Globalization and Identity: Development and Integration in a Changing World 9780755621033, 9781850438489

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Acknowledgements The contributors wish to thank John Cusworth, Dean of Social Sciences and International Studies, University of Bradford, for his practical and moral support of the interdisciplinary project that gave rise to this book. Thanks are also due to Sarah Perrigo and Ian Vine for their contributions to discussion, to David Stonestreet at IB Tauris Publishers for his editorial advice and to Karen Hand and Margaret Haldane for their assistance with the Camera-ready copy.

All royalties received from the sale of this book will be donated to Wateraid.

List of Contributors Farid Aitsiselmi, Lecturer in French Studies, Department of Languages and European Studies. John B. Allcock, Honorary Reader in Sociology. Maggie Allison, Honorary Visiting Senior Lecturer in French Studies. Alan Carling, Honorary Senior Research Fellow in Sociology. Richard Cleminson, Senior Lecturer in Spanish, University of Leeds. Tom Cockburn, Lecturer in Applied Social Department of Social Sciences and Humanities.

Sciences,

Franck Düvell, Research Fellow, University of Exeter, and Lecturer in Social Work, University of Bremen, Germany. Owen Heathcote, Honorary Visiting Reader in Modern French Studies. Bill Jordan, Professor of Social Policy at the Universities of Exeter and Huddersfield, and Reader in Social Policy, London Metropolitan University. Marjorie Ruth Lister, Honorary Visiting Senior Research Fellow in Political, European and Development Studies. Marie Macey, Senior Lecturer in Sociology, Department of Social Sciences and Humanities. Wendy Kay Olsen, Lecturer, The Institute for Development Policy and Management, University of Manchester. David Potts, Senior Lecturer, Bradford Centre for International Development. Michael Tribe, Honorary Senior Research Fellow, Bradford Centre for International Development. 

Appointments at the University of Bradford unless stated otherwise.

List of Tables and Figures Table 2.1 Selected Economic Data: ‘Asian Tigers’

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Table 2.2 Selected Economic Data: other Asian Countries

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Table 2.3 Selected Economic Data: African Countries

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Table 5.1 Progress of Social Indicators: Tanzania, 1965-2001 96 Table 5.2 Investment and Growth in Real Sector GDP: Tanzania, 1964-2002 Table 5.3 Trade, Aid and Foreign Investment: Tanzania, 1967-2000

98 100

Figure 6.1 Distribution of Income and Loans: Sri Lanka, 1996-7 Table 6.1 Debt incurred by Source: Sri Lanka, 1996-7

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Figure 6.2 Total Debt by Type of Collateral: Sri Lanka, 1996-7 Figure 6.3 Genres and Discourses of Loan Behaviour

115 119

Table 8.1 Ethnic Composition: Bradford, 1991-2001

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INTRODUCTION Alan Carling

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his volume has evolved from a series of discussions held at the University of Bradford about the effects of globalization.1 The chapters include contributions from both the humanities and social sciences, from disciplines including political science, economics and development studies, languages, area studies, sociology and social policy. The contributors adopt a variety of different perspectives, but they all subscribe to the view that globalization cannot be reduced to its economic dimensions alone, and that its effects are uneven, complex, and often ambivalent. There is a common acceptance of the need to respect the specifics of the historical process, which is reflected in the number of case studies included in the volume. There is also a general awareness that the politics of recognition, which lends the term ‘identity’ to our title, should always be considered in conjunction with a politics of material distribution. In chapter 1, on Globalization and its Inequities, Marjorie Ruth Lister describes the variety of definitions advanced for our focal concept. Yet ‘globalization’ is understood best in her view as a term which performs a number of functions in the contemporary humanities and social sciences. In particular, the concept of globalization can be used:  to describe the condition of the world;  to name the post-Cold War era;  to provide a new paradigm for study;  to make a personal statement about change;  to serve as a tool of political debate.

Other contributors have followed Lister’s sceptical lead concerning the generalized claims made for the consequences of globalization, whether these are evaluated positively or

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negatively. This attitude is combined with sensitivity towards the polemical contexts in which the discourse of globalization occurs. Globalization, inequality and development A leading feature of many of the studies is the connection between globalization and inequality. This is signalled from the start in Lister’s discussion of the ‘global pyramid’ of winners and losers from recent development, including disproportionately among the latter ‘the old, the young, disabled people, ethnic minorities, and women’ (p. 39).2 She also points out that globalization has been accompanied by the growth of patriarchy and communal violence, in ‘so-called postmodern wars’ (p. 40). This is far from the hopes of those visionaries who have believed over two centuries that the spread of free trade would lead to universal peace. Michael Tribe’s scepticism in chapter 2, on Globalization, Free Trade and Market Asymmetry, is concentrated on the extent to which the economists’ ideal of perfect markets has been realized in practice in the era of (alleged) globalization. International markets have become more open as a general rule, but there is a raft of notable exceptions. It is an observation going back to Adam Smith that free market competition is often reserved for the other guy; for me and my business the best thing is protection and monopoly. Then there are the restrictions on the free movement of labour caused by national immigration policies. And whilst it may be true as a theoretical proposition that perfect markets would deliver perfect economic performance, the truth of this proposition considered wholesale may not apply to retail applications: a step taken in the direction of a more perfect market may not result in a corresponding increment of superior performance. It follows that the reforms proposed by neoliberals in the World Bank or the IMF may well prove counter-productive in their application to real (and therefore imperfect) economies, even in terms of narrowlydefined goals of economic growth. The deepening of markets may have other negative consequences, such as a reduction of economic diversity, an

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increase in economic power wielded by Transnational Corporations (TNCs), and the entrenchment of ‘international asymmetries’, creating unequal relations in the market place. The study of individual countries - such as the ‘Asian Tigers’ and some of those in sub-Saharan Africa - reveals moreover that comparative performance cannot be reduced to the simple prescriptions of an abstract economic model, and depends on a complex mixture of institutional and policy factors, both those internal to a country and those derived from its changing international environment. Tribe’s themes are taken up by two other chapters especially in part 1 of the book. Jordan and Düvell’s point of departure in chapter 3, on Migration, Mobility and Membership, is the absence of free movement in labour on a global scale. Echoing Lister’s ‘global pyramid’, they point out that there is a class of ‘mobile and resourceful citizens’ on the world scene whose wealth, status, or form of employment - with TNCs, for example - does in effect give them free movement between jurisdictions (p. 59). But nowadays this can become a free choice of jurisdictions, so that these agents can shop around for the political structures, levels of welfare provision, or taxation regimes that suit them best. This arrangement is known in the literature as ‘fiscal federalism’, which is subject to analysis by a ‘theory of clubs’ that applies the axioms of perfect competition to public sector provision. The theoretical weaknesses of this approach are similar to those addressed by Tribe in relation to more conventional markets for economic goods and services. In practice, moves towards fiscal federalism will exert great pressure on the communal provision of existing welfare states, with dangers of a ‘race to the bottom’ in economic and social support. The sociological consequence is to introduce a sharp contrast in effect a new class distinction - between the ‘global nomads’ who make up cosmopolitan ‘communities of choice’ on the one hand, and on the other hand, people who remain trapped in ‘communities of fate’. The latter find it difficult to ‘move and improve’ either because they lack the resources in their native settings, or because they face extraordinary stigmatization and

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control if they seek to relocate elsewhere, as vulnerable migrants, asylum seekers and the like. Jordan and Düvell underline the long-standing tension in liberal thought between the mobility promoted by markets - in theory at least - and the stability required by governance, including that required by modern democratic states. This tension creates potential contradictions between the claims of abstract universal principles, of equality and justice especially, and the territorial demands of nationality.3 They conclude emphatically that fiscal federalism offers no ‘third way’ out of this dilemma, since a prior assumption must be made about the group of people to whom fiscal federalism is supposed to apply: ‘the optimum size and structure of the “clubs” to supply collective goods cannot be specified without first identifying the populations eligible for membership’ (p. 63). Questions of citizenship, whether global or national, are therefore prior to questions of allocation. This issue between the national and the global is finally explored in relation to the proposal for a Basic Income, which Jordan and Düvell advocate generally as the key measure of egalitarian reform for our times.4 Their problem, though, in the context of this book, is whether Basic Income should be delivered in national or global form. On this point, Jordan and Düvell come down firmly in favour of globalization: ‘the same level of basic income for each of the world’s population, is more justifiable from an ethical standpoint [than a basic income whose level varies from one country to another]’ (p. 74). Tom Cockburn’s motivating question in chapter 4 - Global Childhood? - addresses a similar tension between the global and the local, and involves young people who, like migrants, tend to exist on the lower echelons of the global pyramid. Modern childhood is conditioned by a number of factors, including the demographic shift in the West to older populations, and widespread child poverty. This is coupled with a potentially contradictory movement towards a greater emotional investment by parents on the one hand, and on the other hand a greater involvement in the life of a child by institutions beyond the family. There is an ambiguity of attitudes as well, since little angels can be seen in some situations as little

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devils, with their behaviour regarded a threat to the social order. In academic work, there is the additional tension between respect for cultural differences in child-rearing practices, and the assumption of universal developmental stages derived from Piaget’s work. Cockburn examines these tensions in the context of the United Nations’ Convention on the Rights of the Child (UNCRC), adopted in 1989. This instrument conceives children as independent beings, ‘provid[ing] a series of interdependent and complementary rights that link children’s health, standard of living, education, participation and protection’ (p. 88). Although childhood is thus the first identity to be awarded a global legal status, the UNCRC is not without its detractors. Feminists have criticized its provisions for making too many concessions to patriarchy. The abstract and universal character of its provisions can themselves be represented as masculinist, or alternatively as an attempt to impose a Western, or Northern, straightjacket on the diversity of cultural norms and family forms. The UNCRC focuses on the rights and needs of the individual child, without placing these rights, so it is said, in the real contexts and social networks in which children live. And there are some notable silences in the detailed clauses, such as the right not to be forced into marriage. Cockburn argues that ‘despite all the serious reservations’, ‘it is a document that can indicate some promising ways forward’, since ‘the power of the Convention lies in its ability to be used as a tool to improve the conditions of all children’. It ‘transforms what was charity, goodwill and benevolence into a matter of duty, responsibility and obligation’ (pp. 85, 86, 88). Despite the difficulties experienced in some areas of the world, including parts of Africa, in matching political will and economic resources to the demands made by the Convention, the chapter ends on an optimistic note. A number of specific abuses have been addressed already in different places, child mortality is improving ‘in all regions of the world’ and national governments have been held to account by the norms and responsibilities it lays down (p. 87). The Convention can promote dialogue and cooperation among states, international organizations and the

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voluntary sector, so that ‘it is beginning to weave the interests of children holistically into national and global citizenships’ (p.88). There are even the first signs of a children’s movement, which might herald the transition of a hitherto-neglected category of social subjects from a group-in-itself to a group-for-itself. In this respect, globalization has favoured the interests of a marginalized population whose self-identity it has helped to define. Globalization does not fare so well in chapter 5, however, in which David Potts returns to Michael Tribe’s theme of comparative development with a case study that gives a careful appraisal of the long-run economic performance of Tanzania during a century’s exposure to a changing international environment. Potts’ overall conclusion is a salutary one for the partisans of any of the received models of economic development. Tanganyika united with Zanzibar to become the new state of Tanzania in 1964. It has adopted, or perhaps better, has suffered from, a number of different constitutional arrangements over the years, from the time of German colonization in the late 19th. C., through the British Mandate after WWI, and Independence in 1961, to the increased attentions of the IMF after 1986. The country has been the subject of numerous economic and social experiments during this period, from the development of small holdings and producer co-operatives in the colonial years, through several phases of local socialism - ‘Ujamaa’ - in the 1960s and 1970s, to the more recent insistence on liberalization and free market reforms. This history offers a long perspective on globalization, in that Tanzanians have been drawn into evercloser relations with the international market economy, above all via trade in its primary export crops of cotton, coffee and sisal. It may be no surprise that ‘the laws and taxation system as well as the infrastructure established [during the German colonial period] were all designed primarily to serve colonial and settler interests and only a small minority of indigenous people derived significant benefit from the development of trade’ (p. 92). A similar conclusion extends to the ‘benign neglect’ of the British Mandate, which is partly specific to Tanzania, since full colonies

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such as neighbouring Kenya received greater interest and investment from the British, in education for example. Tanzania has seen some periods of sustained economic growth, especially in the immediate aftermath of Independence, and some progress of social indicators in health and education, held back recently by the tragedies of HIV/AIDS. More troubling is the fact that none of the economic and political regimes of the last century have been able to sustain cumulative increases in the average living standards of the population, of the kind witnessed for example among the ‘Asian Tigers’. This is for a mixture of internal and external reasons, as Tribe’s general explanatory scheme would suggest. Lack of private investment is a perennial problem, along with shortages of human capital in management and other fields of expertise. Direct producers have lacked access to credit, especially after the decline of the co-operatives, and the international markets for commodities have often proved hostile. Corruption is a factor which needs to be set alongside these other difficulties. Potts concludes poignantly for the socialist period that ‘Tanzania became less globalized in terms of international trade but more globalized in terms of dependence on aid, despite a professed policy of self-reliance’ (p. 107). But the subsequent experience of market liberalization after the IMF’s intervention in 1986 was initially disappointing. More recent improvements in economic growth have not yet overcome the structural problems of the Tanzanian economy or the deep-seated problem of absolute poverty, although there has been some reduction in its extent. The locus of global interaction has shifted to some extent from primary agriculture to newer industries such as mining and tourism. The non-specialist is left with two impressions from this analysis. First is the image of a Tanzanian people whose fundamental condition has not been transformed, whilst rival ideologies are fought out over their heads. Second is the similarity between the socialist politicians of the 1970s and the free-market liberals of 30 years later, who have responded to the disappointment of their respective plans with a familiar refrain: ‘we didn’t go far enough, let’s have even more of the same!’

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Governments of states like Tanzania now have little room for manoeuvre in policy matters, and are beholden to external interests that are prone to impose dogmatic remedies. If this is globalization, then Potts is surely right to call for an amended version. This involves ‘a more measured response to the specific needs of the country with a more genuine dialogue in which the recipient country has a degree of real policy choice’ (p. 108). In chapter 6, on Liberalization and Financial Exclusion in Sri Lanka, Wendy Olsen takes up Potts’s theme of access to finance, in a similar context of a developing economy, but develops the argument in a novel way, using a variety of types of evidence that serve to triangulate her conclusions. This book’s major concern with questions of both distribution and recognition is reflected in Olsen’s attention to both material and discursive issues. She is concerned with the (unequal) distribution of economic resources and the narrative strategies through which economic agency is defined and lived out. The primary research reported for the first time in this volume was conducted by a variety of methods in four separate locales in Sri Lanka, including an ‘in-depth village study … conducted in an upland area in central Sri Lanka’ (p. 116). The larger context of the study includes an intervention by the IMF in 2001 in the wake of a financial crisis in Sri Lanka, and ‘a liberalization of the banking sector which has gradually developed over a ten-year period’ (p. 110). This is an external climate similar to Tanzania’s, but with the added complication of Sri Lanka’s civil war and history of acute ethnic division. The effect on the financial system has been to pressurize existing institutions, especially the public sector banks, and to change the complex balance between all the various agencies and conventional arrangements that provide credit to the Sri Lankan population: foreign and domestic commercial banks; informal (and usually interest-free) lending among relatives and friends known as seetu, or the ‘chit fund’ - and finally the local moneylenders, whose loans are decidedly not interest-free. Neoclassical economic theory recognizes differences in the possession of skills and/or material assets among economic agents, so that it can, at least in principle, recognize class

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differences within a population.5 It finds much greater difficulty with ascribed differences in identity, and yet, as Olsen’s study makes dramatically clear, differences in both gender and ethnicity are crucial to understanding the way in which the financial system operates, or fails to operate, in Sri Lanka. As is common elsewhere, access to credit in Sri Lanka is distributed even more unequally than income. Where access is achieved, interest rates increase for the poorest groups, who are thus subject to a double-whammy: they lack both the economic means and the means by which to improve their economic means. But discrimination in access to financial services is also widespread. Economic activities and institutions are both gendered and racialized, the latter process exacerbated by the levels of ethnic conflict experienced in the recent past. This situation is ‘irrational’ from the viewpoint of pure economics. The discursive side of Olsen’s study investigates the way in which these financial relationships are represented in the consciousness of economic agents. Utilizing evidence from several genres of economic documentation in addition to the interview data, she isolates two kinds of economic discourse in particular. First is a ‘discipline discourse’ according to which subjects regulate themselves as ‘moral’ economic agents, striving to behave well in their dealings with the economic system, even where the economic system does not behave particularly well towards them. Second is a ‘prudence discourse’, which is more utilitarian and consequentialist in its orientation, and closer therefore to the kind of rational economic agency portrayed by neoclassical theory. But these forms of subjectivity are typically cross-cut in individual cases by other discourses too, including those that are directly religious, derived for example from (some interpretation of) Islamic economic doctrine. One of the insights of the study is the complex articulation between what might be called in Marx’s terms ‘being’ and ‘consciousness’, and the lack sometimes of a direct relationship between them. Two examples stand out. On the one hand are those respondents whose subjectivity - identity, if you will - is more globalized than their circumstances. These are mainly poor agents without access to financial markets who nevertheless

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exhibit the discipline discourse and/or the prudence discourse that would suit them to engagement in a commercial world if they had the resources to join the game. On the other hand are those, especially Muslim, respondents whose consciousness is less globalized than their circumstances. Here are people whose participation in commercial transactions conflicts with their (religious) self-understanding, leading to denial and/or selfcontradiction in their accounts of their own behaviour. In the first case, globalization has trained the players but kept them off the field; in the second it has found players who are active on the pitch, but wishing to play by different rules. Does globalization work? Two general conclusions emerge from the chapters of part 1. First, the processes of globalization have complex effects in either disturbing or conserving patterns of inequality. The disturbances can sometimes be beneficial, as may be the case with some children, for example, brought in from the cold as global subjects under the UNCRC. A similar point would apply if Basic Income could be delivered on a global scale. But as Jordan and Düvell also make clear, globalization can work to the opposite effect, creating new inequalities, such as those that divide an upper class of rich cosmopolitan nomads from a lower class of poor vulnerable migrants. As far as the Asian Tigers are concerned, average living standards have improved, which might be represented as a plus for globalization, but this is consistent of course with the perpetuation of gross inequality, both within and between countries. Here it should be borne in mind that, since markets left to their own devices always tend to intensify inequality, globalization will tend to do the same, since part of what is meant by globalization is the extension of less-regulated market relations. Yet this is not the whole story, even if attention is confined to economic issues alone. In some countries of sub-Saharan Africa, with Tanzania a case in point, and perhaps also in Sri Lanka, the criticism of globalization is a different one. It may not have done enough to affect the lives of ordinary citizens one way

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or the other, so that they remain locked in cycles of poverty and deprivation. The second general conclusion revolves around the discrepancy between theory and practice. As Lister emphasizes, globalization must be seen as a set of linked processes operating in different fields, including the political, the social, the cultural and the military, alongside the economic. Globalization is not driven from a single centre, by a single set of interests, or by a single ideological perspective. So it would be wrong to represent globalization as some gigantic experiment in social science that can be evaluated as a whole. It is true nevertheless that the influence of some centres, interests and theories is more equal than others, with especial prominence going to the USA as a geographical centre, capitalism as a set of interests and neoclassical economics as a theory. To ask with Martin Wolf, for example, Why Globalization Works is thus to prejudge a series of issues that are very difficult to formulate precisely, let alone resolve.6 As far as neoclassical economics is concerned, the full experimental conditions for testing its theories have never been met. This is partly because barriers to competition still exist, and partly because the assumptions required in order to make the theories work as theories, for example the assumption of perfect information, are fantastical, and incapable of realization. So even if it can be established, as Wolf’s overweening title takes for granted, that globalization works (according to what criteria?), it is much less easy to establish whether it works because of neoclassical policy prescriptions, in spite of them, or independently of them. This is one reason why, as Tribe remarks, development economists can draw contradictory conclusions in good faith from the same data (p. 44). Among the ways in which theory fails to conform with reality, two are especially significant for this volume, as emerges from a number of the studies in part 1. The first is the fact that the world is still divided among rival nation states, with competing jurisdictions. This remains the greatest single departure in practice from the kind of frictionless social world that the advocates of globalization recommend. The second is

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the truth that even though the theories of free market economics seem on the surface to envision an identity-free zone, they require in practice the existence of suitable subjects: agents predisposed to act in the manner the theory prescribes. This is the message of Olsen’s research in particular. But the existence of agents willing and able to enter the desired social relationships cannot be taken for granted. The social construction of agents is a problematic historical task, subject to numerous forms of setback, resistance and contradiction. The studies reported in part 2 pursue this Foucauldian theme into a number of contexts involving the integration of subjects into political and social structures. The structures chosen for examination vary in many ways, yet have all been subject in some way to the impact of globalization. Citizenship and national identity The first two chapters in part 2, by Farid Aitsiselmi on North African Immigrants in France and Marie Macey on South Asian Migrants in Bradford respectively, are both concerned with populations of Muslim faith in Western Europe, and their relationship with their host societies. For Aitsiselmi, the ‘objective [of the French Republican model of integration] is to assimilate both regional minorities within France but also migrants from the rest of the world into a national project with a single language and a homogenous cultural identity’ (p. 131). This objective has governed an historical process of immigration into France that is among the most intensive among Western countries, but its sources and forms have changed over the years under the impact of economic needs, especially the ‘demographic deficit’ of French society in relation to an industrialising world; political ties, above all French colonization, and historical events, above all two World Wars. The officially-approved mode of accommodation of immigrants within French society has been described by a variety of terms, from ‘assimilation’ to ‘insertion’ and, most recently, ‘integration’ (which in Aitsiselmi’s account appears as a kind of Hegelian synthesis of ‘assimilation’ with ‘insertion’). But the

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principle that unites all of these terms is ‘the acquisition of rights through individual assimilation within the nation’. This essential principle contributes moreover an important element to the selfidentity of the French nation. This is perceived in sharp contrast to ‘the British approach, which is based on ethnic origin and the rights of ethnic minorities within the national community’ (p. 135). Such a form of multiculturalism is associated in the French perception with the development, or retention, of distinctive identities among minority ethnic populations, and ‘ghetto towns’ [cités ghettos] in urban settlement, seen as ‘phenomena usually associated with an American-type or AngloSaxon development which is alien to the French tradition’.7 It follows that departures from the assimilationist model are especially fraught and contested, since they carry additional connotations of national betrayal and creeping Americanization. Aitsiselmi traces the steps by which this Republican ideal has nevertheless come under pressure from new forms of migration, above all from settled populations of Muslim faith, mainly from the former North African colonies of Algeria, Tunisia and Morocco. These populations ‘have constituted a cultural minority, demanding that their cultural and religious difference should be recognized as part and parcel of their French citizenship’ (pp. 131-2). This is in some cases ‘an ethnic minority whose common referent was to Islam more than their country of origin’.8 The incidents in this slow-motion collision between two concepts of citizenship include the elaboration of new backslang terms for social identity, such as Beur or Reubeu, with associated public demonstrations from the early 1980s; the ‘headscarf affairs’ from 1989 onwards, which challenged the secular foundation of French Republicanism; the rise of the far right, and more recently the complex ramifications of 9/11. The Republican ideal of uniform citizenship has acted as a myth, in the sense of creating a sustaining ideal for the French state that is not entirely unrelated to a complex historical experience of diversity, but is very far from coincident with it. One aspect of the historical discrepancy between secular myth and ethnic reality has been the official recognition of faith

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groups, which took place first in Napoleonic times. It is perhaps unsurprising therefore that the initial steps towards official multiculturalism have involved the creation (in 2003) of a Muslim Council for France, to stand alongside the existing Councils for Catholics, Protestants and Jews. But this development involves its own dialectic of recognition and control, as the state has used this ‘as a tool to bring an increasingly militant Muslim population into the mainstream’. Aitsiselmi concludes that these issues are likely to remain in the ‘foreground of all discussions’ for many years to come, not least because of their global dimensions (pp. 141-2, 144). The background to Macey’s contribution is a story of changing policies in ‘Britain’s response to ethnic and racial diversity’ which follows a sequence with a similar order to the French, but located earlier in time: assimilation (up to the mid60s); integration (mid-60s to 70s) and then cultural pluralism (70s-80s). Perhaps cultural pluralism can seem British to the French only because the British got their multiculturalism in first, as a response to similar issues. But the national contexts remain different, and it may be that the British state enjoys a greater freedom to explore policy options on citizenship and race because there does not exist the same strength of connection between one specific policy option and conceptions of national identity.9 Macey goes on to recount how the initial phases of multicultural recognition became stiffened by a greater awareness of white racism, which led to the development of more explicitly anti-racist strategies. This development came under question in turn for essentialising race difference at the expense of other forms of identity, and for over-riding the differential experiences and preferences of different groups. It was becoming apparent that, rather like the different developing nations who face a shared environment of global capitalism, different minority ethnic groups in Britain were responding quite differently to a shared environment of social exclusion. A balanced understanding therefore demands attention to both the external environment and the internal dynamics, in this case of particular

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ethnic groups. There is no substitute for the study of particulars, in this field as elsewhere. Macey’s case study begins with the observation that many Bradfordians of Pakistani heritage and Muslim faith have been ‘concerned with establishing what Ballard terms “ethnic colonies” in British cities and reasserting the norms and traditions of their homelands’ (p. 151). This objective has been achieved through a variety of different processes, which are replete with what might be called ‘the paradoxes of globalization’. First, Bradford has always been among the most globalized of British cities. It has been unusually vulnerable to the international market forces that first brought migrants from Mirpur to work in the mills in the 1950s and 60s and then threw them out of work in the 1970s and 80s. Second, it is aspects of globalization such as communication and travel that allow Pakistani Muslim families to maintain a foot on each of two continents, even as they reject globalization for its Western materialism. This pattern of migration is significantly different from the general models described by Jordan and Düvell. Bradford’s Muslims are like ‘global nomads’ in their ability to move themselves and their resources between jurisdictions, yet they tend to do this collectively, within clan (biradari) networks. As individuals they are more like vulnerable migrants in their relative poverty and stigmatization. Third, the reproduction of subjects, and the replication of power structures within Britain is by no means a straightforward matter for migrant groups, since young people especially are confronted with a range of pressures that are frequently contradictory. There are different experiences of age and generation here, and above all of gender. How these crosscurrents are navigated by its young women and young men is a key question for the future of the Bradford District. Macey commends a questioning attitude towards the politics of multiculturalism: what power structures are being reinforced within the community when its claims as ‘a community’ are recognized? Similarly, talk of ‘identity’ should not lead to an immediate suspension of our critical faculties. Given that

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identities are both dynamic and multiple, claims based on the pre-emptive assertion of any specific identity are always liable to be both partial and problematic, subject as ever to evidence and context. A distinction may be appropriate here between identity claims used by an individual to seek protection against discrimination, and those used to assert sectional demands, up to and including ‘collective bargaining by riot’. Macey concludes that the received policies of multiculturalism may be counter-productive in their effects: By locking minority ethnic individuals into static definitions of cultures that they might wish to modify or even exit, multiculturalism not only becomes tyrannical, but actually threatens the very principles of liberal democracy on which it is based (pp. 161-2). The integration of nations and states John Allcock’s contribution is concerned less with the integration of individuals into political structures affected by globalization, and more with the global integration of political structures themselves. His study of ‘International Law and the Former Yugoslavia’ in chapter 9 recounts how Croatia and Serbia have been drawn into global ‘relations of interdependence [that] tend to be politically asymmetrical’, through their engagement with the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia (ICTY), which was established by the United Nations in 1993 (p. 164). The two states have found themselves obliged to sacrifice jurisdiction to the ICTY, and to deliver indicted individuals for trial at the Hague. At one end of a spectrum of views about this process, ‘the ICTY is hailed as a tremendously important step forward in the advance of global justice’, and ‘at the other as mere “victor’s justice” intended to add symbolic punishment to those in the region (usually in this approach, Serbs) who had the temerity to stand against NATO’ (p. 167). This spectrum of views about UN intervention is not unlike the range of attitudes to the UNCRC described by Cockburn in chapter 4.

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The political stakes are nevertheless high in the Former Yugoslavia, since they involve the competing definitions of past events, as acts of national liberation for example, or as crimes against humanity, and the competing reputations of individual leaders, as national heroes for example, or as war criminals. These events and individuals are moreover prominent in the recent history and self-definition of the countries concerned. The issue is not just about competing judgements and versions of events, then, but about the locus of authority to determine these judgements and resolve these events. Allcock makes three points especially about the operation of the ICTY that echo general themes of the book: First, while Croatia and Serbia face a similar international environment (in this case an international legal environment), their responses to a similar environment differ considerably, which leads to correspondingly different ‘modes of insertion’ into the global legal process. Second, the variations of response are not just contingent reactions to events, but relate to fundamental features of state structure and national identity. We are dealing with the citizenship of states in something that might be called ‘the global community’. Third, globalization works by a combination of different kinds of influence and powers, wielded either by international agencies directly, or indirectly by powerful states - above all the US claiming to act nevertheless on behalf of, or at least in the (alleged) interests of, this ‘global community’. The forces and interests in play in Croatia include Croatia’s continuing claims over Bosnia and Hercegovina, which had been negated by the Dayton settlement; insubordination among senior Army officers; economic difficulties and political instability; pressure exercised via the IMF; international criticism of Croatia’s human rights record; loans available via the US ‘Partnership for Peace’; potential membership of the European Union, consistent with a national identity that ‘plac[es Croats] with “Europe” over against “The Balkans” or “Byzantine civilization”’, and two propitious deaths from natural causes -

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those of Franjo Tudjman in 1999 and the indicted war criminal General Janko Bobetko in 2003 (pp. 179-80). In Serbia’s case, the diverse factors involved include the NATO bombing campaign; the fall of Slobodan Milošević; widespread elite resistance, and ‘the diffusion of an atmosphere of paranoia through the state-controlled media of communication’; EU diplomacy and the promise of recognition for Serbian claims over Montenegro, and threats to withdraw loans. There is also a deep ambivalence about Serbia’s national identity as an Orthodox Christian nation, whose ‘relationship to “Europe” … mingles xenophobia and resentment’. Matters eventually came to a head with the murder of Prime Minister Zoran Djindjić in 2003, almost certainly at the behest of a criminal gang, which ‘set in motion an energetic campaign to clean out the Augean stable of Serbian political life’ (pp. 176, 180, 179). The difference between the two cases is that ‘resistance to the ICTY has had less to do in Serbia with defence of the state (as in Croatia), and a great deal to do with defence of the regime’. The similarity is that ‘a degree of pragmatic accommodation was forthcoming [in both cases] when sufficient external leverage was applied’ (pp. 176, 178). For states at this level of the international hierarchy at least, it seems difficult in practice to resist the demands of global integration, whichever forms this takes. Gender, sexuality and the integration of the subject Maggie Allison’s discussion in chapter 10 of The Global at Home: Women, Parity and France heads up a final group of three studies all concerned with the fate of gendered subjects. Allison is concerned in particular with the ‘exclusive universalism’ of the French Republican practice of citizenship. Her argument thus shares the premise of Aitsiselmi’s contribution, developing his discussion in relation to both gender and ethnicity. Her critique of ‘exclusive universalism’ arises from a discrepancy between form and content. Whilst the ideals of the Revolutionary Constitution supply a form of political association that allegedly applies to individuals without distinction, the resulting association has been given a social

INTRODUCTION

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content in practice that is both male (and heterosexual) and white. Indeed, the form serves to shield the content, because the abstract individualism is utilized to preclude the recognition of social difference. This is why there are few official statistics of ethnic diversity in France, as Aitsiselmi notes (p. 135), but also why the possibility of electoral quotas for women candidates was over-ruled, because ‘the Constitution “forbids any division of candidates and electors by categories”’ (p. 190). Allison suggests that a variety of different groups are marginalized in practice from, and by, the Republican ideal, so that they share similar experiences of exclusion from French public life. Men from immigrant groups are in some contexts ‘feminised’, and women are treated as ‘internal immigrants’.10 Minority ethnic women, who are often ‘internal immigrants’ in fact and not just by analogy, can suffer a compound exclusion, as women by men within their own communities, as immigrants by women in spheres of joint activity, and as both women and immigrants by the wider, ‘official’ society. This picture echoes the concerns raised by Macey about the situation of minority ethnic women in Bradford, and by Olsen regarding her female respondents in Sri Lanka. The story of women’s assault on the French public sphere begins in Revolutionary times, but it is a protracted and tortuous one. The vote is only achieved in 1944, and despite a variety of equality measures enacted for civil society from the 1960s onwards, progress in political representation is painfully slow. Women won just 12% of the seats in the 2002 General Election, the macho culture of the ‘esprit gaulois’ [‘Gallic ribaldry’] prevails and the rare women in high office are subject to extraordinary personal pressure. The connection with globalization arises in the first instance from the use of women as adjuncts to demographic strategies, sending French women in straightened circumstances ‘out’ to the colonies (where they were thought to have a higher value than at home) and later bringing colonial women back ‘in’, to consolidate the families of existing male migrants, or even to cater for the demographic deficit in the French countryside.

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But Allison sees the contemporary situation as an opportunity nevertheless to match content with form in the French polity, and partly through the combined action of different marginalized groups, to deliver something closer in fact to the Revolutionary ideal of social equality. She concludes with a striking image, that: [the pursuit of parity] could provide a bridge across the barrier into the exclusive capsule of universalism, enabling women and ethnic minorities to effect change in the fabric and complexion of French institutions, thereby bringing the global home to the Republic (p. 200). Richard Cleminson is also concerned with the ways in which a marginalized group carves out a space to breathe within the dominant discourses of its day. He illuminates this concern in relation to a single text, and a particular moment in time, that throws its light (and shade) a good deal further afield. The main focus of his contribution in chapter 11, on Medicine, the Novel and Homosexuality in Spain, is a work, El Angel de Sodoma [The Angel of Sodom], written by the Castilian Alfonso Hernández-Catá, yet published in the half-exile setting of Valparaíso, Chile, in 1929. The significance of the publication arises from its position at the junction of three moments: a political moment, involving the criminalization of homosexual activity proposed in 1928 ‘in the dying days of Primo de Rivera’s [populist-nationalist] dictatorship and the dawn of the republican period (1931-36)’, (p. 202); a socio-economic moment, in which urban modernism is transforming social relations in Spain, and what might be called (with hindsight) the Foucault moment, in which the full weight of medical, scientific and legal description is being brought to bear on sexual diversity. The latter connection is indicated by the fact that the ‘Angel de Sodoma was effectively underwritten by two major figures of the contemporary Spanish scientific and legal establishment … the endocrinologist and sex reformer Doctor Gregorio Marañón wrote the book’s prologue and the law professor and architect of

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the 1931 Republican constitution, Professor Luis Jiménez de Asúa contributed an epilogue’ (p. 201). The novel’s relation to modernism arises from ‘the disrupting forces of the city, the “enervation” of modern life, the modernity represented by the automobile, speed, metallic constructions, machines and glass, the promise of travel and what a number of commentators called the “feminization” of everyday life’ (p. 204). This syndrome can easily progress into nervous degeneration (‘neurasthenia’), moral decay and thence sexual ‘perversion’.11 The fate of the novel’s hero - José-María - is perhaps preordained by the cultural field that he inhabits. The scion of a once-wealthy house in decline - ‘surviving on nostalgia, prestige and debt’ - he lives up to his patrimony only too well.12 He becomes unable to fulfil the duties of the son and heir as he gradually awakens to his sexual desires, escapes to the bright lights (and the shadows) of Paris, and imitates his father’s earlier suicide by throwing himself under a Metro train, cut to pieces by an electric-powered machine. Although Marañón, Jiménez de Asúa (and Hernández-Catá) differ in their understandings of homosexuality, and in the remedies they propose, they share in the enlightened humanism of the Spanish Republican opposition, offering the José-María’s of the world a different resolution to their plight: The three writers wished to draw a line under the prevailing ignorance and injustice which treated the homosexual as a vicious criminal. The present scientific era opened up the possibility of treating the established homosexual with compassion and of preventing others from developing (p. 219). Yet this did not create a settled ‘official’ identity for the homosexual, still less an equal licence for his activity, but rather opened a new field of contestation. The exclusive legitimacy of heterosexual desire was never seriously questioned, and homosexual pathology was shifted from the moral and legal fields to the medical and the scientific. The relationship of the

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scientific case law to the ‘reverse discourse’, of Gide and others, that had begun a more thorough normalization of homosexuality in the arts and literature, was ambivalent: was the science controlling the art, or the art pushing the science? Did the intervention of the Angel de Sodoma in the sexual politics of its day amount to a ‘tactical unity’ of the lived experience with the formal knowledge, to use Foucault’s characteristically enigmatic formulation? Or, phrasing the issue in terms from Marañón that also yield the epigraph for this volume, did ‘art and science drink from the same source’? (p. 217). Owen Heathcote’s contribution on Universalism and Gay Identities in France in chapter 12 pursues the theme of discursive ambiguity into a later conjuncture of sexual politics, when male homosexuality had indeed become ‘gay’. He returns the discussion from the Spanish to the French Republican context, in terms bearing close comparison with Allison’s essay in chapter 10. If Allison’s question is ‘can a woman or an immigrant be a citizen?’, Heathcote asks: ‘can a gay?’ Heathcote’s question compounds the challenge made by the external world to French universalism. It is not just that an insurgent gay identity represents a new variety of ‘communitarianism’, but that the threat to universalism comes this time not from ‘internal immigrants’ or from the former French possessions, but from the global centres of London and New York. As Heathcote makes clear, the culture of the ‘global gay’ is seen from the reflex viewpoint of Paris not as an implementation of a universal identity, but as a detraction from the universal principles already enshrined in the Republican ideal: a pinnacle from which any movement must be in a downwards direction. What is global is therefore at odds with what is universal in the French context.13 But this does not mean that it has proved easy for the French state to accommodate the social and political existence of a gay community, or for the members of the latter to negotiate an unequivocal identity. On the contrary, gays have had to reckon with the contradictions thrown up for them by the Republican ideology, in addition to any other forms of discrimination that they have faced.

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The Pacte Civil de Soldarité (PaCS) was introduced in 1999 as the principal legal accommodation for same-sex relationships. PaCS remains gender-blind and open to all (in keeping with Republican universalism), and yet it does not confer the same rights as conventional marriage, so that ‘the universal is being used to keep gays anonymous, but not being used to give gays equal rights’ (p. 229). One might say: ‘vive les différences!’ Gays are being recognized in ways that preserve historical continuity, as the Muslims in France have been, yet in a form that still marks out a second-class status. This is structurally similar to the ambivalent position of women as citizens, as analysed by Allison, which Heathcote explores through his nuanced account of the semantics of ‘citoyenne’. This is a female form that admits women within the ambit of the Republic, whilst at the same time establishing their distance from ‘les citoyens’. One response of gays to these complexities is to embrace the global gay defiantly, and move in the Anglo-Saxon direction. Another is to scout the other extreme, pick up where Genet left off, glory in the name of invert, and live like Didier Éribon as a homosexual pariah. Yet Heathcote resists this dénouement of gay politics in favour of something more sensible (we are in Britain, after all). He is concerned at the violence implicit in the gay outlaw stance (which mirrors Macey’s concern about the outlaw responses of some of the self-consciously marginalized in Bradford). And, rather like both Cockburn and Allison in their conclusions, Heathcote sees universalism as a lever - though a crooked one, perhaps - for progressive social change: universalism [in France] may offer a stronger platform for reform than countries without such a baseline from which to argue for liberty, equality and even fraternity, particularly if the flagrant gendering of the latter is also used as leverage for change (p. 234). The global and the universal Four themes emerge strongly from this volume. It is first of all a moot point whether the rhythms of capitalist industrialization on

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a world scale have changed sufficiently over the last few years to warrant the designation of a new phase: ‘globalization’. But it is undeniable that the processes comprising (the alleged) globalization have long-standing historical roots, which subject different regions of the world to successive waves of flow, ebb, and economic drought. Bradford was amongst the earliest places on earth to experience the full flow, established from scratch as a great city in its Pennine fastness, which was virtually a frontier area, during the first half of the 19th. C. Now the citizens of Bradford are coping with the ebb, and yet the inexorability of the economic process makes it seem vain for us to caution others: ‘don’t follow us there - we know where it leads’. De Rivera’s Spain experienced a later wave of change, and Cleminson’s account of it demonstrates the way in which anxieties over urbanization, and the relation of rural populations to the city lights, preoccupied previous generations of commentators. Modernism, in other words, was postmodern long before postmodernism was conceived. Yet urbanization remains an essential ingredient of globalization. Amidst the economic drought of Tanzania, movement to the towns is the clearest social trend, with the urban percentage of the population increasing from 5% to 33% over the last forty years.14 Second, globalization may well be creating a more uniform environment for economic competition, political conflict, cultural exchange and legal regulation. Yet this is only half the story. Much depends upon how social entities, whether nation states, groups or individuals, respond to similar environments. The point here is ultimately a methodological one. It is because responses differ that the trajectory of the whole cannot be read off from a single dominant process, directed from some privileged metropolitan centre. History has not ended, which is why it is still necessary to take pains with the individual case, and above all to investigate the viewpoint from the margins. Third, the integration of the subject (or, as poststructuralists might put it, ‘the hermeneutics of interpellation’) may not be a science, but it does exhibit patterns that re-appear in a variety of different guises, and across the whole range of social divisions. The simplest case involves a headline statement

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25

that promises a level of social or political inclusion contradicted by the small print, such as the membership of all persons in a Republic that officially excludes women. Such a discrepancy between the theory and practice of recognition presents itself as a scandal, a straightforward hypocrisy. More subtle are the cases in which inclusion is granted, but in which the small print incorporates an invidious social distinction, and represents therefore a kind of second-order second-class status. Thus homosexuals are not prosecuted, but must accept that their being embodies, say, an ‘evolutionary fault’; women are not full ‘citoyens’ but ‘citoyennes’, and Serbia is admitted to the family of nations, as long as it confesses to its crimes.15 This outcome can originate as a compromise between different interests (and discourses), or as a means by which states (or international agencies) can preserve the semblance of historical continuity in their operations, whilst engaging in a dialectic of recognition and control. More complex and fraught again are those cases in which marginalized or excluded individuals promote a counterdiscourse, as active agents in their own self-definition, who nevertheless appropriate, and even internalize, the stigmas to which they are exposed. Yet this manoeuvre has its limits and contradictions too, and it is never entirely clear, as Heathcote remarks in relation to the gay movement, ‘whether the aim [of radical politics] is to seek an emancipated identity or emancipation from identity’ (p. 233). We are all trapped to some extent in a field of representations that we cannot dictate, yet these representations can have very unequal consequences for lives of different kinds. A final theme of broad significance is raised by Heathcote’s explicit contrast between the global and the universal, a contrast illuminated by the fact that the antonym of ‘global’ is ‘national’ or ‘local’, whereas the antonym of ‘universal’ is ‘partial’. Thus the incidence of ‘global’ is spatial and geographical, whereas the incidence of ‘universal’ is cognitive and normative. To urge the universality of a doctrine, ideological perspective, or body of knowledge is to claim a privileged point of reference for it, in relation to a given field. Candidate examples of the universal

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mentioned in these pages include neoclassical economics, the United Nations, Islam, international law, the French Republican ideal, ‘scientific’ accounts of homosexuality, the liberal theory of the state, children’s rights, and Piaget’s developmental psychology. The question is how to understand the contemporary state of play among these competing universalisms. A number of contributors favour the claims of (some version of) egalitarian universalism, at least as a lever of progressive social change, and despite their assorted reservations about globalization. In the wake of the Communist collapse, and the resulting dissipation of the last century’s master-clash between capitalism and socialism, it is not plausible to represent the current phase in terms of a general intensification of global competition over the universal. But the modalities of competition have undoubtedly changed. New global competitors have emerged, especially Islam. Competition over the ‘accustomed universal’ has intensified locally, even in a citadel such as France, and the autonomy of particular states is under attack from a variety of different directions. The underlying uncertainty remains. Is the world stumbling towards a global universal, assembled through negotiation and conflict from ingredients such as those mentioned above? Or are we destined to remain in a Westphalian world, in which the several universalisms establish an armed truce between distinctive jurisdictions in different parts of the globe? The contributions in this volume leave this question open, as no doubt does history itself. Yet this work is post-Westphalian in intellectual terms. The contributors are reluctant to place subjects in separate compartments, whether ‘the subject’ is a human actor or an academic discipline. We are offering an excursion around the dilemmas of social integration faced by a variety of different actors, and the insight into their situations available from a combination of different disciplines. We hope that the reader will enjoy the ride.

CHAPTER ONE

Globalization and its Inequities Marjorie Ruth Lister

A

t the beginning of the twenty-first century ‘globalization’ vies with ‘terrorism’ as the chief organizing principle of much academic and popular discourse. Yet globalization is far from a fully defined and universally accepted concept. Although ‘globalization’ has a reasonably clear meaning as the rise of the global economy, along with the global society and polity, the perception is widespread that the term is contested and controversial or just hard to understand and ‘fuzzy’.1 Devetak and Higgot contend that the word ‘globalization’, while ubiquitous, is over-used and under-defined.2 If so, globalization is not under-defined for want of trying by numerous scholars, but it has so far proved impossible to produce a comprehensive definition. The study of globalization crosses disciplinary boundaries as economists, political scientists, sociologists, feminists, cultural theorists and others try to get to grips with it. Some authors skirt around the definitional problem altogether, while Rowbotham and Linkogle leave the term undefined, yet treat globalization in effect as a synonym for injustice.3 This chapter begins by investigating the meaning and implications of globalization, and identifies five different functions of the concept in contemporary discourse. The key problem is then introduced: the increasing inequalities and inequities associated with the processes of globalization. The conclusion argues that awareness of both these features will better inform decisions by policy-makers and citizens. I: A wealth of definitions At times definitions of globalization tend to arrive, like London buses, in groups of three or more, reflecting the difficulty of

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creating a comprehensive formulation. Baylis and Smith collect seven different definitions or descriptions of globalization, ranging from the construction of global society to the creation of a global shopping mall, or a new name for colonialism, before finally concluding with a definition which, for an international relations textbook, has a surprisingly sociological emphasis: 'globalization refers to processes whereby social relations acquire relatively distanceless and borderless qualities, so that human lives are increasingly played out in the world as a single place’.4 An obvious hierarchy emerges nevertheless within the rich variety of definitions. Economically-oriented definitions feature at the top, while those focusing on personal, cultural and social trends come lower down the list. In the mainstream international debate, globalization has one overriding theme: economic integration. This economic interpretation has been expressed inter alia by Sir Leon Brittan, Vice-President of the European Commission, and the World Bank.5 Hirst and Thompson were critical of claims that the globalization process was unprecedented and irresistible, but accepted that the fundamental basis of globalization was economic.6 Likewise, Jackson and Sorenson, Killick, and Stiglitz all concentrate on economic trends as the basis of globalization.7 Of course economic trends are visible and important, but this hierarchy reflects the prioritization of economics among the social sciences, as well as the fact that it is far easier to quantify increased trade and capital flows, for instance, than the delegitimizing of the nation state or the spread of global norms of human rights and gender equality. George and Bache also reflected the ‘economics first’ view in their analysis of the European Union (EU) and globalization. Although recognizing that globalization has cultural and social aspects, they argue that it is economics-driven. For them, globalization primarily means changes in the economic system to which governments respond, and in the main governments have responded in ways that reinforce globalization. Global pressures mean that the different styles of capitalism in Western Europe are being replaced by a common, neoliberal model based on the example of the USA.8

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This mainstream debate thus leads into another question - is globalization in fact the independent, faceless march of impersonal markets or is it modelled on and driven by the USA? The first point of view is represented by writers like Friedman or Falk, for whom globalization is a random and leaderless phenomenon, relatively normless, spontaneous and ‘designerfree’.9 No-one is directing globalization; therefore no-one is to blame for it. Globalization results from free market forces and the development of technology. Alternatively, globalization can be seen as the USA writ large. There may not be so much a process of globalization occurring under a detached American watchfulness, but a process which can be called hegemonic globalization, universalizing the values, politics, culture and language of the USA. Like many other elements of popular culture such as pop music and clothing, globalization stems from the USA: ‘globalization is the fad of the l990s, and globalization is made in America’, argued Kenneth Waltz.10 He contends that although globalization was not planned by the US, the process in practice is protected by a ‘benign’ American hegemony. This hegemony extends to dominance in the economic, political and social structures, and the creation of norms for the behaviour of states and trans-border civil society organizations.11 The role of the United States, especially its Treasury, in setting the norms of globalization which were imposed by the IMF and World Bank on developing and post-socialist countries was emphasized by former World Bank economist Joseph Stiglitz.12 An article in the Wall St. Journal put the case for the continuation of American hegemony into the 21st. C.: the U.S. enters the 21st. Century in a position of unrivaled dominance that surpasses anything it experienced in the 20th. Coming out of World War II, the U.S. may have controlled a larger share of world output; but it also faced threats to its security and its ideology. Today, those threats are gone, and the nation far outstrips its nearest rivals in economic and military power and cultural influence.

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America’s free-market ideology is now the world’s ideology.13 Powerful states such as the USA certainly wish to be at the leading edge of the process of globalization. In his 2000 ‘State of the Union’ address, President Clinton argued that for the sake of America’s prosperity it was necessary not only to embrace globalization, but also to mold it in America’s image: To realize the full possibilities of this economy, we must reach beyond our borders, to shape the revolution that is tearing down barriers and building new networks among nations and individuals, and economies and cultures: globalization. It's the central reality of our time.14 Nevertheless, some of the arguments for US hegemony in the 21st. C. seem dated in the aftermath of the 11 September 2001 attacks, which revealed American vulnerability. Despite the likelihood of the USA being the leading player of the 21st. C., with unmatched military might and leadership in information technology and biotechnology enterprises, its position is far from undisputed ideologically and culturally. Economic competition, threats of terrorism and anti-globalization movements all challenge US dominance. The USA is not alone in wanting to be at the top of the pyramid of globalization, and to stamp its mark on the century. The European Union also faces emergent global forces it wants to shape. The EU, too, with its multi-national architecture and its success in overcoming the post-World War II problems of poverty and violence, sees itself as a model for world governance.15 European business elites increasingly identify themselves as citizens of Europe - or even as global citizens.16 With the advent of its single currency, the Euro, the power of the single market and the Union’s ability to act cohesively in international trade are potentially much increased.17 In summary, getting to grips with globalization is not an easy task. Although the most authoritative definitions of globalization tend to focus on economic processes, it is clearly

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impossible to ignore political and social factors. The input of the USA into globalization is huge; but the ‘made in America’ image is not unchallengeable. In addition to the neoliberal values based in the USA, and the prominence of US corporations, from Coca Cola to Microsoft, other factors have shaped the globalization process. These include the political aspirations of other organizations from the UN to the EU, non-US corporations like Sony, Hyundai and Royal Dutch Shell, the imprints of leaders like Mandela, Arafat and Putin and grassroots movements like those associated with the World Social Forum which often disagree with or oppose US policies. At the base of the pyramid of globalization, the images of appalling poverty, famine, oppression, violence against women and new internal wars like those of Rwanda, Liberia, and the former Yugoslavia are as important as the images of prosperity and freedom at the top of the pyramid. Greater clarity of definition can perhaps be achieved by isolating five distinct functions served by the term ‘globalization’ in contemporary discourse. II: The functions of ‘globalization’ i) to describe the condition of the world Globalization can be used to describe a qualitative change to a more integrated world, or just a continuation and intensification of the ongoing processes of integration. From the latter point of view, today’s globalization can be conceptualized as merely an extension of the process of capitalist expansion described by Marx and Engels in l865: All old-established national industries have been destroyed or are daily being destroyed. They are dislodged by new industries, whose introduction becomes a life and death question for all civilized nations, by industries that no longer work up indigenous raw material, but raw material drawn from the remotest zones; industries whose products are consumed, not only at home, but in every quarter of the globe.18

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But for the sceptics, the process of globalization has not proceeded steadily since the l9th century. The popular idea that geography, territory and distance no longer matter is vastly exaggerated. Trade and financial markets have been integrated since the 1890s in a manner not strikingly outstripped today.19 If we measure trade or capital flows between states, levels have not surpassed those of l914.20 Firms like Microsoft or Ford are multi-local, i.e. functioning in many local markets, rather than based on a global market. The important constraints on globalization, such as financial instability, state power, personal relationships, local resource and consumption pools mean that globalization may never progress much beyond its level today.21 Neither do the current restrictions on the mobility of labour or the existence of governments and military forces - still primarily state-based - indicate global integration. This first usage of ‘globalization’ is particularly relevant to the problems of inequality assessed later in this chapter. ii) to name the Post-Cold War era The period after the fall of the Berlin Wall in l989 was one of considerable perplexity and confusion. The certainties and the simple bipolar division of the world into East and West (with some non-aligned or developing areas) had disappeared. John Zysman observed with a degree of bewilderment in l991 that after the Cold War: ‘Now a new reality confronts us, in pieces, in fragments and in isolated controversies, but not yet as a whole’.22 Many scholars struggled to ask - who would be the West’s new enemy? And would the old alliances and institutions of the Cold War, like NATO, still be viable? Others found answers in Fukuyama’s thesis that history was ending in the form of western liberal democracy, or in Huntington’s prediction of a coming clash of civilizations.23 The term ‘globalization’ neatly answers the historian’s and political scientist’s need to name the current stage of society. Richard Falk argued that despite some vagueness, ‘globalization’ was the most satisfactory descriptive label for the current historical era, a period characterized by the close relationship

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between global capital and governments.24 Similarly, the author of a best-selling tome on globalization, Thomas Friedman, concluded that the new, defining international system which replaced the Cold War was called globalization. Whereas the Cold War system had been characterized by walls and divisions, the pre-eminent feature of the new globalization system was integration. Globalization meant: the inexorable integration of markets, nation-states and technologies to a degree never witnessed before - in a way that is enabling individuals, corporations and nation-states to reach around the world farther, faster, deeper and cheaper than ever before, and in a way that is enabling the world to reach into individuals, corporations and nationstates farther, faster, deeper, cheaper than ever before.25 iii) to provide a new paradigm for study As noted earlier, the concept of globalization has penetrated deeply into the discourse of social science and cultural studies. It has helped to raise new questions about economic, social and cultural integration. Globalization also provides a common framework for the assessment of transnational gender and social resistance movements, and the study of inequality. To Mittelman, globalization offered a competing framework to realism and other established paradigms of international studies. Whilst practitioners of international relations and political science have been slow or unwilling to accept the concepts and methodologies of postmodernism, they have been much more eager to adopt the language and the questions of globalization.26 This new globalization framework or paradigm would, in particular, address the following issues which had previously been under-researched:  the rise of trans-border problems like international crime;  the long-term development of the global economy;  the integration of financial markets, technological development and intercultural contact;

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  

the analysis of supra-state and sub-state forces such as civil society; the relations of state and global structures; the problems of state territoriality, de-territorialization and economic flows.27

iv) to make a personal statement about change One of the hallmarks of globalization is certainly what Castells identified as ‘a world of uncontrolled, confusing change’.28 Confronted with increasing global flows of wealth, power and images, the individual struggles to create and maintain her or his meaning and identity. The concept of globalization allows for the expression of a personal sense of change, including the loss of old national, gender, ethnic or professional identities. Statements of personal confusion in the face of such changes are not difficult to find. The political scientist Kenneth Waltz, while clinging to the traditional neo-realist view that international politics is based on the power of nation-states, expressed his sense of wonder at the extent of global integration. Personally, Waltz argued, ‘one feels that the world has become a smaller one. International travel has become faster, easier and cheaper; music, art, cuisines and cinema have all become cosmopolitan in the world’s major centers and beyond’.29 After his release from prison, Nelson Mandela observed: ‘what struck me so forcefully was how small the planet had become during my decades in prison; it was amazing to me that a teenage Innuit living at the roof of the world could watch the release of a political prisoner on the southern tip of Africa’.30 In his book, The Lexus and the Olive Tree, Thomas Friedman juxtaposed the modern, robotized system of car production with the human longing for rootedness. Although he argued that globalization was both positive and inevitable, Friedman also expressed strong personal feelings of confusion about it. What could be more disconcerting or overwhelming than a process that, like globalization, seems to encompass wealth and poverty; freedom and tyranny or ‘everything and its opposite’?31

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v) to use as a political tool The functions of globalization listed above, including this one, can overlap with each other. This function, in particular, often co-exists with other functions. The usefulness of globalization as a political tool for both opponents and supporters of the concept helps to explain the prevalence and popularity of the notion in contemporary discourse. Michael Veseth particularly emphasized globalization’s importance as a political contrivance, a device for persuading the public that one or another desired course of action is necessary. For Veseth, globalization constituted one of the world’s most powerful and persuasive images. However, globalization was always largely a myth, and one sold to the public for selfinterested reasons by powerful special interests such as corporations, management consultants, economists, states, and the EU. Globalization could be used as the excuse or the reason to carry out almost any kind of policy which one had already chosen.32 Examples of the use of globalization as a political tool are not hard to find. UK Chancellor Gordon Brown, for instance, used the image of global economic forces to call for the neoliberal restructuring of domestic labour, capital and product markets, as well as for the ideologically-contradictory policy of providing more state aid to industry.33 In the case of the EU, the threats and opportunities of globalization were readily employed by those who wanted to institute previously unacceptable labour market reforms or to unite their currencies.34 ‘Preventing globalization’ even appeared as part of the defence of the man convicted of damaging a statue of former UK Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher in a London art gallery.35 III Globalization and inequity ‘Globalization has produced unprecedented prosperity, albeit not evenly.’ Henry Kissinger36 One of the outstanding features of contemporary globalization is the persistence and even increase of inequality and poverty.

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There is no question that poverty and deprivation remain huge global problems and on many measures economic inequalities have been increasing. In l960 the richest 20% of the global population had incomes 30 times greater than the poorest 20%. By l997 the difference had increased to 74 times.37 Chen and Ravallion have argued that the most important factor in rising global inequality is the growing inequality between countries. In addition, the consistently high levels of inequality within many poor countries could hamper the type of economic growth that would most benefit poor people.38 One in five of the global population live on less than $US 1 per day, and 2/3 of these people are women. Based on this measure, from l990 to l998 the number of people in extreme poverty declined from 1.3 to 1.2 billion persons, but this fall was based solely on improvements in East Asia and the Pacific region.39 Recent evidence suggests that instead of falling to the international target of 0.9 billions, the number of people in extreme poverty will actually climb to 1.9 billions by 2015.40 Global capitalism can have negative effects on food production, exacerbating chronic hunger and famine in poorer parts of the world. For instance, in traditional societies there was a relationship of mutual interest between landowners and tenant farmers. The landowners needed the tenants’ ability to produce food and thereby feed both themselves and the landowners. But as this system was replaced by capitalist relations, with tenants as replaceable inputs, the landowner looked for profits rather than food production. Thus, despite the introduction of mechanization, technological inputs, and large scale farming, countries like Sudan were unable to feed themselves.41 Killick observed that although economic theory suggested that the dynamic effects of increased trade and growth under globalization should benefit the poor, there was little evidence to suggest that this had actually happened. Small farmers and the global rural poor suffered strong competition from multinational corporations as well as limited access to information, education and credit; water and land supply problems; high transport fees and other costs which often seemed to prevent them from prospering.42

GLOBALIZATION AND ITS INEQUITIES

39

There is a global pyramid of employment inequality, at the top of which sit the elite workers with specialized skills, who are predominantly white, male and urban-based. These people may be more closely linked to a profession than a national identity. Those at the top of the pyramid benefit most from globalization, as Afshar and Barrientos argued: ‘the almost exclusively male elite who head the transnational companies and the national and international bureaucrats who facilitate the process have profited most, and have enthusiastically welcomed the new global order’.43 Lower down the pyramid is a stratum of those whose jobs are precarious and depend on the vagaries of the markets, while at the base of the pyramid are the growing number of unemployed, low-skilled and marginalized people. Even in economically dynamic areas like East Asia, where demand is increasing for skilled labour, those who lack these skills face a future of growing inequality.44 Among the disadvantaged groups are disproportionately concentrated the old, the young, disabled people, members of ethnic minorities, and women.45 Moreover, the interconnectedness of the globalized system can further harm poor people by transmitting economic shocks from one area of crisis such as Thailand to other areas such as Russia or Brazil. Although the exact figure is uncertain, it is widely accepted that the majority of the world’s impoverished people are female.46 The agency and interests of women are however neglected consistently in mainstream studies of globalization. Even analyses which are sensitive to various social problems caused by globalization often fail to highlight the relation of these problems to gender issues.47 The assumption that globalization would benefit women appears generally unfounded as the advantage of greater access to paid employment for women is often offset by the poor pay and conditions, and insecurity of the available work.48 Complex new forms of patriarchal domination replace those edged out by the global marketplace as women take up poorly paid jobs, such as fruit picking in the developing world or part-time shift-work in supermarkets in the UK.49

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Dolan found that the new export horticulture in Kenya resulted in greater workloads, less income and less access to land for women. It even caused increased domestic violence as men competed with women for their land and income.50 In Miami, globalization meant that Cuban women filled the textile sweatshops while men had higher positions as contractors and subcontractors.51 UNIFEM discovered that a significant gap existed between male and female wages in all 63 countries for which it obtained statistics, although the gap was unlikely to be increasing in the formal sector. However, growing inequalities were observed between highly-skilled and less-skilled women in parts of Latin America and in the UK.52 Another disturbing aspect of globalization is its relationship to conflict and violence. At the communal level, the existence of so-called postmodern wars, where objectives are unclear, ideologies are lacking, actors are many and various and violence is appalling, can be connected to globalization. Ethnic and communal wars have become increasingly prominent in global security discourses, in addition to state-based conflicts. The multiple pressures of global integration can add fuel to conflicts. As Duffield argued, ‘post-modern conflict reflects the manner in which political authority is being restructured in parts of the South under the influence of globalization’.53 As well as the intra-state and ethnic group conflicts, which reached their horrific expression in places such as Rwanda, Sierra Leone, and the former states of Zaire and Yugoslavia, the global periphery suffers from what UNICEF labels a global epidemic of violence against women and girls.54 Processes of development that disrupt traditional norms and structures while bringing women more into the public sphere and the workplace have exacerbated violence against women in countries like Afghanistan and Papua New Guinea.55 Murder and rape levels in South Africa, for instance, have reached unprecedented levels, with rape cases reaching a million a year - or one rape every 30 seconds.56 It seems that commentators like Henry Kissinger cited above were correct to associate globalization with inequalities and inequities. The winners in the new globalized system are

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41

accompanied by a huge number of losers. The latter include the economically disadvantaged, elderly, unskilled or disabled people, those in rural areas and regions of conflict, and disproportionate numbers of women. IV Conclusion The first part of this chapter focused on the concept of globalization - the rise of an integrated global economy, society and polity - and found a complex process which was not fully defined. The discourse of globalization pervades many academic disciplines, including political science, history and cultural studies, but both academics and decision-makers tend to give economic factors primacy as the motor force of the process. Although some scholars have equated globalization with Americanization, other actors including the United Nations, the European Union, multinational corporations, grassroots leaders and anti-globalization movements have also left their stamp on the process. As is the case with terms such as democracy, globalization’s very vagueness permits it to serve a variety of functions. The concept allows scholars to assess empirical changes in the world economy or to categorize the post Cold War epoch. Globalization can also serve as a framework for new approaches to international studies. It addresses the subjective need to describe one’s feeling about a changing world order and its effects on one’s personal and social identity. And, for those who want to argue for a particular course of economic, social or political action, globalization often provides the justification. The inequities and inequalities of globalization are among its key features. Inequalities have increased between rich and poor countries, between those who benefit from the opportunities of globalization and those who are at the bottom level of the pyramid. In future, even the absolute number of people in extreme poverty is expected to rise. Gender inequalities can also be exacerbated by globalization as women take up insecure, poorly paid jobs and lose traditional forms of income. Neither has the globalization process brought about peace and security.

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On the contrary, intra-state and interstate wars have expanded whilst the breakdown of traditional norms has led to what UNICEF termed ‘an epidemic of violence against girls and women’. In conclusion, globalization in practice is a discourse of inequalities. Globalization can be compared to a pyramid where the winners, the global elite at the top, enjoy considerable benefits while the losers, including those disadvantaged politically, economically or by gender, remain at the bottom. By recognizing the inequities of globalization, activists, decisionmakers and citizens have the opportunity to create a system which amounts to more than just global poor relief and global riot control.57

CHAPTER TWO

Globalization, Free Trade and Market Asymmetry Michael Tribe

T

his chapter discusses the evolving nature of the international economy, and particularly the changing circumstances of those countries described as ‘developing’. It will focus on the dispute within development economics between the ‘neoliberals’ and ‘structuralists’ over the explanation for the very rapid economic growth of the newly industrialising countries known as the ‘Asian Tigers’. This group usually includes South Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Singapore, and is sometimes extended to include Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand and the Philippines. The rise of these economies has been closely connected with the phenomenon of ‘globalization’, and in particular with ‘trade liberalization’. It has to be recognized first of all that the ‘Asian Tigers’ are unrepresentative of developing countries as a whole. South Korea was a focus of international concern as a result of the Korean War of the 1950s, and has experienced particular international support for this reason. Taiwan, similarly, has had sympathetic international support from some quarters due to the complexities of its historical position. Hong Kong and Singapore are small ‘city states’ (with Hong Kong having been re-absorbed into the People’s Republic of China in 1997), and are therefore unrepresentative of developing countries. This point was made by Dudley Seers in his ‘Limitations of the Special Case’ nearly forty years ago.1 One of the major issues involves the appropriate level, nature and composition of government involvement in managing the economy and in encouraging rapid economic



I wish to thank Hossein Jalilian for comments on the original draft.

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growth. The neoliberals argue for minimal government ‘intervention’.2 Williamson articulated the concept of the ‘Washington Consensus’, which set out the intellectual basis for the ‘conditionalities’ on which the economic reforms sponsored by the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank through Structural Adjustment Programmes were based through the 1980s and 1990s.3 The structuralists argue by contrast for government action on a selective basis.4 These two ‘camps’ represent competing paradigms, both inclined to claim that the empirical evidence support their position. Stiglitz attempted to find a ‘middle way’, and although there is now greater agreement that many of the recent reforms were necessary to remove dysfunctional economic distortions, it is unlikely that a complete truce has been declared.5 It might appear baffling at first sight that this level of disagreement is sustained within the profession. Economists use a set of theoretical and methodological constructs in order to understand the nature of the world around them. Such an understanding depends on the application of theory and methods to data in empirical analysis, and this data may or may not be reliable and internationally comparable over time and between countries. These same economists are then expected to make policy recommendations based on their analysis. But when two competing groups refer to the same set of data in seeking empirical support for diametrically-opposed policy recommendations, both the general public and their fellow social scientists are entitled to ask whether the fault lies in the data or in the analytical frameworks used. To what extent are the analysis and policy recommendations disinterested, and to what extent are they biased through over-representing particular interest groups or ideological preconceptions - either by intent or by default? A possible explanation is that the insufficient use of sensitivity and uncertainty analyses has enabled bias to creep into the conclusions, even where sophisticated techniques of quantitative analysis are otherwise used. The next section sets out some evidence of the economic performance of the ‘Asian Tigers’ and other developing economies. The third section explores the economic dimensions

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45

of the definition of globalization, while the fourth section relates this definition to international experience of ‘liberalization’. Recent international development experience The South East Asian economies are especially important for the discussion because the initial steps towards liberalization and globalization were taken within them. In an important but underestimated book, Myint focused on the need for a switch away from an ‘import-substitution’ industrialization strategy (characterized as ‘inward-looking’), and towards an ‘exportpromotion’ strategy (characterized as ‘outward-looking’).6 The timing of Myint’s contribution is significant because it coincided with the beginning of an increasingly outward-oriented Japanese view of the international economy, including increased levels of foreign investment and associated technology and management systems transfer - initially within South East Asia. Tables 2.1, 2.2 and 2.3 present some data relating to aspects of economic development over the period 1970 to 2000 successively in the Asian Tigers, other Asian countries, and a sample of African countries.7 The population data in Table 2.1 demonstrate the nature of Singapore and Hong Kong as small ‘city states’. However, for all four countries, the table also shows very significant increases in the levels of per capita income (measured on a PPP basis) and, for three of the countries, sustained high levels of GDP growth, a significant proportion of GDP contributed by manufacturing, high ratios of manufacturing in total exports, and high ratios of investment to GDP.8 It is largely these economies that were the subject of the controversial World Bank report on the East Asian ‘Miracle’.9 Table 2.2 shows that other Asian countries have also attained high levels of per capita income with high sustained rates of economic growth, high rates of per capita private consumption growth, high ratios of manufacturing in GDP, very significant increases in the proportion of manufactures in total exports, and with high ratios of investment to GDP. These economies grew positively through the period under review, despite relatively large variations both within and between countries.

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Population (millions) Ave. GDP p/c (1995 US $) Ave. Annual GDP Gr. (%) Ave. Growth of p/c cons. (%)# Manufacturing as % of GDP Man. exp. as % of total exp. Investment as % of GDP

Year

Korea

Taiwan

1970 2000 1970 2000 1980-90 1990-99 1980-98

31.9 47.0 2,282 13,199 9.4 5.7 6.5

14.5 21.8* 2,790 17,055* n.a.

1970 2000 1970 2000 1970 2000

21.2 31.3 76.5 90.8 25.5 28.4

n.a.

n.a.

n.a. 16.1 22.8

Singapore 2.1 4.0 5,404 28,462 6.7 8.0 4.8

Hong Kong 3.9 6.7 5,946 24,689 6.9 3.9 n.a.

19.9 26.8 27.5 85.6 32.5 29.5

23.7+ 5.9 95.7 95.3 19.7 26.3

Table 2.2 Selected Economic Data: other Asian Countries Year Population (millions) Ave. GDP p/c (1995 US$) Ave. Annual GDP Gr. (%) Ave. Growth of p/c cons. (%)# Manufacturing as % of GDP Man. exp. as % of total exp. Investment as % of GDP

1970 2000 1970 2000 1980s 1990s 198098 1970 2000 1970 1995 1970 1990

Philippines 36.6 76.6 867 1,152 1.0 3.2 0.8

Indonesia 117.5 206.3 298 1,014 6.1 4.7 4.6

China

2.9

Thailand 35.7 60.7 752 2,824 7.6 4.7 5.1

12.4 33.0 6.6 80.4 20.2 26.9

15.9 32.0 4.7 75.6 25.6 22.7

24.9 22.6 7.5 91.7 21.3 17.6

10.3 26.2 1.2 57.1 15.8 14.6

33.8 34.5 71.6++ 88.2 29.0 36.1

Malaysia 10.9 23.3 1,371 4,797

818.3 1,262.5 109 825 10.1 10.7 7.2

Notes to Tables 2.1, 2.2, 2.3: p/c = per capita; n.a. = comparable data are not available for Taiwan/Taipei; # While the annual growth rate of GDP is expressed in annual averages over two decades, the per capita consumption data relate to a 19-year period; + 1980; ++ 1990; * 1998; ** 1999.

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Table 2.3 Selected Economic Data: African Countries

Population (millions) Ave. GDP p/c (1995 US$) Ave. Annual GDP Gr. (%) Ave. Growth of p/c cons. (%)# Manufacturing as % of GDP Man. exp. as % of total exp. Investment as % of GDP

Year

Kenya

1970 2000 1970 2000 1980-90 1990-99 1980-98

11.5 30.1 226 329 4.2 2.2 0.4

1970 2000 1970 2000 1970 2000

12.0 12.9 12.5 20.8 24.4 13.7

3.1 0.0

8.6 19.3 475 413 3.0 4.3 0.2

Nigeria 53.2 126.9 264 254 1.6 2.4 -4.2

Ivory Coast 5.5 16.0 929 739 0.7 3.7 -2.2

9.3++ 7.5 12.7 15.5** 26.1++ 17.6

11.4 9.0 0.5 14.8 14.2 23.7

3.7 4.1 0.7 0.2 14.8 22.7

10.3 19.1 6.0 14.5 22.5 10.6

Tanzania 13.7 33.7 189++ 191

Ghana

It is then interesting to compare the performance of a selection of sub-Saharan African countries (Table 2.3). The countries which have been selected are, overall, comparatively ‘good’ performers. The data show considerable instability within individual countries, including significantly negative growth rates in some years for countries which are currently regarded as relatively ‘good performers’. It can be seen that, despite these variations, all of those for which there are comparable data have achieved higher levels of per capita income at the end of the period as compared with the beginning, but the economic growth rates have been significantly lower than those attained by the South East Asian countries. The proportion of GDP contributed by manufacturing in these countries has hardly changed over the period since 1970, and has declined in Ghana. Manufacturing exports have increased in most cases as a proportion of total exports, but are still at a low level by comparison with the Asian economies. In particular, the African countries have had difficulty attaining high and sustained levels of investment as a proportion of GDP. It is significant that all of the countries shown in Table 2.3 have experienced ‘structural adjustment’ based on

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conditionalities imposed by the World Bank and the IMF. These policies have mainly followed the ‘lead’ of the economic characteristics which were perceived to apply within the South East Asian sphere - particularly relating to increased liberalization and globalization.11 What do we learn from Tables 2.1, 2.2 and 2.3 in relation to this thirty-year perspective? Economic growth depends on a range of directly and indirectly economic factors, not least the rate of investment. The comparatively low rates of investment for the better-performing African countries by comparison with South East Asian countries are notable. Given that the policy regime is a major determinant of investment rates, the question arises how long the time-lag is likely to be before any changes in African policy regimes have a positive effect on rates of investment and on economic growth.12 This key issue remains unresolved in current development economics. Relevant considerations include the transferability of the South East Asian experience into the African context, and the general confidence as to whether economists and policy makers - especially those responsible for the ‘conditionalities’ - have ‘got it right’.13 Another neglected question concerns the relative importance of internal and external influences on developing African countries. The focus has tended to be on the internal domestic factors which are, to a degree at least, under the control of the national governments in question - implying that these are the main source of the problem - rather than on the influence of international, or exogenous, factors - which might, in several cases, be major determinants. The economic meaning of ‘globalization’ The economic dimension of ‘globalization’ can be defined in a number of different ways. One statistical measure would be the increase in the ratio of exports, imports and other international transactions to GDP - representing an increase in the degree of openness of economies. However, even in an economic sense, purely statistical measures might not be entirely satisfactory, and a better basis for a definition might be a combined measure of the extent of all types of barriers to international transactions.

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49

Certainly the ‘-ization’ element of the word globalization implies change, and this would include the reduction of international barriers and the introduction of an element of universality where previously markets were segmented. Markets can be segmented through natural phenomena - such as transport or other ‘transactions costs’ - or through artificial phenomena - such as tariffs, other trade restrictions, or institutional factors such as ownership (as with Transnational Corporations, for example). Any developments which reduce the extent of market segmentation (i.e. reducing the ‘barriers’ between market segments) can therefore be regarded as increasing universality, or ‘globalization’, in the economic sense. One of the major intentions of the regulations established within the World Trade Organization (WTO) is to reduce the extent of ‘obstacles’ to international economic transactions.14 This is consistent with the notion of moving towards a ‘free market’, and is analogous to the European ‘single market’. The notion of a ‘free market’ is not uncontroversial and is often confused with the theoretical concept of the ‘perfect market’. It is, rather surprisingly, not that easy to find a clear statement of the attributes of the ‘perfect market’ in economic theory, but a broad discussion can be found in Scitovsky’s significant contribution to welfare economics.15 It should be emphasized that the ‘perfect market’ includes product markets (within which goods and services are sold and purchased) and factor markets (within which factors of production are sold and purchased). The entire concept therefore includes (a) consumers as purchasers of goods and services and as sellers of labour, and (b) producers as sellers of goods and services and as purchasers of labour, capital and other inputs (which include semi-finished products and services). Most economists would probably agree that the following four conditions are basic to the ‘perfect market’:  atomistic competition - no single buyer or seller is able to significantly affect the outcomes within the market in terms of price and quantities traded and there are no significant obstacles for entry to and exit from markets, principally for producers;

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 



costless transfers - there are no significant transactions costs impeding the market solution - products, services and factors of production are perfectly mobile; perfect knowledge - all participants in the market (including all buyers and sellers) have perfect knowledge of all relevant factors relating to the market at the time in question; perfect foresight - all participants in the market have perfect foresight of all future possibilities which could affect market outcomes.

The theoretical construct of the ‘perfect market’ can hardly be expected to exist anywhere in practice. However, when economists developed the theories based on the concept of the ‘perfect market’ they were intent on establishing logical structures related to the ‘what if …. then’ variety, rather than on describing reality. It is important that this distinction between theory and empirical reality is maintained. There can be no doubt, for example, that if the whole world consisted of markets which had the attributes of the ‘perfect market’ then economic outcomes would probably be preferable to those which we actually experience.16 But to infer from this that so-called ‘free markets’ (i.e. markets free from government and other institutional intervention) would lead to the same types of outcomes which would hypothetically arise from ‘perfect markets’ is a quite unjustifiable leap of logic. It is often overlooked that, logically, an imperfect market which has some but not all of the imperfections removed is still imperfect, and the ‘new’ situation is not necessarily preferable to the ‘old’. This significant issue was authoritatively explored in the context of ‘second-best’ theory some decades ago, and is one of the major theoretical justifications for government intervention in ‘distorted markets’ in order to correct for ‘market failure’.17 The very fact that institutional intervention in the international economy, in the form of the WTO, has been found necessary in order to modify market outcomes is perhaps sufficient evidence

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that ‘free markets’ may not lead to acceptable conditions at the international level. It is true nevertheless that recent international developments have led to circumstances which are closer to those of the ‘perfect market’ than have existed in the past. Considerable reductions in international transport costs have created markets which are less segmented and within which competition has been intensified - a major element of ‘globalization’. The effect of this international competition has been to reduce the extent of international diversity in many cases, and to enable large Transnational Corporations (TNCs) to compete with national entities to a point where the TNCs control a significantly higher proportion of the market. While consumers might sometimes benefit through having access to cheaper products, the reduction in diversity (and hence in consumer choice) would be judged by many to be a considerable disadvantage. The increased centralization of production and of market control breaks the first of the conditions of the ‘perfect market’ outlined above. Thus, while markets may be ‘more free’ because of reduced transportation costs and other international transactions costs, the increased ‘freedom’ works to the advantage of existing powerful countries and institutions within the international economy, and therefore markets become ‘less perfect’.18 One of the main problems within this apparent contradiction is the increased asymmetry of economic power which has developed, particularly asymmetry of market information. This was the subject area in which Joseph Stiglitz was awarded his Nobel Prize in economics in 2001. The increased power of TNCs has been associated with greater penetration of international and national markets and with product brands and trade marks, ownership, joint ventures and franchising. The considerable resources available to the TNCs makes it easy for them to take full advantage of international regulations, while the limited resources available to lower-income countries makes it very difficult for them to counter the arguments of the TNCs or even to launch complaints and appeals within the matrix of regulations. It is therefore possible for TNCs to pick and choose between

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prospective national partners on the terms most favourable to themselves. An example of the increased economic power of international banking institutions is given by some research reported by the World Bank in 2001.19 It demonstrates the remarkable increase in the share of foreign banks in ownership or control of financial assets in a range of countries in Latin America, Eastern Europe and South East Asia. For example, foreign banks controlled about 10 per cent of the financial assets in Malaysia in 1994 and about 15 per cent in 1999; the equivalent figures for Mexico were 3 per cent and 20 per cent, and for Poland 4 per cent and 54 per cent. This exemplifies the considerable increase in centralization of financial power within the global economy - an increased asymmetry within international financial markets. Globalization and ‘liberalization’

The benefits that the South East Asian countries have experienced from globalization and liberalization are connected with the ‘Myint switch’ from import substitution to export promotion. Theoretically, the maximum economic gains from trade - and from resource allocation in general - occur when markets are ‘free’, with free movement of all factors of production, crucially including labour. Stiglitz has noted how far short of the ideal of free markets is the North American Free Trade Association (NAFTA), which links the United States, Canada and Mexico), and which ‘allows for the freer movement of goods, services and investment - but not people - among those countries’.20 One variant of industrialization by import substitution occurs as a ‘natural’ market development, with the demand for imports building up to a level which can then support domestic production at a scale, and at costs, which are internationally competitive. This might occur through what is referred to as ‘natural protection’ - such as high transport or other transactions costs.21 However, it has been common historically to shield highcost domestic producers from international competition artificially, through import tariffs and quotas.22 If domestic

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53

production costs are higher than international production costs plus transactions costs at the ruling foreign exchange rate, then domestic consumers would pay higher prices than necessary, and there is a ‘welfare loss’.23 The removal of economic protection from high-cost domestic production can therefore increase consumer welfare, both theoretically and practically. This is the first part of the justification for trade liberalization. The second part of the argument draws out the implication of the first part of the argument for potential international trading partners rather than domestic consumers. If local producers are kept in business artificially by tariff protection, then their relatively high-cost production will not be competitive internationally. Since international consumers, unlike their domestic counterparts, always have the choice not to buy highcost commodities if cheaper alternatives are available from other sources, the protection against imports is incompatible with export expansion as a long-term strategy for industrialization: protectionism decreases the welfare of domestic consumers and holds back export-led growth.24 This is the second element of the argument for trade ‘liberalization’ in a nutshell.25 Trade liberalization, involving greater freedom in the international movement of commodities, is therefore at the very centre of the economic concept of globalization. Free movement of investment funds is also required if foreign direct investment (FDI), particularly by the larger TNCs, is going to be associated with economic development - linked to technology transfer, market access and the transfer of management systems. TNCs require the international mobility of resources within their control but not, as Stiglitz pointed out, the international mobility of labour. It is usually more ‘efficient’ for TNCs to employ labour in ‘home countries’ than to rely on international migration in order to access cheap labour. The complete version of neoclassical international trade theory includes what is referred to as ‘factor price equalization’. Low-cost labour in developing countries can be a significant basis for the attraction of inward investment by TNCs, and eventually this could have the effect of bidding up wages in these countries. A higher level of exports from developing countries to

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developed market economies (DMEs) could contribute to a relative reduction of wage levels in the higher-income countries. In the very long term, wages would be equalized globally. If low cost labour from developing countries were to be permitted to migrate freely to DMEs this would accelerate the process of wage equalization through additional downwards pressures on wages in DMEs. In theory, the low wage levels in most subSaharan African countries should be the basis for increased TNC interest in the development of production capacity there, but there is a ‘stickiness’ in broadly-defined market characteristics which prevents this ‘benefit’ from globalization from taking effect.26 Conclusion - international inequality remains intact The main conclusion of this chapter is that many economists have failed to take account of the imperfect nature of markets in making recommendations relating to trade liberalization focusing on the removal of market distortions which have been added through government action rather than on the inherent asymmetries of economic power within international markets.27 Globalization and liberalization have tended to leave the basic international market structure untouched, with the exception of the considerable expansion of East Asian and South East Asian influence and participation.28 International asymmetry of economic power has if anything tended to increase. This is to the disadvantage of many of the least developed countries, despite the benefits which it had been hoped would flow to these countries.29 This evolving situation is no exactly new, and has been the subject of discussion in the development economics literature for the last fifty or sixty years.

CHAPTER THREE

Migration, Mobility and Membership Bill Jordan and Franck Düvell

M

obility and membership have suddenly emerged as prominent issues for liberal democracies. Asylum seekers are automatically detained in prison camps in Australia. From July 1st, 2002, no person in Denmark under 24 years of age can live with a non-EU spouse. In France and the Netherlands, anti-immigrant parties achieved unprecedented electoral success in the spring of the same year. Illiberal exclusions at the borders of such leading democracies stand counter to the legitimating principles of liberal political philosophy.1 At the same time, the integration of the world economy is accelerating movements across borders for the sake of business, tourism and study. Transnational Corporations (TNCs) not only make and sell things everywhere; they also recruit staff without regard to nationality.2 States have accommodated new forms of cosmopolitan nomadism among such economic agents, and national collective infrastructures allow them access to communities of choice.3 Economic membership, under rules for free movement, is unproblematic for those with the skills and resources demanded by the global productive system.4 Indeed, globalization challenges all kinds of organizational boundaries. New boundary issues arise moreover through the elaboration of new technologies for mobility and exclusion. ‘Mobility’ is here used as a general term, to indicate the capacity to leave and enter organizations, including that for physical movement between jurisdictions. By means of electronic transfers, agents can change allegiance from one fund, firm or club to another, without moving away from their computer screens. The term ‘membership’ denotes inclusion in any organization, formal or informal, capable of providing goods,

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services or other benefits to those who belong to it, and excluding those who do not. Membership allegiances may be acquired by birth, affiliation, entry or subscription. New technologies allow electronic ‘clubs’ to exclude non-subscribers, as in mobile phone networks. ‘Migration’ is here reserved as a term for movement of people across national borders for periods of over a year. Movements within states and short-term border crossings are treated as instances of geographical mobility. Markets demand mobility, but political communities are systems of membership and collective decision making. Democracy is rule by the people, but someone must first decide who ‘the people’ are.5 As Bauböck has said: ‘Democratic decision making in any kind of association presupposes clearly defined boundaries of membership for the collective as a whole’.6 If states are to continue to provide the basis for political authority, as territorial units of sovereignty, then free movement of economic agents leaves unresolved questions about the sovereigns and subjects of this authority. The central principle of liberal democracy is the moral equality of persons.7 The duty to treat each as of equal concern is the basis for giving all their due.8 But in liberal theories of justice all have equal freedom to choose their own versions of the good life, in ways that do not infringe the same freedom for others. In Rawls’s scheme, ‘freedom of movement and free choice of occupation against a background of diverse opportunities’ are part of the ‘basic structure of society’.9 Such fundamental liberties have priority over other principles. They cannot be constrained in order to influence economic outcomes, or to protect some cultural goods of the community. Equal citizenship and free movement can be reconciled in such theories of justice only by their silence on the question of boundaries. The goods of the political community end at its borders, which are taken as given. There is no theoretical justification of exclusion, because outsiders are invisible.10 Since there is nothing to say about non-members, there are no liberal democratic criteria for admission to membership. But that leaves the theory incoherent between internal and external relations.11 How can any rule select between applicants for entry who are

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morally equivalent to each other, and to members? How can any rule be legitimately imposed on applicants, who have played no democratic part in making it? Liberal theory is caught therefore on the horns of a dilemma: either principles of equality and justice are i) not universal, and apply only to members of bounded communities, but not beyond borders; or they are ii) universal, and demand open borders. Those who try to find universal principles for selective admission to citizenship point to features of nations that give members special ethical claims on each other.12 But ethical communities straddle borders, and nations are not ethical communities; exclusions based on national identity or culture are either inconsistent versions of communitarianism, or illiberal protections for monoculturalism.13 Alternatively, those who acknowledge that selection is inconsistent with liberal values, but claim that it is necessary to protect liberal democracy as a vulnerable political system, concede that its principles cannot extend to the international order, and can provide no moral rules for relations between states, or between states and applicants for membership.14 This resolves the problem in one sense, but only by creating a hiatus in the applicability of an ostensibly universal liberal theory. Membership systems: nationalist, globalist and federalist In political philosophy, these boundary issues are addressed from two main perspectives. The first is exemplified by Rawls’s recent The Law of Peoples: it is ‘nationalist’ in the sense that it takes national political communities as its ethical units of account (though, in a separate step, Rawls does lay down principles for an international order, designed by representatives of such states, behind a veil of ignorance).15 The second is ‘globalist’ in its concerns for human rights, and for justice between all members of the world’s population.16 It takes a broader view of the harms caused to people in developing countries by the policies and lifestyles of First World states, and therefore of the global institutional structures needed to correct the harms. By contrast, recent economic theory of boundaries creates a third ‘federalist’ approach in its emphasis on the benefits of fiscal

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devolution, of mobility by economic agents, and of fluid and overlapping memberships of jurisdictions.17 Clearly economic organizations (such as firms and funds) require boundaries, since without them competition could not achieve efficient allocations. But economic organizations tend to facilitate entry and exit, at the expense of participation and solidarity (‘voice’ and ‘loyalty’).18 The federalist perspective attempts to balance exit and voice rights, in the context of new technologies for mobility and exclusion, within an integrated world economy. On the one hand, collective goods traditionally supplied by states to national populations may now be more efficiently provided by firms (or public-private partnerships). Since these goods (such as transport systems, electricity and water supplies, health and education services) have different properties, the optimum boundaries of membership systems - known as ‘clubs’ - must vary. For many goods it may be most efficient for clubs to recruit transnationally. On the other hand, local authorities provide bundles of collective amenities (such as parks, libraries, roads and drains) in return for local taxes. According to these federalist theories, agents ‘vote with their feet’, expressing choices over local public goods by moving between such jurisdictions.19 This article will argue that there are no conceivable rules of equality and justice that can transcend questions of boundaries, and the corresponding issues of inclusion and exclusion. This is because competition for roles and resources necessarily creates memberships: insiders and outsiders. Since human beings are intrinsically footloose and rivalrous, regimes for equality and justice cannot aim for stability and harmony alone. They must also take account of people’s propensity to disagree about how to achieve these goals, to quarrel about the good way of life, and to leave in search of better. Rights to recriminations and exits are not regrettable allowances for avoidable breakdowns of cooperation on terms of fairness. They are essential parts of what we mean by equality and justice. But human beings are intrinsically weak and vulnerable as well as quarrelsome and itinerant, so they need institutions to protect them, as well as to allow them scope for rivalry and roaming.

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Under conditions of globalization, both migrant and sedentary populations are vulnerable, but in different ways. Less healthy and skilled sedentary populations become trapped in impoverished communities of fate, and those who flee strife-torn and disrupted societies lack access to new membership systems. Both are disadvantaged in relation to mobile and resourceful citizens, and to skilled and adaptable transnational nomads. Organizational boundaries of all kinds are therefore relevant for theories of equality and justice. This article argues that nationalist, globalist and federalist theories are each incomplete and internally incoherent in their analyses of borders and political membership. The moral equality of persons is universal, so it demands that primary social goods are distributed globally, to the world’s population as a whole. Both ethical and economic analyses point towards rights to income as the basis for equal autonomy, and to the basic income principle as the most promising institutional form for distribution. Although the ethics of boundaries are logically distinct from such institutional questions, this proposal provides an illustration of the dilemmas for public policy, once boundary issues are taken into account. The problem of access to membership systems The theory of equality and justice must address issues of migration, mobility and membership, because people need both opportunities and protections, whether they roam abroad or remain in their communities of birth. Rules should allow them to travel and engage with others, as equal and autonomous agents; but they should also allow membership groups to distribute roles and resources according to principles of justice. This is merely to restate the challenges to political philosophy laid down by Machiavelli and Hobbes at the dawn of the modern era. The contractarian approach to political justice, which has supplied the most influential theories of the past 50 years, was pioneered by Hobbes’s account of the origins of collective agreements, stable relationships and fair economic exchanges under a coercive power.20 His agents were both mobile and competitive, ‘because life itself is but motion, and can never be

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without desire, nor without fear, no more than without sense’, and thus there was ‘a general inclination of all mankind, a perpetual and restless desire of power after power, that ceaseth only in death’.21 His famous version of this conflictual orientation in the state of nature in chapter 13 of Leviathan applied as much to collective actors (especially states) as to individuals. Contractarian theories, and political philosophy generally, have devoted far more attention to relationships between citizens than to movements of population between societies. For Rawls’s analysis of justice in the ‘original position’, for example, membership of society is fixed: ‘Political society is closed: we come to be within it and we do not, and indeed cannot, enter or leave it voluntarily’.22 It was not until 1999 that he produced a theory of boundaries, and then it was neo-Hobbesian, in so far as it gave a ‘people’s government’ (a democratic state) the responsibility for territory and access thereto.23 Such collective agents ‘cannot make up for their irresponsibility in caring for their land and its natural resources by conquest in war or by migrating into other people’s territory without their consent.’24 In a footnote to this, he endorsed Walzer’s view that the absence of immigration controls would lead to internal restrictions of movement and closure of organizations.25 This liberal nationalist perspective is echoed in recent texts on the ethics of migration management, as well as in policy documents of First World governments. If borders were open, migrants from poor and violent countries would flood in, overwhelming the collective infrastructure, laying waste the ecology, and destroying the political culture. National populations would resist, provoking conflict and civil disorder. Other states would have no motives for providing inclusive equality and justice, since they could expel their minorities, dump their poor, and empty their prisons; they could also invade by stealth.26 Immigration restrictions preserve equality and justice among citizens, because migration is assumed to be (potentially at least) a Hobbesian act of war. So it is left to economists to explore the scope for membership systems, and the role of

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political authority, in a world of roving agents, moved by ‘competition, diffidence and glory’.27 The dynamics of ‘federalism’ In their debates about ‘the political economy of federalism’, or the ‘analytical foundations of a fiscal constitution’, the economists self-consciously echo the disputes between 17th. C. philosophers over the rights of sovereigns, between 18th. C. constitutionalists over the virtues and defects of ‘compound’ or ‘confederal’ republics, and between 19th. C. jurists over the division of powers.28 Two key assumptions distinguish present-day economists’ analyses from the deliberations of contemporary liberal egalitarian philosophers. The first assumption is that individuals have the option of joining or leaving membership systems. From this it allegedly follows that unanimity is required for collective decisions, since (as rational egoists) individuals will endorse only rules that are Pareto-efficient.29 The second assumption is that the powers of political authorities (as third-party enforcers) should be minimized, since such monopolists seek rents at the expense of their subjects.30 So these Leviathans need to be tamed by the decentralization of fiscal instruments.31 The two assumptions acting together imply the requirement to devolve collective provision onto small political units, between which well-informed agents move, expressing public choices with their feet.32 From a political standpoint, such jurisdictions have the advantages claimed for city states by civic republicans such as Aristotle, Rousseau and Montesquieu. These stem from the low costs of bargaining and reaching agreements between effective representatives of groups with transparent interests and open political agendas.33 Hence membership is active, self-rule and commitment to the common good are promoted, and institutions reflect common interests in agreements between groups with divergent particular interests. From an economic perspective, the advantages stem from intergovernmental competition for highly mobile members, as a way of ensuring efficiency in public finance and administration.34 Such

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memberships are fluid, temporary, and contingent on the particularities of the goods in question, and the availability of attractive options elsewhere. Voting with the feet becomes the public choice equivalent of market consumption, and welfare gains from decentralization stem from sorting populations into like groups, in terms of their preferences over collective goods and their abilities to pay for them.35 In principle, this mechanism supplies a widely-applicable model for membership systems. The members’ polity (the network of ‘clubs’ for different goods and services) consists of consensual (contractual) rules for contribution rates and collective goods, developed to the point where the sum of members’ marginal benefits equals marginal costs.36 Provided that certain heroic assumptions are satisfied, of a kind familiar from neoclassical economic analysis, then costless mobility by perfectly-informed agents would produce an equilibrium distribution of members between the subgroups with access to different bundles of collective goods.37 There would be an optimum structure of clubs in the public domain. The effect of this analysis is to reproduce for the provision of collective goods some of the standard neoclassical theorems of a competitive market economy [see Tribe, chapter 2]. And the implications for the remaining role of the state are also similar: to step in only where the operation of the market mechanism proves to be imperfect. One such problem arises from spillovers, and costs associated with trade and migration.38 Another stems from the undersupply of public goods, especially environmental protection and poverty alleviation, both of which can become victims of a ‘race to the bottom’ through tax competition between smaller local authorities.39 Hence central governments are required to raise taxes, redistribute incomes, and share revenue through intergovernmental grants to lower jurisdictions.40 Entry price can control access to economic membership, and this principle can be extended (through differential house prices and tax rates) to local authorities. But states must still regulate, compensate and redistribute among such systems, and still control access to them from outside national borders. Just as

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the role of the state is to secure the framework of a competitive market economy, so too must it secure the framework for the competition among members which leads to their distribution into clubs. The provision of this framework is anterior to (and logically prior to) the equilibrium allocation of collective goods. The fact that this framework must include the delineation of potential members demonstrates the central incoherence in federalist theory, when it is offered as an alternative solution to the problem of migration. The optimum size and structure of the ‘clubs’ to supply collective goods cannot be specified without first identifying the populations eligible for membership.41 In the European Union, for example, citizens of member states have free movement across borders, but third-country nationals, including many long-settled immigrants, do not. These dilemmas will be magnified with the enlargement of the Union, and can only be resolved by political decisions about who is to count for what purposes as an EU citizen, or as a member of its several states. The theoretical conclusion is that fiscal federalism does not really offer any ‘third way’ between nationalism and globalism, since on closer inspection it dissolves into one of these two alternatives. Either the boundaries of initial eligibility are closed down, so that the benefits of the membership mechanism are confined to a pre-constituted ‘national’ population, or they are opened out, so that ultimately anyone can join in, which implies that the framework of the membership competition must be established on a global scale. There is no getting away from the issue of sovereign jurisdictions. Moral claims and human needs In liberal democratic theory, the political community is a system of legitimation and distribution among members with recognizable moral claims. Migration arises as a problem of where and how to draw the boundary of such claims around a ‘national’ population. But moral boundaries can be drawn in other ways as well. In Rawls’s theory of justice, for example, the Liberty Principle includes all those with capacities for rationality and moral action. The Equal Opportunity Principle opens offices and positions to all under conditions of fair equality, and

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the Difference Principle rules that inequalities must benefit the least advantaged.42 The material claims of the least advantaged therefore rest on their access to the status of fully rational moral members. This is a different kind of ‘boundary issue’ than that of sovereign territory. Liberal philosophy has a long tradition of distinctions between those included in the ambit of rationality as free and equal participants, and those who forfeit rights, or lie beyond the boundaries of such moral and political relationships, because of their behaviour or characteristics.43 The 17th. and 18th. C. foundational texts of liberalism used such arguments to justify slavery, the subjugation of women to patriarchal power, and the brutalities of physical and capital punishment in criminal corrections.44 In the 19th. C., the same arguments included Europeans alone as rational and moral beings.45 The arguments legitimated imperialism, a limited franchise, and the workhouse regime for paupers.46 Some of these boundaries were drawn on racial lines, others on behavioural ones, and others still on property or poverty. Systems of economic membership, however, select according to ability to contribute to collective goods. Both ‘overlapping clubs’ and ‘voting with the feet’ can in principle allow cosmopolitan groupings by ignoring nationality.47 This effect is achieved in the real world where TNCs recruit worldwide, and states grant work permits to all their staff, who in turn gain access to superior corporate amenities, and the collective facilities of up-market residential districts.48 Recently, First World immigration rules have tended to converge around such systems, creating whole new classes of global nomads, in such diverse occupations as management, information technology, medicine, teaching and railway signalling.49 States expand schemes permitting short-term recruitment, for the sake of international competitiveness. Within political communities as systems of membership, claims from human needs are based on the claimants’ relative position as disadvantaged citizens. These lead to income transfers and social services. As between states, claims from greatest vulnerability are based on the experience of political persecution,

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and lead to the humanitarian protection of refugee status. The criteria for redistribution to citizens, and for protection of foreigners, are needs-based; those for economic membership and for foreign recruitment are contributions-based. Those who claim benefits, services or asylum might simply be revealing an inability to adapt to the requirements of the labour market, a lack of responsibility in providing for themselves and their dependants, or a rashness in moving across borders without the skills required by the host economy. Such claims are not from human needs, but from irrational choices or moral failures. The rules of economic membership systems and work permit schemes are aligned with the procedural justice and formal, juridical equality of markets, as theorized by classical liberalism. Modern egalitarian versions of liberalism attempt to justify rules for social allocation which provide a substantial basis for equal autonomy, rather than market freedom, and for social justice. The commitment to the moral equality of human beings is not derived from natural rights, or from assumptions about the essential nature of the human species.50 Rather, it is seen as intrinsic to the liberal democratic conception of a political community of sovereign, deliberative members, a free economy where each citizen can pursue private interests, and an associational civil society, for co-operative human flourishing. Rights are resources provided by social institutions, allowing those who share interactions within all those spheres to participate as equal members, rather than as unprotected, unrecognized and vulnerable individuals, and despite their differences of abilities, assets, tastes, beliefs and cultures. Substantial rights confer ‘those capabilities that are required for autonomous agency in the public spheres of civil society and for equal membership in the polity’.51 This refers to Sen’s notion of ‘goal rights’ as those freedoms that allow individuals to choose the lives they value, and be recognized as equal in status by those on whom they depend to fulfil them. Such rights translate human ‘functionings’ (such as being in good physical and psychological health) into ‘capabilities’ to achieve the goals that they have chosen, and thus wellbeing.52 For example, the right to education could be seen as

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an entitlement of adults to have had their mental and physical endowments formed into capabilities for effective participation.53 The right to health care lies in the entitlement to have such capabilities restored when they are jeopardized by illness, to which all members are more or less equally vulnerable. These rights create citizens capable of rational decisions, as agents who are morally responsible for their actions, and as members of political communities capable of resolving conflicts and upholding collective rules. However, in recent years, these arguments have been far less influential in public policy for income support, and for provision for asylum seekers. In the first case, the most that they have been interpreted as justifying (in the USA and the UK in particular) is a right to protection from harm and loss during the processes of moving and choosing within labour markets that require movement and choice, and to subsistence payments during short- or long-term incapacity for work. In the second case, they are seen to justify minimal provision during the assessment of asylum claims, followed by admission in clear-cut cases of persecution and threat to life, on condition of future economic independence. Both the rights available for the achievement of capabilities by citizens, and the demands of rationality and moral autonomy in liberal democratic societies, demand this performative and contributory version of membership, from nationals and nonnationals alike. Thus the transition from traditional welfare states, with their automatic versions of entitlement (for nationals at least), and easy access to benefits, to the newer regimes of conditionality, work tests, parenting classes, activation and workfare systems, marks a new drawing of the boundaries of equality and justice.54 And the new regimes of detention camps for asylum seekers are about borders of rationality and morality as well as territory. Rational competence and moral maturity are no longer to be assumed: they have to be demonstrated. Claims from need require substantiation and evidence. Membership has to be performed, and dues contributed. This brings political membership much more closely in line with the economic systems available to global nomads and mobile citizens. The

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material basis for membership (the obligatory contribution) is also the moral legitimation for sharing its benefits. Any other form of claim might violate neutrality and equality of opportunity, by introducing grounds for special treatment – national, racial, gender or other characteristics. Those liable to become a burden on the income and property of fellow members do not automatically qualify for support, because they may be exhibiting signs of faulty rationality or moral failure. The paradigm for such arguments is criminal justice: those who violate the property or personal rights of others forfeit their civil and political rights, and their liberty itself. The denial of such rights is therefore justifiable in the case of asylum applicants, and their suspension may also be legitimate for those claiming public assistance. In this way, the most vulnerable migrants and sedentary populations lose their entitlements to protection. For the former, deterrent conditions of detention are justified; for the latter variations of forced labour or forced mobility.55 Illiberal methods of exclusion for asylum seekers, and illiberal practices of ‘inclusion’ for citizens, denote lack of access to moral equality, and new boundaries of distributive justice. Human rights for equal autonomy The globalist perspective points out that, if all people are morally equal, then there is only one large human community, embracing the whole world’s population. Only this community (whatever its institutional forms) has a right to impose non-contractual binding arrangements on constituent agents and organizations.56 It is this principle that gives rise to the notion of universal human rights, and to the idea of a constitutional international order, providing a ‘basic structure’, for global humankind. This supplies a set of standards for evaluating the rules of membership systems. But it cannot, on its own, prescribe the size of such units, or the appropriate organizational forms for equal autonomy, or the appropriate collective goods. The accommodation between economic and political membership systems described in the previous section is a compromise between the mobility promoted by markets, and the stability

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required for democratic governance. But it does not measure up to the basic requirements of equality and justice. Although some agents (global nomads) qualify for free movement across borders, the vast majority cannot choose where to live and work, or change their citizenship for the sake of freedom. Although some have rights to protection against existential risks, the most vulnerable are denied these. In liberal philosophy, people are entitled to opportunities and protections, whether they roam abroad, or remain in stable communities. Rules should allow them to travel, and to engage with others, as equal and autonomous beings; but also to be recognized and given their due by fellow members. This implies that equality and justice demand a balance of rights for migratory and sedentary lifestyles. Under new regimes for compulsory activation, the postwar social rights of welfare citizenship are criticized as passive entitlements, which protect lives of sedentary dependency, without responsibility to other members.57 Hence all substantial rights - including health and education - should point unambiguously towards economic participation as the means of responsible autonomy. But regimes to deter asylum seeking (as a form of disguised economic migration) simultaneously treat border crossings as predatory acts akin to crimes, which justify loss of liberty and civil rights.58 The Hobbesian power of the state is invoked to mobilize the former, and contain the latter. Not only is there incoherence between these two sets of rules; they both fail liberal tests of justice. Substantial rights of citizenship should promote participation in society as a whole, not only in labour markets. This extends to the associational life of the community, its cultural activities, the informal relations of household and kinship care, and mobilizing for democratic collective action. They should create the possibility of choice and autonomy in all these spheres, enable participants to negotiate their responsibilities to each other as equals, and allow individuals to balance the contributions they make between these spheres of citizenship activity. But, at the same time, border crossings by asylum seekers are only justifiably regarded as crimes if the rules for entry treat migrants with equal moral

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concern, and see claims for humanitarian protection and political freedom as at least as valid as claims from skills and economic contributions. Since asylum seekers (in the UK at least) have similar educational qualifications and skills profiles to those recruited through work permit schemes, they should be entitled to seek employment on entry, not isolated from the economy and society.59 Even those countries that have gone furthest in establishing tough regimes of conditionality and activation for poor citizens (the USA and UK), and segregated confinement for asylum seekers (Australia and some EU countries) recognize their potential for injustice. They acknowledge the dangers of state power deployed coercively on behalf of advantaged majorities against vulnerable minorities. Claimants who can demonstrate ‘genuine need’ and asylum seekers who can prove ‘genuine risks of persecution’ are granted payments and refuge. Those with few skills, and hence low earning power, qualify for tax credits, to supplement their salaries. But these rights have not prevented growing inequalities among populations, both within and between nations.60 Poor citizens become trapped in concentrations of all forms of social disadvantage, in deprived communities of fate, while more mobile and resourceful agents make gains by selecting their communities of choice.61 Fugitives from Third World violence and poverty meet barriers at borders, through which skilled global nomads pass without hindrance. The rules of income support and foreign recruitment systems also discriminate against all kinds of informal activity (in households, associations, civil society and the polity) and in favour of paid employment. They therefore fail the test of liberal impartiality towards different versions of the good life. To meet this standard, income support or tax credits should support all kinds of social participation, in such a way as to allow individuals to balance the contributions they make to each sphere of activity, and to negotiate their responsibilities with each other.62 Equal autonomy, in turn, requires the right to withdraw from any of these activities, or all of them. These considerations suggest very strongly that the only comprehensive welfare measure that will recognize the equal

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value and equal vulnerability of human beings, thus satisfying the requirements of liberal equality and justice, is an unconditional basic income for all.63 The advantages of this approach to redistribution and entitlement - reconciling ‘real freedom for all’ with security and fair co-operation among members - have attracted a growing number of political philosophers in recent years.64 But it also has the advantage of neutrality between mobile and sedentary lifestyles, at least between citizens. The key issue for justice is that rights actually protect against new forms of inequality, power and control. The design for a universal basic income should shield the vulnerabilities of all, whether they move about or remain at home, cover them against risks, and enable them to participate in relevant dimensions of activity. The whole notion of a right to a basic income raises two fundamental problems. The first is that its unconditionality gives incentives for idleness and dependence. Such free riding on the contributions of others is perceived to be unjust; therefore some performative and activating conditions are demanded. But these aspects of current tax credit and benefits systems come at a price for equality and justice. On the one hand, those who receive tax credits must be willing to take low-paid work, often unpleasant, involving lengthy journeys, or at cost to family relationships. On the other, those who are deemed eligible for ‘passive’ benefits must instead continually demonstrate their incapacities for such work, or the lack of availability of suitable options. For about the same sums of money, the one group must sweat and the other must cringe. The first group is open to exploitation by employers, and the second is open to domination by officials. A basic income for all, replacing tax allowances, tax credits and social benefits, would avoid these problems. The second issue concerns the level of political authority that should collect the taxes for and distribute basic incomes. If individuals are to have real freedom to choose where to live and work, they must be able to carry with them the rights to those benefits and services they will need in order to participate as equal members in the societies they choose to join. One approach to achieving these goals is to extend the features of citizenship developed in the era of welfare states, to allow

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individuals to become itinerant workers, transnational activists, members of international faith communities, and global economic nomads. Although the adherents of the nationalist perspective are hyperanxious about the dangers of international ‘welfare regime shopping’, the conceptions of equal citizenship and social justice developed within that perspective could in principle be extended to embrace an initernational dimension.65 Alternatively, and setting aside for a moment the problems of constructing democratic legitimacy for a global political authority, the basic income might be funded by an international organization. The strengths and weaknesses of these alternative approaches will be explored in the next section. Basic Income as a case study in migration and membership The basic income proposal supplies a focus for evaluating the contributions of nationalism, globalism and federalism to a philosophical theory of boundaries in human relationships. Its advocates argue that the principles of basic income (paid as a weekly or monthly benefit or tax credit) or social dividend (a one-off or occasional capital grant, in cash, credit or perhaps - in the case of a developing country - an allocation of land) would be the best way of institutionalizing social justice, substantial equality and autonomy in an integrated world economy.66 But they seldom discuss the issues raised by agents moving between basic income jurisdictions, variations in the rates of basic income between jurisdictions, or the appropriate form of such authorities. The theory of fiscal federalism provides important insights into how a global structure of collective decision-making might be integrated. The case for decentralization in the supply of collective goods - the efficiency gains through economic clubs which straddle territorial boundaries, and through free mobility between jurisdictions with authority over local infrastructural goods - recommends that income distribution and environmental protection should be the responsibilities of the highest possible levels of authority.67 On the other hand, there is a tendency for decentralization carried out under these principles

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to polarize populations between high-quality and inadequate social services, and between luxurious and decaying districts. There is also the threat posed to both equality and ecology by a ‘race to the bottom’ among the decentralized authorities competing for public business. This creates a strong argument for a system of international governance, which could however regulate basic income in two rather different ways. If a basic income is to deliver equality and autonomy on a global level, then the most obvious proposal is for the whole world’s population to receive a uniform Global Basic Income (GBI) from the international authority. Health, education and other social services could be supplied by systems of ‘overlapping clubs’ regulated at the regional, national or continental levels, with access to infrastructural goods supplied under similarly regulated local jurisdictions. Several features of the globalization process tend in the direction of this institutional design, but it would require a reversal of the present chain of accountability. Instead of governments being accountable, through the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank, to financial markets, the latter (and international corporations) would instead be accountable to the world’s people. The international authority would be empowered to impose taxes (such as the proposed ‘Tobin tax’ on speculative currency transactions) to fund the GBI.68 A second pathway would be a national basic income (NBI), with an extension of citizenship rights to allow free movement. Each NBI would be set at the highest level affordable by each national government, and would therefore vary between states. The international governance system would endorse the global principle of basic income, and might supplement the NBI of the poorest member states; but the basis for (unequal) basic incomes would still be citizenship. People who moved abroad would continue to receive their NBI from their home governments, for as long as they retained their original citizenship. The arguments for this approach rest on the priority for democratic principles of collective authority, the balance between exit and voice rights, the value of a plurality and diversity of political communities,

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and neutrality between nomadic and sedentary lifestyles. Whereas the case for a GBI relies on the moral universalism of human rights, and the economic rationale of fiscal federalism, that for an NBI asserts these other political values. It therefore seeks to justify the continuing priority for national systems of membership and the international order of nation states. From this standpoint, democratic practices are intrinsically valuable, and all membership systems lose legitimacy to the extent that they fail to nurture democratic participation. Examples of successful democracies are drawn from national political communities, rather than bodies like the EU or the United Nations. Furthermore, for democratic voice to be effective, political participation must be able to shape institutions, as well as outcomes within them. Only through a variety of democratic processes, in a plurality of political communities, can democratic politics be real and engaging. Citizenship is an active role, concerned with the perpetual transformation of societies, and the cultivation of civic virtues.69 From this perspective, the globalist governance of a GBI regime looks like a standardized institutional design, which ignores the national traditions sustaining democracy. The national basis for the NBI is therefore important, to balance rights of exit and voice, and to promote common interests, solidarity and loyalty among members. These would be more necessary, since other social services would be supplied through transnational clubs, and local authorities would provide more specialized infrastructures. The enhanced mobility of this new order would require countervailing institutions, rooted in democratic and solidaristic political cultures, and susceptible to political influences, in order to offset these changes. Even the modest levels of the NBIs available to the populations of poor states would give them the means for subsistence; this would allow the 98 per cent of the world’s population who still live in their countries of citizenship to remain there, rather than having to resort to nomadism.70 The problem issues for the NBI approach concern the justice of the relationships between citizens and non-citizens, nomadic and sedentary populations, in cosmopolitan societies. People from

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poor countries could enter rich ones, bringing their modest NBIs with them, and those from rich countries could bring more generous NBIs to poor ones. This would create a serious anomaly, if income distribution systems were to become the main instruments for social justice worldwide. Within each state, citizens and non-citizens would interact on unjust terms, since they would have different rates of basic income. It would also give much greater significance to procedures for naturalization, through which new entrants qualified for citizenship, and hence for the NBI of the receiving country. There would be economic incentives for immigrants from poorer countries to apply for full membership; but the point about retaining national citizenship as the basis for justice is supposed to be retaining commitment to the democratic practices of a specific political community.71 These incentives would be most likely to attract educated and skilled immigrants, leading to ‘brain drains’ (the ablest from those states moving permanently out of them), and new pressures and conflicts around access to citizenship status, rather than - as at present - at borders. It might also be argued that the NBI would favour sedentary agents unduly, and be a kind of subsidy for immobility (rather as social insurance benefits are in present-day Germany). The counter-argument is that current subsidies to public transport systems in First World countries allow mobile agents to pay less than the full costs of their journeys, and hence involve large transfers from sedentary citizens to national and non-national nomads. Hence basic incomes for citizens would compensate for hidden subsidies for mobility and inward migration. It seems clear nevertheless that the GBI approach, with the same level of basic income for each of the world’s population, is more justifiable from an ethical standpoint. If the basic income is seen as part of the ‘basic structure of society’ - a constitutional right to a substantial form of equality - then it must be derived, in Rawls’s contractarian model, from the original position. And if the distribution of natural talents is to be regarded as morally arbitrary, how much more should the contingency of being born

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in a particular country, or the nationality of one’s parents, be so regarded? To be consistent, Rawls should certainly have put this factor as one to be discounted behind the veil of ignorance, and supplied a global ‘basic structure’, rather than one for a ‘society’.72 Hence the form of the basic income should be a GBI, not an NBI. However, while the averaging out process that supplied equality for the whole world’s population would achieve substantial redistribution towards the poorest countries, the level would be inadequate to protect the most vulnerable groups in First World states, or migrants entering them without other material resources. In these circumstances, it would be unlikely that the GBI would replace all existing tax and benefit schemes in the richer countries. It seems doubtful therefore that the other advantages of the basic income approach, in terms of equal autonomy, security and avoidance of state coercion, would be fully achieved. The central problem for advocates of basic income who take account of boundary issues of equality and justice is therefore the paradox of mobility and membership. Equality and open borders seem to demand a global basis for distribution; justice among members, democracy and pluralism point to a national system, with rules allowing access after a period of residence. The challenge of justification and technical design for basic income schemes therefore shifts from issues of work incentives and feasible funding towards questions of exit, voice and loyalty. Conclusions Theories of justice, such as Rawls’s and Van Parijs’s, and theories of equality, such as Dworkin’s, Sen’s or Cohen’s, have dealt in allocations of resources and responsibilities on the largely unstated assumption that these occurred among members of a sovereign territorial state, in a global system of similar states.73 Two new issues for public policy demand a philosophical method which addresses questions of boundaries. The first is the emergence of economic organizations capable of supplying collective goods, previously the prerogatives of governments, to

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transnational but exclusive memberships, with the corresponding emergence of state systems that support the staffing and financing of such organizations. The second is the mass movement of people across borders, for economic opportunity and political freedom, in an integrated world economy. At the same time, globalization has made extinct a whole range of lifeworlds, solidarities and cultures. It has not only devastated the eco-systems and social structures of simple societies. It has also pushed whole classes of industrial workers back into subsistence activities, especially in the post-communist countries. In these and Third World states, communities are prone to organized violence, and spawn illegal improvizations, in their attempts to fill the vacuum left by failures of both markets and states. For the better-off inhabitants of First World countries, new opportunities for mobility within new economic organizations provide the means for gaining competitive advantage. For the poorest in the developing world, geographical mobility (to the squalid fringes of cities) or migration (to richer countries) become prominent solutions, or desperate remedies. Philosophical theories derived from thought experiments about existential ante-chambers or desert islands, without possibilities of entry or exit, cannot do justice to these issues.

CHAPTER FOUR Global Childhood? Tom Cockburn

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his chapter will examine the conflicting issues around universalism versus particularism in children’s rights raised by the United Nations’ Convention on the Rights of the Child (UNCRC). Since children are actively excluded from citizenship, albeit for their own ‘protection’, this account offers a viewpoint on globalization from the perspective of the excluded outsider shared with other contributions in the book: women, especially in developing countries [Lister, ch. 1; Olsen, ch. 6; Allison, ch. 10]; ethnic minorities [Aitsiselmi, ch. 7; Macey, ch. 8]; gays and lesbians [Cleminson, ch. 11; Heathcote, ch. 12], and poor economic migrants [Jordan and Düvell, ch. 3]. Children can be ascribed ‘universal’ characteristics in many ways: they experience similar bodily development, they need to be socialized into their own societies, they all have educational requirements to enable them to take adult roles, and they are increasingly exposed to global consumption, amongst others. Yet children also encounter dimensions of their lives that are very particular to cultural contexts. For instance, 14-year-old children in Britain do not participate in paid work, yet do so in many developing countries, thus illustrating the problem of universalising children’s rights. Do 14-year-old children have a right to work? Or do they have a right to protection from work? I will argue that the UN Convention, although open to the charge of being a Western imposition, offers children’s rights activists (both in the developing and developed world) an important weapon to improve the position of children.

Universal childhood Recent scholarship in Europe has begun to recognize the importance of ‘childhood’ as a social category.1 Such a category

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exists as much, and perhaps more pervasively, than other accepted structures such as social classes, gender, sexuality, ethnicity and religion. As Helmut Wintersberger has argued, childhood is to be ‘regarded as an integral part of society and its division of labour’.2 This approach contrasts with a traditional view of children as going through processes of becoming adults, or, not yet persons. For instance, developmental psychology seeks to isolate various ‘stages’ of children’s development in terms of their bodies, minds, capacities and moral capabilities.3 In doing so, children are perceived as being in only a transient situation during their journey to adulthood. Thus, there was little focus on the situation of children as social actors in the here and now. Recognising the fixity of childhood in all societies does not however mean that childhood is the same in all societies, or indeed within a given society. Childhood is shaped by economic, technical, political, cultural, environmental and social factors. Children living in rural areas may have fewer opportunities to obtain a good quality education or may have less access to health services than children living in cities. The UN Convention states that such disparities within societies are a violation of human rights. It is assumed that children born into wealthy nations never have their rights violated and that these children have no need for the protection of the Convention. However, some children in all nations face unemployment, homelessness, violence, poverty and other issues that profoundly shape their lives. Why has the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child occurred in the late 20th. C.? The obvious answer is that children in too many countries are plagued by armed conflict, excessive child labour, sexual exploitation and other human rights violations. Yet the answer to ‘why now?’ must acknowledge what can loosely be called the development of a ‘modern childhood’. In order to understand this notion of a ‘modern childhood’ it is necessary to identify some of the factors underpinning these constructions. Firstly, in Northern hemisphere countries, there was a distinct shift in the demographic balance of young and old in the 20th. C. Children in all societies are assets for old age security, be

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it familial responsibilities over the life course or the development of sophisticated pensions systems. There is a huge reliance of older people on younger people to work and earn. However, in Northern and some Southern hemisphere countries processes of voting, from which children are excluded, has led to the squeezing of the needs and interests of children to satisfy older voters. Secondly, there is the persistence of child poverty in both the developed and developing world.4 Children in the developed world over the last 150 years have lost their economic productivity. This has resulted in households with children being disadvantaged in comparison with households without children. For instance, in the UK there is an expanding chasm between ‘workless’ households with children and ‘dual earning’ households without children.5 Child poverty exists in even the richest nations but the degree and experience of poverty varies enormously across the globe. In many countries child poverty is literally a life and death issue. For every 1,000 live births in Singapore there is a probability that 6 will die before the child’s first year, compared with the equivalent probability of 101 children in Tanzania and 124 children in Zambia.6 Highlighting child poverty is a crucial way of gaining sympathy from rich nations and identifying world crisis points. Thirdly, as children become fewer in number relative to adults, there is greater emotional attachment applied to children in comparison to the past. In the North notions of the ‘priceless child’ have ensured that debates around childhood are extremely emotive.7 In a global perspective, however, children are proportionately more likely to be killed or mutilated in wars or become homeless during social instability.8 Even in European and North American countries, children are proportionately more likely to be sexually abused or physically assaulted.9 Fourthly, the experience of childhood is increasingly affected by other institutions besides the family. In the UK, about two-thirds of children live in traditional nuclear families, while one third live in other familial arrangements such as threegenerational, lone parent or reconstituted families. Yet despite

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this family context, children are increasingly being exposed to interactions in schools, day-care nurseries, and so on. Fifthly, there is a general uncertainty and ambiguity around children and childhood. Sharon Stephens has argued that in a world of shifting boundaries regarding the body, gender roles, ethnicity, and so on, there is ‘increasing anger at children who cannot or will not fulfil their expected roles in the transmission of “traditional values” ’.10 Thus children are seen as the cause of urban crime and decay. Children are presented ‘as malicious predators, the embodiment of dangerous natural forces, unharnessed to social end’.11 Stephens captures the consequences of this ambiguity towards children, arguing that: There is a growing consciousness of children at risk. But the point I want to make here is that there is also a growing sense of children themselves as the risk - and thus of some children as people out of place and excess populations to be eliminated, while others must be controlled, reshaped, and harnessed to changing social ends.12 Finally, intellectual and academic discourses of the West and North have shaped notions of a ‘universal’ childhood. The most prevalent of these discourses are (developmental) psychology and bio-medical knowledge of infants and children’s bodies, which are based on the assumption of children as ‘persons in the making’. As Nick Lee describes it, children are identified not as human beings but human becomings.13 In medicine, for example, the discipline of paediatrics perceives children’s bodies as a separate field of knowledge to that of adults. Furthermore, the needs of children’s bodies are, by virtue of being children, the same across the globe. Similarly, developmental psychology, according to writers such as Jean Piaget and his contemporary practitioners, understands all children developing according to certain stages of mental, moral and social development. These stages are universally applicable, thus providing further justification for ‘universal’ or ‘global’ applications of childhood. In short there have been a number of trends, focused in the developed world, that have given rise to an understanding of

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children as a specific group of people with shared characteristics. However, these concerns from adults of the human ‘needs’ of childhood are tempered with ambiguity and perceptions of risk. This is dramatized by the operation of ‘death squads’ to remove uncontrolled ‘street children’ in countries such as Brazil, Columbia, Sudan, Kenya, Bulgaria, Guatamala and India.14 Global childhood These changes in the concept of childhood helped give rise to the UNCRC. But it is equally important to register the impact of globalization processes on the situation that the UNCRC is designed to address. These processes are considered in detail elsewhere in the book, but they include the debate around the replacement of the nation-state, the impact of international markets, and the development of information and communication technologies, with profound effects on the shrinkage of social time and space, as Anthony Giddens has argued.15 The latter development will have an increasing role in the lives of children and the advocacy of children’s rights across the globe.16 Global forces have also transformed national and local cultures in ways that affect children.17 These are clearly linked to international capitalism, as children are seen to eat McDonalds’ burgers, drink coca-cola and enjoy Disney movies across the globe, albeit in enormously unequal ways.18 Indeed the existence of the UNCRC testifies to the ways government policies have an international focus [see Lister, ch. 1]. The argument has been applied to democratic regulation, to the protection of human rights, and to environmental issues, in which children often take an especial interest.19 Taken together, the phenomena of globalization and the extension of ‘modern’ (Western) notions of childhood have had considerable impact everywhere, particularly within developing nations, as they strive to adhere to Western perceptions. And this pressure comes from international organizations, not least the United Nations, through the promulgation of the UNCRC. The UN Convention was established in 1989 and adopted by most countries in the early 1990s, with the notable exception of

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the United States of America and Somalia. The UNCRC attempted to address the problems created by adults, institutions or states ignoring or abusing children. The Convention wished to provide children with a chance of having a voice of their own. Through its 54 separate Articles, the Convention established the opportunity for children to be ‘global child citizens’. The UNCRC recognized various ‘rights’ that children have, such as the right to life (Article 6); the highest possible levels of health (Article 24); the state’s responsibility to protect children from violence, injury, abuse and neglect (Article 19), and the right to education (Article 28). Some of the Articles were purposefully designed not just to cement children’s rights within the nation state but to offer them protection from nation states. Article 30, for instance, specifies a child’s right to enjoy their own culture, use their own language and practise their own religion, and Article 38 prevents the recruitment of children under 15 years of age into the country’s armed forces. Problems of the UNCRC Overall, the UNCRC provides children a means to an internationally-recognized series of rights that are independent of the adults who surround them. Thus the UNCRC can provide a universalistic legal framework for children across the globe. However, this universalism has been questioned, on both general and specific grounds.20 Helmut Wintersberger points out that the Convention: rightly approaches the problem of discrimination, e.g. between boys and girls, poor and rich children, of children with a disability and children from minorities, but it neglects that main dimension of child discrimination: the discrimination between children and adults.21 Hill and Tisdall criticize the UNCRC along feminist lines established in other contexts.22 Firstly, the UNCRC can be used as a tool for controlling women, as providers and main carers of children; secondly, the Convention ignores the general power that men have over women; thirdly, there are some notable omissions

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to the UNCRC, such as the right of children not to be forced to marry; finally, the Convention promotes ideas of ‘the family’, despite the patriarchal nature of familial authority. For instance, Article 5 asserts that the rights of the child are not a defence against the prerogatives of the child in derogation of the authority of parents and of the family unit. These are interesting concerns, as they highlight how such abstract rights principles have a distinct masculinist flavour. Many signatories of the Convention have replaced the concept of ‘domination’ with that of ‘protection’, which gives power to parents to act as the sole determinant of actions that lead to the child’s welfare. Ironically, this runs counter to one of the central ideas of the Convention, to consider the child as a ‘subject of protection’ rather than an ‘object of protection’. Considering children as ‘objects’ contradicts the notion of children as human ‘subjects’, who are embedded within relationships with adults, with the possibility of expressing their wishes or needs and taking part in their own development and growing autonomy. Other writers, such as King, also criticize the abstract, universalist and ‘virtual’ way in which the UNCRC offers children rights, and doubts whether the Convention offers any promise of delivering real benefits to children.23 The Convention fails to apply rights to the context of children’s lives, which are lived within networks of relationships, among parents, teachers, friends, siblings, and communities. Recourse to abstract principles results in an impoverished treatment of social networks. Similarly, Lee argues that the Articles in the UNCRC can never provide specific global regulation of children’s experiences. He argues strongly that: if the … [Convention] did not also allow for specificities and particularities of children’s lives, even those that might involve the relaxation or obviation of its general principles, it would not appear to be applicable in the particular cases of each and every child, and would therefore, ultimately be an empty promise.24

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The philosophical universalism of the Convention can be criticized for its adversarial consequences. As noted with the feminist critique above, operating a rights-based approach involves wielding rights over something or someone. Few will be unsympathetic to people asserting their rights against institutions, such as governments. However, when the assertion of rights ‘costs’ groups such as disempowered mothers in relation to patriarchal families we have food for thought. The Convention is premised on Western scientific and academic practices. The assumption of Piagetian developmental psychology is particularly notable. For instance, Article 29 states that the education of the child shall be directed to: ‘the development of the child's personality, talents and mental and physical abilities to their fullest potential’.25 Some writers, such as Burman have argued that this gives rise to a Western colonialist paternalism where Northern child ‘experts’ offer their help and knowledge to the ‘infantilised-South’.26 Such scientific discourses place children as being essentially different from adults. Yet all natural facts are social facts that represent the values and meanings of particular societies.27 Those who drafted the UN Convention were a Western-educated (and male) group of people. Historians such as Hendrick have recently re-appraised the ways in which biological and psychological sciences have represented children.28 Children’s bodies in these discourses have been represented through terms such as ‘development’, ‘schooling’ and ‘paediatrics’ that place an emphasis on the differences between children and adults.29 This shifts attention from children’s plight in the here and now and perceives children in terms of their ‘futurority’ or ‘human becomings’.30 Children thus exist in a tenuous relation to the ‘disembodied rationalism’ assumed in universalistic discourses.31 Moreover, the rights extended to children through the UNCRC are mediated through adult institutions. In the UK, for instance, the rights given to children ‘remain in the gift of adults’.32 Thus some qualifications are often attached to rights. The ‘right’ to appear in person at a school exclusion panel can for instance be removed if there is ‘good reason’ for doing so.33

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Besides, the principles of Article 12 that ‘shall assure to the child who is capable of forming his or her own views the right to express those views freely in all matters affecting the child’ can be used to further control children’s views and activities.34 In the case of children, the processes of ‘governing the soul’ through educational and participatory practices is particularly acute.35 Other notable absences from the Convention include the failure to act on the low reporting of crimes against children, especially when they are perpetrated by parents or persons upon whom the child depends.36 Taken together, these considerations create enormous problems in putting the UNCRC into practice. There are specific and notable absences in its provisions, coupled with a more general critique of universal rights-based discourses. So does this mean that the UNCRC is simply an inappropriate mechanism for developing the rights of children and helping children across the world? Has the UNCRC made no impact? I would like to argue now that, despite all the serious reservations outlined above, it is a document that can indicate some promising ways forward. An optimistic view of the UNCRC The UNCRC has certainly provided some important interventions in the lives of children across the globe. First, children have been recognized as serious social actors in their own right, where children’s rights are formulated and taken into account alongside those of adults.37 For instance the Convention seeks to guarantee in medicine the dignity of a person, privacy, equal treatment, and prohibition of any treatment leading to marginalization, stigma or humiliation of the patient. This recognition has serious consequences for instance in the legal regulation of medically-assisted procreation, information surrounding the HIV virus, or the right to the identity of parents.38 Secondly, the UNCRC has begun to tackle widespread abuses of children. In many countries there is a widespread problem of purchase and trade in children, which is usually caused through poverty, where mothers (usually teenage) give up their child through lack of support.39 There are cases where

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divorced or separated parents take children abroad illegally, or withhold the child against his or her will.40 Articles 11 and 35 of the Convention have compelled signatory countries to begin to address these issues. This is further reinforced by the entry into effect in 2002 of the Optional Protocol on the sale of children, child prostitution and child pornography.41 There are also reported instances of child abduction, or ‘child slavery’, which are against the laws of the vast majority of countries. In these cases the Convention has been used to apply pressure on countries to enforce their legislation.42 Thirdly, the UNCRC has been used to identify the failures of national governments, in an attempt to assure that all children are protected and have access to rights equal to other children. In this sense all signatory countries have a Bill of Rights for children. The UN Committee on the Rights of the Child via the UNCRC has for instance reprimanded the UK government for its failure to address child poverty and differential education.43 Similarly, the Convention has been used to advocate on behalf of Innuit children in Canada, drawing the world’s attention to the high risks they experience.44 Finally, it can be agreed as argued above that context is extremely important, whilst equally recognizing the danger of taking ‘context’ so far as to leave children and children’s advocates without recourse to the clear set of standards laid down in the Convention. And the Convention is not an all-ornothing affair. It is unhelpful to see the alternatives as a binary choice: either full-scale implementation of all the Articles irrespective of context or the acceptance of all behaviours directed towards children on the grounds of cultural sensitivity. The power of the Convention lies in its ability to be used as a tool to improve the conditions of all children. Once children are informed of the Convention and understand their rights, they may undergo a revolution in consciousness, including their consciousness of the struggles and rights of others. In this sense the UNCRC can indeed aspire to be a radical document. Context is also vital in relating childrens’ needs to their immediate social environments. Any attempt to progress children’s predicament will falter if the precarious or harsh

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positions of families and communities themselves are left untouched. It is best to see the UNCRC not as a set of objective or abstract rules but as a process whereby dialogue between children, parents, communities and formal organizations take place, always within particular social and cultural contexts. From this it follows that the impact of the UNCRC needs to be assessed locally. Ways forward: NGOs, the state or self-organization? NGOs have sometimes been advocated as the progressive alternative to state actors in dealing with global crisis in the interests of marginalized groups.45 There are many such organizations performing excellent work on behalf of children, often working in close co-operation with the United Nations. Reservations have however been expressed about the struggle of some agencies to gain legitimacy in local contexts, as Burr’s study showed in the case of Vietnam.46 NGOs have been seen sometimes as a way of covering up government inaction or indifference to suffering.47 And the role of the state remains of huge importance. As Mulinge has argued in the African context, the effective implementation of the UNCRC requires more than mere ratification.48 Governments require the political will to enact the legislation necessary to support the Convention. Indeed, much of the UNCRC sounds hollow in many parts of Africa with widespread poverty, political corruption and disease. Perhaps the overriding message is the need for greater dialogue to occur between the public and voluntary sectors. It is necessary to implement wider, more strategic approaches to the advocacy of children’s rights. This perspective is beginning to bear some fruit. There is for instance an improvement in child mortality in all regions of the world, caused mainly by improved communications between national governments, NGOs and international agencies working through the Convention.49 Although there are other human rights treaties that work to protect children, the rights-based UNCRC does have a number of virtues.50 It improves on previous strategies that were based on meeting identified ‘needs’ and it obliges states and individual adults to work in the interests of children and to uphold their

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rights. Rather than simple physical well-being, the UNCRC provides a series of interdependent and complementary rights that link children’s health, standard of living, education, participation and protection. It thus transforms what was charity, goodwill and benevolence into a matter of duty, responsibility and obligation. It is beginning to weave the interests of children holistically into national and global citizenships. The UNCRC should not be viewed however as an end in itself, since children can be encouraged to organize themselves, especially where there are gaps in provision. This is happening with the Children’s Rights Alliance in England (CRAE), Plan International in Sri Lanka, the India Children’s Union, and the Daughters Education Programme in Thailand.51 In these organizations children’s consciousness of their own struggles is linked to those of other children. All those working in the field of childrens’ rights can therefore help to build networks among children, as well as between children and adults. Particularly important is the reporting process to the Committee on the Rights of the Child, where children themselves are increasingly reporting violations. Interestingly, children throughout the globe are recognising their mutual struggles, and some bridges are being built between the rich North and the poorer South. It seems that the kernel exists of a global children’s movement based on a shared understanding of a common situation. Ideas of rights and citizenship are thus leading directly to shifts in identity formation, as children become more aware of themselves as a group. Whether these emergent coalitions of children come to be dominated by Western-imposed notions of childhood is more than just an academic issue. What is clear, however, is that, in the absence of the UN Convention and its supportive infrastructure, nascent organizations of children themselves would be reliant on the good will of governments and adult NGOs. And the recent history of global children’s rights has demonstrated that the good will of adults is something children cannot always rely upon.

CHAPTER FIVE

Tanzania, Development and Liberalization David Potts

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his chapter will examine the effects of globalization on the economic development of Tanzania, and especially the impact of liberalization over the past twenty years. In Globalization and its Discontents, Stiglitz defines globalization as ‘the removal of barriers to free trade and the closer integration of national economies’.1 The neoclassical assumptions underlying this definition involve the theory of comparative advantage and the gains from trade in markets for both goods and other factors (particularly capital). The realization of such gains by stakeholders under the circumstances of globalization depends on restrictive conditions, including perfect knowledge and the absence of monopoly power [see Tribe, chapter 2]. It is implicit also that an independent national economy actually exists to be integrated into the world economy and that intra- and international legal systems are transparent and fair. Without a strong nation state it is impossible to enforce the rules of trade and there is then no clear distinction between trade and armed robbery or extortion. The latter point is particularly relevant to trading relationships in Sub-Saharan Africa. In most cases the boundaries of the nation states were the creation of colonial powers and the orientation of infrastructure and trade was determined by their interests. This legacy of pre-independence globalization tended to circumscribe the potential gains from globalization by post-independence states, whose room for manoeuvre was restricted in any case by lack of influence over both the rules of external trade and the options for internal policy.

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Globalization in pre-colonial Tanzania Tanzania did not exist as a single political entity prior to the German colonial period. The interior was populated by many different ethnic groups, each with their own language and traditions and different production systems and political arrangements. The 19th. C. combination of expanding trade, including trade in firearms, and increased specializationof production was associated with an expansion in the size of political units, partly for reasons of self-defence. The coastal areas (including Zanzibar) had been under the influence of the Sultanate of Oman for some time and this influence extended to the interior through trading routes for both goods (particularly ivory) and slaves. The slave trade clearly had a negative impact on both the security and development of the affected populations that went beyond the effect on its direct victims, but these effects were concentrated in certain areas, particularly the south.2 A significant factor for the future was the spread of the coastal Kiswahili language through trade as the means for communication between different ethnic groups. A broad distinction existed between those ethnic groups whose livelihoods depended primarily on crops, those who depended primarily on cattle and those who operated mixed systems with crops and livestock. Such distinctions were related to ecological conditions such as crop suitability and tsetse fly infestation, which inhibited the keeping of livestock. The growth of the trade in ivory and slaves contributed nevertheless to the concentration of the population into defensible settlements, leading to a reduction of the cultivated area and the reintroduction of tsetse bush into previously cleared land.3 Inter-ethnic trade was often related to comparative advantage based on ecological differences but was influenced in some areas by differences in military power. External trade was essentially exploitative, and backed by armed force, which led to the development of trade routes from the interior to the coast rather than between interior regions. Although there are no reliable data on living standards it is more likely that the nature of external trade increased insecurity and led to falling rather than rising welfare.

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The German colonial period In 1885 Bismarck claimed a ‘sphere of influence’ based on ‘treaties’ collected from various chiefs by Karl Peters, an adventurer who formed a Society for German Colonization in 1884 and the German East Africa Company in 1885. Tanganyika along with Rwanda and Burundi officially became German East Africa in 1890. The borders of Tanganyika were drawn up by the colonial powers with little reference to the local population, sometimes by drawing a straight line on a map. Wherever a chiefdom submitted to German rule a hut tax was imposed in money or forced labour. Rebellions against these taxes and other aspects of colonial policy were brutally suppressed.4 This colony lasted until the outbreak of WWI. Under the German administration export-oriented cash crops were established, particularly cotton, coffee, rubber and sisal. Sisal, the most important and successful of these crops, was introduced in 1893 and the first plantation was established in 1900. By 1904 the area under sisal reached 2,000 hectares with exports of 1,500 tons in 1905 rising to 20,835 tons by 1913.5 By 1912 sisal was contributing 23% of the colony’s exports.6 Coffee plantations were developed with moderate success in the Usambaras and Kilimanjaro, but coffee was also grown successfully by smallholders in Kilimanjaro and Bukoba.7 Attempts to grow rubber and cotton on a large scale were unsuccessful: the attempt to force cotton on reluctant farmers was one of the causes of the Maji Maji rebellion of 1905-7.8 Labour recruitment for the plantations was often a problem when those concerned had alternative sources of livelihood on their own farms. Tax imposition was used to force workers into the cash economy, but this was not effective in securing wage workers where farmers were able to gain cash incomes from their own farms. Plantation workers tended to come therefore from areas that had few cattle and no significant cash crops or where effective demand for surplus food crops was limited.9 Uneven development and the use of taxation condemned many areas to the status of labour reserves. Forced labour was also used in some cases and from 1905 onwards plantation owners started to resort to recruitment through agencies.10

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Labour conditions on the plantations were harsh. Real wages did not improve at all during the German period and the workers were subject to poor housing, disease, hunger, overwork and physical brutality.11 This period also saw the construction of the railway system starting in 1891 with the Northern Line, and later the Central Line, which started in Dar es Salaam and eventually reached Kigoma in 1914. The railway lines and also the road system were designed mainly to facilitate the export of primary commodities through the coastal ports. German rule did create a demand for literacy and other skills and this led to the opening of some schools as well as an influx of Indian semi-skilled and skilled workers and traders. Twelve general hospitals were also established.12 It also led to the beginning of smallholder cash crop cultivation. Nevertheless the laws and taxation system as well as the infrastructure established were all designed primarily to serve colonial and settler interests and only a small minority of indigenous people derived significant benefit from the development of trade. The British Mandate 1920-61 Following the defeat of Germany in WWI, responsibility for Tanganyika was transferred to Britain under a League of Nations Mandate. The status of Tanganyika as a Mandated territory rather than a colony inhibited large-scale settlement and alienation of land but also reduced the extent of infrastructure development associated with such settlement. British policy was initially to adopt the system of indirect rule adapted from Nigerian experience and to discourage new settlers. Many German settlers and missionaries were deported and by 1922 the European population had fallen to half the pre-war level.13 German settlers were eventually allowed to return in 1925 and limited British settlement was then also encouraged to balance German influence. By contrast to neighbouring Kenya, relatively little attention was paid to the development needs of the territory. Tanganyika was in a customs union with Uganda and Kenya from 1927, but the Tanganyika government did not encourage the development of industries until after the WWII.14 As a result, such industrial

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development as did occur in East Africa tended to be located in Kenya rather than in Tanganyika. Provision of education in Tanganyika between the wars disproportionately favoured the European and Asian minorities. In 1933 there were places for about half the school age children of these minorities but for less than 2% of the African majority.15 Education of those Africans who were able to go to school was largely associated with missionary activity. As a result, levels of education tended to be higher in those areas that were predominantly Christian. This had some significance for the relative importance of different ethnic groups in the postcolonial bureaucracy. The relatively low general levels of literacy and the extremely small number of indigenous people with secondary and higher education was a significant problem for the subsequent independent government. Sisal continued to be the main export crop. Production recovered slowly and did not reach the 1913 level until 1926. However production expanded rapidly thereafter and reached 101,401 tons in 1938.16 Coffee production also expanded, initially on settler plantations, but increasingly from African smallholders. By 1933 smallholders were producing more than half the total production despite minimal support from the government and some opposition from settlers in Kilimanjaro.17 Cotton production also developed rapidly based on smallholder production south of Lake Victoria, facilitated by an extended railway system. Smallholder coffee farmers in Kilimanjaro formed the first marketing co-operative in 1925. This was replaced in 1931 by the Kilimanjaro Native Co-operative Union, which, along with subsequent unions formed by coffee and cotton farmers in the regions around Lake Victoria, was to have a significant influence on agricultural development. The prosperity of agriculture was affected by falling prices during the Great Depression. This led to a halving of wage levels on the estates.18 One writer suggested that in 1936 wages of a sisal estate worker were more than 50% below what was necessary for an effective minimum level of income for a family of four.19 Iliffe indicates that the real problems for workers began in the later 1930s because food prices fell in line with

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wages in the depression, but in later years wages were increased by increasing tasks so that the same real income was achieved with harder work.20 Shivji describes the conditions of sisal estate workers in the inter-war period as those of a ‘semi-proletariat’ in that the estate workers were temporary migrant workers rather than a permanent labour force.21 Their low wages were only possible because their families were supported by the labour of women providing for subsistence needs in their home areas. WWII saw extensive government intervention in agriculture to promote strategic crops through favourable prices, including sisal and food crops such as wheat, maize and beans. The government was also involved in the establishment of marketing boards and a mechanized wheat scheme. Such intervention was echoed in later attempts by the independent government to influence agricultural prices and production. Government intervention in agriculture continued into the 1950s, including the ill-fated Groundnuts Scheme. Failure of these schemes eventually led to a change of strategy with an emphasis on the promotion of ‘progressive farmers’, a policy that was intended to lead to increased inequality, thereby providing a demonstration effect that other farmers could follow.22 Co-operative marketing was encouraged and prices increased. The result was a massive increase in the production of cash crops during the late 1950s despite the departure of many settler farmers in anticipation of independence.23 Nationalism in Tanzania arose from the development of an educated class, the beginnings of urbanization, and from the trade unions and the marketing co-operatives.24 The Tanganyika African National Union (TANU) was founded with Julius Nyerere as leader in 1954. Initial resistance to the nationalists from the colonial authorities was countered by pressure for independence from the United Nations Trusteeship Committee. TANU’s comprehensive victory in the limited-franchise election of 1958 prompted a decision in principle that led to independence less than four years later. At the 1960 general election TANU won 70 of the 71 seats. Tanganyika was a de facto one-party state before it actually became one. The period of the British Mandate can be regarded as one of relatively benign

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neglect. The scheme of laws and taxes still favoured the settler minority, and little systematic attempt was made to establish the necessary physical and social infrastructure for a more dynamic economy. Nevertheless small farmers did begin to benefit from trading opportunities in the 1950s. The economy grew, and real per capita income increased by an average of 1.5% per annum in the period 1955-61.25 After seventy years of colonialism, Tanganyikans were finally beginning to derive some benefits from integration with the world economy. Independence and Ujamaa Tanganyika became independent in 1961. In 1964, following union with Zanzibar, the two countries became the United Republic of Tanzania, one of the poorest countries in the world at the time.26 There had been little investment in the infrastructure or in the education of the population. Per capita GDP was still about $140.27 Only 5% of the population lived in towns. Less than one third of the primary school age children attended school. Only 2% attended secondary school and a mere 0.1% attended tertiary education (Table 5.1). The period immediately following independence witnessed the fastest sustained growth of any period in recorded Tanzanian history. From 1964 to 1967 real per capita GDP grew by 3.5% per annum despite annual population growth of just over 3% (Table 5.2).28 This was influenced by a boom in sisal prices in 1963-4 but was sustained after sisal prices had fallen back. Despite this impressive performance the political leadership were not satisfied. In June 1965 President Nyerere stated that: the amount of private investment which has taken place over the past year is, quite frankly a disappointment to us. We have special tax concessions to encourage new investment; we have investment guarantees for bringing capital into the country; and we have many other arrangements designed to encourage private investment of a character which will serve our nation. Yet the level of private investment does not appear to be as great as that provided for in the Plan.29

45.5

43.1 138.2

Life Expectancy at Birth (years)

Infant Mortality Rate/'000 live births

14.8%

17.6%

Table 5. 1 Progress of Social Indicators: Tanzania, 1965-2001 30

10.1%

21.7%

6.7%

Urban Population (% of total)

114.8

50.1

36.2%

0.3%

4.9%

69.7%

1990

84%

107.6

50.9

42.9%

0.3%

3.3%

75.1%

1985

Improved Sanitation Facilities

107.6

50.0

49.9%

0.3%

3.3%

92.5%

1980

38%

117.8

48.0

56.5%

0.2%

3.1%

52.6%

1975

Access to Improved Water

5.3%

62.8%

Adult Illiteracy Rate (15 years+)

129.0

0.2%

Tertiary Enrolment

33.5% 2.7%

32.0%

Primary School Enrolment

1970

Secondary School Enrolment

1965

Year

26.9%

106.6

48.5

30.0%

0.5%

5.4%

66.8%

1995

33.2%

90%+

68%+

104.0*

43.1

24.0%

0.7%+

5.8%+

69.9%

2001

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TANZANIA, DEVELOPMENT AND LIBERALIZATION

97

Disappointment with the response of the private sector, combined with concerns about living standards for the majority were major factors behind the Arusha Declaration of 1967, which launched Tanzanian socialism or ujamaa.31 The result was nationalizationof the ‘commanding heights’ of the economy, including the financial sector and all major industries. This involved complete public ownership in some cases and majority public ownership in others. In principle private investment was welcome in those parts of the economy remaining outside the public sector. In a later address President Nyerere defined a strategy for the development of ujamaa villages in the rural areas that was to lead to profound changes some years later.32 Economic growth in Tanzania continued at a satisfactory but reduced pace until 1973 (see Table 5.2), when a second round of nationalization took place. President Nyerere announced that all rural Tanzanians would have to live in ujamaa villages by 1976. Impatience with the pace of change once again caused a change of strategy and the process of villagization was carried out by TANU party officials backed up by the army.33 Although the number of people forcibly removed from their homes has been exaggerated, there is no doubt that the livelihoods of many people were disrupted and that agricultural production in some areas was seriously affected.34 Further measures included nationalization of much of the retail trade sector and the abolition of the regional co-operative unions in favour of parastatal marketing boards. The state became more and more involved in every aspect of the economy and adopted widespread control of prices. Economic performance in the period 1973-9 was poor. GDP per capita stagnated (Table 5.2) despite price booms for two major export crops (sisal in 1973-5 and coffee in 1976-7). Export volumes of sisal, cotton and cashew nuts declined while that of coffee fluctuated with no clear trend. The real value of exports declined by 24% despite relatively favourable export prices. Per capita exports in 1979 were only just over half the 1967 level (Table 5.3). Attempts were made to follow a basic-industry strategy of industrialization with an emphasis on import substitution but industrial production did not respond very well

2.7% 225.4 7.2%

4.0% 148.3 14.0%

3.1%

271.3

1.5%

144.0

33.6%

-0.1%

116.0

157.4

3.0%

182.6

1979

-5.0%

199.5

3.2%

173.6

18.7%

-2.1%

101.9

190.4

1.0%

194.1

1985

4.4%

308.1

2.3%

216.6

19.7%

0.3%

104.7

259.2

3.4%

271.4

1995

Table 5.2 Investment and Growth in Real Sector GDP: Tanzania, 1964-2002 35

Annual Rate of Growth

Index of Real Manufacturing GDP

100.0

131.8

112.6

100.0

Index of Real Agriculture GDP

Average Annual Rate of Growth

22.6

18.9%

12.0%

0.9%

3.5%

Gross Investment (% of GDP)

Average Annual Rate of Growth

117.1

100.0

Index of Real GDP per capita

130.9

4.0%

153.2

1973

110.7

109.3

100.0

Index of Population

121.1% 6.6%

100.0

Index of Real GDP

1967

Average Annual Rate of Growth

1964

Year

5.1%

437.1

3.7%

280.0

19.3%

2.0%

119.9

312.5

4.7%

374.6

2002

98 GLOBALIZATION AND IDENTITY

TANZANIA, DEVELOPMENT AND LIBERALIZATION

99

to the level of investment. The rate of capital formation was high but the productivity of investment was low. Table 5.2 shows changes in the rate of capital formation and growth of GDP for the agricultural and industrial sectors. It can be seen that the very rapid increase in the rate of investment was accompanied by a steady decline in the growth of output indicating very clearly the fall in the productivity of investment. During the 1970s Tanzania embarked on an ambitious programme of expansion of basic services, particularly for primary education and rural health centres leading to impressive improvements in literacy levels and basic health indicators (Table 5.1). The redistributive aspects of Tanzanian rural development gained significant levels of donor support in this period from the World Bank and many bilateral donors. Per capita aid increased steadily from 1973 to 1980 (Table 5.3). While some donors had growing reservations about some of Tanzania’s policies they continued to provide support, partly because Tanzania was an influential member of the non-aligned movement in an era when cold war rivalries were still important. It is ironic that while Tanzania preached the virtues of self-reliance it became increasingly dependent on the support of aid donors. Relations with Kenya and Uganda deteriorated, partly from the emergence of the Amin regime in Uganda, leading to the break up of the East African Community in 1977. In late 1978 Ugandan forces annexed a small area of north western Tanzania. They were quickly driven out, but Tanzanian forces continued into Uganda and overthrew the Amin government. Tanzania clearly hoped that some of the cost of the invasion - estimated at more than $500 million - would be reimbursed by the international community.36 This help never came and Tanzania entered the 1980s with a severe foreign exchange shortage and a deteriorating economy. The crisis of the 1980s The economic crisis of the 1980s was partly caused by internal factors related to the overextended role of the state. There was insufficient management capacity for the increasing number of

153.8 27.5%

100.0 100.0 100.0 100.0 100.0 15.2%

Index of Export Crop Unit Value

Index of Export Crop Producer Incentives

Index of Export Crop Volume

Index of Real Per Capita Exports

Index of Real Per Capita Aid

Aid as % of Exports

3.0% 20.8%

4.3% 2.3%

Net FDI as % of Exports

Tourist Earnings as % of Exports

Table 5.3 Trade, Aid and Foreign Investment: Tanzania, 1967-2000 37

0.9%

2.9%

354.3

16.1

87.4

70.5

43.1

163.6

1992

Net FDI as % of Aid

248.1

25.4

55.5

32.0

85.8

37.3

1985

334.6%

107.9%

381.3

53.8

71.0

95.7

119.3

80.2

1979

148.7%

85.0

108.3

74.7

93.9

79.2

100.0

Real Exchange Rate Index

1973

1967

Year

20.5%

22.0%

17.1%

128.4%

190.0

22.5

97.1

100.2

60.8

164.9

1995

57.7%

23.7%

18.5%

128.4%

223.6

26.5

93.8

53.3

47.2

112.9

2000

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101

parastatal organizations and the attempt to control movement of basic foodstuffs and a wide range of prices led to increasing inefficiency and corruption.38 The official socialist justifications given for some of these measures do not stand up to close examination.39 The negative effects of internal factors were exacerbated by an increasingly hostile international environment. Tanzania faced a decline in the real value of export prices for both coffee and sisal together with the foreign exchange costs of the war with Uganda. By 1985 the weighted average unit value of Tanzania’s real export prices had fallen to 72% of the value in 1979 (Table 5.3) and it fell in every year of this period except 1984. The neoclassical counter-revolution spearheaded by the Thatcher and Reagan regimes was reflected in the increasing hostility of the World Bank and the IMF, initially towards Tanzania’s exchange rate policy but later towards a wide range of other economic policies. However there was strong political resistance in Tanzania to the pressure to devalue in response to the deteriorating foreign exchange position. The aid community responded by gradually reducing the level of aid support to Tanzania. By 1985 the per capita value of aid to Tanzania had fallen to 65% of the 1979 level (Table 5.3). Tanzania was therefore faced with declining values of both exports and aid and an increasingly severe foreign exchange crisis. Export agriculture was particularly badly hit. In real terms the unit value of price incentives to agricultural exporters in 1985 had fallen to about one third of the 1979 level due to the combined effect of declining world prices and the overvalued exchange rate.40 In response, by 1985, export crop production had fallen to 78% of the 1979 level (Table 5.3). This rapid decline occurred even though four of the six major export crops (coffee, sisal, tea and cashew nuts) are perennial crops, and should be slower to respond to changes in price incentives. The Tanzanian government was aware of the need to make changes but as far as the international donor community was concerned it was ‘too little, too late’. Under a home-grown Structural Adjustment Programme a series of devaluations from 1982 to 1984 amounted to nearly 50% over the three-year

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period, but did not even maintain the financial status quo in real terms, although they did provide limited encouragement to the beleaguered export crop sector. This was reinforced by the new Agricultural Policy of Tanzania, which explicitly recognized the role of private sector agriculture. The co-operative unions were re-introduced and various other measures were proposed to boost production, especially for export, including schemes for foreign exchange retention and measures to offset the discincentive effects of the declining real wages of estate workers.41 Some liberalization also took place outside the agricultural sector, with reductions in price control, liberalization of imports and a campaign against racketeering, a tacit recognition of the extent to which excessive regulation led to increased corruption. Just before he stepped down in 1985, President Nyerere even gave the first indications of willingness to divest state enterprises, but no devaluation took place in this critical year, and the competitive position of export activities worsened further. The crisis years can be seen as a period of stand-off, with the IMF insisting on a devaluation on a scale that was almost impossible for the government to accept politically.42 The government was unable to agree on sufficient reform to make any significant difference to the export industries that might otherwise have been able to reduce dependence on external aid. Given the scale of the crisis, the surprising element is not the decline in per capita income but that the decline between 1979 and 1986 was only about 12%, averaging 1.8% p.a. The subsistence economy was remarkably resilient and the agricultural sector continued to grow in line with population. Even the formal sector managed to survive in much reduced circumstances, although manufacturing GDP shrank by an average of 5% per annum. Social indicators were mixed. Even so, by 1985 per capita GDP had fallen back to a level that was not much higher than in 1964. Life expectancy and infant mortality changed very little and adult illiteracy continued to fall as a result of past educational efforts, although primary school enrolment was falling. The position of the export sector was dire. Real per capita exports had fallen by 1985 to just over one quarter of the

TANZANIA, DEVELOPMENT AND LIBERALIZATION

103

1967 level (Table 5.3). The external position of Tanzania was unsustainable in terms of debt servicing and some form of agreement with the international agencies was needed to prevent a total economic collapse. Agreement with the IMF After President Nyerere stepped down, agreement was reached with the IMF in 1986. Measures agreed included a major devaluation followed by a steady depreciation of the currency. A new Economic Recovery Programme was announced and aid levels began to increase again, reaching a peak in 1992. Other measures included a major liberalization of prices and the start of the privatization process for some of the many parastatals.43 Further agreement with the IMF covering 1989-1992 extended the liberalization to agricultural marketing, more privatization, including the banking sector and reform of the civil service. Some of these reforms led to a certain amount of resistance at the loss of jobs and privileges. The reform process faltered in 1994-5, leading to a reduction in aid flows, but has continued since then guided by agreements with the IMF and the World Bank under the Tanzania Assistance Strategy (TAS), and internally by the Poverty Reduction Strategy Paper (PRSP). Sector priorities for public expenditure under current strategies include water, education, and health - especially HIV/AIDS. The effect of membership of regional organizations, intended to facilitate trade and investment between neighbouring countries, is reflected in the level of South African investment in Tanzania since liberalization. Responses to liberalization The response of the economy to the liberalization process has been quite encouraging. Positive real growth in per capita incomes resumed, albeit at a relatively low rate, before 1995. Since 1995 growth has accelerated and real per capita income increased by about 2% per annum between 1995 and 2002 (Table 5.2). Growth in agricultural GDP was low up to 1990 but has since improved. Manufacturing GDP steadily improved.

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The real exchange rate depreciated dramatically between 1985 and 1994 (Table 5.3) but the positive effect on price incentives to exporters was diluted by declining international prices for major export crops, which reached an all-time low in 1992. Real export crop prices recovered up to 1994 but have since fallen back. The response of non-traditional exports was initially disappointing but since 1994 the relative importance of the traditional export crops has declined steadily. By 2000 they only contributed about 35% of total exports compared to over 50% in most years from 1965 to 1998. The major increases in export earnings have come from minerals and horticultural products. Overall, per capita export levels declined further until 1991 but have started to recover, although they were still only just over one quarter of their value in 1967 by 2000 and only marginally higher than in the crisis year of 1985 (Table 5.3). In terms of foreign exchange earnings the major success story has been the tourist industry. By 2000 earnings from tourism were contributing nearly 60% as much as merchandize exports compared with only just over 2% in 1985 (Table 5.3). Foreign investment, which had shrunk to negligible levels between 1973 and 1985, slowly started to increase and by 2000 had reached nearly 24% of the value of exports (Table 5.3). The tourist and mineral sectors were the major beneficiaries. Despite the improvement, the World Bank echoed Nyerere’s lament of thirty-six years earlier that: Private investment, currently at 14 percent of GDP, has not responded quickly to the reform measures undertaken since the late 1980s and has not compensated for the decline of public investment. …… The weak response of private investment to economic reforms may also be related to the decline in complementary public investment (in the form of the provision of basic infrastructure and human and institutional capital) that is necessary for raising the overall absorptive capacity of the economy.44 Social indicators in the reform period are mixed (Table 5.1). Primary school enrolment continued to decline throughout most

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of the 1990s, partly from the introduction of school fees and partly from the impact of HIV/AIDS on the number of orphans and the need for child labour in the agricultural sector. Enrolment has improved significantly recently with the abolition of school fees in 2000. Life expectancy has continued to decline mainly as a result of HIV/AIDS, but infant mortality after an initial rise has begun to fall again. Access to clean water has improved, but this is partly as a result of increased urbanization. By 2001 nearly one third of Tanzanians lived in urban areas compared with just over 5% in 1965. Indicators on the incidence of poverty are mixed. The overall incidence of poverty appears to have fallen both in terms of food and basic needs, but the fall has been greater in urban areas than in rural areas. At the same time, inequality has increased: the Gini co-efficient for Tanzania rose from 0.34 to 0.37 between 1991-2 and 2000-1.45 Inequality is also manifested both between individuals and between regions with the richest regions receiving the greatest share of investment since the start of liberalization.46 While overall poverty has decreased, there has been little change in the position of the poorest of the poor and this group has become relatively poorer.47 There are a number of reasons why the poorest people have not benefited very much from the liberalization process. The rationalization of public sector organizations has led to formal sector job losses that have not been fully compensated for by the relatively low employment creation of the expanding tourist and mineral sectors. Furthermore, the agricultural sector, which employs most of the poorest people, has not benefited to the same extent as the more dynamic sectors, particularly in the early stages of the reform process. A third possible reason is the impact of HIV/AIDS, and its effect on the economically active part of the population. One factor behind the initially poor response of the agricultural sector was lack of access to agricultural inputs.48 Part of the problem was the demise of the co-operatives, previously the main suppliers of inputs. Another issue was the rise in prices of agricultural inputs, partly due to exchange rate changes, but exacerbated by the removal of fertiliser subsidies. A further problem was privatization of the financial sector, which led to a

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reduction in services to the rural areas and a consequent loss of access to credit. These issues are proportionately more important for farmers who consume the majority of their output because they do not benefit proportionately from the improved prices of the crops that they sell. The question of ownership of the reforms is also an issue. The PRSP process is supposed to be participatory, involving partnership between civil society, the government and the aid donors. However the reality is that the aid donors control the resource flows and are able to exercise a veto over policies they dislike. The freedom of manoeuvre on policy for the government and civil society is strictly limited by what have been described as the ‘multilateral straight-jacket policy documents’ agreed with the World Bank and the IMF.49 This would be less of a problem if policy requirements were restricted to acceptance of a few key principles of macroeconomic policy, plus an agreement to abide by trade practices established by international consensus. However, when the conditions extend to a wider set of policies, including the definition of the proper role of the public sector in areas such as provision of infrastructure and financial services, the room for manoeuvre of the recipient government is very limited. Conclusions Globalization in the sense of the removal of barriers to free trade and the closer integration of national economies has progressed in an intermittent fashion in Tanzania in the past 150 years. Initially such ‘integration’ was essentially exploitative both of human and natural resources. Trade and investment became more subject to the rule of law under colonialism, but the laws were established mainly to benefit the colonial power and the settler population and investment in infrastructure also served those interests. This pattern continued under the British Mandate and it was not until the 1950s that attempts were made to include the majority of the population in the benefits. Economic progress in the period of independence was quite rapid by historical standards, but impatience with the speed and unevenness of this progress led to the more socialistic approach

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reflected in the Arusha Declaration. The initial impact was a slight fall in economic growth, combined with some improvement in social indicators. Further measures taken from 1973 extended the role of the state beyond the managerial capacity of Tanzania, leading to increasing inefficiency and poor investment returns. Economic growth slowed to a standstill, although social indicators continued to improve. The value of per capita exports started to decline despite relatively favourable price movements. Foreign direct investment dried up, due to nationalization fears and the prevailing economic climate. This was counterbalanced by a substantial increase in foreign aid, but the impact of the aid was often disappointing. Tanzania became less globalized in terms of international trade but more globalized in terms of dependence on aid, despite a professed policy of self-reliance. Tanzania entered the 1980s in a state of economic crisis that continued until 1986. This was partly a result of the economic failures of the 1970s, but was exacerbated by the cost of the war with Uganda, deteriorating terms of trade and a significant reduction in foreign aid support. The decline in economic performance made it increasingly difficult to maintain the progress of social indicators. Force of circumstances led the economy to become even less integrated into the global economy, but this situation was unsustainable because the Tanzanian economy was too dependent on aid to resist the demands from the World Bank and the IMF for reform. The initial period of reforms restored the economy to low but positive per capita growth, but the response from the private sector was disappointing and the distributional impact was negative, particularly for the poorest. Most social indicators showed a decline although the decline in life expectancy is mainly due to the impact of HIV/AIDS and cannot be attributed to liberalization. The terms of trade for traditional exports continued to decline to the extent that the once dominant position of the six major export crops from mainland Tanzania and cloves from Zanzibar is no longer so important. As the reform process continued, the relative importance of tourism increased dramatically, as did earnings from the mining sector. Non-traditional exports have also increased. There is

108

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some hope of reduced dependence on crops with declining longrun prices. From 1995 onwards, overall economic performance improved and per capita income growth reached levels not experienced since the 1960s. There are finally some signs that foreign investment is returning. By 2002 per capita income was about 20% higher than in 1964 and Tanzania had experienced the longest period of steady if unspectacular growth since independence. In this sense it can be argued that globalization is working, but there are still questions about its impact. Tanzanian government impatience following independence led to policies that contributed to the relatively poor performance of the 1970s. However, since 1986, the extent to which Tanzania has had any real policy choice is open to question. The aid donors have vacillated in their support, which has sometimes depended more on political factors than either the need for aid or the internal policies of the government. The 1970s was a period when policies had the greatest negative effect on economic performance, but Tanzania received the greatest support from donors. The gradual internally-led reform of the 1980s was met with a steady reduction in aid, when a more accommodating response might have resulted in less hardship and a smoother transition to a more market-oriented economy. The donor response after 1986 has been quick to punish any deviation from the path of neoclassical righteousness, as shown by the aid reductions in 1993-5. The current set of policies appear to be working in terms of overall economic performance but may not have been equally effective in terms of delivering benefits to the poorest sections of the community. Despite this the pressure appears to be for even more extension of the role of a relatively weak private sector rather than a more measured response to the specific needs of the country with a more genuine dialogue in which the recipient country has a degree of real policy choice. Perhaps such an approach would lead to a less circumscribed potential for genuine gains from globalization.

CHAPTER SIX

Liberalization and Financial Exclusion in Sri Lanka Wendy Kay Olsen

T

his chapter will explore empirically how people perceive the money market in Sri Lanka. Globalization in Sri Lanka has both material and discursive aspects, and the clash between neoliberal and critical interpretations involves both aspects. The material aspect can be analysed by looking at flows of money and goods, whilst the discursive aspect can be analysed using talk and texts, such as interview transcripts. This investigation will use a range of data types - including a national survey dataset and local interviews, as well as a four-locale pilot study. It thus exemplifies a type of empirical political economy that has moved onward from structuralism, as advocated by leading proponents including Sayer, Lawson, Leyshon and Thrift, and Grillo and Stirrat.1 The first aim of the chapter is to show ways in which Sri Lanka’s money system is becoming globalized. The unequal penetration of banking, by class and gender and region will then be described. Thirdly, I explore with qualitative data how discourses about money have been affected by changes in the



I am grateful to the UK Department for International Development (DFID) for supporting this research under the Finance and Development Research Programme, Institute for Development Policy and Management, University of Manchester. The project was managed jointly by the author and Professor C. Kirkpatrick. Neither the DFID nor the Central Bank of Sri Lanka is responsible for any interpretation or analysis contained in this chapter. These reflect the views of the author alone, who wishes also to thank Ms. Nishara Fernando for collaborating in the conduct of interviews and Ms. Pushpa Shyamalie for general research assistance.

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banking system. The concluding section shows that financial exclusion goes hand in hand with globalized modernization. The financial sector thus illustrates themes that may be common to other spheres of life. It appears that consumers - in this case, villagers - reveal rather naïvely optimistic expectations during interviews about their own ability to benefit from modernization and globalization. They expect the markets to serve their interests, whereas the evidence shows that, even when growing, markets under-serve poor people and thus have more mixed results than local people expect. This paradox arises in part from the percolation of neoliberal discourse down to the local level. The globalization of the money system Sri Lanka’s money system is highly developed, with bank branches throughout the country. The two main banks have been owned by the government since their nationalization in the 1960s.2 Sri Lanka’s relatively good performance on poverty indicators during the 1970s was based in part on the populist efforts of its government to reach out to poor and middleincome households.3 For instance, loans were made to farmers and traders in villages all over Sri Lanka via the public sector banking system. In the 1990s this system ran into financial problems, with a high rate of default among larger borrowers. As a result, regulations and the governance arrangements of these two main banks have moved toward a more free-market model. Specifically, commercial indicators are now used to gauge the success of the banks. Profitability has been examined at branch level, leading to suggestions about branch closures, and a deregulation of interest rates has occurred. The deregulation of the foreign exchange rate, leading to depreciation, and the deregulation of the internal money market imply a liberalization of the banking sector which has gradually developed over a ten-year period. Local prices moved toward world prices. Alongside this liberalized policy environment there has been increasing criticism of public-sector banking and a valorization of private-sector banks and competition in the reports of the Central Bank and individual development banks.

LIBERALIZATION AND FINANCIAL EXCLUSION IN SRI LANKA 111

Sri Lanka had very high bank interest rates by 2000 (ranging from 10% to 24% p.a.). These rates resulted in part from high inflation, indirectly arising from civil war and emigration conditions that tightened the labour market, and in part from a relatively high risk credit market. Moving into the year 2001, Sri Lanka’s growing financial crisis led to an IMF structural adjustment package. Around that time, international credit card debt became widely available as a cheaper alternative to local bank credit. However it is mainly non-poor, urban consumers who can get a credit card. Meanwhile, throughout the period after 1950, local moneylenders have filled a niche in the credit market, and have charged very high interest rates. This background, which combines local features and globalized features of the money markets, needs to be understood in order to explain the paradox of financial exclusion and self-exclusion that emerged during the research fieldwork conducted in the years 2000-1. In 1999 there were 2 public-sector banks, 7 private domestic banks, and 16 foreign banks operating in Sri Lanka.4 The foreign banks had only 42 branches, all based in urban areas, whilst the domestic banks had 1054 branches and there were in addition 276 branches of specialist rural development banks. Foreign banks comprised 64% of the turnover of commercial banks in Sri Lanka in 1999.5 Public-sector banks comprised 8% of the turnover, and other domestic private-sector banks 28% of the flow. Separate from the banking sector per se, a growing microfinancial services sector has long existed.6 In this sector, the cooperative rural banks had 1418 branches and the Samurdhi Banking Societies, which were linked to a government welfare scheme, had 840 branches. The financial sector was mixed in nature and actively changing. The Central Bank’s documents argue that ‘the financial services sector is increasingly becoming more dynamic and competitive’, reflecting the government’s gradual move toward neoliberal advocacy of private-sector competition and denationalization.7 Neoliberal thought tends to downplay structural divisions within a population. For instance, it will treat men and women

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equally as consumers, arguing that they can make choices rationally and need not be troubled by their gender. Women in Sri Lanka have high employment rates and are actively encouraged to use the banking system. Issues of gender, class and ethnic issues will be highlighted in this chapter, instead of hidden, so the approach is more structuralist than neoliberal in this sense.8 As an example, Sri Lankan official statements on banking say nothing about the ethnic minorities. These minorities, comprising Muslims and Tamils who each make up 7% of the national population according to the 1981 census, are not using the banks in the same way as the majority Buddhist people, who speak the Sinhala language.9 The next section will go into more detail, but it is clear even from a cursory glance at the structure of the banking sector that it is differentiated on ethnic lines. There are Muslim banks (notably the Habib Bank), and there is one bank, the Hatton National Bank, whose ethnic character is controversial. Although it is regarded widely as a Buddhist bank, staff at the bank itself have criticized it as ‘Catholic’, because it was found to be financing the beer industry. Beer production and consumption is actively discouraged among devout Buddhists, and thus a religious - or possibly ethnic schism in banking was revealed.10 In Sri Lanka generally, there is a relatively high level of racialization, in which people’s apparent ethnic identity is stressed and re-stressed in public statements.11 Racialization, it can be argued, creates or reifies racial and ethnic differences when these are not pre-existing and may be (arguably) both unnecessary and unproductive.12 Racism often results from racialization. Sri Lanka’s lengthy civil war between Tamil militants, who want an autonomous region, and the Buddhist Sinhala-oriented government, has unfortunately increased the racialization of Tamil people.13 The racialization process tends to decrease public awareness of the different sub-groups within the Tamil population, but these differences are nevertheless very important.14 Neoliberal discourse tends to mute and discourage these ethnic distinctions. Further problems have existed between people of Muslim faith and the personnel of the nationalist government. For

LIBERALIZATION AND FINANCIAL EXCLUSION IN SRI LANKA 113

instance, there are occasional ‘clashes’, and historically there have been fights and so-called riots and pogroms between Muslim and Sinhala people in specific towns.15 Most Muslims speak Tamil as well as Urdu, and often prefer not to speak Sinhala even when they know how. Unequal penetration of banking in the population The impact of the growth of banking is highly differentiated by class as well as by ethnic group, and is explored in this section. The Consumer Finance and Socio-Economic Survey 1996/97 showed that there is great inequality in the use of banking services across the income deciles in Sri Lanka.16 The poorest 40% of households had received just 16% of the income and 10% of the bank credit during the year 1996/7.17 The distributions of both income and credit are therefore heavily skewed against the poor, with the distribution of bank credit even more skewed than the distribution of income, as shown by comparing the two Lorentz curves in Figure 6.1. 100 90 80 70 60 50 40 30 20 10 0

Cumulative % of Income Cumulative % of Bank Loans

0

20

40

60

80

0 10

Cumulative % of Households, Ranked from Low to High Income Figure 6.1 Distribution of Income and Loans: Sri Lanka, 1996-7 18

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Data from the same study shows that Muslim and Tamil households are less likely to use banks than other households. This is especially true once the relative levels of household income are allowed for. Furthermore, there is district-wise variation in borrowing levels. The two minority ethnic groups also had lower levels of savings, smaller-sized bank loans, and used banks less for savings, compared with the Sinhala majority (all else being held equal).19 The data on the uptake of bank services is summarized in Table 6.1. Bank borrowing comprised about 54% of the flow of total borrowing during the 1996-7 period.20 There were several competing sources of funds. Commercial banks accounted for half of the total flow of borrowed funds, whilst informal free loans comprised 22%. This second category may include both loans from friends and the receipt of rotating savings money as part of a longer-term deposit scheme. In Sri Lanka this system is known as seetu, or chit fund, and is generally interest free. Amount Borrowed (Rs. 000s/month) 8722 3790

Per Cent

Moneylenders

1605

9%

Formal Sector Employers

1294

8%

Source Commercial Banks Other, Interest Free

51% 22%

Rural Banks

423

2%

Thrift Societies

361

2%

Other, Not Interest Free

239

1%

Other Financial Institutions

228

1%

Regional Rural Dev. Banks

143

1%

NGOs

118

1%

Finance Companies

25

0%

Co-Operatives

13

0%

16961

100%

Total

Table 6.1 Debt incurred by source: Sri Lanka, 1996-7 21

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The third largest category of debt flows was moneylender loans at interest (9% of the total flow), nearly matched by formal sector employers as a loan source (8%). All other sources of credit were small by comparison. Impact of class inequality in the local context In the context of high class polarization, the collateral used by borrowers differs substantially from the poorest to the best-off households. Figure 6.2 shows that property was used as collateral for most loans among the best-off 10% of households (the top decile). However among the poorest four deciles, un-secured loans were common and property was little used. 100 90 80

Mean %

70

Without Security Jewellery Personal Guarantees Property

60 50 40 30 20 10 0

w Lo

t es

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

s he ig H

t

Per Capita Income Decile Figure 6.2 Total Debt by Type of Collateral: Sri Lanka, 1996-7 22

Figure 6.2 shows that although lending to the poor was small in scale, most of it was unsecured. By contrast, the proportion of the debt which was secured on property rose steeply among the higher income deciles. Borrowing without any security is seen as a risky form of lending, since the lender could alternatively save money in the bank without any risk. As elsewhere in capitalist society, the poor

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therefore pay higher interest rates when they borrow. These high interest rates were documented in two ways in the study. Firstly, higher rates were paid to banks among the poor households, compared with high-income households. For instance, a household with a teacher would get a subsidised house loan from a bank at low interest rates. Secondly, very high rates (30% per month to 50% per month) were paid to moneylenders. These high rates were often for unsecured informal loans, yet a promissory note system was used to ‘notarize’ the possible repossession of movable property, such as jewellery, if the borrower defaulted. Figure 6.2 illustrates the differential uptake of bank loans versus moneylender loans, among the poor and well-off households. Bank loans were much more common among the well-off. How local discourses reflect globalization In this section interview data and a mixed-methods local study are used to triangulate the schematic picture obtained from the secondary data. The findings are presented after a brief description of the research design. First, a pilot questionnaire was used to elicit opinions about formal-sector and informal-sector credit and savings. One hundred of these questionnaires were used in each of four locales. In one of these locales, 18 one-hour taped interviews supplemented the questionnaire. The interviews and pilot data unearthed considerable anger among consumers and business people about the level of interest rates (too high), interest rate margins of banks (too large) and the guarantor system (too restricted to well-off employees and hence irritatingly useless to poor people). These materials gave the strong impression that the willingness to use banks was present but that a series of factors constrained people from actually taking advantage of credit and savings facilities. Several respondents mentioned nongovernmental Micro-Finance Institutions (MFIs) as desirable alternatives but they were also critical of MFIs’ inaccessibility and fragmented services compared with the normal practices of being a bank customer.

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Following the pilot survey, an in-depth village study was conducted in an upland area in central Sri Lanka. Two hundred individual attitude questionnaires were used to allow men and women to express their views about savings, interest rates and banks, whilst also recording their household’s savings behaviour. Eleven detailed interviews with respondents from this survey provide insights into the ongoing competition between People’s Bank and local moneylenders.23 Pledging of land was commonly used both by banks and by moneylenders. Very high interest rates (20% and 30% per month) were repeatedly raised as an issue by respondents who felt banks were inaccessible and inadequate as well as not attractive as a savings vehicle. In total, when the pilot interviews are included, there are transcripts from 15 men and 8 women. Among these, the occupational social class of respondents is 8 businesspeople, 13 workers, and 2 employers. Farming work is a crucial source of income for many Sinhala Buddhist workers in the villages. The farmers are described here as workers, since most farm households in the village also had at least one member of the household working as an employee. Many had at some point sent someone out of Sri Lanka as a temporary emigrant. There were in total 19 Sinhala Buddhist respondents and 4 Muslim respondents. The elements of discourse analysis It may be useful at this point to describe the elements of discourse analysis. A distinct discourse can be defined as a historically-specific and locally-contextualized set of norms for speech and other communicative acts, including for instance talk, work, writing, and caring behaviour. Smith adds that: Discourses are systems of representation involving rules of conduct which regulate the production of meaning within the context of definite textual and institutional conditions they regulate what can and cannot be said and read within historically and socially specific situations.24

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The components of a particular discourse include its usual myths, metaphors, dualisms, and symbols as well as the assumptions that lie behind it, such as power relations, the role of the state, and modes of empowerment or agency.25 In the study of social institutions, the word ‘rules’ often implies contested or contestable norms, which are subject to change. Risseeuw’s monograph on gender in Sri Lanka sets out clearly the common ground between Bourdieu and Foucault within which the ‘rules’ of discourse (which Bourdieu called ‘doxa’) are malleable and are subject to empirical enquiry.26 Besides interviews, the study of graphic images, advertisements, legal documents, application forms and other documents - such as Bank Annual Reports - can also reveal the dominant discourses. Foucault’s own approach to discourse evolved through a descriptive phase, exemplified by The Order of Things and The Archaeology of Knowledge, to a critical interpretation of contested discourses in Discipline and Punish.27 The power relations surrounding contested discourses gradually came to the fore, and it is important to realize that the dominant discourses are contested, but not always to the same extent. In the research reported here, for example, a clear set of dominant discourses emerged, and the resistance to them was muted. Discourses regarding bank and non-bank credit are continually mutating. They overlap and are complexly interwoven with each other. Elsewhere in Sri Lanka, or in India or Bangladesh, one can easily find evidence of discourses of resistance and innovation competing with the neoliberal discourse. For instance, Albee and Gamage document the critical approach local women took to formal-sector monetary institutions.28 Each of the dominant discourses in the present study can be described in terms of its components. The naming of agents, implicit or explicit evaluations (approval and disapproval for instance), symbolism, dualisms, and assumptions about power help us to label the patterns of overlapping discourses. Other genres of discourse tended to round out and support the findings from the interview data. The ‘genres’ in banking include the passbooks and forms used by banks to communicate with

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customers.29 Thus each discourse uses communicative elements which cannot simply be encapsulated in an interview, but which can be observed using ethnographic data collection techniques. Figure 6.3 sets out the seven main discourses suggested by the Sri Lankan data.30 The discourses are all linked, and nearly every respondent used at least four of them. Together these discourses comprise a neoliberal approach to the money market. The discovery of neoliberal patterns of discourse at village level was unexpected since Sri Lanka’s history of populist and state intervention is so strong. For reasons of space, a more detailed account will be presented of just two of the discourses, concerning ‘discipline’ and ‘prudence’ respectively.

Figure 6.3 Genres and Discourses of Loan Behaviour

First, the ‘discipline discourse’ was shared by respondents themselves about default being bad. They argued that being disciplined by banks or courts was worse than using selfdiscipline to avoid being disciplined. This discourse invokes agents of punishment including the police, law specialists, the law courts, the moneylender, and her or his family. The state enables these agents to operate by granting them authority to

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enforce contracts. Individual agents are expected to avoid the opprobrium of defaulting, or late repayment, in order to avoid the threat of these punishment agents appearing. However, when punishment occurs, it is couples, households and families who feel and experience shame or guilt. Thus it is not simply individuals who feel guilt. There are other metaphorical agents such as ‘families’ - who have guilt or shame ascribed to them, and can be seen as corporate agents. However the discourse of shame and discipline anthropomorphizes them (we have to pay, or our family will feel shamed). Mutual and peer enforcement of the discipline discourse creates an atmosphere in which prudence is valued and profligacy is seen as shameful. The difference between selfdiscipline (valued: seen as good) and external application of discipline (approved of, with the recipient seen as bad) implies that a wise person will foresee and forestall bad behaviour. The prudence discourse is rather different, but related. People invoke the discourse as individuals, but then use it on behalf of households and families, attempting to save money and to spend thriftily. Moral goodness is associated with not spending beyond one’s budget. Avoiding credit is valued. Banks are seen as providing an admirable service for savers. A dualism of prudence/profligacy is implicit in the discourse. i) the discipline discourse The discourse of discipline is evidenced both by self-discipline talk, and by people saying they join an organization in order to benefit from having to make compulsory savings. An example emerged during the pilot study (in a Colombo neighbourhood) of a poor Sinhala Buddhist woman, age 42, who liked the rigour of regular compulsory saving: She never dealt with any bank due to lack of permanent earnings. Her attitude is that every earning is not sufficient to meet daily expenses. As a Samurdhi [welfare plus savings/credit] recipient she should be a member of the bank compulsorily. This chance she considers a useful way. (sic) . . . she expects to enhance the string hopper [i.e.

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cooked rice foods] business and save more for her children for better prospects . . . She believes seetu [rotating fund] is a best way to obtain the big part of the money without any guarantors for the poor on the trustworthiness of herself. But she did not join any seetu for last 15 years due to lack of regular income.31 Thus she is aware that she is blocked by poverty from joining in mutual funds, but still puts herself forward as ‘trustworthy’ in spite of current financial exclusion from seetu. She uses the word ‘compulsory’ with respect to the membership of the Samurdhi scheme, and this word appears in many of the interviews. Another respondent used self-disciplining talk to describe the regular savings inputs which are compulsory in the Samurdhi (welfare benefit) scheme.32 Thus the sense of disciplining that emerges when interpreting the bank documents and passbooks is also echoed in the language used in interviews: NF: O.K., when you need some money, how do you obtain that? Do you borrow it from somebody? Or from your relations? Otherwise do you obtain it on loan basis? I borrow from the relations as a loan. NF: You like very much to borrow from the relations. Is that correct? Yes. NF: Normally do you give back that money at the stipulated time? Yes, indeed. Those people rely on us and give money. It is our duty to pay it back in the correct time. A male respondent said: I owe about Rs. 2000 to my uncle. But there’s no problem in regard of that, as he won’t force me to pay the money. Sometimes he asks whether I have money. That’s also just like a joke. The bank is rather different from that. If we delay paying by one month or two months they tolerate. But in the third month they ask us to pay everything together.

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NF: Even with the interest, no? Yes. Everything including the interest. Therefore I work very hard to earn more money or I take a loan from some other person and pay back that loan as soon as possible. Sometimes there may be nothing to eat for my wife and children, doesn’t matter! Anyhow I pay the loan soon. . . The man proceeded to contradict himself several times. On the one hand, he said, ‘Even though I happen to face any problem, hereafter, I’ll never take any loan from a bank’. But on the other hand, he continued to say how he had borrowed from Samurdhi, borrowed from his uncle, placing jewellery as a security with him (without any interest), borrowed from a boutique (shop), and borrowed from an unstated source in order to send a female relative abroad to work. It became clear that he felt forced to borrow now and then due to his circumstances. This respondent works as a toddy tapper in informal selfemployment activity. He has four daughters and several sons, and there is a history of suicide in his Sinhala Buddhist family. For this man, borrowing went against his wishes. His choices did not reflect his preferences. Such a situation, discovered empirically through discourse analysis, cannot arise according to neoliberal economic theory, where consumers are assumed to choose rationally and consistently given their position in society. The rationality of this man can only be understood in the context of his complex and impoverished condition. His case illustrates that the structural low-income position contributes to his thoughts of borrowing to get by. He also expressed ideas favouring accumulation, but he had never been able to make investments. His bank-avoidance, aimed at avoiding bank-rejection, had been converted into self-discipline in order to ensure that avenues of credit remained open to him. He is a kind of self-disciplining bank customer. In practice he has to use alternative (expensive) credit sources instead of banks. This is the nature of financial exclusion in the current Sri Lankan context. Another respondent expressed the discipline discourse as shown below. He is a Sinhala Buddhist who works as a helper in

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stonemasonry, and was classified as a worker. Previously his family were farmers but they have lost their land: If we take any loan from the place where I work, they will deduct it from my pay. Therefore we don’t take such loans. … when I have no work for three or four days I am short of money. Then we take goods on credit. As soon as I get money I pay up to the last cent. … they [the boutique shopkeepers] give me [goods on tick]. I owe to nobody. Therefore they give me at anytime. I am scared of continuing loans without paying. If we take too much, it’s difficult to pay it back. Therefore we are used to live according to our income. When we go somewhere, if they ask about the money we feel shy and guilty. Numerous other examples were recorded in which respondents mentioned letters of demand, police arriving, the courts, and public embarrassment in case of delayed repayment of loans. Honour and dignity among the village respondents seems to translate into obedience over their lifetime - either to bank rules, or to informal lenders’ demands. In a sense, poor debtors are imprisoned by the system just as Foucault described in Discipline and Punish.33 The debtors use self-discipline to exercise surveillance over themselves. Some people used the ‘discipline’ line of talk to justify avoiding borrowing (and hence were self-excluding) whilst others used it to stress the importance of prompt payment. In two cases detailed stories were told (and re-told) of people who actually lost their collateral. One had lost a gold necklace and one had lost their land. These stories had taken on a mythical quality and were told with strong feelings. Social disapproval was expressed with regard to defaulters. In no case did a respondent admit to losing collateral - they would have lost face. Instead they told about others who had experienced this. ii) the prudence discourse The prudence discourse is closely related to the savings and selfdiscipline discourses. The interview with 52-year old Ahmed,

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summarized below, illustrates that what initially appears as prudence can be reinterpreted as a growing self-discipline moving toward the avoidance of banks, and hence self-exclusion, in a poor household. Ahmed receives Zakat money each year.34 He plays up his religion [Islam] as the reason he objects to interest and is not interested in loans. Actually he has taken some loans over the years. He is poor and has faced numerous troubles. He gets angry about being asked why he is not using banks and he seems to think it’s a stupid question. The interview illustrates the pressure NF put on respondents to answer a question about banks even when they feel they are self-excluding and no longer want credit. The respondent appears to be self-excluding, partly on ethnic grounds and partly through feeling that bank loans are inaccessible to him for structural poverty-related reasons. He mentions lack of assets as a reason. He even tried to get a house loan; he is a rejected bank applicant but he tries to pass himself off as a self-excluding disinterested person. His use of religious grounds against borrowing begin to sound like a rationalisation.35 A quotation from the pilot study illustrates the prudence and self-discipline discourses interwoven: That’s why I don’t take a loan. If we fail to pay in time, an interest will be calculated for the additional period also. Due to that, there will be more troubles. It is better to live according to what we have. … Even [if I borrow] from a family member, I don’t take a large amount. Normally, I borrow a small amount and pay back as I fulfilled my purpose. … PS: Ah … If we borrow a big amount we are unable to give it back. Then we become debtors and then there will be no progress… I buy on ready cash and I limit it according to the amount I have with me at the moment.36

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This man’s interview illustrates the importance to him of prudence: wise use of money, and watching where your money comes and goes. He stresses the importance of ensuring that you have control over a stream of income sufficient to repay a loan. In this sense the extract also illustrates the self-discipline discourse. He does not depend upon the lender to ask for the money back, but rather is self-motivated to return it himself. In summary, the discipline and prudence discourses, which overlapped considerably in the coded interviews, form a common grounding for the social and personal approval of selfdisciplined behaviour. As customers in money markets, the selfcontrolled consumer is ideally placed, whereas a flagrant waster of money or a profligate spender is not going to be providing either savings or repayments regularly. The discipline discourse works in the interest of banks. It encourages regularity of repayments and keeping one’s promises. It underlies trust in informal money markets. It may also work in the interests of the borrower, but its usage here seems strangely to extend also to non-borrowers. We turn now to one group who rarely use the bank: Muslims in the village near Kandy. Muslims and the self-exclusion paradox It is widely believed that Islamic scripture prohibits the charging, receiving, or paying out of usurious interest (called riba in the Qur’an). Agents who invoke this discourse argue that their religion ‘stops them’ from using ordinary banks that charge interest. The phrase ‘it stops them’ is metaphorical, since it anthropomorphizes a religion. The discourse against usury formed an eighth discourse in this study, not highlighted in Figure 6.3 because it was not as prominent as the generally dominant neoliberal discourses of consumers. Numerous Muslim respondents argued that they should not and would not borrow money, nor take a savings account, if interest were to be paid. Technically, the Arabic word riba should probably be interpreted as usury, not interest in general, but the local understanding was that taking or paying interest were both equally against the words of the Qur’an. These statements were often proudly expressed, with emphasis, for the Sinhala Buddhist

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interviewer to notice and record. The fact that interest rates tended to be high in the 1990s seemed to have perhaps supported a conflation of ‘interest’ with ‘usury’ in the local area. For instance, local Sinhala moneylenders were lending at 30% interest per month. No Muslim in this area would act as a moneylender: this occupation is barred for them by the antiusury discourse as much as by the Qur’an. However, in nearly all cases, the person who professed the anti-usury discourse also admitted (generally later in the same interview) using bank loans, including pawning and cash loans. Some also said they used savings accounts. In one case a man said he tried to avoid receiving the interest on his Samurdhi savings. However, he said, they still tried to give it to him. There is not space here to explore the dynamics of the use of this discourse at length, but a few comments can be made. Invoking this discourse is race-ist in Carter’s sense, since it invokes a racial idea in order to discriminate between two ethnically differentiable groups.37 Race-ism is not necessarily a bad thing, but it often implies far too much homogeneity within each group and it can label people carelessly using categories that are outdated, compared with the more sophisticated approaches to identity available today. As visitors in the village, the researchers were often offered stories exaggerating ethnic differences: members of group X cannot do agriculture but we can; group X are bad at trading but we are good; they lend money in order to take property away from us. The stress on ‘us’ and ‘them’ statements was strong. For some Muslims, adhering to the Qur’anic proscription was a matter of honour and duty, and the proscription was willingly adhered to. However it does lead to Muslim people using the national banks less than other groups. Statistical regression analyses, using the national survey referred to earlier, showed that Muslims were less likely to use the banking system at all than the other ethnic groups. Tamils, too, were less likely than Sinhala people to use the banks. However, there were no ethnic Tamil respondents in the interviews of this study. The minority ethnic groups in Sri Lanka are in a sense forced to use the moneylenders if they need to

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borrow money. Some people also formed alternative informal associations in order to save. Overall, there were linkages between the discourses of discipline and prudence. They overlapped in content, with prudence and savings being closely similar and with collateral and discipline often being mentioned together. There were contradictions with people who used anti-usury talk also telling us about their borrowing and saving at interest. These contradictions often appeared in the same interview. The dominant discourses noticed at village level are neoliberal in the following senses. They stress freedom to choose, individual action, and the gains to be had from taking the right, rational action. Personal honour is seen individualistically, and money markets are often seen as a way to solve problems. By contrast, in the past, honour has often been construed as a corporate phenomenon in Sri Lanka.38 Aspects of neoliberal analytical thinking - individualism, the focus on freedom, and on markets and money - thus appeared at the micro level. Conclusion In this paper, I have shown from a structuralist viewpoint that the penetration of money markets into villages is unequally spread by social class, but widespread in terms of how people view their potential role as borrowers or savers with the banks. People have for decades used moneylenders as a substitute for banks, and people also borrow and/or lend among their family members. The modernization of the banking sector was represented at local level by the spotlessly clean, gleaming bank branch décor (e.g. People’s Bank) and the profit-charts and growth-charts proudly posted above the Manager’s desk. Annual reports of different banks also had a modernization theme, and they picked up phrases from textbooks about economics to argue that their successes had arisen from good market management, freeing up savings (known among bankers as ‘mobilising’ savings), and lending efficiently with low default rates. Technocratic efficiency, profitability, raised levels of commercialization, and symbolically loaded images of gold, new

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technology and newness are widely associated with modernization itself. The discourses that were dominant when people spoke about banking suggested that the structuralist picture was somehow incomplete. The integration of subjective attitudes and discourses with the study of structures of banking is a wide agenda for empirical research.39 According to a structuralist view, the poor are excluded from banking. Their financial exclusion which has been described in numerous academic publications does not describe their situation fully however, since the excluded people are nevertheless touched by globalization.40 People from different occupations, religions, and income levels were equally revealed to be absorbing and reflecting the discourses of discipline, self-control, and prudence that are common to ‘good’ bank customers all over the world. Many had borrowed from banks, and all aspired to. The exceptional cases, where poor or Muslim respondents expressed ‘self-exclusion’, with phrases such as ‘I don’t want to use that form of credit’, were often followed by self-contradictory statements describing their experience of precisely that form of credit. Thus a paradox appeared. The markets under-serve poor people, but these poor people still shape themselves into suitable customers in order to queue up for the privilege of using the banks. Meanwhile, the anti-usury discourse offers an alternative source of honour for the financially-excluded, but the Muslims who used that discourse often found themselves nevertheless borrowing at interest (or saving with interest, via the Government Samurdhi savings scheme). People feel tension when they experience these contradictions. Researchers using post-structuralist methodologies, such as discourse analysis, can explore the deeper meanings learned during interviews. This sheds further light upon the ethnically-differentiated patterns evident in the secondary data.

CHAPTER SEVEN

North African Immigrants in France Farid Aitsiselmi

M

igration is a global phenomenon that creates domestic issues of cohesion, national citizenship and integration. Europe has seen numerous debates over recent decades about the unifying values, cohesion and identity of some countries, and the disintegration of federal states into smaller nation-states [see Allcock, chapter 9]. The issue of national identity, and whether or not it is compatible with cultural diversity, has been central to the French debate on immigration, especially in relation to education. This debate has concerned how to integrate non-European groups, and more especially those from Muslim countries, which are perceived as a threat to national identity. This chapter adopts a perspective from the margins, examining the part that the North African migrant population has played in the recent development of the notion of French citizenship. This has shifted from a centralized model of national identity, based on total assimilation, to a multicultural approach, which recognizes cultural and religious differences, similar to the cultural pluralist model adopted in Britain to deal with diversity in its migrant population [see Macey, chapter 8].

The origin of the French Muslim community The French Republican model of integration, whose objective is to assimilate both regional minorities within France but also migrants from the rest of the world into a national project with a single language and a homogenous cultural identity, seems to have shown its limits. Unlike previous waves of migrants from Europe, Muslim populations that migrated to France, especially from North Africa, have constituted a cultural minority,

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demanding that their cultural and religious difference should be recognized as part and parcel of their French citizenship. France has a long history of widespread immigration which was originally defined in terms of economic and demographic criteria. According to Silverman, among the major western countries ‘only North America and Canada have experienced a more profound immigration than France’.1 Similarly, Hargreaves claims that after the US imposed tight immigration quotas in the 1920s, ‘France was the most important country of immigration in the industrialized world’.2 The period of the 19th. C., and up until WWI, was a time of rapid industrialization and profound demographic crisis that required a larger labour force than could be provided solely by national manpower. Successive governments implemented immigration policies aiming to compensate the French demographic deficit by actively recruiting male migrant workers. Three main waves of immigration occurred during that period. The 19th. C. saw an influx of Belgians and Italians to work in the coal industry while the beginning of the 20th. C. saw the arrivals of Poles, Czechs and Slavs. The necessity to rebuild the country after the devastation of two World Wars resulted in immigration from Portugal, but also from North and West Africa. The Office National de l’Immigration [National Immigration Office] was created in 1945 to oversee the immigration policy with a view to encouraging European rather than African or Asian immigrants.3 However there was a substantial increase of immigrants from French colonies, particularly from Algeria, who had right of entry and residence in France as citizens from overseas departments. Bilateral agreements were signed with Morocco and Tunisia, and the Evian Agreement in 1962, which marked the end of the Algerian war of independence, maintained the principle of free circulation of people between the two countries.4 With the economic recession of late 1960s and the oil crises in the 1970s, the French government officially ended its labour migration programme but immigration continued in the form of family re-unification.5 Until then the majority of immigrants came from countries which shared with France a tradition of

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Catholicism, while the latter came from Muslim countries. From then on, immigration was no longer seen as an economic necessity, but also as a social problem of assimilation and cultural balance. Fears were being expressed about the social problems caused by North African immigrants due to their concentration in so-called ghetto towns [cités ghettos] in certain suburbs around the main cities. It was claimed that the national identity was threatened because the number of ‘unassimilable’ foreigners had surpassed a certain percentage of the population called the ‘threshold of tolerance’ [le seuil de tolerance].67 The theory of the threshold of tolerance is based on ethnic criteria as it implies the cultural homogeneity of France. Its objectives were to avoid concentrations of foreign populations and the creation of ghettos which are seen as ‘phenomena usually associated with an American-type or Anglo-Saxon development which is alien to the French tradition’.8 In France, the Anglo-Saxon model of integration has been reduced to two words: ghettos and quotas. In the 1980s immigration became a major political issue as the ‘second generation’ youth [les jeunes de la deuxième generation] became the focus of debates about national identity and citizenship. Unlike their parents, they appeared as a permanent - rather than a temporary - presence of immigrants, although legally they were French nationals. Two principles govern the attribution of French nationality: ‘jus sanguini’ by which citizenship is acquired through filiation and ‘jus soli’, which entitles children of immigrants to citizenship by birth within the national territory. This automatic right was modified in the mid-1980s and reaffirmed by the Nationality Commission in 1988. The socialist government which assumed power in 1981 was prepared to acknowledge cultural pluralism and to move away from the previous policies of assimilation by introducing the notion of the ‘right to be different’ [Droit à la différence]. It recognized the right of minorities to maintain their distinctive cultural identities while being incorporated into a French ‘pluralist’ society [La France au Pluriel].9 In public debates over immigration, the term ‘insertion’ replaced ‘assimilation’ because

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of its echoes of old colonial policies. Immigrants were expected to incorporate themselves into French society. The majority of Muslim immigrants living in France are North Africans or their offspring, their presence being the direct result of French colonial rule over Algeria (1830-1962) Tunisia (1881-1956) and Morocco (1912-1956). The debate over national identity saw the rise of the National Front party, led by Jean-Marie Le Pen, on an antiimmigrant platform which presents immigrants as the source of all the social problems facing France, but also as a threat to national cohesion (and to national security since the terrorist attack on the United States on 11 September 2001). This point of view was developed in a number of studies published in the 1980s.10 Gurfinkel warned in 1997 that there was still ‘a strong possibility of France’s Islamisization over the coming thirty to fifty years’ due to four factors: ‘the high demographic rates of French Muslims, their aloofness from mainstream society, their increasing assertiveness, and the growing appeal of Islam to nonMuslims’.11 Islam in France has often been presented in threatening terms such as ‘Europe’s largest community’ or ‘the second largest religion in France in this mainly Catholic country’.12 The ‘headscarf affairs’ Under the policy of ‘the right to be different’, minority groups were allowed free right of association and the government offered financial support to independent cultural associations of immigrant origin. But this does not seem to have resulted in the better integration of French nationals of North African origin into the French nation-state. The French multicultural football team who won the World Cup in 1998 may have appeared as a model for integration, but the French vs. Algeria match in October 2001 - three weeks after the 11 September terrorist attack - confirmed ‘the misgivings of those wondering whether Muslims in France could represent a threat to the Republic’.13 The organizers had hoped to showcase the success of republican integration but some fans booed the French national anthem,

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threw objects at two government ministers and ran onto the field, forcing the cancellation of the game. Adherence to the Muslim dress code also became a matter of symbolic significance, used to warn against the Islamization of France. Incidents such as the ‘headscarf affairs’, which have been ongoing since 1989 - when three Muslim schoolgirls refused to remove their headscarf during classes in Creil near Paris - are clear signs of widespread anxieties over the compatibility of Islamic culture with French norms. ‘The headscarf was symptomatic of a wider crisis in France. This is a crisis of the nation-state’.14 Again in 2003, in Aubervillier near Paris, two girls were excluded from their school for having refused to take off their headscarf. These cases have resulted in passionate debates about religious rights and the French secular tradition, which culminated in the law passed in February 2004 making it illegal to wear all ‘ostentatious religious insignia’ in state institutions.15 To counter the impression of Islamophobia and cultural discrimination within the Muslim community, the law also prohibits public school students from wearing Jewish skullcaps and large Christian crosses. The French secular tradition, which is applied today, has its origins in a set of historical circumstances that are quite different from the present situation of global population movement.16 This law seems to indicate that the processes of assimilation are still very much alive in 21st. C. France. Assimilation means that all differences between French nationals must be erased and the headscarf is seen as a remaining sign of alterity which needs to be assimilated. It is difficult to know exactly how many Muslims live in France because, in conformity with the republican notion of citizenship, the state does not collect religious or ethnic census data. Unlike the British approach, which is based on ethnic origin and the rights of ethnic minorities within the national community, the French conception is founded on the acquisition of rights through individual assimilation within the nation. Contrary to the United States or Great Britain, France has traditionally viewed the retention of ethnic identity as an obstacle to both integration and national solidarity. France’s long tradition of equating French citizenship with equal rights has

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meant that the government does not track ethnic origins in official statistics. In official terms, the important consideration is whether people do or do not have French nationality. The official classification in France is based on nationality: a person is either a national (once he or she has acquired French nationality) or a foreigner.17 Statistics show that the number of foreigners has been stable since the end of the WWI, when it reached 6% of the population. In the last census in 1999, there were over four million immigrants in France, representing 7.4 %.18 However, in France the distinction between ‘national’ and ‘foreigner’ is confused by the popular and political blurring of the term ‘foreigner’ [étranger] and ‘immigrant’ [immigré]. The term immigrant is frequently used to refer to those of nonEuropean origins, particularly North Africans and their children. So that what has become known as the problem of immigration ‘can designate specific people irrespective of their nationality who are defined as a threat to national unity and national identity’.19 The term ‘immigrant’ has become ‘synonymous with “Arab” in the minds of many French persons, connoting Muslims of North African origin…Even their children who were born in France and have French nationality are not yet considered as legitimate French citizens’.20 The far-right party has adopted the notion of ‘difference’ as a tool of race-based exclusion, arguing that by clinging to their differences and refusing to assimilate non-French elements were destroying the homogeneity of France and French culture. The vast majority of politicians rejected the National Front platform but a consensus is apparent that because of their origin - African - and their religion - Islam - immigrants from North African countries posed specific problems of integration.21 The rejection of any idea of ethnic or cultural separatism is expressed in the terminological change of the late 1980s when the policy of ‘assimilation’ was replaced by a concept of ‘integration’. Integration is an individualistic approach between assimilation and insertion. It emphasizes individual integration and rejects institutionally recognized minorities, but the term remains ambiguous as it can be interpreted as a synonym of either ‘assimilation’ or of ‘insertion’. It also emphasizes the

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responsibility of the host community to take suitable measures to eliminate discrimination and exclusion, and to facilitate inclusion into the national community. The heated arguments about the nature of French social unity under the new cultural conditions, with Islam perceived as a threat to French or western values, resulted in the setting up of the Council for Integration [Haut Conseil à l’Intégration] in December 1989. Its mission was to recommend ways of integrating immigrants more effectively into society. Politicians say that there are between five and seven million Muslims in France.22 Their number is generally estimated however at between four and five million and the National Institute of Demographic Studies (INED) has put the figure at 3.7 million.23 This represents a relatively small percentage of the total population - evaluated at 58.5 million people according to the 1999 census.24 So why has the issue of immigration shifted from the margins to the centre of the political debate? Social visibility and the ‘Beur’ movement The face of immigration has changed from an immigration of men, on temporary work and residence permits living together in hostels, to settled families who present a far greater degree of social visibility. Cesari claims that it is the visibility of the immigrants from North Africa that ‘has shed new light on the difficulties of integrating immigrants and managing diversity’.25 Immigration was seen as a temporary phenomenon responding to economic requirements. The migrant population represented a peripheral presence in French society limited to the suburbs of large cities. In the past thirty years, however, the population has taken on a more permanent character with the reunification of families in France. This has resulted in the existence on French soil of identifiable ethnic communities who maintain internal social cohesion through networks of cultural or religious associations. Moore analysed this process in the city of Marseilles where ‘the North African immigrants gradually presented the main characteristics of an ethnic minority whose common referent was to Islam more than their country of origin’.26

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Nowadays the migrant population includes the same number of women as men. By far the main reason for immigration is now family reunification, which accounted for 76% of the entries in 1999.27 This change from an economic perspective on immigration - immigrants as a simple labour force - to a sociocultural presence - families settled in France increased the perception of the failure of assimilation processes among the French population. Breaking with the French model of integration that emphasized French identity over ethnic identities, new terms have emerged to identify the North African community. For instance ‘Arabs’, ‘Franco-Arabs’, ‘second generation’ or ‘persons born in France of immigrant parents’ etc.28 Since the 1980s the younger generation rather than their parents have become the symbol of the focus on the problems of integration. The young people born of North African immigrants refer to themselves as ‘Beur’ or ‘Reubeu’, which are both backslang terms for ‘Arab’.29 They are ‘less willing than their parents to live as second-class citizens’ in their own country, since they were born in France.30 The widespread social exclusion and discrimination in employment encountered by people of non-European background in France is well-documented and statistics have shown that ‘North African Muslim youth experience persistent unemployment, even though most are French citizens’.31 The Beur first came to public attention as multiculturalists in 1983 when they organized a series of peaceful rallies and marches for cultural equality and civic rights, such as the ‘March for equality and against racism’ [Marche pour l’égalité et contre le racisme] which came to be known as ‘La Marche des Beurs’. The emergence of this movement has brought about important changes in the debate of French citizenship. The title of a book by Weil, published in 2002, wondering ‘What is a French Citizen?’ indicates that this notion is no longer as clear as it appeared to be. The Beur express the fact that they are both French and North African but also neither one nor the other. They reject the mechanisms of assimilation as a violation of their basic human rights and celebrate their hybrid identity as an expression of their French citizenship. They specifically reject

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terms such as ‘second generation’ or even ‘third generation immigrants’ since they are French nationals by birth.32 The French Republican model The founding principles of the French nation-state - the integration of peripheral populations into the national project were expressed during the French revolution in 1789 well before the rise of large-scale immigration into France. The so-called ‘Republican model’, initiated by that branch of revolutionary republicanism known as Jacobinism, seeks to erase regional differences but also ethnic and cultural origins in the second generation, so that the children of immigrants cannot be distinguished from the children of native French parents [Français de souche].33 From a cultural point of view, Jacobinism is presented as ‘a monolithic destroyer of pluralism and differences’.34 Unlike the British and American models, which are founded on the recognition of minorities and the institutionalization of race relations, the French approach establishes the acquisition of rights through individual assimilation within the nation. Although the problems are substantially the same, in terms of the formulation of questions of migration and rights, the conceptual framework in France or the ‘French model’ is characterized by ‘notions of universalism, assimilation and individualism while the Anglo-Saxon model is based on particularism, difference and collectivity’.35 The recognition of the concept of ‘race’ is one of the reasons why the so-called ‘Anglo-Saxon model’ is rejected by French leaders. The French refuse the ‘race relations’ approach because they regard the institutionalization of the category ‘race’ as a way to separate people into distinct communities leading to divisions due to the recognition of communities rather than to cohesion based on individuality. Noirel claims that ‘to classify people as “non-Hispanic whites”, “Hispanics”, “Blacks” and “Asians” would be considered racist in France, evidence of discrimination among French citizens’.36 Similarly, Weil explains that for French politicians and scholars cultural pluralism is viewed as a threat to national unity and for them the recognition

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of ethnic groups in France ‘would represent abandonment of republicanism in favour of the Anglo-Saxon model which recognizes even fosters, communal identities’.37 Although a number of studies have challenged the myth of a monolithic French culture and identity in the formation of the French nation-state, France has traditionally emphasized the homogeneity of the nation rather than its differences.38 It is presented as a unified nation into which successive flows of migrants have become absorbed through the process of assimilation. The current context As Laurence puts it: ‘to suggest that the Muslims form a coherent, unitary “community” is a taboo act of reification, inconsistent with the Jacobin tradition which discourages any articulation of interest as group interest’.39 However, it can be said that the French have implicitly recognized the limits of dogmatic assimilationism in their attempt to institutionalize Islam in France. In 2003, French Muslims have been recognized as a separate community with the creation of the Islamic Council of France [Conseil Francais du Culte Musulman] as the representative interlocutor for all Muslims at the national level, placing them on an equal footing with the other main religions, which already have unified representative bodies. Nicolas Sarkozy, the interior minister, who championed the creation of the Muslim council after years of negotiations with the various Muslim factions of France, said that ‘France’s Muslims, like France’s Catholics, France’s Protestants and France’s Jews, are now represented by a single institution and can enjoy the same rights as the other religions’.40 The Islamic Council is modelled on similar bodies created for the other faiths two hundred years ago.41 It may impose a measure of unity on France’s Muslims and it will at the same time give them more political importance. Until then various Islamic groups dealt with the French authorities separately, making it difficult for governments to engage in dialogue with the Muslim community as a whole.42 There was no single organization acting as the interlocutor of all

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Muslims in France, partly because Sunni Islam has no clerical organization comparable to the Catholic Church, but also because Muslims were organized in federations along lines of national origin. The Association of the Paris Mosque [Grande Mosquée de Paris] was mainly under Algerian influence while the Union des Organisation Islamiques de France was an organization with Moroccan and Egyptian ties. Laurence mentions that ‘there are also various Turkish and African religious associations in addition to small cliques around individual religious or political personalities’.43 The government hopes that the creation of a single Islamic body will help to incorporate into French society a type of Islam that would be independent of its roots in any one country of origin and to have a reliable contact partner. The government also hopes to contain French Muslims within a clear French organizational structure that will stop the influence of global Islamic extremist movements. The Council has decided to set as its first task the formation of imams (Muslim clerics) who will not only be French-speaking but also French-bred. Foreign-based Islam is seen as dangerous because it is motivated not only by religion, but also by a wish to exert political influence over French Muslims.44 In exchange for providing financial support to build a mosque ‘foreign countries impose their preachers who often do not speak French and whose view of the world does not correspond to that of the western world in particular concerning the equality of women’.45 Since the 1905 law forbids the state from financing religious buildings ‘most Muslims worship in flats or garages’ turned into prayer rooms.46 Pierre Bédié, the junior government minister [Secrétaire d’ Etat] who first raised the idea of state funding for mosques, said he wanted to ‘bring French Islam out of the cellars and into the light because praying in tower block basements and draughty hangars is a form of social exclusion that acts as a brake to integration’.47 This resulted in the greater alienation of the young generation and the creation of the Islamic Council is seen as a means of guaranteeing respect for secularism, and ensuring strict separation of church and state in the public domain. But it is also a tool to bring an increasingly militant Muslim population

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into the mainstream. The government hopes that moderates would control the organization in the long run but it may also give extremists from the global Muslim fundamentalist movement a platform from which to voice their demands.48 The French presidential elections in May 2002 highlighted how contentious and complicated the immigration issue has become. The elections returned the highest vote ever for the National Front and eliminated the main opposition party (the Socialist Party) from the second round of the presidential race. The results indicate that the immigration question is far from being resolved and that citizenship and nationality will continue to be a political issue for some time to come.49 According to Simon, the far-right success highlighted ‘the failure of other political parties to embrace the French cultural pluralism embodied in the more than five million people of Arab origin and growing communities from other parts of the world’.50 Despite Chirac’s victory over the National Front, the issue of immigration and national identity is unlikely to go away. European integration has displaced the nation-state as the major political forum for immigration issues, and has influenced the ways in which national and ethnic characteristics could be perceived. A supra-national citizenship is emerging, and an obligation placed on member states to comply with the EU resolutions in favour of cultural minorities. In fact, the French legislation of the 1980s concerning ‘the right to be different’ was the result of European initiatives. In 1961, the Council of Europe recommended that minority members ‘cannot be prohibited their right… to have their own cultural life, to use their own language, to open their own schools, and to be educated in the language of their choice’.51 In France, this resolution benefited regional minorities (such as Bretons, Occitans etc) but also non-territorial groups of migrant origins (such as the Beurs). However, Favell argues that the EU has not yet found a way ‘to fashion a concerted vision that might be able to build a European public consensus on minority questions’.52 For example, once EU regulations are applied, the Muslim girls involved in the headscarf affairs will be able to take the French government before the European Court. Article Nine of the

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European Convention on Human Rights states that people have the freedom to ‘manifest their religion in public’.53 Conclusion The immigration of the last three decades has challenged the French state’s assimilationist approach to citizenship.54 Tensions still exist between the inclusive ideals of citizenship and the reality that complete assimilation has not been achieved for many of today’s immigrants and their descendants. Noirel shows that the issues facing French Muslims today are not new.55 At the beginning of the 20th. C., Italians and Polish immigrants were branded as ‘unassimilable’. However the total integration today of these European groups indicates that the assimilationist processes of the French system have been successful, and recent events suggest that they will continue to be effective. The political mobilization of the Beur movement in the 1980s ‘developed a new North African elite with increasing prominence in national and local politics’ and a visible and prosperous Beur elite emerged in politics, art, cinema, literature, and academia.56 The term beurgeoisie has been coined to describe high-profile and economically-successful Beurs whose presence shows that Muslims in France have indeed accommodated to the republican and secular values of France.57 At the time, the government’s appointment of Mr. Aissa Dermouche, the first Muslim government senior official [Préfet] in January 2004 shows the willingness of the authorities to facilitate the integration of the Muslim community in the national project.58 In that context, the creation of the French Muslim Council recently can be seen as one step towards the integration of the Muslim community. However, it is clear that today national values have been called into question and Dermouche’s appointment appears to be a move towards recognition of cultural pluralism in France. In November 2003, the interior minister, Nicolas Sarkozy, broke a political taboo and ‘touched off a fierce public debate by arguing in favour of the practice to help raise Muslims out of poor suburban ghettos and give them a place in French society’.59 The appointment has raised the question of whether this was a case

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of ‘positive discrimination’ in a country which does not recognize minorities.60 France has traditionally seen positive discrimination as ‘an ill-conceived American invention that celebrates differences and encourages divisiveness’.61 Defending the values of the Republic, President Jacques Chirac denied that the appointment was a case of positive discrimination but at the same time spoke of the ‘deserved promotion of a talented individual of immigrant origin’.62 In the weeks following his appointment, Mr. Dermouche was the target of three terrorist attacks which were blamed either on racist far-right militants or Islamic fundamentalists ‘who might have considered the 57-year-old academic had sold out by accepting such a high-ranking job’.63 In either case, these events show the extent of the ethnic and religious tensions that are still prevalent in France. The causes of many problems in France today lie in the fact that the debates on immigration have focussed on integration and difference as being irreconcilable opposites. National identity should be considered the result of a continual process altered by newcomers rather than fixed in history.64 The current debates about immigration in France are indicative of a crisis in the structures of the nation-state. Discussions about the meaning and content of citizenship have centred on the emergence of the so-called multicultural society in which religious or cultural groups appear to challenge the fundamental principles of the French Republic. According to Sciolino, France finds itself ‘caught between the impulse to respond to the needs of its large ethnic Arab and Muslim population and the desire to reject any practice that threatens the French republican ideal of equality’.65 Concerns over French national identity, and whether or not it is threatened by cultural diversity are still very much in the foreground of all discussions. The issue will continue to attract political attention in the years to come, firstly through the association of Islam with terrorist actions on the global scene and secondly through the possible enlargement of the EU to include Turkey, a country with a majority Muslim population.

CHAPTER EIGHT

South Asian Migrants in Bradford Marie Macey

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owever we define globalization [see Lister, chapter 1 and Tribe, chapter 2], it is not only about economics, but about people, and, increasingly, their movement from one part of the globe to another. This has resulted in a world in which most societies are diverse in cultural, ethnic and religious terms, and this, combined with a technological and communications revolution, has massively enriched the lives of individuals, communities and societies. However, the process of integrating people of non-European origins into Western European societies has not been unproblematic and all member states of the European Union are characterized by varying levels of ethnically based inequality and conflict.1 This is despite the range of approaches adopted by governments to the increased heterogeneity of their populations, from the assimilationist policies of France [see Aitsiselmi, chapter 7] to the cultural pluralist ones of the United Kingdom. The relative failure of multiculturalism in Western Europe is acknowledged in Melotti’s statement that an impasse has been reached that has led to debates about a new, multicultural model of integration.2 In this chapter, I examine the way that Britain has chosen to deal with the increased diversity of its population since World War II and the impact of this on ethnic minorities, majorities and society itself. I focus particularly on South Asian migrants, and within this category, populations of Pakistani origin and Muslim faith in the Bradford District. This is because this group has, arguably, maintained a distinctive cultural and religious identity over time, thus challenging assumptions about the globalization (or Americanization) of culture.3 In addition, the experiences and actions of Pakistani Muslims in Britain are, arguably, significantly different to those of other migrant

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groups.4 For instance, they have made more demands and been involved in more protests and demonstrations than any other minority group in British history; they are the target of widespread hostility, sometimes termed Islamophobia, and they have made less economic or social progress than any other ethnic or faith group.5 These facts raise a number of questions. For instance, is there a connection between the maintenance of a minority culture and lack of progress in mainstream society? Is there a point beyond which cultural and/or religious diversity is not tolerated? What effect does a society’s approach to ethnic heterogeneity have on a minority group’s experiences and behaviour? Finally, given the changes that are currently taking place in Pakistani Muslim communities (see below), is there a limit to the extent and time that parents can impose a minority culture on a younger generation that is part of different local, national and international cultures?6 Before discussing these issues further, I will first look at the facts of ethnic diversity in contemporary Britain, trace the background to this and examine the strategies adopted for dealing with it. Ethnic diversity in Britain Britain has long been a heterogeneous society, its ethnic diversity being traceable back to the Angles, Celts, Danes, Huguenots, Jutes, Picts, Romans, Saxons and Vikings. Contemporary Britain includes people of Irish, English, Welsh and Scottish nationalities (pointing to the complexity of the relationship between nation and state); it also consists of a number of populations of minority status in a numerical sense, but which constitute sizeable groupings. These include people of African, African-Caribbean, Arab, Bangladeshi, Chinese, Cypriot, Guyanese, Indian, Latvian, Lithuanian, Pakistani and Polish origins. Interestingly, however, there is a tendency to (inaccurately) equate the concept of ethnicity with visible minorities, i.e. those who are recognisably ‘different’ in terms of skin colour or other markers, such as style of dress, which identify them as being of non-European origin. Current statistics indicate that on this dimension, Britain is becoming increasingly diverse though there is wide variation across the country in terms

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of settlement, with ten geographical areas (including the county of West Yorkshire in which Bradford is located) accounting for 85% of the total minority ethnic populations of England and Wales.7 Thus, for instance, people of Pakistani heritage comprise 14.5% of the population in Bradford, compared with only 1.4% of England and Wales as a whole.8 Table 8.1 Ethnic composition: Bradford, 1991-20019 Ethnicity Bangladeshi Black Indian Mixed Pakistani White Other

England and Wales 2001(%) 0.5 1.1 2.0 1.3 1.4 91.3 1.0

Bradford 1991(%) 0.8 1.2 2.6 9.9 84.4 2.4

Bradford 2001(%) 1.1 0.9 2.7 1.5 14.5 78.3 1.2

Note: the majority ethnic group in Bradford (misleadingly labelled ‘white’) includes people whose origins lie in Byelorussia, Estonia, Hungary, Ireland, Italy, Germany, Latvia, Lithuania and Poland. There are also a significant number of Eastern European refugees and asylum seekers.

The making of multi-ethnic Britain Although there have been black people in Britain for over five hundred years, like many other Western European countries, Britain only became significantly multi-ethnic around fifty years ago. This was when post-WWII restructuring and expansion necessitated the recruitment of overseas labour - which was done reluctantly, and only when European labour proved insufficient. The overwhelmingly male migrants who came to Britain were viewed as units of labour and, despite their possession of British citizenship, it was assumed that they would return to their countries of origin when they were no longer needed. Migrants were discriminated against in the workplace, lived in appalling conditions and suffered ignorance, prejudice and outright racism in society. Because many of them subscribed to the ‘myth of return’, they tolerated this with little, or no, complaint, believing

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that they could amass enough money to return to much improved living conditions in their homelands.10 The recruitment of overseas labour was, of course, linked to an earlier period of globalization during which Britain and other Western European countries colonized much of the world. Thus, when confronted by serious gaps in the labour market, Britain turned to its colonies and former colonies to fulfil its needs. By the late 1940s recruitment campaigns in the Caribbean had brought black people to Britain where they did work that white people were no longer willing to do. They were followed during the 1950s by migrant workers from the Indian sub-continent who generally took unskilled or semi-skilled jobs, significantly in industries that were in decline, such as textiles. Britain’s response to ethnic and racial diversity Because it was widely assumed that migrant workers were a temporary feature of the British landscape, it was not felt necessary to make any special provision for them, such as housing. By the early 1960s, however, families had begun to settle here and it was realized that African-Caribbean and Asian Britons were ‘here to stay’.11 It was then acknowledged that ‘something had to be done’, at least about non-English speaking children in British schools. So began a series of interventions, defined by Mullard as assimilation, integration and pluralism which corresponded with changing ideologies at government level.12 These interventions are deeply revealing of attitudes and have had long-term consequences for racialized relations in Britain. Assimilation (1950s - 1965) During the assimilation phase, the concern was to absorb immigrant children into ‘the British way of life’ as quickly as possible. It was felt that a harmonious nation could only be created by minimising difference and that the best way to do this was to instil the English language and culture into black and Asian children. This resulted in children being sent to reception centres, language units or, in the 1960s and 1970s, dispersing them via ‘bussing’. In wider society there was growing

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antagonism to immigration, fuelled by politicians and the introduction of restrictive immigration laws directed towards Commonwealth citizens (visible minorities). In 1964 a local election candidate made overt use of ‘the race card’ with the slogan: ‘If you want a nigger for a neighbour, vote Labour’. Integration (1965 - early 1970s) The integration phase saw the government demanding a shift from the ideology of assimilation to one of ‘equal opportunities within a framework of cultural diversity’.13 This constituted an acknowledgement that ‘the problem’ did not rest entirely with minorities, but that white racism was implicated. In schools, however, the approach was to teach indigenous children to be tolerant of ‘other’ cultures. In 1971, Bernard Coard published a damning indictment of racism in education in his book How the West Indian Child is made Educationally Subnormal in the British School System.14 However, at the same time as the government was publicly promoting integration, individual MPs were doing little to further the cause of good racialized relations. In 1968, one warned of ‘rivers of blood’ flowing in the streets as a consequence of lax immigration laws. The government also continued to target black and Asian people for more restrictive immigration controls. In 1971, primary immigration was virtually ended with entry being restricted to family reunification. Cultural pluralism (1970s - 1980s) Cultural pluralism represented a significant shift from the assumption of a culturally and politically united society to acceptance of distinct cultural/ethnic groups in Britain. The government took a strong stance against racial discrimination and stated that the school curriculum must take account of the multi-racial nature of Britain. In 1979, it also launched an official investigation into the educational under-achievement of minority ethnic children. The Swann Report provided a semi-official legitimation for tackling prejudice in schools with the aim of promoting cultural pluralism in education and society.15 Meanwhile, public antagonism to visible minorities continued to be fuelled at the state level, including the distinction

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made in 1977 between British citizens and British overseas citizens. Racialized relations deteriorated and in 1980-81 there were a number of urban uprisings, termed ‘race riots’ by the media. These resulted in an official enquiry, the report of which called for an urgent response from the education system.16 From multiculturalism to anti-racism From the 1960s to the 1980s, education engaged in a form of multiculturalism ‘...based on the premise that the key issue facing schools is how to create tolerance for black minorities and their cultures in a white nation now characterized by cultural diversity or cultural pluralism’.17 This was despite such evidence of racism in schools as that published by the Commission for Racial Equality Learning in Terror which pointed to the widespread abuse of black and Asian students by white ones, including physical attacks requiring hospital treatment.18 The situation in schools was, of course, a reflection of that in wider society and by the 1980s an anti-racist movement had developed, partly as a result of dissatisfaction with the failure of multiculturalism to eliminate racism in schools and society. This viewed racism as embedded in social structures and institutions and proposed that institutional ideologies and practices must be challenged and links made with other oppressions based on class and gender. However, a second publication from the same period, Murder in the Playground, reports an inquiry into the murder on school premises of a thirteen year-old Asian boy by a white one. The report, written by committed anti-racists, castigated the anti-racist policies of the school and local education authority, labelling them ‘doctrinaire, divisive, ineffectual and counterproductive’.19 This raises questions about effective strategies for achieving racial equality and positive interethnic relations to which I will return. … and back again It was not only such disastrous events as the murder in a school playground noted above that gave anti-racist supporters pause for thought, but during the 1980s and 1990s a series of articles were published that were critical of both the theory and practice

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of anti-racism. These pointed to theoretical and conceptual inadequacies, including its essentialising of black people through its failure to deconstruct ethnic categories; its failure to locate anti-racism within an economic context or to properly consider the intersections and interactions of class and gender, its ignoring of Asian and religious identity, and its inability to include the growing number of people of ‘mixed parentage’/dual heritage.20 Thus, by the 1990s, anti-racism had ceded the ground to multiculturalism, albeit a multiculturalism claimed by its adherents to incorporate the best of anti-racism and, through its emphasis on access to power, to constitute a move towards genuine cultural pluralism.21 Minorities, anti-racism and multiculturalism Before bringing this account up to date it is pertinent to ask what minority communities and individual black and Asian people were doing while the government was changing at least its rhetoric in the sphere of racialized relations? At the risk of some over-simplification, the answer is that there was considerable divergence between black and Asian populations. Though some Asian people, notably young and of Indian origin, were involved in various anti-racist struggles, it was generally young Caribbean people who were at the forefront, inspired first by the Civil Rights Movement, then the Black Power Movement in the United States and the Anti-apartheid and ‘Black is Beautiful’ campaigns in South Africa. This led to a self-definition as ‘black’, aimed at uniting all peoples who were subjected to racism. It was not, however, a concept that was generally accepted by people of Asian origin, many of whom were, in any case, far more concerned with establishing what Ballard terms ‘ethnic colonies’ in British cities and reasserting the norms and traditions of their homelands.22 This is partially explicable by the different stages of settlement of black versus Asian groups, but it is, nevertheless, significant in terms of the trajectories taken by various ethnic groups.

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The reproduction of Pakistani culture in Britain I noted in the introduction to this chapter that Pakistani Muslim people have maintained their culture of origin more distinctively and for longer than have other minority groups. Why and how they have achieved this is a matter of some interest and, in trying to understand it, I will focus particularly on the Pakistani Muslim population in Bradford. This is for three reasons: first, because I have direct knowledge of this community; second, because Bradford has been at the forefront of Muslim demands in Britain, and thirdly, because the city has had the most violent public disturbances and riots on mainland Britain in twenty years, perpetrated mainly by Pakistani Muslim men. Pakistani Muslims in Bradford Bradford is the fourth largest Metropolitan District in England with a total population of 467,665 people of diverse ethnic origins (see Table 8.1 above). It is a poor city, having suffered long-term industrial decline with the eclipse of the woollen mills from around 1970 (in which many Pakistanis worked) and additional losses in engineering and manufacturing industry in the 1980s. There are high levels of unemployment, particularly among youth, and significantly among Muslims. This is linked to low educational attainment and poor skill levels. The Pakistani Muslim community is over-represented in areas of stress, characterized by unemployment, poor education, poor health, over-crowded housing, crime, drug dealing, firearms and prostitution. Bradford’s population is young, with 23.6% under sixteen, and growing, though there are significant disparities between ethnic groups. It is predicted that by 2011, the white population will have decreased by 6% and the Pakistani one increased by 71.7%.23 The largest minority ethnic group originates from the Mirpur region of Azad (free) Kashmir, a rural area that has historically been one of the poorest in that country.24 There are smaller populations from Bangladesh and the Punjab, the latter including Sikhs and Hindus, and there is a small population of African Caribbean people. Pakistani settlement was, and is, mainly in owner- (often multi-) occupied terraced housing in the

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inner city, with other ethno-religious groups being more dispersed.25 Cultural continuity The arrival of women and children from the Indian subcontinent in the 1960s and 1970s had a major impact on Pakistani life in Britain. It contributed to the demise of the ‘myth of return’, ensured the re-imposition of biradari control over male sexuality and provided an impetus to self-definition on religious, rather than ethnic grounds.26 Most migration from the Indian sub-continent took the form of ‘chain migration’: ‘…the vast majority of migrants arrived not as unconnected individuals, but in cascading chains along increasingly well-worn paths of kinship and friendship’.27 This resulted in the extremely unequal Asian settlement across the country noted above. This, in turn, means that social structures and kin networks in, for instance, rural Mirpur, had (and have) a strong influence on social relationships and organization in, say, urban Bradford. Ballard observes that South Asian settlements have a parochial character because ‘…specific and highly localized castes, sects and kinship groups in the sub-continent have given rise to - and are now umbilically linked with - equally tightly structured British-based ethnic colonies’.28 This has implications for inter- and intra-ethnic relationships, building on the social exclusion caused by racism of British society, in carrying an impetus towards self-exclusion and the continuous reproduction of Pakistani culture and religion. Both Ballard and Shaw observe that a strong influence on this is the rejection of British culture by Pakistani Muslims and their deep concern to avoid what they view as the corrupting influence of the West.29 In Bradford, the residential segregation that largely came about through the historical process of chain migration is one of the factors that has facilitated the striking cultural continuity in the Pakistani Muslim community. The provision for all cultural and religious needs at the level of the locality means that there is no reason for people to travel outside their neighbourhoods, other than for work, and hence inter-ethnic mixing is rare. Other

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factors that have influenced cultural and religious continuity include the:  maintenance of close inter-continental ties with Mirpur through modern communication systems and ease of travel;  existence of Muslim transnational networks and associations involved in the production and consumption of culture, media, politics and religion;30  practice of arranged inter-continental marriages, with around 50% of Bradford marriages every year involving a partner from Mirpur;31  lack of access to English on the part of many women, linked to intercontinental marriage and residential segregation;  employment of Mirpuri imams in Bradford mosques;32  antipathy to British culture noted above that results in children and young people being discouraged from mixing with ‘Westerners’;33  activities of groups such as Hizb-ut-Tahrir, whose members specifically target young people and whose literature is described by Lewis as ‘…inflammatory - antidemocratic, anti-zionist, anti-western, anti-Hindu, and anti-Sikh’; 34  existence of a number of other Muslim organizations that preach a strongly anti-Western gospel.35 Change over time It is clear from the preceding section that pressures towards cultural continuity in the Pakistani Muslim community in Bradford are extremely strong. Yet change is taking place, not merely because all cultures are dynamic, rather than static, but because the vast majority of young Pakistani people were born and/or mainly brought up in the UK and are, therefore, subject to influences that may have contradictory effects. This is particularly the case in a world of global communication, including the media and the internet.

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Any discussion of change over time in relation to Pakistani Muslims in Bradford has to take cognisance of marked gender differences. For example, young Pakistani Muslim men constitute the fastest growing category in British prisons and young Pakistani Muslim women have the highest rates of mental breakdown, self-harm and suicide.36 Young women are increasingly achieving educational qualifications and going on to further and higher education. Young men are not achieving well in educational terms and there is a significant rate of early school ‘drop out’ with consequent high levels of unemployment, street activity and involvement in prostitution and crime.37 It is also linked to the development among such young men of highly macho male identities and a brand of ethnic activism described by Ali as: ‘…aggressive and macho both in rhetoric and action ... [and enabling the conjoining of the] traditionalism of the old or lower middle class ... with the quasi-ethnic nationalism of male youth’.38 There are significant gender differences, too, between young men and women in relation to religion. Women demonstrate a deep commitment to their faith, and are (sometimes) able to use the Qur’an to argue for their rights as women and to resist pressures to marry men from Mirpur chosen by their parents. Many young men, on the other hand, have ceased to practise their faith, yet use it to justify the control of women, antagonism towards, and assaults on, non-Muslims - particularly gay men and Lesbians - and the burning of pubs and clubs.39 Others have developed a ‘purist’, separatist version of Islam that they use to promote antagonism towards non-Muslim individuals, groups and societies.40 Resistance to change, contradiction and conflict It is not surprising that many older people in the Pakistani Muslim community, including imams and parents, are highly resistant to a number of the changes in young people noted above. Thus, young women - even those at University - have their actions monitored and their freedom curtailed; there are more forced marriages in Bradford than the Home Office inquiry intimates; and there is an increasing use of gangs and

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‘bounty hunters’ to force women who have fled to return home.41 Afshah comments: ‘...there are many cases of daughters, wives or sisters being beaten to death, burned or grievously harmed by their kin for transgressing’.42 One of the consequences of the greater freedom afforded young Pakistani Muslim men compared with their female counterparts is that they are faced with higher levels of contradiction from a variety of sources. From within the community, they receive mixed messages about appropriate behaviour: on the one hand, Islam exhorts them to show respect for people and property; on the other, Pakistani Muslim men have engaged in a series of public demands and protests that have degenerated into disorder and violence. Examples include demands for the provision of halal meat in schools (1989); support for the fatwa declared against Salman Rushdie (1989); the local elections (1995) and the campaign against prostitution (1995). Finally, both the violent public disorder in 1995 and the riot in 2001 involved older men as well as young ones and the former had considerable community support. In other words, young Pakistani Muslim men born and/or brought up in Bradford are daily confronted by demands from family, community and mosque that are internally inconsistent. In terms of wider society, as young British people they are confronted by contradictions between the culture of home, community and mosque, and that of the ‘West’, and are as susceptible to the influences of youth culture (significantly North American) and global consumerism as any other young people. In addition, there are contradictions between some Islamic teaching (and the lived reality of home) and Western liberaldemocratic ideals, such as equal opportunities applying to women and homosexuals as well as black and Asian men. The above raises questions about the approach adopted by the state, both local and national, to the integration of people of non-European origin. In Bradford, the fact that so many public demonstrations and protests by Pakistani Muslim men have been accompanied by violent disorder has left a legacy of fear of offending the Muslim community. The Ouseley Report into racialized relations in the city referred to Muslim youth having

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developed a sense of immunity from the law and boasting that ‘the police daren’t touch them for fear they’ll riot’.43 More generally, it suggests that adoption of a multicultural or cultural pluralist approach gives minorities considerable confidence in articulating demands for ‘special’ treatment, whether in cultural or religious terms. But this situation raises a number of problems, some of which may be intrinsic to the ideology of multiculturalism itself. Some problems with multiculturalism i) sociology and ideology There have been many criticisms of multiculturalism from a sociological perspective, but - linked as it is with notions of racial justice - it is generally regarded as self-evidently positive. This highlights one of the problems that has permeated sociological analysis in the sphere of race and ethnicity since the 1960s, and continues to do so today. Put bluntly, the area quickly became politicized and confrontational, to the detriment of theoretical and conceptual rigour.44 Within the academic community, anyone dissenting from the dominant ideology is accused of at best detracting attention away from the ‘real’ problem of white racism, and at worst of being racist. Within minority communities, to the first accusation is added that of having been corrupted by Western influences. Beckett and Macey refer to ‘…the development of a “conspiracy of silence” between such diverse groups as minority ethnic men, male academics, professionals and the state’ and Afshah comments: ‘…a climate of fear and oppression has been created in this area which extends to research and scholarly pursuits’.45 ii) the treatment of women Okin highlighted a basic feminist concern when she asked in the title of an article published in 1997: Is Multiculturalism Bad for Women?46 She reiterated her position in 1999, replying to respondents to her thesis in an edited volume of the same title: I argue that many cultures oppress some of their members, in particular women, and that they are often able to

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socialize these oppressed members so that they accept, without question, their designated cultural status. I argue, therefore, that in the context of liberal states, when cultural or religious groups claim special rights - whether to be exercised by them together as a group or individually as members of that group - attention should be paid to the status of women within the culture or religion. This means that it is not enough for those representing the liberal state simply to listen to the requests of the self-styled group leaders. They must inquire into the point of view of the women, and to take especially seriously the perspective of the younger women.47 One might take issue with some of Okin’s criticisms, but they certainly have resonance in relation to multicultural practice in Britain, and the Pakistani Muslim community in particular. For, as noted above, both young and older men expend a considerable amount of time and energy in controlling women. This is not necessarily because Mirpuri culture is inherently more patriarchal than others, but because in all cultures women carry the main burden for transmitting culture and faith to future generations. And when minority groups are struggling to maintain tradition in an alien environment that exposes their children to conflicting norms and values, there is a logical concern to ensure that the guardians of this tradition (mothers) do not themselves become corrupted. Hence the concern to arrange marriages with partners from Mirpur and the focus on ‘guarding’ or ‘policing’ women. iii) liberal democracy and human rights There are, too, issues of a different order to those raised by Okin that have been debated at length by philosophers and political scientists. These raise some fundamental questions about the potentially negative impact of multiculturalism on liberal democracy, including some social rights that have been hard fought for. One example is the attempt by some Muslim students at the University of Bradford to impose a ban on alcohol at all student gatherings. Another concerns sexuality and

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the hostility and even violence towards gay men and lesbians expressed by some Muslim men in Bradford and justified by reference to the Qur’an. These are examples of minorities attempting to impose their cultural and/or religious definitions on to people who do not share that culture or faith, whether minorities or majorities. They raise questions that have farreaching consequences in a democratic context. iv) social stability Finally, there is a question that cuts to the root of multiculturalism. This is quite simply how much diversity can any society tolerate without fragmenting, if not disintegrating? All human social existence implies at least a minimum level of consensus, or commitment to shared norms, and in democracies there is a need to balance the rights conferred by citizenship of a society with the responsibilities that this demands.48 In this context, it seems logical to suggest that the greater the cultural or religious diversity, the more difficult it is to reach a balance, or consensus, between potentially conflicting rights. In reality, of course, there may be little or no tension between majority and minority cultures, but this is a matter for empirical investigation, not assumption. Conclusion: the future of multiculturalism in Britain In the Northern towns and cities of England, including - but not only in - Bradford, many young Pakistani Muslim men have adopted an exclusionist Islamic identity and engaged in violent public disorder.49 Simultaneously, many white people in such areas are voting for Far Right political parties as an expression of feelings of marginality and of being under threat from the growing number of Muslims in the locality, or in the belief that Pakistani Muslim communities receive preferential treatment from local authorities. Whatever the truth or otherwise of these perceptions, they are indicative of high levels of ethnic tension which twice in Bradford have exploded into violent and immensely damaging public disorder. It is a moot question whether multiculturalism has fuelled this, either by being insufficiently radical, or by being too radical, but what it has not

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done is to afford Pakistani Muslims social and economic gains, any more than it has prevented other ethnic or religious groups from achieving them. Nor has it eliminated institutional racism and violence in Britain. So what is the future for multiculturalism in Britain? There does not, of course, have to be any future, if the question means continued adherence to a particular set of policies with the ‘multicultural’ label. But there does have to be some means of achieving at least peaceful co-existence in our irrevocably heterogeneous society. A starting point, perhaps, is Mitchell and Russell’s statement that: ...the right to be different can never be unconditional. ... No society can maintain a position in which ‘anything goes’ at the cultural level within its various communities. On the one hand, substantial sections of the population still appear to be unwilling to accept as citizens minorities that are culturally distinct and visibly different from themselves. On the other hand, some elements within the black and minority ethnic communities apparently wish to live apart, rejecting the view that the internalisation of some shared values and common commitments is the duty of every citizen.50 To this I would add an observation made by Levy: ‘A cursory look at the world around us … suggests that ethnic and cultural pluralism are as inescapable as religious pluralism, that disagreements about justice are as prevalent as disagreements about the good life’.51 Taken together, Levy’s and Mitchell and Russell’s comments have a number of implications for multiculturalism - not as an ideology or approach to ethnic and religious heterogeneity, but as a fact of contemporary social reality. First and foremost, if Levy is correct that cultural and religious pluralism is inevitable, then any attempt to remove it by, for example, forced assimilation, is doomed to failure, as, indeed, was illustrated in the former Soviet Union.52 But Levy also suggests that definitions of social justice and what constitutes the ‘good life’

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are likely to vary between groups of differing cultures and religions. This raises the fundamental question of whose definition is to prevail if there is conflict? This is a question that we tend to avoid for it brings us to the heart of inter-ethnic conflict, and challenges the possibility - or even desirability - of fully developed cultural pluralism. For unless we are to adopt an extreme cultural relativist stance, there are some cultural practices that are repugnant to many people who operate within a Western liberal paradigm. One example is female genital mutilation, against which laws have been passed in Britain and other EU societies. In other cases, concern to further the cause of religious freedom has resulted in the acceptance of practices that would formerly have resulted in prosecution. An example here is the slaughter of animals without pre-stunning (halal killing), a practice that has been scientifically proven to involve unnecessary cruelty. These brief examples are given simply to illustrate the complexity and moral difficulty of muticulturalism and cultural pluralism. There are no simple solutions to complex questions that elicit strong emotions rooted in different world views - and it is dishonest to pretend that there are. It is equally dishonest to pretend that ceding to every minority ethnic or religious group’s demands is unproblematic in philosophical, sociological, moral or even pragmatic terms. Nor can we continue to pretend that in doing so, we are not threatening other, equally valid and sometimes minority, rights, such as those of women, gay men and lesbians. These involve both minority and majority group members, for there are, of course, minorities within minorities who are oppressed inside and outside their particular communities.53 We need to consider the possibility that what at first sight seems an eminently liberal approach to multicultural living could, in reality, operate to increase the oppression of already disadvantaged people. By locking minority ethnic individuals into static definitions of cultures that they might wish to modify or even exit, multiculturalism not only becomes tyrannical, but actually threatens the very principles of liberal democracy on which it is based.54

CHAPTER NINE International Law and the Former Yugoslavia John B. Allcock

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his chapter serves four related purposes. I remind colleagues of the importance of the sociology of law, which has fallen into disgraceful neglect within the discipline. More specifically, I suggest that the study of legal institutions has an important part to play in the debate about globalization. In pursuit of that general aim, I aspire to contribute to the study of the Balkan region, because the empirical material presented here elucidates the diversity of ways in which the countries of that region are inserted into globalization processes. Finally, I focus upon issues relating to the manner in which international law, in the form of the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY), articulates with the politics of identity in the exYugoslav states. During the period of the foundation of sociology, one of the central features of social process to which the ‘founding fathers’ directed their attention was law. Several of the discipline’s founders made their way into sociology via a training in law. Perhaps Max Weber is the most celebrated of these. At the time of writing, however, law has virtually disappeared as a professional concern of sociologists.1 I believe that this situation needs to be rectified, as law is a feature of major importance in modern societies, and ought to be regarded as a primary point of articulation between structure, culture and agency. This neglect of law is evident in studies addressing globalization. David Held observes that: We cannot understand globalization as a singular condition or as a linear process. It is best thought of as a multi-

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dimensional phenomenon involving diverse domains of activity and interaction, including the economic, political technological, cultural and environmental.2 Those social scientists who do address globalization processes, however, are almost invariably silent regarding the way in which the law might be implicated as one of its ‘dimensions’.3 Just as law is a potentially central subject for sociology in general, it seems to be equally vital for the study of globalization processes. Surely the connections between Transnational Corporations and states are typically mediated through a system of legal instruments, such as contracts, conventions and treaties. As theorists from Max Weber to George Ritzer have pointed out, one of the defining characteristics of modernity is the cultural centrality of ‘legal-rationality’, and presumably one way of characterising ‘globalization’ is in terms of the extension of modernity. How can we possibly address globalization processes with anything pretending to adequacy if we ignore law? Discussion of the Balkan states often is afflicted by two contradictory tendencies. The first of these is to reduce them to homogeneity - ‘The Balkans’, rather in the manner of a new variant of Edward Said’s Orientalism.4 The other is to emphasize their irreconcilable mutual difference, by resort to variations on the theme of Samuel Huntington’s Clash of Civilizations.5 Both of these approaches are equally mistaken - although of course the countries of the region are characterized both by similarities and differences. One of the most important of their similarities is the fact that the entire region is affected by processes of globalization. There are significant differences, however, in the manner in which the states of the region are inserted into these processes. This paper sets out to gear down this extremely general statement by means of an empirical investigation. The specific focus of the study will be the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia (ICTY). Globalization processes involve not just the widening extension of interdependence across the globe: these relations of interdependence tend to be politically asymmetrical. The creation

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of these networks does not always proceed in the same way: it is not ‘all of a piece’. In particular, they are accounted for and legitimated in different ways within different localities. I argue that the states emerging from the former Yugoslavia have been incorporated into regional and global networks partly through the mechanism of the ICTY. The Tribunal is a political creation, which exemplifies global political asymmetry very clearly. The process of incorporation has been handled quite differently within different localities, however, and the processes of local resistance have differed. Examining these diverse encounters with the ICTY, it becomes evident that in each case this experience of insertion into processes of globalization calls into question local and regional identities, and it is in these terms that (at least in part) political responses to the Tribunal become intelligible. Globalization and identity The study of globalization is potentially so broad as to constitute a way of approaching sociology rather than simply a concept or even a hypothesis. My project takes the theme of identity as a way of achieving a manageable focus within that general field. In that respect I return to a theme previously explored within a rather different context - namely, the sociology of tourism.6 It will be useful to spell out the key elements of that earlier work. International tourism is a truly global phenomenon, and one of the clearest illustrations of the diverse character of globalization processes. Work on identity undertaken a decade ago in the International Sociological Association’s Research Committee on Tourism made a point of noting the double role played by identity in relation to the development of tourism. On the one hand, the touristification of localities typically calls into question local identities, as these are drawn into global markets, including labour markets, and as the international corporations who manage tourism development impose a measure of standardization upon the tourist product. The scale of operation of these global agents cannot avoid having significant consequences for politics, even at the level of states let alone ‘localities’ in the narrower sense. On the other hand, the specific

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features of local identities are among the most important resources available in the competitive marketing of tourism. The realization of the significance of this asset leads to a codification of this cultural inventory, and to its self-conscious promotion as a marketable asset: local landscapes and cultures are precisely what the tourists are prepared to pay to see and experience. As a consequence of this situation, tourism as a globalizing force has contradictory outcomes, in that it simultaneously relativizes and undermines local identities while conserving and even promoting them. One of the most significant conceptual innovations of that work on tourism was the critique which was mounted of the ‘ballistic’ model of the touristification process. An earlier dominant paradigm in tourism studies had tended to frame its questions in terms of the local impact of tourist development, whether this took the form of cost-benefit analysis in development economics, or the ‘cultural imperialism’ approach of sociology. Our work on identity demonstrated, through a succession of particular field studies, that local cultures are not to be reduced to the level of the passive recipients of ‘impacts’ coming from their environment. They may also be active agents in the process of change, courting, appropriating and selecting from among the available global ‘influences’ as well as ignoring, diverting or resisting them. In relation to the development of tourism, and particularly in view of the fact that this involves transformation at the level of identities, it was argued that what is undoubtedly a global process is also always a dialectical one. I suggest in this chapter that this broad approach can be of wider interest. The International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia The International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia (ICTY) was founded in 1993 as the result of two simultaneous developments. As the configuration of armed conflicts following the disintegration of the Yugoslav Federation became steadily more complex and bloody, international actors failed to devise adequate responses to the situation. At the same time, growing

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public awareness of the scale of human suffering entailed by war in the region stimulated ever more vocal and insistent demands that some effective international action should be taken.7 Responses to the creation of the Tribunal typically adopt what might be called an implied standpoint of ‘globalization’, although these vary dramatically in their tone. At one end of a continuum, the ICTY is hailed as a tremendously important step forward in the advance of global justice. The success of the ad hoc tribunals for Yugoslavia and Rwanda is held to have paved the way for the ratification of the Treaty of Rome in 1998, which created a permanent international criminal court. At the other end of this continuum, the Tribunal is castigated as a political creation which stands on all fours with the Nuremberg and Tokyo Tribunals - as mere ‘victor’s justice’ intended to add symbolic punishment to those in the region (usually in this approach, Serbs) who had the temerity to stand against NATO. The ICTY, far from constituting an agency of universal justice, is no more than the means utilized by the great powers to discipline lesser states, imposing the pax Americana on the Balkans. Whether one adopts the view attributed to Antonio Cassese, the first President of the ICTY, that ‘the law is a weapon for bettering the world’, or the assessment of the Tribunal as a nominally independent fig-leaf designed to conceal the political impotence of governments in the face of American domination, there is a consensus around the idea that its significance is to be evaluated in global terms.8 Although created as a response to events in the Balkan region, the court in The Hague is not just a ‘Balkan’ phenomenon. Its establishment needs to be explained in terms of global processes, and its importance gauged by the measure of its consequences for the future development of law and politics on a world-wide scale. The ICTY was created by UN Security Council Resolution 827, on 25 May 1993, at the end of a series of ineffective attempts on the part of the ‘international community’ to broker a settlement to the conflicts surrounding the disintegration of the Yugoslav federation. The Tribunal can be viewed, in large measure, as a response to the wave of public outrage stimulated

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by press reports of ‘ethnic cleansing’, detention camps, and other atrocities, including reports of the widespread use of rape. It had not figured previously as a significant component of the foreign policy of any of the major international actors, and has been depicted frequently as a reluctant and belated concession to popular demands for intervention.9 Following several delays occasioned by problems of finance, staffing, and the technical demands of devising its own rules of practice, the Tribunal issued its first indictments in the winter of 1994-5, and brought its first case to trial in May 1996.10 The initial reception of the ICTY in the former Yugoslavia had been characterized by indifference. Its movement from preparation to activity, however, coincided with the conclusion of the war in Bosnia and Hercegovina with the signing of the Dayton Agreements, on 14 December 1995. Article IX of the ‘General Framework Agreement’ required the signatories to ‘cooperate in the investigation and prosecution of war crimes and other violations of international humanitarian law.’ Although the Dayton settlement in Bosnia has been widely criticized as supporting rather feebly the war crimes process, it rapidly emerged that the most significant international actors were prepared to make compliance with the requests of the Tribunal a litmus test of the rehabilitation of the post-Yugoslav states. At this stage, therefore, the ICTY can be seen to take on importance as a political issue within these states. The remainder of this chapter will provide a brief comparative analysis of the way in which the experience of two states of the region in relation to The Hague tribunal illuminates significant differences in the manner of their insertion into globalization processes. Limitation of this account to Croatia and Serbia - where in both cases pressure to cooperate with the ICTY has met with resistance - is dictated simply by considerations of space.11 The choice of issues relating to identity as the focus of this discussion illustrates particularly well the dialectical character of these processes, and relates closely to the concerns of other chapters in this volume, dealing with matters such as gender, sexuality and citizenship.

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Croatia and the ICTY ‘No issue has polarized the post-authoritarian Croatian political scene as much as the issue of cooperation with the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia’, write Victor Peskin and Mieczysław Boduszyński.12 There was always an element of suspicion in Croatia towards the ICTY, reflected in the almost complete silence of the press regarding the foundation of the Tribunal. The first indictments, issued in February 1995, were all against ethnic Serbs. Croatian public opinion was encouraged by the issue on 25 July 1995 of the indictment against Milan Martić, former leader of the secessionist Krajina, in connection with the rocket attacks on Zagreb on 2-3 May 1995. Indeed, up until November of that year only one indictment was issued by the Tribunal against an ethnic Croat. That picture changed dramatically when, on 10 November, the first of 21 indictments were issued in connection with events in west-central Bosnia - all against ethnic Croats. In fact, by March 1996, roughly a third of the indictments issued were against Croats. This was hardly consistent with the official Croatian view that the war had been a matter of Serb aggression against innocent parties, whose actions were invariably defensive in character. Before March 1996 nearly all of the indictments issued by the Tribunal related to events in Bosnia. Whereas this reduced somewhat their salience with respect to Croatian politics, at the heart of President Franjo Tudjman’s anxiety about the ICTY was the issue of Bosnia and Hercegovina, which he believed should belong by rights to Croatia. The international settlement at Dayton, however, presumed the permanence of a Bosnian state and hence its permanent alienation from Croatia. Tudjman needed to keep alive the question of the territory and population of ‘Croatia’, over which the activities of the ICTY regularly placed a question. For as long as he was at the helm, there were powerful ideological reasons for non-cooperation with the Tribunal. Two cases involving Croats in Bosnia became of focal interest - those against Tihomir Blaskić and Dario Kordić.13 The Tribunal had come to recognize that it would be impossible to

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prosecute all those who might be accused of atrocious actions during the Yugoslav wars. Instead, a consistent effort would be made to ascend the ‘ladder of responsibility’, with judicial efforts being directed against those who bore overall responsibility for events along the military or political chains of command below them. In the Kordić trial in particular, it became evident that the consistent pursuit of this policy pointed to the partial responsibility for events in Bosnia of President Tudjman himself, and his Minister of Defence Gojko Sušak. It seems unsurprising, therefore, that there should have been tension between the ICTY and the Zagreb government, deteriorating from 1997 onwards. Under constant international pressure, culminating in the postponement of an agreement with the IMF, the government did pass a law on cooperation with the ICTY, and in October 1997 ten Croats indicted for war crimes were transferred to The Hague by the Croatian authorities.14 Matters came to a head in January 1999. Following a speech by President Tudjman, in which he had criticized the ICTY, Chief Prosecutor Louise Arbour expressed her dissatisfaction with the Croatian government’s record on cooperation with the Tribunal, which had been limited so far to ‘gestures’. In early March of the same year, a US State Department report presented to the OECD, criticized Croatia’s human rights record, and singled out for comment Croatia’s non-cooperation with the ICTY. Relations became particularly acrimonious over the requests for the extradition of Vinko Martinović-Stela and Mladen Naletilić-Tuta, during the summer of 1999. Martinović was extradited to The Hague on 9 August, but there was a protracted legal wrangle over the latter. On 26 August, prompted by perceived official obstruction of this case, US State Department’s James Foley said that Croatia faced ‘the gravest possible consequences’ from continuing non-cooperation. What he meant by this was fairly clear. Discussion was under way at the time about Croatian accession to the ‘Partnership for Peace’, and negotiations were afoot over significant loans to Croatia. Both were placed in jeopardy by Croatian intransigence. The departure of Naletilić was delayed on medical grounds, and he underwent

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heart surgery on 22 October, but was eventually extradited to The Hague. Undoubtedly the Tudjman government cooperated with the greatest reluctance with the requests of the ICTY, although eventually recognising the legitimacy of the requests of the ICTY and the acceptability of extradition. Circumscribed by a high degree of legal formalism, and responding to the leverage of possible international sanctions, Zagreb was finally persuaded to deliver the goods.15 In many respects that situation changed dramatically with the passing of Franjo Tudjman. Immediately it became clear that the new government would take a different position with respect to the ICTY. In his inauguration speech to the Sabor on 18 February 2000, President Stipe Mesić reiterated his desire to accelerate the country’s admission into international organizations, and ultimately the European Union. This by implication meant accepting Croatia’s obligations towards the Tribunal. The new government’s programme, presented by Prime Minister Ivica Račan to the Sabor the previous week took the same line. Concrete evidence of this change of direction was soon forthcoming. Large quantities of documentation were surrendered to The Hague in the coming months. Following a meeting between President Mesić and Chief Prosecutor Carla del Ponte on 4 April, the government acceded to a request from the Tribunal to examine a reported mass grave outside Gospić, believed to contain the bodies of Serbs killed in 1991.16 Accordingly, Croatia was accepted officially into the Partnership for Peace programme on 25 May. The new direction in policy soon landed the government in hot water. In August 2000 it emerged that the chief of the general staff, General Petar Stipetić, was under investigation in connection with events during ‘Operation Storm’ in August 1995. It created an opportunity for various nationalist groups to attack the policy of cooperation with the Tribunal. Matters were brought to a head on 28 August by the murder in Gospić of Milan Levar. Levar had served as a witness to the Tribunal in 1997, concerning reports of mass executions of Serbs in his home town - a Croat testifying against other Croats. The

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government was compelled to act, and initiated a wave of arrests of those accused of war crimes in a variety of areas. Those held included a number of military officers, as well as suspects in the Levar case. By 18 September a total of 62 people were in custody in Croatia on war crimes charges. The result was a public uproar, led by sections of the Croatian Democratic Union (HDZ) and veterans’ organizations, offended in particular by accusations directed against men who were considered to be war heroes. The governing coalition immediately found its own cohesion under threat, as Prime Minister Račan’s Social Democrats came under pressure from their partners, the nationalist Croatian Social Liberal Party (HSLS). A rift appeared to open also between Račan and President Mesić on this issue. A group of senior military officers sent an open letter of protest to the press agency HINA, claiming that the arrests were part of a politically motivated attempt to discredit the 1991-95 ‘Homeland War’. On 28 September, Mesić dismissed the seven generals who had led the protest, insisting that the army should be depoliticized, and observing that the constitution forbade the public expression of political views by senior service personnel. Demonstrations against cooperation with The Hague continued over the following months. Before long it emerged that it would be hard to sustain this new direction consistently. Three events in particular presented a challenge to the new government’s position, against which it has found it difficult to defend itself - the case of General Norac, the indictments issued against Generals Gotovina and Ademi, and that of General Janko Bobetko. On 8 February 2001 the County Court in Rijeka issued a warrant for the arrest of General Mirko Norac. He had been the commanding officer in the Gospić area in October 1991, and his name was linked to the disappearance of around 40 Serb civilians, believed to have been abducted and murdered by units of the police and army. Norac went into hiding, and the announcement was followed by further demonstrations led by nationalist groups and organizations of veterans. Having received assurances that he would be tried in Croatia and not handed over

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to the ICTY, Norac surrendered to the police on 21 February. On 5 March he was formally indicted in Rijeka, upon which Mirko Kondić, head of the largest of the veterans’ organizations, condemned the charges as ‘shameful and humiliating’, and demanded an amnesty for all Croatian veterans.17 The strength of nationalistic opposition to cooperation with the ICTY was demonstrated dramatically when the organising committee of the annual Alka festival in the Dalmatian town of Sinj declined to offer the patronage of the event to President Mesić, as a consequence of his policy of cooperation with The Hague. This was the first occasion in the long history of the event in which the head of state had not been invited to take the position of patron.18 The cases of Gotovina and Ademi were in some respects even more controversial. Generals Ante Gotovina and Rahim Ademi had been indicted by the ICTY on 8 June 2001, but partly out of respect for the Croatian government these indictments had been delivered sealed. This afforded an opportunity for the Račan government to formulate its considered position on the matter before the indictments became public knowledge. Initially the government had resisted the invitation to extradite the two. Following a visit to Zagreb by Carla del Ponte the previous day, at a meeting on 7 July the Cabinet agreed that the two should go to The Hague. The case immediately caused acute controversy in Croatia. Following the Cabinet decision, Dražen Budiša, leader of the HSLS, and three ministerial colleagues, resigned from the coalition government. Račan faced a motion of no confidence in the Sabor on 15 July, which he survived, and on 17 July successfully piloted a statement of the government’s general policy towards the ICTY through the Chamber. The events cited in the indictment against Ademi took place in September 1993, in the unsuccessful Croatian attempt to retake the ‘Medak pocket’. Those cited in the indictment against Gotovina concerned the conduct of ‘Operation Storm’, which had resulted in the successful recapture of the secessionist Serb Krajina, in August 1995. Ademi (an ethnic Albanian and former career officer in the JNA) surrendered himself in full uniform to

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The Hague on 25 July. Gotovina went into hiding. The outrage expressed by some sections of the public and among certain professional soldiers and politicians was directed principally against the indictment of Gotovina. Both of these indictments appeared to many Croats to constitute a direct attack on the Croatian army - and hence on Croatian statehood. The Gotovina case was especially sensitive. ‘Operation Storm’ was directed at the task of recovering for the Croatian state an area over which it did not have effective control (the predominantly ethnic Serb Krajina) with or without its population. The very existence of the Krajina compromised Croatian statehood, and raised a question over the legitimacy of international recognition. So important was this that almost any action could be regarded (by some sections of public and official opinion) as justifiable if it led to the confirmation of Croatian statehood in this area. For nationalistic Croats the supreme importance of the end justified any means employed in its realization: and to contemplate prosecuting Croatia’s military heroes for war crimes was a direct challenge both to the legitimacy of the ‘Homeland War’ and the dignity of the state itself. Although the indictment and self-surrender of Ademi was highly controversial, therefore, it was the case against Gotovina which placed the Zagreb government once more in a difficult position and strained its relations with the ICTY.19 A potentially greater embarrassment for the government attended the issue of an indictment against the former Croatian Chief of Staff, General Janko Bobetko, in September 2002. The continuing economic difficulties of the Račan government, and the fragility of its coalition, rendered it ever more sensitive to controversy. Opinion polls indicated the steady recovery of the popularity of the conservative nationalist HDZ.20 Accordingly, a policy of temporizing was adopted, beginning with a challenge to the indictment in the Appeals Chamber of the ICTY itself. Britain and the Netherlands cancelled their ratification of the Stabilization and Association Agreement between the EU and Croatia, and although other states were more conciliatory, it became clear that the prospect of entry to the EU (a central element of Račan’s foreign policy) was under threat. An

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apparently irreconcilable confrontation between the ICTY and the Croatian government was avoided by the failing health of the 83 year-old General, who died in April 2003. The Croatian Government has continued to defend in principle the policy of cooperation with the ICTY, while ‘ducking and weaving’ in response to the vagaries of domestic politics, and in the face of persisting nationalist opposition. The issue has remained one of the central areas of conflict within Croatian political life. The ‘normalization’ of relations between Zagreb and The Hague has been recognized to some extent by the willingness of the international agency to support the prosecution of some war crimes cases in Croatian courts.21 Despite action by the Croatian government, in accord with its agreement with the ICTY, it is clear that cooperation will continue to excite controversy, especially where the allegations in question relate to events which many regard as intrinsic to Croatia’s war of national liberation. Serbia and the ICTY The initial response of the international community to the breakup of Yugoslavia - insisting upon the integrity of international boundaries - encouraged the Serbian leader Slobodan Milošević to believe that the attempt to ensure the integrity of Yugoslavia by military means would be backed. Indeed, despite the hostility towards Serbs expressed in the Western press, the failure to impose a diplomatic and military solution on the Yugoslav crisis presented no challenge to the policy of Milošević and his associates. It was not difficult for the Yugoslav press to shrug off the formation of the ICTY in 1993 as an irrelevance. This situation changed dramatically by 1995, however, when in August ‘Operation Storm’ ejected Serb forces from the Krajina, and triggered in Bosnia a joint Croat-Muslim offensive which was eventually to threaten Banja Luka. International ineffectiveness and inaction was transformed dramatically into effective military intervention, in the form of NATO’s ‘Operation Deliberate Force’, in September. By the end of the year Milošević had been manoeuvred into pressuring the

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Bosnian Serb leadership into reluctant acceptance of the Dayton settlement. This summer of disaster for the Serb cause coincided with the first indictments by the ICTY (all against ethnic Serbs) and more significantly with the arrest and trial of Duško Tadić.22 The Tribunal took its place, not surprisingly, in the picture of hostile international encirclement which the Serbian leadership created, partly in order to explain this military and political collapse. This depiction of the ICTY as deliberately and unremittingly anti-Serb has persisted, and has been intensified by the events of the Kosovo crisis, which followed the Serbian rejection of the Rambouillet Plan. These events included the NATO bombing campaign, which ended in June 1999, and the ensuing arrest and deportation to The Hague of Slobodan Milošević in October 2000. Resistance to the ICTY has had less to do in Serbia with defence of the state (as in Croatia), and a great deal to do with defence of the regime. It was evident from the Karadžić-Mladić indictments (as early as July 1995) and from the ‘Vukovar’ indictments of November, that if ever the accused were to grace the witness box the prosecution would attempt to expose their links to the Yugoslav leadership.23 Delegitimation of the tribunal in The Hague through manipulative news management became for the leadership of the Socialist Part of Serbia (SPS) both an urgent practical as well as a central ideological objective. The state manipulation of imagery of the war in general, and the role of the ICTY in particular, was easier to sustain in Serbia because for the most part war remained at a distance from the majority of the population.24 It was not until NATO intervention over Kosovo that this situation changed. The insistent demands of the Office of the Prosecutor for cooperation (particularly for the arrest of leading Bosnian Serb figures such as Radovan Karadžić and Ratko Mladić) together with the continuing succession of indictments, trials and sentences of ethnic Serbs, facilitated the diffusion of an atmosphere of paranoia through the state-controlled media of communication. This approach to explanation of Serb attitudes

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to the ICTY can not, however, be reduced to this single dimension.25 With the ousting of Milošević on 5-6 October 2000, international opinion anticipated a marked change of stance by the new leadership of the Democratic Opposition of Serbia (DOS). It rapidly became clear, however, that this was not a revolution, but a putsch, which replaced one set of leaders by another. The new ruling coalition was marked by extreme internal divisions. Vojislav Koštunica and Zoran Djindjić had little more in common than their desire to depose the SPS leadership. As in Croatia, therefore, the Serbian response to the ICTY became an internal political issue, although in very different ways. The question of the political significance of the ICTY within Serbia needs to be examined at two levels - that of internal elite politics, and its resonance with wider political culture. Elite politics The war in Serbia produced a Mafia-style economic elite, entrenched in a war economy.26 The new economic bosses were bound up closely with the old political bosses, to an extent not matched in Croatia. The change of regime did not entirely and immediately displace the old guard. The new leadership inherited not only an Assembly still dominated initially by the SPS, but an unchanged military leadership and a firmly entrenched stratum created by the old order who occupy the top echelons of the economy, state administration, the judiciary, and to a lesser extent the communications media.27 This stratum was, in many respects, resistant to the kind of ‘transition’ which Serbia was expected to make, and elite resistance was intimately bound up with the ways in which war criminality was intertwined with a range of other features of Serbian society, including the military and the ‘informal economy’. As a result of this internal resistance, compliance with the demands of the Tribunal generally has been secured only by the strenuous exercise of international diplomatic and economic leverage. In mid-May of 2002 a spate of arrests and self-surrenders took place involving Serbs indicted by the Tribunal. This

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followed a period of intensive diplomacy by the EU’s emissary Javier Solana, beginning in November 2001. The central concern of his mission was the prospect of the further disintegration of Yugoslavia in the form of the secession of Montenegro. Having backed Montenegrin secessionist sentiment during the Milošević years, as a means of destabilising the Belgrade regime, the European Union now reversed its position, and put its weight vigorously behind the continuing unification of the two republics. A deal was signed on 14 March 2002, following which a new basis for a confederal structure was agreed (although its implications are still unclear).28 International efforts to moderate Montenegrin demands for a fundamental restructuring of the union were secured at a price: cooperation with the ICTY. Coincident with this constitutional agreement, the US government named a deadline for Serbian compliance with the ICTY indictments, threatening the loss of US$ 150 millions in aid, on 31 March.29 Relations between the Serbian and federal governments in Yugoslavia, already seriously tested by the arrest and extradition of Milošević, were placed under enormous strain. Although committed to cooperation, Zoran Djindjić invested a great effort in attempting to persuade the indicted men to surrender ‘voluntarily’ to The Hague. His efforts were hardly helped by Federal President Vojislav Koštunica’s remarks that deportations would lead to turmoil, and his admission in an interview with Radio-TV Serbia that ‘I feel sick to my stomach when I think about that court’.30 Having been defeated twice in the federal Assembly (in June 2001 and March 2002) a law was finally adopted making provision for the surrender of citizens to the ICTY. Despite the deep ideological and complex political difficulties which have obstructed the development of relations between Serbia and the ICTY, as in Croatia, a degree of pragmatic accommodation was forthcoming when sufficient external leverage was applied. The situation changed dramatically following the assassination of Prime Minister Djindjić, on 12 March 2003. This event blew apart the nexus between political bosses, the security services and organized crime. During 2002 it had become evident that Djindjić was gradually winning the struggle between

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modernizers who accepted the necessity for accommodation to the West, and more conservative and nationalistically-inclined groups, represented by Koštunica. It is generally accepted that Djindjić’s willingness to cooperate with the ICTY was one of the reasons behind his murder. Although the immediate responsibility for the assassination is still not clear, it is widely agreed that it was undertaken by agents acting for one of the large criminal organizations, specifically the so-called ‘Zemun Gang’. Djindjić’s successor, Zoran Živković, immediately set in motion an energetic campaign to clean out the Augean stable of Serbian political life. A large number of arrests were made, not only in direct connection with the assassination, a reform of the judiciary was announced, and measures were undertaken to hand over several high profile indictees to the Hague Tribunal notably Veselin Sljivančanin, long sought by the ICTY for his alleged part in mass murder in Vukovar at the collapse of the siege in November 1991. Wider reactions The end of the Milošević era in Serbia has not seen the rapid advance of public acceptance of the ICTY, however, and the persistence of scepticism and even hostility towards the Tribunal clearly cannot be reduced to a matter of elite (and in particular media) manipulation.31 The persistent demands of the ‘international community’ for compliance produce a response on the part of many Serbs at two levels. It is essential to recall that, at the time of his extradition to The Hague, Milošević had been indicted already by Serbian courts on charges relating to his alleged economic misdemeanours. In the light of the decade of economic hardship which ordinary Serbs suffered while he was in power, the intervention of The Hague is perceived, not as the supervenience of a higher justice, but the setting aside of their proper grievances in favour of some distant interest and more abstract ideal. Serb perceptions that their needs for justice are marginalized in this process resonates at a deeper level. Croats see ‘Europe’ as playing an important part in their ideological selfdefinition. They place themselves with ‘Europe’ over against

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‘The Balkans’ or ‘Byzantine civilization’, the negative connotations of which are intensified by association with the centuries of Ottoman domination. For Serbs, however, ‘Europe’ does not play this positive role, and attitudes towards ‘Europe’ are deeply ambivalent in two respects.32 The Orthodox Christian tradition has always been deeply suspicious of ‘The West’, and it is common for Orthodox clergy to equate the perceived cultural and moral decline of Serbia with ‘Western’ influence. Furthermore, an important strand in the fabric of Serbian selfdefinition emphasizes the suffering and self-sacrifice of Serbs, defending ‘Christian Europe’ from ‘The Turk’ without ever receiving appropriate recognition for that achievement, or acknowledgement of its cost. Whereas at one level therefore, Serbian culture is profoundly European, the relationship to ‘Europe’ is shot through with an ambivalence that mingles xenophobia and resentment. Although public opinion in Serbia has come to accept that there are issues relating to war crimes which need to be addressed, attitudes towards these have to be contextualized in relation to the widespread sense that Serbs find themselves encircled by an unsympathetic and even hostile environment. Bearing in mind the enormous psychological shock of the NATO bombing campaign of 1999, it is possible to understand how it is that the ICTY takes its place as one element in this picture of national isolation and exclusion. This rather paranoid image of the world cannot be reduced to the factor of elite manipulation, but can be seen to be rooted in far older strata of identity-formation. Conclusions Although the case cannot be argued in detail here, the ‘death of Yugoslavia’ must be understood as one component of a global process, and not simply as a Balkan problem. There are questions to be asked about why the end of communism there was attended by significantly greater violence than elsewhere: nevertheless, the collapse of the Yugoslav system needs to be viewed as but one aspect of the wider political reconstruction of Europe at the end of the 20th. C.33 Similarly, the creation of the

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ICTY, and the progress of its work in the former Yugoslavia, should not be reduced to the level of an incidental and idiosyncratic response to this specifically local problem, but viewed as a part of the wider process of the globalization of law and of justice. In arguing this case I go beyond the familiar concept of ‘transitional justice’.34 This concept addresses the question of how authoritarian regimes, in making a transition to democracy, manage the various questions relating to justice which are posed by the need to make an adequate reckoning of the injustices of the past, while ensuring that the old order relinquishes its grip in a more-or-less cooperative manner. (In this respect the events in Yugoslavia might yield to a fruitful analysis in terms of the failure of ‘transitional justice’). Discussion of ‘transitional justice’, however, does not necessarily require that the process be understood in global terms. I set out in this chapter, however, to examine the claim that it is necessary to approach the experience of the ICTY in relation to the former Yugoslav states primarily within a ‘globalization’ framework. As Norbert Elias has insisted, conflict should also be understood as a ‘figuration’.35 Our understanding of globalization, therefore, should not be confined to the extension of processes of Parsonian ‘integration’. The globalization of law, similarly, does not consist only of the extension of some form of normative order. This is certainly so in the case of the succession of attempts to enforce compliance with the demands of the ICTY in the states of the former Yugoslavia. That conflictual process can not be reduced to the level of conflict between international institutions and local elites, acting in the pursuit of their own interests. Their resistance to the demands of the Tribunal is also rooted in (indeed, to some extent impelled by) popular movements or perceptions. The manner in which the issue of war crimes has become interlaced with domestic political processes both in Croatia and in Serbia is far from being only a matter of ‘top-down’ manipulation. The requirements for compliance from The Hague constitute also a challenge to local identities.

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Peskin and Boduszyński affirm, with respect to Croatia, that: ‘Both the tribunal and the government …. are arguably bound together for better or worse in each other’s political realities.’36 Through a comparison between Croatian and Serbian experience, what I argue here is that this ‘binding together’ can differ, and illustrates the diverse ways in which states can be inserted into globalization processes by means of judicial institutions.

CHAPTER TEN

Global Begins at Home: Women, Parity and France Maggie Allison

Q

uestions of equality, rights and citizenship within the law of the Republic figure permanently on the French sociopolitical agenda, as other chapters in this collection will testify [Aitsiselmi, chapter 7, Heathcote, chapter 12]. The universalist principle established in post-revolutionary France, together with that of a secular state, have caused the French population much consternation over the past two centuries. The composition and identity of that population have also evolved over that period, bringing into question many of the precepts, stemming from the Déclaration des Droits de l’Homme et du Citoyen [Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen] upon which the French nation had previously felt secure. Demographic change, particularly due to immigration, both post-colonial and other, together with the evolution of gender relations, have brought France face to face with crucial decisions, even to the extent of modifying the constitution to enable more equal participation of women with men in legislative assemblies, at local and at national level. It is the nexus of these two factors, gender and ethnicity, which informs this chapter. It will look at the evolution and quality of political representation for French women in France and place these in the context of globalization, where globalization is seen as the coming together of different peoples in a ‘new space’, that space being a ‘new’, modified France following the arrival of immigrant populations, particularly from North and West Africa, from the 1960s onwards.1 Discussion below will envisage that republican space as a ‘capsule’ whose universalism is not operating as a force for inclusion, but rather exclusion; a capsule into which certain sections of the French

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population, particularly women and ethnic minorities, need to penetrate in order to enable the universal to accommodate the global - at home. In the climate of France today, what are the chances of becoming Prime Minister (President, even) for a third generation Maghrebi woman living in the ‘banlieues’?2 To address this question we shall not see globalization primarily in terms of an economic or social transnational phenomenon, but rather as a process which, given the changes in population which have already taken place, must come from within nation states. This will require taking into account their existing systems and structures, while adapting to their changed demographic and ethnic composition; putting one’s house in order in a globally-influenced context. However, one is not starting from a tabula rasa or a steady state, but from a position of imperfection and existing inequalities which themselves need to be redressed. Adjusting to the increasingly global population within France’s borders must go hand in hand, therefore, with fundamental changes to the existing status quo. Here we shall emphasize the role of women’s political emancipation as an exemplar of this: the emergence of women from the private to the public sphere as a process of ‘entering the world’, of becoming fully part of the globe. Such a search for parity can be mirrored in other populations such as ethnic minorities, who in turn can graduate from the margins to enter the capsule of French universalism on equal terms. In order to elaborate this premise, this chapter will firstly provide an overview of the French women’s struggle to obtain the vote (finally granted in 1944), and the progress made thereafter, with an assessment of the effect of the so-called ‘parity’ law of 2000 which provides an addendum to Article 3 (the universality article) of the Constitution, stating: ‘the law is to facilitate equal access for all women and men to elected office and political life’. Secondly, it will consider the place of women in colonial ‘exchange’ at the turn of the last century (1899-1900) and compare it with the position of French women of immigrant origin in present-day France. Finally there will be an assessment of the difficulty for all French women in gaining a foothold and

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rising through the ranks of the French political class, in which it is generally still assumed that the world is white and male. From the Revolution of 1789 to 1944: French women fighting for suffrage As women discovered in 1968 during the ‘événements de mai’, their presence in supporting roles was most welcome, but getting a voice in the debate and becoming iconic figures in the movement was not destined for them; therein lay one of the incentives for the 1970s second wave of French feminism. Such had been the experience of their foresisters during the Revolution of 1789: having put themselves in the frontline, risking life and limb, they discovered that the outcome, in the form of the Déclaration des Droits de l’Homme et du Citoyen, while claiming to be universal, had omitted to refer to at least half the French population, namely women. The playwright and political activist, Olympe de Gouges (1748-1793), who famously complained that ‘women had the right to go to the scaffold, but were denied access to the political sphere’, rewrote and published the Déclaration in feminized terms in 1791, literally changing it to read as if it were destined for women only.3 She was later beheaded, although not solely as a result of this action. It was not until 1848, a whole century after Gouge’s birth, that ‘universal suffrage’ was granted, but yet again this excluded all women. That same year saw the birth of Hubertine Auclert (1848-1914) who later, together with a raft of women activists as part of the suffragette movement, would take the quest for suffrage further, in particular by way of her weekly newspaper La Citoyenne [The-Female-Citizen] from 1881 to 1891 (eventually monthly and bi-monthly). This publication championed the emancipation of women at all levels, political, economic and civic, claiming it could only be achieved by women themselves being in positions of control, authority and influence. Her treatise Les Femmes au Gouvernail [Women at the Helm] set out the case for women holding organizational and economic control at local and national level, based on their domestic managerial competence, in order to ensure a more equitable use of common resources, and in particular to protect children.4 This proposal

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offered a rather more fiery version of Mrs Thatcher’s ‘shopping basket’ formula in 1979, namely that a housewife, knowing how to budget in the home, is capable of doing so for the country. In the present debate on globalization and the distribution of wealth, with male dominance of the economy and prevailing high levels of female poverty, Auclert’s arguments appear remarkably contemporary.5 Not content with educating women to cope with bureaucracy, thereby demanding their rights, she led them in a boycott of local taxes, only giving in when the bailiffs appeared. She argued that if women could not elect the local worthies they had no say in how their money would be spent and so were justified in withholding it. Her main concern, however, was the gaining of the vote for women, which cause led her to overturn ballot boxes during elections. Eventually in 1910, along with two other women, she stood for election to Parliament, even though the significant number of votes cast in her favour (590) could not be formally registered. Her call in La Citoyenne of May 1884 for women not just to have the vote, but to have half the seats in parliament was prescient, a forerunner of the late 20th. C. debate. The above examples straddle a century and a quarter of French women’s struggle not just to obtain the vote but also the right to be elected. Controversy raged at that time, and even in the 1940s and 1950s, as to women’s suitability for either of these functions, the Napoleonic code having classed women along with minors and the mentally deficient. Add the fact that the fierce anti-clerical stance of French republicanism (still evidenced in current debates on the secular state, for which see Aitsiselmi, chapter 7), gave rise to the belief that women would be in the pockets of the Catholic clergy if they were entitled to vote, and the task for women becomes ever more daunting.6 However, the two World Wars in France, as elsewhere, shifted the ground for women’s role in society, leading to their taking over jobs previously in the male domain and coping alone with the management of home and family, together with participation in the Resistance to the occupying forces. Sadly, yet predictably, this new task force was returned to hearth and home with the ending of hostilities, so that men who did return could

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again become the bread winners. Women exchanged their new productive role for their reproductive one.7 This was particularly the case in 1945 when De Gaulle asked the women of the nation to provide him with ‘a million beautiful babies’. Thus operated the tradition of the eminently-disposable ‘reserve army of female labour’, to be enlisted and dropped at will, as occurred in 1980s Britain following the first economic oil crisis, and as witnessed now worldwide on a larger scale in the 21st. C. as part of the phenomenon of globalization.8 The impact of women Resisters in WWII France ultimately prompted the French government in exile [the Assemblée Consultative] in Algeria to make one of them, Lucie Aubrac, a member of that body, which subsequently (nearly two centuries after the birth of Olympe de Gouges) granted the vote to women on 21 April 1944.9 This provision became applicable for the municipal elections of 1945 and the general elections in October of that year, and represented a great step for womankind in France, but still a long march from meeting the ideals of de Gouges and Auclert. If French women were now technically on a par with men in terms of political rights (Article 17 of the constitution stated that ‘Women are entitled to elect and be elected under the same conditions as men’), the weight of centuries of male-dominated custom and practice would be - and still is - difficult to shift. Gender and ‘otherness’ in France It is here that we need to pause to consider the notion of ‘otherness’ as it prevails in French society, a term whose significance for women was coined by Simone de Beauvoir in Le Deuxième Sexe [The Second Sex].10 In that light, the examples of women in politics and the politics of gender provide creative paradigms, raising issues which reach out beyond the fundamental question of equal rights for women. If de Gouges protested against the institutionalized invisibility of women at the time of the Revolution, it is arguable that the gaining of the vote for women in France raised the profile of 50% of the population to the extent of creating a new, potentially threatening collective animal: the redomesticated women of the late 1940s and 1950s,

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lured home by the increase in modern household appliances, might well break out and endanger the status quo. Seeing women as ‘immature’ voters in the early days was one way of controlling the potential ‘danger’, that is by infantilising women rather than empowering them (a technique currently used to devastating effect against young Maghrebi women of the ‘banlieues’). Moreover the ‘esprit gaulois’ [‘Gallic ribaldry’] is endemic in French political institutions, whereby women are regarded as fair game, with men demeaning and essentialising them to the point of vulgarity. Yvette Roudy, who was appointed by Mitterrand in 1981 as Minister for women’s rights and led the legislation on sexual harassment in 1991-2, was heckled by a male deputy for ‘harassing’ the members in the National Assembly with her interventions. Dominique Voynet, the then leader of the French Green Party, was greeted at the agriculture fair in 1999 with ‘Get your knickers off, slag!’ Edith Cresson, who made history by being the first French woman to become Prime Minister in 1991, only lasted eleven months, and was generally vilified by the press. One could say, then, that women have not just been seen as different and threatening, but even as another race, to be feared and therefore denigrated. Indeed, Gisèle Halimi, Tunisian-born former deputy, and instigator in 1971 of ‘Choisir’ [Choice], the pro-abortion movement, reminded the readers of Le Monde in 1982 that in former times the socialists referred to women as ‘les immigrées de l’intérieur’ [‘internal immigrants’].11 Arguably, the struggles to combat this notion of ‘women as other’, their achievements in terms of personal and political autonomy, and their challenges to prejudice, have contributed to a climate in which concepts of a variety of ‘othernesses’ have also evolved, particularly associated with race, sexual orientation and civil rights. In other words, the evolution of women’s rights has acted as catalyst for other protest movements and shifts in both perception and legislation. We must therefore ask whether French women - those ‘internal immigrants’ - are, within their own nation, breaking down the barriers erected by the formerly male-dominated ‘universalism’, achieving at least a ‘parity of opportunity’? And does this process extend to shattering the

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glass capsule which separates so-called indigenous French people from those ‘issus de l’immigration’ [‘from immigrant backgrounds’]. Can such a process of ‘globalization’ from within, that is women entering the province of the male-dominated exclusive universal, enable a positive globalization ‘from without’, namely an ethnic breakthrough into the white exclusivity of the universal, in the evolving space of France? Put simply, can the principle of parity which was the main campaigning objective of women in the 1990s rub off on other issues of inequality? In order to begin to answer these questions we need to address French women’s evolution as political players in the second half of the 20th. C., breaking into the glass case of the male domain. Parity, thy name is woman: 1944 to 2000 Janine Mossuz-Lavau has charted three stages in women’s political emancipation since 1945, in terms of ‘apprentissage; décollage’ and ‘autonomie’ (learning; taking-off; gaining autonomy). But even if this progression applies in terms of their ambitions and voting habits in particular, the barriers to political achievement remain.12 Women’s early post-1944 optimism was only partially fulfilled, the thirty-two seats won by women in the 1945 general election amounting to some 5% of the total. By 1958 this had dropped to nine seats (1.6%) and it was not until 1993 that the level picked up again with 34 (5.9%), and sixtythree (10.9%) in 1997, the year of the ‘Blair babes’ in Britain. Interestingly the elections of June 2002, two years after the adoption of the ‘parity law’ provided only a small increase to 71 (12.3%).13 Women’s striving to be non-‘other’ would seem, based on the above evidence, to be failing in numerical terms on the political stage, with the extraordinary step of a change in the constitution having been to no avail.14 Just as during the interwar years when the French Senate tended to be more in favour of women getting the vote, and the parliament [Assemblée Nationale] against, resulting in a stalemate, over the last two decades a number of attempts have been made to introduce

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quotas for women candidates, in particular following the election of François Mitterrand as President in 1981. As one of his hundred promises on taking office he had pledged a 30% quota of women on electoral lists. However, even though in 1982 a motion was adopted by parliament by 476 votes to 4 ruling that lists could have no more than 75% candidates of any one sex, this was overruled by the Constitutional Council on the grounds that the Constitution ‘forbids any division of candidates and electors by categories’. The principle of universalism is again reasserted: a leitmotif in the analysis and conduct of French society which conveniently reinforces the male control of political institutions. These entrenched habits die hard, as Gisèle Halimi noted in the preface to her book La nouvelle cause des femmes [Women’s new cause]. Addressing a group of journalists and politicians, she painted the following picture: ‘Imagine you wake up one morning and find a totally different France from the one you always knew. The President? A woman. The President of the National Assembly? A woman. In government, a woman Prime Minister. Surrounded by ministers, ninety per cent of whom are…women! […] In the National Assembly, in 1997, ninety per cent of deputies, women. […] At that moment, a (male) voice on my right mutters: “But that’s an absolute nightmare!”’.15 The reaction if one were to translate this into ‘all women of ethnic minority origin’ is predictable. Thus operates the ‘othering’ of women at constitutional, institutional and traditional levels. The debate on the pros and cons of the constitutional change to stipulate equal access for men and women to elected legislative bodies (which there is not space to consider in detail here) was predictably acerbic, with a number of prominent women asserting that they had never encountered professional problems on account of their gender, denying the need for what they saw as positive discrimination. However, alongside this drawn-out progress towards women’s political recognition there were several pieces of crucial legislation which combined to improve their personal, domestic and working rights. These included:

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the right enacted in 1965 for women to own a bank account and to take paid work without the authorization of the male spouse; the 1967 Neuwirth law legalising contraception (although not the advertising of it); the equal pay for equal work law of 1972; the 1974 Veil law legalising abortion;16 the reimbursement of abortion costs by Social Security in 1982; the 1983 equality of opportunity in employment law; the 1991-2 sexual harassment in the workplace law.

Over the last quarter of the 20th. C., women’s status in society was seriously evolving, as was the female participation rate in higher education, and with it women’s role in the economy. Gender was definitely on the agenda, thanks to women, and this breaking down of conservative conventions could be said to have facilitated the reception of other campaigns, in particular the PaCS (Pacte Civil de Solidarité or Civil Solidarity Pact) and antiracist movements such as the ‘Marche des Beurs’ in 1983, promoted by the organization SOS Racisme, which is led by Harlem Désir among others.17 These two causes concerned groups normally ‘othered’ by society, although the PACS was eventually extended to apply not only to same sex relationships, but also to people in heterosexual partnerships keen to avoid the connotations of traditional marriage, religious or otherwise [See Heathcote, chapter 12]. Although these two cases took place some fifteen years apart, they both captured the public imagination, and led to a productive enmeshing of concerns over gender and ethnicity. The SOS Racisme slogan ‘Touche pas à mon pote’ [‘Hands off my mate!’] has remained in the public arena, and has been recycled on a number of occasions since, for example in 2003 during the young Maghrebi women’s march, which took place under the main slogan: ‘Ni Putes ni soumises’ [‘Neither prostitutes, nor oppressed’]. ‘Hands off my mate!’ was read as ‘Touche pas à ma pote’ (my italics) to reflect the

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feminine. The same catch-phrase was co-opted once again on Sunday 16 May 2004, for the anti-semitism protest rally in Paris. A whole range of rights, then, in contemporary France have been demanded by women and other ‘othered’ groups, fracturing cultural and institutional boundaries and challenging the French constitution in its preoccupation with the republican ideals of universalism and secularism. The issue of quotas for women parliamentary candidates raised objections of positive action and specification of categories within the universal; similarly the issue of making ‘concessions’ to different ethnic groups (not least the wearing of religious insignia in secular state schools) would imply recognition of difference and the type of multicultural approach (communautarisme) adopted in Britain, but unacceptable to the French constitution [see Aitsiselmi, chapter 7]. Nonetheless, a compromise was reached in the ‘parity’ law regarding access to political representation, and via this trojan horse, women should, technically, be able to achieve parity with their male counterparts, emancipating themselves from the category of ‘internal immigrant’ - a form of internal globalization. However, if the category ‘woman’ includes women of all ethnic backgrounds, the category ‘French women politicians’ includes very few. We shall now address the issue of bringing the ‘global’ into the ‘exclusive universal’, still experienced by women, and all the more so by women of non-white European origin. Women as globally-moveable objects Bringing women out from the margins and into the mainstream socially, economically and politically is a long-term, ongoing task, as has been seen above. It involves the much-discussed shift from the private to the public and political sphere, a shift whose difficulty is compounded by the considerations of ethnicity, often allied to those of religious custom. It is, in some instances, tantamount to a ‘worlding’ of women, encouraging them to break out from a domestically closed world to an outer, freer, more independent one. Crossing the boundary into maledominated space aims at achieving the ideal ‘mixité’ [mixed composition], both gendered and ethnic, in the new, ‘global space’ of the multi-ethnic reality of contemporary France.

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However, before investigating this in more detail, it is useful to recall some of the global shifts of women, as they operated under colonialism and post-colonialism, in order better to appreciate the position of women as moveable objects and the challenges to them in their quest to become moving world subjects. Whereas current debates are concerned with stemming the tides of inward immigration, be it from countries in the newly enlarged European Union or farther afield, turn of the century documentation from 1899/1900 indicates wholesale movement, not to say shipping, of women outward to the colonies, providing spouses for male settlers and members of the military, discouraged from marrying local women. The idea was also to save ‘perfectly nice, honorable, but penniless women from spinsterhood’, and to increase the French population beyond her borders, such emigrants, male and female, being regarded as ‘low in value’ [des non-valeurs] at home, but ‘extremely productive’ [extrêmement productifs] overseas.18 Such an operation, calqued on the activities of the United British Women’s Emigration Association, provides a clear example of the notion of women as a commodity, forerunner to the now widespread internal migrations of women in far eastern countries who move en masse from rural to urban areas to answer the needs of relocated industries, particularly in textiles, from the West. Similarly, during the 1970s, the rural exodus in France meant that there were ‘insufficient’ women of marriageable age in agricultural areas; hence, women from the colonies, for example the West Indies, Reunion, but particularly Mauritius (seven hundred between 1969 and 1983), came to fill the gap and marry local farmers.19 The current phenomenon of ‘Thai brides’ in Britain is just one recent version of the eminent transferability of women globally to locations which suit male-driven needs, be they personal or economic. The wide-scale male immigration to France in the 1950s and 1960s, particularly from North African countries, fuelled the labour shortage brought about by post-war restructuring and later the industrial boom years, known as ‘Les trente Glorieuses’ [‘The Thirty Glorious Years’]. Yamina Benghigui’s three-part

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documentary film Mémoires d’Immigrés [Immigrants’ Memories] charts this period particularly well, reminding us of the utilitarian, dehumanising approach to the men who, living in barracks conditions, speaking virtually no French, canon-fodder for the flourishing car industry, were effectively humiliated as former conquered peoples of the colonies.20 Such treatment is consistent with the gendered discourses of war as discussed by Carol Cohn, such that the aggressor in war humiliates the adversary in gendered terms, asserting his (usually ‘his’) masculinity and evacuating that of the opponent.21 Here, then, in 1960s France the former colonized male is deprived of all his original authority and autonomy, being effectively ‘feminized’. The eventual 1970s policy of regrouping immigrant families, given that the male workers did not return home as expected, meant the arrival of women and children. These were now not only disempowered as members of the former colonies, but doubly so as their ‘femininity’ was resubjected to the patriarchal rule of the male head of the family. Alongside these developments, the 1960s had seen the regeneration of French cities, the clearance of slum areas and shanty towns on their margins, and the construction of new towns around the capital to accommodate the French working class. These satellite towns, or ‘banlieues’, are composed predominantly of tower blocks - ‘cités’ - a term which provides a nice ambiguity in that it also signifies the public sphere (civis) and implies ‘citizenship’. Citizenship is a saga of epic proportions in France, much of it played out latterly in relation to the ‘banlieues’ [Aitsiselmi, chapter 7]. Originally conceived to accommodate the working classes in low-cost housing, by the 1980s these were progressively inhabited by immigrant populations, now well and truly on the periphery of society, both socially and geographically. Pushed to the margins, it is more difficult for the male head of family who, often unemployed, loses authority to the eldest son, thus increasing the subjection of all women, in particular young women and girls. Added to the escalation of violence generally in the face of racism, there is the increase in violence within the immigrant communities themselves, with an emphasis on aggression towards young

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women, now subjected to the rule both of their brothers and of local brotherhoods [see Macey, chapter 8].22 It is in this context that the women’s struggle has to fight the triple enemy of racism, sexism, and violence. Moreover, in her analysis of research into the position of women in the European Union, Hilary Footitt notes that ‘the treatment of migrant women by the countries of the EU indicates a strongly gendered construction of the excluded “other’’’.23 It is a tall order, then, for a young woman of North African (Maghrebi) origin, living in the ‘banlieues’, to break free from these layers of oppression and hope to break through into the capsule space surrounding the notion of full French (women’s) citizenship, that exclusive universal; for the global to come home, and, moreover, be regendered. Women as globally moving subjects Now part of the third generation of the population of ‘immigrant origin’, young women are not only feeling seriously oppressed but also keenly impatient of their situation. Subjected within their local community, they are also subordinated within the female French population, and further within the whole male/female national population. Members of the male immigrant population find it difficult enough to assert themselves on anything like equal terms with their ‘native’ French peers. Marie-Joseph Bertini’s use of the football paradigm as a guide to the male place in public space is useful here, saying that whereas the male can stand for the whole population/human race, the female cannot, exemplified by the fact that thousands, male and female, would flock to see men playing football, but not to see women play, since: ‘Les femmes sont des annexes de l’humanité des hommes, elles ne sont pas nécessaires à l’établissment du genre humain’ [‘Women are marginal to men’s humanity, they are not required for the establishment of humankind’].24 So it was, then, that when France won the Football World Cup in 1998, the hero, Zidane, could represent his team, his French nation(hood), his North African origins, men and women and, most importantly, La République. It was significant and symbolic that the cry went up: Zidane, Président! A different

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brotherhood from that of the cités was at work here. Interestingly, the occasion on which the French Republic was represented by a black woman was during the celebrations of the Bi-centenary of the Revolution, in 1989: namely, the American singer, Jessye Norman, whose rendition of La Marseillaise brought the ceremony at the foot of the Champs Élysées to an emotional and resounding close. This was clearly a unifying gesture in the recognition of ethnic difference, but the choice of someone from without the Republic implies that France has been unable to absorb that difference within.25 The global at home is problematic. Where does that leave the young women of the ‘banlieues’? Some think that they may provide the beginning of an answer. For a number of years there has been concern regarding the masculine, ‘hard’ approach to society, the economy and world affairs. To some extent the nods in the direction of increased participation of women in politics, although still limited, reflect this, as does work of sociologists such as Mike Burke in his Valeurs féminines, le pouvoir de demain [Feminine Values, The Power of Tomorrow] where, while not falling into essentialist clichés, he argues for both men and women to abandon attitudes situated at the ‘macho’ end of the behavioural spectrum in favour of more mediatory ones, usually attributed to ‘feminine’ approaches.26 Such a view also emerged regarding the girls and young women of the ‘banlieues’, in that they were tiring of violence, seeking ways of opening up reasoned debate and, moreover, were achieving better than their brothers academically; hence, if only the male repression in their communities were removed, they could be in a more favourable position to integrate into the wider community. ELLE magazine picked up on this in 1995 with its article: ‘Un seul espoir: les filles’ [‘Young women are the only hope’]27, and later, in a slightly different vein, the conservative newspaper Le Figaro speaks of young immigrant women’s difficulty in getting work, pointing out the need to: ‘Promouvoir l’autonomie des femmes pour lutter contre le communautarisme’ [‘encourage women’s independence in order to fight multi-culturalism’].28 Here it is a case of providing extra educational support for women of the

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‘banlieues’, not just to improve their quality of life, but also their ability to integrate into ‘mainstream’ French society, thus breaking out of their closed community. Such ‘communautarisme’ [Aitsiselmi, chapter 7], is normally associated with ethnic origin, mostly North and West African, and also with Islam, and is seen as a threat to the universalism of the French secular state. Are women, then, to provide the answer and in breaking into the exclusive universalist capsule, become mistresses of their own destiny, showing the way for their brothers? Certainly, the beginning of the New Millennium saw a definite mobilization of second- and third-generation immigrant women. As early as 1989 there had been a Women’s Commission at the ‘Maison des Potes’ [Local youth forum] in Clermont-Ferrand and, on becoming National President of the network, Fadela Amara developed these and other women’s congresses in most of the major cities in France. A high point of this activity was the ‘Marche des Femmes’ (a symbolic demonstration by six women and two men, insisting on the need for ‘mixité’) in the spring of 2003, reinforcing their 2002 manifesto Ni Putes Ni Soumises! [Neither Prostitutes nor Oppressed!].29 Further motivated by the appalling murder of a young woman, Sohane, in November 2002, burnt alive in the refuse storeroom of a tower block complex in Vitry-sur-Seine, they took their cause for some five weeks into towns and cities across France, gaining support, being challenged by men and women of their own culture and faith, but also becoming aware of levels of violence against women of the white bourgeoisie.30 The march ended, suitably enough, on March 8 2003, International Women’s Day, where they headed the thirtythousand strong parade in Paris. Aware of the significance of their action, the Prime Minister, Jean-Pierre Raffarin, saw them that day at his residence, Hôtel Matignon, flanked by several ministers, including Nicole Ameline, Minister for Parity and Professional Equality. The marchers’ proposals translated into a number of actions to improve conditions in the ‘banlieues’ generally, and the plight of women in particular.31 Young women, ‘issues de l’immigration’, had at least tasted the corridors

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of power, and later that year there was a photographic exhibition in the Senate (Luxembourg Palace) of North African women as Marianne, the emblem of France. But what are their chances of being there, elected and on their own terms? We have seen above the odds against white French women gaining seats in elected bodies, and the relative lack of success of the ‘Parity Law’. One black woman who was a candidate for the Presidency in 2002, Christine Taubira, certainly gained the support of the black ‘banlieusard’ population. One voter said: ‘It was the first time a woman of colour had the courage to stand. I voted for her because she is a woman, and because she’s black[…]There is no united France, just a multi-fractured France, and above all a rejected black, marginalised France[…] When the French team wins thanks to black players, people are pleased. But when you want to stand for election or apply for a job which fits your qualifications, they put you to the back of the queue’.32 If very few women from ethnic minorities find their way into the electoral lists, then those men who do so are often not placed high enough to guarantee election. Following the extraordinary situation in the presidential elections of 2002, where the nation rallied to the right-wing candidate, Jacques Chirac in the second round of elections in order to prevent the leader of the fascist Front National getting anywhere near the Elysée, many gestures were made to members if the immigrant community, particularly from the Chiraqian party, the UMP, Union de la Majorité Parlementaire [Union of the Majority Party]. These have proved to be hollow, with ethnic minority candidates, mostly male, at the regional elections in March 2004 withdrawing in anger, saying they were ‘only there for the photograph’.33 The then Minister for Sustainable Development, Tokia Saïfi, was herself an exception to the rule, being of Maghrebi origin. She resigned on 21 June 2004 after two years in office, recognising that whereas there is an emerging (male) immigrant middle class in industry and the professions, the way forward in politics is less obvious: ‘On vit dans une société aux multiples visages. Le systeme des élites est fermée. Je constate qu’il va falloir forcer les choses à passer, malheureusement, à une démarche plus ferme’ [‘We live in a society with many faces. The

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system of elites remains closed. Unfortunately, I can see that we must force things to happen at a much more definite pace’].34 Conclusion France, like many other Western countries, is coming to terms with the fact that the world has come to town. Tourists arriving in Paris via the high speed suburban line from Roissy airport are certainly aware of this as they, mostly white, pass through the intervening towns populated largely, as is the train, by people of Black African or North African origin. Advertisements on the platforms feature predominantly white people, with the occasional exception of black children. The challenge for ‘visible’ ethnic minorities is huge; for them, being born on French soil, having French nationality, is not sufficient to distinguish them from the category of ‘foreigner’. Hence, the cleavage between ‘visible’ ethnic minorities of the ‘banlieues’ and their white compatriots is as great as, if not greater than, that between males and females in the institutions of power and influence in France. However, the combination of the two is a powerful deterrent to emancipation and the globalization of the new French space, underpinned as it is by exclusive structures within the French system, which reinforce exclusive universalism. The most telling of these is the extent of the French fonctionnariat [civil service] to which many professions belong, including the state education system, tenure and advancement being via competitive examinations open only to French nationals. Similarly the Grandes Écoles (élite higher education institutions equivalent to Oxbridge, LSE etc) from which most of the ruling classes are drawn, are still mainly maledominated, upper class establishments, although women are now allowed into the École Polytechnique [the French military academy], occasionally outshining their male peers. Even the RATP [the Parisian bus and transport authority] until December 2002 was closed to foreigners seeking employment. A supposedly globally-recognized GB Mastercard (i.e. ‘swipe’ rather than ‘chip’ operated) may be greeted in Parisian stores with ‘Ah, c’est une carte étrangere’ [‘Ah, this is a foreign card’],

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and a request to produce a passport, plus name and address, or the card may even be refused. The notion of ‘foreignness’, then, (see reference to ‘otherness’, above) runs deep in France, going hand in hand with the nationalism and the concept of nation state, created, according to David Bell, at the 1789 French Revolution: ‘Perhaps the most important point to retain about French revolutionary nationalism is that it worked. The prospect of coming together to construct a new, greater national community offered material advantages to potential members, and also a sense of spiritual purpose to people increasingly alienated from traditional Christian teachings’.35 The most recent project is to modernize the nation to reflect its members. As we have seen regarding women’s role in politics, this is happening, but slowly. In an article entitled ‘Au seuil de la République’ [‘On the threshold of the Republic’], it is said that ethnic minorities are keen to move on from the current climate of ‘Un scrutin ni black ni beur’ [‘Election ignores blacks and beurs’] or ‘Faut-il être blanc pour être élu?’ [‘Do you have to be white to get elected?’].36 By analogy with political parity for women, ethnic minorities are therefore suggesting quotas on electoral lists: a proposal which is sure to come up against the buffers of universalism. But if the national ‘family’ is to play catch-up with other rapidly evolving aspects of globalization, it needs to move quickly. Progress is modest and linear, unlike the more geometric progression of technology as elaborated in Alvin Toffler’s Future Shock,37 such that, following the results of the first general elections held in France after the ‘parity’ law, it was calculated that at that rate it would take 120 years to achieve full parity for women.38 Today, universalism, the sticking plaster which should have healed all divisions in French society, is found to be inadequate to the task, and is even the creator of further wounds. The great leveller is not a level playing field. Thinking in terms of remedies, the notion of ‘parity’, while not a cure-all, may serve as a catalyst. This could provide a bridge across the barrier into the exclusive capsule of universalism, enabling women and ethnic minorities to effect change in the fabric and complexion of French institutions, thereby bringing the global home to the Republic.

CHAPTER NINE International Law and the Former Yugoslavia John B. Allcock

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his chapter serves four related purposes. I remind colleagues of the importance of the sociology of law, which has fallen into disgraceful neglect within the discipline. More specifically, I suggest that the study of legal institutions has an important part to play in the debate about globalization. In pursuit of that general aim, I aspire to contribute to the study of the Balkan region, because the empirical material presented here elucidates the diversity of ways in which the countries of that region are inserted into globalization processes. Finally, I focus upon issues relating to the manner in which international law, in the form of the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY), articulates with the politics of identity in the exYugoslav states. During the period of the foundation of sociology, one of the central features of social process to which the ‘founding fathers’ directed their attention was law. Several of the discipline’s founders made their way into sociology via a training in law. Perhaps Max Weber is the most celebrated of these. At the time of writing, however, law has virtually disappeared as a professional concern of sociologists.1 I believe that this situation needs to be rectified, as law is a feature of major importance in modern societies, and ought to be regarded as a primary point of articulation between structure, culture and agency. This neglect of law is evident in studies addressing globalization. David Held observes that: We cannot understand globalization as a singular condition or as a linear process. It is best thought of as a multi-

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dimensional phenomenon involving diverse domains of activity and interaction, including the economic, political technological, cultural and environmental.2 Those social scientists who do address globalization processes, however, are almost invariably silent regarding the way in which the law might be implicated as one of its ‘dimensions’.3 Just as law is a potentially central subject for sociology in general, it seems to be equally vital for the study of globalization processes. Surely the connections between Transnational Corporations and states are typically mediated through a system of legal instruments, such as contracts, conventions and treaties. As theorists from Max Weber to George Ritzer have pointed out, one of the defining characteristics of modernity is the cultural centrality of ‘legal-rationality’, and presumably one way of characterising ‘globalization’ is in terms of the extension of modernity. How can we possibly address globalization processes with anything pretending to adequacy if we ignore law? Discussion of the Balkan states often is afflicted by two contradictory tendencies. The first of these is to reduce them to homogeneity - ‘The Balkans’, rather in the manner of a new variant of Edward Said’s Orientalism.4 The other is to emphasize their irreconcilable mutual difference, by resort to variations on the theme of Samuel Huntington’s Clash of Civilizations.5 Both of these approaches are equally mistaken - although of course the countries of the region are characterized both by similarities and differences. One of the most important of their similarities is the fact that the entire region is affected by processes of globalization. There are significant differences, however, in the manner in which the states of the region are inserted into these processes. This paper sets out to gear down this extremely general statement by means of an empirical investigation. The specific focus of the study will be the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia (ICTY). Globalization processes involve not just the widening extension of interdependence across the globe: these relations of interdependence tend to be politically asymmetrical. The creation

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of these networks does not always proceed in the same way: it is not ‘all of a piece’. In particular, they are accounted for and legitimated in different ways within different localities. I argue that the states emerging from the former Yugoslavia have been incorporated into regional and global networks partly through the mechanism of the ICTY. The Tribunal is a political creation, which exemplifies global political asymmetry very clearly. The process of incorporation has been handled quite differently within different localities, however, and the processes of local resistance have differed. Examining these diverse encounters with the ICTY, it becomes evident that in each case this experience of insertion into processes of globalization calls into question local and regional identities, and it is in these terms that (at least in part) political responses to the Tribunal become intelligible. Globalization and identity The study of globalization is potentially so broad as to constitute a way of approaching sociology rather than simply a concept or even a hypothesis. My project takes the theme of identity as a way of achieving a manageable focus within that general field. In that respect I return to a theme previously explored within a rather different context - namely, the sociology of tourism.6 It will be useful to spell out the key elements of that earlier work. International tourism is a truly global phenomenon, and one of the clearest illustrations of the diverse character of globalization processes. Work on identity undertaken a decade ago in the International Sociological Association’s Research Committee on Tourism made a point of noting the double role played by identity in relation to the development of tourism. On the one hand, the touristification of localities typically calls into question local identities, as these are drawn into global markets, including labour markets, and as the international corporations who manage tourism development impose a measure of standardization upon the tourist product. The scale of operation of these global agents cannot avoid having significant consequences for politics, even at the level of states let alone ‘localities’ in the narrower sense. On the other hand, the specific

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features of local identities are among the most important resources available in the competitive marketing of tourism. The realization of the significance of this asset leads to a codification of this cultural inventory, and to its self-conscious promotion as a marketable asset: local landscapes and cultures are precisely what the tourists are prepared to pay to see and experience. As a consequence of this situation, tourism as a globalizing force has contradictory outcomes, in that it simultaneously relativizes and undermines local identities while conserving and even promoting them. One of the most significant conceptual innovations of that work on tourism was the critique which was mounted of the ‘ballistic’ model of the touristification process. An earlier dominant paradigm in tourism studies had tended to frame its questions in terms of the local impact of tourist development, whether this took the form of cost-benefit analysis in development economics, or the ‘cultural imperialism’ approach of sociology. Our work on identity demonstrated, through a succession of particular field studies, that local cultures are not to be reduced to the level of the passive recipients of ‘impacts’ coming from their environment. They may also be active agents in the process of change, courting, appropriating and selecting from among the available global ‘influences’ as well as ignoring, diverting or resisting them. In relation to the development of tourism, and particularly in view of the fact that this involves transformation at the level of identities, it was argued that what is undoubtedly a global process is also always a dialectical one. I suggest in this chapter that this broad approach can be of wider interest. The International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia The International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia (ICTY) was founded in 1993 as the result of two simultaneous developments. As the configuration of armed conflicts following the disintegration of the Yugoslav Federation became steadily more complex and bloody, international actors failed to devise adequate responses to the situation. At the same time, growing

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public awareness of the scale of human suffering entailed by war in the region stimulated ever more vocal and insistent demands that some effective international action should be taken.7 Responses to the creation of the Tribunal typically adopt what might be called an implied standpoint of ‘globalization’, although these vary dramatically in their tone. At one end of a continuum, the ICTY is hailed as a tremendously important step forward in the advance of global justice. The success of the ad hoc tribunals for Yugoslavia and Rwanda is held to have paved the way for the ratification of the Treaty of Rome in 1998, which created a permanent international criminal court. At the other end of this continuum, the Tribunal is castigated as a political creation which stands on all fours with the Nuremberg and Tokyo Tribunals - as mere ‘victor’s justice’ intended to add symbolic punishment to those in the region (usually in this approach, Serbs) who had the temerity to stand against NATO. The ICTY, far from constituting an agency of universal justice, is no more than the means utilized by the great powers to discipline lesser states, imposing the pax Americana on the Balkans. Whether one adopts the view attributed to Antonio Cassese, the first President of the ICTY, that ‘the law is a weapon for bettering the world’, or the assessment of the Tribunal as a nominally independent fig-leaf designed to conceal the political impotence of governments in the face of American domination, there is a consensus around the idea that its significance is to be evaluated in global terms.8 Although created as a response to events in the Balkan region, the court in The Hague is not just a ‘Balkan’ phenomenon. Its establishment needs to be explained in terms of global processes, and its importance gauged by the measure of its consequences for the future development of law and politics on a world-wide scale. The ICTY was created by UN Security Council Resolution 827, on 25 May 1993, at the end of a series of ineffective attempts on the part of the ‘international community’ to broker a settlement to the conflicts surrounding the disintegration of the Yugoslav federation. The Tribunal can be viewed, in large measure, as a response to the wave of public outrage stimulated

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by press reports of ‘ethnic cleansing’, detention camps, and other atrocities, including reports of the widespread use of rape. It had not figured previously as a significant component of the foreign policy of any of the major international actors, and has been depicted frequently as a reluctant and belated concession to popular demands for intervention.9 Following several delays occasioned by problems of finance, staffing, and the technical demands of devising its own rules of practice, the Tribunal issued its first indictments in the winter of 1994-5, and brought its first case to trial in May 1996.10 The initial reception of the ICTY in the former Yugoslavia had been characterized by indifference. Its movement from preparation to activity, however, coincided with the conclusion of the war in Bosnia and Hercegovina with the signing of the Dayton Agreements, on 14 December 1995. Article IX of the ‘General Framework Agreement’ required the signatories to ‘cooperate in the investigation and prosecution of war crimes and other violations of international humanitarian law.’ Although the Dayton settlement in Bosnia has been widely criticized as supporting rather feebly the war crimes process, it rapidly emerged that the most significant international actors were prepared to make compliance with the requests of the Tribunal a litmus test of the rehabilitation of the post-Yugoslav states. At this stage, therefore, the ICTY can be seen to take on importance as a political issue within these states. The remainder of this chapter will provide a brief comparative analysis of the way in which the experience of two states of the region in relation to The Hague tribunal illuminates significant differences in the manner of their insertion into globalization processes. Limitation of this account to Croatia and Serbia - where in both cases pressure to cooperate with the ICTY has met with resistance - is dictated simply by considerations of space.11 The choice of issues relating to identity as the focus of this discussion illustrates particularly well the dialectical character of these processes, and relates closely to the concerns of other chapters in this volume, dealing with matters such as gender, sexuality and citizenship.

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Croatia and the ICTY ‘No issue has polarized the post-authoritarian Croatian political scene as much as the issue of cooperation with the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia’, write Victor Peskin and Mieczysław Boduszyński.12 There was always an element of suspicion in Croatia towards the ICTY, reflected in the almost complete silence of the press regarding the foundation of the Tribunal. The first indictments, issued in February 1995, were all against ethnic Serbs. Croatian public opinion was encouraged by the issue on 25 July 1995 of the indictment against Milan Martić, former leader of the secessionist Krajina, in connection with the rocket attacks on Zagreb on 2-3 May 1995. Indeed, up until November of that year only one indictment was issued by the Tribunal against an ethnic Croat. That picture changed dramatically when, on 10 November, the first of 21 indictments were issued in connection with events in west-central Bosnia - all against ethnic Croats. In fact, by March 1996, roughly a third of the indictments issued were against Croats. This was hardly consistent with the official Croatian view that the war had been a matter of Serb aggression against innocent parties, whose actions were invariably defensive in character. Before March 1996 nearly all of the indictments issued by the Tribunal related to events in Bosnia. Whereas this reduced somewhat their salience with respect to Croatian politics, at the heart of President Franjo Tudjman’s anxiety about the ICTY was the issue of Bosnia and Hercegovina, which he believed should belong by rights to Croatia. The international settlement at Dayton, however, presumed the permanence of a Bosnian state and hence its permanent alienation from Croatia. Tudjman needed to keep alive the question of the territory and population of ‘Croatia’, over which the activities of the ICTY regularly placed a question. For as long as he was at the helm, there were powerful ideological reasons for non-cooperation with the Tribunal. Two cases involving Croats in Bosnia became of focal interest - those against Tihomir Blaskić and Dario Kordić.13 The Tribunal had come to recognize that it would be impossible to

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prosecute all those who might be accused of atrocious actions during the Yugoslav wars. Instead, a consistent effort would be made to ascend the ‘ladder of responsibility’, with judicial efforts being directed against those who bore overall responsibility for events along the military or political chains of command below them. In the Kordić trial in particular, it became evident that the consistent pursuit of this policy pointed to the partial responsibility for events in Bosnia of President Tudjman himself, and his Minister of Defence Gojko Sušak. It seems unsurprising, therefore, that there should have been tension between the ICTY and the Zagreb government, deteriorating from 1997 onwards. Under constant international pressure, culminating in the postponement of an agreement with the IMF, the government did pass a law on cooperation with the ICTY, and in October 1997 ten Croats indicted for war crimes were transferred to The Hague by the Croatian authorities.14 Matters came to a head in January 1999. Following a speech by President Tudjman, in which he had criticized the ICTY, Chief Prosecutor Louise Arbour expressed her dissatisfaction with the Croatian government’s record on cooperation with the Tribunal, which had been limited so far to ‘gestures’. In early March of the same year, a US State Department report presented to the OECD, criticized Croatia’s human rights record, and singled out for comment Croatia’s non-cooperation with the ICTY. Relations became particularly acrimonious over the requests for the extradition of Vinko Martinović-Stela and Mladen Naletilić-Tuta, during the summer of 1999. Martinović was extradited to The Hague on 9 August, but there was a protracted legal wrangle over the latter. On 26 August, prompted by perceived official obstruction of this case, US State Department’s James Foley said that Croatia faced ‘the gravest possible consequences’ from continuing non-cooperation. What he meant by this was fairly clear. Discussion was under way at the time about Croatian accession to the ‘Partnership for Peace’, and negotiations were afoot over significant loans to Croatia. Both were placed in jeopardy by Croatian intransigence. The departure of Naletilić was delayed on medical grounds, and he underwent

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heart surgery on 22 October, but was eventually extradited to The Hague. Undoubtedly the Tudjman government cooperated with the greatest reluctance with the requests of the ICTY, although eventually recognising the legitimacy of the requests of the ICTY and the acceptability of extradition. Circumscribed by a high degree of legal formalism, and responding to the leverage of possible international sanctions, Zagreb was finally persuaded to deliver the goods.15 In many respects that situation changed dramatically with the passing of Franjo Tudjman. Immediately it became clear that the new government would take a different position with respect to the ICTY. In his inauguration speech to the Sabor on 18 February 2000, President Stipe Mesić reiterated his desire to accelerate the country’s admission into international organizations, and ultimately the European Union. This by implication meant accepting Croatia’s obligations towards the Tribunal. The new government’s programme, presented by Prime Minister Ivica Račan to the Sabor the previous week took the same line. Concrete evidence of this change of direction was soon forthcoming. Large quantities of documentation were surrendered to The Hague in the coming months. Following a meeting between President Mesić and Chief Prosecutor Carla del Ponte on 4 April, the government acceded to a request from the Tribunal to examine a reported mass grave outside Gospić, believed to contain the bodies of Serbs killed in 1991.16 Accordingly, Croatia was accepted officially into the Partnership for Peace programme on 25 May. The new direction in policy soon landed the government in hot water. In August 2000 it emerged that the chief of the general staff, General Petar Stipetić, was under investigation in connection with events during ‘Operation Storm’ in August 1995. It created an opportunity for various nationalist groups to attack the policy of cooperation with the Tribunal. Matters were brought to a head on 28 August by the murder in Gospić of Milan Levar. Levar had served as a witness to the Tribunal in 1997, concerning reports of mass executions of Serbs in his home town - a Croat testifying against other Croats. The

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government was compelled to act, and initiated a wave of arrests of those accused of war crimes in a variety of areas. Those held included a number of military officers, as well as suspects in the Levar case. By 18 September a total of 62 people were in custody in Croatia on war crimes charges. The result was a public uproar, led by sections of the Croatian Democratic Union (HDZ) and veterans’ organizations, offended in particular by accusations directed against men who were considered to be war heroes. The governing coalition immediately found its own cohesion under threat, as Prime Minister Račan’s Social Democrats came under pressure from their partners, the nationalist Croatian Social Liberal Party (HSLS). A rift appeared to open also between Račan and President Mesić on this issue. A group of senior military officers sent an open letter of protest to the press agency HINA, claiming that the arrests were part of a politically motivated attempt to discredit the 1991-95 ‘Homeland War’. On 28 September, Mesić dismissed the seven generals who had led the protest, insisting that the army should be depoliticized, and observing that the constitution forbade the public expression of political views by senior service personnel. Demonstrations against cooperation with The Hague continued over the following months. Before long it emerged that it would be hard to sustain this new direction consistently. Three events in particular presented a challenge to the new government’s position, against which it has found it difficult to defend itself - the case of General Norac, the indictments issued against Generals Gotovina and Ademi, and that of General Janko Bobetko. On 8 February 2001 the County Court in Rijeka issued a warrant for the arrest of General Mirko Norac. He had been the commanding officer in the Gospić area in October 1991, and his name was linked to the disappearance of around 40 Serb civilians, believed to have been abducted and murdered by units of the police and army. Norac went into hiding, and the announcement was followed by further demonstrations led by nationalist groups and organizations of veterans. Having received assurances that he would be tried in Croatia and not handed over

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to the ICTY, Norac surrendered to the police on 21 February. On 5 March he was formally indicted in Rijeka, upon which Mirko Kondić, head of the largest of the veterans’ organizations, condemned the charges as ‘shameful and humiliating’, and demanded an amnesty for all Croatian veterans.17 The strength of nationalistic opposition to cooperation with the ICTY was demonstrated dramatically when the organising committee of the annual Alka festival in the Dalmatian town of Sinj declined to offer the patronage of the event to President Mesić, as a consequence of his policy of cooperation with The Hague. This was the first occasion in the long history of the event in which the head of state had not been invited to take the position of patron.18 The cases of Gotovina and Ademi were in some respects even more controversial. Generals Ante Gotovina and Rahim Ademi had been indicted by the ICTY on 8 June 2001, but partly out of respect for the Croatian government these indictments had been delivered sealed. This afforded an opportunity for the Račan government to formulate its considered position on the matter before the indictments became public knowledge. Initially the government had resisted the invitation to extradite the two. Following a visit to Zagreb by Carla del Ponte the previous day, at a meeting on 7 July the Cabinet agreed that the two should go to The Hague. The case immediately caused acute controversy in Croatia. Following the Cabinet decision, Dražen Budiša, leader of the HSLS, and three ministerial colleagues, resigned from the coalition government. Račan faced a motion of no confidence in the Sabor on 15 July, which he survived, and on 17 July successfully piloted a statement of the government’s general policy towards the ICTY through the Chamber. The events cited in the indictment against Ademi took place in September 1993, in the unsuccessful Croatian attempt to retake the ‘Medak pocket’. Those cited in the indictment against Gotovina concerned the conduct of ‘Operation Storm’, which had resulted in the successful recapture of the secessionist Serb Krajina, in August 1995. Ademi (an ethnic Albanian and former career officer in the JNA) surrendered himself in full uniform to

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The Hague on 25 July. Gotovina went into hiding. The outrage expressed by some sections of the public and among certain professional soldiers and politicians was directed principally against the indictment of Gotovina. Both of these indictments appeared to many Croats to constitute a direct attack on the Croatian army - and hence on Croatian statehood. The Gotovina case was especially sensitive. ‘Operation Storm’ was directed at the task of recovering for the Croatian state an area over which it did not have effective control (the predominantly ethnic Serb Krajina) with or without its population. The very existence of the Krajina compromised Croatian statehood, and raised a question over the legitimacy of international recognition. So important was this that almost any action could be regarded (by some sections of public and official opinion) as justifiable if it led to the confirmation of Croatian statehood in this area. For nationalistic Croats the supreme importance of the end justified any means employed in its realization: and to contemplate prosecuting Croatia’s military heroes for war crimes was a direct challenge both to the legitimacy of the ‘Homeland War’ and the dignity of the state itself. Although the indictment and self-surrender of Ademi was highly controversial, therefore, it was the case against Gotovina which placed the Zagreb government once more in a difficult position and strained its relations with the ICTY.19 A potentially greater embarrassment for the government attended the issue of an indictment against the former Croatian Chief of Staff, General Janko Bobetko, in September 2002. The continuing economic difficulties of the Račan government, and the fragility of its coalition, rendered it ever more sensitive to controversy. Opinion polls indicated the steady recovery of the popularity of the conservative nationalist HDZ.20 Accordingly, a policy of temporizing was adopted, beginning with a challenge to the indictment in the Appeals Chamber of the ICTY itself. Britain and the Netherlands cancelled their ratification of the Stabilization and Association Agreement between the EU and Croatia, and although other states were more conciliatory, it became clear that the prospect of entry to the EU (a central element of Račan’s foreign policy) was under threat. An

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apparently irreconcilable confrontation between the ICTY and the Croatian government was avoided by the failing health of the 83 year-old General, who died in April 2003. The Croatian Government has continued to defend in principle the policy of cooperation with the ICTY, while ‘ducking and weaving’ in response to the vagaries of domestic politics, and in the face of persisting nationalist opposition. The issue has remained one of the central areas of conflict within Croatian political life. The ‘normalization’ of relations between Zagreb and The Hague has been recognized to some extent by the willingness of the international agency to support the prosecution of some war crimes cases in Croatian courts.21 Despite action by the Croatian government, in accord with its agreement with the ICTY, it is clear that cooperation will continue to excite controversy, especially where the allegations in question relate to events which many regard as intrinsic to Croatia’s war of national liberation. Serbia and the ICTY The initial response of the international community to the breakup of Yugoslavia - insisting upon the integrity of international boundaries - encouraged the Serbian leader Slobodan Milošević to believe that the attempt to ensure the integrity of Yugoslavia by military means would be backed. Indeed, despite the hostility towards Serbs expressed in the Western press, the failure to impose a diplomatic and military solution on the Yugoslav crisis presented no challenge to the policy of Milošević and his associates. It was not difficult for the Yugoslav press to shrug off the formation of the ICTY in 1993 as an irrelevance. This situation changed dramatically by 1995, however, when in August ‘Operation Storm’ ejected Serb forces from the Krajina, and triggered in Bosnia a joint Croat-Muslim offensive which was eventually to threaten Banja Luka. International ineffectiveness and inaction was transformed dramatically into effective military intervention, in the form of NATO’s ‘Operation Deliberate Force’, in September. By the end of the year Milošević had been manoeuvred into pressuring the

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Bosnian Serb leadership into reluctant acceptance of the Dayton settlement. This summer of disaster for the Serb cause coincided with the first indictments by the ICTY (all against ethnic Serbs) and more significantly with the arrest and trial of Duško Tadić.22 The Tribunal took its place, not surprisingly, in the picture of hostile international encirclement which the Serbian leadership created, partly in order to explain this military and political collapse. This depiction of the ICTY as deliberately and unremittingly anti-Serb has persisted, and has been intensified by the events of the Kosovo crisis, which followed the Serbian rejection of the Rambouillet Plan. These events included the NATO bombing campaign, which ended in June 1999, and the ensuing arrest and deportation to The Hague of Slobodan Milošević in October 2000. Resistance to the ICTY has had less to do in Serbia with defence of the state (as in Croatia), and a great deal to do with defence of the regime. It was evident from the Karadžić-Mladić indictments (as early as July 1995) and from the ‘Vukovar’ indictments of November, that if ever the accused were to grace the witness box the prosecution would attempt to expose their links to the Yugoslav leadership.23 Delegitimation of the tribunal in The Hague through manipulative news management became for the leadership of the Socialist Part of Serbia (SPS) both an urgent practical as well as a central ideological objective. The state manipulation of imagery of the war in general, and the role of the ICTY in particular, was easier to sustain in Serbia because for the most part war remained at a distance from the majority of the population.24 It was not until NATO intervention over Kosovo that this situation changed. The insistent demands of the Office of the Prosecutor for cooperation (particularly for the arrest of leading Bosnian Serb figures such as Radovan Karadžić and Ratko Mladić) together with the continuing succession of indictments, trials and sentences of ethnic Serbs, facilitated the diffusion of an atmosphere of paranoia through the state-controlled media of communication. This approach to explanation of Serb attitudes

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to the ICTY can not, however, be reduced to this single dimension.25 With the ousting of Milošević on 5-6 October 2000, international opinion anticipated a marked change of stance by the new leadership of the Democratic Opposition of Serbia (DOS). It rapidly became clear, however, that this was not a revolution, but a putsch, which replaced one set of leaders by another. The new ruling coalition was marked by extreme internal divisions. Vojislav Koštunica and Zoran Djindjić had little more in common than their desire to depose the SPS leadership. As in Croatia, therefore, the Serbian response to the ICTY became an internal political issue, although in very different ways. The question of the political significance of the ICTY within Serbia needs to be examined at two levels - that of internal elite politics, and its resonance with wider political culture. Elite politics The war in Serbia produced a Mafia-style economic elite, entrenched in a war economy.26 The new economic bosses were bound up closely with the old political bosses, to an extent not matched in Croatia. The change of regime did not entirely and immediately displace the old guard. The new leadership inherited not only an Assembly still dominated initially by the SPS, but an unchanged military leadership and a firmly entrenched stratum created by the old order who occupy the top echelons of the economy, state administration, the judiciary, and to a lesser extent the communications media.27 This stratum was, in many respects, resistant to the kind of ‘transition’ which Serbia was expected to make, and elite resistance was intimately bound up with the ways in which war criminality was intertwined with a range of other features of Serbian society, including the military and the ‘informal economy’. As a result of this internal resistance, compliance with the demands of the Tribunal generally has been secured only by the strenuous exercise of international diplomatic and economic leverage. In mid-May of 2002 a spate of arrests and self-surrenders took place involving Serbs indicted by the Tribunal. This

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followed a period of intensive diplomacy by the EU’s emissary Javier Solana, beginning in November 2001. The central concern of his mission was the prospect of the further disintegration of Yugoslavia in the form of the secession of Montenegro. Having backed Montenegrin secessionist sentiment during the Milošević years, as a means of destabilising the Belgrade regime, the European Union now reversed its position, and put its weight vigorously behind the continuing unification of the two republics. A deal was signed on 14 March 2002, following which a new basis for a confederal structure was agreed (although its implications are still unclear).28 International efforts to moderate Montenegrin demands for a fundamental restructuring of the union were secured at a price: cooperation with the ICTY. Coincident with this constitutional agreement, the US government named a deadline for Serbian compliance with the ICTY indictments, threatening the loss of US$ 150 millions in aid, on 31 March.29 Relations between the Serbian and federal governments in Yugoslavia, already seriously tested by the arrest and extradition of Milošević, were placed under enormous strain. Although committed to cooperation, Zoran Djindjić invested a great effort in attempting to persuade the indicted men to surrender ‘voluntarily’ to The Hague. His efforts were hardly helped by Federal President Vojislav Koštunica’s remarks that deportations would lead to turmoil, and his admission in an interview with Radio-TV Serbia that ‘I feel sick to my stomach when I think about that court’.30 Having been defeated twice in the federal Assembly (in June 2001 and March 2002) a law was finally adopted making provision for the surrender of citizens to the ICTY. Despite the deep ideological and complex political difficulties which have obstructed the development of relations between Serbia and the ICTY, as in Croatia, a degree of pragmatic accommodation was forthcoming when sufficient external leverage was applied. The situation changed dramatically following the assassination of Prime Minister Djindjić, on 12 March 2003. This event blew apart the nexus between political bosses, the security services and organized crime. During 2002 it had become evident that Djindjić was gradually winning the struggle between

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modernizers who accepted the necessity for accommodation to the West, and more conservative and nationalistically-inclined groups, represented by Koštunica. It is generally accepted that Djindjić’s willingness to cooperate with the ICTY was one of the reasons behind his murder. Although the immediate responsibility for the assassination is still not clear, it is widely agreed that it was undertaken by agents acting for one of the large criminal organizations, specifically the so-called ‘Zemun Gang’. Djindjić’s successor, Zoran Živković, immediately set in motion an energetic campaign to clean out the Augean stable of Serbian political life. A large number of arrests were made, not only in direct connection with the assassination, a reform of the judiciary was announced, and measures were undertaken to hand over several high profile indictees to the Hague Tribunal notably Veselin Sljivančanin, long sought by the ICTY for his alleged part in mass murder in Vukovar at the collapse of the siege in November 1991. Wider reactions The end of the Milošević era in Serbia has not seen the rapid advance of public acceptance of the ICTY, however, and the persistence of scepticism and even hostility towards the Tribunal clearly cannot be reduced to a matter of elite (and in particular media) manipulation.31 The persistent demands of the ‘international community’ for compliance produce a response on the part of many Serbs at two levels. It is essential to recall that, at the time of his extradition to The Hague, Milošević had been indicted already by Serbian courts on charges relating to his alleged economic misdemeanours. In the light of the decade of economic hardship which ordinary Serbs suffered while he was in power, the intervention of The Hague is perceived, not as the supervenience of a higher justice, but the setting aside of their proper grievances in favour of some distant interest and more abstract ideal. Serb perceptions that their needs for justice are marginalized in this process resonates at a deeper level. Croats see ‘Europe’ as playing an important part in their ideological selfdefinition. They place themselves with ‘Europe’ over against

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‘The Balkans’ or ‘Byzantine civilization’, the negative connotations of which are intensified by association with the centuries of Ottoman domination. For Serbs, however, ‘Europe’ does not play this positive role, and attitudes towards ‘Europe’ are deeply ambivalent in two respects.32 The Orthodox Christian tradition has always been deeply suspicious of ‘The West’, and it is common for Orthodox clergy to equate the perceived cultural and moral decline of Serbia with ‘Western’ influence. Furthermore, an important strand in the fabric of Serbian selfdefinition emphasizes the suffering and self-sacrifice of Serbs, defending ‘Christian Europe’ from ‘The Turk’ without ever receiving appropriate recognition for that achievement, or acknowledgement of its cost. Whereas at one level therefore, Serbian culture is profoundly European, the relationship to ‘Europe’ is shot through with an ambivalence that mingles xenophobia and resentment. Although public opinion in Serbia has come to accept that there are issues relating to war crimes which need to be addressed, attitudes towards these have to be contextualized in relation to the widespread sense that Serbs find themselves encircled by an unsympathetic and even hostile environment. Bearing in mind the enormous psychological shock of the NATO bombing campaign of 1999, it is possible to understand how it is that the ICTY takes its place as one element in this picture of national isolation and exclusion. This rather paranoid image of the world cannot be reduced to the factor of elite manipulation, but can be seen to be rooted in far older strata of identity-formation. Conclusions Although the case cannot be argued in detail here, the ‘death of Yugoslavia’ must be understood as one component of a global process, and not simply as a Balkan problem. There are questions to be asked about why the end of communism there was attended by significantly greater violence than elsewhere: nevertheless, the collapse of the Yugoslav system needs to be viewed as but one aspect of the wider political reconstruction of Europe at the end of the 20th. C.33 Similarly, the creation of the

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ICTY, and the progress of its work in the former Yugoslavia, should not be reduced to the level of an incidental and idiosyncratic response to this specifically local problem, but viewed as a part of the wider process of the globalization of law and of justice. In arguing this case I go beyond the familiar concept of ‘transitional justice’.34 This concept addresses the question of how authoritarian regimes, in making a transition to democracy, manage the various questions relating to justice which are posed by the need to make an adequate reckoning of the injustices of the past, while ensuring that the old order relinquishes its grip in a more-or-less cooperative manner. (In this respect the events in Yugoslavia might yield to a fruitful analysis in terms of the failure of ‘transitional justice’). Discussion of ‘transitional justice’, however, does not necessarily require that the process be understood in global terms. I set out in this chapter, however, to examine the claim that it is necessary to approach the experience of the ICTY in relation to the former Yugoslav states primarily within a ‘globalization’ framework. As Norbert Elias has insisted, conflict should also be understood as a ‘figuration’.35 Our understanding of globalization, therefore, should not be confined to the extension of processes of Parsonian ‘integration’. The globalization of law, similarly, does not consist only of the extension of some form of normative order. This is certainly so in the case of the succession of attempts to enforce compliance with the demands of the ICTY in the states of the former Yugoslavia. That conflictual process can not be reduced to the level of conflict between international institutions and local elites, acting in the pursuit of their own interests. Their resistance to the demands of the Tribunal is also rooted in (indeed, to some extent impelled by) popular movements or perceptions. The manner in which the issue of war crimes has become interlaced with domestic political processes both in Croatia and in Serbia is far from being only a matter of ‘top-down’ manipulation. The requirements for compliance from The Hague constitute also a challenge to local identities.

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Peskin and Boduszyński affirm, with respect to Croatia, that: ‘Both the tribunal and the government …. are arguably bound together for better or worse in each other’s political realities.’36 Through a comparison between Croatian and Serbian experience, what I argue here is that this ‘binding together’ can differ, and illustrates the diverse ways in which states can be inserted into globalization processes by means of judicial institutions.

CHAPTER TWELVE Universalism and Gay Identities in France Owen Heathcote

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here is no doubt that notions of gender and sexuality are being influenced by globalization. As Dennis Altman has written recently: ‘changes in our understandings of and attitudes to sexuality are both affected by and reflect the larger changes of globalization. Moreover, as with globalization itself, the changes are simultaneously leading to greater homogeneity and greater inequality’.1 In this context, Altman charts moves to ‘a certain universality of homosexual identity’.2 He acknowledges at the same time that such moves can be seen in non-Western countries as a form of neo-colonialism, since they not only assume particular, culture-specific, notions of homosexuality and lesbianism, but a homology between homosexuality and identity which can ‘easily become markers of those aspects of globalization that are feared and opposed’.3 Even in Western countries such notions of homosexuality and homosexual identity are by no means universally accepted. Indeed, in a country such as France, universal and global are often seen as incompatible rather than convergent: in France, universalism is generally seen as a transcendent value which can combat the inequalities reinforced by globalization; in France, the overarching framework of universalism is thought to offer political, cultural and ethical protection against the homogenizing effects of a globalization often associated with the United States and the Anglophone world. In France, therefore, universalism is thought to shield both individuals and groups from the twin ‘global’ threats of unequal yet eroded identities. It can be seen that if, as Avtar Brah and others have written, the term globalization is, despite being omnipresent, ‘both contested and controversial’, then France can offer an interesting case study of the contestation and the controversy.4 Although, as

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other chapters in this volume show [Aitsiselmi, chapter 7 and Allison, chapter 10] both women and ethnic minorities illustrate the French tug-of-war between universalism and globalization, gay identities are also very much in the firing-line when it comes to asserting or denying an identity based not on visible and thus identifiable physical characteristics (such as sex or ethnicity) but on the generally invisible and thus the even more controversial ‘difference’ represented by sexual orientation. There is a sense in which it is easy to allow either universalism or globalization to homogenize the generally invisible homosexual just as it is also easy to allow either universalism or globalization to perpetuate the inequalities which frequently impair or even violate homosexual lives. It is, therefore, a highly opportune moment to examine the effect of a conflict between universalism and globalization on a group which risks being stigmatized by both either by a loss of identity in the universal or the insistence on a particular kind of identity in the global. France will be taken as the barometer for this issue since, as Naomi Schor has indicated, ‘French national discourse has for centuries claimed that France is the capital of universalism and, though often challenged, that claim has remained largely secure’.5 In order to try to understand the different approaches to sex, gender and sexuality implied by universalism it will be useful to begin by examining not only French notions of universalism but also French notions of citizenship and, more particularly, the implications of the introduction of the PaCS (Pacte Civil de Solidarité or Civil Solidarity Pact) in November 1999. These first sections will conclude by asking whether there is a place in the French nation state, defined in terms of the French Republic, for sexual identities such as the gay citizen and whether the identification of such a citizen is positive or indeed negative for gay people. Once the status - or non-status - of the French gay citizen has been established, it will be possible to assess the impact of globalization on such specifically gendered notions of citizenship: does globalization herald a new equality and a new inclusivity which, according to Schor, has yet to be associated with universalism?6 Or does it simply replace what might have been alternative, specifically gay, forms of identity with

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hegemonic arrangements such as marriage and, at the same time, open the door to heightened hostility to ‘any form of sexualbased identity politics’ and thus provide a pretext, if any were needed, for increasingly violent acts of homophobia?7 In conclusion it should be possible to decide which is preferable: the marginalization and thus the possible stigmatization of gay identities which remains, however marginalized, specifically gay; or the mainstreaming of gay identities (for example via marriage) resulting in a new, bland, and possibly stifling, form of universalism? Put slightly differently, should ‘the rainbow alliance’, like the increasingly ‘popular’ French Gay Pride March, also include heterosexuals?8 According to Naomi Schor ‘[i]n most accounts French universalism is seen as intimately bound up with the universal revolution of 1789’.9 Although at the beginning it derived from its relationship to the Church, the revolution is now resolutely, even provocatively, secular,10 and, again according to Schor, intimately bound up with claims for the universal rationality and logical clarity of the French language. Since it is also intimately bound up with the modern humanistic doctrine of universal human rights it combines the rational, the linguistic and the ethical, all of which are embodied in ‘La République’. Although patriotic references to ‘La France’ can be frequent even in news bulletins, ‘Vive la République’ is perhaps even more insistent, for example in the President’s New Year messages. It is the Republic rather than simply France which embodies the universal and thus protects both the Republic and the universal against the destructive forces of globalization. As Pierre-André Taguieff shows in his La République menacée, [The Threatened Republic]: ‘far from leading to a cooling down of national/nationalistic fervour, economic globalization in fact provokes national responses, ethnic resistance, and local, individual counter-movements’.11 Rather than simply represent France, the Republic manages to be rationally and ethically supra-national and even supra-global, while at the same time, according to Taguieff, preserving the national from internal divisions provoked by immigration without assimilation and by the xenophobia of Le Pen’s Front National. It is thus not a narrowly-nationalistic France which

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resists both internal fragmentation and globalization, but the universal value - and values - of ‘La République’. Inseparable from the notion of ‘Republic’ is that of ‘citizen’, or more precisely ‘citoyen’, since the French term diverges from what seems to be its English equivalent in a number of respects. Firstly, ‘citoyen’ connotes ‘cité’, which, like the word ‘Republic’, conjures up a classical and thus ancient and prestigious ancestry that gives credence to French universalism. The word ‘cité’ has, moreover, a number of more specific senses or associations. It designates ‘a politically independent community’ (or polis) whose independence and authority derive from a mixture of legal and moral rather than specifically national values.12 The ‘cité’ is created by consent or, as Rousseau emphasized, through a ‘social contract’ or pact between citizens and the sovereign state and can, therefore, be modified or even rescinded.13 The ‘cité’ is, therefore, not only a practical arrangement but an ideal towards which individual cities (in the English sense) might work and aspire. Thus Lille, European Capital of Culture in 2004, produced a 179-page brochure entitled La Cité idéale on utopian visions of ‘la cité’, which concluded with a section called ‘l’élan citoyen’, or citizen energy/aspiration.14 A second difference between English ‘citizen’ and French ‘citoyen’ is that ‘citoyen’ is used as an adjective as well as a noun, and qualifies a whole range of nouns as in ‘un rendez-vous citoyen’ (a significant coming-together of citizens, as for the Bicentenary of the French Revolution) or even ‘l’internet citoyen’, which refers to websites on the organization and administration of the Republic at both national and local levels.15 Using the word ‘citoyen’ as an adjective as well as a noun means that the word can both proliferate and yet give unity and coherence to a whole range of otherwise disparate phenomena. It also means that the smallest action, such as filling in a form at the local mairie, can be endowed with the same moral and political importance as the grandest urban renewal project, such as the designation of Lille as a European Capital of Culture. Who needs globalization when France has its roots in the Greek polis and when Lille is a modern version of Thomas Moore’s Utopia?16

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A third difference between the English word ‘citizen’ and the French ‘citoyen’, especially important in the current context, is that the French word can, as either noun or adjective, take a feminine: ‘citoyenne’. Although the collective or abstract noun, ‘citoyenneté’ (‘citizenship’) makes this difficult to forget, it certainly was forgotten when France’s The Declaration of the Universal Rights of Man and the Citizen not only articulated Frenchness onto universalism but, despite Olympe de Gouges’s astonishing The Declaration of the Rights of Woman (1791), conjoined universalism and the French (heterosexual) male. As Schor writes tellingly : ‘Abstract universalism [...] makes of the citizen of the republic a neutered subject devoid of all peculiarities [...] the citizen is unsexed, ungendered [...] but the failure of universalism suggests that the neutering operation is not complete, for the neuter is a man. [...] masculinity is the default drive of universalism.’17 Perhaps, then, the fact that ‘citoyen’ can be feminized as ‘citoyenne’ was not really forgotten but over-ridden, both grammatically and politically, since just as the feminine is the marked grammatical form in relation to the male seen as suprasexual or neuter, so was the (male) citizen seen as the allencompassing universal citizen, including (except when it came to the vote) all citizens of whatever sex.18 Thus, as Lucien Jaume points out, the French declaration is indeed ‘the Rights of Man and the Citizen’: the citizen is not the same as man either as male or even as human being, but supra-sexual in the same way as the universal is supra-national.19 By making the feminine the grammatically-marked form, the very possibility of gendering the French ‘citoyen’ seems to make it even more difficult to find space in the universal for actual women. This also means that globalization, at least in supra-gender and in supra-national terms, is, yet again, always already trumped by French universalism. Although, then, the French Republic is, as Geneviève Fraisse notes, ‘a Republic of brothers’, the very possibility of the grammatical and political category of ‘citoyenne’, so powerfully used by de Gouges, was always there to show that the notion of ‘citoyen’ was neither gender-neutral nor gender-superordinate.20

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Even if ‘la citoyenne’ was a sub-category of ‘le citoyen’, the very existence of that sub-category exposed the need for a gendered reading of citizenship.21 At the same time, the existence of the supposed sub-category of ‘la citoyenne’ opened the door for a whole raft of other subdivisions of citizen, defined in terms of class, ethnicity, regional identity, or, importantly here, of sexual orientation. Whilst this atomization of the citizen - or what the French tend to call ‘communitarianism’ - was precisely what prouniversalists feared, such an array of sub-categories did not necessarily attack the actual notion of citizenship itself but in fact gave it wider purchase and greater potential relevance.22 The seeming atomization of the citizen showed not that the ‘cité’ did not exist but that the ‘cité’ was richer and more varied than hitherto acknowledged. The seeming atomization of the universal showed not that the universal was irrelevant, but, on the contrary, that it needed to become even more universal: with a slight change of sense or of emphasis - by becoming less abstract and, possibly, less high-minded - the universal needed to become not less, but more, self-consciously all-encompassing and all-embracing. In other words, by placing so-called particularisms such as ethnic and sexual diversities in a context not just of the French ‘cité’ but, in addition, in a context of citizenship of the world, the universal could become truly universal. By combining identities derived both from local ‘communitarianisms’ and the international community, the French universal could both achieve and absorb the global.23 At the same time as communitarianisms, whether sexual or ethnic, were providing what was for the pro-universalists an unwelcome challenge to French universalism and to the integral character of the ‘citoyen’, notions of the citizen were changing in other ways. Two particular changes were evident. On the one hand, economic and educational inequalities meant that some citizens had greater access to local and national facilities and provisions: at a fundamental level, there was little chance of being able to vote as a citizen if you lived in another kind of ‘cité’ - the urban housing estate - where even your letterbox might be non-existent or unsafe. As Annick Madec and Numa Murard contend: ‘there is no citizenship in poverty’.24 Even the ‘internet

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citoyen’ is assumed to enjoy access to computers and thus a certain level of wealth and security. Under such circumstances, citizenship has to be seen not as automatic and integral, but as partial and progressive. Citizenship thus also implies not just rights but responsibilities: the individual has to collaborate with the state and work towards citizenship, not just assume it is simply received, as a natural right. On the other hand, the increasing power of the individual-as-consumer means that individuals see their identities and their life-choices as freely adopted and changeable, not fixed by either national identity or civic duty. As Max Silverman notes, the citizen is vanishing before the ‘new celebration of the individual or “new tribe”’ and disappearing behind the new consumer.25 On these two counts, then, the overlap between citizenship and identity is more fluid and more voluntary than some pro-universalists might wish. Citizenship is either partial or voluntary. It is itself divided or unevenly distributed, socially, economically and culturally. When other allegiances such as sexual, ethnic or class identities are fed into this equation, there is little chance of maintaining the rigid if supposedly all-embracing ‘Frenchness’ of the past. It can be seen from the above remarks that advocates of gay rights and gay identities in France are intervening in a highly complex and indeed highly fraught situation. On the one hand, they are intervening in a situation where the notion of ‘citoyenne’ has for long provided a breach in the maintenance of the myth of universal citizenship and, moreover, a universal citizenship which is shown to be not gender-neutral but male. They are, therefore, intervening in a situation where gender has been an issue since - to go no further back in history - Olympe de Gouges, and where parity is now an established aspiration, if not fact, of French political and institutional life [see Allison, chapter 10].26 They are, moreover, intervening in a situation where notions of the citizen are under pressure from a variety of sources, economic and cultural as well as political. On the other hand, they are intervening in a situation where all these forms of particularism, from the ‘citoyenne’ to the consumer, are themselves part of a more general, indeed global development, which may, as indicated above, be still absorbed within a more

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realistic, more flexible form of French universalism. How, then, is France responding to the gay challenge? Is France managing to absorb gay identities into the ‘cité’ and see the gay citizen as a variant on the old ‘citoyen’ - or ‘citoyenne’ - who nevertheless leaves the old values intact? Is France indeed managing to co-opt gayness into a modified form of the universal, or is the universal being slowly demolished under the onslaught of the global gay? The Importance of PaCS One way in which France responded to the gay challenge was, on 15 November 1999, by finally adopting the Pacte Civil de Soldarité (PaCS) which enabled gay men and lesbians to formalize their unions and to acquire certain legal, financial and social advantages.27 Particularly important at the time, since many gays were dying of AIDS-related illnesses, was the need for at least some acknowledgement of the rights and entitlements of surviving partners. However, it was also important to find a means to redress other anomalies, such as Air France’s refusal to grant reduced priced tickets to the gay partner of one of its staff while granting them to heterosexual partners.28 At the same time, since the PaCS was, and is, open to men and women of either, or any, sexual orientation, the PaCS is by no means an exclusively gay piece of legislation. Moreover, there is no way of knowing what proportion of gays and lesbians are taking advantage of the PaCS since the divulging of such information would infringe privacy laws - and information about the number, or motives, of PaCSed couples does not figure on current census forms. What is known, however, is that, despite a drop in 2001, the number of PaCSed couples has risen from 6,140 in 1999 to 31,500 in 2003. At the same time, since the number of marriages in 2001 stood at some 24.8 millions, marriage does not seem to be threatened by the PaCS, ‘so true is it that there is no equivalent to the status of married partner for those who seek maximum legal security’.29 It can be seen, then, that whilst the PaCS respects French universalism by not being specifically or identifiably ‘gay’, the PaCS still confirms gays’ difference by not offering them rights and entitlements on a par with heterosexuals. The universal is being used to keep gays

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anonymous, but not being used to give gays equal rights. By offering gays not full universalism but their own particular version of universalism, the PaCS offers an unequal version of equality.30 As Daniel Borrillo and Pierre Lascoumes argue, the PaCS turns homosexual couples into ‘social minors’.31 Although this inconsistent approach to universalism may be problematic, at least universalism is, as it was for the ‘citoyenne’, a useful tool for exposing injustice and inequality. Hence one of the slogans for the 2004 Lesbian and Gay Pride March in Paris was ‘Assez d’hypocrisie, l’égalité maintenant’ [‘Enough of hypocrisy, equality now’]. Hence, too, in his editorial for the gay magazine Têtu of February 2004, Thomas Doustaly argues in favour of positive discrimination, which is a highly controversial move, given the stigmatization of communitarianism in France.32 He went on to argue the case for gay marriage in a subsequent editorial, not because he wants it for himself, but because, on a principle of equality, he should, as a gay man, be free to choose to marry, divorce, or re-marry, on a par with heterosexuals.33 Thus, within a framework of universalism, both equality and liberty can be invoked to justify gay marriage, such as the marriage that was indeed performed by Mayor Noël Mamère in Bègles, near Bordeaux, on June 6 2004.34 Just as different aspects of universalism (freedom and equality) can be invoked to demand its apparent opposite positive discrimination - so too can international developments be invoked to show France’s anomalous position in relation to the rest of the world. Thus the specifically-gay Civil Partnerships Bill now published in Britain has become a somewhat surprisingly-favoured model for possible future developments in France. Comparisons are being made in all areas of gay rights and legislation not only with the United Kingdom but the United States, and, particularly as Europe expands, with all ‘Euro gays’ in the whole of ‘Euro(gay)land’.35 Hence, if gay marriage is advocated in France, it is within the perspective and the framework of a global gay advance. Notwithstanding Altman’s reservations about the potentially-imperialistic assumptions inherent in gay identity and gay movements, change in France is being advocated by reference to both universalism, as the

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embodiment of liberty and equality, and globalization.36 Indeed, as Keith Harvey has shown in an intriguing study of American Gay in French Translation, France is, despite its traditional hostility to Anglophone, and particularly American, culture, increasingly open to the international gay diaspora and to ‘the language of Universal gay’.37 The universal seems to have changed sides, no longer characterizing French exceptionalism, but inviting France to become an albeit-reluctant bedfellow in a global gay village.38 It can be seen that, under the twin pressures of gay communitarianism and gay globalization, there is considerably greater pressure for gay rights, gay equality and the recognition of gay, if not lesbian, identity in France.39 These pressures have increased over a number of years, partly as a result of the French government’s tardy reaction to the spread of AIDS in France, and partly following the entrenchment of inequalities represented by the PaCS and an ensuing demand for ‘homoparentalité’ and gay marriages.40 The pressures have, moreover, been considerably intensified as a result of increasingly violent acts of homophobia, such as the burning alive of Sébastien Nouchet in Nœux-les-Mines in the Pas-deCalais, on 16 January 2004.41 A number of specific issues have, therefore, combined with a changed internal and external climate to create a new visibility for gay, lesbian, transexual and transgender identities in France. These changes and these demands are also reflected and reinforced in a wave of new gay publications, from primarily mainstream publishing houses, notably Didier Éribon’s Dictionnaire des cultures gays et lesbiennes and Louis-Georges Tin’s Dictionnaire de l’homophobie.42 When combined with a range of other volumes on gay culture, gay literature and gay criticism, these volumes demonstrate that what was hitherto thought of as an AngloSaxon or North American domain - gay studies and queer studies - has come to France with a vengeance, and not, perhaps, just in Paris or, within Paris, just in the gay village that is the Marais and its environs. At the same time, Paris and other major French cities do indeed have highly visible and articulate gay communities, like cosmopolitan cities the world over, from Sydney to San Francisco. The activities of such communities all

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receive regular promotion in monthly magazines like Têtu, Lesbia and the new Préférences, while the overseas gay press is strongly represented, at least in Paris. This whole phenomenon not only contributes to a new gay visibility but also reflects the power of the pink euro and of the above-mentioned self-identification through consumerism. As Libération noted as early as 1995: ‘In Paris you can eat, drink, dance, read, in a word consume gay’.43 And Têtu underlined the link between money and rights as early as 2002: ‘€uro gays: même monnaie, mêmes droits?’ [‘€uro gays: same currency, same rights?’].44 The homosexual as pariah Despite these pressures towards a French global gay identity, scepticism and resistance are still strong. These objections are themselves twofold. Firstly, there is resistance because one of the characteristics of gay or queer ‘identity’ is, precisely, to subvert traditional identities, however theoretically or practically grounded. As Mireille Rosello writes: ‘queer subjects will never know what national-sexual code has shaped the definition of their desire and their demand for political, aesthetic, or social equality’.45 Secondly, resistance to gay identity remains particularly robust in France because of its continued association with Anglo-American multiculturalism: ‘French reactions to these approaches are almost invariably hostile, putting Queer Studies and Gay Studies in the same basket as Gender Studies of which they are some kind of unfortunate offshoot’.46 Thus gay identity, at least when associated with nationality, can be critiqued either because it resists subversion or, at least in France, because it is too associated with that subversion. Identity is either too theoretically deconstructionist for French universalism or, for Rosello, not desconstructionist enough. It is either too monolithic and mainstream - not least when campaigning for gay marriage - or too fragmented and subversive to be countenanced. Faced with this dilemma, it is hardly surprising that some theorists and activists try, as the French say, to cut the pear in two, and advocate an identity which is both recognizable enough to be mainstream and sufficiently non-conformist to be

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at least potentially subversive. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that the prominent theorist and activist, Didier Éribon, highlights the homosexual as pariah. Highlighting the homosexual as pariah solves a number of problems. First and foremost, it is, as Keith Harvey indicates, an established French discourse on the homosexual.47 As Didier Éribon confirms in a work significantly entitled Une morale du minoritaire: Variations sur un thème de Jean Genet [A minority morale: Variations on a theme of Jean Genet], the position of the stigmatized homosexual ‘other’ has informed the writings of a series of prestigious homosexual authors of the 20th. C. such as Proust, Gide and Genet, and is the bedrock of current homosexual identity: ‘We are children of insults’.48 Secondly, then, Éribon maintains that, far from being uniquely negative, the position of pariah can be turned against the oppressor: homosexuals’ incorporation of insults enable them to forge a counter-discourse of reversed stigma, epitomized in the Gay Pride marches held on different dates in the summer throughout France and in major cities throughout the world.49 This counter-movement of meaning is also illustrated in the re-signification of such hate words as ‘queer’, and even the whole notion of ‘a gay ghetto for a gay community’.50 For the eminent gay American critic, Leo Bersani, too, the positive effects of the pariah position are equally evident: ‘the aversion of inverts to the society of inverts may be the necessary basis for a new community of inversion’.51 Given that the ‘gay outlaw’, as Bersani terms it, is both an individual and a type, the outlaw may offer a way out of the double bind of communitarianism and universalism. For the outlaw acknowledges and even embraces his position as ‘minoritaire’, as marginal, while also using the power of that marginal position to contest the dominant order. At the same time, since that marginality is created by the dominant order, the outlaw is also mainstreamed - ironically enough by those who would prefer the outlaw not to exist but also by the marginals themselves, through defusing the supposed stigma. In this way, at least according to Éribon, it may be possible to avoid ‘the problematics which are imposed upon us by the dominant order, such as “Are you

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communitarist or universalist?”’.52 Ironically, and perhaps unexpectedly, the adoption of the pariah position enables French queers to re-signify the ghetto. Thus the novelist Guillaume Dustan speaks affectionately of ‘[his] brothers in the ghetto’ (not least because they are all HIV positive) and insists ‘one feels good in the ghetto’.53 And in an interesting ‘global’ twist, the gay outlaw, represented to perfection by the young prisoners in Genet’s film Un chant d’amour (1950) rejoins the practitioners of the ‘New Queer Cinema’ who also reject bland, positive images in favour of violent gay anti-heroes. As a result, individual and global, universal and communitarian, are united in ‘a new community of inversion’, or in a new communality of perversion.54 References to the pariah may help solve the communitarianuniversalist dilemma for activists such as Éribon and it may even be welcome more generally for critics such as Leo Bersani, for filmmakers dubbed New Queer such as Tom Kalin (Swoon 1991) or Isaac Julien (Young Soul Rebels 1991) or for writers such as Guillaume Dustan or Dennis Cooper (Frisk 1991). However, it seems a shame if the only way out of the struggle between French universalism and identitarian politics lies in an appeal to a community of inversion, however internationally or globally endorsed. Such a recourse is regrettable on two counts. Firstly, it is regrettable because it clearly helps legitimize an association not only between homosexuality and stigma but between homosexuality and violence, however much that homosexual violence is attributed to a homophobic patriarchy. Secondly, it is regrettable because it reaffirms a particular form of politics of identification which, as the above references to Mireille Rosello show, has been critiqued on a number of grounds, not least because, according to Diana Fuss, it indeed involves ‘a degree of symbolic violence, a measure of temporary mastery and possession’.55 One of the uncertainties thrown up by the communitarian-universalism conflict is, precisely, whether the aim is to seek an emancipated identity or emancipation from identity. If universalism is targeted too hard in this conflict, there is a danger that the struggle for emancipated identities will aggravate both the violence of these forged identities and their

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participation in ever-repeated cycles of violence. In France, moreover, the proponents of universalism are right to reply that, unlike for example in Britain, where gays had to combat unequal ages of consent and the infamous Clause 28, in France the age of consent for same sex relations was equalized in 1981 and there has never been an equivalent of Clause 28. In terms of representations, censorship in France is also infinitely more relaxed than on the Anglo-Saxon side of the Channel, for the portrayal of all forms of sexual relations, rendering campaigns for equality on this level virtually meaningless. Universalism can, therefore, have its advantages: it is more difficult to prosecute what has never been identified and thus criminalized than it is in a place like Britain to decriminalize sexual representation in mind as well as in law. Conclusion It would seem from the above that just as communitarianism, at least in the form of identity politics, can be fraught with both theoretical and practical problems, so universalism can be an effective lever against inequality, whether in society or in law. Particularly if reinforced by anti-sexist and anti-homophobic legislation, currently under debate in France, universalism may offer a stronger platform for reform than countries without such a baseline from which to argue for liberty, equality and even fraternity, particularly if the flagrant gendering of the latter is also used as leverage for change. Particularly if identity politics continues to recede, being replaced by queer or rainbow alliances, universalism may not in the end be so out of tune with globalization. It remains to be seen whether universalist or communitarian principles, or a mixture of the two, can best tackle homophobic violence. At the same time, perhaps the greatest contribution that globalization can make to the debate is to contextualize, inform and combat one of the greatest problems of our times the sexism, the misogyny and the violence of men.56

Notes Introduction A draft of every chapter was presented and discussed at seminars held in the academic sessions 2001/2 and 2002/3, and common themes debated. I thank my colleagues for their part in this stimulating process, and for sharing the perceptions that have shaped this Introduction. 2 References to this volume are by page number in the text. 3 This is most obvious in the astonishing departure from universal principles (and his own theoretical framework) evident in John Rawls The Law of Peoples (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1999). 4 See Bill Jordan and Franck Düvell, Migration: The Boundaries of Equality and Justice (Cambridge: Polity, 2003). 5 The classic account is John E. Roemer, A General Theory of Exploitation and Class (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1982). 6 Martin Wolf, Why Globalization Works: the case for the global market economy (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004). 7 Cited by Aitsiselmi from Patrick Ireland, see p. 133 above. 8 Cited by Aitsiselmi from a study of Marseille by Damian Moore, see p. 137 above. 9 The question of how this difference affects the forms taken by racism and far right politics in the two countries is not considered further here. 10 ‘Les immigrées de l’intérieur’, p. 194, and for the ‘feminization’ of male immigrants, see p. 188. 11 I cannot resist the title of the book cited by Cleminson as the source for the concept of ‘neurasthenia’: American Nervousness. Well, yes. It’s hardly surprising, is it? 12 ‘la casa se nutría de nostalgias, de prestigio y de deudas’, p. 209. 13 Some access to the mind-set of the French can be gained by imagining what the reaction would be in the US and the UK if Chinese language and customs were becoming the international paradigm. 14 See Table 5.1, p. 96. 15 ‘Evolutionary fault’ is ‘extravío evolutivo’ in the original, see p. 217. 1

Chapter One A. Brah, H. Crowley, L. Thomas, and M. Starr, ‘Editorial: Globalization’, in Feminist Review 70, 2002, Special Issue, pp. 1-3, and Sue Clegg, ‘Problematising Globalization’, Paper to ‘Women in Crisis, Women in Movement’, ESRC Seminar Series, Leeds Metropolitan University, 8 February 2001, p. 1.

1

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Richard Devetak and Richard Higgott, ‘Justice unbound? Globalization, states and the transformation of the social bond’, in International Affairs, 75:3, l999, pp. 483-98. 3 Philip Gummett, ‘Introduction’ in Philip Gummett, ed., Globalization and Public Policy (Cheltenham and Northampton, MA: Edward Elgar, l996), pp. 1-17; Sheila Rowbotham and Stephanie Linklogle, eds., Women Resist Globalization (London and New York: Zed Books, 2001), p. 15. 4 John Baylis and Steve Smith, eds., The Globalization of World Politics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, l997), p. 14. 5 Leon Brittan, ‘The challenge of the global economy for Europe’ in Europe, Monthly Newsletter, Directorate-General for Information, Communication, Culture and Audiovisual Media, European Commission, Brussels, February 1999; World Bank, ‘Entering the 21st Century’, World Development Report l999/2000 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000). 6 Paul Hirst and Graeme Thompson, Globalization in Question (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1996), p. 3. 7 Robert Jackson and Georg Sorenson, Introduction to International Relations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, l999); Tony Killick, ‘Globalization and the Rural Poor’, Paper to the Development Studies Association Annual Conference, Manchester, September 2001, Joseph Stiglitz, Globalization and its Discontents (London: Allen Lane, 2002). 8 Stephen George and Ian Bache, Politics in the European Union (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 38-40. 9 Richard Falk, Predatory Globalization (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1999), p. 36; Thomas Friedman, The Lexus and the Olive Tree (London: HarperCollins, 1999), pp. xi-xxii, 191-3. 10 Kenneth Waltz, ‘Globalization and Governance’, PS: Political Science and Politics, 32:4, December 1999, pp. 693-700, at p. 694. 11 Robert Cox, ‘Gramsci, hegemony and international relations’ and ‘Structural Implications of Global Governance: implications for Europe’, both in Robert Cox and Trevor Taylor, eds., Approaches to World Order (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, l996). 12 Stiglitz, pp. 9, 45, 90. 13 A. Murray, ‘The American Century: Is It Going or Coming?, Wall Street Journal, 27 December 1999, p. 1. 14 William Clinton, ‘Community, Opportunity, Responsibility’, State of the Union Address, 27 January 2000, p. 7. www.whitehouse. gov. 2

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Romano Prodi, ‘Shaping the New Europe’, Speech from the President of the Commission to the European Parliament, Strasbourg, 15 February 2000. 16 Falk, p. 39. 17 European Commission, ‘Green Paper on relations between the European Union and the ACP counties on the eve of the 21st Century’ (Luxembourg: Office for Official Publications of the European Communities, l997). 18 Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, Manifesto of the Communist Party (Moscow: Progress Press, 1969), pp. 46-7. 19 Michael Veseth, Selling Globalization: the Myth of the Global Economy (Boulder and London: Lynne Rienner, l998), pp. 25-8. 20 Hirst and Thompson, p. 196. 21 Jeffery Sachs, ‘International Economics: Unlocking the Mysteries of Globalization’ in P. O'Meara, H. Mehlinger, and M. Krain, eds., Globalization and the Challenges of a New Century (Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2000); Veseth, pp. 31-6. 22 John Zysman, ‘US power, trade and technology’, International Affairs, 67:1, 1991, p. 103. 23 Francis Fukuyama, The End of History and the Last Man (London and New York: Penguin Books, 1992); Samuel Huntington, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of the World Order (New York: Simon and Schuster, l996). 24 Falk, p. 1. 25 Friedman, p. 9. 26 James Mittelman, ‘Globalization: An Ascendant Paradigm?’, International Studies Perspectives, 3 :1, 2002, pp. 1-14. For the latter, see for example the books by Baylis and Smith, Jackson and Sorenson, and Rowbotham and Linkogle. 27 Mittelman, p. 7-8. 28 Manuel Castells, The Rise of the Network Society, 2nd. ed. (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000), p. 3. 29 Waltz, p. 693. 30 Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom, vol. 2 (London: Abacus, 2003), p. 375. 31 Friedman, p. 406. 32 Veseth, p. 12. 33 Brian Groom and Ed Crooks, ‘Brown's global vision for EU’, Financial Times, 18 January 2001, p. 1. 34 Groom and Crooks. 15

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Sarah Hall, ‘Decapitator of Thatcher statue faces jail’, The Guardian, 23 January 2003, p. 2. 36 Henry Kissinger, Does America Need a Foreign Policy? (New York and London: Simon and Schuster, 2001), p. 24. 37 M. Dickson, ‘Gap between the rich and the poor is increasing’, Financial Times, 22 September 2000, p. xxiv. 38 Shaohua Chen and Martin Ravallion, ‘How Did the World’s Poorest Fare in the l990s?’, Policy Research Working Paper 2409 (Washington DC: The World Bank, August 2000). 39 White Paper on International Development, Eliminating World Poverty: Making Globalization Work for the Poor (London: The Stationery Office, December 2001). 40 Dickson, p. xxiv. 41 Jon Bennett and Susan George, The Hunger Machine (New York: Polity Press, 1987), p. 53. 42 Killick, p. 5. 43 Haleh Afshar and Stephanie Barrientos, eds., Women, Globalization and Fragmentation in the Developing World (Houndmills and London: Macmillan, 1999), p. 3. 44 Killick, p. 15. 45 Caroline Thomas, ‘Where is the Third World Now?’, Review of International Studies, 25:4 , December l999, pp. 225-243; Brigitte Young, ‘Globalization and Gender: a European Perspective’ in Rita Mae Kelly, Jane H. Bayes, Mary E. Hawkesworth and Brigitte Young, eds., Gender, Globalization and Democratization (Lanham and Boulder: Rowman and Littlefield, 2001). 46 Caroline Sweetman, ‘Editorial’, Gender and Development, 10:3, 2002, pp. 2-9. 47 See for instance, Hirst and Thompson, Falk, and D. Held and A. McGrew, Globalization and Anti-Globalization (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2002). The lack of gender awareness is also noted in Afshar and Barrientos; in the Introduction to Sarah Franklin, Celia Lury and Jackie Stacey, eds., Global Nature, Global Culture (London: Sage, 2000), and by Susie Jacobs, ‘Globalization, States and Women’s Agency’ in Susie Jacobs, Ruth Jacobson, and Jennifer Marchbank, eds., States of Conflict: Gender, Violence and Resistance (London and New York: Zed Books, 2000). 48 Afshar and Barrientos, p. 6. 49 Stephanie Barrientos and Valerie Perrons, ‘Gender and the Global Food Chain’ in Afshar and Barrientos, p. 150. 35

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C. Dolan, ‘The “Good Wife”: Struggles over Resources in the Kenyan Horticultural Sector’, Journal of Development Studies, 37:3, 2001, pp. 39-70. 51 Young, p. 33. 52 UNIFEM-United Nations Development Fund for Women, Progress of the World’s Women 2000 (New York: UNIFEM, 2000), pp. 92-5. 53 Mark Duffield, ‘Aid Policy and Post-Modern Conflict’, Occasional Paper 19, School of Public Policy, University of Birmingham, l998, p. 17. 54 UNICEF, ‘Violence Against Women and Girls Still a Global Epidemic’, www.unicef.org/newsline, 20 April 2005. 55 Christine Bradley, ‘Why Male Violence against Women is a Development Issue: Reflections from Papua New Guinea’ in Miranda Davies, ed., Women and Violence (London: Zed Books, 1994). 56 Sigurd Jorde, ‘South Africa: One Rape Every 30 Seconds’, World Press Review, 47:7, July 2000, pp. 45-6. 57 Cox, ‘Structural Issues of Global Governance’, p. 239. 50

Chapter Two

1 Dudley Seers, ‘The Limitations of the Special Case’, in Kurt Martin and John Knapp, eds., The Teaching of Development Economics (London: Frank Cass, 1967), pp. 1-27. 2 ‘Intervention’ is used pejoratively in the neoliberal literature, indicating the unwelcome involvement of government in the private sector, thus neglecting positive roles as an arbiter in providing the ‘rules of the game’, and protecting weaker elements of society. For this ‘market failure’ argument, see Gerald Meier, Leading Issues in Economic Development (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), chapter X.B, pp. 536-47. 3 John Williamson, ‘In Search of a Manual for Technopols’, in John Williamson, ed., The Political Economy of Policy Reform (Washington: Institute of International Economics, 1994), pp. 9-28. 4 Irma Adelman, ‘The Role of Government in Economic Development’, in Finn Tarp and Peter Hjertholm, eds., Foreign Aid and Development: Lessons Learnt and Directions for the Future (London: Routledge, 2000), pp. 48-79; Ha-Joon Chang, ‘The Market, the State and Institutions in Economic Development’ and ‘Trade and Industrial Policy Issues’, in Ha-Joon Chang, ed., Rethinking Development Economics (London: Anthem Press, 2003), pp. 257-76; Joseph Stiglitz, ‘The Role of Government in Economic Development’ and ‘An Agenda for Development in the Twenty-First Century’ in Annual World Bank

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Conference on Development Economics (Washington: World Bank, 1996), pp. 11-23 and (1997), pp. 17-31; John Toye, ‘Changing Perspectives in Development Economics’ in Chang, pp. 21-40; and Robert Wade, Governing the Market (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990). The debate over development between neoliberal and structuralist economists includes Ben Fine, ‘Economics, Imperialism and the New Development Economics as Kuhnian Paradigm Shift?’, World Development, 30:12, 2003, pp. 2057-70; Ravi Kanbur, ‘Economic Policy, Distribution and Poverty: The Nature of Disagreements’, World Development, 29:6, 2001, pp. 1083-94, and ‘Economics, Social Science and Development’, World Development, 30:3, 2002, pp. 477-86; Robert Wade, ‘Making the World Development Report 2000: Attacking Poverty’, World Development, 29:8, 2001, pp. 1435-41, and Howard White, ‘Combining Quantitative and Qualitative Approaches in Poverty Analysis’, World Development, 30: 3, 2002, pp. 511-22. 5 Joseph Stiglitz, More Instruments and Broader Goals: Moving Toward the Post-Washington Consensus (United Nations University, 1998), and Towards a New Paradigm for Development: Strategies, Policies and Processes (UNCTAD, 1998). 6 Hla Myint, South East Asia’s Economy: Development Policies in the 1970s (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1972), ch. 3, pp. 58-72, based on a report prepared for the Asian Development Bank. 7 Although Taiwan is one of the ‘Tiger’ economies, it is difficult to obtain comparative statistics for it. The OECD and Asian Development Bank data series relate to ‘Taipei’, and are not compatible with those of the World Bank’s World Development Indicators. 8 PPP refers to the ‘purchasing power parity’ approach, which adjusts for the relative purchasing power of international dollars over untraded goods and services. 9 World Bank, The East Asian Miracle: Economic Growth and Public Policy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993); Sanjaya Lall, ‘The “East Asian miracle” study: does the bell toll for industrial strategy?’, in John Page, ed., ‘Symposium on “The East Asian Miracle”’, World Development; 22:4, 1994, pp. 615-25, and Overseas Economic Cooperation Fund of Japan, The World Bank's East Asian Miracle Report: Its Strengths and Limitation (Tokyo: Research Institute of Development Assistance (RIDA), 1995). 10 The sources for Tables 1, 2 and 3 are World Bank, World Development Indicators (2003), and for GDP growth and Private consumption growth: World Development Report 2000-2001 (New York: Oxford

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University Press for the World Bank, 2001), Table 11, pp. 294-5 and Table 2, pp. 276-7 respectively. 11 Paul Mosley, Jane Harrigan and John Toye, Aid and Power: The World Bank and Policy-Based Lending (London: Routledge, 1995); Paul Mosley, Turan Subasat and John Weeks, ‘Assessing “Adjustment in Africa” ’, World Development, 23:9, 1995, pp. 1459-74; Ishrat Husain and Rashid Faruqee, eds., Adjustment in Africa: Lessons from Country Case Studies (Washington: World Bank, 1994), and Giles Mohan, Ed Brown, Bob Milward and Alfred B. Zack-Williams, Structural Adjustment: Theory, Practice and Impacts (London: Routledge, 2000). 12 For recent literature exploring the relationship between various definitions of the ‘policy regime’, investment rates, economic growth and poverty reduction, see for example the World Bank’s Country Policy and Institutional Assessment (CPIA), World Development Report 2000-2001, Box 11.5, p. 198, and Paul Collier and David Dollar, ‘Aid Allocation and Poverty Reduction’, European Economic Review, 46, 2002, pp. 1475-500. 13 William Cline, ‘Can the East Asian Model of Development be Generalized?’, World Development, 10: 2, 1982; Ajay Chhibber and Chad Leechor, ‘From Adjustment to Growth in sub-Saharan Africa: The Lessons of East Asian Experience applied to Ghana’, Journal of African Economies, 4:1, 1995, pp. 83-114; and Craig Burnside and David Dollar, ‘Aid, Policies, and Growth’, American Economic Review, 90:4, 2000, pp. 847-68. 14 The WTO succeeded the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT) in 1995. 15 Tibor Scitovsky, Welfare and Competition: The Economics of a Fully Employed Economy (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1952), ch. II, pp. 12-26. 16 This is not certain, however. It is conceptually possible, or even likely, that some countries or groups might lose from increased market ‘perfection’ with others acquiring not only the gains, but also additional benefits at the expense of the losers. 17 Kelvin Lancaster and Richard Lipsey, ‘The General Theory of the Second Best’, Review of Economic Studies, XXIV:1, 1956, pp. 11-32. Discussions of ‘market failure’ and international development may be found in Adelman, pp. 48-79; Chang, ‘The Market, the State and Institutions’, pp. 41-60; Meier, Leading Issues, 6th. Ed., pp. 540-2 and in Gerald Meier and James E. Rauch, Leading Issues in Economic Development, 7th. Ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), pp. 426-33.

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This issue was discussed by Gunnar Myrdal in The Challenge of World Poverty: A World Anti-Poverty Programme in Outline (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1971), pp. 52-4, reviewing Asian economic development. 19 George R. G. Clarke, Robert Cull, Maria Soledad Martinez Peria, and Susana Sanchez, Foreign Bank Entry Experience, Implications for Developing Countries, and Agenda for Further Research, (Washington: World Bank, 2001). 20 Joseph Stiglitz, Globalization and its Discontents (London: Allen Lane, the Penguin Press, 2002), p. 4. 21 Michael Tribe, ‘The concept of “infant industry” in a sub-Saharan African context’, in Hossein Jalilian, Michael Tribe and John Weiss, eds., Industrial Development and Policy in Africa (Cheltenham: Edward Elgar, 2000), pp. 30-57, at p. 47. 22 Ha-Joon Chang, Kicking Away the Ladder (London: Anthem Press, 2002). 23 It is possible to conceive of the domestic market being supplied from a port or from a factory, with the internal domestic transactions costs being the same from both sources. The cost from the ‘harbour gate’ would be the landed cif (cost, insurance and freight) plus any import tariff (i.e. the international cost of production plus international transactions costs and domestic taxes). The cost of imports to the domestic consumer will be higher than the ‘harbour gate’ price if an import quota creates an artificial scarcity. In the case of the tariff the domestic ‘mark up’ is acquired by the government, and in the case of the quota the domestic ‘mark up’ is acquired by domestic traders as a scarcity ‘rent’. 24 The only exception is for protection as a short-term expedient to help the development of ‘infant industries’. Ha-Joon Chang, ‘Trade and Industrial Policy Issues’, in Chang, pp. 257-76. But even here, a problem has occurred in practice that ‘infant industry protection’ has usually been maintained for much longer than intended, perpetuating welfare losses for domestic consumers and a lack of competitiveness in export markets. 25 ‘One of the major purposes of trade liberalization is to promote economic growth by capturing the static and dynamic gains from trade through a more efficient allocation of resources: greater competition; an increase in the flow of knowledge and investment and, ultimately, a faster rate of capital accumulation and technical progress’ (Amelia Santos-Paulino and Anthony P. Thirlwall, ‘The Impact of Trade Liberalisation on Exports, Import and the Balance of Payments of 18

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Developing Countries’, Economic Journal, 114:493, 2004, pp. F50-F72, at p. F50). 26 Paul Collier, ‘Africa’s Comparative Advantage’, in Jalilian, Tribe and Weiss, pp. 11-21. 27 These asymmetries exist between developing/transition economies and DMEs as groups, and also between individual countries within the developing and transition economy group. 28 Other issues relevant to a full treatment include movements of international terms of trade, and the effects of international financial institutions, and foreign aid (or ‘official development assistance’). Some economists accept Emmanuel’s view of ‘unequal exchange’ between developing countries and DMEs: Arghiri Emmanuel, Unequal Exchange: A Study of the Imperialism of Trade (London: New Left Books, 1972). 29 Department for International Development, Eliminating World Poverty: Making Globalisation Work for the Poor - White Paper on International Development (London: DFID, 2000); United Nations Conference on Trade and Development, The Least Developed Countries Report 2002: Escaping the Poverty Trap (Geneva: UNCTAD, 2002).

Chapter Three

Phillip Cole, Philosophies of Exclusion: Liberal Political Theory and Immigration (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2000). 2 Robert Boyer, ‘The Political in the Era of Globalization and Finance: Focus on Some Régulation School Research’, International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 24:2, 2000, pp. 274-322. 3 Bill Jordan and Franck Düvell, Irregular Migration: Dilemmas of Transnational Mobility (Cheltenham: Edward Elgar, 2002), ch. 9. 4 Alan Findlay, ‘A Migration Channels Approach to the Study of HighLevel Manpower Movements: A Theoretical Perspective’, International Migration, 28:1, 1990, pp. 15-22. 5 William I. Jennings, The Approach to Self-Government (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1956), p. 56. 6 Rainer Bauböck, Transnational Citizenship: Membership and Rights in International Migration (Aldershot: Edward Elgar, 1994), p. 178. 7 See for instance Amy Gutmann, Liberal Equality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980), p. 18; Cole, Philosophies of Exclusion, pp. 3-4. 8 Will Kymlicka, Contemporary Political Philosophy: An Introduction (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990), pp. 36-7. 9 John Rawls, Political Liberalism (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993), p. 181. 1

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Cole, pp. 193-5. Cole, p. 136. 12 For example, David Miller, On Nationality (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995). 13 The first is Cole’s (p. 108) assessment of Miller’s Nationality. For the second position, see Yael Tamir, Liberal Nationalism (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1993). 14 Frederick G. Whelan, ‘Citizenship and Freedom of Movement, An Open Admissions Policy?’, in Matthew Gibney, ed., Open Borders? Closed Societies? The Ethical and Political Issues (Westport, C.T.: Greenwood Press, 1988), pp. 3-39, at p. 22; Cole, p. 108. 15 John Rawls, The Law of Peoples (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1999), especially pp. 26 and 38-9. 16 Thomas Pogge, World Poverty and Human Rights (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2002). 17 Alessandra Casella and Bruno Frey, ‘Federalism and Clubs: Towards an Economic Theory of Overlapping Political Jurisdictions’, European Economic Review, 36:2/3, 1992, pp. 639-46. 18 Albert O. Hirschman, Exit, Voice and Loyalty: Responses to Decline in Firms, Organizations and States (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1970), pp. 69-71. 19 Charles Tiebout, ‘A Pure Theory of Local Expenditures’, Journal of Political Economy, 64, 1956, pp. 416-24. 20 For instance, John Rawls, A Theory of Justice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1971); Ronald Dworkin, ‘What Is Equality? Part II: Equality of Resources’, Philosophy and Public Affairs, 10, 1981, pp. 283-345; Philippe Van Parijs, Real Freedom for All: What (If Anything) Can Justify Capitalism? (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995). 21 Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan, ed. John Plamenatz (London: Collins, 1962 [1651]), pp. 97, 123. 22 Rawls, Political Liberalism, p. 136, and cf.) p. 277. 23 Rawls, The Law of Peoples, pp. 38-9. 24 Rawls, p. 39. 25 Michael Walzer, Spheres of Justice (Oxford: Blackwell, 1983), pp. 39, 61-2. 26 Myron Weiner, ‘Ethics, National Sovereignty and the Control of Immigration’, International Migration Review, 30:1, 2000, pp. 171-97, at p. 173. 27 Hobbes, Leviathan, p. 143. 28 Robert P. Inman and Daniel L. Rubinfeld, ‘The Political Economy of Federalism’, in Dennis C. Mueller, ed., Perspectives on Public Choice: A 10 11

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Handbook (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), pp. 73-105; Geoffery Brennan and James Buchanan, The Power to Tax: Analytical Foundations of a Fiscal Constitution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980). The echoes of the three centuries are respectively of Selden, Grotius, Filmer, Hobbes, Pufendorf and Locke; of Rousseau, Montesquieu, Hume, Jefferson and Madison, and of Bentham, J.S. Mill and Dicey. See Bill Jordan, The State: Authority and Autonomy (Oxford: Blackwell, 1985), chs. 2, 5 and 6 respectively. 29 Knut Wicksell, ‘A New Principle of Just Taxation’, Finanztheoretische Untersuchen [Jena: 1896] in Richard A. Musgrave and Alan T. Peacock, Classics in the Theory of Public Finance (London: Macmillan, 1958), pp. 72-118. 30 William A. Niskanen, ‘Bureaucrats and Politicians’, Journal of Law and Economics, 18, 1975, pp. 617-43. 31 Wallace E. Oates, ‘Searching for Leviathan: An Empirical Study’, American Economic Review, 75, 1985, pp. 748-57; Brennan and Buchanan, The Power to Tax. 32 Wallace E. Oates, Fiscal Federalism (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1972); Tiebout, ‘Pure Theory’. 33 Inman and Rubinfeld, ‘Federalism’, pp. 73-4. 34 Albert Breton, Competitive Governments: An Economic Theory of Politics and Public Finance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). 35 John Cullis and Philip Jones, Public Finance and Public Choice: Analytical Perspectives (London: McGraw Hill, 1994), pp. 297-302; G. Hughes, ‘Fiscal Federalism in the UK’, Oxford Review of Economic Policy, 3:2, 1987, pp. 1-23. 36 Wallace E. Oates, ‘An Essay on Fiscal Federalism’, Journal of Economic Literature, 27, 1999, pp. 1120-49, at p. 1122. 37 The assumptions are that the collective goods are excludable, provided by congestable technologies, and via a potentially infinite number of jurisdictions, each with the capacity to reproduce the most attractive features of its competitors, and no jurisdictional externalities. See Tiebout, ‘Pure Theory’. 38 Inman and Rubinfeld, pp. 75-6. 39 Wallace E. Oates and Robert M. Schwab, ‘The Theory of Regulatory Federalism: The Case of Environmental Management’, in Wallace E. Oates, ed., The Political Economy of Fiscal Federalism, (Lexington, MA: Heath-Lexington, 1996), pp. 275-355; Oates, ‘An Essay on Fiscal Federalism’, p. 1131; Jan K. Brueckner, ‘Welfare Reform and the Race to the Bottom: Theory and Evidence’, Southern Economic Journal, 66:3, 2000, pp. 505-25.

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Oates, p.1127. Richard Cornes and Todd Sandler, The Theory of Externalities, Public Goods, and Club Goods (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), ch. 11. 42 Rawls, A Theory of Justice. 43 Cole, ch. 9. 44 John Locke, Second Treatise of Government, ed. Peter Laslett, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967 [1698]), secs. 184-5; secs. 82-3; John Locke, Board of Trade papers: Journal B, pp. 242-326, quoted in H.R. Fox Bourne, The Life of John Locke (London: King, 1876), pp. 377-87. See also ‘Some Considerations of the Consequences of the Lowering of Interest, and Raising the Value of Money’, in The Works of John Locke in Four Volumes (Edinburgh: W. Strachan et al., 1777), vol. II, pp. 10-46. 45 John Stuart Mill, ‘Some Considerations Concerning Representative Government’, in Utilitarianism, Liberty, Representative Government (London: Dent, 1912), pp. 181-213, at pp. 197-8. For Kant’s views see E. C. Eze, ‘The Color of Reason: The Idea of “Race” in Kant’s Anthropology’, in E. C. Eze, ed., Post Colonial African Philosophy: A Critical Reader (Oxford: Blackwell, 1997), pp. 93-121, especially at p. 115. 46 John Stuart Mill, ‘Principles of Political Economy, with some of their Applications to Social Philosophy’, [1848] in J. M. Robson, ed., Collected Works (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1967), vols. 2 and 3, book II, ch.xii, sec. 2. 47 Tiebout, ‘Pure Theory’. 48 Bill Jordan and Franck Düvell, Migration: The Boundaries of Equality and Justice (Cambridge: Polity, 2003), ch. 4. 49 European Commission, Communication from the Commission to the Council and the European Parliament on a Concerted Strategy for Immigration and Asylum (Brussels: European Commission, 2000) COM (2000) 757 final; John Salt and James Clarke, ‘Foreign Labour in the United Kingdom: Patterns and Trends’, Labour Market Trends, October 2001, pp. 473-83. 50 Bauböck, Transnational Citizenship, p. 235. 51 Bauböck, pp. 209; 227. 52 Amartya Sen, Inequality Re-examined (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), pp. 39-40; ‘Rights and Capabilities’, in his Resources, Values and Development (Oxford: Blackwell, 1984), pp. 307-24, at p. 16; ‘Equality of What?’, in his Choice, Welfare and Measurement (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982), pp. 353-69. 53 Thomas H. Marshall, Citizenship and Social Class (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1950); Amartya Sen, ‘Capability and 40 41

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Wellbeing’, in Martha Nussbaum and Amartya Sen, eds., The Quality of Life (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), pp. 25-41. 54 Ruth Lister, ‘The Road to Rio via the Third Way: New Labour’s Welfare Reform Agenda’, Renewal, 4:3, 2000, pp. 9-20. 55 Sandra Lavenex, The Europeanisation of Refugee Policies: Between Human Rights and Internal Security (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001). 56 Thomas Pogge, World Poverty and Human Rights. 57 Perri 6, ‘Tackling Social Exclusion and Unemployment: A Preliminary Assessment of New Labour’s Approach in Britain’, paper presented at Fondaçion Sistema Conference, Madrid, 3rd December, 1999, p. 6. 58 Weiner, p. 173. 59 Michael Dummett, On Immigration and Refugees (London: Routledge, 2001). 60 World Bank, World Development Report 2000-2001: Attacking Poverty (Washington, D.C.: World Bank / Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 51-5. In the world as a whole, inequality has grown fastest between the richest and the poorest countries. In 1960 per capita GDP in the richest 20 countries was 18 times that in the poorest 20 countries. By 1995 this gap had widened to 37 times. Within states it widened in most (especially the postcommunist countries, India and China), but narrowed in a few, notably Brazil. 61 Bill Jordan, A Theory of Poverty and Social Exclusion (Cambridge: Polity, 1996), chs. 4 and 5. 62 Anthony B. Atkinson, Public Economics in Action: The Basic Income / Flat Tax Proposal (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995). 63 Bill Jordan, Phil Agulnik, Duncan Burbidge and Stuart Duffin, Stumbling Towards Basic Income: The Prospects for Tax-Benefit Integration (London: Citizens Income Study Centre, 2000), chs. 2 and 3. 64 Philippe Van Parijs, Real Freedom for All; Guy Standing, Beyond the New Paternalism: Basic Security as Equality (London: Verso, 2002); Tony Fitzpatrick, Freedom and Security: An Introduction to the Basic Income Debate (London: MacMillan, 1999); Brian Barry, ‘The Attractions of Basic Income’, in Jane Franklin, ed., Equality (London: Institute for Public Policy Research, 1997), pp. 157-71. 65 Bauböck, Transnational Citizenship. See also his ‘The Crossing and Blurring of Boundaries in International Migration: Challenges for Social and Political Theory’, in Rainer Bauböck and John Rundell, eds., Blurred Boundaries, Ethnicity, Citizenship (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), pp. 17-52. 66 Bruce Ackerman and Anne Alstott, The Stakeholding Society (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1999); Julian Le Grand and David

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Nissan, A Capital Idea: Start-Up Grants for Young People (London: Fabian Society, 2000). 67 Casella and Frey, ‘Federalism and Clubs’, p. 643. 68 Pogge, World Poverty and Human Rights. 69 Catherine McKinnon and Iain Hampsher-Monk, eds., The Demands of Citizenship (London: Continuum, 2000). 70 Peter A. Fischer, Einar Holm, Gunnar Malmberg and Thomas Straubhaar, Why Do People Stay? Insider Advantages and Immobility, HWW Discussion Paper 112 (Hamburg: Institute of International Economies, 2000). 71 Bauböck, Transnational Citizenship, pp. 86-92. 72 Rawls, The Law of Peoples, p. 26. 73 G. A. Cohen, Self-Ownership, Freedom and Equality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998).

Chapter Four

Jens Qvortrup, ‘Introduction’ in Jens Qvortrup, ed., Childhood matters (Aldershot: Avebury Press, 1994). 2 Helmut Wintersberger, ‘Family Citizenship or Citizenship for Children? Childhood perspectives and policies’, in Henry Cavanna, ed., The New Citizenship of the Family: Comparative perspectives (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), p. 175. 3 Martin Woodhead, ‘Psychology and the Cultural Construction of Children’s Needs’, in Alison James and Alan Prout, eds., Constructing and Reconstructing Childhood: Contemporary issues in the sociological study of childhood, 2nd edn. (London: Falmer, 1997). 4 UNICEF A League Table of Child Poverty in Rich Nations, Innocenti Report Card 1 (Florence: UNICEF, 2000). 5 Holly Sutherland, Five Labour Budgets (1997-2001): Impacts on the distribution of household incomes and on child poverty (London: Microsimulation Unit Research Note no 41, 2001). 6 Kenneth Hill et al., Trends in child mortality in the developing world: 1990 to 1996, unpublished UNICEF report (New York: UNICEF, 1998). 7 Viviana Zelizer, Pricing the Priceless Child: The changing social value of children (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985). 8 See Wintersberger, ‘Family Citizenship’. 9 Jenny Kitzinger, ‘Who are you Kidding? Children, power and the struggle against sexual abuse’, in James and Prout, Constructing and Reconstructing Childhood. 1

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Sharon Stephens, ‘Children and the Politics of Culture in “Late Capitalism’’ ’ in Sharon Stephens, ed., Children and the Politics of Culture, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995), p.11. 11 Stephens, p. 13. 12 Stephens, p. 28. 13 Nick Lee, Childhood and Society: Growing up in an age of uncertainty (Buckingham: Open University Press, 2001), p. 91. 14 Human Rights Watch, World Report Section on Children's Rights: Police Abuse and Arbitrary Detention of Street Children (New York: Human Rights Watch, 2000). 15 On the effects of information technology, see Anthony Giddens, Modenity and Self Identity: Self and society in the late modern age (Cambridge: Polity, 1991), Manuel Castell, The Information Age, Vol. 1, The Rise of the Network Society (Oxford and Malden: Blackwell, 1996), and Peter Dicken, Global Shift: Reshaping the global economic map of the 21st century (London: Sage, 2003). On other globalization issues, see respectively David Held and Anthony McGrew, The Global Transformation Reader (Cambridge: Polity, 2000), Malcolm Waters, Globalization (London: Routledge, 2000); and Paul Hirst and Grahame Thompson, Globalization in Question (Cambridge: Polity, 1996), Michael Mann, ‘Has Globalization Ended the Rise and Rise of the Nation State?’, Review of International Political Economy, 4(3) (1997) pp. 472-96, Geoffery Garrett, Partisan Politics in the Global Economy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), and Linda Wiess, ‘Globalization and the Myth of the Powerless State’, New Left Review, 223, 1998, pp. 3-27. 16 Tom Cockburn, ‘New Information Technologies and the Development of a Children’s “Community of Interest” ’, Community Development Journal, 40:3, 2004. 17 See Roland Robertson, Globalization: Social theory and global culture (London: Sage, 1992), David Held, Global Transformations (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), Kevin Robins, ‘What in the World’s going on?’, in Paul du Gay, ed., Production of Culture/Cultures of Production (London: Sage, 2000). 18 Susan Strange, The Retreat of the State: The diffusion of power in the world economy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 19 Anthony McGrew, The Transformation of Democracy? (Cambridge: Polity, 1997); Alejandro Colas, ‘The Promises of International Civil Society’, Global Society, 11:3, 1997, pp. 261-77, and see Held, Global Transformations. 20 Susan Mendus, ‘Human Rights in Political Theory’, Political Studies, 43, 1995, pp. 10-24. 10

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Mendus, p. 185. Malcolm Hill, and Kay Tisdall, Children and Society (Harlow: Addison Wesley Longman, 1997). 23 Michael King, A Better World for Children: Explorations in Morality and Authority (London: Routledge, 1997). 24 King, p. 95. 25 UNICEF, Convention on the Rights of the Child, www.unicef.org/crc. 26 Erica Burman, ‘Innocents Abroad: Western fantasies of childhood and the iconography of emergencies’, Disasters, 18:3, 1994, pp. 238-53, at p. 241. 27 See Steve Fuller, Science (Buckingham: Open University Press, 1997) and Bruno Latour, Pandora’s Hope (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999). 28 Harry Hendrick, ‘Constructions and Reconstructions of British Childhood: An interpretative survey, 1800 to the present’ in James and Prout. 29 Feminists have also focussed on the ways in which scientific discourses create and re-create both gender and ethnic differences. See Nancy Leys Stepan, ‘Race, Gender and Citizenship’, Gender and History, 10:1, 1998, pp. 26-52. 30 See respectively Lee, Childhood and Society; Qvortrup Childhood Matters. 31 Deane Curtin, ‘Toward an Ecological Ethic of Care’, Hypatia, 6:1, 1991, pp. 60-74. 32 Alison James and Adrian James, ‘Tightening the Net: Children, community and control’, British Journal of Sociology, 52:2, 2001, pp. 211228, at p. 226. 33 Department of Health, Convention on the Rights of the Child: Second report to the U.N. Committee on the Rights of the Child by the United Kingdom (London: DoH, 1999). 34 General Assembly of the United Nations UN Convention on the Rights of the Child, www.un.org, 1989; James and James, ‘Tightening the Net’. See Bill Cooke and Uma Kothari, Participation: The new tyranny? (London: Zed Books, 2001) for evidence that participation in service provider research can be used to further survey, control and normalize citizens. 35 Nikolas Rose, Governing the Soul (London: Routledge, 1990). 36 Wylow Stojanowska and Elena Holewińske-Łapińske, ‘Children’s Rights in Poland Three Years after the Convention’, in Mike Freeman, ed., Children’s Rights: A comparative perspective (Aldershot: Dartmouth, 1996), pp. 197-220. 21 22

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Adrian James and Martin Richards, ‘Sociological Perspectives, Family Policy, Family Law and Children: Adult thinking and sociological tinkering’, Journal of Social Welfare and Family Law, 21:1, 1999, pp. 23-39. 38 Stojanowska and Holewińske-Łapińske, ‘Children’s Rights in Poland’. 39 Women’s Commission for Refugee Women and Children, Trade in Children, www.womenscommission.org, 2003. 40 Cynthia Grossman, ‘Argentina - Children’s Rights in Family Relationships: The gulf between law and social reality’, in Freeman, pp. 7-27. 41 See www.unicef.org/crc. 42 Ludovic Gustafson, ‘The Right to Survival and Development’, Medicine, Conflict and Survival, 15:4, 1999, pp. 328-35. 43 UNHCR Committee on the Rights of the Child 31st Session, www. crights.org.uk, 2002; K. Tomasevski, Report of the Mission on the UK, October 1999 by the Special Rapporteur on the Right to Education (Geneva: UNICEF, 1999). 44 Myriam Denov and Kathryn Campbell, ‘Casualties of Aboriginal Displacement in Canada: Children at risk among the Innu of Labrador’, Refuge, 20:2, 2002, pp. 21-33. 45 John Clarke, Democratising Development: The role of voluntary organisation, (London: Earthscan, 1991). The role and character of NGOs is however complex and variable, given the effect on them of a commercially-oriented funding culture, especially in providing services contracted-out from the state. This competitive process risks driving the smaller, less commercial and more community-based organizations out of the market. It is therefore rash to generalize about the role of NGOs in relation to childrens’ issues, or indeed in any other field. 46 Rachel Burr, ‘Global and Local Approaches to Children’s Rights in Vietnam’, Childhood, 9:1, 2002, pp. 49-62. 47 Marjorie Mayo, Communities and Caring: The mixed economy of welfare (London: Macmillan, 1994). 48 Mukumba Mulinge, ‘Implementing the 1989 United Nations’ Convention on the Rights of the Child in sub-Saharan Africa: The overlooked socioeconomic and political dilemmas’, Child Abuse and Neglect, 26:11, 2002, pp. 1117-30. 49 Myron Wegman, ‘Foreign Aid, International Organizations, and the World’s Children’, Pediatrics, 103:3, 1999, pp. 646-54. 50 Other conventions include the Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, the Covenant on Social, Economic and Cultural Rights, and the African Charter on the Rights and Welfare of Children. See the Child Rights Advocacy Project, The CRC in Practice, Save the Children Fund: www.savethechildren 37

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.org.uk, 2003, and Vanessa Pupavac, ‘Misanthropy Without Borders: The international children’s rights regime’, Disasters, 25:2, 2001, pp. 95112, who argues persuasively that the existence of alternative conventions helps offset the Western bias inherent in the UNCRC. 51 Plan International is a child-led initiative against emotional and physical abuse: see www.plan.org.au. Www.motherjones.com/news has more details of Indian initiatives. The Daughters’ Education Programme raises awareness of the rights of girl sex workers, where the girls then go to villages and teach rights to other girls who may be tempted into prostitution: www.thailife.de/wecare.

Chapter Five

Joseph Stiglitz, Globalization and its Discontents (London: Penguin, 2002), p. ix 2 Andrew Coulson, Tanzania: A Political Economy (Oxford: OUP, 1982), p. 25 3 John Iliffe, A Modern History of Tanganyika (Cambridge: CUP, 1979), pp. 75-6 4 Coulson, pp. 29-30 5 G. W. Lock, Sisal (London: Longmans, 1969), p. 3 6 Iliffe, p. 147. 7 Coulson, p. 36. 8 Coulson, p. 38. 9 Iliffe, p. 160-1. 10 Issa Shivji, Law, State and the Working Class in Tanzania (London: Heinemann, 1986), p. 13. 11 Iliffe, pp. 158-9. 12 Coulson, pp. 39-42. 13 Iliffe, p. 262. 14 Coulson, p. 73 15 Coulson p. 84. 16 Lock, p. 331. 17 Coulson, p. 47, Goran Hyden, Beyond Ujamaa in Tanzania: Underdevelopment and an Uncaptured Peasantry (London: Heinemann, 1980), p. 53. 18 C. W. Guillebaud, An Economic Survey of the Sisal industry of Tanganyika (Welwyn: James Nisbet and Co.), 1966 3rd ed., p. 10. 19 Longland, quoted in Shivji, pp. 25-6. 20 Shivji, pp. 352-3. 21 Shivji, chs. 2-3. 1

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Hans Ruthenberg, Agricultural Development in Tanganyika (Berlin: Springer Verlag, 1964), p. 65. 23 Coulson, p. 58. 24 Coulson, pp. 101-8. It should be noted that legally the trade unions and co-operatives were not supposed to be involved in politics 25 The source for most of the GDP data used up to 1992 is Tanzania Agriculture (Washington DC: World Bank, 1994), pp. 204-6. My estimates are derived from an aggregation of several series, which is however unlikely to have increased the margins of error in the data. 26 Zanzibar retained its own parliament and some degree of autonomy. 27 This is my estimate at constant 1995 prices derived from World Bank (1994). 28 Own estimates based on World Bank sources, especially Tanzania Agriculture; Agriculture in Tanzania Since 1986: Follower or Leader of Growth? (Washington DC: World Bank, 2000), Volume 2 of World Bank; Tanzania at the Turn of the Century: From Reforms to Sustained Growth and Poverty Reduction (Washington DC: World Bank, 2001), and the World Development Indicators. Unless otherwise stated, ‘World Bank sources’ refers to these sources. 29 Speech by Mwalimu Julius Nyerere in 1965 dissolving the independence parliament, reprinted in Julius Nyerere, Freedom and Socialism (Oxford: OUP, 1968), p. 41. 30 Source for Table 5.1: World Development Indicators 2004. Data marked with + relate to 2000, and with * to 2002. 31 The Arusha Declaration is reprinted in Nyerere, pp. 231-50. The word ujamaa is from the Kiswahili word for familyhood. 32 The strategy was defined in the paper ‘Socialism and Rural Development’ reprinted in Nyerere, pp. 337-66 and implied a voluntary process described as ‘persuasion not force’ (p. 355). Part of the aim was to group scattered rural households together to allow a more effective delivery of services (schools, medical centres and water supplies). 33 Villagization was perceived as a more limited process than ujamaa in that it implied grouping people together in villages to allow delivery of services, but not necessarily collective production. Most villages had some productive activities owned by the village but most agricultural production continued on an individual basis. 34 Particular problems were experienced in areas with extensive farming systems such as those growing cashewnuts, where farmers found themselves displaced long distances from their farms. For descriptions of the villagization campaign, see Coulson, ch. 22; Hyden, chs. 4-5, and 22

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for detail, Michaela von Freyhold, Ujamaa Villages in Tanzania: Analysis of a Social Experiment (London: Heinemann 1979). 35 Table 5.2 is based on my estimates from World Bank sources. 36 Compare this case with the recent reconstruction of oil-rich Iraq. The populations of the two countries are almost identical. 37 Table 5.3 is based on my estimates from World Bank sources. 38 Lack of management capacity was due partly to the concentration of educational investment in universal primary provision, at the expense of higher and technical education. See Brian van Arkadie, ‘Economic Reform in Vietnam and Tanzania: a Comparative Commentary’ in Michael Tribe, John Thoburn and Richard Palmer-Jones, eds., Development Economics and Social Justice: Essays in Honour of Ian Livingstone (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), pp. 121-138, at p. 121. 39 An extreme example was the nationalization of retail butchers’ shops in Dar es Salaam. This did not last for long! 40 This index relates to incentives derived from export prices. The parastatals mitigated the impact on smallholders by accumulating enormous debts, but this jeopardized their effectiveness in other areas. 41 Some of these measures were set out in ‘Export Crop Packages’ (URT: 1884). 42 For the political debates of the time, see Arne Bigsten, Deogratias Mutalemwa, Yvonne Tsikata and Samuel Wangwe, ‘Tanzania’ in Shantayanan Devarajan, David R. Dollar and Torgny Holmgren, eds., Aid and Reform in Africa: Lessons from Ten Case Studies (Washington DC: World Bank, 2001), pp. 317-20. 43 Price controls decreased from 400 to 2 items (Peter Wobst, ‘Structural Adjustment and Intersectoral Shifts in Tanzania’, International Food Policy Research Centre Research Paper No. 117 (Washington DC: 2001), p.17). The scope of import licensing and the levels of import duties were also substantially reduced. Restrictions on the private sector were removed and the single-channel fixed-price marketing system for food crops was effectively abandoned by 1989. Fertilizer subsidies were eliminated in 1994. Export crop marketing was liberalized from 1993-7, and the role of the parastatals was reduced to one of regulation. See ‘Agriculture in Tanzania Since 1986’. 44 World Bank: 2001, p. xvi. 45 United Republic of Tanzania Research and Analysis Working Group, Poverty and Human Development Report 2002 (Dar es Salaam: Mkuki na Nyota), p. 10.

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The Poverty and Human Development Report 2003, p. 11, says that 75% of foreign direct investment is in the northern regions and Dar es Salaam. 47 M. Luisa Ferreira, ‘Poverty and Inequality During Structural Adjustment in Tanzania’, World Bank Policy Research Working Paper No. 1641, August 1996, p. v. 48 This is one of the issues reported by the poor in Deepa Narayan, ‘Voices of the Poor’, World Bank Environmentally and Socially Sustainable Development Studies and Monographs Series No. 20, 1997, pp. 42-3. 49 African Forum and Network on Debt and Development, Civil Society Participation in the PRSP Process: A Case for Tanzania (Harare: AFRODAD, 2002), p. 12. 46

Chapter Six

A. Sayer, Realism and Social Science (London: Sage, 2000); T. Lawson, Economics and Reality (London: Routledge, 1997); A. Leyshon and N. Thrift, Money/Space: Geographies of Money Transactions (London: Routledge, 1997) and R.D. Grillo and R. L. Stirrat, eds., Discourses of Development: Anthropological Perspectives (Oxford & N.Y.: Berg, 1997). 2 Wickrema Weerisooriya, ‘Banking and Financial Laws in Sri Lanka’, News Survey, Central Bank of Sri Lanka, Colombo, January/February, 1999, p. 6. 3 P. Isenman, ‘Basic Needs: The Case of Sri Lanka’, World Development, 8, 1980, pp. 237-258; Lakshman Yapa, ‘The Poverty Discourse and the Poor in Sri Lanka’, Trans. Inst. Br. Geogr, NS 23, 1998, pp. 95-115. 4 For information in this paragraph, see Annual Report 1999 (Colombo: Central Bank of Sri Lanka), p. 187. 5 Kusum Dassanayake, ‘Structure of Financial System in Sri Lanka’, News Survey, Central Bank of Sri Lanka, May 2000, p. 11. 6 David Hulme, Richard Montgomery and Debapriya Bhattacharya, ‘Mutual Finance and the Poor: A Study of the Federation of Thrift and Credit Co-Operatives (SANASA) in Sri Lanka’, in David Hulme and P. Mosley, Finance Against Poverty (London: Routledge, 1996), Vol. 2. 7 Hulme, Montgomery and Bhattacharya, p. 25. 8 John Brohman, ‘Economism and Critical Silences in Development Studies: A Theoretical Critique of Neo-liberalism’, Third World Quarterly, 16:2, June 1995, pp. 297-318. 9 The figures are given in G.H. Peiris, ‘An Appraisal of the Concept of a Traditional Homeland in Sri Lanka’, Ethnic Studies Report, 9, pp. 13-39, January 1991, reprinted in Michael Roberts, Exploring Confrontation: Sri 1

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Lanka, Politics, Culture and History (Harwood Academic Publishers, 1995), pp. 328-31. 10 These events, taking place around the year 1999-2000, were documented in local newspapers (Olsen, field notes). 11 Michael Roberts, ‘Nationalism in Economic and Social Thought, 1915-45’; Henry Candidus, ‘A Desultory Conversation Between Two Young Aristocratic Ceylonese’, both in Michael Roberts, ed., Sri Lanka: Collective Identities Revisited, Volume II (Colombo: Marga Institute, Sri Lanka Institute for Development Studies, 1998). 12 Bob Carter, Realism and Racism: Concepts of Race in Sociological Research (London: Routledge, 2000). 13 Michael Roberts, ‘Problems of Collective Identity in a Multi-Ethnic Society: Sectional Nationalism vs. Ceylonese Nationalism 1900-1940’, in Michael Roberts, ed., Sri Lanka: Collective Identities Revisited, Volume I (Colombo: Marga Institute, Sri Lanka Institute for Development Studies, 1997). 14 K.L. Sharma, Society and Polity in Modern Sri Lanka (Jaipur, India: Asia Studies Centre, 1998), pp. 123-155. 15 Uvias Ahamed, ‘A Muslim Perspective’, in Rupesinghe and Kumar, eds., Negotiating Peace in Sri Lanka: Efforts, Failures, Lessons (London: International Alert, 1998); Roberts, Confrontation. 16 The first half of the paper relies on the data in the two parts of the Report on Consumer Finances and Socio-Economic Survey, 1996/97, Part I and Part II: Statistical Tables (Colombo: Central Bank of Sri Lanka, 1999), hereafter ‘CFS’. 17 These figures are based on six-month recall for total household income and for borrowing from banks. Non-bank sources of loans, such as moneylenders, are omitted. Seasonal variation was averaged out by having the CFS fieldwork spread over a number of months. 18 CFS data. 19 These generalizations are derived from regression analysis based on the CFS data, which became available in 2001, and excluded some waraffected districts but otherwise achieved a clustered random sample of 9,351 households across the whole country. The data included individual occupations, personal ethnicity, household total income, flows of borrowing, and bank savings for each household in the survey, but has the following limitations: the Northern and Eastern provinces were excluded at the sampling stage; the household sector is the only one covered; the statistics for sub-populations would be invalid for small regions; the division between rural and urban locations was sometimes distorted; and non-response at household level was

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compensated for, but there were 20 out of 1150 primary sampling units for which no data could be obtained. Overall the response rate was 99.3%. 20 CFS, Part II. 21 CFS, Part II, pp. 689, 721. Note that this table is based upon onemonth recall data about the act of borrowing (i.e. the flow), and does not measure the stock of debt. 22 CFS, Part I. ‘Personal Guarantees’ include Promissory Notes. 23 These interviews reflect the substantial input of Nishara Fernando. 24 M.J. Smith, Social science in question: towards a postdisciplinary framework. (London and Thousand Oaks, Calif.: Sage Publications), p. 342. 25 Norman Fairclough, Discourse and Social Change (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1992). See Michel Foucault, The Order of Things (London: Tavistock, 1970) and The Archaeology of Knowledge (London: Routledge, 1972) for details of the ways in which the components of discourses may be seen as fitting together. For a review of the ways in which discourses are subject to transformation, see Stephanie Taylor, ‘Locating and Conducting Discourse Analytic Research’, in Margaret Wetherell, Stephanie Taylor, and Simeon J. Yates, Discourse As Data: A Guide for Analysis (London: Sage, 2001). 26 Carla Risseeuw, Gender Transformations, Power and Resistance Among Women in Sri Lanka: The Fish Don’t Talk About The Water (Delhi: Manohar, 1991). 27 Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (London: Penguin, 1970); Colin Gordon, Michel Foucault: Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings 1972-1977 (Essex: Pearson Education, 1980). 28 A. Albee and N. Gamage, Our Money Our Movement: Building a Poor People’s Credit Union (London: IT Publications, 1996). Their case study illustrates the non-governmental organizations’ involvement in the money sector. This sector is small in extent, and the ideology and discourse of its participants appears to differ from the rural interview evidence gathered in central Sri Lanka in the present study. 29 ‘Genres’ are described as modes of communicative act by Fairclough in Social Change, in Critical Discourse Analysis (London: Longman, 1995) and ‘The Discourse of New Labour: Critical Discourse Analysis’, in Wetherell, Discourse as Data. 30 Coding of the interviews was done using NVIVO software.

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The respondent was a Sinhala Buddhist woman, in business as a small cooked-rice goods seller, and classified as worker class. The quotation is from Field Notes written by Pushpa Shyamalie. 32 This was a working class Sinhala Buddhist woman who designs decorative flowers, sews clothes, and was married with four children. 33 Foucault, p. 118. 34 All names used here are pseudonyms. 35 This extract is taken from a memo written by the author in NVIVO, based on Nishara Fernando’s interview transcript. 36 The respondent was a male Muslim worker from urban North Colombo. 37 Carter. 38 Malathi de Alwis, ‘The Production and Embodiment of Respectability: Gendered Demeanours in Colonial Ceylon’, in Roberts, Sri Lanka, Volume I. 39 Frances Hutchinson, Mary Mellor, and Wendy Olsen, The Politics of Money: Toward Sustainability and Economic Democracy (London: Pluto Press, 2002). 40 Elaine Kempson, ‘Bank Exclusion in the United Kingdom’, in Christopher Guene and Edward Mayo, eds., Banking and Social Cohesion: alternative responses to a global market (London & Brussels: Jon Carpenter, 2001); Hege Gulli, Microfinance and Poverty: Questioning the Conventional Wisdom (Washington DC: Inter-American Development Bank, 1998). 31

Chapter Seven

Max Silverman, Deconstructing the Nation: Immigration, Racism and Citizenship in Modern France (London: Routledge, 1992), p. 11. 2 Alec G. Hargreaves, Immigration, ‘Race’ and Ethnicity in Contemporary France (London and New York, Routledge, 1995), p. 5. 3 Hargreaves, p. 11. 4 Kimberly Hamilton, ‘The challenge of French diversity’, Country Profile, Migration Policy Institute, 2002, www.migrationinformation.org, p. 1. 5 ‘Regroupement familial’ is the right of families to rejoin a spouse or parent already resident in France. 6 The number of foreigners in France has fluctuated between 6% and 7% since the 1930s. (INSEE, Recencement de la Population 1999 (2000)). 7 Silverman, p. 74. 8 Patrick Ireland, The Policy Challenge of Ethnic Diversity: Immigrants in France and Switzerland (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1994), p. 95. 1

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Parti Socialiste, La France au pluriel (Paris: Editions Entente, 1981). Jean Yves Le Gallou, La Préférence National: Réponse à L’immigration. (Paris: Albin Michel, 1985); Alain Griotteray, L’immigration: le choc (Paris: Plon, 1984). 11 Michel Gurfinkel, ‘Islam in France: the French way of life is in danger’, Middle East Quarterly 6:1, 1997. www.meforum.org. 12 Tim King, ‘Secularism in France’, Prospect, March 2004, p. 66; ‘It will quell militancy, he tells lawmakers’, Herald Tribune, 4 February 2004. 13 King, p. 67. 14 Silverman, p. 2. 15 The Jules Ferry law of 28 March 1882 made primary education free, compulsory and secular, removing all influence of the clergy from the school system. Secularism was institutionalized by the 1905 amendment to the constitution, which separated church and state. It is reaffirmed in the first article of the 1958 constitution. The law was passed by an overwhelming majority of 494 against 36. 16 The secularists’ struggle had continued until the 1905 amendment, which abrogated the deal between Napoleon and the Vatican to make Roman Catholicism the national religion. 17 ‘Nationals’ include individuals who have acquired French nationality by naturalization after moving to France. ‘Foreigners’ include individuals in France who were born abroad with a foreign nationality, as well as children under the age of 18 who were born in France of immigrant parents. It also includes any individual born in France of foreign parents who chooses not to adopt French nationality at the age of eighteen. 18 INSEE. 19 Silverman, p. 3. 20 Sarah V. Wayland, Immigrants into Citizens: Political Mobilization in France and Canada (Unpublished Ph.D, University of Maryland, College Park, 1995). 21 Gérard Noirel, Le Creuset Français: Histoire de l’immigration XIXe-XXe siècles (Paris: Seuil, 1988), p. xii. 22 King, p. 66. 23 ‘France creates Muslim council’, BBC online, 20 December 2002; Herald Tribune, 4 February 2004, Milton Viorst, ‘The Muslims of France: Islam abroad’, Foreign Affairs , September/October, 1996. On the basis of country of origin, the High Council for Integration estimates the number of Muslims at 4,155,000 (HCI, L’Islam dans la République, 2000, p. 26). 24 INSEE. 9

10

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Jocelyne Cesari, ‘L’islam en France: Naissance d’une Religion’. Hommes et Migrations, 1183, 1995, pp. 33-40, at p. 35. 26 Damian Moore, ‘Marseille: Institutional Links with Ethnic Minorities and the French Republican Model’, in A. Rogers and J. Tillie, eds., Multicultural Policies and Modes of Citizenship in European Cities (Ashgate: Aldershot, 2001), p.130. 27 INSEE. 28 Azouz Begag and A. Chaouite, A. Ecarts d’identité (Paris: 1990), p. 82 gives a comprehensive list of labels referring to North Africans in France. 29 Farid Aitsiselmi, ‘Langue et identité Beur dans “Hexagone”’. International Journal of Francophone Studies, 1:1, 1997, pp. 41-52, at p. 48. 30 Alec G. Hargreaves, ‘Violent changes: the Beurs and the banlieues’, in Farid Aitsiselmi, ed., Black Blanc Beur: Youth Language and Identity in France (University of Bradford, 2000), p. 10. 31 Mark Miller, ‘French insecurity and immigrants’, Migration News, 1999, p. 1. 32 See Roger Brubaker, Citizenship and Nationhood in France and Germany (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), p. 138; Patrick Weil, Qu’ est-ce qu’un Français? Histoire de la Nationalité Française depuis la Révolution (Paris: Bernard Grasset, 2002), p. 169. 33 Jacobinism refers to the ideology of the members of the Jacobin Club (1789-1794), the most radical element of the French Revolution. Nowadays, the term refers to a centralist conception of the French republic (www.yourencyclopedia.net/Jacobinism). 34 Silverman, p. 25. 35 Silverman, p. 5. 36 Noirel, p. xxii. 37 Patrick Weil, ‘Immigration and the rise of racism in France: the contradictions in Mitterrand’s policies’, French Politics & Society, 9:3-4, 1991, pp. 82-100, at p. 90. 38 Hervé Le Bras, and E. Todd, L’Invention de la France (Paris: Hachette,1981); Bruno Etienne, La France et l’Islam (Paris: Hachette, 1989). 39 Jonathan Laurence, Islam in France (Washington, DC: The Brookings Institution, 2001), p. 3. 40 Nicolas Sarkozy, Joint press conference with Sheikh Mohamed Sayed Tantawi, Grand Imam of Al-Azhar, Cairo, 30 December 2003. 41 Between 1803 and 1808 Napoleon I created The Catholic Council, The Protestant Council and The Jewish Council. 25

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The groups included the National Federation of Muslims of France (FNMF) and The Union of Islamic Organisations of France (UOIF). 43 Laurence. 44 The city of Lyon boasts a magnificent mosque paid for primarily with Saudi money and staffed by Saudi imams (King, p. 68). 45 Pierre Bédié, Interview on The Sunday Programme, BBC Radio 4, 9 February 2004. 46 King, p. 68. 47 Bédié. 48 In the mid-1990s, thirty French Muslims were involved in the terrorist attack at a hotel in Morocco and twenty or so were involved with Armed Islamic Group activities on French soil (Miller, p. 5). 49 Although Jacques Chirac won by an overwhelming 82 per cent majority, the far-right National Front attracted 18% of the vote. 50 Patrick Simon, ‘French integration policy: old goals in new bottles?’ Migration Policy Institute, 2003. www.migrationinformation.org. 51 Cited in Henri Giordan, Démocratie culturelle et droit à la différence (Paris: Documentation Française, 1982), p. 14. 52 Adrian Favell, Philosophies of integration: immigration and the idea of citizenship in France and in Britain (New York: Palgrave, 2001), p. 248. 53 King, p. 67. 54 This has also been referred to as a process of 'Francisation' (See Wayland). 55 Noirel, p. 32. 56 Rahsaan Maxwell, Economic Change and Resource Matching: Non-Whites in Britain and France. Paper presented at the Council for European Studies’ Conference of Europeanists, Chicago, Illinois: 11-13 March 2004. 57 Alec G. Hargreaves, ‘The Beurgeoisie: mediation or mirage’, Journal of European Studies, 27, 1998, pp.89-102; Catherine Wihtol de Wenden and R. Leveau, La Beurgeoisie: les Trois Ages de la Vie Associative Issue de l'Immigration (Paris: CNRS, 2001); Miller. 58 Mr. Aïssa Dermouche, who arrived in France from Algeria at the age of 18, was appointed prefect of the Jura region, one of the 100 French administrative regions (départements). 59 Elaine Sciolino, ‘Appointment of Arab prefect fans French angst over affirmative action’, International Herald Tribune, January 15, 2004. 60 Jon Henley, ‘Was race a false start?’, The Guardian, 30 January 2004. 61 Sciolino. 62 Jon Henley, ‘Car bomb targets French Muslim leader’, The Guardian, 19 January 2004; Béatrice Gurrey, ‘Jacques Chirac a choisi son préfet issu de l’immigration’ Le Monde, 11 January 2004. 42

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Henley, 30 January 2004. Noirel, p. 58. 65 Sciolino. 63 64

Chapter Eight

Alex G. Hargreaves and Jeremy Leaman, eds., Racism, Ethnicity and Politics in Contemporary Europe (Aldershot: Edward Elgar, 1995). 2 Umberto Melotti, ‘International migration in Europe: social projects and political cultures’ in Tariq Modood and Pnina Werbner, eds., The Politics of Multiculturalism in the New Europe (London: Zed Books Ltd., 1997), pp. 73-92. 3 Roger Ballard, Desh Pardesh: The South Asian Presence in Britain (London: C. Hurst and Co., 1994) and Richard Farnell, Robert Furbey, Stephen Hills, Al-Haqq Shams, Marie Macey and Greg Smith, ‘Faith’ in urban regeneration? Engaging faith communities in urban regeneration (Bristol: The Policy Press/Joseph Rowntree Foundation, 2003). 4 The term ‘Pakistani Muslims’ is not strictly speaking accurate, since the majority of people so described in this chapter are British citizens who were born and/or mainly brought up in this country. It is used (a) as a shorthand; (b) because many sources and statistics use it, and (c) because the people under discussion designate themselves in this way. It is also important not to elide class and ethnicity, and in the section on Bradford, a distinction needs to be made between people whose origins are in urban Pakistan and those who come from rural Mirpur (who constitute the bulk of the population). 5 Gordon Conway, Islamophobia: a challenge for us all (London: The Runnymede Trust, 1997). 6 Tariq Modood, Richard Berthoud, et.al., Ethnic Minorities in Britain: diversity and disadvantage (London: Policy Studies Institute, 1997). 7 Home Office, Statistics on Race and the Criminal Justice System (London: HMSO, 2000). 8 National statistics: www.statistics.gov.uk/census 2001. 9 Source for Table 8.1: 2001 Census. 10 Mohammed Anwar, The Myth of Return: Pakistanis in Britain (London: Heinemann Educational Books, 1979). 11 Paul Gilroy, There Ain’t No Black in the Union Jack (London: Hutchinson, 1987). 12 Chris Mullard, ‘Multiracial education in Britain: from assimilation to cultural pluralism’ in J. Tierney, ed., Race, Migration and Schooling (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1982). 1

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Ali Rattansi, ‘Changing the subject? Racism, culture and education’ in James Donald and Ali Rattansi, eds., ‘Race’, Culture and Difference (London: Sage Publications, 1992), pp. 11-48. 14 London: New Beacon Books, 1971. 15 Department of Education and Science [DES], Education for All [The Swann Report](London: HMSO, 1985). 16 The Rt. Hon. Lord Scarman, The Scarman Report (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1982). 17 Rattansi, p. 25. 18 Commission for Racial Equality, Learning in Terror (London: CRE, 1988). 19 Ian McDonald, et. al., Murder in the Playground (London: Longsight Press, 1989); Rattansi, p. 13. 20 Tariq Modood, ‘“Black”, racial equality and Asian identity’, New Community, 1988, 14:3, pp. 397-404 and ‘Religious anger and minority rights’, The Political Quarterly, 1989, 60:3, pp. 280-4; Robert Miles, Racism (London: Routledge. 1989); David Mason, ‘A rose by any other name...? categorisation, identity and social science’, New Community, 1992, 17:1, pp. 123-33; Roger Ballard, ‘New clothes for the emperor? The conceptual nakedness of the race relations industry in Britain’, New Community, 1992, 18:3, pp. 481-92; Paul Gilroy, ‘The end of antiracism’ in Donald and Rattansi, ‘Race’, Culture and Difference, pp. 49-61; R.M. Hyder, Mixed-Race People in British Society: A Study of Ethnicity and Identity, M.Sc. Dissertation (Bradford: University of Bradford, 1993); E. Lindsey, ‘What’s black and white and lives in a political minefield?’, The Independent, 16 August 1994; Marie Macey, ‘Towards racial justice? A reevaluation of anti-racism’, Critical Social Policy, Autumn, 15:2/3, 1995, pp. 126-46 and ‘Cultural Pluralism in Britain: Limits to Diversity?’, International Conference of the Socio-Legal Studies Association, University of Leeds, 1995. 21 Modood and Werbner, The Politics of Multiculturalism. 22 Ballard, Desh Pardesh. 23 City of Bradford Metropolitan District Council, Areas of stress within Bradford District (Bradford: Research Section, 1993) and Bradford and District Demographic Profile (Bradford: Educational Policy and Information Unit, 1996). 24 Ballard notes that the sustained practice of settlers in the U.K. sending large-scale cash remittances to Mirpur has dramatically altered the local economy, which is now relatively wealthy. See his written evidence to the Select Committee on International Development, Remittances and Economic Development (London: UK Parliament, 2003). 13

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Peter Ratcliffe, ‘Race’ and Housing in Bradford (Bradford: Bradford Housing Forum, 1996). 26 Biradaris are patrilineal kinship groupings. In Mirpur, these are linked to status in a way that owes more to Hindu than Muslim theology. In Britain, social exchanges, organized by and through female members of the family are crucial to the maintenance and extension of biradaris. See Allison Shaw, ‘The Pakistani Community in Oxford’ in Ballard, Desh Pardesh, pp 35-57. 27 Ballard, p. 11. 28 Ballard, p. 11. 29 Ballard, Desh Pardesh and Shaw, ‘The Pakistani Community in Oxford’. 30 Yunas Samad, ‘Book burning and race relations: political mobilisation of Bradford Muslims’, New Community, 1992, 18:4, pp. 507-10 and ‘Media and Muslim Identity: intersection of generation and gender’, Innovation, 11:4, 1998, pp. 425-38. 31 Marie Macey, ‘Class, gender and religious influences on changing patterns of Pakistani Muslim male violence in Bradford’, Ethnic and Racial Studies, 22:5, 1999, pp. 845-66, ‘Religion, male violence and the control of women: Pakistani Muslim men in Bradford’, Gender and Development, 7:1, 1999, pp. 48-55 and ‘Interpreting Islam: young Muslim men’s involvement in criminal activity in Bradford’ in Basia Spalek, ed., Islam, Crime and the Criminal Justice System (Devon: Willan Publishing, 2002), pp. 19-49; Clare Beckett and Marie Macey, ‘Race, gender and sexuality: the oppression of multiculturalism’, Women’s Studies International Forum, 24:3, 2001, pp. 309-19 and Yunas Samad and John Eade, Community Perceptions of Forced Marriage (London: Foreign and Commonwealth Office, 2002). 32 Philip Lewis, Islamic Britain (London: I.B. Tauris, 2002) and ‘Between Lord Ahmed and Ali G: which future for British Muslims?’ in Wasif. A.R. Shadid and P.Sjoerd van Koningsveld, eds., Religious Freedom and the Neutrality of the state: the position of Islam in the European Union (Leuven: Peeters, 2002), pp. 129-44. 33 Farnell, Faith in urban regeneration. 34 Philip Lewis, ‘British Muslims and the search for religious guidance’ in J. Hinnells and W. Menski, eds., From Generation to Generation: religious reconstruction in the South Asian diaspora (not yet published) (2001), p.15. 35 For example, the Manifesto of the Muslim Parliament of Great Britain refers to the difficulty for Muslims of leading a muttaqi [God-fearing, pious] life in a ‘corrupt’ environment and speaks of the need to ‘arrest the “integration” and “assimilation” of Muslims themselves into the 25

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corrupt bogland of western culture and supposed civilization’ (cited in L. Newbiggin, L. Sanneh, and J. Taylor, Faith and Power: Christianity and Islam in a ‘Secular’ Britain (London: SPCK, 1998)); The Islamic Party of Britain claims that: ‘there is nothing in Western societies that remotely resembles good behaviour’ and Al-Hujjat states: ‘[the USA and Britain] speak honeyed words publicly, and sow corruption and injustice stealthily. A Machiavellian practice that is at the very heart of modern Judaeo-Christian culture’ (cited by The London Bible College, The Westophobia Report: Anti-Western and Anti-Christian Stereotyping in British Muslim Publications (London: LBC Centre for Islamic Studies and Muslim-Christian Relations, 1999)). 36 The prison information is based on the Home Office Statistics on Race and the Criminal Justice System. This must, however, be interpreted with caution in relation to the accuracy of the ethnic and religious categories used. In addition, there are differences in methods of policing and recording crime between authorities; there is also evidence of racism throughout the criminal justice system from arrests, through decisionmaking by the Crown Prosecution Service, to differential sentencing; for self-harm, see Newham Asian Women’s Project Growing up Young, Asian and Female in Britain: A Report on Self-Harm and Suicide and Young Asian Woman and Self-Harm: A Mental Health Needs Assessment of Young Asian Women in Newham, East London (London: Newham Asian Women’s Project, 1998). 37 City of Bradford Metropolitan District Council, 1997-1999 GCSE and Advanced Level Gender and Ethnic Group Analysis (Bradford: Information and Planning Unit, 2000); Zabina Farooq, Ethnicity and Educational Achievement: Pakistani Muslin Children in Bradford, B.A. Dissertation (Bradford: University of Bradford, 2001); Marie Macey, The 2001 Bradford Riot: Some Questions and Answers (Bradford: University of Bradford, Department of Social Sciences and Humanities, 2005); Sheila Allen and John Barrett, The Bradford Commission Report (London: HMSO, 1996); Mohammed Taj, ‘A Can Do City: Supplementary observations, comments and recommendations to the Bradford Commission Report’ (Bradford: 1996); A. Khan, An Examination of Drug Use Within the ‘Pakistani’ Community in Bradford, B.A. Dissertation (Bradford: University of Bradford, 1997) and Macey, ‘Interpreting Islam’. 38 Yasmin Ali, ‘Muslim women and the politics of ethnicity and culture in Northern England’ in Gita Sahgal and Nira Yuval-Davis, eds., Refusing Holy Orders: Women and Fundamentalism in Britain (London: Virago, 1992), pp. 101-23.

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Haleh Afshar, ‘Muslim women in West Yorkshire: growing up with real and imaginary values amidst conflicting views of self and society’ in Haleh Afshar and Mary Maynard, eds., The Dynamics of ‘Race’ and Gender: Some Feminist Interventions (London: Taylor and Francis, 1994), pp. 127-47; Yasmin Alibhai-Brown, ‘God’s own Vigilantes’, The Independent, 12 October1998; Beckett and Macey, ‘Race, Gender and Sexuality’; Allen and Barrett, Bradford Commission Report; Ted Cantle, Community Cohesion: A Report of the Independent Review Team [The Cantle Report](London: HMSO, 2001); John Denham, Building Cohesive Communities: A Report of the Ministerial Group on Public Disorder and Community Cohesion (London: HMSO, 2001) and Sir Herman Ouseley, Community Pride not Prejudice: Making Diversity Work in Bradford [The Ouseley Report] (Bradford: Bradford Vision, 2001). 40 Lewis, Islamic Britain. 41 Home Office, A choice by right: the report of the working group on forced marriage (London: HMSO. 2000); Keighley Domestic Violence Forum, Domestic Violence in Asian Communities (Bradford: KDVF/University of Bradford, 1998); Pragna Patel, ‘Southall Black Sisters’, Conference on Domestic Violence in Asian Communities, KDVF Forum, 1998; Women Against Fundamentalism, Free Zoora Shah! (London: WAF, 1998) and Amelia Hill, ‘Runaways stalked by bounty thugs’, The Observer, 18 April 2004. 42 Afshah, ‘Muslim women in West Yorkshire’, p. 133. 43 The Ouseley Report, p. 11. This observation was supported by several men imprisoned for their part in the 2001 riot who said (some boastfully, others bitterly) that the criminal element had been allowed to turn neighbourhoods into ‘no-go’ areas in terms of policing (Macey, 2005). 44 For a fuller discussion of the influence of ideology on sociology, see Sheila Allen and Marie Macey, ‘Some issues of race, ethnicity and nationalism in the “new” Europe: rethinking sociological paradigms’ in Phillip Brown and Rosemary Crompton, eds., A New Europe? Economic Restructuring and Social Exclusion (London: UCL Press, 1994), pp. 108-35. 45 Beckett and Macey, ‘Race, Gender and Sexuality’, p. 3 and Afshah, ‘Muslim women in West Yorkshire’, p. 144. 46 Susan Moller Okin, ‘Is multiculturalism bad for women?’, The Boston Review, 22:5, 1997, pp. 25-8. 47 Susan Moller Okin, ‘Reply’ in Joshua Cohen, Matthew Howard and Martha C. Nussbaum, eds., Is Multiculturalism Bad for Women? (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1999), pp. 115-31, at p. 117. 39

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For a detailed discussion of the rights and responsibilities of citizenship, see Thomas H. Marshall and Tom Bottomore, Citizenship and Social Class (London: Pluto Press, 1992 [1950]). 49 Some view this as an expression of their sense of being discriminated against and excluded from a variety of political arenas and centres of power - see for example Yunas Samad, ‘The plural guises of multiculturalism: conceptualising a fragmented paradigm’ in Modood and Werbner, The Politics of Multiculturalism, pp. 240-60. Others view it as indicative of self-, rather than social exclusion, as for example Macey, ‘Interpreting Islam’. 50 Mark Mitchell and Dave Russell, ‘Race, citizenship and “Fortress Europe” ’ in Brown and Crompton, A New Europe?, pp. 136-56. 51 Jacob T. Levy, The Multiculturalism of Fear (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), p. 3. 52 Marie Macey, ‘Greater Europe: Integration or Ethnic Exclusion?’ in Colin Crouch and David Marquand, eds., Towards Greater Europe? A Continent Without An Iron Curtain (London: Basil Blackwell, 1992), pp. 139-53. 53 Nor are some forms of oppression or violence changing over time. For instance, Jim Greenhalf reports on the increasing case load of the officer who works with young Bradford women who are in hiding from their families because of forced marriage or domestic violence. In 1997 he dealt with 742 cases; in 2004 he was handling more than 2,600, with numbers increasing by around 300 per year. (Jim Greenhalf, ‘Could forced marriages face the weight of law?’, Telegraph and Argus, 20 April 2004). 54 One aspect of the debate on democracy and minority rights which is rarely discussed is the fact that the term democracy means majority rule, or implementation of the will of the majority. That this is not adhered to in Britain is illustrated by some of the examples given in this chapter. It is pertinent to note here that Canada has recently ‘solved’ this problem by implementing Shar’ia law in a limited sphere - much to the dismay of many Muslim women. And I have just reviewed an article for a British journal which proposes the same development in Britain. 48

Chapter Nine

This indifference to law is replicated, although perhaps to a lesser extent, in the case of the other social sciences. An interesting, although incomplete, account of why this neglect should have come about is provided by Talcott Parsons, ‘Law as an intellectual step-child’, in Harry M. Johnson, ed., Social System and Legal Process: theory, comparative

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perspectives, and special studies (San Francisco and London: Jossey-Bass, 1978), pp. 11-58. 2 David Held’s ‘Afterword’, in David Held, ed., A Globalizing World? Culture, Economics and Politics (London and New York: Routledge, 2000), p. 172. 3 The issue has been given rather greater attention in the French literature. See: Eric Loquin and Catherine Kessedjian, eds., La Mondialisation du droit (Dijon: Université de Bourgogne-CNRS and Litec, 2000); Daniel Mockle, ed., Mondialet état de droit (Bruxelles: Bruylant, 2002). There is, of course, a huge literature on international law, but this is not the same as the attempt to conceptualize this in terms of the ‘globalization’ paradigm. 4 Edward Said, Orientalism (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1978). For a critique of Said’s approach in relation to the Balkans, see my essay ‘Constructing “The Balkans’”, in John B. Allcock and Antonia Young, eds., Black Lambs and Grey Falcons: women travelling in the Balkans, 2nd. ed. (New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2000), pp. 170-91. 5 Samuel P. Huntington, The Clash of Civilizations (London and New York: Simon and Schuster, 1997). For a critical discussion of the relevance of Huntington’s thesis to the Balkans, see: John B. Allcock, ‘Huntington, “Civilizations” and Bosnia and Hercegovina: a sociological critique’, Sociological Imagination, 36:2/3, 1999, pp. 129-42. 6 See Marie-Françoise Lanfant, John B. Allcock and Edward M. Bruner, eds., International Tourism: Identity and Change, Sage Studies in International Sociology, 47 (London and Thousand Oaks CA: Sage Publications, 1995). 7 This essay summarizes a much more complete historical account of the creation and functioning of the ICTY, together with a sociological analysis of its significance, currently being undertaken by the author. It also draws upon discussion among an international panel devoted to the assessment of the Tribunal under the auspices of the ‘Scholars’ Initiative’ project. 8 These comments are drawn from the extremely useful historical account of the ICTY written by Pierre Hazan, Le Justice face à la guerre: de Nuremberg à La Haye (Paris: Stock, 2000), pp. 88-9. 9 Several accounts have been published of the circumstances surrounding the creation of the ICTY: Roger S. Clark and Madeleine Sann, eds., The Prosecution of International Crimes: a critical study of the International Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia (New Brunswick and London: Transaction Publishers, 1996); Gary J.Bass, Stay the Hand of Vengeance: the politics of war crimes tribunals (Princeton, Princeton

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University Press, 1999), and John Hagan, Justice in the Balkans: prosecuting war criminals in The Hague tribunal (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2003) in addition to Hazan. 10 A full account of this trial is to be found in: Michael P. Scharf, Balkan Justice: the story behind the first international war crimes trial since Nuremberg (Durham (NC): Carolina Academic Press, 1997). 11 Consideration of Bosnia would raise different dimensions of experience, largely because of the importance of the international supervision of the Dayton Agreements which, in the words of a recent analysis, can be regarded as a kind of ‘European Raj’. See: Gerald Knaus and Felix Martin, ‘Lessons from Bosnia and Herzegovina: travails of the European Raj’, Journal of Democracy, 14:3, 2003, pp. 60-74; also Christophe Solioz, L’après-guerre dans les Balkans: l’appropriation des processus de transition et de democratisation pour enjeu (Paris: Karthala, 2003), ch. 3. 12 Victor Peskin and Mieczysław P. Boduszyński, ‘International justice and domestic politics: post-Tudjman Croatia and the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia’, Europe-Asia Studies, 55:7, 2003, pp. 1117-42, esp. p. 1117. The analysis offered in the following section is complemented in many respects by that of Peskin and Boduszyński (although my research was completed before the publication of their paper). 13 The Blaskić trial ran from 24 June 1997, ending on 30 July 1999, and the Kordić trial from 12 April 1999, ending in February 2001. Details of all indictments, trials and other relevant documents can be obtained from the ICTY official website: www.un.org/icty. 14 ‘Croatia: facing up to war crimes’, International Crisis Group, Balkan Briefing, Zagreb/Brussels, 16 October 2001, p.2. 15 Croatian governments have been relatively willing to cooperate with the demands of the ICTY with respect to the surrender of documentary material, although much less willing to arrest and hand over those indicted to The Hague. See Peskin and Boduszyński, p. 1139, n. 4. 16 It is understood that a part of the agreement reached between the ICTY and the Croatian government was a division of labour. Relatively high-ranking individuals, or those alleged to have committed particularly serious crimes, would be extradited to The Hague, whereas the government would take responsibility for the investigation and prosecution of lower profile or relatively minor offenders. 17 The trial has turned out to be an important test of the international acceptability of the Croatian judicial system. See Tihana Tomičić,

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‘Croatian courts on trial’, IWPR Tribunal Update, No. 266, 13-18 May 2002. 18 The ‘Alka’ is an annual festival of military (especially equestrian) prowess, which dates back to the wars against the Ottoman Empire. General Norac had held a leading position in its organization. Norac was convicted of war crimes charges in March 2003, and sentenced to 12 years imprisonment. For further detail on the Norac case, see Peskin and Boduszyński, pp. 1126-28. 19 For additional material relating to the Gotovina case, see Peskin and Boduszyński, pp. 1128-31. Gotovina remains in hiding (with the connivance, it is frequently alleged, of the government) at the time of writing. 20 The HDZ is the party of former president Tudjman. For further detail of the Bobetko affair, see Peskin and Boduszyński, pp. 1131-35. They report that an opinion poll conducted in September 2002 indicated that ‘84% of Croatian citizens opposed sending Bobetko to The Hague; 71% retained the same attitude even under threat of economic sanctions’ (p. 1133). 21 The announcement of the official acceptance of Croatia’s candidacy for membership of the European Union, in June 2004, expressly listed progress in the country’s relations with the ICTY as a condition of further progress. 22 The trial began in May 1996, and the verdict was announced a year later. This case has been described and analysed in detail by Scharf, in Balkan Justice. 23 This was perhaps an even greater risk in the case of the indictment against the paramilitary leader Željko Ražnjatović ‘Arkan’, in September 1997 - subsequently assassinated. 24 One must acknowledge important regional variations in this respect. See Đorđe Pavićević, ‘Zločini i odgovornost’, in Zagorka Golubović, Ivana Spasić and Đorđe Pavićević eds., Politika i svako-dnevni život: Srbija 1999-2002 (Belgrade: Institut za filozofiju i društvenu teoriju, 2003), esp. p. 141, reprinted in John B. Allcock, Vojin Dimitrijević, Eric D. Gordy and Julie Mertus, eds. The International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia. Scholars’ Initiative, Report of Group 10, forthcoming. 25 In this respect I believe that Eric Gordy’s account of the ‘destruction of information alternatives’ in the Serbian media rather overstates the case. See: Eric D. Gordy, The Culture of Power in Serbia: nationalism and the destruction of alternatives (University Park (PA): Pennsylvania State University Press, 1999).

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See, for example, Nir Rosen, ‘Mafia fuels Balkan crisis’, IWPR Balkan Crisis Report, No. 333, 26 April 2002, pp. 7-9 and ‘Serbia after Djindjić’, Balkans Report, No. 141, Belgrade/Brussels, 18 March 2003, esp. pp. 2-5. 27 See, for example, Bojan Dimitrijević, ‘Serbia: culture of secrecy persists’, IWPR Tribunal Update, No. 264, 15 May 2002, pp. 4-6. It is largely for these reasons that the relatively rapid movement towards ICTY support for the holding of war crimes trials in Croatia has not been evident in Serbia, where the competence of the judiciary is still not respected by the international community. See Slobodan Beljanski, ‘Could Serbia hold war crimes trials?’ IWPR Tribunal Update, No. 238, 11 Oct. 2001, pp. 3-4. 28 For the text of the agreement, see: www.afebalk.org/balkans. 29 IWPR Balkan Crisis Report No. 327, 28 March 2002, pp. 5-7: ‘Serbia: Djindjić under pressure to begin extraditions’. Washington linked this demand to the release of Albanian prisoners held in Serbian prisons. 30 IWPR Balkan Crisis Report, No. 327. 31 There is no space in this context to review the evidence of public opinion surveys on this matter in Serbia, on which see Pavićević. 32 The view suggested here is based in part upon the work of Ivan Čolović. See his The Politics of Symbol in Serbia: essays in political anthropology (London: Hurst & Co., 2002). 33 My contribution to the wide scholarly debate on this issue is offered in chapter 14 of Allcock, John B. Explaining Yugoslavia (London and New York: Hurst, and Columbia University Press, 2000). Two systematic reviews of the issues are forthcoming: a volume edited by Charles Ingrao, to mark the conclusion of the ‘Scholars’ Initiative’ project; and one arising from the conference on ‘Re-thinking the Dissolution of Yugoslavia’, held in London in June 2004, to be edited by Jasna Dragović-Soso and Lenard Cohen. 34 The concept of ‘transitional justice’ has been developed by Ruti G. Teitel in Transitional Justice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). 35 Norbert Elias, Involvement and Detachment (Oxford: Blackwell, 1987); What is Sociology? (London: Hutchinson, 1978), pp. 128-33. 36 Peskin and Boduszyński, p. 1136. 26

Chapter Ten

The French word ‘espace’ [space] has become a passe partout ‘designer’ word which can refer to anything from a lawned area [un espace vert] as between tower blocks, or Espace Pierre Cardin, an exhibition centre on the Champs Élysées. The word seems particularly

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apt in this context, where one is concerned with the occupation of physical, political and cultural space within the Republic. 2 The word ‘banlieue’ - suburb - does not imply leafy and green, but rather carries the negative connotations of Britain’s ‘inner cities’. 3 The preamble begins: ‘Les mères, les filles, les sœurs, représentantes de la Nation, demandent d’être constituées en assemblée nationale.’ [Mothers, daughters, sisters, representatives of the Nation, demand the right to form a national assembly]. 4 Hubertine Auclert, Les Femmes au Gouvernail (Paris: Marcel Giard, 1923). This book was published posthumously, thanks to her sister, Marie Chaumont. 5 In their publication Quand les femmes se heurtent à la mondialisation [When Women Come up against Globalization] (Paris: Fayard, 2003), ATTAC (Association pour la taxation des transactions financières pour l’aide aux citoyens [Association for the taxing of financial transactions in aid of the citizen]), quotes women worldwide as providing two-thirds of working hours, but receiving only 10% of world income. 80-90% of poor households are those where a woman is sole breadwinner. 6 For a discussion of the political education of women as promoted by ELLE magazine, see: Maggie Allison, ‘ELLE magazine: from post-war utopias to those of the new millennium’ in Angela Kershaw, Pamela Moores and Hélène Stafford, eds., Impossible Space: Explorations of Utopia in French Writing (Strathclyde: 2004). 7 Claire Duchen, Women’s Rights and Women’s Lives in France 1944-68 (London: Routledge, 1994), p.64: ‘Women found out in no uncertain terms that, in spite of the vote and the optimistic belief that they were going to play a full and equal part in the new France, the ideology of femininity rooted in the home was still strong […]. A good woman was a good mother; a good mother was a wife and a housewife; and, for at least fifteen years after the war, no vision of fulfilled femininity involving anything other than domesticity and motherhood was readily available to women’. 8 ATTAC, p. 33: ‘Dès qu’une crise économique conjoncturelle se produit, elle révèle la fragilité des acquis des femmes, embauchées et licenciées à tout moment, “salariées kleenex” des usines “papillons”’ [‘Whenever there is an economic crisis it shows just how fragile women’s position is, hired and fired at the drop of a hat, “throw-away” employees in “fly-by-night” factories’]. 9 See: Maggie Allison, ‘From the Violence of War to the War against Intolerance: Representing the Resistant Woman, Lucie Aubrac’, South Central Review, 19.4-20.1, 2002-2003.

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Simone de Beauvoir, Le Deuxième Sexe [The Second Sex] (Paris: Gallimard, 1949). 11 Le Monde, 27 July 1982, cited in Gisèle Halimi, ‘Des municipales pour hommes?’ [‘Local elections for the men?’], in Les femmes et la politique: Du droit de vote à la parité (Paris: Le Monde et E.J.L., 2001). 12 Janine Mossuz-Lavau, ‘Le Vote des femmes: le pouvoir de dire non’ [‘Women’s vote: the right to say no’], in Michèle Riot-Sarcey, ed., Femmes Pouvoirs [Women and Power] (Paris: Éditions Kimé, 1993), pp. 59-75. 13 See Mariette Sineau, ‘La Parité en peau de chagrin, ou la résistible entrée des femmes à l’Assemblée nationale [‘Shrinking parity, or the resistible entry of women into the National Assembly’], Revue Politique et parlementaire, 1020, September-December 2002. 14 This constitutional change involved both Assembly and Senate transferring en masse to Versailles and the original ‘hémicycle’ - semicircular chamber - for the occasion. 15 Gisèle Halimi, La Nouvelle cause des femmes [Women’s new cause] (Paris: Seuil, 1997). 16 The law was championed by the Tunisian-born lawyer Gisèle Halimi and supported by a petition from 343 high-profile women, including Simone de Beauvoir, claiming to have had abortions. Halimi had made history in a cause célèbre case, the Bobigny affair in 1972, by defending two women who had procured an abortion for the daughter of one of them, raped by her boy friend. This hastened the 1974 Veil Law (named after Simone Veil, the then Minister of Health). See: Gisèle Halimi, La Cause des femmes [Women’s Cause] (Paris: Gallimard, 1992). 17 The term ‘Beur’, referring to North African people of Arabic origin, is a backslang form of the word ‘Arabe’. It has now come to denote, almost indiscriminately, people from North Africa. See Aitsiselmi, chapter 7. 18 Le Temps of 14 January 1897 published an article, ‘Les Femmes aux colonies’ [Women in the Colonies], giving an account of an evening meeting during which two eminent men discussed the advantages of sending unmarried women to the colonies. 19 See the article published in Marie-Claire, ‘Échange pareo contre sabots’ [‘Willing exchange of pareo for clogs’], 24 October 1983. 20 See the 1997 film by Yamina Benguigi, Mémoires d’immigrés [Immigrants’ memories] and her book of the same title containing interviews relevant to the film (Paris: Canal+Éditions, 1997). 21 Carol Cohn, ‘Wars, Wimps and Women: Talking gender and thinking war’, in Miriam Cooke and Angela Woollacott, eds., Gendering War Talk 10

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(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993). See also Jan Jindy Pettman, Worlding Women, A feminist international politics (London: Routledge, 1996). In her chapter ‘Women, colonialism and racism’, she states: ‘the colonised/women analogy leaves colonised women, and the gender politics of colonization as it is constructed within both colonizer and colonized groups, unexamined. “Women” become dominant-group women, in the metropole or less often in the colonies, while the feminization of the colonized is seen as being done to colonized men. It is unclear where colonized women are in these representations’ (p. 27). 22 The film La Haine (Mathieu Kassovitz, 1995) was ground-breaking in its blistering representation of youth gang warfare in the Paris banlieues. 23 Hilary Footitt, Women, Europe and the New Languages of Politics (London: Continuum, 2002), p. 24. 24 Marie-Joseph Bertini, Femmes: le Pouvoir impossible [Women: Impossible Power] (Paris: Fayard, 2002), p.130. 25 Interestingly, Kiri Ti Kanawa, the New Zealand soprano of Maori origin had the honour of singing at the wedding of the Prince and Princess of Wales in 1981. Here the Commonwealth was being represented, but again, not ‘from within’ British shores. 26 Mike Burke, Valeurs féminines, Le Pouvoir de demain [Feminine Values, the Power of Tomorrow] (Paris: Éditions Village Mondial, 1998). 27 ELLE, 2601, 6 November 1995. 28 Le Figaro, 11 April 2003. See also: Odile Merckling, ‘L’emploi des femmes étrangères issues de l’immigration’, Hommes et Migrations, 1239, 2002. 29 Fadela Amara, Ni Putes, ni soumises [Neither prostitutes, nor oppressed] (Paris: Éditions La Découverte, 2003). Amara’s book charts her own life and that of the movement. 30 See Le Monde, 6 December 2003 for a review of a programme following up the Women’s March and the ‘Ni Putes, ni soumises’ campaign, entitled: ‘Quand les filles mettent les voiles: Un documentaire sur la condition des filles dans les cités qui subissent “la loi” de garçons.’ [When the women get on the move: a documentary on the life of girls in the suburbs subjected to the ‘rule’ of the boys ]. (The word ‘voile’ is here a play on words on ‘veil’ and ‘sail’: i.e. when the girls set sail, and/or wear the headscarf). 31 Amara, pp. 123-8. 32 ‘Des électeurs d’origine africaine se sont reconnus en Christiane Taubira lors de la Présidentielle’ [‘Voters of African origin were able to

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identify with Christiane Taubira in the presidential elections’] Le Monde, 10 June 2002. 33 ‘Sortie de ligne droite pour les beurs’ [The beurs no longer on the ‘right’ track], Libération, 20 February 2004, pp 4-5; ‘Le PS se réjouit de “la fin de la nuit de noces” entre la droite et le Français issus de l’immigration’ [‘The Socialist Party gloats over the “end of the honeymoon” between the right wing and French people of immigrant origin’], Le Monde, 14 February 2004, p. 8. 34 ‘On risque d’envoyer un signal négatif’ [‘We could be sending out negative signals’], Le Monde, 14 February 2004, p. 8. 35 David A. Bell, ‘Une nouvelle notion est enfin arrivée. Nationalism, barely 200 years old is impossible to avoid’, The Times Higher Education Supplement, 25 June 2004, pp. 18-19. 36 Libération 7 June 2002; Le Monde 8 June 2002. 37 Alvin Toffler, Future Shock (London: The Bodley Head Ltd, 1970). See especially chapter 2, ‘The Accelerative Thrust’, pp. 27-41. 38 ELLE, 24 June 2002.

Chapter Eleven

The edition consulted is Hernández-Catá, H. [sic]., El Angel de Sodoma (Valparaíso: ‘El Callao’, n.d. [1929]). All subsequent references to this work are by page number in the main text. A preliminary discussion of the novel’s significance for the history of homosexuality in Spain is made in Francisco Vázquez G. and Richard Cleminson, ‘Democracia y cultura sexuales. La irrupción de la homosexualidad en la escena política española’, Er, Revista de Filosofía, 32, 2003, pp. 129-66. 2 There is an explicit link between literary works and the question of sexuality in many countries. For some examples, see Lillian Faderman, Odd Girls and Twilight Lovers (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1992), pp. 47, 49, 55-6; Radclyffe Hall, The Well of Loneliness (London: Virago, 1982); David Greenberg, The Construction of Homosexuality (Chicago/London: University of Chicago Press, 1988), p. 406. 3 For the text of the Spanish Code, see Eduardo Herrán Barriobero, Los delitos sexuales en las viejas leyes españolas (Madrid: Imp. Galo Sáez, 1930), pp. 182-3, 197, 200. Most of the Penal Codes of the 19th. C. do not mention homosexuality specifically even though there were general prohibitions against rather vague acts of public indecency and against the abuse of minors. For an extensive discussion of the legal treatment of homosexuality in Spain emphasizing the modern and contemporary periods, see Victoriano Domínguez Lorén, Los homosexuales frente a la ley. Los juristas opinan (Barcelona: Plaza y Janés, 1977). 1

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The same can be said for the current period. A recent account of the use made by bio-medical knowledge to urge the lowering of the age of consent, by positing homosexuality as innate or at least fixed by a certain age (in this case 16), is Matthew Waites, ‘Equality at last? Homosexuality, heterosexuality and the age of consent in the United Kingdom’, Sociology, 37:4, 2003, pp. 637-55. 5 www.geocities.com/RainForest/Vines. 6 Further details can be found in Alberto Mira, Para entendernos: diccionario de cultura homosexual, gay y lésbica (Barcelona: Ediciones de la Tempestad, 1999), pp. 74-5, which places the first edition in 1923, a date I believe to be incorrect. 7 The difficulties associated with defining modernism and its relationship with gender and sexuality are discussed in Hugh Stevens, ‘Introduction: modernism and its margins’, in Hugh Stevens and Caroline Howlett, eds., Modernist Sexualities (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000), pp. 1-12. In this Introduction, it is noted that ‘The chapters here show how modernism responds to several important historical developments in early 20th. C. Europe and America, such as the suffragette movement, technological change and its effects on women and labour, the growth of sexology and the burgeoning lesbian and gay movement’ (p. 3). 8 Ludmilla Jordanova, Sexual Visions: Images of Gender in Science and Medicine between the Eighteenth and Twentieth Centuries (New York/London: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1989), p. 127. 9 E.g.) the theories of Charcot, Ferri, Garofalo, Lombroso and Morel. 10 See Anson Rabinach, ‘Neurasthenia and modernity’, in Jonathan Crary and Sanford Kwinter, eds., Incorporations (New York: Zone, 1992), pp. 178-88. 11 Rabinach, p. 179. 12 Richard von Krafft-Ebing, Psychopathia Sexualis (London: William Heinemann, n.d.), which is the translation of the 12th German edition. On page 7, it can be read that ‘Large cities are hotbeds in which neuroses and low morality are bred, vide the history of Babylon, Nineveh, Rome and the mysteries of modern metropolitan life’. 13 The complex reception of these terms in Spanish circles is still to be charted. Some thoughts are contained in Richard Cleminson, ‘The Review Sexualidad (1925-8): Social Hygiene and the Pathologisation of Male Homosexuality in Spain’, Journal of Iberian and Latin American Studies, 6:2, 2000, pp. 119-29 and in Francisco Vázquez G. and Richard Cleminson, ‘Democracia’. For Britain, see Jeffrey Weeks, Coming Out: Homosexual Politics in Britain, from the Nineteenth Century to the Present 4

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(London: Quartet, 1977). For a fascinating account of the shifting usage of various terms in America see George Chauncey, Gay New York: The Making of the Gay Male World, 1890-1940 (London: Flamingo, 1995). 14 For his theory of intersexuality, see Gregorio Marañón, La evolución de los estados intersexuales en la especie humana (Madrid: Morata, 1929). 15 The literature on these subjects is extensive. See Daniel Pick, Faces of degeneration: A European disorder, c.1848-c.1918 (Cambridge: CUP, 1989). 16 Cited in Guillermo Díaz-Plaja, Modernismo frente a Noventa y Ocho (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1979), p. 12. 17 Cited in Shlomo Ben-Ami, The Origins of the Second Republic in Spain (Oxford: OUP, 1978), p. 37. 18 Ben-Ami, pp. 38-42. 19 Gregorio Marañón, ‘Diálogo antisocrático sobre Corydon’ [1929], in Obras Completas, Vol. I (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1968), pp. 465-72. 20 Alberto García Valdés, Historia y presente de la homosexualidad (Madrid: Akal, 1981), p. 121. 21 See Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Epistemology of the Closet (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990). 22 Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, Vol. I: An Introduction (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1990), p. 101. 23 Alberto Nin Frías, Homosexualismo creador (Madrid: Morata, 1933), and see in particular Álvaro Retana, La Ola Verde. Crítica frívola (Madrid/Barcelona: Galo Sáez, 1931); A Sodoma en Tren Botijo (Madrid: Los 13, 1933). 24 Foucault, p. 101.

Chapter Twelve

Dennis Altman, ‘Globalization and the International Gay/Lesbian Movement’, in D. Richardson and S. Seidman, eds., Handbook of Lesbian and Gay Studies (London: Sage, 2002). 2 Altman, p. 421. 3 Altman, p. 423. 4 Avtar Brah et. al., ‘Editorial. Globalization’, Feminist Review, 70:1-2, 2002, p. 1. 5 Naomi Schor, ‘The Crisis of French Universalism’, Yale French Studies, 100, 2001, p. 43. 6 Schor, p.64. 7 Altman, p. 423. 8 See the special issue of JeMag (‘Lesbian and Gay Pride 2004: Le Programme de toutes les festivités’), 2004, p. 62. 1

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Schor, p. 43. The implications of the secular status (‘Laïcité’) of the French Republic has given rise to considerable controversy, notably around the wearing of Islamic dress in schools. In some demonstrations, such as the Paris International Women’s Day march on Saturday 6 March 2004, a key slogan was ‘Liberté, Égalité, Laïcité’, replacing the official ‘Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité’[see Aitsiselmi, chapter 7]. 11 Pierre-André Taguieff, La République menacée (Paris: Textuel, 1996), p. 60. All translations from French are, unless otherwise indicated, my own. 12 François Hartog, ‘Cité. Histoire d’un concept’, in P. Raynaud and S. Rials, eds., Dictionnaire de philosophie politique (Paris: PUF, 2003), p. 92. It is of course symptomatic that ‘cité’ should figure so prominently in such a volume. 13 See Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Du Contrat social (Paris: Folio, 1964), pp. 111-16. 14 Françoise Gomez, La Cité idéale. Une invitation au banquet (Lille: 2004). 15 Paris Le Journal, 119, 15 November 2001, p. 54. 16 Gomez, pp. 40-53. 17 Schor, p. 62. 18 Women obtained the vote in France in 1944 [see Allison, chapter 10]. 19 Lucien Jaume, ‘Citoyenneté’, in Raynaud and Rials, p. 96. 20 Geneviève Fraisse, Les Deux gouvernements: la famille et la Cité (Paris: Folio, 2000), p.175. On the French Republic as a ‘band of brothers’ after the execution of the King, see Lynn Hunt, The Family Romance of the French Revolution (London: Routledge, 1992), pp. 53-88. 21 See Max Silverman, Facing Postmodernity: Contemporary French thought on culture and society (London: Routledge, 1999), p.150. 22 See Silverman, p.146. An alternative to ‘communitarianism’ is the equally stigmatized ‘multiculturalism’ [see Aitsiselmi, chapter 7]. 23 See Hubert Vincent, ‘Introduction’, in H. Vincent, ed., Citoyen du monde: enjeux, responsabilités, concepts (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2004), pp. 7-15. 24 Annick Madec and Numa Murard, Citoyenneté et politiques sociales (Paris: Flammarion, 1995), p. 63. 25 Silverman, p. 142. 26 See Allison, chapter 10. 27 Among the many, regularly updated, guides to the PaCS, see Sylvie Dibos-Lacroux, PACS: Le Guide pratique (Paris: Prat, 2004) and JeanFrançois Pillebout, Le PACS. Pacte Civil de Solidarité (Paris: Litec, 2002). 28 Dibos-Lacroux, p. 5. 29 Pillebout, p. 3. 9

10

NOTES

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See Thomas Doustaly’s editorial, ‘Pour l’égalité, voir l’inégalité’, in the monthly gay magazine, Têtu , 86, February 2004, p. 3. 31 Daniel Borrillo and Pierre Lascoumes, Amours égales? Le Pacs, les homosexuels et la gauche (Paris : La Découverte, 2002), p. 122. 32 Doustaly, p. 3. 33 Thomas Doustaly, ‘Royal et Chirac, même combat’, Têtu, 90, June 2004, p. 3. 34 Libération, 7175, 7 June 2004, p. 19. Gay marriage is now a ‘global issue'. See, for instance, Guy Ménard, Mariage homosexuel. Les termes du débat (Montreal: Liber Le Devoir, 2003). 35 See for instance Têtu, No. 63, January 2002, pp. 84-9 and the 29-page section on London in the new gay magazine Préférences, 2, May-June 2004, pp. 43-73. 36 Altman, pp. 421-23. 37 Keith Harvey, Intercultural Movements: American Gay in French Translation (Manchester: St. Jerome, 2003), p. 233. 38 Harvey, p. 53. 39 For lesbian as opposed to gay or homosexual rights in France, see Marie-Jo Bonnet, ‘De la libéralisation des femmes à l’institutionnalisation d’un féminisme bon chic bon genre’, in G. Ignasse and D. Welzer-Lang, eds., Genre et sexualités (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2003), pp. 6575. See also the articles on lesbianism in Didier Éribon, ed., Dictionnaire des cultures gays et lesbiennes (Paris: Larousse, 2003) and the forthcoming publication of the proceedings of a conference ‘Lesbian Inscriptions in Francophone Society and Culture’, organized by Renate Günther and Wendy Michallat, University of Sheffield, 2-4 April, 2004. In order, at least in part, to compensate for France's rejection of communitarianism, a new organisation, 'La Haute Autorité de lutte contre les discriminations et pour l'égalité' (Halde), will seek to combat all forms of discrimination, whether racism, religious intolerance, sexism or homophobia. 40 See for example Frédéric Martel, Le Rose et le noir. Les homosexuels en France depuis 1968 (Paris: Seuil, 1996), pp. 213-322. 41 See Thomas Doustaly, ‘Un mal qui répand la terreur’, Têtu, 87, March 2004, p. 3 and, for an interview with Nouchet, Têtu, 90, June 2004, p. 63. It has been suggested that the proposed French anti-homophobia bill be called ‘la loi Nouchet’. For homophobia in a global perspective, see Valerie Jenness and Kimberly D. Richman, ‘Anti-Gay and Lesbian Violence and its Discontents’, in Richardson and Seidman, pp. 403-41. 42 The latter is published by Presses Universitaires de France, 2003. 30

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Quoted by Steve Wharton, ‘Financial (self-)identification: the pink economy in France’, in S. Perry and M. Cross, eds., Voices of France. Social, Political and Cultural Identity (London: Pinter, 1997), p. 172. According to Joël Morio in Le Monde, 30 June - 1 July 2002, p. 1, companies, insurance agencies and banks are increasingly interested in ‘gay money’. 44 Têtu, 63, January 2002, p. 85. 45 Mireille Rosello, ‘The National-Sexual: From the Fear of Ghettos to the Banalization of Queer Practices’, in D. D. Fisher and L. R. Schehr eds., Articulations of Difference. Gender Studies and Writing in French (Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1997), p.270. 46 Éric Bordas, ‘Cultures gays et identités queers, ou la pensée d’un style’, Critique, 683, April 2004, p.291. See also François Cusset, French Theory (Paris: La Découverte, 2003), p. 335. 47 Harvey, p. 239. See also Owen Heathcote, ‘Solidarity in Pariahdom? Oppression and self-oppression in gay representations in France’ (forthcoming). 48 Didier Éribon, Une morale du minoritaire: Variations sur un thème de Jean Genet (Paris: Fayard, 2001), p. 86. 49 On reverse stigma, see Didier Éribon, Papiers d’identité: Interventions sur la question gay (Paris: Fayard, 2000), p. 28. 50 For ‘happiness in the ghetto’, see Martel, pp. 179-210 and for the resignification of ‘ghetto’: Rosello, pp. 252-6. 51 Leo Bersani, Homos (Cambridge, MA: Harvard U.P.,1995), p. 131. 52 Éribon, Papiers d’identité, p. 39. 53 Guillaume Dustan, Je sors ce soir (Paris: POL, 1997). See also Guillaume Dustan, Dans ma chambre (Paris: POL, 1996), p. 75. 54 Bersani: Homos, p. 131. See B. Ruby Rich, ‘New Queer Cinema’, Sight and Sound, 2:5, September 1992, pp. 30-4. 55 Diana Fuss, Identification Papers (London: Routledge, 1995), p. 9. 56 In the first of four articles on men and masculinities in Europe, Jeff Hearn et. al. note that ‘[t]here is an amazing lack of gender awareness in studies that understand themselves as dealing with “general” issues around violence, for instance, racist violence’ (‘Critical Studies on Men in Ten European Countries’, Men and Masculinities, 4:4, April 2002, p. 401. Subsequent ‘Critical Studies’ appeared in Men and Masculinities, 5:1, July 2002 and 5:2, October 2002; In the final article on ‘Newspaper and Media Representations’, Hearn et. al. confirm that ‘[m]ost reporting about violence remains in a gender-neutral way’ Men and Masculinities, 6:2, October 2003, p. 196. 43

281

Index Ademi, Rahim 173 African Countries economic data 47 Amara, Fadela 197 Ni Putes, ni soumises (2003) 274 El Angel de Sodoma (1929) 20, 201-20 acceptance of homosexuality 220 degeneration 203-4, 207-10 electricity 211-3 ‘invertido’ 206 law and science 25, 202, 215-20 modernity 20, 202, 204-5, 208, 214 sexual self-discovery 205-11 suicide 209, 215 Anti-racism 14, 150-1 Asian Countries (non-‘Tigers’) economic data 46 ‘Asian Tigers’ 3, 6, 43 East Asian Miracle (1993) 45, 240 economic data 46 Aubrac, Lucie 187 Auclert, Hubertine 185 Les Femmes au Gouvernail (1923) 272 Australia asylum seekers 55, 69 Autonomy 65, 69, 188 Aysmmetry of economic power 3, 51 of financial markets 52 of political power 16, 164 Basic Income 59, 70 Global (GBI) 4, 72 National (NBI) 4, 72 and political philosophy 70-1

Bauböck, Rainer 56 Transnational Citizenship (1994) 243, 246 Beard, George Miller 204 American Nervousness (1881) 276 de Beauvoir, Simone 187 Le Deuxième Sexe (1949) 273 Bédié, Pierre 141 Blanco, Francisco Sureda 219 Blaskić, Tihomir 169 Bobetko, Janko 17, 172, 174 Bosnia and Hercegovina 17, 269 Dayton Agreements (1995) 168 and ICTY 169 Boundary issues 56-7 and Basic Income 75 and distributive justice 67 equal citizenship 56 membership 58 moral agency 64 organizations 55 Bradford, West Yorkshire biradari groups 153, 264 chain migration 153 economic situation 15, 152 ‘ethnic colonies’ 15, 151, 153-4 ethnic composition 147 ethnicity and gender 155,161 The Ouseley Report (2001) 156, 266 Pakistani Muslims 152 public demonstrations 156 residential segregation 153 young people and contradictions 15, 154, 156 Brittan, Sir Leon 30

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Budiša, Dražen 173 Burke, Mike 196 Valeurs féminines, le pouvoir de demain (1998) 274 Cassese, Antonio 167 Children abuses of 85-6 ambiguity surrounding 80 emotional investment in 79 global recognition of 25, 85 ‘modern’ childhood 4, 78 and poverty 4, 79 ‘universal’ characteristics 77, 80 Children’s Rights Alliance of England (CRAE) 88 China 46 Chirac, Jacques 144 Citizenship and Basic Income 72 and capability 66 and French Republicanism 13, 18, 135, 138, 183, 194 mobile citizens 3, 59, 67 and PaCS 222 rights 68, 159 City and modernity 204, 211, 214 Civic republicanism 61 Clinton, William 32 Coard, Bernard 149 How the West Indian Child is made Educationally Subnormal in the British School System (1971) 263 Commission for Racial Equality Learning in Terror (1988) 150 Communities of choice 3, 55, 59 Communities of fate 3, 59, 69 Croatia 17, 169-75 Croatian Democratic Union (HDZ) 172 Croatian Social Liberal Party (HSLS) 172

and the ICTY 169-75 Operation Storm (1995) 171 Daughters’ Education Programme (Thailand) 88 Dermouche, Aissa 143 Developing countries 43 import substitution 45 in Tanzania 97 export promotion 45 internal and external factors 14, 48 Developed market economies (DMEs) 54 Discourse analysis 117-20 Djindjić, Zoran 177 Elias, Norbert 181 Éribon, Didier 23, 230, 232 Une morale du minoritaire (2001) 280 Dictionnaire des cultures gays et lesbiennes (2003) 279 European Union (EU) Croatian entry to 17, 174 cultural minorities 142, 161 enlargement 144, 193 free movement within 63, 69 and globalization 30-2 and migrant women 195 recognition of Montenegro 18, 178 Fiscal federalism 3, 58, 71 Foucault, Michel 20, 22, 118, 123, 219-20, 257 France Assemblée Consultative 187 Assemblée Nationale 189-90 assimilation 12, 136, 145 banlieues 184, 188, 194-9, 272

INDEX Beur movement 13, 137-9, 143, 191 cités 194, 226 citizenship principles 133 ‘esprit gaulois’ 19, 188 Evian Agreement (1962) 132 Grandes Écoles 199 Haut Conseil à l’Intégration (1989) 137 ‘headscarf affairs’ 13, 134-7, 142 immigration history 132 Islamic Council of France (2003) 14, 140 Lesbian and Gay Pride March (2004) 229 ‘La Marche des Beurs’ (1983) 138, 191 ‘La Marche des Femmes’ (2003) 197 treatment of high-profile women 188 women’s emancipation 19, 189-91 women’s suffrage 19, 185-7 French Republican ideals 25 anti-clericalism 186 ‘cité’ 224-6 ‘citoyen’ and ‘citoyenne’ 25, 224-6 La Citoyenne 185 vs. communitarianism 23, 197, 226, 229, 232-4 and gender 192, 195, 227 of integration 12, 131, 139-40 secularism 13, 135, 141, 143, 184, 186, 192, 197, 223 universalism 18, 20, 22-5, 139, 183-5, 188-200, 220-34 Friedman, Thomas 31, 35, 36 The Lexus and the Olive Tree (1999) 236, 237

283 Fukuyama, Francis 34 The End of History (1992) 237 Gay identity 25, 221 New Queer filmmakers 233 ‘pariah’ 23, 231-4 Genet, Jean 23, 232-3 Un chant d’amour (1950) 233 German East Africa (1890) 91 Ghana 47 Globalization 6 and childhood 81 and Cold War 34 colonial legacy 81 and conflict 40, 194 definitions of 11, 29-33, 89, 146, 163-4, 184 economic interpretation 30, 48-9, 89, 145 functions of the term 1, 33-7 hegemonic 31 hunger and famine 38 and Islam in Bradford 15, 154 and legal institutions 17, 25, 163, 167 and liberalization 43, 52-4 and local discourse 115, 119 material and discursive 8, 110 and migration 59, 131 and neoliberal theory 19 and poverty 37-8 and sexuality 221, 228, 230 and social identity 12, 41, 165 and Sri Lanka 110 and states 11, 89 and Tanzania 8, 89 and tourism 165-6 and universalism 23-4, 221-2

284

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Globalization and inequality 10, 37 children 39, 77, 81 disabled 39 elders 39 global pyramid 2, 33, 39 minority ethnic 39, 112, 193 social class 112 women 19, 39, 111, 192 Gotovina, Ante 173 de Gouges, Olympe 185, 187, 225, 227 Declaration of the Rights of Woman (1791) 225 Halimi, Gisèle 188, 190 La Nouvelle cause des femmes (1997), 273 Harvey, Keith 230 Intercultural Movements: American Gay in French Translation (2003) 279 Hernández-Catá, Alfonso 20-1, 201, 203, 215-19 El Angel de Sodoma (q.v.) HIV/AIDS 7, 85, 103, 105, 107, 227, 230, 233 Hizb-ut-Tahrir 154 Hobbes, Thomas, Leviathan (1962[1651]) 59, 244 Homophobia 223, 230 Hong Kong 43, 45 Huntingdon, Samuel 33, 164 Clash of Civilizations (1997) 34, 164, 268 India Children’s Union 88 Indonesia 46 International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) (1993) 16, 163-8

International Monetary Fund (IMF) 48, 72 and Croatia 17, 170 and Sri Lanka 8, 111 and Tanzania 7, 101-6 US influence on 31 ‘Washington consensus’ 44 International tourism 165-6 Ivory Coast 47 Jiménez de Asúa, Luis 20-1, 201, 205, 215-9 Karadžić, Radovan 176 Kenya 47 Kissinger, Henry 37, 40 Kondić, Mirko 173 Kordić, Dario 169 Koštunica, Vojislav 177 Krafft-Ebing, Richard von 206, 218 Levar, Milan 171 Liberalization and local ideology 110, 126 and racialization 112 of Sri Lankan banking 8, 110 in Tanzania 102-6 trade 43 Liberal political philosophy 55 bounded or universal 57, 68 concepts of the good life 56, 69 contractarian 59 egalitarian 26, 65 markets and democracy 4, 68 and multiculturalism 158 McDonald, Ian 150 Murder in the Playground (1989) 263

INDEX Malaysia 46, 52 Mandela, Nelson 36 Marañón, Gregorio 20-1, 201, 205, 215-9 theory of intersexuality 207 humanism 216 Martinović-Stela,Vinko 170 Marx, Karl 9 and Friedrich Engels 33 Membership 55-6 and Basic Income 71-5 contributions and needs 65 economic 65 nationalist, globalist and federalist systems 57-9 Mesić, Stipe 171 Micro-Finance Institutions (MFIs) 116 Migration 56 and Basic Income 71-5 and citizenship 131 to France 132 and integration 131,145 to the UK 147 Milošević, Slobodan 17, 175 Mirpur, Kashmir 15, 152-5, 158, 262-3 Mladić, Ratko 176 Mobility and exclusion 55 Multiculturalism (cultural pluralism) 145, 149-51 Bradford problems of 157 vs. French ideals 139-40, 192, 231 future of 160 and gender 157-8 and liberal democracy 161 religious pluralism 160 Muslims and Islam 25-6 Association of the Paris Mosque 141

285 Beur movement 13, 137-9, 143, 191 culture in Bradford 145 ‘headscarf affairs’ 13, 134-7 immigration to France 131 Islamic Council for France (2003) 14, 140 riba (usury) 125 self-exclusion in Sri Lanka 125-7 Union des Organisation Islamiques de France 141 Myint, Hla 45, 52 South East Asia’s Economy (1972) 240 Naletilić-Tuta, Mladen 170 National identity Croatian 17, 179 and the global elite 39 Serbian 18, 180 Neoclassical economic theory 25 of clubs 62 conditions for testing 11 and ‘prudence’ discourse 9 and social class 8-9 of trade 53, 89, 101 Neoliberal and critical interpretations 109 discourse 118, 122, 126 thought and structural divisions 111 Neoliberals and government intervention 44 and structuralists 43, 112, 248 Neurasthenia 21, 204, 235 Nigeria 47

286

GLOBALIZATION AND IDENTITY

Nomads cosmopolitan 10, 55 global 3, 15, 64, 67, 69 transnational 59 Non-Governmental Organizations (NGOs) and children’s rights 87 Norac, Mirko 172 Nordau, Max Degeneration (1902) 211 North American Free Trade Association (NAFTA) 52 North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) 16, 167, 176, 180 Nyerere, Mwalimu Julius 94-5 Arusha Declaration (1967) 97, 107, 253 Freedom and Socialism (1968) 253 Okin, Susan Moller, ‘Is multiculturalism bad for women?’ (1997) 157, 266 Pacte Civil de Solidarité (PaCS) 22, 191, 222, 228-30 Perfect market 2, 49-51, 89 Peters, Karl Society for German Colonization (1884) 91 Philippines 46 Piaget, Jean 80 developmental psychology 25, 84 Plan International (Sri Lanka) 88 Primo de Rivera, Miguel 20, 24, 201, 215 Purchasing power parity (PPP) 240 Račan, Ivica 171

‘Race to the bottom’ in welfare provision 62, 72 Rawls, John 56, 57, 60, 63, 235 A Theory of Justice (1971) 244, 246 Political Liberalism (1993) 243 The Law of Peoples (1999) 75, 235, 244 Said, Edward 164 Orientalism (1978) 268 Saïfi, Tokia 198 Sarkozy, Nicolas 143 Sayer, Andrew 109 Realism and Social Science (2000) 255 Scitovsky, Tibor 49 Welfare and Capitalism (1952) 241 Seers, Dudley 43 ‘Limitations of the Special Case’ (1967) 239 Sen, Amartya 65, 75 Inequality Re-examined (1992) 246 Serbia 18, 175-80 Democratic Opposition of Serbia (DOS) 177 and the ICTY 175-9 Operation Deliberate Force (1995) 175 Socialist Party of Serbia (SPS) 176 ‘Zemun Gang’ 179 Simmel, Georg 204 Singapore 45, 47 child poverty 79 Sljivančanin, Veselin 179 Sociology of law 163 South Korea 43 Spain 1928 Penal Code 201, 215

INDEX Agrupación Al Servicio de la República (1931) 216 Federación Universitaria Escolar (1927) 216 ‘feminization’ of life 21, 202 Liga de Educación Social 216 male homosexuality 201-20 modernization in 1920s 202 Sri Lanka Report on Consumer Finances and Socio-Economic Survey, 1996/97 (CFS) 113, 256 class polarization 115 ‘discipline’ discourse 9, 120-3 financial exclusion 111, 122 gender and ethnicity 9, 112 globalization of finance 109 Habib Bank 112 Hatton National Bank 112 income inequality 113 loan collateral 115 moneylenders 8, 111 Muslim self-exclusion 125-7 ‘prudence’ discourse 9, 123-5 seetu (chit fund) 8, 113, 120 racialization of economy 112 Samurdhi savings scheme 111, 120-5, 128 Sinhala Buddhists 112-3, 116-7, 120-5 Tamils 112, 113, 126 Stiglitz, Joseph 44, 51, 52, 89 More Instruments and Broader Goals (1998) 240 Globalization and its Discontents (2002) 242, 252 Stipetić, Petar 171 Structural Adjustment Programmes 44, 47 in Sri Lanka 111 in Tanzania 101

287 Sušak, Gojko 170 Tadić, Duško 176 Taguieff, Pierre-André 223 La République menacée (1996) 278 Taiwan 43 Tanganyika African National Union (TANU) 94 Tanzania 1980s crisis 99-103 British Mandate (1920-61) 6, 92-5 child poverty 79 economic data 47 education 93 German colonial period 6, 91 IMF intervention (1986) 6-7, 101-3 investment and growth 7, 98 Maji Maji rebellion (1905-7) 91 poverty 105 Poverty Reduction Strategy Paper (PRSP) 103 pre-colonial 90 social indicators 96 Tanganyikan Independence (1961) 6, 95 Tanzania Assistance Strategy (TAS) 103 trade, aid and foreign investment 100 Ujamaa (Tanzanian socialism) 6, 97 union of Tanganyika and Zanzibar (1964) 6, 95 Taubira, Christine 198 Thailand 46 theory of clubs 62 theory of the second best 50

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GLOBALIZATION AND IDENTITY

Tiebout, Charles, ‘A Pure Theory of Local Expenditures’ (1956) 244 Tin, Louis-Georges 230 Dictionnaire de l’homophobie (2003) 279 Toffler, Alvin 200 Future Shock (1970) 275 Transnational Corporations (TNCs) 2-3, 49, 51, 53, 55, 64, 164 Tudjman, Franjo 17, 169-71

rationality and clarity of French language 223 suffrage in France 185 Universalism and Basic Income 70, 73 exclusive 18, 183, 189, 192, 195-9 France as capital of 222 and gay identity 22, 221, 229-30 gender and citizenship 225 of ICTY 167

United British Women’s Emigration Association 193 United Kingdom (UK) Clause 28 234 conditional welfare 66, 69 cultural pluralism 145 ethnic diversity 146-7 migration 147 policy responses to diversity 148-51 United Nations Committee on the Rights of the Child 86-7 United Nations’ Convention on the Rights of the Child (UNCRC) (1989) 5, 6, 16, 77, 81-88 articles of 82 assessment of 86-7 problems of 82-5 United States of America (USA) conditional welfare system 66 and globalization 31-3 non-acceptance of UNCRC 82 Universal childhood 77-81 developmental stages 5 vs. global 22-6, 221-2 human rights 67, 223 principles of equality and justice 3, 26, 57-9

vs. particularism in children’s rights 77 and progressive social change 20, 23, 26, 77, 234 of UNCRC 5, 77, 82 Universalization of children’s rights 77, 82-5 of market relations in globalization 49 of sexual traits 217 of US values in globalization 11, 31 Weil, Patrick 138 Qu’ est-ce qu’un Français? (2002) 260 Wolf, Martin 11 Why Globalization Works (2004) 235 World Bank 2, 48, 72 measures in Tanzania 101-6 US influence on 31 ‘Washington Consensus’ 44 World Trade Organization (WTO) 49 Živković, Zoran 179