Elites and Democratic Transitions by Regime Transformation in Southern Europe (Global Political Transitions) 3031046196, 9783031046193

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GLOBAL POLITICAL TRANSITIONS

Elites and Democratic Transitions by Regime Transformation in Southern Europe Ioannis Tzortzis

Global Political Transitions

Series Editors Imtiaz A. Hussain, Global Studies & Governance, Independent University, Dhaka, Bangladesh Leonard Sebastian, S. Rajaratnam School of International Studies, Nanyang Technological University, Singapore, Singapore

The series publishes books dealing with important political changes within states and in relations between states. The two key questions it seeks to answer are: to what extent are countries becoming more democratic/liberal, and to what extent are inter-state/inter-regional relations creating/demanding new ‘governance’ arrangements? The series editors encourage submissions which explore local issues (where the local could be a state, society, region) having global consequences (such as regionally, internationally, or multilaterally), or vice versa, global developments (such as terrorism, recession, WTO/IMF rulings, any democratic snowball, like the Third Wave, Fourth Wave, and so forth) triggering local consequences (state responses; fringe group reactions, such as ISIS; and so forth).

Ioannis Tzortzis

Elites and Democratic Transitions by Regime Transformation in Southern Europe

Ioannis Tzortzis Department of Political Science and International Studies University of Birmingham Birmingham, UK

ISSN 2522-8730 ISSN 2522-8749 (electronic) Global Political Transitions ISBN 978-3-031-04619-3 ISBN 978-3-031-04620-9 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04620-9 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover image: © maxstock2/Alamy Stock Photo This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Preface and Acknowledgements

A fair bit of time has passed since the contract for this book was concluded, and looking back, it is impressive to think of what has happened and how many changes have occurred—sadly not to the better. The loss of my father in the early stages of the writing, immediately followed by the pandemic and its effects on every aspect of life—let alone in activity related to the writing of a book—radically altered the circumstances under which the project was conducted and concluded. The restrictions on physical presence in libraries; the long closure of Archives and their very limited gradual reopening; the punishing administrative and financial obstacles to travelling amidst the pandemic; the limitations posed by the search for online sources; and the almost compulsory ‘desk research’ that was the only way for this project to be concluded have taken a certain toll on the book. Nevertheless the project went on, slowly but steadily, until the conclusion; the fact that it was based on my Ph.D. helped (to some extent) to make up for the heavy restrictions that the conjuncture imposed upon the research and writing of the book. It is with a great feeling of relief but also of a certain self-accomplishment at the same time, that I present the product of the long and solitary personal work that has preceded its submission. I have all good reasons to believe that the attempted comparison between the democratic transitions by regime transformation in Spain, Greece, and Turkey fulfils the scope of shedding light on the role that elites play in this particular tentative and controversial process, v

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while at the same time acknowledging the complementary role of the civil societies and the international factor in influencing to some extent the outcome of such a process. At this time I feel a deep obligation to thank Ambra Finotello and the editorial team at Palgrave Macmillan for the double satisfaction that they offered me, firstly with their confidence and trust on the interest of my book proposal, and secondly with their patience over my pleas for extension until a decent work was produced. Without their understanding and co-operation the book would not have been completed. My mother Chryssi Tzortzi offered me everything she could: a great deal of moral support through the whole process- a non-negligible issue in the time lapsed. But the person most thought of during the whole process was the great absentee-my father, Athanassios Tzortzis. Not only for the immense personal blow that his loss meant for me, but also because I lost a most valuable intellectual companion, an experienced adviser and a priceless moral supporter that my father was. I managed to turn the pain for his loss to an irreversible desire to finish the book for the sake of his memory-and this was a great motive that kept me going amidst all difficulties. It is, therefore and above everything else, to the loving memory of Athanasios Tzortzis that I dedicate this book. Birmingham, UK

Ioannis Tzortzis

Chronology of Events

Spain 1939 1947 1958 1959 1966 1969 1973 1974 1975 1976

1977 1978 1979 1981 1982

End of the civil war Law of Succession in the Headship of the State Spain joins the UN Economic Stabilization plan Organic Law on political associations Prince Juan Carlos becomes King of Spain June: Admiral Carrero Blanco becomes Head of Government but is assassinated (December) January: Arias Navarro appointed Head of Government November: Franco dies July: Arias Navarro resigns—Suarez appointed Head of Government; November: Reform Bill passed; December: referendum on Bill June: National elections; victory of UCD; October: ‘Pact of Moncloa’ December: Constitution drafted and voted New elections (March): victory of UCD January: Suarez resigns as PM; February: failed Tejero coup attempt October: Elections—victory of PSOE

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CHRONOLOGY OF EVENTS

Greece 1949 1952 1955 1956 1958 1961 1963 1964 1965 1967 1968 1973

1974

End of civil war Elections—victory of ES under Papagos Death of Papagos; Karamanlis becomes PM Elections—victory of ERE under Karamanlis Elections—victory of ERE Elections—victory of ERE; main opposition party of EK refuses to accept the result Elections—victory of EK Elections—victory of EK Breakup of the EK—‘renegades’ government April: Military coup of the colonels; December: failed royal counter-coup; King flees Greece; Papadopoulos becomes PM ‘Constitution’ drafted; plebiscite February: Athens students’ lock-up in Law School May: frustrated anti-regime naval plot June: abolition of monarchy July: plebiscite on new ‘Constitution’ August: Papadopoulos becomes ‘President of Republic’ October: Markezinis appointed as PM November 14–17: Athens Polytechnic events November 25: Hardliners’ coup Anti-Makarios coup in Cyprus; Turkish invasion; dictatorship collapses; Karamanlis appointed as PM

Turkey 1924 1938 1950 1960 1961 1971 1980

Declaration of republic Death of Kemal Ataturk First elections; victory of DP; Menderes becomes PM First military coup topples Menderes New Constitution drafted Second military intervention forces PM Demirel to resign September: Third military coup topples PM Demirel; Admiral Ulusu appointed PM

CHRONOLOGY OF EVENTS

1982 1983

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November: ‘Constitution’ drafted and voted in plebiscite; Evren becomes President of Republic November: Elections and victory of MP; Ozal becomes PM

Contents

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A Framework for the Study of Democratic Transition by Regime Transformation

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From ‘Organic Democracy’ to ‘Democracy Without Adjectives’: Spain 1976–77

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From Dictatorship to Dictatorship: Greece 1973

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From Dictatorship to ‘Difficult Democracy’: Turkey 1983

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Concluding Remarks

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Bibliography

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Index

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Abbreviations

Spain ETA GRAPO PCE PNV PSOE PSP RTVE UCD UMD

Basque Country and Freedom Anti-Fascist Group First of October Spanish Communist Party Basque Nationalist Party Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party Popular Socialist Party Spanish Radio-Television Union of Democratic Centre Democratic Military Union

Greece EDA EENA EK ERE ES ESA IDEA KKE KKE-es.

United Democratic Left Union of Young Greek Officers Union of Centre National Radical Union Greek Rally Greek Military Police Sacred Link of Greek Officers Communist Party of Greece ‘Communist Party of the Interior’

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ABBREVIATIONS

Turkey DP JP MP NDP NSC NUC PP RPP SODEP SPO TGNA TPP TUSIAD

Democratic Party Justice Party Motherland Party Nationalist Democratic Party National Security Council National Union Committee Populist Party Republican People’s Party Socialist Democratic Party State Planning Organisation Turkish Grand National Assembly True Path Party Association of Turkish Industrialists and Businessmen

CHAPTER 1

A Framework for the Study of Democratic Transition by Regime Transformation

As O’Donnell and Schmitter put it ‘it is both possible and desirable that political democracy be attained without mobilised violence and dramatic discontinuity.’1 The controversy over the question of the feasibility of a process of democratisation by regime self-transformation, as well as of the viability and quality of the democracy that will emerge from such a process requires the contextualisation of concepts and a definition of actors by whom, and of the structures in which such a process will have to take shape. It also calls for an account of the main factors which get involved with the process and influence its outcome. This opening chapter deals with the above issues and sets out the logic of the research and the main questions it will seek to give an answer to.

Democracy in Context Although it is inevitable that the discussion on what makes a polity democratic is long,2 the concept of democracy accepted here denotes the form of polity which guarantees free and fair elections; rule of law; the ability of citizens to organise in groups of various forms-what Whitehead3 calls ‘autonomous agents…forming their own judgements in the light of collective discussion and debate,’ in other words, civil society; a diversity in information sources; and which can be continuously altered © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 I. Tzortzis, Elites and Democratic Transitions by Regime Transformation in Southern Europe, Global Political Transitions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04620-9_1

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in the direction of guaranteeing more participatory capabilities for the citizen groups to improve their political, social or economic status. In this way, democracy is always open to change and more inclusive to new concepts of rights for its citizens than any other form of rule. Plus, democracy entails the open-endedness of the political processes.4 It is beyond doubt that the meeting of the above standards cannot be accomplished overnight, or in a short period of time. Rather it takes a long process for a polity to become democratic, and this process is not necessarily linear, but can face reverses and setbacks as well. The democratic characteristics as described here are most likely to obtain in a consolidated democracy; the process of transition from a nondemocratic regime to a democratic one probably entails the acceptance, for some time, of a less inclusive and open-ended democracy than the one described above. This is because such characteristics of a democratic polity will not necessarily be accepted outright during a transition process; the strong anti-democratic elements in a non-democratic regime are very likely not to accept the openness and uncertainty that come with democracy, and they would either remain in a hard-line position or defect from a potential agreement and attempt to revert to authoritarianism. Therefore, the acceptance by all social and political actors and groups of the rules of democracy and of its principle as the only way for a country to be ruled needs to be given priority—what Przeworski (1991) calls ‘the only game in town.’ It is only after the transition process is successfully drawn to a close and the process of consolidation has begun that the regime can aspire to be fully democratic as described above. For those reasons the concept of democracy that will be accepted in the present discussion on transitions will be less inclusive, referring to the concept of contestation for political power among political elites in free and fair elections, and the possibility of restoring institutions allowing for a further opening of the new democratic regime in the future. In this sense democratisation is a process with many episodes, ‘a process of movement towards an outcome that is neither fully stable nor entirely predetermined.’5 The outcome of the transition greatly influences the process of democratisation and is in turn dependent upon the agents of the transition and the reasons for their initiatives.

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Democracy as a Result of Elite Action As Rueschemeyer et al. (1992) correctly claimed, those who most have to gain from democracy will be its most favourable supporters, and those who have to lose its most committed opponents. In this way it is recognised that democracy is the outcome of a clash of interests between various political subjects-elites. This book will focus on how democracy emerges from a short-term transition process by the action of elites, ‘the power holders of a body politic.’6 The concept of elites is not limited to the ruling elites—it also includes counter-elites: opposition leaders in nondemocratic regimes who do not hold state power but have an influence on the people whom they represent, and can rely on a wide public support to compete for power. Furthermore, the importance of the elite factor for the transition has to be accounted for because of the access of elites to information over the period studied. The regime elites in the transition by transformation paradigm possess the ability to sense that a point is approaching at which the legitimacy of the regime which they command is being drained away, or that the regime has exhausted its usefulness for them, and can be replaced by other, more liberal and representative— if not more democratic—forms of rule. This is the situation of regime dispensability, as originally conceived by O’Donnell and Whitehead: a situation in which a non-democratic regime has outlived its usefulness for the regime elites, who decide that it no longer serves their interests for a variety of possible reasons, and can therefore be dropped in favour of a democratic one. It should therefore be clearly distinguished from other, ‘non-consensual’ forms of transition such as collapse, revolution, coup or extrication, caused by ‘a sudden loss of legitimacy’ that non-democratic regimes can suffer, forcing them to hand power over to civilians.7 Drawing on the seminal work of O’Donnell et al. (1986) this book concentrates on the factors that shape the arena of regime change, focusing on cases where non-democratic elites are the initiators of this process, seeking to perpetuate their own privileged status in a democratic institutional context. In this perspective the attention shifts to short-term developments distinguishing liberalisation as a first phase of the transition, namely the weakening of regime control over society and its gradual opening to contestation and negotiation with its opponents. The opposition elites, in turn, will accept to play the transition game with the regime soft-liners if they hope that in the process some external and unpredicted factors might come to their support and change the setting

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of the transition to their favour. Collier calls democratisation ‘a politicostrategic process’ in both the ambitions of the ‘outs’ and the ‘ins’ to secure their participation in the decision-making. Finally, she stresses the multidimensionality of the arenas where the democratisation game is played, specifying it as a game based on the resources that each side has at its disposal to affect the outcome.8 The main feature of this phase is the taking place of pacts between the elites involved, a process characterised by rational calculation, interest bargaining, uncertainty over the final outcome, and possibly accidental and indeterminate events, as O’Donnell and Schmitter note (‘fortuna, insufficient information, hurried and audacious choices, confusion about motives and interests…as well as the talents of specific individuals’9 ) upon which depends whether they will successfully accomplish their ambition or there will finally emerge radically different outcomes than were originally intended by the actors. Therefore the transition game is contingent and uneasy; there can be no guarantee that the process will evolve as planned by those who started it. This is the first ‘institutionalisation of uncertainty’ as Przeworski (1988) put it: the fact that in a democracy outcomes are uncertain applies from the point of its negotiating moment. In view of that, it makes sense for the regime elites, as Eisenstadt (2000) notes, to prefer that the reform take place gradually rather than immediately, as this can help them achieve their target with the minimum concessions possible, ‘divide and conquer’ the opposition, and channel it into a regulated field of electoral campaigns rather than demonstrations, strikes and protests. The outcome is tentative and uncertain; the transition implies a ‘fuzziness of institutional change that blurs the boundaries of democratisation.’10 Special attention has to be granted to the conjuncture that leads to the transition itself. However, the elites involved in the transition have preferences that come from somewhere; they ‘do not play out their roles in a vacuum, but in a context consisting of the structures from the past continuing into the present. They must deal with the legacy of what has gone before rather than create their own environment de novo.’11 Adopting an eliteoriented analysis does not necessarily imply neglecting those factors; a transition by reforma means that the elites have to take into account the structural environment in which they act in order to change it. As Dowding (1991) points out, it is the incentives which individuals have to face that structurally suggest their behaviour; by studying those incentives along with some assumptions about the way actors make decisions

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we understand why agents act the way they did. This book will assume the view that the analysis of the actions of elites should be complemented by taking into account the broader socio-political and international environment in order to best achieve the perpetuation of their interests in a non-dictatorial state. It will try to take into account the weaknesses of the transition theory that have been pointed out in the literature and that often question its usefulness for the analysis of democratisation. It will attempt to reconstruct the resources, goals and actions of the key protagonists in the transition process within the framework of broader structural and institutional conditions which prevailed at the time of the transitions. The following sections introduce the key structural, historical and environmental factors to be taken into account in the cases studied.

Transition from What to What? The Nature of the Previous Regime As Rustow argued ‘the study of democratic transitions will take the political scientist deeper into history than he has commonly been willing to go.’12 Democratisation by reforma is a change in power structure that is conditioned by the historical framework of the country and cannot be achieved without a recognition of this legacy by the elites initiating the transition. The success of the transitions will depend on the state structures and institutions of the dictatorial regime, the nature of which therefore appears important.13 Some non-democratic regimes allow some degree of political organisation, others do not; some regimes are based on apathy rather than on participation; some use ideological and educational mechanisms to consolidate their power in society, others rule by raw violence and coercion. The transition to democracy will greatly depend on the nature of the regime that is about to change: if it was a unitary regime with no major breaks and ruptures among its ranks, the transition will be more difficult to complete rather than if the regime is characterised by disunity and clash of interests. The degree to which the non-democratic regimes succeeded or failed to institutionalise themselves, possibly creating consultative assemblies or pseudo-representative institutions should be of importance for the handling of the reforma, as a smooth transition can be much more facilitated if carried through the institutions of a non-democratic regime.14 Moreover, the fact that most non-democratic regimes have been military ones has its consequences: military elites are the most prominent rivals of democratic institutional

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arrangements, however their force of arms does not save them from facing impasses.15 The nature of the previous non-democratic regime is also important in determining the degree of coherence of the elites competing for power in a transition conjuncture, and whose interests in view of the reforma do not necessarily converge. It is useful to have in mind the elite classification produced by Field and Higley (1980) in disunified, ideological unified and consensual unified elites. The first are ‘highly distrustful of each other,’ the second are based upon ‘a sharply defined ideological commitment,’ and the third are able to ‘shape and contain issues whose open and dogmatic expression would create disastrous conflict.’16 Elite formation in non-democratic regimes is thus essential for accounting on what will emerge from a transition process, and this does not only concern the regime elites, but also the opposition counter-elites, which will have to consider accepting or rejecting the potential regime opening. Last but not least, the question of how long the non-democratic regime lasted, as well as whether it was a parenthesis in a process between crisis and ‘re-equilibration’ of a previous democratic polity is also important in establishing the regime characteristics at the time the transition began.17

Timing of Transition In regime-initiated transitions, timing is to an important degree in the hands of the regime elites, who will often perceive the regime as dispensable once the costs of repression exceed the costs of toleration, in Dahl’s well-known formulation. In a number of cases of democratisation, groups within the dictatorial regime ‘concluded that the costs of staying in power… had reached a point where a graceful exit from power was desirable.’18 Therefore some groups within the ruling coalition came to favour democratisation; nevertheless, some others opposed it, and others supported some limited reform or liberalisation.19 Przeworski adds that ‘faced with the alternative of an open, possibly violent, conflict- the outcomes of which may be highly beneficial but also quite risky- and of a democratic solution, which requires compromise but provides security, political forces involved in the regime transformation may opt for the democratic compromise.’20 In such cases, regime elites pre-empt the opposition and unilaterally liberalise the regime as a strategic move to prevent the threat of its collapse and/or the instauration of a democratic regime over which they have no control. Other times their main

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goals are met with relative success, and then the elites may decide to abandon the non-democratic in favour of a more democratic form, which will provide sufficient guarantees for their security, impunity and their corporate interests. O’Donnell and Schmitter (1986) who first coined the original concept of ‘dispensability,’ conclude that regime soft-liners opt for democracy either because some of them have got what they were asking for, and set to withdraw to the enjoyment of their acquired privileges or because they want the transition to stop at the early point of a limited liberalisation which protects their hold of office, or even aspire to get elected offices in the new democratic regime. It is important to stress that in this conception of transition, democracy need not be (re)introduced by democrats: ‘we may allow for the possibility that circumstances may force, trick, lure or cajole non-democrats into democratic behaviour and that their beliefs may adjust in due course by some process of rationalisation or adaptation.’21 The implications of this are important for accounting for the choices of non-democratic elites. Rustow argues that democracy might not have been the elites’ original goal, but was meant to serve some other purposes or perhaps it emerged as a by-product of some internal struggle. And Linz and Stepan agree that at times democracy becomes ‘the only game in town’ not solely by belief but also by elite calculation of the costs and benefits of compliance versus those of preparation for other, dynamic forms of action. In view of that, one can also assume that the outgoing dictatorial elites would prefer to initiate the transition and withdraw in good times, since in such times they are less isolated politically than at times of economic or political crisis, and it is more likely that they will enjoy a certain support in their transition attempt. This, however, does not mean that the factor of miscalculation cannot turn their expectations into a negative for the result, especially when elections are held; ‘even deeply manipulated elections may lead to surprising opposition victories. Even tightly controlled elections… generate pressures for further reform.’22

Civil Society and Its Response to the Opening In the process of democratisation, the contest for power between elites and counter-elites is not taking place without influence from the broader masses. It is fair to claim that the state of the regime’s links with society is crucial for the capacity of its elites to survive the challenge of a transition. This applies especially to dictatorial regimes opening themselves, as

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‘unless it seeks to rule principally through terror, a regime must always remain sensitive to what its subjects will accept.’23 The civil society has its own dynamics and is often unpredictable in its behaviour and action. In the uncertain framework within which the transition occurs the same factor that can run to the detriment of the public, its number, can as well run heavily against the elites’ plans if they underestimate its dynamics, thus the elites have to make certain concessions to the civil society in view of achieving their desired goal, since they need to seek support from non-elite groups. This applies especially to the transition situation, during which the political arguments of the outgoing elites have to appeal to the wishes and attitudes of the non-elites groups to whom they turn for support.24 It is in this framework that the outgoing regime elites will have to acquire the acceptance of the masses, especially in the crucial time of an uncertain balance of forces in the transition, during which the people can influence the whole process with demonstrations and protests, or with their vote in the first free elections. For those reasons, the development of a basis of communication with the mass public, which can serve as a feedback of information on the dispositions and aspirations of civil society, is important. This also applies to counter-elites. Summing up, the institutional arrangements that will characterise the new democratic regime will reflect, as Etzioni-Halevy (1993) put it, both the result of relations among the elites as well as of relations between elites and the non-elites.

The International Factor and Its Implications for the Reforma The international factor is one more—and the last studied here—variable shaping the arena of transition. If elites do not act in an internal vacuum, neither do they act in an external one. The role of a country in the world system has been identified as strongly affecting its likelihood of a democratic transition. States must pursue certain goals as international entities; they exist in a given geopolitical setting, maintain diplomatic relations, military alliances, participate in broader strategic or economic coalitions and possibly have ambitions of playing a more important role in their regions or of integrating in broader political or economic groups of nations.25 Democratisation therefore is highly unlikely not to have an impact on their international relations as well. For this reason the international factor is one more dimension in the study of democratic

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transitions despite the predominant role that domestic factors play in the process. This is so because a democratic transition is a process in which the authoritarian system may be especially vulnerable to international influences, which are almost always present in a democratic transition. There exist what Pridham (1991) has called ‘inner-directed linkages’ between the international and the domestic political systems, in the sense that the former influence the latter in certain ways. Levitsky and Way contend that ‘linkage raised the cost of building and sustaining authoritarian rule. In this context, authoritarian rulers faced strong incentives to cede power rather than crack down in the face of opposition challenges. Linkage also increased the likelihood that successors would rule democratically.’26 Therefore, enlisting international support will be regarded as a priority for many, if not all, of the elites involved in the transition process, a support that refers to two things: economic incentives and geopolitical balances in the democratising states’ nexus. The integration of a country into a broader politico-economic space poses a challenge for regime elites. A non-democratic state can be isolated from the international system; the implications for its development then are negative. It is in the interest of elites to try to end this isolation by seeing their state becoming a member of a wider political and economic constellation, such as the EEC, which ‘has introduced new stakes into the political life of its members. European issues can be manipulated to serve partisan ends, even where the origins of domestic conflict have nothing to do with the Community.’27 Indeed, the incentives posed by such a membership can be enough to start a pressure towards democratisation on behalf of certain organised interests, and the potential positive response from such organisations can be encouraging for democratisation.28 Furthermore, as Teorel notes, ‘regional organizations may promote democratization by legitimizing interim governments, that is, caretaker governments in power between the breakdown of autocracy and before the holding of founding elections. Membership in democratic regional organizations may help these fragile governments to credibly signal their commitment to complete the move to democracy.’29 This is important for the economic elites, interested in some benefits from the opening of the regime to a wider market group such as the EEC, although these elites may not be in a position to actually decide the outcome of transition.30 If institutional allies and partners treat a country under a non-democratic regime as a pariah state, this may reflect on societal and elite attitudes within that given state. This form of pressure,

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therefore, can help to weaken the authoritarian regime’s grip on power. Such pressure has been more recently acknowledged as ‘conditionality’— the foreign policy tool aiming to promote democracy through its linking to economic relations, mostly economic aid (positive conditionality) to states aiming to offer incentives to democratise. Huntington mentions, among other forms of actions that democratic states used to promote democratisation, ‘statements by presidents… and other officials endorsing democratisation…economic pressures and sanctions… diplomatic action [and] material support for democratic forces.’31 However, the international system is also one of military coalitions, security mechanisms and strategic interests’ calculations that affect domestic politics. Therefore, the explanation of external influences should not neglect this aspect. Many democratic transitions have taken place in the framework of the Cold War and have been influenced by the strategic interests of alliances like NATO. Furthermore, as the US has always been the most prominent foreign influence in domestic politics in the post-war years, special attention should be focused on its influences on the countries under study.32 As Whitehead contends, in southern Europe during the Cold War it made sense to ‘seek the security of a protective international alliance which might serve to shelter the authoritarian regime from both internal external disintegrating forces. Such alliances have normally stressed strategic considerations, such as the offer of military basses or loyalty in a common ideological front.’33 Perhaps the factors mentioned above were not unfavourable to democratisation but opposed to the way it would develop, or even to certain agents promoting it, because of a suspicion that their interests would be underestimated. In studying the international aspect of transitions through reforma it is useful to have in mind Rosenau’s notion of ‘penetrated systems’ and the degree of allowing foreign factors a certain intervention in the domestic arena. In the long run, however, it is the position of this book that the international political context ‘does not dictate or determine the timing, type or outcome of the transition process…the impact of the international context is normally mediated through national or sub-national actors and processes.’34

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Selection of Cases, Theory and Methodology of the Research This book will not adopt a narrow theoretical stance in trying to explain democratisation by reforma, but will make use of rational actor-related analysis in order to interpret and make sense of the action of participants in transition processes. The concept that sees political actors as utility maximisers—in a broad sense—will be the dominant narrative: ‘elite groups will only support democracy insofar as they feel certain that their interests will be looked after under more democratic conditions.’35 The unexpected and contingent dynamics of transition processes should also receive close attention, as often what starts as an attempt of the old elite to rescue the status quo they created may take unintended paths, as other parts of the elites or counter-elites try to make their own interests prevail. The approach will be therefore non-deterministic; as Sorensen argued, there are no historical laws that stipulate that regimes have to move from authoritarian to democratic. This approach applies particularly to the research of a process as complex as a democratic transition, which involves ‘processes of change which do not necessarily end in predetermined outcomes of equilibria or consolidation, and which may not proceed in predictable and necessary sequences.’36 Two methodological observations have to be made at this point. First, the interplay between elites and counter-elites will be explained as a process during which the major players seek to serve their interests, and a process that may or may not end in pacts in which every side can have relative gains and losses, and the outcome is a compromise in which all participants see themselves as better off than they were when the transition started. The outcome is thus accepted by all sides, and no one considers trying to reverse it without risking even greater losses than the ones he faces accepting it. What is important is the ‘crossing of the threshold beyond which no one can intervene to reverse outcomes of the normal democratic process.’37 From this point on the transition is brought to a close and the process of consolidation can begin. This is an ideal outcome, and it does not have to be concluded—there may be divergence between the regime elites and counter-elites, as well as among the elites themselves, and thus the transition may not end in agreement but rather in a reverse to authoritarianism or in the restoration of a

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partial, non-inclusive democracy. The different outcomes that the transition process may take are related to the nature of the regime undergoing transformation, and the balance of power at the time of the transition. Second, the transition is considered as a process that operates in different arenas of action. In this logic, elites can use civil society and the international factor as resources for gaining legitimacy and support. Thus the elite/civil society interaction will be regarded as one arena, and the same applies to the international factor. Normally the civil society will throw its weight on the side of the reformers of the regime and of the democratic opposition elites, and it is up to the latter to make efficient use of the societal factor in order to promote their interests in the new democratic setting, if there is one. As for the international forces, some may be favourable to the transition, given that the orientation of the state’s policies will not be altered, others may have reservations on the impact of the transition to the state’s geopolitical nexus. This does not imply an opposition to the idea of democratisation itself, but rather an objection to a certain way it is contrived, or a preference for some other elite groups in control of the new democracy than the agents who initiated the transition process. All the above sums up three major arenas that the self-transformation takes place: inter-elite bargaining, elite/non-elite relations, and the elite–external factor interaction. Taking the perspective of comparative politics, the research will be based on cases of countries and examine how certain conditions combine in different ways in different countries and produce different outcomes. Case selection is always an issue in political science, as it ‘significantly affects the answers that are obtained to the research questions that are posed.’38 In this book a small number of cases will be studied in the hope of developing limited generalisations on the causes of successful or unsuccessful democratic transitions by regime transformation. The focus on the regimes’ nature in the countries selected allows to examine elite formation and the conjuncture at the time of the transition, and aims to explain the way it affected the transition at the time it did, and for which parts of the regime elites (if not for all of them) the regime became dispensable. On the other hand, the actors’ tactics followed to bring the desired result will be sought to explain the (successful or not) transformation of the dictatorships into democracies. The limitations of this method must be taken into account; the reliability of the small number of cases in qualitative comparative research is often regarded as a ‘methodologically soft’ (Hopkin 1999) option.

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A reliable account of democratic transition in the specific countries picked requires a good knowledge of their historical and political context. Spain, Greece and Turkey have to fulfil certain measures of comparability, such as belonging to a group of countries with historically similar political, economic and social developments, and with the case studies that represent a similar approach to the phenomenon studied, i.e. transition by reforma. They are countries that appear to conform to the requisite of a non-biased selection. Firstly, all three are countries of the Mediterranean basin, with broadly similar economic indicators, such as GDP per capita, and economic structure for the periods studied, although Turkey was lagging behind the previous two. ‘The conviction grew that they somehow did not belong in Western Europe’39 because they were created as modern nation-states quite late in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, having high agrarian and modernisation-resisting populations, and a late industrialisation accompanied by the presence of an interventionist state which was also weak in terms of administration (Sapelli 1995). Economic modernisation was also problematic, as capitalism was ‘induced’ from outside, the market was state-regulated, and patterns of social behaviour were strongly traditional. The institutions of parliamentary democracy and political pluralism also took an uncertain root, because of the inability of modern political movements to establish political hegemony, resulting in illegitimacy and instability plaguing the relevant political systems (Malefakis 1995). The civil society was considerably weaker than in the Western Europe because of the low degree of political institutionalisation and the widespread clientship. After the Second World War, those countries experienced an unprecedented economic development and social and cultural change. Moreover, in all of them the army’s position was diachronically central in politics, and it was the most powerful supporter of the dictatorial regimes.40 And the international factor was present in the transition process, either in the face of participation to the EEC being a major incentive to democratise, or in external security and strategic influences calculation, albeit in a different degree for each.41 But there were also considerable differences within the cases: the nature of the regimes under transition, the conjuncture in each of them when the reforma process started and the elites that started it, and the reaction of the civil society during the negotiations and elections that may have followed, and of the international factor to the transition attempts.

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Those differences produced outcomes sometimes different from the original aspirations: Spain became a full democracy, allowing for a peaceful change of government just a few years after the reforma. Furthermore ‘Spain’s successful transition… dramatically illustrated the role political actors may come to play in where outcomes are indeterminate and available paradigms do not help.’42 The comparison of actors’ tactics (with reference to the soft liners’ handling of the conjuncture) between Spain and Greece, two countries that faced similar situations, should help to enlighten the failure of the Greek elites to contrive a similar to the Spanish successful reforma, a fact that somehow seems to give right to the aphorism of Schmitter and Karl that Greece is among the countries that ‘literally defy classification.’43 In Turkey, the conducted transition was only up to a certain point a success for the regime elites, who believed that their chosen political representatives would not lose the transition elections. The comparability to the Greek case lies in the fact that the process and the scope of the outgoing elites were similar; in fact what the Greek dictator Papadopoulos tried to do has been compared to the Turkish generals’ reforma. However, there is a sound structural difference between the two cases, as there were no ruptures in the Turkish regime, whereas in Greece Papadopoulos was isolated in his attempt for a transition. Perhaps this is one of the main reasons for which in Greece the attempted change completely failed, and control passed to the hard-liners, thus setting the framework for the disastrous intervention in Cyprus and the actual ruptura of 1974. The differences of the outcomes, that is, of the dependent variables in each case, allow also for the solution to the problem of selection bias. The following second chapter will deal with the Spanish reforma pactada, the par excellence successful case of democratisation by regime transformation in the literature. It will be followed by the presentation, in the third chapter, of the Greek case of the unsuccessful transition of 1973. The Turkish case will form the fourth chapter and conclude the empirical part, serving as another comparison to examine the implication of such a regime-initiated transition for the new democracy. The comparative exposition of the findings of the case studies will be summarised in the fifth and final chapter, which will also discuss the conclusions of the book.

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Notes 1. O’Donnell and Schmitter (1986: 11). 2. The discussion that follows has borrowed much of its argumentation from Schmitter and Karl (1991a), Sorensen (1993), Huntington (1991), Przeworski (1988), Doorenspleet (2004), Grugel (2002). Whitehead (2002: 12–13) criticises the definitions that focus on procedural issues ‘to the disregard of outcomes and the near exclusion of broader social values.’ 3. Whitehead (2002: 17). 4. As Przeworski (1988: 62) put it, ‘under a democracy no one can be certain that their interests will ultimately triumph.’ See also Whitehead (2002). 5. Whitehead (2002: 32). 6. Lasswell, quoted in Bachrach (1980: 67). 7. For an account of those forms of transitions see Share (1987); see also the comments of Stepan (1986) on re-democratisation initiated from within the regime. 8. A detailed analysis of these points is given in Collier (1999). 9. O’Donnell and Schmitter (1986: 5). 10. Schedler (2001: 2). 11. Gill (2000: 89). 12. Rustow (1970: 347). O’Donnell et al. (1986) dedicate the opening chapter of their study to the comparative examination of history and structure of the Southern European countries. See also the contributions of Schmitter and Giner in the above-mentioned works. 13. Among the most prominent typologies of non-democratic regimes see Linz (1970), Sorensen (1993), Linz and Stepan (1996). 14. These points are discussed in Di Palma (1990), Gill (2000), Huntington (1991). 15. For an excellent account of the problems a military regime is faced with, see Clapham and Philip (1985). See also their typology of military regimes and the implications of every variation for regime succession. 16. See Field and Higley (1980) for this classification. 17. For a detailed presentation of the process of re-equilibration, see Linz and Stepan (1978). 18. Huntington (1991: 127–128). 19. See also Casper and Taylor (1996) where they speak of the regime elites obtaining ‘guarantees of continued influence’ by exiting from direct control. 20. Przeworski (1988: 70). 21. Rustow (1970: 345). Huntington (1984: 212) concurs that ‘almost always, democracy has come as much from the top down as from the bottom up; it is as likely to be the product of oligarchy as of protest against oligarchy.’

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22. Schedler (2001: 14). 23. Gill (2000: 84). 24. Also Perez-Diaz (1993: 60): ‘in their actual performance of providing services and in their symbolic performance of persuasion, the state’s rulers have to engage in bargains of all kinds with the civil society.’ 25. Huntington (1991: 181) summarised this as ‘the desire for international respect and legitimacy.’ 26. Levitsky and Way (2010: 339). 27. Verney and Tsakaloyannis (1986: 180). 28. For the implications of the EEC membership on the democratising process see Whitehead (1996), Di Palma (1990); also Pridham (1991). 29. Teorel (2010: 90). 30. As Haggard and Kaufman (1995: 367) note, ‘the group that ultimately determines the likelihood that an authoritarian government will maintain office is the political and coercive apparatus.’ 31. Huntington (1991: 93–94). 32. For instance, Tovias (1991: 180) notes that ‘the most tactical dimension in American decision-making was whether to let democratisation … follow its own course or to intervene at the margin to accelerate it or on the contrary slow it down, according to the USA’s set of priorities.’ 33. Whitehead (1996: 273). 34. Schmitter (1986: 30). 35. Sorensen (1993: 30). 36. Whitehead (2002: 34). 37. Przeworski (1988: 62). The discussion here draws from Morrow (1994), Riker and Ordeshook (1973), Lichbach and Zuckerman (1997); for the notion of pact see Shain and Linz (1995). 38. Landman (2000: 209); see also the comments of King et al. (1994), and Peters (1998) for the selection bias on the dependent variable. 39. Schmitter (1986: 3). 40. Although with certain variations; see Malefakis (1995) for a historical account; Sapelli (1995), and Schmitter (1986). 41. See the concluding notes of Pridham (1991: 26). 42. Di Palma (1990: 8). Share (1987: 545) agrees that ‘in the end, it is up to political elites to square the circle of transition through transaction.’ 43. Schmitter and Karl (1991b: 277).

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References Bachrach, P. 1980. The Theory of Democratic Elitism: A Critique. Lanham, MD: University Press of America. Casper, G., and M. Taylor. 1996. Negotiating Democracy: Transitions from Authoritarian Rule. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Clapham, P., and G. Philip. 1985. The Political Dilemmas of Military Regimes. In The Political Dilemmas of Military Regimes, ed. P. Clapham and G. Philip, 1–26. London: Croom Helm. Collier, R. 1999. Paths Toward Democracy: The Working Class and Elites in Western Europe and Latin America. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Di Palma, G. 1990. To Craft Democracies: An Essay on Democratic Transitions. Berkeley: University of California Press. Doorenspleet, R. 2004. The Structural Context of Recent Transitions to Democracy. European Journal of Political Research 43: 309–335. Dowding, K. 1991. Rational Choice and Political Power. Aldershot: Elgar. Eisenstadt, T. 2000. Eddies in the Third Wave: Protracted Transitions and Theories of Democratisation. Democratisation 7 (3): 3–24. Etzioni-Halevy, E. 1993. The Elite Connection. Cambridge: Polity. Field, L., and J. Higley. 1980. Elitism. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Gill, G. 2000. The Dynamics of Democratisation. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Grugel, J. 2002. Democratisation: A Critical Introduction. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Haggard, S., and R. Kaufman. 1995. The Political Economy of Democratic Transitions. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Hopkin, J. 1999. Party Formation and Democratic Transition in Spain. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Huntington, S. 1984. Will More Countries Become Democratic? Political Science Quarterly 99 (2) (Summer): 193–218. Huntington, S. 1991. The Third Wave: Democratisation in the Late Twentieth Century. London: University of Oklahoma Press. King, H., R. Keohane, and S. Verba. 1994. Designing Social Enquiry. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Landman, T. 2000. Issues and Methods in Comparative Politics: An Introduction. London: Routledge. Levitsky, S., and L. Way. 2010. Competitive Authoritarianism: Hybrid Regimes after the Cold War. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lichbach, M., and A. Zuckerman. 1997. Comparative Politics: Rationality, Structure, and Culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Linz, H. 1970. An Authoritarian Regime: Spain. In Mass Politics, ed. E. Allardt and S. Rokkan, 251–283. London: Free Press. Linz, J., and A. Stepan. 1978. The Breakdown of Democratic Regimes. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.

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Linz, J., and A. Stepan. 1996. Problems of Democratic Transition and Consolidation. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Malefakis, E. 1995. The Political and Socio-economic Contours of Southern European History. In The Politics of Democratic Consolidation, ed. R. Gunther, N. Diamantouros, and H. Puhle, 33–76. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Morrow, J. 1994. Game Theory for Political Scientists. Princeton: Princeton University Press. O’Donnell, G., and P. Schmitter (eds.). 1986. Transitions from Authoritarian Rule: Comparative Perspectives. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. O’Donnell, G., P. Schmitter, and L. Whitehead (eds.). 1986. Transitions from Authoritarian Rule: Prospects for Democracy, vols. I–II. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Perez-Diaz, V. 1993. The Return of Civil Society: The Emergence of Democratic Spain. London: Harvard University Press. Peters, G. 1998. Comparative Politics: Theory and Methods. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Pridham, G. 1991. The Politics of the European Community. In Encouraging Democracy, ed. G. Pridham. Leicester: Leicester University Press. Przeworski, A. 1988. Democracy as a Contingent Outcome of Conflicts. In Constitutionalism and Democracy, ed. J. Elster and P. Slagstad, 59–80. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Przeworski, A. 1991. Democracy and the Market. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Riker, W., and P. Ordeshook. 1973. An Introduction to Positive Political Theory. New Jersey: Prentice Hall. Rueschemeyer, D., E. Stephens, and J. Stephens. 1992. Capitalist Development and Democracy. Cambridge: Polity. Rustow, D. 1970. Transitions to Democracy: Towards a Dynamic Model. Comparative Politics 2: 337–363. Sapelli, G. 1995. Southern Europe Since 1945. London: Longman. Schedler, A. 2001. Taking Uncertainty Seriously: The Blurred Boundaries of Democratic Transition and Consolidation. Democratisation 8 (4): 1–22. Schmitter, P. 1986. An Introduction to Southern-European Transitions from Authoritarian Rule: Italy, Greece, Portugal, Spain and Turkey. In Transitions from Authoritarian Rule: Prospects for Democracy. Vol. II. Southern Europe, ed. G. O’Donnell, P. Schmitter, and L. Whitehead, 3–10. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Schmitter, P., and T. Karl. 1991a. What Democracy Is…and Is Not. Journal of Democracy 2 (3): 75–88.

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Schmitter, P., and T. Karl. 1991b. Modes of Transition in Latin America, Southern and Eastern Europe. International Social Science Journal 128: 269–284. Shain, Y., and J. Linz. 1995. Between States: Interim Governments and Democratic Transitions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Share, D. 1987. Transitions to Democracy and Transition Through Transaction. Comparative Political Studies 19 (4): 525–548. Sorensen, G. 1993. Democracy and Democratisation. Oxford: Westview Press. Stepan, A. 1986. Paths Toward Redemocratisation: Theoretical and Comparative Considerations. In Transitions from Authoritarian Rule: Prospects for Democracy, vol. III, ed. G. O’Donnell, P. Schmitter, and L. Whitehead, 64–84. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Teorel, Jan. 2010. Determinants of Democratization: Explaining Regime Change in the World, 1972–2006. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tovias, A. 1991. US Policy Towards Democratic Transition in Southern Europe. In Encouraging Democracy, ed. G. Pridham, 175–193. Leicester: LeicesterUniversity Press. Verney, S., and P. Tsakaloyannis. 1986. Linkage Politics: The Role of the European Community in Greek Politics in 1973. Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 10: 179–194. Whitehead, L. 1996. Democracy by Convergence: Southern Europe. In The International Dimensions of Democratisation: Europe and the Americas, ed. L. Whitehead, 261–284. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Whitehead, L. 2002. Democratisation: Theory and Experience. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

CHAPTER 2

From ‘Organic Democracy’ to ‘Democracy Without Adjectives’: Spain 1976–77

It is characteristic of how even experts were seeing the future of the Franco regime after the death of the latter that even in the last years of his life that more people than a few years before seemed to consider the possibility of the continuity of the regime even after he would have died, as Juan Linz had claimed in 1973. The surprise caused by the success of the reforma pactada after four decades of authoritarianism made the Spanish transition a paradigmatic case in democratisation studies. This is the reason it is presented first as a measure of comparison with Greece and Turkey, setting the pattern of a successful regime-initiated transition.

Nature of the Regime Although Franco’s regime had a fascist element in its ranks and used brutal oppression against its enemies, it has generally been described as authoritarian rather than totalitarian: a system ‘with limited, not responsible, political pluralism; without elaborate and guiding ideology…without intensive or extensive political mobilisation…and in which a leader…exercises power within formally ill-defined limits but actually quite predictable ones.’1 It claimed to be an ‘organic democracy’ which, in contrast to the Western democracies, viewed men not

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 I. Tzortzis, Elites and Democratic Transitions by Regime Transformation in Southern Europe, Global Political Transitions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04620-9_2

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as individuals within a given polity but as members of several permanent, natural communities, not allocating each individual one vote but instead allowing representation in groups like the family, the municipality or the syndicate which share common experiences and values. It purportedly represented the entire Spanish nation, in contrast to the ‘fragmented representation’ offered by liberal democracies, and justified Spain’s political isolation in Western Europe on the grounds that ‘Spain is different.’ The regime evoked a glorious past and the myth of a Catholic, ethnically homogeneous Spain. Institutionally it was articulated on a number of bodies: the Council of the Realm, representing the army, the Church, the courts, the syndicates and the universities, all in a high level; the Council of Ministers, a synonymous for cabinet; and the Cortes, a legislative body planned to function as the substitute of a Parliament.2 In reality, power was strongly concentrated around the executive and by extension on the dictator himself. Franco’s leadership was the most important element of cohesion in the regime: it was ‘a dictatorship with a soldier at its head rather than a regime run by the army as a body.’3 The Caudillo played on the contradictions and clashing interests of regime factions in order to secure his own place for more than thirty-five years, with the necessary adaptations to both internal requirements and external developments. Described as a man of no ideology than his own interest, prudent and pragmatist (Carr and Fusi 1979), he skilfully manipulated the rivalries between the familias , which often appealed to him to arbitrate in their clashes. Elites Within the Regime: The Familias The regime comprised various elite groups that had allied during the civil war. However, after the war that coalition was difficult to sustain because of the divergence of interest among the groups vying for the dictator’s appeal. In this feature lay one key to the future success of the transition: due to the regime’s cohesion without consensus, the various elite groups feared that if they broke the precarious coalition, they would not share the spoils of power. In that situation, at any time any group participating in the regime could find itself, even temporarily, in opposition. This has been described as “semi-opposition,” whereby groups ‘not dominant or under-represented in the governing coalition’ were willing ‘to participate in power without fundamentally challenging the regime… [because they had] some share in the government or in the political power structure but

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oppose some aspects of it.’4 It was from among those groups that, with Franco gone, much of the pressure to reform the regime would come, as some of them would prefer a fruitful for their interests reforma to a costly continuation of franquism. The army officers enjoyed a high social prestige; however, in the Franco years the army fell ‘into a state of professional and technical decay5 ’ with low salaries and little spared for modernisation. Also, Franco maintained a structure that assured there would always be divisions within the military, and that no single undisputed high military figure could emerge and challenge him. The Spanish officer corps was a depoliticised, professionalised and disciplined one which was excluded from decision-making. Gradually many officers turned apathetic or indifferent to politics; however the majority supported the regime. The officer corps, finally, as it constituted one of the most conservative social groups, did not show the same degree of openness that characterised the rest of the Spanish society after the economic modernisation. The Falange, Spanish version of a fascist party, advocated an economy of autarky and fierce anti-Communism, with considerable power in the first years. Renamed ‘National Movement’ in 1967, and made up by paid opportunist bureaucrats, it gradually lost whatever influence and support it once had over the Spanish society, representing only its members; gradually it was overtaken by the Opus Dei. The church supported Franco and got back the state subsidies for clergy, a repeal of all anticlerical legislation passed in the days of the Republic, regained its considerable control over the educational system and a preferential treatment of Catholicism in contrast to state persecution of non-Catholics. Later however its influence by the Vatican,6 the weakening of its links with a society becoming secular and its rejuvenation with time would divide it in pro- and anti-regime factions. In the end it would need to dissociate itself from the regime.7 The Opus Dei technocrats were under the educational and ideological influence of the church and their intervention in policy making was decisive. Committed to reforming Spain’s infrastructure and to integrating it into the world markets, their liberal economic strategies were coupled with their somehow authoritarian and elitist politics until, after Franco’s death, they would realise the need for a transition tailored to their interests. Finally, the middle and upper classes supported the regime, during which the transformation of the Spanish economy and society also changed the balance of economic elites, shifting from landed aristocracy to bankers and industrialists.

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Franco’s Resources of Control The main factors contributing to the regime’s longevity and to tackling its internal crises and stabilising itself were its economic successes until the early 1970s, the fact that it overcame the enmity of the international community, taking advantage of the Cold War climate, as well as the weaknesses and divisions of its opponents. However, by the time of Franco’s death the above factors had turned negative for the regime, giving to some of its familias reasons for considering a change. After the war the economic policy of Spain was one of autarky and import substitution. Its need for self-sufficiency due to the war and the subsequent international isolation called for high tariffs, restrictions on imports, and state intervention.8 This produced ‘a relatively autonomous, if highly inefficient and outdated, industrial infrastructure that helped Spain to avoid a situation of extreme dependence.’9 The integration of Spain into the international market was the goal of the 1959 Stabilisation Plan, which froze wages, increased taxes and reduced state intervention and financial assistance to small firms, reflecting the liberal economics of the Opus Dei technocrats, whose programme was summed up as ‘grow or die’ (Bermeo 1987). It faced the opposition of the Falangists, who saw the diminishing of their national-syndicalist economic order replaced by liberal programmes, and of small entrepreneurs used to state subsidies and dismayed when the state’s protective hand was removed.10 Spain accepted foreign investments, sent abroad workers, from whose remittances it profited largely, and opened itself to European tourists. It was estimated that the GDP per capita rose from about 300 US dollars in 1957 to 2446 in 1974 (Coverdale 1979). However, the 1970s put an end to growth, as a surplus of 570 million US dollars turned to a debt of 5400 million. The oil crisis showed the weaknesses of the Spanish model of economic growth that was greatly dependent on the external markets.11 Franco’s death in 1975 was to coincide with the worst year in terms of economic indicators. ‘Foreign policy during the Franco regime was virtually defined, inspired or corrected by Franco himself.’12 Pragmatist as he was, he declared Spain neutral in 1939 though he sent a division to the Russian front to help the Nazis. For some time after the war Spain was isolated; banned from the United Nations (which recognised only the exiled Republican government); and excluded from the Marshall Plan. However, the US policy towards Spain started changing due to

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the Cold War. In Heiberg’s words, ‘Washington increasingly saw Spain as a possible last stronghold of the West in the case of war with the Soviet Union. Spain provided a “strategic depth” that no other Western European country could offer.’13 The opposition’s expectation that it could convince the West to isolate the regime in hope that this would eventually contribute to its downfall failed; Franco was thus given time to consolidate his rule14 and successfully overcome his isolation. Simultaneously, his fierce anti-communism gained him credibility in the eyes of the West. This tactic paid off in 1953 with the signing of a Treaty with the US granting military bases and receiving financial assistance. Subsequently, the regime was granted full membership in the United Nations in 1958, and in institutions as the OECD and the IMF. By then, its diplomatic isolation was gone. Nevertheless, it was left out of the European integration process; in 1962 the European Movement’s Congress, held in Munich, decided that ‘Spain should either evolve politically or be excluded from the process of European integration.’15 Plagued by internal friction, the opposition remained fragmented for many years, giving Franco the chance to stabilise his rule and discredit it to the people.16 It was awaiting external intervention for his demise, but soon realised that this was not in the agenda of the great powers. In the early years its tactics were one of maximalist verbal radicalism with practically little action and initiative (Diaz 1998). The attempts of its leaders to co-ordinate their actions met insurmountable difficulties because distrust and enmity in their ranks had practically never ceased, reproducing old divisions of the civil war in the Republican camp and disagreement on how the regime should be overthrown and what form of polity should succeed to it. The Socialists and liberals relied more on Western intervention, whereas the Communists stressed the importance of armed struggle and violent overthrow, mistakenly believing that the regime’s internal crises would inevitably bring its collapse. By the late 1960s it was clear to most of those in touch with the situation that the regime was impossible to topple by force of arms or by external intervention, and that only because of its internal contradictions would it face any serious crisis.17 Therefore, the idea of a negotiated return to democracy with the regime moderates started taking shape. In 1974 in Paris a Democratic Junta was created, uniting a range from Communists to Carlists (moderate Monarchists) and pleading for dynamic action. The next year some moderates (PSOE, Social Democrats, the Democratic Left, Basques, Carlists who left

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the Junta) formed the Platform of Democratic Convergence with more realistic goals. This would facilitate a convergence with the aperturistas (regime moderates). Setbacks in Franco’s Control Despite the apparent stability of the regime, some factors escaped the dictator’s control: the regional problems and the emergence of a prodemocratic civil society. The former would pose to the familias a potential threat for the stability of the regime; the latter would offer an ally to the future reformistas for an agreement for a peaceful transition. The most important reason for the centrifuge tendencies of Catalonia and the Basque country was the ‘poverty of Spanish centralism’ (Giner 1984) caused by the weaknesses of the state, the accentuation of ethnic differences within the country due to industrialisation and the paradox of a politically suppressed and poorly administered region (Catalonia) has become perhaps the most important locus of industry and economic progress. Those regions were submitted to intense policing and cultural oppression, so as to suppress regionalism and inspire to their people a feeling of dependence on the national centre in the name of Hispanidad. Reactions varied: the Catalans tried to resist the regime in a more peaceful, secular and less radical way than the catholic and traditionalist Basques for whom ETA was the answer.18 Before Franco’s death it was clear that the problem was too serious to be solved by mere repression. The economic progress produced a very different Spain to the one that had emerged from the war. ‘A financial and industrial capitalist elite, backed by a rising technocracy, had superseded the old land-owning and Church oligarchy in power…whilst the dominated class was no longer a large, dependent peasantry…but an organised, mass scale, dependent proletariat.’19 It also led to the creation of broad, apolitical middle classes20 that rejected the regime’s authoritarianism and were looking for more tolerance and democracy. Moreover, Europeismo, the aspiration to (re)join Europe, had become a constitutive myth for large parts of the Spanish society, but also of its political elites, either in the regime or in the opposition, and would serve as a consensual point in the transition time.21 The organised labour movement started expressing its economic demands with strikes, and the students emerged as an anti-regime group, although the weight of both groups’ opposition should not be overestimated.22 There also appeared signs of relaxing of strict control, especially

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with the 1967 Law, when for the first time the regime appeared to accept differences in citizens’ political opinions and to allow for these differences to be given a representation in associations. All this alarmed the regime duros (radicals) pledging for a revival of the hard-line Francoism of the post-civil war years, though others were able to see that liberalisation would have to go a fair way if a revolutionary reaction was to be averted. Notably, from the mid-1960s some businessmen preferred to deal secretly with the illegal, communist-controlled trade unions than with the state sindicatos (Preston 1986).23 The Regime’s Internal Frictions and the Conjuncture of Franco’s Death The history of the regime is one of breaking and remaking of internal alliances and of balance of forces; as the only factor uniting all familias was the Caudillo himself, once he was gone the diverging interests would prove impossible to co-exist, thus leading to reforma. Franco introduced in 1947 the Law of Succession in the Headship of the State, proclaiming Spain a Monarchy without a Monarch, remaining Chief of State with his extensive powers intact, and was named Regent for life. The 50s witnessed an increasing antagonism between the Opus Deistas and the old Falangists. The economic modernisation, though, was steadily marginalising the latter. The 1966 Organic Law, trying to institutionalise the regime, called for the organisation of ‘political associations’ (as reference to ‘parties’ was prohibited). It made clear, though, that power remained in the hands of Franco. And the 1967 Law abolished the Falange in favour of a National Movement ‘of lax organisations and vague principles.’24 The ageing dictator knew that he should guarantee the regime continuation after his death. He therefore decided to solve the problem of his succession by appointing in July 1969 Prince Juan Carlos, indoctrinated in Francoism since boyhood,25 as King. This direct appointment, in Franco’s eyes, assured the legitimacy and continuation of the regime, as it was carried out through the regime institutions (the 1947 Fundamental law of Succession). In the summer of 1973 Admiral Carrero Blanco, vice-president of the government since 1969, was named Head of Government, and Franco became Head of State. Carrero’s appointment was intended to end the dispute about the future of Spain after Franco: a loyal king, an iron Prime Minister, framed by faithful officers

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and technocrats. His assassination by the ETA in December dealt to the regime the most serious blow in its history and dramatically changed the balance among its elites. It was claimed that the death of Carrero shortened the process of post-Franco succession at least for five years.26 With the only person that could hold the various interests together in a modus vivendi after Franco gone, the familias would restart their struggles and eventually open the way to reforma. During the next two years the regime contradictions were impressive, as a level of public political debate unimaginable in the Franco years existed simultaneously with a return to the harsh political oppression. Carrero’s successor was Carlos Arias Navarro, who in January 1974 formed the first all civilian government in the history of the regime. Not a widely known person, he had the reputation of a hard-liner, however in his inaugural speech at the Cortes on the 12th of February he promised a gradual liberalisation, going as far as to recognise popular election of mayors and function of political associations (not ‘parties’). Initially there was a relaxing of the repression; however, soon Arias hardened his position, losing credibility in the moderates of regime and opposition. When Franco died on the 20th of November, the internal divisions were deeper than ever.27 Arias’ timid reform was facing the resistance of the hardliners, the fears of a repetition of the Portuguese revolution, terrorism and the resistance of the civil society. For some groups within the regime, it was becoming obvious that a limited opening would satisfy nobody, and would be hostage to the hard-liners; a real change would have to go a longer way than Arias took it. A well-known motto of Franco on the future of the regime was that everything was ‘atado y bien atado,’ meaning that he had made the preparations at the institutional and political level for the continuation of the regime.28 However, at the time of his death it was not quite the case: ‘the forces that united in 1936 to save themselves were to split in 1976 to save themselves yet again, albeit this time with an accommodation to the forces of democracy.’29 The crisis of the regime was due to its familias ’ incapacity to find a viable solution to the problem of succession; the inability of any family to gain hegemony; and the internal chaos and uncertainty over the future. This, in turn, was a product of the political struggles taking place among the franquist coalition. There were the aperturistas (conservative technocrats, Christian democrats, liberal military and clergy); the continuistas (mostly franquist technocrats); and the

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so-called bunker: extreme rightists, old Falangists, right-wing army officers (Carr and Fusi 1979). The disagreements between aperturistas and continuistas over the tactics to follow clearly demonstrated the divergence within the regime: ‘the aperturista sector aiming at opening up the regime vied for power with the inmovilista sector who hankered back to the integrity of the Fundamental Principles enunciated in 1958.’30 Also within the familias every group had its own plans for handling the situation: as some cynics were saying, the church, was preparing for the post-Franco era and adapting itself to the new situation. Some economic elites were dealing directly with the opposition workers’ committees in order to avoid strikes; even the Opus Deistas were divided. Only the majority of the army officers would firmly support the regime, although even in their ranks there were groups that considered withdrawing to the barracks. The regime was, at the same time, too weak to continue as it had done that far and too strong to be destroyed by sheer force. The economic progress and modernisation had much transformed Spain from the backward country that had exploded forty years before. This also had produced the de-ideologisation that made the Spaniards of the 70s so different from the older generation; most of the people were too haunted by the memories of the horrors of the war to see it repeated, as the motto ‘never again!’, referring to the civil war, was heard throughout the country. In that situation groups willing to preserve their gains but not to risk political chaos emerged, seeking a peaceful way out. On the other hand, radicalism had almost disappeared in the opposition, even in the Communists, and most of the opposition forces had understood that the regime could not be overthrown without a repetition of the 1936 bloodshed,31 and that the best they could hope was the opening to democracy on behalf of the soft-liners, through negotiations and concessions. Also, they had ‘little organisation and few members and their leaders were not known… [they were] ill-prepared to deal with the new situation…[they had] a rather distorted local knowledge of the Spanish scene, and would be unable to foresee and plan in advance what ought to be done.’32 The question, therefore, was who would undertake the task of bringing together the regime soft-liners and the mellowed opposition and with what process this would be done. The institution who held the key to the post-Franco transition was the King: heir to the Caudillo, recognised by the bodies consisting of the institutional structure of an authoritarian regime, which had lost support among even some of its familias and degenerated to a chaotic struggle

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between rival groups for control of power, where none could achieve supremacy. Moreover, the regime was facing internal opposition, external (mainly European) isolation, and economic stagnation. In this situation the position of Juan Carlos was precarious: his nomination guaranteed him the support of the Council of the Realm, the Cortes, and the army, but not of some economic elites, the political opposition (weak enough not to seriously threaten the regime, though) and the people. On the other hand, some of the duros were suspicious of him, as he had not come straight from the regime’s core institutions and had showed no proof of his intentions.33 In the long run, however, continuismo (regime continuation) would harm the King’s interests, as the people would be alienated from the institution of monarchy, the unpopularity of which was clear to Franco who once said that ‘if the Spanish people were allowed to have a choice between monarchy and republic, the monarchists would not get ten even per cent of the votes. A continuista stance would identify the King with the unwanted regime34 thus condemning him to be ‘Juan the Brief’ as Carrillo had said (Carr and Fusi 1979). Also, his brother-in-law Constantine of Greece had lost his throne for his behaviour before and during the colonels’ dictatorship, a vivid lesson for the attitude that the King had to adopt. Therefore, the real question for Juan Carlos was not which decision to make, but with what pace and with which actors to proceed to reforming the regime, and how far this reform should go.35 Juan Carlos secured that the President of the Cortes was the tolerant Miranda, his tutor in political philosophy. Even for that, though, he needed the approval of Arias. Then came the question of the government to lead the transition, as Juan Carlos believed that it was the executive that should take the political initiative without involving him directly. In the beginning Arias Navarro was given the trust of the King to continue as Prime Minister, as he had only completed two of his five-year term in office. He would have to balance between the hard-liners rejecting any serious opening, the reformists, and the opposition opting for a democratic rupture.

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Regime Liberalisation in Two Phases FAILURE of Arias From the first day the Arias cabinet appeared divided on the issues of the reformist policies, on the timetable for implementing them, and on granting the reforms through a referendum or passing first through the Francoist-dominated Cortes. Arias was a regime continuista hoping to maintain as much as he could from Francoism by keeping the reforms to a minimum, just in order to calm the duros and lure the opposition to accept his game of limited reform, without harming the main structures of the regime. By the same token, he would have the PCE excluded from legalisation and participation in the elections. His political programme was about public order, loyalty to the monarchy, national unity and anticommunism.36 However, Arias failed to achieve co-ordination and consensus even among his ministers on how far the reforms should go, and how to deal with the demands of the opposition and the reaction of the hard-liners. His most influential ministers, Jose Areilza and Manuel Fraga, seemed to pursue their own personal strategies rather than act as members of a cabinet. Arias also failed to deal with terrorism effectively: his answer was more oppression at a time when this strategy was failing to calm the tensions in the country, especially the Basque problem, bringing him close to the far right. The reaction of the civil society was negative, with the trade unions organising massive strikes and demonstrations, and clashing with the police in the streets. Although this by no means put the regime in danger,37 Arias reacted as any Franco government would have done before him, placing what he considered as ‘restoration of law and order’ in the country above all other political concerns. Also, there was doubt about his intentions abroad, especially in Europe, as Spain remained isolated from the EEC. Moreover, he was acting on his own, without bothering to consult or even to inform the king of his plans on time. He failed to establish a firm co-operation with Juan Carlos, bringing their relations to coldness and inability to co-exist. Arias’s task thus proved impossible, because he was neither willing to totally sacrifice the regime, nor to leave it completely unharmed.38 ‘He raised suspicions that all he had in mind was to initiate a series of modest reforms, which he would call democracy, and limit the process early. His Reform Law announced in January 1976 and presented to the Cortes three months later, previewed the legalisation of all political parties

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with the exception of Communists and separatists, a two-chamber system and the regulation of the rights of assembly (Carr and Fusi 1979). It was ‘superficial and weak, described by many as “reform from above” …a political programme that did not increase popular participation in politics nor mitigate such harshly repressive laws’39 as the one against terrorism. But even this timid reform plan received a crucial blow when in June it was rejected by the Cortes. The opposition was far more sceptical to Arias’s plan than he thought, and the hard-liners would take any opportunity to attack him as long as his openings caused more demands from the democratic camp. All Arias had done was that he rallied the opposition against him, deceived the democrats, frustrated the soft-liners and disappointed the hard-liners (Share 1986). Eventually Juan Carlos was convinced that he soon had to make another choice if he wanted to see his own place guaranteed.40 Therefore, when he asked and got Arias’ resignation on July 1st not many people were surprised. Arias was a member of the old Francoist elite, which he had no intention to seriously challenge. It was impossible to just alter the face of the regime and at the same time calm the opposition and produce a lasting solution to the crisis. Arias could not convince that he could achieve the convergence Spain needed in 1976 between regime and opposition, and this inmovilismo brought the reforma to a standstill. The new PM had to be more flexible than Arias in dealing with the opposition and the hard-liners, and to aim for consensus. Fraga was not the person to do this, as he had exhausted the toleration of the opposition by taking a sometimes surprisingly extremist stance when dealing with its representatives, as well as with Basque nationalism, and explicitly defying voices, some even in the cabinet, suggesting more toleration whereas he was pushing his politics far to the right.41 He had not come to terms with the reality of post-Franco Spain pushing for more political freedom far than anything seen that far. As for Areilza, considerably milder, he was pursuing a too personal policy, and was too moderate for the conservative regime councillors to accept. He was also old enough to be associated with the regime. What the King needed was ‘a Prime Minister of his own generation, without an extensively distinguished academic or professional record. Most importantly, he needed someone who had served the regime, but who was not automatically associated with any of its political families.’42

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The Ascent of Suarez In contrast to Areilza and Fraga, Suarez was too young to have a mechanism of his own within the regime. In him two necessary prerogatives for the reforma were met: he was a product of Francoism, albeit distanced from its more extremist wings. He appeared, therefore, as someone easy for the King to cope with,43 and wanted his career to go beyond the transition time. He was a typical regime bureaucrat, ambitious but at the same time cautious, using the political machinations of the Francoist system and personal acquaintances to rise in the Movimiento and become head of the state-owned RTVE, then led the Union of Spanish People in 1975.44 He was relatively unknown until, in early June 1976, Arias charged him to defend the Reform Plan in the Cortes. His eloquent speech impressed many and earned him praise and notoriety. He would start with an opening not so audacious as to alarm the hard-liners, but at the same time not so timid as to frustrate the opposition either. The Tacitos were informed of and agreed with the King’s pick. Members of this Christian-democrat group would fill the cabinets of Suarez and play a prominent role in the success of his plans. Suarez was also a man of action, although not an intellectual; he had ‘a natural understanding of politics, but he was ill at ease with intellectuals…[Suarez] appeared not to have had any cultural interests…he was a man programmed purely and simply for politics.’45 He proved quick in decision-making and reacting to the problems that such a situation posed.46 However, in the beginning his appointment caused disappointment and raised doubts about the intentions of the King, and fears of a reverse to authoritarianism, as he seemed to many a continuista.47 He therefore had to move cautiously and avoid provoking the opposition. Ironically, the hard-liners of the bunker were not disappointed at first, since they thought that Suarez was easy for them to manipulate: a Movimiento bureaucrat not affiliated to any other familias . In their mind there was not great margin of manoeuvre for Suarez apart from consulting the king and the regime’s old guard. Indeed, the prediction of most political analysts (Powell 1996a) was that he would either not last long, or degenerate into a hard-liner. What they had got wrong was that the aperturistas had a plan to start the reforma, as well as far better sources of information on the predisposition of the civil society than the bunker, and also that Juan Carlos had made up his mind in supporting the transition.

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Furthermore, Suarez was president of a cabinet of relatively unknown ministers like himself, as the most prominent figures of the regime had denied participating in a government headed by unknown entity, a cabinet that someone wittingly called ‘a cabinet of assistant lecturers (Preston 1986).’ This would be in the long run a considerable advantage for Suarez: a new generation of men who had not lived through the civil war, or were too young to have vivid memories of it took office,48 and would contribute to the politics of peaceful transition and consensus that Spain needed, continuing their political careers after the transition. Moreover, as they were not famous in the political class, they would not jeopardise the position nor undermine the efforts of Suarez, nor engage in personal politics, as was often the case in the Arias cabinet. For the first and last time in the history of the regime, then, it would be a compact government, united in its goal to carry through the task of transition. Suarez’ candidateship had to be promoted by ruse and deception in the Cortes, as many Deputies were unaware of Juan Carlos’s wishes. Eventually, after considerable voting manipulation, his candidateship was approved.

Development and Success of the Reforma The Inter-Elite Game The plan of the King and Suarez was to appease the hard-liners and get in touch with the opposition to implicate it in the reform, a plan conceived by the Tacitos in three-phases; starting with a liberalisation with recognition of all democratic rights and freedoms, followed by a ‘democratisation,’ with free elections to all representative institutions, and finishing with the new constituent assembly consolidating a democratic constitutional reform.49 The information on developments in the civil society that the aperturistas possessed, as well as their ability to maintain links with both the hard-liners and the opposition, was working to their advantage. It was a ‘process of combining the illusion of authoritarian legality with the reality of democratic practice without risking stability.’50 After granting a limited pardon to political prisoners, releasing many except some sentenced for terrorism linked to ETA, the contacts with the opposition restarted. The latter had realised that it could not ignore the danger inherent in perpetually refusing to accept the process of reform and that negotiating with the government was the only path to non-violently ending the regime. In the spring of 1976 its two major

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currents, the Democratic Platform and the Democratic Junta, joined their forces forming the ‘Democratic Co-ordination’. The ex-Francoists also split: some groups formed the future right wing while the Suarez government was to occupy the centre of the near future, with the opposition forming the left. After the negotiations started with the opposition, the important task of Suarez was to outpace the hard-liners, especially those in the army, in the minds of who accepted the left’s full participation in the new democracy meant treason of the regime. ‘He would keep ahead of the game by introducing specific measures faster than the continuistas of the Francoist establishment could respond to them.’51 Firstly, in the Suarez government all military ministers of the previous Arias cabinets kept their positions. Also, the liberal General Gutierrez Mellado was appointed vicepresident of the government in charge of military affairs, thus offering a guarantee to the military that their institutional prerogatives would be respected. Suarez also assured the generals at a cabinet meeting in September that the basic characteristics of the regime like the integrity of the country and the institutions of the ‘organic democracy’ would remain intact, as well as that the communists would never be allowed to participate in politics as long as they did not accept the monarchy and remained faithful to totalitarianism. The military accepted his promise, not having realised the nuances of Suarez’s use of the word ‘totalitarianism.’ Arguably a difficult task was to persuade the Cortes to vote for the reform plan, thus institutionally ending the regime.52 The Procuradores (Delegates) thus had to be convinced that their own position in the regime was not endangered. Suarez took advantage of the internal pluralism of the regime, turning its groups against one another, using the tactic of ‘divide and rule.’ It was not easy; the bunker had realised that it was perhaps its last chance to legally block the attempt of dismantling the regime by its own devices. Many Procuradores , though, were not unhappy or distressed with the idea of reforming the regime in order to perpetuate it. The question for the reformistas was how to pass the Reform Bill without it being radically altered by the proposition of the rightwing Procuradores who only accepted the reform of the electoral system. Heavy bargaining went on, and at the same time a campaign of persuasion was put forward; this included luring them with promises of their own personal future, and even open blackmail. Finally on 16 November 1975, the Bill was passed with an overwhelming majority. Once again the generation factor was important: the younger Movement bureaucrats,

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who were in touch with the socio-political realities of current Spain voted for the Bill. Still, most of them thought that they were just transforming the obsolete part of the regime in order to perpetuate their own privileges. Also, the failure of Arias had convinced many that the Suarez plan was probably the last chance for a regime reform from within. As Fraga put it, it seemed likely that the right would rule for the next twenty years. ‘It would be hard to claim that, under the new law, Spain would be a qualified democracy, a “democracy with adjectives.” Francoism was dead.’53 After having succeeded in the Cortes, Suarez moved swiftly to have the agreement of the people on his reform confirmed. The December 1976 referendum proved overwhelmingly positive for the Bill, which was accepted by 94% of the electorate with a participation of more than 77% (Bonime-Blanc 1987). This was a sound defeat for both the extremists, for whom ‘Franco would have voted no,’ and for the left opposition, which tried to sabotage it without a clear idea of what either ‘no’ or abstention meant (Colomer 1995). It was also a turning point for Juan Carlos, as the referendum granted him the democratic a posteriori legitimacy that he was after. It was claimed that the referendum was not much more fair and representative of the people than the previous referenda called under Franco, and that state propaganda through television played an important role. Nevertheless, Suarez had acquired the public approval for his plans, bringing the opposition to the dilemma of either accepting to negotiate on the grounds of reforma or missing the chance to participate in the elections and leaving control of the political scene to the aperturistas . He played with their divisions while at the same time luring them with promises of inclusion in the new democracy. In the autumn of 1976 he had convinced the PSOE leadership to run in the elections even if the PCE was not legalised, playing on their fear that if they refused to participate in the elections the people would go to the polls anyway and the votes which could be won by the PSOE would be shared among its rival socialist parties. The opposition for its part accepted that ‘the new, democratic regime would be run, at least initially, not by democrats but by men of the old regime’54 though it could negotiate the terms of the elections. A wave of terrorism and violence struck Spain after the referendum. It was claimed that there was a convergence of interest among the right-wing extremists of the bunker, extreme left-wing terrorists, such as GRAPO, suspected of having been infiltrated or manipulated by the

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elements of the police or secret services, and the ETA, to void the reform in action, causing an army intervention.55 The reaction of ETA and leftist groups and the response of the state apparatus56 were bloody, culminating with the killing of five men, four of who were communist labour lawyers on January 24th at their office in Atocha, Madrid. However the civil society and the opposition (the PCE included) demonstrated remarkable self-restraint, helping the government control the situation. In the crucial time between January and March 1977, due to the precariousness of the situation, a mistake of either part might cause a reverse to authoritarianism; yet the hard-liners were not given the excuse they were asking for. Also the army was not prepared to intervene, as a British Foreign office report spotted that ‘in spite of rumours that regularly circulate saying that the senior army generals are meditating some kind of intervention to block the reform, the new firm indications that we can get seem to suggest that the real opposition is in fact coming from the civilian bunker rather than reactionaries among the military’ (Wilkinson to FCO 25/3/1976 Spanish Political Scene FCO9/2424). This political culture is reflected in a survey conducted in 1977, which showed that ‘terms associated with the less moderate or more extreme options were not very popular: “Franquismo” was chosen by only 29% of the respondents; “Marxism” by 9 per cent; and “Revolution” by a mere 2%,’57 a proof that the Spaniards rejected systems legitimising political violence for the sake of ideals, and preferred political bargaining and compromise as common practices. As the political tension was calming, the most pursuing issue was the legalisation of the PCE, which came as a result of the institutional decisions and the skilful tactics of both aperturistas and communist leadership. Some claimed that it was already envisaged one year before by the Tacitos and perceived of as a necessary concession to political reality of post-Francoism, than as a matter of principle (Powell 1990). Also, the PCE was more powerful and threatening for the elites as an outlawed organisation than as an ordinary political party. This is why ‘Suarez was not moved by any other motive than to extend to the communists the same desire he had already projected to the other opposition parties: that they accept his conditions and join in the reform.’58 The communists also showed self-restraint in January, after the Atocha murders; the funeral was transformed to open albeit peaceful and disciplined demonstration of their demand of participation in political life. Besides, they chose not to confront the military on the political excesses of the authoritarian

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past, thus hoping to make sure that the regime apparatuses (the military included) would be faithful to the transition process and not threaten with an authoritarian backlash. Suarez appreciated this attitude and started secret negotiations with Carrillo on the issue of the legalisation. Besides that, he had realised that not legalising the PCE would mean that the major beneficiary would be the PSOE, as it would receive all communist votes in the elections; something that many, himself included, would like to avoid. The announcement of the decision on Easter Sunday the 8th of April took by surprise not only the military, but even members of the cabinet.59 The communists, in turn, mellowing their position, accepted the Monarchy and the Spanish flag. Apart from that, it could not be claimed that the PCE obeyed any foreign power, nor that it sought to instal a totalitarian system: thus, it fulfilled the preconditions set by the law of political associations of Arias’ government.60 Nevertheless, the resentment caused by his decision burnt all bridges between Suarez and the military. They regarded the legalisation as ‘a repellent act of deception by Suarez who both broke his word and did so in a cowardly fashion by choosing a moment when most senior officers were absent from Madrid,’ and were only appeased by their loyalty to the king.61 Juan Carlos is said to have warned the military that in case of an interference aiming at stopping the transition process, he would leave the country, thus leaving them alone to handle the country’s situation (Alba 1978). Therefore, they merely issued a statement denouncing the legalisation and eventually accepting it only because of their duty and devotion to the nation. Moreover, their reaction was left with too little time to develop against a sweeping ‘democratisation by surprise,’ and the potential insurgents were faced with a continuous stream of events against which there was very little they could do: ‘it is much harder to reverse a decision already taken than to prevent it altogether…it takes more strength, unity and determination than is demanded when trying to prevent a decision from being made.’62 Every time a change occurred the hard-liners thought it was the last; lacking information, they had not realised that the regime was ending, and when they did it was too late for them to effectively react. Once the hard-liners failed to convince the Procuradores to reject the Reform Law, they had no way of using the regime structure and institutions to stop the transition. Once the Law was approved through referendum, they lost the argument of speaking in the name of the people against the reform. Once the violent campaign of the extremists of both sides failed to ignite the reaction expected in

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early 1977, they were deprived of the excuse that the country had to be saved from chaos; once they conceded to the legalisation of the PCE, they had missed their last chance to stop the transition process without an open revolt; finally, having accepted the result of the June elections, they lacked any other excuse to intervene without causing a new civil war.63 The Way to the Elections and the End of the Transition As Spain had last seen elections in 1936, most of the people had little idea on party formation and identification, apart from abstract ideological declarations. Besides that, some parties ‘were newly created formations, founded only shortly before or during the transition…and lacked a solid organisational infrastructure.’64 As the aperturistas made the rules and handled the electoral campaign evasively, they secured victory of their party at the polls. The party better prepared for an electoral campaign was the PCE, given its structure and organisational capacity that had proven efficient during the Franco years. The socialists, far from being as well organised as the communists, were divided between the historical PSOE and the PSP dissidents. The right would run under the AP headed by Fraga. Between the right and the left stood the majority of the Spaniards, distant from extreme ideologies like communism and Francoism. Again, the Tacitos had well understood that65 ; it was a promising pool for a number of figures that had either supported the regime in the past, but later distanced themselves from it, or were too young to be identified with Francoism. Among the latter was Suarez himself, representing the new generation that had evolved politically from the Movimiento and its organisations to the wide variety of political groups flourishing in the last years of Franco. Those persons and groups were lacking a common platform, and if they presented themselves independently in the elections the result could be a chaotic situation of no majority, or a victory of the left that would alarm the hard-liners and jeopardise the reforma. Suarez gave the solution when in early May he announced that he would run in the elections leading the UCD. This decision was not taken without deliberation: opinion polls were showing that Suarez was by far in 1977 the most widely known and commonly accepted politician66 ; also, he was too young to see his political career ending at the age of 43 with the transition to democracy. He initiated a series of political meetings in order to unite the various centre-right groups under his leadership. Because of its

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hasty formation the UCD would suffer in the future from the lack of a sound organisational base and of a concrete ideology.67 It was called a ‘consociational party,’ as it was made through a process of elite accommodation bringing together fourteen different parties (Maravall 1982). It would become the vehicle for many until then non-aligned ex-members of the regime apparatus to present themselves as democratic. Many were ambitious and committed only to their own interests. The UCD was in reality ‘a union of power rather than a party, drawing together different wings of the old and new bourgeois opposition and the reformist sector of the dictatorship, now legitimated as the result of having made possible the transition to democracy.’68 Besides that, the UCD was left with too little time to establish its organisational structure before the elections. But for 1977, it was ‘the ideal instrument to ensure that in the transition from a dictatorial to a democratic regime, real government would remain in the hands…of sufficiently conservative individuals to guarantee the existing structure of economic and social power.’69 The behind-thescenes struggle for control did not go unnoticed; many point the support that the elites gave the new political formations of the right and the centre; the banking sector was especially important in backing Suarez. Even the church claimed that the Christians should not vote for totalitarian and ‘super-capitalist’ parties or for those advocating violence. After having pledged not to intervene in the transition already in September 1976, it did Suarez a favour indirectly supporting the UCD. In the confusing electoral campaign that ensued, the right was pretending to be left, and the left was pretending to be right. The UCD presented itself in the centre of the spectrum, appearing to combine, as one of its slogans said, ‘the good of the right and the good of the left.’ This ‘centrismo’, which meant the occupation of the middle ground and the overcoming of social antagonism, was the key to the success of the UCD. Suarez made intense use of the media, introducing an American-style electoral campaign with few public speeches, concentrating in televised messages and studio debates, whereas the rest of the political leaders and parties followed the traditional style. ‘Most parties approached the elections on radio and television as if launching a commercial product…Images counted more than party programmes.’70 The UCD made the most of the state apparatus over which Suarez and his collaborators had control, and also of the d’Hondt electoral system, which favoured large parties by the shaping of constituencies, as well as coalitions

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instead of many little parties, which could have resulted in fragmentation of political forces in the parliament.71 A shift to the centre was made by other parties too, proving that the times in Spain were politically ripe for a centre party which could contribute to the narrowing of ideological and programmatic differences between the other major parties. The PSOE tried to abandon hard-line Marxism and adopt a conciliatory stance after its 27th congress, out of which the party emerged with a leadership considerably less radical than its base.72 The PCE was propagating that ‘voting PCE is voting democracy,’ seeking to demonstrate its democratic credentials after facing the accusations of the right evoking bitter memories of the Communist excesses of the 30s. Eventually, it was less anxious about how many seats in the Cortes it would win than to gain recognition as a legitimate party in democratic politics. The AP of Fraga was, against the current, presenting an alternative to what it called ‘a reform that has gone too far,’ and ‘the only party which went into the elections flying its true colours.’73 It comprised a number of political figures reluctant to renounce their immediate Francoist past for the sake of electoral success. Its positioning in the right of the spectrum lost its many centrist votes: ‘sociological Francoism’ was too weak to guarantee success in Spain in 1977. The political scenery also comprised local nationalist parties like the Basque PNV, which called for the complete restitution of the autonomy given to the Basque country under the second Republic; in Catalonia there were local versions of the bigger parties. In the end, it all amounted to a battle between UCD and PSOE that would decide the outcome of the elections. It was a privileged ground for the charismatic Suarez74 to gain his victory as the first elected Prime Minister of Spain after forty years; simultaneously, the UCD attempted to hush the Francoist past of its leader and its candidates. As for the extremes of the spectrum, both failed to make considerable gains. The extreme right polled less than one per cent; the extreme left even less. The local nationalists had a high regional percentage, not enough to depose the UCD or PSOE from the first place in Catalonia and the Basque country.75 The transition granted considerable gains to its major protagonists: Juan Carlos had won the legitimisation and respect for his top position in the structure of democracy.76 Suarez and the UCD secured a democratically elected power. PSOE could opt peacefully for power in the near future. The local elites had the way open for getting back the semi-independent status they were deprived of for many years. And the

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economic elites had seen a prospect for stability and secure investment, as the economic situation would be on the agenda once the political issues had been tackled. However there remained hard-liners unwilling to accept their loss, especially in the army, who would still make their presence felt in the time after the elections and on the way to consolidation. Elites and the International Factor: In Search for Support The international factor would be a source of support and external legitimacy to the transition. There were notable differences between the US attitudes and the EEC in the process. As the main preoccupation of the Spaniards was to join Europe and end the country’s isolation, they had to take into account the reaction of the EEC to the transition: a reform not accepted by Europe would not be successful. European officials made this clear repeatedly; characteristically, a British diplomat said that the reaction of the Labour government to the reforma would be decided not so much by the fact that national elections would take place, as by whether the Spanish socialists would consider them as free and fair (Eaton 1981). However, for the US, Spain’s transition was primarily a defence and security issue, while for the EEC it was essentially a political one, which reflects a difference of points of view regarding the transition.77 The US was the main supplier of arms to Spain and its strategic interests in the area had to be taken into account. It was, however, more interested to secure its firm hold of the western Mediterranean and Iberian bases rather than see democracy restored. Nixon advised Juan Carlos that after Franco’s death, his first priority should be law and order and that he should not worry too much about reforming the political system until stability was guaranteed (Powell 1996b). During the Ford administration, with Kissinger as Secretary of State, the US officials were not willing to see disorder (as they defined it) in Spain, especially after the precarious situation in neighbouring Portugal and in the Middle East. As Kissinger acknowledged, ‘the Administration did not believe that with the Middle East in turmoil and our other bases in the Mediterranean in jeopardy we could afford to abandon the Spanish bases and compound the impression of a global American retreat.’78 Thus for the US the reform should not bring a change in the orientation of Spain’s foreign policy. There were rumours that Kissinger was aware of the replacement of Arias already during his visit to Spain in January 1976,79 and that his advice was to proceed cautiously to the reform, and, if necessary, to

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postpone the elections until the desired result was certain.80 Another US official supposedly advised his Spanish counterparts to try and establish a one-party system like the one of Mexico, so as to avoid the possible uncertainties of multiparty politics (Eaton 1981). In that situation it was reassuring for the American officials to sign the five-year treaty concerning their military bases in January 1976. The fact that Kissinger himself flew to Madrid to sign it showed the great interest of the US in the course of Spanish politics.81 The bases in Spain according to the US Department of Defence ‘could influence military operations in almost every direction within a radius that included not only the sea routes in the central and east Atlantic, but also the Mediterranean and all of Western Europe. From a strictly military point of view, it was essential to make use of the Iberian peninsula if the Alliance countries were to be strategically prepared to confront any armed attack within the NATO area.’82 The situation changed somehow after the victory of the Democrats in 1976. The Carter administration was more willing to compromise between democratic reform and security issues.83 It believed that the foreign relations of the US would not benefit only by military security and that the security relationship between the US and Spain would in the long run be better based if it was founded on a democratic consensus than if it was based on an authoritarian regime (Eaton 1981). The way the interests of the US were pursued made the difference as other political elites (mainly socialists) were approached by US diplomats in view of establishing relations with future alternative political forces that when in office could be trusted by the Americans.84 The decision of Suarez to run in the 1977 elections was announced late in April, after a visit to the US85 allowing for speculation that he was advised there to proceed to that move. However, not every development in the transition process had the backing of some foreign power: for instance, the decision to legalise the PCE neglected the advice of figures like Carter, Cyrus Vance or Wily Brandt (Share 1983). A new US–Spanish defensive agreement was concluded in the spring of 1977. Only the question of Spain joining NATO was left for future governments to deal with, as it was not given priority. Even González found it difficult not to make Spain’s NATO membership a key issue of his plan for the country’s Europeanisation, and was privately assuring the then US Ambassador in Madrid that ‘he did not rule out a future democratic Spain eventually deciding to enter the Alliance.’86

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The EEC, given the Europeans’ concern for security and stability in their periphery, interfered more actively than the US in the transition, as its economic and political benefits provided the regime elites with a key incentive. The country’s jumping on the European bandwagon would, it was believed, prevent Spain from backtracking to authoritarianism (Powell 2015). This was shown clearly on the way to the elections. All Spanish political forces tried to recruit support from organisations, parties and states in Europe, mainly France and West Germany. Especially the opposition elites ‘exploited the Europeanist cause to the maximum…aware that the European governments, institutions and political parties were all eager to listen to them.’87 The PSOE recurred to the Socialist International; the European Social Democrats had from the aftermath of Franco’s death declared that until a representative government had been established in Spain, the regime’s political isolation should continue. The German SPD through its Friedrich Ebert foundation proved a key ally for the PSOE. The organisational, financial and moral support it received was so important that some claimed that the competing PSP might have become the main socialist party if Gonzalez had not received the support of the Socialist International (Gilmour 1985). The AP, in turn, tried to rally the European Christian Democracy. Even the PCE sought support not from Moscow but from Eurocommunism: French leader Georges Marchais and Italian Enrico Berlinguer happily assisted Carillo in his attempt to appear as leader of a modern, moderate Communist party, and as a left-winger who had always the same goal but with different means in the 70s.88 As for the UCD, which lacked friendly parties in Europe and the resources of the Socialist or Christian Democrats, it had the tacit support of the European governments. The distinguished European Christian Democrat Leo Tindemans said in January 1977 that ‘all Western democratic forces have the duty to assist him’89 [Suarez] in his task. In the difficult and uncertain first months, when the reforma needed external legitimacy to show signs of a fruitful future, the European administrations and EEC officials supported Suarez. Thus the link with Europe proved the key to success in the elections, as the two most successful parties were the ones which had developed the most durable and permanent contacts. All parties, furthermore, accepted the entering of Spain in the EEC. Eventually, in July 1977 the UCD government submitted its official application for full membership; and in November Spain became a member of the Council of Europe. Even after the transition European support ‘lent the democratic government additional legitimacy, even in the eyes of the military…[the EEC]

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gave an incentive to the government in general, and the military in particular, to condemn acts of military control that did not align with European standards of democracy.’90 Finally Juan Carlos, who had started his reign among a concern that he would shift or succumb to the hard-liners, was eventually viewed from the exterior as the man who had a potential of taking a mild stance and help democracy return to Spain. This is why the EEC Commission decided, before his official nomination as king, to fully support him as soon as he became head of state (MacLennan 2002). For instance, Suarez’s term in government started with the signing of a 1 billion dollar international loan, a clear sign of confidence to him and to the King (Share 1983). Eventually, although the conjuncture was positive (with the EEC from the beginning, with the US after 1976) and the external factor did provide an incentive and support for the transition, the process through which this was done was channelled through internal political forces, which decided its outcome. And it was mainly the West European governments, multinational institutions, party organisations and political foundations that had applied the most effective pressure or offered support.91 Elites and Civil Society As a survey conducted in the early 70s showed, ‘a large majority of Spaniards preferred election over appointment for selecting public officials…[and] expressed support for other important aspects of a more liberal regime, such as freedom of the press…religious freedom…and freedom of association.’92 However the question was who could make the country move from Francoism to modernisation of state institutions without jeopardising the economic progress made in the 60s and 70s. In this the appointment of Suarez was not greeted as a sound step to the rehabilitation of democratic institutions due to his past.93 Suarez thus had to convince the people of his good intentions: he granted amnesty to many political prisoners except those sentenced for terrorism, and moved to obtain popular support for his Reform Bill passed in the Cortes. The 1976 referendum with its overwhelming majority of ‘yes’ secured that the process of democratisation was not endangered. Using a language unable to move even the conservative Spaniards, the extremists could not recruit considerable support from the people, as the socio-economic modernisation of Spain had rendered the messages the regime die-hards tried to disseminate utterly outdated.

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The civil society itself showed restraint in dealing with the forces trying to destabilise Spain on the way to elections, especially between January and April, and the need not to provoke the hard-liners. Suarez particularly excelled in communicative action in the 1976 referendum and in the 1977 electoral campaign, making use of the state television for his interest. He also had access to the state-controlled Institute of Public Opinion, the feedback of which allowed him and his government precious information on the public opinion at that crucial time (Hopkin 1999). He was furthermore aware that the main problem he faced in the elections was the apathy and indifference of the majority of the voters posed between the left and the right.94 It was there that the silent majority, whose party identification was unknown, was standing. This gap was filled by the formation of the UCD, which occupied the centre of the political spectrum because of the historical conjuncture of 1976–1977: that conjuncture was favourable to political moderation in both centre-right and centre-left: ‘in 1936 Spaniards had abandoned the centre; in 1977 they converged upon it. The result was not a victory for the Right over the Left, but for the moderate Right over the Franquista Right, and the moderate Left over the radical Left.’95 Apathy was less of a problem for the opposition parties: there was a clear relation between political interest and people voting left, and between lack of interest people backing the centre and the right (Maravall 1982). The left parties were in a privileged position in relation to the other formations, as they had practically not ceased to function in the days of Francoism. The PCE had a well-organised apparatus and was in a position to grasp the people’s expectations, notwithstanding the Stalinist methods its leadership sometimes used to isolate or discredit other parties of the left.96 The PSOE relied on its leader Gonzalez representing ‘a new political generation of Spanish Socialists for whom democratic government was unknown, the popular front not even a memory, and whose formative political experiences were the sharpening class struggles of Spain’s developing industrial capitalism of the 1960s.’97 As for the right, it was in the difficult position of defending the positives of the Franco regime, like the economic development, and at the same time being apologetic for its oppression. It also lacked a charismatic person: Fraga was a grim figure compared to Suarez and Gonzalez, and for a second time after serving in the Arias cabinet, where he presented himself as intolerant and hard-liner confirmed he was the heir of franquism in politics.

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The Spaniards went to the polls in June 1977 with great interest and expectations, which partly explains the post-transition disenchantment and the cynicism and apathy that prevailed. Although much was blamed on the attitudes of Suarez himself and his party elite, ‘a clique of professional politicians who come to mutually convenient arrangements behind closed doors’98 and overnight agreements, it was the price Spain had to pay for the elites’ successful handling of the transition. However, if it was adapted and necessary for the uncertain transition time until the summer of 1977, it lost its political value after the establishment of democracy. The ‘transactive transition’ is facilitated by the absence of strong popular interference in the whole process, which leaves the space open for elite bargaining, and is also reflected in the political culture of ‘depolarisation’99 that characterised the Spanish civil society at the time. Moreover, the smooth handling of the political situation had made many Spaniards think that democracy was a panacea to all problems, and not just a tool to handle them, let alone the frequency with which they were called at the polls between 1976 and 1979. Gradually but steadily enthusiasm gave way to apathy, interest to cynicism and concern to indifference.100 This went on in the years of consolidation and proved that Spain was becoming a Western-type democracy. Still, the Spaniards were given a ‘democracy without adjectives,’ avoided a civil war, and joined the European integration. Despite that the success of the transition was due more to the elites rather than the people, the latter helped the elites contrive the smooth passage from authoritarianism to democracy.

Toward Consolidation: The Aftermath of the Transition Post-transition, the question was whether the new democracy could endure the global economic recession, put the political instability of the transition years behind, survive the challenge of terrorism, overcome the reluctance of some military to acquiesce to the new regime, and successfully engage in the process of constitution making. Because of the absolute priority of political over economic issues that characterised the transition times, the economic situation was rapidly deteriorating. All political forces agreed that the new government should urgently deal with the economy if the young democracy was to survive.101 The government agreed with the parties (not with the trade unions or with the employers’ organisations) to maintain peace with the trade

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unions while reducing inflation and deficits, without seriously worsening the condition of the workers and the less privileged citizens.102 The result was the ‘Pact of Moncloa’ signed on 8 October 1977 by all party leaders. Suarez, Gonzalez, Carillo and Fraga agreed upon the economic policies for the forthcoming years, namely freezing salaries and prices, introducing a minimum income for workers, taking measures against high public deficit, reforming the taxation system, increasing public investment, devaluing the peseta, limiting wage increases and embarking on a plan to reduce unemployment and excessive consumption (Maravall 1982; Arango 1995). The employers welcomed the pacts, but not all trade unions did, not even all parties whose leaders actually signed them. They did offer, though, a framework for restructuring the economy. The stabilisation plan proved in some aspects fruitful in less than one year, though its effectiveness in the long run is debatable.103 Politically it was more a victory for Suarez, as he managed to commit the left in a political agreement.104 Another important political issue was the drafting of a new constitution. It was not an easy process, and would challenge the politics of consensus. It was to be beneficial for Spain that no party was strong enough in the first Cortes to impose a constitution reflecting primarily one political philosophy. Though initially some thought that the UCD’s majority in the Cortes, along with support from AP was enough for the two parties to pass a constitution of their choice, Suarez considered that the composition of the Parliament offered the Spanish political class a unique opportunity for a constitution accepted by as many parties as possible. In the process of constitution-making, the same attitudes that prevailed in the transition period were shown: convergence on the important issues, compromise and mutual concessions on the more controversial ones, and allowing for a more open settlement for the future. ‘UCD’s ideological ambiguity enabled it to play a pivotal role in the process of political reform, directing inter-party negotiations and acting as a force of moderation and compromise.’105 The negotiations were difficult and protracted, with much bargaining, leaks to the press, some sides threatening to permanently withdraw unless certain changes were made. Eventually in late autumn 1978 a draft was signed; it was long, in some cases deliberately made vague and open to various interpretations, and ambiguously dealing with issues that had divided Spain in the past, like separation of church and state, abortion, military service deniers and the autonomies granted to nationalities and local authorities.

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However, consensus was achieved on guaranteeing fundamental democratic rights, the form of polity as constitutional monarchy, accepting the market economy and abolishing the death penalty. ‘Each of the leading forces behind the constitutional consensus had…to know where one had to hold one’s ground and where one had to cede in order to achieve the desired result.’106 Especially crucial was the agreement between Suarez and Gonzalez, which ensured the draft’s approval, producing a ‘consensus coalition.’ Immediately after its signing, the draft was subjected to a referendum, which overwhelmingly approved it,107 ratified by the King and officially put forward in December 1978. It was the first constitution in Spanish history to be accepted by all political forces, proving that the prevailing of political pragmatism and the responsibility of the political elites could set the base for a non-dogmatic institutional settlement as it had done in the transition.108 But again the chosen institutional framework had to be accepted by the military and the Basques and Catalans, considerable parts of whom refused to accept the June 1977 election results. Because of that, opinions on whether the elections marked the end of the transition diverge: some claim that it was not over before the signing of the Moncloa pacts, or before the voting of the new constitution. Some even put the terminal point of transition in October 1982 and the victory of the PSOE.109 The way the transition was contrived allowed some strongholds of the previous authoritarian regime to remain influential in the economy, the justice system, the public administration and the army. As a British diplomatic report accurately spotted, ‘while the great majority [of officers] probably remain apolitical, they are imbued with a strong sense of duty and also of their special responsibility for maintaining national order and unity. … If the military were to feel that Spain was once again in danger of relapsing into anarchy…then democracy would indeed be at risk and even the king might prove unable to exercise a restraining influence. Statesmanship of a high order will therefore be needed to overcome the difficulties of the post-electoral period and at the same time to ensure that the military are successfully accommodated in the new democratic structure.110 ’ Many of the military hard-liners after June 1977 refused to accept that their influence in politics had ended. Moreover, for those who were ‘inculcated by Franco into the idea of an indivisible Spain, [the devolution agreed in the aftermath of the transition] read as a sign the nation was coming apart.’111 The first years saw a climate of suspicion, insecurity and distrust between the military and the politicians: there were rumours

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of imminent coups, officers were expressing their discontent with the new regime,112 extremists openly calling for a military intervention, and yet it was all faced mildly by the government in an effort to calm the situation. Conspiracies were repeatedly neutralised before they could hatch. The reason for this softness and prudence of the UCD was the realisation by all political forces that the task of dismantling the dictatorship with the consent of the army and in absence of any revolutionary break with the authoritarian past was delicate (Boyd and Boyden 1985). Despite that representatives of the military were time and time again offensive to democracy, and despite the conspiracies that were repeatedly discovered and neutralised,113 the political class was proceeding cautiously but steadily in reorienting the army from internal policing to defence against external threats. A British diplomatic report considered this ‘an interesting reflection of the increase in self-confidence in Spain’s democratic institutions over the past 18 months… [the reason for lightness of sentences imposed] ….appears to be the desire in military circles to avoid making martyrs of these men. The almost total lack of public support for their point of view …is likely to prove at least as effective a deterrent to any like-minded officers as exemplary sentences.114 ’ Simultaneously, the 1980 coup in Turkey provided a framework of comparison: the military intervention that put an end to a ‘difficult democracy’ seemed to find hopeful imitators in the Spanish armed forces. The broad consensus on which the transition was based between regime and opposition elites left the military with no excuse for intervention. As it was correctly stated, ‘a military intervention could only ever have been effective had it happened at the very start of the transition.’115 In contrast to what had happened in 1936, there would be no party to back them (except from the extreme right, which had scored less than 2% in the elections), nor the church, nor economic interests, nor a significant part of the population.116 They could find no external support either as Franco did with the Axis leaders. Also, the major institutional actor, Juan Carlos, was firmly against any attempt of reverse to authoritarianism. The military could not go against the representative of the highest institution of the country: ‘[they] had taken an oath of loyalty that passed from Franco to the king according to ritual and formula devised by Franco himself. To repudiate the oath would not only deny fidelity to Franco (in the name of whose regime a revolt would be led) but also to his chosen successor.’117 He was trying to assure the military of his understanding and companionship to them, using every chance he had to give proofs of

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his devotion to the armed forces, sometimes appearing publicly in uniform to boost their loyalty. ‘It was the unquestioned loyalty of military elites to the new Franco-appointed head of state that kept them neutral, and it was the King’s decision to test that loyalty in February of 1981 that removed any remaining threat of military de-stabilization of the democratization process.’118 Unlike 1936, a coup in 1976–77 would be made not against a republic but against a monarchy, which the military considered as the most legitimate: as a British diplomat spotted already in 1976, ‘the majority of the officers today are probably basically conservative at heart but not reactionary and reluctant to become involved in politics at all. Even the most right-wing generals would hesitate openly to thwart the king, to whom the great majority of officers are still undoubtedly loyal.’119 Finally, there was no agent to unite them as Franco had done in 1936120 : at the high level of military command there was no figure which could take the lead, as well as no plan except for the abstraction of ‘resistance to change.’ Finally, the army had been kept out of the logic of interventionism in the Franco years. This situation produced a hesitation among the potential insurgents, regardless of their deeper feelings towards the king as person and deepened the split in their ranks, which had played a key role in the transition process and continued after 1977. ‘The military’s power is vastly deflated politically unless they are able to display high levels of unity.’121 The split was between the extremists pressing for a violent overthrow of the new democracy and for restoration of Francoism, and the conservatives, dissatisfied with the new situation but reluctant to go as far as revolting against the country’s elected authorities, preferring to limit the reforms and opting for a narrow military interference that would simply ascertain the recognition of the special role of the armed forces in the country. They were a silent and nonaligned majority, the worry of which was the preservation of the Spanish state’s unity and order (Caneiro and Bueso 2007). A coup was ‘conceivable in the hard-liners’ ranks but not in the conservatives. In the middle there was ‘an uncommitted mass [of mid-and lower-level officers], generally conservative and sensitive to threats against the military’s most dearly held values.’122 Many younger officers were also reluctant to move against the democracy; they were more interested in their corporate status, modernisation of the army and change in its philosophy of organisation and deployment, and were unwilling to interfere in politics; they had realised that a coup would end nowhere near what they wanted to restore: even if they succeeded in imposing a dictatorship, they would be

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faced with a deadlock. As a British diplomat put it very efficiently, ‘it is doubtful whether the present leadership of the Armed Forces would be capable of governing a complex industrial society such as modern Spain for long. Their own internal unity would in any case be strained by the attempt. The Generals seem already out of touch with what their juniors are thinking. The latter, a number of whom are of humbler social origin, may at present be largely apolitical. …They might well become sickened at having to act as policemen.’123 This is why for three years after the elections a coup did not materialise, and even when it did in 1981 was doomed to fail.124 As long as the armed forces remained divided, a successful coup was not likely. For those officers like Tejero, who had not accepted the change, Spain was plunging into ‘atheism, immorality, terrorist violence, communism and anarchy’ once again, and the only way to save it was a coup The disagreements among the insurgents as to their goals and way of acting, and the firm reaction of the King doomed the 1981 coup attempt from its early hours. There was no space in Spanish politics for such an attempt after 1977: the country had taken the path it did with the agreement of all major political parties, the king, the church and the economic elites, and had satisfied the US and the European interests. Ironically, the most evident consequence of the coup was that ‘it made any subsequent attempt by the military to turn the clock back totally unthinkable.’125 There were, nevertheless, other unintended consequences of the posttransition uncertainties and plots, and finally of the failed 1981 coup: the memories of the heavy suppression imposed by the winners of the Civil war induced the left parties into mellowing their lines of demands for more radical reforms, in favour of the relatively mild ones that were eventually agreed. Also, on the issue of transitional justice, the democratic governments post-1977 realised that the military would not tolerate being put on trial or under prosecution by the civilian authorities. This would cause their reaction with possibly uncontrollable consequences, and might also ignite a new political division which could prove disastrous for the new democracy. Therefore this issue was dropped from the transition and immediate post-transition agendas too, only to open many years later-and still become a divisive and controversial issue. Moreover, there were a number of issues that the transitional governments left untouched for the military, such as the return to service of the expelled UMD officers; the government met with stiff resistance of the military as institution and wisely dropped this issue from the agenda. The truth

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is that as a result of those concessions, Spain, ‘operated as a democracia vigilada (guarded democracy), requiring civilian leaders to negotiate each new step in policy or major personnel change with the senior military commanders.’126 This was the price that had to be paid for the transition and early consolidation of democracy to succeed. Nevertheless, gradually but steadily the civilian governments would subdue the military to civilian defence ministers, curtail the political jurisdiction of military courts and turn the Spanish army into a proper Western European force that would keep itself out of the games of politics. As for local nationalism, the plan of the UCD was ‘basically a repetition of the formula applied by the Second Republic, which restructured the State along autonomy statute lines and free election of regional assemblies.’127 In Catalonia things were somehow easier, as the independence tendencies were far less violent than in the Basque country: it was enough for Suarez to restore the banned Catalan local Parliament (Generalitat de Catalunya) and its ethnic signs in the fall of 1976. At the same time the Catalans accepted their new local autonomy status as a permanent solution to their aspirations for more independence from the centre. But for some ‘it was Suarez who had won: he had recovered the initiative lost in Catalonia in elections won by Socialists, Communists, and nationalists. The new Generalitat was simply an empty symbol. It lacked any real power.’128 Progressively, however, the strengthening of the Catalan autonomy took the steam off the problem, and the devolution process proved that democracy and local autonomy are compatible with political stability and regionalism. The Basque problem was different: the violence of ETA, the stance of its political branches and the lack of a leader having the prestige and the will to unite the various tendencies made the situation far more difficult. Before the transition was over Suarez proceeded to an amnesty and re-legalised the Basque flag; but this came ‘after many delays and apparent contradictions; piecemeal concession, far from appeasing the Basques, fuelled popular discontent and maintained an explosive climate where violence could prosper.’129 Suarez was blamed for neglecting the problem at the beginning of his presidency, losing precious time afterwards, and failing to understand its essence and complexity.130 The ETA continued its violent campaign; the party of Herri Batasuna was reluctant to condemn violence and confusing on its acceptance of, and participation to, the new democracy, and to come to terms with the government on the matter of autonomy of the Basque country and its local powers. Also,

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a considerable part of the Basques believed that authoritarian oppression had merely changed its name. There was no possible consensus, and Suarez had to proceed to the institutional establishing of the new Basque status without the local elites, especially the PNV, which was blamed for lacking the courage to explicitly state where it stood on the questions of terrorism and of independence. The problem persisted, worsening the fragile relations between centre and Basque country and, surviving the democratic consolidation, eventually became a major issue in Spanish politics. By the end of 1978 the political situation of Spain was showing signs of instability. The Cortes that came out of the 1977 elections was ‘to all intents and purposes a constituent assembly, and was not expected to last much longer than a year or two.’131 Suarez judged it was time to call for new elections, which he did in March 1979. Again, the people gave UCD the majority; however, in the electoral campaign and the immediate post-elections period, it became obvious that the politics of consensus was over. Political parties started taking polemical stances, and Suarez himself appeared failing to perpetuate in the post-transition time the gains he had made during the past three years; gradually but steadily he lost control of his own party, becoming more and more isolated from the rest of the UCD leaders.132 He was also losing trust of other elites, notably the bankers, respect of the other parties, faith of the people and control of the situation in the army and terrorism. He became the target of fierce attacks from the UCD ‘barons,’ the opposition and the press. It seemed that the UCD, successful in the early days of the transition, could not find a place in the political spectrum of a democracy striving to consolidate itself. All that contributed to his decision to resign from the UCD presidency in late January 1981, amidst growing concern for the future of the young democracy, one month before the last attempt of the hard-liners to take control in February 1981.133 The Spanish democracy nevertheless survived the collapse of UCD because of the ‘institutional trust’ shown by all political actors and symbolised in the king, through whose figure ‘for many Spaniards, a modicum of confidence in democratic procedures is mediated;’134 the victory of the PSOE in the October 1982 elections marked the democratic consolidation. Looking back some claimed135 that while the transition from dictatorship to democracy brought minor and secondary alterations, the fundamental, essential characteristics of the previous regime survived the

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change. In Spain, ‘democracy, after a heritage of 40 years of dictatorship and a delicate and unstable transition, had to be won, cultivated and enriched from day to day, both ideologically and politically.’136

Conclusions At a first glance Franco seemed right saying that ‘everything is tied up and well tied up’: the Francoist structures outlived him. The Fundamental Laws were in force; the Council of the Realm and the Cortes were there to block any transformation attempt going beyond certain limits; a king chosen by the Caudillo and educated in an authoritarian environment was in charge; finally, there was always the army to act as the last bastion of defence of the regime. In these circumstances any attempt of transforming the regime seemed doomed.137 Nevertheless, the very institutions meant to work for the perpetuation of the regime were skilfully manipulated and used to dismantle it. The Council of the Realm, presided by an aperturista, facilitated the process of reform; the Cortes were persuaded to commit political suicide by passing the Reform law, thus offering ‘a backward legitimation’ to the regime; the army die-hards and the bunker were unable to ignite a general reaction from the loyal Franquists; and the convergence between the aperturistas and the opposition prevailed. The first major cause of the transition was the nature of the regime: its semi-pluralism that brought together various interests, some of which found out that they could do without a dictatorship once the dictator was dead, and see their interests perpetuated in a democratic context. The institutionalisation of the regime offered considerable possibilities for a reforma, however the transition had to be accomplished by a certain type of agency, as the conflicting examples of Arias and Suarez prove. The aperturistas could rely on Juan Carlos then Suarez and the groups forming the UCD, which acquired power democratically, having distanced themselves from francoism; the economic elites for which tackling the economic situation of Spain and joining the EEC was of primary importance. The transition was greatly facilitated by the fact that it was a regime where civilians took the decisions and the military were kept to a secondary role, which made it hard for them to influence the process of reform by any other means than force of arms and some of the top institutions of the regime were filled by moderates. However, Arias himself was civilian but ruled with minimum concessions, failing to bring about a sound solution to the crisis, whereas his successor actually dismantled it.

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The conjuncture was very difficult for the regime: the international economic crisis had brought the end of the boom; the protracted interfamilial struggle for accentuated by the death of Franco; and the power vacuum had yet to be filled. However, the crisis was one of succession, not of policies or legitimacy; another answer could have been a reverse to authoritarianism, or a limited opening, allowing to some political forces participation in the game of power. None of those, however, could have resolved the succession problem, as no one was accepted by the majority of the familias as Franco’s successor. The death of Carrero Blanco deprived the regime of its most vital agent for perpetuating itself after Franco. With Carrero the regime would not have been dismantled the way and at the time it actually was, and it is unclear to what it would have evolved. To the problems of rising opposition and terrorism as Bermeo says, ‘pivotal elites saw democracy as a solution to the problem of extremism rather than a problem in itself,’138 rather than recur to more violence. Instead, the regime became dispensable for its own high ranks, which perceived in the critical conjuncture a chance to perpetuate their privileges in a different, i.e. democratic, institutional setting. They thus proceeded in dismantling the regime, having secured that their privileges would be institutionally accepted by the opposition, which in turn agreed to get involved and try to affect the outcome of the process. As for the economy, despite its bad situation, most authors argued that it was a secondary issue: as was the case with the Second Republic, Spain experienced simultaneously democratic transition and economic crisis; but this alone was not enough to bring back authoritarianism. On the contrary, democratisation ‘has strengthened Spanish capitalism; it has rescued it from continuing to be manipulated by the banking and agricultural oligarchy.’139 As far as foreign influences were concerned, no one could prove the primacy of this factor in determining the elites’ decision to democratise, although it was useful for the regime aperturistas to gain and maintain international recognition and legitimacy. As for the class argument, ‘if transactional democratisation demands class compromise…the conditions for such a compromise were certainly not favourable between 1975 and 1977.’140 One more factor is the young age of most of the protagonists of the transition: Juan Carlos, Suarez and Gonzalez were in their late thirties or early forties, distanced from the excesses of the past and ready to make a new start in a new institutional setting. The two persons that guided Spain to democracy—Juan Carlos and Suarez—should have held undemocratic

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credentials. The reforma in Spain was carried out by young ex-Francoists who had nothing to gain from a new civil war and who could see their future in competitive politics141 in contrast to Arias. The Spanish transition is a proof that political pragmatism and proceeding little by little in satisfying the demands of freedom of a society which, as the opposition elites, was showing adverse to maximalist demands is rewarding for a transition by reforma. Moreover, the civilian elites which monopolised the transition agenda managed to present the military hard-liners with a continuous sequence of events which left the latter with no alternatives but to succumb to the inevitable transition. This is largely due to the influx of information available to the soft-liners, since Suarez and the softliners had control over the state apparatus which granted them availability of sources of information that their opponents in the army were hopelessly deprived of. In the process there was also need for the regime soft-liners to make use of back staging, deception and ambiguity: ‘the confusion of sophistry and truth was a central part of Suarez’s armoury.’142 The efficiency of the Spanish elites in concluding the transition can also be attributed to their memories of the past and the lessons and conclusions that they drew from it. The 1976–77 situation in Spain presented similarities with the one that led to civil war forty years before. Indeed, there were points where tensions were high and fears of a repetition of 1936 loomed.143 As Aguilar put it ‘the memory of historical misfortune and the fears of the dangers of radicalization … contributed most to moderating the demands of all the important political and social groups of the time.’144 However, 1936 was never repeated, as the motto ‘never again!’ demonstrates the triumph of realism over utopia, the emergence of what was called ‘judicious pragmatism, of moderation over intransigence’145 and the climate of concessions made by the political forces. The realisation that the strategy to end Francoism with mobilisations was too far from corresponding to the country’s political reality of the 1970s, and that its repetition could produce precisely what the Spanish society was keen to avoid (in sharp contrast to the political culture of the past where uncompromising behaviour prevailed) led to the decision of negotiate and compromise. And in this the opposition played an important role in the success of the transition; the PSOE and PCE, abandoning their revolutionary dreams, and admitting that legitimacy can be won by accepting some rules of the game set in collaboration with the regime elites and behaving according to them, contributed much to appeasing the regime elites. On

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this the fear of the repetition of the 1930s polarisation played a major role, as it contributed to moderation of the demands of the opposition groups during the transition and led to legitimising of bargaining as a means of achieving the regime transformation. Especially for the PSOE this tactics of abandoning the hard-line ideological confrontations—‘the intense and divisive politics one may refer to by the name of absolute politics’146 would soon pay off, as only five years after the end of the transition it would have the majority in the Cortes. The PCE too tried its best not to evoke the old and divisive memories of its role during the civil war, presenting itself as a new party with modern left ideas—one of the founders of Eurocommunism. Inevitably, the Spanish transition and the way it was contrived left certain sectors of the state under the control of old regime groups and mechanisms; indeed, there were many Francoist cadres who remained in the positions of power that they were holding before 1977 only by the ruse of transferring their allegiances from the Movimiento to the UCD (Preston 1986). Moreover, there was no reason-giving of many officials of the Francoist era for their unlawful actions and human rights’ abuses during the regime’s long years. This all gave ground for criticisms such as ‘what is being contrived is a structural perpetuation of the Francoist power system, and its democratic legitimation, and the famous “rupture from above”…has been formally rather than really democratic.’147 Nevertheless, even that change which some called timid was unthinkable in Spain a few years before 1977. The democratic transition in Spain had an outcome where no one of the elites and counter-elites came out totally satisfied with the result, but also where no one came out as unhappy as to refuse to accept the compromise achieved. Apart from that, the functioning of democratic institutions would lead to the consolidation of a proper ‘democracy without adjectives’ in a few years after the transition, which made Spain the paradigmatic case of such a democratisation.

Notes 1. Linz (1970: 255). See also Preston (1990a: 11): ‘Francoism was never really fascism but rather some variant of limited, semi-pluralistic authoritarianism.’ 2. For a detailed account of the Constitutive Laws, the composition, the relations and the nominal functions of the above Francoist institutions see Arango (1978).

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3. Tusell (2011: 307). 4. Linz (1973: 191–92). 5. Preston (1990b: 228). See also Caneiro and Bueso (2007), Soliman (2015). 6. ‘The Spanish Church can not be considered in isolation from the universal, Catholic Church with its centre in Rome, influenced…by the personality and the activities of the reigning Pontiff’ (Brassloff 1984: 59). 7. As Share (1986: 43) says, the Church tried ‘to reinforce its institutional autonomy and to find a new identity, autonomous from that of franquism.’ 8. For Pollack and Hunter (1987: 132) it was ‘a complement, or perhaps the internal dimension, of foreign policy after the war.’ 9. Share (1986: 31). 10. Share (1986) concurs for larger enterprises as well, and notes that Franco remained, until the end, independent from the various pressure groups and economic interests included. 11. Aguilar et al. (1984). Contra Coverdale (1979), who presents an OECD report showing that, compared to other countries, the Spanish economy endured both the oil crisis and the world recession reasonably well. 12. Pollack and Hunter (1987: 4). 13. Heiberg (2018: 18). 14. ‘The six years of isolation that the nation endured…did more to solidify the dictatorship than had the six years of internal police terror preceding them. Faced by a hostile world, many Spanish moderates who might otherwise have built an effective opposition had no recourse but to identify their face with that of the regime’ (Payne 1962: 241). This shows also the dilemmas faced by the opposition in the country. As Share (1986: 47) put it, ‘foreign pressure was converted into political capital by the authoritarian regime.’ 15. Quoted in MacLennan (2002: 65). A European Parliament report published that summer stipulated that ‘states whose governments do not have democratic legitimacy and whose peoples do not participate in the decisions of the government, neither directly nor indirectly by freely elected representatives, cannot expect to be admitted in the circle of peoples who form the European Communities (Powell 2015: 7).’ 16. As Payne (1962: 264) writes, ‘the dictatorship…capitalised on a series of profound divisions in the Spanish body politic, and in a certain sense, it had survived only by fanning these flames. Not only were Right and Left divided against each other…they were divided between themselves.’. 17. As a member of the opposition noted in 1962 (Carr and Fusi 1979: 47), ‘those who want to demolish the present system forget the ultima ratio of the Spanish people- their refusal to sacrifice the peace they now

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18. 19. 20.

21.

22.

23. 24. 25.

26.

27.

28.

29. 30.

enjoy.’ A good account for the weakening of the opposition in exile is also given in Linz (1973). ‘ETA was not a product of repression; rather, repression came as a result of the activities of ETA (Carr and Fusi 1979: 159–60).’ Ellwood (1976: 169). A study conducted in 1970 showed that the Spanish society ‘based on professions, was 53.9% middle class’ (Roskin 1979: 630). Bermeo (1987: 222) agrees that by the time of the transition ‘large sectors of the nation’s workforce had already undergone a process of embourgeoisement.’ See Share (1986). Perez-Diaz (1993: 2) agrees: ‘Europe appeared to offer the appropriate constitutional framework within which we in Spain could face up to the new, different and more stimulating problems which…. would require us to give the best of ourselves in order to confront them.’ For instance, Share (1986: 37–39) holds that despite the many strikes, ‘no key sector of the economy was ever completely paralysed by an industrial conflict,’ and that students activities ‘never became more than another problem for the regime, a problem which…wasn’t even barely in sync with the workers’ struggle.’. Share (1986) contends that the majority of the bourgeoisie remained loyal to the regime until Franco’s death. Alba (1978: 227). His rearing in Spain under the thumb of Franco…his questioning participation in franquist fanfare…his constant proximity to regime conservatives, and the evident support he received from the Opus Dei— all seemed to indicate the prince might chart a conservative course after Franco’s death (Share 1986: 69). As Preston (1986: 53) put it, the ETA’s calculation of murdering Carrero was that the regime ‘would either swing to the right, and therefore be even further isolated from the people, or else it would begin a process of apertura which would provoke the rage of the ultras.’ Although Share (1983: 13–14) admits that during Franco’s last years the cost of containing anti-regime mobilisation through state repression were rapidly rising, he further quotes a Franquist minister who said that ‘had Franco lived for five more years, the situation would have remained equally as calm.’ Juan Carlos’ interpretation, though, was that ‘[Franco] was too intelligent to think that things would remain as they were… [he meant that] he was leaving behind him the structures the country required’ (Powell 1996a: 81). Preston (1986: 5). Diaz-Ambrona (1984: 22).

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31. Share (1986: 46) quotes Carrillo: ‘violent change doesn’t make sense where the security forces dispose of sophisticated weapons and where the memory of the civil war is a powerful disincentive to political violence.’ Preston (1986) notes that the regime hard-liners could use the army, the Guardia Civil, and even arm the ex-Falangists, more than 100,000 of whom were still authorised to carry guns. 32. Perez-Diaz (1993: 33–34). 33. Alba (1978: 252) takes this argument even further, claiming that Juan Carlos ‘entered his reign not with the support of the institutions but at odds with them.’ 34. Powell (1996a: 70) quotes an official socialist publication of October 1974 that the monarchy was ‘another Francoist institution, in view of which the only option left to decent Spaniards was to fight against it.’ 35. ‘The option,’ a prominent ‘Tacito’ declared, ‘is not continuity versus change, but gradual change versus abrupt change’ (quoted in Powell 1990: 255). 36. See Share (1986); Arias was repeatedly saying ‘what I want is to continue Francoism (Powell 1996a: 93).’ 37. ‘From a particular moment of the transition, there seems to be no clear relationship between this [working class] pressure and the principal political events’…[by the start of the transition] the working class movement was poorly organised and labour unions were weak (Maravall 1982: 14, 205).’ Also, ‘the increase in civil disorder…can not be said that was threatening the regime per se, at least in short term (Share 1986: 186).’ 38. Coverdale (1979) considers that Arias being more faithful to Franco than to the king was the most important reason for his demise; Juan Carlos was complaining to Miranda that Arias deep down did not recognise him as king (Powell 1996a). 39. Bonime-Blanc (1987: 24). 40. By that time (Share 1986) members of the cabinet were already discussing possible replacements for Arias. Even Don Juan was urging his son to get rid of him (Powell 1996a). 41. Once the hope of reform, he [Fraga] became now the bete noire of the opposition (Carr and Fusi 1979: 213). 42. Powell (1996a: 108). 43. Miranda ‘greatly valued both his “availability” and his willingness to allow himself to be guided from above’ (Powell 1996a: 106). 44. ‘Groomed in the intricacies of the Francoist power structure (his very means of survival), Suarez was well qualified to understand where and how it was best dismantled’ (Graham 1984: 150). 45. Gilmour (1985: 150). Eaton (1981) agrees, calling Suarez ‘a born politician.’ 46. Roskin (1979) calls Suarez ‘a breathtakingly clever manipulator.’

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47. Some saw it [the nomination of Suarez] as a return to carrerismo (Carr and Fusi 1979: 217). 48. As Share (1983) notes, the average age of the ministers of Suarez was 46.5 years. 49. See Powell (1990). As Diaz-Ambrona (1984) notes, in early 1975 they established five points of democratic transition, concerning the granting of amnesties, free and fair elections, regional autonomy and independent judiciary. Share (1983: 228) concurs that ‘it was preconceived, structured and planned like a type of military operation with set goals and support groups.’ 50. Bonime-Blanc (1987: 25). 51. Preston (1986: 93). 52. ‘For any change in the system to occur legally, the key players were the council of the Realm and the Cortes’ (Alba 1978: 255). 53. Carr and Fusi (1979: 220). 54. Gilmour (1985: 164). 55. It would seem that violence from both the Right and the Left was aimed at the destruction of the reformist programme and at the disruption of the timetable leading to the parliamentary elections (Arango 1985: 262). See also Preston (1986). 56. The police at times continued to repress what they considered subversion even as the government was proceeding towards its legalisation (Coverdale 1979: 61). 57. Gunther et al. (1986: 56). See also McDonough et al. (1994). 58. Colomer (1995: 69). 59. Powell (1996a) claims that the PCE’s legalisation was Suarez’s initiative and had the king’s consent. 60. Share (1983: 334) agrees that the PCE ‘had a great potential to disrupt (or at least discredit) the electoral process should it be excluded.’ 61. Preston (1984: 173). ‘The military did not revolt primarily because Juan Carlos held it firmly in his grip, compelling the armed forces by the sheer force of his will to swallow this dose of democracy like the obedient men they had sworn to be’ (Arango 1985: 101). 62. Aguero (1995: 91). ‘The Spanish political system was simply not accustomed to such rapid political change and most were caught off guard and unable to respond’ (Share 1983: 342). 63. With Franco gone, the ultras ‘had lost their trump card. Thereafter, they steadily lost ground with the appointment of Adolfo Suarez as prime minister and of Gutierrez Mellado as vice president…with the success of Suarez’s political reform, the legalisation of the PCE, and the first democratic elections in June 1977 (Preston 1990b: 227).’ 64. Van Biezen (1998: 40).

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65. A Tacito document put the matter bluntly: ‘the extremes…always proliferate when there is a vacuum in the centre, and the only antidote is therefore to strengthen the Centre’…by April 1976, Tacito was already working towards the creation of a centrist, mass-based party, capable of attracting support from all sections of society’ (Powell 1990: 258, 266). 66. For instance, an El Pais survey showed that ‘Suarez was not only far ahead of the popular Socialist leader Felipe Gonzalez, but that no other centre leader had a significant popularity rating’ (Hopkin 1999: 45). 67. ‘There is no ideological synthesis in the UCD, only an overlapping of illdefined goals and principles (Amodia 1977: 23).’ Also, the UCD ‘lacked programmatic coherence’ and ‘ran on a programme of vague generalities (Roskin 1979: 634).’ 68. Share (1983: 352). 69. Preston (1986: 114). 70. Carr and Fusi (1979: 227). 71. The PSOE won in most major cities and industrial places, including the Basque country, whereas the UCD won mostly in rural areas (Graham 1984; Gunther 1992; Roskin 1979). 72. Heywood (1987: 193) claims that the triumph of the PSOE over the PCE was one of ‘adaptability to political circumstance.’ 73. Gilmour (1985: 182). 74. According to a May 1977 survey 68% of the Spaniards said they ‘liked’ Suarez; the number for Gonzalez was 42% (Roskin 1979). 75. See Hopkin (1999) for an analysis of the UCD vote. 76. As a Socialist leader told an American congressman: ‘everybody in Spain is a republican. The only trouble is that everybody also likes Juan Carlos (Eaton 1981: 83).’ 77. For the Spaniards Europe ‘became synonymous with the EEC and democracy, while the continuity of the Franco regime was equated with the United States (Story and Pollack 1991: 134).’ 78. Powell (2015: 232). 79. Eaton (1981) firmly denies any involvement of the US in the affair, saying that it would not be good for the country to appear that the change of Prime Minister was made in the US. 80. There was speculation that the US would economically support Spain if it banned the PCE from participating in the first free elections, and the official denial of that (Eaton 1981). Kissinger supposedly advised Areilza not to pay attention to the demands of the Europeans, and even to stall in case the government’s party was not certain about achieving a victory in the elections (Share 1983). 81. Again, Alba (1978) stresses the implications of Kissinger’s visit to Spain even further, speaking of a ‘vote of confidence’ on behalf of the Americans to the new Spanish government.

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82. Maquina (1989: 46). 83. All agree that not having to deal with Kissinger facilitated the task of the King and Suarez (Alba 1978). See also Heiberg (2018). 84. As Heiberg (2018: 43) notes, ‘Felipe González and his entourage were seen as the only ones who could break the political hegemony of Santiago Carrillo, the historic leader of the Spanish Communist Party (PCE), and create the political force that would eventually restore Spain to its rightful place in a democratic Europe.’ 85. Eaton (1981) once again feels the need to deny that this visit had anything to do with Suarez’s decision. 86. Heiberg (2018: 44). 87. MacLennan (2002: 134). 88. In the words of Bell (1983a: 63) ‘Eurocommunism had been adroitly used to fill the vacuum of Spanish Communist strategy and ideology in post-Franco Spain.’ 89. MacLennan (2002: 145). 90. EUCE (2007: 4). 91. Powell (1996b: 310). 92. Gunther et al. (1986: 30). 93. For instance, the daily El Pais had interpreted his appointment as ‘a victory for the hard-liners of the regime’ (Powel 1986: 113). 94. In a pre-election poll only 4% of the interviewees claimed they were informed on political events, whereas 71% answered they were little or no at all informed (Gunther et al. 1986). According to a survey of 1978, 54% of the Spaniards did not identify themselves with any party: ‘those toward the centre are far and away the likeliest to declare themselves non-partisan or to switch from one party to another (McDonough et al. 1998: 141).’ 95. Gilmour (1985: 186). 96. ‘Carrillo spoke like Berlinguer and acted like Cunhal!’ (Alba 1978: 271). 97. Nash (1983: 34). 98. Carr and Fusi (1979: 239). 99. For more on the notion of depolarisation see McDonough et al. (1994). Bermeo disagrees, rejecting the claim that moderation is essential for a successful transition and stressing its ‘violent elements’; she contends (1997: 314) that ‘moderation is not a prerequisite for the construction of democracy.’ 100. This ‘participatory deficit’ is blamed by McDonough et al. (1998: 1) on ‘the ethos of tolerance and bargaining that pervaded the transition.’ Their data shows a drop in satisfaction with the functioning of democracy in Spain from 1978 to 1980. 101. There was ‘a fear that, unless a things improved quickly, the country would succumb to a Videla or a Pinochet (Gilmour 1985: 190).’

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102. Gilmour (1985) says that in 1976 Spain had lost ten times more working hours through strikes than in 1975. See also Carr and Fusi (1979), Maravall (1982). 103. The economic consequences of the Pacts of Moncloa are debatable, but …the political impact of these negotiations was unambiguously positive (Gunther 1992: 55). 104. Bell (1983b) for instance claims that the Moncloan pacts gave the PCE ‘no tangible returns.’ 105. Hopkin (1999: 70). 106. Colomer (1995: 89). 107. In the words of Coverdale (1979: 119), the popular approval was impressive because ‘it was the third time Spaniards had been called to the polls in two years; it was widely believed that the constitution would be easily approved and that, therefore, there was little need to vote; and a detailed text was bound to alienate more people than a general proposal for democratic reform like that presented two years earlier.’ 108. Colomer (1995: 129) adds that the constitution of 1978 was so widely accepted because ‘it has neither fully belonged to anyone in particular, nor has anyone felt totally alienated by it.’ 109. For instance Graham (1984) puts the end of the transition in the promulgation of the Constitution in December 1978 and the elections of March 1979. Diaz-Ambrona (1984) considers that the October 1982 elections and the victory of the PSOE signalled the end of the transition. Aguero (1995) considers the constitutional Referendum and the failure of the Galaxia conspiracy that coincided in late 1978 as the completion of the transition. Ironically Suarez’s successor Calvo Sotelo, presenting his government’s programme to the Parliament said ‘The transition is terminated’ just three days before Tejero’s coup! Share (1983) is an exception, speaking of the end of the transition in 1977. 110. Urwick to FCO, The Spanish Armed Forces in Politics since the death of General Franco 31/5/1977, FCO9/2662. 111. Encarnacion (2014: 69). Boyd and Boyden (1985: 101) concur that ‘the transition did not in any way diminish the belief of many officers in the army’s right to be consulted on matters of general political interest and to be free from civilian interference in internal political matters.’. 112. Gilmour (1985) claims that in the 1978 constitutional referendum, the ratio of acceptance of the constitution was two to one among the military, whereas it was eleven to one among the citizens. 113. Gilmour (1985) counts five military plots between 1978 and 1982. A comprehensive account of the uneasiness in civil–military relations and the golpismo fears in the post-transition period is given in Arango (1995), and Powell (1996).

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114. Warren-Gash to FCO, Spanish Internal Situation: the Galaxia Conspiracy, 8/5/1980, FCO9/3024. 115. Tusell (2011: 308). 116. Carr and Fusi (1979: 236) note that ‘in a sense the Armed Forces are prisoner of their own political theory: the general will the Armed Forces profess to represent seems now determined on democracy.’. 117. Arango (1978: 256). As he also put it (Arango 1985: 99, 126), ‘the nature of the monarchy—absolutist or constitutional—was of secondary importance to the military; the existence of a monarchy was beyond question…. to accept Juan Carlos, one accepts the new democratic constitution that established him.’ As a coup would face the opposition of the King, it would simply have to abolish the monarchy in Spain. 118. Radcliff (2015: 170). 119. Wiggin to FCO 5/5/1976 Spain: Six months under Juan Carlos. Nevertheless, not all officers’ feelings towards the King were positive. For instance, Eaton (1981) mentions a discussion with a retired general who called him ‘a traitor.’. 120. On this a UK diplomat put it excellently: ‘[The military] recognise privately that a general leading a coup could not necessarily count on the loyalty of his troops, and still less the automatic support of his fellow officers’ (Parsons to Carrington, Spain: Prospects for Political Stability 12/5/1980, FCO9/3024). 121. Aguero (1995: 30). 122. Aguero (1995: 106). Age of most of the military leaders was also a factor, as Eaton (1981) notes, as well as the fact that their only true leader, Franco, was now gone. 123. Goodison to Morgan, Spain: Present Situation 9/9/1975. 124. ‘The 23F coup failed as a result of deep divisions among the hard-liners and conspirators…The hard-liners had progressed to a point at which a coup was actually possible, but still remained without an alternative political vision, let alone a blueprint for government policy’ (Aguero 1995: 167). 125. Tusell (2011: 310). 126. Encarnacion (2014: 184). 127. Newton (1983: 105–106). 128. Carr and Fusi (1979: 234). 129. Ibid.: 218. 130. For Gilmour (1985) there was a problem in Suarez’s opportunistic facing of the demands of the Basques; he was acting only in reaction to pressures. 131. Hopkin (1999: 79). 132. See Garcia (1981) for the internal opposition to what he calls ‘centre-left policies’ of Suarez.

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133. Garcia (1981) claims that there were reports that some army generals expressed disapproval of Suarez and asked for his resignation. 134. Mc Donough et al. (1998: 167). 135. Since 1979, Suarez’s achievement has been endlessly belittled: people who had believed that it was impossible to reform franquismo later declared that it had in fact been very simple. (Gilmour 1985: 272) See also Diaz (1998). 136. Maravall (1982: 72). 137. Poulantzas (1976: 90) claimed before the end of the transition that ‘regimes of military dictatorship are incapable of transforming themselves…towards a form of “parliamentary-democratic” regime that would replace its predecessor by way of an ordered “succession”.’ 138. Bermeo (1997: 318). 139. Alba (1978: 280). 140. Share (1983: 450–51). 141. McDonough et al. (1998: 32) also speak of ‘generational replacement among the elites.’. 142. Preston (1986: 97). 143. Gilmour (1985) refers to a statistic that Fraga made use of, showing that all aspects of political violence in 1978 were higher than in 1936, with the exception of the burning of churches. 144. Aguilar (2002: 131). 145. McDonough et al. (1998: 5). 146. Ibid. 147. Young (1983: 138).

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Aguilar, P., A. Bartelo, B. Muniesa, A. Regio, and J.-M. Vidal-Villa. 1984. Notes on the Economy and Popular Movements in the Transition. In Spain: Conditional Democracy, ed. C. Abel and N. Torrents, 125–135. London: Croom Helm. Alba, V. 1978. Transition in Spain: From Franco to Democracy. New Jersey: Transaction Books. Amodia, J. 1977. Franco’s Political Legacy. London: Allen Lane. Arango, J. 1978. The Spanish Political System: Franco’s Legacy. Boulder: Westview Press. Arango, J. 1985. Spain: From Repression to Renewal. London: Westview Press. Arango, J. 1995. Spain: Democracy Regained. Boulder: Westview Press. Bell, D. 1983a. The Spanish Communist Party in the Transition. In Democratic Politics in Spain, ed. D. Bell, 63–79. London: Frances Pinter. Bell, D., ed. 1983b. Democratic Politics in Spain. London: Frances Pinter. Bermeo, N. 1987. Redemocratisation and Transition Elections: A Comparison of Spain and Portugal. Comparative Politics 19 (2): 219–228. Bermeo, N. 1997. Myths of Moderation: Confrontation and Conflict during Democratic Transitions. Comparative Politics 29 (3): 305–322. Brassloff, A. 1984. The Church and Post-Franco Society. In Spain: Conditional Democracy, ed. C. Abel and N. Torrents, 59–77. London: Croom Helm. Bonime-Blanc, A. 1987. Spain’s Transition to Democracy: The Politics of Constitution Making. Boulder: Westview Press. Boyd, C., and J. Boyden. 1985. The Armed Forces and the Transition to Democracy in Spain. In Politics and Change in Spain, ed. T. Lancaster and G. Prevost, 94–124. NY: Praeger. Caneiro, J.G., and E.A. Bueso. 2007. The Military Transition to Democracy in Spain: Looking for a New Democratic Soldier. Frankfurt: Peace Research Institute. Carr, R., and P. Fusi. 1979. Spain: Dictatorship to Democracy. London: George Allen & Unwin. Colomer, J. 1995. Game Theory and the Transition to Democracy. Aldershot: Edward Elgar. Coverdale, J. 1979. The Political Transformation of Spain After Franco. New York: Praeger. Diaz, E. 1998. Ideologies in the Making of the Spanish Transition. West European Politics 21 (4): 26–39. Diaz-Ambrona, J.-A. 1984. The Transition to Democracy in Spain. In Spain: Conditional Democracy, ed. C. Abel and N. Torrents, 21–39. London: Croom Helm. Eaton, S. 1981. The Forces of Freedom in Spain 1974–1979. Stanford: Hoover Institute Press.

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Ellwood, S. 1976. The working Class Under the Franco Regime. In Spain in Crisis: The Evolution and Decline of the Franco Regime, ed. P. Preston, 157– 182. Hassocks: Harvester Press. Encarnacion, O. 2014. Democracy Without Justice in Spain: The Politics of Forgetting. Pennsylvania: University of Pennsylvania Press. European Union Centre of Excellence (EUCE). 2007. European Integration and Civil-Military Relations. North Carolina: The European Union Center of the University of North Carolina. Garcia, M.L. 1981. The Ideology of the UCD. European Journal of Political Research 9: 441–447. Gilmour, D. 1985. The Transformation of Spain. Chatham: Quartet Books. Giner, S. 1984. Ethnic Nationalism, Centre and Periphery in Spain. In Spain: Conditional Democracy, ed. C. Abel and N. Torrents, 78–99. London: Croom Helm. Graham, R. 1984. Spain: Change of a Nation. London: Michael Joseph. Gunther, R. 1992. Spain: The very model of the modern elite settlement. In Elites and Democratic Consolidation in Latin America and Southern Europe, ed. J. Higley and R. Gunther, 38–80. Cambridge: Cambridge UniversityPress. Gunther, R., G. Sani, and G. Shabad. 1986. Spain after Franco: The Making of a Competitive Party System. Berkeley: University of California Press. Heiberg, M. 2018. US-Spanish Relations After Franco, 1975–1989: The Will of the Weak. Lanham: Lexington Books. Heywood, P. 1987. Mirror Images: The PCE and PSOE. West European Politics 10 (2): 193–210. Hopkin, J. 1999. Party Formation and Democratic Transition in Spain. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Linz, H. 1970. An Authoritarian Regime: Spain, in Allardt, E. and Rokkan. S. (eds.), Mass Politics. London: Free Press, pp. 251–283 Linz, J. 1973. Opposition in, and Under an Authoritarian Regime: The Case of Spain. In Regimes and Oppositions, ed. R. Dahl, 171–259. London: Yale University Press. MacLennan, J.C. 2002. Spain and the Process of European Integration, 1957–85. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Maravall, J. 1982. The Transition to Democracy in Spain. London: Croom Helm. Marquina, A. 1989. The Bases in Spain. In U.S. Bases in the Mediterranean: The Cases of Greece and Spain, ed. Th. Veremis and Y. Valinakis, 43–74. Athens: ELIAMEP. McDonough, P., S. Barnes, and A.L. Pina. 1994. The Nature of Political Support and Legitimacy in Spain. Comparative Political Studies 27 (3): 349–380.

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McDonough, P., S. Barnes, A. Lopez Pina, D. Shin, and J. Alvaro Moises. 1998. Identities, Ideologies, and Interests In The Cultural Dynamics of Democratization in Spain, ed. P. McDonough, S. Barnes, and A. Lopez-Pina, 118–144. Cornell University Press. Nash, E. 1983. The Spanish Socialist Party Since Franco. In Democratic Politics in Spain, ed. D. Bell, 29–62. London: Frances Pinter. Newton, M. 1983. The Peoples and Regions of Spain. In Democratic Politics in Spain, ed. D. Bell, 98–131. London: Frances Pinter. Payne, St. 1962. Falange: A History of Spanish Fascism. London: Oxford University Press. Perez-Diaz, V. 1993. The Return of Civil Society: The Emergence of Democratic Spain. London: Harvard University Press. Pollack, B., and G. Hunter, eds. 1987. The Paradox of Spanish Foreign Policy. London: Pinter. Poulantzas, N. 1976. The Crisis of the Dictatorships. London: NLB. Powell, C. 1990. The Tacito Group and the Transition to Democracy, 1973–77. In Elites and Power in 20th Century Spain, ed. D. Preston and F. Lannon, 249–268. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Powell, C. 1996a. Juan Carlos of Spain: Self-Made Monarch. London: Macmillan. Powell, C. 1996b. International Aspects of Democratization: The Case of Spain. In The International Dimensions of Democratization: Europe and the Americas, ed. L. Whitehead, 285–314. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Powell, C. 2015. Long Road to Europe: Spain and the European Community, 1957–1986. Real Instituto Elcano. [http://www.realinstitutoelcano.org/ wps/wcm/connect/6a64870048b28234b015fb735801e641/DT9-2015Powell-Long-Road-Europe-Spain-European-Community-1957-1986.pdf? MOD=AJPERES&CACHEID=6a64870048b28234b015fb735801e641] Accessed 3 Sep 2021. Preston, P. 1984. Fear of Freedom: The Spanish Army After Franco. In Spain: Conditional Democracy, ed. C. Abel and N. Torrents, 161–185. London: Croom Helm. Preston, P. 1986. The Triumph of Democracy in Spain. London: Methuen. Preston, P. 1990a. The Politics of Revenge: Fascism and the Military in TwentiethCentury Spain. London: Unwin Hyman. Preston, P. 1990b. Decay, Division, and the Defence of Dictatorship: The Military in Politics, 1939–1975. In Elites and Power in 20th Century Spain: Essays in Honour of Sir Raymond Carr, ed. P. Preston and F. Lannon, 203–228. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Radcliff, P. 2015. The Transition: A Global Model? In Is Spain Different? A Comparative Look at the 19th and 20th Centuries, ed. Nigel Townson, 159– 182. Sussex: Sussex Academic Press.

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Roskin, M. 1979. Spain Tries Democracy Again. Political Science Quarterly 93 (4): 629–646. Share, D. 1983. Transition Through Transaction: The Politics of Democratisation in Spain. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Share, D. 1986. The Making of Spanish Democracy. London: Praeger. Soliman, A. 2015. The Spanish Military and Democratic Transition 1975–82. In Guardians or Oppressors? Civil-Military Relations and Democratisation in the Mediterranean Region, ed. A. Soliman, 21–44. Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars. Story, J., and B. Pollack. 1991. Spain’s Transition: Domestic and External Linkages. In Encouraging Democracy, ed. G. Pridham, 125–158. Leicester: Leicester University Press. Tusell, J. 2011. Spain: From Dictatorship to Democracy. London: Wiley Publishers. Van Biezen, I. 1998. Building Party Organisations and the Relevance of Past Models: The Communist and Socialist Parties in Spain and Portugal. West European Politics 21 (2): 32–62. Young, B. 1983. The 1982 Elections and the Democratic Transitionin Spain. In Democratic Politics in Spain, ed. D. Bell, 132–146. London: Frances Pinter.

CHAPTER 3

From Dictatorship to Dictatorship: Greece 1973

Markezinis’ opinion, three days before his downfall, in view of the wouldbe elections and on his chances of co-operation with the political elites, was that he would get 15% which, he hoped, would make the old parties come to terms on forming a government (Markezinis 1979). However, he was wrong in all accounts: neither did elections take place, nor did the political elites co-operate and form a government in 1973. Instead, the hard-liners’ opposition brought the process to an abrupt end, and to a new and ‘worse dictatorship.’ The transition, brought to a stalemate within one month, met with contempt by the Greek elites and people as a mere attempt of disguising the dictatorship in a democratic coat. Its outcome brings to mind what Stepan says for the transition initiated by the military-as-government: ‘if it is not perceived to be in the interests of the military-as-corporate-institution to extricate itself from power, and if there is not a strong societal demand for the termination of the authoritarian regime, this is an extremely dangerous path.’1 In Greece the second condition applied but not the first: the nature of the regime favoured the hard-liners who put an end to the reforma.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 I. Tzortzis, Elites and Democratic Transitions by Regime Transformation in Southern Europe, Global Political Transitions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04620-9_3

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Prelude to Dictatorship 1949–1967: The Breakdown of a ‘Difficult Democracy’ The 1967 dictatorship was the product of the crisis of the post-civil war power structure, articulated around the triptych of monarchy, army and parliamentary right wing. The successive crises in Greek politics in the 60s jeopardised this structure, a part of the most powerful pole of which (the army) acted arbitrarily to preserve its privileged status. The monarchy was restored in September 1946 by plebiscite.2 Encouraged by the unwillingness of political leaders to resist the quasiinstitutionalisation of its interference in politics, the palace went far beyond its constitutional competence. This, as well as the conspicuous and provocative (for the poor Greek standards) luxury which the royal family was enjoying, harmed the monarchy’s popularity amidst even some officers. The army, winner of the civil war on the battlefields, had a prominent role in establishing the post-war status quo and securing its continuity. In their view, the Greek military had ‘saved the nation from the throes of communism’ and thus deserved a privileged status. Also, ‘as in other developing countries, the army was a career adapted to young countryside men with no other social or economic qualifications’3 thus guaranteeing social ascendance to its members. The purges of non-conservative elements in the army had turned the Greek military into ‘a homogeneous, die-hard, right-wing organization no longer reflecting the contradictions of the political society.’4 The army was split into various factions, most important of which was the IDEA (Sacred Union of Greek Officers), serving as pressure groups for the military to pursue their privileges. Army factions were becoming independent from hierarchical control, comprising lower and mid-ranking officers (one of them, EENA—Union of Young Greek Officers, had as leader the future dictator Papadopoulos) who ‘had not had the time to get distinctions during the civil war and did not have other credentials in the right wing than their predisposition to be the guards of the system.’5 The fierce anti-communism of the Greek praetorians progressively turned into a blind anti-parliamentarism, as they identified most politicians regardless of party affiliation with corruption, stagnation and inefficiency, which they considered inherent in democracy. They also viewed themselves as an institution whose corporate interests were identical to the interests of the whole nation, in defence of which

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they had the responsibility to intervene if need be against the constitution. It was from those groups that the future dictatorial elites would emerge. The right wing was in power from 1952 until 1963, in the form of ES (Greek Rally) headed by Field Marshall Papagos until 1955 and ERE (National Radical Union) by his successor Constantine Karamanlis thereafter. Its political hegemony was favoured by the fragmentation of the political forces existing between left and right. The KKE (Communist party) was illegal since 1947 and its place in the left was taken by EDA (United Democratic Left), a coalition formed by various personalities and groups mostly affiliated to the KKE.6 The space between ERE and EDA comprised numerous centre parties plagued by their leaders’ personal enmities and ambitions and thus for many years incapable to join forces and form a coalition that could challenge ERE. After the civil war Greece turned into a ‘difficult democracy’: the state had produced a complex legal arsenal to suppress the left-wing dissidence, including a number of laws and decrees allowing arrests and deportations of anyone participating ‘in armed groups aiming to threaten the integrity of the state’ or seeking to apply ideas ‘aiming at subverting the state or the existing social system by violent means.’7 The guarantees of political, civil and individual rights, formally recognised and protected under the constitution, were practically crippled by this ‘para-constitutional’ jurisprudence. After the civil war, the structures of that ‘exclusivist political system’ (Featherstone 1987) were unable to offer political representation to the rising middle classes, workers and students who demanded a bigger share in the country’s growth and more participatory rights.8 Large parts of those groups chose to express their discontent by turning to EDA, which got 24.58% in the elections of 1958. The fact that a party presented as the KKE in disguise became the major opposition party just nine years after the end of the civil war alarmed the partners of the ruling coalition. The success of EDA proved conjunctural and precarious; nevertheless, it prompted the leaders of the political formations of the centre to overcome their rivalries and agree in the summer of 1961 to join forces in a coalition called the EK (Union of Centre). The reaction of the ruling bloc to this development was prompt. Elections were called for October 1961 in which the army, the police and the civil service co-ordinated their action to contain the challengers. ERE emerged with 50.71% of the votes; but this result was contested by both EK and EDA as one of ‘violence and fraud’9 and precipitated ERE’s loss

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of grip on power. Late in the spring of 1963 a disagreement with the Palace forced Prime Minister Karamanlis to resign. After losing the next elections held in November he left Greece. The road was open for the EK, which gained the majority in Parliament after new elections in February 1964 and sought to reform and re-equilibrate the powers of the palace, the army and the executive. The EK, though, was plagued by endogenous contradictions: problems of co-ordination and continuous clashes of interests and personal ambitions between the faction leaders within the party, and challenges of its leader George Papandreou.10 There was also divergence on the depth of the reforms the EK was to bring, regarding especially the political control of the army and the royal intervention in politics. In the spring of 1965 Papandreou’s son Andreas was accused of leading a faction of officers conspiring to impose a left-leaning dictatorship. He denied the accusations, but the minister of Defence Petros Garoufalias started an enquiry on the issue against the Prime Minister’s order. When Papandreou tried to replace Garoufalias with himself he met the reaction of King Constantine and resigned in July 1965. Constantine appointed new successive governments headed by defectors of the EK, who disagreed with Papandreou’s resignation, and were supported by ERE.11 This caused large demonstrations in the summer of 1965 against this royal intervention and demands for a constitutional change. The ‘EK renegades’ did not last long in office; in the spring of 1967 Greece was on the road to elections again, set to take place in May. But the Greek democracy was facing a deadly impasse. The ERE could not electorally defeat the radicalised EK, which enjoyed the support of EDA in its plea for radical political reforms regarding the position of the army and the Palace. As for the army, it either had to accept a new EK victory at the price of losing ‘its leading position with inevitable internal consequences for those holding posts within it; or else, the army had to prevent this by the overall abolition of parliamentary rule.’12 Indeed, a victory of the EK would mean the end of the unequal balance between army/monarchy on one hand and parliament/government on the other hand—the breakdown of the post-civil war power structure. On the 21st of April the officers rebelled, taking the elites and the people by surprise. For the first time after many years political power was in military hands.

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The Dictatorship of 21 April 1967 Nature of the Regime The coup was made by a sub-elite of officers ranking from captains to colonels13 that were not acting for the king or the right wing, but for securing their own corporate interests14 against challenging social and political groups, as well as their personal ambitions for hierarchical promotions and government positions. They skilfully took advantage of the highly fragmented and conspiracy—facilitating Greek army. The officers that made the coup were conservative; many of them were extreme nationalists; some were admirers of Nasser, seeing the army as a tool of progress and modernisation15 ; others were even anti-monarchist. The most applicable characterisation is that of a ‘veto regime,’ with some diversions due to the low degree of military unity, as the insurgents were cut off from the higher officers and the rest of the armed forces.16 Gradually the dictatorship was ‘degraded to the level of a one group regime… [it] did not dispose of either military unity or political clientele, elements sine qua non for its transformation to a clientelistic authoritarian regime.’17 The lack of any link between regime and people and the absence of a movement or party to offer them support led the colonels to a hopeless social and political isolation which, along with the high internal fragmentation, would greatly contribute to the failure of the 1973 reforma and to the regime’s actual downfall in 1974. The Palace and the military as institution, taken by surprise, reluctantly acquiesced to the coup because of overwhelming odds and came to terms with the colonels. A senior public prosecutor was appointed Prime Minister on royal veto. Other high Justices, diplomats and functionaries took up governmental seats. But the real power was in the hands of the officers occupying the key posts (Ministries of Defence, Public Order, Interior, etc.). This uneasy and fragile coalition ruled in a climate of mutual suspicion and distrust for a few months. King Constantine soon started conspiring against the colonels, along with the military hierarchy. Late in the autumn of 1967 a counter-coup was set up although too conspicuously and too clumsily organised to succeed. When in December, the Palace and its generals did move, their attempt collapsed in a few hours. The colonels frustrated the royal coup, or checked it as soon as it started developing. The Prime Minister and the royal family fled to London; a general was appointed as puppet-Regent. The first and last

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attempt of a dynamic anti-regime challenge was thus over,18 leaving the colonels free to conspire against each other. The ruling group that emerged after the failed royal coup would stay in power for six years. The new Prime Minister was Colonel George Papadopoulos, the (visible) head of the regime, framed by brigadier Stylianos Pattakos and colonel Nikolaos Makarezos; by 1973 he had assumed many key ministries like those of Defence and Foreign Affairs, and eventually the Regency. Among the regime factions, which had no agreed long-term policy but to remain infinitely in power, an underground struggle for more powerful governmental posts and promotions in the army went on. An officer said years later ‘the causes of Papadopoulos’ downfall and the failure of the Revolution were created form the morning of the 22nd of April on…[the insurgents] instead of looking ahead, just had in mind how to subvert each other.’19 Papadopoulos, the only politically sensitive figure among them, had to balance between the various factions’ interests and his personal rule. However, the other plotters were not prepared to let him establish his hegemony: for six years the regime would see one crisis after the other.20 Regime and Counter-Elites The regime failed to establish any links with the pre-1967 political class with very few exceptions. Efforts for compromise were failing either because of the regime hard-liners refusing to concede power, or because the very few politicians that would accept to negotiate would be stigmatised in the eyes of the elites and the people. As for the relations between the ex-politicians, they remained cold throughout the dictatorship years. Most opposition leaders were either hoping to return to the favourable for them pre-1967 status or pressing for utopian revolutionary changes. Constantine Karamanlis and Andreas Papandreou were abroad. The former stayed in Paris, occasionally giving interviews or publishing statements on the developments in Greece. He was not very active against the regime, waiting to see how things would evolve in Greece. Papandreou, after having been granted permission to leave Greece in January 1968, created the PAK (Panhellenic Liberation Movement) abroad with some radicals of the EK, and called for a world campaign to overthrow the colonels. He would travel around Europe and North America giving ferocious anti-regime speeches and interviews, blended with fierce antiAmerican rhetoric, rejecting any negotiation and compromise with the

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colonels but doing little for a co-ordinated action against the regime. He ‘set about assiduously undermining other anti-junta groups. His favoured tactic was to enter alliances but then work to discredit his supposed colleagues so that anti-junta opposition became synonymous with him personally.’21 In Greece George Mavros, ex-minister and successor of G. Papandreou to the leadership of the EK after 1968, and Panayotis Kanellopoulos, the Prime Minister toppled by the coup, vehemently rejected any compromise with Papadopoulos. As for the King, after December 1967 he remained inactive and did not speak openly against the regime until 1973, hoping for a later compromise with the colonels that would open the way for his return to Greece. The communists were self-isolated and excluded from any co-ordinated action. They assumed the maximalist goal of massive clandestine struggle and were suspicious of other forces, claiming that only by the working class (and its natural vanguard, the communist party) could the regime be toppled. The hegemonic tendencies of Andreas Papandreou’s PAK revived the pre-1967 fears of the left that it might get totally absorbed by the centre, and there was divergence over the forms of resistance against the dictatorship, the PAK speaking even of armed resistance, which the KKE considered potentially damaging. Furthermore, the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968 and its opposition by a party faction led to a rupture in the KKE and the formation of the independent from Moscow ‘Communist party of the Interior (KKE-es)’ thus further weakening the left. The only politician openly negotiating with the regime was Evangelos Averoff, ex-minister of Foreign Affairs of Karamanlis; he was looking for ‘bridges’ between the regime and the pre-1967 elites. His aim was to create a transitional government enjoying the trust of the army, the right wing and the conservatives of the centre (thus excluding Papandreou), allow the King to return, change the constitution and proceed to elections. Papadopoulos was presumably open to those attempts, which met the opposition of the hard-liners and most of the politicians. The pre-dictatorial divisions in the opposition were not easy to overcome in a climate of distrust and divergence on how to deal with the regime, and how to shape the future democracy. With many exiled or imprisoned, communication and co-ordination was difficult. Suspicion and doubt did not cease to hinder the attempts for co-ordinated action or agreement even on publishing statements. Only in 1971 was a ‘National Council of Resistance’ created abroad, comprising some groups of the

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EK and ERE, as well as some officers expelled from the army. But the most famous organisations and personalities did not join. In his aforementioned report in April 1972, the British ambassador noted that ‘…the democratic opposition of the “old” politicians is ineffective … A return to the pre-1967 political regime should be considered improbable. If there is a change, this will most probably come from a new military coup that will lead to a more authoritarian regime than the current one.’22 A factor making things even harder for a negotiated transition was the fact that the colonels engaged in a process of creating their own restrictive ‘Constitution’. Nevertheless, they did not avoid a ‘continuous institutional deadlock, which was exactly the legal expression of their political isolation.’23 According to the new draft, the participation of parties in elections depended on their ‘nation-mindedness’ and a Constitutional Court would decide on their legality. The army was independent from civilians in its military and security jurisdictions and kept for itself the control of some vital administrative sectors. All articles guaranteeing civil, political and social rights were infinitely suspended (Alivizatos 1986). The new Constitution was ‘approved’ by a plebiscite in September 1968. There was no public discussion on the new regulations, neither had any opposite voice been given the right to express opinions on the draft. But even that Constitution remained a dead letter until 1973. Regime and Civil Society Because of its oppressive nature, the lack of links with the civil society, and the ideological backwardness of its elite, the regime was everything but welcomed by the people; however, it was not dynamically opposed. There was no acceptance, but there was passivity; there was rejection, but there was no considerable resistance. This is partly explained by its early economic success and its ‘paternalist, but not corporatist social policy’ that initially contained the people’s discontent.24 Also factors such as fear, unreliability of the pre-1967 parties and evident weakness of the few anti-regime groups to articulate convincing alternatives for democratic transition led to the situation of passive acceptance. The surprise strike of the meticulously planned coup gave no margin of reaction to any political, trade union or other group; thousands of potential enemies were arrested immediately and imprisoned or exiled on remote islands.25 The civil society was thus left headless and without co-ordination; it would take long to reorganise and challenge a regime

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backed by tanks and military police. Furthermore, the political turmoil and uncertainty of the 60s had tired and disillusioned the more conservative parts of the population, contributing to the lack of resistance.26 Also, the Greek society was highly atomised, lacking the spirit of solidarity and collective action that would allow anti-dictatorial groups to flourish, co-operate and seriously challenge the regime.27 But this was only one reason for the lack of sound resistance. The other reason was the economic policy of the regime, which boosted growth in its early years. The regime’s five-year programme of economic development from 1968 to 1972 aimed to facilitate investments by modernising the infrastructure and the administration. The state pledged non-intervention in the market economy. Small and medium enterprises were booming and so was industry: in 1970 the value of Greek industrial exports exceeded for the first time that of agricultural products. Construction greatly contributed to development and tourism was, as before the dictatorship, a considerable source of income.28 On the other hand, taxation was burdening mostly non-privileged groups of the population and relieving certain well-to-do others (Pesmazoglou 1976). Until 1972 the average economic growth was more than 10% per year, and the average unemployment was about 5%. Prices were kept at a low level, and the average inflation at the same period was less than 2.3%.29 However, there was little structural change in the country’s economy, the productive basis of which was still of low potential, and the high demand led to a rise of imports after 1970. At that time the public deficit started rising, and so did inflation.30 By the end of 1972 the situation of the economy was showing signs of stagnation. As long as its model was successful, the regime could efficiently check discontent. In any case, despite that the economic boom was ending with 1972,31 by no means was Greece in crisis. It can be claimed that 1973 was a good time for the regime to withdraw, and in that year ‘politics was absolutely predominant, pushing the economy to the background.’32 Socially, the colonels’ rule ‘represented an effort by the Greek military’s more reactionary elements to remake the nation’s society in their own image and establish a political framework that would ensure the armed forces’ primacy.’33 The colonels used state propaganda to make up for their lack of support. Radio and television were indoctrinating the people; in schools, universities and in the civil service celebrations praising the regime abounded. Inaugurations of public works were advertised as a proof of the ‘affection of the National Government to the Greeks.’

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The regime used nationalist and traditionalist slogans to communicate a narrative of continuity of the ancient Greek and Byzantine grandeur (ancient Greek philosophy wedded to orthodox Christian spiritualism). Elements of anti-western attitudes could also be traced in condemnations of ‘western rationality and atheism’ in contrast to Greek orthodox piety.34 The ‘old political class’ was accused of corruption, negligence of the real problems of the nation, inefficiency and immorality. The colonels also excelled in fierce anti-communism, labelling any potential enemy of the regime as communist. The regime was more popular in peasants and farmers, who were a considerable part of the Greek society (more than 50% in 1967) and because a number of works of infrastructure took place in the countryside, and farmers’ debts were written off. Apart from that, the regime propaganda was more appealing to the peasants because of their inherent conservatism and traditionalism.35 Resistance was not a problem for the colonels. Some politicians, intellectuals, students and trade unionists formed clandestine groups and engaged in anti-regime actions but were mostly neutralised by its security.36 They were too isolated from the body of the civil society to seriously harm the regime anyway. The most serious action was an attempt on Papadopoulos’ life in August 1968, when Alexandros Panagoulis, member of an underground group, tried but failed to blast the dictator. The demonstrations of many thousands of Athenians in early November 1968, during the funeral of ex-Prime Minister Papandreou, and in September 1971 in the funeral of George Seferis, prominent Greek poet and 1963 Nobel Prize-winner, were major anti-regime shows. Apart from these events, no major action was recorded until 1973. Even in 1972 the UK ambassador Hooper noted that ‘the regime has at least fifteen more years of life…Papadopoulos seems to hold on the saddle better than ever.’37 The regime was particularly unpopular among the students. The imposition of a governmental commissar ‘to supervise the application of law in the Universities’; the framing of universities with teaching assistants and staff loyal to the regime; the dissolution of all student organisations; the abolition of representation and participatory rights of the students; the suspension of students’ exemption because of lack of ‘nationalmindedness’; all these steps were taken to achieve control over this sensitive group (Mantoglou 1995; Papazoglou 1975). The degree of the students’ opposition was clearly shown in November 1972, when

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the regime for the first time allowed but tried to manipulate elections in university councils. Things did not turn quite as planned, with many students denouncing the process as farce, and demanding free and fair elections. The police attacked demonstrations improvised in various faculties in Athens and other cities. Regime and the International Factor As dictatorships lack ‘adequate domestic popular support [they] would be more dependent on outside powers for a semblance of legitimacy, if not for their outright survival. The greater this dependency, the greater would be their willingness to solicit external interference and to offer the best possible terms to their external supporters.’38 This was the case of the Greek regime. Its external supporter was mainly the US for a number of reasons; Europe adopted the opposite attitude as long as the regime did not extricate itself. There has been much speculation about foreign (which for most Greeks means American) interference in the coup. It was claimed that it could never have succeeded without US support: this speculation on US dependence ‘has penetrated deeply into Greek society, and has…also taken roots in the Greek “psyche”.’39 However, there is no evidence blaming the US for the coup on an administrative level. US ambassador in Athens Talbot, the head of the CIA mission in Greece and his deputy were taken by surprise on the 21st of April. Despite Talbot’s efforts to find evidence, ‘nothing pointed conclusively to active CIA involvement in the coup.’40 And, as the Deputy Secretary of State Department recalls, ‘we had enough indications that we should expect a coup… But we had not been forewarned about the coup that actually happened.’41 It was nevertheless reportedly much more enthusiastically welcomed in the Pentagon than in the State Department.42 Once it prevailed though, there was no alternative to the US but to deal with it cautiously, offer the ‘support of toleration’ (Woodhouse 1982) and diplomatically press it to re-establish democracy. Greece was not a top priority to the US administration anyway.43 The US after a period of fiddling recognised the colonels de facto. The regime served American interests in a way no civilian democratic government could, maintaining bases on Greek soil and securing military transit and overflight rights over Greek territory and seas for American and NATO forces. Diplomatically, the US wanted to keep the Greek–Turkish

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relations calm so as to not jeopardise the cohesiveness of NATO’s southeastern flank, and in Cyprus sought a solution that ‘would not endanger America’s presence in the Greek-Turkish territorial nexus.’44 Finally it had to do with welcoming American investments. The Nixon administration was more supportive of the regime than the Johnson one. Between 1968 and 1973 the US signed numerous military and trade treaties with Greece, and abstained from diplomatic effort to isolate it or accuse it of human rights abuse. There were many exchange visits between Greek and American diplomatic and military delegations, culminating in October 1971, when US vice-president Spiro Agnew (of Greek ancestry) officially visited Athens. However, after 1970, when Papadopoulos became Foreign Minister he started showing signs of a relative independence from the US: openings to the Soviet bloc and the non-aligned countries (the relations between Greece and the Eastern Bloc were not as cold as one might expect, given the anti-communism of the regime45 ), supplies of arms from sources other than the US, and denying the free American military aid in 1973, as well as a tentative rapprochement with the EEC countries from 1971 onwards, were signs of that subtle change. In January 1973 Papadopoulos signed an agreement for the homeporting of the 6th US Fleet in Greek territorial waters, which had long been a demand of the US. ‘The various ports around Athens could now be called “the largest anchorage of the American Navy in Europe”.’46 Nevertheless, as a US National Intelligence report that summer concluded, ‘in this regime’s early years in power, the appearance of US support was more important to Papadopoulos than it is today. The regime no longer sees such a compelling need to accommodate US desires. There will be frictions arising from the proposed major expansion of US military facilities in Greece.’47 The most openly hostile attitude was held by the European countries, which brought the regime in hopeless isolation, culminating with the withdrawal of Greece from the Council of Europe in December 1969, after its delegation was heavily accused of the issue of human rights abuse and torture in prisons. The 1961 Association Treaty with the EEC was frozen. The message was clear that only if Greece restored democracy would it be accepted to re-join the European integration process. Besides, the country lost vital development loans withheld from the EEC funds. The economic dependence of Greece on the EEC was considerable in both imports and exports.48 The governments of many NATO countries also set the Greek issue in the agenda of sessions of its organs only to

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meet the stubborn refusal of the US to discuss it. For a number of years no Western European official visited Greece. Nevertheless, the Europeans’ reactions stayed on a verbal level and were not ‘followed up on a practical political level with regard to matters such as a boycott of trade, investment and military cooperation, the essential preconditions for the survival of any regime.’ And in 1972 this attitude started changing when the French Deputy Foreign Minister officially visited Athens and struck a deal for order of weapons and equipment from France. As 1973 was starting the British Ambassador noted that ‘there is little prospect of the present Greek Government coming up with anything which the EEC … could accept as adequate evidence of a change of heart …leading to anything which anyone in the West would seriously call democracy. So long as the present regime remains in power substantially unchanged … Greece’s present political stagnation and isolation from Europe will continue.’49 Developments in Cyprus were also affecting Greece: radical nationalists were pledging for Enosis (Union) between Greece and Cyprus, and subverting President Makarios, accusing him of abandoning Enosis which, however, unilaterally declared, might lead to Turkish intervention.50 It was claimed that because of Makarios’ non-aligned foreign policy, the US lacked naval and radar facilities in Cyprus that could be used to monitor Soviet moves in the Mediterranean and in the Middle East. Tension between Makarios’ supporters and rivals, as well as between the Greek and Turkish Cypriot communities, was running high. Papadopoulos seemed to be for a compromise between Greece and Turkey that would restore peace in Cyprus without bringing the two countries to war. As he said interviewed by the Turkish daily Millet in 1971, Greece and Turkey should make clear to the Greek-Cypriots and Turkish-Cypriots respectively that they were not willing to fight for their sake.51 Among Papadopoulos’s greater rivals within the regime were the extreme nationalists like Ioannidis pressing for a radical solution in Cyprus. Despite the conspiracies and attempts on his life, Makarios did not face serious Greekinspired subversion between 1968 and 1973, as Papadopoulos ‘could not risk the consequences of a coup in Cyprus.’52 In July 1973 the aforementioned US National Intelligence report claimed that Papadopoulos ‘helped to keep the Cyprus situation from breaking into flames, even though some of Papadopoulos’s colleagues incline toward drastic initiatives. No Greek government is likely to be more moderate over Cyprus than the present one. … Papadopoulos has made it perfectly clear that Greek-Turkish hostilities over Cyprus would be in the interests of neither country.’53

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Inter-Regime Crises and Developments, 1967–1973 The first attempts of Papadopoulos to start a process of transformation occurred even before the ‘Constitution’ was drafted, in February 1968. He ‘tried to consolidate his position and simultaneously to facilitate the extrication of the army. He was presenting his regime not as a dictatorship, but rather as a “parenthesis” necessary to settle some issues.’54 It was the first time Papadopoulos personally met and discussed with Markezinis, and appreciated his ideas. A leading figure of the Greek Rally in the 1950s, successful minister of economic co-ordination to the Papagos government,55 Markezinis left the party after a disagreement with Papagos in 1954 to form his own Progressive Party, which never polled more than 3% when it ran independently (Meynaud 1974; Linardatos 1986). Although an outsider in Greek politics, he had an analytical capacity and a clairvoyance that was rare among the politicians of the time.56 Markezinis never collaborated with the colonels, thus he could be an ideal figure for a transition. The most important inter-regime crisis came in September 1971 when, in a meeting of the faction leaders an attempt was made to replace Papadopoulos, accused of abusing the ‘Revolution’ for his own personal sake, with Makarezos, minister of economic co-ordination. The attempt was frustrated by Ioannidis, who firmly backed Papadopoulos at the meeting. By this token Ioannidis secured the place of the guarantor of the internal, albeit fragile and precarious, coherence of the regime and of a trustworthy person in the eyes of Papadopoulos.57 Ioannidis was the only insurgent never to occupy a governmental post; he was totally committed to controlling the army. This allowed him a continuous flow of information on developments in the officer corps, as he had created a wide range of spying network thanks to the ESA, used both for policing the armed forces and for checking anti-regime activities. Thus Papadopoulos became Ioannidis’ hostage: ‘paradoxically, the more offices Papadopoulos was assuming, the more dependent he was becoming on Ioannidis, who assured for him the commitment of the army, and especially the seven important units stationed in Athens and its periphery.’58 Simultaneously Ioannidis was meticulously gaining support from lower and mid-ranking officers complaining about the behaviour of the regime leaders and worried about the future of the ‘Revolution.’ Whereas to the British ambassador it seemed, in January 1973, that ‘there is no reason that would prevent Papadopoulos to last as long as Salazar in power or,

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to use a more recent example, as General Franco,’59 the situation was turning steadily dangerous for Papadopoulos. A CIA Memorandum in 1972 read ‘if he [Ioannidis] decided to go against the prime minister, the threat of a successful military coup would balloon rapidly’ and that ‘if Papadopoulos becomes victim of a coup, it will be essentially because of failure on his part to maintain a close relationship with those officers who see themselves as guardians of the revolutionary virtue.’60 By the end of 1972 ‘the regime was at an impasse: the effort to restore Greek society to health had stalled with the economic difficulties at the time in a way that was obvious to all, and yet the regime had no viable plans for the future.’61 Nevertheless, Papadopoulos and his followers decided to meet regularly, discuss the situation, and plan their moves in view of transferring power to a non-military government. He was aware of the forthcoming economic difficulties, and was also willing to finish off with the reaction of the hard-liners; finally he was aware of the international pressure to democratise, if he wanted to restore Greece’s position in the EEC.62 However it was obvious that he had problems. In February 1973 the students were informed that the government would pass a decree suspending their exemption from the army in case of pending disciplinary action or of non-participation in lectures and exams. Some were indeed forcibly drafted. Students started demonstrating in Athens, demanding the revocation of the decree, more liberal university administration and more participatory rights for themselves. On the 21st of the month students clustered in the Law School refused to leave the building, and long negotiations had to be carried out with the police to secure a peaceful evacuation on the night of the 22nd. At the same time elsewhere in Athens demonstrators were clashing with the police. There was more violence in March, when the police attacked peaceful student gatherings.63 Workers and civil servants for the first time joined the students’ demonstration, in which there was an element of spontaneity, while politicians, academics and intellectuals openly expressed support for the students. Papadopoulos, in a speech delivered in March at an academic meeting, blamed an organised minority for those events.64 Anyway, ‘peace and order’ was restored, but the report of a regime-appointed commissar of the Polytechnic School was warning that the students would stage a dynamic comeback during the university elections of next year. Moreover, Papadopoulos miscalculated the rapid pace with which he was losing

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toleration of other elites. This was proven in May, with the naval officers’ coup attempt. The regime was enjoying a great deal of support in the army but not in the air force and the navy, on which its control was never quite as tight as in the ground forces, despite repeated purges.65 Also, many naval officers were committed royalists, and were in touch with the King, as well as with Averoff and other politicians on a plot in which a number of warships would sail and threaten Athens with a naval blockade if the colonels did not step down. Support would also be given from dissidents in the ground forces. In case of success the officers would call for the formation of a government of national unity under Karamanlis, which would hold elections. Karamanlis was aware of the conspiracy, but it is doubtful that he wholeheartedly endorsed it. On April 23rd, the daily Vradini published a statement of Karamanlis accusing the regime of alienating the country from Europe, expressing concern over the Cyprus issue and asking the colonels to step down and honour the constitution they had drafted by handing power over to a civilian government, as well as for the return of the King. Many linked Karamanlis’ article with the naval plot. However, the coup ‘had no specific political or ideological background, as the officers who organised it had different political orientations.’66 Although it was not a ‘royal coup’ like the December 1967 one, the King endorsed it, hoping for another chance to restore his pro-democratic image. As a British diplomat reported, ‘a pro-Karamanlis faction in the army would be willing to “impose” the proposed [by Karamanlis] on the regime. But Papadopoulos would almost certainly hear of it before any move was made against him.’67 The attempt was ill-fated because of the tight control of the regime security. The ESA knew in advance of the conspiracy, as an officer involved was arrested and confessed. On May 23rd it was announced that a conspiracy of some naval officers was frustrated. The officers involved were arrested, and so was Averoff. All was over in a few hours, with the exception of a destroyer participating in NATO manoeuvres in the Adriatic and anchored at the port of Fiumicino, Italy, where her crew asked for political asylum. This event offered to the attempt great publicity abroad. It was seen as a proof that not all the armed forces were prodictatorship.68 However, it was again proven that the regime security was as effective as ever. It was in that conjuncture that Papadopoulos took the opportunity to start his reforma.

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The Regime Becomes Dispensable The failure of the naval coup attempt marks the turning point for the 1973 reforma. Although frustrated, it alarmed Papadopoulos who realised he had nothing to expect from the King or the politicians and decided to proceed alone. Unfortunately for him, few shared his opinion; not many in the regime would accept his initiative either as by then the dictatorship was ‘divorced from its military constituency which was also its only political base.’69 One week after the frustration of the coup, on June 1, he announced in a radio-televised message his decision to democratise Greece, which would become a Republic. A plebiscite would be held in the summer for the approval of the change, and an interim government would be charged with calling elections no later than the end of 1974. Papadopoulos would be ‘President of the Republic’; he amended the 1968 Constitution and amassed many powers. The President would be elected for a seven-year term; would be responsible for the foreign and defence policy; would name the ministers responsible for the aforementioned sectors; and would be framed by a faithful to him Constitutional Court bearing judgement upon the issue of the legality of the political parties participating in the elections. Also, a ‘Council of the Nation’ was introduced as a consultative body for emergencies. Last but not least, the army was ‘guarantor of the national unity and security’ against both external and internal enemies. This manoeuver of Papadopoulos was calculated to allow him, as other authoritarian leaders in his position had done, ‘to see the transition stop at a limited liberalization which protects their tenure in office.’70 By the same token, a series of measures were introduced, aiming to convince the civil society and the international community of his good intentions: a general amnesty to all ‘political criminals,’ the May naval officers included, was granted, and the last three hundred political prisoners were released; martial law was lifted throughout the country; and censorship was seriously eased. Thus Papadopoulos had, as the British ambassador noted, ‘eliminated [an] obstacle which [the] hardliners within [the] government are said to have put in way of any forward movement towards parliamentary democracy… neutralised two main centres around which [the] opposition elements are said to have been coupling themselves (King and Karamanlis); and committed himself to a fixed timetable for elections which may ease international pressures on him provided he lives up to his expectations.’71 Nevertheless, US Acting Secretary of State

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reported to President Nixon his doubts ‘whether Papadopoulos intends to, and is able to, honor his pledge to hold elections in 1974.’72 The plebiscite, which took place on July 29th, granted the regime change with 78.4% favourable against 21.6% negative votes (Grigoriadis 1975), proving, as the British ambassador reported, that the government ‘were taken by surprise by the strength of the feeling against them; and the vigour of their reaction in the latter part of the electoral campaign is a measure of the disillusionment and the fright they were in.’73 The politicians headed by Kanellopoulos denounced the whole process as a farce. Only Markezinis said he would vote ‘yes.’ Papadopoulos had thus the legal structure he needed to proceed to the transition, but no political consensus. On August 19th he was sworn in as President of the Republic. In early summer negotiations started between Papadopoulos and Markezinis; six inconclusive meetings were held between June and September. Some noted behind this indecisiveness an atmosphere of suspicion: the intentions of both Papadopoulos and Markezinis were to use each other to better promote their objectives.74 Papadopoulos wanted to present the Markezinis government as proof of his good will to bring democracy and appease the anti-dictatorial pressures in and out of Greece. Markezinis wanted to become Prime Minister with the resources of the regime, something he could never achieve otherwise. Ioannis Passas, an entrepreneur who mediated between Papadopoulos and Markezinis, blamed the latter for continuously deferring; he advised Papadopoulos to drop the Markezinis solution and proceed to the liberalisation with Karamanlis. Papadopoulos, though, rejected his objections. Markezinis had difficulties forming his cabinet because of the reluctance of many personalities to participate: rumours had it that because of the reaction of the politicians, some candidates who had initially accepted to serve under Markezinis eventually declined, fearing that they would serve a lost cause.75 Another topic of the discussions was the amendment of the 1973 ‘constitution’ towards a more inclusive democratic arrangement. Markezinis was pressing Papadopoulos to accept the participation of political forces and personalities like the KKE and Papandreou, as well as the reduction of military tutelage on politics and of the powers of the constitutional court. He was also hoping to curtail the Presidential powers.76 Eventually there was agreement that on the road to the elections the participation of all political forces would be gradually allowed, although Papadopoulos was insisting on holding elections as soon as possible. Finally, on October

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1st Markezinis was officially given the mandate to form the first civilian government since April 1967, and on the 8th his cabinet was sworn in. It is with satisfaction that these developments were viewed by the US Embassy, as a British diplomat reported that ‘Mr Tasca indicated his approval of Papadopoulos’ decision to ask Markezinis to form a government. He thought that foreign countries should, as far as possible, give Papadopoulos encouragement…he was critical of [the oppositions’] generally unconstructive attitude… he has recommended to Washington that Papadopoulos should be given a fair wind and allowed time to carry through his constitutional programme.77

Development and Failure of the Reforma The Inter-Elite Negotiations Fail Most politicians did not even bother to engage in negotiations, either with Markezinis or between themselves. The civil war and the political turmoil of the 60s that paved the way to the dictatorship did not lead them to conclusions similar to those of their Spanish counterparts. Lack of information on the hard-liners’ real power also contributed to this stance. The majority of the politicians rejected the Markezinis solution without offering any alternative. The argument of taking advantage of the opening of the regime to push for further change was ignored. The distrust to the intentions of Papadopoulos was a good reason for the politicians not to discuss with Markezinis who missed the opportunity to create the ‘first order understanding’78 necessary for the convergence between regime and opposition elites. Papadopoulos could also not check the rising discontent in the officer corps. Those who would make the most of it were the hard-liners. The dilemma of refusing to participate in the elections and missing the new arrangements, or accepting and thus legitimating the transition is shown in a letter sent in late August to Karamanlis from C. Tsatsos, ex-minister to the Karamanlis’ cabinets. Tsatsos expressed concern on what the rank and file of the ERE might do if Karamanlis abstained: some might take their chances in a party of Markezinis or Makarezos, he claimed, as they would not like to be left out of a new Parliament79 regardless of real concern about the possibility of Greece becoming a fake democracy under military tutelage (the so-called ‘electoralist fallacy80 ’). George Rallis, ex-minister to the Karamanlis governments, summed the

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case for negotiating in an article in the daily ‘Vradyni’ in September, where he spoke of ‘the duty of senior and junior politicians to unite and seek to form a majority that will allow for the radical amendment of the Constitution. An abstention [from the elections] can only be decided after the refusal of the regime to take steps that will make free and fair elections possible has been proved… It is wrong to decide an abstention from the elections now… because thus, neither at home nor abroad will the true intentions and objectives of the regime become apparent… it is necessary to stake without delay our concrete claims, without the satisfaction of which the terms “free” or “fair” elections will be - as set by the regime- void of any content…. When our demands remain unfulfilled, there will come the time to unite in abstention.’81 Markezinis claimed that Karamanlis himself had advised Rallis to write that article. Karamanlis however was silent during the summer and autumn of 1973. Little evidence is available on his attitude, as he made no public statements, despite the claims of Markezinis that his government’s objective was ‘to secure a statement of Karamanlis, who was still popular and was most likely to be the next Prime Minister.’82 Some have tried to present this as an expression of doubt as to whether the country could democratise under Papadopoulos and Markezinis. Others believe (Arapakis 2000) that if Karamanlis concluded that certain requirements, mainly the will of the military to extricate themselves from power, were fulfilled, he would have decisively helped Markezinis’ effort to lead the country to political normality. However, Makarezos claims he was in touch with Karamanlis and received two letters from him after Ioannidis’s coup, advising him not to trust Markezinis. At any case, Karamanlis would by no means accept to become Prime Minister under Papadopoulos, thus legitimising the dictatorship a posteriori. Kanellopoulos assumed a fervently adverse stance, refusing to discuss with Markezinis on the prospect of participating in the elections. He was claiming that the reforma was fake and the regime had no intention to proceed to a genuine democratisation. As he said after 1973 ‘regardless of the attitudes and motives of Mr Markezinis himself, it would be impossible for democracy to be born out of tyranny…any outcome of the elections would inevitably legitimize not the Greek people and those who fought against the dictatorship, but the crimes of the dictatorship itself.’83 Even the claims of Markezinis that he was prepared not to run in the elections himself if this could convince Kanellopoulos (and Mavros) on their

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fairness were not enough.84 Caustically, Markezinis noted that for Kanellopoulos ‘legality meant the return of the situation to the 20th of April 1967, that is, a Kanellopoulos cabinet that would proceed in organising elections.’85 At about the same time, the British ambassador seemed to agree with this, as in a report to the Foreign Office he concluded that the politicians ‘have still not learnt the lessons of the pre-1967 period…They cannot be blamed for mistrust of the regime, but the carping tone they take and the absence of any constructive criticism makes it appear to the outsider that they are not seriously interested in finding solutions to the country’s political problems unless this is on their own terms.’86 Averoff, for his part, though recently arrested after the failed naval coup, seemed to agree with Rallis, as he spoke in October of a ‘considerable effort’ that the regime was making towards the restoration of democracy. In the former EK most leaders also opposed the reforma, but with notable changes over time. For instance, Mavros in July 1973 is said to have urged Markezinis in a public meeting to accept the offer of Papadopoulos and immediately form a government (Zournatzis and Mihalopoulos 1998). However, it was the same person that a few months later, on October 26th, said that the planned elections ‘have but a single purpose: to legitimize the dictatorship under cover of a castrated Parliament which will not have the power to debate, let alone decide, any of the nation’s vital matters.’87 Doubts about Papadopoulos’s intentions had already been cast in the summer, thus is not clear why he had not expressed any objections then, and what the causes were of this change of heart within three months.88 Ex-Prime Ministers St. Stefanopoulos and G. Novas were positive, provided that Markezinis held free and fair elections. Constantine Mitsotakis had serious objections, as he said many years later that ‘no matter how many concessions Papadopoulos was to make, they were impossible to lead to democracy…he had planned to establish in the country a kind of governance based on the Turkish pattern: a façade of parliamentary life, with the very powerful position of the regime moderator, the President of the “Republic” and the armed forces behind him, ready to intervene when necessary. Any negotiation would credit the regime with an alibi, which I did not intend to give.’89 Papandreou, in turn, was the most fervent opponent of Markezinis from abroad. Interviewed by a Greek daily in early September, he said ‘anyone who participates in the elections and, in general, in the political processes initiated by the regime will be a Quisling and will not be forgiven by the people!’.90

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Summing up the two major parties’ stance, Barkman noted that ‘the opposition is not making a positive political development much easier. They have—in typical Greek fashion—rejected everything that the regime has offered without themselves indicating a new direction. It would be political wisdom if the two major parties presented a positive programme, taking into account the actual situation.91 ’ The British ambassador concurred with that view, writing to the Foreign Office that ‘the politicians hope (on what grounds is not entirely clear) that the Army might support a move for the “restoration of popular sovereignty” in which they would return to power without having spoiled their hands by collaboration with Papadopoulos….They seem to have no policy beyond “Papadopoulos out”: and…appear to have no alternative strategy in mind.’92 On the other hand, the Foreign Office diplomats showed more understanding to the opposition’s reservations: ‘after six years in opposition they are unwilling to cooperate in elections which may well result in something akin to the Spanish Cortes. They have no guarantee that this will lead to anything better and given the regime’s record their distrust cannot be dismissed as unfounded.’93 In the left, the ex-leader of the EDA Ilias Iliou did not refuse participation in the elections, claiming that the democratic forces could, if united against Markezinis and under certain guarantees of freedom and fairness, win more concessions from the regime. But his opinion met with the reaction of other members of the party, and was eventually rejected. Also one of the leaders of the ‘KKE of the Interior’ stated in October that he did not deny the reforma outright. In contrast to that the KKE, to some extent contradicting its own stance during the dictatorship ‘to exploit, even under the harshest conditions, any legal facilities that the people’s movement might find,’ denounced the Markezinis government and rejected the reforma, seeing in it ‘a danger that the political forces and a part of the people’s movement [accept]… the opportunistic view that “once we can not do away with the junta, we need to rely on what we can now get and then aim at gradual later changes”.’94 Nevertheless the US Embassy in Athens was wiring to the State Department that it had some ‘indications’ that ‘[the] Moscow-backed KKE (which has long sought recognition as legal party) is so desperate for recognition that it might be prepared to authorize participation in [the] elections in exchange for Markezinis’ recognition… [Moscow is expected to] sit back, let Papadopoulos’ normalization plan run their course, and urge [the] broadest possible (i.e. communist or more realistically communist front)

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participation in an effort to exploit [the] return to political processes and so enhance [the] Soviets’ own long range interests.’95 Only the economic elites straightforwardly endorsed the reforma.96 The industrial lobby welcomed the formation of Markezins’ government on the grounds that the man was trusted to lead Greece on the way to growth.97 The memories of his term as minister of economic coordination in the 50s contributed to this position. Concerned by the condition of the economy and the international situation, as well as fearing internal political turmoil, they saw a way out of a possible crisis. Markezinis introduced some anti-inflationary measures in October to prevent further erosion of the situation; however, in the summer and early autumn of 1973 the effects of the forthcoming oil shock were not yet felt. And there was no major strike with economic or political motivations. However, the situation was in the hands of whoever controlled the army. On this Papadopoulos had a serious problem: he ‘had not only failed to go far enough for the Greek democrats; he had also gone too far for his critics in the junta and the Army.’98 Vice-general Grigorios Bonanos, commander of an army corps, saw in the young and mid-ranking officers a threat for the reforma, as they were constantly expressing concern about the course of the ‘Revolution’: ‘they were saying that the armed forces had started getting corrupted by the exertion of power, that there were cases of nepotism and sleaze.’ This situation had led him to conclude that ‘the course of the regime was not what it should be… [it] had lost its orientation. And there was urgent need of a corrective intervention.’99 Also, many officers hostile to the reforma objected to the regime giving its place to the same political class it had deposed in 1967, complaining that the army might be used to back Markezinis’ party in the planned elections. The reaction of the hard-liners is best summed by minister Ladas in October who, while handing his portfolio to the new minister rhetorically asked ‘why is the Revolution finished? How is it finished? Who brought it to an end?’100 Even before that, the minister of economic co-ordination Makarezos had resigned at the end of September, making clear that he did not agree with the reforma as it was implemented. In that situation, the man everyone was referring to was Ioannidis. The control network he had developed in the army was of such extent that his power ‘made most of the higher ranking officers, but also many junior ones, consider it their duty, if they came to Athens for any personal or service-related reason, to visit Ioannidis. They were expressing their

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allegiance to him, pleading at the same time for his interference for any problems they had.’ In sharp contrast Papadopoulos’ accumulation ‘of so many offices and titles (President of Republic, Prime Minister, minister of Defence) was harming the prestige of the regime and giving it an despicable image, which was not left unexploited by its opponents.101 ’ Ioannidis was thus able to capitalise on anti-Papadopoulos officers, as well as neutral ones but unsatisfied with the situation. He paid Bonanos a visit late in August, in which he spoke of Papadopoulos with contempt. It was then that Bonanos realised something was brewing in the army (Bonanos 1986). While Markezinis was trying to recruit political support, he had not neglected the importance of gaining the military’s acquiescence. He was heard complaining that he lacked control of the army, wishing he could control 60% of the officers. ‘Politician as he was, Markezinis could not reckon that support in military regimes is not based on percentages as in politics, but rather in the proper choice and placement of officers and units that hold the army together.’102 Papadopoulos however was aware that Ioannidis constituted a major threat for his plans, and tried to sideline him by appointing a loyal to him general as head of the army. Papadopoulos also tried to remove Ioannidis from the ESA, luring him into the headship of the ‘Military House of the President of the Republic’. In the summer of 1973 he announced this plan to the latter. Unfortunately for Papadopoulos, Ioannidis was already aware of the plan due to his excellent information network, and rejected promptly the offer. Papadopoulos backed down, but then tried to have him transferred to the command of a remote division in the northwestern frontier, where Ioannidis could have no conspiring potential; Ioannidis vehemently opposed this plan too, and warned that he had no intention of leaving his post in the ESA. Also, there is evidence that Papadopoulos was planning to retire Ioannidis from the army. It was claimed (Arapakis 2000) that in October 1973 Papadopoulos had signed a relevant decree. However, that decree was not published, and has not been accounted for. Ioannidis personally blocked its publication.

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Elites, Civil Society, and the Polytechnic Events The easing of policing in the summer had created the impression that the dictatorship was drawing to a close and that it was easier than before to dynamically press for more concessions (Grigoriadis 1975). Representative of the attitudes of the civil society was an article of an anti-regime journalist published in June 1973 bearing the title ‘What democracy are you talking about Mr Papadopoulos?’ where he called the reforma ‘a ruse of despair [that] will fool no one.’ And, in July, commenting on the imminent plebiscite, the same journalist wrote ‘the motto of everyone must be NO [sic] to the camouflaged dictatorship…Mr Papadopoulos’ democracy is a fake one, behind which lies the dictatorship…the people’s answer to the dictatorial provocation must be a historic NO!’103 Nevertheless, the general amnesty of August was welcomed, as it surprised many people in a good way. As Barkman noted, ‘the atmosphere has cleared considerably and expectations have arisen…. This has set the political tongues wagging and a lot of ink flowing, to such an extent that there is now almost complete freedom of the press.’104 However, the presence of Papadopoulos as head of the democracy-to-be with his extensive powers was a cause of concern to many. Markezinis was one of the least popular politicians of the pre-1967 period, and his difficulties to gain legitimacy were adding to the very negative attitude of the majority of the politicians, who were constantly giving interviews or writing articles denouncing the reforma as a dictatorship in disguise. Kanellopoulos, for instance, after a meeting with Markezinis stated ‘I remain firm in my known position towards the situation that emerged after the 21st of April coup, a situation that, in spite of the motives of my negotiating partner [Markezinis] has not substantially changed.’105 Markezinis was aware of the civil society’s distrust, and started giving interviews to the foreign press, trumpeting his intention to fully democratise Greece; he had realised that ‘a critical factor … is the belief of the opposition and the public at large in the incumbents’ genuine intention; a view shaped greatly by the government’s liberalization policies.’106 He claimed that he was totally maintaining his freedom of opinion towards Papadopoulos and that in the new Parliament he would seek a radical amendment of the constitution, so that the powers of the President be curtailed.107 In one of these interviews he said to the Times, ‘if I do not agree with the president, I shall resign…there is no other solution’; in another to Le Monde he even claimed he was an admirer of Lenin, and

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added ‘if it was up to me, I would immediately legalise the Communist Party’; in a third to the Spiegel he commented: ‘I shall organise elections without martial law, with free radio, freedom of press, free use of television, freedom of political rallies, state party funding…and legal representatives as supervisors of the voting. On what excuse will the opposition abstain?’ He publicly said the day he took office that his government would ‘secure for those who participate in the elections every chance to compete, communicate with the people and use state media.’108 This desperate attempt to convince the civil society of his good will, however, alarmed the hard-liners and even the less radical officers, which were annoyed by those ‘daring’ views. That concern reached the ears of Papadopoulos, who advised Markezinis to stop giving interviews for some time, so that he did not cause Papadopoulos problems with the military. Markezinis nevertheless announced that on the 17th of November he was to give a televised press conference in which he would announce his decision to carry out free elections with participation ‘of personalities as hostile to the regime as Andreas Papandreou.’109 He could not have picked a less appropriate date, as trouble was already afoot. On the 4th of November, after the memorial services for the fifth anniversary of the death of G. Papandreou, crowds gathered around the Athens cemetery shouting anti-regime slogans, cheering the politicians present and demonstrating in the centre of Athens. The police stopped them, and violent clashes followed, with many civilians and policemen wounded and seventeen demonstrators arrested. It was the first time that unrest of such scale was witnessed in Athens after Markezinis had taken office. The politicians found a good opportunity to discredit him at home and abroad. Greek and international media published pictures of police attacking civilians, giving the impression that little had the situation changed after the new cabinet was sworn in, and that the regime was as violent as always. For instance, the BBC reported that evening: ‘the hopes of the Greek regime for a peaceful transition to parliamentary democracy took a serious blow today… the first crucial test for Mr Markezinis’ government proved that in reality the chances of a compromise between him and his opponents are fewer than ever before.’110 Nevertheless, a British diplomat wrote ‘there is evidence that some or the violence was premeditated… The demonstration was not in any way a threat to the Government. It does not seem to have created the kind of mass sympathy which the treatment of the students aroused and has not enhanced the Opposition’s image. At the same time it has done nothing to improve

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the prospects for the elections.’111 A few days later the trial of those arrested gave one more chance to politicians to publicly accuse Markezinis of having acted precisely like Papadopoulos would have done. However, by then attention had shifted to the Polytechnic. During the summer and early autumn of 1973 the universities were quiet, but unrest was brewing and the students were bracing themselves for new elections in their faculties. Before November the student committees had presented to the minister of education their demands, which included the repeal of the February 1973 decree on students’ draft, the extension of exemption to those already drafted, and the timing of examinations and of student elections. The minister, in turn, presented on November 1st to the students’ representatives his response to their demands, granting them all but their elections, which the students adamantly insisted that they be held before the 15th of February (before the national elections). It was on this that the Markezinis government made one of its biggest blunders: rejecting the student elections demand, it caused the erosion of the situation with unpredicted results. Some wondered how a man as politically expedient as Markezinis did not understand that he should avoid at any cost any disputes with the students, if he wanted to make it to general elections smoothly (Grigoriadis 1975). Nevertheless, none of Markezinis’ ministers seemed to have properly understood the importance of keeping the students calm. The minister’s refusal ignited protests. From the first days of November the atmosphere in the universities of Athens was tense and students were debating on the best way to respond to the government. The tension rose sharply after the rejection of their demand on elections. On November 14th the students gathered on the Athens Polytechnic campus, protesting and shouting anti-government slogans. Later the same day they decided to occupy the campus. This decision caused much controversy and disputes among their political organisations. Some of the latter, mainly the KKE, have since tried successfully to claim they were the organisers of the occupation. However, the majority of the students’ party groups were sceptical of such a step; rather, it was independent and anarchist/leftist groups that put forward this idea.112 The left-wing organisations were hesitant to support an uprising made by students without participation of workers. Leftists and anarchists have accused the KKE that a brochure of its student organisation circulated at the time was calling for abstention from what it called the ‘Polytechnic agitation’, an accusation that cannot be confirmed.

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A Co-ordination Committee was formed to supervise the occupation and represent the students in the talks with the academics and state officials. With time the crowds grew larger, and in the evening the police asked the permission of Dean Konofagos to storm the main campus; he refused. The next day the government issued a statement stressing its decision to respect the asylum. The government officials had still not realised that the situation was, slowly but steadily, deteriorating, despite the warnings of the Chief of the Police that it would eventually get out of hand if steps were not taken on time. The police had already left the Polytechnic area and people could move freely in and out of the campus.113 The Dean of the Polytechnic noted that ‘there were no substantial demands or issues dealing with the students. There was only one demand: that Papadopoulos goes.’114 The students clustered on campus set up a radio transmitter and started broadcasting anti-government messages throughout Athens. At the same time, protestors grew more numerous, and the slogan ‘breadeducation-freedom’ was heard through the demonstrations. Although this referred to the economic and educational situation too, the political element was dominant in the demonstrations: ‘the main reasons for the student uprising were the anti-dictatorial and anti-imperialist feelings and not student or economic problems.’115 One of the statements broadcast read ‘the students came to realise that our problems concerning the democratisation of education…cannot be solved without a change of the current political situation. Of prime importance for the solution of the people’s problems is the immediate end of the tyrannical regime of the junta and the establishment of people’s sovereignty…[This] is irreversibly linked to national independence from foreign interests that have been supporting tyranny in our country for years.’116 The same day the students were joined by workers and peasants from the near countryside. Also, Kanellopoulos and Mavros visited the Polytechnic and make statements complimenting the students and denouncing the regime violence and hypocrisy. The final day of the incidents, Friday the 16th started with great concern in the government which ‘was reduced to a secondary role and its head was but a mere spectator of the incidents.’117 The next day Markezinis was supposed to give the press conference presenting his plans on the forthcoming general elections; he could not possibly do that with all media interest focused on the Polytechnic. Watching his plan losing momentum, he could not help blaming in his memoirs the

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forces opposing his government (without being more specific about which those were) of blocking the smooth way to elections. A meeting was held in Markezinis’ office with the Vice-president of Republic, the ministers of Education, Public Order and Defence and the Chief of the Police. Papadopoulos himself later joined them. Their concern was how to put an end to the demonstrations with as little trouble as possible. It was decided that the police storm and evacuate the Polytechnic by dawn of the next day. No firearms were to be used and no tear gas shells fired on the campus area. It seems, however, that this decision was leaked. Within a few hours the tension mounted spectacularly to a point unthinkable one day before. The crowds started storming the Athens Prefecture and the ministry of Public Order118 ; thousands of demonstrators were in the streets,119 and eventually the police were unable to contain them. Sharpshooters emerged, firing at the demonstrators, and first dead fell on the streets. In hospitals wounded were carried by the dozens, and, according to the official report on the events made one year later (Konofagos 1982), the police were extremely violent towards even wounded demonstrators. In the evening the army was ordered to intervene and help the police suppress the demonstrations, and later that night the first military units appeared on the streets of Athens. The co-ordination and organisation of the operation was undertaken by an army colonel.120 The Polytechnic was isolated from the demonstrators, who were repelled from the city centre. At the same time, armour and Special Forces units started moving towards the Polytechnic area, preparing to storm the campus. The students clustered inside were desperately urging the soldiers through their transmitter not to shoot at civilians. This might have had an impact, as in many cases soldiers were tolerant and helpful to students. After midnight negotiations started between the Committee representatives and military officers for evacuating the campus without further trouble, but were inconclusive as the officers were giving the students less time than they had asked for. Finally, at about three o’clock in the morning on Saturday, a tank commander, without superiors’ orders, moved his tank and crushed the main gate of the Polytechnic, making way for policemen and soldiers to storm the campus. Hundreds of students fled in panic, trying to escape in nearby buildings, pursued, arrested and hit by the police and ESA men in civilian clothing. By dawn the Polytechnic was under state control. The main incidents were over; however, in other places of Athens there were still demonstrations and clashes, and victims of ricochet bullets or sharpshooters’ fire. In the morning of the 17th martial law was declared

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on orders of Papadopoulos. Later the same day he delivered what was to be his last radio message, blaming the incidents on ‘an organised minority,’ claiming that they ‘proved the existence of a conspiracy of the enemies of Democracy and political normality, who intend to fatally block the implementation of the creative programme’121 that had started the previous summer. The same day Kanellopoulos and Mavros were placed on house arrest. Not before the 19th could finally ‘law and order’ be restored, after twenty-three people were killed and about one thousand wounded; however, nobody was killed on the Polytechnic campus. Hundreds were arrested.122 Ironically, the Polytechnic events were greatly the outcome of the liberalisation policies of the opening phase of the reforma. Also, the students’ demands, in the beginning purely academic, gradually became political, summed up in the main slogan ‘down with the junta,’ proving that the Markezinis government had failed to convince that it was not the continuation of the dictatorship. The subsequent handling of the situation on behalf of the government supports this argument. In the beginning the regime elites underestimated the dynamics of the students; when they eventually realised the seriousness of the situation, it had spun out of control. Markezinis admits that in his memoirs and blames the police. Technically, though, he did not have any authority upon the armed forces; it was Papadopoulos as ‘President of Republic’ who ordered the army to suppress the demonstration in a brutal and clumsy way, as the British ambassador remarked: ‘the Athens garrisons did not have a competent leadership, were badly trained and incapable of suppressing demonstrations. It was decided to send tanks when the infantry would have been more suitable. They opened fire indiscriminately... Had the authorities acted from the beginning with effectiveness and determination, there might not have been bloodshed.’123 However, after the events were over Markezinis congratulated the armed forces ‘on having successfully and bloodlessly put an end to the insurrection’ and concluded with a phrase that would stigmatise him, too, for having morally supported the bloody suppression. He said that ‘[the President and himself] will bring their mission for full normalisation of the political situation in Greece to a successful end…those interested in achieving the opposite will fail. The enemy of the nation and of democracy will not pass!’124 Markezinis claimed that his concern was to go to elections as smoothly as possible and what disrupted this path was against the

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interests of the country. However, he was also anxious to appease the military, alarmed by what they saw as ‘a communist comeback.’ At any case, this stance cost Markezinis dearly, even if he believed he could regain trust by presenting his plans for elections a few days later. Finally, the events wiped out any doubts left in the minds of most of the mid and lower ranking officers, that the old devils of political unrest and ‘communist subversion’ were about to be unleashed with the reforma. The memories of the civil war and the turmoil of the 60s, real anathema for the military seeing themselves as protectors from ‘anti-national insurgency’ were more than enough to make the officers justify what Ioannidis was preparing.125 As the British ambassador put it, ‘those hard-line elements who were opposed from the start to democratisation have been presented with the opportunity to say “we told you so.”’126 Markezinis speculated that there was something deeper in the Polytechnic events than caught the eye, seeing the reaction to his government as an interest convergence from two opposite directions. On the one hand, the hard-liners willing to put an end to the reforma (Ioannidis was reportedly seen around the Polytechnic area on the last night); on the other hand, the ex-politicians, with Kanellopoulos and Mavros in the forefront, trying to discredit him and block the way to elections at any cost. His opinion was that ‘the escalation of violence in the Polytechnic had the goal of cancelling the press conference.’127 Thus the students ‘had been played straight into the hands of Ioannidis, who looked upon the coming elections with a jaundiced eye. So had the irresponsible statements of Kanellopoulos and Mavros, two vain self-seeking men.’128 In that the British ambassador in his aforementioned report partly supports Markezinis: ‘[the politicians] openly encouraged the students, well aware that this could lead to violence. The politicians, who from the beginning had expressed opposition to the colonels, used the students in their effort to provoke the government into taking oppressive measures that would put an end to the programme of Markezinis… They have in large measure got what they wanted and must now accept responsibility for their actions …if the Markezinis experiment fails or if the regime collapses – which is less likely to happen- the prospects a moderate democratic government that will respect the international treaties and obligations of Greece are indeed limited.’129 Nevertheless, the coup had already been planned, and a rough date set long before the events130 and did not change because of them.

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The Hard-Liners’ Coup: The End of the Reforma As soon as the trouble eased and a tentative calm was restored, Markezinis desperately tried to resume the preparations for elections. On the 19th of November he conferred with Papadopoulos on the lifting of martial law and the way to elections planned for February 1974. Markezinis had postponed the press conference on his plans for the elections for Monday the 26th. In his memoirs he noted that he was determined to either proceed to elections as scheduled or resign, and that ‘those who wanted my overthrow at any cost would not have been in a position to do so had the press conference taken place.’131 Again in a meeting on the 23rd Markezinis reiterated his will to proceed to elections no later than the 10th of February, despite Papadopoulos’s reservations. He offered to resign if elections were not held on that date. Papadopoulos half-heartedly accepted, after having, in turn, offered to resign if this would facilitate Markezinis’ plans. ‘When those subverting me saw me…determined not to resign, they proceeded to their next and fatal step.’132 In the early hours of Sunday the 25th of November, Markezinis was awakened by the policeman assigned for his security, who said that the government had been deposed by a coup. A while earlier, a lieutenant colonel had visited and handed to Papadopoulos a note of a ‘Revolutionary Committee’ stipulating ‘on demand of the Armed Forces you, the vice-president and the Markezinis government have resigned. You will be informed of the developments from the television.’133 At the same time, the Greeks found themselves in a situation reminiscent of April 1967. However, this time it all happened much more smoothly and quietly. The coup was very effectively organised. Very few arrests were made—Markezinis and his ministers were not even placed under house arrest—and the civilians were treated politely by the military. The power came instantly under the insurgents’ control. It is striking that, although repeated warnings were made to Papadopoulos and Markezinis about subversion, Ioannidis got away with his plot to the end. Markezinis started receiving information on subversion by a number of sources among which, just days before the 25th, the British ambassador, who invited Markezinis and his wife to dinner and openly said to him ‘are you sure you will still be able on Monday [the 26th, when Markezinis would announce the date of his press conference with details of his plans on elections] to call elections? I fear that you will not be in office by Sunday!’134 Also, the ambassadors of Germany, France,

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Holland and Italy had information that something was afoot. Alarmed, Markezinis urgently asked to see Papadopoulos and share his information. To his astonishment, Papadopoulos assured him that it was all but rumours and invited him to a meeting with himself and Ioannidis, so that Markezinis would see for himself ‘whether Ioannidis was capable of doing such a dishonourable thing. The meeting was to be held on Monday the 26th .’135 Apparently Papadopoulos had irreversibly lost control of developments in the officer corps. He was tricked by Ioannidis, who pretended to be collecting information about the officers’ attitudes (this way, two years before, he had saved Papadopoulos’ leadership). Papadopoulos was confused by the conflicting rumours and, although he suspected Ioannidis,’ he was not expecting a coup that time in November, convinced that the martial law proclaimed after the Polytechnic events, which put the army in alert regardless of which commanders were implicated in the conspiracy, served his plan. Thus, lacking information, he was overtaken by Ioannidis’ coup. Elites and the International Factor Even before Markezinis took office he secured, if not anything else, the EEC’s non-adversary position. There were some positive albeit cautious comments for him in some European states; and some EEC officials were even expressing content with his government. Markezinis had good links in the past with some European leaders like West Germany’s exChancellor Adenauer, and some political groups within the EEC were positive to him.136 Again, Papadopoulos caused objections as to what democracy he had in mind, and the EEC was expecting him and Markezinis to give credentials of sincerity, as the British ambassador noted in a report to the Foreign Office: ‘Britain and Western Europe are more likely to preserve their interests here… by a quiet policy of wait-and-see rather than by public expressions of skepticism about the intentions of the Greek Republic and its masters.’137 Markezinis’ appointment was welcomed at the diplomatic level; he was congratulated by the US President Nixon and US ambassador in Athens Tasca; by the UK ambassador Hooper bearing a warm message from PM Heath; by the West German ambassador with a similar message from Chancellor Brandt. ‘The international reactions to the change were unexpectedly positive. Nowhere was the issue of de jure recognition of the new democracy raised.’138 Also, the New York Times noted in an article on

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Greece that for the first time after six and a half years Greece had a cabinet free from the military and as PM an efficient politician, appreciated even by his political rivals. Interestingly some non-aligned and Eastern bloc leaders congratulated Markezinis too, such as Tito of Yugoslavia, Boumedienne of Algeria and Ceausescu of Rumania. On November 10th it was announced that the latter would visit Greece late that month. This attitude was explicable in as much as Markezinis was always for the opening of Greece, and of the West in general, to non-western and non-aligned countries, and a keen supporter of the détente between West and East. Summing up the case for support to Markezinis, a British diplomat reported in November that ‘the so-called Markezinis experiment is the most encouraging development in Greece for some years, not least in the evidence it provides of the limitations on Papadopoulos’s power. While it may well founder for reasons beyond our control it could stand a better chance of leading to a more acceptable form of government in Greece if it were to be given greater support from other governments than it has received so far.’139 The politicians tried to discredit the reforma to the world. The Dutch ambassador in Athens noted in his diaries that just a few days after Markezinis took office he had a visit from Mavros, who had recently returned from a trip to Western Europe, and ‘feared that the European Community would consider reviving the Association Agreement with Greece.’ He added that the Markezinis government and the one that would come after the elections ‘would be nothing but a tool in the hands of Papadopoulos’ and feared that ‘a more positive forthcoming attitude of the EEC [to Greece] after the elections would be unavoidable.’ Barkman also wrote on the 18th of October that the ambassadors of the nine EEC countries, who were meeting regularly to discuss the situation in Greece, agreed that ‘the leaders of the ERE and the Centre Union would not act in the best interests of Greek democracy if they were to abstain from the general elections.’140 A British diplomat concurred that ‘the hesitant politicians should be encouraged to try out the Markezinis experiment not in order to demonstrate that it is a sham, but in order to see whether it is, or can be turned to, a reality…If this opportunity for politicking is passed up, another may not occur in their active lifetimes.’141 If the international conjuncture is taken into account however, Markezinis could not have taken office at a worse moment: just one day before, on October 7th, the Yom Kippur war broke out with the joined forces of Egyptians and Syrians attacking Israel, which stopped their

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advance, counter-attacked and invaded both countries. The intervention of the United Nations, following a dangerous escalation of tension in the superpowers’ relations, imposed a cease-fire agreement. The Americans were in urgent need to supply Israel with weapons and materiel in the first crucial days. For this they wanted to use their bases in Europe to operate an air bridge for the constant flow of supplies but met with the firm denial of all European states. The Greek government too denied the use of Greek air space, stating that the US could make use of no more facilities than those mentioned in the January 1973 agreement and could ask again after the elections. The Greek foreign minister Palamas said ‘the friendly relations of Greece with the Arab countries exclude any participation, either direct or indirect, in acts against them…the Greek sea and air space is not used for any action that has to do with the war situation in the Middle East.’142 The Greek government’s attitude was one of neutrality, one more of many similar cases of interim governments that ‘were more likely to defer major foreign policy decisions until after the first elections had been successfully held.’143 Kissinger confirms the denial as he mentions Palamas’ statement on the 13th of October that ‘“US bases have nothing to do with the Arab–Israeli war” (October 13 happened to be the start of our all-out airlift).’144 It was this attitude that presumably turned the Americans against Papadopoulos and Markezinis. A US diplomat in Athens was heard openly saying in a meeting that ‘the Markezinis government must go; and Papadopoulos too. We [the US] want neither him nor Markezinis.’145 Markezinis himself claimed that his overthrow was due to the US opposition to his government, as he was known for his independence from US interests.146 In an interview twenty years later he said that ‘it was not the Polytechnic uprising that brought me down; rather, it was Kissinger… [He] had asked me to give him the bases for operations in Crete. Because he thought the war would go on. I did not want us to have anything to do with that.’147 He even says in his memoirs that he believed that ‘had [the Yom Kippur war] been forecast or anticipated, it is very difficult that some interests would have tolerated the political change in Greece, as the future Prime Minister had publicly talked against the plan of homeporting of the 6th US Fleet in Greece.’148 Some (Passas 1980) blame Markezinis for dragging Papadopoulos to the downfall because of his anti-Americanism. Nevertheless none of the many governments that denied the Americans the use of their naval and air bases faced US subversion, and the

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question is why Greece should be the exception. Moreover, a US Memorandum, acknowledged that publicly the Greek government ‘adopted a slightly pro-Arab posture during the recent war…The government was, however, privately helpful to the United States in a variety of ways…they allowed us use of Souda Bay airfield, to a much greater extent and for different purposes than is called for in our bilateral agreement…[and] placed no restrictions on… the Sixth Fleet’s access to Greek ports.’149 Also, a British diplomat rejected these accusations: ‘several American press reports have been carried here alleging strong criticism in Washington, particularly from the Pentagon, which singled out Greece among NATO allies as uncooperative. According to these reports, the Americans had put pressure on the Greeks to allow overflights, and were particularly annoyed that Soviet transport planes had used Greek air space without this provoking any particular Greek riposte. There appears to be no truth in this allegation.’150 In any case, it is certain that US officials were already aware of the conspiracies in the army against Papadopoulos. For example, in July an American General attending a military manoeuvre along with Rear Admiral Arapakis, asked his opinion about the Markezinis government and the elections. When Arapakis said it could develop smoothly, the American responded ‘we shall see what Ioannidis has to say about this.’151 Also, according to rumours, Ioannidis was boasting two months before November 1973 that ‘the Americans’ were advising him to topple Papadopoulos; he added, however, that he resisted their ‘advice’—at least for the time. There is also a report about a supposed meeting between Ioannidis and CIA agent Potts, who had served in Greece before, and tried to convince Ioannidis to topple Papadopoulos. Ioannidis supposedly enjoyed the support of some CIA officials152 ; Ambassador Tasca was not one of them though, as later he said ‘Ioannidis was no good from the start… all my reports from November 73 clearly indicated he was a big setback …but both the US and NATO chose to downplay them.’153 Another factor blamed for the negative attitude of the Americans towards the Markezinis government has to do with the developments in Cyprus. Some think that ‘Ioannidis was considered the best person available for the solution of the two intertwined problems that were a source of concern for the American administration: one was the Greek-Turkish relations, the other was the Cyprus issue. Ioannidis was well aware of the Cyprus issue, as he had served there in 1964. He was also cynical enough to be able to negotiate with the Turks regardless of the Greek

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nationalist feelings.’154 Markezinis wrote that ‘had my government not been deposed, the disaster in Cyprus would never have taken place.’155 With that statement agreed even opponents of Markezinis like Mavros, who said to the Public Prosecutor during an inquisition on the Cyprus events that ‘if Markezinis could, he would certainly have prevented it [the anti-Makarios coup of July 1974].’156 Moreover, the only foreign leader to be hosted by Markezinis was Makarios himself. On November 6th he stopped in Athens for a few hours on his way to Malta and met with Markezinis. It was claimed that the new phase in the Greek–Cypriot relations opening with Markezinis was one more reason for some forces not to allow it to last (Grigoriadis 1975); but this is again speculation.

From dictadura to Collapse: The Aftermath On November 25 General Phaedon Ghizikis was sworn in as ‘President of the Republic’; Ad. Androutsopoulos, a minister in the Papadopoulos cabinets rumoured (Murtagh 1994) to have been a CIA agent, became Prime Minister. The early reaction of most of the ex-politicians and the people to the new dictatorship was positive. The Greeks, unaware of the underground regime factions’ struggles, had misinterpreted the real intentions of the new ruling group. Some thought that the dictatorship disguised under a democratic façade was over, and that elections were imminent. Soon, however, relief gave its place to concern, disappointment and fear (Arapakis 2000; Bonanos 1986). Averoff spoke of a ‘worse dictatorship’ in a memorandum he sent to general Ghizikis, stipulating that in the first days after the coup ‘there prevailed everywhere a sense of general relief and joy, of lively optimism for the future, a feeling of devotion toward the Armed Forces. These feelings however were shortlived. Hopes were frustrated.’157 A report of the British ambassador in early December shared this dismay: ‘behind a cabinet of mediocrities, the real sovereigns of Greece are Ioannidis and his men. The main line of their ideology is “back to 1967” and the cracking of (political and economic) corruption that characterized the Papadopoulos regime. One thing is henceforth certain: the future of Greece is gloomy.’158 Even the EDA leader Iliou admitted in May 1974 in an interview to Le Monde that ‘the Markezinis government was the only solution for Greece and it was a pity that it did not succeed.’159 Ioannidis gave evidence of his intentions when he visited Pattakos in December and told him ‘we are not joking.

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We will have a dictatorship, send all our opponents to exile on the islands and stay in power for many years!’.160 The first months of 1974 passed in rumours that a new political solution was brewing161 ; however, nothing proved that the regime was willing to give way to civilians. There was no anti-regime activity until July 1974, apart from a few articles in the daily Vradyni, which was immediately banned. Crushed after the Polytechnic events, opposition groups were too weak to challenge the regime.162 Deportation camps reopened early in 1974, and the regime elite ruled in absolute isolation from every organised interest in and out of Greece. The ‘invisible dictator’ Ioannidis ‘continued to associate only with brother officers. He secured their promotions, cared for their families, seemed void of personal ambition and shunned all publicity.’163 In foreign relations too, Greece was again isolated by all states but the US; the disastrous implications of this for the US–Greek relations were early on spotted by Tasca, who wrote in February 1974 that ‘the Greek Armed Forces have become a symbol of repression, tyranny, and disarray. Their association in their present state and posture with NATO and the U.S. remains ominous for our future security interests in Greece.’164 Also, as a State Department memorandum stressed, ‘disillusionment has grown from our previous association with the Papadopoulos regime, intensified by the widespread belief that the CIA was involved in the November 25 coup and that the United States favours the present regime…[antiAmericanism] will grow as long as we are seen to be identified with unpopular rule and will erode the principal long-term force holding Greece close to the United States.’165 But the issue to ignite the final outburst of the situation was Cyprus. Already on the day of the Ioannidis coup, a British diplomat was predicting trouble on the island: ‘the new Government poses immediate problems for its allies not only in NATO but also in Cyprus. What will be [the] policy of [the] new Government is anyone’s guess. Let’s hope that it will pursue same wisdom i.e. to avoid any step which could lead to a confrontation with Turkey. Let’s hope also that Turkey will not try to take advantage of any faux pas by [the] new Greek Government.’166 Makarios sent to Ghizikis on 3 July 1974 a letter complaining for subversion by Greek officers and demanding that Athens recall its troops from Cyprus. On July 15th anti-Makarios forces of the Cypriot National Guard revolted and deposed Makarios; he escaped to a British base and was taken to London, where he denounced the Greek-inspired conspiracy and called

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the UN to restore legality in Cyprus. Five days later, on July 20th, Turkish forces landed on Cyprus and within three days had occupied important pockets, until the UN imposed a cease-fire agreement. In Greece the invasion rang the death knell of the regime. Androutsopoulos reacted by ordering general mobilisation, which resulted in chaos. The situation made some 250 officers stationed in northern Greece issue a statement denouncing the regime and its invisible head. At the same time, the discredit the army had suffered because of the invasion and its incapacity to defend Cyprus induced the military-as-institution to finally extricate themselves. It was now their corporate status that was challenged, and they claimed they had been burdened with the junta’s shortcomings and inefficiencies, for which they were not responsible. Androutsopoulos resigned on July 23rd; that afternoon the Greek military and political elites (ex-prime ministers, Markezinis included, party leaders and diplomats) were summoned by Ghizikis to consider the handling of the transition to civilian rule. It was decided that a coalition government between the ERE of Kanellopoulos and the EK of Mavros be formed, bringing together the two most fervent enemies of Markezinis. A few hours later, however, that solution collapsed: ex-minister Averoff and US ambassador Tasca conferred and agreed on calling Karamanlis from Paris to return to Athens and form a government of national unity, which he did the same night. After more than seven years, democracy was finally restored in Greece.167 Karamanlis had to face many problems: the restructuring of democratic institutions, the question of the form of the Greek polity, an economy hit by the oil shock, the crisis between Greece and NATO caused due to its inertia during the Cyprus events, and, finally, the Cyprus problem itself. However, in contrast to Markezinis, he enjoyed a wide consensus of the elites and of the people. The first elections after ten years took place in November, giving his New Democracy party a sweeping majority of 53%. Papandreou, who had denounced the Karamanlis government as a ‘NATO change of guard in Athens,’ eventually changed his mind and returned to Greece to run in politics again. The KKE was also legalised. The purges of the state from the contingents of the dictatorship started as soon as democracy was restored. The danger posed by the military, however, was not immediately eliminated; in February 1975 a conspiracy was frustrated, ending with the forced retirement of hundreds of officers from the armed forces and the police (Psomiades 1982). In July 1975 the insurgents of 1967 were brought to justice. Papadopoulos, Pattakos,

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Makarezos and Ioannidis, among others, received death penalties for high treason, later commuted to life imprisonment. Papadopoulos and Ioannidis spent the rest of their lives in prison. Also, trials were organised for the Polytechnic massacre. Markezinis and his ministers were exonerated from all relative charges, and in 1979 he shortly revived his pre-1967 Progressive Party168 before retiring until his death in 2000.

Conclusions The most important cause of the failure of the Greek reforma was the military nature of the regime and Papadopoulos’ failure to effectively deal with the hard-liners. Control over the officer corps was long lost; moreover, for the Greek military, professionalism in Greece in 1973 was, as put it, ‘a stimulant to intervention rather than de-intervention and democratisation.’169 The regime had furthermore failed to create links with the politicians and the civil society tired by the six-year-long oppression. A positive economic performance was the only good card Papadopoulos had, and he was under pressure from abroad to democratise if Greece was to re-join the European integration process. Aware of all that, Papadopoulos started the transition process aiming at perpetuating his privileges, and institutionally controlling the democracy-to-be. It is debatable whether he had a clear idea of how much he should concede in return for the above privileges. The Greek reforma of 1973 hence evolved in two phases: the early one, from June 1st to October 8th, and the main phase, thereafter until the 25th of November. The first phase was a typical relative regime liberalisation, with Papadopoulos offering too limited concessions for it to be called a proper transition; indeed, until August the opposition were rightfully suspicious about his hasty ‘civilianisation’. It all started changing, however, when Markezinis stepped in; he had a more plausible idea about a proper democratisation and knew Papadopoulos’ need for legitimacy could be further exploited, which he started doing with success. In early November 1973 it can be claimed that, for the first time, the regime had truly engaged in a real process of self-transformation. Still, as with all similar transition processes, it was precarious, open-ended and contingent. In case of success ‘the regime would have cleared a critical hurdle in its search for a broader base of support, and would have gained a minimum degree of wider acceptance that was the sine qua non of its viability in a form other than sheer repression.’170 In November 1973 the conditions

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that could allow for a democratic transition were there. Interestingly the Dutch ambassador records that on December 5th, after a meeting with Markezinis he was ‘indeed impressed by what he [Markezinis] had been able to get Papadopoulos’ agreement for-even after the disturbances.’171 That this did not materialise is due to the military ‘monolithic’ nature of the regime. The 1967 plotters had diverging goals: most of them wanted to stay in power for their lifetime. However, for Papadopoulos the regime was not to last forever: he knew that ‘the military oligarchy is not a complete regime. It has neither a comprehensive programme nor a perspective into the future…it has no provision for succession.’172 Thus, for him the dictatorship was supposed to sideline some political groups and hand in power to ‘selected’ civilians after having institutionalised its interests, without a proper democracy restored. The reaction of the hard-liners revealed the very low coherence of the regime coalition: the most important element in explaining its stagnation and collapse. By 1973 it was already late for the regime to take advantage of whatever early successes it had.173 Moreover, Greece lacked a personality like Juan Carlos in Spain to take the transition risk from the relatively safe point of uncontested leader within the regime. In 1973 Papadopoulos had lost control of the army; still he thought that he could evasively manipulate Ioannidis, as he had done with other hard-liners before. The real causes of his failure and downfall were accurately pictured in a US State Department telegram: ‘Papadopoulos’ weakness was his indecisiveness. He avoided confrontation at almost any cost. Even when he knew that General Ioannidis posed a grave threat to his future he hesitated, and refused to take what seemed to be [the] inevitable steps to confront and eliminate Ioannidis from the Athens scene.’174 Barkman concludes that ‘history may judge that it was his [Papadopoulos’] misfortune-if not necessarily his country’s- that the treachery of his own most trusted follower [Ioannidis] deprived him of the opportunity to undo the harm he had done to Greece.’175 All other factors pointed out for the collapse of the reforma, i.e. people’s resistance and foreign interference are not sufficient explanatory variables. ‘The resistance had kept him [Papadopoulos] isolated internationally but it could not topple him.’176 Papadopoulos and Markezinis were deposed by a military coup, not by a people’s revolt. The argument that the Polytechnic events triggered an inter-regime crisis is not valid, as Ioannidis and his die-hards would have moved anyway. The situation in Greece in the summer/autumn of 1973 was such that a failure of the reforma would not mean a return to democracy, but a reverse to

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authoritarianism, as the ultimate arbiter was the army, which was under Ioannidis’ control. Markezinis himself had prophetically said, interviewed by Le Monde in September, ‘if I fail, power will pass into the hands of a Greek Gaddafi.’177 As for Kissinger, similar attitudes to Markezinis’ position during the Yom Kippur war were adopted by other European governments, which did not face subversion. If the international factor is to blame at all, the reason is that ‘foreign governments refused to give Markezinis support and to heed to his warnings of what was [the] alternative.’178 Some apologists of Papadopoulos have tried to blame his failure on the counter-elites. Characteristically, Passas claimed that ‘none of the political leaders had realised that Papadopoulos was sincerely aiming to civilianisation and would gradually, through free elections, achieve full normalisation of political life, as it would be unwise on his behalf…to proceed to full restoration of democratic politics, given that the more numerous and more dynamic officers were hostile to civilianisation.’179 This opinion ignores that Papadopoulos was untrustworthy in the eyes of the politicians, and the promises of Markezinis alone proved unfit to make up for this lack of trust. However, the fact that many politicians refused negotiating raises questions on whether they were mistakenly confident about the possibility of democracy returning by other means, or feared an early retirement if Markezinis proceeded to elections in which many of their parties’ rank and file might participate. Ironically, only the hard-liners were convinced of the intentions of Papadopoulos and Markezinis. Apart from Papadopoulos’ false belief that he could outwit them, Markezinis was too conspicuous of his intentions while he should have been more cautious. He thus provided an example of how not to proceed with such a transition. This exposes the contradiction of his reforma, too timid to convince the opposition yet too far going for the hard-liners. The only opportunity to frustrate their plans might have been to call a snap election in the autumn of 1973, which would (as Suarez did in the spring of 1977), surprise everyone and prove his good intentions: ‘if elections were called in the first five days of November, and new developments got underway, what took place [the Polytechnic events and the November coup] would not have happened.’180 Things would have been different had the coup happened after elections had been called with the guarantees that Markezinis was to set. Finally, because of his last and infamous conference after the Polytechnic events, he has since been unfairly blamed for a short-lived and inconclusive collaboration with the

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dictatorship. Notwithstanding his mistakes and shortcomings, though, it needs to be acknowledged that he was well meaning and sincere in his intention to democratise Greece in 1973. The Greek failed reforma proved that good intentions alone are not enough when the nature of the regime is the most critical obstacle to a self-transformation; the shortcomings of Papadopoulos and Markezinis, along with the unfavourable fortuna (the Polytechnic events) gave their failure a unanimous disdain.

Notes 1. Stepan (1986: 75). 2. The plebiscite resulted in 64% positive votes for the monarchy. It was claimed that the outcome was pre-determined, not for the first time in Greek history. See Meynaud (1974), Legg (1969). 3. Woodhouse (1982: 22). 4. Danopoulos (1991: 30). 5. Veremis (1997: 244). 6. For a profile of the ERE see Meynaud (1974). On EDA see Kapetanyannis (1987), Meynaud (1974). 7. See Koundouros (1978) for the laws and decrees passed during the civil war; also Meynaud (1974), Diamandouros (1986). Mouzelis (1978) speaks of a ‘semi-parliamentary regime’ in Greece after 1949. 8. As Legg and Roberts (1997: 50) put it, ‘despite the enormous strides in economic development, prosperity had not touched everyone.’ A vivid description of the barriers posed to those groups by the state structures is given in Papandreou (1974). 9. The best account for these elections is in Meynaud (1974); see also Papandreou (1974). 10. See Meynaud (1974) for the structure and time of EK in office. 11. For different accounts of the events of 1965 see Legg (1969), Papandreou (1974), Meynaud (1974). 12. Diamandouros (1986: 145). 13. A journalist counts fourteen military factions that co-operated to make the coup (Kakaounakis 1976 A’). 14. Mouzelis (1978) considers the coup as the product of the corporate interests of the military seeking ascendance in the hierarchy and social recognition of their status. Papandreou (1974) agrees but over-stresses the foreign (American) interference. 15. Interestingly, in the 1950s some fellow officers used to call Papadopoulos ‘little Nasser.’ 16. This type of regime combines ‘high unity, fairly high differentiation (though allowing for association between the military and privileged or

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17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

25.

26.

27.

28.

29.

30.

31. 32.

centralist political groups), high threat, and medium or high autonomy’ (Clapham and Philip 1985: 8–9). The deviation of the Greek regime from that type is obvious. Veremis (1997: 268–269). On the failed royal counter-coup see Kakaounakis (1976), Grigoriadis (1975), Haralambis (1985). Kakaounakis (1976: A’ 185). Grigoriadis 1975 speaks of one serious crisis per year from 1969 to 1973. Murtagh (1994: 207). ‘Greece: internal situation.’ FCO9/1705, 4/4/1972. Manesis (1999: 43). Sotiropoulos (1999: 128). Legg and Roberts (1997: 53) agree that ‘the continued economic growth reduced the incentive to actively oppose the new leaders.’ Haralambis (1985: 295) concurs: ‘the ideological poverty of the dictatorship was to some extent counter-balanced by the rise of incomes and consumption was one of the most substantial factors of passivity towards the regime.’ According to some accounts, the first days after the imposition of the coup 8270 persons were arrested and deported; later this number rose to 13,177 (Koundouros 1978). Theodorakopoulos (1976: 184) exaggeratedly claims that ‘more than 50% of the people welcomed the coup as a necessary evil brought about by the intolerable squabbling of the politicians.’ As Korizis notes, the passivity was the result of ‘selfish interest calculations’ of large parts of the Greek society. Markezinis too (1979: 135) recalls the ‘impressive passivity of Greeks until 1973…aided by their economic well-being.’ Verney and Couloumbis (1991: 107) speak of ‘shrugging indifference’ towards the coup that with time ‘turned into increasingly widespread impatience and resentment.’ Haralambis (1999: 89) speaks of a ‘climate of economic euphoria’ (mainly from 1970 to 1973), in which ‘with the price of the loss of one’s individual and collective political autonomy, one could enjoy the privilege of….the distributive function of the state.’ Numbers taken from tables of the National Statistical Service of Greece. See also Zournatzis and Mihalopoulos (1998), and Theodoracopoulos (1976) for a positive account of the regime’s economic performance. See Meletopoulos (1996) for the data provided by OECD Reports. Mouzelis (1978) agrees with the rapid growth. For the deficit see Pesmazoglou (1976), who challenges the regime’s presumed successes in the economy. Markezinis (1979) recalls a meeting with Pattakos in early 1973, in which the latter was concerned about the economy. Meletopoulos (1996: 409).

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33. Danopoulos (1991: 30). 34. Characteristically, the most remembered motto of the dictatorship years is ‘Greece of Christian Greeks.’ For the anti-western spirit of the dictatorship see Clogg (1976), Diamandouros (1986). 35. Theodoracopoulos (1976: 171) stresses ‘the peasant, puritanical, and strict religious upbringing of the plotters’ bringing them close to that group. 36. According to Mantoglou (1995), between 1967 and 1974, 174 bombs were placed in the periphery of Athens alone. However, this did not turn the people more active. Notaras 1999 describes the resistance groups as fragmented, small in number, isolated, short-lived and aiming more at showing the existence of dissent in Greece rather than at toppling the dictatorship. 37. ‘Greece: internal situation’, ibid. 38. Couloumbis et al. (1976: 144). 39. Featherstone (1987: 9). 40. Murtagh (1994: 124). 41. Papahelas (1997: 327). 42. Some Pentagon officials considered the coup ‘the best thing that happened in Athens since the time of Pericles’ (Papahelas 1997: 354). Also Murtagh (1994: 231) quotes a US naval officer saying ‘once the junta took over, from a military point of view we were more secure in Greece.’ According to a State Department official, ‘the Arab–Israeli conflict dramatized the importance of Greek land and sea space in the Mediterranean and the need for friendly relations with the Greek government’ (Murtagh 1994: 155). Woodhouse (1985: 40) agrees that the war was ‘the greatest stroke of luck for the junta.’ 43. ‘Whatever Washington might say publicly about the desirability of a return to democracy, Greek internal affairs were…about number 32 on the list of Washington’s priorities’ (Murtagh 1994: 154). 44. Couloumbis (1976: 113). 45. ‘As usual, Moscow was differentiating its state policy from its relations with her sister communist parties’ (Woodhouse 1985: 84). 46. Woodhouse (1985: 166). 47. FRUS, Vol. XXX, National Intelligence Estimate: Short-Term Prospects in Greece, 19/7/1973. 48. By 1972 the EEC ‘provided 55% of Greece’s total imports and took 61% of its total exports’ (Verney and Tsakaloyannis 1986: 182). 49. Hooper to FCO, Greece: Annual Review for 1972, 2/1/1973, FCO9/1709. 50. Verney and Couloumbis (1991) speak of a ‘secret war’ against Makarios.

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51. ‘Immune from criticism by parliamentary opponents, Papadopoulos decided that good relations with Turkey were more important than the romantic dream of Enosis ’ (Theodoracopoulos 1976: 25). See also Xydis (1976). 52. Haralambis (1985: 287). 53. FRUS, ibid. 54. Veremis (1997: 262). According to a CIA report of early 1967, Papadopoulos had said, in December 1966, that once the ‘Revolution’ prevailed he intended to seek US support for a series of social and economic measures that would neutralise the shift of some Greeks to the left. See Papachelas (1998: 273). 55. Markezinis was one of the first people in Greece to assume liberal policies: he tried to rehabilitate its devastated infrastructure and industry; he succeeded in bringing investors to Greece from Western Europe and the US; restructured the banking sector; and tried to expand markets for the country’s products. But his most memorable—and controversial—measure was the devaluation of the Greek currency in April 1953. For Markezinis’ economic policies see Linardatos (1986). Meletopoulos (1996: 378, 380) calls Markezinis ‘a really progressive bourgeois element’ and a ‘substantially radical personality’ in Greece. 56. Markezinis had with surprising accuracy predicted, interviewed in February 1967, that there would be no elections ‘because the time of the Unknown Colonel is coming (Markezinis 1994: 149)!’. 57. Details of this incident are given in Grigoriadis (1975), Kakaounakis (1976), Psicharis (1975), Woodhouse (1982). 58. Veremis (1997: 267). 59. FCO9/1709, 2/1/1973. 60. CIA Intelligence Memorandum, Papadopoulos: a Question of Survival, 25 September 1972. 61. Gill (2000: 169). 62. In May 1972 the EEC Commission had said it regarded the return to democracy in Greece as ‘one of the basic conditions of association.’ Papadopoulos himself had said in December of the same year that ‘geographically, politically, and economically we belong to Europe. And it is from within Europe that we are called on to develop our life in the future’ (quoted in Verney and Tsakaloyannis 1986: 184). 63. Details of the February–March 1973 events are given in Papazoglou (1975). 64. See Papazoglou (1975) for Papadopoulos’ views on the events. 65. See Veremis (1997) for numbers of officers persecuted during the dictatorship. 66. Papadimitriou (1985: 103). 67. Martin to FCO, Karamanlis, 26/4/1973, FCO9/1711.

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68. For an analysis of the need of many officers to dissociate themselves from the regime see Verney and Couloumbis (1991). For the impact of the naval coup abroad see Papadimitriou (1985). 69. Veremis (1997: 166). 70. O’Donnell and Schmitter (1986: 17). According to Alivizatos 1986 the presidential powers were comparable to those of Turkey; see also Diamandouros (1986). The Dutch ambassador was told by some ‘intimi’ of Papadopoulos that he was in favour of a type of democracy more or less along Turkish lines (Barkman 1989). 71. Hooper to FCO, Abolition of Monarchy, 6/6/1973, FCO9/1713. 72. FRUS, Vol. XXX, Memorandum From Acting Secretary of State Rush to President Nixon, 12/6/1973. 73. Hooper to FCO, Greek Referendum of 1973, 1/9/1973, FCO9/1714. 74. For instance, the British ambassador reported that Markezinis said ‘if the junta knew what I intended to do, they would never have made me Prime Minister (Hooper to FCO, FCO9/1729, 1/11/1973).’ 75. At that time an article in the daily Vima stating that the Markezinis’ cabinet would not lead the country to elections and that a new solution was being prepared in the backstage, caused Markezinis’ reaction. He is said to have raised the issue to Papadopoulos; the latter confirmed his support (Kakaounakis 1976 A’). 76. ‘If 70 or 80% [of the parties] agreed on the constitutional amendment, who could veto it?’ was the basis for that argument of Markezinis (1979: 274). Barkman agreed that Papadopoulos’ room for manoeuvre would gradually decrease after the referendum, so it would be easier to get more concessions from him. 77. Martin to Cornish, 17/9/1973, Denson Report on US/Greek relations, FCO9/1732. 78. For this term see O’Donnell and Schmitter (1986: 25). 79. Extensive excerpts of that letter of Tsatsos in Karamanlis (1994). 80. In the words of Linz and Stepan (1986: 4), this fallacy occurs when ‘a necessary condition for democracy, free elections [being] seen as a sufficient condition of democracy.’ 81. Rallis, quoted in Leontaritis (2003: 166–167). 82. Markezinis (1994: 185). 83. Grigoriadis (1975 C’: 39). 84. On this see Barkman (1989: 146). Markezinis (1979: 265). 85. Markezinis (1979: 268). 86. Hooper to Cornish, Internal Political Situation, 6/9/1973, FCO9/1716. 87. Cited in Grigoriadis (1975 C’: 38). 88. Barkman (1989: 120) thought that Mavros ‘has changed his mind for fear of losing the left wing of his party (which he may well lose in any

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89. 90. 91.

92. 93. 94. 95. 96.

97. 98. 99. 100. 101.

102.

103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112.

event) and of the attraction that Markezinis may have for some of the right wing members of the Centre Union.’ Diamantopoulos (1990: 355). Papandreou (1976: 57). Barkman (1989: 105) also spotted that (ibid.: 119) ‘in other oppositional circles it is pointed out that this negative attitude makes no sense as long as there is no alternative.’ Hooper to FCO, 13/11/1973, FCO9/1716. Martin to FCO, The Internal Political Debate, 25/10/1973, FCO9/1716. KKE (1976: 65), 14for the two quotations. NARA, Secretary of State to US Embassy in Moscow, Political Manoeuvres on the Left, 26/10/1973. For instance, the Union of Greek Industrialists’ Bulletin of July 1973 said that the positive vote in the plebiscite ‘meant the guarantee of stability, social order and economic development’ (Haralambis 1985: 288). Markezinis (1979) recalls his support from the leadership of the Greek Industrialists’ Association. Woodhouse (1985: 121). Bonanos (1986: 102) for both quotations. Grigoriadis (1975 C’: 31). Bonanos (1986: 112) for both quotations. Veremis too stresses the officers’ reaction to charges of ineptitude, nepotism and corruption against the regime, which discredited the military as a whole, as well as to one-man rule and overtures to the old-time politicians. Arapakis (2000: 110). Markezinis (1979) considers his mistake the fact that he overestimated Papadopoulos’ presumed control over the army when he took office, claiming that he would not accept the premiership had he known the truth. Both citations in Grigoriadis (1975 B’: 272). Barkman (1989: 115–16). Cited in Grigoriadis (1975 C’: 38). Shain and Linz (1995: 56). Grigoriadis (1975), Barkman (1989: 118) saw in these first statements of Markezinis ‘a positive, decisive and pragmatic spirit.’ All the above statements are in Grigoriadis (1975 C’: 35–37). Markezinis (1979: 407). Grigoriadis (1975 C’: 74). Martin to FCO, FCO9/1716, 8/11/1973. Konofagos (1982). Papazoglou (1983: 127) says that ‘the idea to occupy the Campus belonged to extreme leftists –Maoists, Trotskyites etc.groups.’ The Dean noted that on the 14th the ‘traditional left’ student organisations were for a ‘tactical retreat’ and for leaving the campus, while the non-party affiliated students were for the occupation.

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113. ‘[On the first days of the demonstrations]…the Police mysteriously vanished. No attempt was made either to disperse the crowds or to halt the supplies of money, food and medicines pouring into the School, or to jam the student radio. The crowds grew larger (Andrews 1980: 195).’ Even the KKE (1976: 55) report on the Polytechnic events considers this ‘an honouring of the liberalization plan.’ 114. Konofagos (1982: 47). 115. Mantoglou (1995: 218). 116. Cited in Papazoglou (1975: 202). 117. Grigoriadis (1975 C’: 92). 118. ‘This was a nonsense that lead to a tragic mistake…if not an agitation, it was an expression of the anarchist tendencies prevalent in the people’s movement’ (Rodakis 1975: 356). Theodorakopoulos too harshly criticizes the demonstrators’ behaviour. 119. Konofagos (1982) gives a number of 100,000 demonstrators. According to other accounts that he presents, the people in and around the Polytechnic were about 20,000. 120. Markezinis was unaware of those moves. The extent of his sidelining is vividly portrayed in his memoirs (1979), where he says that he first heard of tanks moving into Athens in a phone call of the Times ’ journalist Mondiano. 121. Cited in Grigoriadis (1975 C’: 110). 122. Theodorakopoulos (1976) claims 25 people died; Murtagh (1994) exaggeratedly speaks of more than 50 dead. Grigoriadis (1975 C’) considers the social composition of the arrested (half of whom were workers) as one more proof of the disapproval of the reforma by the civil society. See also Zournatzis and Mihalopoulos (1998). Nevertheless, Mantoglou (1995: 213) quotes a participant at the occupation saying that ‘the students were in collision not only with the regime, but also with parts of the Greek people…many of their slogans did not represent the people and thus could not be accepted.’ Barkman (1989) agrees. 123. FCO/PREM 15/1611, 20/11/1973. 124. Both citations in Grigoriadis (1975 C’: 111). Woodhouse (1982) agrees on the blunder of Markezinis, although he stresses the latter’s insistence on the timetable for elections in February. 125. As Androutsopoulos (1993: 49) claims, ‘there was a power vacuum and the country was living at the brink of anarchy, a first touch of which was experienced during the days of the Polytechnic events.’ 126. Hooper to FCO, Greek Internal Situation, 20/11/1973, FCO9/1712. 127. Markezinis (1979: 416). He refers to the conference he was about to give on the elections. 128. Theodoracopoulos (1976: 234). 129. FCO/PREM 15/1611, 20/11/1973.

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130. For the presence of Ioannidis around the campus see Woodhouse (1985), Papazoglou (1983). Gizikis would later testify that the date for the Ioannidis coup was set two months before, between the 20th of November and the 10th of December (Konofagos 1982). 131. Markezinis (1979: 409). 132. Markezinis (1979: 454). 133. Kakaounakis (1976 B’: 48). For details on the preparations of the coup see Arapakis (2000), Grigoriadis (1975 C’); Kakaounakis, ibid. 134. Markezinis (1994: 213). 135. Markezinis (1994: 215). 136. Interestingly Papandreou (1976: 231) blames the European Social Democracy for urging ‘the bourgeois political world of Greece to accept that solution.’ 137. Hooper to Home, Abolition of the Greek Monarchy, 15/6/1973, FCO9/1713. In March and April 1973, EEC Commissioners Soames and Dahrendorf respectively had stated that only when democratic institutions were fully restored would the EEC restore its relations with Greece. This position did not officially change with Markezinis taking over. 138. Woodhouse (1982: 177). 139. Goodison to FCO, British Policy towards Greece, 13/11/1973, FCO9/1732. 140. All citations from Barkman’s diary in Barkman (1989: 119–121). The same day he noted that ‘Kanellopoulos and Mavros are asking more than can be realistically obtained—and most of us [EEC ambassadors] have told them so (ibid.: 120).’ 141. Baker to FCO, 2/11/1973, FCO9/1716. The US diplomats in Athens agreed, as the British ambassador noted that ‘like us the Americans are irritated by the irresponsible and unconstructive attitude of most of the opposition (Hooper to Goodison, Greece: Internal Situation. 25/11/1973 /12 FCO9/1717).’ 142. Grigoriadis (1975 C’: 45). 143. Stanger (1995: 275). 144. Kissinger (1982: 708–709). 145. Cited in Grigoriadis (1975 C’: 47). Haralambis (1985: 286) says that from this point ‘one of the most important reasons of US foreign policy support to the military dictatorship had ceased to exist.’ Verney and Couloumbis (1991: 110) agree: ‘[the refusal] was particularly important for the USA…this created doubts in Washington concerning the Junta’s reliability as an ally during any future Middle East crisis.’ So does Passas (1980). 146. It is interesting to note that Markezinis (1979: 253), interviewed early in 1973 said that ‘it is wise to say “no” to the Americans every now and then.’

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147. Markezinis, interview to the daily Kathimerini, 21/2/1993. 148. Markezinis (1979: 206). 149. FRUS, Vol. XXX, Action Memorandum from the Director of the Policy Planning Staff (Lord) to Secretary of State Kissinger, US Policy toward Greece, 15/2/1974. 150. Martin to Cornish, Greece and the Middle East crisis, 1/11/1973, FCO9/1729. 151. Psicharis (1975: 24). 152. See Arapakis (2000), Grigoriadis (1975), Kakaounakis (1976) on those rumours. A classified State Department analysis on the 1974 Cyprus crisis, reports that ‘the CIA station [in Athens] was unable to contain its enthusiasm for Ioannidis’ who bypassed Tasca when he wanted to deal with Americans, dealing directly with the CIA instead (Murtagh 1994: 243). 153. Grigoriadis C: 137. 154. Woodhouse (1982: 212). 155. Markezinis (1979: 184). 156. Quoted in Markezinis (1994: 254). 157. Averoff’s memorandum, cited in Andrews (1980: 306). 158. FCO9 1717–6/12/1973. 159. Helmis (2007: 160). 160. Markezinis (1994). Ioannidis said exactly the same thing to Bonanos too. 161. Papandreou (1976) spoke of two factions in the regime, one aiming at perpetuating total military control in politics, and the other willing to agree with the politicians of the right and centre-right a civilianization allowing to the army a less conspicuous role. 162. As Kornetis (2013: 288) remarks, ‘no open action against the regime was recorded. Authoritarianism in its fullest form, as fantasized and practiced by Ioannidis did not allow for any sort of student mobility.’ 163. Theodoracopoulos (1976: 238). 164. FRUS, Vol. XXX, Telegram From the Embassy in Greece to the Department of State, The Military in Greece: Dominant Political Power at the Crossroads—A Country Team Assessment, 8/2/1974). 165. FRUS, Vol. XXX, Action Memorandum: US Policy toward Greece. 166. Gauvin to FCO, Aftermath of New Coup in Greece, 25/11/1973, FCO9/1717. 167. For the best accounts of those events see Diamandouros (1986), and Psomiades (1982). 168. His last appearance in politics was in the 1981 elections, when he got 1.9% of the votes. For a brief but accurate account of his short post-1974 career see Kohler (1982). 169. Danopoulos (1991: 38). 170. Diamandouros (1986: 153).

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171. Barkman (1989: 145). 172. Legg (1969: 241). 173. This was also because ‘social and political mobilisation, which had been achieved prior to the regime’s coming to power, made institutionalisation and legitimation all the more difficult, and forced the colonels to opt for liberalisation before sufficient time had elapsed (Diamandouros 1986: 154).’ 174. NARA, State Department to US Embassy in Tehran, Fall of Papadopoulos, 29/11/1973. 175. Barkman (1989: 138). Woodhouse (1982: 112) agrees that Papadopoulos’ ultimate goal was ‘to produce something new. He could only vaguely imagine what it was to be…..Whether he really contemplated ever renouncing power on his own volition can never be known.’ 176. Murtagh (1994: 239). 177. Markezinis (1979: 245). 178. Gauvin to FCO, Aftermath of New Coup in Greece, 25/11/1973, FCO9/1717. 179. Passas (1980: 546–547). Similarly, Theodoracopoulos (1976: 231) claims that ‘a historic opportunity was lost… if a climate of understanding had prevailed then, democracy would have returned to Greece without a heavy price’ pointing at the Cyprus events. 180. Bonanos (1986: 135).

References Primary Sources UK FCO9/1709 FCO9/1711 FCO9/1712 FCO9/1714 FCO9/1716 FCO9/1717 FCO9/1729 FCO9/1732 PREM 15/1611 USA FRUS (Foreign Relations of United States) Vol. XXX, GREECE; CYPRUS; TURKEY, 1973–76.

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NARA (National Archives and Records Administration).

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Kapetanyannis, V. 1987. The Communists. In Political Change in Greece: Before and After the Colonels, ed. K. Featherstone and D. Katsoudas, 145–173. London: Croom Helm. Karamanlis, K. 1994. Archive: Facts and Documents, vol. VII. Athens: Ekdotiki Athinon. Kissinger, H. 1982. Years of Upheaval. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson. KKE (Communist Party of Greece). 1976. Report and Conclusions on the November Events. Athens: KKE. Kohler, B. 1982. Political Forces in Spain, Greece and Portugal. London: Butterworths. Konofagos, K. 1982. The Polytechnic Uprising. Athens: n.p. Kornetis, K. 2013. Children of the Dictatorship: Student Resistance, Cultural Politics, and the Long 1960s in Greece. New York: Berghahn Books. Koundouros, R. 1978. Regime security in Greece 1924–1974. Athens: Kastaniotis. Legg, K. 1969. Politics in Modern Greece. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Legg, K., and J. Roberts. 1997. Modern Greece: A Civilization on the Periphery. Oxford: Westview. Leontaritis, G. 2003. Savvas Konstantopoulos, Unknown Documents. Athens: Proskinio. Linardatos, S. 1986. From the Civil War to the Junta. Athens: Papazisis. Manesis, A. 1999. The Easy Rape of Legality and the Difficult Legitimization of Violence. In The Dictatorship 1967–1974, ed. G. Athanasatou, A. Rigos, and S. Seferiadis, 37–52. Athens: Kastaniotis. Mantoglou, A. 1995. The Polytechnic Uprising. Athens: Odysseas. Markezinis, S. 1979. Political Memoirs. Athens. Markezinis, S. 1994. A Contemporary Political History of Greece. Athens: Papyros. Meletopoulos, M. 1996. The Dictatorship of the Colonels. Athens: Papazissis. Meynaud, J. 1974. Political Forces in Greece. Athens: Byron. Mouzelis, N. 1978. Modern Greece: Facets of Underdevelopment. London: Springer. Murthagh, Peter. 1994. The Rape of Greece: The King, the Colonels and the Resistance. London: Simon & Schuster. O’Donnell, G., and P. Schmitter (eds.). 1986. Transitions from Authoritarian Rule: Comparative Perspectives. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Papachelas, A. 1998. The Rape of Greek Democracy: The American Factor 1947– 1967 . Athens: Estia. Papadimitriou, N. 1985. The Naval Coup. Athens: Elliniki Evroekdotiki. Papahelas, A. 1997. The Rape of Greek Democracy. Athens: Estia. Papandreou, A. 1974. Democracy at Gunpoint. Athens: Karanassis. Papandreou, A. 1976. From PAK to PASOK. Athens: Ladias.

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Papazoglou, M. 1975. Student Movement and Dictatorship. Athens: Epikairotita. Passas, I. 1980. Encyclopaedia Helios. Athens: n.p. Pesmazoglou, I. 1976. The Greek Economy After 1967. In Greece Under Military Rule, ed. R. Clogg and G. Giannopoulos, 136–181. Athens: Papazisis. Psicharis, S. 1975. Backstaging the Change. Athens: Papazisis. Psomiades, H. 1982. Greece: From the Colonels’ Rule to Democracy. In From Dictatorship to Democracy: Coping with the Legacies of Authoritarianism and Totalitarianism, ed. J. Herz, 251–273. London: Greenwood. Rodakis, P. 1975. The Dictatorship of the Colonels. Athens: Mycenae. Shain, Y., and J. Linz. 1995. Between States: Interim Governments and Democratic Transitions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sotiropoulos, D. 1999. The Social Policy of the Dictatorship. In The Dictatorship 1967–1974, ed. G. Athanasatou, A. Rigos, and S. Seferiadis, 115–131. Athens: Kastaniotis. Stanger, A. 1995. Democratisation and the International System: The Foreign Policy of Interim Governments. In Between States: Interim Governments and Democratic Transitions, ed. Y. Shain and J. Linz, 255–277. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Stepan, A. 1986. Paths Toward Redemocratisation: Theoretical and Comparative Considerations. In Transitions from Authoritarian Rule: Prospects for Democracy, vol. III, ed. G. O’Donnell, P. Schmitter, and L. Whitehead, 64–84. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Theodoracopoulos, T. 1976. The Greek Upheaval: Kings, Demagogues and Bayonets. London: Stacey International. Veremis, Th. 1997. The Army in Greek Politics. Athens: Courier Verney, S., and P. Tsakaloyannis. 1986. Linkage Politics: The Role of the European Community in Greek Politics in 1973. Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 10: 179–194. Verney, S., and T. Couloumbis. 1991. State-International Systems Interaction and the Greek Transition to Democracy in the Mid-1970’s. In Encouraging Democracy: The International Context of Regime Transition in Southern Europe, ed. G. Pridham, 103–123. Leicester: Leicester University Press. Woodhouse, Ch. 1982. Karamanlis, the Restorer of Greek Democracy. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Woodhouse, Ch. 1985. The Rise and Fall of Greek Colonels. Athens: Elliniki Evroekdotiki. Xydis, A. 1976. Foreign Policy of the Military Regime. In Greece Under Military Rule, ed. R. Clogg and G. Giannopoulos, 292–319. Athens: Papazisis. Zournatzis, S., and G. Mihalopoulos. 1998. 21st of April 1967: Myths and Truth. Athens.

CHAPTER 4

From Dictatorship to ‘Difficult Democracy’: Turkey 1983

The outcome of Turkish transition was intended by the regime elite to be a weak democracy, culminating with the regime’s favourite party winning the elections. Hence the confidence of the Chief of state General Kenan Evren making the statement to former minister and leader of an independent from the military party Turgut Özal, on the forthcoming elections in March of 1983 that ‘our intelligence services report that you won’t get five per cent of the vote.’1 The outgoing regime had set everything in order and no ‘surprises’ were allowed to occur—or so Evren thought. The facts proved him wrong a few months later though, as Özal emerged victorious from the polls. In the Turkish reforma by unilateral imposition2 a regime led by the military-as-institution with no internal splits, relatively isolated and short-lived, restructured the country’s institutional framework so that its elite can have a major influence in politics from the backstage. Once this was presumed accomplished the military considered it easy to impose their favourite party by controlled elections; they had presumed too much though, as the transition ‘is subject to unforeseen contingencies, unfolding processes and unintended outcomes.’3 This is exactly what happened in 1983, with the ‘outsider’ Motherland Party winning the elections with 45%, and the regime’s favourite humiliated, coming third. The new democracy would bear the

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 I. Tzortzis, Elites and Democratic Transitions by Regime Transformation in Southern Europe, Global Political Transitions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04620-9_4

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brunt of this imposed transition, with weak political parties, many interests remaining non-represented, and democratic patterns of governance and policymaking relatively underdeveloped and not routinised as in Western style democracies (Hagopian 1990).

¨ Coping with Ataturk’s Legacy: 1945–1980 The Turkish military embodied two conflicting traditions following the pattern set by Ataturk. Firstly, it incorporated a tradition of intervention in politics which was brought about by the perception that the military had of themselves as ‘guardians of the state.’ The second tradition is the legacy of the army as a modernising power in the country. The successive military takeovers from 1950 until 1983 led to the army leaving power to civilian governments after resetting the political structure and retreating to its barracks-not as a passive observer of political developments though, but rather as a potential intervention force in case things go wrong for the political order that the military defend. In each intervention, moreover, large numbers of citizens accepted the military’s dynamic involvement because of the Turkish society’s confidence in the army and its role as an indispensable and vital part of the society. This is due to the fact that prior to every military intervention, the civilian governments had failed to bring order and stability to the country, ‘resulting in the collapse of the people’s confidence in the politicians’ efficiency to manage the crises brought about by divisive politics and socio-political cleavages.’4 The power elite of the Kemalist state was a coalition between the army, the civil bureaucracy, and the ruling Republican People’s Party (RPP), the leadership of which made no effort to widen the party’s popular base, but rather concentrated on a small educated and westernised elite. Political liberalism was impossible as long as the elites were imposing their modernising reforms by compulsory means, firm in their decision that the largely peasant masses of the country should not be provided with the opportunity to participate in political decision-making. The army was also excluded from the political decision-making process as long as the oneparty state was in force: Kemal Atatürk made sure it remained loyal to him and to the Republic. As Turkey was under no visible threat from abroad, little effort and sources were committed to modernising the army for the first decades of the Republic. The question was how long this apolitical army principle could last: in thirty-five years the country underwent alternating periods of democracy interrupted by military interventions with

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the frequency of almost one every decade (1960, 1971, 1980), as a result of which the Turkish army’s autonomous power from the backstage came to be above politics as representing the totality of the nation. The continuous breakdowns of liberal democracy derived from the insurmountable difficulty of working a complex liberal and democratic system in a society with many economic and social problems. ‘This ideological dimension to the military’s perception of its role has meant that its definition of security extends beyond public order and Turkey’s political or economic interests to include threats to the country’s Kemalist legacy.’5 The six main institutional and ideological pillars of the new state, as codified in the 1924 Constitution,6 were Republicanism, meaning that the Turkish state was a Republic; Nationalism, propagating the theory of continuity of the Turkish nation through history; Populism, claiming that all citizens of Turkey were equal regardless of class, religion or education; Revolutionism, the propensity of the Kemalist state towards radical reform and transforming the backward Turkish society into a modern one; Secularism, strictly distinguishing between state and religion (particularly Islamism); and finally statism, the paternalist involvement of the state in the economic process. It was a state where reforms were implemented from above and, because of the lack of a sound communication system, the obsolete infrastructure and the backward-minded people in the countryside, it would take any reforms introduced a long time to reach the remote areas in the country, and even then, their implementation would be questionable. Political liberalism was also impossible as long as large parts of the population doubted the very authority of the government to rule. By the late 1940s however, certain changes had occurred that rendered the pre-1939 status quo untenable for the Turkish elites. Turkey was moving steadily towards the Western sphere of influence, and as the allies had won the war in the name of democracy, political liberalism and toleration, the country had to adopt a relevant institutional structure to be able to stand among the Western states. The process of Turkey’s democratisation started in 1945, when the uneasy political alliance which was born during the war of liberation had finally broken down as a result of wartime pressures. At that point an early reforma, in which the transition process was initiated and controlled by the power elite of the previous authoritarian regime, took place. An RPP faction headed by Celal Bayar and Adnan Menderes representing the old civil servants, the new middle class and the intellectuals defected and formed the Democratic Party (DP).7 As this was tolerated by the RPP,

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some claimed that ‘once a secular, republican nation-state seemed securely established, it became legitimate to ask whether Kemalist goals could not be better pursued under a competitive political system.’8 In May 1950 the DP won a landslide with an agenda of respect for religion; more free space for private business; and more political freedoms and liberalism. However the country was lacking the proper social and political structures to sustain democratic institutions. For the next decades, the Turkish polity would be vacillating between a bureaucratic-military supervision on the one hand, and a political pluralism which could not deliver on its promises on the other hand. (A) The Democratic Party years and the first military intervention (May 1960) Political democracy soon proved poorly compatible with the socioeconomic framework of Turkey. The DP elite comprised the private sector seeking economic liberalisation, as well as landowners and local notables opposing the centre and the bureaucracy. The first years saw the opening of the economy to the businessmen and the middle class, and foreign investments and American aid boosted growth. However, Prime Minister Menderes was challenged by factions in his party and increasing opposition by the bureaucracy, submitted to the political control of a counter-elite with which it had no ties (Turan 1984). In the October 1957 elections the DP recurred to religious popular sentiments to win, downplaying for the first time the secularist principles of the state. The Kemalist elites began to sense a threat to the republican system and to its institutions, which they had tried hard to make and preserve. Inflation and public debt rose high; shortages appeared in consumer goods, touching especially the officers and bureaucrats, whose fixed salaries could not secure them a comfortable life.9 In the spring of 1960 the DP accused the RPP of subversive action. Menderes suspended provisionally all political activities, declared martial law in Istanbul and Ankara and used troops to suppress demonstrations: ‘like it or not, the army as a whole…was now being dragged into a fatal struggle.’10 What had started as a regimeinitiated experiment in democracy fifteen years ago had ended up in menacing the Kemalist structures of the state and bringing the army to the forefront. Menderes attempted to expand his control over the armed forces by influencing the process of selection of officers to the rank of

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general. However, this attempt antagonised the army, and then he chose to relieve a number of high-ranking officers. On May 27th Menderes was overthrown by the first military coup in Turkish history,11 organised mainly by junior officers. The insurgents claimed they prevented a national split, posing as guarantors of national unity. A National Union Committee (NUC) of officers presided by General Cemal Gursel assumed power. The regime put Menderes, ex-President of Republic Bayar and hundreds of DP officials on trials with charges of corruption, abuse of power, unconstitutional action and dividing the nation. Menderes and two of his ministers were sentenced to death and hanged.12 The military were not united in their goals; the lower ranking radicals aimed at keeping the army infinitely in power, envisaging a major restructuring of the country, whereas the soft-liner hierarchy wanted a ‘corrective intervention’ that would ease the retreat of the army to its barracks (Hale 1994) and showed its will to extricate itself13 ; however, hard-liner groups headed by the ambitious Colonel Talat Aydemir tried twice in 1962 and 1963 to bring back what they perceived as the ‘spirit of the 27th of May’ but failed to seize power.14 The politicians’ lesson was that use of the military ‘for their own partisan purposes, which violates the basic Kemalist doctrine of the apolitical army, undermined civilian supremacy.’15 They learned this lesson well, as in the future they kept the army from their disputes. As the high military realised, coups initiated by junior officers were prone to generating further coups. However, and although they realised the need to prevent the initiative from slipping into their subordinates, they found that, once they had jumped onto the political stage, it was impossible to withdraw from it. The coup had stopped political chaos, but had also frozen the process of democratisation; this resumed with a new constitution devised in 1961 under the tutelage of the military, which had won themselves a politico-institutional prominence unthinkable until then. But it did not solve the country’s political problem. (B) The second military intervention (March 1971) Turkish politics of the mid- and late 1960s has been called ‘a “silent partnership” in which the military enjoyed full autonomy from the government while keeping a watchful eye over the parameters of civilian political life.’16 The 1961 Constitution incorporated the main Kemalist

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principles to multiparty democracy. It set up a Turkish Grand National Assembly (TGNA) and a Senate, provided an independent constitutional court, introduced checks and balances, social and economic rights,17 a State Planning Organisation (SPO) to supervise the state’s economic activity, and a National Security Council (NSC) to assist the cabinet in the making of national security related decisions. The institutional changes aimed to enhance the autonomy of institutions such as the army, the universities and the judiciary, in order to keep them out of political interventions, but also to expand the democratic framework so as to curtail the power of the traditionalist forces who were expected to win the elections in the long run. Turkey was thus under a dualism of powers: ‘a kind of “competitive” relationship developed between the two forms of political power: parliamentarism and military authoritarianism.’18 The military had managed to raise their salaries, man the bureaucracy and diplomacy after retirement, and create links with the business and industry.19 From then on, they had a serious say in Turkish politics, and would be in a tacit but continuous clash with the political elites. As for the civil society, instead of challenging the exemption of the military from civilian political control, it made only weak efforts to relegate the military to a secondary position in the political system. The centre-right party that came out of the ashes of the DP was the Justice Party (JP) headed by Suleiman Demirel. The old RPP leadership re-emerged.20 The 1960s were a time of extensive social mobilisation: Turkey was becoming an urban and industrialised society. Ideological polarisation appeared with extreme parties both in the right and the left of the spectrum, as well as Islamist groups.21 Trade unions were growing and pressure groups found a representative in the Association of Turkish Industrialists and Businessmen (TUSIAD). At the same time the underground struggle between bureaucrats and politicians went on. Bureaucrats were insensitive to the political realities, while the politicians attempted to turn the bureaucracy into a tool in their hands in order to promote their agendas. After 1961 there were short-lived instable coalition governments.22 Because of the proportional electoral system, the smaller parties were over-represented in the TGNA, exacerbating the inability to introduce viable government coalitions that with a stable majority. In 1971 there were demonstrations and violent clashes between left and right extremists, strikes paralysing the economy and a weak and divided JP cabinet.23

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Ideological polarisation, party fragmentation, instability and political violence24 brought the military to the forefront once again. In face of speculation about the intention of junior officers to stage a coup, the generals decided to intervene.25 On 12 March 1971, the Chief of the General Staff handed President Cevdet Sunay a document stipulating that the country needed a strong and effective government to deal with violence and ‘anarchy’ and embark upon reforms in the spirit of Kemalism. If that did not happen, the army would directly assume power. Prime Minister Demirel stepped down and was succeeded by Nihat Erim, a university professor supported by the RPP, JP and technocrats, resulting in an unstable balance of power between the politicians and the military. Martial law was declared in many regions; the left-wing parties and trade unions were suppressed. The 1971–1973 military rule generated antimilitary sentiment in some sections of the Turkish society: those who expected the military to establish what they viewed as a progressive regime were disappointed, and the military appeared to have lost their prestige, and alienating their former allies in the RPP and in the intelligentsia. The 1971 intervention is known as ‘the coup by memorandum.’26 The army, following its tradition of minimal open interference,27 did not seek to form its own cabinet due to the awareness of its inability to manage a complex society. However, the fear of intervention and civilian overthrow made the politicians reluctant to declare martial law again until it was too late; the TGNA, in turn, introduced constitutional amendments to face the continuous political violence, thus turning the constitution more authoritarian while abridging many of its articles, mainly those related to the freedoms of speech and association (Hakyemez and Akgun 2002). As for the military, their failure to produce long-lasting results proved the uselessness of a ‘half-coup.’ Next time it would be a straight military takeover. (C) The way to the third military intervention (September 1980) During the 1970s it became obvious to the Turkish elites that the country was facing a major political deadlock, out of which there could not be found a solution within the given political structures and actors. When in April 1972 the two major parties brought Erim down the army did not react, creating to the politicians the mistaken impression that the military elites were willing to leave the political scene and return to

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the barracks. This illusion about the real power and intentions of the military establishment would prove fatal. In October 1973 an alliance between the RPP and the NSP saw as Prime Minister Bulent Ecevit, Inonü’s successor in the RPP leadership. The next year he resigned in order to force new elections, faced the opposition of the other parties to a big RPP success and threw Turkey into political instability until October 1977, when he formed a coalition government with some defectors of the JP, causing the bitter attacks of Demirel. Ecevit was seen as a hope for the political system to suppress violence without recurring to the army; however, in the October 1979 Senate elections the RPP collapsed and he resigned.28 Demirel formed a minority government; the army and the TUSIAD suggested an RPP–JP coalition, but fierce enmity between the two leaders made this impossible. Meanwhile the economy was plagued by uneven growth, huge deficits, inflation surpassing 100% by 1980 (Hale 1994; Herschlag 1988) and the oil shock. Only when Demirel appointed, in January 1980, Turgut Özal as under-secretary of SPO was the crisis halted. Özal devalued the Turkish Lira, reduced public deficit, and deregulated interest rates; however, his programme presupposed a political stability that did not exist. Turkey’s most serious economic problem was actually political. For some there lies one reason for the 1980 coup. The breakdown of Turkish democracy was due to ‘the enormous difficulties experienced in working a complex liberal and democratic system in a society replete with economic and social problems, and where old ideologies refurbished for the times were given a unique opportunity to exert maximum influence.’29 At the same time, evidence that the country’s political polarisation had now begun to step into the officer corps (especially the lower ranks) had started worrying the high military echelons: the younger officers and NCOs were especially prone to contending left- and right-wing views, propagating them among the conscripts and younger officers. Those tensions had begun to infiltrate also the middle ranks and to polarise even colonels of the army. ‘The top commanders were fearing a sudden and impulsive move from the middle echelons resulting in a coup which would split the army and the nation, pitting factions one against another in armed confrontation.’30 In that situation, as a British diplomatic report acknowledged, only the army was able to put an end due to its coherence: ‘the armed forces are the only agency capable of putting into effect a coherent internal security policy. They are still loyal to their commanders and, through them, to the central government…with both the left and

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the right setting up ‘no-go’ areas, the central power would be in greater trouble and the risk of clashes that would have more the character of civil war would be greater.’31 It was in this setting that the plot in the army started developing at the end of 1978. From the second half of 1979 and thereafter the question was not whether the army should step in, but rather when and how to intervene.32 The military commanders sent in December 1979 a letter to President Fahri Korutürk, appealing for an RPP–JP coalition. However, despite Ecevit’s offer to back a ‘grand coalition’ solution, Demirel denied, ignoring that ‘if a two-party system is to be stable the political elites must…be prepared to compromise.’33 The situation worsened in April, with the end of Korutürk’s term. The incapacity of the parties to agree on a candidate led to more than one hundred repeated fruitless voting rounds. All this was taking place at a time of unprecedented political violence.34 Islamism was rising (the Islamist National Salvation Party called for the implementation of sharia law on 6 September 1980), and so was Kurdish separatism, an anathema for Kemalism; sectarianism also took its toll.35 At the same time, Chief of Staff General Kenan Evren visited Korutürk and made clear that the army would intervene if things came to the worse. But the intransigence of the politicians to Evren’s warning was incredible.36 The coup turned inevitable by the inability of the leaders and forces of the centre ‘to see the logic of the escalating crisis, and to co-operate and collaborate in the face of it, in order to prevent its consequences.’37 As a British diplomat noted, the factors that contributed to the intervention of the army were as follows. The irritation of the High command at the deadlock in parliament, unable either to elect a president or to pass the required legislation, and the apparent incapacity of the government to do anything about it;…concern at the disrepute which this situation might bring upon the Turkish state; [and] frustration at the government’s failure to diminish political violence, which had shown a further disturbing increase in July and August.38 Even before the coup was decided, members of the parliament, of the government, and of the opposition had approached the military in order to call on the armed forces.39 On September 12th Evren gave the order for the coup. His message blamed ‘anarchy, terror and secessionism’ and the split of citizens by factional politics, and promised a new constitution ‘suited to the needs of the Turkish society’ to be followed by elections.40

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Turkey 1980–1983: A ‘Commanded Reforma’ (A) Nature and objectives of the regime The regime, led by the military as institution, ‘combined elements of the Veto and Moderator types, with a preponderance of the latter.’41 The coup was a drastic answer of what is considered the guarantor of the state to the political crisis: the impotence of the major parties to form stable coalition governments, the persisting incapacity of the Parliament to elect a new President of Republic, the perceived rising threat of Islamism, centrifugal tendencies in the periphery and unchecked violence from left and right extremism. The high ranks of the armed forces were implicated (the commanders of the army, navy, air force, and most of General Staff members), in contrast to previous coups. However, there was disagreement as to how far the objectives of the coup on taking command of the state and on restructuring the institutions should go. Some officers were pushing for a fully military-controlled government and for a longer stay in power, which would allow the re-building of the country in the logic of Atatürk’s principles. Others were more modest in their goals, suggesting a mere ‘corrective intervention’ and early extrication that would allow the armed forces to clear a few clogs in the system before their return to the barracks. The divergence on this issue was not enough, though, to split the regime, which presented itself united until the end. Also, in contrast to past takeovers, no considerable opposition to the hierarchy was shown by mid or lower ranking officers, although a measure of internal struggle did exist among the aforementioned groups. Furthermore, it was a regime meant to be a parenthesis leading to the re-equilibration of democratic institutions—as the military viewed them. One sound difference from previous interventions was that the armed forces made the coup and implemented its programme without having any substantial allies among the intelligentsia, the bureaucracy or other professional groups (Evin 1994). Thus the regime was deprived of allies that could provide important support in the eyes of the people and the world. Nevertheless, it did find itself an ally in the technocrats willing to impose to the economy a programme of market-oriented reforms and liberalisation, precisely what Özal could not implement because of the political and institutional instability the country was plunged into before the coup. The technocrats aimed to respond to the challenge of modernisation of Turkey by doing away with state intervention and

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opening its markets, as well as promoting its integration in the EEC. The common goal of both groups was thus the suppression of turmoil and the restructuring of the country’s economic and political institutions. The question was how far this alliance could go without diverging in the end. Ozal was appointed Deputy Prime Minister and charged to continue the economic restructuring programme he had started in January 1980. A close associate of him, Kaya Erdan, a former official of the Central Bank, was appointed finance minister.42 The military decided not to include politicians in the cabinet. It was even suggested that Evren himself undertake that task; but he denied and was made Head of State one day after the coup.43 Finally the military agreed upon the retired Admiral Bulent Ulusu. Despite that its head was an ex-military, it was a civilian government with the exception of four military ministers (Dodd 1990). The top military had set as objective reforms calculated to take about two years, after which time new elections would be called in order to hand power over to a new civilian government. The lessons of the past were learned: the regime was determined to radically transform the Turkish political and institutional setting to guarantee the stability of the future democracy (or what the military meant by ‘democracy’) and at the same time institutionally tie it up with certain arrangements concerning the position of the army in the state structure and decision-making. Then, it would surrender power to civilians (of its choice). Also, as one of the major preoccupations of the military was to block the economic collapse, they knew that only a civilian technocrat could take the responsibility of rehabilitating the economy. The ministry of foreign affairs was handed to a career diplomat who had served in the past as an aide to Demirel’s foreign minister. It was under this coalition of military commanders and civilian technocrats (backed by the liberal economic elites seeking more entrepreneurial space) that the regime would pursue its set task. (B) The regime in action The first objective of the army after having prevailed without opposition was to suppress any potential political and societal threat: former politicians were placed under house arrest or imprisoned. Although Ecevit and Demirel were soon released, the nationalist leader Alparslan Turkes and the Islamist Necmetin Erbakan were tried later in the autumn: the regime thus showed its impartiality in suppressing extremism and making clear

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that challenging the secular state was not tolerated. In June 1981 the National Security Council forbade all open political discussions in the country. In a demonstration of determination the regime put Ecevit to trial in the autumn, causing a wave of reaction from the European left.44 In November of the same year, the NSC decided to dissolve all political parties and labour and youth organisations that had existed before 1980. It also banned from future elections the pre-1980 parties and deputies for five years and party leaders for ten. This decision alienated not only the old political elites, but also the majority of the intellectual ones too, and resulted in a further isolation of the military. One year later, ‘in an Orwellian fashion, [the regime] banned the politicians from discussing publicly the past, the present or the future.’45 Suppression of left- and right-wing extremism was fierce: court-martials against trade unionists, party activists, militants and Kurdish nationalists were in the order of the day. Tens of thousands of regime opponents were arrested46 ; the use of torture in prisons and police stations, as well as oppression against the Kurds were an everyday reality; the generals forbade the use of Kurdish language in private conversations. Not even the state bureaucracy was spared: it was estimated that, in the first year of the regime alone, about 18,000 civil servants received penal or disciplinary punishments. Thus the army acted in a way that burned all bridges burned between the two institutions.47 However, it was claimed that among the goals of the regime was the restoration of a properly working bureaucracy, free from corruption and patronage.48 The NSC also embarked upon radically altering the country’s institutional and legal framework: during its time it passed more than 600 laws and decrees dealing with almost every aspect of Turkey’s political, social, cultural, economic, educational and judiciary life. Özal’s philosophy was shaped by ‘the challenge of the distortions and de-stabilisation of the economy, resulting from over-centralisation, an inefficient bureaucracy, the trial-and-error policies of frequently changing governments with biased vested interests and the natural limitations of relatively short-term actions taken by transient coalitions.’49 A radical transformation was achieved by liberalisation of market and loosening state control of business; reducing the inflationary tendencies; and keeping a balance of payments; there was a flow of loans to the country, denied under the previous governments. Also, the economy started getting export-oriented in contrast to the import substitution of the past, and the government encouraged foreign investment, offering preferential treatment and even free trade zones in parts of Turkey. Tourism

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was also largely contributing to growth. Consumption resumed after the shortages of 1979–1980. It was noted that the most important development during the regime years was an unwitnessed before increase in the influence granted to the private business sector. Not everyone could share the fruits of the success of Özal, though: there was an increase in unemployment, and a fall of national growth rate from 7 to 2%; also, the Turkish GDP fell from 1300 US$ to 1000 and the Turkish lira was devalued.50 However, most working people in the country, the majority of who were self-employed peasants and traders, eventually made the most of the upturn that the economy took, as well as of the restoration of law and order. Özal himself would admit later that ‘had September 12th not taken place, today’s results would have been impossible to achieve.’51 It was difficult not to accept his programme’s success in boosting exports and securing foreign financial aid; moreover, the economic adjustment programme was sustained. However, the economy was prone to speculation due to the abandonment of regulation of interest rates by the state: private stock and bond holders moved to secure the investment of many people’s savings in their bonds. The most famous, Çevahir Ozden, had convinced thousands of Turks to trust their savings to him until, in June 1982, his ‘pyramid’ company ‘Banker Kastelli’ collapsed. Ozden fled to Switzerlandand the government had to subsidise the banks to prevent greater panic. The implications for Özal were grim: Ulusu announced the replacement of his finance minister Erdan; the expulsion of his close associate caused Özal’s own resignation in July,52 ending his collaboration with the regime. His career had been stigmatised by a scandal; however, during his two and a half years as head of the country’s economic staff he had created strong links with the business53 and the international liberal elites, and he could no more be accused of collaboration with the regime. As to foreign influences, the coup came at a moment of Cold War and rise of monetarist economics; in that sense it could not have found a better time to prevail. The first aforementioned factor aided the Turkish military to present themselves as the guarantors of Western influences in the area; the second helped Özal and his technocrats implement their liberalisation policies and acquire loans from abroad.54 The US was positive to the generals because of its strategic interests; the coup was greeted with not only understanding but also with a certain relief in the American administration. Furthermore, it almost coincided with the ascent to power of Reagan (who did not share Carter’s concern for both democracy in Turkey and US interests). As Aslan claims, ‘[the signals sent by the US

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officials to the Turkish military] seem to have provided the Turkish military a comfort zone in making the final decision to intervene.’55 Another reason for the US relief had to do with the loss of its most precious ally in the region after the Iranian revolution, which made the Americans more eager to turn to Turkey: ‘given the fears that had developed that Turkey might go the way of Iran and the entire Western security position in the Middle East might disintegrate, there was a great sense of relief throughout Washington when the change occurred.’56 Strategic pragmatism about stability and order in the Middle East prevailed over democratic principles, and the US supported a regime which had in the centre of its foreign policy the safeguarding of Western and US interests. One of the main issues were the bases that the US maintained on Turkish soil and which provided an excellent potential of closely following developments in the Middle East during the Iran–Iraq war and monitoring Soviet activities in neighbouring Afghanistan during the Soviet invasion and the ensuing war. Moreover, with Papandreou’s presumed anti-American rhetoric in neighbouring Greece, Turkey became, in the words of US Secretary of State Alexander Haig, ‘absolutely irreplaceable.’ The uncertainty about the Greek commitment to NATO left Turkey as the only reliable US partner in the northern part of the Middle East (McGhee 1990). The US administration believed that a subtle encouragement of the regime in the direction of restoring democracy and respect for human rights would be a lot more effective and at the same time less harmful to the interests of the US than suspending the aid programmes or resorting to open denouncing of the regime. US military and financial aid to the country rose substantially.57 Some US high officials even criticised the European allies for failing to understand the actual situation and problems of Turkey and lobbied effectively in the Council of Europe to prevent the country’s expulsion; the same applies to the attitudes of the IMF and the OECD, which assured for Turkey the loans it desperately needed, not always for purely economic reasons.58 Washington’s sympathy regarding the reasons for the military takeover was motivated not only by a realistic (as the US officials understood it) assessment of the Turkish domestic politics but also by the strategic importance of Turkey.59 For the Americans, the security considerations of the NATO had a much higher priority than promotion of democracy as a foreign policy objective. A similar difference in attitude existed between European opinion which generally detested right-wing authoritarian regimes and NATO which naturally gave top priority to military considerations.

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The EEC, on the other hand, assumed a negative stance: the severity of the regime repression, as well as the prolonged suspension of democratic rights and institutions shocked and greatly alienated from Turkey the public opinion within the member states.60 Nevertheless in the beginning, as a British diplomat noted, general consensus among the EEC representatives in Turkey was that ‘for the time being we should treat the new regime with tact, patience and discretion and allow the Turks to put their affairs in order their own way…for the time being we should give the Generals the benefit of doubt and continue business discretely as usual. Given Turkey’s strategic importance, and the current situation to the east of her, this seems sensible. …so far as the economy is concerned I recommend we do not interrupt our modest provision of aid.’61 Since any considerable popular demand for a fast return to civilian rule at home was practically non-existent, a very important factor for the restoration of democracy in the country was the international—mainly European—environment and the pressures it generated. Agreements between EEC–Turkey froze after the coup, and the Financial Protocols were cancelled in January 1982; however, there were no significant implications for Turkey and EEC trade relations.62 Also, the joint Parliamentary Committee envisaged by the 1964 Association Agreement between Turkey and the EEC lapsed because the European Parliament refused to nominate any members for its delegation (Cendrowicz 1992). Turkey was accused of human rights violations, was suspended from the Council of Europe in May 1981 and in July 1982 was brought to the Human Rights Commission by five EEC member states.63 This diplomatic game between the Turkish and the European officials caused frustration to the former because as a result of the mainly European complaints regarding human rights abuse, the military regime had to continuously defend its foreign policy, and explain the situation and justify the military takeover and its subsequent policies, resulting in assuming an apologetic attitude in its foreign affairs, which for the regime was a proof of its sensitivity to external criticism. Also, as some US critics of the EEC attitudes claimed, ‘strategic and geopolitical considerations are of secondary concern to Turkey’s liberal critics, in their overriding preoccupation with human rights.’64 At the end of 1981, the Turkish PM stated that his country would be prepared to withdraw from the Council of Europe if that was deemed necessary. At the same time, Greece had an opportunity to attack Turkey regarding the Cyprus issue.

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The above developments show a certain contradiction in the regime’s objectives: it was firmly committed to its modernist, Western idea of Turkey, and was therefore concerned to the defence and promotion of links with the Western states. On the other hand, its authoritarian politics was at odds with Western Europe’s commitment to democratic standards, and its demand that Turkey adhere to those. The EEC faced the complaint that, pressing hard the Turkish officials on the issues of human and minority rights, it demonstrated a total lack of understanding of the nature of Turkey’s problems, for instance the issue of the Kurds, as well as a somehow superficial understanding of democracy and the nature of the problems that it could mean and in fact had contributed to, in a country with the specificities of Turkey. Eventually, however, the pressures promoted the cause of democracy. In the end, although it would be incorrect to claim that it was the European pressures which forced the regime to restore democratic institutions, the significance and contribution of those pressures to the cause of democratisation cannot be neglected either. (C) The regime becomes dispensable In December 1981 the regime announced a timetable for the return to civilian rule, setting an approximate date for a referendum on a constitutional draft in the autumn of 1982, and national elections about one year later. A ‘consultative assembly’ was formed to make the new constitution, and appointed a ‘constitutional committee,’ which produced its first draft in July 1982. The regime rushed to create the new constitution before proceeding to elections, in order to tie up institutionally the new democracy. ‘The perceived need to control, to avoid the disorder of the 1970s, shines through almost every article of the 1982 constitution. It orders the working of the state in every detail, setting out exactly how parliament will operate, how presidents will be elected, how soon governments have to be formed.’65 The constitution reflected the distrust of the military to political parties, interest groups, civil society, labour unions, in general anything that might be part of a pluralist democracy.66 It envisaged all liberties and civil rights of a modern democracy, although it provided for their suspension or limitation in the event of internal or external dangers, up to the point that, as it was claimed, it aimed to the protection of the state against individuals and groups than the opposite.

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The Senate was abolished; extended powers were given to the President (for example, the dissolution of Parliament) in the event of extenuating circumstances, making him guardian of the regime; the government, in face of such circumstances, could rule by decrees, thus bypassing the TGNA; the NSC (which was named ‘Presidential Council’) could decide without consulting the Parliament, thus giving right to some opinions describing the system of government it established as a modified or weakened form of parliamentarism.67 It allowed for the definition of internal and external threats and national security priorities and of the formulation of national security policy as a National Security Policy Document without much consultation with the elected representatives of the people. The President also had the right to ask the Constitutional Court to review parliamentary legislations, government decrees and internal rules of the National Assembly. He could also refuse to sign parliamentary decisions at his discretion, as well as call national elections and referendums on constitutional changes. As far as political parties are concerned, the constitution stipulated that they might not advocate the dictatorship or ‘domination’ of a class or group, thus excluding the possibility for a communist or fascist party to exist. Moreover, the parties had no right to organise youth or women sections, so that their grassroots would be weak. The regulations on labour organisations made impossible the establishment in the country of the form of a social democratic party such as those in Western Europe, which were based primarily on their support and leadership from trade unions. Furthermore, the constitution imposed considerable limitations on the freedom of association and on the right of labour to organise and take collective action; voting was made compulsory, and abstention was penalised.68 The referendum took place in November 1982; however, as discussion and criticism of the draft was not allowed, the people had no choice but to accept it, which they did by a majority of 91.4%. After the approval of the constitution, the military felt confident enough to proceed to reforma. Evren became President of Republic and called elections for October 1983. A law on political parties passed in the summer of 1983 aimed at preventing what the regime considered as ‘excessive politicisation of citizens and groups,’ as well as keeping political parties internally democratic, and maintaining the stability of both political parties and the party system (Dodd 1990). The electoral system (chosen again by the NSC) was allowing the formation of powerful governments by favouring the allocation of seats to larger parties, and

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previewed an electoral threshold of 10% for having any seats at all in the TGNA, in order to avoid the disastrous repetition of the fragile coalitions of the past. Parties willing to run in the elections had to apply to the NSC for permission (a process also envisaged by the constitution), i.e. to be accepted by the army. In that way, the military tried to block any perceived threat to the system they created. They did not leave many paths open for a contingent outcome of the process: the winner of the elections would have to have the army’s approval first. But it was the people that would have the final say. (D) The inter-elite game There was no elite bargaining in Turkey, as the generals sought to exclude all former politicians from participation in the elections. Of the fifteen parties that applied for legalisation only three were eventually allowed to participate. The successors of RPP and JP, the Social Democratic Party (SODEP) of Erdal Inonu and Demirel’s True Path Party (TPP) were not among them. The matter for the military was that a party of their own win the elections. In April 1983 Prime Minister Ulusu announced his decision not to run, despite pressures on him; one day later, ex-General Turgut Sunalp announced he would run with the ‘Nationalist Democratic Party’ (NDP). Some claim there was a diversion among the military on the matter of co-operating or not with the politicians,69 and the formation of a party by Sunalp signalled the defeat of the more moderates among the military elites on the question of which faction should form the party.70 The other party participating, the Populist Party (PP) presented a ‘loyal left opposition’: a regime alternative under the ex-secretary of Inonü, Neçdet Calp. Özal was asked to run with the NDP but refused to cooperate with the military; he formed his own Motherland Party (MP) that would occupy the centre of the spectrum. Özal was the type of politician with whom the average Turk could identify: ‘a self-made man, whose own career embodied the hope and ambition of countless peasants, squatters and small-traders and other self-employed.’71 He also had the support of the large business sector, which saw a good opportunity to expand and make considerable profits with him in office. Turkey’s transition confirms that when a democratic transition is taking place in a good economic conjuncture it is likely to be characterised by the establishment or the

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reintroduction of co-operative relations between the incoming democratic government and the private sector (Haggard and Kaufman 1995). However, it is not guaranteed to establish a democracy. Evren abstained from the electoral campaign; some wondered what the result might have been if he had his own party, as his popularity could have made him a serious opponent for Özal. However, he chose to remain far from partisan politics, as leader of the state and symbol of the army unifying the nation beyond parties. At the end of the regime’s time in power, he had established himself as a popular political leader, and he reinforced this public image by acceding to the presidency after the ratifying vote of the 1982 Constitution. He would later regret not having made his own party, and complain that he had not realised how easily and rapidly political parties would re-emerge once the military relegated power to the civilians (Pope and Pope 1997). Before the elections few people expected the MP to win, mainly because of the involvement of its leader in the ‘Banker Kasteli’ scandal the previous year.72 What the regime failed to note was how ‘uninspiring’ for the people was Sunalp, ‘the caricature of a soldier who could only talk down to people.’73 There is evidence that the latter realised the threat Özal was posing, and tried to convince Evren to ban him; but to no avail, as Evren needed some democratic credentials for the sake of Turkey’s external relations. Thus the Turkish elites were divided, with the military supporting the NDP and the greater part of private business, mostly contractors, industrialists and businessmen who had made fortunes in exports, as well as wealthy younger technocrats and professionals who would have had to wait long years to enter the political arena before 1980 backing the MP. (E) Elites and civil society The civil society in Turkey was silent and absent from the scene of the transition. This is related to the people’s feelings towards the regime, but also to the harsh suppression of any societal opposition to the generals, who, however, had underestimated the people’s capabilities of changing the route to the imposed democracy through elections. Özal understood this and was rewarded with victory. It was noted that the Turks’ reaction towards the coup was not what one would expect from a people whose freedoms are suspended: in much of the country there was a feeling of relief, in some parts

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even positive comments.74 Overall, it was said that the people’s concern was less a demand for democratic rights than for their safety against widespread terrorist actions, and some claimed (Tachau 1984), not without a certain exaggeration, that the ‘average’ Turk was grateful for the regime’s successful campaign against such extremism, and for the apparent restoration of stability to Turkish politics. Foreign criticism and protest against human rights violations probably had little effect on Turkish public opinion. However, the generals’ agenda was soon perceived by many people in Turkey as a backward stride, and their goal as one of undoing all the political, social and economic progress made by the country after 1960. All that made the Turkish people sceptical of the intentions of the military. As for the referendum and its overwhelmingly high ‘yes’ percentage, it was linked to the popularity of Evren. However, this was also due to the fact that there was no proper public discussion of it; and the people were aware that rejecting the 1982 constitution meant nothing less than prolonging the military rule for an infinite, perhaps, time. Therefore there was little to be done in face of that threat. The problem that the generals had was how to manipulate the voters of the parties that had dissolved in 1980 so that they would vote for the regime candidate: Sunalp however, with his slogan ‘state first, then democracy, then the party,’ made many people realise that the dictatorship would not be really over in case he won. Özal’s main advantage was, therefore, that he had successfully and at a relatively early point in time distanced himself from the military rulers. Apart from that, what made the coalition forged by the MP possible was that ‘the Turkish electorate of the previous decade was already groping for a new centrist solution to the maladies of the party system in order to achieve regime stability.’75 It is also fair to add that the only alternative, given the situation in 1983, was the MP. Consequently, Özal made the most of the mistakes and shortcomings of others, but also of the aspirations of the people. (F) Elites and the international factor Despite that interference of the international factor to the imposed reforma was limited, taken into account that the army was in full control of the whole process, it was still possible for some elites to use it for support. Özal once again seems to have made the difference; the

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successful recruiting of external support guaranteed him the tolerance of Evren in the crucial question of legalisation. A European Parliamentary Assembly decided in September 1983 that ‘any members of the new Turkish parliament would be barred from its sessions on the grounds that most political parties were unable to stand in the elections and therefore the results would be unrepresentative.’76 It is not by chance that the foreign minister travelled to Europe only three days after the referendum on the new constitution in 1983 to explain his government’s view on the new situation in the country and to ask the European officials to lift the imposed suspension of the fourth financial protocol of aid to Turkey that was decided one year earlier. Turkey’s historical commitment to Westernisation and its persistent query to integrate politically and economically into Europe determined the position of the regime from the first day, influenced the generals’ plans on the transition and made them sensitive to European criticism. One of the less examined yet more interesting aspects of the 1983 elections is the question why the military did not ban Özal and his MP, but allowed him to participate and claim electoral victory from the moment he refused to align with them. This becomes even more interesting, given the fact that Özal was advised to join Sunalp’s NDP in the beginning.77 The answer is that ‘Western support for Özal, especially among the financial circles, saved him. Retired General Alexander Haig is said to have visited Evren in this period to inform him the West had full confidence in Özal.’78 It is clear that Özal had successfully presented himself to the US as a credible partner for the future. Basically because of his links with the US and the policies he had pursued during his office, and because of the credibility of the Turkish military and the certainty that they would be firmly on the West’s side, would have a firm grip in the country and would not allow the political situation to degenerate again like in the past, the Americans judged it useful to help Özal. In that way they would have their strategic interests guaranteed. Characteristically, between 1980 and 1985 Turkey’s institutional credit rating increased 19.5 points, which was viewed as a clear signal of investor trust to the Turkish economy79 ; and for most of this time it was Özal who was in charge. Hence the intervention of Haig to Evren, and probably one more reason why the latter did little to avert Özal’s victory, and when it happened, did not object to him assuming office. It is also useful to see what the British ambassador noted in his annual report of 1983 to the Foreign Office:

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The regime critics inside and outside Turkey were not slow to predict that President Evren would defer the elections to allow more time to control the emerging political process.[but Evren] having set his course, he is most unwilling to allow himself to be blown off it…the severest critics have argued that the ’democracy’ produced by the Evren process is a sham and that the military, acting behind the scenes, will continue to be the dominating influence. …there is considerable misunderstanding of the way the armed forces are viewed in Turkey…the army’s right to intervene to preserve the integrity of the State is accepted by the Turks with little question. The elections of 1983 were not unfettered democracy. Some of the vetoes on personalities, and certainly the application of press censorship, were excessive. [But] the electorate by their massive turnout showed that the exercise was worthwhile.80

As for the EEC, it adopted a wait-and-see tactic, expecting the regime to present its democratic credentials. It was less enthusiastic about the prospects of Turkey becoming a democracy in the military’s way, and not prepared to accept it joining at the time. (G) 6 November 1983: elections The campaign and the elections were characterised by internal and external observers as ‘remarkably free of disruption. There were no reported incidents of intervention, pressure, intimidation, fraud or violence’81 Özal’s electoral campaign was skilful: he made the most of the extended television coverage for his campaign (for the first time in Turkish history), which helped him present the MP as the only viable alternative for democracy. He also came with a strong pro-free market stance as no party had done before. Evren did not actively participate in the elections, but did try to block Özal’s victory: as the opinion polls the final week of the electoral campaign were suggesting that the MP would win a majority, Evren and Ulusu came under pressure to speak in favour of Sunalp and make clear that the military’s preferences were for NDP. Therefore, they both made public statements indirectly attacking Özal just two days before the opening of the polls. Evren expressed to the Turkish people his belief that they would vote in a government which would continue what he perceived as the ‘accomplishments of the NSC.’82 But the result was the opposite of what he had expected. With a turnout rate of 92.3%, considered as the highest ever in Turkish political history, Özal emerged victorious with 45.2%, which gained him 211

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seats in the TGNA, an absolute majority for the first time since 1969 and a personal success for himself, who had run his electoral campaign as a one-man show. The MP did better in the more developed regions of the country, recruiting support ‘from the upwardly mobile, entrepreneurially minded, pragmatic, modernist groups that were predominantly urban and living in the developed areas of Turkey.’83 To the surprise of many, Sunalp’s NDP came third with 23.27%, coming behind Calp’s PP, which polled 30.46%. Özal was sworn in on December 6th. The regime-led transition had gone almost according to the plan of the military, but the controlled democracy they tried to impose would have to deal with the combined pressure of the pre-dictatorial elites and civil society demands for inclusion. The legacy of both the pre-1980 politics and of the institutional framework imposed by the dictatorship would greatly shape the process of consolidation that was about to start.

The Aftermath: A ‘Difficult Democracy’ The ‘difficult democracy’ that succeeded the dictatorial regime refers to the institutional as well as the political level: the constitution drafted under the auspices of the army posed serious constraints to political representation and participation, and decision-making would greatly escape checks and balances. In their effort to put everything in politics and society under tight control, the military’s constitution ‘closed almost all the doors to active participation by the masses or organised groups in politics…In doing so, the constitution prevented participatory democracy from functioning in a proper way.’84 This is vital in explaining why the post-1983 Turkey was described as a ‘delegative’ or ‘plebiscitarian’ democracy (Sunar 1996). Clearly Western-style liberal democracy was not in the intentions of the army, which had anything but returned to its barracks and focused on purely military issues. Yet, from the time that democratic institutions function democracy escaped the narrow previsions of a dictatorial constitutional text and of an armed elite supervising politics, as the next years showed. The 1983 elections did not entirely solve the problem of legitimising Turgut Özal’s position, as the two main pre-1980 parties had been banned from the elections, hence raising doubts whether Özal would have won a free election.85 The MP was a coalition of various ideological currents (supported by elements of Islamists and even nationalists, and by moderates on the left and the right) and interest groups that had joined

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in because of lack of alternatives under the restrictive military rule. Özal’s personality was the most important factor that kept the party together; he was also very skilful in exploiting patronage politics.86 Nevertheless, while in office he presented a consensual and moderate style of leadership in contrast to the polarised and divisive politics that had prevailed before the coup. In the spring of 1984 local elections were held for the first time: some of the formerly banned political parties, like the SDP, the TPP and even the Refah (Prosperity) Party of Erbakan were allowed to participate without military objections. In these elections both the NDP and the PP collapsed and engaged in a process of dissolution in favour of the pre-1980 parties.87 The results of those pressures made Özal consider a constitutional amendment in that direction. In May 1987 the amendment was passed in the TGNA. In September a referendum was held on allowing participation to the politicians banned after 1980; 50.24% of the people voted ‘yes.’ Evren did not try to block or veto the amendment, performing his duties like a president of a proper parliamentary republic rather than an ex-General who was giving orders.88 Thus the former politicians were back in the arena. These developments, along with the relative takeoff of the Turkish economy, convinced Özal to rush to early national elections to make the most of his success before the opposing parties had time to reorganise and seriously challenge his predominance. In November 1987 Özal again won the absolute majority, although facing the accusations of ex-politicians that he gave them no time to prepare, thus violating the electoral fair play. But in the spring of 1989 a new local election demonstrated a serious decline in the influence of the MP.89 Özal, faced with the prospect of defeat in the next elections and determined not to sit on the benches of the opposition, became President in the autumn of the same year (the first civilian to occupy this office since 1950).90 Indeed he was right to jump to the Presidency as, in the 1991 elections, the MP lost to the TPP; Demirel, the man overthrown by the army in 1980 became Prime Minister again after eleven years. Turkish politics made a full circle from the time of the coup. However in December 1995 the polls saw the Refah party scoring 21%, the biggest in the TGNA; and, in July 1996, Erbakan became Prime Minister in a coalition government. The old Islamist was more than the military could tolerate: in an action characterised as ‘a velvet coup,’ in February 1997, after a session of the NSC, the army commanders attacked him for tolerating ‘reactionary activities.’ Tanks appeared once again in

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the streets of Ankara, and a period of instability started, bringing down Erbakan in June.91 In the first post-1983 years, Turkey would experience again the contradiction of furthering democracy by undemocratic measures. As was the case in other Latin American weak democracies, the military would exert its behind-the-scenes veto power on other institutions, retaining at the same time its autonomy. Among the issues that remained open in the Turkish democracy are the army’s influence in politics, accusations of human rights violations, the rise of Islamism, and the Kurdish ethnic minority rights.92 As far as the relations between the West and Turkey are concerned, it was noted that the former ‘has had almost no direct influence on these changes as such, which are the consequence of Turkey’s unique historical evolution and of a convergence of domestic and foreign factors.’93 The EEC regarded certain regulations of the 1982 constitution, especially those concerning parties and trade unions, as undemocratic, and also the 1983 elections as not free and fair. In April 1987 Turkey’s application for entry to the EEC met with hardly any enthusiasm. It is fair to claim that although Turkey had returned to a system of democratic rule, serious institutional issues related to its limited political pluralism, continued abuses of human rights, perpetual disputes with a particular EEC Member State (Greece), and the problem of Cyprus could not be ignored. There is agreement among some observers however that the real causes of the rejection of Turkey did not have to do with political democracy and human rights, nor with economic growth and convergence, despite the progress that the country has made since, but with cultural and demographic reasons: the overwhelmingly Muslim population of Turkey, as well as its sheer number.94 Turkey has been complaining that as a predominately Muslim state, it was being discriminated against by a vastly Christian club of states (Rouleau 2000). This eternal ambition remains still utopian almost forty years after the transition, despite the repeated efforts of its elites to meet what was described as the country’s ‘manifest destiny,’ its integration into Europe.95 Eventually also, ‘the EU was modestly influential in the realization of some democratizing amendments to the 1982 Turkish constitution and legal codes…the EU’s impact in this sense was largely restricted to the constitutional/legal dimensions of consolidation and moreover, with hindsight, was extremely humble in scope.’96 Nevertheless, Turkey’s lasting commitment to Westernisation and its persistent quest to integrate politically and economically

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into Europe greatly determined the decisions of the generals in implementing their plan to restore democracy, and made them more sensitive to criticisms from Europe. In the more recent years, though, Turkey’s relationship with the European Union was plagued by a discrepancy between its economic and political elements. The persistent failure of the Turkish elites to achieve full membership in the EU brought the country to a situation that McGhee (1990) had foreseen: one of feeling forced to seek an alternative course for its foreign policy. This situation, along with the internal political developments that brought Erdogan in office in 2002, would radically change the country’s orientation in the twenty-first century. It was not the same with the US–Turkish relations, which after a relative decline with the collapse of the Soviet Bloc re-emerged as important for both sides regarding issues of stability in the ex-Soviet periphery and the Gulf war of 1991. In the early post-Cold War time Turkey seemed to give right to the US hopes that it would keep improving its democratic institutions and that, along with its pro-Western policies and its loyalty to NATO, it would serve as a unique example of a Muslim democracy in the tormented Middle East, a paradigmatic development for the rest of the pro-Western Arab countries of the region. Obviously those hopes came true only to a limited extent until the early twenty-first century, when Turkey, again under Erdogan, started coming slowly but steadily in a collision with the interests of the US and NATO in the area, culminating with its spectacular rapprochement with Putin’s Russia in the 2010s.

Conclusions In the Turkish case the outcome of the transition had been decided by the military from the day of the coup: the powerful and united military had in mind a corrective intervention that was to end as soon as it would have provided them with enough institutional tools for controlling the (weak) democracy-to-be from the backstage, and at the same time guaranteed that the chaotic situation of the past would not be repeated. The 1983 transition was ‘almost a textbook example of the degree to which a departing military regime can dictate the conditions of its departure.’97 Thus the transition was successful inasmuch as it was not supposed to lead to a full democracy: having served their institutional and corporate interests, and imposed them on elites and people, the military thought they could successfully hand power to their chosen successors. What they

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failed to reckon with was the change in Turkish society that had occurred in the past, and the possibility that was open to some other agents to exploit skilfully for their interests. The military-as-institution reformed the institutional arrangements of the new democracy so as to enjoy an autonomy in policy making and a direct influence in politics never seen before, fulfilling most of their objectives. It was characteristically claimed that the objective of the military regime was more to establish a military authority over the state than to restore the authority of a democratic state. Indeed the idea that democracy meant not just an elected government and parliament but also the right to different opinion, no matter how radical it might be, had found not a great deal of support among the military in Turkey. Thus the 1983 transition ‘ensured not a strong, vibrant democracy, but a perverted one skewed toward the interpretation of elite interests whose procedures and politics are subject to military review,’98 and the element of contingency in the Turkish case is limited. Eventually, however, the generals were not so effective in changing the political and social structure of the country to the ambitious extent that they would like. This is not irrelevant to the persisting bureaucratic and administrative entanglements, but also to the fact that the blueprint of Kemalism was too problematic to be used as a guide to change in Turkey in the 1980s (Birand 1987). It also underestimated the perseverance of the previous political system in society; so the military’s favourite lost the elections. The military did not succeed in transforming the party system the way they wanted either: the major problem for them was their determination to maintain absolute control of party politics and their denial to allow the development of grassroots politics. Challenges to their influence in politics would appear almost as soon as the political life returned to ‘normality,’ culminating with the collapse of the NDP. They also failed to create the political system they wanted: ‘the constitution of 1982 was devised for guiding political dynamics that never occurred in the intended manner because the generals underestimated the extent of politicisation that Turkish society had reached after three decades of parliamentary democracy.’99 Underestimating the civil society and the dynamics of the pre-1980 political class, the generals created an opportunity for Özal to rule instead of their chosen Sunalp. Eventually, they saw Demirel and Ecevit back in politics despite their aspiration that by 1992, ten years after the voting of their Constitution, when the bans to the old politicians would expire, the people would have forgotten all about the old

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politicians, and that a new political class that would exclude them could be made. Structural factors also had a role in this process: the divergence between the aspirations of the military elites and the results of their intervention revealed the big and unobserved social changes which had happened through the 1970s. Furthermore, the military paid the price of the regime’s total isolation from other organised interest groups apart from the economic technocrats, whose support they also lost in the end to Özal. However, they still had an advantage: the sophisticated institutional arsenal which they had created in order to affect politics, with organs like the NSC they controlled. And this capacity of the Turkish military to protect its institutional prerogatives significantly the immediate menace to democratic institutions. Özal, having achieved economic growth despite his implication in the bank scandal, and having taken distances from the regime’s oppression and from the political cleavages of the past, emerged as victor in 1983, achieving something that was almost impossible—rule the country without neutralising the old political class. This was a task he could not accomplish alone, though; political clientelism, populism, old cleavages and party factionalism were impossible to overcome without military intervention. As soon as this happened, he co-operated with the army. Nevertheless, even before the regime became dispensable for the military, the convergence with the generals ceased to exist, as the refusal of Özal to align with the military in the 1983 elections shows. Özal was smart enough to make the most of a situation where the ex-politicians were excluded from the elections, and the military was left without a credible political representation in the eyes of the people, who were happy to see the army putting an end to the pre-1980 chaos that the politicians proved inefficient in dealing with, but not to submit themselves to the dicta of the military under a democratic façade. Thus Özal was able to present the only viable alternative to the Turkish people in the elections. He understood that he had a chance where the others were either excluded (by the military) or undesired (by the people). It is true that he partly owed his victory to the banning of politicians like Inonu, Ecevit and Demirel, as there was no alternative for the people to a puppet of the military. Nevertheless, his MP proceeded to economic and political reforms and enjoyed almost a decade of hegemony in Turkish politics, though not always promoting the cause of democracy, but still giving priority to economic liberalisation, as his slogan ‘first the economy, then

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democracy’ showed.100 On the other hand he did not openly challenge the military by reforming their Constitution, and said he aimed to give it a chance to bring its fruits (Özbudun 2000). In the end, however, he too succumbed to the temptation of partisan politics Turkish style, with the army always keeping a vigilant eye. This caution made it easier for the military to hand over power to him without the fear that he would start trying to cancel what they had created from 1980 to 1983. As for the politicians who, because of their exclusion from the process of Constitution making and from the elections, regarded Özal’s victory as stolen from their hands, things were hopeless in 1983—they were in no position to dynamically oppose the status quo that came out of the elections. Nevertheless, as the democratic process allow gradually for the openness of the political game, they resumed their pressures on Özal and the military to accept their participation, which eventually were granted in 1987. It is the ultimate irony for the generals that Demirel, whom they expected with time to be retired and forgotten, won the 1991 elections. For the Turkish people, the outcome of the elections was a starting point for the consolidation of democracy. They made clear less than six months later, in the 1984 local elections, that their support to Özal was not unconditional, and that he was expected to promote the cause of democracy as well as economic growth. Under the proper pressure Özal would find the political will to restructure the institutions in a more inclusive direction. Gradually, in the rest of the decade, the country would move towards a more inclusive democracy: constitutional amendments, a reduction of the (outright) military influence in policymaking and more internal and external pressure for the human rights issues. Turkey remained a ‘difficult democracy’101 for many years after 1983, not owing only to the impossible elite accommodation; the problems of Islamism and Kurdish separatism added to the difficulties of transforming the country to a Western-style polity. Old cleavages would rise again, albeit in a different context, due to the changes brought about by the post-1983 developments. The surprise would come almost twenty years after the transition, with the victory of Recep Tayip Erdogan, which marked a turning point in the Turkish political scene. Erdogan would gradually but steadily reduce military tutelage in politics and challenge the principles of Kemalism to a point unthinkable back in the 1980s. And, whereas in the first years of his rule this seemed to enhance and stabilise democracy, his populist policies would turn heavily undemocratic and quasi-authoritarian later. Turkish politics has still a long way to go to be called democratic according to Western liberal standards.

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Notes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

7. 8. 9.

10. 11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

20. 21.

Quoted in Hale (1994: 265). For the notion of reforma by imposition see Schmitter and Karl (1991). Schmitter and Karl, ibid.: 270. Gürsoy (2012: 742). Jenkins (2001: 7). The following presentation of the characteristics of Kemalism is based on the works of Shaw; Dumont: 26–41; Geyikdagi: 57–59; Dodd (1979, 85–88), Zurcher: 189–190. For the formation of the DP see Davison (1998), Shaw (1977). Özbudun (2000: 21–22). Tachau and Heper (1983: 20) note that ‘the twin pillars of the Kemalist regime (the army and the bureaucracy) receded in power and significance during the decade of the 1950s, overshadowed by commercial entrepreneurs…as well as by segments of provisional and regional elites.’ Hale (1994: 107). For details of those events see Robinson (1963), Davison (1998). See Turan (1997b) for an account of the reasons that brought the army in politics; and Hale (1994) for an explanation of the reasons of Menderes’ execution. In November 1960 fourteen NUC radicals were expelled. See Dodd (1979), Hale (1994), Turan (1997a, b). For an account of the two failed coups see Yalman (1968); also Hale (1990). Robinson (1963: 272–273). Narli (2000: 113). For details of the 1961 constitution see Dodd (1979), Davison (1998), and Shaw (1977). Kemal (1984: 13). For these developments see Ahmad (1981), Hale (1994); the latter speaks of the creation of a ‘military-industrial establishment’ in the country; as a former NUC member wrote in 1973, ‘in Turkey, there is a military class, just as there is a workers’ and peasants’ class’ (quoted in Hale 1990: 54). See Davison (1988) for the two main parties of the Second Turkish Republic. The Turkish Workers Party (TWP) was the first socialist party to enter the TGNA. The National Salvation Party (NSP) led by Erbakan, preaching ‘Islamic socialism,’ was opposing Turkey’s joining the West and the EEC. On the extreme right the Nationalist Action Party (NAP) under excolonel Turkes was emphasising anti-communism and pan-Turkism. See Ahmad (1981).

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22. As Tachau and Heper (1983: 22) note, this was partly due to the will of the authors of the 1961 constitution ‘to prevent the re-emergence of an authoritarian regime based on massive parliamentary majorities.’ 23. For a escription of the political situation in Turkey see Ahmad (1981). 24. All analysts converge on these issues. See Steinbach (1984), Dodd (1990), Sunar and Sayari (1986). 25. For the events leading to the 1970 coup see Hale (1994), Dodd (1990), Tachau (1984). 26. For this characterisation see Davison (1998). Özbudun (2000) calls it ‘a half coup.’ 27. For the reasons of the reluctance of the army to fully interfere see Turan (1997a, b). 28. For an account of the Ecevit failure see Hale (1994). 29. Dodd (1990, 48). See also Ahmad (1981), Özbudun (2000), Herschlag (1988). 30. Birand (1987: 62–63). 31. FCO9/3054 Lawrence to Bullard, Internal Political Situation in Turkey 23/7/1980. 32. Birand (1987). Ahmad (1981: 6) also mentions fears of the military that ‘political and therefore social and economic instability might lead to a military coup by junior officers outside hierarchical control.’ 33. Dodd (1990: 44); see also Özbudun (2000). 34. It was estimated that between 1971 and 1980 more than 5000 people died in clashes between rival political groups, ethnic or religious incidents and demonstrations (Pope and Pope 1997); Ahmad (1981) gives a number of average 20 victims per day. 35. Separatism, Turan (1997a, b: 132) notes, ‘was identified as the new threat to the country instead of communism’; see also Hale (1994), Ahmad (1981) for his part understates the Islamist danger. See also Mouawad: 334. 36. ‘What is surprising about the coup of 12 September 1980 is not that it happened, but that it took so long in coming, and that the politicians did so little to prevent it’ (Hale 1994: 232). 37. Sunar and Sayari (1986: 182). 38. Lawrence to FCO, Military Take Over, 13/9/1980, FCO9/3054. 39. Gürsoy (2009). This belief—that infiuential politicians ‘would support or at least stay neutral to intervention’—was critical to the military’s decision to intervene in 1980 (Demirel 2005: 272). 40. All the message of Evren in Birand (1987). 41. Karakartal (1985: 62). Hale (1994) insists on the ‘moderator’ characteristics, while Tachau and Heper (1983) consider it a ‘guardian’ regime. It should be considered closer to the ‘moderator’ type though, as these kind of regimes are characterised by ‘fairly high (though variable)

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42. 43. 44. 45. 46.

47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53.

54.

55.

56. 57.

unity and differentiation [from civil society], combined with fairly low threat [from civil society] and moderate autonomy [in political organisation]…[the professional military] feels itself obliged to ‘step in, to sort out the mess’ created by factious politicians, and after a period of ‘corrective government’ to hand over to a cleaned up civilian political system’ (Clapham and Philip 1985: 9). For the characteristics of the ‘veto’ type, see the chapter on Greece. Ahmad 183 characterises Ozal as the ‘economic suppremo’ of Turkey for that time. For details of the machinations on the formation of the cabinet, see also Birand (1987). See Dodd (1990) for that incident. Evin (1994: 24). Zurcher (1993) gives a number of more than 122,000 prisoners after one year of the regime in power. Ahmad (1981) mentions an EEC estimation of 30,000 detainees by January 1981. Birand (1987) accounts for more than 178,000 arrests, 64,500 persons in detainment and 27 executions in the four years after the coup. He also gives an impressive number of weapons confiscated by the authorities during that period. See also Demirel: 251. See Dodd (1990) for more details. Dodd (1990); he considers that the military were successful in this. Herschlag (1988: 42). See Birand (1987). For an account of the economy under the regime see also Zurcher (1993). Yalpat (1984: 23). For the ‘Banker Kastelli’ incident see Pope and Pope (1997), Hale (1994). According to Ahmad (1981: 8), Özal had, on his return to Turkey from the US in the 1970s, ‘established firm links with the private sector, working there in various capacities.’ Birand (1987: 196) says ironically that ‘Western reactions to the coup were much milder than that which could be expected during the heyday of concerns about ‘democracy and human rights.’ Aslan (2017: 283); Evren himself admitted that ‘if they [the Turkish generals] found resistance from their [US] counterparts and consistent signals that a coup would be unacceptable, they would have thought twice before acting’ (ibid.: 186). US diplomat Paul Henze, quoted in Aslan (2017: 178). As Paul (1981) mentions, less than one month after the coup, Turkey’s central bank concluded a $95 million loan with a consortium of private multinational banks, and on November 21 the World Bank announced an $87 million loan.

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58. See Ahmad (1993) for this discussion; also Dodd (1990). 59. Aslan (2017: 180) agrees that ‘NATO did not act as an upholder of democracy.’ 60. It is fair to point, as Cendrowicz (1992) does, that the 1971 coup did not have the repercussions for Turkish–EEC relationship that the 1980 one had. Contra Birand (1987), who considers that the 1980 coup was much more welcomed by the EEC than the Greek 1967 one. See also Karaosmanoglou (1991) for the difference between the US and EEC in facing the regime. 61. Lawrence to FCO, Military Takeover, 13/9/1980, FCO9/3054. 62. For this point see Zurcher (1993), Cendrowicz (1992), Dodd (1990). 63. As Dagi (1998: 131) claims, ‘some parliamentarians, particularly socialists, were pressing for the suspension of Turkey’s membership on the grounds that the Council [of Europe] did so when the Colonels’ coup took place in Greece in 1967.’ 64. Mackenzie (1984: 7). 65. Dagi (1998: 148). 66. The description that follows has taken data from Zurcher (1993), Ahmad (1993), Pope and Pope (1997), Özbudun (2000), Dodd (1990), Tachau (1984), Hakyemez and Akgun (2002), Narli (2011). 67. The decision-making powers of the NSC range from determining the curriculum in schools to closing down television stations to postponing conscripts’ termination date of military service (Sakallioglou 1997). See also Özbudun (2000). 68. Concluding, Tachau and Heper (1983: 31), also point that with the 1982 constitution, ‘political pluralism has suffered a significant setback.’ See also Tachau (1984). 69. Credible information on this issue is difficult to get; see Ahmad (1984). 70. On this see Ahmad (1993); also Hale (1994). 71. Zurcher (1993: 297). 72. As Ahmad (1984: 8) notes, ‘perhaps Özal did survive the vetoes because he was not taken seriously.’ 73. Ahmad (1984: 9). 74. Dodd (1990: 48) for instance, considers that the coup ‘was widely welcomed in Turkey.’ 75. Ergüder and Hofferbert (1988: 90). 76. Dagi (1998: 134). 77. Even the British ambassador advised Özal on that (Pope and Pope 1997). 78. Pope and Pope (1997: 160). 79. See Campany (1986) on this point. 80. FCO9/4833 Lawrence to FCO, 4 January 1984 Turkey: Annual Review of 1983 and Calendar of events.

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81. Özbudun (1987: 359); he interprets the result as the desire of Turks ‘for a rapid normalisation and civilianisation, but not necessarily as a repudiation of the policies of the NSC’ (ibid.: 360). 82. On this see Ahmad (1993), Hale (1994). 83. Özbudun (2000: 95). 84. Ecevit, quoted in Pope and Pope (1997: 156). 85. Ahmad (1984) calls the 1983 elections inconclusive, considering them not as the restoration of multiparty politics, but rather as marking the beginning of transition to democracy. 86. For Özal’s patronage politics, see Ahmad (1984). 87. For these elections see Zurcher (1993), Ahmad (1993). 88. ‘Evren had created order out of virtual chaos, and the nation continued to respect him for his achievements’ (Mackenzie 1984: 11). 89. Results of these elections and discussion on the MP’s decline are in Zurcher (1993) and Dodd (1990). 90. Evin (1994) considers this point the full realisation of civilianisation of the regime. 91. A summary of those events in Pope and Pope (1997); see also Özbudun (2000). 92. For a good, but rather pessimistic, account of those two issues and the future of Turkish democracy see Özbudun (2000), Sunar (1996). 93. Karaosmanoglou (1991: 173). 94. ‘Historical prejudices which have limited co-operation between Turkish democrats the potential-transnational allies in Europe to further the cause of democracy’ (Whitehead 1996: 269). 95. As a Turkish diplomat remarked, ‘our educated class was raised to assume that its destiny was in Europe, [but now sees European politicians] “linking hands with groups whose aim is to overthrow our state or who even aspire to partition it”’ (cited in Hodge 1999, 65). 96. Usul (2011: 198). 97. Özbudun (2000: 117). 98. Hagopian (1990: 164) had reached this conclusion for Brazil but it applies in the Turkish case too. 99. Kramer (2000: 24). 100. ‘Under Özal, the transition to democracy made only superficial progress…there was no attempt to amend the undemocratic laws inherited from the military government’ (Ahmad 1993: 193, 197). 101. ‘Civil society has increasing latitude but no real strength; parliament contains opposition forces but has no real strength; the judiciary operates with some independence at times but is by and large controlled politically,’ lamented a university professor still in 2000 (cited in Rouleau 2000: 114).

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References Ahmad, F. 1981. Military Intervention and the Crisis in Turkey. MERIP Reports 93: 5–24. Ahmad, F. 1984. The Turkish Elections of 1983. MERIP Reports 122: 3–11. Ahmad, F. 1993. The Making of Modern Turkey. London: Routledge. Aslan, Ö. 2017. The United States and Military Coups in Turkey and Pakistan: Between Conspiracy and Reality. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Birand, M.A. 1987. The Generals’ Coup in Turkey: An Inside Story of 12 September 1980. London: Brassey’s Defence. Campany, Richard. 1986. Turkey and the United States: The Arms Embargo Period. New York: Praeger. Cendrowicz, M. 1992. The European Community and Turkey. In Turkish Foreign Policy: New Prospects, ed. C. Dodd, 9–26. Huntingdon: Eothen. Clapham, P., and G. Philip. 1985. The Political Dilemmas of Military Regimes. In The Political Dilemmas of Military Regimes, ed. P. Clapham and G. Philip, 1–26. London: Croom Helm. ˙ 1998. Democratic Transition in Turkey, 1980–83: The Impact of EuroDagi, I. pean Diplomacy. In Turkey: Identity, Democracy, Politics, ed. S. Kedourie, 124–141. London: Frank Cass. Davison, R. 1988. Turkey: A Short History. Huntingdon: Eothen. Davison, R. 1998. Turkey: A Short History. Huntingdon: Eothen. Demirel, T. 2005. Lessons of Military Regimes and Democracy: The Turkish Case in a Comparative Perspective. Armed Forces & Society 31 (2): 245–271. Dodd, C. 1979. Democracy and Development in Turkey. Beverley: Eothen. Dodd, C. 1990. The Crisis of Turkish Democracy. Huntingdon: Eothen. Ergüder, U., and R. Hofferbert. 1988. The 1983 General Elections in Turkey: Continuity or Change in Voting Patterns. In State, Democracy and the Military: Turkey in the 1980s, ed. M. Heper and A. Evin, 81–102. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Evin, A. 1994. Demilitarisation and Civilianisation of the Regime. In Politics in the Third Turkish Republic, ed. M. Heper and A. Evin, 23–40. Oxford: Westview Press. Gürsoy, Y. 2009. Civilian Support and Military Unity in the Outcome of the Turkish and Greek Military Interventions. Political and Military Sociology 37 (1): 47–75. Gürsoy, Y. 2012. The Changing Role of the Military in Turkish Politics: Democratization Through Coup Plots? Democratization 19 (4): 735–760. Haggard, S., and R. Kaufman. 1995. The Political Economy of Democratic Transitions. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UniversityPress. Hagopian, F. 1990. Democracy by Undemocratic Means? Elites, Political Pacts, and Regime Transitions in Brazil. Comparative Political Studies 23: 147–170.

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Hakyemez, Y., and B. Akgun. 2002. Limitations of Freedom of Political Parties in Turkey and the Jurisdiction of the European Court of Human Rights. Mediterranean Politics 7 (2): 54–78. Hale, W. 1990. The Turkish Army in Politics, 1960–73. In Turkish State, Turkish Society, ed. A. Finkel and N. Simman, 53–77. London: Routledge. Hale, W. 1994. Turkish Politics and the Military. London: Routledge. Herschlag, Z. 1988. The Contemporary Turkish Economy. London: Routledge. Hodge, C. 1999. Turkey and the Pale Light of European Democracy. Mediterranean Politics 4 (3): 56–68. Jenkins, G. 2001. Context and Circumstance: The Turkish Military and Politics. Adelphi Papers 337: 5–104. Karakartal, B. 1985. Turkey: The Army as Guardian of the Political Order. In The Political Dilemmas of Military Regimes, ed. C. Clapham and G. Philip, 46–63. London: Croom Helm. Karaosmanoglou, A. 1991. Democratic Transition in Turkey. In Encouraging Democracy, ed. G. Pridham, 159–174. Leicester: Leicester University Press. Kemal, A. 1984. Military Rule and the Future of Democracy in Turkey. MERIP Reports 122: 12–15. Kramer, S. 2000. A Changing Turkey: Challenges to Europe and the United States. Washington, DC: Brookings Institution Press. Mackenzie, K. 1984. Turkey in Transition: The West’s Neglected Ally. London: Alliance Publishers for the Institute for European Defence & Strategic Studies. McGhee, G. 1990. The US-Turkish-NATO Middle East Connection: How the Truman Doctrine and Turkey’s Entry Contained the Soviets. London: Macmillan. Narli, N. 2000. Civil–Military Relations in Turkey. Turkish Studies 1 (1): 107– 127. Narli, N. 2011. Concordance and Discordance in Turkish Civil–Military Relations, 1980–2002. Turkish Studies 12 (2): 215–225. Özbudun, E. 1987. Turkey. In Competitive Elections in Developing Countries, ed. E. Özbudun and M. Weiner, 328–365. Durham: Duke University Press. Özbudun, E. 2000. Contemporary Turkish Politics: Challenges to Democratic Consolidation. London: Lynne Rienner. Paul, P. 1981. The Coup. MERIP Reports 91: 3–4. Pope, F., and H. Pope. 1997. Turkey Unveiled: Atatürk and After. London: John Murray. Robinson, R. 1963. The First Turkish Republic: A Case Study in National Development. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Rouleau, E. 2000. Turkey’s Dream of Democracy. Foreign Affairs 79 (6): 100– 114. Sakallioglou, U. 1997. The Anatomy of the Turkish Military’s Political Autonomy. Comparative Politics 29 (2): 151–165.

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Schmitter, P., and T. Karl. 1991. Modes of Transition in Latin America, Southern and Eastern Europe. International Social Science Journal 128: 269–284. Shaw, S.J. 1977. History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Steinbach, U. 1984. The Impact of Atatürk on Turkey’s Political Culture Since World War II. In Atatürk and the Modernization of Turkey, ed. J. Landau, 77–88. Boulder: Westview Press. Sunar, I. 1996. State, Society and Democracy in Turkey. In Turkey Between East and West: New Challenges for a Rising Regional Power, ed. V. Mastny and R. Nation, 141–154. Oxford: Westview Press. Sunar, I., and S. Sayari. 1986. Democracy in Turkey: Problems and Prospects. In Transitions from Authoritarian Rule: Prospects for Democracy.Vol. II: Southern Europe, ed. G. O’Donnell, P. Schmitter, and L. Whitehead, 165–186. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Tachau, F. 1984. Turkey: The Politics of Authority, Democracy and Development. New York: Praeger. Tachau, F., and M. Heper. 1983. The State, Politics and the Military in Turkey. Comparative Politics 16 (1): 17–33. ˙ 1984. Continuity and Change in the Turkish Bureaucracy: The Kemalist Turan, I. Period and After. In Atatürk and the Modernization of Turkey, ed. J. Landau, 99–124. Boulder: Westview Press. ˙ 1997a. The Democratic Anomalies: Why Some Countries That Have Turan, I. Passed Vanhanen’s Democratic Threshold Are Not Democracies. In Prospects of Democracy: A Study of 172 Countries, ed. T. Vanhanen, 284–300. London: Routledge. ˙ 1997b. The Military in Turkish Politics. Mediterranean Politics 2 (2): Turan, I. 123–135. Usul, A.R. 2011. Democracy in Turkey: The Impact of EU Political Conditionality. London: Routledge. Whitehead, L., ed. 1996. The International Dimensions of Democratisation: Europe and the Americas. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Yalman, N. 1968. Intervention and Extrication: The Officer Corps in the Turkish Crisis. In The Military Intervenes, ed. H. Bienen, 127–144. New York: Russel Sage. Yalpat, A. 1984. Turkey’s Economy Under the Generals. MERIP Reports 122: 12–15. Zurcher, E. 1993. Turkey: A Modern History. London: I.B. Tauris.

CHAPTER 5

Concluding Remarks

The cases of transition by regime transformation examined in this book reveal some common characteristics between Spain, Greece and Turkey namely the interest of regime elites to finish a dictatorship that has outlived its usefulness—regime dispensability—as well as the uncertainty of such a process. The different outcomes in the three countries were due mainly to the different natures of the regimes that were dropped and to the inter-regime dynamics and balance of power that prevailed in the course of the processes. The other variables—civil society and international pressures—cannot be underestimated; however, ultimately the decisive variable was the balance of power between the elites as it emerged at the time of the transition, and was greatly due to the nature of the regimes. This played the prominent role in how the transition would proceed and how it would pave the way to future consolidation—if at all.

Dispensability as a Result of Regime Nature and Elite Formation The comparison between the three cases leads to the conclusion that democratisation by reforma occurred when the dictatorial regimes became dispensable for their own elites, which came to conclude that ‘that system © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 I. Tzortzis, Elites and Democratic Transitions by Regime Transformation in Southern Europe, Global Political Transitions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04620-9_5

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which they have led and presumably benefited from no longer meets their needs’1 and engaged in abandoning the dictatorial rule, transforming it into a democratic one. Dispensability appears to be the first causal mechanism that explains democratic transition by regime transformation, a necessary condition (albeit not a sufficient one) for that kind of transition to occur: in each and every one of the three countries studied, a dictatorial elite considered that it was possible to prolong its influence from the authoritarian regime which it commanded until then to a democratic polity that would institutionally guarantee its interests. Therefore, the possibility that democracy is not necessarily brought by democrats, but rather it can be the result of the interest calculation of certain dictatorial elites that they will be at least well off under a democracy too, appears to hold its value. This acceptance has implications for the attitudes of the opposition elites and the civil society during the transition process. Whether the regime will successfully transform itself into democratic depended on the capacity of the dictatorial elites to negotiate or dictate their conditions of the reform and achieve a generally respected institutional framework for the new democracy. This was greatly contingent upon the nature of the regimes, which appears as the sufficient condition for the conclusion of this kind of transition. For the nature of the regime to influence the elites’ motives and circumstances of proceeding to the transition, important factors are the elite coalition that was in power, the length of its time in office and its transformation during that time. In case that the goals of the nondemocratic regime had been met, and the dictatorial elites had secured their gains, they had little reason to insist on perpetuating a dictatorship that can possibly bring more problems than it was able to solve until then. In contrast to the often-ideological opinion which insists that dictatorial elites usually stick to the regimes they created, the findings of the cases studied support the argument that the notion of dispensability must be given more attention as a means of ending a dictatorship in a non-violent way. This presupposes that the regime elites will view the dictatorship as dispensable.

Regime Natures Compared In the Spanish and Greek cases, the civil wars destroyed the possibilities of building durable democratic regimes and left their scars for many years to come: authoritarianism (in the Spanish case) or ‘difficult democracy’ (in

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the Greek one) prevented the opening of the countries to a more inclusive regime and froze any institutional modernisation for three decades. Likewise, in Turkey an authoritarian elite founded a state from scratch and kept a tight control on society and politics for some decades. The breaking point of authoritarianism or autarchic democracy was economic modernisation along with the democratic zeitgeist introduced after the Second World War. The booming economies during the 50s and 60s brought in all three states’ social mobilisation and demands for more openings to include the rising middle classes in the decision-making, or to defrost the societies and modernise the obsolete state structures and institutions and do away with the order imposed after civil wars and authoritarian years. The Greek dictatorship was a veto military regime, imposed by many groups of officers that gradually started splitting and eventually degraded to a one-group regime. The total absence of any ties with the civil society, a political party or movement with substantial support, or any organised interest stresses the complete isolation of the military first, then of the prevailing group around Papadopoulos. To this should be added the inefficiency of the regime to institutionalise itself, despite that it had twice tried to create ‘constitutions’ that remained on paper, as well as its relatively short duration (by the start of the reforma the regime was in power for six years). This isolation explains up to a certain extent the resistance that the groups of hard-liners posed to Papadopoulos’ repeated attempts for a controlled ‘democratisation’ culminating in his overthrow by the November 1973 coup, as well as the suspiciousness and doubt with which the Markezinis government was faced by the counter-elites and the civil society. The fact that Markezinis undertook the task to bring about the reforma without having collaborated with the regime was not enough to convince politicians and people for his good intentions. On the contrary, he was taken seriously only by the military hard-liners, which were contesting Papadopoulos’s leadership; this was a crucial factor for the outcome of the process. In Spain the regime nature was obviously different: authoritarian but ‘semi-pluralistic,’ comprising a wide range of interests from the military to the Movimiento bureaucrats and from the Church to the Opus Dei technocrats, the Franco regime could not outlive its leader but could choose the way to end itself, through a process of self-transformation started by the groups that considered feasible to gain from the transition. The wide spectrum of groups represented, some of which were very much in touch

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with the socio-political reality of the 1970s Spain, as well as with the international environment, and knew that the time of dictatorship had better be over peacefully, managed to carry out the most paradigmatic democratic transition. It should also be added that the long duration of the regime in power (at the time of the transition it was in its 37th year) gave it the convenience of time to institutionalise itself and considerably penetrate the Spanish society, which made it more acceptable to large parts of the people that the regime elites would remain in power even after the transition. As soon as the only factor that kept the heterogeneous groups together, Franco himself, died, nothing could keep the familias united. The split, like in the Greek case, into soft- and hard-liners (the latter being to a large extent, as in Greece, military officers) was inevitable, but also not fatal for the reforma as the order of forces would, for certain reasons, favour the aperturistas at the time of the transition. Papadopoulos has been accused of having tried to do the same that the Turkish military accomplished: the creation of a weak, ‘difficult democracy’ in which the army would be the main pillar of the state and an obstacle to any further democratic consolidation in the country. This opinion however needs to take into account a major structural difference between the Greek and Turkish dictatorships—regime coherence. In the Turkish case the regime was led by the military-as-institution, aiming to bring a major restructuring to the institutions and the society and then retire after having guaranteed their control on the decision-making, not by various groups that opportunistically allied in order to get in power and, as most of them hoped, keep it infinitely. That was the main difference between the cases of Greece and Turkey, and it was enough to put a heavy structural weight on the attempt of Papadopoulos and Markezinis. Other factors were similar in both countries, such as the isolation of the Turkish regime from civil society and international community, except of a temporary alliance with the group of technocrats and entrepreneurs represented by Ozal and aiming to discard the political obstacles to the economic liberalisation of the country, an alliance that did not last long anyway. Nevertheless, even isolated, the Turkish military were capable to carry out their plans united and without considerable splits and in the end dictate their own rules of departure from—at least visible—power. That was a goal that the Greek ruling group under Papadopoulos was too weak to achieve. As for the regimes’ transformation during the dictatorship, the Spanish regime institutionalised itself and diversified, creating bodies that could

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function as consultative nets, giving its elite a chance to create close links with broader interests and to negotiate the transition with their influence on the institutional arrangements of the new democracy recognised by their opponents. Therefore, its civilianisation was of major importance for the outcome of the transition. Furthermore, the presence of an institution on its helm that was accepted by all the regime elites and unchallenged by the opposition elites—the king—has to be given significance. This applies especially to maintaining backward legitimacy (important in securing polity continuation), and assuring that the army was, to say the least, neutral to the reforma: regime-led transition is problematic ‘when the incumbents cannot count on the loyalty of the armed forces.’2 It was what the Greek dictatorship never achieved—and perhaps never sincerely tried to achieve—and the Turkish regime only partially succeeded in achieving—but for a limited time. In both those countries the military dictatorships were isolated and cut off from the rest of the body politic. One key difference though was the regime disunity in Greece versus unity in Turkey, which also greatly accounts for the outcome in both those countries.

Elites Leading the Transition: For Whom Were the Regimes Dispensable? The question which regime elites see the dictatorships as dispensable is important: ‘given the strong elements of contingency that characterise most democratic transitions, it is of very real significance to the dynamics of the process whether one type of leader prevails or another.’3 Usually in the literature the military elites are considered hard-liners and resistant to regime change. In the cases studied here, however, one cannot assume that this also applies for dispensability: in Turkey the regime was militarised, and yet it did become dispensable for the military themselves. The dispensability of the Turkish (and, to a certain extent, of the Greek) dictatorship is one more proof that a militarised regime can soon be expected to meet the limits of dealing with the complexities of government. The cases of Greece and Turkey confirm that ‘no military regime…is able to maintain an uncomplicated unity of military and political command… in anything but the short term: a matter of some two or three years at most.’4 In Greece too, the dictatorship became dispensable for the regime elite group led by Papadopoulos, but not for the hard-liners and for the military-as-institution, who sought to stop

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the transition process for their own interests. The two cases, however, have a different starting point—namely the completion of the timetable of the military for the transformation of the political and institutional setting in Turkey, and the continuous inter-regime clashes in Greece, out of which Papadopoulos believed he was coming powerful enough to impose his reforma plan. Nevertheless, he found out that once the process was started, he was under pressure even from his chosen Prime Minister Markezinis to concede more to the democratic opposition. In Spain, the civilian elite viewed the regime as dispensable, in contrast to the majority of the military, because of the post-Franco succession crisis and to a lesser extent because of the international and societal pressures for change. The similarities between the Spanish and Greek cases are obvious inasmuch as the scopes of Juan Carlos and Suarez were similar to the ones of Papadopoulos and Markezinis respectively. The former was trying to secure legitimacy to his role as uncontested King of Spain after the end of the dictatorship; the latter was seeking to emerge as a democratically elected statesman. It is also debatable whether democracy was in the minds of both figures from the beginning, or it came as a by-product of inter-regime struggles that reached a point where no solution other than democratic transformation was possible to sort out the situation (frictions in the Arias cabinets between figures like Fraga and Areilza, interest calculations on the electoral strength of opposition parties confronting the aperturistas ’ party, etc.). As for the Turkish military, they were from the beginning to the end as intransigent as they could be in their goal of excluding the old political class and reforming the new ‘democracy’ as it was meant to be. For them it was simply a matter of power, and they commanded the force of arms necessary for them to impose their regulations on the way to the elections. In all three cases the outgoing elites sought to proceed to the democratisation of the polity believing that there was space for them in the post-transition democracy (Juan Carlos as King in Spain, Papadopoulos and Evren as Presidents in Greece and Turkey, Suarez and Markezinis as transitional Prime Ministers aiming to be the protagonists in politics after the transition too). In the cases of Greece and Turkey, and despite the dispensability of the regime, a certain garantismo still accompanied the transition (at least in the early phase in Greece, and throughout the transition and its aftermath in Turkey), therefore no guarantees could be offered that the process would restore democracy as wished by the opposition and people. The fact, however, that the regime elites did

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proceed to a reforma offered enough incentives to the opposition elites to negotiate a better deal for the new democracy in Spain and Greece. Whether they took this chance and how they interacted with the regime elites is a different question.

Elites’ Choices and Tactics in the Transition Process The successful outcome of democratisation by reforma in Spain was firstly the result of the regime elites’ capacity to distance themselves from the regime hard-liners and give to the counter-elites, as well as to the international community and to the society clear signs that they were aiming for something more than just a restructuring of the old institutions. This was achieved with public statements as well as with negotiations with the opposition leaders. Secondly, those negotiations were conducted in secrecy, depriving the hard-liners of any information that could preoccupy them and make them engage in violent action against the transition process. The tactics of deception paid off for Suarez and the King, culminating with the surprise legalisation of the PCE that gave no margin of reaction to the army hard-liners. It is important to have in mind the appeal of Juan Carlos to the hard-liners in the army, just because of the institution he was representing. Besides that, Juan Carlos and Suarez were efficiently following a certain timetable of action, proceeding cautiously but not slowly from one move to another, maintaining the momentum and decisively shifting the agenda of the transition to their direction. It must be also borne in mind that the regime was split and there was disagreement on the transition from the hard-liners in the army. From this point of view, the inter-elite game became one of deception until the surprise calling of elections, which signalled the decisive point in the reforma. The potential hard-liners were surprised by the soft-liners’ tactics of deception up to a point that they could not effectively react against them, especially after elections were announced. The loss of momentum on behalf of the hard-liners, as well as the disagreements among them on the mode of reaction to the reforma, were the main reasons for their inactivity and final failure to reverse the democratisation process. It is based on those tactics that Huntington would later formulate many of his ‘guidelines for democratisers’ for overcoming obstacles to democratisation by reforma. Especially his insistence on checking the hard-liners’ reaction, mainly in the army, keeping control of the initiative

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of the process of democratisation (even if it means contriving a ‘conservative’ reforma, in the sense of serving the interests of the regime forces that started it), and surprising opposition and hard-liners.5 Whitehead (2002) should also include in the ‘drama’ of democratic transition the capacity of the actors to convince their counterparts of their good intentions, as well as to fully understand their responsibilities and the prerogatives of the role they have assumed.6 If the regime elites had some tactics, so did the opposition ones: accepting the negotiations with the regime soft-liners because ‘liberal democracy is the most important immediate political goal’7 thanks to their pragmatic stance. The realisation that the opposition forces can do little if anything against a dictatorial regime (still) commanding support in the powerful state apparatus, and that the window of opportunity which the regime elites offered was a chance that should not go missed, even if it would initially mean a weak democracy that might not fully satisfy the prerogatives of the anti-regime forces, led them to prefer this against a situation of prolonged suppression or turmoil that might lead to a situation similar to that of 1936, which almost no one wanted to see repeated. The opposition moderates came to a mutual understanding with the regime aperturistas and concluded the outcome that so few would think possible at that time. It needs to be stressed that it was that fear of the reactionaries in the regime and of the repetition of the civil war that prompted the opposition not only to negotiate with the soft-liners, but also to not apply a more substantial pressure to them for further concessions, thus resulting in a ‘conservative’ transition which did not fully satisfy the expectations of many in the opposition and in the civil society. Indeed, numerous regime officials did not give reason for their actions (such as human rights’ violations during the dictatorship), and many sectors of the state (army, police, public administration, etc.) were not purged from regime collaborators, thus burdening the young democracy with an authoritarian heritage that would haunt Spanish politics for a number of years to come. This was the price that had to be paid for the peaceful transition. Notwithstanding the above objection, the Spanish counter-elites offered their realist and pragmatic political contribution to the democratising process and it is greatly their attitude that made the Spanish reforma the paradigmatic ‘transition through transaction’ in democratisation studies. The compromise with the regime elites rewarded particularly the socialist elites which, only five years after the transition, became the

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government elected; this mellowing of the party lines would continue after the transition and keep the PSOE in the centre of politics in the country for more than a decade after their victory. As for the communist elites, their achievement of regaining their place in democratic politics cannot be ignored either. It was not quite the case of Greece; the regime elites started the transition quite confident that it would greatly favour their interests, and excluding large parts of the opposition from participating in the elections. Gradually, however, after Markezinis joined Papadopoulos as civilian Prime Minister, the latter accepted that intransigence was not the best way to win acceptance and legitimacy both in and out of the country. This led to a gradual mellowing of Papadopoulos’ position, and he accepted, by the end of the summer of 1973, the amendment of the ‘Constitution’ towards more democratic regulations, as well as allowing the participation in the elections to more political forces. Markezinis appears that in the end he had managed to win Papadopoulos for his case, and he played his role in convincing Papadopoulos of the importance of more concessions, which he eventually got, securing his own ambition to be the political motor of transition and have a key role in the future democracy, a role that he could not achieve in Greek politics before 1967. Nevertheless, Markezinis made crucial mistakes in dealing with the hard-liners opposing the reforma. The first one, for which Papadopoulos was also responsible, was the wasting of crucial time in negotiations for the formation of the Markezinis cabinet in the summer of 1973. The total lack of a plan of their moves and the way they were improvising makes it obvious that they were far from having developed a sound tactic for the way to the elections. Instead, Papadopoulos and Markezinis engaged in long and time-costly negotiations that revealed their intentions to the counter-elites, more importantly to the hard-liners in the army. And here lies the second mistake of Markezinis, namely his outspoken preparation for the elections: he was acting as if he was unaware of the fact that he was dealing with ruthless military officers, whose long experience in conspiring and subversion was posing a big threat for the success of his experiment. To his credit it can be said that he lacked information about the developments in the army, and when he did receive any, he became concerned and rushed to alert Papadopoulos who, in turn, was over-confident that the army would not rise against him, thus underestimating the real threat of Ioannidis. Still, Markezinis was too conspicuous of his plan and actions, giving the hard-liners valuable information such

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as the date of the announcement of the timetable for elections. His slow, long-studied and outspoken moves made him an easy target for the hardliners of Ioannidis. It is somehow impressive that he has to take the blame for being so outspoken about his intentions whereas he has been accused ever since of exactly the opposite, i.e. of not intending to seriously move Greece to democracy. And the ultimate irony is that the only ones who took him seriously were the hard-liners themselves. The third mistake Markezinis made was his inadequate distancing from the regime. For the short time he was Prime Minister he was giving the impression that he was in the shadow of Papadopoulos, who in the eyes of the people and the politicians was an unwanted dictator. This fact deprived Markezinis of any positive dynamics he could acquire for his government and made him easily accusable as the straw man of Papadopoulos, which definitely condemned his government. This attitude gave those opposing the reforma a good reason for denying support to him. He was irreversibly stigmatised particularly in view of the Polytechnic events and the brutal repression that ensued. He made the mistake of thinking that some statements in the press were enough to convince the people and the opposition of his good intentions; only very late would he realise that this was not the case. The way he reacted to the demonstrations in the beginning reveals a politician that had not understood that the mass public can play a more important role in politics than simply applaud and cheer. The escalation of the demonstrations took his cabinet aback until the situation got well out of hand; restoring ‘law and order’ afterwards meant brutally suppressing the demonstrators by the police and the army of a dictatorial regime still very much alive and eager to defend itself against its challengers. The fact that even after the bloody culmination of the events Markezinis was still speaking to the press of ‘enemies of the nation and of democracy’ when everyone else was thinking of the students—victims of the suppression, and whereas his own overthrow was approaching fast, condemned Markezinis in the eyes of the Greeks forever. The above-mentioned conference was to be his last—and most remembered one. Interestingly, Markezinis should have had a better luck dealing with the counter-elites, the ‘old political class.’ He was one of them until before the dictatorship, and had not collaborated with the regime until 1973. He was offering to the politicians the right to participate in the elections, for the freedom and fairness of which he was giving guarantees. If the regime denied those guarantees, the opposition leaders would have

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had every right to refuse participation and denounce the transition as a sham (some of them were suggesting precisely this, but were ignored). However it was not the case: in the case of Greece the intransigence of the counter-elites in view of the offer to participate in elections raises questions on their motives, leaving a suspicion that they were only interested in securing their own bargaining position, excluding the regime elites from the arrangements, thus making interest accommodation impossible. It is inexplicable how experienced politicians could make the mistake to ignore what would be Huntington’s remark that ‘opposition groups who wanted democracy should not have boycotted the elections authoritarian leaders did call.’8 In the case of Turkey the outcome was the most predictable one, based on the regime elite preferences of the three cases. The exclusively military nature of the regime, the lack of soft-and hard-liners as a result of the hierarchical control of the army, the complete military control of the transition process, the persecution of the political elites and the banning of all ‘unwanted’ parties left almost no space to contingency. However, even in this case the distancing of Özal from the regime eventually proves the importance of the tactics of the actors during the transition. Indeed, Özal avoided staying in the outgoing military cabinet until the end of the transition and, even more wisely, did not accept to join Sunalp’s party in the 1983 elections thus somehow distancing himself from the dictatorship in the final phase. The opportunity he had was also due to the fact that the parties of Ecevit and Demirel were not capable of running in the elections, thus leaving a space for the only alternative to the regime’s puppet to obtain the people’s vote, even amidst the tight institutional framework that the regime had prepared with the 1982 Constitution.

Elites and Civil Societies in the Transition In every one of the cases studied the civil societies had a considerable yet complementary role; the results of the transitions were largely the outcomes of the interaction between the elites rather than heavily influenced by the interference of civil society, the importance of which should not be downplayed. The mass public can prove its help either for making the regime dispensability for some dictatorial elites or for functioning as resources for support of the anti-elites’ tactics for applying pressure in the direction of a more inclusive democracy; nevertheless, it cannot be an independent player in the transition game.

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This is the case of Spain, where the civil society, guided by the fear of a repetition of the civil war, and by the acceptance that only through a reforma pactada could there be a solution, backed the elites’ agreements. And one needs to have in mind that ‘while pacts may facilitate the process of transition by moderating the course of potential elite conflict, they do so at the expense of the mass and of the pressing of more radical social and economic agendas.’9 The students’ and workers’ demonstrations of the last years of the dictatorship proved their value in helping convince the aperturistas to move towards restoring full rather than fake democracy, although played a little role in the actual transition that was more the result of inter-elite bargaining. The role of the memories of the past here too was important in the reserve the Spanish people showed in some critical moments (such as the Atocha murders), along with the acceptance that the regime was still too strong-as Gill put it, in a period of transition, and ‘despite concessions at the edges, the essential power structure remains intact’10 and prudence suggested not directly challenging that structure. The transition was left to the elites to contrive and conclude. The same happened during the uneasy times preceding the failed February 1981 coup attempt. It was again not the case in Greece, where the civil society, tired from six and a half years of authoritarianism, not convinced of the soft-liners’ good intentions, and rewarding the pre-1967 political elites’ attitude, reacted against Markezinis and Papadopoulos with the students in the forefront, culminating with the demonstrations and the occupation of the Polytechnic campus. Again here, much like the counter-elites, the people had the illusion that the failure of Markezinis would lead to a more liberal solution that would restore full democracy against the will of regime duros as willing to hang on to power as ever and strong enough to kick back with force. Here too, again in contrast to the Spanish case, the memories of the civil war and the political turmoil of the 1960s were not enough to serve as a lesson to politicians and people on the need to avoid confrontation with the regime. Nevertheless, the failure of the Greek reforma was not due to the reaction of the people and to the Polytechnic events—Markezinis could have a second chance to prove his good will by proceeding to the elections he claimed he was preparing; but he was stopped by the conspiracy of the hard-liners which was not due to the reaction of the people, nor of the counter-elites. Markezinis’ and Papadopoulos’ failure were due to the power of the conspirator hardliner Ioannidis, who would move against them regardless of what the

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civil society wanted, and would oppress both people and opposition for his time in power. The case of Greece confirms that where the transition does not produce a democracy but ‘an authoritarian regime despite a clear popular preference for democracy, the Mass Public was generally unable to influence the outcome of the process.’11 The civil society was even weaker in Turkey, although some parts of the people did not view the 1980 intervention with too bad an eye, due to the violence and chaos that reigned before, and tentatively tolerated the authoritarian restoration of ‘law and order’; but they were not willing to accept the military as eternal supervisor of the democratic process. The generals had made clear, through the 1982 Constitution that they imposed, that they did not trust the people in a liberal democratic settlement—hence the many democratically problematic clauses that the Constitution included, as well as the rest of the institutions introduced to supervise Turkish politics. It is a matter of speculation what might have happened had the pre-1980 politicians been allowed to participate in the 1983 elections; what is clear is that the only way that the people had to send a pro-democratic message to the military was by voting for Ozal’s MP and curbing the army’s vigilance in politics as much as possible in the ‘difficult democracy’ that would ensue. The misinterpreting of the societal dispositions on behalf of the generals, as well as their permission to Ozal to participate in the elections with his own party, cost the regime the victory of its favourite candidate although it did not alter the problematic institutional setting that the generals had instated, and which would take a number of years to progressively lapse.

Elites and the International Factor The international factor in all three cases did promote democratisation, albeit in different ways. Initially, both the EEC and the US seemed to reward regime elites that proceeded to transition or pressurise them to do so if they hesitated. The main difference was that, whereas in the case of the EEC the democratic principles seemed to prevail over economic or strategic concerns, the US seemed to view democratisation as mainly serving its geopolitical and security interests and assuming a ‘narrower’ definition of democracy than the EEC, based mainly on the free and fair elections feature (and depending on the political forces to which participation would be allowed). From then on, Schmitter’s point is confirmed by

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the three cases that democratisations ‘are affected to a significant degree by the international political context in which they occur, even if: A. This context does not dictate or determine the timing, type or outcome of the transition process. B. The impact of the international context is normally mediated through national or sub-national actors and processes.’12 In Spain, there was concern among both the EEC and US/NATO on the possibility of the country taking the uncertain path that Portugal had, therefore Juan Carlos and Suarez succeeded in both securing the US/NATO interests by carefully aligning Spain to the West, as well as the EEC concerns for democratic stability in its Mediterranean flank. Whereas the US was advising cautiousness over the possibility of allowing participation to the communists, the EEC was pressing for opening the elections game to all political forces, and used the Europeismo prevalent in most of the political elites, as well as in the civil society, as a future reward for the successful transition to democracy. Apart from that, almost all elites made the most of their links with organised external (mainly European) political groups and institutions. The highlight of the successful democratisation process was the granting of negotiations to Spain for joining the EEC after the successful transition, and eventually its full participation in the Western security institutions through its membership in NATO (which came considerably earlier than that of the EEC). It is worth pointing that joining both organisations happened under the governments of the PSOE, one of the biggest benefactors of external aid during the transition. In Greece, while it seemed in the beginning that the international factor, especially the EEC, was favourable to the reforma—provided that Papadopoulos and Markezinis meant what they were promising- the ensuing Yom Kippur war gave an excuse for some to claim that the neutral position of the Greek government and its denial of use of air space to the US forces turned the Americans against Papadopoulos and Markezinis. Not only is this claim false (since the US was actually allowed access to what it asked) but also the suspicion about US involvement in the hard-liners’ coup is exaggerated as it was based on rumours and conspiracy theories that are not supported by hard evidence. And whereas voices abroad had doubted the chances of a successful transition under Papadopoulos, the embassies of most EEC states, as well as of the US

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were quite positive to the effort of Markezinis. Therefore, the international factor, while it did play a role in providing the regime elites with an incentive to democratise-as in Spain, was given a weight for the outcome that never truly had. There was little the international factor could do to stop the determined hard-liners from putting an end to the transition by force of the arms they commanded. In Turkey the international factor just watched the military proceed with their own pace to the ‘re-equilibration’—as they viewed it, of course—of democracy. The US support was vital for the regime’s stability, just as the EEC opposition was important for pressing it to democratise. Here too, the sought-after reward for the regime elites—the linking of Turkey to the process of European integration—did play a role in pushing the generals to proceed to the transition; however, it was not before they had cleared the path that they wanted the new democracy to take-one that they had chosen and implemented according to their own timetable, and one not confirming to Western liberal democratic standards. Therefore, again in the Turkish case the regime elites had the initiative for the transition and maintained it until the end. Finally, the support that Ozal enjoyed from foreign interests (mainly the US) should not go unnoticed and this is the only point that perhaps the international factor played a role in the transition-pressing the regime to allow him to run in the 1983 elections, which nevertheless the outgoing elites believed that their favourite candidate would easily win.

Some Concluding Thoughts In all three cases studied in this book democratic transition was dependent on the power relations between outgoing regime elites seeking to prolong their privileges into democracy and counter-elites seeking to make the most of the change of structure that transition by regime transformation meant. Where the balance of power favoured the regime elites opting for change (Spain, Turkey) the transition produced a democracy of different quality based on the aspirations of the elites that started the process of reforma. Where it did not favour the above-mentioned elites but the ones that identified their interests with the perpetuation of the regime (Greece) the transition broke down and there was a reverse to authoritarianism. Despite the recruitment of either internal (civil society) or external (European/American pressures for democratisation) factors, a democratic transition by regime transformation in the cases studied here was proven

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to be contingent upon the capacity of the regime elites opting for to impose their desired change to the rest of the elites. Finally, the balance of power was a product of the nature of the regimes undergoing the transition, its process of change or stagnation through its years of life and the position of elites within the regime structures. It is therefore fair to claim that such a transition will reflect the choices of mainly the regime openers and, to a lesser extent, the opposition challengers. The factors that influence those choices have to do with the analysis of the balance of power and the realism of the elites on both sides. Such a transformation is a difficult task that needs some good calculation of the conjuncture, the potential for making alliances that can endure the challenge of the difficult transition times and leaderships that can make correct judgements depending on the developments that occur in this conjuncture, and profit of past lessons. The Spanish elites and counterelites excelled in all those accounts among a very precarious time in the reforma pactada during which, as Gunther pointed out, quite a number of actors and choices might have turned the transition astray: ‘if Adolfo Suarez had not replaced as prime minister the less flexible Arias Navarro; if the PSOE had been headed by the maximalist Luis Gomez Llorente rather than the moderate Felipe Gonzalez; if Santiago Carrillo had not led his party away from Stalinism and toward Eurocommunism… or if King Juan Carlos had behaved like his grandfather, Alfonso XIII.’13 The fact that in Greece so many factors worked to the benefit of the hard-liners (distrust of opposition and civil society to Papadopoulos, unreliability of Markezinis and failure to dissociate himself from the regime, power of the hard-liners in the army and failure of counter-elites and people to perceive the existence of strong inner-regime opposition to the reforma and to reflect on how a dictatorship can end without violence, lack of self-reflective attitude regarding the mistakes of the past) proves that the Greek elites and counter-elites were not capable of such a bold and subtle at the same time change as a transition by reforma and seem to confirm the aphorism of Schmitter and Karl mentioned in the opening chapter of the book about Greece defying classification. The country would have to endure one more year of dictatorship before the collapse of the regime, due to its disastrous Cypriot venture, which brought full and consolidated democracy to the country—although burdened with the Cyprus trauma and a number of illusions about the dictatorial and predictatorial Greek politics. Ironically, very few nowadays recognise that the events of 1973 constituted a transition attempt that failed rather than

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being a part of the continuum of the dictatorship itself. For the Greeks, the time of Markezinis in office is still remembered as identical with ‘the junta regime.’ For Turkey it was, more clearly than in all three cases, a question of which elite had the power to impose the transition to the others. The military as institution seemed unstoppable in making the rules of the future democratic game as they thought it would best serve their interests, almost oblivious to counter-elites and civil society and little influenced by external forces. Nevertheless, as the outcome of the elections organised by the regime confirm, the democratic game is not always as easy to predict as some would assume—Przevorski did not call it ‘institutionalization of uncertainty’ for nothing. The victory of the outsider, and the fact that a few years after the transition the same Prime Minister overthrown by the coup was back in office appear as giving reason to O’Donnell and Whitehead who claimed that conclusions on the outcomes of such an uncertain, complex and precarious situation as a transition by reforma have to remain tentative. Two lessons are to be drawn from the cases studied in this book: firstly, democracy deserves a chance even on the terms and conditions of outgoing dictatorial elites, as any move away from authoritarianism has the potential to bring on a change more liberal and promising than the one that the regime elites wished—or feared—in the opening stages of the transition. And secondly, while it is a long process-especially in the consolidation stage—and needs international support and participation of other factors such as the civil society to fully develop its dynamics, it is—at least in the transition phase—a thing of the elites, without the consensus, the patience and the realism of which it cannot have a chance to take off and produce its fruits.

Notes 1. Huntington (1984: 213). 2. Shain and Linz (1995: 57). 3. Whitehead (2002: 43). The comparison of Suarez and Özal vs Markezinis confirms this. Huntington (1984: 213) on his part insists on ‘skilled leadership from and agreement among the elites who are part of the regime.’ 4. Clapham and Philip (1985: 3). 5. The reference is to the ‘guidelines for democratizers’ presented in Huntington (1991).

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6. ‘A critical factor…is the belief of the opposition and the public at large in the incumbents’ genuine intention; a view shaped greatly by the government’s liberalisation policies’ (Shain and Linz 1995: 56). 7. Gillespie (1990: 69). 8. Huntington (1991: 190). 9. Gill (2000: 57). 10. Gill (ibid.: 48). 11. Casper and Taylor (1996: 60). 12. Schmitter (1991: 46). 13. Gunther (1992: 77–78).

References Casper, G., and M. Taylor. 1996. Negotiating Democracy: Transitions from Authoritarian Rule. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Clapham, P., and G. Philip. 1985. The Political Dilemmas of Military Regimes. In The Political Dilemmas of Military Regimes, ed. P. Clapham and G. Philip, 1–26. London: Croom Helm. Gill, G. 2000. The Dynamics of Democratisation. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Gillespie, C. 1990. Models of Democratic Transition in South America: Negotiated Reform versus Democratic Rupture. In Democratic Transition and Consolidation in Southern Europe, Latin America and Southeast Asia, ed. D. Ethier, 45–72. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Gunther, R. 1992. Spain: The Very Model of the Modern Elite Settlement. In Elites and Democratic Consolidation in Latin America and Southern Europe, ed. J. Higley and R. Gunther, 38–80. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Huntington, S. 1984. Will More Countries Become Democratic? Political Science Quarterly 99 (2) (Summer): 193–218. Huntington, S. 1991. The Third Wave: Democratisation in the Late Twentieth Century. London: University of Oklahoma Press. Schmitter, P. 1991. The Influence of the International Context upon the Choice of National Institutions and Policies in Neo-Democracies. In The International Dimensions of Democratisation, ed. L. Whitehead, 26–54. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Shain, Y., and J. Linz. 1995. Between States: Interim Governments and Democratic Transitions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Whitehead, L. 2002. Democratisation: Theory and Experience. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Index

A Adenauer, Konrad, 105 Agnew, Spiro, 84 Amnesty, 45, 53, 62, 89, 97 Androutsopoulos, Adamantios, 109, 111, 121 Aperturistas , 26, 28, 29, 33, 34, 36, 37, 39, 55, 56, 170, 172, 174, 178 Arapakis, Petros, 92, 96, 108, 109, 120, 122, 123 Areilza, Jose, 31–33, 63, 172 Arias Navarro, Carlos, 28, 30, 182 Arms trade, 84 Ataturk, Mustafa kemal, 130 Athens Law School, 87 Athens Polytechnic, 99 Atocha, 37, 178 Authoritarianism, 2, 11, 21, 26, 33, 37, 44, 47, 50, 56, 114, 123, 134, 168, 169, 178, 181, 183

Authoritarian regime(s), 10, 29, 43, 49, 59, 73, 77, 80, 131, 142, 159, 168, 179 Averoff, Evangelos, 79, 88, 93, 109, 111, 123 B Banker Kastelli, 141, 160 Bayar, Celal, 131 Bonanos, Grigorios, 95, 96, 109, 120, 123, 124 Brandt, Wily, 43 Bunker, 29, 33, 35–37, 55 C Calp, Neçdet, 146, 151 Carillo, Santiago, 44, 48 Carrero Blanco, Jose, 27, 56 Carter, Jimmy, 43, 141 Catalonia, 26, 41, 53 Caudillo, 22, 27, 29, 55 Ceausescu, Nicolae, 106

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 I. Tzortzis, Elites and Democratic Transitions by Regime Transformation in Southern Europe, Global Political Transitions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-04620-9

201

202

INDEX

Censorship, 89, 150 Centrismo, 40 CIA, 83, 87, 108–110, 118, 123 Civilianization, 112, 114, 123, 162, 171 Civil society, 1, 7, 8, 12, 13, 16, 26, 28, 31, 33, 34, 37, 45–47, 80, 82, 89, 97, 98, 112, 121, 134, 144, 147, 151, 155, 160, 162, 167–170, 174, 177–183 Civil war, 22, 25, 29, 34, 39, 47, 52, 57, 58, 61, 74, 75, 91, 103, 115, 137, 168, 169, 174, 178 Class, 26, 34, 46, 48, 50, 56, 78, 95, 131, 155, 156, 158, 162, 172 Cold war, 10, 24, 25, 141 Communism, 39, 52, 74, 159 Communist party, 44, 75, 79, 98 Communists, 27, 35, 37–39, 41, 53, 79, 82, 94, 145, 175, 180 Conspiracies, 50, 65, 77, 85, 88, 102, 105, 108, 110, 111, 178, 180 Constantine, King of Greece, 30, 76, 77 Constitution, 47–49, 65, 66, 75, 79, 80, 86, 88–90, 92, 97, 131, 133, 135, 137, 144–149, 151, 153, 155, 157–159, 161, 169, 175, 177, 179 Continuistas , 28, 29, 35 Corruption, 74, 82, 109, 120, 133, 140 Council of Europe, 44, 84, 142, 143 Council of the Nation, 89 Council of the Realm, 22, 30, 55, 62 Counter-coup, 77, 116 Counter-elites, 3, 6–8, 11, 58, 78, 114, 169, 173–178, 181–183 Coup, 3, 50–52, 65, 66, 77–80, 83, 85, 87–89, 92, 97, 103–105, 109, 110, 113–117, 122, 133, 135–139, 141, 143, 147, 152,

154, 158–161, 169, 178, 180, 183

D Demirel, Suleyman, 134–137, 139, 146, 152, 155–157, 159, 160, 177 Democracia vigilada, 53 Democracy, 1–5, 7, 9–15, 21, 22, 25, 26, 28, 29, 31, 35, 36, 39–42, 45, 47, 49–56, 58, 62–64, 66, 74, 76, 79, 83–85, 89–93, 97, 98, 102, 105, 106, 111–114, 117–119, 124, 129–132, 134, 136, 139, 141–144, 147, 148, 150, 151, 153–157, 161, 162, 168, 169, 171–183 Democratic Co-ordination, 35 Democratic Party (DP), 131–134, 158 Democratic Platform, 35 Democratic transition, 5, 8–13, 56, 58, 62, 80, 113, 146, 168, 170, 171, 174, 181 Democratization, 9, 34, 51, 58, 112, 169, 173, 174, 179–181 Demonstrations, 4, 8, 31, 37, 76, 82, 83, 87, 98, 100–102, 121, 132, 134, 140, 159, 176, 178 Détente, 106 Dictatorship, 12, 22, 30, 40, 50, 51, 54, 55, 59, 67, 73, 74, 76–79, 81, 83, 86, 89, 91–94, 97, 102, 109, 111, 113, 115–118, 122, 145, 148, 151, 167–172, 174, 176–178, 182, 183 Dispensability, 3, 7, 167, 168, 171, 172, 177 Duros , 27, 30, 31, 178

INDEX

E Ecevit, Bulent, 136, 137, 139, 140, 155, 156, 159, 162, 177 Economy, 23, 47–49, 56, 59, 60, 81, 95, 111, 116, 132, 134, 136, 138–141, 143, 149, 152, 156, 160, 169 EDA (United Democratic Left), 75, 76, 94, 109, 115 EEC, 9, 13, 16, 31, 42, 44, 45, 55, 63, 84, 85, 87, 105, 106, 117, 118, 122, 139, 143, 144, 150, 153, 158, 160, 161, 179–181 EK (Union of Centre), 75, 76, 78–80, 93, 111, 115 Elections, 1, 2, 7–9, 13, 14, 28, 31, 34, 36, 38–46, 49, 50, 52–54, 62, 63, 65, 73, 75, 76, 79, 80, 83, 87–95, 98–104, 106–109, 111, 114, 115, 118, 119, 121, 123, 129, 132, 134, 136, 137, 139, 140, 144–147, 149–153, 155–157, 162, 172, 173, 175–181, 183 Elites, 2–9, 11–14, 16, 23, 26, 28–30, 37, 40–45, 47, 49–52, 54–58, 67, 73, 75, 76, 78, 79, 88, 91, 95, 97, 105, 111, 130–132, 134, 135, 137, 139–141, 146–148, 151, 153, 154, 156, 158, 167, 168, 171–175, 177–183 Erbakan, Necmetin, 139, 152, 153, 158 Erdan, Kaya, 139, 141 Erdogan, Tayipp Recep, 154, 157 ERE (National Radical Union), 75, 76, 80, 91, 106, 111, 115 Erim, Nihat, 135 ESA (Greek Military Police), 86, 88, 96, 101 ES (Greek Rally), 75

203

ETA (Basque Country and Freedom), 26, 28, 34, 37, 53, 60 Eurocommunism, 44, 58, 64, 182 Europeismo, 26, 180 Evren, Kenan, 129, 137, 139, 145, 147–150, 152, 159, 160, 162, 172 F Factionalism, 156 Factions, 22, 23, 74, 76, 78, 79, 86, 88, 115, 123, 131, 132, 136, 137, 146 Falange, 23, 27 Familias (regime), 22, 24, 26–29, 33, 56, 170 Foreign interference, 113 Foreign policy, 10, 24, 42, 59, 85, 107, 122, 142, 143, 154 Fraga, Manuel, 31–33, 36, 39, 41, 46, 48, 61, 67, 172 Franco, Francisco, 21–28, 30, 31, 36, 39, 42, 44, 46, 49–51, 55, 56, 59–63, 66, 87, 169, 170 Franquist, 28, 55, 60 G Garantismo, 172 Generalitat , 53 Gonzalez, Felipe, 44, 46, 48, 49, 56, 63, 182 Government, 9, 14, 16, 22, 24, 27, 28, 30, 31, 34, 35, 37, 38, 40, 42–47, 50, 52, 53, 59, 62, 63, 65, 73, 76–79, 82–95, 97–111, 114, 117, 130, 131, 133–141, 144, 145, 147, 149, 150, 152, 155, 162, 169, 171, 175, 176, 180, 184 GRAPO (Anti-Fascist Group First of October), 36

204

INDEX

H Haig, Alexander, 142, 149 Heath, Eduard, 105 Herri Batasuna, 53 Hooper, Robin, 82, 105, 117, 119–122 Human rights, 58, 84, 142, 143, 148, 153, 157, 160, 174

I Ideology, 21, 39, 40, 64, 109, 136 Iliou, Ilias, 94, 109 IMF, 25, 142 Import substitution, 24, 140 Industrialization, 13, 26 Inmovilista, 29 Inonu, Erdal, 146, 156 Institutions, 2, 5, 13, 25, 27, 29, 30, 34, 35, 38, 44, 45, 50, 52, 55, 58, 61, 73, 74, 77, 111, 122, 129, 132, 134, 138–140, 143, 144, 151, 153–157, 169–171, 173, 179, 180, 183 International factor, 8, 12, 13, 42, 83, 105, 114, 148, 179–181 Investments, 24, 42, 48, 81, 84, 85, 132, 140, 141 Ioannidis, Dimitrios, 85–87, 92, 95, 96, 103–105, 108–110, 112–114, 122, 123, 175, 176, 178

J Juan Carlos, King of Spain, 27, 30–34, 36, 38, 41, 42, 45, 50, 55, 56, 60–63, 66, 113, 172, 173, 180, 182 Justice Party (JP), 134–136, 146

K Kanellopoulos, Panayotis, 79, 90, 92, 93, 97, 100, 102, 103, 111, 122 Karamanlis, Constantine, 75, 76, 78, 79, 88–92, 111, 118, 119 Kissinger, Henry, 42, 43, 63, 64, 107, 114, 122 KKE (Communist Party of Greece), 75, 79, 90, 94, 99, 111, 120, 121 KKE-es (Communist Party of the Interior), 79, 94 Konofagos, Cosntantine, 101, 120–122 Kurds, 140, 144 L Liberalization, 3, 6, 7, 27, 28, 34, 89, 90, 97, 102, 112, 121, 124, 132, 138, 140, 141, 156, 170, 184 M Makarezos, Nikolaos, 78, 86, 91, 92, 95, 112 Makarios, Archbishop of Cyprus, 85, 109, 110, 117 Markezinis, Spyros, 73, 86, 90–109, 111–116, 118–124, 169, 170, 172, 175, 176, 178, 180–183 Martial law, 89, 98, 101, 104, 105, 132, 135 Mavros, Georgios, 79, 92, 93, 100, 102, 103, 106, 109, 111, 119, 122 Media, 40, 98, 100 Mellado, Gutierrez, 35, 62 Memory (collective), 95, 103, 178 Menderes, Adnan, 131–133, 158 Military, 5, 8, 10, 15, 23, 25, 28, 35, 37, 38, 43–45, 47–53, 55, 57, 62, 65–67, 73, 74, 76, 77, 80,

INDEX

81, 83–85, 87, 89–92, 96, 98, 101, 103, 104, 106, 108, 111–113, 115, 117, 120, 122, 123, 129–162, 169–172, 175, 177, 179, 181, 183 Military House of the President of the Republic, 96 Miranda, Fernando, 30, 61 Mitsotakis, Constantine, 93 Modernization, 13, 23, 27, 29, 45, 51, 77, 138, 169 Monarchy, 25, 27, 30, 31, 35, 38, 49, 51, 61, 66, 74, 76, 115, 119, 122 Movimiento, 33, 39, 58, 169 MP (Motherland Party), 129, 146–152, 156, 162, 179

N NAP (Nationalist Action Party), 158 Nasser, Gamal Abdel, 77 Nationalism, 32, 53 Nationalists, 41, 53, 77, 85, 140, 151 NATO, 10, 43, 83, 84, 88, 108, 110, 111, 142, 154, 161, 180 Naval coup, 89, 93, 119 NCO, 136 NDP (Nationalist Democratic Party), 146, 147, 149–152, 155 Nixon, Richard, 42, 84, 90, 105, 119 NSC (National Security Council), 134, 140, 145, 146, 152, 156, 161, 162 NSP (National Salvation Party), 136, 137, 158 NUC (National Union Committee), 133, 158

O OECD, 25, 59, 116, 142

205

Officer corps, 23, 86, 91, 105, 112, 136 Oil shock, 95, 111, 136 Opus Dei, 23, 24, 60, 169 Ozal, Turgut, 139, 160, 170, 179, 181 Ozden, Çevahir, 141 P Pact of Moncloa, 48 PAK (Panhellenic Liberation Movement), 78, 79 Panagoulis, Alexandros, 82 Papadopoulos, Georgios, 14, 74, 78, 79, 82, 84–102, 104–115, 118–120, 124, 169–172, 175, 176, 178, 180, 182 Papagos, Alexandros, 75, 86 Papandreou, Andreas, 78, 79, 82, 90, 93, 98, 115 Papandreou, Georgios, 76, 79, 98, 111, 120, 122, 123, 142 Parliament, 22, 41, 48, 53, 59, 65, 76, 91, 93, 97, 137, 138, 143–145, 149, 155, 162 Passas, Ioannis, 90, 107, 114, 122, 124 Patronage, 152, 162 Pattakos, Stylianos, 78, 109, 111, 116 PCE (Spanish Communist Party), 31, 36–39, 41, 43, 44, 46, 57, 58, 62–65, 173 Plebiscite, 74, 80, 89, 90, 97, 115, 120 PNV (Basque Nationalist Party), 41, 54 Political prisoners, 34, 45, 89 Populism, 131 Potts, James, 108 Power, 2, 3, 5–7, 9, 10, 12, 21–23, 25–27, 29, 30, 38, 40, 41, 43, 51, 53, 55, 56, 58, 61, 73–78,

206

INDEX

83–95, 97, 104, 106, 110, 113, 114, 119, 121, 124, 130, 131, 133–139, 141, 145, 147, 153, 154, 157, 158, 160, 161, 167–170, 172, 178, 179, 181–183 Presidential Council, 145 Procuradores , 35, 38 Progressive Party, 86, 112 PSOE (Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party), 25, 36, 38, 39, 41, 44, 46, 49, 54, 57, 58, 63, 65, 175, 180, 182 R Radicalism, 25, 29 Radicals, 26, 27, 41, 46, 52, 76, 78, 85, 92, 97, 98, 131, 133, 140, 155, 178 Rallis, Georgios, 91–93, 119 Reagan, Ronald, 141 Refah, 152 Reforma, 4–6, 8, 10, 11, 13, 14, 23, 27, 28, 32–34, 36, 39, 42, 44, 55, 57, 73, 77, 88, 89, 91–95, 97, 102–104, 106, 112–115, 121, 129, 131, 138, 145, 148, 158, 167, 169–176, 178, 180–183 Reforma pactada, 14, 21, 178, 182 Regime elites, 3, 4, 6, 8, 9, 11, 12, 14, 15, 44, 57, 102, 110, 129, 167, 168, 170–175, 177, 179, 181–183 Regime hard-liners, 61, 78, 173 Regime transformation, 6, 12, 14, 58, 167, 168, 181 Republic, 30, 51, 89, 93, 130, 131, 152 Republicanism, 131 Resistance, 28, 52, 79–82, 113, 117, 160, 169

Revolution, 3, 28, 78, 86, 95, 118, 142 Revolutionism, 131 RPP (Republican People’s Party), 130–132, 134–137, 146 Ruptura pactada, 14

S Secret services, 37 Security (regime), 88 Seferis, Georgios, 82 Sleaze, 95 Social status, 2 Society, 3, 5, 7, 23, 26, 52, 57, 60, 63, 74, 81–83, 87, 116, 130, 131, 134–137, 151, 155, 160, 169, 170, 173 SODEP (Social Democratic Party), 145, 146 SPO (State Planning Organisation), 134, 136 State Department, 83, 94, 110, 113, 117, 123, 124 Statism, 131 Stefanopoulos, Stefanos, 93 Students (movement), 26, 60, 75, 82, 83, 87, 98–103, 120, 121, 176, 178 Suarez, Adolfo, 33–41, 43–49, 53–57, 61–67, 114, 172, 173, 180, 182, 183 Sunalp, Turgut, 146–151, 155, 177

T Tacitos , 33, 34, 37, 39 Tasca, Henry, 91, 105, 108, 110, 111, 123 Tejero, Antonio, 52, 65 Terrorism, 28, 31, 32, 34, 36, 45, 47, 54, 56

INDEX

TGNA (Turkish Grand National Assembly), 134, 135, 145, 146, 151, 152, 158 Tindemans, Leo, 44 Torture, 84, 140 Tourism, 81, 140 TPP (True Path Party), 146, 152 Tsatsos, Konstnatinos, 91, 119 TUSIAD (Turkish Industrialists and Businessmen), 134, 136 TWP (Turkish Workers Party), 158 U Ulusu, Bulent, 139, 141, 146, 150 Unions (trade), 27, 31, 47, 48, 80, 134, 135, 145, 153

207

USA, 10, 16, 42, 44, 63, 83, 84, 122, 160, 179, 180

V Values (military), 51 Vance, Cyrus, 43 Violence, 1, 5, 36, 37, 40, 52, 53, 56, 61, 62, 67, 87, 98, 100, 103, 135–138, 150, 179, 182

W Workers (movement), 87, 100 Working class, 61, 79