.3 Apulia: 12.9 Sicily 1: 11.6 Campania 2: 11.5 Veneto 2: 11.4 Veneto 1: 10.2 Sicily 2: 9.1 Friuli Venezia Giulia: 9.0 Trentino Alto Adige: 8.9 Lombardy 2: 7.6

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particularly strong in the more highly developed northern regions—Lombardy, Piedmont, and Veneto—but it is also very strong in some southern regions, notably Campania and especially Sicily, where it has inherited much of the Christian Democratic vote and, allegedly, some of its most disreputable ties with illegal and organized crime activities. All this said, it should be abundantly clear that the vote for Forza Italia cannot be fully explained either by its ability to replace the Christian Democrats or by a clever marketing strategy. Without denying the importance of these two elements, which in any case could not by themselves gather such significant electoral loot, the explanation of Forza Italia’s success must be found in its capability to offer political and social representation to sectors that would never otherwise vote for the left. As suggested above, Forza Italia has occupied an available political space and has already made the most of it. The DS, on the contrary, seems to be confined to its traditional stronghold and has been so far unable to make any breakthrough in other electoral areas. This kind of territorial entrenchment does not look promising for the future of the Left Democrats. Coalition Capabilities The 1993 Italian electoral laws made it imperative to construct political coalitions as encompassing as possible, hence somewhat heterogeneous. From the very beginning, Berlusconi perceived that Forza Italia could play the role of linchpin between, on the one hand, the National Alliance, at the time still considered a far-right centralist party, and on the other hand, the Northern League, a territorial autonomist party. Two small former Christian Democratic groups indicated no difficulty in joining both coalitional segments. In 1994, Forza Italia successfully accomplished the task of creating two separate coalitions that together gained the majority of seats. In 1996, the miracle could no longer be performed because it was impossible to mend the wounds inflicted on Forza Italia and the National Alliance by Northern League leader Umberto Bossi’s “betrayal” of the governmental alliance in December 1994. Hence, the Pole of Freedoms lost the election. Berlusconi worked hard to reshape a more cohesive electoral coalition, and by 2001 the newly labeled House of Freedoms could house Forza Italia, the National Alliance, the Northern League, and the two Christian Democratic groups, which had in the meantime coalesced under the banner White Flower. While the tensions within the coalition have not disappeared because of Bossi’s desperate need to maintain political visibility and to cater to a specific and distinctive electorate that is anti–European Union and tough on immigration, Berlusconi and Forza Italia have succeeded in covering a large political space and in papering over otherwise insurmountable differences. At the time, the PDS was the largest and still the best organized of the parties of the center-left, and so in 1994 the task of coalition-maker fell on the PDS. Indeed, PDS leader Achille Occhetto did his best to stretch the mantle of

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the coalition to include the former Christian Democrats who had crossed over to the Italian Popular Party, but his offer was rejected. The lesson was learned in 1996 when a coalition called Olive Tree was constructed more by the virtù of Walter Veltroni than by the inclination of party secretary Massimo D’Alema (who harbored several reservations) and by the fortuna of the candidate chosen for Palazzo Chigi, professor Romano Prodi. However, the Olive Tree operation showed at least three major weaknesses. First, the coalition comprised a larger number of parties and groups than the Pole of Freedoms, and remained inherently fractious because all its components aimed at their distinctive visibility, even at the cost of rocking the coalition and its government. Second, the Olive Tree was vitally dependent on the parliamentary support of the Reformed Communists, who in October 1998 dealt the government a fatal blow by casting a no-confidence vote. Third, it was characterized by the existence of a dual leadership: on the one hand, Romano Prodi as prime minister, on the other hand, Massimo D’Alema, the secretary of the major party of the coalition, certainly ambitious, probably jealous of Prodi’s success, in any case not willing to wait too long for his turn in leading the government. Contrary to Forza Italia, the DS was never in full control of the center-left coalition. The difficulties of the Left Democrats, within and without the Olive Tree coalition, continue the long tradition of divisions, rifts, cleavages, and even splits that the Italian left as a whole has experienced throughout its postwar history. For instance, four left-wing parties (the Italian Communist Party, the Socialists, the Unity Socialists, and the Social Democrats) and three left-wing groups (the Marxist-Leninists, the Manifesto, and the Political Movement of Workers) participated in the 1972 national elections. Moreover, from 1976 to 1992, the political distance between the Socialists, always in the government and in important positions, and the Communists, always in the opposition, could not have been greater. No easy reconciliation of issues and leaders appeared feasible. Indeed, at least two-thirds of the Socialists, former leaders and voters, have since shifted to Forza Italia. Again by contrast to Forza Italia, in 2001 the Left Democrats did not succeed in stretching the contours of the coalitional umbrella and proved unable to prevent the center-left from losing two important components. Senator Antonio Di Pietro, a former magistrate, decided to field his own list and candidates, seriously weakening the center-left. Also, no intensive effort was made to convince the unreformed Communist to accept again a package of standdown agreements. All this said, in all likelihood the coalition problems of the DS are much complicated by a major ambiguity. Both within the left-wing electorate and within the party leadership and rank and file, there coexist and compete at least two quite different perspectives. On the one hand, there still are those who believe that it will be impossible to (re)construct a large and viable left-wing party belonging to the social democratic family. Therefore, the future of the Left Democrats lies completely

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in their ability to remain within the Olive Tree coalition and to make it better organized and capable of reaching out to voters who would never otherwise vote for the “former Communists.” On the other hand, one could find those Left Democrats, probably a majority, who think that the Italian problem is essentially the product of the absence of a large left-wing party. Whether or not they believe in the Olive Tree coalition, their priority is the construction of such a party or at least to keep this option open. Some of them were even confident in the possibility of reaching an agreement with the leader of unreformed Communists, Fausto Bertinotti. After all, such an agreement would give birth to a party polling almost 25 percent of the votes. Thereafter, the task of restructuring the center-left coalition might become easier, and the often uttered slogan “a greater left-wing party for a greater Olive Tree” might become true. Obviously, the pursuit of two different strategies was bound to waste energies and time and to create tensions both within the DS and in the relationship with the Olive Tree allies. The latest development seems, however, to suggest that the DS is moving into an apparently more precisely defined direction. Together with the Daisy (Margherita), a center-left party comprising mainly former Christian Democrats, and following Romano Prodi’s prodding, the two parties were joined by the Italian Democratic Socialists, a small party, and fielded a so-called United in the Olive Tree coalition for the European elections. The results were neither discouraging nor spectacular. However, the idea of a closer unity between the two major parties of the center-left has been further implemented with considerable success in fourteen out of eighteen regional elections. Then, following primary elections open to all center-left voters to select the candidate for the office of prime minister and to give him greater legitimacy, the DS and the Daisy decided to present a joint list for the 2006 national elections. Having received about 75 percent of the votes in a primary election with high participation (more than 4.3 million), it was Prodi who asked the leaders of the DS and the Daisy to join in a common electoral list. Even though proportional electoral laws do not usually reward electoral cartels, the goal is clear: Prodi and his closest collaborators are aiming at the construction of a “Democratic Party” in which the identities of the former Communists and the former Christian Democrats will disappear forever, to give birth to a reformist vision. Leaving aside any other consideration, the success of this operation will have to be measured by comparing the electoral performance of the joint list with the previous electoral performance of the two individual lists (see chapter epilogue and Table 14.1). In case of victory, both parties could claim, at least for a period of time, “prosperity,” though there is no assurance of long-term success. As a matter of fact, even though primary elections hold the promise of becoming the acceptable mechanism to be used to choose the leader of the new party and the candidate for the office of prime minister, many within the DS fear they will continue to be considered children of a lesser god.

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Platforms and Strategy This is not the place to provide a detailed analysis of the two parties’ platforms. Therefore, I highlight only a few significant points. From the very beginning, Forza Italia has positioned itself on the center-right of the political alignment and has adopted what may amount to a neoconservative policy posture. On issues such as the creation of jobs, the reduction of taxation, the restructuring of the school and the health systems through the provision of bonuses, and the reshaping of the pension system through private pension schemes, Forza Italia has consistently proposed policies very much like those implemented by conservative governments in Great Britain and elsewhere. To a large extent, Forza Italia has deliberately located itself slightly to the right of the platform of the Popular Party. Once in office after the 2001 elections, Forza Italia took a strong stand against the trade unions and envisaged a major reform of the industrial relations system. What is more important, however, is that Forza Italia has remained consistent in its policies throughout its experience in the government and in the opposition. Its overall strategy aims at a reduction of the role of the state and a consequent expansion of the private sector and the market. In so doing, Forza Italia, or more precisely the House of Freedoms, does represent the ideas, the interests, and the preferences of its voters. Not only do these voters largely believe in the solutions offered by the House of Freedoms, even though they are less free-market oriented, but they are also convinced that the House of Freedoms will be capable of implementing its own solutions better than the Olive Tree coalition (see the wealth of data presented in Italian National Election Studies [ITANES] 2001, esp. pp. 157–171; see also Campus 2002b). In its governmental experience, however, Forza Italia has had limited success with the implementation of its policies. Because of the problems of Berlusconi with the magistrates, the government has devoted an exaggerated amount of time to specific legislation curtailing the power and even the independence of the judiciary. Also, it has entered into the controversial military action in Iraq, against the desires of the majority of Italians. The platform and the strategy of the DS deserve a different analysis. First of all, it must be stressed that the Left Democrats continue to be torn between the imperative to be considered an integral part of the European Socialist Party—whose ranks they have, indeed, joined in the European Parliament— and their long-held ideological criticism of the social democratic experiences. All too consistently with the criticisms once formulated by the Italian Communist Party, to this day most party members and leaders, themselves former Communists, go on repeating that the social democratic solutions are in crisis, outdated, surpassed, and no longer applicable. Perhaps, for this reason, the last attempt to avoid any identification with the existing social democracies, though totally devoid of any practical consequence, has culminated in the claim that the Left Democrats are, or will become, the party of “the Reformists,” a label that in any case has been quickly relegated into the wings. Before this step,

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made at the November 2001 national convention, many DS leaders, D’Alema and Veltroni included, had flirted with Tony Blair’s “Third Way.” Leaving aside the issue of the correct interpretation, if there is one, of what the Third Way really is, there remain two major problematic elements. First, the Italian left as a whole, and the DS in particular, have always relied on the state to provide services and to contain and reduce social and economic inequalities. Most leftwing voters share this view. Second, the attitudes of DS party delegates toward the market and toward capitalism remain fundamentally ambivalent. So far, only 41 percent of them were explicitly favorable to a market economy, while 61 percent shared the view that “the essence of capitalism remains in any case the exploitation of man over man” (Bellucci, Maraffi, and Segatti 2000, pp. 141, 145). These attitudes and the consequent differences of opinion significantly and irremediably complicate both the formulation of a consistent platform and the implementation of a long-term strategy. Contrary to the stability and at times the rigidity of the platform and the policies of Forza Italia, the DS seems to be shaping and reshaping its policies to the puzzlement and dissatisfaction of large portions of its actual and potential voters (ITANES 2001, pp. 162–163). A further complication is that the DS will have to reach agreements on the most important issues with the Daisy, whose stances are, more often than not, competitive and not collaborative.

Conclusion Facilitated and perhaps made compulsory by the 1993 reform of the electoral system, major transformations have taken place in the Italian political system in the past decade. They have affected both the party system as such, its format and its mechanics, and the functioning of Italian democracy. The party system described by Paolo Farneti (1983) and analyzed by Giovanni Sartori (1982) more than two decades ago has been rightly relegated to the archaeology of the Italian postwar political history. New descriptions are necessary (such as the one provided in Newell 2000), but no new theoretical framework has yet made its appearance (though a valiant and commendable effort has been made in Pappalardo 2002; see also Pasquino 2004 for an in-depth comparison of the pre-1993 and post-1993 Italian party systems). The functioning, the performance, and the transformation of the Italian party system will be affected, in a significant, probably decisive way, by the role and the activities of the two major Italian parties—Forza Italia and the Left Democrats—the electoral coalitions they will construct and maintain, and the governments they will staff and lead. Having won the 2001 national elections, Forza Italia seemed to enjoy, as Table 14.3 indicates, a decisive advantage over all other parties, the DS included. However, Forza Italia’s poor governmental performance has negatively affected not only its evolution, but also what may count even more, the image and appeal of Berlusconi himself. Having somewhat

DS

Source: Ministry of Interior official data.

1991–1994: Occhetto –1,730,492 1994–1998: D’Alema votes 1998–2001: Veltroni 2001– : Fassino

+2,889,296 votes Party of factions

Electoral committees

Organization Polo delle Libertà + Polo del Buongoverno Progressisti (Occhetto)

1994

Olive Tree (Prodi)

Polo delle Libertà

1996

Casa delle Libertà

2001

Neoconservative

Platform/Strategy

Center-left Olive Tree 1994: Left-wing (D’Alema) (Rutelli) 1996: Center-left 1998: Left + center 2001: Center-left 2002: Reformist (?)

—

1998

Coalitions

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Forza Italia Berlusconi

Electoral Performance (1994–2001)

Most Important Features of Forza Italia and the PDS/DS

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Leadership

Table 14.3

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improved their electoral support, the Left Democrats appear in better shape. It is exactly in anticipation of his and of the House of Freedom’s electoral defeat that Berlusconi’s coalition decided to reform the electoral law in a blatantly partisan move that reintroduced a proportional formula.

Epilogue Approved at the end of 2005 and utilized for the first time in the April 2006 elections, the new electoral law has allowed all Italian parties to run alone and, indeed, to some extent, against each other. Although a sizable majority bonus has encouraged the formation of preelectoral governmental coalitions, it has proved to be no incentive to reduce the fragmentation of the party system. The consequences of proportional representation have been that all Italian voters could again vote as they wished and that all parties could count on their own votes. At the end of an extremely bitter electoral campaign, the centerright lost the election by 24,755 votes out of 38.1 million votes cast. With respect to 2001, Forza Italia suffered a significant loss of votes, from 10.9 million (29.5 percent) to 9.0 million (23.7 percent). Nonetheless, it has remained by far the strongest Italian party. The data for the Left Democrats are less comparable, because for the House of Deputies they joined a common list with the Daisy. In 2001 the Left Democrats won 6.1 million votes (16.6 percent) for the House of Deputies. In 2006 they won 5.9 million votes (17.5 percent) for the Senate. What can be said at this point is that Forza Italia has prospered for a long while, but its inability to govern effectively has now been somewhat punished by the voters. Though improving, the Left Democrats are not yet prospering, and their possible merger with the Daisy will put an end to a shortlived and difficult post-1991 trajectory. In sum, no Italian party is likely to prosper again as much as some of them did before 1993. In the absence of strong parties capable of providing both stability and performance while in government, and offering a serious and tough opposition, not only the Italian party system but also the political system itself will remain in a state of incomplete and perilous transition.

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France: Antisystem Parties vs. Government Parties FLORENCE HAEGEL

AND

T

MARC LAZAR

he two dominant features of the French party system are the weakness of party organizations as such and their position in a bipolarized multiparty system with two dominant parties. The congenital weakness of French parties can be seen in terms of legitimacy, institutionalization, and social integration. The lack of legitimacy of party organizations in French political culture is long-standing (Mény 1996; Donegani and Sadoun 1994). It was expressed especially in the Gaullist doctrine, but is also fed today by a drop in the sense of party identification, noticeable both in France and elsewhere (Dalton and Waltenberg 2002). From 1978 to 1997, party proximity (sense of closeness to a party) fell from 48 percent to 36 percent. This decline was, moreover, particularly sharp among the under-forty age group (–20 points), including the bettereducated youth (Schweisguth 2002; Haegel 2005). With the exception of the French Communist Party (Parti Communiste Français [PCF]) in its heyday, French party organizations are particularly weak institutions in comparison with their European counterparts. Several signs indicate this: the fragility of their central machinery, their lack of professionalism and specialization, and their lack of codified rules of operation (particularly significant when it comes to rules of exclusion). In addition, this institutional deficit manifested itself, until fairly recently, by the absence of any true involvement in the French institutional system. However, since 1988 the implementation of legislation on political party financing has altered their institutional framework. Party spending on election campaigns today is not only limited but also controlled by an administrative authority and partly reimbursed.1 The institutional framework governing parties was further reinforced by the enactment on June 6, 2000, of a law on equal access of men and women to elected office and elected positions (Mossuz-Lavau 2002). This law provides for financial sanctions on parties that do not enforce equal representation 295

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of men and women among their candidates. Nevertheless, the makeup of the National Assembly elected in 2002 clearly shows that this reform had only a minor impact: in 1997, out of a total of 577 French deputies, only 62 were women. Since the law has come into force, this number has not risen significantly (68 deputies were women in 2002).2 A third indicator of political party weakness in France lies in their difficulty in permeating society, once again with the exception of the PCF, which has indeed for a long time represented the ideal-type of an “antisociety” party (Kriegel 1970; Lazar 2005). French political sociology has, moreover, devoted considerable study to it for this reason. But otherwise, few organizations can be fully considered to fulfill the functions of linkage (Lawson 1980) and socialization. On the right, this can be explained by the marginality of the Christian democratic model (Dreyfus 1988; Hanley 1994) and the multiplication of cadre parties and parties of notables. And even if the Rally for the Republic (Rassemblement pour la République [RPR])—especially after the changeover of power in 1981— attempted to strengthen its local foothold and its ties with voluntary associations, it does not have the same type of “flanking organizations” (professional associations and clubs) as do the major European conservative parties. On the left, the Socialist Party (Parti Socialiste [PS]) was not founded on the social democratic model (Bergounioux and Grunberg 2005), and its ties with the trade unions remain tenuous, with the possible exception of teacher unions3 (Sawicki 1997; Lefebvre and Sawicki 2006). Last, the difficulty French parties have in permeating society is of course also measured by low membership figures: on the whole, party membership is estimated to include approximately 1 percent of the voting population (Andolfatto 2001). The internal elections held by most organizations today in order to select their leaders or candidates for presidential office provide indications of their membership numbers (see Table 15.1). In the early years of the Fifth Republic, these fairly weak parties became organized into a system that can be qualified as a bipolar multiparty system with two dominant parties. The structuring of the party system can be primarily explained by the institutional constraints introduced in 1958. The first of them was to adopt the two-ballot uninominal poll for both presidential and legislative elections (except for the 1986 elections, which were held according to the proportional representation system). In the case of legislative elections, the rule is that only candidates having garnered more than 12.5 percent of the registered voters in the first ballot can remain in the second ballot. The existence of a first ballot has maintained the multiparty system; the constraint of the second ballot led to the establishment of two systems of alliance, on the left and the right (Bartolini 1984; Duhamel and Grunberg 2001). The second institutional constraint is the election of the president by universal suffrage as of 1962. All party organizations—including the smallest ones—gradually adapted to the presidentialization of the entire system: they have preferred to field a candidate in the presidential race.

Source: Ministry of Interior.

90,000 138,000 10,372 315,000 60,412 12,000

Number of Members Vote to designate presidential candidate Vote to designate presidential candidate Vote to designate presidential candidate Vote to designate presidential candidate Election of its leader Estimate

Event

November 2006 November 2006 June 2001 January 2007 December 2000 2002

Date

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French Communist Party (PCF) Socialist Party (PS) Green Party (Verts) Popular Movement Union (UMP) Union for French Democracy (UDF) National Front (FN)

Party

Membership in French Political Parties

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In sum, bipolarization won out in 1974 and 1981, resulting in confrontation between a left-wing bloc, comprising the PS and the PCF, and a rightwing bloc, revolving mainly around the RPR and moderate right-wing groups united in the Union for French Democracy (Union pour la Démocratie Française (UDF). It was put to the test in France, as in other European countries, by the emergence of ecologist parties, but especially by the lasting establishment of an extreme-right-wing organization, the National Front (Front National [FN]). The Greens, initially in favor of a “neither right nor left” strategy, joined forces with the left-wing parties in 1995. The “pluralistic left” thus constituted the foundation of the Lionel Jospin government from 1997 to 2002. This coalition around the PS included the PCF, the Greens, and the Citizens’ Movement (Mouvement des Citoyens [MDC]), led by Jean-Pierre Chevènement, which grew out of a split with the PS. On the right, the official line rejecting any alliance of moderate right-wing parties with the National Front was maintained despite possible short-term electoral costs and despite significant local exceptions. The right’s refusal of an alliance with the extreme right created a tripartition of the party space that, moreover, reflects a tripartition of the ideological space (Chiche et al. 2000). The presidential and legislative elections of May and June 2002 yet again altered the state of the party system, but in a way that might appear contradictory. The presidential election seemed to challenge left/right bipolarization. The traumatic elimination of Lionel Jospin, Socialist candidate and former prime minister, right from the first ballot has been attributed to the rise in abstentionism and fragmentation of the party offer on the left (three Trotskyite candidates, one Communist candidate, an MDC candidate, a center-left female candidate, and a Green candidate all ran). The presence of Jean-Marie Le Pen in the second ballot against Jacques Chirac indicated, with a high level of drama, that the traditional left/right confrontation had been supplanted by a duel of republicanism versus anti-republicanism. Jacques Chirac’s overwhelming victory in the second ballot (82 percent of the vote) was largely due to a degree of left-wing electorate mobilization in his favor, and did not cancel out his poor score in the first ballot (less than 20 percent of the vote). On the contrary, the legislative elections of 2002 showed an apparent strengthening of party bipolarization. The decline of the extreme right was clear: whereas altogether the extreme-right candidates garnered 5.4 million votes in the first ballot of the presidential election, they only brought in 3.2 million in the first ballot of the legislative elections. Consequently, the National Front, which in 1997 had crossed the threshold needed to maintain its candidate in the second ballot in 133 voting districts, surpassed this threshold in only 37 districts in 2002. The legislative elections were disappointing for the extreme left as well: whereas the three Trotskyite candidates had earned 2.9 million votes in the first ballot of the presidential election, the extreme left won only 704,000 votes. In 2004, at the European elections, the Socialist Party

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obtained a good result, but the main right parties experienced difficulties: the National Front progressed, but the extreme left failed. The 2007 presidential election was characterized by the failure of the far-right and far-left candidates on the first ballot, a good result for centrist challenger François Bayrou (18.5 percent), and the domination of Nicolas Sarkozy of the Popular Movement Union (Union pour un Mouvement Populaire [UMP]) (31.1 percent) and of Ségolène Royal of the PS (25.8 percent). These results indicated a new affirmation of a roughly bipartisan system (Grunberg and Haegel 2007). How then is it possible to gauge political party prosperity? Should a radical stance be taken, by considering that in France there are simply no prosperous organizations due to their structural weaknesses? On the basis of the results of the 2002 presidential election, should only the FN be considered prosperous, because it enjoyed strong electoral support and created a surprise, upsetting the French political checkerboard? Or on the contrary, should it be repeated that the term “prosperity” can only seriously be applied to groups such as the PS and the RPR, organizations that represent the fulcrum of government coalitions and hence of the French party system? In fact, the criteria that analysts use to judge the prosperity of a political party clearly differ depending on the primary aims the party has set out, the strategies it deploys to achieve them, and especially the position it occupies or is assigned in the political system. Rather than selecting one particular party that we would have considered prosperous, it seemed to us more relevant, in the case of France, to center the discussion by reintroducing the notions of “prosystem party” and “antisystem party” developed by Giovanni Sartori (1966, 1976). Still, it must be remembered that the point of using the notion of “antisystem party” is not to account for the intrinsic nature of an organization, but instead to take into account its position in a given competitive space and polity (Capoccia 2002). In effect, in the competitive space, an antisystem party is characterized by the fact that it excludes itself (or is excluded) from potential government coalitions. This characteristic does not preclude its being solidly established at the local level or occupying positions of power at the infra-governmental level, particularly within municipal governments. The municipal foothold of the French and Italian communist parties was obvious proof of this. With respect to the polity, an antisystem party distinguishes itself through its intention to challenge either the regime (the example of the RPF advocating a change of institutions during the Fourth Republic) or the political system, but also the economic and social structures (for instance, the Communists or the Trotskyites criticizing the market economy and fighting for a radical change in society) or the foundations of the political community (for example, the National Front’s supporting of national preference). Of course, party systems shift, antisystem parties change, and they are subject to logics that include them in the system. Furthermore, these organizations are particularly subject to internal tensions concerning precisely the issue of whether to remain

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on the outside or to strive to become part of the system. But it is indeed because they have been structured as antisystem parties that they are subject to such pressures. In the case of France, as well as a number of other polities marked by a polarized multiparty system, the distinction between antisystem and prosystem parties is useful for establishing criteria by which to grasp the prosperity of the various groups, but also the reasons for the evolution of the party system. Indeed, the prosperity of a party intent on governing, or a prosystem party, is judged by its capacity to build a system of alliances and thus to represent a credible government alternative so as to win power. To do so, it is obliged to form an ideological-cultural synthesis. For an antisystem party, the issue of prosperity lies to a large extent elsewhere. It mainly depends on its capacities to build an electoral force able to upset the instituted systems of alliance and impose its themes on the agenda of political debate and public action, even to embody a “countersociety” founded on a territorial or social basis.

The Prosperity of Government Parties In the aftermath of the June 2002 legislative elections, the French party system could more than ever be characterized as a bipolar system organized around two dominant parties, the PS and the UMP. This reorganization is not definitive, however, with the significant abstention rate (35.6 percent in the first ballot of the legislatives) being enough to indicate that other reorganizations are possible in the future. The predominance of the UMP and the PS is nevertheless manifest, especially in parliament: Out of the 577 deputies the UMP won 465 deputies in 2002 and the PS 140. The proportions shifted in 2007, with a drop to 313 for the UMP and an increase to 186 for the PS, but the overall picture remained the same. For these two dominant parties, prosperity is first measured by their ability to impose their supremacy in their own camp and, by so doing, organize a system of alliance around them. On the left, the struggle for party leadership was resolved much sooner than on the right. In taking the helm of the PS in 1971, François Mitterrand aimed to supplant the Communist Party and win the presidency. He achieved his first goal in 1978 (for the first time, the PS led the PCF in the legislative elections), his second in 1981. But the continual erosion of the PCF confronted the PS with the shrinking of its camp. To offset this loss, the PS first elaborated a strategy of voluntarily maintaining Communist positions. In keeping with this strategy, it then guaranteed these positions in parliament and the government. The number of deputies necessary to constitute a parliamentary group was thus reduced from thirty to twenty, so that a Communist group could be formed. Along the same lines, the practice of joint candidacies helped to reinforce the positions of incumbent Communist deputies,

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and cabinet positions were granted to the Communists. At the same time, the PS also sought to broaden the bases of its coalition by incorporating the Greens. Following the 2002 legislative elections, the PS found itself in the following deadlock: it easily dominated its camp, with 24.1 percent of the votes cast in the first ballot, compared to 4.8 percent for the PCF and 4.5 percent for the Greens (see Table 15.2), but it wound up with partners that, at the same time, were too weak as allies and too strong as competitors. Its partners were too weak to form a majority, but still had a definite potential to do damage in the competition for the presidency. In fact, the presidentialization of all political parties, even the smallest, maintains the fragmentation of candidacies and the scattering of votes on the left. On the right, the battle to impose a dominant party was fought even more intensely. It was displayed in the competition between the RPR, an organization following in the footsteps of the Gaullist heritage created by Jacques Chirac in 1976, and the UDF, a confederation of moderate right-wing groups, comprising essentially centrists and neoliberals, founded by Valéry Giscard d’Estaing in 1978 (see Table 15.3). For a long time, the balance of power between the two parties was fairly even. The RPR dominated the presidential race, but the UDF did not let itself be outdistanced in the legislative or local elections. During the legislative elections, the right-wing parties managed to set up electoral cartels under various labels and field joint candidates selected Table 15.2

Balance of Power Among the Communists, Socialists, and Greens During the First Ballots of the 1988, 1993, 1997, and 2002 French Legislative Elections (percentages)

Communists (PCF) Socialists (PS) Greens (Verts)

1988

1993

1997

2002

11.3 36.4 0.4a

9.2 17.6 4.0

9.9 23.8 3.6

4.8 24.1 4.5

Source: Ministry of Interior. Note: a. Ecologists.

Table 15.3

Balance of Power Between the UDF and RPR/UMP During the First Ballots of the 1988, 1993, 1997, and 2002 French Legislative Elections (percentages)

Union for French Democracy (UDF) Rally for the Republic (RPR)/ Popular Movement Union (UMP) Source: Ministry of Interior.

1988

1993

1997

2002

18.5

19.1

15.7

4.9

19.2

20.4

14.2

33.3

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basically by the rule of favoring incumbents. In the first ballot of the presidential election, this cooperative system gave way to competition that was all the fiercer, since internal competition within the right wound up considerably at variance with party lines and brought into play highly unstable systems of transaction based partly on personal relationships. It is thus easily understandable why the aftereffects of the internal battles Jacques Chirac had to wage during the first ballot of the 1988 presidential election against Raymond Barre, then in 1995 against Edouard Balladur, long complicated right-wing internal relations. But the specter of constant defeat, the right-wing electorate’s demand for union, and ongoing competition from the FN led the moderate right-wing leaders to devise plans for cooperation that went beyond a simple electoral coalition. Basically, two renovation rationales were at odds. For some, the main goal was to set up more reliable and less contextual cooperation structures that were broader in scope (including, for instance, common platforms) and, finally, more extensive than the prior practice of electoral cartels. For others, the presidentialization of the French institutional and party system demanded that the right give priority to tackling the selection procedure for a presidential candidate by organizing French-style primaries. The creation of the UMP in the interim between the 2002 presidential election and legislative elections (Haegel 2004) exhibited the first strategy.4 But in what way does the UMP really differ from the usual electoral cartels? When it was established, its main difference was the fact that, for the first time, candidates under this label had to pledge to register with a single parliamentary group. The mere fact of this commitment had considerable financial consequences, in that only the UMP (and not the former organizations) would benefit from the public allocation. Union would thus be built first by collectivizing and centralizing financial resources.5 The other difference is that the particular and traumatic circumstances under which Jacques Chirac was elected in 2002 created the conditions for what had heretofore been impossible: the rallying of a broad spectrum of right-wing groups and personalities6 to the formation of a joint project. In any event, the creation of the UMP indeed confirmed the RPR dominance over the right. From a tactical standpoint, the UMP was certainly a Chirac operation. The study of its genesis shows that the undertaking was launched by Chirac’s following, and the staffing of the new group came largely from RPR ranks. In June 2002 the UMP parliamentary group comprised 55 percent RPR deputies; 21 percent came from the UDF, 15 percent from the Liberal Democracy (Démocratie Libérale [DL]). The organization of the new group gave prominent roles to former permanent RPR party cadres (about 80 people), more numerous than the cadres from the other constitutive UMP organizations. As for membership, RPR dominance was even more flagrant7 (see Table 15.1), and the new regulations strengthened the RPR’s domination by having members heavily represented in the governing bodies. Last,

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the selection of Alain Juppé, former RPR president and prime minister under Jacques Chirac from 1995 to 1997, as the first leader of the new organization confirmed RPR predominance. It is important to note that in right-wing internal competition, RPR domination was not built on an ideological foundation. On the contrary, the conversion of a majority of the RPR8 to economic liberalism, the construction of Europe, and decentralization seem to have marked the triumph of themes previously backed by the UDF. The RPR has instead relied principally on organizational and institutional resources (in a strongly presidential system, presidential power is a decisive asset). Its supremacy is also explained by the fact that the UDF, an already weak confederational structure, was seriously affected by the breakaway of its neoliberal component (the DL) and the latter’s rapprochement with the RPR (joint list in the 1999 European elections). In November 2004 the party leadership was renovated, with Nicolas Sarkozy elected to take the party presidency after Alain Juppé’s resignation following his trial for improper use of party assets. Although Sarkozy was originally Chirac’s protégé, his election by the party membership to be the new head of the UMP challenged Chirac’s authority and his supremacy in the party: controlling the party is still considered a crucial tool for a presidential incumbent. Sarkozy’s strategy as a candidate for the presidency included recruiting new members to join the party in order to support him, and arguing for a members’ ballot for the selection of the UMP’s 2007 presidential candidate. In both camps, then, leadership is established and manifested through the propulsive role of these dominant parties in the construction of government coalitions as well as by the number of their elected officials, a decisive factor in a political system where notables play such a preponderant role. This electoral and parliamentary strength sustains their financial prosperity. The Socialist Party’s budget is about 20 million euros (US$27 million) per year during the 2002–2007 legislature, the UMP’s about 36 million euros (US$49 million). This financial prosperity distinguishes them from the PCF and the UDF, with declared deficits of 4 million euros (US$5.5 million) and 0.7 million euros (US$0.9 million) respectively, and which benefit respectively from approximately 2.6 million euros (US$3.5 million) and 8 million euros (US$11 million) in public funding per year. The prosperity of these organizations, however, masks certain weaknesses that concern both their trouble forming or maintaining an ideological-cultural synthesis and the risks of cartelization they are exposed to. A flagrant sign of their difficulty in forming an ideological-cultural synthesis can be found in the splits they have recently been faced with. On the right, the creation of the Rally for France (Rassemblement pour la France [RPF], a merger of Philippe de Villiers’s Mouvement pour la France and Charles Pasqua’s Demain la France) helped put the RPR’s supremacy to the test. In the 1999 European elections, the RPF list received 13.1 percent of the ballots cast, compared to 12.7 percent for

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the RPR/DL list. On the left, the split-off of the MDC and the ensuing autonomous strategy of its leader, Jean-Pierre Chevènement, clearly weakened the PS during the 2002 presidential campaign. In both cases, criticism of European integration and glorification of the nation and the republic were clearly what characterized this “sovereignistic” sensitivity and justified the exit strategy of these two dominant party subleaders. In both cases as well, the destabilizing capacity of these competing organizations was patent during the national elections (the 1999 European, the 2002 presidential) in that, since their following is based to a large extent on the personality of their leader, it decreases for legislative elections due to their weak local presence. Thus, although dominant in French party politics, both the PS and the UMP have failed to achieve ideological synthesis. The centrifugal forces that operate on them, as both are subject to the wearing effect of being in power and confronting protest forces, prevent them from serving as matrixes of political culture and identity (Pizzorno 1986). The PS must still overcome huge obstacles in the process of re-creating the left, as was made clear in the criticisms directed at Lionel Jospin’s campaign, and in particular the trouble Jospin had in asserting the identity of his program and his own identity. The party had an important success at the regional elections of 2004 and, the same year, at the European elections (28.9 percent of the vote against 22.0 percent in 1999) (Deloy and Reynié 2005; Perrineau 2005). But only a year later the European question became the subject of a serious division inside the PS, pitting the supporters and opponents of the Constitutional Treaty against each other. After a hard internal campaign, 58 percent of the members, consulted by internal referendum, chose to support the treaty. But in the national campaign, the large minority of the party militants joined with other opponents on the left, including a majority of the PS rank and file. The opponents won by 55 percent and divisions increased inside the party. These divisions within the PS are political and strategic as well as ideological, as was seen during the internal race for presidential election. In 2006, three candidates were in competition for the socialist primary—Laurent Fabius, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, and Ségolène Royal—with three different strategies and references. On November 16, 60.7 percent of Socialists chose Royal, 20.5 percent chose Strauss-Kahn, and 18.7 percent chose Fabius. JeanPierre Chevènement (Mouvement Républicain et Citoyen) and Christine Taubira (Parti Radical de Gauche), candidates for the presidential nomination in 2002, did not try again in 2007. However, in the general election, Royal was challenged on her left by three Trotskyite candidates (Olivier Besancenot, Arlette Laguiller, Gérard Schivardi), one Green (Dominique Voynet), one Communist (Marie-George Buffet), and one No-Global leader (José Bové). Given this competition on the left, Royal thus showed herself a strong and effective challenger, despite her loss in the second and final ballot in April 2007 (47 percent of the vote, against 53 percent for Sarkozy).

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Similarly, the UMP’s wager will also be played out in how successfully it organizes pluralism. Although the original statute allowed for the existence of factions (tendances, here termed mouvements), in practice plurality inside the UMP is shaped mainly by rules governing the status of a personne morale associée. This formula provides for a private contract that sets up the financial relationship between the party and any association negotiating with the UMP’s headquarters. Such agreements are based on nonpublic bargaining and are private, supple, and shifting. The UMP leadership controls the process and is able to set up clientelist relationships, since associations are treated differently and agreements are generally kept secret. The party’s ideological center of gravity is clearly situated around liberal and European themes (Haegel 2007). The risks of fragilization of both French dominant parties also stem from the consequences of the “cartelization” phenomenon. In France, certain signs that, according to Richard Katz and Peter Mair (1994), are linked to “cartelization” have in fact always existed. In particular, the weakness of the “party-onthe-ground” and, in return, the strength of the bonds they maintain with the state cannot be seen as new factors. The low membership numbers in the dominant parties have already been pointed out. The reforms adopted by the RPR, the UDF (Haegel, Pütz, and Sauger 2001) and the PS, with the intention of strengthening the members’ role in selecting leaders, have not really changed this situation either, although a simplification of the procedures of affiliation and the will of supporters to participate in the designation of the leader for the presidential race did lead to marked increases in adhesion to the UMP and PS. Similarly, the interpenetration of party and state structures is hardly a new phenomenon in the French political system. It can be seen in the role civil servants play in party staff, the importance of government positions in party careers, and the frequent confusion between public jobs and party jobs. If we compare the professional makeup of the various political parties, the PS appears as the organization that overrepresents the public sector. For instance, in 1999, 59 percent of Socialist Party members9 worked in the public sector (as compared to 30 percent of the active French population) (Boy et al. 2003). Among the candidates in the 2002 legislative elections, over 40 percent of Socialists were civil servants (compared to 20 percent of UMP candidates), and the Socialist leadership elite was dominated by senior civil servants. Right-wing parties grant more of a role to the private sector at all levels, including party cadres, legislative candidates, deputies (this trend being particularly true among the new 2002 deputies), and party leaders (Gaxie 1980; Habert 1991). In the case of France, two decisive elements nevertheless lend particular credence to the cartelization hypothesis. The first is the existence, since 1986, of multiple periods of cohabitation (from 1986 to 1988, from 1993 to 1995, and from 1997 to 2002), meaning the institutional coexistence of a president and a prime minister belonging to opposite camps, keeping alive the idea that

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there is cooperation, even a collusion of interests, between governmental parties. The other element pertains to the problem of corruption. Overall there has been a strong increase in the public’s perception that politicians are corrupt (Mayer 2002). This opinion was held, for instance, by 38 percent of respondents in 1977, and by 64 percent in 2000. More specifically, the revelation of political financial scandals, such as the disclosure of an illegal agreement between the PS and the RPR in the awarding of public contracts for building secondary schools in the Île-de-France region,10 gave further evidence of financial connivance between the dominant parties.

The Prosperity of Antisystem Parties In the face of the dominant parties, the 2002 presidential election showed that other organizations existed that could be said to have reaped considerable success according to certain criteria. This success is owed, in the case of the National Front and to a lesser extent the Trotskyite organizations—Workers’ Struggle (Lutte Ouvrière [LO]) and the Communist Revolutionary League (Ligue Communiste Révolutionnaire [LCR])—to the “antisystem” position they occupy. In different registers, these two types of organizations exploit the theme of collusion between governmental parties and demand representation for the “little ones” and the “excluded.” Thus it was that Jean-Marie Le Pen, on the eve of the first ballot in 2004, called for “the people of France, blue collars, steelworkers and miners” to rally, and delighted in the “huge defeat of the two leaders of the establishment.” For these parties, prosperity can be gauged by other criteria than those of “prosystem” parties. Prosperity is measured by their ability to increase their electorate and, beyond that, broaden their social and territorial base, but also by their ability to put their preferred themes on the agenda. It also concerns their capacity to perturb the forging of alliances. Jean-Marie Le Pen’s success at the polls in the 2002 presidential election was indisputable: in the first ballot he won 16.9 percent of the votes cast (over 4.8 million voters), and bettered his score in the 1995 presidential by over 200,000 votes. In the second ballot, after an intense campaign against him, he won more votes (+54,167) than the total votes for the extreme right in the first ballot.11 Election geography confirmed the existence of his strongholds in southeastern France (ProvenceAlpes, Côte d’Azur) and eastern France (Alsace, Franche-Comté), but also attested to the radiation of his following from these well-established areas and his presence in new territories, particularly the north of France. The vote for the FN in the first ballot of the presidential election was more male than female, older (21.8 percent of the voters aged fifty to sixty-four, 18.5 percent of voters aged sixty-five and older), and heavily working-class (20 percent of farmers, 26 percent of workers, and 38 percent of the unemployed voted for Jean-Marie Le Pen on April 21). The votes included a high proportion of arti-

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sans and shopkeepers (31.9 percent of them voted for Le Pen) and people with a low level of education.12 On the extreme left, the Trotskyite organizations LO and LCR had already made an electoral breakthrough in the 1998 regional elections, then in the 1999 European elections, and made a rather astounding showing in the 2002 presidential election. Together, the two parties garnered over 9.5 percent of the ballots cast, and 2.8 million voters. These organizations benefited, inter alia, from the decline of the PCF: Robert Hue, the Communist candidate, won only 3.3 percent of the votes cast, representing barely 960,000 voters. In fact, the PCF example clearly demonstrates that for certain organizations, there is a price to pay in terms of prosperity for becoming part of the system. The PCF’s five-year presence in government (historically the longest period of Communist participation) no doubt hastened its decline. It consequently opened a political space that was soon occupied by the Trotskyite organizations. In 2002, internal competition on the left was also based on a generation gap (Chiche, Haegel, and Tiberj 2002): the Trotskyite organizations attracted the young left-wing generations, as opposed to a PCF whose members and electorate have considerably aged. From a sociological standpoint, the electorate of Arlette Laguiller’s organization (the LO) was fairly mixed. Its following was greatest in the former industrial regions (north of France, for instance) and in rural areas (western France, the Massif Central, Corsica). The vote for Olivier Besancenot (the LCR) was more localized in the south of France and in some university towns. The LCR electorate in fact corresponded more to the sociology of the “radical new left” (urban vote, with a high educational level, public sector professions, and a significant proportion of teachers). The antisystem vote varies considerably from election to election and party to party. The National Front did quite well in the legislative elections of 2002, but not well enough to cross the threshold for seating members in parliament, and prospered as well in regional and European elections (9.8 percent against 5.6 percent in 1999). The National Front had a kind of permanence of prosperity, but Jean-Marie Le Pen obtained just 10.5 percent of the vote on the first ballot in 2007, a real political disaster for him (in 1988 he obtained 14.3 percent; in 1995, 15.0 percent; and in 2002, 16.8 percent). On the opposite side, the extreme left has had only a relative electoral prosperity. Its success in the first ballot of the 2002 presidential election has not been confirmed at other elections (legislative of 2002, regional and European of 2004, first turn of the presidential of 2007), despite high hopes of the Trotskyites. However, these parties, along with the Communists, clearly contributed by their activism to the success of the opposition vote at the European referendum of 2005 (it has been estimated that the negative vote of the left represented 52–55 percent of the general negative vote). The role of militancy and the social management work done by these antisystem parties are very real. Indeed, in the case of the FN, research has empha-

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sized the social management function it takes on (Tristan 1987; Martin 1996). The FN undertakes social and political activities that other groups neglect. In particular in the south of France, establishment of the FN at the municipal level takes place through clientelistic practices among the underprivileged strata of the population, as the party mobilizes a network of voluntary associations and organizing festive activities. In a different manner, the visibility of posters of Jean-Marie Le Pen throughout the entire country of France during the 2002 presidential election can be considered a good indicator of the intense militant activity of FN activists. But this activism was not so strong five years later, in the 2007 election. The strength of FN management must not, however, be overstated. It was heavily damaged by the split provoked by one of its leaders, Bruno Mégret, who in January 1999 founded a rival organization, the National Republican Movement (Mouvement National Républicain [MNR]), and obviously weakened the party machinery, its associational network, and its financial situation. Mégret’s exit resulted in the loss of several mid-level party cadres (59 percent of its departmental secretaries, 51 percent of its regional councilors) and a large proportion of its team of stewards (the Department of Security Protection). The FN’s embryonic associational structures for small business owners and shopkeepers, teachers, parents of schoolchildren, and subsidized housing tenants were also weakened. From a financial standpoint, the split also cost the FN; its balance was 760,000 euros (US$1,038,312) in the red in 2000.13 After this crisis, Jean-Marie Le Pen’s party strategy aimed less to reconstruct the party apparatus and associational network than to devote its budget and energy to election campaigns, especially those promoting its leader. And it is in fact clear that the FN’s electoral following relies to a large extent on the personality of Le Pen. The relative prosperity of extreme-left-wing groups is also based on activist campaigning and presence in the field of social mobilization. This presence can also be seen in the membership of former Trotskyite militants in many new organizations. Traditionally present in trade unions such as Force Ouvrière, in recent years extreme-left activists or former activists have invested their energies in new trade unions such as SUD (Solidaires Unitaires Democrates), antiracist movements and anti–National Front movements such as Ras l’Front (Mayer 1995), antiglobalization movements such as ATTAC (Association pour la Taxation des Transactions Financières et l’Aide aux Citoyens), as well as organizations in defense of the civil service, the homeless, and undocumented immigrants. The prosperity of antisystem parties concerns their ability to influence agenda-setting and the general ideological evolution of French political thought. From this standpoint, the FN played a decisive role in promoting themes that structure public debate today and that have penetrated other parties, such as the UMP. For instance, it helped to impose the themes of immi-

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gration, law and order, hostility toward Europe, the defense of the nation against various dangers, the need to reinstate authoritarian principles, and a return to traditional morality. On the extreme left, criticism of restructuring plans, the proposal to forbid layoffs, the rejection of Europe, the defense of the national specificity of the welfare state, hostility to globalization, and criticism of reformist parties have permeated. However, during the 2007 presidential election, Royal tried to combine and reconcile these arguments with some other topics quite new for the French Socialist Party, such as order and authority, propositions in favor of companies, the significance of the question of labor, and the need to modernize pensions and other forms of social protection. Finally, the prosperity of these parties can be measured by their damage capacity. Since its foundation, the FN has truly perturbed the French right. The refusal to enter into alliance with Jean-Marie Le Pen’s party at first had an electoral price for the right-wing parties, since in 1997 FN candidates who did not withdraw between the first and second ballots prevented the election of right-wing candidates in several districts. But beyond the question of electoral victory, the debate over the appropriateness of forming an alliance at the local level or of accepting votes from FN elected officials, even the simple question of what type of message to send its electorate, also seriously perturbed the RPR and the UDF. Indeed, behind their overt strategy of rejecting alliances, the right-wing parties were regularly confronted with declarations among their ranks of those who preferred to break this rule, as well as with strategies of local leaders who preferred to stay in power and pay the price of compromising themselves with the FN or to intensify their right-wing discourse in order to appeal to FN voters. From this standpoint, it should be pointed out that the most noticeable transgressions were committed by UDF officials. In particular in 1988, during the election of regional council presidents, a number of UDF leaders were elected thanks to votes from regional FN elected officials. The RPR, a more centralized and disciplined party, was in a better position than the UDF to enforce the strategy devised at the national level. On the other hand, however, the tensions introduced in a party like the FN by the strategy of exclusion from the system must not be minimized. The splitoff of the MNR can be explained both by the desire of a number of FN cadres to challenge the autocratic and family leadership of Jean-Marie Le Pen and by their desire to promote a strategy of entering the system and striking alliances with the right. The failure of the undertaking once again shows that the prosperity of an antisystem party has much to do with maintaining its confrontational position. Symmetrically, the question of relationships with the extreme left can become a real problem for the rest of the left. In fact, the question of the appropriateness of an alliance between governmental parties and antisystem parties, which has divided right-wing coalitions for years, could well divide the left in the future. On the other hand, if the clear failure of the radical and Communist left in the 2007 presidential election (their candidates obtained 8.9 percent of the

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vote, compared to 13.7 percent in 2002) is confirmed in future elections, this threat to the Socialist Party will be greatly reduced. Although antisystem organizations have evident disruptive power, their prosperity is obviously relative. Their weak points are first of all organizational. These parties are small and regularly face the problem of finding candidates, because their networks of influence remain fragile. The second type of weakness is strategic in nature. They prosper as vehicles of protest, but in the event of success they wind up confronted with serious dilemmas as to the exercise of responsibility (particularly for their elected officers at the local, regional, national, and European levels). Third, these parties are rent by ideological confrontations that sometimes hinder their development. Extreme-left-wing parties suffer from their divisions: the LO and the LCR are in constant competition (these groups are, for instance, incapable of joining forces for legislative elections), not to mention that they are pursuing different aims, with the LO mainly addressing the traditional working-class sectors and people with a low educational level, and the LCR seeking mainly to influence young people with college degrees. But the LO, the LCR, the PCF, and all the various components of the radical left (associations, trade unions, lobbies, and so on) have been deeply divided on the 2007 presidential election: unable to present a single candidate, they presented four. Last, these groups come up against the cartel party defense mechanisms identified by Katz and Mair (1994).

Conclusion To speak of the prosperity of a political party is actually an ambiguous proposition. To discuss the notion in reference to France, we have attempted to test the relevance of the distinction between pro- and antisystem parties introduced by Sartori. We believe that the notion of antisystem is heuristic as long as it is not used to define a type of party intrinsically and permanently. In effect, it can be useful either in qualifying the position that an organization occupies in a competitive space at a given point in time or in determining the characteristics of its type of foundation, its “genetic model” (Panebianco 1988). It helps to show that the criteria for the prosperity of an organization such as the FN, and more incidentally the Trotskyite organizations, to a large extent relies on their position as outsiders criticizing the dominant party system. It also leads us to emphasize the tensions and dilemmas that traverse such organizations when they are confronted with entering the system. But on the other hand, is the fact of occupying a central position in the system a guarantee of prosperity? In other words, in the French party system, are pivotal parties on the right (the former RPR and the new UMP) and the left (the PS) “prosperous,” strictly speaking? Comparison at the European level suggests a negative response, in that these parties cannot rival their main European counterparts: they have less legitimacy, fewer members, and much weaker so-

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cial foundations, and are also less professional. A cross-time comparison also invites caution. In fact, whereas the PS, the PCF, the RPR, and the UDF garnered about 80 percent of the votes in the 1970s, today, in 2007, after the first turn of the presidential election, the PS and the UMP earn only about 57 percent of the vote. It is thus difficult to consider that they are in good health. And yet these parties are more than ever essential to the French political system. They occupy a central position in the ideological spectrum and organize systems of coalition. They provide the majority of the parliamentary ranks and, above and beyond that, control the channels of political recruitment, particularly in the government.

Notes We would like to thank Gérard Grunberg, with whom we discussed this chapter at length. 1. The public financing system is based both on a political party’s results at the polls and on the number of deputies affiliated with this party. 2. In fact, political parties on the whole scarcely observed the principle of parity and therefore were subjected to financial penalties. These were levied primarily on the right-wing parties. For instance, since only 20 percent of the candidates fielded by the UMP were women, 4 million euros (US$5,464,800) of its public allocation was withdrawn. 3. As well as associations of parents of schoolchildren (Barthélémy 2000). 4. We should note, moreover, that so far the most burning question, that of the method for selecting a common presidential candidate, has yet to be decided. 5. It would appear, however, that the future regulations will introduce rules for redistributing a portion of the public allocation (probably around 30 percent of it) to the various tendencies making up this new party. 6. In addition to all the RPR and DL deputies, the UMP rallied a portion of former UDF members (some thirty UDF deputies led by François Bayrou refused to rally as an independent parliamentary group). Morevover, certain deputies who were excluded or split from the RPF, for instance, due to their position with respect to the FN or the question of Europe, were integrated into the common group. 7. It is easy to understand why one of the main issues in devising party regulations is how much power to give to militants and elected officials at the various echelons. 8. Far from all of the former RPR activists and cadres have been won over to these themes. A central question in forming a single right-wing party is the extent to which it will be able to incorporate the less European and more state-oriented contingent. 9. The proportion reaches 70 percent among the Communists and the Greens. 10. Alain Juppé, former RPR treasurers, and former private secretaries of Jacques Chirac were implicated in a case concerning salary payments to RPR cadres by the Paris city hall. 11. National Front dissident Brunot Mégret (MNR) ran in the first ballot. 12. In fact, in 2002, 28 percent of the French declared their agreement or relative agreement with FN ideas, one of the highest percentages since these studies have been conducted (1990). Louis Harris poll, Libération, April 23, 2002; IPSOS exit poll, April 21, 2002, published in Le Monde, April 28–29, 2002. 13. Journal Officiel, April 4, 2002.

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The US Two-Party System: Using Power to Prosper ROBIN KOLODNY

I

n the US political system, two—and only two—parties prosper. The Democratic and Republican Parties have been hegemonic since 1860. Other parties have attempted to dislodge one or both parties, and a few have even had significant impact on the outcomes of presidential and congressional elections. Still, the two major parties persist, and despite surveys (Collet 1996) of American voters demonstrating dissatisfaction with the status quo, no one believes any other political parties have a reasonable chance of success. Why is this the case? Why is the US case archetypical of two-party states? The short answer is that US parties are entirely Downsian, even though their form is more complicated than that posited by Anthony Downs (1957). US parties adopt policies to win elections. They do not win elections to enact policy. A number of institutional features of the US system encourage a single-minded focus on winning (mainly the winner-takes-all electoral system). But though Downs can explain the victory-focused US parties and the condition of a two-party system in his model, why do Americans have not just two parties, but these two parties? The answer is that the significant efforts of those parties themselves, mostly under the guise of sanitizing the electoral process so that no “unfair” influences delegitimize the US democracy, ensure the long-term survival of the two hegemons. The Democratic and Republican Parties have taken advantage of the institutional hurdles that hinder all parties—and encourage those with alternative views to run under their imprimatur. To do otherwise, as both the Reform and Green Parties demonstrated in the 1990s, means nearly certain defeat and ridicule.

Characteristics of the US Political System The entrenched duality of US political parties owes much to the institutional features of the US political system. The two most important features are its separation of powers (as a presidential system) and its federalism. In the US 313

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presidential system, the president is elected independently of the national legislature. Further, the national legislature is bicameral, and both houses are popularly elected, although not entirely simultaneously. The president of the United States has a four-year term. The lower house of the US Congress, the House of Representatives, has two-year terms for its 435 members. The upper house, the Senate, has six-year terms for each of its 100 members, but their expiration is staggered by constitutional mandate so that only one-third of the body is up for reelection every two years. To conduct this array of elections, the US Constitution requires that national elections be held at fixed two-year intervals, specifically the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November of even-numbered years. As a federal system, elections for subnational governments are often held in conjunction with elections for national office. Each of the fifty states has a chief executive (governor), and most have four-year terms. Thirty-six states hold gubernatorial elections in the off-year (the even-numbered year in between presidential elections). The remaining fourteen states hold their elections during the presidential election year, or in an odd-numbered off-year (Virginia and New Jersey are in this category). The states also hold elections for their legislatures. A number of them also have independently elected executive positions (such as treasurer or secretary of state). This can make the combined national-state ballot extremely long and unfamiliar to many voters (as there can be a great number of low-salience races on them). In addition, separation of powers at the national and state levels virtually guarantees that while voters may go to the polls every two years, they will not be voting to fill the same set of offices each time. This is actually quite demanding and confusing. Alan Abramowitz argues that “voting fatigue”—the idea that voters are constantly at the polls—contributes to low voter turnout in the United States (2004, p. 10). The US electoral system has several distinctive features. First, the president is not directly elected, but is instead selected by an electoral college. A candidate must win a simple majority of electoral votes to win. The number of electors is 538, one for each of the 435 members of the House of Representatives, one for each member of the Senate, and three for the District of Columbia, which is not represented in Congress. The number of electoral votes needed for victory is 270. Each state casts electoral votes equal to the number of its representatives in the House and its two senators. Also, each state determines how it will select electors to the Electoral College. Most states use a winner-takesall system, whereby the candidate who receives a plurality of votes in the state receives all the electoral votes. Two exceptions to this are the states of Maine and Nebraska,1 where two electors are chosen at large by statewide popular vote (reflecting the number of US senators) and the remaining electors are selected by the popular vote in each congressional district. It is possible for these states to choose a split slate of electors, but this has never happened.

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The Electoral College played a quiet role in supporting the two-party system (i.e., the winner-takes-all method of apportionment promotes two parties) until the 2000 presidential election, which was noteworthy for the suspicious circumstances around its resolution. Republican George W. Bush was elected by 271 members of the Electoral College, one above the number required. However, Democrat Al Gore received more popular votes in the nation overall, and the question of who received the most popular votes cast in the state of Florida became disputed.2 Ultimately, the state’s officials certified that Bush had won the state (and hence its entire slate of electors) by 537 votes out of a total of 5.8 million cast. While the details of the postelection events are well described elsewhere (Ceaser and Busch 2001, pp. 171–212), we can say the process of resolving the recount issue as well as the ultimate outcome of the election hints at the potential for corrupt connections. One reason is that the Supreme Court ultimately decided to prevent a recount that might have led to increased vote totals for Gore. That the Supreme Court voted seven to two, appearing to reflect the fact that Republicans appointed seven of the nine justices, while Democrats counted only two in their ranks, is itself telling. Second, the executive branch in Florida (including top election administrators), as well as the leadership of the legislative branch, was closely influenced by the state’s Republican governor, Jeb Bush, who also happens to be the younger brother of George W. Bush. In addition, the close election in Florida revealed a number of troubling aspects of the administration of elections in the United States, including the appropriateness of specific ballot formats (are they understandable to voters? see Wand et al. 2001), the human error involved in handling ballots (what to do with ballots that are not machine-readable, for instance), the lack of consistent standards statewide for how to conduct a recount or how to handle partially voted ballots, and the reality that human workers at the polls interpret the policies for operating the polls differently. Between then and now, several states (including Florida) have made significant investments in new voting systems (Kimball and Kropf 2005). However, the newer, “easier” voting systems are largely computer-driven, leading many skeptics to wonder about the ability to monitor for mistakes, intentional or not (Sneiderman 2003). Below the presidential level, the United States has a single-member plurality electoral system for the national legislature. Each state has two senators. Their terms are staggered intentionally so that both of a state’s senators almost never run for election in the same year. Members of the House of Representatives have a distinct geographic constituency that is determined by the legislature in their state. These district boundaries are reconfigured every ten years as a result of the constitutionally mandated population census. The 2000 census data determined whether a state’s representation would increase, decrease, or remain the same for the 2002–2012 elections. Currently, the average number of constituents per House district is 646,952 (US Census Bureau 2002). Eighteen states had changes in the number of representatives they would have

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for the current decade. A total of twelve seats were reapportioned (moved from one state to another), with eight states gaining seats and ten states losing seats. The states that lost seats were Connecticut, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Mississippi, New York, Ohio, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin. Most of these states are in the Northeast, and the losses generally hurt the Democrats’ electoral fortunes more than the Republicans’, because when states lose seats, incumbent members have stiffer reelection challenges, usually because they would have to face another incumbent member in a district, each of them only partially represented previously. The Democrats stood to lose more incumbents this way. The states that gained seats were Arizona, California, Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Nevada, North Carolina, and Texas. These states are in the “sunbelt,” which includes the Republican-dominated southern and western regions, so the Republicans are believed to have an advantage in congressional and presidential elections in the decade from 2002–2012 (Lublin 2004). The other major systemic change in recent years has been the passage of the Bipartisan Campaign Reform Act (BCRA) of 2002, which came into effect for the 2004 election cycle. The BCRA withstood a preelectoral test of its constitutionality and remained largely intact. Briefly, the BCRA’s intent was to eliminate the role of “soft money” in elections. Soft money comprises large donations from individuals, corporations, or labor unions to political parties to engage in advertising campaigns known as “issue advocacy.” Using a collection of legal loopholes, parties used these unlimited funds to help candidates get elected by running advertisements promoting them or their accomplishments, but not explicitly advocating their election or defeat (no “magic words” such as “vote for” or “vote against”). Quickly, observers noted the extensive similarity between issue ads and campaign ads (Herrnson and Dwyre 1999; Magleby 2000). Though the parties claimed that soft money helped them win elections, the bad press they received from it, combined with a number of corporate scandals by major companies that had been soft money contributors (e.g., Enron), led to successful reform legislation (a previous attempt had been made in 1998; see Dwyre and Farrar-Myers 2001). Whether the recent campaign finance law (discussed below) will end the influence of the wealthiest individuals on the outcome of the political process remains to be seen, but the intent of the legislators was to break the direct link between the political parties who nominate and elect candidates and the donors who desire particular policy outcomes. This was indeed achieved, but the less direct links may be even more harmful to the democratic process, especially because they are less visible.

Why These Two Parties? The theme of this volume is the prosperity of parties. What makes the United States unique is not the prosperity of just one party, but of our two particular parties. Why don’t new parties enter the system? Why doesn’t voter dissatis-

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faction result in the demise of losing parties? The answer is that the US context fits and in some ways supersedes the cartel party model (Katz and Mair 1995). The two US parties represent the state in significant ways. Any effort to dislodge the two-party system is met with the same sort of skepticism that Americans demonstrate when confronted with the suggestion of any alteration to the constitutional structure. How have the two parties been able to achieve this? The answers include: through the electoral system (first-past-the-post and primaries), through domination of ballot access and election procedures generally, through campaign finance, and through media predisposition toward reinforcing the “winning” aspect of elections. The Electoral System The large number of elections held at fixed times in the United States makes for a constant state of electioneering, and elections become forums for winning rather than arenas to evaluate the success or failure of particular policy initiatives. Worse still, in virtually every jurisdiction in the United States, electoral districts are single-member plurality, meaning there is only one winner in each race. That fact alone accounts for the dearth of serious party competition. If winning 24 percent of the vote in a four-party race yields nothing, what is the point in continuing the pursuit? Single-member plurality precedes the institutionalization of the two-party system in the United States; it has roots in the Constitution and later in reform of the congressional election system in the early part of the nineteenth century. However, the parties have had a hand in maintaining this electoral system, as well as in creating the other institutional barriers to competition. Single-member plurality systems normally produce two parties, since there is a chance that the second-place finisher could end up on top if the first-place finisher were to fall out of favor. In the US case, Democrats and Republicans are less threatened by the prospect of losing to each other than to an independent or a “third” party. The reason is clear—the current two-party system provides for an alternation of power at worst. The party losing a particular office is guaranteed to have strength elsewhere in the nation, and the loss of an office creates a self-sustaining goal of reclamation. Viable parties other than the Republicans and Democrats could displace one of the major parties and permanently change the power structure enjoyed by elected officials (this has happened in Canada several times in the past two decades). The United States is also unusual for inviting the electorate to choose the parties’ nominees. To solve a number of collective action and legal problems, the Democrats and Republicans have invited all voters who claim affiliation with their party through voter registration to choose the general election nominees. The United States is almost alone in this (though some countries such as Finland have parties that use primaries if the party organization is not able to resolve internal disagreement over candidates), and the electorate’s control

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in selecting nominees is a principal reason for the overall stagnation of the US party system. However, scholars of minor parties have long recognized that primaries are an important way for the two major parties to defuse dissent. By inviting all comers to participate in primaries, the Democrats and Republicans discourage serious pursuit of alternative party options. Because electoral laws in the states, through ballot access, create much higher barriers for new parties than for candidates seeking office as independents, aspirants for elective office pursue their ambitions by seeking a major-party nomination rather than blazing a new trail. This system virtually guarantees that realistic candidates will stay within the two-party system, further ensuring its hegemony. Locus of Power In their recent book The Formation of National Party Systems, Pradeep Chhibber and Kenneth Kollman (2004) argue that the explanation for the number of parties in a political system is not primarily the institutional factors mentioned above, but rather the location of power in the federal system. The more that voters perceive power at the national level, the fewer the number of parties. The more that voters perceive power at the local level, the more incentive there is for niche parties to emerge that will attract sufficient strength to be elected to office. This argument refutes many of the claims of scholars of parties and electoral systems worldwide, suggesting that institutional tinkering would not alter the performance of parties. However, the two arguments are obviously interrelated, especially in the US case, inasmuch as elected officials in the various states indeed cast themselves in the national political context as well as in their local context. Since helping to preserve the viability of their party can lead to political rewards, they tend to design local laws to protect the two national parties from successful regional interlopers. The US Constitution gives authority to the fifty states for determining the “time, place, and manner” of elections, which promotes the high degree of conformity found across states among electoral institutional features friendly to the two major parties. A number of important electoral rules are left to the states to decide, including: • Ballot access (requirements for parties and independents to get on the ballot—signature requirements, timelines for submission). • Voter registration requirements. • Ballot design and administration (paper, punch-card, computer, absentee, mail-in, early voting, staffing of polls, hours of polling places, recount procedures, etc.). • Campaign finance regulation in statewide (not national) elections. It should be clear that having so many issues decided at the subnational level actually deters the emergence of new regional political parties. Political actors outside the two-party mainstream will have no experience dealing with the

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technicalities of election administration, especially when dealing with administrators who are not so secretly partisan. Many challenges to electoral laws by minor parties end up in the judicial system. While sometimes justice is achieved there, it almost always arrives long after the election at hand has been held and the winners installed. Ballot access. The fact that candidates for the presidency have to master fifty

separate ballot access procedures in itself discourages minor-party candidacies. In addition, virtually every state makes it easier for candidates to join the ballot as an Independent candidate, rather than as a candidate of any new or minor party. For example, Ross Perot ran as an Independent in 1992 and as the nominee of the Reform Party in 1996, after a much longer process to secure ballot access. In 2000, Ralph Nader ran predominantly as the Green Party’s candidate and as an Independent in the few states that would not grant the Green Party ballot position. He appeared on forty-three ballots altogether. Democrat Al Gore’s narrow defeat in the 2000 election was credited, by some, to Nader’s presidential candidacy as a nominee of the Green Party, especially in the state of Florida, which reinforced, to Democrats at least, the idea that minor parties are “spoilers” and seek to inhibit the election of the viable candidate closest to the minor party’s position. For a variety of reasons, Nader did not receive the Green Party’s nomination in 2004, and instead sought to gain ballot access by standing either as the nominee of the Reform Party (the party of Ross Perot, which still had automatic ballot access in a few states) or as an Independent. However, from 1996 to 2004, the Reform Party lost ballot position in all but seven states. Despite considerable legal and political hurdles (including a well-orchestrated effort by prominent Democrats to derail his ballot access efforts in several key states and less prominent efforts by Republicans to help him; see Seelye 2004), Nader managed to gain access to ballots in thirty-four states and the District of Columbia. However, Nader attracted less than one-sixth the number of voters he did in 2000, managing to marginalize himself and his issues (Shane 2004). Voter registration. Many political scientists have studied whether varying

registration requirements in the states suppress voter turnout. With the adoption of the “Motor Voter” law, easing and forcing some minimal conformity among the states, registration rates have risen, but not voter turnout. For the purposes of party prosperity, voter registration is extremely important in promoting twoparty hegemony in states holding closed primaries. Closed primaries mean that only individuals registered with a particular party may vote in the primary election. In virtually every instance, this means voters must declare a major-party affiliation early on, and then vote in only that party’s state primary. According to Richard Winger of Ballot Access News, only seventeen states fund primaries for political parties (personal e-mail communication). Some states have

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tried to open participation in primaries to nonaffiliated (Independent) voters, and to allow voters who are registered in one party to vote in the primary of the other party. These states have either open or blanket primaries. However, the Democrats and Republicans object strongly to efforts to open the primaries and even filed a brief together in the Supreme Court case California Democratic Party v. Jones (2000) challenging California’s voter-initiated blanket primary. Indeed, the Democrats and Republicans prevailed, adding constitutional blessings to their hegemony. The Supreme Court found that the interests of the political parties in restricting access to their own members (i.e., registered voters) to choose nominees through their right to freedom of association, and the stabilizing effect this had on the political system, outweighed the interests of the state in promoting higher levels of voter participation. Ballot design. Problems with citizen use of voting equipment have been ex-

tensively discussed since the 2000 elections. Recently, every state has had to examine its administration of elections under the Help America Vote Act (HAVA), which deals with both voter registration disputes and upgrades to voting equipment. First, HAVA mandates offering provisional ballots at precinct places for people whose voting registration cannot be verified on election day. If the voter’s registration can be verified, his or her provisional ballot is counted after the polls close. Second, HAVA also requires either that voters are able to check for errors before they cast a vote or that voter education programs exist to minimize voter confusion (Kimball and Kropf 2005). David Kimball and Martha Kropf find that since 2000, 691 counties have upgraded their voting equipment, though very few states have required uniform voting technologies among all counties. Their analysis also shows that the switch to new technologies seems to have resolved many of the problems of improperly counted votes. The drop in residual vote rates from 2000 to 2004 was much higher among counties that switched from old to new equipment (2.4 percent to 1.0 percent) than among those that used the same equipment (1.5 percent to 1.1 percent) (Kimball and Kropf 2005, p. 15). Thus, national, state, and local officials have been responsive to critiques of the 2000 election, and their actions have taken a major issue away from a potential “reform” party. Campaign finance. The regulation of campaign finance in the United States

was designed by the Democrats and Republicans (who hold virtually every legislative seat at the state and national levels, and whose candidates have held almost every chief executive post at both levels for more than 140 years) to monitor their own campaign behavior. The system is primarily privately financed, with a few provisions for public funding. Some states have departed significantly from the national model, adopting a “clean election” option, allowing candidates to decline raising money privately, receiving instead a set

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amount of public money and free or reduced television advertising time. Three states (Maine, Arizona, and Vermont) have had this system since 2000, Massachusetts has had it since 2002, and New Mexico and North Carolina recently adopted these provisions in 2002 and 2003, respectively; Connecticut has adopted clean-election laws for the 2008 elections.3 It is unlikely that any system of this sort will be adopted at the national level. Currently, limited public money goes to “qualified” candidates at the national level for presidential nomination and general election campaigns run by major political parties. In the 2004 election, neither major party’s presidential nominee used the early pot of public money, which may further marginalize any non-major party’s chances of entering the electoral scene. Campaign money raised and spent for campaigns for federal office (including the presidency and all seats in the Senate and House of Representatives) is regulated through the Federal Election Campaign Act of 1971, the Federal Election Campaign Act Amendments of 1974, and the Bipartisan Campaign Reform Act of 2002. These laws are administered by the Federal Election Commission (FEC), which comprises a board of six governors appointed by the president, by and with the advice and consent of the Senate; no more than three members of the FEC may be affiliated with the same political party. Since 1974, the president and the majority and minority parties in the Senate have been either Democrats or Republicans. Thus the FEC has had three Democrats and three Republicans since that time. Hence the commission is bipartisan. The investors in the two major parties have a great interest in perpetuating the duopoly of the system. Presidential campaign finance: Mix of public and private funds. The Fed-

eral Election Campaign Act Amendments of 1974 provided for public money to pay campaign costs for qualifying parties’ nomination and general election campaigns. The law allows candidates seeking those parties’ nominations to receive public money matching funds. Qualifying parties are also entitled to public money grants to hold their nominating conventions. Finally, the general election nominees of qualifying parties receive identical amounts of public money to finance their postnomination campaign activities. Only parties qualifying as “major” receive the full subvention. Major parties are those whose nominee received 25 percent or more of the popular vote nationwide in the previous presidential election. Since the public finance system went into effect in 1974, only the Democrats and Republicans have qualified as major parties. Therefore, only the Democrats and Republicans have received public money on the day of their nomination (i.e., in advance of the conduct of the general election campaign). While other parties have at times had candidates receive matching funds (Nader received matching funds in 2004, for example), almost all the matching funds have gone to the Democrats and Republicans.

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Minor parties are entitled to reimbursement for general election expenses only after the election is concluded and the party has garnered from 5 to 25 percent of the popular vote nationwide. The search for the 5 percent threshold was one motivating factor behind Ralph Nader’s Green Party candidacy in 2000, and explained why Ross Perot sought ballot position as the Reform Party nominee in 1996. Perot garnered 9 percent of the national vote that year, which allowed the Reform Party to qualify for $12.6 million in federal money in advance of the general election (Jelen 2001, p. xii; FEC 2000). New minor parties receive a subvention partially covering convention costs in the election cycle after their initial 5 percent success under the law. This means that a viable national candidacy almost must be waged by someone of independent wealth such as Ross Perot. It is too difficult to compete with the major parties’ public money advantage otherwise. But Perot’s gains in the two-party system were temporary. As Ted Jelen explains, Patrick Buchanan’s “paltry showing of just under 1 percent in 2000 ensures that the Reform Party will not qualify for federal campaign funds in 2004” (2001, p. xii). Congressional campaign finance. Unlike the presidential campaigns, con-

gressional campaigns do not receive any public monies. They are entirely privately financed within the regulations imposed by the law. However, the major parties have such a significant fundraising presence that minor-party candidates cannot hope to compete on a level playing field. With only market forces at play, minor parties have even less of a chance to fund visible candidates than they do at the presidential level. In the 2004 elections, 2,219 candidates for the House of Representatives raised a total of $1.2 billion to wage their campaigns. Of this 2,219, only 27 were not Democrats or Republicans. These candidates were listed as Independents, Libertarians, or Green Party candidates, and together raised $1.4 million, just over 1 percent of the total. One of these candidates, Independent Bernie Sanders of Vermont, is an incumbent member of Congress who, while emphatically rejecting the label of “Democrat,” receives Democratic committee assignments and party communications in the House of Representatives. Given that he functions as a Democrat, and that his receipts of $836,000 were typical for a Democratic incumbent, we see that the remaining 26 candidates raised $623,354 among them. This amount is 0.0005 percent of the total raised by all other major party candidates. Thus it seems clear that to succeed in raising funds as a congressional candidate, one should pick a major party as a nominator. Political parties and the financing of politics. The FEC also determines

whether organizations count as national party committees, entitling them to higher contribution limits. The bipartisan commission makes the determination based on whether the parties field presidential candidates, run candidates for congressional office, and have statewide nominating conventions. In recent

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years, the FEC has demoted the Green Party from national committee status to that of a multicandidate committee, and may yet do the same with the Reform Party. That the decision is up to representatives of the two major parties using criteria that prohibit any other creative strategy (such as a regional campaign, pursued by many previously successful minor parties in US history) from being employed. Donors: The financiers of US politics. Most of the resources used to finance

elections in the United States are private. Individuals, political action committees, and political parties are the major contributors to campaigns. In the election years from 1996 to 2002, corporations and labor unions made sizable contributions to funds that were created to advocate for issues, but that were found to be primarily aimed at “electioneering” in their form and content. Nonetheless, the current flow of money to the major parties contributes to their prosperity. The largest proportion of donations comes from individuals. Many of these individuals make sizable contributions and, as a group, individual donors to political campaigns make up a small fraction of the US population (for the 1996 cycle, only 12.5 percent of the population reported making a donation to a political organization, but only 0.2 percent of the population reported contributions to federal candidates of $200 or more; see Francia et al. 2003). There are two immediate concerns here. The first and most popular is that donors expect a certain return on their investment from lawmakers—such as a tangible favor or a beneficial amendment. Second, and perhaps more insidious along the lines of Elmer Schattschneider’s concerns, is the idea that elected officials spend more time with donors than they do with “average” citizens, and that over time, they begin to believe that the concerns of their donors represent the concerns of all citizens, when in fact they do not. An even more cynical interpretation of this problem comes from Thomas Ferguson (1995), who argues that historically, profit-seeking firms have invested heavily in both Democrats and Republicans to ensure not just that specific favors are received but that destabilizing proposals do not come onto the agenda. In essence, the investors find that the two-party system protects them from any significant anticapitalistic regimes coming to power. The key is to keep minor parties out of competition, as either of the two major parties will preserve business’s privileged position. Indeed, this facet of the “cartel” has particularly incensed some Republicans, who have tried hard to force the business community to choose sides, but to little avail. Since enactment of the BCRA, in fact, corporations have declined to contribute as much as they had under soft money rules, choosing to rely on their structural power rather than their direct contributions. Media Bias Toward Covering Likely “Winners” The importance of media coverage in US electoral politics cannot be understated. Especially since the presidential election of 1960, candidates for public

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office must get on television and must do what they can to get voters to remember them. Having a “brand” name that is recognizable goes a long way toward achieving that recognition, and voters and journalists alike respond to “Republican” and “Democrat” as labels attached to likely winners of elections. The media respond accordingly, seeing their role to report newsworthy events and individuals, and in the process to weed out irrelevant information. This explains the lack of meaningful coverage of minor parties and their candidates. According to Doris Graber, these minor candidates “have no chance to win the fight; therefore they simply are not ‘big news’ to the mass audience. Lack of coverage, in turn, makes it extremely difficult for them to become well known and increase their chances of winning elections. This is an example of unintentional bias built into media coverage in favor of established political forces” (1980, p. 164). Thomas Patterson has a less benign view of media bias. In an article about the overreliance on and misinterpretation of public opinion polls by journalists, Patterson argues that reporters tend to find what they want to see in these documents. Media coverage is governed by poll position, causing the media coverage of each major-party presidential candidate to be “clothed in an imagery consistent with his position in the race” (2005, p. 7). Of course, lack of solid poll standings is one of the biggest problems that minor parties face, and the lack of serious media coverage makes the problem a circular one indeed, as Graber explains.

Who Does Not Prosper Under the Current US System? If Democrats and Republicans prosper under the current system, then who does not? The answer is obvious: those who do not currently vote, those who do not contribute to or invest in the political system, and those who believe that the two major parties do not represent their views. Nonvoters While voter participation increased in the 2004 presidential election over the 2000 election (to 64 percent of the eligible adult population, up from 60 percent, according to the US Census Bureau, but other scholars calculate the rate as being somewhat lower and not quite a historic high), it is still far lower than in most other established democracies. The lack of full participation has been continually lamented by most observers of US politics as an artifact of an uneducated mass base, but others, such as Murray Edelman (1988), attribute lack of participation to quiescence, the idea that the political system seems trapped in a quagmire of limited choices, where the consequences of a change in partisan control (or even officeholders) make a marginal difference in outcomes. The 2004 election was especially noteworthy for extensive efforts by both parties’ supporters to increase voter registration, and hence participation. The new

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Democratic-leaning “527” organizations,4 such as America Coming Together and Moveon.org, plus special efforts like MTV’s Rock the Vote and Music for America, tried hard to target the normally apathetic youth vote, stressing, perhaps a bit too much, the significant differences among the presidential candidates. While more Americans participated in the process than in recent history, it is clear that a significant proportion of the American electorate will not grant the political system legitimacy through voting. And while it cannot be proven, the hypothesis that the two-party system is responsible for this state of affairs is certainly enticing. Noncontributors If a large minority of Americans don’t vote, the vast majority do not contribute to politics. There are two ways for Americans to underwrite the costs of politics: through the checkoff on federal income tax returns (for the presidential financing system), and through direct contributions to political parties and candidates. In 2004, about 10 percent of American taxpayers chose to have $3 of the tax they owed to the federal government diverted to the Presidential Election Campaign Fund). This does not increase a citizen’s tax liability. It allows him or her to indicate that financing elections is a personal priority. The 10 percent participation rate is down from 20 percent in the early 1980s. However, the Campaign Finance Institute (2005) does not believe that this decline is due to frustration with the system, but rather to lack of information about the checkoff, and the fact that various tax credit programs have resulted in many citizens not filing tax returns. Mostly, though, people who do not invest in politics are likely not to have much disposable income, and are likely to value contributions to charitable rather than political causes in any event. Some have suggested voucher systems (Adamany and Agree 1976) to limit each person’s contribution to $50, but then to force candidates to appeal to all potential voters (especially those who don’t normally participate in politics) to finance their campaigns. While the ideas are laudable, the current party system finds contributors neatly divided between the two major contenders, with only a bit of overlap through the business interests that Ferguson explores. Those Who Have Alternative Views Obviously, if the two major parties dominate the electoral landscape at the national and subnational levels, then alternative views are not heard. Indeed, given the paltry but pivotal support for Ralph Nader and the Green Party in 2000, even liberal critics blamed Nader for Democrat Al Gore’s loss in Florida, and thus the presidential election. The attitude toward alternative party candidates in 2004 was extraordinarily sour for this reason, even from the left’s most ardent adherents. Numerous websites emerged from 2002 to 2004 imploring Ralph Nader not to run for the presidency. The editors of The Nation, perhaps the most visible leftist magazine in the United States, begged

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him not to run in an “open letter.” But Barry Grey (2004), writing for the World Socialist Website, explains the left’s reaction to Nader best: More fundamentally, Nader’s intervention and the extreme reaction it has provoked from within the political establishment reflect the fragile and crisis-ridden state of the American two-party system. The political monopoly of two parties beholden to the propertied elite has served to defend the basic interests of the American ruling class for more than a century. But this system has grown so sclerotic, insulated and alienated from the population at large that it can no longer tolerate the raising of any serious social or democratic issues or any criticisms that go beyond the most banal and superficial.

Further, Paul Frymer argues in Uneasy Alliances (1999) that certain groups, specifically African Americans, have been purposefully neglected by both major parties, even by the Democratic Party, which receives the great bulk of their votes. They are effectively captured by the Democrats because the Republicans do not want their votes (appealing to them would alienate their base), and African Americans have nowhere else to go but the Democratic Party. Because so much of the American public reacts negatively to racial issues, Frymer argues that national parties will fail to become vehicles for racial progress (1999, p. 180). In addition, Frymer argues that two other groups, gays and lesbians and Christian conservatives, have tense relations with the two parties. Gays and lesbians may also be “captured” by the Democrats, but as with blacks, their agenda has been ignored by their “parent” party and their numbers and current position in society prevent them from starting viable third parties. Christian conservatives, on the other hand, a bloc that two decades ago was divided between the two major parties, are now a critical component of the Republican Party’s ability to form electoral majorities. Far from having been captured by Republicans, they seem to have captured the stewardship of the Republican Party. The Christian Right seems to have the potential to break off and realize electoral success on its own, particularly in a few key states, an exit threat that undoubtedly influences current Republican politics. As long as this strategy produces electoral majorities, the Christian Right will stay with the party and the Republicans will modify their agenda in that direction. But the two major parties do have to contend with a tenuous situation—having to monitor the threat significant constituent blocs pose to their longevity.

Conclusion Hence we come full circle. Barry Grey correctly explains that the most ideologically wistful will put their policy preferences behind the hope of being part of a winning coalition. The prosperity of the two major parties in the United States is the result of more than the factors discussed in this chapter. It is also based on limiting choice at the polls, ridiculing ideas that are not at the main-

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stream, restricting participation in politics to those whose votes are most reliably at the median, and courting the financial support of the very interests they regulate. Worst of all, the parties prosper because of the belief of American citizens that the ability of a political party to win control of an office is more important than whether it can change public policy in a favorable way. It is this quiescence that allows the Democrats and Republicans to write the rules of the political game, making sure that they are the only participants. The prosperity of the US two-party system is a result of the power those parties hold over the institutional structures in which they operate.

Notes 1. For an excellent discussion of the Electoral College, see http://www.archives .gov/federal_register/electoral_college, the website of the National Archives and Records Administration (NARA), which handles the official paperwork of the Electoral College. 2. The winner of the national popular vote and the winner of the Electoral College vote are usually the same, but not always. Exceptions are the presidential elections of 1876 and 1888. See the NARA website cited above. The election of 1824 is sometimes put into this category, but previous research of my own disputes the veracity of the popular vote totals widely cited (Kolodny 1996). 3. See http://www.publicampaign.org. 4. The term 527 refers to a section of the income tax code for nonprofit organizations that engage in political activity. While prohibited from campaigning for particular candidates, 527s are allowed to promote issues and public awareness of candidate positions, and encourage people to participate in the political process. The great attraction of these entities is that under current law, they are not subject to campaign contribution limits, since they are technically prohibited from electioneering. However, later in the 2004 campaign, their role in voter registration activities and issue-advertising later in the campaign was significant, especially with the political parties now barred from receiving similar unlimited donations.

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PART 4 Conclusions

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Becoming the Party of Government PETER H. MERKL

I

t should be clear by now, after reading all the country (or regional) chapters, that there is considerable disagreement and confusion among country experts regarding the meaning of party success or well-being. Some simply assume that winning a majority for a party at an important national election is the epitome of success and prosperity for that party. Next to that majoritarian image of success there is also one that credits minority parties—Florence Haegel and Marc Lazar call them “antisystem parties” in their chapter on France—under certain circumstances, with the capacity to achieve a moral triumph (in their own eyes), as will be explained below. However, the ultimate in party success and prosperity, becoming a party of government, seems to require the acquisition of long-term, national legitimacy. Individualistic Americans, in contrast to more group-oriented democracies, tend to opt for the majoritarian version of party success, because theirs is essentially a two-party system of long standing that in recent years has tended toward extreme partisan polarization and near-equality between the parties. After a hard electoral struggle, a majority achieved by means fair or foul seems to call for either supreme, self-righteous elation or deep despair. Given the extraordinarily high proportion of nonvoters in the United States—one of the highest among Western democracies—the equality of the parties also puts a premium on mobilizing groups of previous nonvoters (say, religious conservatives) for a winning margin in the polls. On closer examination, however, this majoritarian scenario may be fleeting: the current degree of polarization between the two “hard cores” of the parties, for example, will eventually return to the traditional struggle for the center of the ideological spectrum, to fluctuation or a floating vote between the moderate right and the moderate left. The fickle choice of the “independents,” a bloc that is beginning to rival in size

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the faithful of either party, may decide major elections and dilute the image of majority success of either party core. To complicate the illusion of US party success further, we also need to recall the profound impact of the separation of powers and federalism on the significance of a single national election victory, or even a series of such victories. Throughout the Federalist Papers, James Madison and Alexander Hamilton pointed out how the separation of powers would curb the spirit of faction and popular majorities in the US House of Representatives (Federalist Papers 1961, nos. 10, 51). A number of specialists on US party history, since Elmer Schattschneider in 1942, have also stressed the effect of the division between presidents and the two houses of Congress—and the fact that these branches have seldom been all in the hands of the same party—as a diminution of any single electoral majority obtained. The decentralized nature of the US system, both in the autonomy of state politics from national electoral majorities and in the pluralism of corporate and public opinion, further dilutes the significance of electoral successes, even over time. Having pointed to the importance of the separation of powers, federalism, and US presidentialism for conceptions of party success, however, we must remind ourselves that many Western democratic systems have none of these. Instead they have unitary, parliamentary systems with a prime minister elected by parliament and perhaps a figurehead president or constitutional monarch who plays no role in party politics—for example, Britain, Sweden, federal Germany, Italy, Israel, and Japan, as discussed in this book. There are also some hybrid systems—for example, in postcommunist Eastern Europe (federal Russia, Poland, Lithuania) and Latin America (Mexico, Uruguay, Chile)—where a dominant, long-serving president towers over a prime minister who is quite dependent on the president. In these cases, at least, there are important national elections, presidential or legislative, that may encourage a vision of a successful party. And then there is France, a true balanced hybrid with a strong president and a potentially strong premier—often of the main opposition party, which may have won its own electoral majority since the last presidential election. Only in France may we find anything like the decentralizing effect of the US separation of powers on party success.

Coalitions and Composite Majorities for Success But what if the nature of a political system, its pluralistic society, or even its electoral laws do not facilitate the capture of a majority by a single force? Aside from the United States and Britain,1 and perhaps Japan (if we ignore the endemic factionalism in the Liberal Democratic Party [LDP]) (Fukui 1978, pp. 43–47), most democratic systems are unlikely to produce majorities for any but transient phases. Instead, coalitions and ad hoc alliances of parties have been designated to play the role of the frequently successful majority party. Among our collection of successful parties, there are far more such composite majori-

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ties than single majority parties. Even the glorious Forza Italia has generally governed only with the help of such coalition mates as the National Alliance— the former neofascist Italian Social Movement—under its leader Gianfranco Fini and Umberto Bossi’s regionalist Northern League. To reduce conflicts in this ménage à trois, moreover, Berlusconi contrived to have what were really two coalitions, the Pole of Freedoms with Forza Italia and the Northern League for the north, and the Pole of Good Government with Forza Italia and National Alliance for southern Italy, for his hegemonic majority. It was an ingenious, successful adaptation to the problems of government in a regionally diverse country (see Chapter 14). Germany’s “successful” Christian Democrats (the Christian Democratic Union [CDU] and Christian Socialist Union [CSU]), though hovering at a level of about 40 percent for half a century, have also needed a coalition partner, usually the libertarian Free Democratic Party (FDP), to reach a majority in the Bundestag (parliament) (see Chapter 8). Like many commentators, Theo Schiller called the German FDP “a perpetual government party because it has been in changing coalitions in most German postwar governments, sometimes with the CDU/CSU, sometimes the SPD [Social Democratic Party]” (Schiller, in Wehling 1990, pp. 63–85). And even the Swedish Social Democrats generally needed to be in coalition with the Left Party to attain the dominant level (Vedung, in Lawson and Merkl 1988, pp. 76–109). In the most recent elections (2006), in fact, they lost their hegemony to a right-wing coalition (see Chapter 3). So the achievement by a party of a single majority at the polls is not the only, or even a sufficient, criterion for lasting “prosperity” status or for being a natural party of government. Nearly all the parties singled out by the contributors to this book, in fact, are far from the majority mark. Instead, either they are hegemonic plurality parties that usually form government coalitions or they have merged for success with another, larger, and longer-established party—as in the cases of the Lithuanian Social Democratic Party and Polish Democratic Left Alliance, social democratic parties that have merged with remnants of old state communist parties. The image of Western party success conjured up by Richard Rose and Neil Munro in their 2003 book Political Parties in New European Democracies, of “the same parties competing time and again” over the years and their electoral scores changing only a few points from election to election, obviously fails to capture the volatile “prosperity” of these postcommunist parties of Eastern Europe (see Chapters 5 and 6). It may not quite fit successful parties in Latin America either, as our chapters on Chile and Uruguay—or the example of the Shas party of Israel, for that matter—would suggest (see Chapters 7, 12, and 13). Perhaps party success in Israel and Chile only signifies the promise of and eligibility for future participation in government.2 If winning a majority in an important national election (with the limitations mentioned above) seems like a good choice for conceptions of party success, the same may apply to a stable, successful majoritarian coalition that

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campaigned and won such a victory. Most democratic countries, in fact, have multiparty systems, and rarely produce electoral majorities for any party. But even where coalition governments are the only choice—in some systems (for example, Britain) they are not considered a legitimate formula for forming a government—we also should not expect that the voters always know ahead of time what coalitions are under consideration, or even likely. More often than not, the knot is tied only after lengthy negotiations and long after the elections, which of course diminishes the role of the voters in choosing them. Sometimes, also, coalition involves the hasty and furtive inclusion in the government of a minority or even outcast or antisystem party the voters might have rejected. We cannot take for granted the social equality of all parties. “Coalition mathematics” requires not only the accumulation of a majority in parliament, but also a degree of compatibility in party programs and agendas.

Party Success as a Minority Triumph This leads us to situations—all too common among party systems abroad, if less familiar in the United States—where the various parties are not, or not yet, considered social equals. Actually, even the United States has had its unequal minority parties, especially third parties that survived the hostility and discrimination of the two dominant parties, such as Eugene Debs’s Socialists and today’s Greens. Unlike the United States, many democratic countries have plural or divided societies, made up of ethnically, religiously, or economically divided communities, each with their own parties, held together by tenuous national loyalties and expectations of eventually growing closer. While a particular such community may gradually become more integrated with the majority (Rokkan, in Mair 1990, pp. 139–149), in the meantime it may suffer discrimination along ethnic, religious, or class lines, or at first be excluded from national elections by restrictive suffrage laws. European specialists on the development of social movements and parties have long been fascinated by the slow process by which particularly such underdogs as labor movements and parties have won a place at the table. They are the only onetime despised minorities that over the years, and by recognizable steps, have turned into majorities—for instance, the Labour Party in Britain, the Socialist Party in France, and the Social Democratic Party in Germany—and even become legitimate “parties of government.” Industrialization and the growth of capitalism gave birth to trade unions and early workers’ parties, but they also motivated the established upper classes and the owners of the new industries to keep unions and labor parties from sharing access to the levers of power in the emerging parliamentary democracies. The conflicts between employers and organized workers, between capital and labor—especially under the impact of the Great War in Europe—in turn radicalized most workers in the direction of Marxism, communism, and the Bol-

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shevik Revolution. As Florence Haegel and Marc Lazar explain in their chapter on France, countries where parties are lacking in legitimacy and institutionalization still exhibit the attitudes of minority protest against the “higher-ups,” the government, the big corporations, and even the established major parties— Chirac’s Popular Movement Union and Rally for the Republic, and the Socialist Party—which have both shown their ability to win majorities in presidential and parliamentary elections. The smaller parties on the extreme fringes, left and right, view themselves as “antisystem parties” fighting against the Socialist Party and the Popular Movement Union as much as against the rest of the established forces. The extreme-right National Front and the gaggle of communist, Trotzkyist, feminist, and ecological parties take pride in their voting totals, which may be worthy of a major party (Flanagan and Dalton, in Mair 1990, pp. 232–246).3 To understand such a sense of subjective success of a minority, we need to go into the history of European labor movements. Among Western democratic, or incipient democratic, systems, no party movement received more credit as a “successful antisystem party” than the gaggle of new socialist parties of the early twentieth century, which first sought to translate organized labor movements into party machines to capture votes for parliament and stake a claim to labor-friendly legislation and administrative leadership. With the slow progress of suffrage expansion in European class societies, there was obviously a great moral triumph in achieving any official representation at all for the industrial working class. They could hardly expect an immediate electoral majority, but earned their “deserved success” in retrospect and in the larger perspective, not by the moral purity of their intentions at the time,4 which naturally reflected the opportunities and mores of their day: they were, after all, the pioneers who showed the way for the often untamed and critically divided strains of the young labor movements, once universal suffrage came into view, to represent the newly enfranchised workers in a framework of constitutional democracy. In some cases, for example in Germany, social democratic parties played a decisive role as midwives in the progress of democracy against reactionary, feudal or corporate, and ultimately fascist resistance in their respective countries.5 For our purposes here, however, the rub lies in their amazing step-by-step transformation from deserving antisystem parties into “respectable,” potential majority, or government parties conscious of their moral obligation to be staatstragende (state-supporting) pillars of the democratic state. While some of their leaders and factions discovered this ambition early, the completion of their path toward becoming a party of government often required decades of internal conflict and sorting-out from the date of their foundation, past major upheavals of war, revolution, and right-wing dictatorship. What, for example, distinguished the mature post–World War II German Social Democratic Party from its Weimar (1919–1933) and imperial (1871–1933) predecessors, who owed their initial success to having provided representative linkage to the newly enfranchised proletarians of industrial society? Riven by contentious

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divisions into factions attracted to the Russian Revolution—they called themselves the German Communist Party (KPD)—and those willing to grudgingly cooperate with liberal-democratic elements of the rising Weimar Republic, they were in fact instrumental in the uncertain birth and life of Weimar democracy. But the pre-Nazi Social Democrats were still living in a closed, sectarian, Marxist world that rarely looked beyond the solitary interests of this embattled working class. After 1945, chastened by a devastating war and a brutal dictatorship— both of which also killed large numbers of socialists and trade unionists—the German Social Democrats reemerged with an increasingly new outlook: they began to leave the tower of sectarian Marxism and would have been quite ready to take on governmental responsibility in the interest of all Germans, had not the Allied occupation6 and the new tilt toward Chancellor Konrad Adenauer’s Christian Democrats, the first German “catchall party,” intervened. It took until 1959, at the Social Democrats’ Bad Godesberg Conference, for the party to shed its old skin and to become an open “catchall party,” too,7 welcoming all comers and all groups, and pledged equally to humanism, Christianity, and Marxism. It also embraced most of the once-protested positions of Adenauer’s government, for example regarding foreign and defense policy. And it began to concentrate so avidly on winning future elections that, after every legislative term, it added another 3–4 percent to its electoral share, until by 1972, under Chancellor Willy Brandt, it had reached the level of a party capable of forming majority governments (Braunthal 1996, pp. 65–75). From the stage of the moral triumph of representing a minority, mostly workers, the German Social Democrats had advanced to the threshold of becoming a party of government. The British Labour Party, of course, had already demonstrated a similar, remarkable rise, from an unsteady, if admirable, third or opposition party role to that of undisputed majority leadership of Britain in 1945–1951, when its encompassing social and economic reform program, thanks to the Beveridge report, firmly directed the country toward its future as a modern society (Lloyd 1993, pp. 284–294). In similar fashion, Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s Democrats in the Great Depression caused the realignment of 1932/1936—after decades of Republican hegemony, interrupted only by the accident of Woodrow Wilson’s rise8—and brought about the New Deal coalition. Despite some disappointments and the outbreak of World War II, the New Deal created a long-lasting aura and the electoral loyalties of a party of government that made it difficult for the core of the Republicans to make a comeback.9 There are other examples of left-of-center labor parties moving from sectarian opposition, even antisystem “success,” to the status of broadly appealing people’s parties capable of majority support. More recent examples are the Mediterranean socialist parties of France, under François Mitterrand; Italy, under Bettino Craxi—waiting eagerly for the “Mitterrand effect” to strike the

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Italian electorate; Spain, under Felipe Gonzalez; and Greece, under Andreas Papandreou, where the party, with varying success, went from militant opposition to a role of responsible party government. And there is now the example of Italy’s Democratic Party of the Left, which, in the midst of the great Italian party meltdown of the early 1990s, evolved from the already huge if sectarian Italian Communist Party into a people’s party capable of assembling, in this multiparty system, great coalitions of the left (see Chapter 14). Some of the new postcommunist social democratic parties of Eastern Europe that grew directly from state communist antecedents may also fit into this category (see Chapters 5, 6, and 10). Obviously these examples span considerable diversity, but they each do exemplify broader qualitative differences between the posture of perpetual opposition parties, at times perhaps even “antisystem success,” and that of parties of government than their numerical shares of the vote would suggest. The US example of alternating electoral triumphs between two parties, perhaps fits our model less well than the linear advance of European socialist parties toward moral respectability and majority status.10

A Party of Government There are two kinds of success, majoritarian and minority “triumph.” Unlike the moral triumph of a minority—which is perhaps a historical, even dysfunctional leftover unless related to a contemporary ethnic or religious minority— a political party should be able to point to majority approval, or be thought obviously capable of it, to be an electorally successful, “respectable party” in a democratic polity. But it should also be, have been, or aspire to become recognized as a “natural party of government” for a majority of the electorate, a goal rarely missed by the propaganda of conservative parties, from Silvio Berlusconi’s Forza Italia to the much older German Christian Democrats and Jacques Chirac’s Gaullist Popular Movement Union and Rally for the Republic, not to mention the Japanese Liberal Democrats. Nor was this thought absent from the determined recent acquisition of the valence issues of Britain by Tony Blair’s New Labour Party (see Chapter 2) or the long reign—sixty-four of the past seventy-five years (1933–2007)—of the best-established European social democratic party, the Swedish Social Democrats (see Chapter 3). Obviously, it helps for a party to have been around for more than one generation, so that voters find its politicians not just familiar but trustworthy and dependable. Being considered the natural party of government may be even better than obliging one’s voters by pursuing desired policies or maintaining dependable linkages between strong social groups and the party, the two prime inducements for voting support and, incidentally, also common remedies for a fading image of being the “natural” party of government. It helps, of course, to have wrested the governmental posture along with the valence issues from the grasp of previous champions such as the declining Tories of Margaret Thatcher or John

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Major.11 Or to transform starchy old socialist mass parties into sleek, vote-getting machines, media-savvy and centralized around a centrist, charismatic leader like Blair in his heyday, as William E. Paterson, James Sloam, and David McKay have explained the process in Chapters 2 and 4. As in Robert Michels’s classic (1957, 2001), the role of the charismatic leader, however ephemeral in establishing natural authority, is mentioned over and over in the contributions to this book. Elementary appeals to the flag and patriotism or, in the case of the German Christian Democrats, having “founded” the Federal Republic—twice, in 1949 and again with German unification in 1989–1990— are part and parcel of this image-conscious maintenance of natural authority beyond rational choices of policies.12 Emphasizing the numerical threshold of parties of government, of course, is not to say that the winning of majorities and of elections is the all-consuming priority in a bipolar, competitive system—if it were, it is a safe bet that a majority party would not be able to hang on to all of its following for long: a minor internal rebellion or unexpected wedge issue would sooner or later push it off its pedestal. Major parties do have to offer a substantive appeal to unite their usually quite heterogeneous following—the bigger the majority, the more heterogeneous. The return of the US Republicans on the strength of a neoconservative message is a good case in point (see Chapter 16). After the Watergate denouement of the Richard Nixon era, the rise of the charismatic Ronald Reagan seems to have been their first major triumph, although Reagan did not win control over Congress. From its very beginnings, the Reagan era was credited with a “feel-good” factor that had all the attributes of the sense of legitimacy of the return of a party of government. With some notable exceptions—his signature tax cut, which he largely rescinded, his defense buildup, and his murderous Central American policies, which remained rather hidden from public view—his domestic policies were rather moderate and did not match his right-wing rhetoric against “big government,” liberal judges, the welfare state, and “tax-and-spend” liberalism.13 While the real nature of Reagan’s iconic stature for Republicans may still be mysterious, the decisive assault on the ramparts of Democratic majority power came in the mid-1990s with the takeover of Congress and many formerly Democratic state governorships, not to mention the capture of the print and broadcast media by giant corporations. Behind Newt Gingrich and his “Contract for America” stood a determined attack on all environmental and workplace safety regulation of business and on taxation and financial oversight of banks and investment operations, for example by gutting the budgets of the Internal Revenue Service and the Security and Exchange Commission. While the economy boomed as never before—massive corporate growth and development hid massive corruption schemes à la Enron, certain cooperating banks and stock brokerages, and large accounting firms like Arthur Andersen— astronomical executive compensation packages heralded the coming of a new

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“gilded age” of economic royalism. The distance between the income of the vast masses and the wealthy, a standard measure separating the developed and democratic countries from the third world, where typically a small number of very rich nabobs dominate the vast majority of the dirt poor,14 approached third world dimensions at the same time that US democracy and respect for the Constitution began to decline. Major constitutional lapses, from President Bill Clinton’s constitutionally dubious impeachment (Merkl 2001) to the stolen 2000 presidential election in Florida—the theft lay especially in the transparent purge of thousands of alleged felons from the voter rolls—and the subsequent US Supreme Court intervention (Bugliosi 2001), deepened the impression of the decline of constitutional democracy in the United States at the same time that religious conservatism cast a saintly aura over the developments under the Republican hegemony over all three branches. It is not clear how exactly the “moral values” of the resurgent evangelical base connected to those of corporate greed, though there is every sign that a scriptural justification may also have been found for making war on Iraq and, perhaps, even for the tax cuts for the rich. But there can be no doubt that, however defined, this successful “conservative groundswell” was a matter of substance by the time the next Republican president, George W. Bush, completed conservative Republican control over all the branches and the media. His unapologetic pursuit of ever larger tax cuts for corporations and the wealthy—avowedly to choke off the welfare state, according to Grover Norquist—and his neoconservative campaign for empire and riches in the Middle East under cover of a “war on terrorism” were not exactly based on an electoral mandate to begin with. They were not the mandate of what the voters wanted in the presidential elections of 2000, when many of them (not just the third-party candidate Ralph Nader) believed there was little difference between Bush—who even promised to conduct US foreign policy with “humility”—and his Democratic opponent, Vice President Al Gore. For Bush and his conservative Republicans, enacting these policies was the purpose of their successful efforts to win the elections, and he confirmed it the day after his election.

From Autocratic Community to Party Division Postcommunist party politics and some postcolonial or third world settings of a parti unique offer environments for party success that are sui generis.15 Even if we ignore for the moment the various theories of postcommunist party formation, there remains the peculiar postautocratic or posttotalitarian vacuum that has been described variously as “flattened” or “bull-dozed” societies, or as an anarchic scene without the familiar Western guideposts of class and antecedent group membership or, especially, party identification.16 How does a postcommunist voter know with whom or what to identify, other than perhaps

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for or against his old communist masters? In time there may well emerge new, potentially political signposts, such as education, economic deprivation, ethnicity, and religion, for the formation of new political groups from the old autocratic community. Even trade union membership linked to the old communist state unions is hardly the same clue to political orientation that it would be in the West. Postcommunist societies, moreover, are largely depoliticized, uninterested in, or even hostile to political parties, as post–Francisco Franco society was in Spain (Gunther, Sani, and Shabad 1988, pp. 34–36, chap. 3), or posttotalitarian societies were in Germany and Italy in 1945. In postwar Italy (see Chapter 14), for example, there was the curious nonparty phenomenon of qualunquismo, a mass party named Everyman (Uomo Qualunque). In West Germany in the 1950s, local politics featured the so-called Parteilose Vereinigungen (nonparty associations), anything to avoid being identified with the political parties of democracy (Merkl, in Belloni and Beller 1978, pp. 245–264). Some postcolonial societies were also not much interested in competitive party politics at first unless they were still caught up in anticolonial liberation struggles. Superficially this may resemble the disgust with parties and with politics reported more recently in many Western democracies. But it is not the same, even though corruption scandals and major government policy failures may play a big role in fomenting disgust with parties and a turning away from politics and politicians everywhere (Kaltefleiter, in Merkl 1980, pp. 597–608). Of course, East and Central European postcommunist societies at the time of the fall of communism had their liberation movements too—antisystem parties of sorts—but they seemed to play pivotal roles only for a short while in the transition. Afterward they rarely provided lasting or major partisan attachments. Postcommunist East Germany is a typical example of how little remained after the dramatic uprising against the dictatorship. The famous citizen initiative movements or parts of them eventually joined the Green Party and other West German “imports.” The successor party to the communist state party, the Party of Democratic Socialism (PDS), actually survived and successfully played the role of a regional protest party, a minority triumph against the “victorious West German takeover and exploitation of East Germany” for a few terms (Patton, in Sperling 2004, pp. 283–301; Kleinfeld, in Merkl 1999, pp. 160–169), prior to its most recent transformation. And Helmut Kohl’s conservative Christian Democrats, by contrast, attracted millions of what in the West would be considered typical industrial working-class voters. Voting turnout, after a brief record level, declined precipitously into a slough of East German political alienation and despair, mostly economically motivated. But there was also the telltale disorientation of the postcommunist ideological vacuum, the loss of communal pride in proletarian identity and solidarity that used to inspire youth and at least some of the adults with a kind of communist civic religion complete with official saints and a kind of youth confirmation (Jesse, in Jesse and Mitter 1992, pp. 365–387). There has been a pronounced tendency, against

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the background of past autocratic community, for the disoriented citizenry to put its trust in familiar forces, such as conservative parties, bureaucracies, and the military. Instead of putting their hopes in the longed-for liberation, a pervasive nostalgia for the good old communist times developed among East Germans, who bitterly complained about the alleged loss of social warmth and community solidarity with the arrival of postcommunist competitive society. The new democratic parties were bedeviled by this “not-feel-good factor” that would not allow them to become parties of government, while the PDS, the successor of the old state communist party, thus received the benefit of an antisystem party in protest against the new regime. In East and Central European countries where communism had never quite overcome the odium of having been imposed by the Soviet Union, there were on the one hand legacies of precommunist parties, such as the old social democrats or nationalist or conservative parties. On the other hand, there were the remnants of the monopolistic state communist party and its bureaucracy, including the huge state mass organizations and the military. The case of the formation and success of the Polish Democratic Left Alliance, with strong elements of the middle and lower ranks of the old state party (the Polish United Workers’ Party) and some precommunist, social democratic strains, may be fairly typical.17 So is that of the Lithuanian Social Democratic Party, which similarly unites old social democrats with the disciplined legions of the former communists in the Lithuanian Democratic Labor Party and the Polish United Workers’ Party (see Chapter 5). At least the countries of the northern tier, Poland, the Czech and Slovak republics, and Hungary, exhibit strong democratic impulses in contrast to postcommunist states farther east, especially the successor states of the defunct Soviet Union.18 This is reflected also in their inclination to form patterns of lasting party identification resembling those in the West. Russia, from its posttotalitarian beginnings, has been quite a different case, because communist dictatorship was not imposed by the Red Army from the outside—though for some parts of Tsarist Russia it was by the civil war— and lasted far longer than in East and Central Europe. In retrospect, the mighty old Communist Party of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was indeed a party of government par excellence—with pomp and circumstance—though not in the democratic sense. But this image wore off with the 1991 demise of the Soviet Union itself. By now, the surviving Russian Communist Party probably holds sway only over generations of older members and Soviet bureaucrats and military, if that, and its role is not quite that of the divisive, partisan mode in which Western parties may pair off and oppose each other. Some observers, in fact, call the clientele at rallies of the Russian Soviet Socialist Federation’s Communist Party little more than a nostalgia club of gray-haired former communist apparatchiks and veterans and their families. How then do strong, successful, new parties emerge in this inhospitable setting? It is possible in such an imploded system for millions of voters—without

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a civic motivation to participate in the system, and unaided by organized political parties—to rally to a charismatic leader who then rules autocratically once he is elected. In postcommunist Russia there have been hundreds of would-be parties, groups loosely identified with a leader, a locality, or vast state enterprise, or with symbols of narrow appeal. The names alone tell of the nonideological, non-policy-oriented attempts at patriotic inclusiveness—Unity, Fatherland, United Russia, All-Russian Union—while half the voters do not identify with any of them. According to public opinion polls, about 40 percent of them are quite ignorant of the parties. Only a fifth of the people’s representatives in the Duma (parliament) clearly identify with a party. Their conception of party competition and democracy, if it exists at all, has been closely tied to leaders like Boris Yeltsin, with his autocratic style and dramatic confrontations—for example, with the Duma or with his chief antagonist, Gennady Zyuganov. Yeltsin’s reign has been called an “elective autocracy”—with him as the elected autocrat and little organized opposition—or “democracy by disorder.” Today’s new charismatic strongman is Vladimir Putin, with his “managed democracy,” his neocorporatist bureaucracy, and his war à outrance on Chechnya. Tsar Vladimir presents a caricature of media-savvy leadership in the West. The media are still important, but he has simply taken over or suppressed the critical voices among them and stymied organized opposition. In the end result, radio, press, and television are more firmly in his hands than even in Berlusconiland,19 while his critics are in jail or in exile (see Chapter 10). If Yeltsin’s elective autocracy was an unsteady comfort to his countrymen—traumatized by the collapse of their economic security (Merkl, in Hancock and Logue 2000, pp. 259–284) and the disintegration of the Soviet Union—Putin’s meteoric rise from KGB chief to the head of the national government was the solution to a bottomless popular sense of insecurity: the security consolidation of Russia. Responding to the Chechen invasion of Daghestan and the 1998 bomb explosions in apartment houses blamed on the Chechens,20 the former security chief obtained the support of the new Unity/ Bear party, which had been assembled from many small groups a mere two months before the Duma elections of 1999. It nearly beat the front-running Communist Party of Zyuganov. The following year, Putin won a clear majority (53 percent) for president, while Unity swallowed up further small parties to become the dominant party in the Duma. Unity was the self-declared pillar of his popular authority, and by 2003 claimed a mass membership of 2 million. The president’s blessing had made it the party of government, and the “successful” party, of course, returned the favor by giving him whatever legislation he wanted. Presidential favors in turn bestow control of regional authorities, financial resources, and the support of the electronic media upon Unity members of the Duma. While this may sound as if an uncooperative Duma could be a potentially significant check on executive power, Anatoly Kulik reminds us in Chapter 10 that this is not the case. In the Russian system, parliaments

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cannot stand up to the executive unless they harbor strong parties, but, except for the aging communists, the other parties seem mere dwarves as compared to Unity. It is worth noting what a “prosperous” Russian party neither possesses nor seems to need under these circumstances, so we do not take it for granted. It requires no linkage to a clearly defined social group, nor a recognized place in the social cleavage system. No ideological position is necessary, except perhaps a vague centrism and loyalty to the president or charismatic leader. Nor does anyone expect special expertise or skills in persuading the public, which takes a dim view of parties and the Duma anyway. According to public opinion polls, they seem of little use to the country and to the solution of its many problems. Like the French National Assembly before 1940, the Duma is seen mostly as a stage for grandstanding and as a retirement club for members of the old communist nomenklatura, the political elite of another day.21 On the other hand, the Russian citizenry is quite ready to accept Tsar Vladimir as its dear leader, regardless of the reservations of his critics and victims. If autocracy emphasizes a vertical dimension of authority, as in monarchy or aristocracy, where the autocrats have little need for support from below, monocracy places more emphasis on social and political unity, such as may result from the solidarity of a nation. Both are incompatible with the concept of constitutional democracy, with its checks and balances. Both are also far from the idea of a successful party independent of the government, as we have defined “successful party” here. When a country is under siege from a powerful foe or at war, for example, democratic parties usually form a temporary, patriotic government of national unity, burying overt partisan competition for the time being: they give up representing only parts of the system and instead identify with the whole nation. “I no longer see parties around me, only [German] patriots,” said Kaiser Wilhelm at the outbreak of World War I, though his government also prepared secret lists of opposition socialists and trade union leaders for immediate arrest “if necessary,” ignoring their individual rights and liberties. In the United States, the finely honed Madisonian separation of powers among executive, legislative, and judicial authorities can break down in war and when all three are in the hands of the same party—especially when at the same time the president declares himself to be a “war president.”22 Aside from the realities of outside threats, this of course raises the question of how such concentrated political hegemony compares with our concept of party success or prosperity. In other words, without real party competition and restraint, is this not like a monopolistic one-party system rather than a successful party of government? And furthermore, can we really speak of a successful duopoly of parties if the two main players of a two-party system,23 over a long period of time, have succeeded in excluding all further competitors from the pale of competition? Or if over the course of history they have managed to turn third and fourth parties into mere vents of popular discontent, or into a way of

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testing the popularity of new issues,24 in order to absorb them and their popularity if they turn out to have staying power (see Chapter 16)? Can such a duopoly really be called successful in the same sense as one freely competing party? The answer would appear to be no. Finally, there is also the more basic question of who really rules a country behind this duopolistic façade. Is it the highly concentrated corporate interests that may also dominate and use the media in the absence of countervailing powers? Or a military-industrial complex that, with the cooperation of the national legislature, governs at least its foreign, defense, and budgetary policy? In other words, with all their “prosperity,” do the duopolistic parties really govern anything on their own? Once the unity of a monocracy ends and party competition enters the political arena—for example, in postcommunist countries after the official declaration that the established communist party is no longer the only legal party—there is often a period of fragmentation and anarchy that holds little promise of the rise of any particular, successful party capable of imparting a new sense of direction. In contemporary Iraq, for example, over a hundred parties in addition to the six larger ones based on religious or ethnic communities have faced the daunting task of picking up the pieces of decades of nationalistic dictatorship and of violent US conquest and mismanagement. The start-up costs of reestablishing a strong and unifying organization in a postdictatorial, socially fragmented country are high, although foreign military occupation and corporate exploitation bid fair to reenergize a nationalist liberation movement by way of reaction.25 The struggle for power in Mexico since the 1980s is another example of the hangover of well-established monocracy, the long reign of the Institutional Revolutionary Party (PRI) and its “organized sectors,” which have been challenged in recent years by a modern conservative party, the National Action Party (PAN) and others (see Chapter 11). The PRI, which has been modernizing in some parts since its loss of the presidency, is still a formidable organized force: after a series of electoral reforms to open up the system to democratic competition, in 1991 the príistas (supporters of the PRI) still beat all challengers by substantial margins because, among other reasons, they had not sufficiently coordinated their assault upon the monocracy. For three-fourths of a century, the PRI had obviously been a majority success and a party of government, ever since the establishment of its elaborate structures in the 1920s and 1930s. But a series of major economic crises and the dubious reform course of five postwar PRI presidents, from Luis Echeverría to Ernesto Zedillo, touched off increasing factionalism and savage infighting within the party, including the populist rebellion of Cuauhtémoc Cárdenas, the scion of perhaps the greatest Mexican president, Lázaro Cárdenas. By the time of the economic crises of the mid-1990s, the monocratic PRI had lost control of Congress and, by the end of the decade, for the first time, the presidency—to Vicente Fox of the PAN. But unlike the communist parties

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of Eastern Europe in 1990–1991, the PRI was not finished: as recently as 2003, the PRI, together with the Greens, still received 37 percent of the congressional vote, as compared to 31 percent for the PAN, the leading challenger. In the meantime, the PRI has won most of the past governors’ races, most recently in Puebla and Tamaulipas. However, Mark Martinez shows in Chapter 11 the nature of the pitfalls and missteps by the PRI in the crucial 1997 gubernatorial elections in Querétaro: its corrupt, faction-ridden, and arrogant selection of candidates, “the way it’s always been done,” cost it the decisive margin against the PAN in at least one state. It was surely not a rational choice by the PRI to lose, nor can we yet conclude that it may not come back from defeat. It was rather the result of entrenched organizational norms and habits that blinded the PRI leaders to the inevitable outcome of their insensitivity to local sentiments. In Mexico, in other words, open competition between politicians and parties is still impeded today by the shadow of the monocratic past, which may well return at all levels in future elections. In the 2006 elections for president, the modernized PRI still played a major role, although the focus was now on the contest between the victorious PAN (Felipe Calderon) and Andres Manuel López Obrador of the Party of Democratic Revolution.

After a Meltdown of the Party System Electoral fortunes rise and fall, but what about the consequences of a complete meltdown of the party system? In the midst of the all-too-familiar ups and downs of electoral politics, do the settings of sudden party success differ but the paths conform to a common mode? It is surprising how often a major crisis of a party, or even a breakdown of the whole party system that blocked the path of a party to success, can yield a dramatic breakthrough. Since the fall of Germany’s democratic Weimar Republic, there has probably been no greater recent unraveling in a Western democracy than that of Italy’s “first republic” in the 1990s, the familiar post–World War II system, when the never-ending chronicle of major scandals of financial corruption of parties and individuals—in some cases with Mafia ties—brought down the behemoth of successful old parties, Christian Democracy and its coalition partners (such as the rising Socialists of Bettino Craxi). While the principal opposition party, the former communist Democratic Left (formerly the Italian Communist Party), also went through a painful head-to-toe transformation, it was really the scattered and demolished right and center-right that witnessed the rise of the new Phoenix, Silvio Berlusconi, and his Forza Italia from the ashes of the meltdown (see Chapter 14).26 At the time in 1994, I had been teaching Italian politics for many years, and at first was simply unable to recognize this somewhat improbable new force, a mass party based on soccer club associates—Forza Italia (Forward, Italy!) is the battle cry of Berlusconi’s AC Milan. I underestimated the persuasive powers of the charismatic media tycoon and master of Fininvest and other

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major commercial empires (Gilbert 1995, pp. 169–188; Minzolini 2004). Back in those days, we had seen few even remotely comparable tycoon politicians, except perhaps for US presidential candidate Ross Perot and, in Poland, Stanislaw Tyminsky, who almost beat Lech Wal´e˙ sa for president with vague economic promises. The political leverage of substantial control of the mass media also was not as obvious as it seems today. Perhaps the Italian left should have suffered a comparable wipeout to help it overcome its persistent present and future problems of maintaining left-wing unity in the face of the hegemonic foe. Other countries discussed in this book have suffered similar major crises of parts or all of their party systems, though rarely with comparable results. In 1973 the Danish party system was nearly destroyed in a contentious election, but the only beneficiary was the antisystem Progress Party of Mogens Glistrup (Pedersen, in Lawson and Merkl 1988, pp. 257–281). In the spring of 2002, the French left suffered a devastating blow when, on the first presidential ballot, the gaggle of leftist splinter parties—Communists, Trotzkyists, Greens, and others—failed to support the former Socialist premier and presidential candidate, Lionel Jospin, sufficiently to give him second place (behind Chirac) in the runoff. To the abject humiliation of the entire left and of Jospin, JeanMarie Le Pen of the right-wing radical National Front thus came into the runoff and, in the end, conservative incumbent Jacques Chirac won four out of five French votes for his reelection (see Chapter 15). But this outcome was hardly interpreted by anyone as a great triumph for Chirac and his Popular Movement Union and Rally for the Republic,27 or for Le Pen and his National Front for that matter, but as an unfortunate malfunction of the presidential twoballot system. Both Italy and France have bipolar multiparty systems and other political features in common—Italians have even toyed at times with the idea of adopting the French system—but the outcomes of these crises have been profoundly different.28 Japan’s 1993 “great upset” of scandals and corruption is often compared to the Italian meltdown of the early 1990s. The two systems indeed have had some key features in common, including extremes of factionalism in both, the Italian Christian Democrats and the Japanese Liberal Democrats. But the Japanese upset really reflected different, long-standing problems, such as the development and eventual bursting of the infamous economic bubble and the declining power of the once-so-dominant bureaucracy and of public trust in parties and politicians. In Italy, bureaucrats, parties, and politicians never enjoyed much public confidence. The triggering of the Italian crisis also took a very different course: it was started by aggressive magistrates and prosecutors in the “clean hands” (mani pulite) campaign, and continued by a powerful, popular reform movement that proceeded with popular initiatives and referendums to dynamite every entrenched position of the established parties—they resisted to no avail—until the system was in tatters (McCarthy 1997, pp.

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139–166). Berlusconi and his far-flung corporate empire were also targeted by the judicial reformers, but so far seemed to have escaped the net. The Japanese Liberal Democrats and bureaucratic establishment for a while had to give in to popular discontent and to the popularity of the charismatic Junichiro Koizumi and his foreign minister, Makiko Tanaka. But in the end, the establishment won out, while further deepening the public disgust and aversion to parties and politics as usual (see Chapter 9). The major crisis and partial disintegration of the Israeli party system in the 1990s also supplied the background for the relative success and stability of Shas, as Yael Yishai relates in Chapter 12. Described tellingly as “a revolving door with established parties,” the extreme multiparty system of Israel—eleven to twenty-four—all around Shas is characterized by the fact that the share of the established parties, Labor and the Likud bloc, in the Knesset declined from a combined total of 94 seats (of 120) in 1981 to a mere 45 seats in 1999. The 1996 experiment with a separately elected prime minister was abandoned after three elections, in 2001, because it did not seem to strengthen the role of parties either. And there have been other important changes: though the electoral turnout is high, the number of party activists has declined dramatically from earlier decades, while campaign finance is at the highest level in the world and the role of the electronic media in elections more prominent than ever. Against this hectic backdrop of constant motion, Shas has maintained steady growth and participation in governments ever since 1984. It had consistently built up and expanded its vital linkage with its mostly Sephardic, underprivileged clientele, providing social and other services and patronage through its presence in successive governments and legislatures, a picture of quiet success and rational behavior—and also of minority triumph if not a majority vote—in the midst of extreme volatility and polarization. When democracy dies or is overcome by a brutal dictatorship for any length of time, the whole political culture falls into an abyss and it becomes very difficult to re-create a democratic party system. Such a crisis and the subsequent, miraculous renewal may also be the key to understanding the success of Latin American parties such as Frente Amplio (Broad Front) of Uruguay, after the breakdown of democracy and the ensuing decade of repressive dictatorship. It was not just the party system that was destroyed, with all its complex relationships. Along with pre–Salvador Allende Chile, Uruguay was one of the few Latin American countries with a long and stable history of oligarchic democracy. The return of democracy after years of dictatorship suggests the presence of pre-Tupamaro democratic models and, perhaps, precrisis leaders and movements who might have assisted the contemporaries in re-creating the moderate roles and behavior of parties and politicians competing in traditional Uruguayan politics. It is a promising basis rooted in the golden age of oligarchic democracy—from before the Allende era of revolutionary mass mobilization and counterrevolution—in Uruguay, Chile, and latently all over

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Latin America. To focus on Uruguay is particularly appropriate at this time, since Frente Amplio under Tabaré Vázquez has recently succeeded, after three decades of struggle, in winning a resounding electoral victory. Its ability to follow up on its promises of profound social transformation, however, is severely constrained by economic and financial realities that have already had a devastating impact on Uruguay’s neighbor to the south, Argentina, and caused its giant neighbor to the north, Brazil, under fellow leftist president Lula da Silva to impose the strictest fiscal discipline on his country. But the example of Lula may offer little solace to Frente Amplio—in 2006 he was reelected president, but only after being short of a majority and having to stand in the runoff. Lula lost local elections in São Paulo and Porto Alegre because, essentially, his following there took a dim view of his stringent austerity policies. Given the ampleness of the composition of Frente Amplio, its unity will be gravely challenged by the external and internal pressures upon the new government. Similar processes of democratization and left-wing politics against military coups and right-wing dictatorship have been at work in many countries of Latin America. But this is a very different kind of strain than in contemporary Chile, whose Independent Democratic Union (UDI) grew from the long years of Pinochetist, authoritarian dictatorship of the 1970s and 1980s and its aftermath. The UDI has resisted reliberalization—except in the economic, neoliberal sense—and has identified with the legacy of dictator Augusto Pinochet (see Chapter 13). The UDI has little in common with the precrisis Chilean parties of the right. Its promise of future success, nevertheless, rests on its solid linkage with the bourgeois generation who grew up under General Pinochet, a social base no less important than Chilean workers, entrepreneurs, or Indians.29 Even short of such a total crisis, party political renewal, of course, requires usually that first the old must die, or be seen as moribund, for the new to rise and prosper, as William E. Paterson and James Sloam demonstrate so persuasively in Chapter 4, on the renewal among European labor and socialist parties. The old British Labour Party had to die—as did the old German Social Democratic Party (Merkl, in Sperling 2004, pp. 497–522) and the old French Socialist Party, neither of them so far very convincingly—before New Labour and its fellow social democrats on the continent could rise, committed to the centrist “Third Way” and to reconquering power by elections. In Britain, at least, Thatcher’s Conservatives in their day had already done much to tame the trade unions and the radicals inside Labour, especially at the local level, making Blair’s job of transforming his own party much easier. And on top of that, the Conservatives of his day have obligingly gone into a tailspin in mainstream electoral appeal and popular issues, further facilitating the success of New Labour.30 If we ignore for the time being the example of their Dutch and Danish “third way” fellow travelers, a look at Blair’s major continental cousins shows neither the German nor the French conservative opposition to

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be in a similar period of retrenchment. The German Christian Democrats, in fact, constitute one of our “successful” parties, even though their gradual decline after sixteen years of Chancellor Kohl opened the door to Schröder’s Social Democrats and the Greens in 1998 (see Chapter 8). In France, the temporary crisis of the Socialist Party made Chirac’s Popular Movement Union and especially Chirac himself a prominent European Union leader and world statesman, reinforced by his confrontations with President George W. Bush. Blair’s imitators in France and Germany, by contrast, have not exactly enjoyed the same good fortune, although Chancellor Gerhard Schröder probably owed his reelection in 2002 to the confrontation with President Bush over supplying German troops for a preemptive strike against Iraq. It did not save him again in 2005.

Conclusion It is no accident that this book ends with a chapter on dedemocratization by major parties. Parties and democracy are not always reliable comrades in arms. While it is quite true that it would be impossible to bring modern democracy in large states to life without political parties, they also have the capacity to repress and even destroy democracy. Back in the days when Swiss party sociologist Robert Michels launched his devastating critique of the German Social Democrats, whom many contemporaries had seen as the vanguard of democracy in European industrial societies, his warning fell on many a deaf ear. He had pointed out, among other arguments, that their endeavor was fatally flawed by the “iron law of oligarchy,” which condemned all large organizations to the need for bureaucratic, hierarchic regimentation and authoritarian leadership. Had he written a sequel of this critique, perhaps twenty years later, he would have reported even worse: by the early 1920s, Germany’s mighty Social Democratic Party had split in two. Its democratic majority had soldiered on bravely, supporting constitutional democracy in Germany, the Weimar Republic, and defending it rather ineffectually against the rise of the Nazi Third Reich. The resulting totalitarian dictatorship put that democracy in chains and plunged the globe into World War II. The Social Democratic Party’s dissident minority, the German Communist Party, moreover, fought the democratic republic and, under the impact of the war and the Bolshevik Revolution, became part of the worldwide communist empire, the most murderous and oppressive system of dictatorships that ever ruled over a large part of the world.

Notes 1. The deliberate distortion in British electoral law of how electoral percentages translate into seats in Parliament consistently turns the British multiparty system into a two-party one in the House of Commons.

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2. Or the two minority parties could be considered examples of “moral triumph” in the sense that they represent embattled minorities who at least demonstrated the numbers of voters, respectively, behind them. 3. This pride in their antisystem status undoubtedly played a role in the 2002 presidential elections when these fringe parties left PS candidate Lionel Jospin in the lurch against Chirac and extreme-right candidate Jean-Marie Le Pen (FN). 4. This is of course a sweeping summary simplification of a complex process that, by the middle of the twentieth century, had also produced such powerful and horrendous aberrations as the national socialist Third Reich and the Soviet empire over unwilling subject populations. 5. In the face of unrelenting establishment hostility to their legitimate claims, some turned violent and revolutionary, and some were only tentatively democratic. 6. Even though the British occupation in Germany seemed to have favored such a role for the SPD, neither the US nor the French occupation had much use for it. The Soviet occupation, like the communists before and after Hitler, viewed the SPD as apostates who had to be shown the right way by being forced into an involuntary merger with the communists in the Soviet zone. 7. On the concept of the “catchall” party, see Otto Kirchheimer’s essay reprinted in Mair 1990, pp. 50–60. 8. President Woodrow Wilson’s initial victory was due to a fatal split among Republicans, as Theodore Roosevelt’s Bull Moose rebellion of 1912 cost the party its expected majority. 9. The (Robert) Taft Republicans were the more authentic strain, rather than the Dwight Eisenhower following of 1952, who extended far beyond the traditional Republican camp and owed much to the general’s charismatic leadership in World War II. 10. There is also a change of individual posture associated with the advent of the party to party-of-government status, which the sociologist Max Weber (1946) characterized as the change from an ethics of conscience to one of responsibility. 11. The practice of Westminster-style party government with the explicit notion of mandates derived from electoral majorities can also reinforce the natural authority of a party or coalition. See the contributions to Castles and Wildenmann 1986a and 1986b and to Katz 1987. 12. The flag has always played a particular role as the party of government tries to wrap itself into it, gives it special protection (for example, against desecration or destruction), or displays it on its partisan logo and materials. 13. Ronald Reagan’s slogans, such as of “the welfare queens driving Cadillacs,” were more the expressions of popular prejudices than indications of policies to come. 14. This is easily demonstrated with comparative statistics on countries of both categories, developing but unstable democracies, and industrially developed and stable democracies. See, for example, Lipset, Seong, and Torres 1993; Turner and Carballo de Cilley 1993, pp. 321–336. 15. On the postcolonial problems of Kwame Nkrumah’s Convention People’s Party, see, for example, the penetrating analysis by Kraus in Lawson and Merkl 1988, pp. 464–499, and the sources cited therein. 16. On the decline of party identification in Western democracies, see especially Flanagan and Dalton, in Mair 1990, pp. 232–246, and more recent writings of Dalton. See also the thoughtful essays in Barnes and Simon 1998, especially by Bernhard Wessels and Hans-Dieter Klingemann and by Samuel Barnes. 17. On the earlier disintegration of the PUWP, see also Gitelman, in Lawson and Merkl 1988, pp. 421–446.

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18. On the difference in democratic attitudes between the northern-tier states and other postcommunist countries farther east, see also Merkl, in Hancock and Logue 2000, pp. 259–284, and the sources cited therein. 19. On the rise of Berlusconi and his media empire, see McCarthy, in Gundle and Parker 1996, pp. 130–146; and Gundle, in Katz and Ignazi 1996, pp. 195–218. 20. The bottomless economic crisis and the reign of organized and street crime throughout society were major contributors to the widespread sense of insecurity in homes, the street, and business. There is great nostalgia about the lost might of the Soviet empire. 21. See Merkl, in Hancock and Logue 2000, pp. 102–105, and the Russian polls and sources cited therein. 22. To the domination of the White House and both houses of Congress, we should really add the systematic pursuit of very conservative judicial appointments at the federal level, including to the US Supreme Court. 23. Strictly speaking, the presence of minor parties in Britain and the United States makes the appellation “two-party system” dubious. See, for example, Geoffrey Pridham’s essay on what is now called the Liberal Democratic Party: “The Social Democratic Party in Britain: Protest or New Political Tendency?” in Lawson and Merkl 1988, pp. 229–256. 24. Unlike in the United States, third and fourth parties in Britain tend to be ethnic and regional, which is to say they cannot be treated like typical US third parties, which are mostly ideological. See Pulzer, in Lawson and Merkl 1988, pp. 338–364. 25. When the occupation or colonial government is perceived to have set up a puppet regime of sorts, as with the United States in Iraq, there is the additional focus of nationalist rebellion on that regime and its minions. 26. The election statistics before and after clearly show what old parties Berlusconi inherited votes from, and how many. 27. Recently, Chirac’s party too suffered a great setback in regional elections over issues that regularly bring Italian protesters into the streets of big cities, especially public service pensions. 28. In Italy too, left-wing splinter parties like the Unreformed Communists (Rifondazione Comunista) often resist the unification of the left even if this benefits the Berlusconi juggernaut. 29. For a broader perspective, see especially chapters 1, 4, and 5 of Diamond, Linz, and Lipset 1989, pp. 1–58, 159–246. 30. See also Niall Ferguson, “Why the Tory Party’s Over,” Financial Times, September 15–16, 2001, on the occasion of Iain Duncan Smith’s selection as Conservative Party leader. Ferguson blames the Tories’ lack of pragmatism, ideological factions, age structure, and the rise of the Liberal Democrats in key Conservative areas for their downfall.

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When Parties Dedemocratize KAY LAWSON

T

he chapters in this book provide a wealth of information and lend themselves to a wealth of interpretation. Covering as they do such very different national settings, it is no surprise that in reading them we discover important differences among how parties come to power and what they do with it. In this chapter, however, I focus instead on some striking similarities in the functions political parties now serve, and how they do so. I suggest that by focusing on how parties prosper at the polls, these chapters reveal how common it now is for parties across the globe to serve as agencies not of democratization but of dedemocratization. There are several ways that parties in the most diverse of circumstances have become complicit in the process of dedemocratization. In these chapters we find that parties have strengthened their own leadership at the expense of their members and supporters, have become ever more committed to campaigning to the center regardless of their original program and its continued appeal to their members and supporters, and have learned to use power ever more effectively to enact self-protective legislation and—in most but not all the cases—to engage in practices of personal corruption. These acts contribute to electoral success, but they are also undeniably acts of dedemocratization. They make it more difficult for citizens across the political spectrum to control and guide their political leaders via the vote, to create effective new parties when existent parties cease to please, and to ensure that the funds of government are used for the public good rather than for personal enrichment. Parties are, in these ways, being transformed from agents of democratic linkage between citizens and the state to agents of dedemocratization. Before considering the evidence available in this book to support the thesis of parties as agents of dedemocratization, it is useful to consider how and why such a process has been set in motion in such very different parties and 353

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contexts. For such a pattern to exist so widely, there must be specific worldwide developments that influence the behavior of political parties everywhere and do so in ways that are so powerful and have so much in common that they override, at least to the extent of permitting the common pattern to emerge, differences in political history, political leadership, national wealth, and institutional structures. Four such developments come to mind: the fall of the Soviet Union, the spread of a modified form of democracy as an ideology, the spread of the neoliberal model as economic and social practice, and dramatic changes in communications technology. These four changes have had a powerful impact in all the nations of the world. They have brought about the near-disappearance of communism, an ideology based on the promise of equal wealth, and the philosophical ascendancy of a modified form of the ideology of democracy. They have ensured that the promise of democracy is now based less on individual rights and popular sovereignty and more on the freedom and opportunity to gain personal wealth. They permit the use of hitherto unknown and technologically highly sophisticated methods of transferring and manipulating goods and information. The net result is a new freedom—and ability—to pursue personal gain, and, if one wishes, to place that pursuit above all other goals. Exercising this new freedom works very well for some, and produces disappointment and loss for others. The new freedom to prosper with less restraint and more powerful means is having a profound impact in all domains of life, including the world of political parties. The new freedom permits those who control political parties to move them further than ever away from the role commonly ascribed to them: to serve as agencies of democracy. It sweeps aside old barriers to dedemocratization in parties as elsewhere: propping up the democratic myth in its more citizen-oriented form is less necessary for electoral success when competing myths have collapsed and the surrounding culture of entrepreneurial permissiveness provides ample rationalization for weakening legal restrictions on the parties and using them as agencies for securing personal gain. Furthermore, in the world created by the new freedom, dedemocratization is not only possible and profitable, but may actually be mandatory for a party’s survival. If it works to enhance the prospects of winning for the leaders and candidates of some parties, how can those of losing parties resist? If those who win feel free to use office to maintain their power and achieve great personal wealth for themselves and their most powerful supporters, and do so, how reasonable is it to expect that others will continue to resist? Dedemocratization not only makes it easier to win elections, the criterion of prosperity most commonly used throughout this book, but also changes the uses to which success may be put. Once in office, victors are free to reshape their parties into agencies of linkage between a narrow elite and the offices of government, making it possible for that elite to use the powers of government

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to increase their own and others’ personal wealth. This form of corruption is far from new, of course, and can even be carried out in a fashion consistent with some elements of “good government.” Even dedemocratization is not new—after all, parties and nations have often become less democratic at various periods in their histories. What is new are the new tools, both substantive and ideological, now available for dedemocratization, and the steadily greater role that parties, even those in putatively democratic systems, are now playing in the process. Two final caveats before we proceed. First, despite the title we have chosen for this book, let us set aside the question of whether parties prosper and dedemocratize. Parties are, after all, simply structures, malleable structures, not individual actors with humanlike identities. In the discussion that follows, let us endeavor to stay aware that the structures are, in fact, not themselves making the change, but that they are, rather, being changed by the human actors who presently control them. There is thus no reason not to continue to cherish the institution of party for its potential of linking citizens to the state democratically, or to abandon the search for ways to free it from those who hold that potential in contempt. Furthermore, it is important not to exaggerate. In this chapter I point out examples of the existence of this pattern of dedemocratization as revealed by the preceding chapters, but I am certainly not saying that such a pattern is necessarily dominant in every party treated here, or all-pervasive in any. The notso-good “good old days” have not been entirely replaced by thoroughly “bad new days.” Although the current trends are cause for alarm, there are reasons to hope that the process may simply be the latest stage in the history of party development, a history that may yet yield happier results. For the moment, however, the world’s parties appear to be increasingly caught up in the grip of the forces of dedemocratization. They have become crucial accessories before, during, and after the fact. Let us consider the evidence we find for this thesis in this book.

Strengthening the Party Leadership In case after case considered here, the parties have given their leaders—often a single leader—greatly enhanced powers. Personalistic politics have been encouraged in order to win elections, and in the process the party’s active members and elected representatives have been given a greatly reduced role in the determination of their party’s candidates and policies. The pattern is found without respect for continent or history. Thus Jorge Lanzaro (Chapter 7) sees the more personal leadership of the leftist Frente Amplio (Broad Front) in Uruguay as a tool that permits the party to weaken the grip of party militants and become more catchall in nature—which is, of course, exactly what is commonly said about the uses to which Tony Blair and his associates have put the success of that leader

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in Great Britain. Personalistic leadership may have a deeper historical resonance in Latin America, but postdictatorship parties there are subject to more modern pressures to concentrate power, pressures William E. Paterson and James Sloam (Chapter 4) find at work in the world of social democratic politics in Europe, characterized by loss of “delegate democracy,” a “functional necessity of the media age.” The trend toward stronger leaders may be worldwide, but there are interesting differences nonetheless in how this works to help dedemocratize the parties. The process of strengthening the leader can, for example, be combined with appearances of greater democratization. David McKay (Chapter 2) reminds us that in the early 1980s, Britain’s Labour Party gave each member at the Conference an individual vote, knowing that the net effect would be not to democratize but to atomize, further enhancing the power of the leader. Similarly, Tommy Möller (Chapter 3) points out that electoral reform in Sweden, newly permitting voters to vote for individual candidates as well as parties, has had the effect of strengthening the successful individual leaders who win with such votes, at the expense of their parties. They have won as individuals, not necessarily as representatives of their parties and those parties’ programs, and the process encourages voters to focus less on party issues and more on candidates. They may thus appear to be participating “more,” but in practice they are much less involved in the tough decisions of democratic governance.1 It is not always the existing party leadership that creates the change. In some cases, as Gianfranco Pasquino (Chapter 14) and Anatoly Kulik (Chapter 10) show for Italy and Russia, the new leader has used power and skills achieved in other domains (the media, the long years of service as apparatchik in the defunct Communist Party) to create a new ruling party as his personal instrument, bringing together other parties and groups into an entity united by little other than acquiescence to his power. Both Silvio Berlusconi and Vladimir Putin rule over such diverse and politically unlikely coalitions. In the Russian case, the leaders of the various parties with seats in the Duma use that arena for debate in what Kulik calls a “political club,” holding forth while their followers listen and applaud, but are in no way responsible for the decisions that guide the state. In other parties, as in the case of Jacques Chirac’s 1976 takeover of the Rally for the Republic, now the principal partner in the Popular Movement Union, the ruling coalition of France, the leader has risen in the ranks of an existing party and amassed his power from within. The word “amass” is important—Chirac did not simply take over the power already assigned to the party’s leader; he created more of it. He won the party’s approval for a much more centralized internal structure, and gave the national headquarters—and thus himself—far closer control over candidate selection and party program at every level. In some parties, however, the near divorce of leader from the rank and file is more recent, and has sometimes seemed almost accidental. Algis Krupavicˇius

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(Chapter 6) tells us that in Lithuania, the personal popularity of the leader of the Social Democrats permitted the party to wage a successful campaign for the presidency, but this outcome weakened rather than strengthened Social Democrats, since the new president now no longer strongly identified himself with his party. A similar process took place in the case of François Mitterrand in France, a consummate politician who utterly transformed the Socialist Party, making it his engine of power, and then moved loftily above and beyond its reach as president. In the latter case, however, there was nothing accidental about the change. The means of climbing to personal glory at the top of a party may vary over time. One of the most interesting things about the Mexican case is how the internal paths to such power, long a key characteristic of Mexican politics, have changed in recent years. Where the power of the Institutional Revolutionary Party leader depended on one of the world’s most elaborate clientelistic structures, success within its winning competitor, the National Action Party, has been achieved by creating a team of technocrats committed to a neoliberal program. In Mexico we cannot say that the concentration of power in the hands of a very strong single leader, occupying or competing for the presidency, is a new phenomenon. What we have here is rather, as Mark Martinez (Chapter 11) says, a new kind of strong leader. Note too that making the shift to rule by technocrats helps ensure the efficiency necessary to achieve successful dedemocratization and reap its rewards. The Chilean and Israeli parties discussed by Alfredo Joignant and Patricio Navia (Chapter 13) and Yael Yishai (Chapter 12)—parties whose electoral successes are limited to their usefulness as coalition partners—are two other cases where strong leadership able to lead a complaisant membership is a tradition of long standing. Class ties (school class and economic class, “virtuous and vicious rewards”) bind the members of Chile’s Independent Democratic Union to their leaders, and organizational forms inhibiting dissent are not a problem in a party long associated with the Augusto Pinochet dictatorship. The followers of Shas are also influenced by their general commitment to autocratic (theocratic) government, but do not disdain the material rewards their leaders dole out via intraparty associations. Its leaders are self-appointed rabbis, and its supporters are consumers of party-provided welfare; there is neither consultation nor internal voting, and no one objects. These two parties remind us to raise an important question: Why do the members of larger and more successful parties, parties with no history of respect for the führerprinzip (leadership principle), also so often acquiesce quite readily to loss of democratic linkage to the top? The prospect and substance of material reward are clearly the most common reason. It is nice to be associated with a winning party even if one cannot guide policy, but especially if that gives one access to (or simply hope of) material gain. Forza Italia, says Gianfranco Pasquino (Chapter 14), is a “virtual” party, more like a business firm. It has its own marketing network (Publitalia), and its candidates’ electoral

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committees serve as its organization. Those seeking the rewards of office, directly or via contracts, know where to go and what to do; the problems of contemporary Italy need not be their greatest concern. To this party, Pasquino contrasts the parties on the Italian left, where power has shifted no higher than to local oligarchs, brought together nationally only via factions and the left-wing Italian General Confederation of Labor, with no significant overriding leadership capable of resolving the problems of extensive internal division. There seems clear evidence in other chapters, as well, of the greater agility of the right in shifting power to the top. Frank Bösch (Chapter 8) sees the Christian Democrats as the German party better able to centralize power (though somewhat less so after Angela Merkel became party leader), and says their success in fact depends on weak participation, whereas Hieronim Kubiak (Chapter 5) gives us an example on the Polish left of a party that remains weakened by divisions, “even cleavages,” over the traditional serious work of a political party—candidate selection and decisions about programmatic issues—rather than concentrating on what wins elections. The Polish, Italian, and French cases are all good illustrations of the disappointments left-wing parties face when they lag behind the right in moving power to the top of the party.

Centering the Program The tendency of parties to move their programs to the center was explained in electoral terms long ago (Downs 1957). Today, the realities of globalization mean that successful competition in the world market is a new and even stronger force arguing for the elimination of the utopian or selfishly elitist programs of parties to the far left and far right. Yet those who refuse to give up on hopes for a better world, be it for all of humanity or just for cronies and business partners, are reluctant to close up shop, and others also have their doubts. Shall these dreamer-schemers be left out of the world of modern politics? And if so, is that democracy? Obviously not. Whether or not such narrowing of the programmatic offer is pragmatic politics, in the sense of producing electoral gain or even in the sense of “let’s be reasonable,” a prime tenet of democracy has always been the freedom to express and fight for what one believes in, with very few limits allowed (and those normally only for opinions almost universally deemed truly heinous and dangerous). The arguments are familiar and comfortable: taking part in organized political debate reduces the impulse to overthrow the government and allows the participants to learn from each other. If no one preaches untruth, someone should be paid to do so, because arguing with untruth is the best way to keep one’s commitment to truth strong and clear (and may convince others). And so forth. If we no longer believe these long-cherished bromides, it would be better to say so. If we no longer protect them, we will see the process of dedemocratization continue without let up.

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In any event, the shift to the programmatic center is another way that those who control today’s parties are commonly abetting dedemocratization. The phenomenon takes place on both the left and the right. In Great Britain, Labour’s shift to the center on issues such as government effectiveness, law and order, and income tax reduction is well-known. When Sweden’s Social Democrats were forced out of office during an economic downturn by a combination of left, right, and ecological protest parties, they were soon engaging in “conspicuous pragmatism,” the details of which look very much like a shift to the right to me. Paterson and Sloam find that social democratic parties throughout Europe are now better able to recognize the constraints of Europeanization and globalization and have a better understanding of the structural contexts in which they must operate, especially with respect to questions of social policy. Yet, as they also point out, this raises the question of their continued legitimacy as parties of the left. Such parties are now, they say, paying greater attention to floating voters at the expense of core supporters and insider organizations. The same phenomenon is found on the right. The German Christian Democrats began moving to the center long ago, under Chancellor Conrad Adenauer. As Bösch notes, they have continued to do so in recent years, changing their policies vis-à-vis the rights of women, offering more support to farmers and civil servants, promising higher social benefits, and putting greater emphasis on secularism and tolerance; party policy also forbids coalitions with extremist parties. In Italy, Forza Italia has known how to cobble together a reasonably coherent program on the center-right, says Pasquino, consistently anti-union and pro–free market. The British case is the exception that proves the rule: according to McKay, the Conservatives have made a programmatic shift away from their own base, but toward increased preoccupation with internal struggles over the question of Europe, rather than to the center. Paying more attention to the public services that almost all British voters care about, such as national healthcare, would probably have served them better. The shift to the programmatic center is obviously facilitated when the leadership has been sufficiently strengthened. In Poland, the leftist Republic of Poland precursor to today’s Democratic Left Alliance moved in the late 1990s under Aleksander Kwas´niewski to become a pragmatic party on the centerleft, comparable to European social democratic parties. It abandoned ideas of revolution and a nationalized planned economy, stopped stressing secularism and anticlericalism, postponed changing laws on abortion despite its prochoice rhetoric, moved toward endorsing a free market economy and membership in the European Union and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, and preached only limited state intervention. But all of this was masterminded, says Kubiak, by the Warsaw elite against the will of the party base, and was carried so far it provoked the rise of new populist parties ready to fill the vacuum thus created. The Democratic Left Alliance, like many other parties on the left, is a party

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still in transition. Its militants still do not find it easy to privilege “reasons of state” over policies addressing the problems of the people. Similarly, Pasquino shows that the Italian left, unable to build a stronger leadership, remains divided over program. With many former communists still opposed to social democratic solutions, other militants flirting with Blairism, and all expecting the state to provide and capitalism to exploit, it is unable to offer a cohesive center-left program to counter Forza Italia’s more unified message on the center-right. In other cases, the shift to the center has been more balanced: the stronger parties in the party systems of Uruguay, Japan, and France have all moved to the center. Lanzaro tells us that the new moderate pluralism at the center in Uruguay allows freer play for “centripetal competition,” that is, cartel-like maneuvering (posibilismo) among the parties. Haruhiro Fukui (Chapter 9) points out how the parties of Japan have become much more alike, and Florence Haegel and Marc Lazar (Chapter 15) remind us that both “prosystem” parties of France, left and right, have moved to the center in order to broaden their appeal and enlist new coalition partners. Moving toward a program more centrist than a party’s members support in order to wage a more successful campaign has clear antidemocratic implications, as noted. Less obviously dedemocratizing is the shift to more professional campaigns in order to present and defend such programs, a phenomenon authors here have specifically remarked on in Sweden, Mexico, Israel, and the United States, but that is daily made manifest in most of the others as well (only Haegel and Lazar suggest that the parties they discuss are almost willfully unprofessional and thus very poor at penetrating society). The question is not whether party candidates and their teams are using modern tactics to sell their new centrist manifestos—hiring professional consultants, paying for opinion polls, doing focus-group studies, using the website and e-mail tools of the Internet, and so forth—nor even how well they do so. The question is, rather, how they find the money to pay for them. The programmatic push to the center is motivated by the desire for electoral success, but also to set the terms for postvictory uses of power, and one of these is to use public office in ways that facilitate fundraising to pay for campaign costs. This is a matter we will return to below.

Using Power to Prosper Thus far we have looked only at dedemocratizing means of achieving electoral success; now we are ready to turn to the uses of that success. In most of the nations here discussed, winning political parties use their new power in part to protect their hold on power and in part for personal gain (as well as for more legitimate purposes). Such behavior is not new; what is new is the greater freedom and ease with which these acts of dedemocratization are now undertaken and the wide range of kinds of parties that engage in them.

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Using Power to Self-Protect Ruling parties have long used their power to redesign the rules governing election systems and campaign finance in ways that will benefit their own candidates—“gerrymandering” the division of US congressional districts to concentrate the strength of the opposition and spread the strength of one’s own party out to maximum advantage began nearly 200 years ago. But the new freedom makes it easier than ever to write new rules of the game with little or no respect for the basic rights of a free opposition or even for rights of free association— and to do so as often as one wishes—in order to stay in power. It is no surprise, then, that the new electoral system in Italy, a mixed system with one-fourth of the seats assigned by proportional representation, has worked to the advantage of the ruling party. As already noted, Forza Italia is much better able to bring together the loose and ideologically disparate coalitions such a system requires—in this case far-right centrist and territorial independent parties, plus two Christian Democratic groups—than the Democrats of the Left, who have managed to create the Olive Tree coalition but remain very divided and contentious. But the Italian case pales to near insignificance beside the example of the United States. The US electoral system is, as Robin Kolodny (Chapter 16) shows so well, sui generis. Here the two ruling parties invented and used the cartel system long before Richard Katz and Peter Mair (1995) came along to name it, and have used the new freedom to further dedemocratize the vote with breathtaking audacity. A system based on single-member districts with plurality election is one way to increase the likelihood of there being two and only two parties, but as we have seen in other nations, does not always suffice. Not to worry. In the United States it is augmented by a stunning range of state-bystate election rules governing ballot access and candidate selection. Campaign finance regulations are riddled with loopholes that benefit the two major parties, both of them wooed by the lobbyists of very generous donors, and further impede any chance of minor-party victory. There is no point in fighting the system in the name of free association and wider choice: newcomer candidates are more likely to seek success within the major parties or run as independents than to try to form a new party. If they take the latter path, the rules ensure that their best hope is to gain enough votes to hurt the candidate of the major party with whom they are most in agreement, earning the undying hatred of his or her supporters, and not a single seat in the US Congress, much less the popular vote for the presidency. Recent failures to enact serious reform in lobbying regulations despite flagrant misbehavior on the part of some practitioners may shock and awe, as do recent revelations that the Texas legislature undertook corrective gerrymandering mid-decade, contrary to laws requiring redistricting only after the national census (every ten years). But such revelations of the use of power for the purposes of self-protection are only that; they do not become the basis for sufficient outrage to bring about reform.

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Japan is another case where electoral system change has been a boon to the party in power, in this case a single party. Before the Liberal Democratic Party was brought down by scandal, the electoral system encouraged intraparty factions, and this in turn led to great increases in campaign spending, often in the form of “favors” to win votes. It was a competition that the Liberal Democrats, able to use the resources of power, always won. As the situation worsened and the resulting scandals increased in frequency and scale, reform became inevitable, and the electoral system was changed to a mixed one with voting both by proportional representation and single-member districts. However, Fukui reports little real improvement with the second change, old interests being too entrenched in power and institutions unchanged.2 Changing the electoral system may be used to help protect the ability of the party in power to stay in power, but may not be sufficient to permit that power to be used as desired. Once in power in Uruguay, the leftist Frente Amplio devised a two-ballot presidential system to maintain multipartyism and then moved in the opposite direction, limiting each party to one presidential candidate to prevent fragmentation. So far, so good. But since the 1999–2002 economic crisis, the ruling-party coalition has had fewer resources—and in carrying out the neoliberal privatization plans in their new centrist program, they have, says Lanzaro, lost control of resources that could have been (and formerly were) distributed clientelistically. Market individualism is now more important to the party’s leadership than social collective action. Reforms designed for other purposes, even legitimately democratic ones well in keeping with the wishes of a party’s core, may also not function as expected. Möller suggests that Sweden’s new electoral system, permitting voting for a candidate as well as for a party, has led to the personalization of candidacies and thus to higher costs and more dependency on private funding. The complex two-ballot systems used by the French at the presidential and legislative levels show how easily system reform can boomerang, in this case producing the unexpected “cohabitation” of power by leaders from different parties, each in charge of one of the two nearly equal branches of government. The French system can also produce disproportionate victories for minor parties that are completely out of tune with national political realities, as in the 2002 displacement of Socialist leader Lionel Jospin by the leader of the farright National Front for the second ballot of the presidential election.3 A small party whose electoral success is limited but that nonetheless consistently produces a significant effect on the course of a nation’s politics may well be the beneficiary of electoral system manipulation carried out before current power-holders took office. In Chile, the Pinochet regime set up an electoral system to favor its party (the Independent Democratic Union), and this party continues to be overrepresented. Similarly, Israel’s generous campaign funding and very low threshold for ballot access have long been crucial to the success of Shas.

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It is not always the party that wins that changes the rules that give it ever greater protection against defeat. In Russia, reports Kulik, the rules of the game change before each coming election, always strengthening the Kremlin and helping the more centrist parties that support it. It is by means of such changes that the party system has moved from “multiparty” to a much more manageable “few-party” system. But this is not a case where the ruling party has made itself stronger by changing the rules—the rules have been changed to ensure that one party will be the strongest, but also to ensure that none of the parties, not even those closest to the Kremlin, can interfere with the power of the leader. Having almost no power whatsoever, the parties are unable to establish stable linkages with constituencies and thus build more. Even United Russia has no power to make policy or check its exercise. The parties are not becoming the state (as per Katz and Mair), but have been transformed into appendages of the ruling regime. They assist in dedemocratization by accepting their own powerlessness in exchange for the right to stay in parliament. Although electoral law in Poland is commonly held responsible for giving the nation an all but unmanageable plethora of parties at the beginning of the postcommunist era, the leadership of the Polish Democratic Left Alliance has not confined itself to election law reform in its efforts to protect itself once in power. It has strengthened the central leadership, says Kubiak, by making it all but impossible for local party leaders to hold state and regional government posts; treated state institutions as extended employment agencies for the party’s activists; and ensured that campaign finance regulations are laced with loopholes. Using Power for Personal Gain: Corruption in Office The line between using power to self-protect and using power for illicit gain is often hard to draw. The first seems to dedemocratize simply by loading the electoral dice in favor of continued electoral gain, contravening the principle of political equality, whereas the second has illegal purposes impossible to defend as the will of any significant share of the voters. Yet the eagerness to make one’s control of power ever more secure is very often motivated by the desire to use that power to ensure greater riches for a certain class, a certain band of loyalists, and a certain set of generous donors (with no necessary distinctions among the three). Furthermore, the best way to secure power in competitive elections appears to be to personalize leadership more and more and to use ever more expensive means of campaigning for star candidates. More expensive campaigns put a priority on fundraising, and the need for funds has always been the world’s greatest motive for breaking the law. Radix malorum est cupiditas (“greed is the root of all evil”) holds true in the highest office as in the lowest. Here we use the word “corruption” to refer to the use of power to gain illicit wealth, either by law or by using means contrary to law. We are sadly

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blessed with examples to choose from in this book. In Russia, what parliamentary status gives one, says Kulik, is personal fortune. Controlling the state means controlling export quotas, licenses, benefits, even direct investments in business, all good opportunities for personal profiteering: “Legislative activities have become a stable and sound source for MPS to fill up personal and party budgets.” Polish campaign finance laws are often violated by such corrupt practices as undocumented donations and overspending, and Kubiak finds that privatization and reprivatization have been “associated with corruption on a scale unknown until now,” with increased profiteering by the wealthy and a declining standard of living for the poor. Contracts go to those who support a party or candidate financially, lucrative positions are given to ruling party activists, and political power is used by the Democratic Left Alliance elite, as it was by their predecessors, to improve social standing and wealth. The examples continue. Shas distributes state monies to its satellite associations in ways not authorized by law, and is never prosecuted for doing so. It was a major funding scandal involving their highest leader that took Germany’s Christian Democrats out of power. Liberal Democratic Party candidates in Japan gained new members for their factions by paying their dues for them. Relatively minor financial scandals led to resignations within the Swedish Social Democrats and contributed to their temporary loss of power. In France, the laws governing campaign finance are more rigorous, and indictments of leaders for corrupt practices are common, but so, unfortunately, is the dismissal of charges despite seemingly clear evidence of guilt. In the United States, the aides of elected officials are indicted with relative frequency, their cronies win war contracts without competitive bidding, and presidents can be compelled to admit to breaking the law yet remain in office. Or, as Kolodny spells out, the corruption takes the form of enacting laws that keep minor parties out of competition so that donors may be confident their financial interests, well protected by both parties in exchange for campaign funding, will continued to be privileged. In Italy, massive bribery scandals have led to the indictment of all the secretaries of governing parties, and the extent of Mafia control of government and business has become ever more evident. Reforms have led to the decline and disappearance of some of the parties involved, but also to conditions that Berlusconi has been able to exploit in ways that have led to his own indictment on criminal charges. Ruling parties in Mexico have a long history of relying on patronage, corruption, co-optation, and cronyism: no new freedom to exploit power for personal gain without fear of apprehension has been required in that nation, and if anything, levels of overt corruption have probably been reduced. The fact that I do not draw examples from other chapters means that they were not mentioned, not that they do not exist. Although it may be tempting to dismiss all this (“everyone knows that some politicians are corrupt”), corruption in office tears the fabric of democratic government, taking power over public resources out of the hands of the

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people. It is a serious tool in the ongoing work of dedemocratization, as are the other trends noted in this volume. Strengthening the leadership, centering the program regardless of the wishes of members and supporters and using modern technology to promote it in electoral campaigns, changing (or maintaining) electoral systems and other laws regulating the behavior of parties in order to self-protect, and using the resources of office in corrupt and illegal ways are not new. But the new freedom to use such means with impunity in political systems across the world is a change that makes a difference. It is change that threatens to turn parties everywhere into agencies of personal profiteering rather than of democracy.

Conclusion: Taking Back the Parties Protecting democracy, it may be argued, is not the job of greedy politicians; it is by definition the job of the electorate, and it is to the voters themselves that we must turn. But do the case studies presented here suggest that this approach holds promise? If we are looking for signs of public dismay, they are easy enough to find. A full 90 percent of Lithuanians are skeptical about political parties, and there is widespread dissatisfaction with Lithuanian democracy. In Russia, the population is deeply contemptuous of the parties. Party membership and identification have declined in France, in Great Britain, and “throughout Europe.” In Japan, one finds a decline of partisanship in general, as well as a decline in loyalty to specific parties, and growing cynicism and hostility toward parties, politicians, and government. Antiparty sentiment has grown in Uruguay as the parties have moved to the center. Only about 50 percent of Poles vote regularly, and those who do seldom stick with the same party from election to election. In the United States, voter turnout normally falls below 50 percent in local elections, and does not rise much higher in national elections. Popular discontent with the performance of the political parties, however, has shown very little sign of slowing the trends noted here. In some cases, such as Chile and Uruguay, the new party system is such an improvement, democratically, over past dictatorships that it is no doubt unreasonable and naive to expect public outrage over the comparatively minor tendency to dedemocratize. Even when there does not seem to be that much improvement in the new system, old habits may die slowly. Russians think parties are fundamentally unnecessary and that a government of unbiased experts would work better. The Japanese are not apathetic about politics, but their anger and cynicism, given past failures of reform, are so entrenched they lack the will to insist on further change. In Israel, Shas promotes resentment of the democratic process among its own members, not demands to strengthen democracy in the country. In the United States, those who do vote often seem motivated more by interest in the political game than by substantive results: “the ability of a political party to win

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control of an office is more important than whether it can change public policy in a favorable way,” notes Kolodny. Even when ruling parties lose too many of their core voters to hang on to power, they are not likely to be replaced by parties that can themselves resist the temptation to dedemocratize. In country after country, popular discontent with a party’s performance leads not to demands for systemwide reform, but just to a readiness to vote for a different party, hoping against hope that this time it will be better. Political systems are complicated, campaign techniques are sophisticated and manipulative, and it is not only Russians who have, as Kulik says they do, a very low-level understanding of the political game. If there are answers, they are not easy ones. Any hope of reestablishing parties as agencies of democracy rather than of dedemocratization must be found in a combination of forces. First, the consequences must become sufficiently unbearable to a significant number of the less advantaged. Second, the media, especially the mainstream media, must report evidence of these trends in greater depth and with more attention to the dangers they pose to democracy. Third, more members of the political class—those who follow and discuss the political news, vote, and engage in other acts of political participation—must take such dangers more seriously than heretofore. Even if they themselves do not immediately feel the pinch of policies designed to take power away from the electorate and enrich those whose pockets are already amply full, they must allow themselves to recognize what is taking place and try to devise ways to help reverse the trend. It is important to remember that this is a global phenomenon, and to use the strongest tools of democracy—a free press and a demanding electorate—to rejuvenate our parties and our political systems. Simply holding parties in contempt, and taking pleasure in describing their failures, are not much more useful than pretending all is well. Of course it may be true that parties will eventually just go away. Unfortunately, however, if they do they will be sorely missed. Go make a democracy without them.

Notes 1. One is also reminded of the remarkable changes brought about by statutory “reform” in the composition of the US party conventions during the 1970s: suddenly every significant demographic group found a seat—many seats—on the convention floor, even as the convention itself turned into a media spectacle of ratification of decisions made elsewhere. 2. The recent victory of Hamas in Palestinian elections was another reminder that mixed electoral systems can have results not predicted by those who designed them, and can also fail to produce expected results. 3. Since the Socialists were accused of deliberately increasing minor-party advantages by electoral system reform under François Mitterrand (president from 1981 to 1995), in order to strengthen the far right at the expense of the center-right and thus maintain themselves in power, there was perhaps some poetic justice in the 2002 result.

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APR BCRA CBOS CD CDU CEC CGIL CGP CPRF CPSU CSO CSU DL DPJ DPR DS DSP ECLAC ERM EU FA FDP FEC FN FSB GATT GDP GDR HAVA HU/LC ILCP

Agrarian Party of Russia Bipartisan Campaign Reform Act (United States) Center for Public Opinion Research Democratic Current (Mexico) Christian Democratic Union (Germany) Central Electoral Commission (Russia) Italian General Confederation of Labor Clean Government Party (Japan) Communist Party of the Russian Federation Communist Party of the Soviet Union Central Statistical Organisation Christian Socialist Union (Bavaria) Liberal Democracy (France) Democratic Party of Japan Democratic Party of Russia Democrats of the Left (Italy) Democratic Socialist Party (Japan) Economic Commission for Latin America and the Caribbean exchange-rate mechanism (European Union) European Union Frente Amplio (Broad Front) (Uruguay) Free Democratic Party (Germany) Federal Election Commission (United States) National Front (France) Federal Security Service (Russia) General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade gross domestic product German Democratic Republic Help America Vote Act (United States) Homeland Union/Lithuanian Conservatives Independent Lithuanian Communist Party 367

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ILO IMF JCP JSP KGB KPD LCP LCR LDLP LDP LDPR LO LSDP MDC MNR MK MP NARA NATO NDR NE NEC NGO NPF NU/SL OECD OVR PAN PC PCF PCI PDC PDS PDS PiS PN PNR PNUD PPD PR PRD PRES

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International Labour Organization International Monetary Fund Japanese Communist Party Japan Socialist Party (aka Social Democratic Party of Japan, aka Social Democratic Party) Committee for State Security (Russia) German Communist Party Lithuanian Communist Party Communist Revolutionary League (France) Lithuanian Democratic Labor Party Liberal Democratic Party (Japan) Liberal Democratic Party of Russia Workers’ Struggle (France) Lithuanian Social Democratic Party Citizens’ Movement (France) National Republican Movement (France) members of the Knesset member of parliament National Archives and Records Administration (United States) North Atlantic Treaty Organization Our Home–Russia New Space (Uruguay) National Executive Committee (Britain) nongovernmental organization National Policy Forum (Britain) New Union/Social Liberals (Lithuania) Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development Fatherland–Entire Russia National Action Party (Mexico) Colorado Party (Uruguay) French Communist Party Italian Communist Party Christian Democratic Party (Chile) Democratic Party of the Left (Italy) Party of Democratic Socialism (Germany) Law and Justice (Poland) National Party (Chile, Uruguay) National Revolutionary Party (Mexico) United Nations Development Program for Latin America Party for Democracy (aka Concertación) (Chile) proportional representation Party of Democratic Revolution (Mexico) Party of Russian Unity and Consent

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PRI PRL PRM PRSD PS PUC PZPR RCWP RN RPF RPR SDF SDP SdPl SdRP SLD SMD SNTV SPD UDF UDI UK UMP UN UNDP UP USSR WASG YeR

Institutional Revolutionary Party (Mexico) Polish People’s Republic Mexican Revolutionary Party Social Democratic Radical Party (Chile) Socialist Party (Chile, France) Pontificial Catholic University (Chile) Polish United Workers’ Party Russian Communist Workers’ Party National Renewal (Chile) Rally for France Rally for the Republic (France) Self-Defense Forces (Japan) Social Democratic Party (Japan) Polish Social Democracy Republic of Poland Democratic Left Alliance (Poland) single-member district single nontransferable vote German Social Democratic Party Union for French Democracy Independent Democratic Union (Chile) United Kingdom Popular Movement Union (France) United Nations United Nations Development Programme Union of Labour (Poland) Union of Soviet Socialist Republics Alternative for Work and Social Justice (Germany) United Russia

369

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The Contributors

Frank Bösch is professor of history, Giessen University, Germany. Haruhiro Fukui is professor emeritus of political science, University of California, Santa Barbara, United States. Florence Haegel is director of research, Centre de Recherches Politiques de Sciences Po, Paris, France. Alfredo Joignant is assistant professor, Departamento de Ciencia Politica, Universidad de Chile, Santiago, Chile. Robin Kolodny is associate professor, Department of Political Science, Temple University, Philadelphia, United States. Algis Krupavicˇ ius is professor of politics and director of the Policy and Public Administration Institute, Kaunas University of Technology, Lithuania. Hieronim Kubiak is professor of sociology, Jagiellonian University, Krakow, Poland. Anatoly Kulik is senior research fellow, Department of Political Science, Institute of Scientific Information in Social Sciences, Russian Academy of Sciences, Moscow, Russia. Jorge Lanzaro is professor of political science, Instituto de Ciencia Politica, Universidad de la Republica, Montevideo, Uruguay. Kay Lawson is professor emerita of political science, San Francisco State University, United States.

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Marc Lazar is professor of political history and sociology, and dean of the Graduate School of Sciences Po, Paris, France. Mark A. Martinez is associate professor of political science, California State University, Santa Barbara, United States. David McKay is professor of government, University of Essex, United Kingdom. Peter H. Merkl is professor emeritus of political science, University of California, Santa Barbara, United States. Tommy Möller is professor of political science, University of Stockholm, Sweden. Patricio Navia teaches political science at New York University, New York, United States, and at Universidad Diego Portales, Chile. Gianfranco Pasquino is professor of political science at the University of Bologna and the Johns Hopkins University, Bologna Center, Italy. William E. Paterson is professor of German and European politics, and foundation director of the Institute for German Studies, University of Birmingham, United Kingdom. James Sloam is lecturer in politics and international relations, Royal Holloway, University of London, United Kingdom. Yael Yishai is professor emerita, University of Haifa, Israel.

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Antiegalitarianism in postcommunist Poland, 63 Antimainstream factions of the LDP, 169–170 Antinuclear sentiments, Sweden’s, 29 Antireligious party, Israel’s, 234 Antisociety parties: France’s PCF, 296 Antisystem parties: determining party success and prosperity, 331; development into parties of government, 335–336; France, 299–300, 306–310; party prosperity and, 5; Poland, 70 Arabs: Israeli party representation, 234, 237, 241 Asahi Shimbun polls, 165, 166(tables), 167, 170, 174–175, 179, 181 Ashkenazi Jews, 232, 239, 240–242 Aso, Taro, 176–177, 177(table) Assassinations, 218 Assisted capitalism, Uruguay’s, 135(n12) Associative nation building, 134(n6) Attlee, Clement, 11 Aubry, Martine, 54 Aubry plan, 55 Authoritarian regimes: building postregime leftist parties, 3; Chile, 250; development of Mexico’s one-party system, 210–211; party prosperity and, 249; postregime party system development, 347–348 Autocracy, elective, 186, 342 Aylwin, Patricio, 259

Abortion law, 81 Accommodation, Sweden’s government, 28 Adenauer, Konrad, 143, 144, 148–149 African Americans, 326 Age: Chile’s party delegation, 265(fig.); Chile’s UDI legislators, 263–268; of party systems, 134(n3); Poland’s SLD membership and, 75, 77, 81, 86(n24) Agrarian Party/Center Party (Sweden), 29 Agricultural Union (Lithuania), 91 Agro-Industrial Group (Russia), 185–186, 198(table) Alessandri, Jorge, 257, 259 Alianza (Chile): electoral performance in the 2005 elections, 269; electoral results, 1988–2005, 254(table); formation of, 251–252; UDI’s growth at the expense of, 256; women’s voting behavior, 258(table) Alienation of Russian voters, 194–195 All-Poland Alliance of Trade Unions, 75–76 Allende, Salvador, 257, 259 Alternative for Work and Social Justice (WASG: Germany), 48 Alternative parties, 323, 325–326 Anarchy: party success in postcommunist regimes, 339–340; postmonocracy societies, 344; social democrats’ internal party relations, 45–46 Anti-republicanism in France, 298 Anticlericalism of Poland’s SLD, 81

Bachelet, Michelle, 252–253, 255, 259

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Balladur, Edouard, 302 Ballot access, 319, 361, 362 Ballot design: France’s two-ballot uninominal poll, 296; US, 320 Ballot requirements, US, 318–323 Banned parties, 90, 250 Barak, Ehud, 233, 236 Barre, Raymond, 302 Bartlett Díaz, Manuel, 217 Batllismo, Uruguay’s, 132, 137(n32) Battle, Jorge, 137(n32) Battle, José, 137(n32) Battle, Luis, 137(n32) Bavaria. See Christian Socialist Union Bayrou, François, 299 Belka, Marek, 71 Berlin Wall, 275, 276 Berlinguer, Enrico, 281 Berlusconi, Silvio, 4–5; charismatic leadership, 277–278; coalition formation, 288, 333; creation of Forza Italia, 279; criticism of leadership and governance, 280–281; Forza Italia party organization and leadership, 285; as target of party system reform, 347; using power for personal gain, 364 Bertinotti, Fausto, 290 Besancenot, Olivier, 307 Bicameral systems: France’s party prosperity through alliance formation, 301–302; Italy, 278; Japan, 162; Russia, 185; Sweden, 28; United States, 314–316 Bildt, Carl, 40 Binominal electoral system, Chile’s, 252, 260 Bipartisan Campaign Reform Act (BCRA), 316, 323 Bipartism. See Two-party systems Bipolar multiparty system: France, 296, 298–300, 300–306; role of majority parties, 338 Blair, Tony: declining view of, 20(fig.); evolution of party policy, 11; explaining social democrats’ decline, 58; forcing nationalization, 14; future of social democratic parties, 50–51; growing disunity under, 19–21; Labour’s centrist trend, 48; policy coordination, 15–16

Blair-Schröder paper, 53 Blancos. See National Party (PN; Uruguay) Blanket primaries, US, 319–320 Bloc politics: Lithuania’s electoral volatility, 93; Uruguay, 125, 128–129, 128(table) Blue-collar workers: European social democrats, 43; Israeli’s widening socioeconomic cleavage, 239; SLD constituency, 72, 73, 79 Blunkett, David, 21 Bolsheviks, 187–188 Borowski, Marek, 82 Bossi, Umberto, 288, 333 Branches, party, 176 Brandt, Willy, 336 Brazauskas, Algirdas, 92–93, 95–96, 95(fig.), 108, 109(table), 114 Bribery: Japan’s Recruit scandal, 164–165; Shas’s Arye Deri, 241–242. See also Corruption; Scandal Britain: Conservative Party decline, 22–24; distribution of seats in the House of Commons, 10(table); duopoly in the House of Commons, 349(n1); growing government disunity under Blair, 19–21; Labour Party renaissance, 12–19; left-right ideological movements, 15(fig.); party development, 10–12; personalistic leadership weakening party militants, 355–356; programmatic centrism, 359; rise of New Labour, 10–19; social democrats’ rebirth after party system breakdown, 348–349; social democrats’ voter dealignment, 46–47; Sweden’s hybrid government, 28; 2001 general election results, 18(table). See also Labour Party Broad Front. See Frente Amplio Brown, Gordon, 15, 23, 58 Buchanan, Pat, 322 Buddhist representation, 172 Bujak, Zbigniew, 83 Bull-dozed societies, 339 Bundesvorstand meetings (Germany), 149(table) Bush, George W., 315, 339 Bush, Jeb, 315

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Index Business sector, Sweden’s party support, 35, 37 Cabinet-post allocation: Conservative Party’s increasing cleavages over, 16; Israel’s Shas, 237; Japan, 168–169, 169(table); Koizumi cabinet supporters and nonsupporters, 180(table); parliamentary background of Lithuanian ministers, 109(table) Calderon, Felipe, 227, 345 California Democratic Party v. Jones, 320 Calles, Plutarco Elias, 210 Calzada Urquiza, Antonio, 216 Camarilla (personalistic clique), 216–217, 220–223, 226 Cameron, David, 59 Campaign finance: dedemocratization through corruption, 363–365; France, 295–296; high cost of Japanese campaigns, 163; Israel’s state funding for, 235; Poland’s regulation of, 69–72, 85(nn14, 16, 17); Russia’s increasing need for, 202; Sweden, 35–38; US 527 organizations, 327(n4); US Congress, 322; US electoral reform, 316, 320–324; US electoral rules, 318–323; US noncontributors, 325; US presidential elections, 321–322; US private finance, 323; US two-party system, 361 Campaign Finance Institute, 325 Campaign process and techniques: Germany’s CDU/CSU, 146–148; Israel’s Shas, 241–243; Sweden, 35; Unity’s race for Duma seats, 195–196 Campaigns and Communications Directorate (Labour Party), 47 Candidate selection: Germany’s CDU/ CSU, 150; Japan’s Diet, 162–163; Japan’s Koizumi challenge to LDP, 175–181; Japan’s multiparty cosponsorship of candidates, 175; Poland’s SLD’s internal cleavages, 75–76; PRI’s patronage system, 211, 215–216; PRI’s selection of Palacios, 219–221; Russians’ failure, 189–190;

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US dedemocratization, 361; US primaries, 317–318 Capitalism, assisted, 135(n12) Capitalisme sauvage (savage capitalism), 54 Cárdenas, Cuauhtémoc, 214–215, 344 Cárdenas, Lázaro, 210–211 Carlsson, Ingvar, 31–32 Cartels, electoral: France, 300–306; ruling party use of power for selfprotection, 361; Russia’s cartel solidarity, 192; Uruguay’s centripetal competition, 360; US bipartisan system, 317–318, 323 “Cash for questions” affair, 21 Catchall parties: German Christian Democrats, 336; Japan’s LDP, 162; Uruguay’s Frente Amplio, 125–128 Catholic Church: Catholic socialization of the UDI, 261, 263; Poland’s SLD’s programmatic shift, 81; Polish religious parties, 67, 71–72; religious affiliation of Chilean parties, 262(table); support for Germany’s Christian Democrats, 142, 144. See also Independent Democratic Union (Chile) Census, US, 315–316 Center Party (Sweden), 29, 36(table) Central Europe, depoliticization of, 340–341 Centralization: decentralization of CDU/CSU leading to electoral success, 144; demise of democratic center in Italy’s DS, 283; Mexico’s PRI centralizing the government, 211–212; Uruguay’s postauthoritarian transition, 124–125. See also Programmatic centralization Centrifugal competition, 114 Centripetal competition, 114, 360 Centrist parties and programs: failure of Russia’s left-centrist bloc, 192–193; Forza Italia and PDS platforms, 291–292; Italy’s political vacuum, 279; Japan’s CGP, 172; Russian parties power-seeking stance, 201–202; SLD’s programmatic shift, 81; social democrats’ centrist trend, 48; social democrats’ programmatic changes, 51–56; social democrats’

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success and decline, 58–59; Uruguay’s center-oriented competition, 122; Uruguay’s Frente Amplio, 127–128 Chancellor’s party, CDU as, 149–150 Charismatic leadership. See Personalistic leadership Chechnya occupation, 185, 203, 342 Checks and balances, monocracy’s incompatibility with, 343 Chernobyl disaster, 29 Chernomirdin, Viktor, 192, 195 Chevènement, Jean-Pierre, 298, 304 Children: CDU/CSU’s traditional values, 157; heir/heiress candidates, 163 Chile: centralizing party power through personalistic leadership, 357; cultural homogeneity among parties, 263(table); electoral competency of UDI and RN deputies, 266(table); electoral law, 252; electoral reform shifting party power, 362; electoral results, 1988–2005, 254(table); party system, 249–251; recovery from party system breakdown, 347–348; right-wing party prosperity, 4; 2005 elections threatening UDI prosperity, 268–269; UDI edging out Concertación, 252–256; UDI targeting women voters, 256–259; UDI’s political competency, 263–267; UDI’s religious socialization in schools and universities, 261–263; women’s voting behavior, 258(table) Chirac, Jacques: centralizing party power through coalitions, 356; cohabitation with PS, 44; France’s party system breakdown, 346; leftright confrontation, 298, 302, 303; party scandal, 311(n10); success after party system crisis, 349 Christian Democracy of the Third Republic (Poland), 66 Christian Democrat Party (Sweden), 30 Christian Democratic Party (Chile): age of legislators, 265(fig.); Chilean parties’ individual leadership occupancy rates, 268(table); cultural heterogeneity, 261, 263; cultural

homogeneity, 263(table); electoral support from 1988–2005, 257(fig.); history of Chile’s party system, 249; leadership background of deputies, 267(table); opposition to the Pinochet regime, 250; religious affiliation of Chilean parties, 262(table); success rates for Chilean deputies seeking reelection, 270(table); UDI’s capture of the constituency, 256–257 Christian Democratic Party (Poland), 82 Christian Democratic Party (Russia), 188 Christian Democratic Union (CDU; Germany): centralization of party power, 358; Germany’s party system, 142–146; Germany’s postreunification political separation, 146; Grand Coalition, 43–44; membership figures, 152(table); as natural party of government, 337; need for coalition formation, 333; postreunification growth, 340–341; programmatic centrism, 359; success after party system crisis, 349; using power for personal gain, 364 Christian Democratic Union/Christian Socialist Union (CDU/CSU; Germany): campaign techniques, 146–148; party finances and scandals, 153–155; party organization and leadership, 148–153; policy and programs, 155–158; voter makeup, 145(table) Christian Democrats (Italy), 276, 277, 278–279, 282, 288, 289, 345 Christian Democrats (Lithuania), 90, 99(table) Christian Democrats (Sweden), 36(table) Christian Right (US), 326 Christian Socialist Union (CSU; Germany): Germany’s party system, 142–146; need for coalition formation, 333 Chuayfett, Emilio, 220–223 Civic Platform (Poland), 68, 69, 71, 83, 86(n17) Civil society: CDU/CSU efforts towards party-citizen relations, 147; corruption in Poland, 64–65;

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Index influence of Germany’s CDU/CSU on, 155–156; Mexico’s social contract, 210; Russia’s early failure to democratize, 187; SLD’s internal programmatic conflict and membership dealignment, 81–84; social democrats’ electoral decline, 59; Sweden’s growing distrust of politics, 31–32 Clarke, Kenneth, 16 Clean-election laws, US, 320–321 Clean Government Party (CGP; Japan): constitutional revision support, 173(table); electoral support, 175(table); Japan’s party system, 168; municipal assembly election results, 172(table); party branches, 176(table); seats won in Diet elections, 171(table) Clean hands campaign (Italy), 346 Cleavages, socioeconomic and political: Conservative Party’s increasing cleavages over cabinet-post allocation, 16; Israeli parties reflecting ethnic cleavages, 234; Israel’s socioeconomic cleavages, 238–239; Lithuania, 111; Poland’s SLD’s internal cleavages over candidate selection, 75–76; Poland’s social cleavages and the party system, 68–69; Uruguay’s left-right cleavage, 131–133, 137(n31), 137(n33) Clientelist relationships: France’s FN, 308; France’s UMP, 305; Uruguay’s left-right cleavage, 131–133; Uruguay’s reforms leading to, 130 Coalitions: Berlusconi’s creation of, 279–280; centralizing party power through, 356; Chile’s Concertación, 252–256; Chile’s electoral law favoring, 252; coalition capabilities of PDS and Forza Italia, 288–290, 293(table); coalitions and composite majorities determining party success, 332–334; electoral effect of Poland’s SLD, 80; France’s bipolarization, 298; France’s FN rejection of, 309; gauging Shas’s prosperity through membership in, 236–237; gauging the prosperity of France’s dominant

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parties, 300–301; Israel’s dependence on small parties for, 233; Italy’s government parties’ manipulation of, 277; Italy’s Left-wing groups, 279; LDP control of Japan’s Diet, 170; Lithuania’s center-left attempts, 91–93; Lithuania’s social democrats, 93; Poland’s many parties forming, 67; Poland’s polarized pluralism and, 68; Poland’s Political Committee, 83; Poland’s SLD, UP, PSL government, 77; Russia’s United Russia superparty, 185–186; Russia’s Unity/Bear movement, 195–197; Shas party’s participation and goals, 4, 238–239; social democrats in France and Germany, 43–44, 47–48; Sweden’s Social Democrats, 28–29; Uruguay’s FA as “party of coalition,” 126, 136(n21) Cofferati, Sergio, 283 Cohabitation, 305–306 Collaboration, Swedish, 28–29 Collective affiliation, Sweden’s, 35 Collusion of France’s antisystem parties, 306 Colorado Party (PC; Uruguay): batllismo, 137(n32); bloc politics electorate, 128–129, 128(table); coparticipation regime, 135(n11); multipartism threatening, 118; party system realignment, 121–124; postauthoritarian transition, 124–125; Uruguay’s left-right cleavage, 131–133, 137(n33); Uruguay’s traditional bipartism, 119–121 Colosio, Luis Donaldo, 218 Committees, electoral, 285 Common good, Poland’s, 62 Common Poland coalition, 83 Communications technology: contributing to dedemocratization, 354; Israel’s Shas’s campaign technique, 235, 241–242. See also Media Communism: CDU/CSU anticommunist stance, 144, 146–147, 155–156; explaining SLD emergence and success, 61–62; fall of Berlin Wall triggering Italy’s political transition, 276–278; Lithuanian LCP’s rejection

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of, 91; Lithuanian LDLP’s rejection of, 111–112; origins of leftist parties, 3; party success in postcommunist regimes, 339–344; radicalization of organized labor, 334–335; Russia’s rejection of, 189; Russia’s rejection without democratization, 200; in the Soviet Union, 188 Communist parties: growth from minority opposition party to party of government, 336–337; Italy’s leftwing coalition, 278–279; Japan, 171–172; leadership of Italian Communist Party, 281; threat of Sweden’s Left Party, 30–31 Communist Party of the Russian Federation (CPRF), 185–186, 193, 195, 196, 197(table), 198–199, 198(table), 201, 202 Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU), 188–189 Communist Party (Poland), 70 Communist Party (Russia), 341 Competition: among Japan’s policy tribes, 164–165; defining party prosperity and success, 343–344; Eastern Europe’s structural disequilibrium, 89–90; FA’s interand intraparty competition, 127; France’s competition policy, 56; France’s leftist parties’ internal competition, 307; French parties, 302; intensification of Lithuania’s, 114–115; Israel’s interparty competition, 234; Mexico’s postmonocracy party success, 344–345; Uruguay’s center-oriented competition, 122; Uruguay’s consociational democracy, 119–121; Uruguay’s left-right cleavage, 131–133, 137(n33); Uruguay’s postauthoritarian transition, 125; US bipartisan system hindering competition, 317–318 Competitive space, 299–300 Compromise presidentialism, 120 Concertación (Chile): age of legislators, 265(fig.); electoral competition with UDI, 251–256; electoral law reform, 252; electoral performance in the 2005 elections, 268–269; electoral

results, 1988–2005, 254(table); electoral support from 1988–2005, 257(fig.); formation of, 250; leadership background of deputies, 267(table); leadership occupancy rates of deputies, 268(table); religious affiliation of members, 262(table); success rates for Chilean deputies seeking reelection, 270(table) Congress, US, 314, 322, 339 Consensual democracy, Sweden’s, 28 Conservative Party (Britain): Britain’s duopoly, 10–11; centrist contest with Labour, 59; Conservative Party weakness contributing to Labour Party success, 16–19; demise in Scotland, 11–12; distribution of seats in the House of Commons, 10(table); electoral decline, 22–24; general election 2001 results, 18(table); ideological movements along a leftright scale, 15(fig.); Labour deposing, 9; as natural party of government, 337–338; rightward shift, 14–15; sleaze and corruption, 21–22; social democrats’ rebirth after party system breakdown, 348–349; voter dealignment, 47–48 Conservative Party (Chile), history of Chile’s party system, 249 Consociational democracy, Uruguay’s, 119–121, 134(n6) Conspicuous pragmatism, 359 Constitutional Democratic Party (Russia), 188 Constitutional monarchy, Japan as, 162 Constitutional referendum, 190–191 Constitutional Treaty (France), 304 “Contract for America,” 338 Cooperation: French parties, 302; Sweden’s government, 28–29; Uruguay’s postauthoritarian transition, 125 Coordination Council (Russia), 185–186 Coparticipation, Uruguay’s, 119–121, 134(n8), 135(n11) Corporatism, Mexico’s, 210 Corporative coparticipation, Uruguay’s, 135(n11)

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Index Corruption: dedemocratization and personal gain, 353–355, 363–365; France’s public perception of, 306, 311(n10); Germany’s Christian Democrats’ party finances and scandals, 153–155; Israel’s direct election, 233; Israel’s party finance scandal, 242–243, 245; Italian voters’ eliminating corrupt ministers, 277; Japan’s growing voter dissatisfaction in the face of, 167; Japan’s money politics, 164–165; Labour and Tories, 21–22; Mexico’s Palacios, 217–218; Poland, 63–64; Poland’s party finance, 69; Poland’s SLD, 78; private campaign finance, 323; public scrutiny of Mexico’s, 208; Russia’s bureaucracy, 203; Russia’s Duma, 202; Shas’s Arye Deri, 241–242; Sweden’s comparable lack of, 31–32; US Electoral College, 315; US Republicans, 338–339 Corruption and Government (RoseAckerman), 64 Coups d’état: Chile’s Pinochet, 250; Lithuania, 90; Soviet Union, 189, 190; Uruguay, 121 Craxi, Bettino, 280, 336–337, 345 Crisis, economic. See Economic crisis Crisis arrangement (Sweden), 29 Crisis leading to self-transformation of parties, 117–118 Cultural groups, Shas’s appeal to, 239–241 Daisy party (Italy), 290, 292 D’Alema, Massimo, 281, 289 Damage capacity as party prosperity gauge, 309 Darwinism, political, 117–118 De la Madrid, Miguel, 213, 217 Debs, Eugene, 334 Decisionmaking structures of social democrats, 59 Decline of parties, 1–2 Dedemocratization: centralization of party programs, 358–360; centralizing party power through personalistic leadership, 355–358; parties’ hold on power, 360–365; party prosperity contributing to, 5–6;

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party survival through, 354–355; using power for personal gain, 363–365 Delegate democracy, 356 Delinkage of Mexico’s PRI, 211 Demand-side economic policy, 55 Democracy: decline of communism and the rise of materialistic democracy, 354–355; decline under US Republicans, 339; early PRI goals, 211–212; essential role of parties in, 231; impact of opposition party success in Mexico, 227–228; party prosperity and authoritarian regimes, 249; performance of Lithuanian social democrats, 108, 110; postauthoritarian recovery from party system breakdown, 347–348; Putin’s “democracy by disorder,” 342; reliance on party strength for democratization, 2; Russia as democracy of disorder, 186; Russia’s increased presidential power threatening, 186–187; Shas’s effect on, 244–246; Sweden’s electoral reform, 32–34; Sweden’s internal party democracy, 38–39; Uruguay’s democratic breakdown, 117–118. See also Dedemocratization Democratic Action Civic Alliance (Poland), 68 Democratic Current (CD; Mexico), 214 Democratic Labor Party (Lithuania), 341 Democratic Left Alliance (SLD; Poland): building and maintaining a stable electorate, 78–79; coalition formation, 84(n1); contextual framework of party development, 62–65; left-wing cohesion and rightwing fragmentation, 67; membership and organization, 74–78; Poland’s perception of partisanship of, 86(n18); Poland’s ruling coalition, 71; polarized pluralism, 69; Polish political system, 65–66; precommunist and social democratic roots, 341; programmatic centrism, 359–360; programmatic conflict and electoral defeat, 80–84; programmatic identity, 72–74; SdRP

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transition to, 61–62; voter dealignment, 86(n24) Democratic Left Alliance/Union of Labour (SLD-UP; Poland), 69–72, 70–71, 86(n17) Democratic Party of Japan (DPJ): constitutional revision support, 173(table); electoral success and prosperity, 173; electoral support, 175(table); independent voters’ support for, 174–175; LDP challenge, 175; manifesto for reform, 168; municipal assembly election results, 172(table); party branches, 176(table); public opinion of, 165, 167; seats won by major Japanese parties in Diet elections, 171(table) Democratic Party of the Left (PDS; Italy): coalition capabilities, 288–290; electoral performance, 285–288; growth from minority opposition party to party of government, 337; important features of, 293(table); Italy’s political vacuum, 278–280; party leadership, 280–281; party organization, 282–285; party system breakdown, 345; platforms and strategies, 291–292; transformation of PCI, 275–276, 276–277 Democratic Party (Poland), 65, 83 Democratic Party (US): African American and other marginalized voters, 326; bipartisan prosperity, 316–324; Electoral College, 315–316; growth from a minority party, 336 Democratic Socialist Party (DSP; Japan), 168 Democratic Union (Poland), 68 Democrats of the Left (DS; Italy), 275–276 Denmark, party system breakdown in, 346 Depersonalization, organizational, 101–102 Depoliticization of postcommunist societies, 339–344 Deputy groups, Russia, 198(table) Deregulation of state enterprises, 50, 55–56

Deri, Arye, 238, 241–242, 244–245, 247 Detachment, electoral, 209 D’Hondt method, 69 Di Pietro, Antonio, 289 Dictatorships. See Authoritarian regimes Diet (Japan): construction and function of, 162–163; independent voters, 174–175; LDP’s loss of lower house control, 165, 167; party opposition to Koizumi’s reform agenda, 178–179; seats won by major parties, 171(table); two-round presidential election, 176–178 Direct election, Israel’s, 233, 234, 237–238 Dirigism, 54, 55 Discrimination against minority parties, 334 Disruptive power of antisystem parties, 306–310 Doi, Takako, 167 Downs, Anthony, 313 Downsian parties, 313 Dual threshold, Sweden’s, 29 Duma (Russia): constitutional power of, 190–191; corruption in decisionmaking, 202; electoral associations in Duma elections, 197(table); establishment of, 187; growth of parties vying for seats, 195–197; members’ lack of party identity, 342; political development within, 192–194; Russia’s first election, 191–192; Unity control of, 342–343; Unity’s rapid rise to power, 185 Duverger, Maurice, 127–128, 136(n24) East Germany, 150–152, 157, 340–341. See also Reunification, Germany’s Eastern Europe, depoliticization of, 340–341 Echeverría, Luis, 212–213, 216–217 Economic crisis: affecting Mexico’s PRI success, 209; Chile, 250; Japan’s faction politics, 170; Japan’s growing voter dissatisfaction after, 167; Japan’s party system breakdown, 346; Uruguay, 128, 137(n29), 137(n34)

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Index Economic issues and performance: economic governance, 56; economic interdependence, 49; Israel’s socioeconomic cleavages, 238–239; Japan under Koizumi, 178–181; Japan’s voter dissatisfaction, 167; performance of Lithuania’s LDLP government, 110; Poland, 62–64; Poland’s poverty, 84; prosperity of Israel’s Shas, 232; Uruguay’s assisted capitalism, 135(n12); Uruguay’s political breakdown and recovery, 118; US Republicans’ boom and bust economy, 338–339; Yeltsin’s promise of a market economy, 189 Economic policy: European social democrats, 55–56; Mexico’s development strategy, 211; Mexico’s PRI’s technocratic revolution, 212–214; New Labour, 15; SLD’s deviation from social democratic principles, 76–77; voters’ disenchantment with Tory policy, 17 Economics. See Neoliberal economic model Edelman, Marek, 83 Education: education levels of Japanese independent voters, 174–175; Shas’s funding for, 237, 244; social democrats’ spending policy, 53; university affiliation of Chilean parties, 262(table) Elections: balance of power in France’s parties, 301(table); filling Italy’s political vacuum, 275–278; Forza Italia’s inflated success, 284–285; France’s equal access for voters, 295–296; France’s institutional constraints, 296; Israel’s direct elections for prime minister, 233; party success and party prosperity, 2; party survival through dedemocratization, 354–355. See also entries beginning with Voter Elections, legislative: balance of power in France’s parties, 301(table); Chilean women’s voting behavior, 258(table); Chile’s 2005 elections threatening UDI prosperity, 268–269; Chile’s electoral results, 1988–2005, 254(table); decline of Poland’s SLD,

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82–84; distribution of seats in Britain’s House of Commons, 10(table); electoral associations in Duma elections, 197(table); France’s party bipolarization, 298–299; general election 2001 results, 18(table); German Christian Democrats’ growth from a minority party, 336; issues leading to British Labour’s losses, 21; Italy’s political vacuum, 279; Japanese municipal assembly results, 172(table); Koizumi’s postal service privatization leading to new elections, 180–181; lack of effectiveness of Russia’s, 200–201; LDP faction politics leading to party decline, 170; Lithuania’s electoral volatility, 93; Lithuania’s LSDP, 90, 91; Lithuania’s social democrats, 92–93, 113–114; Mexico’s Chamber of Deputies results, 229(table); personalized politics in Lithuania, 96–97; Poland’s SLD’s electoral defeat, 80; PRI’s lack of success, 345; Russia’s first parliamentary election, 191–192; seats won by major Japanese parties in Diet elections, 171(table); Shas’s loss of Knesset seats, 247; SLD success, 78–79, 86(n34); Sweden’s election results and membership trends, 34–35; Sweden’s party membership trends and election results, 36(table); Sweden’s Social Democrats’ strategy, 39–41; Uruguay’s national elections mirroring internal party elections, 134(n7); Uruguay’s results, 123(tables), 124(table) Elections, presidential: Chilean women’s voting behavior, 258(table); Chile’s electoral results, 1988–2005, 254(table); France’s internal party divisions, 304–305; France’s party bipolarization, 298–299; Japan’s April 2001 LDP election results, 177(table); Japan’s two-round LDP election, 176–178; Mexico’s PAN success, 227; Mexico’s PRI legitimation, 211; PRI’s selection of Palacios, 219–221; prosperity of

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France’s antisystem parties, 306–307; Russia’s dilemma over, 194–195; social democrats’ electoral decline, 57; transparency and legitimacy of US Electoral College, 315; US campaign finance, 321; US primaries, 317–318 Elective autocracy, 186, 342 Electoral College (US), 314–315, 327(n2) Electoral decline and failure: British decline, 22–24; Chile’s right-wing parties, 249–250; leading to Labour Party reform, 13; over Uruguay’s privatization, 136(n27); Poland, 78, 80; Uruguay’s traditional party bloc, 128–131, 130 Electoral law: Chile’s binominal system, 252; Italy’s new electoral law, 294; Poland’s political parties and, 69–72 Electoral party, Frente Amplio as, 126–127 Electoral performance: breakdown of party systems, 345–349; Chile’s election results, 19882005, 254(table); DS and Forza Italia, 285–288, 293(table); Israel’s Shas, 236–237; PRI’s prosperity in the face of electoral decline, 207; Shas’s loss of Knesset seats, 247 Electoral-professional parties, 46 Electoral Referendum Committee, 277 Electoral referendums, Italy’s, 275, 277 Electoral reform: Israel, 233; Italy’s second electoral referendum, 275; Japan, 362 Electoral space, 47 Electoral success: Catholic voters’ support of CDU/CSU, 144; explaining Chile’s UDI’s electoral success, 252, 256; Forza Italia, 284; Germany’s Christian Democrats, 141; Lithuanian party size and personalistic leadership in, 101–102; Poland’s SLD, 72–74; Uruguay’s bloc politics, 128–129, 128(table) Electoral systems: Israel, 233–235; Italy’s political transition, 275; parties’ self-protective use of power, 362; Sweden’s electoral reform, 28,

32–34; United States, 314–316; Uruguay’s consociational democracy, 119; Uruguay’s postauthoritarian constitutional reform, 125; US bipartisan prosperity, 317–318; US requirements, 318–324 Employment. See Unemployment Energy markets, 50 Entire Russia Party, 185 Entryists, 13 Environmental issues molding Sweden’s party development, 29–30 Equal access for voters, 295–296, 311(n2) Ethnicity: Israeli parties reflecting ethnic cleavages, 234; Israel’s ethnicminority party, 71; Poland’s ethnicminority parties, 71; Shas targeting ethnic groups, 239–241 EU Commission, 50 European Socialist party, 291 European Union (EU): integration guiding social democrats’ monetary policy, 49–51; SLD’s role in Poland’s integration, 80; social democrats’ labor market policy, 53–55; Tories’ anti-EU attitudes and policies, 16; voter apathy, 26(n5) Everyman party, 340 Exchange-rate mechanism (ERM), 17 Executive committee meetings, Germany’s, 149(table) Executive power: CDU as chancellor’s party, 149–150; Mexican president’s lack of restriction on, 211–212; Palacios’s patronage system, 217–218; Putin’s control of Unity and the Duma, 342–343; Russia as a neocorporatist state, 186–187; Russia’s presidentialism, 190–191; Unity’s creation of system for Russia’s, 196–198 Extraparliamentary party organizations, 102, 104 Extreme-left-wing parties, 12, 308–310 Extreme-right-wing parties: CDU/CSU response to, 157; England’s lack of, 12; Germany, 141, 142–143; minority party success, 335–336 Fabius, Laurent, 46, 50–51, 304

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Index Faction politics: France, 305; Italy’s DS, 283; Japan, 170, 176–178; Mexico’s PRI, 344–345; Russia, 198(table) Fassino, Piero, 281 Fatherland–Entire Russia (OVR), 185, 195, 196, 197(table), 198(table) Federal Election Campaign Act Amendments (US), 321 Federal Election Campaign Act (US), 321 Federal Election Commission (FEC), 321, 322–323 Federalism: defining party success under, 332; federal people’s parties, 142; federal structures of social democratic parties, 46; German party system, 144, 148–149; United States, 313–314 Federalist Papers, 332 Fifth Republic (France), 296 Fini, Gianfranco, 279, 333 Finland, 317 First-past-the-post systems: Japan, 162, 176–178; Lithuania, 115(n2); United States, 317 527 organizations (US), 325, 327(n4) Flanking organizations, 296 Flash parties: Forza Italia, 284; Israel’s Shas, 241 Flattened societies, 339 Flick scandal, 153 Florida electoral system, 315 Foot, Michael, 11, 13 Force Ouvrière (France), 308–309 Foreign policy: Bush’s autocratic policy, 339; Conservatives bowing to Blair’s, 23; New Labour’s Third Way policy, 16; Reagan’s disastrous policy, 338 The Formation of National Party Systems (Chhibber and Kollman), 318 Forza Italia (Italy): Berlusconi’s founding of, 279; coalition capabilities, 288–290; electoral performance, 285–288; elements of party prosperity, 4–5; emergence from party system breakdown, 345–346; important features of, 293(table); as natural party of

409

government, 337; need for coalition formation, 333; party organization and leadership, 280–281, 282–285; platforms and strategies, 291–292; programmatic centrism, 359; rise and decline of, 276; as virtual party, 357–358 Fox, Vicente, 207–208, 228, 344–345 France: antisystem party prosperity, 306–310; balanced hybrid political system, 323; party bipolarization, 295–300; party system breakdown, 346; political situation, 5; prosperity of France’s government parties, 300–306; social democrats’ electoral success, 43; social democrats’ rebirth after party system breakdown, 348–349; using power for personal gain, 364. See also Socialist Party (PS; France) Free Democratic Party (FDP: Germany), 142–143, 333 Freedom Union (Poland), 68, 71 Frei Montalva, Eduardo, 249, 259 French Communist Party (PCF): balance of power in France’s parties, 301(table); France’s party weakness, 295–296; party bipolarization, 299–301, 307; party erosion threatening coalition strength, 300–301; party membership figures, 297(table); PS coalition, 298–299 French National Assembly, 343 Frente Amplio (FA; Uruguay): bloc politics electorate, 128–129, 128(table); economic crisis and electoral growth, 137(n34); genetic model, 136(n19); ideological splits, 127, 136(n23); ideology and values, 136(n18); opening Uruguay’s bipartism, 121–123; as opposition force, 118–119; postauthoritarian transition, 125–128; prosperity paradox, 133–134; recovery from party system breakdown, 347–348; Uruguay’s left-right cleavage, 131–133 Frymer, Paul, 326 Fuel crisis, 19 Gaitskill, Hugh, 13

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Gauche plurielle (pluralist left), 43–44, 47, 48, 56, 58, 298 Gaullist party, 282 Gay and lesbian voters, 157, 326 Gaydar, Egor, 191 General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT), 214 German Communist Party (KPD), 336 German Minority Party (Poland), 68, 71 German Social Democratic Party (SPD): CDU/CSU campaign techniques, 147; CDU/CSU success, 143; challenges of electoral space, 47–48; economic policy, 55–56; electoral decline, 56–57; electoral success, 43; emergence as minority party, 335–336; Germany’s postreunification political separation, 146; labor market policy, 53–55; media use for party effectiveness, 47; minority party success, 334–335; Poland’s SLD and, 76; social democrats’ centrist trend, 48–49; socioeconomic policy, 48–51; welfare policy, 52–53 Germany: CDU membership figures, 152(table); centralization of party power, 358; Christian Democrats’ party finances and scandals, 153–155; emergence of social democrats, 335–336; executive committee meetings, 149(table); need for coalition formation, 333; occupation of Lithuania, 90; party system, 142–146; posttotalitarian depoliticization, 340; social democrats’ rebirth after party system breakdown, 348–349; social democrats’ voter dealignment, 46–47; using power for personal gain, 364; women in the CDU, 150–151, 151(table). See also Christian Democratic Union; German Social Democratic Party Gerrymandering, 361 Giddens, Anthony, 16 Giertych, Maciej, 71 Gingrich, Newt, 338 Giscard d’Estaing, Valéry, 301 Glasnost, 189 Glistrup, Mogens, 346

Globalization: contributing to programmatic centrism, 358; Israel’s unequal benefits from, 239; labor market flexibility, 54; social democrats’ monetary policies, 50 Gomulka, Wladyslaw, 81 Gonzales, Felipe, 337 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 188–189 Gore, Al, 315, 319, 339 Government, parties of: emergence of social democrats, 335–336; majoritarian and minority triumph, 337–339; prosperity of France’s, 300–306 Government funding of Israeli parties, 235, 242–243 Grand Coalition, 43–44, 52–53 Grassroots parties: Germany’s Christian Democrats, 143, 147; Israel’s Shas party, 241 Greece, growth of minority parties, 337 Green Party (France): balance of power in France’s parties, 301(table); party bipolarization, 298–299, 301; party membership, 297(table); social democrats’ coalition with, 47–48 Green Party (Germany): party weakness contributing to Christian Democrats’ success, 143; postcommunist voter detachment, 340; social democrats’ electoral success, 43 Green Party (Italy), 279 Green Party (Mexico), 208, 345 Green Party (Sweden), 29, 30, 36(table) Green Party (US), 313, 319, 323, 325, 334 Gremialistas, 250 Grupo Atlocomulco, 221 Guerrilla action, 121 Guzmán, Jaime, 250 Guzmán, Manuel Camacho, 216, 217 Hague, William, 17, 23 Hamas Party, 366(n2) Hamilton, Alexander, 332 Hanks, Carlos, 221 Hansson, Per Albin, 28 Hashimoto, Ryutaro, 168, 176–178, 177(table), 178 Hausner, Jerzy, 74

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Index Healthcare, Labour’s commitment to, 19–20 Hegemonic party system, 41 Heir/heiress candidates, Japan’s, 163 Help America Vote Act (HAVA), 320 Hernández, Marco Antonio Leon, 219 Hollande, François, 48 Homeland People’s Party (Lithuania), 106 Homeland Union/Lithuanian Conservatives: intergroup mobility, 105(table); interparliamentary split, 104, 106; Lithuanians’ political outlooks and attitudes, 99(table); parliamentary background of Lithuanian ministers, 109(table); party size, 100(table); representation in government, 108 Homosexuals’ rights, 157 House of Commons (Britain), 25(n2), 349(n1) House of Freedoms coalition, 275, 280–281, 288, 291 House of Representatives (US), 314, 315–316, 321, 322 Howard, Michael, 23 Hue, Robert, 307 Hughes, Simon, 24 Hurd, Douglas, 16 Hybrid electoral system, 33–34 Hybrid government, 28 Identity, party: French party system weakness, 295; Germany’s postreunification political separation, 146; Israel’s Shas targeting religious and ethnic groups, 239–241; leftright partisanship, 2; Lithuania’s LSDP ideology, 111; Poland’s SLD, 72–74; Russian Duma members’ lack of, 342 Ideological-cultural synthesis, 303–304 Ideology, party: British Labour’s shift to the right, 14–16; British parties’ ideological movements along a leftright scale, 15(fig.); contributing to dedemocratization, 354–355; convergence of Japan’s JCP, LDP, and SDP, 171–172; Frente Amplio’s values and, 136(n18); Germany’s CDU/CSU Christian values, 157;

411

Germany’s Christian Democrats, 142; Israeli Shas’s lack of, 236–237; Israel’s pro-peace and Great Israel divide, 234; Japanese voter dissatisfaction, 167; Lithuania’s LSDP, 91–92, 110–113; maintaining party prosperity without, 3–4; platforms of PDS and Forza Italia, 291–292; plenitude of Israeli parties reflecting, 234; Poland’s SLD’s internal controversy over, 76–77; postcommunist vacuum, 340–341; prosperous Russian parties’ lack of, 343; Russia’s developing political system, 192–194; social democrats’ programmatic changes, 51; Uruguay’s center-oriented competition, 122; Uruguay’s FA’s postauthoritarian centrism, 126–128; Uruguay’s left-right cleavage, 131–133, 137(n33) Immigrants: CDU/CSU immigration policy, 157–158; Shas party constituency, 238–239, 241 Immobilism, 164 Income distribution: European social democrats’ stance, 52–53; Russia, 188–189; Uruguay’s reforms, 130, 137(n30) Income inequality, 63, 339 Incumbents: advantages to Japanese candidates, 163; Lithuanian social democrats, 107(table); success rates for Chilean deputies seeking reelection, 270(table) Independent Democratic Union (Chile): age of legislators, 265(fig.); Alianza coalition’s success, 253; Catholic socialization within, 261, 263; centralizing party power through personalistic leadership, 357; Chilean parties’ individual leadership occupancy rates, 268(table); Chile’s 2005 elections threatening UDI prosperity, 268–269; cultural homogeneity, 263(table); distancing itself from Pinochet, 253, 255; election reform shifting party power, 362; electoral results, 1988–2005, 254(table); electoral support from 1988–2005, 257(fig.); factors

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contributing to success of, 251–260; gremialistas forming, 250–251; leadership background of deputies, 267(table); political competency of members, 263–267, 265(fig.), 266(table); political social and cultural conditions of success, 260–268; religious and university affiliation of Chilean parties, 262(table); resistance to reliberalization, 348; success rates for Chilean deputies seeking reelection, 270(table); targeting women voters, 256–259; women’s voting behavior, 258(table) Independent Lithuanian Communist Party (ILCP), 91, 95 Independent Party (US), 319 Independent voters, 174–176, 175(table), 331–332 Industrialization: discrimination against labor parties, 334–336; freezing Sweden’s party system, 29; precipitating change in British politics, 11 Institutional Revolutionary Party (PRI; Mexico): centralizing party power through personalistic leadership, 357; Chamber of Deputies election results, 229(table); Grupo Atlocomulco’s influence, 221–223; internal political and organizational challenges, 214–216; Mexico’s political history, 210–212; Mexico’s postmonocracy party success, 344–345; Palacios’s candidacy, 217–218; PAN’s presidential victory, 227–228; prosperity in the face of electoral decline, 207; Querétaro mirroring national politics, 216; reinstatement of Palacios, 219; technocratic revolution, 212–214 Institutions: broad institutionalization of Mexico’s PRI, 211–212; French party system weakness, 295; Italy’s electoral referendums eliminating ministries, 277; political context of social democrats’ electoral success, 45–51; US bipartisan system hindering competition, 317–318; US political system, 313–315

Instrumental organization of social democratic parties, 44 Intellectual mobility of social democrats, 45 International context of social democrats’ electoral success, 44 Internet, CDU campaign techniques using, 147 Intraparliamentary mobility, Lithuania’s, 104, 106 Iraq, 344 Iraq War, 20–21, 23, 48, 157 Israel: centralization of party power, 357; gauging Shas’s prosperity, 236–237; as party-state, 231–232; party system, 233–235; party system fragmentation, 347; political factors contributing to party prosperity, 237–238; political system, 232–233; rightist religious ideology, 4; Shas targeting religious and ethnic groups, 239–241; Shas’s effect on democracy, 244–246; Shas’s satellite associations, 243–244; socioeconomic cleavages, 238–239; using power for personal gain, 364 Italian Communist Party (PCI), 281; party system breakdown, 345; transformation of, 275–276, 276–277, 282–283. See also Democratic Party of the Left; Democrats of the Left Italian Democratic Socialists, 290 Italian General Confederation of Labor (CGIL), 283–284 Italian Social Movement, 278–279, 333 Italy: centralization of party power through personalistic leadership, 356; coalition capabilities of PDS and Forza Italia, 288–290; coalition formation, 333; creating a political vacuum, 275–278; electoral performance of PDS and Forza Italia, 285–288; filling the political vacuum, 278–280; first republic party system crisis, 345; government with party alternation, 275; growth of minority labor parties, 336–337; party organization and leadership of the PDS and Forza Italia, 280–281, 282–285; party system breakdown,

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Index 345–346; platforms and strategies of the PDS and Forza Italia, 291–292; posttotalitarian depoliticization, 340; programmatic centrism, 359; ruling party use of power for selfprotection, 361; social democrats’ electoral success, 43; using power for personal gain, 364 Janik, Krzysztof, 80 Japan: constitutional revision, 173(table); Japanese voters’ impressions of politics and politicians, 166(tables); LDP factions and cabinet-post allocation, 169(table); maintaining party prosperity, 3; party system, 168–175; party system breakdown, 346; party’s self-protective use of power, 362; political system, 162–168; Russia’s postwar political transformation, 187; using power for personal gain, 364 Japan Post corporation, 180 Japan Socialist Party (JSP), 168, 170–171, 172, 173 Japanese Communist Party (JCP): constitutional revision support, 173(table); electoral support, 171–172, 175(table); Japanese party system, 168–169; municipal assembly election results, 172(table); party branches, 176(table); seats won in Diet elections, 171(table) Jospin, Lionel: economic policy, 55–56; explaining social democrats’ decline, 58; France’s party system breakdown, 346; Le Pen supplanting, 5; maintaining party unity, 46; minority party triumph, 362; on social democracy and national setting, 84; social democrats’ centrist trend, 48; as victim of leftist fragmentation, 298, 304; welfare policy, 53 JUMP program (Germany), 54 Junge Union (Germany), 150 Juppé, Alain, 303, 311(n10) Kaczynski, Lech, 71 Kamei, Shizuka, 176–177, 177(table) Kan, Naoto, 167

413

Kanther, Manfred, 153, 155 Kennedy, Charles, 23, 24 Keynesianism, Uruguay’s bipartism as, 120, 128–131, 135(n12) Kim Jong Il, 179 Kinnock, Neil, 13, 45 Kircheimer, Otto, 125–126 Knesset (Israel): political regime, 232–233; Shas overtaking established parties, 347; Shas’s electoral gains and losses, 236–237, 247 Koenkai (support associations), 163–164, 176 Kohl, Helmut: candidate selection, 150; CDU as chancellor’s party, 143, 148–149; CDU/CSU campaign techniques, 147; party finance scandal, 153, 155 Koizumi, Junichiro, 167, 168, 169, 176–178, 177(table), 180(table) Kremlin, 195–197, 201 Krzaklewski, Marian, 67 Kwasniewski, Aleksander, 71, 77–78, 359 Labor market policy, 53–55 Labor movements, minority party success and, 335–336. See also Unions, labor and trade Labor Party (Israel): coalition formation, 238; decline of, 234; leadership crisis, 235; party funding compliance, 243; party system reform, 347 Labor Party (Lithuania), 92, 97, 114 Labor unions. See Unions, labor and trade Labour Party (Britain): centralization of party power through personalistic leadership, 356; challenges of electoral space, 47–48; Conservative Party weakness contributing to success of, 16–19; declining view of Blair, 20(fig.); distribution of seats in the House of Commons, 10(table); economic policy, 55–56; electoral success and subsequent decline, 57; general election 2001 results, 18(table); growing disunity under Blair, 19–21; ideological movements along a left-right scale, 15(fig.); labor

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market policy, 53–55; leadership autonomy, 45–46; minority party success, 334–335; overtaking the Tories, 9; party development in Britain, 10–12; policy shift to the right, 14–16; renaissance as New Labour, 12–19; rise of centrism with New Labour, 348–349; sleaze and corruption, 21–22; social democrats’ centrist trend, 48–49; social democrats’ voter dealignment, 46–47; socioeconomic policy, 48–51; Third Way, 26(n3); welfare policy, 52–53 Lafontaine, Oskar, 45–46 Lagos, Ricardo, 252, 255 Laguiller, Arlette, 307 Lavín, Joaquín, 252–253, 259, 268 Law and Justice (Poland), 68, 69, 71, 82–83 Le Pen, Jean-Marie, 5, 298, 306–309, 346 Leadership, party: centralization of party power through personalistic leadership, 355–358; Chilean parties’ individual leadership occupancy rates, 268(table); Conservatives’ lack of effective leadership, 23; dedemocratization methods of, 353–355; explaining social democrats’ decline, 58; as factor in social democrats’ success, 45–51; Frente Amplio’s continuing personalistic leadership, 127; Germany’s CDU/CSU, 148–153; Israeli parties’ crisis of, 235; Labour Party domination by party leaders, 13–14; PDS and Forza Italia, 280–281, 293(table); programmatic centrism, 359; SLD’s membershipleadership conflict, 76–78; social democrats’ voter dealignment, 57; social properties and characteristics of UDI leadership, 260–268 Left Democrats (Italy), 34–35, 288–290 Left Party (Sweden): need for coalition formation, 333; party membership trends and election results, 36(table); rise to prominence, 30–31; Sweden’s political stability, 41 Left-wing parties: challenging Poland’s social democrats, 82; Chile’s

Concertación alliance, 252–253; failure of Russia’s left-centrist bloc, 192–193; France’s bipolarization, 296, 298; France’s party prosperity, 302; growth of minority labor parties, 335–337; Italy’s left-wing coalition, 278–279; Japanese parties’ ideological convergence and divergence, 173; LDLP establishing a programmatic identity, 111–112; Lithuania’s electoral volatility, 93; Nader’s US campaign, 326; Poland’s perception of the SLD, 73, 86(n18); Poland’s polarized pluralism and, 68; Poland’s political scene, 70–71; programmatic centrism, 359; real and apparent identity slides to the left, 127–128, 136(n24); sparking Uruguay’s reforms, 118; transformation of the Italian party system, 276–278; Uruguay’s FA as “party of coalition,” 136(n21); Uruguay’s FA expanding traditional bipartism, 121–124; Uruguay’s FA’s postauthoritarian metamorphosis, 126–127; Uruguay’s left-right cleavage, 131–133, 137(n33). See also Social democrats Legitimacy: becoming the party of government, 331; French party system weakness, 295; Sweden’s political scandals, 32; US voters questioning, 325 Lepper, Andrzej, 71, 83 Lew Rywin bribe affair, 78 Liberal Democracy (France), 311(n6) Liberal Democrat Party (Britain): Conservative Party decline, 23–24; distribution of seats in the House of Commons, 10(table); general election 2001 results, 18(table); ideological movements along a left-right scale, 15(fig.); as natural party of government, 337; representation in government, 11 Liberal Democratic Party (Japan): advantages under Japan’s political system, 162–164; cabinet-post allocation, 169(table); constitutional revision support, 173(table); electoral support, 175(table); factions,

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Index opposition, and party stability, 168–175; growing voter dissatisfaction, 165, 167–168; maintaining party prosperity, 3; municipal assembly election results, 172(table); party branches, 176(table); party system reform, 347; party’s self-protective use of power, 362; seats won by major Japanese parties in Diet elections, 171(table); two-round presidential election against Koizumi, 175–181; using power for personal gain, 364 Liberal market economy, Israel’s, 239 Liberal Party (Britain), 10–11 Liberal Party (Chile), 249 Liberal Party (Italy), 279 Liberal Union (Lithuania), 92, 99(table) Liberalization, economic and political: electoral decline of Uruguay’s traditional bloc, 128–131; European social democrats, 50; Russia’s early amorphous party development, 188; social democrats’ economic policy, 56; Uruguay’s postauthoritarian transition, 124–125 Liberals (Sweden), 36(table) Likud Party (Israel): coalition formation, 238; decline of, 234; Israel’s widening social cleavages, 239; leadership crisis, 235; party funding compliance, 243; party system reform, 347; recent Knesset gains, 247; Shas constituency, 237–238 Lisbon Process (2000), 50 Lithuania: centralizing party power through personalistic leadership, 356–357; historical development of social democratic parties, 90–93; intergroup mobility, 105(table); LSDP ideology, 110–113; LSDP party organization and membership, 98–102; party attraction in singleand multi-mandate districts, 96(fig.); political attitudes and outlooks, 99(table); public trust in Brazauskas and LDLP/LSDP, 95(fig.); size of political parties, 100(table); social democrats in government, 106–110

415

Lithuanian Center Union (LCU): intergroup mobility, 105(table); parliamentary background of Lithuanian ministers, 109(table); party size, 100(table) Lithuanian Christian Democratic Party (LCDP): intergroup mobility, 105(table); party size, 100(table); representation in government, 108 Lithuanian Communist Party (LCP), 91, 98, 100–101, 103(table) Lithuanian Democratic Labor Party (LDLP): current stability, 113–114; establishing programmatic identity, 111–113; establishment of, 91–92; incumbency rates, 107(table); intergroup mobility, 105(table); parliamentary background of Lithuanian ministers, 109(table); parliamentary strength of, 103(table); party organization and membership, 101; party size, 100(table); party stability, 93, 95–97; public trust in Brazauskas and LDLP/LSDP, 95(fig.); representation in government, 108 Lithuanian Future Forum, 91 Lithuanian Liberal Union, 105(table) Lithuanian Liberal Union (LLU): parliamentary background of Lithuanian ministers, 109(table); party size, 100(table) Lithuanian Nationalists’ Union, 90 Lithuanian Social Democratic Party (LSDP): countering structural disequilibrium, 89–90; current stability, 113–114; electoral success, 93–98; historical development of, 90–93; incumbency rates, 107(table); intergroup mobility, 105(table); local and parliamentary elections, 1992–2004, 96(table); parliamentary background of Lithuanian ministers, 109(table); parliamentary strength of, 103(table); party ideology, 110–113; party organization and membership, 98–102; party size, 100(table); party stability, 93, 95–97; public trust in Brazauskas and LDLP/LSDP, 95(fig.); representation in

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government, 102–106, 103(table), 108 Lobbying, 361 Longevity of party systems, 134(n3) Longo, Giuseppe, 281 López Obrador, Manuel, 228, 345 López Portillo, José, 212–213 Lubys, Bronislovas, 108, 109(table) Lula da Silva, Luiz, 348 Luzhkov, Yuri, 195 Machnig, Matthias, 57 Macmillan, Harold, 11 Madison, James, 332 Madrazo, Roberto, 227–228 Maine’s electoral system, 314 Mainstream factions of the LDP, 169 Major, John, 17, 23 Majoritarianism defining party success, 331–332 Majorities, composite, 332–334 Majority party success, 337–338 Mandelson, Peter, 21 Manifestos, Japan’s, 167 Marcinkiewicz, Kazimierz, 71 Market liberalization, 50 Marxism, 334–335. See also Communism; Socialism Mass party model, 282, 284 Mazowiecki, Tadeusz, 83 McDonald, Ramsay, 25(n1) Media: Berlusconi’s use of, 279; Germany’s CDU/CSU campaign techniques, 146–148; Lithuania’s party stability, 101–102; Putin’s control of Russia’s, 342; Shas’s use of, 235, 241–242; social democrats’ professionalization, 47; social democrats’ success and decline, 58–59; US election bias, 323–324, 338 Mégret, Bruno, 308 Membership, party: British voter apathy and declining membership, 22; bureaucratic roots of Our Home Russia party, 192–193; cartelization phenomenon, 305; CDU’s organization and programmatic reform, 143–144; decline of Sweden’s, 35; DS failure to recruit new members, 283; Forza Italia’s

rapid growth, 284; France’s decline in, 296; France’s PR domination, 302; French political party membership statistics, 297(table); Germany’s CDU membership figures, 152(table); Israel’s declining membership, 234–235; leadership autonomy leading to social democrats’ decline, 58–59; Lithuania’s LSDP, 98–102; Lithuania’s party membership data, 100(table); Lithuania’s rules regarding, 115(n2); Mexico’s tecnocratas, 213; Poland’s SLD, 74–78; SLD’s internal programmatic conflict and membership dealignment, 81–84; social democrats’ voter dealignment, 46–47, 57; Sweden’s party membership trends and election results, 36(table) Membership-oriented parties, Sweden’s, 37–38 Merkel, Angela, 148, 149, 150, 157, 358 Mexican Revolutionary Party (PNR), 210 Mexico: centralizing party power through personalistic leadership, 357; Chamber of Deputies election results, 229(table); early political careers of Ortiz and Palacios, 216–218; Palacios’ expulsion and return, 218–221; political history, 210–212; postmonocracy party success, 344–345; PRI’s internal political and organizational challenges, 214–216; PRI’s technocratic revolution, 212–214; Querétaro’s political affairs mirroring national affairs, 216 Middle-class voters, Sweden’s, 29, 39–40 Militancy in France’s antisystem parties, 307–308 Militancy within the Labour Party, 13 Military regimes: building postregime leftist parties, 3; Chile under Pinochet, 250; Uruguay, 121 Miller, Leszek, 71, 73, 76–78, 80, 86(n34) Minority parties: defining success, 337–338; electoral success, 334–337;

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Index US bipartisan hegemony inhibiting success of, 326 Mitterrand, François: centralizing party power through personalistic leadership, 357; electoral reform, 366(n3); PS as party of government, 336–337; PS electoral success and decline, 300; Socialist Party’s electoral success, 43–44 Mobility, intergroup, 105(table) Mobilization, political: Germany’s CDU/CSU campaign techniques, 146–148; Israel’s Shas party constituency, 232, 234–235; Lithuania’s social democrats, 96(table), 97; Shas’s satellite associations, 243–244, 245 Moderates (Sweden): electoral performance, 34–35; extent to which national policy is initiated at the central level, 39(table); internal party democracy, 38–39; party financing and campaign activities, 35–38; party membership trends and election results, 36(table) Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, 195 Monetary policy, 49–51 Monetary stability criteria, 49 Monetary Union, 23, 49, 56 Monocracy, 343–344 Mori, Yoshiro, 169–170 Motherland Catholic Electoral Action (Poland), 67 Mouvement pour la France, 303–304 Multi-mandate district, Lithuania’s, 96(fig.) Multiparty systems: contribution to Shas’s prosperity, 237–238; development of Lithuania’s social democratic parties, 90–93; fragmentation of Israel’s partisan scene, 234; France’s bipolar multiparty system, 296, 298–300, 300–306; Israel’s development of, 233; locus of power in US system, 318–319; role of majority parties in a bipolar multiparty system, 338; Russia’s reluctant acceptance of, 188; Sweden, 27–28, 41; Uruguay’s FA expanding bipartism, 121–124; Uruguay’s moderate pluralism,

417

121–124; Uruguay’s presidentialism, 135(n16); Uruguay’s selftransformation, 118; Wales and Scotland, 11–12. See also Two-party systems Municipal governments, France’s party prosperity and, 299–300 Municipal party support, Sweden’s, 35, 37 Nader, Ralph, 319, 321–322, 325 The Nation magazine, 325–326 National Action Party (PAN; Mexico): centralizing party power through personalistic leadership, 357; Chamber of Deputies election results, 229(table); early successes against PRI, 215; electoral success as challenge to PRI, 207; postmonocracy party success, 344–345; PRI’s internal conflicts leading to PAN success, 223 National Alliance (Italy), 278, 279, 288 National context of social democrats’ electoral success, 44 National Electoral Commission (Poland), 70 National Executive Committee (NEC) of Britain’s Labour Party, 12–13 National Front (FN; France): party membership figures, 297(table); party prosperity, 299; prosperity of France’s antisystem parties, 306–310; public support for, 311(n12) National Party (PN; Chile), 249 National Party (PN; Uruguay): bloc politics electorate, 128–129, 128(table); coparticipation regime, 135(n11); multipartyism, 118; party system realignment, 121–124; postauthoritarian transition, 124–125; Uruguay’s left-right cleavage, 131–133, 137(n33); Uruguay’s traditional bipartism, 119–121 National Policy Forum (NPF), 13 National Renewal (RN; Chile): age of legislators, 265(fig.); Chilean parties’ individual leadership occupancy rates, 268(table); cultural homogeneity, 263(table); deputies’ attributes, 263; electoral competency

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of UDI and RN deputies, 266(table); electoral gains in the 2005 elections, 268–269; leadership background of deputies, 267(table); religious affiliation of Chilean parties, 262(table); rightist fragmentation, 251; success rates for Chilean deputies seeking reelection, 270(table); UDI’s efforts to limit the influence of, 253 National Republican Movement (MNR; France), 309 Nationalization, Blair’s push for, 14 Natta, Alessandro, 281 Nebraska electoral system, 314 Neocorporatism in Russia, 186–187, 203, 342 Neofascists (Italy), 278 Neoliberal economic model: dedemocratization through, 354; electoral reform shifting party power, 362; Mexico’s concentration of power, 357; Uruguay’s batllismo, 137(n32); Uruguay’s structural reforms, 118 Netanyahu, Benjamin, 233, 236 Netherlands: church-party conflict, 157 Neue Mitte (new center), 47, 51, 52 New Baltic Barometer survey, 98 New Deal coalition (US), 336 New Deal program (UK), 53–54 New Democracy (Lithuania), 114 New Democracy Party (Lithuania), 92 New Democracy (Sweden), 30 New Labour (Britain): countering voter dealignment, 47; as natural party of government, 337–338; rightward shift, 14–16; the rise of, 10–19, 26(n7); Third Way, 16 New Space (NE; Uruguay), 122, 128–129, 128(table) New Union/Social Liberals (NU/SL; Lithuania): coalition demise, 92; current stability, 113–114; intergroup mobility, 105(table); parliamentary background of Lithuanian ministers, 109(table); party size, 100(table); political attitudes and outlooks about, 99(table) Nihon Keizai Shimbun newspaper, 165.167

Nixon, Richard, 338 No-confidence vote: Duma’s right to, 190–191; Israel, 232–233; Italy, 289; Russia, 202 No-Global party (France), 304 Nomenclatura, 187–188, 199, 200, 343 Nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), Poland’s, 64–65, 74–75 Nonpartisan voters, 174–175, 175(table), 279, 342 Nonparty associations, 340 Nonsocialist bloc, Sweden’s, 27–28 Nonvoters, US, 324–326 North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), 73, 110 Northern Ireland, 11–12 Northern League (Italy), 276, 279, 288, 333 Oaten, Mark, 24 Occhetto, Achille, 277, 281, 288–289 Olejniczak, Wojciech, 80 Olekas, Juozas, 108 Oligarchic democracy, 347–348 Olive Tree coalition, 5, 289–290, 291 Olmert, Ehud, 247 Olszewski, Jan, 85(n10) One-party systems. See Single-party systems Onyszkiewicz, Janusz, 83 Open primaries, US, 319–320 Opinion polls: CDU/CSU campaign techniques, 146–147; Japanese voters’ growing demand for reforms, 165, 167–168; Japanese voters’ impressions of politics and politicians, 166(tables); Japan’s factional cabinet-post allocation, 170. See also Public opinion Organization, party: CDU’s organizational reform, 143–144; factional splits in Japan’s LDP, 169; Germany’s CDU/CSU, 148–153; growing fissures within PRI, 212–214; Lithuania’s LSDP, 98–102, 104; PDS and Forza Italia, 282–285, 293(table); Poland’s SLD, 74–78; PRI’s internal political and organizational challenges, 214–216; Shas’s lack of party democracy, 245;

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Index social democrats’ electoral success, 45–51 Organizational anthropology, 225–226 Organizational psychology, 225–226 Organized crime, 195 Ortíz Arana, Fernando, 209, 216–223, 220 Our Home–Russia (NDR), 193, 195, 198 Ozawa, Ichiro, 167 Palacios Alcocer, Mariano, 209, 216–221, 227 Palestine, 366(n2) Papandreou, Andreas, 337 Parliamentary elections. See Elections, legislative Parliamentary systems: coalition formation for majoritarian rule, 332–334; defining party success under, 323 Parteilose vereinigungen (nonparty associations), 340 Partisanship: contributing to Shas’s prosperity, 238; Japanese electorate, 175(table); unimportance in Japanese politics and elections, 174–175 Partnership in Power (Labour Party), 13 Party as agency of linkage, 1 Party-centered political culture, Sweden’s, 32–34 Party concept, 313 Party finance: Christian Democrats’ party finances and scandals, 153–155; France, 295–296, 311(n1), 311(n2); gauging Shas’s prosperity through, 237; Israel’s state funding for, 235; Italy’s electoral referendum ending state funding, 277; Japan’s Recruit scandal, 164–165; Labour’s corruption and bribery allegations, 21–22; Poland’s electoral law, 69; Shas’s dependence on state funding, 242–243; Shas’s satellite associations, 243–244, 245; United States, 322–323 Party for Democracy (PPD; Chile). See Concertación (Chile) Party of Democratic Socialism (PDS; Germany), 156, 340–341

419

Party of Russian Unity and Consent (PRES), 191 Party of the Russian Revival, 186 Party-state: Israel, 231–232; Uruguay, 120, 134(n4) Party systems: consequences of meltdown, 345–349; development of Russia’s parties under Putin, 195–200; Germany, 142–146; Russia, 187–190 Pasqua, Charles, 303–304 Patriotism, CDU/CSU appeal to, 157–158 Patronage: Germany’s CDU/CSU, 149; Mexico’s PRI, 211–212, 217–218 Paulauskas, Artu¯ras, 92–93 Peasant People’s Party (Lithuania), 90 Pension systems, 52–53 People Deputy party (Russia), 198(table) People’s party, Germany’s CDU/CSU as, 148 Perestroika, 188, 200 Perot, Ross, 319, 322, 346 Personal gain as democratic pursuit, 354–355 Personalistic leadership: Berlusconi’s leadership of Forza Italia, 280–281; centralization of party power, 355–358; creating a natural party of government, 338; explaining social democrats’ decline, 58; Israel’s Shas party, 238–239; Japan’s Koizumi, 179–180; Lithuania’s LSDP, 95–98, 104–106; organizational depersonalization of Lithuanian parties, 101–102; Russia, 202, 342; Shas’s Arye Deri, 241–242; SLD’s Leszek Miller, 77–78; Uruguay’s Frente Amplio, 127 Persson, Göran, 40 Piesiewicz, Krzysztof, 85(n8) Piñera, Sebastián, 255, 259, 268 Pinochet, Augusto, 253, 255, 257, 259 Pinochet regime, 250 Platforms and strategies of the PDS and Forza Italia, 291–292, 293(table) Plebiscites, 125, 255 Pluralism: Italy’s electoral transition, 278; Lithuania’s polarized pluralism, 114; Poland’s polarized pluralism,

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68; presidential regimes as pluralist democracies, 135(n9); Uruguay’s consociational democracy, 119–121 Pluralistic left, France’s, 43–44, 47, 48, 56, 58, 298 Poland: building and maintaining a stable electorate, 78–79; centralization of party power, 358; electoral law and political parties, 69–72; electoral reform shifting party power, 363; political evolution, 65–66; political party formation and development, 66–67; postcommunist leftist parties, 3; postcommunist political and economic conditions, 62–64; poverty, 63, 84, 84(n3); programmatic centrism, 359; SLD membership and organization, 74–78; SLD’s programmatic identity, 72–74; social cleavages and the party system, 68–69; using power for personal gain, 364 Polarization: post-Cold War Japan, 173–174; Uruguay’s left-right cleavage, 131–133, 137(n33) Polarized multiparty system, France’s, 298, 300 Polarized pluralism: Lithuania, 114; Poland, 68; Uruguay, 121 Pole of Freedoms coalition, 279, 288, 333 Pole of Good Government coalition, 279, 333 Policy, party: Blair’s policy coordination, 15–16; early PRI goals, 211; Forza Italia and PDS platforms and strategies, 291–292; Germany’s CDU/CSU, 155–158; Japanese parties’ convergence and divergence on, 173; Japan’s policy tribes, 164–165; Labour’s NPF and NEC, 14; Labour’s shift to the right, 14–16; political contexts of party operation for social democrats’ electoral success, 45–51; social democrats’ centrist programmatic changes, 51–56; social democrats’ economic policy, 55–56; social democrats’ labor market policy, 53–55; social democrats’ success and decline, 58–59; US two-party system, 313

Polish Families League, 67, 68, 71 Polish Peasant Party, 68, 71 Polish People’s Republic (PRL), 61–62 Polish Social Democracy, 82 Polish Socialist Party, 70, 82 Polish Socialist Youth Union, 77 Polish Students’ Association, 75, 77 Polish United Workers Party (PZPR): influence on SLD programmatic identity, 81; mobilizing antisystem protest, 70; rebirth of Polish left, 73; SdRP perceived as successor to, 62; SLD membership, 74–75; SLD’s internal conflict, 77–78 Political Committee (Poland), 83–84 Political Darwinism, 117–118 Politicos, Mexico’s, 213, 215, 219–220 Polyarchy, Uruguay as, 119–121 Pontificial Catholic University (PUC), 261 Popov, S., 195 Popular Movement Union (UMP; France): balance of power in France’s parties, 301(table); centralizing party power through coalitions, 356; government party prosperity, 300–301; internal plurality, 305; as minority party, 335; as natural party of government, 337; party membership figures, 297(table); party prosperity, 302, 311(n6); party system crisis, 346; success after party system crisis, 349; 2007 presidential election, 299 Popular Party (Italy), 291 Popular vote, US, 315, 327(n2) Populism: challenging Poland’s social democrats, 82; Japan’s growing reform-populism, 168; Lithuania, 97; Mexico’s financial populism, 208; Mexico’s rebellion, 344; Sweden, 30–31, 39–40; transformation of Britain’s Conservative party, 11 Portillo, Michael, 17 Postal service privatization (Japan), 179–180 Postcolonial societies, 340 Postcommunist regimes, party success under, 339–344. See also individual countries

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Index Poverty: Poland, 63, 84, 84(n3); Russia, 189, 199 Power: balance of power in France’s parties, 301(table); centralization of party power through personalistic leadership, 355–358; corruption in Poland, 64–65; dedemocratization and personal gain, 363–365; dedemocratization as means of maintaining power, 360–365; defining party success under federalism, 332; direct election affecting Israel’s small-party power, 233; iron fist of DS leadership, 283; locus of power in US system, 318–319; parties’ contribution to dedemocratization, 353–355; presidential regimes, 135(n9); Russian parties vying for, 201–202; Russia’s constitutional design, 190–191; SLD’s systemic transformation, 81; US bipartisan system allowing alternation of, 317–318; Yeltsin’s conflict with the Supreme Soviet, 190 Pragmatism: Sweden’s Social Democrats, 40; Uruguay’s FA’s postauthoritarian metamorphosis, 126–127 Präsidium meetings, 149(table) Predominant party system, 41 Presidential Election Campaign Fund, 325 Presidential elections. See Elections, presidential Presidential systems, defining party systems under, 323 Presidentialism: presidentialization of France’s system, 296, 302; Russia, 190–191; United States, 313–314; Uruguay’s, 135(n16) Primary elections, 317–318, 319–320 Privatization, 364; electoral decline of Uruguay’s traditional party bloc, 128–131; failure of Russia’s, 189; Japan’s postal-service privatization, 179–180; Poland, 63–64; Russia’s rent-seeking system, 200; social democrats’ economic policy, 55–56; Uruguay’s electoral dissent over, 136(n27)

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Prodi, Romano, 289, 290 Professional makeup of France’s parties, 305 Professionalization of Israel’s Shas, 235 Programmatic centralization: dedemocratization and, 358–360; Lithuania’s LSDP ideology, 110–113; social democratic parties, 51–56 Programmatic identity: CDU’s programmatic debates, 143; Germany’s CDU/CSU, 155–158; Poland’s SLD, 72–74; Russian parties’ lack of, 200–201; SLD’s programmatic conflict and electoral defeat, 80–84; social democrats’ electoral success and decline, 56–59 Progress Party (Denmark), 346 Progressive Party (Italy), 279 Proportional representation: Duma, 192–194; France’s institutional constraints on elections, 296; Germany’s Christian Democrats, 142–143; Israel’s Knesset, 232–233; Italy’s electoral reform, 275, 277; Italy’s hotly contested elections, 294; Japan’s Diet, 162–163; personalized politics in Lithuania, 96–97; Uruguay’s consociational democracy, 119–121; Uruguay’s postauthoritarian reforms, 125 Prosperity, party, 303–304; associated with military dictatorships, 249; Chile’s 2005 elections threatening UDI prosperity, 268–269; coalitions and composite majorities defining, 332–334; dedemocratization as means of maintaining power, 360–365; defining, 161; defining democracy through, 231; defining Russian party prosperity, 343; France’s antisystem parties, 306–310; France’s government parties, 300–306; France’s PS and UMP, 303–304; Frente Amplio’s prosperity paradox, 133–134; gauging France’s party prosperity, 299; gauging Italy’s party prosperity, 276; German parties’ electoral success and, 155; Germany’s Christian Democrats, 142; Israel’s Shas, 232, 236–237; Japan’s five parties’ failure to

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prosper, 161; links to socialist dogma, 2–3; minority parties, 334; predicting longevity of Labour’s, 24–25; United Russia party, 186; Uruguay’s Frente Amplio, 118–119; Uruguay’s moderate reformism, 128–131; US bipartisan prosperity, 316–324 Prosystem parties, France’s, 299–300, 360. See also Government, parties of Protection, political, 210 Protest, program centralization eliminating, 358 Protest parties: Chile’s PDC, 250; emergence of German social democrats, 335–336; England’s lack of, 12; Japan Socialist Party, 170–171; Japan’s CGP, 170–172; postcommunist East Germany, 340–341; Russia’s Unity bloc, 185–186. See also National Action Party Protest voting, Sweden’s, 29–30 Proximity, party, 295 Public opinion: Japan’s constitutional revision, 174(table); Labour government vulnerability to shifts in, 19; Lithuania’s political attitudes and outlooks in October 2001, 99(table); Russians’ lack of party identification, 189–190; Sweden’s growing distrust of politics, 31–32; view of Koizumi presidency, 179–180, 180(table). See also Opinion polls Public sector, France’s PS overrepresenting, 305 Public sector reform, 47–48 Public services: Labour policy, 53; social democrats’ electoral decline, 59; Tories’ failure to address, 17, 19; Uruguay’s rollback of, 130 Public spending, 49–50 Putin, Vladimir: control of Unity and the Duma, 342–343; Russia’s party development, 195–200; transformation of Russia into a “managing democracy,” 186 Qualunquismo, 340 Querétaro, Mexico, 216–221, 219–221

Quota system, Germany’s CDU, 150–151 Rabin, Yitzhak, 236 Radical Communist Party (Bolsheviks), 187–188 Radical Party (Chile), 262(table), 268(table) Radicalization of organized labor, 334–336 Rally for France (RPF): centralizing power through coalitions, 311(n6); lack of ideology, 303–304 Rally for the Republic party (RPR; France): balance of power in France’s parties, 301(table); centralizing party power through coalitions, 356; France’s bipolarization, 298–299, 301–302, 302–303, 303–304, 306, 309, 311(n6); France’s party weakness, 296; party membership figures, 297(table) Reagan, Ronald, 338 Real socialism, Poland’s, 61–62, 70, 81 Réalisme de gauche (realism of the left), 51 Reapportionment, Congressional, 316 Recruit scandal, 164–165 Red-Green coalition, 47–48, 54, 55 Redistribution of wealth, 52–53 Referendums, 125, 275 Reform, political and electoral: Britain’s Labour Party renaissance, 12–19; effect of political and economic reforms on Uruguay’s traditional bloc support, 129; failure of Russia’s, 189; following Japan’s corruption scandals, 164–165; France’s equal access laws, 295–296; Italy’s party system meltdown, 346–347; Italy’s PCI resistance to institutional reforms, 277; Japan under Koizumi, 178–181; Japanese voters’ growing demand for, 165, 167–168; Labour’s internal party reforms, 57; Labour’s shift to the right, 14–16; Mexico’s financial populism, 208; Russia’s constitutional referendum, 190–191; shifting party power through, 362–363; social democrats’ centrist

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Index trend, 48–49; social democrats’ leadership-membership dynamics, 46–47; Uruguay’s postauthoritarian transition, 124–125; US electoral reform, 316; US party reform, 366(n1) Reform Party (US), 313, 319, 322 Reform-populism, Japan’s, 168 Reformed Communists, 289–290 Regions of Russia, 198(table) Regulation of Poland’s parties and party finance, 66–67, 69–72 Religion and religious parties: Germany’s post-reunification political separation, 146; Israel’s antireligious party, 234; Israel’s Shas party constituency, 232, 236–237; Poland, 67; Poland’s Catholic parties, 71–72; Poland’s SLD’s programmatic shift, 81, 82; religious affiliation of Chilean parties, 262(table); Sephardi Jews contributing to Shas constituency, 238–239; Shas targeting religious and ethnic groups, 239–241; Shas’s campaign techniques using, 241–242; US democratic decline under the religious right, 339. See also Catholic Church; Entries beginning with Christian Renewal of party systems, 1–2 Representation: defining party prosperity in terms of, 161; France’s equal access laws, 295–296, 311(n2); gauging prosperity of France’s antisystem parties, 306; Italy’s electoral transition, 278; Russia’s first Duma election, 191–192; Sweden’s electoral threshold, 29, 30. See also Proportional representation Reprivatization, Poland’s, 63–64 Republic of Poland (SdRP), 61–62, 74–75 Republican Party (Italy), 279 Republican Party (Russia), 188 Republican Party (US): African Americans and other marginalized voters, 326; bipartisan prosperity, 316–324; Electoral College, 315–316; uniting a heterogeneous following, 338

423

Republicanism in France, 298 Responsibility, welfare policy and, 52–53 Reunification, Germany’s: CDU/CSU renaissance as party of national founding, 156; changing German party system, 146; personalistic leaders creating a natural party of government, 338; postcommunist protest parties, 340–341; staving off CDU’s bankruptcy, 153 Ribkin, Ivan, 192 Rifondazione Comunista (Italy), 279 Right-Wing Electoral Action Solidarity, 67 Right-wing parties: CDU/CSU response to extremists, 157; challenging Poland’s social democrats, 82; Europe’s conservative renaissance, 3; exposing SLD corruption, 78; France’s bipolarization, 296, 298; France’s equal access laws, 311(n2); France’s internal competition, 299–304; France’s party prosperity, 302; Israel’s religious right, 4; Italy’s party system breakdown, 345–346; Japanese parties’ ideological convergence and divergence, 173; LDLP establishing a programmatic identity, 111–112; Lithuania’s cabinets, 108–109; Lithuania’s electoral volatility, 93; Poland, 66–67; Poland’s coalition governments, 67; Poland’s SLD’s voter dealignment, 78–79; programmatic centrism, 359; rejection of Lithuania’s former communist parties, 91–92; Sweden’s New Democracy, 30; Uruguay’s leftright cleavage, 131–133, 137(n33); US bipartisan system and, 326. See also specific parties Roosevelt, Franklin Delano, 336 Royal, Ségolène, 299, 304, 309 Rules of operation, 295 Russia: centralization of party power through personalistic leadership, 356; constitutional referendum, 190–191; electoral associations in Duma elections, 197(table); electoral reform shifting party power, 363; first

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parliamentary election, 191–192; origins of the party system, 187–190; political development, 192–194; postcommunist role of the Communist Party, 341; right-wing party prosperity, 4; socioeconomic context and mass political attitudes, 194–195; using power for personal gain, 364 Russian Communist Workers’ Party (RCWP), 189 Russian constituency, Israel’s, 247 Russia’s Choice party, 191, 193 Rutelli, Francesco, 279 Sagawa Express scandal, 164, 165 Sahlin, Mona, 31–32 Sainte-Laguë method, 28, 69 Saju¯dis (Lithuanian opposition movement), 91, 92, 105(table), 109(table) Sakigake party, 170 Salinas de Gortari, Carlos, 208, 213, 218 Sanders, Bernie, 322 Sarkozy, Nicolas, 299, 303 Satellite associations, Shas’s use of, 243–244, 245 Scandal: Britain’s Liberal Democrats, 24; Christian Democrats’ party finances and, 153–155; Germany’s Christian Democrats, 141; Japan’s electoral reform, 362; Japan’s growing voter dissatisfaction in the face of, 167; Sweden, 31; US soft money campaign funding, 316. See also Corruption Schäuble, Wolfgang, 155 Schröder, Gerhard, 45–46, 50, 58, 147–148, 349 Scotland, 11–12, 24, 26(n4) Secularism: East German Christian Democrats, 157; Poland’s SLD, 81 Security issues: Israel, 234; Russia, 342 Seimas (Lithuania), 90–93, 94(table), 96–97, 102, 106, 108, 113–114 Seleznev, Gennady, 185–186, 198 Self-Defense Forces (Japan), 170–171 Self Defense (Poland), 68, 69, 71, 83, 86(n17) Self-transformation of parties, 117–118

Senate, US, 314, 315–316, 321, 322 Separation of powers: national unity overbalancing, 343; United States, 313–314, 332 Sephardi Jews, 238–239, 239–241, 242 Shadow cabinet, Britain’s, 17 Shadow Communications Agency, 13 Shamir, Yitzhak, 236 Sharon, Ariel, 233, 236, 247 Shas party (Israel): campaign techniques, 241–243; centralization of party power, 357; effect on democracy, 244–246; electoral reform shifting party power, 362; gauging party prosperity, 236–237; Israel’s socioeconomic cleavages, 238–239; party system fragmentation, 347; political factors contributing to party prosperity, 237–238; political goals, 4; satellite associations, 243–244, 245; targeting religious and ethnic groups, 239–241; using power for personal gain, 364 Single Market, 49, 50, 56 Single-member district (SMD), 96–97, 96(fig.), 162, 278 Single-member plurality electoral system, 315, 317 Single-party systems: self-protection through use of power, 362. See also Institutional Revolutionary Party (PRI; Mexico) Slezˇevicˇius, Adolfas, 108, 109(table) Smith, Ian Duncan, 22–23 Social conditions of UDI success, 260–268 Social contract, Mexico’s, 210 Social Democratic Party (SPD; Germany). See German Social Democratic Party Social Democratic Party (Italy), 279 Social Democratic Party (Japan): campaign finance irregularities, 155; constitutional revision support, 173(table); creation of, 168; electoral success and prosperity, 173; electoral support, 175(table); municipal assembly election results, 172(table); party branches, 176(table); seats won in Diet elections, 171(table)

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Index Social Democratic Party (Lithuania), 92–93, 99(table) Social Democratic Party (Russia), 188 Social Democratic Party (Sweden): election results and membership trends, 34–35; extent to which national policy is initiated at the central level, 39(table); history of party domination and stability, 28–29; internal party democracy, 38–39; Left Party threat, 30–31; as natural party of government, 337–338; need for coalition formation, 333; party financing and campaign activities, 35–38; party membership trends and election results, 36(table); political dominance, 34; political strategy, 39–41; Sweden’s declining political trust, 32; Sweden’s political stability, 41; using power for personal gain, 364 Social Democratic Radical Party (Chile), 265(fig.), 267(table), 270(table) Social democrats: economic policy, 55–56; electoral decline, 56–59; electoral performance of Lithuania, 93–98; German parties’ loss of members to Christian Democrats, 151–153; incumbency rates for Lithuanian parties, 107(table); labor market policy, 53–55; Labour Party shift, 13–14; Lithuania’s development of, 90–93; Lithuania’s parties in government, 106–110; manufacturing electoral success, 44; mass party model, 282; parliamentary strength of Lithuania’s, 103(table); Poland’s party transformation, 72; political contexts of party operation, 45–51; programmatic and policy adaptation for electoral success, 43–45; programmatic centrism, 359; rebirth after party system crisis, 348–349; Russia’s developing party system, 193–194; welfare policy, 51–53. See also specific parties Social Democrats (Britain), 26(n7) Social integration, French party system weakness and, 295

425

Social Liberals (Lithuania), 92–93 Social mobilization of France’s extreme-left groups, 308–309 Social Movement/Electoral Action Solidarity (Poland), 66, 67, 85(n8) Social Movement (Poland), 85(n8) Social programs: CDU/CSU policy, 156–157; social management work of France’s antisystem parties, 307–308; US Republicans’ attack on, 338–339 Social sensitivity of Poland’s social democrats, 84 Social spending, 48–49 Socialism: Britain’s Labour Party, 11, 26(n3); failure in Russia, 188–189; party prosperity and, 3; Sweden’s socialist bloc, 27–28. See also Social democrats Socialist democratic parties, 335–336 Socialist International, 91 Socialist Party (PS; Chile), 262(table), 265(fig.), 267(table), 268(table), 270(table) Socialist Party (PS; France): antisystem party prosperity, 306; balance of power in France’s parties, 301(table); causes of electoral decline, 57; economic policy, 55–56; electoral reform, 366(n3); electoral success, 43–44, 47–48; France’s political bipolarization, 298–299; French party weakness, 296; government party prosperity, 300–301; labor market policy, 53–55; media campaigns around party leadership, 47; membership figures, 297(table); minority party success, 334–335; Royal’s attempts to increase prosperity of, 309–310; socioeconomic policy, 48–51; welfare policy, 52–53 Socialist Party (Italy), 279, 345 Socialist Party (Lithuania), 96(table) Socialist Party (Poland), 73 Socialist Party (Russia), 188 Socialist Party (US), 334 Socioeconomic policy: Germany’s CDU/CSU, 156–157; Italy’s PDS and Forza Italia, 291–292; social democrats’ policy formation, 48–49 Socioeconomic status: Israeli party membership and, 234, 239; Russians’

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mistrust of government authority, 194 Soft money contributions, 316 Solidarity (Poland), 73, 76 Soviet Union: Lithuania’s LSDP under Soviet rule, 90; postcommunist parties, 341. See also Russia Spain: growth of minority parties, 337; postcommunist depoliticization, 201, 340; social democrats’ electoral success, 43 Spatial models of voting and party competition, 127–128 Spreng, Michael, 147 Stability, political: continuity of personalities, 101–102; of early Japanese party politics, 168; Germany’s Christian Democrats, 142–143; Israel, 233; Lithuania’s social democrats, 93, 95–98, 104; stable party system, 89–90; Sweden’s history of party domination and, 28–29, 41; United Russia’s deposing of CPRF, 186 Standard of living: Mexico, 211; Poland, 63 Stankevicˇius, Mindaugas, 108, 109(table) Starachowice affair, 78 State-dependent employees, Russia’s, 188–189 State government, US, 314 State-parties, Uruguay’s bipartism and, 120, 135(n10) Steinbrück, Peer, 55 Stoiber, Edmund, 147, 148, 149–150 Strategic communities, 13 Strauss-Kahn, Dominique, 304 Structural disequilibrium, 89–90 Structural reforms, Uruguay’s, 118, 124 Success, party, 2; coalitions and composite majorities determining, 332–334; defining, 161; Japan’s five parties, 161; JCP and CGP electoral success, 172; under postcommunist regimes, 339–344. See also Prosperity, party Superparty, United Russia as, 185 Superstition, Shas’s use as campaign technique, 242

Support associations (Japan), 163–164, 176 Supreme Court, US, 315 Sweden: centralization of party power through personalistic leadership, 356; electoral reform shifting party power, 32–34, 362; financing and campaign activities, 35–38; initiating national policy at the central level, 39(table); internal party democracy, 38–39; need for coalition formation, 333; party membership trends and election results, 36(table); programmatic centrism, 359; social democratic strategy, 39–41; using power for personal gain, 364; voters’ growing distrust of politics, 31–32 Switzerland: hybrid government, 28; Uruguay’s council government, 134(n8) System management approach, Putin’s, 202–203 Systemic transformation, SLD’s, 81 Tanaka, Makiko, 178–179 Taxation: Britain’s fuel crisis, 19; labor market incentives, 53–54; SLD’s deviation from social democratic principles over, 76–77; social democrats’ socioeconomic policy, 49; US Presidential Election Campaign Fund, 325 Technocracies, 212–214, 220–221, 357 Technology: communications technology contributing to dedemocratization, 354; Israeli economy and socioeconomic cleavages, 239; US voting technology, 320. See also Media Terrorism, war on, 195, 339 Thatcher, Margaret, 11 Theocracies, 357 Third Way, New Labour’s, 16, 26(n3), 51, 292, 348–349 Threshold, electoral, 233 Togliatti, Palmiro, 281 Tories (Britain). See Conservative Party (Britain) Trade: EU integration guiding social democrats’ monetary policy, 49

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Index Trade unions. See Unions, labor and trade Traditional parties, Uruguay’s, 118, 128–131 Transition government, Russia’s, 187 Transparency of CDU’s party finances, 153, 155 Tribes, policy, 164–165, 178–179 Trotskyite organizations, France’s, 298–300, 304, 306, 307 Trust, public, 95(fig.) Tusk, Donald, 83 Two-ballot elections: France, 278, 296; Japan, 176–178; Lithuania, 115(n2) Two-party systems: Britain, 10–11; excluding third-party opposition, 343–344; explaining the development of, 207; gauging France’s party prosperity, 299; inhibiting alternative US parties, 325–326; locus of power in US system, 318–319; majoritarianism defining party success, 331–332; Poland’s polarized pluralism, 68; ruling party use of power for self-protection, 361; Sweden, 27–28; United States, 313–316; Uruguay’s political realignment, 121–124; Uruguay’s self-transformation, 118; Uruguay’s traditional bipartism, 119–121. See also Multiparty systems Tycoon politicians. See Berlusconi, Silvio Tyminsky, Stanislaw, 346 Uncoupled democracy, 65 Uneasy Alliances (Frymer), 326 Unemployment: labor market policy, 53–55; Poland, 62–64; Poland under SLD leadership, 77–78; Uruguay’s liberalization increasing, 130 Unicameral systems, 28, 232–233 Union for French Democracy (UDF), 297(table), 298–299, 301–303, 301(table), 309, 311(n6) Union of Labor (Poland), 68, 82 Union of Moderate Conservatives (Lithuania), 106 Union of Peasants (Lithuania), 92, 114 Union of Polish Socialist Youth, 75

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Union of Right Forces (SPS; Russia), 197(table), 198(table) Unionists (Northern Ireland), 11–12 Unions, labor and trade: Forza Italia’s stand against, 291; French parties’ tenuous connections to, 296; German trade unions supporting social democrats, 142; Israeli parties’ connections to, 234; Italian parties’ connections to, 283–284; Japanese parties’ connections to, 173; Labour Party connections to, 12–14; minority party success, 334–335; Poland’s SLD’s ideological changes, 76; protesting CDU/CSU’s welfare policy, 156–157; Russia’s neocorporatism, 203; social democrats’ leadership-membership dynamics, 46–47; Sweden’s abolition of collective affiliation, 35; union militancy threatening Blair’s Labour government, 20–21 United Kingdom. See Britain United Peasant Party (Poland), 65, 68 United Russia party (YeR), 185, 198–199, 201, 363 United States: ballot requirements and campaign finance rules, 318–324; bipartisan duopoly, 5; bipartisan prosperity, 316–324; majoritarianism defining party success, 331–332; media bias in election coverage, 323–324; non-prospering parties, 324–326; party reform, 366(n1); political system, 313–316; the popular vote and the Electoral College, 327(n2); private campaign finance, 323; self-protection through use of power, 361; supporting PRI’s market-oriented economic policies, 214; unequal minority parties, 334 United Workers Party (Poland), 341 Unity/Bear movement (Russia), 195–197, 342–343 Unity Party (Russia), 4, 185, 197(table), 198(table) Unreformed Communists (Italy), 278–279, 290 Uruguay: associative nation building, 134(n6); coparticipation, 134(n8); election results, 123(tables),

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Index

124(table); electoral volatility, 123(table); FA’s opposition leading to multipartism, 121–124; income distribution, 137(n30); left-right cleavage, 131–133, 137(nn31, 33); moderate reformism, 128–131; national elections mirroring internal party elections, 134(n7); personalistic leadership weakening party militants, 355; political breakdown and recovery, 117–118; postauthoritarian party transition, 124–128; recovery from party system breakdown, 347–348; response to economic crisis, 137(n29); traditional bipartism, 119–121 US-Japanese Mutual Security Treaty, 171 Uspaskich, Viktor, 97 Valence issues, 14–15, 337–338 Values: CDU/CSU policy, 157; Frente Amplio’s ideology and, 136(n18); Shas party’s, 240–241 Vázquez, Tabaré, 348 Veltroni, Walter, 281, 289 Villiers, Philippe de, 303–304 Virtual parties: Forza Italia, 282; Poland’s abundance of, 67 Volatility, electoral: British electorate, 22, 23–24; Japan’s independent and nonpartisan voters, 174–175; Lithuania, 93; Uruguay, 123(table), 135(n15) Volontarism (active, independent state), 50 Voter apathy: Britain, 22, 26(n5); Poland, 65, 66; Russia, 199–200 Voter confidence: Russia’s lack of, 186; Sweden’s lack of, 29–30 Voter dealignment of social democrats, 46–47, 58–59, 78–79, 83 Voter-oriented parties, Sweden’s, 37–38 Voter registration, US, 319–320, 327(n4) Voter satisfaction: British voters’ growing dissatisfaction with Tory policy, 16–19; explaining Britain’s shift from Conservative to Labour, 9–10; Japanese voters’ impressions of politics and politicians,

166(tables); Japan’s increasing voter dissatisfaction, 165, 167; Russia’s lack of, 191–192; Uruguay’s FA’s increasing, 127 Voter turnout: Britain’s decline in, 12, 22; Chile’s decline in, 256–257; EU and Britain, 26(n5); Israel’s high levels of, 234–235; Lithuania, 96(table); Russia’s presidential election, 195; Russia’s sharp decline in, 186; Sweden’s decreasing voter confidence, 30; Sweden’s political scandals affecting, 32; United States, 314, 319–320; Uruguay’s early bipartism, 121; US nonvoters, 324–326; “voting fatigue” in the US, 314 Voting patterns: Sweden’s protest voting, 29–30 Voting technology, US, 320 Wales, 11–12, 24 Walesa, Lech, 67, 73 War on terrorism, 339 Washington consensus, 118 Wealth, redistribution of, 52–53, 188–189 Weber, Max, 277 Weimar republic, 335–336 Welfare policy: British Conservative Party, 23; Bush’s conservative attack on the welfare state, 339; Germany’s CDU/CSU, 156–157; New Labour’s Third Way policy, 14–16; social democrats, 51–53; Uruguay’s batllismo, 137(n32) Western Europe. See France; Germany; Social democrats White Flower coalition, 288 Wide state, Uruguay as, 120 Wilson, Woodrow, 336 Winner-take-all electoral system: social democrats, 47; United States, 313–318; Yeltsin’s victory, 190 Women: Chile’s UDI targeting women voters, 256–259; France’s equal access laws, 295–296, 311(n2); improved participation in Germany’s CDU, 150–151; Labour Party constituency, 13; lack of representation in Shas’s policy

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Index decisions, 245; Poland’s postcommunist poverty, 63; sacking of Japan’s Tanaka, 178–179; state pensions, 52 Work and welfare policy, 52–53 Workers’ Struggle (LO; France), 307 World War II, 90, 335–336 Yabloko party (Russia), 193, 197(table), 198(table) Yeltsin, Boris, 342; decay of the standing party, 195–196; Duma as threat to, 192; elective autocracy shaping Russia’s party system, 186; failed coup, 189; Russia’s first election, 191–192; Russia’s presidential election dilemma, 194–195 Yishai, Eli, 238 Yosef, Ovadia, 238, 240, 241, 242

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Young Democratic Left Association (Poland), 75 “Young for Poland” Civic Movement, 75 Young Left Alliance (Poland), 75 Youth: Poland’s postcommunist unemployment, 63; Poland’s SLD voter dealignment, 83; Poland’s SLD youth organizations, 75, 77–78; Shas constituency, 240; US youth vote, 325 Zaldivár, Andrés, 255 Zedillo, Ernesto, 208, 213, 218–219 Zhirinovskii, Vladimir, 192 Zhironovsky’s Bloc (LiberalDemocratic Party of Russia), 197(table), 198(table) Zyuganov, Gennady, 342

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About the Book

H

ave parties, and party systems, come back to life in the twenty-first century? Are they capable of playing their roles in ways that will foster rather than betray the public interest? These are among the questions explored in When Parties Prosper, a richly comparative and accessible study of political parties in power in Europe, Asia, and the Americas. Each country study in the book reviews the country’s political history, describes its present party system, provides a detailed study of the one or two most powerful parties in the system, and evaluates the impact the parties have on government efficacy, stability, and democratic legitimacy. Two broadly comparative chapters highlight differences and similarities across the countries. Following a common structure, the authors offer answers to their core questions—but they are answers that are sure to stimulate discussion, disagreement, and reassessment.

Kay Lawson is professor emerita of political science at San Francisco State University. She is author of numerous books and articles on political parties, including When Parties Fail: Emerging Alternative Organizations, coedited with Peter H. Merkl; her textbook The Human Polity: A Comparative Introduction to Political Science is now in its fifth edition. Peter H. Merkl is professor emeritus of political science at the University of California at Santa Barbara. Among his recent publications are Rightwing Extremism in the Twenty-First Century and The Rift Between America and the Old Europe: The Distracted Eagle.

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