Parliaments and Political Change in Asia 9789812305428

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Reproduced from Parliaments and Political Change in Asia by Jurgen Ruland, Clemens Jurgenmeyer, Miichael H. Nelson and Patrick Ziegenhain (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2005). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

Parliaments and Politic I Change in Asia

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

The Institute of Southeast Asian Studies (ISEAS) was established as an autonomous organization in 1968. It is a regional centre dedicated to the study of socio-political, security and economic trends and developments in Southeast Asia and its wider geostrategic and economic environment. The Institute’s research programmes are the Regional Economic Studies (RES, including ASEAN and APEC), Regional Strategic and Political Studies (RSPS), and Regional Social and Cultural Studies (RSCS). ISEAS Publications, an established academic press, has issued more than 1,000 books and journals. It is the largest scholarly publisher of research about Southeast Asia from within the region. ISEAS Publications works with many other academic and trade publishers and distributors to disseminate important research and analyses from and about Southeast Asia to the rest of the world.

Jürgen Rüland Clemens Jürgenmeyer Michael H. Nelson Patrick Ziegenhain

INSTITUTE OF SOUTHEAST ASIAN STUDIES, Singapore

First published in Singapore in 2005 by Institute of Southeast Asian Studies 30 Heng Mui Keng Terrace Pasir Panjang Singapore 119614 Internet e-mail: [email protected] World Wide Web: http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. © 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore The responsibility for facts and opinions in this publication rests exclusively with the authors and their interpretations do not necessarily reflect the views or the policy of the Institute or its supporters. ISEAS Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data Parliaments and political change in Asia / by Jürgen Rüland … [et al.]. 1. Asia—Politics and government—19452. Legislative bodies—Asia. 3. Representative government and representation—Asia. I. Rüland, Jürgen, 1953JQ24 P25 2005 ISBN 981-230-273-5 (soft cover) ISBN 981-230-232-8 (hard cover) Typeset by International Typesetters Pte Ltd Printed in Singapore by Seng Lee Press Pte Ltd

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Contents

List of Tables List of Figures Preface About the Authors List of Abbreviations Chapter One: Introduction

vi vii viii xii xiii 1

Chapter Two: Historical Background

25

Chapter Three: Parliaments and Regime Change

40

Chapter Four: Parliaments and Constitutions

50

Chapter Five: Parliaments and Elections

95

Chapter Six:

Parliaments and Political Parties

136

Chapter Seven: Parliamentary Inclusiveness: The Social Profile

163

Chapter Eight: The Internal Structure of Parliaments

190

Chapter Nine: Parliamentary Functions

222

Chapter Ten:

265

Conclusion: Reputation, Reform, and the Future of Parliaments

References Index

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

282 317

List of Tables

1.1 4.1 4.2 5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5 5.6 5.7 7.1 8.1 8.2 9.1 9.2

Parliaments in India, Indonesia, South Korea, the Philippines, and Thailand Constitutional Change in India, Indonesia, the Philippines, South Korea, and Thailand Duration of Parliamentary Sessions Voting Age and Eligibility Election Results, Lok Sabha, India, 1999 Election Results, House of Representatives, Thailand, 2001 Election Results, National Assembly, South Korea, 2000 Election Results, House of Representatives, Philippines, 1998 Election Results, Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (DPR), Indonesia, 1999 Electoral Violence in the Philippines, 1965–98 Representation of Women in Legislatures Number of Standing Committees Size of Parliamentary Staff Number of Bills Passed per Year by Legislatures Corruption Incidence in Asian Democracies

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

18 56 91 101 112 113 114 114 115 116 179 206 215 232 244

List of Figures

1.1 Interrelationship between Societal Structure, Actors, and Institutions 1.2 Framework of Analysis

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

7 15

viii

Chapter One

Preface

In 2000, Heinrich Krumwiede and Detlef Nolte published a comprehensive study on the legislatures of 17 Latin American countries.* The study was commissioned and sponsored by the Konrad Adenauer Foundation (KAF) in Germany. One of the conclusions drawn by the foundation from the study was that parliaments in non-Western countries are even more under-researched than other areas of the political system. The study of Latin American parliaments also suggested that even years after redemocratization, legislatures — contrary to their frequent celebration as embodiments of people’s sovereignty — in reality play a subordinate role in the political process. If legislative institutions are to be strengthened by parliamentary reforms or even external assistance, more systematic research is needed that transcends the ubiquitous juridical studies with their emphasis on the legal and institutional aspects of legislatures. This calls for studies providing insights into the question of how, when, and to what extent parliaments are involved in policymaking. We are thus grateful that considerations like these motivated the KAF to commission the Arnold Bergstraesser Institute (ABI) in Freiburg, Germany to carry out a study on the parliaments of India, Indonesia,

* Heinrich Krumwiede and Detlef Nolte, Die Rolle der Parlamente in den Präsidialdemokratien Lateinamerikas (Hamburg: Institut für Iberoamerika-Kunde, 2000).

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the Philippines, South Korea, and Thailand. In particular, we thank the initiators of the study, Dr Winfried Jung, then Director of International Cooperation II (Africa, Asia, Middle East, Latin America), and Dr Colin Dürkop, then head of the Asia department of the foundation, as well as Dr Peter R. Weilemann, then Director of International Cooperation I, and Dr Wolfgang H. Koll of the International Planning Staff for their generous support. Dr Koll was also responsible for coordinating the study on the part of the foundation and for administrative backstopping. He did so with great care. We thank him for his patience and trust in the research team, as studies requiring a period of two years are rather unusual in the world of development cooperation where emphasis is more often placed on operational efficiency than academic rigour. Dr Dürkop, even in his new position as the foundation’s regional representative in Singapore, displayed great interest in the project’s progress and always had a great understanding of the needs of the research team. The study is the product of a distinct division of labour within the project team consisting of country specialists. The latter were responsible for collecting the data for their respective country, analysing them, and providing paragraphs to be integrated into the manuscript, organized not on a country basis but according to a comparative perspective. Clemens Jürgenmeyer wrote the sections on India and Patrick Ziegenhain those on Indonesia. Michael H. Nelson, who joined the team as a scholar based at the King Prajadhipok Institute (KPI) in Nonthaburi, Thailand, contributed the part on Thailand and Jürgen Rüland those on the Philippines and South Korea. The theoretical framework, the conclusions, and the outline of the study were designed by Jürgen Rüland, although in their present form these parts of the book are the result of intensive, at times controversial, yet always very fruitful and constructive discussions within the project team. Events and developments in the five parliaments have been systematically covered until early 2003. It was thus not possible to include in the study the changes resulting from the 2004 elections in India, Indonesia, the Philippines, and South Korea. A study targeting a theme that in many respects must still be considered a black box is certainly dependent on the support of others. The research team would thus like to express its sincere gratitude to all who enabled the collection of data, who shared information, and who

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

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Preface

generously contributed their own expertise to this endeavour. Foremost in this respect is the dedicated assistance provided by the KAF’s country representatives and their staff who quietly and efficiently provided the members of the project team access to legislators, senior officials in the parliamentary secretariats, scholars, journalists, and civic leaders. Without the help of Dr Willibold Frehner (Manila), Thomas Awe (Seoul), Prof. Dr Gert Kück (New Delhi), Dr Klaus Pähler (Jakarta), and Dr Norbert Eschborn (Bangkok and Jakarta), it would hardly have been possible to conduct nearly 100 interviews in the capitals of the five countries under study within such a short period of time. We are also very grateful to all our interview partners who dedicated their valuable time to us, many of whom responded with great enthusiasm to our questions and who often were even prepared for lengthy and intensive discussions on the topic. Many of these interviews and conversations confirmed our belief that the topic of parliaments matters and that the limited attention devoted to this field of research by political scientists does not adequately reflect its relevance. The volume also benefited from four in-house seminars at the ABI in Freiburg. We thank our colleagues inside and outside the institute for their willingness to discuss, for the sake of clarification, the same issues time and again. Dr Ingrid Wehr (ABI) and Dr Ulrich Eith (Department of Political Science, University of Freiburg) read parts of the manuscript. Their comments and suggestions benefited us tremendously. Aaron Stern (University of Michigan) read a synopsis. His advice was likewise of great help. We also received invaluable feedback from a seminar organized by the KAF in St. Augustin, Germany, in March 2002, attended by visiting Southeast Asian parliamentarians and senior officials of parliamentary secretariats. Futhermore, on 11 and 12 March 2003, the KAF organized a workshop in Bangkok, which gave the team a chance to present their research findings to a group of eminent, mostly Asian, political scientists and constitutional scholars. Prof. Dr Gunter Schubert (University of Tübingen), Prof. Dr José V. Abueva (Kalayaan Institute and former President of the University of the Philippines, Manila), Attorney Camilo L. Sabio (former President of the Philippine Constitutional Association and former Secretary General of the Philippine House of Representatives,

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

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xi

Manila), Prof. Dr Amara Raksasataya (Judge at the Constitutional Court of Thailand, Bangkok), Prof. Dr Somsak Xuto (The Public Affairs Foundation, Bangkok), Prof. Dr Chan Wook Park (Seoul National University, Seoul), Prof. Jang Hie Lee (Hankuk University of Foreign Studies, Seoul), Dr Kusnanto Anggoro and Dr Tommy Legowo (both from the Centre for Strategic and International Studies, Jakarta), Prof. Dr Balveer Arora, and Dr Kailash K.K. (both from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi) all read the manuscript with great care, pointed out some inaccuracies, and made a plethora of useful suggestions, many of which were incorporated in the revised version of the manuscript. Prof. Dr Schubert thoroughly scrutinized the theoretical premises of the book and Prof. Dr Chan Wook Park provided unpublished manuscripts and empirical research findings of his own to the research team. We greatly appreciate the sympathy, the sincerity and the professional support we received from these distinguished colleagues. For the organization and the funding of the Bangkok workshop, Dr Béatrice Gorawantschy (Bangkok) and Dr Colin Dürkop (Singapore) deserve our gratitude. Finally, we appreciate the constructive comments of five anonymous peer reviewers of the Manuscript Review Committee of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies (ISEAS) which enabled us to further improve on the work. The manifold support we received notwithstanding, any errors that remain are the exclusive responsibility of the authors. Freiburg and Bangkok February 2005

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Jürgen Rüland Clemens Jürgenmeyer Michael H. Nelson Patrick Ziegenhain

About the Authors

Dr Jürgen Rüland was the leader of the project team. He is Professor of Political Science in the Department of Political Science, Albert Ludwigs University, Freiburg, and Director of the Arnold Bergstraesser Institute, Freiburg, Germany. Clemens Jürgenmeyer, M.A., is Senior Research Fellow at the Arnold Bergstraesser Institute, Freiburg, Germany, and Managing Editor of Internationales Asienforum/International Quarterly for Asian Studies. Dr Michael H. Nelson is Senior Research Fellow at the King Prajadhipok Institute, Nonthaburi, Thailand. Patrick Ziegenhain, M.A., is Research Fellow at the Arnold Bergstraesser Institute, Freiburg, Germany, and Ph.D. candidate at the Department of Political Science, Albert Ludwigs University, Freiburg.

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

List of Abbreviations

ABRI AIM AIPO APEC API ARMM ASEAN ASEAN-ISIS ASEM

Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia Asian Institute of Management ASEAN Inter-Parliamentary Organization Association of Philippine Electric Cooperatives Almanak Parpol Indonesia Autonomous Region of Muslim Mindanao Association of Southeast Asian Nations ASEAN Institutes for Security and International Studies Asia-Europe Meeting

BAI BJP BMZ

Board of Audit and Inspection Bharatiya Janata Party Bundesministerium für wirtschaftliche Zusammenarbeit und Entwicklung

CAGE CCA CDA CDF CDG CEO CIA

Citizens Coalition for General Elections Concerned Citizens Aggrupation Constitution Drafting Assembly Countrywide Development Fund Carl-Duisberg-Gesellschaft Chief Executive Officer Central Intelligence Agency

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

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List of Abbreviations

CIBAC CIM COMELEC CPI CPP CPT CREBA

Citizens Battle Against Corruption Center for International Migration Commission on Elections Communist Party of India Communist Party of the Philippines Communist Party of Thailand Chamber of Real Estate Brokers Association

DA DDC DJP DKP DMK DP DPD DPR DSE

Democratic Alliance Democracy Development Committee Denocratic Justice Party Democratic Korea Party Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam Democratic Party Dewan Perwakilan Daerah Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (House of People’s Representatives) Deutsche Stiftung für Internationale Entwicklung

ECT

Election Commission of Thailand

FATF FDI FES

Financial Action Task Force Foreign Direct Investment Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung

GDP GNP Golkar GTZ

Gross Domestic Product Grand National Party Golongan Karya Deutsche Gesellschaft für Technische Zusammenarbeit

IAS IBP IBRA ICMI IDEA

Indian Administrative Service Interim Batasan Pambansa Indonesian Bank Restructuring Agency Ikatan Cendekiawan Muslim Indonesia International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

xv

List of Abbreviations

INC IPCOS IPPS IPU ISDS ISEAS

Indian National Congress Institute for Policy and Community Development Institute of Public Policy Studies International Parliamentary Union Institute for Strategic and Development Studies Institute of Southeast Asian Studies

JAMPPI

Jaringan Masyarakat Pemantau Pemilu Independen

KAF KBL KIPP KPKPN KPU

Konrad Adenauer Foundation Kilusang Bagong Lipunan Komisi Independen Pemantauan Pemilu Komisi Pemeriksa Kekayaan Penyelenggara Negara Komisi Pemilihan Umum

Laban Lakas-NUCD LAMMP LDP LEDAC LP

Lakas ng Bayan Lakas-National Union for Christian Democracy Laban ng Makabayang Masang Pilipino Laban Demokratikong Pilipinas Legislative-Executive Development Advisory Committee Liberal Party

MAD MDP MILF MNLF MP MPR

Mamayan Ayaw sa Droga Millenium Democratic Party Moro Islamic Liberation Front Moro National Liberation Front Member of Parliament Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat

NAMFREL NAP NCCC NCNP NEC NGO

National Citizens’ Movement for Free Elections New Aspiration Party National Counter Corruption Commission National Congress for New Politics National Election Commission Non-governmental Organization

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

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List of Abbreviations

NHRC NKDP NKP NMP NMUN NP NPKC

National Human Rights Commission New Korea Democratic Party New Korea Party New Millennium Party National Model United Nations Nacionalista Party National Peace Keeping Council

OECD

Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development

P3I PAN PBB PDI PDI-P PDP PDP PK PKB PKI PKP PKS PnB PNI POTA POTO PPDI PPP PR PRP PSPD

Pusat Pengkajian dan Pelayanan Informasi Partai Amanat Nasional Partai Bulan Bintang Partai Demokrasi Indonesia Partai Demokrasi Indonesia–Perjuangan Phalang Dharma Party Pilipino Democratic Party Partai Keadilan Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa Partai Komunis Indonesia Partido Komunista Pilipino Partai Keadilan dan Sejahtera Partido ng Bayan Partai Nasional Indonesia Prevention of Terrorists Act Prevention of Terrorists Ordinance Partai Penegak Demokrasi Indonesia Partai Persatuan Pembangunan Proportional Representation Philippine Reform Party People’s Solidarity for Participatory Democracy

RA RDP

Republic Act Reunification Democratic Party

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List of Abbreviations

SAARC SAP SMD

South Asian Association for Regional Cooperation Social Action Party Single-member District

TAMC Trapo TRT TUCP

Thai Asset Management Corporation Traditional Politician Thai Rak Thai Party Trade Union Congress of the Philippines

ULD UNDP UNFREL UNIDO UU

United Liberal Democrats United Nations Development Program University Network for Free Elections United Nationalist Democratic Opposition undang-undang

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Reproduced from Parliaments and Political Change in Asia by Jurgen Ruland, Clemens Jurgenmeyer, Miichael H. Nelson and Patrick Ziegenhain (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2005). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

Chapter One

Introduction

With the Third Wave of Democratization (Huntington 1991) the forms of government have changed in many parts of the world. While in the 1970s two-thirds of all governments were authoritarian, by the first decade of the new millennium an equally large proportion of countries may be considered democratic or, following Robert Dahl, polyarchies 1 (Dahl 1971). Even though Larry Diamond has declared that the Third Wave is over (Diamond 1996), there has so far been no major reverse 2 wave as in the case of the previous two waves of democratization. Yet, the democratic substance and the stability of many of the new polyarchies vary immensely. This has led to a change of research perspectives over time. While in the late 1970s and 1980s political scientists were preoccupied with the conditions facilitating the collapse of authoritarian regimes and the prerequisites for democratization, from the 1990s onward research has increasingly concentrated on the strengthening of democracy (Merkel 1999; UNDP 2002).

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

2

Chapter One

The regime transitions have facilitated a renewed concern with political institutions (Mols 1982; March and Olsen 1984, p. 734). By institutions we mean “persistent and connected sets of rules (formal and informal) that prescribe behavioural roles, constrain activity, and shape expectations” (Keohane 1989, p. 3). Institutions are seen from this perspective as key variables in the consolidation of new democracies and the sustenance of older democracies. It is thus no coincidence that in the 1990s studies on constitutional engineering, elections, political parties and party systems, non-governmental organizations (NGOs), and other civil society organizations were mushrooming. Amazingly, 3 legislatures did not figure prominently in these studies. Even less 4 attention has been paid to the legislative institutions in Asia. The present study seeks to address this lacuna. Its objective is to study the contribution of legislatures to the consolidation of new democracies and the stability of older democracies in Asia. The five countries under study are India, Indonesia, the Philippines, South Korea, and Thailand. 5 The lack of scholarly interest in Asian legislatures has often been justified by their rubber-stamp nature. Legislatures were seen as being more or less irrelevant to the political process — a view that was echoed by research on liberal Western democracies which rightly or wrongly deplored a decline of parliament in modern political decision-making, its circumvention by formal or informal neo-corporatist arrangements, think tanks, and the creeping takeover of parliamentary oversight functions by the mass media (Liebert 1990, pp. 1, 23; von Beyme 2002, p. 285). Studying rubber-stamp legislatures did not even seem to make a fruitful contribution to the study of authoritarian regimes. More attention was thus directed towards the executive, the inner ruling circle, the crony systems, the bureaucracy, and the armed forces. One would have expected that as a result of the collapse of authoritarian regimes and their substitution by more open political systems in the 1980s and 1990s, parliaments would have received greater attention by political scientists. Surprisingly, however, legislative institutions continued to be peripheral to scholarly interest. External structural factors were named as reasons for the continued disinterest in legislatures of newly democratic regimes. Political economists, for instance, argued that dependent capitalism, as perhaps most clearly

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Introduction

3

manifested in the Structural Adjustment Programs of the International Monetary Fund (IMF), curtailed the scope of policy-making by the legislatures of developing countries. Conditionalities imposed on governments as enshrined in the infamous Letters of Intent (LOI) particularly narrowed their economic and social policy options. More recently, globalization and the financial crises accompanying it have been pinpointed as the culprits restricting the political influence of assemblies and indeed of the autonomy of the state as a whole. Globally organized businesses and international financial institutions are seen to form the vanguard of those who, for the sake of lowering transaction costs and increasing competitiveness, press for uniform corporate laws and a favourable investment climate. Moreover, the increasingly border-crossing nature of many issues — ranging from the environment and transportation to migration, crime, and terrorism — has transcended the previous congruence of political action and nation-state, increasingly transferring policy matters to intergovernmental and supranational decision-making bodies (Zürn 1998). While these powerful trends may indeed constrain the policy-making or — more precisely — legislative functions of parliaments, they do not constitute compelling reasons to downgrade or even ignore legislatures as a topic of research. First of all, legislatures are still a major source of legitimacy for democracies — as even critics are prepared to admit (von Beyme 1997, 2002). In fact, they are “the single most important representative institution in a democratic system” (Hahn 1996, p. 4). Or, if viewed from the perspective of democratic theory, they are considered as “the institutional location of people’s sovereignty” (von 6 Beyme 2002, p. 271). Their perception by the public has major repercussions on mass attitudes towards democracy. By gradually socializing anti-democratic parties into the new set of democratic institutions, well-functioning legislatures, on the one hand, may help to overcome the remnants of an authoritarian political culture, while corrupt and inefficient legislatures, on the other hand, may discredit representative democracy, create nostalgia effects towards the nondemocratic past, or even facilitate authoritarian backlashes (Liebert 1990, p. 14). In short, the study of legislatures offers useful perspectives on the nature of a political system as a whole (Close 1995, p. 1).

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

4

Chapter One

Second, parliaments still perform — depending on the form of government — either in toto or through the opposition other important functions for the sustainability of democracies such as, in particular, oversight functions. Studying legislatures gives us a sense of how and to what extent those in power are held accountable for their acts. Parliaments thus constitute “an inchoate measure of a system’s constitutionalism” (Close 1995, p. 1). And third, as much of the existing literature on Asian parliaments follows a descriptive, historical, and legal-constitutional approach, there is a great need for more theory-guided research on legislatures. After all, Robison’s critical remark that “there is a fairly general suspicion of theory by many scholars of Southeast Asian politics based on the proposition that theory is too rigid and deterministic to take into account the diversity and uniqueness of specific situations” is still valid today (Robison, quoted in Brown 1988, p. 53). Theoretical Issues

The theme discussed in this book is inspired by four major theoretical discourses: neo-institutionalism, parliamentarianism versus presidentialism, majoritarian versus consensus democracy, and transition theory. Neo-institutionalism As parliaments are here perceived as institutional arrangements, neoinstitutionalism serves as the overarching theoretical framework of this study. Neo-institutionalism states that institutions reduce uncertainty, enhance the predictability of actor behaviour, stabilize role expectations, and lower the transaction costs of political interaction (North 1990, p. 3). These functions of institutions are fundamental to working democracies. The message conveyed by this “new institutionalism” is thus that “institutions do matter”. The new institutionalism goes beyond existing theoretical schools which explain political change as exogenous to institutions (March and Olsen 1984). Actor-oriented rational choice theories, for instance, explain political transitions as the sequence of calculated choices of political actors (O’Donnell and Schmitter 1986; Przeworski 1991). Institutions are then to a great extent shaped by the interests of use-

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Introduction

5

maximizing political actors and dependent on the domestic power equation, which in some cases may also be influenced from outside the country by international organizations, foreign governments, or transnational actors such as transnational corporations or NGO networks (Jetschke 2001). Structural theories of transition likewise do not assign to institutions independent functions in the process of political change. For neo-Marxist and politico-economic theories the form and performance of political institutions are primarily shaped by the relationship between the economy and the state. Or, more precisely: political institutions are a function of class interests. How they are modelled and how they work chiefly depends on the economic and political interests of elites, the way these interests translate into a development strategy, and the avenues these economic choices open for the integration of other societal forces into the state (Moore 1967; Rueschemeyer, Huber-Stephens, and Stephens 1992). Modernization theories share with politico-economic approaches the view that institutions are mainly shaped by structural factors. Along this line of reasoning, political change and — as a corollary — institution-building is the result of profound economic change, which is driven by robust and long-term economic growth, a revolution in 7 education, and urbanization (Lipset 1959). In combination, these prerequisites stimulate economic diversification and organizational differentiation, thereby creating new social strata and new societal interests. Most notable in this respect is the rise of a new self-confident and well-educated urban middle class which joins or forms political organizations and increasingly demands a share of power. As a more pluralist polity evolves, institutions must adapt to the new societal complexity. At this point, reformers begin to restructure institutions, enabling them to gradually adopt more and new functions and become more inclusive and democratic. Modernization theorists are thus confident that a liberal democracy stands at the end of an incremental process. Finally, systems theory likewise fails to attach an independent role to institutions. Institutions are here viewed as an integral part of the political system which is exclusively determined “by the system’s capacity

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

6

Chapter One

to adapt to changing environments in order to maintain itself” (Pertierra 1988, p. 12; Sandschneider 1995; Merkel 1999). Contrary to these approaches and transcending the purely historical and legalistic description of the “old institutionalism” (Blondel 1973, p. 23; Nolte 1999, p. 66), neo-institutionalism perceives institutions not only as a dependent, but also as an independent variable. They affect the distribution of resources, influence political meaning, and create norms and rules shaping the preferences, choices, and behaviour of political actors (Hahn 1996, p. 9). In other words, institutions are both causes and effects (Martin and Simmons 1998, p. 743). As institutions are more than just an arena for aggregating a plethora of societal interests and structuring political action, they may also become (collective) actors and facilitators of political change in their own right 8 (March and Olsen 1984, p. 738). Neo-institutionalists therefore accord fundamental importance to the design of political institutions such as the system of government (that is, presidential, semi-presidential, parliamentary or any other form), the electoral system, or the structure of parliament (Stepan and Skach 1993, p. 1; Diamond 1997, p. xxii; Mainwaring and Shugart 1997, p. 2; Roper 2002, p. 253). Hence, the revived emphasis on institutional and “constitutional engineering” (Sartori 1994). The neo-institutional argument, for example, that political change is also endogenous to political institutions and that, hence, political institutions may serve as independent variables (and collective actors), adds a reflexivist dimension to studies of political change. Interactions within the framework of democratic institutions are expected to strengthen democratic norms, socialize previously non-democratic actors into the new set of institutions by engaging them, exerting pressure on them to comply with the new rules, and sanction non-compliant behaviour. If, over time, democratic institutions become robust and effective, they may produce spillover effects to other institutions and foster changes in the political culture on a broader front. If such institutions gradually change the values and attitudes of political decisionmakers, they may promote reformist policies by redefining the developmental objectives of a society. Eventually, they start to allocate resources in a different, and possibly more equitable, way than hitherto,

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

7

Introduction Figure 1.1 Interrelationship between Societal Structure, Actors, and Institutions

Societal structure

Actors

Institutions

which may over time even stimulate changes in the social and economic structures. Summarizing this discussion, Figure 1.1 illustrates the mutually dependent relationships between societal structure, political actors, and institutions, as viewed from the perspective of neo-institutionalism. The neo-institutionalist concept of institutions as independent variables implies that parliaments may also be considered as collective actors. Fritz Scharpf has termed this coincidence “actor-oriented institutionalism” (Scharpf 2000). Critics may object that this view entails a monolithic and holistic concept of parliament. We concur with them in so far as legislatures should be viewed as open institutions, influenced by external actors and interests. External actors affecting parliamentary decisions include the government, the leadership of political parties — if the latter is not represented in the legislature as may be the case in presidential systems — NGOs, interest groups and lobbies, local government leaders, the mass media, the judiciary, and (in parliamentary more than in presidential systems) the bureaucracy. While these external influences to a varying degree shape the behaviour of actors in parliament (that is, legislators as individual actors and parliamentary party groups as collective actors), legislatures, through their own rules for deliberation, decision-making, and voting, are also collective actors influencing political change. Parliamentary deliberations and communication processes preceding legislative action as well as the institutional identity developed by members of parliament (MPs) assure that parliaments are

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

8

Chapter One

more than merely the sum of their components and the external interests influencing their proceedings and output. Representative democracies reject the imperative mandate which would relegate MPs to proxies, and legislatures to institutional extensions of extra-parliamentary players. Moreover, while the frequently asserted Asian penchant for “soft 9 institutionalization” may create legislative bodies less institutionalized than Western parliaments, legislatures in Asian democracies nevertheless perform pivotal functions such as aggregating and filtering societal interests and (formally) translating them into political decisions. Even in authoritarian regimes, and to a greater extent in democracies, parliamentary decisions may deviate from the intentions of the ruling circles. Hence, our dual perception of legislatures as open institutions and as collective actors. The Presidentialism-Parliamentarianism Debate A neo-institutionalist perspective also prevails in the presidentialismparliamentarianism debate initiated by Juan J. Linz’ seminal articles contrasting the “evils of presidentialism” with the “virtues of parliamentarism” (Linz 1990a, 1990b). Both articles, in effect, raise the question of the best institutional design for new democracies, and, particularly, for nations “with deep political cleavages and numerous political parties” (Linz 1990a, p. 52). Linz’ argument is that parliamentary systems of government are more conducive to political stability than presidential systems, which are characterized by rigidity, the “winnertakes-all” principle, dual legitimacy, and gridlock. While Linz and his adherents chiefly focus on the impact of executive organization on executive-legislative relations, our study takes a different perspective. It concentrates on the legislature and seeks to explore its contribution to political change. More specifically, we are interested in finding out whether legislatures under a presidential, semi-presidential, or parliamentary government system are more conducive to the consolidation of democracy. Is there a difference between parliaments in different government systems (that is, parliamentary, presidential, or semi-presidential democracy) in regard to this question? One justification for us taking a different perspective lies in the persistent debates about 10 the system of government in all countries studied here, except Thailand.

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Introduction

9

Studies which question the plausibility of Linz’ arguments also justify our perspective. Nohlen (1992), Thibaut (1996), and Mainwaring and Shugart (1997), for instance, have shown that the relationship between a certain institutional arrangement and regime stability is much less persuasive than argued by the critics of presidentialism (Linz 1990a; Stepan and Skach 1993; Linz and Valenzuela 1994; Lijphart 1999). In fact, as admitted by Linz himself, even presidential systems may display elements of consociationalism which reduce their alleged rigidity (Linz 1990a, p. 56). Majoritarian versus Consensus Democracy In our study we found it useful to link Linz’ emphasis on the system of government with Lijphart’s majoritarianism-consensus dichotomy (Lijphart 1984). According to Lijphart, consensus democracy,11 which aims at sharing power amongst the greatest possible number of people, groups, and levels of government, is the most adequate form of government for societies deeply divided along ethnic, linguistic, religious, spatial, and socio-economic lines.12 A prerequisite for Lijphart’s consensus model of democracy are inclusive institutions. The call for inclusiveness responds to the fact that there are major structural divisions in society — cleavages in the terminology of Lipset and Rokkan (1967). Inclusiveness then means that political institutions perform the function of integrating diverse and heterogeneous societal forces. The more they succeed in this respect, 13 the greater is the legitimacy of institutions, although this “input legitimacy” needs to be matched by a modicum of “output legitimacy” (Scharpf 2000, pp. 255ff.; Krumwiede and Nolte 2000, p. 16). The latter refers to the efficiency and effectiveness of policy-making — in other words that decisions are made swiftly and that they satisfy the 14 needs of as many segments of society as possible. Inclusive institutions facilitate bargaining and broad-based pacts. They avoid the winner-takes-all constellations of majoritarian systems, which transform political contests into zero-sum games and, which, by “excluding the losing groups from participation in decision-making” (Lewis, cited in Lijphart 1984, p. 21), may cause a crisis of the political system as a whole. By contrast, while preventing political actors from

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Chapter One

realizing their maximum goals, inclusive political institutions are likely to generate more legitimacy than majoritarian systems. Pacted or negotiated decisions are more likely to be positive-sum games which place greater emphasis on absolute as opposed to relative gains. They create a perception of ownership among the participants that increases incentives to implement decisions. Broad-based ownership in decisions may also lead to greater policy continuity, as after a change of government the incoming administration may feel more committed to uphold and continue to implement decisions in which it was involved and in which it has a stake. By contrast, majoritarian systems — due to their competitive character — are less likely to honour decisions and programmes of the predecessor administration. On the other side of the coin, inclusive political institutions suffer from a tension between legitimacy and efficiency. Limiting efficiency are the time-consuming procedures and the transaction costs associated with inclusive decisionmaking. But this loss of efficiency in the decision-making phase can be offset by less resistance in the phase of implementation with the positive effect of increasing a polity’s legitimacy. Maximum gains of legitimacy will thus be realized if there is a Pareto-optimal equilibrium between legitimacy and efficiency. Although inclusiveness is an important prerequisite for the sustenance of any democracy, it is even more pivotal for new democracies. New democracies creating exclusive institutions, unable or unwilling to protect minority interests, are likely to see their legitimacy challenged from the very beginning. This jeopardizes democratic consolidation and most likely confronts the new order with serious challenges at a time when it is particularly vulnerable. The vocal opposition of excluded societal interests (political parties, ethnic groups, class organizations), may inadvertently play into the hands of loyalists of the old order, allowing them to exploit with even greater impunity the shortcomings of the new democratic order. Inclusive institutions enhance the chances of success for pacted transitions and for integrating into the new order at least those forces of the authoritarian predecessor regime which are prepared to accept the new rules of the game. For established democracies such as India it is vital to avoid a decline of institutional inclusiveness, as this may lead to accelerated institutional decay, which in turn may prevent

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Introduction

11

a polity from accommodating pressures for socio-economic and political change. This leads to the conclusion that even if a strong, though non-inclusive parliament keeps in check executive predominance and thus contributes to democratic change, its legitimacy wanes if major societal interests without adequate representation or strong advocates do not have a genuine prospect of a role in parliamentary policy-making. In the following chapters, the concept of inclusiveness is central to our understanding of how parliamentary processes in India, Indonesia, the Philippines, South Korea, and Thailand have contributed to democratic change. We assume that the contribution of parliaments to the consolidation of democracy increases with their inclusiveness, although we concede that the desirable level of inclusiveness varies and depends on the societal conditions in which a polity is embedded. Parliamentary inclusiveness may be less imperative in ethnically more homogeneous societies such as South Korea and Thailand than in the Philippines, India, and Indonesia. As a consequence, there may be more majoritarian arrangements in the parliaments of the former group of countries and more consensual elements of parliamentary decisionmaking in the latter. Transition Theory As four of the five Asian democracies studied in this volume are Third Wave democracies, we were also inspired by research on regime transition. In order to analyse the contribution of legislatures to political change, we adopted O’Donnell and Schmitter’s division of transition into the three phases: liberalization, democratization, and consolidation (O’Donnell and Schmitter 1986). Although disagreement exists over how to distinguish the three phases, we follow O’Donnell and Schmitter’s definition of liberalization as the phase of gradual opening initiated by the ancien régime in an effort to broaden the latter’s legitimacy. Liberalization ends with the demise of the ancien régime and its replacement by a new regime expressly based on democratic principles. Democratization is the phase of institution-building. Central to this process is the framing of a new constitution that defines the new rules of the game until the first elections. The first elections — also known as

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Chapter One

“founding elections” — then mark the beginning of the consolidation phase (Merkel 1999, pp. 137, 143), which only ends when democracy is “buttressed by deep and widespread legitimation” (Diamond 1997, p. xvii) and democracy has become “the only game in town” (Przeworski 1991, p. 26). If we accept this distinction, the cases of the Philippines, South Korea, and Thailand (after 1973) follow O’Donnell and Schmitter’s sequential model, while in the political transition of Thailand (after 1992) and Indonesia, the founding elections preceded the rewriting of the constitution or major constitutional amendments so that democratization and consolidation overlapped. The sequential model may even be applied to India, albeit without liberalization. The period of writing and enactment of the constitution until the first national elections in 1952 may be considered as democratization. Most of India’s post-independence era may thus be viewed as the phase of consolidation whereby the point that “democracy is the only game in town” has never been challenged after the short emergency rule between 1975 and 1977. Finally, it should be mentioned that the democracy concept underlying our study follows the procedural and institutional minima which, according to Dahl, include regular free and fair elections, secret balloting, universal adult suffrage, partisan competition, associational rights, freedom of expression, and executive accountability (Dahl 1971). In accordance with this sequential model of political change, we explore the role of legislatures in the process of bringing down authoritarian regimes, in democratization, and in the consolidation of democracy. Taking into account the fact that the period of consolidation is much longer in India than in Third Wave democracies and that democracy has never been seriously challenged, in the case of India we are primarily interested in studying the contribution of the Indian parliament to the sustenance of the country’s democracy. Research Questions and Assumptions

The four theoretical pillars discussed in the previous section have guided us in formulating our research questions and hypotheses. In the following

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Introduction

13

chapters we seek to provide answers to three overarching, theoretically guided questions: 1. To what extent do parliaments change the behaviour of political actors (in particular, of individual MPs, politicians, and political parties) in the countries under study? 2. How inclusive are the five parliaments? 3. Is there, with a view to inclusiveness, variation in the performance of legislatures in different systems of government (that is, parliamentary, semi-presidential, presidential)? More specifically, we start from the following assumptions: 1. The impact of legislatures on actor behaviour is limited. 2. The inclusiveness of the five parliaments studied here varies, and in all cases is limited. Despite democratic change, important popular interests are neither represented nor adequately taken into account in parliamentary decision-making. 3. There is no clear and systematic causal relationship between regime type and the performance of the functions of legislatures. Or, to put it differently: We assume that legislatures in parliamentary systems are no more inclusive and effective than under other democratic regimes (for example, presidential and semi-presidential systems) and vice versa. 4. Legislatures have contributed more to the downfall of authoritarian regimes than usually assumed in the transition literature. 5. Legislatures have a limited role in the process of democratization if change is abrupt and revolutionary; they play a greater role if the regime change is incremental or pacted. 6. Parliaments have a high profile in the initial stage of consolidation, especially with respect to their legislative and their supervisory functions. However, their influence declines over time when political forces have realigned themselves, the executive has been reorganized and adjusted to the functional requirements of the new political system and recovered its influence, and when parliaments are increasingly drawn back into a patrimonial political culture. (Olson 1994, pp. 35–36).

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Chapter One

Organization of the Study

The theoretical reflections of this chapter also guide the analytical framework of our study. Accordingly, following the theoretical and methodological premises outlined in Chapter One, Chapter Two discusses the historical antecedents of present legislatures, their institutional roots, and the socio-economic processes that have spurred institutional change. Chapter Three then focuses on the phase of liberalization where it existed. It asks how parliamentary processes have contributed to bringing down the authoritarian predecessor regimes. This is followed by a chapter that investigates the extent to which legislatures have contributed to democratization. This also raises the question of how legislatures were involved in shaping the basic constitutional decisions that to a considerable extent determine the stature of parliaments (Chapter Four). In this process, the framers of the constitution will determine the position of legislatures in the policymaking process. With regard to the structure of legislatures (that is, unicameral versus bicameral) as well as the executive-legislative relationship, they will make predecisions about the inclusiveness of parliaments and, beyond this, the political system as a whole. Finally, we examine the role of parliaments in the processes of consolidating democracy. This part of the study distinguishes between the formation of legislatures through elections (Chapter Five), the actor composition of legislatures (both in terms of collective actors, that is, parties, as well as individual actors, that is, the legislators) (Chapters Six and Seven), and the operation of legislatures which, too, is broken down into the latter’s internal structure and functions (Chapters Eight and Nine). While the chapters on the operation of parliaments (Chapters Eight and Nine) are self-evident, the chapters on the formation of parliaments and their composition (Chapters Five to Seven) are needed in order to analyse actor profiles in the parliamentary arena. Knowledge about the social background of legislators and the parties they represent and, hence, the degree to which societal cleavages become institutionalized, are major indicators for drawing conclusions about the legislatures’ level of inclusiveness. The assumed causal relationships on which this analytical framework is based are depicted in Figure 1.2.

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Figure 1.2 Framework of Analysis

Introduction

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16

Chapter One

The Cases

As in any comparative research, the five countries studied in this volume have been selected according to pragmatic and systematic considerations. Pragmatic considerations were in the first place based on available research infrastructure and the familiarity of the members of the research team with individual countries. Systematic choice refers to the type of political system and the stage of democratic consolidation. As systematic factors are certainly more relevant, we discuss them in greater detail. First, and most important, all five political systems compared are democracies — although varying in terms of consolidation. Three of the countries studied — the Philippines, South Korea, and Thailand — may be considered as typical Third Wave democracies. They became democracies in the late 1980s and early 1990s. However, their democratic legacies differ from each other. While the Philippines, after 14 years of authoritarian rule, returned to the status quo ante of a presidential democracy in 1986, Thailand and South Korea had much less experience with democratic rule. Thailand had several democratic interludes — in 1932 after the abolition of the Absolute Monarchy, and again in 1944 and 1973 — but none of them lasted long. In South Korea an experiment with parliamentary democracy was short-lived and collapsed within a year (1961). Indonesia is the youngest democracy of the five cases studied in this volume. The ouster of the authoritarian Suharto regime in 1998 paved the way for a fragile democratization. Like Thailand and South Korea, Indonesia lacks democratic traditions. The short-lived parliamentary system in existence between 1950 and 1957 was extremely fragile and persistently challenged by regional rebellions. India, on the other hand, may be considered as an established democracy. Its transition to democracy coincides with national independence. Democratic consolidation can be traced back to the first elections in 1952, making India the country with the longest consolidation period. We selected India as a case contrasting the more recent transitions to democracy in order to find out whether time has some effect on stabilizing parliamentary institutions and practices. Or, put differently, is it likely that parliaments in young democracies can become reliable actors of democratic change?

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Introduction

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Second, for the purpose of comparison we decided to study legislatures in parliamentary systems, presidential systems, and a semi15 presidential system. Two of the five cases, the Philippines and Indonesia, can be categorized as presidential systems. Following Sartori, a political system may be categorized as presidential “if the head of the state (president) (a) results from popular election, (b) during his or her preestablished tenure cannot be discharged by a parliamentary vote, and (c) heads or otherwise directs the government that he or she appoints” (Sartori 1994, p. 84). Shugart and Carey add a fourth criterion: “The president has some constitutionally granted lawmaking authority” (Shugart and Carey 1992, p. 19). While the Philippines, with its political system based on the American model for most of its post-independence period, perfectly fits this definition, the case is less clear for Indonesia. Although the original Indonesian Constitution of 1945 provided for an extraordinarily strong president, the president was not directly elected and the electoral college (Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat or MPR) was dominated by the parliament. He had major lawmaking powers, however. For some time between 1999 and 2002, the Indonesian system was more hybrid, oscillating between a parliamentary and a presidential system in which the parliament exerted considerable sway over the president. Yet, the constitutional changes of August 2002 have clearly shifted emphasis to a presidential system (Ufen 2002b). By 2004 the president will be directly elected and there will be “a government of separated institutions sharing power” (Neustadt 1960). Thailand and India are considered parliamentary systems in which the chief executive, that is, the prime minister, must be supported by a majority in the legislature. He is accountable to parliament and can be replaced by a vote of no-confidence, but he can also take the necessary steps to dissolve parliament and call for fresh elections (Sartori 1994). As the key criterion for a parliamentary democracy is the accountability of the government to the parliament (Steffani 1983; Linz 1990a), it does not matter that in the Thai case legislators appointed to the cabinet have to relinquish their parliamentary seat. Finally, though controversially discussed by political scientists, South Korea is considered here as a form of semi-presidentialism or

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Parliamentary

1 billion

Bicameral

System of government

Population

Structure of parliament

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Lok Sabha (People’s Assembly)

545

Majoritarian; single-member districts

Name

Number of seats

Electoral system

First Chamber

Republic

Regime type

India

Proportional; on province level multimember districts

500

Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (People’s Representative Council)

2 People’s Assemblies

210 million

Presidential

Republic

Indonesia

Majoritarian; single-member districts plus party list

273

Kuk’oe (National Assembly)

Unicameral

50 million

Semi-presidential

Republic

South Korea

Majoritarian; single-member districts plus party list

252

Kongreso ng Pilipinas (Congress of the Philippines)

Bicameral

77 million

Presidential

Republic

Philippines

Table 1.1 Parliaments in India, Indonesia, South Korea, the Philippines, and Thailand

Majoritarian; single-member districts plus party list

500

Ratha-Sapha (People’s Representation)

Bicameral

62 million

Parliamentary

Constitutional Monarchy

Thailand

18

Chapter One

8.8%

April/May 2004

Share of women MPs

Last parliamentary election

Rajya Sabha (Council of States)

250

One-third of members elected indirectly every 2 years for a 6-year term

Name

Number of seats

Duration of term

Second Chamber

5 years (maximum)

Duration of term

5 years

No Second Chamber prior to 2004

June 2004

8.0%

5 years

—

—

—

April 2004

5.9%

5 years

6 years

24

Senado (Senate)

May 2004

17.8%

3 years

6 years

200

Vutthi-Sapha (Senate)

February 2005

9.2%

4 years

Introduction 19

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

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Chapter One

— more precisely — a presidential-parliamentary system (in contrast to a premier-presidential system) (Shugart and Carey 1992). The president is directly elected for a fixed term, is independent of parliament, and wields great authority, although he shares power with a (weak) prime minister whom he appoints, but who is dependent on parliamentary support (Roper 2002, p. 255; Croissant 2003c). While in view of the presidential dominance some scholars such as Chan Wook Park are more inclined to speak of a presidential system, the dual, though highly asymmetric nature of the executive distinguishes South Korea’s political system from mainstream presidentialism and 16 seems to justify our categorization. Because we stress the importance of institutional factors for our selection, we may be criticized for having overlooked socio-economic factors. After all, the five countries differ markedly in terms of economic development. Three of them — Thailand, Indonesia, and the Philippines — are middle-income countries. Their annual nominal per capita income varies between US$640 in the case of Indonesia and US$2,160 in the case of Thailand. The Philippines, with a per capita income of US$1,050, lies in between; India, with a per capita income of US$440, is a lowincome country; while South Korea, whose per capita income is US$8,600, has entered the high-income bracket (Asia Yearbook 2001, pp. 12–13). Yet, while institutional development and political outcomes may indeed be affected by socio-economic factors, we are not convinced that there is an inevitable causal relationship between socio-economic development and parliamentary performance. The case of India, which is an established democracy despite its low per capita income, clearly justifies our caution. However, our interest lies more in the reverse relationship: Is there an impact related to parliamentary performance on the course of socio-economic development? Or, to use our theoretical terminology, do parliaments contribute in a visible way to the creation of a more inclusive society, a society overcoming the socio-economic marginalization of large sections of society? Methodology and Research Techniques

Our study rests on a broad mix of research techniques. Central to data

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Introduction

21

gathering were visits to all five countries varying between two and six weeks and were conducted between August and November 2001. The project also benefited from additional visits by the authors to Indonesia (November 2002 to January 2003), the Philippines (September 2000 and January to February 2003), and India (March/April 2002) in connection with other projects. One of the authors, Michael Nelson, has been living in Thailand since 1995. During fieldwork structured indepth interviews were carried out with legislators, officials of parliamentary secretariats, scholars, and journalists. All in all, some 100 interviews were conducted. Apart from these interviews, official documents were a second major source of information. Legal documents and statistical data related to parliaments were collected as far as they were accessible. Research in the parliamentary and university libraries complemented these sources. Prior to the fieldwork, a careful review of the literature was conducted, which was regularly updated. A lot of information could also be gathered via the Internet. This included a regular analysis of the press in the five countries, parliamentary databases such as those provided by the Interparliamentary Union (IPU), and the homepages of websites of the governments and parliaments under study. In our study we apply a comparative perspective, which seeks to encompass more than the single-country study type of most existing research on legislatures. Unlike some studies which also claim to pursue a comparative approach, yet prove to be but a collection of case studies bound together by introductory and concluding chapters, we consciously decided to arrange the data along common overarching themes and to avoid a presentation of our findings by country chapters. This, however, confronted us with a number of methodological problems. First, not all data are strictly comparable. Second, comparison is sometimes complicated by the fact that publicly accessible data vary markedly in terms of complexity, substance, and precision. Thirdly, they frequently rest on different definitions, which also compounds comparability and occasionally forced us to resort to more or less crude extrapolations and estimates.

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Chapter One

NOTES 1. Polyarchy stands for a form of government in which “many” rule and which is characterized by a multitude of power centres. Apart from this, polyarchy is a generic term that is not confined to the ideal of a full-fledged liberal democracy, but generally denotes a political system with sufficient space for political competition (Dahl 1971; Schmidt 1995, p. 218). 2. Huntington dated the first wave of democratization between 1828 and 1926 and the second wave between 1943 and 1962. The first reverse wave took place between 1922 and 1942, the second between 1958 and 1975 (Huntington 1991, p. 16). 3. Only a few studies concentrating on Southern Europe (Liebert and Cotta 1990), Latin America (Shugart and Carey 1992; Close 1995; Nolte and Krumwiede 2000) and Eastern Europe (Remington 1994; Agh 1994; Hahn 1996; Olson and Norton 1996) explicitly linked regime change to the changing role of legislatures. 4. Outstanding in this respect is the volume edited by Philip Norton and Nizam Ahmed (1999) on Asian parliaments. A meritorious German-language volume on second chambers — except for India and Japan — mainly concentrated on Western democracies. The excellent and empirically rich study by Hans-Peter Foth (1991) on the Philippine Congress is still illuminating, but with the exception of the recently finished doctoral dissertation of Julio Teehankee (2001), has not been followed up by more studies. In Thailand we still have to rely on Morell’s seminal study of the House of Representatives (Morell 1974) and Kanok’s Thai-language work on politics in the House (Kanok 1987), though a follow-up study is under preparation (Stern 2001, 2003). Much of what we do know about the South Korean National Assembly, we owe to the work of Chan Wook Park (Park 1988, 1993, 1997, 1998, 1999a, 1999b, 1999c, 2000, 2001, 2002a, 2002b, 2003). As may be expected, under the Suharto regime, the Indonesian DPR did not attract much scholarly interest. Exceptions are the studies of Budjardjo and Ambong (1993) and Marbun B.N. (1994). This is now changing, since after the regime change the DPR has become much more assertive and is now an important player in Indonesian domestic politics (Yayasan API 2001; Sherlock 2003). This limited stock of knowledge is complemented by political autobiographies (Salonga 2001) and personal accounts of legislators (Mitra 1998; Gonzalez 1998) as well as institutional self-descriptions (The Thai Parliament 1997; Senate of Thailand 2001; Tandjung 2003). Only India has a rich literature on parliamentary affairs, including an array of official publications by the secretariats of the two Houses of the Indian parliament (for example, Lok Sabha Secretariat 2000). However, most studies pursue a legalinstitutional and juridical approach — very detailed and informative, but without any or with only little reference to the international debates in the field of comparative politics. The comprehensive studies of Subhash C. Kashyap — his History of the Parliament of India (1994–2000) alone consists of six volumes — are a case in point. W.H. Morris-Jones’ dated but still valuable Parliament in India

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Introduction

23

(1957) also lacks a comparative perspective which would include parliaments other than the British model. Even the most up-to-date and empirically rich volume edited by Ajay Mehra and Gert Kück (2003) — though suggesting a comparative approach — chiefly focuses on the many facets of Indian parliamentarianism. 5. In this volume we do not follow the terminological distinction made by some scholars between “legislature” (referring to legislative institutions in presidential systems of government) and “parliament” (referring to legislative institutions in parliamentary systems of government). We use the terms “parliament”, “legislature”, “legislative institution”, and “assembly” interchangeably. 6. See also the volume by Wilhelm Hofmann and Gisela Riescher (1999) on parliamentary theory. 7. For an early critique, see Oberndörfer (1970). 8. For an elaborate neo-institutional framework of analysis, see Mayntz and Scharpf (1995). 9. The political rhetoric and the literature on Asian regional organizations authored by Western and Asian scholars is replete with claims that Asians dislike Westerntype “hard” law and “deep” institutionalization. See, inter alia, Dosch (1994) and Busse (1999). 10. In the Philippines, Indonesia, South Korea, and India, intensive debates flare up time and again in the political arena over the best form of government. Much of this debate seems to be politically motivated, as political forces seek to manoeuvre themselves into positions of power by changing the rules of the game. In the Philippines these debates have never died down since the enactment of a new constitution in 1987. They intensified after the failed impeachment and the subsequent, constitutionally questionable ouster of President Estrada in January 2001 (Landé 2001). Indonesia has also witnessed a continuous debate about the best government system. Since May 1998 the country witnessed no less than four major constitutional amendments. The debate was eventually decided in favour of a full-fledged presidential system by the fourth major constitutional amendment passed by the country’s supreme decision-making body, the Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat (MPR), or People’s Consultative Council in August 2002. In South Korea, the United Liberal Democratic Party (ULD) has been the main force campaigning for a shift from the current presidential-parliamentary to a parliamentary system. However, President Kim Dae Jung reneged on an agreement he made in exchange for ULD support in the 1997 presidential elections (Kim 2000a, p. 182). Even India, a long-standing parliamentary system, has seen a recurring debate in the opposite direction with some politicians and scholars urging for a change towards presidentialism. 11. For Lijphart, consensus democracy is characterized by the following eight criteria: executive power-sharing through grand coalitions, separation of powers, balanced bicameralism and minority representation, multi-party system, a multi-dimensional

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Chapter One party system, an electoral system based on proportional representation, territorial and non-territorial federalism and decentralization, a written constitution and minority veto. See Lijphart (1984, pp. 2ff.).

12. Lijphart is somewhat ambiguous in how far the consensus model should also be applied to societies which may be relatively homogeneous in ethnic, linguistic, and religious terms, but deeply divided along spatial and socio-economic lines. We nevertheless decided to extend the consensus model to such societies, as socioeconomic divisions in most Asian countries are deeper than in the Western societies studied by Lijphart. Moreover, the majority of the poor — between 20 and 50 per cent of the population — are more or less excluded from decision-making in these countries. 13. This is corroborated by a 1996 survey in 17 Latin American countries quoted by Nolte (1999). While a majority of about 60 per cent of the respondents value parliaments as important components of their democracy, representational functions — that is, the functions securing inclusiveness — are considered more important than oversight and legislative functions (Nolte 1999, p. 70). 14. It might be argued at this point that the concept of inclusiveness introduces an ethnocentric bias into our analysis as, after all, Lijphart’s consensus democracy has been derived from research on Western polities. Inclusiveness may be a subordinate value in societies where major segments of the population are still embedded in traditional social structures as in the rural hinterland of many developing countries. However, while the insulation of regions from modernization and state penetration is increasingly declining, the fact that 90 per cent of armed conflicts take place in countries of the global South and that these are, in their overwhelming majority, internal conflicts, gives a first impression of the conflictive nature of mismanaged diversity. Even a minority of less than 10 per cent, if revolting against the existing order, may cause serious political disruption, high human and material costs, and become a major obstacle to development. Illustrative examples are the Khalistan movement in India and the separatist rebellions in Aceh, Mindanao, and Southern Thailand. 15. For such an assessment, also see Smith (2001, p. 86). 16. For the categorization of South Korea as a presidential-parliamentary system, see also Croissant (2002c, p. 108). In a subsequent publication Croissant referred to Korea as a “government system with presidential dominance” (Croissant 2003b).

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Reproduced from Parliaments and Political Change in Asia by Jurgen Ruland, Clemens Jurgenmeyer, Miichael H. Nelson and Patrick Ziegenhain (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2005). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

Chapter Two

Historical Background

Political institutions such as parliaments have historical antecedents that shape their roles, the role expectations directed towards them by the public, their functions, and their performance. The longer the history of representative institutions of a country, the greater the chances that democracy as a form of government has taken root in society. While many of the currently established democracies may have started as democracies without democrats, their consolidation and deepening depends not only on elite support for democracy but also on the acceptance of democracy by the masses, and accordingly on the evolution of a civic mass culture. As this chapter will show, the history of legislative bodies varies considerably in the five countries discussed in this volume. In India and the Philippines, modern legislative bodies based on the principle of representation can be traced back as far as the late 19th and early 20th century. The legitimacy of these legislatures, however, was limited as, under the colonial regime, initially only a miniscule segment

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Chapter Two

of the native population was represented in these bodies, which were elected on the basis of linguistic, literacy, and property qualifications (Caoili 1989a, p. 3). Likewise detrimental to their legitimacy was the fact that they were established by the colonial masters as part of a divideand-rule strategy with the ultimate objective of weakening the fledgling nationalist movements by a token of concessions. In India and the Philippines, the British and American colonizers gradually repealed and democratized discriminating electoral laws, extended the competences of legislators and eventually granted self-rule status to these colonies. Still, only a minority of the adult population was entitled to vote. In the Philippines, for example, only about 14 per cent of the adult native population was qualified to vote in the 1930s (Anderson 1996, p. 21). In those parts of India which were under the direct rule of the British, this percentage was slightly higher, at around 20 per cent (Rösel and Jürgenmeyer 2002a, p. 51). Nevertheless, this early empowerment of legislatures must be the reason formal democratic procedures have become firmly entrenched in elite political culture in India and the Philippines. Especially for India — which, as a territorially large, populous, culturally extremely fragmented nation with a comparatively low level of mass education, virtually lacks all major prerequisites deemed essential by modernization theorists for successful democratic development — these historical antecedents of the country’s present political system cannot be overestimated. In contrast, the Volksraad, established by the Dutch in the Netherlands’ Indies, was at no point of time entrusted with the same powers as the colonial legislatures in India and the Philippines and was hence more equated with the oppressive and manipulative mechanisms of colonial authoritarianism than with an institution socializing the indigenous elites into processes of democratic decision-making. In South Korea and Indonesia, short parliamentary interludes notwithstanding, legislatures remained weak and subordinated to the executive dominance typical of authoritarian rule even after independence. Thailand, which was never colonized, also had only short experiences with democratic forms of government prior to the 1980s. While it is beyond the scope of this study to provide a detailed historical account of legislative development, the following sections nonetheless

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seek to place the subsequent analysis of legislatures within the framework of political development prior to the advent of the Third Wave of democratization. However, we refrain from revisiting indigenous precolonial assemblear forms of consultation and decision-making, which have frequently been used by elites to construct a democratic legacy where in fact there was none. From there it is not very far to the creation of “democracies with adjectives” (Collier and Levitsky 1997) which are often analytically more confusing than illuminating. Philippines In the Philippines, institutional development was strongly influenced by the colonial Commonwealth Constitution of 1935, which remained in force even after the archipelago became independent in 1946. The key features of this constitution were a presidential order, which due to its colonial origin was mainly patterned along the American model, with a directly elected president, an executive-legislative relationship characterized by personal incompatibility and functional checks and balances, an initially unicameral, since 1941 bicameral legislature (Paras 2000, p. 19), and, deviating from the American model, a unitary state. Two “identical parties” (Landé 1965), the Nacionalista Party (NP) founded in 1907 and the Liberal Party (LP) formed by a break-away faction of the NP in 1946, alternated in government. Both parties were organized along clientelist lines and by essentially non-programmatic electoral vehicles of political entrepreneurs. When in the late 1960s intra-elite conflicts intensified amid signs of a weakening of the country’s import-substitution industrialization and challenges from communist and Islamic insurgencies, President Ferdinand E. Marcos used these adverse developments as a pretext to abrogate the 1935 Constitution and declare martial law in September 1972. Congress was dissolved, political parties banned and leading members of the opposition arrested. The new Constitution of 1973 formally established a parliamentary system of government, but its transitory provisions and subsequent constitutional amendments enacted per referendum reduced it to a mere democratic façade of Marcos’ “constitutional authoritarianism”. They vested Marcos with the powers and prerogatives of both the 1935 and the 1973 constitutions which, in

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effect, removed any division of powers between executive and legislature. In 1977, under increasing domestic and American pressure, Marcos initiated a regime-controlled process of political liberalization. Nationwide elections to a unicameral interim parliament (Interim Batasan Pambansa) were held in 1978 which were, however, marked by government repression, lack of equal chances for the opposition, and widespread fraud. The local elections of 1980, the presidential elections of 1981, and the Batasan Pambansa elections of 1984 did not deviate from this pattern. It is no wonder that most observers dismissed the Batasan Pambansa as a façade legislature. Nonetheless, the 1984 Batasan Pambansa elections marked a major step towards redemocratization. They took place in the highly charged atmosphere following the assassination of opposition leader Benigno S. Aquino by security forces upon his return from American exile on the tarmac of Manila International Airport. The Aquino murder mobilized Manila’s middle class, the Catholic clergy, and business circles. The latter, initially supportive of Marcos’ authoritarian rule, increasingly suffered under the monopolization of business opportunities by Marcos cronies and the debt trap into which the country fell in the early 1980s. As a consequence of the economic crisis of the mid-1980s, the country’s GDP contracted by almost 10 per cent. These political and socio-economic changes paved the way into parliament for moderate opposition parties. Led by the United Nationalist Democratic Opposition (UNIDO) these parties won one-third of the Batasan seats and transformed parliament into a major forum of political dissent against the Marcos dictatorship. This was paralleled by and loosely linked to the so-called “parliament of the street” of cause-oriented groups which mushroomed in the months after the Aquino murder. Together, they largely destroyed what was left of the regime’s legitimacy. The presidential “snap elections” called by Marcos in February 1986 under American and international pressure badly backfired and failed to restore the regime’s legitimacy. Widespread electoral fraud and government repression triggered off mass protests and eventually culminated in what became known as the “People’s Power Revolution”, which sent Marcos into exile in Hawaii. The peaceful uprising swept into power Corazon C. Aquino, the widow of slain opposition leader Benigno S. Aquino. More than

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inaugurating major socio-economic reforms in a country marked by extreme social inequities and in which more than 50 per cent of the population living below the poverty threshold (Gonzalez and GregorioManasan 2002, p. 220), her foremost mission was the restoration of democracy. The groundwork for this task was laid by the 1987 Constitution, which marked the return to the presidential system of the 1935 Constitution, though with presidential powers substantially clipped and a re-installed and strengthened bicameral legislature. Surviving a string of coups and challenges from politicians aligned with restive elements in the military in the 1980s, Philippine democracy by the late 1990s seemed well on the way towards consolidation. Two smooth presidential successions and four congressional elections seemed to justify such an impression. However, President Estrada’s erratic, and highly personalistic style of government jeopardized many of the political and economic gains made under his predecessor Fidel V. Ramos who had initiated a number of neo-liberal reforms which eventually led to a shortlived economic upswing. The latter was abruptly stopped by the Asian financial crisis which, however, had less severe economic and social repercussions in the Philippines than in some of the neighbouring countries. The impeachment against Estrada initiated by the House of Representatives on charges of “graft and corruption, bribery, culpable violation of the Constitution, and betrayal of public trust” failed as a result of Senate machinations and was testimony of a paralysis of the country’s political institutions. After another display of people’s power (EDSA II) and the withdrawal of support for Estrada by the Armed Forces, Chief Justice Hilario Davide declared Vice-President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo the rightful president. However, the circumstances surrounding the ouster of Estrada were constitutionally dubious (Landé 2001, p. 96). They signify a stagnation of democratic consolidation, re-igniting constitutional debates and prompting demands to replace Philippine presidential democracy by 1 a parliamentary system of government. Indonesia Indonesia declared its independence in 1945. Before that, it had been a Dutch colony for more than 300 years and — unlike other countries in Southeast Asia — Indonesia could gain no democratic experience under

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colonial rule. The Dutch did not accept the Indonesian independence declaration and Indonesians had to fight for their freedom until 1949. The Constitution of 1950 marked the beginning of a short period of parliamentary democracy. Free and fair general elections for parliament (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat, DPR ) and a Constituent Assembly (konstituante) were held in 1955. A fragmented and at the same time polarized multi-party system, Islamic rebellions, separatist movements in the outer islands, and economic problems led to a virtual standstill of government activities. By 1957, six prime ministers had been elected and voted out of office by parliament. A rebellion in Sumatra and the failure of the konstituante to agree on a new constitution gave then President Sukarno the pretext for declaring a state of national emergency. In 1959 he re-introduced the provisional constitution of 1945, “a short and in many respects ambiguous document, the intention being that it would allow the president considerable scope for decision-making” (Kingsbury 1998, p. 36). Parliamentary government was replaced by a so-called “Guided Democracy” (demokrasi terpimpin), the starting point for authoritarian rule in Indonesia. Between 1959 and 1998 the Indonesian parliament thus played only a subordinate role in the authoritarian government of both Presidents Sukarno and Suharto. Under their rule parliament was hardly more than a rubber stamp for presidential decisions. After an aborted coup d’état by communist forces in September 1965 General Suharto took over the presidency. Sukarno was phased out of power and the so-called “New Order” regime (Orde Baru) introduced. In the first years of his authoritarian leadership Suharto stabilized his power while the army and Muslim youth organizations killed hundreds of thousands of regime opponents suspected as communists. The Orde Baru “sought to control rather than mobilize the population; it believed that the government’s primary responsibilities to its subjects could be fulfilled through economic development” (Ricklefs 1993, p. 272). The power of the Orde Baru regime rested on three pillars: the military (Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia, ABRI), the bureaucracy, and Golkar (Golongan Karya), which was “in effect the party of government” (Kingsbury 1998, p. 70). There was no place for opposition and in 1973 all ten then existing parties were forced to

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merge to form two strictly government-controlled parties. Even worse, in line with the regime’s depoliticization strategy, the “floating mass” policy (massa mengambang ) prohibited political party activity in the villages, in effect cutting off nearly 75 per cent of the population from the political process (Tiwon 2000, p. 97). In 1977, the six-year term of legislators was reduced to five years. Without exception, Orde Baru elections were characterized by widespread fraud and manipulations in favour of the government vehicle Golkar. While Golkar always polled more than 60 per cent of the vote, which, under Indonesia’s electoral system of proportional representation, translated into approximately the same share of seats, the Suharto regime was able to strengthen its parliamentary position through the appointment of members of the armed forces, for whom 75 (later 100; then since 1995, 75) of the initially 460, then 500 seats in parliament were reserved. Parliament as a whole and the two officially recognized parties never criticized the authoritarian government, exceptions being a few MPs who acted individually or small groups of legislators. Some of them called for political reforms during the 1990s, only to find themselves harassed by the government. Such critics were removed from parliament through the procedure of recall, and in some cases even imprisoned. In 30 years of authoritarian rule under Suharto, cronyism and corruption increased steadily, while human rights violations persisted. When, after years of continuously high economic growth rates averaging 6 per cent per annum, the country was hit by the Asian currency crisis in 1997, civil unrest, student protest, growing elite opposition, and public dissatisfaction with the authoritarian leadership eventually forced Suharto to resign on 21 May 1998. Under pressure from an increasingly vocal reform (reformasi ) movement, his successor, Vice-President B.J. Habibie, inaugurated a fragile process of democratization (Aspinall 1999, p. 130). Since 1998 parliament has markedly gained in influence, especially since the first free elections in June 1999. It is now “an assertively independent legislature with the power to review and restrict executive actions” (Fealy 2001, p. 97). Via the People’s Consultative Assembly, MPR (Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat), in which 500 of the 700 members are parliamentarians, parliament had a decisive impact on the

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election of the Indonesian president. When it forced President Wahid to renounce his post in June 2001 through a mixture of impeachment and a vote of no-confidence, many political observers came to the conclusion that the political system of Indonesia must be classified as a “hybrid parliamentary and presidential system” (Fealy 2001, p. 105) or 2 even as a “quasi-parliamentary” government system. With the Third and Fourth Amendment of the 1945 Constitution in 2001 and 2002, however, a presidential system has been introduced and will be established after the general elections in April 2004. South Korea After decades of Japanese colonization South Korea’s post-war order was essentially authoritarian until the mid-1980s. Following the partition of Korea in 1945, a National Assembly elected in May 1948 passed a constitution which inaugurated the first of — hitherto — six republics. The boycott of the parliamentary elections by the Left paved the way to the office of president for Syngman Rhee, an ultra-conservative returnee from American exile. The Korean War (1950–53) served Rhee as a convenient pretext to push through constitutional amendments which increasingly eroded democracy and firmly established an authoritarian order. Parliamentary control over a dominant executive was systematically weakened, opposition parties emasculated (Croissant 1998b, p. 47). In 1960, rampant corruption, poor economic performance, and widespread public disgust with endemic electoral fraud spurred a student revolt which subsequently spiralled into massive urban protests. In the process, Rhee was forced to resign and go into exile. A new constitution was passed, inaugurating a short-lived parliamentary democracy with a bicameral parliament. Unable to overcome increasingly anarchic conditions caused by political fragmentation and polarization, the government led by Prime Minister Chang Myon was overthrown in 1961 by a military coup under the leadership of Brigadier General Park Chung Hee. Renewed constitutional amendments restored a presidential-parliamentary system with a unicameral parliament. Elected president in 1963, Park established a bureaucraticauthoritarian regime which until 1972 allowed for limited pluralism and semi-competitive elections.

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The Yushin Constitution enacted in 1972 exacerbated repression and facilitated systematic depoliticization. Parliament degenerated to a mere legislative rubber stamp for the regime. Furthermore, Park’s rigid authoritarianism deprived the regime of its capacity to respond to the rapid social change caused by the unprecedented economic success of his developmental dictatorship. The widely perceived lack of responsiveness to social change became a persistent drain on the regime’s legitimacy. The resultant political crisis culminated in the assassination of President Park by his secret service chief in October 1979. The temporary liberalization that followed met with the resistance of hardline factions inside the military. In December 1979 the military led by Major General Chun Doo Hwan intervened. Demonstrations for a more open political system turned into a full-blown popular uprising in the southwestern city of Kwangju which was suppressed by military force, leaving behind hundreds of civilian casualties. Thereafter, martial law was imposed, the National Assembly dissolved, political parties banned and the activities of opposition politicians prohibited. In October 1980 a new constitution was enacted. It limited the presidential tenure to a single seven-year term, but confirmed the controversial provision of the Yushin Constitution, calling for an indirect election of the president through a hand-picked electoral college. In January 1981 Chun Doo Hwan, who as martial law administrator had been responsible for the Kwangju massacre, was so elected (Shin 1999, p. 1). In order to establish at least a façade of electoral democracy, the regime promulgated new party and election laws, which, as in Indonesia between 1959 and 1998, created a toothless parliament in which the ruling party dominated several regime-created “official” opposition parties. Due to its violent installation and the highly unpopular constitutional provisions concerning the election of the president, Chun Doo Hwan’s regime was faced with a severe legitimacy deficit from the very beginning (Croissant 1998b, p. 73). Failure to ease the continued social and political tensions caused by an unabated rapid economic growth led the regime to initiate a new phase of liberalization. In the 1985 National Assembly elections a strengthened parliamentary opposition emerged which joined hands with the militant and student-based leftist minjung movement in demanding constitutional amendments for direct presidential elections.

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Mass protests in June 1987 only subsided after Roh Tae Woo, the designated presidential candidate of the ruling Democratic Justice Party (DJP), distanced himself from Chun’s regime by an eight-point Declaration of Democratic Reform. Roh’s concessions to the democratic opposition were translated by the National Assembly into a new constitutional framework. Approved on 12 October 1987 and ratified in a national referendum two weeks later, it inaugurated the Sixth Republic when it became effective in February 1988. In the presidential elections held in December 1987 Roh prevailed over a divided democratic opposition. With Kim Young Sam elected in 1992 as the first president since 1961 with a civilian background (Yoon 1996, p. 511), and Kim Dae Jung ascending to the presidency as the first opposition leader in 1997, South Korea seems to be well en route towards democratic consolidation. At least during the first years of the Sixth Republic, the National Assembly was considerably strengthened and became a political player in its own right. Thailand As mentioned above, Thailand was never colonized. The institutional development of a popular legislature occurred as a result of power struggles between groups within the tiny Siamese elite. In fact, when King Prajadhipok (Rama VII) ascended the throne in November 1925, 3 Siam was “the only major absolute monarchy remaining in the world” (Batson 1974, p. 2). “Power was the privilege of a small elite … in no way accountable to the people for its conduct of office” (Blanchard et al. 1958, p. 119). Nevertheless, seven years later, on 24 June 1932, a coup d’état (sometimes called a “revolution”) by a group calling itself the “People’s Party” ended the absolute monarchy, and King Prajadhipok abdicated on 2 March 1935. Observations on the National Assembly published during the following three decades never fail to mention parliament’s insignificance vis-à-vis the executive that was often enough composed of military dictators (Blanchard et al. 1958; Wilson 1962; Smith et al. 1968) who did not even permit a parliament to exist for nearly ten years between 1959 and 1968. The following experiment in representation, from July 1968, was

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terminated by a coup in November 1971. Infrequent plenary sessions had proved rather to be irksome for the military and bureaucratic elite. This was due to MPs, especially from rural constituencies, who would aggressively raise popular concerns in the debates and in the budgetary committee, while those in power could previously act completely unilaterally (Morell 1974, p. 42). However, MPs also raised their own interest-based demands, and money was reportedly necessary to secure any vote. Initiated by a student uprising, the years 1973 to 1976 saw what has been called the “democratic period” of open politics and unstable parliamentary governments. It was terminated by a brutal crackdown in October 1976, followed by a three-year period of martial law. General Prem Tinsulanonda, who was not popularly elected, headed the Thai government for eight years (under the 1978 Constitution) with support from the political parties in parliament. In 1988 he was succeeded by Chatichai Choonhavan whose “completely elected” “buffet cabinet” (referring to allegedly rampant corruption) was removed by a coup in February 1991. The “Bloody May” of 1992 intensified the pressure for political reform that had been noticeable ever since 1989. Public debate concentrated on issues such as establishing control mechanisms to stem corruption by bureaucrats and political office holders, strengthening the political party system by making it more difficult to switch parties — a practice rampant especially during run-offs to general elections — and enabling the conduct of free and fair elections by eliminating votebuying, other forms of untoward influence on the voters, and cheating in polling stations as well as during the counting of votes. One of the consequences is the constitution of 1997 that created a number of “independent organizations” (for example, the Election Commission of Thailand, the National Counter Corruption Commission, the National Human Rights Commission, and the Constitutional Court). It also brought fundamental changes to the structure of the National Assembly. Most remarkably, besides the introduction of 100 MPs proportionally elected from party lists, the 68-year “tradition” of parliamentary “tutelage” by appointed members — be it as appointed MPs in the same House as elected MPs or in the form of elected MPs and appointed senators — came to an end. In sum, the transition to democracy in Thailand spans

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more than seven decades marked by milestone events such as the coup in 1932, the period of open politics between 1973 and 1976, the mass demonstrations in 1992 that saw scores of participants killed by the military, and the following years of a growing movement for “political reform”. It culminated in the “People’s Constitution” of 1997 that was pressed upon the political class by extra-parliamentary forces. Whether the Thaksin government, swept into power by a landslide victory in the elections of January 2001 (Nelson 2002) will continue the consolidation of democracy — and perhaps even support its “deepening” — or rather pursue a civilian and constitutional version of autocratic rule, where power is vested in a “CEO”-style prime 4 minister, remains to be seen. The political course of action may also be influenced by what seems to be a growing demand to turn the so-called people’s sector into a viable democratic force vis-à-vis the political establishment. It goes almost without saying that this entire period of transition to, and consolidation of, democracy also witnessed substantial changes in the political system’s environment. In 1932, Thailand had a population of approximately 10 million with the great majority living as peasants in 2 isolated villages scattered over the country’s 513,520 km . Other important social groups included royalty, aristocracy, bureaucrats, and the military. The class of businessmen was tiny, and the creation of a “self-respecting class mid-way between the bureaucracy and the peasantry” was envisaged as something that could “perhaps (happen) some day” (Graham 1924, vol. 2, p. 125). Especially since the reforms initiated under military strongman Sarit Thanarat from 1959 onwards with the assistance of the World Bank and the economic “take-off ” in the late 1980s, Thailand’s occupational and class structure, degree and reach of education, importance of the non-agricultural sector, and urbanization had so developed that the conditions under which any Thai political system has to function and the problems and issues to be dealt with, have fundamentally changed. Larger sections of the country’s 62 million people have developed political interest, and especially the middle class — a result of economic development — puts the political actors under increasing pressure for performance as well as demanding more say in political decision-making.

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India When India became independent on 15 August 1947, she inherited a multiplicity of legacies from the British which shaped her future development in many ways. Independence did not mark a complete and abrupt break with the colonial past; it was more of an integral part of a long journey from British dominance to political self-determination. Since the end of the 19th century restricted political participation and parliamentary institutions were gradually introduced in the provinces of British India, enabling the tiny political elite to become involved in the political decision-making process. “1947 is more important to the historian searching for tidy demarcations than a deeply critical point of division in the Indian experience — not just in the realm of traditions, ideas, lifestyles, and the land’s economic and social structures and problems, but in government and politics, too” (Brown 1985, p. 308). The continuity of political development before and after 1947 is clearly reflected in the Constitution of India, which was enacted in January 1950 and shows great similarity with, even direct borrowings from the Government of India Act 1935. Thus India’s political elite inherited besides “the accumulated sum of psychological capital … the more tangible equipment and machinery of government” (Morris-Jones 1971, p. 19). Therefore, it is small wonder that India’s political system is generally considered a Westminster type of democracy.5 It is commonly held that the world’s largest democracy follows the British form of responsible parliamentary government with a dominant cabinet dependent on the confidence of parliament. India can be described as a federal republic albeit with a dominant central government in New Delhi. Federalism in India always means centrally controlled federalism. The permanence of the world’s largest democracy under extremely difficult conditions can be called a miracle given the extreme social, cultural, and political heterogeneity and the sheer size of this subcontinent. India is the only bigger post-colonial state in the world with a record of continuous parliamentary rule over a period of more than half a century. This achievement is unique compared with other countries in Latin America, Africa, and Asia. In the years following independence, Indian democracy was borne by a small, English-speaking and urbanized elite which strongly believed

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in the modernization of the country in order to overcome the backwardness of the Indian economy and society, which itself was seen as a legacy of British colonialism. These people were all members of the Indian National Congress, the powerful and foremost political organization of the Indian independence movement and grand old party of Indian politics. It was founded in 1885 and incorporated very diverse and even antagonistic ideologies and strategies. Its role as an arbitrator overarching the whole political spectrum gave the party an absolutely dominant position during the formative years of independent India. The Congress, as it is commonly named, stood in the centre of what Rajni Kothari called the “Congress System”, which tried to take up the issues of opposition groups and parties within and without the Congress and integrate them in a consensus form of policy (Kothari 1964). Under the undisputed leadership of Jawaharlal Nehru the Congress pursued a centrist policy resting on the principles of democracy, socialism, and secularism. The long-standing tradition of parliamentary democracy is also reflected in the firmly rooted political culture and the common belief in democratic rule and procedures shared by all Indian parties. The parliamentary system of democracy of independent India has existed now for more than five decades without any major changes. Even Indira Gandhi’s attempt at eliminating the opposition and strengthening her own endangered position through the imposition of emergency rule in the years 1975 to 1977 failed. In March 1977 she herself called for new elections, which she lost, much to her own surprise and that of others. Her spectacular defeat enabled a coalition of non-Congress parties to gain power and repeal the dubious amendments to the constitution and to introduce new safeguard clauses against the misuse of emergency provisions. By introducing the basic-structure-doctrine in 1973, the Supreme Court of India also clamped down on several attempts of various Congress governments to amend the constitution and make it fit their political needs. This doctrine states that parliament is entitled to amend the constitution of India but that these amendments must not change its fundamental features like the rule of law, basic rights, judicial review, democracy, and secularism. The supremacy of the written constitution over the unrestricted parliamentary sovereignty is now recognized by all

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political actors in India (Conrad 1995, pp. 422ff.; Rudolph and Rudolph 1987, pp. 103–24). The ongoing process of modernization and democratization has led to a growing differentiation of Indian society and a political awareness among the rural lower classes which strained Congress’ capacity to reconcile the different needs and interests. New parties came into being, but most of them are confined to certain regions and groups. Political competition among the parties to gain as many votes as possible grew. The Congress has lost its former ideological and political hegemony and now finds itself in the role of an opposition party. Parallel to the decline of the Congress, the Hindu-nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party emerged as an important national party now on par with Congress and heading a coalition government in New Delhi since 1998. Since no party can claim a solid majority, coalition governments have now become a familiar feature of Indian politics. The days when a pre-dominant party system (Sartori 1976, pp. 192–216) prevailed are now gone without having led to instability in this extremely heterogeneous country. Democracy is firmly anchored in Indian life and parliament plays an important role in managing political affairs in India (Mitra and Singh 1999). It also provides a forum for public debates of all kinds of issues, though most of these issues raised in the House are sequels to disclosures in the printed or electronic media (Arora 2003, pp. 26–27). NOTES 1. For a discussion, see Bolongaita (1995), Rüland (1998, 2003), Sabio (2001a, 2001b), and Abueva (2002). 2. Dewi Fortuna Anwar, quoted in Smith (2001, p. 86). 3. The name “Siam” was renamed “Thailand” in 1939. Between 1946 and 1949 the name reverted to “Siam”. 4. For critical reviews, see McCargo (2002, 2003), Hewison (2003), and Pasuk and Baker (2002a, 2002b). 5. This classification has been challenged by Arend Lijphart (1996). Whether India fits the Westminster/majoritarian or the consensus model of democracy is discussed by Jürgenmeyer (2003).

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Reproduced from Parliaments and Political Change in Asia by Jurgen Ruland, Clemens Jurgenmeyer, Miichael H. Nelson and Patrick Ziegenhain (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2005). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

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Chapter Three

Parliaments and Regime Change

The preceding historical account has shown that political development in the five countries studied in this volume has been by no means linear. Rather, it has been characterized by ruptures and changes between authoritarian and democratic forms of government. The exception is India, which — apart from the short emergency rule period under Indira Gandhi between 1975 and 1977 — has been a democracy ever since its independence in 1947. While in Indonesia, South Korea, and Thailand, democratic forms of government marked only short breaks in an otherwise authoritarian past, in the presidential democracy of the Philippines, the 14 years of the Marcos dictatorship (1972–86) were an aberration. The literature is more or less unanimous in its conclusion that the legislatures in these authoritarian regimes — as far as they existed at all — were little more than rubber-stamp bodies providing the regimes with a façade of democratic legitimacy. In Michael L. Mezey’s terms, all these legislatures were scarcely more than the “marginal” or “minimal” type (Mezey 1979).

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It has thus become conventional wisdom to argue that the legislatures have played no — or at best only a subordinate — role in the process of bringing down authoritarian regimes. This phase preceding the collapse of the authoritarian regime and its ultimate replacement by a democratic order has been termed “liberalization” in the transition literature. Liberalization refers to a process by which the regime — in response to external pressure or rifts within the elite — softens repression and gives greater recognition to rights protecting individuals and social groups from arbitrary or illegal state action. These political concessions open political space and reduce — real or imagined — costs of individual expression and collective political action and thus encourage more people and more groups to register their dissent with the regime (O’Donnell and Schmitter 1986, p. 7). As agents of political change, the role of parliaments as seen in the transition literature cannot match that of the “popular upsurge” (O’Donnell and Schmitter 1986, p. 53; Hedman and Sidel 2000, p. 12; Rivera 2002, p. 469), that is, the rebirth and politicization of civil society and the concomitant rise of loose anti-regime movements spearheading the protest against the autocratic rulers. Only after a regime change, when the anti-regime movement disintegrates into numerous splinter groups and factions does the momentum of change return to the political institutions. This also explains why parliaments have more or less been neglected as agents of political change in authoritarian regimes. The following sections therefore take a closer look at the contribution of parliaments to phasing out authoritarian regimes and paving the way to a more open political system. We argue that — with the exception of Thailand — parliaments have played a more decisive role in the decline of authoritarian regimes and regime change than the mainstream literature would acknowledge. At first glance, an examination of the months and weeks preceding the more recent regime changes in the Philippines (1986), South Korea (1987), Thailand (1992), and Indonesia (1998) seems to confirm the dominant role of the civil society–driven social movements. In the Philippines, the turning point in the opposition against the Marcos regime was the assassination of opposition leader Benigno S. Aquino in August 1983. This gave rise to the mushrooming of cause-oriented groups

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which organized almost daily demonstrations in Manila. This so-called “parliament of the streets” was galvanized into a mass movement by the rampant election fraud accompanying the snap presidential election of February 1986. To the majority of the people in the National Capital Region it seemed that massive cheating had denied opposition candidate Corazon C. Aquino, widow of slain opposition leader Benigno S. Aquino, victory in the election. The ensuing protest movement became the “available mass” supporting the military revolt led by Marcos’ Defense Minister Juan Ponce Enrile and Philippine Constabulary chief Fidel V. Ramos, which finally forced Marcos and his cronies to flee the country (Thompson 1996, p. 157; Asia Yearbook 1987, p. 224). In South Korea the pacted change following the eight concessions promulgated by Roh Tae Woo on 29 June 1987 was preceded by several years of progressively more radical and violent mass protests in Seoul and other urban centres. While this protest was spearheaded by militant left-wing student organizations, the protest was increasingly also joined by the urban middle class, especially in the weeks before the military regime finally yielded to the demands of the protesters for major constitutional changes (Croissant 1998a, 1998b; Shin 1999). In May 1992, mass protests in Bangkok, which were likewise joined by the urban middle class, also ushered in a period of more stable democratic politics. While Bangkok’s middle class in February 1991 had tolerated the removal from power of the allegedly corrupt, albeit elected, government of Prime Minister Chatichai Choonhavan by the military, it did not accept what it perceived to be an attempt at perpetuating the military’s influence after the elections of March 1992. In their aftermath the majority in parliament elected one of the leaders 1 of the coup group, General Suchinda Kraprayoon, to the position of prime minister, although he did not have a mandate as an MP and had frequently promised not to accept any offer to lead the government. The organizers of the ensuing mass protests interrupted their activities when the then Speaker of the House of Representatives, Dr Arthit Urairat, announced that the majority parties had agreed to amend the constitution as demanded by the public. When the House majority retracted from its promise, the mass protests resumed. The following events of the “Black May” cost the lives of dozens of unarmed demonstrators, who were shot

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dead by the military. An intervention by the King finally led to Suchinda’s resignation, the appointment (proposed by Arthit) of Anand Panyarachun to his second period as interim prime minister, and fresh elections in September 1992. It was very unfortunate that the House of Representatives passed the constitutional amendments demanded by the public only in June and September 1992 — weeks and months after the mass demonstrations and killings had occurred. Although the parliamentary opposition was closely involved with the push for constitutional amendments and even provided the perhaps most decisive catalyst of the extra-parliamentary mass movement, namely, the hunger strike of Phalang Dharma’s leader Chamlong Srimuang, it had disqualified itself as a responsive and reform-oriented political institution. This may be seen as one reason why parliament was essentially excluded from the drafting of the Constitution of 1997. During the drafting period, MPs and political parties — assuming that they did indeed have at least some understanding of constitutional issues — hardly even dared voice their opinions for fear that they would be accused of self-interested and narrow-minded intervention in a broadly based public process of drafting a constitution, a process that was portrayed as reflecting the people’s political and institutional aspirations (Prudhisan 1998; Klein 1998; Connors 1999). The ouster of President Suharto in May 1998 was by and large the work of student unrest and several days of mob rioting in Jakarta caused by the deepening economic crisis that hit the country as a consequence of the Asian financial crisis. However, as the crisis unfolded, support of the regime by military leaders and civilian elites also crumbled. Unlike in the Philippines, South Korea, and Thailand, the role of the urban middle class was negligible — raising doubts about the widely accepted assumption that the middle classes spearhead democratic transitions. Indonesia’s middle class was much smaller than in the other three countries and a docile force which owed its existence primarily to the expansion of the Indonesian state (Robison and Goodman 1996; Rodan 1996; Rüland 1998; Becker, Rüland, and Werz 1999). Important as these extra-parliamentary movements may have been for the downfall of the authoritarian regimes and for the rifts they have created inside them, they tend to diminish the contribution of the

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parliaments to the regime change. Against this interpretation of events, one may argue that there was a tacit division of labour between the parliamentary and the extra-parliamentary opposition. The more radical change-orientation and the more militant attitudes of civil society movements created — as illustrated by the South Korean case — pressure on opposition parliamentarians not to compromise with the regime for the sake of short-term partisan advantages. The moderate parliamentary opposition, on the other hand, had an integrating effect on the disparate opposition forces by bringing the silent majority into the anti-regime movement. The links between the parliamentary opposition and the socalled “parliament of the streets” in the Philippines became evident in the strong involvement of business people in the anti-regime movement. While business people may have applauded the imposition of martial law in 1972, Marcos’ cronyism had prevented many of them from access to lucrative state contracts and also curtailed business opportunities in numerous other ways — a situation exacerbated by the severe economic crisis of the Philippines in the mid-1980s due to the mismanagement of the Marcos regime. The ouster of Marcos was thus a matter of economic survival for many business people who joined the opposition inside and outside parliament. At least in the Philippines and South Korea the emergence of the anti-regime movements was preceded by decisions of the regimes to liberalize the political system. Such pressures came both within and without. In the Philippines, increasing pressure exerted by the United States through President Carter’s human rights policies and transnational human rights networks in combination with an economic downturn after the second oil crisis were among the reasons that finally induced Marcos to call elections for a new parliament (1978). The spiral model developed by a group of international relations scholars (Forschungsgruppe Menschenrechte 1998) well illustrates the mechanisms underlying this process of political opening through the interplay of external and domestic political forces (Jetschke 2001). While the parliament created by Marcos in 1978 only had an interim status, it became a full-fledged unicameral legislature in 1984. In South Korea, a military regime unable to mitigate the tensions arising from rapid modernization and under international observation due to the forthcoming 1988 Olympic Games,

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also sought to create for itself a broader basis of legitimacy. Towards this end, it called elections in 1985 and lifted some of the political restrictions imposed on the opposition (Kim 1986). In Indonesia, political liberalization may be traced back as far as the late 1980s and early 1990s. With his policy of “opening” (keterbukaan) President Suharto sought to curb the activities of an intra-elite opposition, which came mainly from the armed forces. Keterbukaan increased the political space of political Islam, but to some extent also of the parties represented in parliament. In Thailand, liberalization was under way since the late 1970s in response to an increasing failure of the military and bureaucratic elites to run an increasingly complex economy and to the rising demands of business elites and urban middle-class elements for a voice in political decisionmaking. In all four cases liberalization strengthened the role of parliament and the opposition parties represented in it — in the case of the Philippines and South Korea to a much greater extent than intended by the regime. Despite endemic election fraud and the denial of fair electoral chances to the opposition, opposition parties won an unexpectedly large number of seats. In the 1984 Batasan Pambansa elections, opposition candidates won 60 out of 183 seats, while in South Korea, the two main opposition parties, the New Korea Democratic Party (NKDP) and the Democratic Korea Party (DKP) received 102 out of 276 mandates. Together, the two opposition parties garnered more votes than the ruling Democratic Justice Party (DJP). While the two opposition parties received 49 per cent of the vote, the DJP won only 35.3 per cent (Kim 1986, p. 69; Asia Yearbook 1986, p. 172). It was only because of the then existing distorting electoral law that the DJP won a majority of mandates. Divided as the moderate parliamentary opposition may have been, through its persistent criticism of government policies, the exposure of scandals within the ruling party and of abuses of power by the regime, it nonetheless contributed to a gradual delegitimation of the authoritarian regimes (Kim 1998, p. 133). Even though the media were censored or exercised self-censorship as in Indonesia, an emboldened and increasingly sophisticated press acted as a multiplier of parliamentary dissent. When the regimes finally decided to crack down on the extra-parliamentary anti-regime movement and student activism as in South Korea and

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Indonesia, it was already too late. These crackdowns gave credence to the persistent accusations of the parliamentary opposition, facilitated defections, and thus gradually drew the hitherto unpolitical elements of the middle class into the opposition camp. The parliamentary opposition’s control of one-third of the seats in the case of the Philippines and South Korea gave it the critical mass that enabled it to launch more stinging attacks on the government than ever before. In the Philippine Batasan Pambansa (National Assembly), for instance, the opposition made use of constitutional changes enacted in 1981 which allowed members to initiate an impeachment of the president for “high crimes, corruption and violating the constitution” (Asia Yearbook 1986, p. 222; Catilo and Tapales 1988, p. 155). Although the impeachment move was immediately squelched by the ruling KBL party, it nevertheless made public previously circulating rumours about the hidden wealth of the Marcoses and their cronies. Together with the severe economic crisis that followed the moratorium on foreign debt repayments announced by the government in late 1983, these revelations further undermined anything that was left in terms of legitimacy after the murder of opposition leader Benigno S. Aquino. While most political commentators tended to downplay the relevance of the Batasan Pambansa and the Suharto-controlled DPR by labelling them a “perverted form of parliamentarism” (Catilo and Tapales 1988, p. 155), good only for providing a semblance of legitimacy to authoritarian regimes, the fact that these bodies increasingly served as fora for airing grievances against the regimes should not be underestimated. The Indonesian DPR, for instance, increasingly emancipated itself from the Suharto regime under its Chairman Wahono (1992–97) and in the years immediately preceding the departure of the autocrat. In the light of the corrupt and utterly inefficient Indonesian judiciary, which was unable or unwilling to adjudicate the abuses of the state, the DPR increasingly became the destination of grievances, petitions, and complaints of citizens and thus effectively took over the function of an ombudsman. The fact that such grievances were addressed to the DPR 2 was in itself indicative of the growing political stature of the body. Even though legislative activity was minimal due to the fact that the Philippine and Indonesian presidents had far-reaching powers, the

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Philippine IBP as well as the Indonesian DPR gradually shed their rubberstamp image. In the DPR some MPs like Sri Bintang Pamungkas (Partai Pembangunan Persatuan, PPP) and Aberson Marle Sihaloho (Partai Demokrasi Indonesia, PDI) became outspoken critics of the Suharto regime and opposition figures. Aberson was sentenced to nine months’ imprisonment on 21 July 1997 after being convicted of “insulting the Indonesian president” (van Dijk 2001, p. 21). Other PDI MPs became oppositionists when their party leader Megawati Sukarnoputri, then also member of parliament, was ousted by an intra-party coup masterminded by the Suharto government in 1996. Even the members of the ruling Golkar faction became more critical in their scrutinizing of bills submitted by the government, leading to more — albeit minor — changes of legislation at the committee stage. A good example is the Manpower Bill passed in September 1997. The final draft of the bill added 40 articles to the original 159 and cut down the number of recommendations for 3 the establishment of implementation directives from 39 to 13. This is a marked departure from earlier practice, when there was not a single change made to bills introduced by the government in the 1987–92 legislative period (Imawan 1995, p. 79). In 1995 a member of the Golkar faction, Bambang Warih Kusuma, was recalled for criticizing the oil 4 policy of the government. The creeping tendency to make greater use of the bodies’ oversight functions is corroborated by the more frequent use of interpellation rights by MPs (Ufen 2002a, p. 291). The increasing restiveness of the various parliamentary bodies is also illustrated by the fact that some MPs openly registered their dissent to government policies and — in the case of Indonesia — were recalled by their factional leadership. That at least in the case of Sri Bintang Pamungkas these recalls were preceded by intense meddling by the regime in the internal affairs of a quasi-opposition party — the Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (PPP) — did little to enhance the trust of the public in the democratic credentials of the regime. Moreover, in May 1998 the DPR accelerated Suharto’s downfall when its leadership defected from the regime under strong pressure of the reform movement and called on Suharto to step down. In a public letter to Suharto signed by the Chairman of Parliament, Harmoko, it was demanded “that for the sake of the nation’s unity and cohesion, the president should wisely and

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sagaciously resign” (General Secretariat 1998, p. 65). This statement came as a big surprise, in that it showed that the president had lost the support of his closest allies. One of the most striking symbols of the regime change was the parliament building which was occupied by thousands of protesting students in the days before Suharto’s resignation. It testified to the triumph of the reform movement over the Orde Baru government. The laissez-faire attitude of the parliamentary leadership and most of the military towards the demonstrators can be interpreted as silent approval of the students’ demands for the resignation of Suharto. Once these developments were under way, a return to more repressive actions as advocated by the hardline faction within the regimes proved politically extremely costly. The violent crackdown on unarmed demonstrators in Bangkok in 1992, the aftermath of the closure of three popular magazines in Indonesia in 1994, and the violent clashes following the military-engineered unseating of Megawati Sukarnoputri as head of the PDI in 1996, as well as the crackdowns of the South Korean police on student activism, are all cases in point. In South Korea, too, internal bickering notwithstanding, the parliamentary opposition used the political space provided by liberalization to step up attacks on the regime (Kim 1998, p. 133). The NKDP, for instance, constantly castigated in parliament the curtailment of democratic and civic rights, human rights violations, and corruption scandals involving the ruling party and the government. Perhaps even more importantly, by organizing extra-parliamentary campaigns for constitutional amendments in favour of a direct popular election of the president, the parliamentary opposition created links to the more radical and militant anti-regime movement of the students. Although the relationship with leftist student activists was always tense, it nevertheless gave some legitimacy to their activities and (the more the government cracked down on them) also rallied the silent majority of the urban middle class. That the Chun Doo Hwan government finally had to give in to the demands of the opposition for democratization was also due to the fact that wide sections of the Korean public including middle-class elements and workers joined the protest (Lee 1984, 1985; Asia Yearbook 1984–1988; Kim 1986; Han 1988; Pak 1998; Croissant 1998b; Kim 1998).

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SUMMARY

The chapter has shown that in three out of our four political transitions — the Philippines, South Korea, and Indonesia — parliaments have indeed played a more prominent role in the process of liberalization and the breakdown of authoritarian regimes than usually acknowledged by the mainstream literature. Thus, even under the auspices of authoritarian regimes, in a context of political liberalization, the parliamentary process may have an impact on the behaviour of MPs and political parties. In the Philippines, South Korea, and — to a lesser extent — Indonesia, the widened political space has emboldened intra- and extra-parliamentary critique of the regime. Parliaments have thereby played a catalytic role in galvanizing the moderate and more radical opposition groups. NOTES 1. The coup group is also known as the National Peace Keeping Council (NPKC). 2. Jakarta Post, 18 August 1997, p. 1. 3. Jakarta Post, 11 September 1997, p. 2. See also the statements by the Chairman of the House of Representatives, Wahono, who was quoted by the Jakarta Post as follows: During the 1992–97 term, “we notice a higher intensity in supervisory functions carried by the House commissions and the legislative functions” (18 August 1997, p. 1). 4. Interview, Jakarta, 22 November 2002.

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Reproduced from Parliaments and Political Change in Asia by Jurgen Ruland, Clemens Jurgenmeyer, Miichael H. Nelson and Patrick Ziegenhain (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2005). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

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Chapter Four

Parliaments and Constitutions

Turning to the next stage of the transition, democratization is here defined with Przeworski as the process of devolving “power from a group of people to a set of rules” (Przeworski 1991, p. 14). Such sets of rules — or institutions — may be considered democratic if they provide for the 1 procedural minimum defined by Dahl (1971). The government system that emerges in the process of democratization is thus one based on competition and popular participation (O’Donnell and Schmitter 1986, pp. 6–9; Bos 1996, p. 85; Merkel 1999, p. 135). Democratization begins with the collapse of the old authoritarian order and constitutes the process in which the new rules of the political game are drafted and enacted. If democratization is the process of institution-building in a transition, one of the key questions to be addressed in this chapter is how and whether parliaments facilitate or impede democratization. Do they participate in the drafting and enactment of the new democratic constitution and, if so, how do they participate? Or is this crucial task

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delegated to other bodies? After examining these questions, we discuss in greater detail the role assigned by the drafters of the constitution to parliaments as embodiments of people’s sovereignty and their role in the political process. This includes an examination of the position of the legislatures vis-à-vis other branches of government as laid down in the constitution, before we turn to their structure and, finally, the powers vested in them by the constitution. Foremost in the process of democratization is the drafting and enactment of a new democratic constitution. The constitution defines the institutional framework under which political competition takes place. The way institutions are designed decides who is going to govern, how political power and economic resources are distributed between political parties and social groups, how political conflicts are resolved, and to what extent the losers of elections can credibly expect a reversal of the results in a subsequent election. Ironically, the democratically most impeccable procedure of drafting a new constitution would accord only a marginal role or even no role at all to parliament. Ideally, a popularly elected constitutional convention would devise a draft constitution which it approves and finally submits to the people for ratification in a referendum. The legislature would, if at all, only be involved in the very beginning of this process: by approving — usually with a qualified majority — the drafting of a new constitution and by specifying the procedures of drafting the constitution (Merkel 1999, p. 149). Yet, empirical evidence suggests that democratic purism is a luxury in political transitions. In many transitions the decision to draft a new constitution is not made by parliament because the rubber-stamp legislature of the former authoritarian regime has been dissolved by the new government. Where no parliament exists, there is no role for the legislature in the constitutional process. In such a case, the decision to write a new constitution is usually made by the new authorities — usually a provisional government — which took over after the collapse of the ancien régime. They also determine who will draft the constitution and how it is to be drafted. Moreover, in a transition the three-stage process of drafting and enacting a new constitution as outlined above is politically impractical. It entails a lengthy process which would overly delay the installation of

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the new institutional framework. The new democratic order would have to rely on an interim charter which is vulnerable to critique and, the longer it is valid, the more such criticism may erode the legitimacy of the new order, especially if political change is paralleled by an economic crisis. Democratic purism would thus prolong political uncertainties, especially as the election, and subsequently the proceedings of the constitutional convention, may prove a highly divisive process. This means that, in order to succeed, democratic reformers must act quickly, using the window of opportunity provided by the collapse of the old order before veto groups and the remnants of the ancien régime are able to regroup and challenge the evolving democratic order (O’Donnell and Schmitter 1986, pp. 48–56). In fact, there are many instances where constitutions drafted in a democratically less perfect fashion have paved the way for stable democracies and laid the ground for an effective political system. If, for instance, the democratic substance of the selection of the drafters and the enactment procedures are the yardstick, the Basic Law (Grundgesetz ) of the Federal Republic of Germany would rank low. Yet, most political scientists and constitutional experts agree that the Basic Law has created an institutional framework enjoying great popular consent. The same holds true for the Indian constitution, which was drafted and adopted by a Constituent Assembly only indirectly elected by a tiny section of the Indian population. After all, people tend to rate empirical legitimacy higher than formal legitimacy (Merkel 1999, p. 152). Formal legitimacy denotes that the citizens accept the process of selecting the drafters of the constitution and the procedures of drafting and enacting the constitution. Empirical legitimacy relates to what people think about the political system in practice (Eith and Mielke 2001, p. 13). The way everyday political issues are addressed shapes people’s attitudes towards the political system and thus constitutes a continuous constitutional 2 plebiscite. The constitution is the framework under which parliament operates. It determines the powers of the legislature, its position as a political arena in a polity. While we are indeed here interested in the constitutional provisions concerning the legislature, we will first examine the extent to which the parliament has an influence on constitutional engineering.

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Where it has been decided to write an entirely new constitution, drafters are usually handicapped by adverse circumstances such as time constraints, political restiveness, and economic decline. Often this results in a hastily drafted document which is flawed by contradictory provisions and imprecise wording. This difficulty is even compounded by the zeal of democratic reformers to draft a constitution that once and for all eliminates the loopholes that have allowed the former authoritarian regime to seize and consolidate power. At the same time they seek to lay the groundwork for major political and socio-economic reforms that in the long run change the country’s political culture and the conditions that serve as breeding grounds for non-democratic forces. This leads to lengthy documents which at one point are too vague, at another too specific and, irrespective of their redundancies, leave open many details to future legislation (Institute for Strategic and Development Studies 1998, p. 122). The Philippine Constitution of 1987, for instance, despite its being criticized for its verbosity, left 81 such constitutional tasks to Congress (Institute for Strategic and Development Studies 1998, p. 117; 3 Magno 1998, p. 206). In Thailand, the Constitution of 1997 explicitly and implicitly required lawmakers to pass at least 34 organic and ordinary laws within two years after its promulgation on 10 October 1997. This means that even where it was excluded from drafting the constitution, parliament became a major player in the constitutional process at a later stage. However, leaving open constitutional details to legislative action entails the danger that a more conservative legislature dilutes and even reverses the reformist project of the drafters of the constitution. As we shall see in Chapter Five, a good case in point is the Philippine PartyList Law left by the Constitutional Commission to congressional decision. The inevitable flaws of hastily drafted constitutions, their openness to subsequent legislation, and the fluid power equations characteristic of political transitions are the main reasons why constitutional debates in newly democratized political systems become more or less permanent. Moreover, the attitude of the political class towards constitutions differs from that in established democracies: under the conditions of fluid power configurations and the lack of firmly entrenched political conventions, constitutions are instrumentalized for short-term political gains (Rüland 1998, p. 50). Even renowned scholars find that “there is

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nothing sacred about constitutions”, meaning that they can and should be changed whenever circumstances so dictate. It is thus no accident that the number of constitutions in four of the five countries studied ranges from four to 16. The exception is India where the Constitution of 1950 has been continually in force and where the Supreme Court has taken precautions against indiscriminate charter changes. However, so far some 90 amendments to the Indian Constitution have been made, albeit without changing its basic structure. Less reflected is usually the fact that compliance with the constitution and political institutions increases over time. Changing constitutions at will, however, creates cynicism on the part of the public, which suspects a hidden agenda behind constitutional amendments and — as with the political class — internalizes the belief that constitutions are part of the everyday political contest. Non-Pacted Transitions: Parliament as a Belated Player

Usually democratic transitions come in two forms: non-pacted changes where the elite of the old order is fully replaced by a new set of reformist leaders, and pacted changes where the new order is the product of negotiations between representatives of the old order and democratic reformers. Where in the five countries covered by this study non-pacted transitions took place, parliaments were either only marginally involved or not involved at all. In Thailand, legislatures appointed by the executive or elected indirectly as in the case of the 1974 Constitution were entrusted with the task of drafting a new or reviewing an existing constitution. In no case did the drafting process conform with the ideal type three-stage process outlined earlier. In the Philippines, four weeks after the ouster of the dictatorial regime of President Ferdinand E. Marcos through what has since become known as “People’s Power Revolution”, President Corazon C. Aquino on 25 March 1986 promulgated a provisional constitution by decree. The interim Freedom Constitution was a conscious decision against a pacted transition, because the decision to abolish the 1973 Constitution and dissolve the Batasan Pambansa ruled out power-sharing arrangements

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with the remnants of the ancien régime. With the Freedom Constitution, President Aquino defied legal formalists, most of them affiliated with the former regime, who claimed that the 1973 Constitution was still in force and that the Batasan Pambansa would therefore be the duly legitimized body in charge of the transition. Mrs Aquino and her legal advisers defended her decision to abrogate the 1973 Constitution, arguing that with their uprising the people themselves had shown that they had not only ousted Mr Marcos but, at the same time, delegitimized the very institutions which supported his rule. This gave her the popular mandate to dismantle the structures of the old order and pave the way for redemocratization (Wurfel 1988, pp. 309–11; Thompson 1996, pp. 165–68; Bernas 2000, pp. 28–79). The promulgation of the Freedom Constitution, the vast executive and legislative powers it vested in the president and the ouster of local officials known to be Marcos loyalists had led critics to denounce Mrs Aquino’s rule as outrightly dictatorial and liken her to her predecessor. Yet, they purposively overlooked the fact that the authoritarian tendencies of the Freedom Constitution were softened by the re-enactment of the Bill of Rights, the lifting of the suspension of the writ of habeas corpus, the release of political prisoners, by subjecting presidential actions to judicial review, and most importantly, the early appointment of a Constitutional Commission tasked with the drafting of a new constitution within a short time (Bernas 2000, p. 31). Sticking to the tight time frame outlined in the Freedom Constitution, in May 1986 President Aquino appointed 50 members of a Constitutional Commission to draft a new charter. While two delegates declined the appointment, the remaining 48 came from many walks of life and, at least formally, resembled a cross-section of Philippine society. Yet, this seemingly inclusionary approach concealed the fact that a majority of the Constitutional Commissioners were supporters of Mrs Aquino, many of whom were also closely affiliated with the Catholic Church (Wurfel 1988, p. 310; Bernas 2000, p. 32). By October 1986 the Commission completed the draft, and it was presented to the public for consultation in many parts of the country, this being something new in Philippine constitutional history. The draft, which by and large reenacted the presidential system of the 1935 Constitution, was eventually

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Table 4.1 Constitutional Change in India, Indonesia, the Philippines, South Korea, and Thailand Constitution Country

Provisional

India

Permanent 1950

Indonesia

1949 1950

1945 1959a

Philippines

1986

1899 1935 1973 1987

South Korea

Thailand

1948b 1960c 1962d 1972 1980 1988 June 1932 Nov. 1947 Jan. 1959 Dec. 1959 Dec. 1972 Oct. 1976 Nov. 1977 March 1991

Dec. 1932 May 1946 March 1949 March 1952e June 1968 Nov. 1974 Dec. 1978 Dec. 1991 Oct. 1997

Return to 1945 Constitution. Major constitutional amendments were enacted on 19 October 1999, 18 August 2000, 10 November 2001, and 10 August 2002. b Major constitutional amendments were enacted on 7 July 1952 and 29 November 1954. c Major constitutional amendments were enacted on 19 November 1960. d Major constitutional amendments were enacted on 21 October 1969. e This is the 1932 Constitution as amended in 1952. Source: Adapted from Rüland (1998, p. 55). a

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ratified in a referendum on 2 February 1987 by a landslide majority of 77.1 per cent of the votes and a voter turn-out of 89.3 per cent (Hartmann, Hassall, and Santos 2001, p. 209). While in the Thai transitions of 1932 and 1973, the legislature was likewise not involved in the initial drafting process, it became a player as a reviewer of the draft. When the absolute monarchy was overthrown on 24 June 1932, a parliament did not yet exist. An interim constitution was drawn up by the civilian leader of the coup group (or “People’s Party”), Pridi Banomyong, and signed into law by King Prajadhipok. The “People’s Assembly” appointed on the basis of this interim document elected a working group — the Constitution Drafting Committee — tasked with producing Thailand’s first permanent constitution. It came into effect on 10 December 1932, heralding “a gradual transfer of power from the People’s Group [Party] to the institutional structure” (Parichart, Chaowana, and Ratha 1998, p. 4). An aborted royalist restoration and parliamentary instability paved the way to power for a string of military regimes, interrupted only by a short democratic interlude between 1944 and 1947 (Wyatt 1984, pp. 260–64). After a student uprising in 1973 toppled the military regime led by Field Marshal Thanom Kittikachorn, Field Marshal Praphat Charusathien, and Colonel Narong Kittikachorn, another exercise in drafting a new constitution commenced. Obviously recognizant of the dangers posed by the openness of a transitory situation, the new prime minister, Sanya Thammasakdi, who was appointed by the King in the aftermath of the student uprising, moved quickly. In the absence of a duly elected National Assembly, he appointed an 18-member committee to draft a new constitution within six months. In order to enhance the democratic legitimacy of the new charter, the committee (unprecedented for Thailand) organized public hearings and encouraged public participation. Still, the committee worked quickly and by early January 1974, barely three months after its inauguration, submitted a new draft constitution which was then the most liberal Thailand had ever had, as most commentators acknowledged. Further events, however, have shown how short the window of opportunity for reformers can be. Even though the drafting committee worked resolutely, conservative forces in the Thai polity were able to

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regroup quickly. The 299-member National Assembly, selected by a National Convention out of 2,436 royally appointed delegates, signified a comeback of the conservatives. Over 30 per cent of the members of the new assembly were civil servants. If pensioned officials, judges, teachers, and university lecturers are included, their share rose to 51 per cent. An additional 13 per cent were military and police officers. Students were entirely absent as they were considered “too young” and “inexperienced”, and farmers and workers were only marginally represented. Only about 30 per cent of the deputies could thus be considered progressive reformers (Morell and Chai-anan 1981, p. 103). A 35-member committee appointed by the National Assembly was given the task to review the constitution. After long delays, the document was finally approved by the National Assembly on 5 October 1974. However, under these circumstances it came as no surprise that the draft’s most progressive provisions were deleted or diluted, mirroring the realignment of the conservatives soon after the ouster of the military leaders (Morell and Chai-anan 1981, pp. 99–108). Nevertheless, the final version — broadly similar to Pridi’s Constitution of 1946 (Pasuk and Baker 1995, p. 302) — could be rightfully regarded “as the first positive step towards establishing true democracy in Thailand” (Kobkua 2002, p. 70, fn. 2). Pacted Transitions: Parliament as a Key Player

In pacted transitions, democratic reformers may be forced to negotiate selective and piecemeal amendments of the constitutions. They may be compelled to choose this avenue when they are weak and veto players or the remnants of the ancien régime are still able to act in a concerted way. In such instances, the legislature is more likely to get involved as parliament is the venue where constitutional amendments are discussed and eventually enacted with or without ratification through a popular referendum. Three patterns of such changes can be discerned in the five countries studied: First, a major revision of the constitution immediately after regime change (South Korea 1987); second, incremental changes over a longer period of time (Indonesia 1999–2002); and third, initial piecemeal and selective changes which — as they are increasingly

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perceived by the public as a legacy of authoritarianism — are eventually replaced by an entirely new charter (Thailand 1992–97). Soon after the concessions made by the South Korean military rulers after weeks of unabated street demonstrations, in which an increasingly larger segment of the moderate urban middle classes participated, members of the ancien régime represented by the Democratic Justice Party (DJP) and the main parliamentary opposition party, the Reunification Democratic Party (RDP), agreed on a thorough revision of the constitution. This task was given to a constitutional committee of the National Assembly which initially consisted of eight members, but was later extended to 45. Extra-parliamentary groups and representatives of the civil society–led democracy movement were excluded from the negotiations. Both sides agreed on a directly elected president, reduced presidential powers, and a more powerful legislature and judiciary. The revisions were finally submitted to the voters in a referendum and adopted 5 with 93.1 per cent of the votes (Croissant 1998b, pp. 105–8). The current constitutional framework of Indonesia still carries the name of the Constitution of 1945, a hastily written document at the time of the declaration of independence, which gives the president a dominant role. Because of its unclear formulations and poorly developed system of checks and balances between the state institutions, it was instrumentalized by the Presidents Sukarno and Suharto as a legitimation for their authoritarian rule. The Constitution of 1945 is characterized by integralistic, corporatist, and statist elements. Some authors even detect the influence of pre-war Japanese fascism on the thoughts of the drafters of the constitution (I Gde Pantja Astawa 2000, pp. 38–39). The authoritarian aura of the 1945 Constitution explains why many MPs and political experts began to call for a completely new constitution right after the collapse of Suharto’s Orde Baru regime. For the same reason, however, the remnants of the ancien régime are adamantly opposing the idea of a new constitution. Moreover, for Indonesian nationalists of all shades, reformist or status quo–oriented, the Constitution of 1945 is a symbol of the declaration of independence from colonial rule and therefore carries highly emotional value (Ufen 2002b, p. 469). Many supporters of the PDI-P, the party with the largest number of seats in the DPR, often refer to the legacy of Indonesia’s

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“founding father” Sukarno and are therefore not willing to abolish “his” constitution. The incrementalist nature of the amendments made since 1999 thus constitutes a compromise between reformists and the forces of the old order. They were the result of protracted negotiations among the political parties and the societal groups represented in the MPR (in which all MPs are members). The first three amendments in particular were hardly more than the smallest common denominator these highly diverse interests were able to agree upon. Not surprisingly, therefore, they were widely criticized as insufficient, leading to NGO demands to hand over charter revision to a non-partisan constitutional amendment commission 6 (Tan 2002, p. 407; Lanti 2002, p. 120). While rejecting these demands, with the Fourth Amendment the MPR eventually passed a comprehensive system of checks and balances within a presidential system of government in August 2002. Political analysts have rated these changes as a constitutional breakthrough (Ufen 2002b, p. 468). With the latest amendments, 31 of the 37 articles of the Constitution of 1945 have been amended between 1999 and 2002, which means that the constitution’s substance has undergone major changes. While these piecemeal amendments reflect the power equation shortly after the demise of the authoritarian order, as the democratic regime consolidates and veto players gradually dissipate, new pressures for a more fundamental constitutional reform may emerge leading to the drafting of an entirely new constitution. Such demands may be aired if the old constitution contains too many provisions which, due to their authoritarian origin, may hamper further reforms and if the incremental revisions have created too many ambiguities. The same may happen if — ignoring the inclusiveness principle — the pacted changes and the concomitant constitutional amendments have been worked out by only a small group without adequate consultation or even participation by major societal interest groups. Such a situation emerged in Thailand after the forced resignation in May 1992 of Prime Minister Suchinda Kraprayoon. Before the parliament that was elected in March 1992 chose General Suchinda to lead the government, he used to be a major player in the National Peace Keeping Council (NPKC), the military junta which had

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seized power in a coup d’état in February 1991. In March 1992, the elected parliament decided on Suchinda leading the government. A first round of constitutional changes was passed by parliament on 29 June 1992 and 10 September 1992. These included the stipulation that the prime minister must be an MP and that in lieu of the Senate president the House Speaker would preside over the National Assembly. In addition, the power of the appointed Senate was downsized. A second, though diluted, package of constitutional reforms was passed by the House of Representatives and the Senate in a joint session in early January 1995. The amendments came a few weeks after major constitutional changes aimed at democratizing local government, lowering the voting age to 18 years, reducing the size and power of the appointed Senate, establishing an independent election commission, an administrative court, and a parliamentary ombudsman were “defeated by collusion between the opposition parties, the military-appointed Senate, and the defection of the New Aspiration Party from the governing coalition” (King 1996, p. 364). Moreover, then Prime Minister Chuan Leekpai had appointed a constitutional amendment committee. However, rather than following its comprehensive suggestions, he opted for yet another committee to study the issues again. Thus, on 9 June 1994, the Speaker of the House of Representatives created the Democracy Development Committee (DDC) chaired by respected social critic Prawet Wasi. The DDC submitted its report, including suggestions for constitutional reforms, to parliament on 28 April 1995 (Khanakammakan phattana prachathipattai–KhoPhoPo 1995). Prime Minister Banharn Silpa-archa, who assumed power on 13 July 1995, sidestepped this report by establishing his own “Political Reform Committee”. Finally, however, the National Assembly was (in its joint meeting on 27 September 1996) presented with suggestions of an extraordinary committee concerning five constitutional amendments: (a) the organization that was to draft the new constitution (the Constitution Drafting Assembly or CDA), (b) the CDA’s composition, (c) the selection procedure for the two types of members, (d) the connection between the CDA and the National Assembly regarding the approval or rejection of the draft constitution, and (e) the referendum. This last and most important amendment was promulgated on 22 October 1996.

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The CDA consisted of 76 delegates selected in the provinces (one from each province), eight political scientists or experts in public administration, eight experts in public law, and seven members with experience in politics, administration, or drafting of constitutions. The National Assembly appointed all 99 members on 26 December 1998 and passed Thailand’s 16th Constitution — often referred to as the People’s Constitution because of extensive country-wide consultations — on 27 September 1997 by 578 votes in favour and 16 votes against with 17 abstentions. The National Assembly was not allowed to alter the content of the draft; it could only accept or reject it in its entirety. In case of rejection, a referendum would have had to be held. Enormous public pressure — perhaps somewhat aided by the Asian financial crisis — seemed to have intimidated the members of the National Assembly to such a degree that only a few dared demonstrate their discontent. The main thrust of this constitution was not so much “democratization” in the sense of broadening political participation, but the establishment of “independent institutions” (such as the National Counter Corruption Commission, NCCC, the National Human Rights Commission, NHRC, the Election Commission of Thailand [ECT], the Constitutional Court, the Administrative Court, the Parliamentary Ombudsmen, the State Audit Commission). The constitutional framers hoped that by placing politicians and bureaucrats within the context of structures that could control their unruly, inefficient, and corrupt behaviour, the overall functioning of the democratic political system would be rendered more cost-efficient, responsive, and effective.7 It is noteworthy that an institutional innovation — an elected Senate — introduced with the democratic Constitution of 1946 was revived by the CDA through its provincial members together with some academics. India’s transition to democracy may also be viewed as a pacted change. It was negotiated between the colonial authorities and the Indian nationalists. However, it does not fit the previous patterns of constitutional change where parliament was strongly involved in the drafting and revision of the constitution, as at the time of independence no Indian national legislature existed. When the Constituent Assembly met for the first time in December 1946, India was still under British rule, which only came to an end on 15 August 1947. Independence also

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saw the creation of two independent states, India and Pakistan, with 15 million people fleeing their homes and about 1 million dead. Moreover, some 500 princely states had to be integrated into the new Republic of India. In January 1948 the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi, the charismatic figure of the independence movement, by a Hindu fanatic left the country in a state of shock. Under these dramatic circumstances, the Constituent Assembly had to do its work. It was not a time for bold visions or political experiments. The members of the Constituent Assembly were drawn from the provincial assemblies whose members — mainly followers of the Indian National Congress — had been elected on the basis of a very restricted suffrage covering less than 20 per cent of the adult population in the provinces under the direct rule of the British Raj. After the withdrawal of the Muslim League from the Constituent Assembly shortly after it had started to operate, there was a considerable degree of ideological cohesion. The vast majority did not opt for the Gandhian idea of a decentralized, loosely structured state consisting of concentric circles with the self-governing village at its centre. Rather, they followed the Nehruvian model of a powerful and modern Indian state with a strong central government (Austin 1966; Mitra 1990, p. 81). The constitution that was finally adopted by the Constituent Assembly in December 1949 came into effect on 26 January 1950. It was not submitted to the people of India for ratification in a plebiscite. The first general elections to the Lok Sabha, the Lower House of the Indian parliament, took place in 1951/52. The new constitution was largely based on the British-brokered Government of India Act 1935 and adapted to the needs of a parliamentary mass democracy under very difficult circumstances in an extremely heterogeneous, large country. It stood for continuity with moderate changes, not for a radical new beginning (Austin 1966). A carefully drafted document, the Indian Constitution of 1950, is one of the lengthiest constitutions of the world with almost 400 articles and 12 schedules containing, along with the fundamental rights, detailed provisions for electoral and legislative procedures, oaths of affirmation, institutional set-ups on the national and state level down to the municipalities and villages. It “constitutes practically a handbook of administration” (Morris-

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Jones 1955, p. 89), not a general framework of constitutional principles like the German Basic Law or the constitution of the United States of America. Since 1952 India has seen 14 general elections. In existence for more than 50 years, India’s democracy is now firmly rooted in the lives of more than one billion people. Its legitimacy is well established, though people do not hesitate to sharply criticize politicians and other officials for using the institutions to promote their own interests (Mitra and Singh 1999). Position of the Legislature in the Constitution

One indicator of the extent to which the new order revaluates the role of parliament, assigning to the legislature more than the rubber-stamp functions of the authoritarian predecessor regime, is its position in the constitution. Democratic constitutions tend to symbolize the role of their legislatures as embodiments of people’s sovereignty and as a “bulwark of representative democracy” (Velasco 1997a, p. 285) by placing them before the executive and judicative branches. Indeed, a first glance at the 1987 Constitution of the Philippines reveals such an elevated position of Congress. Entitled “Legislative Department”, Article VI outlines in great detail the functions, powers, and procedures of the country’s bicameral legislature. In fact, the article’s 32 sections on the legislature are the longest portion of the constitution (Velasco 1997a, p. 285). With 23 and 16 sections, respectively, the provisions on the “Executive Department” (Article VII) and the “Judicial Department” (Article VIII) are less detailed and shorter. The precedence given to the legislative over the other branches of the government by the legislature in the 1987 Constitution also marks a return to the arrangements of the 1935 Constitution, after the authoritarian 1973 Constitution had pointedly placed the president as the chief executive before the National Assembly. With only 37 articles Indonesia’s original Constitution of 1945 is probably the shortest in the world. No less unique are the provisions on parliament which is named third after the MPR and the president. While — as we have seen — other Asian democracies have also given priority to the provisions on the executive compared with those on the legislative

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branch, none has expressed its statist and executive bias so explicitly as the Indonesian Constitution. There were only four articles on the legislature with nine phrases in all — a stark contrast to the 14 articles dedicated to the president and the executive. It is obvious that in these few statements the role and functions of parliament were insufficiently defined. In the amendments following the regime change in 1998, the role and functions of parliament were defined more clearly, though still not in great detail. Like the Philippine Constitution, the South Korean Constitution of 1988 also places the National Assembly ahead of the executive. However, in contrast to the Philippines, the chapter on the executive is more detailed than that on the legislature. While Chapter III on the National Assembly consists of 25 articles, Chapter IV, specifying the role of the executive including the president, contains 35 articles. By contrast, with only 13 articles, the provisions on the judiciary, that is, the Courts (Chapter V) and the Constitutional Court (Chapter VI), are much less detailed and shorter. Despite — as we shall see — considerably strengthening the powers of the legislature and curtailing the erstwhile overpowering position of the president, this arrangement reflects the pacted transition and the fact that the constitution was only partially amended after the resignation of the military regime. Moreover, the still dominant stature of the executive and, in particular, the president, is indicative of the statist and, democratization notwithstanding, authoritarian traditions embedded in the political culture of a society which, until the late 1980s, had almost no experience with modern representative democracy (Shin 1999). Based on the Government of India Act 1935, the Constitution of India gives the executive priority, parliament comes second and the judiciary third. This formal precedence of the executive over the legislature mirrors the “vice regal” tradition from colonial times, when the viceroy, the representative of the British Crown in India, had the last say in all matters of vital concern to the colonial rulers. However, with 27 articles, Chapter I of Part V of the constitution on the executive, that is, the president and the council of ministers with the prime minister at the head, is shorter than the following Chapter II on the two Houses of the Indian parliament, the Lok Sabha and the Rajya Sabha. It contains

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44 articles which in great detail enumerate the functions, powers, and procedures of the legislature. This underlines its importance within the parliamentary system chosen by India. The judiciary is covered by 24 articles in Chapter IV of Part V and placed after the legislature. Chapter III of Part V, consisting of one article only, lists the legislative powers of the president. Amongst the countries covered in this study, Thailand occupies a special position in so far as her political order is not a republic but a constitutional monarchy. Article III stipulates: “The sovereign power belongs to the Thai people. The King as Head of State shall exercise such power through the National Assembly, the Council of Ministers and the Courts in accordance with the provisions of this Constitution.” Accordingly, the constitution’s Chapter II (Articles 8 to 25) is about “The King” and his elevated place in the Thai political order. Apart from this peculiarity, the Thai constitution of 1997 follows the Philippine and the South Korean constitutions in placing the legislature ahead of the other branches of government. Chapter VI on “The National Assembly” is by far the longest in the Constitution, covering no less than 110 articles including sections on the Election Commission of Thailand (ECT), the National Human Rights Commission (NHRC), and the Ombudsmen. With 31 articles and 48 articles, respectively, the chapters on “The Council of Ministers” (Chapter VII) and “The Courts” (Chapter VIII) are much shorter. Unicameralism and Bicameralism

The constitution also provides a first, yet essential insight into the structure of legislatures, that is, whether unicameral or bicameral or, in other words, the distribution of power in the legislature. For democratic theory the choice of unicameralism or bicameralism is thus a question of “concentration versus sharing of legislative power” (Lijphart 1984, p. 90). Unicameralism is usually associated with majoritarian government, bicameralism with consensus government. While unicameral legislatures may be an adequate institutional arrangement for homogeneous societies, bicameralism is valued by many constitutional experts as an appropriate institutional device for plural societies.

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Earlier critical views of second chambers, denouncing them as “conservative brake on the more democratically elected lower houses” (cited in Lijphart 1984, p. 95), as institutions “limiting the sovereignty of the people” (cited in Blondel 1973, p. 32), or as a prescription for 8 gridlock in legislation, have been revised by the more recent literature which attaches important representative, legislative, and supervisory functions to second chambers (Lijphart 1984; Tsebelis 1995; Riescher, Ruß, and Haas 2000). Second chambers perform representative functions, if they give a say to groups that are otherwise only weakly represented in the political institutions of plural societies. These may be religious, ethnic, or linguistic minorities, territorial units (state, provinces, cantons, and so forth) or certain classes and estates (such as the aristocracy in the United Kingdom). From the perspective of democratic theory they are institutions that help manage diversity by balancing the usually distorted social profile of the lower houses. Lijphart therefore associates second chambers with a certain degree of inclusiveness — a prerequisite for compromise-building and a moderating influence on legislation (Lijphart 1984, p. 23). Second chambers also participate to a varying degree in the legislative process. Bicameralists usually argue that the submission of legislative measures to a second chamber provides for a double-check and hence a more careful scrutiny, resulting in a better quality of laws. The trade-off they consciously accept is that legislation takes longer and that it may be more difficult for the authorities to respond to exigencies. With it goes the belief that the second chamber is less politicized, especially if not directly elected, and can thus afford to take a more detached and statesman-like approach to the bills passed by the Lower House. Especially the Indian Rajya Sabha and the Thai Senate cultivate such an image. It is probably a valid proposition that second chambers reflect the distrust of the framers of the constitution in the judgment and political farsightedness of the Lower Houses, especially where — as in the past in Thailand — the educational attainment of the members of the Lower House is deemed insufficient by their critics. This brings us to the third major function of second chambers, namely, oversight. Second chambers are expected to cross-check the legislative measures of the Lower House and thus also serve as an insurance against the bypassing of major social

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groups. The more they succeed in performing oversight functions, the more they assume the role of (loyal) veto players in the institutional setup of a polity (Tsebelis 1995). How effectively these functions are performed depends on two conditions: symmetry and incongruence of the two chambers (Lijphart 1984, p. 99). Symmetry means that both chambers have more or less the same powers. Indicators that help to determine the degree of symmetry between the two chambers are their legislative powers, that is, to what extent they are allowed to initiate legislation and what kind of veto powers they have (absolute or suspensive). Incongruence refers to the method of selection (direct or indirect), which may lead to a composition that deviates from the first chamber. Of the five countries studied here, three — India, the Philippines, and Thailand — have a bicameral system, while one — South Korea — has a unicameral system. The case of Indonesia is controversial: the literature is divided as to what extent the Consultative People’s Assembly (Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat, MPR) can be considered a second chamber or whether it must rather be viewed as an institution superimposed on the legislature. In the Philippines, the 1987 Constitution returned from the unicameral Batasan Pambansa of the Marcos years to the bicameral legislature of the 1935 Constitution. Yet, the voting in the Constitutional Commission on this issue was very close. In the end, after intense debates, the bicameralists triumphed by just one vote, 23 : 22, over the unicameralists (de Leon 1989, p. 94). Not surprisingly, therefore, the bicameralism-unicameralism debate did not subside and mounted in reiterated calls by unicameralists for constitutional change and an eventual abolition of the Senate. Philippine unicameralists reject the belief that a unicameral body is prone to abuse of power and that the Upper House ensures quality legislation. More important, they regard a bicameral legislature as a costly luxury for a resource-strapped country. In their view, bicameralism only prolongs legislation and, by creating the much-dreaded gridlocks, reducing legislative efficiency (Catilo and Tapales 1988, p. 143). Moreover, to be effective as a legislature, the Senate with its 24 members, who — as a precondition for eligibility — must be at least 35 years old, is considered too small and unrepresentative in its composition.

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The unicameralism versus bicameralism debate has a long history in the Philippines dating back to the early days of American colonialism. In fact, the first assembly created by the Americans in 1902 (Cooper Act) allowing the Filipino ilustrado elite a certain degree of representation, was a de facto unicameral body. The Philippine Commission, entirely composed of Americans appointed by Washington, had the dual function of a second chamber and of the executive branch of the colonial government (Caoili 1987, p. 54). More than one decade later, in 1916, the Jones Act introduced a bicameral legislature. The 1935 Constitution initially opted for unicameralism. It was amended four years later — however, less as a result of functional requirements than for reasons of political expediency. The renewed installation of the Senate in 1941 (Paras 2000, p. 19) was the result of the fierce rivalry between the two dominant political figures of the pre-independence era, Manuel Quezon, the Commonwealth President, and Sergio Osmena, the Speaker of the House. With the creation of the Senate, Quezon sought to establish a new power base for himself, which he hoped would erode Osmena’s political clout (Doronila 1998a, p. 129). As already mentioned above, the 1973 Constitution and the Marcos authoritarian order, after abolishing Congress and a period of six years without a legislature, finally set up a weak unicameral legislature in 1978. Philippine bicameralism as established by the 1987 Constitution is symmetric and congruent. It is symmetric, because formally the direct election in a nationwide constituency gives senators a high degree of democratic legitimacy. Apart from the right of both Houses to initiate legislation, bills have to be passed by the House as well as the Senate before they become law. While the House has more rights of initiative, especially in the area of money bills, the Senate has the sole right to vote on treaties and international agreements which need the consent of at least two-thirds of all members of the Senate (Article VII, Section 21). According to Section 24 of Article VI of the 1987 Constitution “all appropriation, revenue or tariff bills, bills authorizing increase of the public debt, bills of local application, and private bills shall originate in the House of Representatives, but the Senate may propose or concur with amendments”. Section 21 of Article VII goes on to provide that “no treaty or international agreement shall be valid and effective unless

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concurred in by at least two-thirds of all the Members of the Senate”. Finally, members of both Houses sit in the Commission on Appointments, a powerful congressional body that scrutinizes executive appointments. However, the Senate has a slightly superior role in this Commission, as the Senate president serves as ex officio chairman, without the right to vote, except in case of a tie (Article VI, Section 18). As far as incongruence is concerned, the Philippine Senate hardly fulfils the demands of democratic theory, that is, representing diversity. Although it may be argued that cultural diversity in the country is less pronounced than elsewhere in Asia, such a view would unduly downplay the ethnic violence between Christians and Muslims in the South, the linguistic, regional and, in particular, deep socio-economic cleavages that need to be represented adequately. Yet, the social profile of the House and the Senate are nearly identical. Members of the Senate belong to the same oligarchy as the House members. In fact, many shuttle back and forth between the two chambers. If the chances of winning a Senate seat are dim, they run for Congress. If their political and economic fortunes are bright and they are able to form a powerful electoral alliance, they run for the Senate. Similarly lopsided in the Senate is regional representation. Of the three major regions of the country — Luzon, the Visayas, and Mindanao — the latter two are notoriously underrepresented. In the May 2001 elections, when thirteen senatorial slots were at stake, 11 of the winners came from Luzon and Metro Manila, only two from the Visayas, and none from Mindanao (Frehner 2001b, p. 54). Given such a distorted social profile, the Senate is hardly able to fulfil the representational, legislative, and supervisory functions accorded to it by democratic theory. It is thus scarcely surprising that the lack of representational performance has been a major argument of the critics of Philippine bicameralism who continuously demand an abolition of the Senate. Somewhat pointedly — in analogy to Carl Landé’s dictum of “identical parties” (Landé 1965) — one may therefore argue that the Philippines has a legislature of identical Houses. As indicated earlier, the ambiguities of the 1945 Constitution make it difficult to classify the Indonesian parliament as either unicameralist or bicameralist. While routine legislation is passed by the Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (DPR), there is a second chamber, the Consultative

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People’s Assembly (Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat or MPR) which also performs certain legislative functions such as amending the constitution and, until 2002, drafting the Broad Guidelines of the State (Garis-Garis Besar Haluan Negara ). The MPR, which the 1945 9 Constitution designated as the embodiment of people’s sovereignty, is not very distinct from the DPR because it is composed of all 500 members of the latter, plus 135 regional delegates and 65 representatives of functional groups. Even though we concede that other positions are tenable, we are inclined to concur with the opinion that, because the MPR “is not constituted on different electoral or constitutional principles, it cannot be considered as a second house of parliament in the true sense” (International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance 2000, p. 39). In the New Order period, the MPR was a tame, more or less handpicked body, meeting only once every five years and providing a façade of popular legitimacy to the president. Since 1998, however, its political stature has grown immensely. It now meets annually and, apart from its previous functions, also controls and even removes the president from office — as painfully experienced by former president Abdurrahman Wahid, who was forced to resign by the MPR in late July 2001. However, with the Third and Fourth Amendment of the constitution, passed in November 2001 and August 2002, Indonesia is now firmly en route to a bicameral legislature. Under the new arrangement, the DPR will serve as the Lower House, while the newly created Representation of the Regions (Dewan Perwakilan Daerah or DPD) provides for territorial representation. Currently, each of Indonesia’s 32 provinces will be entitled to send four directly elected deputies to the DPD (Tan 2002, p. 489). Although the DPD will not be inaugurated until 2004, when the next general elections are due, it is not far-fetched to predict that the relationship between the two chambers will be asymmetrical. It is not only its size (128 members versus 550 members of the DPR), but also the limited constitutional rights that make the DPD a less powerful body than the First Chamber. The DPD shall only have the right to propose to the DPR bills related to regional autonomy, central-local relations, the formation, expansion, and merger of regions, the

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management of natural resources, and bills related to the financial balance 10 between the centre and the regions (Article 22D of the Constitution). Although it is at this stage premature to speculate about the representational congruence of the two chambers, the creation of the DPD indeed constitutes a move towards greater inclusiveness of the legislature. It adds a principle of territorial representation to the popular and political party-based representation in the DPR and hence may enable minorities to have more say in political decision-making. The regulation on the direct election of the DPD members in the Third Constitutional Amendment of November 2001 was also a major improvement replacing the previous system of appointed representatives of the regions (utusan daerah). Right from the start, parliamentary design in Thailand’s constitutions has always alternated between unicameral and bicameral National 11 Assemblies and between elected and appointed members. For 14 years after the absolute monarchy had been abolished in 1932 and after the first transitory assembly of 70 appointed “representatives” had come to its end, Thailand had unicameral Houses of Representatives with an equal number (78 at first, then 91, and later, 96) of elected and appointed members. The period between May 1946 and November 1951 saw a bicameral set-up with a House of Representatives comprising 178 elected MPs and a Senate with 80 senators appointed by the House. This latter element is unusual for Thailand and was conceived as a transitory mechanism leading to the popular election of senators. However, a coup prevented this from happening. Instead, another bicameral National Assembly came into being consisting of 120 elected MPs and 100 senators selected by the executive and, as usual in Thailand’s version of a constitutional monarchy, appointed by the King. The following six years saw a return to the unicameral House composed of appointed and elected members. If one does not want to consider the almost ten years between February 1959 and June 1968 as a time of complete military dictatorship and as thus lacking any representational body, one may reckon the 240 persons selected by the coup leaders as a unicameral House the main function of which was to act as a “Constitution Drafting Assembly”. Eventually, it was replaced in 1968 by another bicameral arrangement with a House of 219 elected MPs and 164 appointed senators. The

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democratic Constitution of 1974 also provided for a bicameral National Assembly of 269 elected MPs and 100 appointed senators. From April 1979, after a two-and-a-half-year interlude with another unicameral version, the constitutional system of representation has been and still is a bicameral one. The number of MPs gradually rose from 301 to 500 in 1997; the number of senators was increased from 225 to 270 until it was reduced to 262 in 1996 and to 200 in 1997. Of great significance for the legislative structure is, of course, the fact that the Constitution of 1997 returned to the constitutional promise of 1946 and re-introduced an elected, though purportedly non-political, Senate of 200 members. The relationship between House and Senate is not fully symmetrical. The Senate is not intended to be a law-making but a law-screening institution. Accordingly, it can only delay the promulgation of laws by disagreeing with the House’s draft, but it does not have the power of a final veto (not even the King has this power). However, it is the Senate which selects the members of the centrally important “independent organizations”, such as the Election Commission of Thailand (ECT), the National Human Rights Commission (NHRC), the National Counter Corruption Commission (NCCC), or the Constitutional Court. Moreover, only the Senate is empowered to remove the prime minister, ministers, senators, MPs, members of the ECT and the Constitutional Court, and so forth, from office for reasons of malfeasance, misuse of power, and extraordinary wealth (Article 303). As for congruence, similar to the situation in the Philippines, the Thai Senate certainly does not represent diversity. Although there are indeed some NGO representatives in the Senate, they are far outnumbered by retired civil servants, businesspeople, and lawyers. But then, the Senate was not designed to represent diversity or even minority interests. Rather, it is supposed to be a powerful counter-force keeping the House of Representatives in check, recalling Pinai’s (1997, p. 262) comment on the Senate as envisaged in the Constitution of 1946: “Senators were intended to be of old age and possess high qualifications so as to be capable of inspecting the performance of the legislative function of the House of Representatives and inspecting the discharge of duties of the Cabinet.”

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The Indian parliament consists of two Houses, the popularly elected Lok Sabha (Assembly of the People) with 545 seats and the Rajya Sabha 12 (Council of States) consisting of 250 members. Bills can originate in either House except money and other financial bills which are the exclusive prerogative of the Lok Sabha. They have to be considered by both Houses and must have the assent of the president before they become law. If a bill is rejected by one House or delayed more than six months or if the two Houses cannot agree on amendments to be made in the bill, the president may summon both Houses to a joint sitting. Decisions are made by majority vote. Given the fact that the Lok Sabha constitutes almost 70 per cent of all members in such a joint sitting, the power of the Rajya Sabha to reject the bill is limited. However, a government commanding only a narrow majority in the Lok Sabha and no majority in the Rajya Sabha can find it difficult to get a bill passed. Still, the Rajya Sabha is a loyal veto player. So far only three joint sittings have taken place in independent India, the latest in April 2002 after the Upper House had disapproved a positive vote of the Lok Sabha on the Prevention of Terrorists Ordinance (POTO). This ordinance was promulgated by the then President Narayan after a terrorist attack on the parliament in December 2001. After a lengthy debate, widely covered by the news media, the majority of the members present voted for POTO, which then became the Prevention of Terrorists Act (POTA). The powers of the two Houses are not equally distributed. Financial matters and the responsibility of the Council of Ministers are exclusively in the domain of the Lok Sabha, which is “the supreme legislative body in India” (Brass 1990, p. 47). Money bills can only be introduced in the Lok Sabha. The Rajya Sabha cannot reject or amend a money bill, its recommendations which can be made within 14 days are not binding. After 14 days a money bill is deemed to have passed both the Houses if it is not returned to the Lok Sabha. The Rajya Sabha may also discuss the annual budget but it is voted upon only by the Lok Sabha. Therefore, it is the Lok Sabha which ultimately authorizes the government to raise and spend money. Yet, this authority is exercised only on the initiative of the executive. Money bills can only be introduced on the recommendation of the president. He, too, is responsible for placing the yearly budget of the government before the

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Lok Sabha which may then be approved, changed, or even rejected by the latter. Given the size of its population and the federal structure of the Indian Union, it is small wonder that the framers of the Indian constitution have opted for a bicameral legislature (Austin 1966, pp. 156– 63). The Rajya Sabha should represent and secure the interests of the states and act as a forum for reflection after a bill has been passed by the Lok Sabha. The growing assertiveness of the Rajya Sabha is a consequence of the different majorities in the two Houses. In the past years, the Lok Sabha and the Rajya Sabha have been controlled by different parties. The regionalization of politics in India together with the greater importance of regional parties may strengthen the role of the Rajya Sabha as a custodian of state interests, though, according to Mehra (2003), “the Rajya Sabha is unlikely to play the role of a truly federal chamber” 13 (p. 420) Yet, as we have seen above, the distribution of powers is asymmetrical, the Rajya Sabha is subordinated to the Lok Sabha, though it is not without importance. Constitutional amendments require a twothirds majority of the members present and voting and an absolute majority of the total membership in both Houses. The same holds true for the approval of a proclamation of emergency issued by the President of India. Moreover, the Rajya Sabha plays an co-equal role in the election of the president together with the members of the legislative assemblies of the states. Therefore the Rajya Sabha must also be controlled before a government can fully consolidate its power in Delhi (Brass 1990, p. 48). According to Lijphart’s classification of bicameralism, the distribution of formal powers within India’s bicameral legislature can be classified as somewhere between moderately asymmetrical (Australia, Germany, Japan and the Netherlands) and extremely asymmetrical (Great Britain with its near-unicameralism). The Rajya Sabha and the Lok Sabha are only slightly incongruent in so far as they do not markedly differ from each other in composition. The Lok Sabha is elected on the basis of the plurality system, the Rajya Sabha according to the proportional method, though smaller states have a relatively bigger share of seats than larger states. The legislative powers of the two chambers are not symmetrical. They are vested predominantly in the Lower House. Decisions of the Upper House can be easily overridden, its legislative powers are confined to

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ordinary bills. There is also no marked difference in composition from the Rajya Sabha. Given the Rajya Sabha’s smaller size, lack of legitimacy due to its indirect method of selection, and the moderate incongruence of composition vis-à-vis the Lok Sabha, the Upper House plays only a secondary role in the Indian parliament. Despite an extremely plural society, India’s bicameralism is thus not strong and significant; rather is it weak, albeit not entirely insignificant. The weakness of Indian bicameralism can be attributed to the peculiarities of the division of powers in India’s political system, which is itself a consequence of the majoritarian features of India’s democracy with its centrally controlled federalism. South Korea is an unambiguous example of a unicameral legislature. Although Lijphart has cautioned that there is only a weak connection between unicameralism and socio-cultural homogeneity, South Korea is a case where this link applies. Interpreting Lijphart, one could argue that South Korea can afford a certain degree of majoritarian government as expressed by unicameralism. Yet, such a view overlooks the issue of regionalism, which has found its expression in electoral contests since the 1970s. Since it is hard to imagine that this regionalism will soon dissipate, one might well envisage the introduction of a second chamber representing the regional cleavages. Territorial representation may even be strengthened if local governments, in line with a gradual process of decentralization, were to be represented in an Upper House. But in order to avoid the potential for gridlock which might even be exacerbated by a bicameral legislature, such an Upper House should not obtain the same powers as the Lower House. Executive-Legislative Relationship

Another indicator for determining the position of the parliament in a polity is the executive-legislative relationship. Due to the incompatibility between executive and legislative office, parliamentary sovereignty may be greater in presidential systems than in presidential-parliamentary and parliamentary systems where a fusion of the executive and the legislative exists and where, as a result, the division of powers cuts right through the legislative. The dependence of the government in parliamentary systems on support by a parliamentary majority in itself curtails legislative

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powers vis-à-vis the executive. Control of the government is left to the opposition and it is in fact the government which controls the parliament through its majority. Methodologically one may approach the question of the executivelegislative relationship in three steps: Firstly, by analysing the constitutional constraints placed on parliamentary sovereignty by prerogatives vested in the executive. Secondly, one may examine the duration of the parliamentary sessions, as short sessional periods would seriously circumscribe the legislature’s legislative capacities and the extent to which it is able to supervise the executive (Blondel 1973, p. 59; Yoon 1991, p. 58). And, thirdly, the opposite case must be examined, that is, the extent to which the constitution seeks to balance representative democracy by elements of plebiscitary democracy. While such elements are likely to curtail parliamentary powers, they may increase the inclusiveness of a polity — especially where the electoral system is majoritarian — by directly involving the people in the legislative process through initiative and referendum. However, when one looks at such plebiscitary provisions from a realistic point of view, there is a great likelihood that, due to the socio-economic imbalances of economically less advanced countries, initiative and referendum are prone to manipulation by the same oligarchical and plutocratic groups that also dominate parliament. While we will concentrate on the formal powers, a full picture of the role of parliament in political decision-making will only emerge if we examine the way in which the formal structures operate in reality. This will be a major theme in Chapter Nine where we analyse the performance of legislatures of the five countries as regards the functions assigned to them by the comparative government literature. Comparisons with the former authoritarian constitutions will show the extent to which legislatures have been upgraded as political institutions in the process of democratization. An analytical tool to address the first of these three steps is Shugart and Carey’s twin distinction between legislative and non-legislative powers and between proactive and reactive powers of the chief executive. While these distinctions were devised for presidential and semipresidential systems, we also extend them to parliamentary systems where appropriate. Legislative powers include decree-making powers, veto

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powers, budgetary powers, the power to propose referenda and emergency powers. Non-legislative powers refer to presidential power to dissolve parliament, and powers relating to cabinet formation and dismissal. If the president is able to exert these powers without prior consent of the legislature, they may be classified as “proactive,” if they merely permit the president to block legislative actions, they may be referred to as “reactive powers” (Shugart and Carey 1992, pp. 144–66; Croissant 2000/ 2001, 2003a; Roper 2002). Legislative Powers Initiative

Technically, initiative in the Philippines rests entirely with the Congress, except for the submission of the budget, whereas the Indonesian DPR must share the right to initiate bills with the executive. Without comprising the right of initiative, the Philippine Constitution of 1987 empowers the president to speed up legislation needed to meet a public calamity or emergency (Article VI, Section 26 [2]). This is certainly a sensible provision, as it reduces the incentives for the president to proclaim martial law. In the parliamentary systems of Thailand and India, the legislatures share the right of initiative with the executive. Bills originating from the House must be supported by at least twenty MPs in Thailand and South Korea, while in India every MP may initiate a bill. Yet, as we shall see in Chapter Nine, as in most Western parliamentary systems, the lion’s share of bills is prepared and introduced by the executive. With its bureaucratic apparatus, its specialized know-how, its access to think tanks and its interaction with pressure groups, the executive is in a superior position in the legislative process. The disparities in law-making capacities between the executive and the legislature are compounded by the weak internal organization of parliaments and parliamentary party groups. While in India both Houses can initiate legislation, in Thailand the Senate cannot. Decree-making powers

In presidential and presidential-parliamentary systems, presidential decree-making powers are a frequent source of curtailing parliamentary

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influence. Decree-making powers may be defined as the president’s ability to enforce decisions that are “implemented in lieu of any legislative action” (Roper 2002, p. 257). The literature distinguishes three types of such decree-making powers. •

•

•

First, presidential decrees that may be issued without any legislative involvement: If applied regularly, such “autonomous decree-making powers” (Croissant 2000/2001, pp. 120–21) bypass, erode, and eventually marginalize the legislature. It goes without saying that the opportunities for abuse of such wide-ranging decree-making powers are enormous. They pave, as Linz and other critics of presidentialism rightfully deplore, almost certainly the way to an authoritarian system of government (Linz 1990, p. 65). Second, decree-making powers that must be confirmed by the legislature and are thus of a delegated nature (Shugart and Carey 1992, p. 133): This is — as Croissant points out — a case of ex post delegation of legislative powers to the president (Croissant 2000/ 2001, pp. 120–21). While parliament regains control over the legislative process and, hence, limits presidential decree-making powers, it is nevertheless a procedure vulnerable to abuse. Such risks increase if the president controls the majority in the assembly. Presidential decrees and ordinances may then assume the status of a fait accompli which is not seriously questioned by the legislature. The dangers for abuse increase further, if executive and legislature are not controlled by an independent judiciary. At least in Indonesia and to a lesser extent in South Korea (Yang 1998) such a situation exists, as the Supreme Court (in Indonesia) or the Constitutional Court (in South Korea) is not entirely beyond the charge of undue government interference. Third, and finally, ex ante decree-making powers: These are decreemaking powers that need prior approval by the legislature, which may also specify the scope and the area of application as well as the duration of the delegation, thus limiting presidential prerogatives to an even greater extent than under ex post delegation. However, even ex ante delegation is not a priori free from abuse if the president controls the parliamentary majority and no other veto players exist.

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Unlike under the previous authoritarian regimes, presidents in South Korea, the Philippines, and Indonesia do not enjoy autonomous decreemaking powers. The 1987 Constitution of the Philippines goes even so far as to deny the president, in normal times, any decree-making powers at all. Only if explicitly authorized by Congress “in times of war or other national emergency”, may the President rule by decree (Article VI, Section 23). Presidential rule by decree in an emergency is thus a case of ex ante delegation. The South Korean Constitution of 1987 attaches more legislative powers to the president. Yet, they must be delegated to him or her in advance by law and must also specifically define the scope including matters necessary to enforce laws (Chapter IV, Article 75). The presidential decree-making powers thus also fall into the third or ex ante category. A peculiarity of the South Korean presidential-parliamentary system is the fact that the prime minister and the executive ministries, too, have decree-making powers. These powers must be “delegated by law, or Presidential Decree or ex officio” (Chapter IV, Article 95). While those decree-making powers delegated by law or presidential decree must by implication have legislative consent and, hence, also fall into the ex ante category, the third stipulation, ex officio, is quite ambiguous and opens 14 avenues for circumvention of the legislature. As pointed out by Croissant, this is aggravated by the fact that the parliament de facto delegates decree-making power to the president by enabling him to fill out legislation by rules of implementation (Croissant 2003a, p. 87). South Korean presidents have excessively used these legislative powers. President Kim Young Sam (1992–97), for instance, reportedly promulgated 29 decrees per month and invoked three times emergency decrees (Croissant 2002, p. 173). Contrary to established governmental practice during the Orde Baru era, when President Suharto habitually bypassed the MPR and the DPR as he saw fit, presidential decree-making powers (Keputusan Presiden and Instruksi Presiden) in Indonesia are now firmly subordinated to parliamentary control. According to a decree of the MPR in 2000 Keputusan Presiden (Keppres) are placed close to the bottom of the order of legislation. Article 2 of this MPR decree specifies the following hierarchy of legal norms: (a) Constitution of 1945 (Undang Undang

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Dasar), (b) decrees of the MPR, (c) laws passed by the DPR (Undang Undang, UU), (d) government regulations replacing a law (Peraturan Pemerintah Pengganti UU), which later have to be confirmed by the DPR, (e) government regulations (Peraturan Pemerintah, PP), (f ) presidential decrees (Keputusan Presiden), and (g) local regulations 15 (Peraturan Daerah, PD). Based on what is called Stufentheorie, presidential decrees in Indonesia are restricted to the function of defining 16 the implementation rules of a government regulation. Parliamentary systems are usually characterized by a dual executive: a president as head of state and a prime minister as head of government. Unlike in presidential or presidential-parliamentary systems, the president — even if the Indian Constitution formally vests in him all executive power — exerts only a ceremonial role, while government business is firmly in the hands of the prime minister. Surprisingly, however, in some parliamentary systems the head of state is vested with ex post delegated legislative powers similar to those of presidents in presidential systems. The Indian president, for instance, is entitled to issue ordinances when both Houses are not in session if he is of the opinion that circumstances are such as to render it necessary for him to take immediate action. However, the ordinance ceases to be valid if parliament does not approve it within a period of not more than six weeks after the re-assembly of parliament, so that it may become permanent law. Re-promulgation of an ordinance because parliament has not approved the corresponding bill and the proroguing of the legislature merely to issue an ordinance has been held to be contempt of the constitution according to a Supreme Court ruling of 1987 (Kashyap 1995, p. 180). Emergency powers

Unlike in the previous authoritarian regimes, and in contrast to many other presidential or presidential-parliamentary systems (Blondel 1973, p. 36; Linz 1990a; Mainwaring and Shugart 1997, p. 4), neither the current Philippine nor the South Korean constitution gives the president sweeping and ill-defined emergency powers. In both cases the presidential emergency powers are strongly circumscribed by legislative controls. In the Philippines, the power “to declare the existence of a state of war”, for instance, rests exclusively with Congress (Article VI, Section 23). Other

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emergencies — the constitution names the prevention and suppression of lawless violence, invasion, or rebellion — “authorize the president for a limited period and subject to restrictions, to exercise the powers necessary and proper to carry out a declared national policy” (Article VI, Section 23 [2]). In such cases, he may call out the armed forces, “suspend the privilege of the writ of habeas corpus or place the country or any part thereof under martial law” (Article VII, Section 18). Yet, such emergency measures are restricted to 60 days. Moreover, upon proclamation of martial law or the suspension of the privilege of the writ of habeas corpus, the president is obliged to inform Congress which, voting jointly, in regular or special session, must with the majority of all its members consent to the presidential actions. If Congress, again by a majority of its members, revokes the presidential emergency measures, the president cannot overturn such a decision. However, if the emergency prevails, upon the initiative of the president, Congress may extend such proclamation or suspension for a period to be determined by it (Article VII, Section 18). It is worth mentioning that these provisions have indeed passed their litmus test. While, in response to the bloody coup of December 1989, President Aquino had, with the consent of Congress, invoked her emergency powers, Congress turned down her request to extend these powers beyond June 1990 (Caoili 1991–92, p. 17). The Korean Constitution also stipulates that decrees and other actions of the president to avert crises or calamities must obtain the ex post approval of the National Assembly and thus also fall into the category of delegated powers. If not approved by the legislature, the actions or orders lose effect (Chapter IV, Article 76). Unlike the Philippine Constitution, which fixes the period in which the president must have notified Congress, the South Korean charter is less precise; it only specifies that the president shall notify the National Assembly “promptly” (Chapter IV, Article 76 [2]). Another difference is that in the Philippines the proclamation of martial law and the suspension of the writ of habeas corpus are expressly subject to review by the Supreme Court, subjecting them to a dual safeguard. A similar intention is pursued by the provision that “martial law does neither suspend the operation of the Constitution, nor supplant the functioning of the civil courts; and other precaution to maintain the rule of law” (Article VII, Section 18). No such provision

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exists in South Korea, although one may argue that it is implicit in Chapter VI, Article 111 (5) which, inter alia, requires the Constitutional Court to adjudicate “petitions relating to the Constitution as prescribed by the law”. The wording of the Philippine constitution is also more precise with regard to the suspension of the writ of habeas corpus. The latter shall apply “only to persons judicially charged for rebellion or offenses inherent in or directly connected with invasion” (Article VII, Section 18). Similar regulations exist in Indonesia, where in case of a “compelling emergency”, the president shall have the right to issue government regulations in lieu of laws (Article 22 [1]). Such regulations must get the ex post consent of the DPR during its subsequent session (Article 22 [2]). On 21 July 2001 then President Abdurrahman Wahid issued a decree declaring a state of emergency and dissolving MPR, DPR, and Golkar. However, the Supreme Court ruled out the constitutionality of this decree and Wahid was impeached the next day by the MPR because his decree violated the constitution. Another example can be seen in the anti-terrorism decrees promulgated after the bombing attacks in Bali on 12 October 2002, which remained in effect until the DPR passed a full-fledged AntiTerrorism Law in March 2003. In Thailand’s parliamentary system, an emergency decree can be issued by the King — on recommendation by the prime minister — “for the purpose of maintaining national or public safety or national economic security, or averting public calamity” (Article 218). However, the cabinet must be of the opinion that this is an unavoidable measure, and it must be submitted to the National Assembly for approval or rejection as emergency decrees cannot be amended by parliament. It will lapse if the House disapproves it or if the House approves it, but the Senate rejects it, and the House cannot confirm its approval by a one-half majority (Article 218). Moreover, one-fifth of the Senate or House members can ask the Constitutional Court whether the emergency decree conforms to the conditions stipulated in Article 218 by the president of their respective house. The King has the prerogative to declare and lift martial law (Article 222), though he can only declare war “with the approval of the National Assembly” by at least a two-thirds majority (Article 223).

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The Indian president also enjoys emergency powers. He may proclaim a state of emergency in the Union of India but only after receiving in writing a communication by the cabinet requesting him to do so. Every proclamation of an emergency issued by the president shall be placed before each House of Parliament for approval. If either House of Parliament does not approve it within a period of one month by passing a resolution by a majority of the total membership of that House and a two-thirds majority of the members of that House present and voting, the proclamation shall cease to operate. A proclamation so approved shall cease to operate after six months unless it is extended for a further period of six months by a resolution of the two Houses (Article 352). The president is, under certain circumstances, in close cooperation and with the consent of the government, also entitled to impose President’s Rule in the states which brings a state government under the direct administration of the Union Government (Article 356). Such a proclamation also has to be approved by parliament. It ceases to operate after six months, though it can remain in force for not more than three years if the continuance is approved by parliament after every six months. While President’s Rule indeed proliferated under Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, who deliberately utilized it as a means to centralize India’s political system, it has been less frequent since the mid-1980s (Dua 1994, pp. 31–32). Veto powers

In presidential systems, powers to veto legislation are generally considered as reactive powers, which may vary considerably. There is, for instance, the distinction between line-item veto and package veto. The line-item veto allows the president to veto individual items in an appropriation bill or individual provisions of any other bill. A package veto rejects a bill in toto. Broadly speaking, the line-item veto strengthens the presidential position in legislation more than the package veto as it reduces the incentive to search for compromises before the bill passes the legislature. A second distinction can be made between absolute and suspensive veto. An absolute veto is a strong veto because it cannot be overridden by the legislature, while a suspensive veto is a weak veto, because the legislature can overturn it, usually with a qualified majority.

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The Philippine Constitution of 1987 — following the 1935 model — provides the president with a line-item veto which allows him to veto “any particular item or items in an appropriation, revenue, or tariff bill” (Article VI, Section 27 [2]). By contrast, the South Korean and the Indonesian president only have a package veto. In all three cases, the presidential veto is only suspensive and can hence be overruled by the legislature: in the Philippines by a two-thirds majority of all the members of the House where the bill originated (Article VI, Section 27 [1]), in South Korea by the National Assembly with a two-thirds majority of the members present (Chapter III, Article 53 [4]). The provision that the two-thirds majority must be based on all members of the respective House makes it slightly more difficult for the Philippine legislature to reject a presidential veto. The veto of the Indonesian president has, in effect, been abolished by the Second Constitutional Amendment, which stipulates that the president can only delay the enactment of a bill for 30 days (Article 20 [5]). This is certainly a provision weakening the president as it does not compel parliament to overrule the presidential veto by a qualified majority. All parliament has to do is to wait for the 30 days to elapse (Siahaan and Solechah 2001, p. 51). Veto powers in Thailand’s parliamentary system have to be considered in respect of two institutions, namely, the Senate and the King. Here, however, in our examination of executive prerogatives towards the legislature, only the veto powers of the King as the constitutional head of state are of interest. Such veto powers exist once a bill has passed both Houses and has been submitted to the Monarch for his signature. In this case he has 90 days for his deliberation. The King may then refuse to sign the bill or he may choose not to act at all. In either case (in the latter after the 90 days have elapsed), the National Assembly has to redeliberate such a bill. If it is confirmed by the National Assembly with a two-thirds majority, the prime minister must again present the bill to the King for his signature. If the King insists on not wanting to sign the bill and thus returns it to the National Assembly within 30 days, the prime minister must promulgate the bill as an Act in the Government Gazette “as if the King had signed it” (Article 94). It may be said that, in reality, the Monarch’s veto power is very limited; after all, he is the head

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of a democratic state. However, in 2003/2004 government and parliament had to deal with two laws that the King refused to sign because they contained serious technical flaws. One more law passed by the National Assembly was not sent to the King for his signature because of the same reason. Thus, all three cases were not about disagreements about the content of the laws, that is, policy directions, but rather about drafting errors. In India, too, all bills except money bills must receive the assent of the president before becoming laws. He can withhold his assent to a bill only once. He may return a bill, if it is not a money bill, to the two Houses for reconsideration. If the bill is again submitted with or without any amendments, the president shall not withhold assent. Thus, the powers of the Indian president to veto legislation are rather limited and they do not substantially interfere with the legislative powers of parliament. Budgetary powers

In all five countries the task of formulating the budget and submitting it to the legislature rests with the executive. This is normal procedure as parliaments neither have the expertise nor the manpower to draw up a national budget. In the South Korean and the Philippine case, however, legislative scope of action is restricted by the provision that the legislature may not increase the appropriations recommended by the president for the operation of the government as specified in the budget. While this provision is absolute in the Philippine constitution, the South Korean constitution is less rigid as it allows the National Assembly to increase the amount allocated to budgetary items or even to create new items of expenditures subject to the consent of the executive (Chapter III, Article 57). The Philippine constitution even goes one step further, as it also rules out transfers of appropriations (Article VI, Section 25 [5]). If these limitations were intended as precautions against the politics of pork barrel and corruption, they are largely ineffective. Pork barrel and corruption do not arise from the appropriations bill, which embodies the regular budget of the government, but from the public works bill, as will be discussed in Chapter Nine. In Indonesia, Article 23 of the constitution stipulates that parliament and government must reach a consensus on

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the budget. Otherwise, expenditures will be made on the basis of the budget of the previous year. Powers to propose referenda

While the South Korean constitution gives the president the right to “submit important policies relating to diplomacy, national defense, unification and other matters relating to the national destiny to a national referendum” (Chapter IV, Article 72), the Philippine and Indonesian presidents do not have such rights. However, as we shall see below, the Philippine constitution provides for plebiscitary procedures. Non-legislative Powers Dissolution of assembly, cabinet formation and dissolution

Neither the Philippine nor the Indonesian president have powers to dissolve the legislature. While many political scientists have designated the inability of the president to dissolve the legislature as a key feature of presidential systems (Steffani 1983; Sartori 1994), presidents in premierpresidential and presidential-parliamentary systems may have such powers (Kempf 1999). In South Korea’s presidential-parliamentary system, the Constitution does not vest such rights in the president. In the Philippine and Indonesian presidential as well as in the Korean presidential-parliamentary systems, the president may appoint and dismiss the cabinet and individual ministers. However, in the Philippines the presidential appointments are subject to approval by the legislature. The powerful bicameral congressional Commission on Appointments scrutinizes all major appointments to executive positions (Article VI, 17 Section 16). In South Korea the National Assembly also has the power to conduct confirmation hearings and, in the case of the prime minister, in plenary session votes on the presidential nominee. The Indonesian president currently does not need to consult parliament when appointing or dismissing cabinet ministers. With these legislative checks on presidential appointive powers, Philippine presidents are somewhat reluctant to hire and fire ministers, cabinet reshuffles have been more frequent in Indonesia and South Korea. Within his short tenure of less than two years, Indonesian President Abdurrahman Wahid, for instance,

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made four major cabinet reshuffles, while South Korean President Kim Dae Jung revamped his cabinet even more frequently. As many ministers served only a few months, real executive power rests with the bureaucracy. However, after the Third Constitutional Amendment passed in November 2001, the Indonesian parliament must henceforth agree on the creation, change, and dissolution of national ministries (Article 17, 4). Thus, the government’s rights have been curtailed in this respect. Conversely, in presidential and presidential-parliamentary systems the legislature lacks the power to vote the president out of office. It may, however, initiate his or her impeachment for violation of the constitution, malfeasance, ineptitude, and criminal acts. The same applies to other holders of high office such as the vice-president, the members of the Supreme Court, the members of the Constitutional Commissions, and the ombudsman in the Philippines, the prime minister, members of the State Council, heads of executive ministries, judges of the Constitutional Court, judges, members of the National Election Commission, and members of the Board on Audit and Inspection in South Korea. While in the Philippines, which had adopted its impeachment provisions from the American Constitution, an impeachment is initiated by the House with the votes of one-third of all members, the Senate is given the exclusive power of trying and deciding all cases of impeachment. A twothirds majority of all the Senate members is required for conviction of an official (Article XI, Section 6). The current constitution subjects more high-ranking public officials to impeachment procedures than the 1935 Constitution, and has also lowered the barriers for impeachment procedures. In the 1935 Constitution the initiation of an impeachment needed a two-thirds majority in the House, conviction a three-fourths majority in the Senate (Article IX, Section 3). In South Korea a motion for impeachment may be proposed by at least one-third of the votes of the total members of the National Assembly. The motion is passed when a majority of all members of the legislature has voted in favour of it. The impeachment is then sent for adjudication to the Constitutional Court. While such a constitutional provision — as far as democratic theory is concerned — augurs well for the division of powers, it certainly puts the Korean legislature in a weaker position than the Philippine Congress.

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The Indonesian president may also be dismissed by the MPR on the proposal of DPR by an impeachment (Article 7A, 7B). The first such case was the dismissal of former president Abdurrahman Wahid in July 2001 on charges of corruption and violating the constitution (Ufen 2001). The unclear constitutional regulations regarding the impeachment mechanism led to their being amended in the Third Amendment of the constitution in November 2001, giving much power to the future constitutional court (Mahkamah Konstitusi ) in Article 24C, but leaving the final decision with the MPR. Thus the decision to impeach a president is no longer the prerogative of the MPR. In parliamentary systems, the vote of no-confidence gives the legislature a potentially stronger lever vis-à-vis the executive than in presidential systems. In reality, however, this power is purely formal, given the government majority in parliament. Where such majorities and disciplined political parties do not exist as in the past in Thailand, the resulting assemblear type of parliament indeed has an edge over the executive. This may have led the framers of the 1997 Constitution to introduce a constructive vote of no-confidence which is believed to strengthen government stability. Thailand thereby follows the transitional regimes in southern Europe, which over time also amended their constitutions by moving towards “rationalized parliamentary government” (Liebert 1990). “Rationalized government” refers to a system by which a strong government and its parliamentary majority dominate the legislature and thus leave little room for the opposition or for individual MPs (Liebert 1990). The parliamentary systems of India and Thailand balance the noconfidence vote with the right of the Head of State to dissolve parliament. While in Thailand it is formally the King’s prerogative to dissolve the House of Representatives (Article 116), in India it is the president who does so. In practice, however, both act on the advice of the prime minister. It is the latter who in Thailand presents the King with a Royal Decree for his signature. This decree must contain the date for a new general election within 60 days. Moreover, “the dissolution of the House of Representatives may be made only once under the same circumstance” (ibid.). As in India, the Senate cannot be dissolved.

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Duration of Session Period

Parliamentary performance is also a function of the duration of the session of the legislature. The shorter the session period, the less time legislatures have for their legislative and oversight functions. Their legislative function is thus likely to be confined to an acclamative act, while oversight can be exerted only superficially. Not surprisingly, therefore, in most cases session periods were shorter under authoritarian regimes than after regime transition. Still, respective provisions in the five countries studied vary. While the Philippine Congress virtually sits in permanence, the minimalist formulation of Article 19 (2) of the Indonesian Constitution of 1945, stipulating that “the DPR shall meet at least once a year”, constitutes the other extreme. In practice, however, the DPR convenes in four session periods of two months each. In Thailand, there are two sessions of parliament per year, each lasting 120 days. This means that parliament now sits twice as long as in the pre-1997 period. However, only the first period can be used for introducing motions of noconfidence. The second is reserved exclusively for the deliberation of bills. With 100 days, the session period of the South Korean National Assembly is shorter, although considerably longer than under the authoritarian regimes prior to 1987. Between 1948 and 1988, the average duration of session periods was just 37 days; since the early 1970s, even fewer days (Köllner and Frank 1999, p. 75). After regime change, while the average duration of plenary sessions is below 100 days, parliament is in session for more than 100 days. In the 13th National Assembly, for instance, parliament sat for 165 days. Yet, the long session period conceals the fact that committee meetings were held between plenary sessions or that the legislature was paralysed by impasse (Park 2003, p. 9, forthcoming). Moreover, all legislatures have the opportunity to convene for special sessions if urgent issues must be deliberated or policy matters cannot be decided within the regular sessions. In the Philippines, however, the prerogative to call special sessions of Congress rests exclusively with the president (Article VI, Section 15). Although there is no fixed schedule given for the sessions of each House of the Indian parliament under Article 85 of the constitution, except the provision that each House must convene after a lapse of not more than six months, normally three sessions of the Lok Sabha are

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Parliaments and Constitutions Table 4.2 Duration of Parliamentary Sessions Country

Duration of Regular Sessions

Duration of Special or Extraordinary Sessions

India

Three sessions a year of altogether six months

As the need arises

Indonesia

Four sessions of two months each

As the need arises

Philippines

11 months

To be called by the president

South Korea

100 days

30 days

Thailand

Two sessions of 120 days each

According to necessity

Source: Interparliamentary Union (http://www.ipu.org); own research.

held per year: The Budget Session, which is the most important and longest, usually begins in the third week of February and ends by the 19 middle of May; the Monsoon Session lasts from mid-July to the end of August, and the Winter Session extends from mid-November to the last week of December. The average number of sittings per year stands at 20 95, though there has recently been a decline. The Rajya Sabha has four sessions a year, the Monsoon Session being divided into two parts. Besides, both Houses can be summoned to meet for special sessions outside the regular schedule if the need arises. Referenda, Plebiscitary Elements of Democracy

Some of the legislatures studied here are also subject to plebiscitary restrictions. The latter are a typical response to the criticism levelled against the representative bias in political systems (Blondel 1973, pp. 35– 36). Critics of representative democracy frequently deplore the growing distance between the people and their representatives, the stifling of popular demands and aspirations and the limitation of democratic participation to an intermittent act of voting. Hence, their demand to augment the participatory rights of the people. Plebiscitary elements frequently built into representative systems are initiative and referendum. Both may either relate to ordinary legislation or be confined to constitutional matters.

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While the Indonesian and Indian constitutions offer no possibility for referenda or plebiscite, the Philippine and the Thai constitutions do. Article VI, Section 32 of the 1987 Constitution of the Philippines include provisions on initiative and referendum for ordinary legislation and constitutional issues which have been specified by the Initiative and Referendum Act of 1989 (RA 6735). In order to initiate a bill or to reject a law, a petition is required that must be signed by at least 10 per cent of the total number of registered voters, and every legislative district must be represented by at least 3 per cent of the registered voters thereof (Article VI, Section 32). Barriers to initiate the legislative process are somewhat lower in Thailand, where 50,000 voters may submit a draft bill to the president of the National Assembly. Since the Constitution of 1997 opened this way for popular participation in the law-making process, eight bills have been proposed (they are in different stages of parliamentary consideration), namely, on occupational health, the establishment of an occupational health institute, the national agriculture council, community forests, national health insurance, and on the village bank. By contrast, in South Korea, it is only the president who has the right to call a referendum on the matters already specified above. SUMMARY

Following Guillermo O’Donnell and Philippe C. Schmitter in dividing political transition into the three stages of liberalization, democratization, and consolidation (O’Donnell and Schmitter 1986), this chapter has examined the contribution of parliaments to democratization, the second stage in this sequence of change. Democratization was earlier defined as the process of constructing a new institutional framework to protect the new democratic order against authoritarian reversals (Schedler 1998) and create favourable conditions for the deepening of democracy. Essential for such institution-building was the drafting of a new constitution or amending the existing constitution. The chapter has shown that parliaments played a major role only in and after pacted transitions. A closer look at the constitutions of the five countries studied reveals that in newly democratized countries, the constitutional powers of

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legislatures have been considerably strengthened. While there is a tendency in parliamentary systems for rationalized parliamentarianism, executive constraints on legislatures in the presidential and presidentialparliamentary systems are modest. This holds true for legislative as well as non-legislative powers and, in particular, for emergency powers. The latter have been curtailed as a result of abuses which paved the way to the previous authoritarian regimes. A comparison of the presidential and presidential-parliamentary systems in our study shows that the South Korean National Assembly faces slightly more executive prerogatives than the Philippine Congress. This may be explained by the fact that South Korea went through a pacted transition in which the forces of the old order were able to retain more executive prerogatives than in the Philippine transition. Moreover, the slightly stronger executive also reflects greater external security risks such as the continuing communist threat from the North, whereas the 21 Philippines — though not entirely free from external threats — is in a more comfortable position. As already mentioned, the 1987 Constitution marks — in contrast to South Korea — a clear break with the authoritarian predecessor regime. More than in South Korea, many of the provisions on the executive-legislative relationship must therefore be read as a conscious attempt to create a constitutional framework that minimizes the opportunities for the seizure of power by undemocratic forces. The new constitutions also opened avenues for enhancing the inclusiveness of the legislatures, for example, the introduction or reformation of second chambers in the Philippines, Indonesia, and Thailand. Yet, the relationship between the two chambers is more or less asymmetrical, their composition more or less congruent. Moreover, as we shall see in the next chapter, the constitutional provisions for a more inclusive parliament are neutralized by electoral systems and adverse socio-economic factors. NOTES 1. See also Chapter One, pp. 1, 12. 2. A remark attributed to German constitutional lawyer Josef Isensee. 3. Mitra (1998, p. 85) even mentions 103 items that require legislative action.

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4. Interview, Manila, 17 September 2001. 5. Voter turn-out at the referendum was 78.2 per cent (Croissant 1998b, p. 112). 6. Jakarta Post Online, 16 April 2002. 7. For more information, see Borwornsak and Burns (1998), Connors (1999), Klein (1998), and Prudhisan (1998). 8. A critique frequently aired in the Philippines against bicameralism. 9. This provision on the MPR’s composition was valid until the Third Constitutional Amendment in November 2001. 10. Jakarta Post Online, 8 January 2003. 11. See the table in Stern (2001, pp. 180–85). 12. Interestingly, the Indian constitution sees the president as part of the parliament. 13. The weak representation of the states at the central government level is increasingly counterbalanced by a form of “executive federalism” in contrast to “legislative federalism”. The central and state governments enter into direct negotiations in order to solve upcoming issues and to secure the states’ interests. This bypassing of the legislature leads to a further strengthening of the executive. Especially where there is a coalition government at the centre, the influence of regional interests is stronger than ever though structural articulation through parliamentary channels remains as weak as ever. We owe this observation to Balveer Arora, who was a participant at the workshop on “Parliaments in Asia” in Bangkok, 11–12 March 2003. 14. Croissant (2000/2001, p. 124) seems to share such an interpretation when he writes that decrees issued by the prime minister and cabinet ministers do not need the prior consent of the legislature. 15. Ketetapan MPR 3/2000, tentang sumber hukum dan tata urutan peraturan perundangundangan. Both the Indonesian and English versions are available at http:// www.gtzsfdm.or.id/lr_con_decree.htm. 16. Interviews, DPR, Law Department, Jakarta, 3 December 2002. 17. This is a departure from the American model where only the Senate screens executive appointments (Olson 1994, p. 82). 18. Jakarta Post Online, 18 June 2002. 19. The budget session is divided into two parts. The recess period after the first reading is to enable the committees to scrutinize the budget proposals. 20. http://www.nic.in. 21. Such as the Chinese claims on islands also claimed by the Philippines in the South China Sea.

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Reproduced from Parliaments and Political Change in Asia by Jurgen Ruland, Clemens Jurgenmeyer, Miichael H. Nelson and Patrick Ziegenhain (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2005). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be 95at reproduced without prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available Parliaments andtheElections < http:// bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

Chapter Five

Parliaments and Elections

For most scholars, the first elections after regime change, the so-called founding elections, constitute the beginning of the consolidation phase, the end of which is more difficult to determine than for the other phases of transition (Merkel 1999). Democracy is fully consolidated, if — as Przeworski maintains — it has become “the only game in town” (Przeworski 1991, p. 26). However, when exactly this is the case is open to debate. Of analytical use in this respect is Pridham’s suggestion to distinguish between “negative” and “positive” consolidation. Negative consolidation means the containment of anti-democratic veto groups, while positive consolidation refers to the deepening of democracy through fostering a broad-based civic culture and improving the effectiveness of democratic institutions (Pridham 1995). Inclusive parliaments foster both negative and positive consolidation. They facilitate negative consolidation by drawing veto forces into the electoral and parliamentary arena, by integrating them even after defeat at the polls, and by preventing them from obstructing parliamentary

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procedures. Legislatures facilitate positive consolidation if they perform their functions effectively, if they provide for a modicum of social justice, and, if as a result, they enhance the trust of the population in democracy and thus help to build a civic culture. The chapters that follow will examine how parliaments contribute to consolidating or sustaining — in the case of India’s older democracy — democratic order. Crucial in this respect are not only the founding elections, but elections in general. Elections constitute parliaments and determine their composition. They have, in consonance with the electoral system and the extent to which the societal cleavage structure has led to party-building, a great impact on the inclusiveness of a legislature and, hence, to a considerable degree a legislature’s legitimacy. Electoral inclusiveness has several dimensions: it depends on the proportionality of the electoral system, that is, how votes are translated into seats, the spectrum of political parties represented in parliament, and the social profile of the legislators (Nohlen 1992, p. 296; Sartori 1994, p. ix; Croissant 2001a, p. 71). Electoral Principles Most of the world’s constitutions define lofty electoral principles. So do the constitutions of the five countries studied here which — with minor variations — guarantee an electoral process that is “universal, equal, direct and based on secret ballot” (Choi 1996, p. 78). However, such principles should not tempt us to ignore Sartori’s warning that electoral systems are “the most manipulative instrument of politics” (Sartori 1994, p. ix). Since electoral systems and electoral rules are rarely regulated in the constitution and in most cases laid down in electoral codes or election laws passed by parliament, the five dimensions of an electoral system — voting system, district size, supplemental seats, electoral thresholds, and the ballot structure (Lijphart 1984, p. 153) — are even more open to controversy than the constitution itself and, indeed, are persistently contested. Testimony of this ongoing tug of war over the electoral rules and, in consequence, attempts of incumbents “to acquire built-in advantages over their competitors” (Tancangco 1997, p. 129) are the frequent changes of the electoral laws in four of the five countries studied. In the Philippines, major electoral legislation was passed in 1988 and 1994; in Indonesia in

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1969, 1980, 1999, and 2003; in South Korea in 1987, 1994, 1997, 1999, and 2001; and in Thailand in 1998 and 2000. In India there have been no profound changes since 1950. The subsequent chapter thus stands for the double-edged nature of parliaments mentioned in the introduction: in so far as parliaments shape electoral laws they are an independent variable in the process of democratic transition, but as electoral laws also determine the composition of the legislature, parliaments are at the same time a dependent variable. In line with the main theme of our study, the sections that follow examine the extent the electoral systems in the five countries studied foster inclusiveness of the respective legislatures. We therefore take a closer look at the inclusionary effects of the voting system, district delimitation, supplemental seats, electoral thresholds, ballot paper structure, complementary party-lists, and electoral manipulation. Voting Systems With the exception of Indonesia, which has a proportional representation system, the electoral systems of the other four countries studied here have a more or less strong majoritarian bias. While in India all seats are distributed on the basis of plurality voting, this applies for up to 83 per cent of the seats in Thailand, the Philippines, and South Korea. The remainder are reserved seats as in the Philippines between 1987 and 1995 or are distributed on the basis of party-lists as in Thailand, South Korea, and since 1998 in the Philippines. According to Lijphart, plurality systems are less inclusive than proportional representation systems due to their in-built disproportionality (Lijphart 1984, p. 150). Where the first-past-the-post system in single-member constituencies (SMCs) without a run-off provision is applied, a relatively small share of the votes may suffice to win a mandate. While this may be a less likely scenario in two-party systems and moderately fragmented multi-party systems, under the conditions of highly fragmented multi-party systems it is a more likely outcome. In the multi-party systems of the Philippines and India, for instance, many candidates win their seats with less than 35 per cent of 1 the vote. In the Philippine elections of 1987, for instance, the 200 members of the House of Representatives received only 34 per cent of

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the total votes cast (Teehankee 2002, p. 164). The votes cast for the losing candidates are then rendered meaningless. The exclusionary effect of plurality voting systems is even exacerbated, when — as in the Philippines — the spoils of electoral victory are primarily channelled into the precincts which supported the winning candidates and the collective gains for the constituency as a whole are moderate or even 2 missing in toto. Plurality systems also seem to benefit large parties over small parties, except when the latter have major regional strongholds. Disproportionality tends to increase if the party system is dominated by one major party; it tends to decline with several parties of equal strength or with a number of smaller parties. The Indian National Congress, for instance, with less than 50 per cent of the vote, regularly won two-thirds of the seats or even more until the mid-1980s. Deviating from this pattern was only the “critical” 1977 election, in which Congress, with 34.5 per cent of the vote and 28.4 per cent of the seats, suffered a landslide defeat. In this election the disproportionality effect favoured the winning Janata Front coalition, which won 41.3 per cent of the vote and 54.4 per cent of the seats. Before and after this election, Congress benefited from the fact that opposition parties were unable or unwilling to enter electoral alliances with other parties. Whenever they formed such coalitions and nominated joint candidates, it was not unusual for Congress candidates to be defeated. Since the late 1980s, with the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) establishing itself as a second major party rivalling Congress, the disproportionality effect of the Indian plurality system has declined and, while benefiting the BJP, persistently worked to the detriment of Congress (Rösel and Jürgenmeyer 2002a, pp. 74–77). Under the Korean electoral system, larger parties also gain a disproportionately greater share of legislative seats. For instance, in the 1996 elections the ruling New Korea Party (NKP) won 46 per cent of the total number of seats with 35 per cent of the vote. Conversely, the fourth-largest party, the DP, obtained only 5 per cent of the total number of seats with slightly more than 11 per cent of the vote (Park 2000, p. 6). Yet, these figures suggest that the disproportionality of the Korean electoral system is declining since the end of the authoritarian rule. Looking back to the elections for the 11th National Assembly in 1981,

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the ruling party was able to win 54.7 per cent of the seats with only 35.8 per cent of the votes (Croissant 1998b, p. 74). In the Philippines, the disproportionality effect is greater for the 3 Senate than for the House. Due to the nationwide constituency of Senate elections, large parties and party coalitions have a clear edge over small, regionally based parties. As in India and South Korea, there is nevertheless a declining trend of disproportionality in both Houses. This contrasts with data for Thailand, which show that with the introduction of SMCs under the Constitution of 1997 disproportionalities are on the rise. Yet, all in all, comparative research suggests that disproportionality is not only markedly declining in three of our five cases, but is also moderate or even low compared with political systems elsewhere (Lijphart 1984, p. 163; Croissant 2002b). Not unexpectedly, disproportionality effects are by far the lowest in Indonesia with its system of proportional representation. If for the 1999 elections a plurality system had been applied taking the 355 districts (kapubaten) and cities (kotamadya) as constituencies, the PDI-P would have won 182 seats (51.3 per cent), Partai Golkar 143 seats (40.3 per cent), and other parties only 30 seats (8.4 per cent) out of a total of the 355 parliamentary mandates, compared with 33.3 per cent of the mandates for the PDI-P, 26.0 per cent for Golkar, and 40.7 per cent for 4 other parties under the current system of proportional representation. An essentially two-party system with PDI-P and Golkar together receiving 91.6 per cent of the total mandates would have been the result. The disproportionalities of the plurality system would in the first place have adversely affected the Islamic parties and several small parties which would have received only 8.4 per cent of the total mandates instead of 40.7 per cent. It is thus obvious that the main purpose of the introduction of proportional representation, namely, the broad and differentiated representation of the population, has been achieved. However, the main disadvantage of proportional representation, the fragmentation of the party system, with 19 parties represented in parliament, has led to unstable majorities and debates over a change towards a plurality system. Yet, as recent research indicates, the majority of Indonesians seems to favour a multi-party system, rejecting one- or two-party systems (Tan 2002, pp. 501ff.). Based on Lijphart’s index of disproportionality which

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indicates the average vote-seat deviation of the two largest parties in each election (Lijphart 1984, p. 163), introducing a plurality system based on SMCs in Indonesia would produce one of the highest 5 disproportionality effects in the whole of Asia. It should be noted, however, that the indicators frequently used to determine the disproportionality of electoral systems only provide partial answers to the degree of inclusiveness of an electoral system. Normally, they only indicate national averages which, for instance, do not capture the regional disproportionalities. They thus gloss over the disproportionality effects caused by regional party strongholds which may compound the exclusionary effects of plurality voting systems (Nohlen 1990, p. 299). A typical example in this respect is South Korea with its deeply entrenched electoral regionalism. In all parliamentary elections since 1987, the major parties strongly relied on support in their regional bailiwicks where they polled overwhelming majorities. Frequently overlooked, voting age and eligibility may also be a factor causing variations with regard to the inclusiveness of electoral systems, especially in countries with a youthful population. In the Philippines and India, nearly 50 per cent of the population are under 20, while — as a result of determined family planning policies and an earlier demographic transformation — this percentage is somewhat lower in Indonesia, Thailand, and South Korea. Again, it is the Indonesian electoral law which produces the highest degree of inclusiveness with a voting age of 17 or even lower if married at the time of registration, and eligibility at the age of 21. With 20 and 25 years, respectively, South Korea is least inclusive in this respect, in effect disenfranchising segments of the population most in 6 favour of reformist policies. Finally, also enhancing exclusion is the fact 7 that in the Philippines the 7.4 million overseas Filipinos had been disenfranchised until very recently — a point for those who argue that globalization is undermining democracy (Dahrendorf 1997; Zürn 1998). However, in 2003, a bill on absentee voters has been passed, giving voting rights to Philippine overseas workers and — under certain conditions — Filipino Green Card holders in the United States. Moreover, elections in plurality-based electoral systems are first and foremost personal plebiscites. Political parties as organizers and campaign financiers are thus more dispensable than in a system of proportional

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Parliaments and Elections Table 5.1 Voting Age and Eligibility

Country

Voting Age

Eligibility Age

Percentage of Population Below 20 Years of Age

India

18

25

48.6

Indonesia

17 or married at time of registration

21

approx. 38

Philippines

18

25

47.49

South Korea

20

25

28.98

Thailand

18

25

32.93

Sources: Election laws; www.census.gov.ph; www.nso.go.kr; www.nso.go.th; Rothermund (1995, p. 591); UNDP (2002, p. 192); Election Commission of India (1999a).

representation. More than under proportional representation, candidates are forced to mobilize their own resources. As a result, the wealthy candidate dominates, giving — as we shall see in Chapter Seven — the parliaments an elitist and plutocratic profile. A unique feature of the Philippine political system is that no byelections are held when a House seat becomes vacant during the term. This means that the district affected by the vacancy will not be represented in the House until the next election, thus further reducing the limited inclusiveness of plurality voting. District Delimitation Disproportionality effects may also result from the way the electoral districts are designed. The South Korean as well as the Philippine electoral systems, for instance, are characterized by an over-representation of rural districts. While in the pre-1972 presidential democracy of the Philippines, despite significant demographic changes, the apportionment of legislative districts had remained the same since 1907 (Caoili 1989a, p. 8), the 1987 Constitution calls for a revision of the constituency boundaries every five years. None, however, has been conducted so far. Bills 8 introduced by legislators to this end have been shelved by Congress. Imbalances in favour of thinly populated rural areas were created by the

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stipulation that each province must have at least one seat. While Batanes, the smallest province, with a population of only 16,467 is entitled to one seat, one seat in Metro Manila covers a population of 382,022. The disproportionality caused by constituency delimitation is somewhat less in South Korea, where the National Election Commission set the lower limit for a seat at 90,000 voters, the upper limit at 350,000. This decision took effect for the first time in the April 2000 parliamentary elections. Previously the lower limit was 75,000, and the upper limit 300,000 (Park 2000, p. 7). In both cases, this is certainly a greater variation than in most Western democracies, but by international standards it is still satisfactory (Croissant 2000/2001, p. 77). The Indonesian electoral law of the Orde Baru (1969) and Law No. 2 of 1999 stipulated that each regency and municipality has at least one seat. This means that the thinly populated rural outer island constituencies are over-represented, while the more urbanized provinces of Java are under-represented in parliament. In Irian Jaya and Aceh, for instance, 63,648 votes and 82,385 votes brought one seat, respectively. By contrast, in the Javanese provinces around 300,000 votes were needed for a parliamentary mandate. However, this will change with the general elections in 2004. In the new election law of 2003 one DPR seat will represent around 370,000 people, with variations ranging from 420,000 people per seat in Gorontalo (North Sulawesi) to 320,000 people per seat in BangkaBelitung (Riau). The former stipulation that every regency must be represented by at least one seat has been modified in favour of a more or less truly proportional representation of the provinces’ population. As a result, the Javanese provinces will gain 91 additional seats and will thus 9 control 325 out of a total of 550 seats (59 per cent) in the DPR. The outer islands have been compensated for this loss of mandates in the DPR by the creation of a second chamber, the DPD, which enables all provinces — irrespective of their population size — to send four elected members to the DPD (Tan 2002, p. 489). Although the Indian constitution stipulates (Paragraph 82 and 170 [3]) that electoral districts have to be adjusted after every census (that is, every ten years), the last revision dates back to 1976. In this year the 42nd amendment to the Indian Constitution was passed suspending

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the delimitation until after the census 2001 so that the states’ family planning programmes do not affect their political representation in the Lok Sabha. According to the 84th constitutional amendment of 2002, the existing interstate allocation of Lok Sabha seats will remain unchanged until 2026. It lifted the freeze on the delimitation of Lok Sabha seats on the state level and allows delimitation within the states on the basis of the 1991 census. The demographic changes that have occurred since 1971 have thus not been reflected in the district delimitation, giving rise to distortions between states and within states. In Uttar Pradesh, Maharashtra, and Tamil Nadu, one seat represents almost twice as many 10 people as in Haryana, Madhya Pradesh, and Punjab. Within a state, disparities in the population-seat ratio may be even greater. An example is district delimitation in the Union Territory of Delhi where disparities among Lok Sabha constituencies can be as much as 1 : 7. At the national level, the discrepancies in the size of constituencies between the largest parliamentary constituency having over 2.8 million voters and the smallest with less than 35,000 at the time of the 1998 general elections are even more striking (Election Commission of India 1999, p. 3). Supplemental and Reserved Seats Supplemental and reserved seats may have a double-edged impact on inclusiveness. They may increase the inclusiveness of an electoral system by reserving seats for disadvantaged groups or minorities which would otherwise not be represented in the legislature, but in the case of a pacted transition they may also perpetuate a parliamentary power base for the remnants of the ancien régime or potential veto powers such as the military. What effect such reserved or supplemental seats in practice have, thus depends to a great extent on the circumstances of their election or selection — that is, if they are popularly elected or appointed by the executive. Based on a constitutional stipulation the Philippine election law, for instance, reserved for three consecutive terms after the ratification of the 1987 Constitution at least 25 seats for representatives “from the labor, peasant, urban poor, indigenous cultural communities, women, youth, and such other sectors as may be provided by law, except the religious sector” (Article VI, Section 5 [2]). Until the 10th Congress (1995–98), these representatives were appointed by the president. Yet,

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Congress — supported by a Supreme Court ruling — was able to force the president to submit his appointees to the congressional Commission on Appointment. While this ensured that not only hand-picked supporters of the president were appointed, the ruling also gave Congress a veto over the appointment of reformist and sectoral representatives (Foth 1991, p. 103; Caoili 1998, pp. 103–4). Yet, the selection practice was dubious and frequently criticized as intransparent. Unfortunately, the party-list system that replaced the reserved seats in 1998 was also fraught with many problems, and hardly any better. In India, out of the 543 elective seats, 79 are reserved for Scheduled Castes (untouchables) and 41 for Scheduled Tribes. In a reserved constituency only members of the Scheduled Castes or Scheduled Tribes may contest elections to the Lok Sabha, but all registered voters of the constituency are permitted to vote. Reserved seats are distributed by states according to the Scheduled Castes’ and/or Scheduled Tribes’ share of the total population in each state. This reservation is meant to ensure an adequate representation of these backward and discriminated groups in the Lok Sabha. Originally a temporary device for ten years, the reservation of parliamentary seats has been extended each time for another ten years. While this percentage with 22 per cent of all elective seats more or 11 less reflects their share of the total population of India, the direct benefits of this reservation policy accrues to only a small proportion of the Scheduled Castes and Tribes. The vast majority of them has not benefited much from these reservations; they still have to live a life of misery, exploitation, and ritual discrimination. However, these quotas have led to the emergence of a small though vocal middle class of Scheduled Caste members which is politically organized in the Bahujan Samaj Party and tries to achieve a greater political representation. This party, founded in 1984, has its strongholds in Northern India, mainly Uttar Pradesh, where it receives as much as 20 per cent of the vote of this state. The birth of new community leaders spurred a horizontal mobilization of the Scheduled Castes (Stuligross and Varshney 2002, pp. 449–552). Yet, the vested interests that have become associated with the reserved seats have eroded their contribution to greater parliamentary inclusiveness.

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In Indonesia the Orde Baru regime had reserved for the Armed Forces of the Republic of Indonesia (ABRI) 75 seats from 1971 to 1987, 100 seats from 1987 until 1997, and since 1997 again 75 of the DPR’s 500 12 seats; but constitutional amendments provided for the armed forces to be gradually phased out of parliament after 1998. The Electoral Law of 1999 reduced the number of seats reserved for the military to 38, before the Second Amendment of the Constitution of 1945, passed in August 2000, abolished all seats for the military in the DPR. According to the modified Article 19 (2) all members of the DPR have to be elected in 2004. In August 2002 the Fourth Constitutional Amendment completely dismantled the corporatist remnants of the Orde Baru, as exemplified by appointed delegates from so-called functional groups in the MPR. By changing Article 2 (1) of the constitution, the amendment transformed the MPR as well into an institution entirely composed of elected representatives. The consequence of this revision is that from the parliamentary elections in 2004 onward, the military will neither be represented in the DPR nor the MPR. In compensation, members of the armed forces will henceforth be endowed with voting rights, not in the 2004 elections but in the elections held after that. Moreover, they are also allowed to run as candidates for the DPD to be established in 2004. The abolition of reserved seats for the armed forces in the DPR and the MPR is not only an important step towards a more meaningful division of power, but also a major step towards “negative consolidation” (Pridham 1995). The constitutional amendments have eroded the power base of a major veto player which is now more credibly placed under civilian supremacy. Electoral Thresholds Electoral thresholds are an institutional device frequently applied in proportional representation systems. They are installed in order to reduce the fragmentation of the political party system. While electoral thresholds may enhance political stability by denying parliamentary seats to splinter parties, the potential drawback is a lesser degree of inclusiveness. In their party-list components South Korea and Thailand have even gone so far as to adopt the stiff 5 per cent hurdle practised in Germany. While in Thailand this provision must be linked to the penchant of the framers of the 1997 Constitution for “rationalized parliamentarianism” and,

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hence, a tangible reduction of the number of political parties represented in the legislature, South Korean parties winning at least five (prior to 2000, three) direct mandates are able to circumvent the 5 per cent threshold in the party-list component (Nelson 2001a, 2001b; Croissant 2001b; 2002b, p. 244). Finally, the Indonesian electoral law of 2003 stipulates that only parties which have won at least 3 per cent (increased from 2 per cent) of the vote in the previous election will be admitted to the next parliamentary election. How effective such a provision is remains to be seen. As the list of the parties participating in the 2004 elections shows, many parties circumvented that regulation by just changing their name slightly (for example, from Partai Demokrasi Indonesia (PDI) to Partai Penegak Demokrasi Indonesia (PPDI) or from Partai Keadilan (PK) to Partai Keadilan Sejahtera (PKS). It has also been rightfully criticized that such a provision works to the disadvantage of smaller parties, which have no prospect of growing and maturing over a certain period of time. The party spectrum may become more fluid and less transparent with such a legal provision. It will not contribute to the reduction of the number of parties in parliament. Ballot Paper Structure Only in the Philippines does the ballot structure seem to have some adverse effect on the election outcome. Philippine ballots leave blank the space where normally the candidate’s name would appear and require the voter to fill in the name by himself or herself (Frehner 2001b, p. 50). While in the pre-martial law years this was used as a subtle device to prevent illiterates from voting instead of outrightly disenfranchising them, the requirement still has a confusing effect on less-educated voters and serves as an incentive for electoral manipulation with prefabricated ballots. As Indonesia has recently introduced an open-list election, it is not far-fetched to predict practical problems for the electoral process. In the 2004 parliamentary elections Indonesian voters have to make their selection in four different polls (national parliament, regional parliament, district parliament, and chamber of the regions, DPD) simultaneously. Each ballot paper is nearly one metre wide and contains 24 parties with more than ten candidates. The voters have to vote for either a party or a

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party and one candidate from the same party. Otherwise, the vote will be invalid. Additionally, on the list for the DPD, only candidates and no party symbols are allowed to be printed on the ballot paper. This new voting mechanism is much more complicated than in all previous elections and will confuse many voters, thus possibly leading to a high number of invalid votes. Increasing Parliamentary Inclusiveness in Plurality Systems: Party-lists In the last two decades, the electoral systems of three of the five countries have come under attack by critics for their lack of inclusiveness and disproportionality. As a remedy, South Korea and the Philippines introduced party-list systems based on proportional representation. In Thailand, the 1997 Constitution required the introduction of partylists, not for the purpose of enhancing inclusiveness, but for the sake of improving the cabinet’s technocratic and administrative competence and hence strengthening the polity’s effectiveness and efficiency. It was envisaged that highly capable people who, however, lack the electoral machinery and have no desire to dirty their hands in campaign politics, would run on the party-lists. Ministers are then supposed to be drawn from these lists. While this did indeed happen, the hope of attracting such candidates (besides being a questionable elitist-bureaucratic idea) did not entirely work out. First, most party big-wigs opted for standing 13 on the party-lists to ensure that they would get elected. Second, instead of putting independent and highly competent people on promising places on the list, a party leader may choose to so place his aides, financiers, political supporters, and business associates. Nevertheless, the introduction of proportional representation has indeed increased the inclusiveness of Thailand’s parliament. After all, people for the first time had the opportunity to cast one of their votes independent of local socio-political restrictions for a national-level party or political leader and their policies. This was impossible when, for example, Chamlong Srimuang and his Phalang Dharma Party (PDP) enjoyed great popularity but were confined by the election system to Bangkok. Many votes were split, that is, many people voted for their local candidate while casting their proportional vote for a different party (mostly TRT). A side effect of

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this, however, is that Thaksin can now derive legitimacy from what he sees as his personal popularity and thus rebuke critics who dislike his populist-authoritarian style of government. At the very beginning of his term in office, Thaksin attacked the Constitutional Court by saying that a political leader who had been elected by almost 12 million people can never be pushed out of office by a handful of unelected judges (Nelson 2002, p. 387). As a result, the proportional representation system may indeed have led to more inclusiveness of the House of Representatives, but ironically, it has also led to a reduction in democracy. Reformers were confident that the party-list element would increase parliamentary inclusiveness by enhancing the electoral chances for reformist parties, thereby also having a party-building effect. Party-lists were seen as an avenue to promote alternative politics stressing party programmes and placing principles and issues over personalities (Alegre 1998, p. 43). Yet, as the following analysis shows, such expectations were overly optimistic. The gains in terms of social inclusiveness created by party-lists are modest at best. For one thing, party-lists covered only a minority of the seats at stake: 20 per cent of the seats of the House of Representatives in the Philippines and 20 per cent of the Thai Lower House. In South Korea, the share of party-list seats fluctuated between a high 33 per cent during the Fifth Republic (1980–87) and a low 15 per cent in the 15th National Assembly (1996–2000). These frequent changes show that even after the collapse of the old order, the party-list system was permanently contested. It became a football of political parties which sought to increase their seats by a favourable distribution formula. In South Korea, the military rulers of the Fourth (1972–80) and Fifth Republic (1980–87) abused the proportional representation element for strengthening the parliamentary position of the ruling party. Under Park Chung Hee, 25 per cent of the parliamentary seats were distributed under the party-list system. Fifty per cent of these seats were allocated to the party with the greatest number of seats under the plurality system. The remainder was distributed proportionally among the other parties. Small parties were excluded from the distribution of the partylist seats by a 5 per cent threshold (Köllner and Frank 1999, p. 47). It does not need much imagination to see the disproportionality effect of

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this distribution formula. No less manipulative was the distribution of party-list seats under President Chun Doo Hwan. With one-third of the parliamentary seats, more seats were allocated to the party-list system. Yet, two-thirds of these seats were allotted to the party winning the largest number of seats under the plurality system, while one-third was allocated in proportion to the seats won by the other parties (Kim 1989, p. 480). The 1988 Election Law, rammed through parliament by the ruling DJP, still suffered from these authoritarian legacies. It stipulated that 25 per cent of the parliamentary seats were to be distributed under the party-list system. If a party wins a majority of the 224 seats of the plurality vote, the 75 party-list seats must be allocated in proportion to the share of the seats won under the plurality system. If no party wins a majority of the plurality vote, the party with the largest number of seats is entitled to 38 of the 75 party-list seats. The remaining 37 seats are then allocated to other parties winning five or more district seats in proportion to each party’s share (Kim 1989, p. 482). The formula reflects the power equation at the time when the ruling party could not expect to win an absolute majority of votes, but could improve its parliamentary strength through the party-list seats. Finally, after earlier amendments of the law in 1992 and 1996 (Park 2002a), the election law as amended prior to the April 2000 elections provided for a party-list system that covers 16.8 per cent of the parliamentary seats. The allocation formula is less disproportional than in the 1988 and 1992 elections as all seats are distributed in proportion to the number of seats won under the plurality system. Unlike voters in the Philippines and Thailand, South Korean voters have only one vote. The share of votes of the plurality component determines the number of seats allocated to contesting parties under the party-list system. On 19 July 2001, the South Korean Constitutional Court ruled that this arrangement is unconstitutional. Subsequent reforms — supported by the NGO sector — seek to introduce “a one person, two ballots system” which is similar to the procedure in the 14 German electoral system. Responding to constitutional requirements (Article VI, Section 5 [2]), the Philippine Congress passed a Party-List Law (Republic Act 7941) in 1995. According to the law, up to 20 per cent of the House seats are

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reserved for legislators from party-lists. A party-list must include at least five candidates (Alegre 1998, p. 43). Party-lists are to be elected on the basis of proportional representation. The law stipulates further that partylists should represent disadvantaged sectors of society (Wurfel 1997, p. 22; Caoili 1998, pp. 103–4). It also introduced a low threshold, allowing only parties with at least 2 per cent of the party-list vote to get a parliamentary seat. Parties polling more than 4 per cent would be entitled to two seats. Highly problematic, however, was the ceiling of three mandates imposed on party-lists. In other words, parties with more than 6 per cent would only get three seats and all the votes in excess of 6 per cent would be wasted. While such a regulation could be justified in order to provide access to the legislature for as many sectors of disadvantaged groups as possible, it is in fact a regulation stifling party-building (Wurfel 1997, p. 20). The parties entering the House of Representatives on the party-list ticket were kept artificially weak and highly fragmented. The consequence of all this is that the party-list system effectively blocks the rise of any major reformist party which could, for instance, represent the capitallabour cleavage and — with a bloc of, say, 20 to 30 seats — could challenge 15 the deeply entrenched trapo interests (Foth 1991, p. 105; Bolongaita 16 1999, p. 244). The party-list law is thus another example of how Congress is still able to dilute well-meant reforms to an extent that they have no impact on the political status quo. Since then, party-list elections were held in 1998 and 2001. While in 1998, 121 parties sought accreditation with the Commission on 17 Elections (COMELEC), their number went up to 162 in 2001. Unfortunately, the party-list system was not well understood by the voters as the COMELEC had obviously failed to disseminate enough information as to how the system works (Montinola 1999a, pp. 67– 68), probably because even COMELEC officials themselves were confused (Wurfel 1997, p. 25). As a result, its 35 per cent voter turn-out for the party-list component was less than half of that for the district seats. However, in the 2001 elections voter turn-out for the party-lists almost doubled (Teehankee 2002, pp. 183–84). Even though for the 1998 elections the law expressly excluded the five parties garnering the largest number of votes in the 1995 polls, these parties, as well as individual politicians, formed “satellite” parties

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pretending to represent disadvantaged sectors of society. The ruling LakasNUCD alone reportedly fielded 17 sectoral parties in a bid to upgrade its representation in the House (Alegre 1998, p. 44). If such allegations are true, one may indeed wonder how these parties could have slipped through the accreditation hearings of the COMELEC. Not surprisingly, one party, Bayan Muna, filed a case with the Supreme Court prior to the 2001 elections, demanding clear criteria under which parties are allowed to run under the party-list system. In a widely acclaimed decision, the Supreme Court ruled in July 2001 that only parties representing sectors specified as disadvantaged by the Party-List Law would henceforth 18 be allowed to field their candidacy. In response to the Supreme Court ruling, the COMELEC eventually found that the party-list group Mamayan Ayaw sa Droga (MAD) did 19 not represent marginalized sectors, and barred the group together with the Marcos Loyalist Group, the Chamber of Real Estate Brokers Association (CREBA), and established political parties Promdi (Probinsya Muna Initiatives), the Nationalist People’s Coalition (NPC), LakasNUCD, the Laban ng Demokratikong Pilipino (LDP), and Aksyon 20 Demokratiko from taking their seats in the 12th Congress. While in 1998 only one party polled slightly more than 6 per cent of the party-list vote, three years later, Bayan Muna, polling 11.31 per cent, was deprived of two seats in excess of the mandated ceiling. Together, the threshold and the ceiling had the effect that only 14 party-list representatives could enter the House in 1998. In 2001, initially only three parties running under the party-list system could take a seat in the House: three MPs from Bayan Muna, one from Akbayan, and one from 21 the Luzon Farmers Party or Butil. However, after the above-mentioned disqualifications, COMELEC revised the election results. The recalculation lifted the Association of Philippine Electric Cooperatives (APEC) (two seats) and the Citizens Battle Against Corruption (CIBAC) (one seat) over the 2 per cent threshold and allowed them to enter the House. Akbayan and Butil got one additional seat, raising the 22 total number of party-list seats in the 12th Congress to twelve. This is still a far cry from the 52 seats reserved for party-list representatives. Teehankee has shown that these curiosities of the electoral system also translate into an extremely high disproportionality effect, thus explicitly

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Chapter Five Table 5.2 Election Results, Lok Sabha, India, 1999

Party Indian National Congress (INC)

Percentage of Votes

Distribution of Seats

28.4

112

Tamil Maanila Congress (Moopanar) (TMC[M])

0.6

0

All India Trinamool Congress (AITC)

2.6

8

National Congress Party (NCP)

2.2

7

Janata Party (JP)

0.1

0

Janata Dal (JD)a

8.1

39

Samajwadi Party (SP)

3.8

26

Bahujan Samaj Party (BSP)

4.2

14

Communist Party of India (CPI)

1.5

4

Communist Party of India (Marxist) (CPM)

5.4

32

Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP)

23.7

182

Shiv Sena (SHS)

1.6

15

Muslim League (MUL)b

0.4

3

Shiromani Akali Dal (SAD)

0.8

3

Telugu Desam Party (TDP)

3.9

29

Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK)

1.8

12

All India Anna Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (ADMK)

2.0

10

Asom Ganatantra Parishad (AGP)

0.3

0

Jammu and Kashmir National Conference (JKN)

0.1

4

Independents

2.6

5

Others

5.9

32

100.0

537

Total Voter turn-out

60.0

a Janata Dal (United): 3.1 per cent/20 seats, Janata Dal (Secular): 0.9 per cent/ 1 seat, Biju Janata Dal: 1.2 per cent/10 seats, Rashtriya Janata Dal: 2.8 per cent/ 7 seats, Samajwadi Janata Party (Rashtriya): 0.1 per cent/1 seat. b Muslim League and Majlis-e-Ittehadul Muslimeen. Sources: Election Commission of India (1999).

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contradicting the vision of the framers of the 1987 Constitution who sought to increase parliamentary inclusiveness through the introduction of a party-list component (Teekankee 2002, p. 185). Further adding to the confusion over the party-list system was another COMELEC decision in October 1998. The fact that only 14 party-list representatives could take their seat led COMELEC to unilaterally override the 2 per cent threshold and decree that the remaining 38 seats be filled by representatives of the party lists coming closest to the threshold. The decision caused a public uproar, as it turned out that among these 38 party-list representatives were such “marginalized” persons as a son of the president, a former cabinet member, a former senator, five former congressmen and a wealthy entrepreneur. While the public outcry caused Joseph Victor “JV” Ejercito, the son of the president, to withdraw from his seat in January Table 5.3 Election Results, House of Representatives, Thailand, 2001 Percentage of Votes

Number of Seats

Percentage of Votes, Party-list

Number of Seats, Party

Thai Rak Thai (TRT)

37.1

200

40.7

48

Democrat Party

25.9

97

26.4

31

New Aspiration Party (NAP)

9.4

28

7.0

8

CPP

8.9

22

6.2

7 6

Party

CTP

8.6

35

5.3

Seritham

4.0

14

2.9

Rassadorn

3.3

2

1.3

TCP

1.4

1.2

TTP

1.1

TPP

0.0

1

0.7

Chart PP

0.0

0.7

APP

0.0

0.5

TCT

0.0

0.5

Others

0.4

1

Source: Nelson (2001b, pp. 261–320).

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4.6

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Chapter Five Table 5.4 Election Results, National Assembly, South Korea, 2000 Number of Seats, Single-member Constituency Seat

Proportional Representation Seats

Party

Percentage of Votes

ULD

9.8

12

5

Grand National Party (GNP)

39.0

111

21

Millennium Democratic Party (MDP)

35.9

96

19

3.7

1

1

Democratic Peace Party (DPP) Others

2.3

1

Independents

9.4

5

Sources: Croissant (2001b, pp. 411–81); Park (2002a, p. 175). Table 5.5 Election Results, House of Representatives, Philippines, 1998 Party Lakas-NUCD LAMMP LP NPC Reporma Promdi PDP-Laban Aksyon Demokratiko OMMPIA APEC ABA ALAGAD Veterans Federation AKO SCFO Abanse!Pinay Akbayan Butil Sanlakas Coop NATCCO Cocofed Others Independents

Percentage of Votes, Single-member Districts

Percentage of Votes, Party-list

49.0 26.7 7.3 4.1 4.0 2.3 0.5 0.4 0.2

2.0 3.4

Within parentheses: party-list seats. Source: Hartmann, Hassall, Santos (2001, pp. 185–239).

a

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2.8 0.7 1.5 5.5 3.5 3.4 3.3 2.6 2.6 2.6 2.5 2.4 2.1 2.1 2.0 57.0

Seatsa 111 55 15 9 4 4+(1)

(2)

6 + (11) 2

115

Parliaments and Elections Table 5.6 Election Results, Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (DPR), Indonesia, 1999 Party PDI-P Golkar PKB PPP PBB PAN PDI Partai Nahdlatul Umat Partai Keadilan Partai Demokrasi Kasih Bangsa Partai Persatuan Partai Daulat Rakyat Partai Syarat Islam Indonesia Partai Bhinneka Tunggal Ika Partai Kebangkitan Umat PNI Front Marhaenis PNI Massa Marhaen Partai IPKI Partai Keadilan dan Persatuan

Percentage of Votes

Number of Seats

33.8 22.5 12.6 10.7 1.9 7.1 0.6 0.6 1.4 0.5 0.5 0.4 0.4 0.3 0.3 0.3 0.3 0.3 1.0

154 120 51 59 13 35 2 3 6 3 1 1 1 3 1 1 1 1 6

Source: Rüland (2001b, pp. 83–129; Suryadinata 2002, p. 223). 23

1999, the controversy was only settled by a Supreme Court ruling in 24 October 2000 which invalidated the COMELEC decision. Electoral Manipulation: Distorting Parliamentary Inclusiveness

The lukewarm and reluctant moves toward more inclusive and less disproportional electoral systems have been set back by a plethora of illegal electoral practices which are facilitated by the enormous socioeconomic and regional disparities characterizing the five countries. Elections are thus a good illustration of the mutually reinforcing interdependencies of social structure, actors, and institutions. Yet, as discussed in Chapter One, the election-related violence, intimidation, election fraud, and other irregularities are perhaps the greatest drain on legitimacy for new democracies.

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Violence Violence, as the most blatant attempt to manipulate elections, is now on the decline in all five countries. While levels of electoral violence have been relatively low in Thailand, India, and South Korea, electionrelated violent incidents were more common in Indonesia and the Philippines. In the Philippines, where electoral violence has always been endemic, campaign-related casualties went down by one-half or even more in the post-Marcos era, although there was a renewed upsurge of violent incidents in the 1998 presidential and congressional elections. Nevertheless, Mark R. Thompson has rightly noted that since 1987 there is a “return to pre-martial law patterns of localized violence and Table 5.7 Electoral Violence in the Philippines, 1965–98 Year

Type of Election

1965

President, Congress

1967

Senate, local government

1969

President, Congress

1971

Violent Incidents 69

Casualties 47

192

78

59

52

Senate, local governments

534

905

1978

Interim Batasan Pambansa

9

n.a.

1980

Local governments

180

71

1981

President

178

102

1984

Batasan Pambansa

918

154

1986

President

296

153

1987

Congress

1988

Local governments

1992

48

50

127

98

President, Congress, local governments

87

60

1993

ARMM

13

5

1995

Congress, local governments

97

73

1998

President, Congress, local governments

188

42

Congress, local governments

n.d.

50–100

2001

Sources: Jarque (1998, p. 51); Abinales (2001, p. 156); Frehner (2001b, p. 50).

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decentralized cheating” (Thompson 1996, p. 176). To what extent, however, the political dynasties are prepared to defend the political and socio-economic status quo is best illustrated by the massive resistance they display in fighting reformist challenges. The Partido ng Bayan (PnB), a leftist party contesting the 1987 congressional elections, lost 19 of its campaign workers in election-related violent incidents — that is, nearly one-half of the entire death toll attributable to the elections (Thompson 1996, p. 172). More recently, in the 2001 elections, Bayan Muna activists became a major target of election-related violence (Rivera 2002, p. 479). Yet, despite the continued existence of warlords and private armies which are deployed during election campaigns, Eugene Gibbs’ pre-martial law assessment that a “Philippine election is a rich man’s civil war fought in the public marketplace” (quoted in Kerkvliet 1996, p. 142) is no longer a true assessment of the situation. While India is, relative to its size and social disparities, free of electoral violence, incidents that do occur are restricted to certain states such as Bihar and Uttar Pradesh where thugs related to candidates seek to intimidate voters and thereby influence their voting behaviour. Yet, where such cases have become known, the impartial Election Commission has ordered the repetition of the election in the respective constituencies. Levels of violence are also relatively low in Thailand, although in remote rural areas, candidates colluding with the local police and military units may also intimidate voters. The general elections of Indonesia in 1999 were characterized as peaceful by Indonesian and international observers, although 19 people died and about 100 were injured. This is a major decline compared with the last election under the Orde Baru in 1997, when 327 people lost their lives and more than 1,000 were injured (Tan Tay Keong 2001, p. 70). Vote-buying Another illegal technique with negative effects on the inclusiveness of parliament is vote-buying. It thrives where socio-economic disparities are wide. Parties and candidates engaged in vote-buying therefore primarily target the rural population and depressed communities in urban areas. As the material incentive to sell their vote is considerable for these segments of the population, they accept that they support

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candidates who may impress them with populist rhetoric, but pursue entirely different interests once in office. Middle-class urbanites are more immune against vote-buying practices, which they despise, viewing them as a major cause of the generally high level of corruption in their society. Vote-buying is now very rare and takes more indirect forms in South Korea and is less rampant in Indonesia and India. It is endemic, however, in Thailand and the Philippines where it inflated election spending. In Thailand, for instance, election spending is estimated to have exploded from 3 billion baht (€63 million) in 1986 to more than 20 billion baht (€420 million) in 1996 and 2001 (Schaffer 2003, p. 84). Legal measures to contain election spending — and hence votebuying — have so far met with limited success. Although all countries define ceilings of campaign expenses and require candidates to submit post-campaign reports on their election spending, most candidates clearly outspend these ceilings (Leones and Moraleda 1998, p. 312; Park 2000, p. 7; Croissant 2001a, p. 84). Some South Korean candidates are known to have exceeded the official limits up to 20 times — seven times is normal (Köllner and Frank 1999, p. 49; Blechinger 2000; Croissant 2001a, p. 86). Although statutorily prohibited, much of these funds flow into gifts in kind and cash distributed among the voters (Köllner and Frank 1999, p. 52). Yet, if elected to parliament, this makes such candidates vulnerable to political blackmail. Whenever the ruling party in South Korea is short of a parliamentary majority, it woos opposition candidates to change sides (Kim 2000c, p. 895). It is widely alleged that in such cases the government uses knowledge on violations of the campaign rules as a leverage to enforce compliance. Candidates not responding to such overtures face legal harassment (ibid., p. 895). It is no accident that more opposition MPs than legislators of the ruling party are prosecuted and eventually convicted for violations of campaign rules, so that they lose their mandate. Under the present election law, legislators are removed from their parliamentary seats if they receive a prison term or a fine of over 1 million won. However, a new banking law enacted as a presidential emergency decree in August 1993 (Shin 1999, p. 7), curtailed the formerly

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widespread money laundering practices during elections. It obliges the owners of bank accounts to lay open their identity. Moreover, in order to increase transparency of electoral expenses, all election-related funds must be deposited in bank accounts and withdrawn from them. Candidates are further required to account for all their disbursements — to whom, when, and where. If there are doubts on the part of the authorities about the accuracy of such financial reports, they may even request the necessary documents from the banks for investigation (Choi 1996, p. 85). In the Philippines and Thailand campaign expenses have been exploding due to rising levels of vote-buying. As a rule of thumb, a candidate for a House seat in the Philippines must spend 10 million peso (roughly €250,000), a senator at least 15 million peso (€375,000) (Velasco 1997a, p. 287; Meyer 1998, pp. 41ff.; Frehner 2000a, p. 94). In the 2001 election, winning senatorial candidates spent up to 50 25 million peso. Four of the five biggest spenders were neophytes. Some of the money comes from ethnic Chinese entrepreneurs, some from shady sources somewhat euphemistically called the “grey economy” (de Castro 1992, p. 57; Leones and Moraleda 1998, p. 315). One such source is the drug trade, another jueteng, a form of gambling which has developed into a multi-billion peso business. A sizeable amount of this money is channelled back into the pockets of politicians as protection money and is used by them to finance election campaigns. Leones and Moraleda conclude that gambling has become “the most institutionalized form of political financing” in the Philippines (Leones and Moraleda 1998, p. 315). It is clear, as will be shown in Chapter Seven, that these conditions have a marked impact on the social profile of candidates and legislators. They favour the rise of a class of wealthy politicians, which is sometimes aligned with dark influences. As a rule, vote-buying in Thailand should not normally be seen as an act of economic exchange. By and large, the problem lies rather in the fact that the formal democratic political system, of which elections are a central part, has not yet been sufficiently expanded from the centre to the periphery. Consequently, already existing and politically non-specific social relationships at the village level are used by the candidates to generate the votes they need to succeed. Since reciprocity

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is an important part of traditional rural life, a certain amount of money (which varies according to the level of competitiveness) is paid to those who agree with a canvasser’s request to cast their vote for a certain 26 candidate. “Real cheating” occurs when voters are forced to cast their vote for someone they do not want to vote for or if candidates buy members of the polling station committees and collude with them in manipulating the voting procedure. In order to increase the freedom of voting by making it impossible for canvassers to track how individual villagers had voted, the Constitution of 1997 stipulates that votecounting has to be done not at the polling stations (as previously) but at only one central vote-counting station in a province, and only after all ballot papers cast in the province had been mixed (Nelson 2002, pp. 344ff.). During the first free elections in Indonesia — after decades of authoritarian pseudo-elections — in June 1999 independent election watch organizations also revealed some cases of vote buying (Suryadinata 2002, p. 95). Yet, compared with Thailand and the Philippines it was relatively modest — most likely also a consequence of the Asian financial crisis which had also negatively affected the fortunes of party leaders and wealthy candidates. Interestingly, and another impressive indicator for the deeply rooted democratic political culture of India is the fact that even poor voters are relatively immune to vote-buying. Studies have shown that up to 60 per cent of poor voters are convinced that their vote matters and, despite attempts by candidates and their election team, were not prepared to sell their vote for a small fee (Mitra and Singh 1999, pp. 140–41). Although some countries such as South Korea, Indonesia, and Thailand have recently introduced state subsidies for political parties, there has been no qualitative leap forward in terms of greater transparency and stability of party finances. While parties usually boast high numbers of supporters, they have few card-holding members paying their dues. Under the conditions of mass politics, campaign funding thus still comes from the pocket of the candidates themselves or from political entrepreneurs who act as donors and sponsors, sometimes for several parties at the same time. Both alternatives have negative repercussions on the inclusiveness of parliaments. Political entrepreneurs and candidates alike view their

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campaign expenses as an investment which they seek to recoup once in office. It is obvious that such a political culture breeds corruption and 27 highly particularistic, in other words, exclusive, policy outcomes. Manipulative Election Administration

Luzviminda Tancangco is certainly right when she criticizes that probably no other field of public administration is as much neglected as election administration (Tancangco 1997, p. 127). In many countries, electoral politics is not only determined by persistent attempts of politicians to gain unfair advantage over competitors by designing exclusive electoral rules, but also marked by great imagination in the rigging of elections. In Indonesia, for instance, the extent of electoral fraud during the Suharto era came to the fore when in 1999 the number of registered voters decreased by 7 million compared with 1997 (Rüland 2001b, p. 94). Instead of a decline, population growth would have led us to expect a slight increase. While some of the decline must be attributed to the fact that voters failed to register themselves as demanded by law, the bulk of the difference is the result of a deletion of bogus voters from the voters’ roll.28 In the Philippines, too, electoral fraud is facilitated by corrupt election 29 officials. Phantom precincts and padded voter lists, “flying voters” (that is, voters who move from precinct to precinct and vote more than once) and, most notably, the notorious dagdag-bawas (literally “add-subtract”) 30 practice are constant sources of protest challenging the election results. In dagdag-bawas election officials took bribes for changing the number of votes tallied for candidates. It was rampant in the 1995, 1998, and 2001 elections. In some cases “unprofessional” cheating even led to a situation where more votes were cast than voters registered in a precinct.31 Protests and complaints with the Electoral Tribunal filed by losing candidates remained unresolved for more than one year (Velasco 1989, p. 65). So deeply ingrained is electoral fraud in the public mentality that most candidates refuse to concede defeat, even if the contest was not marred by irregularities. That such behaviour portrays elections as even more fraudulent than they (undisputedly) are and seriously undermines the legitimacy of a crucial democratic act is almost self-explanatory.

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Some of the fraud occurring at the counting stage must be attributed to a manual election system that takes the authorities weeks to announce the official results and to proclaim the winners. To minimize, if not eliminate, fraud during the counting stage the computerization of the electoral system has been proposed for years. However, although the respective laws are in place, Congress has so far failed to release the 32 funds for the project, which is estimated to cost some US$250 million. Critics of poll modernization, who view the manipulative devices of the old system as an insurance against electoral defeat, were indeed reassured by a less than successful test run of election automation in the Autonomous Region of Muslim Mindanao (ARMM) elections in 1996 (Tancangco 1997; Romero 1998, p. 198). While the speeding up of the counting process is undeniably a necessary condition for fair elections, it is by no means a panacea. Luz Tancangco’s warnings, though not endearing her to political reformists, that the “performance of the machine is not error proof ” (Tancangco 1997, p. 138), should not be taken lightly. Much depends on those who operate the computers. It is probably a correct assessment of dominant Philippine political culture, when, referring to the Mindanao election, Tancangco contends that “far from eliminating dagdag-bawas, automated counting coupled with defective procedures, forms, and software programs made more efficient vote-addition on a wholesale basis” (Tancangco 1997, p. 138). Adding to the problems surrounding the modernization of the Philippine electoral system was the severe factionalization of COMELEC Commissioners. Commissioners appointed by ousted President Estrada pursued approaches differing from those of the more recently appointed Commissioners, thus paralysing the poll body for at least two years. What can, in sum, thus be said about reforming the electoral system of the country is that Congress — by delaying viable technical modernization of the system, by approving the appointment of partisan COMELEC Commissioners, and by its reluctance to earmark the necessary budget — once more appears as a status quo–oriented body impeding democratic consolidation. In the first free elections in 1999, the Indonesian election administration (KPU) faced great difficulties in organizing the collecting 33 and counting of the over 100 million votes. These problems were

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particularly virulent in the outer islands of the archipelago. The counting of votes thus took much longer than originally intended. As two months after the election a large number of votes was still left uncounted, then President Habibie and the General Election Committee (Panitia Pemilihan Umum) on 1 September 1999 declared the interim score the final election result. According to the official publication of the National Election Commission (Komisi Pemilihan 34 Umum, KPU), altogether 12,320,000 votes (10.5 per cent) were not counted. The percentage of uncounted votes ranged from 3 per cent in West Nusa Tenggara to 43.7 per cent in Aceh. Contributing to the administrative chaos was the composition of the KPU. Among its members were five government representatives and one representative from each of the 48 parties qualified to compete in the election. The representatives of the 27 parties that failed to win seats took advantage of their position by refusing to certify the election results (Smith 2001, p. 100). In some cases they allegedly even traded their consent for payments from the winning parties. This led to a considerable loss of public faith in the impartiality and integrity of the KPU which in the following years was revamped and is now staffed by 11 reputed figures selected by parliament. While prior to the 1997 Constitution vote-buying and electoral manipulation was endemic in Thailand (Murray 1996; Callahan and McCargo 1996; Arghiros 2001), the new constitution moved the responsibility for organizing and supervising elections from the Ministry of Interior to the newly established Election Commission of Thailand (ECT). The assumption was that too much collusion between the ministry and politicians had made it difficult to conduct elections in a free and fair manner. Yet, experiences with the Senate elections in March 2000 and the House elections in January 2001 are mixed. By disqualifying candidates or forcing them into new rounds of elections, the ECT seems to have moved beyond what the constitution allows it to do, although the public welcomed its actions as a sign that the ECT had real teeth and was willing to catch “cheaters” (Nelson 2000a, 2000b). On the other hand, up to five repetitions of voting in the Senate elections sowed considerable confusion in the public and caused what can best be termed election fatigue. Accordingly, voter turn-out

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in the Senate elections declined from 72 per cent in the first round to a low 31.4 per cent in the fifth round (Orathai 2002, p. 303). Even worse, in the House elections in January 2001, the issuing of “yellow tickets” to candidates obviously violating electoral rules did not much impress voters. Forty-six out of the 54 candidates who received “yellow 35 tickets” in the first round also won in the second round. In at least two of the eight cases where candidates saw the “red ticket” and were disqualified from further running, they still managed to transfer their votes to a candidate of their choice who became winner in the second round at the expense of a candidate with a better ranking in the first 36 round. The second batch of commissioners, being retired or near-retired bureaucrats and well-connected in the dominant political-administrative elite, disappointed many observers. No woman, no academic, and no member of civil society was considered worthy of trying to secure clean elections. The Senate even appointed a person to the commission who, as a former senator, was disqualified by the old ECT for having used illegal campaign methods. And this commissioner was even selected by his colleagues to head the ECT as its chairman (Nelson 2002, pp. 393ff.). Later, he had to resign his position because of alleged irregularities in the selection process. All this must be seen in the context of tendencies under the Thaksin government to reverse or at least dilute the reforms of the 1997 Constitution. It is now even being discussed whether the ECT should lose its power to organize elections and its responsibility limited to supervision. Moreover, some want this function, as far as decisions relating to the disqualification of winning candidates are concerned, to be placed under court scrutiny. Such a regulation would, however, considerably prolong the adjudication of alleged irregularities and thus increase incentives for electoral fraud. Despite these rear-guard actions of conservative forces in the Thai polity, it may be concluded that the politicians have learned their lessons concerning the potentially damaging powers of a resolute ECT and how to minimize the possibility for this power to be used “unduly” in future elections. While vote-buying is becoming more risky under present conditions, Arghiros reports from Ayutthaya province that there are also indications that villagers — the main target of vote-buyers — increasingly

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develop their own preferences and vote according to them, making these villagers less willing to vote according to how they are paid (Arghiros 2001, p. 210). Arghiros thus concludes that “it is gradually becoming more expensive to buy votes: ‘yields’ are getting smaller” and in “the longer term, vote buying may become an increasingly inefficient and expensive way of securing votes” (ibid.; italics added). Such reports about a growing independent-mindedness of voters are also confirmed for other countries. Survey data from the Philippines suggest that among the poor — the main target of canvassers — material incentives have influenced the voting decision of only about 30 per cent of the respondents (Schaffer 2003, p. 84). Administrative inefficiency more than deliberate cheating is behind the disenfranchisement of Indian voters due to incomplete voters’ lists. Conservative estimates put the percentage of voters not included in the voters’ lists at up to 20 per cent in cities and 4 per cent in rural areas, an 37 average of 7 to 9 per cent for the country as a whole. Some NGO estimates, which are based on a random survey in the state of Andhra Pradesh, came to much higher levels of disenfranchisement. According to these estimates, about 15 per cent of rural voters and up to 45 per cent of urban voters are not included in the voters’ lists, which means that on average 28 per cent of Indians would be excluded from voting (Narayan 2003, pp. 116ff.). Yet, seasoned observers agree that the more conservative estimates are closer to reality. Generally, however, the Indian electoral administration is comparatively clean — irregularities at the counting stage are far less frequent than in most other countries discussed 38 here. These are only the most visible manipulations of electoral contests. Irregularities and, in particular, money politics in elections certainly do not end here and by no means only include vote-buying. Buying out candidates to withdraw from the race or fielding paid nuisance candidates, sometimes with names similar to major rivals in order to confuse the voter, or fielding candidates with similar qualities in order to split the vote of competitors, selling whole parties, gifts, and festivities, bribing officials and policemen to look the other way in the case of irregularities and projects carried out very closely to the election date, are also practices widely applied to influence voters.

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Pollwatch Activities Even though scholars and the press in the five countries complain that, except for India, campaign periods are too short, and that campaigns are more a matter of rumour mongering and defamation than of substantive debate, there is no question that they are cleaner, freer, and, by and large, fairer than under the authoritarian predecessor regimes (Lee 1993, p. 35; Kim 1989, p. 486; Park 2000, p. 1). A marked contribution in this respect has been made by non-governmental poll watchdogs such as the National Movement for Free Elections (NAMFREL) in the Philippines, Pollwatch in Thailand, and the KIPP (Komite Independen Pemantau Pemilu) in Indonesia. Even though these organizations were not able to stop illegal electoral practices, they nevertheless enhanced public awareness, enlightened voters about the consequences of election fraud and may thus be regarded as a remarkable exercise in political education of these societies. NAMFREL was formed as early as 1951 as a response of concerned citizens to the dirty presidential elections of 1949. Some sources, however, suggest that it was formed under the tutelage of the US Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) in line with American counter-insurgency strategies in the Philippines. At the height of the Korean War and the First Indochina War, strategic thinking was strongly influenced by the domino theory. The US government was therefore concerned that another term of the incumbent Quirino administration, which it considered corrupt and ineffective, would further strengthen the procommunist Hukbalahap rebellion, which, despite strong government repression, was continuously gaining ground in the rural heartlands of Luzon (Kerkvliet 1977). Clean elections were to ensure that Quirino’s popular Defense Minister Ramon Magsaysay, America’s choice for the Philippine presidency and guarantor for a more effective counterinsurgency policy, would have a genuine chance of winning the 1953 presidential elections. Cooperating with many NGOs, the NAMFREL network eventually achieved its objectives and paved the way for Magsaysay to the presidency. Although evidence for NAMFREL’s early links to the CIA is by no means unambiguous, the fact that in subsequent elections, when the Hukbalahap was defeated, it ceased to play a visible

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role as an election watchdog, supports allegations of an American hand in its creation (Kerkvliet 1996, p. 154). Civic leaders revived NAMFREL in the 1984 Batasan Pambansa elections which were nonetheless accompanied by widespread violence and harassment of opposition candidates by the incumbent Marcos regime. NAMFREL subsequently became a major arm in the reform movement of cause-oriented groups. These groups mushroomed after the assassination of opposition leader Benigno S. Aquino in 1983 and worked for the ouster of Marcos and the re-democratization of the Philippines. In the 1986 elections, more than the international election observers, NAMFREL’s mobilization of half a million volunteers in the country’s electoral precincts played a key role in unveiling the rampant electoral fraud committed by the incumbent Marcos regime (Kerkvliet 1996, p. 159). Its parallel count of votes and the unending reports of the poll watchdog’s volunteers about election irregularities delegitimized the official COMELEC count and supported public belief that opposition candidate Corazon C. Aquino, widow of slain opposition leader Benigno S. Aquino, was cheated of victory. After achieving its mission in the 1986 presidential snap elections, NAMFREL — unlike in the 1950s — continued to supervise presidential and parliamentary elections. Yet, despite the poll watchdog’s activities, illegal practices have not been weeded out. One observer even went so far as to implicate NAMFREL itself in electoral 39 manipulation. Nevertheless, all in all, opportunities for cheating are declining and politicians must tread more carefully under a watchful public eye. As a result, vote-buying tactics are changing: In the Philippines, for instance, candidates “hire” people as “canvassers”, pay inflated crop prices, distribute donations at bogus funerals, or give “salaries” to voters who joined their political parties (Schaffer 2003, pp. 84–85). In Thailand, tens of thousands of voluntary election observers were recruited by the Pollwatch Committee, an independent election monitoring body, established by interim Prime Minister Anand Panyarachun prior to the March 1992 elections. Although Pollwatch came to the conclusion that in this election nationwide about onehalf of the votes were bought, and even 70 per cent in the impoverished

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Northeast (Arghiros 2001, p. 173), it could do little to ensure clean and fair elections. Authorities were slow to respond to the reported irregularities and even more reluctant to sanction violators. After 1997 Pollwatch activities were more effectively taken over by the ECT. While under the new system, violations of the electoral laws were sanctioned much more strictly, money politics could — as shown earlier — not be eradicated so far. In Indonesia the first independent election-watch body was KIPP. Founded in 1997 by democracy activists, KIPP deployed some 9,000 volunteer monitors during the 1997 elections which were still held under the auspices of Suharto’s Orde Baru. For the founding elections in 1999, the number of election-watch organizations increased, including, among others, UNFREL (University Network for Free Elections), the Commission on Election Monitoring and Development of Democracy (Forum Rektor), and JAMPPI (Jaringan Masyarakat Pemantau Pemilu Independen) supported by several other local organizations. All these election-monitoring organizations received financial support and technical assistance from the United Nations Development Program 40 (UNDP) and other international donors. While international observers rated the elections as largely fair and democratic, the Indonesian election-watch organizations were rather critical and listed thousands of irregularities and offences during the elections in almost all provinces. Finally they all more or less agreed that what they found was “a limited number of violations, but they were 41 isolated cases which did not significantly affect the election result”. Still, critics complained that only four cases of election irregularities 42 were settled by the courts. In South Korea, election monitoring can be traced back to the 1992 elections, when an NGO movement, the Citizens’ Coalition for Economic Justice, organized Watch for Fair Election Campaigns. Two years later, in 1994, another NGO, the People’s Solidarity for Participatory Democracy (PSPD), in the light of scandals involving legislators and amid doubts about the performance of the National Assembly, established the Centre for Parliament Watch. An even more unique answer to the deteriorating public image of the National Assembly was the campaign organized by the Citizens’ Alliance for the 2000

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General Elections (CAGE), an umbrella covering 457 civic groups. CAGE pursued the avowed objective of clearing the National Assembly of incompetent, corrupt, and criminal politicians. Targeted were also politicians who were closely associated with the former military regimes. In the weeks before the election CAGE published lists of politicians which it considered unfit for parliamentary office. The majority of them were candidates of the conservative GNP and the ULD, in the case of the latter even including party leader Kim Jong Pil (Park 2000, p. 5; Shin, n.d., p. 6). Although they initially ignored these lists, parties eventually responded to the campaign by withdrawing some of the branded candidates and replacing them by newcomers (Kim 2000c, p. 908). Nonetheless, many of the listed politicians were nominated by the parties. Moreover, political parties attempted to muzzle CAGE by a revised election law which, passed by the National Assembly on 10 February 2000, prohibited civic groups from holding outdoor rallies, distributing leaflets, and collecting signatures (Park 2000, p. 5). Unperturbed by such manoeuvring, CAGE went on with its campaign, finally blacklisting 86 politicians, 22 of whom it identified as candidates who “must be defeated” (Kim 2000c, p. 902). Although the campaign may have deepened public aversion for politicians and thereby contributed to the extraordinarily low voter turn-out of 57.2 per cent in the 2000 parliamentary elections, the campaign must be considered successful: 59, or 70 per cent of the 86 blacklisted candidates, and 15 of the 22 most problematic candidates were not elected (Seliger 2000, p. 69; Youngjong 2000, p. 5; Shin, n.d., p. 12). In Seoul alone, 19 of the 20 blacklisted candidates lost (Kim 2000c, p. 907). Political parties which from the very beginning sought to portray CAGE’s activities as illegal (Kim 2000c, p. 901) retaliated after the elections. Based on South Korea’s strict campaign rules, which circumscribe civic group activities (Youngjong 2000, p. 4), they obtained a court ruling ordering four CAGE leaders to pay a fine of 5 million won (about €3,750) each for violating 43 the election law. Unlike Indonesia, India does not invite foreign election observers. Elections are monitored by Indian NGOs, the independent press, and since 1991 by election observers nominated by the Election Commission. The latter are drawn from the ranks of the Indian Administrative Service

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(IAS). There are at least two general observers per constituency and one expenditure observer who checks the money spent by candidates and parties during the election campaign. During the 1999 general elections, 1,979 observers were deployed all over India (Election Commission of India 2000). Voter Turn-out With the exception of founding or critical elections, voter turn-out in the new democracies is lower than under the authoritarian regimes, even exhibiting a declining trend in some countries. The perhaps most dramatic decline occurred in South Korea where voter turn-out dropped from 75.8 per cent in the first parliamentary elections of the Sixth Republic (1988) to 57.2 per cent in 2000 — the lowest turn-out ever. Voter turn-out was persistently higher in rural than in urban areas where parties had greater difficulties in mobilizing voters. In the April 2000 elections, for instance, voter turn-out was 54.3 per cent in Seoul, whereas it still reached 69.3 per cent in rural South Korea (Kim 2000c, p. 907). Young voters also exhibited a below-the-average turn-out. Finally, voter turn-out in parliamentary elections was also lower than in presidential elections, where it still hovered around 80 per cent. This is an interesting finding as it testifies to a still existing executive bias in the minds of the voters. Voter turn-out is more stable and reached higher levels in the Philippines than in South Korea. A voter turn-out exceeding 75 per cent is still the rule for congressional elections. Yet, a closer analysis of the Philippine voter turn-out reveals that it was higher when presidential elections and congressional elections coincided. This corroborates the finding for South Korea that voters accord higher priority to elections for the chief executive than to parliamentary elections. The voter turn-out of 93.3 per cent in Indonesia’s founding elections in 1999 was extraordinarily high. However, as pointed out earlier, a high voter turn-out is typical for founding elections. Once the initial enthusiasm subsides and gives way to frustration over economic stagnation and failure of the new democracy to improve the living conditions of the masses, the percentage of non-voters will increase

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significantly. For Indonesia, legislator Mochtar Buchori predicted that more “than 50 per cent of eligible voters” may abstain from voting in 44 forthcoming elections. In India and Thailand, voter turn-out is lower than in the Philippines and Indonesia. But while the voter turn-out in India was relatively stable — around 60 per cent, starting from the low level of 45.7 per cent in 1952 and peaking at 64.1 per cent in 1984 — voter turn-out in Thailand had been increasing from 43.9 per cent in 1979 to 69.9 per cent in 2001 (Nelson 2001b, p. 288). The rise reflects a growing politicization over the last decades and the increasing competitiveness of the Thai political arena as a response to modernization and the rising stakes for candidates. SUMMARY

The chapter has shown that free elections have increased parliamentary inclusiveness compared with the authoritarian predecessor regimes. Voters have a greater choice among candidates and parties and more parties are contesting. To what extent the more diversified party system is truly reflective of societal cleavages and to what extent legislators are more representative of the social stratification will be examined in greater detail in the next two chapters. Inclusiveness has also slightly improved in India, the Philippines, and South Korea due to a decline of the disproportionality of the electoral system. However, innovations such as the party-list systems are structurally flawed in the Philippines and South Korea and have not increased inclusiveness of parliaments. Distortions of the electoral process must be attributed to the rampant electoral fraud, although the 1997 Constitution in Thailand, the amendment of the election law passed by parliament in the Philippines, an NGO campaign in South Korea, and pollwatch activities have contained election rigging to some extent. While these mostly extraparliamentary influences have marginally changed the electoral behaviour of traditional politicians, changes of their behaviour and attitudes towards established electoral practices have been slow and limited. Particularly illustrative cases in this respect are the ceiling of three mandates built into the Philippine Party-List Law by Congress and the congressional

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delaying tactics in the modernization of the Philippine election administration. Finally, the chapter has also shown that there are no noteworthy causal links between election system, the system of government and the fairness of elections. There are plurality election systems in parliamentary systems and, as in the Indonesian case, proportional representation in presidential systems. If one were to insist on constructing such a relationship, one could possibly argue that parliamentary systems with plurality voting systems may be more prone to plutocratic tendencies than presidential systems. At a theoretical level, one obvious reason for such an assumption is the fact that as a result of no-confidence votes and the dissolution of parliament by the prime minister, elections are more frequent than in presidential systems, thus requiring candidates running for legislative office to mobilize more financial resources than under the more predictable and regular pattern of elections in presidential systems. NOTES 1. For examples, see de Castro (1992, p. 76) and Butler et al. (1995). 2. A by no means untypical example, though related to a local government, is the case of Cebu Mayor Tomas Osmena, who was reported to have distributed checks to 61 barangay, while 18 barangay voting for another mayoral candidate did not get a single centavo. See Today, 14 February 2003. 3. For more details and data, see Teehankee (2002). 4. Based on own calculation and data from Komisi Pemilihan Umum, n.d. The 38 mandates reserved for the military and the police are not included in these figures. 5. For the respective calculations and data, see Croissant (2002a, p. 329). 6. We owe this point to a contribution made by Jang Hie Lee at the workshop on “Parliaments in Asia. India, Indonesia, the Philippines, South Korea, Thailand”, organized by the Konrad Adenauer Foundation in Bangkok, 11–12 March 2003. 7. The figure comprises about 3 million legal overseas workers, about 2 million unauthorized migrants and about 2.4 million Filipinos who are immigrants and naturalized citizens in other countries. See Martin, Abella, and Midgley (2004, p. 1544). 8. Manila Times, 13 February 2003, p. 4.

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9. Adi Abidin and Wandy Nicodemus, “2004 Polls: Who Benefits”, Jakarta Post Online, 14 August 2002. 10. Interview, New Delhi, 24 August 2001. See also Yadava (2001, p. 4). 11. Two representatives of the Anglo-Indian community are nominated by the President. The Lok Sabha has a total membership of 545. 12. ABRI (Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia) combined the military and the police under one organizational roof. After the end of the authoritarian Orde Baru, a reform led to the separation of the police from the military. Thus, from 1999 the military figures under the name of TNI (Tentara Nasional Indonesia = National Army of Indonesia), while the police was renamed PolRI (Polisi Republik Indonesia or Police of the Republic of Indonesia). Consequently, the party group represented in the DPR runs under the name of TNI/PolRI. 13. Ironically, many of them barely made it because they substantially overestimated their party’s popularity; NAP got 7.02 per cent, CPP 6.13 per cent, and CPT 5.32 per cent of the total party-list vote, while a party had to receive at least 5 per cent to be entitled to party-list MPs. 14. Korea Herald Online, 21 July 2001; Korea Times Online, 5 December 2001. 15. A Filipino term for traditional politicians, which in Tagalog means “dishrag” (Hutchcroft and Rocamora 2003, p. 278). 16. Interview, Manila, 19 September 2001. 17. Makati Business Club, Congress Watch, 23 April 2001 (http://www.mbc.com.ph). 18. For the complete Supreme Court ruling, see Ang Bagong Bayani-OFW Labor Party versus COMELEC, et al., 26 June 2001 (Party-list), Lawyers Review XV, no. 7 (31 July 2001): 50–58. 19. MAD was a government vehicle that served the Philippine National Police (PNP) in its campaign against illegal drugs. See Philippine Star, 28 July 2001, p. 1. 20. Ibid., p. 1. 21. Ibid., p. 1. 22. Interview, Manila, 3 February 2003; Makati Business Club, Congress Watch, no. 72, December 2002; Philippine Daily Inquirer, 6 February 2002 (http://archive.inq7.net/ archive/2002-p/nat/2002/feb/06/nat_11-1.htm). 23. Philippine Star, 22 January 1999, p. 2 24. Philippine Daily Inquirer, 8 October 2000, p. 1. 25. Makati Business Club, Congress Watch, no. 63, 21 August 2001 (http://www.mbc. com.ph). 26. Election studies have amply documented these practices. See Rüland (1989, 1993), Callahan and McCargo (1996), Nelson (1998), and Asiaweek, 30 May 1995, p. 29.

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27. Due to the lack of state funding of parties in India, the treasury officials are permanently engaged in raising funds in order to meet the ever-increasing expenditure for the costly election campaigns. The minimum spending per candidate in a Lok Sabha election amounts to Rs10 million (about €200,000) while the Indian average is estimated at Rs50 million to 60 million or even at Rs80 million (Interviews, New Delhi, 24 August 2001 and 2 April 2002). According to India Today (31 March 1996, p. 13), a candidate’s expenditure can be “anywhere from Rs500,000 to Rs50 million for a Lok Sabha seat — and it’s rising”. Just how different the election spending of candidates can be, is demonstrated by the following example: During the campaign for the Lok Sabha elections in 1991 a prominent member of the Janata Dal (S) had Rs1.5 million at his disposal while his Congress counterpart had Rs20 million (Interview, New Delhi, 6 September 2001). Officially, a candidate is allowed to spend up to Rs1.5 million, yet the amounts of money spent by persons other than the candidate and his agents themselves are not counted in his election expenses. A violation of the expenditure limit is thus practically impossible (Election Commission of India 1999a, p. 12). 28. Asiaweek, 7 April 2000, p. 39. 29. Ibid., p. 39; Interview, Manila, 19 September 2001. 30. During the protracted counting process, electoral officials add votes to one candidate by subtracting them from a rival candidate. 31. Asiaweek, 7 April 2000, p. 38. 32. Ibid., p. 39. Even though the administration announced its intention to use a computerized election system for the first time in the forthcoming 2004 elections, doubts remain, as the 2003 budget does not include an item for purchasing the hardware and software for the system. Although the President declared that she had set aside 2.5 billion peso for the exercise, she could not satisfactorily explain where this money will come from. See Today, 23 January 2003, p. 10; Manila Bulletin, 25 January 2003, p. 1; Malaya, 26 January 2003, p. 6. 33. Interview, Jakarta, 17 October 2001. 34. Komisi Pemilihan Umum: Pemilu 1999 Dalam Angka, Jakarta, no year. 35. See Election Commission of Thailand (http://www.etc.go.th/english/national/mp/ mp15-2.html). 36. See Election Commission of Thailand (http://www.etc.go.th/english/national/mp/ mp15-1.html). 37. Interviews, New Delhi, 24 and 27 August 2001. The issue of photo identity cards is an attempt to reduce irregularities during the registration and polling process. So far the majority of the electorate has been provided with these identity cards (Election Commission of India 1999a, p. 9).

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38. There is a difference of opinion as to the quality of the Indian elections. Saha (2000), for example, comes to the conclusion that “our electoral system is flawed from the beginning to the end” (p. 211). 39. The accusation was made in a report authored by Luzviminda Tancangco, who was later named a member of the Commission on Election (COMELEC). That the impeachment motion initiated against her in 2002 (see also Chapter Nine, p. 254) was strongly supported by NAMFREL can be seen in this light. See Rood (1991– 92, p. 104). 40. http://www.un.or.id/ge/ELECTION.htm; Interview, 14 November 2002. 41. See Edith Hartanto and Mochtar N. Kurniawan: “Observers Differ on 1999 Poll Credibility”, Jakarta Post Online, 28 June 2002. 42. Jakarta Post Online, 20 June 2002. 43. Korea Herald Online, 13 July 2001. 44. See Mochtar Buchori, “Political Alienation and Antipathy Rules”, Jakarta Post Online, 24 May 2002.

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Reproduced from Parliaments and Political Change in Asia by Jurgen Ruland, Clemens Jurgenmeyer, Miichael H. Nelson and Patrick Ziegenhain (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2005). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

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Chapter Six

Parliaments and Political Parties

While the previous chapter investigated the impact of the electoral system and elections on the inclusiveness of parliaments, this and the next chapter take a closer look at the actor composition of legislatures. To this end we distinguish between collective and individual actors. By collective actors we mean political parties, while we treat legislators as individual actors, even though we concede that to a varying degree their parliamentary activities are determined by the party leadership. As collective actors, political parties, or to be more precise, their parliamentary groups, markedly shape the performance and the inclusiveness of parliaments. Their influence is usually greater in parliamentary systems with their fusion of government and parliamentary majority than in presidential systems. Parties recruit the political personnel of parliaments and, more importantly, articulate, aggregate, and accommodate societal interests which they refer either directly or indirectly — via the executive — to legislative decision-making. These activities certainly have a major impact

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on the inclusiveness of a legislature. The sections that follow therefore examine the extent to which the party system fosters the inclusiveness of legislatures. For this purpose, we first take a closer look at the relationship between the electoral and the party system before discussing the societal conflict lines shaping the party systems of the five countries studied here. In both cases we dissociate ourselves from standard arguments of the textbook literature. In a last section we examine the organizational structure of parties which also has repercussions on their parliamentary activities and inclusiveness. Factors Shaping the Party System: Elections Elections are certainly an important, though not the only, factor shaping the political party system. They determine to a considerable extent the number and strength of the parties represented in parliament and thus serve as indicators for the structure of the party system. From the latter the literature usually derives further conclusions concerning the stability of a political system and, by inference, of the long-term perspectives for democratic consolidation and — in the case of established democracies — the sustenance of a democracy. Studies of political party systems and on the consolidation of democracies usually operate with descriptive quantitative indicators such as volatility, fragmentation, and polarization. Volatility means the degree of voter fluctuation among parties; fragmentation, usually calculated in terms of effective parties (Rae 1971), measures the number of relevant parties represented in parliament; and polarization allows conclusions on the ideological distance between political parties. We have, however, decided to give little attention to these indicators because we believe that they are of limited explanatory value under the conditions of fluid political party systems as in the case of the five parliaments under study. Consolidation studies, stipulating that fragmented, polarized, and highly volatile party systems endanger political stability in new democracies, have to be taken with some caution. Hypotheses based on these indicators may express a certain likelihood of causation, but their empirical foundations are ambiguous. If such correlations were valid, the stability of the Indian political system, as it has developed since the late 1980s, with its high degree of party fragmentation and volatility would be

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seriously threatened. However, as we know, despite occasional communal and politically motivated violence and many other turbulences, Indian democracy is one of the most stable in Asia. Moreover, party fragmentation — if kept in check by an electoral threshold — more than instability may signify a certain degree of inclusiveness which in turn may enhance the legitimacy of a political system and thus may contribute to its stability. Furthermore, calculating party fragmentation on the basis of effective parties makes little sense, when — as in the Philippines — a substantial proportion of the legislators switches parties soon after the election of a new president in an attempt at bandwagoning. In Thailand, too, volatility scores have little meaning. While party volatility is high, voters nevertheless elect the same candidates after the latter have switched parties. Even polarization may result in inclusive effects as long as there are no challenges to democracy by anti-system parties. From the very beginning, the Indian party system, for instance, has spanned an enormous ideological spectrum, ranging from communist and socialist parties of different shades to right-wing parties such as the Jana Sangh, Swatantra, and currently the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP). While generalizations must be made with extreme care and any judgment take into account the peculiarities of the political culture and the circumstances of the individual case, it might even be argued that polarization — especially if mirrored in the party composition of the legislature — may also have stabilizing effects in the long run as it integrates diverse interests into political institutions and thus socializes them into democratic decision-making procedures. A closer look at the party systems as mirrored in the legislatures studied here corroborates the conclusions of those scholars who have expressed scepticism about a direct causal link between electoral and party systems (Nohlen 1990, p. 279). As has been amply discussed in the previous chapter, all electoral systems except for Indonesia’s are characterized by a marked majoritarian bias. And yet, contrary to conventional wisdom, which sees plurality voting systems resulting in two-party systems (Duverger 1959), all are multi-party systems. In the 13th Indian Lok Sabha (1999–2004), 39 parties were represented, nine in Thailand (2001), and at least 13 in the Philippines (2001). With only five parties, the number of political parties with parliamentary seats

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in South Korea is significantly lower (Croissant 2001b). The tendency of plurality voting systems to strengthen local over national interests has facilitated the rise of regional parties that are able to mobilize enough voters to conquer parliamentary seats. In the Philippines, which until the declaration of martial law in 1972 had a nearly perfect two-party system, the emergence of a multiparty system has recently been linked by Jungug Choi to the single-term limitation of the president (Choi 2001). Indeed, as presidential pretenders tend to form their own parties supporting their candidacy, the synchronization of congressional and presidential elections (every six years) ensures that at least some of the candidates running on their tickets ride into Congress on their coat-tails. Yet, the proliferation of political parties in the Philippines has deeper roots. Coming under increasing external pressure to liberalize his autocratic regime in the late 1970s, President Marcos was forced to call for elections to the Interim Batasan Pambansa, a unicameral legislature specifically tailored to his political needs. Applying the divide-and-rule strategy that he operated masterfully, Marcos made sure that he would be faced in parliament by a weak and fragmented opposition to which end he allowed the formation of regionally accredited parties. Because mobilizing a nationwide opposition was ruled out under the restrictive circumstances of martial law, as anticipated by Marcos, a number of regionally based opposition parties such as Lakas ng Bayan (Laban), Pusyon Bisaya, Bicol Saro, the Mindanao Alliance, and the Concerned Citizens Aggrupation (CCA) were formed (Tancangco 1988; Wurfel 1988; Timberman 1991; Thompson 1996). Although by the late 1980s, most of these parties had disappeared from the political scene, they nevertheless set the precedence for forming parties resting on a regional stronghold. Promdi, Aksyon Demokratiko, Reporma-LM, and PDP-Laban are examples in this respect. While the plurality system of the Philippines, India, South Korea, and Thailand did not produce two-party systems, Indonesia’s system of proportional representation complied with conventional wisdom by producing an elaborate multi-party system. A similar multi-party system, with 34 parties represented in parliament, was a trademark of the shortlived period of parliamentary democracy in the 1950s (Feith 1999). Their level of polarization and great number was widely blamed for the

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failure of Indonesia’s first encounter with democracy. Under Suharto’s Orde Baru, the ten parties contesting the 1971 elections were merged into three in 1973 (Vatikiotis 1993; Schwarz 1994). New political parties could be legally formed only after the downfall of President Suharto in May 1998. Within a year, there was a mushrooming of political parties, which numbered over 180 by March 1999, a reflection of the strong desire to participate in a political arena that was more liberal and open. After a screening process by 11 government-appointed, albeit independent, personalities (known as Team of Eleven), 48 of them were allowed to run in the June 1999 elections, 19 even managing to win parliamentary seats (Ufen 2002a, p. 509). Such an eruption of democratic fervour is, however, a frequent concomitant of democratic transitions. In other countries, the number of registered parties was similarly high — especially in the period immediately following the collapse of the authoritarian regime. In Thailand, 42 parties ran in the 1975 parliamentary elections, and in the Philippines, more than 100 parties were registered in the late 1980s with the COMELEC. While electoral systems do have an impact on the party system, it should not be overlooked that there is also a reverse relationship. While at this stage there is no need to elaborate on this relationship any further, it should nevertheless be pointed out that parties are not only a dependent variable in the relationship with electoral systems, but may also become an independent variable. Parties represented in parliament or forming the government have an interest in consolidating or even strengthening their power and may thus be inclined to achieve this objective by modifying or completely changing the electoral system. The protracted bargaining over the party-list systems in the Philippines and South Korea and the apportionment of electoral districts are cases in point (Croissant 2001a, p. 82). Cleavages

Apart from the electoral system, societal factors must be taken into account for an explanation of the structure of a party system. Because it explicitly relies on societal factors, we have chosen Lipset and Rokkan’s cleavage theory as an analytical framework. Lipset and Rokkan argue

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that Western political party systems developed along four major societal cleavages: between centre and periphery, between state and church, between city and countryside, and between capital and labour (Lipset and Rokkan 1967). These four cleavages reflect a historical sequence: while the first two cleavages stand for the national revolution, the latter two represent the industrial revolution. Yet, the articles discussing nonWestern party systems in a volume edited by Eith and Mielke (2001a) show that cleavages do not necessarily develop in the same sequence, or along the same lines, or in the same depth as in Western countries. In fact, societal cleavages in non-Western countries do not coincide with the sequence of nation-building and economic development. More frequently they emerge at the same time, overlap, and do not automatically have party-building effects (Eith and Mielke 2001b, p. 13; Eith 2001, p. 324; Rüland 2001a, p. 57). Nonetheless, all in all, the findings of the volume support Eith and Mielke’s contention that with certain modifications the cleavage theory is of use for the analysis of party systems in non-Western countries as well (Eith and Mielke 2001b). Centre-Periphery and Regional Cleavages The centre-periphery cleavage reflects the conflict between the nationbuilding efforts of the central government and the resistance to them by ethnic, religious, or linguistic minorities in the provinces (Lipset and Rokkan 1967, p. 14), while regional cleavages often reflect socioeconomic disparities and inequities in wealth and resource allocation between regions. As long as these imbalances do not escalate into forms of internal colonialism, the likelihood is that party-building takes place along these lines of conflict. However, if they are exacerbated by internal colonialism, which may revive collective memories of previous colonial injustices, the likelihood of their spurring separatist rebellions is increased. A centre-periphery cleavage exists in the Philippines and to a lesser extent in Indonesia and Thailand. However, in none of the three countries is this cleavage reflected in the party system. In the Philippines, it finds its expression in the tense relationship between the country’s Islamic south and the central government in Manila. While radical Muslim movements such as the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF), the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF), and the terrorist Abu Sayyaf

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group have been fighting or still fight the central government in an armed rebellion since the early 1970s — a rebellion which has so far claimed more than 120,000 lives and about one million refugees — moderate Muslims have refrained from forming their own parties, preferring to let themselves be co-opted by the country’s fluid parties. Given the divisions within the Muslim community, the chances for forming a strong Islamic party are dim. Occasionally, however, Mindanao-based parties formed by non-Muslims such as the Mindanao Alliance, the Concerned Citizens Aggrupation (CCA), and the Pilipino Democratic Party (PDP) that champion regional interests, emerged, but, except for the PDP, soon disappeared again. The same holds true for the Visayas where in the latter part of the Marcos era parties such as Pusyon Bisaya or, more recently, Promdi, a vehicle of Cebu politician Lito Osmena, contested elections. In Indonesia, the centre-periphery cleavage can be traced back to the 1950s when some of the outer islands revolted against the Javanesedominated central government. In the view of local elites, the central government was exploiting the natural resources of these islands without involving them in development planning nor refunnelling development projects into them. The separatist movements in the Moluccas in the early 1950s and the Permesta rebellion in the late 1950s may serve as examples for the strained and even outrightly hostile centre-periphery relations (Ricklefs 1993, pp. 253–56). While in the 1955 elections, the centre-periphery cleavage may have found expression in an extremely fragmented party system, its party-building effect was modest (Feith 1999, pp. 84–85). More recently, after the collapse of the Orde Baru, separatist movements in various parts of the country have again become a serious threat to the integrity of the Indonesian state. The independence of East Timor set a precedent that reverberated in Aceh and West Papua and inspired separatists in other provinces as well. At stake once more is control over natural resources and the degree of political autonomy. The decentralization law enacted in 1999 has not been able to contain these centrifugal forces in the archipelago and in some cases has even unleashed them. Yet, political parties explicitly and exclusively promoting regional or local issues violate the party law which stipulates that parties must

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recognize the unitary state. The party law of 2002, requiring parties to be represented in at least half of the nation’s provinces and in these provinces to have branches in at least 50 per cent of the regencies, thus precludes to a certain extent the rise of regional parties. The same may be said of regulations which require that every party’s headquarters be located in Jakarta (Article 13 [2]). Nonetheless, there can be no doubt that Indonesia’s party system is characterized by regional party strongholds. The PDI-P, for instance, is strongest in the provinces of West Java, Central Java, and Bali. Most of its leadership comes from these provinces and in Bali the party was able to garner a staggering 79 per cent of the votes in 1999. Partai Golkar has its strongholds in the eastern provinces and in Sulawesi. In South Sulawesi, for instance, the party managed to win 67 per cent of the votes (Bourchier 2000, p. 20). Among the Islamic parties, the PPP gets most of its votes from Aceh and other Sumatran provinces, while the PKB has its bailiwick in East Java from where 62.1 per cent of the party’s total votes came in 1999. Finally, in Thailand, the long-standing conflict between the four predominantly Islamic southernmost provinces and the centre may be interpreted as a centre-periphery cleavage. Yet, political parties have not emerged along this line of conflict which, due to its religious overtones, may also be better captured by the secular-religious cleavage. Muslim Thais have been co-opted by mainstream Thai parties, although it is questionable as to what extent these elitist Muslim leaders were able to represent the interests and aspirations of the average Muslim population in the South. Although political parties have repeatedly developed regional strongholds — for example, the Democrats traditionally in the South and in Bangkok, and previously the Social Action Party (SAP) and the New Aspiration Party (NAP) in the Northeast or Chart Thai in Central Thailand — regional interests are not at the core of their programmatic platforms, rudimentary as they mostly are. In South Korea and India, too, the party systems are not so much characterized by a centre-periphery cleavage as by regional cleavages. In South Korea, the Millenium Democratic Party (MDP) has its strongholds in the Cholla region in the southwest, where it polled more than 60 per cent of the vote in the 1997 presidential elections and won 20 out of 23

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seats in the April 2000 National Assembly elections. The Grand National Party (GNP), for its part dominated elections in the Kyongsang provinces, where it won all 32 seats, while the ULD had a stronghold in the Chungchong provinces where it won eight out of 18 seats (Croissant 2001a). The Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK) of Tamil Nadu in India was formed in the 1960s as a political vehicle to protect the local Tamil language and culture against what was seen as the Hindi imperialism of the centre and Northern Indian states. While formation of the party may indeed be traced back to an initial centre-periphery cleavage, the linguistic dimension is no longer the major mobilizing factor. The DMK has now developed into an advocate of regional interests which are more defined by a general cultural antagonism against the north. Other parties which explicitly champion regional interests are the Telugu Desham Party of Andhra Pradesh, the Akali Dal of Punjab, and the Shiv Sena which has strongholds in Mumbai and Maharashtra. While Akali Dal apart from peasant interests also represents Sikh interests and Shiv Sena claims to defend the rights of the “sons of the soil”, initially against south Indian migrants and currently against Muslims, these regional cleavages strongly overlap with ethnic ones. A similar situation can be found in the northeastern states, the so-called seven sisters, where regional and ethnic cleavages go hand in hand. In Assam, the biggest of these seven states, the Assam Gano Parishad sees itself as a defender of the interests of the ethnic Assamese, especially against migrants from Bangladesh and the centralizing moves from the national government in New Delhi. Secular-Religious Cleavage The state-church or secular-religious cleavage denotes the conflict between the “centralizing, standardizing and mobilizing state” and the “historically established corporate privileges of the Church” (Lipset and Rokkan 1967, p. 16). Outside Western Europe, the secular-religious cleavage has gained increasing importance with the religious revival in many parts of the world since the early 1970s (Kepel 1991; Evers and Siddique 1993). In Southeast Asia political Islam and Islamic parties have emerged reinvigorated by this process and hence contributed to an increasing enunciation of the secular-religious cleavage. In India, too,

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the secular-religious cleavage has been party-building, albeit to a lesser extent than, say, in Indonesia. Secular-religious cleavages also exist in the Philippines and Thailand, but have not led to the formation of political parties in these two countries. In South Korea the secularreligious cleavage is virtually absent (Kim 2000b, p. 66). Indonesia is the country where the secular-religious cleavage has been most visible in the party system. It can be traced back to the nationalist movement in the early 20th century, which was initiated by Islamic organizations such as Sarekat Islam, before in the late 1920s secular parties such as the Partai Nasional Indonesia (PNI) took the lead. After independence, the first free elections in 1955 resulted in a bifurcated party system in which the two largest Muslim parties, Masyumi and Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), together obtained 39.3 per cent of the votes, while the two biggest secular parties, Partai Nasional Indonesia (PNI) and Partai Komunis Indonesia (PKI), polled 38.7 per cent (Dahm 1978; Ricklefs 1993, p. 250; Feith 1999, pp. 84–85). In the 1999 elections, the first free elections since 1955, Muslim parties garnered about 35 per cent of the votes, while the biggest secular parties, PDI-I and Partai Golkar, polled a total of 56.2 per cent. Although with the exception of the Partai Bulan Bintang (PBB) and the Partai Keadilan (PK) most Islamic parties accept the separation of state and religion, more militant party members increasingly press for the introduction of the sharia, the Islamic law. So far, Islamic law has applied only to Muslims in the area of family law. With the erosion of the Pancasila and its inbuilt principle of religious tolerance (Ramage 1995), religious extremism may further increase in the future and also make inroads into the political party system. In India, the antagonism between the Congress Party and the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) may be defined in terms of a secular-religious cleavage. While Congress has always championed the idea of a secular state that is neutral towards the religious communities, the BJP has become the party advocating what it views as the interests of the country’s Hindu majority. All in all, however, the secular-religious cleavage has not contributed much to party-building in India. Unlike in Indonesia, there are neither Christian nor Muslim parties of any importance. Even the BJP claims to be a secular party which takes to task Congress for

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what it rejects as the latter’s “pseudo-secularism”. The BJP argues that, while promoting the cause of secularism, Congress has always wooed minorities for myopic electoral purposes — especially Indian Muslims — at the expense of the vast Hindu majority. Urban-Rural Cleavage The urban-rural cleavage in the first place represents a clash between industrial and agrarian interests. At the core of this line of conflict are issues such as land reform, taxation, tariffs, prices of agricultural products, the control over natural resources, environment, and infrastructure development. While urban interests may indeed sharply deviate from those of the farming population, these conflicting interests are significantly translated into party structures only in India. Although some parties may be more successful in mobilizing the rural population than others which have their strongholds in urban areas, with the exception of India there are no parties that mobilize voters by exclusively highlighting agrarian or rural issues. This is remarkable as — with the exception of South Korea — a majority of the population still lives in the countryside and, although the value added produced by agriculture has declined dramatically, a majority of the population continues to engage in rural occupations. In South Korea, for instance, the urban-rural dichotomy is fading away since the end of the military regimes. While the parties established by the military rulers were successful in mobilizing the rural population under the rallying cry of development, opposition forces demanding democratization had their following in the cities. With the urban-rural disparities slowly bottoming out and democratic consolidation under way, the urban-rural conflict line is less pronounced today and increasingly overlapped by regional cleavages (Kim 2000a, p. 179). Moreover, in countries like the Philippines and Thailand, where agrarian capital has diversified over time and branched out into the industrial and finance sectors (Suehiro 1985; Hewison 1989), urbanrural disparities have no party-building effect. Although parties explicitly representing the interests of the farming population such as the Sakdalista Party in the 1930s, the Partido Komunista Pilipinas (PKP), and the Communist Party of the Philippines (CPP) repeatedly emerged, they

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were soon banned by the government. As the latter two parties, apart from industrial workers, also targeted farm labour and, to a lesser extent, the interests of small tenants, they may be better subsumed under the capital-labour cleavage. In Indonesia, parties which pretended to represent rural or farmers interests were not elected into parliament in 1999. All major parties claim to care about the rural population. However, there are some differences in the electorate of the Islamic parties. While the Partai Amanat Nasional (PAN) is usually elected by urban and more educated voters, Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa (PKB) and Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (PPP) attract more voters in rural areas. The exception among our five cases is India where agrarian parties began to emerge with the gradual dissolution of the Congress system in the 1960s which until then had been able to integrate, through an elaborate system of compromise and mediation, India’s highly diverse political, economic, social, and cultural interests. The start was made in 1959 with the formation of Swatantra, “a coalition of urban big business, rural aristocracy and landlord elements” (Brass 1990, p. 76). This process gained momentum in the 1970s, after prominent Congress politician Charan Singh broke away from Congress and set up his Lok Dal Party in 1969. Unlike Swatantra, Lok Dal, which had its stronghold in the northern Indian state of Uttar Pradesh, was a party predominantly representing the interests of relatively low-ranked owner-cultivators. The party’s rise signified a growing rural discontent with India’s accelerating industrialization and urbanization. It was a last ditch effort to preserve at least some of the Gandhian ideals of a predominantly rural way of life. While in the 1980 elections Lok Dal became the second largest party in the Lok Sabha, a succession of party splits reduced it to a minor force. To a certain extent Lok Dal’s role was taken over by the Samajwadi Party with strongholds in Uttar Pradesh and its Bihar-based equivalent, the Rashtriya Janata Dal. Unlike in the four other countries, the rise of agrarian parties and their existence up to the present day is testimony of a remarkable degree of inclusiveness of the Lok Sabha. The educational revolution, which in most of the countries studied here is basically an urban phenomenon, has also changed voting behaviour, particularly of the urban population. Urban voters tend to

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be more issue-oriented and less personality-oriented than rural voters. This explains why urban areas are the strongholds of parties with at least a modicum of programmatic ambition. Liberal, nationalist, reformist and, where not banned, socialist parties tend to be stronger in urban areas. The Democrat Party in Thailand and the Millennium Democratic Party in South Korea are cases in point. They find support in the new urban middle classes which value political reforms, especially those 2 facilitating good governance and rule of law. These educated voter groups regard patronage and clientelist policies as a major hindrance to their country’s programmes of economic liberalization and the ensuing integration into global markets, which reward rule compliance and predictability with the influx of foreign direct investments (FDI) and portfolio investments. Capital-Labour Cleavage Despite enormous social disparities in all five countries, the capital-labour cleavage which, according to Lipset and Rokkan, is between the owners of the means of production, on the one hand, and dependent labour including farm labour, on the other, has not contributed much to partybuilding in Asia. Again, the sole exception is India, where socialist and communist parties have been in existence for most of the postindependence era. Yet, its share of around 7 per cent of votes in national elections is small and concentrated on a few regions such as West Bengal and Kerala. The two Socialist Parties existing prior to 1977 merged with the erstwhile Janata Party and its numerous offsprings — all of them relying on a strong regional backing. In Indonesia the roots of the Partai Komunis Indonesia (PKI) date back to the 1920s when Indonesia was still a Dutch colony. After independence, despite backstabbing the nationalist forces during the most desperate phase of their struggle against the returning Dutch colonialists in the Madiun rebellion in 1948, the PKI was increasingly able to mobilize the fledgling urban and the vast rural workforce in Indonesia. Ricklef reports that by the mid-1960s the PKI and its mass organizations boasted more than 20 million supporters (Ricklefs 1993, p. 279). In the 1955 elections the PKI received 16.4 per cent of the vote, making it the fourth largest political party in the country, not far

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behind the PNI, which won in the elections with 22.3 per cent of the vote (Ricklefs 1993, p. 250; Feith 1999, pp. 84–85). However, after the aborted coup of 1965, which according to official rhetoric was masterminded by the PKI, the PKI was physically extinguished by Muslim youth groups and army units, the arch enemies of the PKI ever since Sukarno’s tumultuous rule. Probably more than 500,000 people — the precise figure is not known — have lost their lives in these anticommunist purges, tens of thousands were arrested, many of them held for decades in penal colonies on the remote Moluccan island of Buru. Since then, Suharto’s harsh anti-communism and a party law stifling political pluralism assured that no other leftist party could again emerge. The clandestinely organized tiny Partai Rakyat Demokratik (PRD) was made the scapegoat for the violence accompanying the regimeorchestrated ouster of Megawati Sukarnoputri from the leadership of the PDI in 1996 and its leaders imprisoned. In the 1999 elections the PRD, now legalized, ran, but garnered less than 0.1 per cent of the vote. In Thailand, leftist parties such as the Socialists, the Socialist Front, and, to a lesser extent, the New Force flourished only during the short democratic interlude between 1973 and 1976. In the 1976 elections, with 13.9 per cent of the vote they were able to win 37 parliamentary seats out of a total of 279 (Morell and Chai-anan 1981, p. 115; Nelson 2001b, p. 302). By 1979 when a new constitution paved the way for an incremental democratization, leftist parties had virtually disappeared from the scene and have since been unable to stage a comeback. Due to strict anti-communism laws, the Communist Party of Thailand (CPT) was, for most of its existence, forced to operate underground and, after government amnesties and after having lost its Indochinese sanctuaries and Chinese tacit support, had more or less disintegrated by the early 1980s. Byung-Kook Kim explains the fact that capital-labour antagonism did not translate into the rise of pro-labour parties in South Korea with the Confucian familism and the traumatic experience of the Korean War (1950–53). Whereas the former transcended class divisions, the latter “left South Koreans permanently scarred and ‘color-blind’, unable or unwilling to distinguish social democracy from brutal Stalinism” (Kim 2000b, p. 67).

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Philippine governments banned parties with a socialist programme such as the Sakdalista Party in the 1930s and, after the Second World War, the PKP and the CPP for most of the time. Nevertheless, the armed rebellions led by the PKP in the late 1940s and early 1950s — known as the Hukbalahap Rebellion — and the armed struggle of the CPP since 1968 mounted, at their peaks, serious security threats to the central government. However, with a mixture of a more effective counterinsurgency campaign by the armed forces and populist reforms during the Magsaysay era and democratization in the second half of the 1980s under the Aquino administration, the communist appeal waned. The CPP, despite an occasional upsurge of activities, has now been reduced to an irritant for the government at best. Other reformist parties, championing the cause of the urban and rural poor such as the Democratic Alliance (DA) in the 1940s and the Partido ng Bayan (PnB) in 1987, even if they won parliamentary mandates as in the case of the DA, were either cheated out of parliament or confronted with state repression and electoral violence orchestrated by the stalwarts and warlords of the traditional parties (Thompson 1996, p. 172). None of 3 these parties played a noteworthy role in the Philippine Congress. The left-leaning Bayan Muna and Akbayan, both of which entered Congress through the party-list election, are stifled in their growth by the ceiling of three mandates as stipulated by the Party-List Law. Ethnic Cleavages In plural societies ethnic cleavages may have party-building effects, especially if they overlap with the religious-secular and the centreperiphery cleavages. Yet, as these conflicts touch upon deeply ingrained cultural identities and values, they are easily prone to escalating into violent confrontations. The Moro rebellion in Mindanao and the Sulu archipelago, the violence flaring up from time to time in the southern provinces of Thailand, the ethno-religious strife in the Moluccas, Central Sulawesi, East Kalimantan, West Papua, and Aceh as well as the frequent communal clashes in India are all cases in point. However, while, as shown above, these conflicts may have translated into party-building along the secular-religious cleavage, there is virtually no party-building along ethnic lines in the five countries studied.

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Other Cleavages Other cleavages having a limited party-building effect are foreign policy cleavages such as the anti-bases issue in the Philippines and the North Korea policy in South Korea, whereas the materialism–non-materialism cleavage, which has given rise to the Green Movement in Western democracies, has not been expressed in terms of political parties and is virtually absent in the legislatures of the five countries. Although, for some years now, there has been talk about establishing a Green Party in Thailand on the basis of socio-political processes constituting the socalled “people’s sector” (Pracha 1998; Renard and Mattana 2002), it requires little imagination to assume that any such undertaking will be an uphill task and very time-consuming. Cleavage Structure and Party-building

The previous sections have amply shown that cleavages do exist in Asian societies, in many cases to an even greater extent than in Western European ones. If they contributed much less to party-building than in Europe, this must in the first place be attributed to the fact that party formation in most Western societies took place in sovereign, though not always fully consolidated, nation-states, whereas in Asian countries it began prior to independence. Potential political conflicts were thereby swept under the carpet and subordinated to the superior goal of independence (Rösel and Jürgenmeyer 2001). Most of them broke into the open only after independence. Among the Asian countries discussed here, the only exception is Thailand, which was never colonialized. However, as the country was ruled by an absolute monarchy until 1932, there was no political space for translating societal cleavages into political parties. In the other countries, the long suppression of cleavages by the nationalist movement, the fact that nation-building in plural societies did not end with independence and that due to their economic backwardness developing countries were forced to pursue a path of rapid economic growth, explains why cleavages did not emerge in the same sequence as in Western Europe. Frequently they occurred at the same time. Moreover, the capital-labour cleavage, which from the second half of the nineteenth century onward, has become the dominating cleavage

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in Western societies, was suppressed by several factors. Due to the low level of industrial development, there was only a small industrial workforce and in the countryside farm labour was still embedded in clientelist relationships which made it difficult for militant parties to exploit social injustices and mobilize the poor. The rise of pro-labour parties was also stifled by the strong anti-communism of most governments during much of the Cold War era. Threatened by procommunist insurgencies or — as in South Korea until the present day — the aggressive communist regime in the North, authoritarian regimes relied on strict and rigid anti-communism laws which enabled them to discredit even mild forms of social reformism as communist subversion. India for her part was a founding member of the Non-Aligned Movement and, after concluding a Treaty of Friendship and Cooperation, also closely cooperated with the Soviet Union. It was thus no accident that communist and socialist parties could legally emerge and flourish in the country. Under Sukarno, Indonesia also pursued an independent foreign policy (bebas dan aktif ) which, in the late 1950s first tilted towards the Soviet Union, then in the early 1960s increasingly towards Beijing. This gave the PKI political space and clout to expand dramatically in the 1950s and early 1960s until Suharto’s purge virtually annihilated the party (Ricklefs 1993, pp. 287–88; Vatikiotis 1993, p. 34; Schwarz 1994, pp. 20–21). Restrictive political party laws enacted by the authoritarian regimes prohibited partisan activities of civic organizations such as interest groups, NGOs, and other forms of voluntary associations. In Thailand and South Korea, these laws were carried over into the post-authoritarian era (Rüland and M.L. Bhansoon 1993; Ferdinand 2003, p. 61; Kim 2000, p. 132; Wischermann 2002). They must be seen as a major reason why political parties failed to develop deep roots in society. In both countries, however, in the consolidation phase, political parties as well as civic groups increasingly circumvented these restrictions. Their links to civil society are, however, still quite weak (Schubert and Thompson 1999). An exception in this respect is Indonesia where Islamic mass organizations with millions of members are closely linked with certain parties. The traditionalist Muslim organization Nahdlatul Ulama with more than 30 million members is closely affiliated with the PKB, while the

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modernist Muhammadiyah is linked with PAN (Rüland 1998, pp. 249– 52). However, critical observers in Indonesia still complain about the huge and still growing gap between the political elite and the people (Katyasungkana 2000, p. 262). Organizational Structure of Political Parties

Even after almost two decades of democratic consolidation, parties have not changed much in appearance. This explains why we have no choice but to intone here the well-known mantra of the party literature, which complains that the great majority of political parties are personalitybased vehicles of political entrepreneurs with the prime function of paving the way for their leaders into elective offices. This has manifold repercussions on party structures, parliamentary functions, and the inclusiveness of legislatures (Sachsenröder and Frings 1998). One obvious consequence is that, first of all, most party organizations are top-heavy. Parties usually revolve around political leaders or political entrepreneurs linked to the grassroots through a cascade of precarious and loose coalitions with local leaders (Ferdinand 2003, p. 62). Under such conditions, a nationwide network of local party chapters borne by a committed, due-paying membership can hardly emerge (Köllner 2003). Even though membership claims may occasionally sound impressive, they are usually exaggerated. What is labelled membership is in most cases little more than electoral support which is mobilized by local canvassers and is not always voluntary. In Thailand, Indonesia, and the Philippines party supporters are sometimes even paid in order to participate in rallies and other party activities. Even if the political party law requires a certain minimum of party chapters in a specified number of provinces as a prerequisite for party accreditation or the qualification for participation in elections as in Indonesia, Thailand, and South Korea,4 such provisions are easily circumvented. Thai parties, for instance, have 5 in the past been known for hiring students figuring as party members. While in South Korea, Thailand, and Indonesia at least the larger parties have their headquarters and a modicum of professional staff at the national level, many of the smaller parties do not. Party leaders in the Philippines, for instance, often operate from their residence or private

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office, bearing the party’s administrative and operational costs (Leones and Moraleda 1998, p. 309). Yet, even at this modest level of organizational cohesion there is variation among the parties represented in the five legislatures studied here. Despite their fluid nature, South Korea’s larger parties, for instance, seem to have a significantly better developed party organization. According to Köllner and Frank, for example, the meanwhile defunct New Korea Party (NKP) employed over 1,200 salaried party workers; and the National Congress for New Politics (NCNP), the predecessor party of outgoing President Kim Dae Jung’s Millenium Democratic Party (MDP), about 300. The NKP and its successor organization, the Grand National Party (GNP), also maintained a network of local party chapters in all of the country’s 253 electoral districts. The other parties had local chapters in 160 to 180 districts (Köllner and Frank 1999, p. 70; Kim 1998, pp. 146–50). They are — just as previously the NKP were — supported by a party policy committee which is subdivided into subcommittees paralleling the National Assembly’s standing committees, party-owned think tanks and a party training centre (Kim 1998, pp. 142– 50). None of the parties in the other countries except for the Congress Party and the BJP in India are able to maintain a staff of this size. In Thailand, only the Democrat Party had a well-established network of party branches in the provinces, while in the Philippines, parties such as the Lakas-NUCD and the LDP may have a nationwide network of party branches which, however, disintegrates as soon as office holders or candidates switch parties. In Indonesia, all major political parties and in India, minor parties are dominated by a strong leader or at least a dominant leadership group. They have “neglected the development of institutional mechanisms to produce policy-oriented programs” (Mietzner 2001, p. 41). Therefore political parties in Indonesia, and to a considerable extent in India as well, pursue personality-oriented politics. Indonesian political parties are highly centralist in their organization and only accessible for the citizens in election times. Moreover, the plurality-based election law, which rewards the mobilizing capacities and the personal charisma of individual leaders, and the fact that parties do not rally their supporters by emphasizing

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societal cleavages, explain their notorious lack of programmatic coherence and ideological substance. The majority of parties hastily cobbles together party platforms before elections. However, with the exception of, say, the Congress Party in India and the Democrat Party in Thailand, these electoral platforms are little more than a collection of platitudes or populist demands which are forgotten as soon as the party has achieved its electoral goals. Party programmes are thus more or less identical. This has not changed significantly since the removal of Ferdinand Marcos from power in 1986. In South Korea, Thailand, India, and the Philippines most national parties are conservative catch-all parties, which deviate slightly from each other through their position on the liberalizationprotectionism continuum, foreign policy issues, and their populist rhetoric. Their centrist populism is a consequence of the majoritarian electoral system which forces parties to appeal to broad sections of the population Although in South Korea, Thailand, and Indonesia parties represented in parliament get state subsidies, political parties must by and large rely on their own funding. In 2002, the Indonesian Ministry of Finance started to remit to each political party annually 1,000 rupiah (€0.08) for every vote won in the 1999 general elections. This payment was labelled by the Ministry of Finance as “a subsidy to help the political 6 parties struggle for their respective ideals”. However, this financial support from the state for the political parties is by no means sufficient 7 and rated by legislators as a very small amount. Most of the funding thus comes from donations and companies. Yet, the pertinent regulations in the party law of 2002 have been criticized widely for being too imprecise, leaving the door open for money politics. 8 Apart from membership fees and state subsidies, South Korea’s parties are permitted to accept donations channelled through the National Election Commission (NEC). However, most of these donations are addressed to the ruling party (Ferdinand 2003, p. 62). In addition, and increasingly important, parties have created so-called supporters’ associations. Under the Party Fund Act, revised in 2000, political parties are allowed to create a specified number of such associations which may not exceed a certain number of members (either individuals or business corporations) and may not receive amounts exceeding a legally prescribed

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ceiling. All these associations must be registered with the NEC. More importantly, and politically controversial, are the informal and, hence, illegal donations usually channelled to the ruling party. A law introducing a real-name accounting system, whereby bank account holders have to disclose their names, and asset declaration for elected officials have made illegal party funding more risky, but have not eliminated the practice (Kim 1998, pp. 152–55). Elsewhere, parties are largely dependent on the party leadership and party financiers who, in return, expect the parties to protect their interests in parliament and the state bureaucracy. Where money laundering is involved, party financing may become a breeding ground for political and administrative corruption. South Korea is a good illustration of the fact that state funding does not automatically lead to a strengthening of political parties and a dissociation from party financiers with ulterior motives and narrow particularistic interests. The proposal to provide political parties with state subsidies as in Germany and South Korea has been repeatedly aired in the Philippines. In South Korea, amid suspicions that parties fabricate accounting records and make false reports to the NEC, state financing of political parties has increasingly come under fire. Such suspicions were not alleviated when parties in 2001 refused to cooperate with the Board of Audit and Inspection (BAI) in the first-ever audit of how money from the national treasury was used by the political parties. As a result of the parties’ dogged resistance, the BAI had to suspend the audit. To make things worse, in an apparent bid to prevent future BAI audits, the opposition GNP submitted a revision bill to the Board of Audit and Inspection Law that sought to exclude the NEC from the BAI’s inspection 9 of government agencies. A law enacted in 1996 obliges India’s political parties, too, to disclose their revenues. According to these disclosures, which many observers believe are a gross understatement of real party income, most revenues — 80 per cent of the parties’ expenses, according to informed estimates — are donations coming from the business sector. While the lion’s share seems to go to the Congress Party, with the BJP and Janata Dal trailing second and third, membership fees play a negligible role in party 10 finances.

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Personalism, top-heavy organizational structures, the shady influence of party financiers, and the questionable legality of party funding do not bode well for democratic procedures within the parties. That innerparty democracy is underdeveloped can indeed be maintained for the 11 political parties in all five countries, even including India. One example is candidate nomination. Parties scrambling for campaign funding tend to nominate wealthy candidates who are able to shoulder their campaign expenses themselves and may even be able and willing to support less wealthy, albeit popular candidates as well. For South Korea, Choi reports that especially in the financially less-endowed opposition parties the nomination process is a thinly veiled tool to raise party funds, a practice critics liken to a modern form of sale of official positions (Choi 1996, p. 82). Unlike in Western democracies, South Korean parliamentary candidates are not nominated by local party conventions. Screening and nomination of the candidates takes place at the national level behind closed doors. Ad hoc committees composed of members loyal to the party leader evaluate potential candidates on the basis of criteria such as wealth, public visibility, loyalty to the party, connections to the top leader, and the likelihood of victory (Köllner and Frank 1999, p. 69; Kim 1998, pp. 150–52; Park 2000, p. 7). However, the CAGE campaign blacklisting incompetent and corrupt candidates may indeed have made the party leadership more conscious of the necessity for a more transparent and clean candidate nomination process. The primaries conducted by the MDP in preparation for the 2002 presidential elections may be regarded as a consequence and — together with other reforms such as placing the party under collective leadership and separating party presidency and candidacy for the country’s presidency — as a major step towards the 12 democratization of political parties. To what extent the party leaders will allow for more democracy in the nomination of candidates for parliamentary elections remains to be seen and will only be revealed prior to the 2004 National Assembly elections. In the Philippines, too, candidate nomination in most cases is firmly controlled by the national party leadership which does not allow much participation to rank-and-file members. Nevertheless, as candidates of the NP, LP, LDP, and Lakas-NUCD are officially acclaimed by party

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conventions, there is at least a token of democratic procedure (Leones and Moraleda 1998, p. 311). A striking example of the highly autocratic style by which particularly small parties are run is the Philippine Reform Party (PRP), which in the 1990s served as an electoral vehicle for presidential candidate Miriam Defensor-Santiago. Apart from appointing party officers, members of the National Council and the Executive Committee, the party’s president, Mrs Defensor-Santiago, controls and supervises the party and selects the candidates for public office. Even more bizarre is the fact that party rules do not provide for leadership changes. If Leones and Moraleda are to be believed, party rules stipulate “that the president of the party, Senator Miriam Defensor-Santiago, will hold office until her death, voluntary retirement, or resignation. Thereafter, all positions will be elected by majority vote of the National Council” (Leones and Moraleda 1998, p. 309). With the fragmentation and differentiation of the Indian party system, party bosses at the state level have gained in influence vis-à-vis national party leaders in the process of candidate nomination. However, the process is still at variance with democratic procedures as the local party membership or elected delegates have no significant impact on the nomination process. As elsewhere nominations are a top-down process. Party leaders at the national and state level usually decide on the amount of financial resources a candidate is able to provide for the campaign effort and how popular he or she is in the constituency. Even more obvious is top-down party control over candidate nomination under the auspices of proportional representation (Diamond 1997, p. xxv), where, as in Indonesia, party leaders determine the rank of each candidate on the list. Who will become a member of parliament is thus dependent on the loyalty towards the party leadership. There have been cases prior to the 1999 parliamentary elections that parties changed their candidate nomination even after an internal election had been held (The Sejong Institute and National Endowment for Democracy 2000, p. 13). The clientelist ties which hold together most parties are not built on affective values but on pragmatic motives. It goes without saying that such parties are loosely structured and persistently threatened by realignments. If chances for being elected into office on one party ticket

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are dim or patronage resources and other rewards are drying up, politicians tend to switch party. While in Thailand the constitution and in India an Anti-Defection Law sanction party-switching at least during the term, the Philippine and the Korean constitutions do not. The notorious “turncoatism” is thus one of the most serious sources of political instability in these two countries. In India, the Anti-Defection Law has 13 nonetheless come under criticism. Many people contend that the exemptions built into this law made possible defections of larger groups of MPs, as was clearly demonstrated by the split of the Janata Dal in 1990 which forced V.P. Singh to resign as prime minister and paved the way for the break-away Chandra Sekhar group to form a short-lived minority government (Kashyap 1995, pp. 188–89). Turncoatism, party-switching, the renaming of parties and the formation of new parties whenever it may be expedient are thus an expression of instable party systems. The life cycles of most parties is very short. For South Korea, it is reported that between 1945 and 2000 505 political parties existed. In the year 2000, 81 were registered with the NEC. The fluidity of the party system, as suggested by these figures, is further underscored by the fact that two of the three major parties 14 contesting the 1997 presidential elections then no longer existed. Even though the party systems of the five countries may at a first glance be characterized by extreme fragmentation, there is also some continuity. In Thailand, for example, the Democrat Party has existed since 1946, and other parties such as Chart Thai has been around for nearly thirty years. In India, despite many party splits and metamorphoses, the Congress Party and the CPI can be traced back to the colonial era, while the BJP (formerly Jan Sangh) was founded in 1951. Although the Indonesian party system has seen a proliferation of political parties after 1998, the three parties established under the Orde Baru — that is, Golkar, PDI (now PDI-P), and PPP — still exist and were able to win 67 per cent of the vote in the 1999 elections (Rüland 2001b). Without such continuity no party identification among voters will occur. In the Philippines, media reporting on congressional issues is compounding this effect. Press reports usually mention the constituency of congressmen, but almost never their party affiliation. This perpetuates traditional voting behaviour which centres on personalities rather than

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on programmes and issues. In contrast, in Western democracies, party identification has been one of the main reasons for the party system’s relative stability over long periods of time — “frozen” in Lipset’s and Rokkan’s terminology (Lipset and Rokkan 1967). SUMMARY

None of the fluid party systems characterizing the new democracies saw the rise of hegemonic parties similar to those established by the former authoritarian rulers. Even the predominance once exerted by the Indian Congress Party has vanished. Whether — after merging with Seritham and the New Aspiration Party (NAP) — the Thai Rak Thai (TRT) Party of incumbent Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra can assume such a role remains to be seen. Thaksin himself envisages a stable system based on an all-powerful TRT leading the government for the coming 20 years, 15 complemented by an insignificant Democrat Party. The party systems discussed here range from limited pluralism to extreme pluralism. Although — as our examples have shown — the number of political parties is excessive, none of the party systems may be characterized as atomized, as only a certain number of parties is able to win parliamentary seats. The increasing number of parties represented in the legislatures must be interpreted more as a sign of democratic consolidation than of fragmentation. The organizational characteristics of political parties — their lack of internal democracy and their personality-centred nature — do indeed limit parliamentary inclusiveness. Their programmatic weakness prevents party-building along societal cleavages, while their personalism perpetuates their plutocratic social profile which — as will be shown in the next chapter — extends into parliament. Personalism combined with populism as exemplified by Thaksin Shinawatra’s TRT may for a limited time markedly increase (output-)inclusiveness which, however, rests on a few well-publicized issues and is highly dependent on the precarious stability of a clientelist party structure. With the partial exception of India the party systems represented in the five legislatures have not much increased the inclusiveness of parliaments. Moreover, existing party structures have done little to change

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actor behaviour, which is still predominantly guided by traditional attitudes towards politics. Finally, government systems have no tangible influence on the party systems which in the first place are shaped by the electoral systems and the societal cleavage structure. While the weakness of party systems in the presidential and presidential-parliamentary systems seems to conform to conventional wisdom, they are — contrary to textbook predictions — no less weak in the parliamentary systems as illustrated by India and Thailand before 1997. Whether Thailand’s more recent “rationalized parliamentarianism” produces a more stable and coherent party system, remains to be seen. NOTES 1. This figure refers to the parties represented in the Thai National Assembly after the January 2001 elections. In the mean time, the party system has undergone major changes. At present, there are one large party (Thai Rak Thai), one medium-sized party (Democrat Party), two small parties (Chart Pattana and Chart Thai Party), and two or three single-seat parties. These changes are due to the co-option of individual MPs and entire political parties (such as the New Aspiration Party and Seritham) by Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra’s Thai Rak Thai Party. The ongoing concentration process in the Thai party system is thus less a result of the plurality system, but rather of the prevalent mercantile political culture. It could also have happened under the previous electoral system. Discussions in Thailand are thus preoccupied with the spectre of an impending “single-party system” as there are realistic predictions that Thai Rak Thai could control 400 of 500 seats in the new parliament elected in 2005. On the Thai party system, see also Hicken (2001) and Ockey (1994, 2003). 2. New middle-class support for the Democrat Party of Thailand seemed to be waning. This is suggested by the fact that in the 2001 parliamentary elections the party won only eight out of 37 seats in Bangkok (Nelson 2001, p. 309). 3. See also Chapter Five of this study. 4. The South Korean Party Law of 1994 revoked an earlier stipulation concerning the requirements for registering a political party. While previously a party was required to have local chapters in at least one-fifth of the country’s electoral districts, this provision was lowered to one-tenth, making it even easier to establish and register new parties. Hence, it is of no consequence if the party law also prescribes that a party registration is revoked, if a party fails to capture a National Assembly seat or win 2 per cent of the total eligible votes (Kim 1998, p. 136). 5. Nation Review, 6 June 1988, p. 1; 23 June 1988, p. 2.

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6. Jakarta Post Online, 4 July 2001. 7. Interviews in Jakarta, 4 December 2002. 8. For details, see Ferdinand 2003, p. 65. 9. Korea Times Online, 19 December 2001. 10. India Today, 31 March 1996, pp. 13–25. 11. A vivid account of inner-party democracy is given by Bhabani Sen Gupta: “If the head of a district committee is to be elected, members of the committee assemble in a hall at the appointed day and time. An “envelope” comes from the party headquarters containing the name chosen by the party chief. He is almost always elected unanimously by a show of hands” (Gupta 1996, pp. 194–95, quoted in Wagner 1998, p. 48). 12. Korea Times Online, 7 and 8 January 2002. 13. Interview, New Delhi, 29 August 2001. See also Kashyap (1994–2000, vol. VI, p. 538) who states: “It failed to control the evil of unprincipled defections.” 14. Far Eastern Economic Review, 30 March 2000, p. 34. 15. Bangkok Post Online, 28 April 2003.

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Reproduced from Parliaments and Political Change in Asia by Jurgen Ruland, Clemens Jurgenmeyer, Miichael H. Nelson and Patrick Ziegenhain (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2005). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

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Parliamentary Inclusiveness: The Social Profile

A closer look at the legislators as individual actors in parliament opens further insights into the inclusiveness of legislatures. The following chapter therefore examines the social profile of parliaments. Although we do not subscribe to the mechanistic belief that there is a more or less complete congruence between the social background of parliamentarians and the policies they pursue, we cannot dismiss the fact that their values and attitudes are informed by their social background. The fact, for instance, that nearly 55 per cent of German lawmakers are civil servants 1 and government employees undoubtedly contributes to their propensity for over-regulation and legalism. On the other hand, it should be borne in mind that not all political decisions are class-related. Yet, in what way and to what extent the social background of parliamentarians impacts on their political behaviour depends on many additional factors, for example social and ethnic stratification, a society’s resource base, distributional conflicts, political polarization, practices of dispute

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settlement, and other aspects of the political culture. However, as the causal relationships between these factors are extremely complex, they cannot be treated here in greater depth. While we accept that a legislature cannot and must not mirror precisely the social fabric of a polity, we nevertheless firmly believe that it must represent all major societal interests and groups or that, as a minimum requirement, major groups not represented in parliament must at least have genuine advocates inside the legislature. This ensures “policy responsiveness” — “government for the people” — which is a major prerequisite of an inclusive legislature (Liebert 1990, p. 18; von Beyme 2002, p. 285). Yet, as already noted by Blondel, it is almost inevitable that the social profile of parliaments deviates considerably from society at large (Blondel 1973, p. 77). One obvious reason is the increasingly complex nature of lawmaking which, besides political acumen, demands specialization, professionalism, and technical know-how. It is thus no accident that most parliaments display a bias in favour of legislators with higher education, professional training, and increasingly a tendency towards political professionalization. The question now is how parliaments cope with these new functional requirements and at the same time become more inclusive than the rubber-stamp legislatures of the authoritarian predecessor regimes. To answer this question, we first take a closer look at the social background of legislators and — as far as our data allow — its change over time. To this end, five major indicators — occupation, wealth, education, gender, and age — will be analysed. The data allow us to identify differences between the five legislatures studied here and to explain the reasons for the same. Finally, we ask whether there is a coincidence — or even causation — between changes in the social profile and policy changes towards more reformist and democratic policies. Definitive answers to the last question must be deferred, however, until we have discussed the output performance of the five legislatures in Chapter Nine. But even then, due to the difficulty of finding adequate indicators, they may still be tentative and require more in-depth research. Before we turn to the social profile of our legislatures, a few methodological problems must be addressed. Data on the social profile are usually based on personal account. This has a particular bearing on

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the occupational profile. The category “politician”, for instance, is indicative of a growing professionalization of politics in the countries under study. It conceals the fact that many professional politicians have pre-legislative occupational backgrounds as lawyers, businessmen, professionals, and rural landlords. A similarly ambiguous category is “farmer”. It says nothing about the size of the respondent’s agricultural holdings. Yet, it makes a difference for the social profile of a legislature, if mainly small tenants, medium-sized owner-cultivators, or owners of large agribusinesses are represented in it. In the Philippines, for instance, congressmen and congresswomen affiliated with the landed elite almost never categorize themselves as farmers or agriculturalists, but as lawyers or businessmen. While lawyers still constitute a major group in the occupational profile, they may be under-reported, too, because many businessmen may be lawyers by training. There is also the possibility, at least in the Philippines, that the number of “civil servants” is underrated, because persons categorized as university professor or professionals may 2 at the same time have civil servant status. Moreover, while our (incomplete) data suggest that legislators are affluent, they nevertheless tend to underestimate the economic base of politicians. As MPs — and politicians in general — in the five countries studied are in many cases members of political clans, they often rely on family resources for their political expenses. Accordingly, data about family wealth would provide a more precise picture of the economic background of legislators than our data on the wealth of 3 individual MPs. Another problem is caused by inconsistencies in the categories applied in the statistics. There is, for instance, a tendency to disaggregate categories over time. In the Philippines, for instance, occupational data for the members of the 12th Congress (2001–2004) are broken down into more categories than for the members of the previous legislatures. This complicates comparisons and may have led to premature conclusions that the professional profile of Congress is now more heterogeneous than formerly. Moreover, in the Philippines and South Korea, age brackets vary between elections. Yet, as the brackets differ by only one year, the impact is minor and does not overly distort the actual picture.

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Occupation

Occupation is probably the most important category from which inferences on the relationship between the social profile of a legislature and policy output are usually derived. From our empirical data it may be safely concluded that in the transition states the number of professional politicians is on the rise since the founding elections. This can be concluded from the personal accounts of Thai and South Korean legislators, and also from the rising share of re-electionists. The conspicuous rise of first-termers in the Philippines in 1998 does not belie this conclusion. It did not establish a long-term trend and must chiefly be attributed to the constitutional provision which limits members of the House to three consecutive terms and members of the Senate to two consecutive terms. In 1998 many of the legislators elected in the 1987 founding elections had served out their third term and were thus disqualified from running for the 11th Congress (1998–2001).4 The relatively high percentage of newcomers (65 per cent) in the current Indonesian parliament suggests a lower degree of political professionalization. However, it has to be noted that the 1999 elections were the first free elections after the collapse of the previous authoritarian regime, and a major shift of political personnel can always be expected after a regime change. So the fact that parties representing the former opposition such as PAN (100 per cent), PKB (90 per cent), and PDI-P (81 per cent) had taken in a large proportion of newcomers is hardly surprising. Founding elections always produce a large number of neophytes, the number of which would decrease as the new system consolidates. Yet, while a low turnover rate has been viewed as an indicator for a certain degree of autonomy of parliaments vis-à-vis the executive (Park 1997, p. 100), it should be noted that the professionalization of legislators is an ambiguous indicator for democratic consolidation. If professionalization means that MPs increasingly specialize in certain policy areas by enhancing their expertise in these fields, professionalization of parliamentary work may lead to a more effective output performance of legislatures and thus provide parliament — and democracy as a whole — with growing empirical legitimacy. If, however, political professional-

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ization only means making politics a full-time occupation and specializing in manipulating power relations, behavioural change may be slow. It would certainly have a negative impact on the inclusiveness of parliamentary decisions and, by undermining the empirical legitimacy of parliaments, retard or even impair “positive” consolidation. The number of businessmen is on the rise in Thailand, Indonesia, and — despite conflicting data — seemingly in the Philippines as well. While in these three countries at least one-third of legislators have a business background (Orathai 2002, p. 295; Interparliamentary Union 5 2001), with 3.75 per cent business people were only marginally represented in India’s 12th Lok Sabha (1998–99) (Lok Sabha Secretariat 2000, p. 97). In the three Southeast Asian countries, the rise of businessmen seems to reflect the economic transformations of the ten to 20 years preceding the Asian financial crisis, which witnessed a considerable diversification of the economy and created new economic opportunities and stakes. The higher share of businessmen, on the other hand, also reflects the rising campaign expenses in the absence of significant state funding of the political parties, and the weak political party structures outside the capital, which means that it generally needs considerable time and funds to construct the local socio-political networks or a political machine that would eventually enable a person to make a successful election bid. Businessmen are better prepared to adjust to these conditions than, say, an employee in a private company. Moreover, business people also have economic incentives to enter the political arena at the local level (with the opportunity of moving up to the national level) because it will facilitate their access to state funds via construction and other development projects and so forth. Finally, at least in Thailand, it must be kept in mind that civil servants are prohibited from standing in elections before resigning from government service, a measure that greatly discourages a large and comparatively well-qualified occupational group from seeking elective office. Lawyers still constitute a major occupational group in most of the parliaments studied. Data, however, suggest a slight decline in the Philippines and a more marked decline in India. While in the Philippines, lawyers still constitute 36.4 per cent of the legislators (down from 66 per 6 cent in 1969), their share decreased in India from 35.6 per cent in the

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first Lok Sabha (1952–57) to 10.15 per cent in the 12th (1998–99) (Lok Sabha Secretariat 2000, p. 97). The share of lawyers seems to be lower in South Korea, Thailand, and Indonesia, although our data do not indicate how many of those who name as their occupation “politician”, have been lawyers before they entered parliament. What can be said with greater confidence is that in all legislatures industrial labourers, peasants, and social occupations are strongly underrepresented. The election to the Senate of the former president of the Trade Union Congress of the Philippines (TUCP), Ernesto Herrera, in 7 1987 is a rare exception. That industrial workers are virtually excluded from the legislative process must be attributed to several factors. First, despite economic growth, industrialization is still at a relatively early stage in all countries except South Korea and confined to urban agglomerations. Second, due to the reasons explained in Chapter Six, the capital-labour cleavage had no party-building effect, or only a weak one if it had. With the exception of India and Thailand between 1973 and 1976, social democratic and other leftist parties did not emerge. And, third, the personality-based, majoritarian character of the electoral systems of all countries except Indonesia clearly favours affluent candidates. Although party-lists have been introduced in South Korea, the Philippines, and Thailand, due to their built-in flaws they have so far failed to increase workers’ representation in the legislatures. Especially the ceiling of three mandates for party-lists imposed by the Philippine Party-List Law (RA 7941) discriminates against the representation of 8 workers and other disadvantaged social groups. The rural poor — for the most part landless agricultural labourers, tenant farmers, and small peasants — are likewise not well represented in any of the five parliaments. While in all five countries the share of the agricultural sector of the gross domestic product is continuously declining, only in Korea has it shrunk to a size comparable to that of the OECD economies. In the other four countries, agriculture still plays a major economic role both in terms of the employed and the population living in rural areas. India deviates from the other four cases in that the occupational data of MPs exhibit a rising trend of “agriculturalists”. The share of agriculturalists increased from 22.4 per cent in the first Lok Sabha (1952–

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57) to nearly 50 per cent in the 12th (1998–99) (Lok Sabha Secretariat 2000, p. 97). Yet, this does not necessarily mean that the rural poor are better represented in parliament than before. High-caste people are still over-represented and the lower castes under-represented (Thakur 1995, p. 142). Nonetheless, the general trend is towards a higher level of inclusiveness. Backward Castes amounted to 23.3 per cent of all MPs in 1996, up from 10.2 per cent in 1952 and 13 per cent in 1971, while the percentages of the Forward Castes stood at 45.4 in 1952, 44.7 in 1971, and 45.6 in 1996 (India Today, 15 July 1996, p. 26). With the exception of India, where 18 per cent of the MPs are classified as “political and social workers” (Lok Sabha Secretariat 2000, p. 97), social professions are likewise under-represented. This may have a bearing on legislative output since social workers, teachers, and professionals in the health sector are known as vocal advocates of the poor and other disadvantaged groups. In Europe, the “silent revolution” of the 1970s with the shift from materialist to post-materialist values has been promoted precisely by members of this particular occupational group (Inglehart 1977; Schmidt 1984). Their parliamentary presence has been a safeguard that economics has not been able to take precedence over social and ecological concerns. Where — as in Asian parliaments — social democratic, leftist, and environmental parties are virtually absent, lawmakers with social occupations could well counterbalance neoliberal orthodoxy and other pro-business legislation. A peculiarity is the occurrence of religious activists in the Indonesian parliament (about 7 per cent). Their professional background reflects, almost exclusively, activities in Muslim or Christian non-profit organizations. Unlike in the other legislatures, there were 46 active or retired army members in the Indonesian parliament, that is, almost 10 per cent. Their number will decrease when the 38 seats reserved for army members are abolished in the next parliament after the elections in 2004. Until then, this relatively large professional group still has a significant impact on parliamentary work. While many observers believe that Indonesia’s fledgling democracy can only flourish when these remnants of the ancien régime have been removed, there are indications that retired military 9 officers are joining political parties. This would constitute an important

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step towards “negative consolidation” (Pridham 1995), indicating that the military is beginning to accept the new rules of the game and seeking to protect its corporate interests within the system. This process resembles the Thai case where in the 1980s retired military officers also joined or 10 even founded political parties. While they certainly used their parliamentary influence — often in collusion with a Senate dominated by their peers and conservative bureaucrats — to slow down and in some cases even obstruct democratization, they were nevertheless gradually socialized into democratic procedures and learnt the lesson that the short-cut solution of political problems by way of a coup d’état produces unbearable political costs. In the Philippines, a novel group among legislators are media and 11 showbiz personalities who usually vie for senatorial positions. Because in senatorial elections the whole country is the constituency, their national prominence is a great asset. Yet, the rise of this group must be viewed with reservation as it signifies an increasing populist trend which has 12 contributed to the sagging public image of the Upper House. Wealth

While our data provide only limited insight into the wealth of legislators, available information suggests that the majority are very affluent not only by the standards of their own societies. In Asian democracies the upper-income group tends to be over-represented in the legislatures, even more so than in industrialized Western countries such as Germany where the majority of legislators has a middleclass background (Hesse and Ellwein 1992, p. 247). Data for the 9th Congress of the Philippines (1992–95), for instance, showed that all 23 senators had an annual income of over one million peso (approximately €17,000). In the House, 148 of 173 members (or 74 per cent of the total number of House members) who submitted their statements of assets and liabilities in 1987 were also millionaires (Caoili 1998, pp. 103–5). Data for the 11th Congress (1998–2001) show an even more distorted profile. According to the assets and liabilities submitted by lawmakers, of the 220 House members, 205 are millionaires. An elected House member has an average net worth

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of 18.7 million peso (€322,000) compared with the 4 million peso 13 (€69,000) of party-list representatives. The picture for South Korea hardly differs. The average wealth of the candidates for the 1996 National Assembly elections stood at approximately 1 billion won (about €750,000), with the richest candidate reporting assets of 112.7 billion won (about €84.5 million). What is perhaps even more remarkable and open to interpretation, though not surprising, is the fact that a majority of lawmakers increase their income while in office. According to reports of the Korea Times, about 60 per cent, or 161 of the 273 lawmakers of the 16th National Assembly (2000–2004), even reported considerable increases in their assets to the National Assembly’s Public Officials Ethics Committee, 14 while 101 legislators reported decreases. In Indonesia a great number of very rich persons have a seat in parliament, although newcomers and MPs with religious and NGO affiliation normally have a middle-class background. A Public Servants’ Wealth Audit Commission (KPKPN) was established in 1999 to check the wealth of senior public officials and parliamentarians. As the declaration of assets is mandatory but not yet regulated by law, more than 100 MPs had not provided information on their wealth by August 2002. Hardly conducive to compliance of legislators with this requirement is the fact that sanctions are very mild. Officials who disobey face the possibility of jail sentences of a maximum of ten weeks or a fine of 9,000 rupiah (about €1). Given the dismal enforcement record of the Indonesian judiciary towards the powerful, such jail sentences have 15 little or no deterring effect. Not surprisingly, until now the KPKPN has failed to publish the names of the MPs who refused to report about their assets. Nevertheless, through detailed media reports it transpired that President Megawati Sukarnoputri and her husband Taufik Kiemas possess assets worth about €5.9 million, Parliamentary Chairman Akbar Tandjung about €3.24 million, while MPR President Amien Rais owns about €1.4 million. The richest legislators are energy tycoon Arifin Panigoro (with assets totalling about €24.5 million) and Hussein Naro 16 (about €9.7 million). Small wonder that for the public, legislatures are seen as “a rich 17 man’s club”. In the Philippines, 83 per cent of the respondents of a

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survey conducted in the mid-1990s agreed that “Philippine politics is controlled by rich people and large entrepreneurs” (Rivera 1997, p. 2). Together with this image is the belief that much of this wealth is illgotten through abuse of official position. According to a survey conducted among business people in Seoul, the National Assembly is considered the most corrupt among the institutions that they contact for business. 71.2 per cent of the 1,098 respondents surveyed cited it as the most corrupt organization, followed by the police (68.5 per cent) and the 18 prosecution (65.8 per cent). Such sentiments are compounded by reports like that of South Korea’s National Election Commission (NEC) which in 2000 stated that 170 out of 1,137 candidates of the April 2000 National Assembly elections had served prison terms. Even if one-half of them were erstwhile dissidents and convicted for political offences by South Korea’s former military rulers, this is by all accounts a high figure as the rest was sentenced for much more profane crimes such as bribery, influence peddling, assault, and tax evasion (Kim 2000c, p. 907). The Korea Herald, in a more recent report, adds that about onefourth of incumbent lawmakers is standing trial in criminal courts. Of the 64 lawmakers standing trial, 53 cases involve either themselves or their campaigners and family members indicted for violating election laws. It is, however, no accident that the number of offenders is higher for the opposition Grand National Party (GNP), as the government usually seeks to break an opposition majority in the National Assembly by wooing legislators to cross party lines or harasses with court cases 19 those who do not respond to such overtures. Other legislatures are haunted by similar problems. In the 1998 Philippine congressional elections, two candidates, serving life sentences and campaigning from prison, ran — and won (Montinola 1999b, p. 126). In the 11th Congress one legislator was arrested for the murder of two sons of a political rival, while another was sentenced to life imprisonment 20 for child rape and sexual assault. Serious allegations have also been raised against a senator who, during his term as National Police chief, was accused 21 of having been involved in drug-trafficking and other crimes. According to press reports, corruption is also widespread in the Indonesian DPR. Many deputies have admitted to receiving money from

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state-owned and private organizations in addition to their salaries as parliamentarians. In an interview with the Jakarta Post, one PDI-P legislator confessed having received money from the Ministry of Forestry and Agriculture and described his behaviour as absolutely normal among 22 his colleagues. A fellow MP concurred, contending that corruption and bribery are particularly virulent in the committees dealing with banks 23 and state enterprises and that these methods are common practice. Another case involved Committee IX of the DPR. Two PDI-P members made public that during a committee session in connection with the sale of Bank Niaga by the Indonesian Bank Restructuring Agency (IBRA), they found an envelope with bribe money and refused to accept it. The other committee members suspected of having also received such an 24 envelope, kept silent or even criticized the whistle-blowers. One of the 25 two MPs resigned afterwards. Finally, in September 2002 the Chairman of Parliament, Akbar Tandjung, was sentenced to three years in prison for corruption. The court convicted Akbar for misusing 40 billion rupiah (€4.1 million) of the State Logistics Agency (Bulog) funds that were supposed to be earmarked for poverty alleviation, when he was minister under President Habibie in 1999. Akbar appealed against the sentence and — despite public protest — refused to resign from his post. In February 2004 the Supreme Court finally released him from all charges, 26 but a public distrust on the DPR Chairman remained. In India the trend towards criminalization of politics is also a matter of growing concern. As there is no state funding of parties and election campaigns, the scramble of politicians for campaign funding opens up avenues for money laundering. It is the reciprocity principle which makes the donors expect some favours in return. Thus politicians come under mounting pressure from shadowy figures that actively involved in illegal business. Even worse is the large number of candidates with a criminal record seeking election to parliament. “Unfettered and undisciplined political competition brought criminals into the political system. Not only has that trend continued over time, but many party leaders since the 1970s have received their political education in that milieu of ‘democracy’ by gun”, writes Atul Kohli (1990, p. 214) with reference to the situation in Bihar, one of the most backward and crime-ridden states in India. The neighbouring state of Uttar Pradesh also presents a dismal

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picture: in the year 1996 435 indicted criminals stood for parliament and 27 were elected. In the whole of India, in 1998 the number of candidates with criminal records contesting Lok Sabha elections stood at around 1,500 out of a total of 13,950 or 10.8 per cent, as reported by the Election Commission of India. The present 13th Lok Sabha houses 27 more than 40 MPs with a criminal past. The number of candidates in the 1999 elections who were alleged to have committed a wide range of crimes is estimated at 1,000. The problem, however, is that the allegations against many candidates have not been proven. Legal delays work to the advantage of real criminals who are not disqualified from contesting until actually convicted. If convicted the defendant can spend many years appealing to higher courts. The case of Jayalalitha, an actress-turnedpolitician in Tamil Nadu, is an illuminating example for this kind of 28 political and judicial manoeuvring. In order to arrest this adverse trend, the Election Commission of India, in response to a direction of the Supreme Court of 2 May 2002, has recently issued an order requesting candidates to disclose their police record and their personal assets when filing their nomination papers. So far the political parties have rejected the order and decided to introduce a bill in parliament in order to replace the Election Commission’s guidelines. In Thailand, people with a recent criminal record (sentenced to at least two years in prison and discharged for less than five years) cannot be candidates in general elections. Nevertheless, it is alleged that there are up-country political figures who entertain relationships to so-called “dark influences” (ittiphon mued ) or are themselves involved in illegal activities (Pasuk and Piriyarangsan 1994). While in most cases the police and the judiciary have not been able or willing to prove such allegations and to prosecute these “god-fathers”, previous extradition requests by US authorities against two or three prominent MPs give a semblance of credibility to such allegations. Education

Legislators are usually well educated. Yoon and Park, writing on South Korea, report that over 90 per cent are university graduates with bachelor degrees or more (Yoon 1991, p. 94; Park 1999a, p. 79). In the Philippines,

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too, a similarly high percentage of legislators in both Houses have college education. In Indonesia, with 75 per cent, the percentage of collegeeducated lawmakers was also high and, indeed, rising compared with the period under Suharto’s Orde Baru regime. While in 1992 the percentage of postgraduates was 7.6 per cent, it is now 19.4 per cent. At the same time the percentage of MPs with no academic background declined from 40.6 to 26.2 per cent. As elsewhere, the rising educational standards can be attributed to the educational revolution since the 1970s. Another reason is that during the authoritarian Orde Baru, the work of parliament was not held in high regard and parliamentarians were handpicked by President Suharto for whom loyalty was a better qualification than educational background. In India, too, despite the ruralization of parliaments, the educational background of Indian MPs has continuously improved over the last 50 years: the number of graduates, post-graduates, and Ph.D. degree holders increased from 58.4 per cent in the first Lok Sabha (1952–57) to 77.49 per cent in the 12th (1998–99). In keeping with this trend, the number of under-matriculates and matriculates declined from 23.2 and 18.4 per cent in 1952 to 2.26 and 2.8 per cent in 1998. This means that the percentage of MPs with only high-school certificates or less has decreased from 41.6 to 19.08 per cent in 2000 (Lok Sabha Secretariat 2000, p. 92). In the Thai general election of 1996, the last before the Constitution of 1997 introduced the minimum educational requirement of a bachelor degree for applicants to the House and the Senate (with transitory provisions applying to sitting senators and MPs), the number of representatives with a bachelor was 176 (44.8 per cent), while 111 (28.2 per cent) MPs had an MA or a Ph.D. (very few) degree and 106 (27 per cent) had a certificate below the level of BA. As expected, both the Senate election in March 2000 and the House elections in January 2001 saw a reduction of below-BA representatives. This category is highest amongst the constituency MPs in the House (16 per cent) and lowest amongst party-list MPs (6 per cent). Eighteen senators (9 per cent) have not reached the educational level of BA. It is perhaps interesting to observe that in all three categories of representatives, the proportion of persons with an MA and a Ph.D. degree is high (Senate: 38.5 per

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cent; party-list: 60 per cent; constituency: 43 per cent). That the Senate has the highest proportion of BA degree holders, that is, the lowest grade among the three categories, namely, 52.2 per cent (party-list: 34 per cent; constituency: 41 per cent) may be due to the fact that many retirees, lawyers, former politicians, and so forth became senators and that in this house the older age groups predominate (in the Senate, 71 per cent are 50 or above; party-list: 60 per cent; constituency: 30 per cent). A BA degree has long been the major level of academic achievement, while the importance of MA degrees has been recognized only more recently. This increase in educational standards will not necessarily lead to a better quality of parliamentary performance. Rather, many people from within and without parliament in all of the countries studied here, complain of a decline in the standard of parliament, its status, and 29 effectiveness. Therefore minimum educational qualifications for candidates contesting elections to parliament are no panacea to improve the quality of parliamentary work. In view of the fairly high educational standards of MPs in the five countries, one may argue that educational requirements are counterproductive as they tend to strengthen a class of change-resistant traditional politicians by enabling them to pursue narrow personal, group-based, and local interests even more eloquently and effectively than hitherto. In four out of our five cases no such stipulation is laid down in the constitution. In India, where most of the MPs interviewed by Surya Prakash (1995, p. 32) opposed minimum educational qualifications, even illiterates are not barred from standing for election to parliament. The most prominent illiterate MP in recent times was the social-bandit-turned-politician Phoolan Devi until she was shot in front of her residence in New Delhi in 2001. The exception is Thailand, where the Constitution of 1997 requires a BA as the minimum educational attainment for MPs and senators. The non-parliamentary reformers drafting the 1997 Constitution have mostly been highly critical of the performance of the House of Representatives, deploring the low quality of debates and the intellectual inferiority of MPs compared with civil servants. The notion that politics — and by inference politicians — are inferior to administration and bureaucrats (Morell and Chai-anan 1981, pp. 26–27) is still widespread

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in Thai society and is certainly amongst the obstacles for the emergence of a participant political culture. Gender

Table 7.1 illustrates that women are another severely under-represented group in the five parliaments studied. With shares of seats that range from a low 5.9 per cent in South Korea to 17.8 per cent in the Philippine House of Representatives, their percentage resembles the gender profile of parliaments in OECD countries in the late 1960s and early 1970s. By international comparison they rank low, far behind most Eastern 30 European, Latin American, and African parliaments. The average percentage of women for the Lower Houses, of the five parliaments is 10.1 per cent; for the Upper Houses, 8.3 per cent. For both Houses combined, the average women’s representation is 9.9 per cent. This is much below the world average of 14.8 per cent for Lower Houses, 14.0 per cent for Upper Houses, and 14.7 per cent for both Houses 31 combined. Nevertheless, today more women have a legislative mandate than at the beginning of the democratic transition. The share of women in the South Korean National Assembly, for instance, rose from a mere 1 32 per cent in 1992 to 5.9 per cent in 2000 (Dormels 2000) and from 2.8 per cent (1988) to 9.2 per cent (2001) in the Thai Lower House (Orathai 2002, p. 294). This is by no means a quantum leap, but nevertheless a move in the right direction. The modest rise of female representation in Korea’s National Assembly is, however, overshadowed by the fact that in local legislatures the percentage of woman legislators still hovers at a low 3.4 per cent, though steadily rising from 1.2 to 1.5 per cent in the 1991 and 1995 local elections to 2 per cent in 1998 (Lee 1997, pp. 78, 83). If the assumption is correct that local elective offices serve as springboards to higher political office, this does not augur well for a marked increase of women’s representation in the National Assembly. The Political Party Law, revised in February 2002, recommends that parties allocate 30 per cent of the candidate nominations for local offices to women, but does not foresee sanctions in the case of non-compliance. Thus, to what extent it will help women

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enter politics remains to be seen. In the 2002 local elections, most women already suffered defeat in the nomination process of their 33 parties. Yet, the unprecedented nomination of Chang Sang as the country’s first ever female prime minister — albeit a calculated tactical move of 34 the Blue House to pull a lame duck president out of the doldrums and to improve the prospects of his former party for the upcoming December 2002 presidential elections — illustrates the formidable barriers that stand in the way of a greater involvement of women in South Korean politics. More than in the case of male nominees the candidate’s life was scrutinized by the media and the conservative main opposition party, which did not even shy away from using humiliating sexist rhetorics in parliament. Without disclaiming the sexist prejudices against a female candidate, the fact that the candidate was finally rejected by the National Assembly, must, primarily, be attributed to the fact that the nominee became a pawn in the partisan controversies on the eve of crucial 35 parliamentary by-elections and the upcoming presidential elections. The Indonesian case is particularly interesting as it contradicts the claim that electoral systems based on proportional representation display a “favorable disposition toward women’s election” (Lee 1997, p. 72). However, Indonesia has currently only 40 women legislators, representing 8 per cent of the total membership of the DPR. This is markedly lower than the Philippine percentage and also slightly lower than the Thai and the Indian percentage (see Table 7.1), both of which have essentially majoritarian electoral systems. Women are under-represented in all political parties in parliament, more so in the Islamic parties (PKB 5.8 per cent, PPP 5.0 per cent, and PAN 2.9 per cent), less in the secular parties (PDI-P 9.0 per cent, Golkar 13.3 per cent, and the military and police faction 7.9 per cent). Another interesting aspect is that 11 (27.5 per cent) of the 40 women legislators are either widowed or divorced, while among the male MPs the number of unmarried persons is 12 out of 460 (2.6 per cent). These figures reflect the patriarchal structure of Indonesian society, where chances for women to become active in politics only increase when they are not, or are no longer, married (Yayasan API 2001). During the parliamentary debates of the Party Law in 2002 and the Election Law in 2003, female MPs and NGOs demanded a 30 per cent

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05 2001 01 2001 09 1999 06 1999 04 2000

Philippines Thailand India Indonesia Republic of Korea 214 500 543 500 273

Seats 38 46 48 40 16

Women 17.8 9.2 8.8 8.0 5.9

Women’s Share (%) 05 2001 03 2000 03 2000 — —

Election 23 200 242 700 —

Seats 21 22 64 —

10.5 9.1 9.2 —

Women Women’s Share (%)

Upper House or Senate a

a

Indonesian figures for the second chamber refer to the MPR which, however, may not be considered a second chamber in the strict sense. Source: Interparliamentary Union, Women in National Parliaments. Situation as of 4 February 2002 (http://www.ipu.org/wmne/classif.htm).

Election

Country

Lower or Single House

Table 7.1 Representation of Women in Legislatures

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quota for women in the party leadership and the parliament. While they failed with their demands in the Party Law, it was stipulated in the Election Law of 2003 that 30 per cent of the candidates on the party-list shall be women, but with no consequences for parties failing to comply. Therefore this regulation to raise the percentage of women in parliament 36 can be rated as a “soft affirmative action”. In India, too, the percentage of women in the Lok Sabha has risen. Yet, the increase from 4.4 per cent in 1952 to 8.8 per cent at present is by no means spectacular, especially if one takes into account the fact that there was a temporary set-back between 1984 and 1989, when the share of women legislators declined from 8.1 to 5.1 per cent. In the year 2000, the ruling BJP coalition made an attempt to introduce a women’s quota in parliament (Lok Sabha Secretariat 2000, p. 94). Thirty per cent out of a total of 543 elective seats were to have been reserved for female candidates. However, the bill was not introduced into the House because of strong opposition from various parties. The dominance of men in the Lok Sabha will thus continue to prevail in the years to come (Reifeld 2000). A more positive picture emerges in the Philippines, where presently 17.8 per cent of the legislators are women. This is a remarkable increase, considering that in the first Congress in 1946 there was only one woman 37 legislator, Remedios Fortich of Bukidnon. The proportion of women elected to the 12th Congress is the highest in the entire history of the House of Representatives. This figure is however overshadowed by the 38 fact that an unspecified number of women lawmakers are “breakers”, having been elected as members of established oligarchies and one-term shoo-ins for their husbands after expiry of the latter’s third consecutive term. They will be replaced as soon as their husbands — after pausing for a one term — are again allowed to run for Congress. It goes without saying that these women legislators are hardly willing — and even less able — to pursue reformist policies. Rather, they are stalwarts of their oligarchical interests, often remote-controlled by their husbands and the clan. Hopes that women’s interests would be promoted by the members of the women’s party “Pinay!Abanse”, which succeeded in winning two seats in the 1998 party-list contest, were dashed when the party was not

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returned to Congress in the 2001 elections. Moreover, like in Indonesia, the 38 congresswomen have formed a ladies’ legislators bloc with the avowed objective of pursuing pro-women, youth, and family legislation. Their legislative initiatives, for instance, in the area of domestic violence, 40 have however not yet led to new regulations on this important issue. This coincides with a survey of bills initiated by women during the 8th Congress (1987–92). Out of 61 bills filed on women’s issues, only four were enacted into law (Reyes 1991–92, p. 27). In terms of gender, legislatures are becoming somewhat more inclusive. A more equitable gender distribution in parliament may thus be considered not only as a by-product of modernization but also of “positive” consolidation. Age

As far as age is concerned, in most parliaments the majority of legislators is between 40 and 60 years old. South Korean legislators are on average older than their Indonesian and Filipino counterparts. While nearly 70 per cent of South Korean lawmakers are over 50 years, with 60 and 58 per cent, respectively, the share of Indonesian and Philippine lawmakers aged 50 years or older is lower. Nearly 53 per cent of Indian legislators are over 50 years old. Only 5 per cent of Korean MPs are under 40, while the percentage of Philippine, Indian, and Indonesian legislators in the under-40 category is 18 per cent, 14.7 per cent, and 11.2 per cent, respectively. Moreover, the legislators in South Korea’s last two National Assemblies are older than their predecessors of the 13th and 14th National Assembly, although data suggest a slight reversal of the trend with the April 2000 elections. The reasons for this may be the more reformist and, hence inclusive, image former President Kim Dae Jung (1998–2003) sought to project of his MDP, possibly also the greater alertness of parties in their candidate nomination due to greater public scrutiny. In the Indian Lok Sabha, the percentage of older legislators is likewise on the rise. While the percentage of the 41–60 age groups has remained at 60 per cent — almost constant ever since the first Lok Sabha (1952–57) — the share of lawmakers aged under 40 years declined from 30 per cent to about 15 per cent. At the same time,

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the share of legislators aged 60 years and older increased from 8 per cent in the first Lok Sabha to over 25 per cent in the 12th (1998–99). In the Philippines, House members of the 12th Congress (2001–2004) are older than their predecessors in the 11th Congress (1998–2001), but still younger than the members of the 10th Congress (1995–98). The explanation for this is the mandatory break enforced upon third-termers by the constitution, and the return of some of them in the 2001 elections. The age figures correspond with the fact that an astonishing 63 per cent of the House members of the 11th Congress were first-termers. In the 12th Congress, not unexpectedly, the percentage of first-termers delined 41 considerably to 49 per cent. In Thailand, constituency MPs have become younger compared with the election in 1996. The number of MPs above 50 years of age was reduced from 166 (42.3 per cent) to 120 (30.0 per cent). The biggest gain was made in the of 40–49 age bracket that jumped from 36.4 per cent to 43.75 per cent (143 to 175 in absolute figures). As was to be expected, the 100 party-list MPs are considerably older, with 60 above 50 years, 28 between 40 and 49 years, and only 12 between 25 and 39 years. Senators are even older than party-list MPs, 142 members (71 per cent) being above 50 years, and 88 (44 per cent) above 60 years. All in all, the legislatures’ age representation is thus rather problematic, given the fact Thailand, Indonesia, India, the Philippines, and (to a lesser 42 extent) South Korea, are very “young” countries. Religion

Most parliamentary statistics fail to present data on religion, ethnic, and linguistic background. In plural societies the publication of such data is considered sensitive as this may lead to a deepening of such cleavages and — if there are representational distortions — even foment communal unrest. Interestingly, however, we have data for Indonesia, where the Islam-secularism and the Islam-Christian cleavages still constitute the 43 most virulent political divisions. Perhaps even more surprising is the fact that despite an undeniable creeping Islamization over the last two decades (Hefner and Horvatich 1997) and the strong mobilization of Islamic identities by Islamic parties in the 1999 elections, with a share of

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80.6 per cent of the legislators, Muslims are somewhat under-represented, while with 16.8 per cent Christians are over-represented as their share 44 of legislators is almost twice their share of the population at large. While in the earlier parliaments of the Suharto era, Christians were similarly over-represented, Suharto’s flirt with political Islam, which began in the late 1980s, and which led to the creation of influential organizations such as the Association of Islamic Intellectuals (ICMI) (Ramage 1995), produced a parliament in 1997 that better mirrored the country’s religious profile. As for Thailand, the distribution of religions amongst MPs and senators is equivalent to what we find in the population at large; for example, of the senators, 95 per cent are Buddhists, 4 per cent Muslims, and 1 per cent Christians. It would be interesting to know how many of the representatives have Chinese ancestors and how many are ethnic Siamese. The high percentage of business people in the House suggests that Thai citizens with Chinese forbearers form an important group in parliament. Parliaments and Social Change

The somewhat ambiguous nature of the data on the socio-economic background of legislators has given rise to scholarly controversies about how the social profile of parliaments has changed over the years. Perhaps the clearest picture is exhibited by the Indian Lok Sabha where — compared with the four other legislatures — the most spectacular changes in the social composition have occurred. The doubling of representatives with an agricultural background over the last 40 years and the simultaneous dramatic decline of the urban professions has been characterized in the literature as a “ruralization” of the Indian parliament. As the vast majority of Indians still live in the countryside and find some work in agriculture, it can be maintained that this “ruralization” has made the Lok Sabha more inclusive compared with its elitist composition in the 1950s. The same holds true for the Legislative Assemblies in the states where this ruralization is even more marked. Gone are the times when the Westernized, well-educated, and Englishspeaking elite dominated the parliamentary debates. In other words, parliament has become less cosmopolitan and more provincial, but also

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more inclusive and thus more democratic, with consequences for the functioning of the institution and political style (Arora 2003, p. 15). Back-benchers from the countryside, for example, have become more and more influential. Under constant pressure from their rural voters, they are predominantly concerned with the problems in their constituencies, so that national issues are relegated to a back seat. Contributing to this growing localism among legislators is the fact that the intensifying electoral competition has mobilized many disadvantaged groups. Voters are becoming more and more aware of their rights and the power of the ballot. They expect their politician to deliver those goods which they feel are essential to them: jobs, roads, electricity, telephones, and so forth. The delinking of national and state elections from 1971 onwards also contributed to this development. Before 1971 MPs did not stand at the centre of election campaigning and day-to-day politics in their constituencies, which was the main task of the members of the state legislatures. Their business lay in far away Delhi. However, after 1971, the situation changed and MPs were now considered direct representatives of their constituents. This changed the old rules of the game and led to mounting pressure from the voters. In an interview with Surya Prakash, one MP said: From the First to the Eighth Lok Sabha, people did not know who their MP was because state assembly and parliament elections were held together. After Indira Gandhi started holding these elections separately, people got to know who their MP was. Constituents are not interested in what an MP does in Parliament. They want an MP to take care of their interests. They are not happy if I am away in Delhi. (1995, pp. 42–43)

Another MP added: “What benefit can you give me is the question, not how efficient are you in Parliament” (ibid., p. 45). As a consequence, most of the MPs do not find enough time for parliamentary work, scrutinizing bills, and being actively involved in the lawmaking process. They are not used to doing painstaking paperwork and intervening in parliamentary deliberations. What really counts for them are not lofty national issues such as foreign policy and so forth but the real problems in their constituencies, for example, the improvement of roads, schools, irrigation, and industrial development.

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Central to the debate on social change in the Philippine House of Representatives is the trapo — a term which denotes the “traditional politician” and is at the same time a code word for the criticism levelled by the media and reform-minded middle-class intellectuals against a policy style characterized by overly opportunistic, personalistic, clientelistic, and power-conscious behaviour. Trapos are usually associated with the country’s entrenched political dynasties (McCoy 1995), and are criticized for what is seen as their unprincipled wheeling and dealing which is devoted to the primary objective of keeping themselves in power and protecting their clan’s political and economic interests. Evidence for the occasionally aired opinion that the trapos are being gradually replaced by a more cause- and issue-oriented type of politicians, with less parochial views, is so far weak. Empirical analyses suggest that despite constitutional term limits Philippine dynasties are resilient as ever. Velasco’s data, for instance, showing a slight decline of congressmen and congresswomen with oligarchical backgrounds from 164 in 1987 to 145 in 1992, does not vindicate his thesis of a significant change 45 (Velasco 1997b, p. 101). Teehankee’s data likewise do not show major changes in the patterns of “elite reproduction” (Teehankee 2001). The social change hypothesis may have most plausibility at the candidate level. In the absence of comprehensive surveys and in the light of contradictory data based on personal account, scattered and preliminary evidence suggests that since 1987 more middle-class candidates entered the electoral race than in the pre-1972 Congress. This must, however, be seen against the background of a rising number of candidates and, hence, increasingly competitive contests. Yet, as Teehankee’s study shows, most middle-class candidates fail to beat the dynasties (Teehankee 2001). Hardly more convincing are arguments that emphasize generational change. The somewhat younger age of legislators in the 11th Congress (1998–2001) belies the fact that almost one-half (48 per cent) of the first-termers (Teehankee 2001, p. 254) were “breakers” for relatives, who 46 were not eligible after serving the constitutionally mandated three terms. The much celebrated “spice boys”, for instance, are descendents of older or more recent political dynasties. In addition, the trend of rejuvenation was not sustained. The present 12th Congress (2001–2004) is consider-

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ably older than its predecessor — partly due to the fact that nearly one-third (29 per cent) of the first-termers are former three-termers who returned to Congress after their mandatory pause (Teehankee 2001, p. 254). Moreover, while the young generation of the oligarchy may have a better education than their parents and thus be more at ease with developmental rhetoric and a more up-to-date political marketing style, they still represent the old entrenched interests of their clans. The almost unlimited capacity for political mimicry of Philippine political elites is perhaps best illustrated by the Acosta family of Bukidnon — an example cited by Teehankee in his thesis. While ostensibly employing non-traditional means of political mobilization such as harnessing support of the NGO community, the women’s movement and farmers’ cooperatives, the result is still a very traditional political machine (Teehankee 2001, p. 251). A closer look at the economic performance of the Philippines explains why there was no major social change in Congress. Modernization in the country, often dubbed the “sick man of Southeast Asia” — lags far behind neighbouring East and Southeast Asian countries. With 3.3 per cent (1990–98) (Asia Yearbook 2001, p. 12), average economic growth has been sluggish over the last decade and failed to create the same strong stimuli for social change as in South Korea and — to a lesser extent — in Thailand. SUMMARY

While in Indonesia changes in the social profile of the DPR must be attributed primarily to regime change, after just one election judgements on changes under the democratic order are premature. Some modest social change towards greater inclusiveness occurred in the Thai National Assembly largely as a result of the introduction of 100 party-list MPs by the 1997 Constitution. Even though many established politicians decided to run on party-lists, more NGO activists and reformist academics than hitherto were able to enter the House through the party-list system (Nelson 2002; Orathai 2002, p. 303). Parliamentary processes seem to have generated at least some change in actor behaviour. In Thailand and the Philippines and, to a lesser extent, in Indonesia, the military has been gradually socialized into parliamentary

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politics. While active military officers have assumed a more professional identity, recognizing civilian supremacy, retired military officers have established political parties or entered political parties and run for legislative seats. Slight attitudinal changes can also be observed in terms of gender composition, as for the first time a women’s quota was seriously discussed, and more women are nominated as candidates and eventually elected. Finally, at least in South Korea, due to closer public scrutiny and pressure, political parties have become more wary about nominating discredited politicians, and pollwatch activities, though far from eradicating electoral fraud, also make candidates more circumspect in the methods they apply. The inclusiveness of the social profile of parliaments has certainly increased compared with the authoritarian era, albeit not markedly. It increased most in India, least in the Philippines. Finally, while variations in terms of inclusiveness can be found with regard to the governmental systems — with a trend towards greater inclusiveness characterizing the Indian and Thai legislatures more than the Philippine Congress — these changes at least in the Thai case are more related to changes in the electoral system than in the system of government. NOTES 1. Frankfurter Rundschau, 17 October 2002, p. 2. 2. For similar methodological caveats, see Mezey (1979). 3. A point made by Amara Raksasataya at the workshop “Parliaments in Asia: India, Indonesia, the Philippines, South Korea, Thailand”, organized by the Konrad Adenauer Foundation in Bangkok, 11–12 March 2003. 4. Interviews with congressmen, local government officials, and academics conducted in Metro Manila and several Philippine provinces (Tarlac, Pangasinan, La Union, Benguet, Iloilo, Aklan, and Misamis Oriental) in September 2000. 5. If the number of legislators who categorize themselves as “lawyers” or “politician”, but who in fact run businesses or, prior to assuming political office, have been businessmen, were added, the percentage of business people would be considerably higher. 6. Mezey (1979, pp. 240–41). 7. However, the Trade Union Congress of the Philippines (TUCP) had a dubious reputation as an organization representing labour interests. The TUCP became

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Chapter Seven part of the corporatist policy-making process of the Marcos regime and it was only in the twilight years of the Marcos era following the assassination of opposition leader Benigno S. Aquino that the TUCP adopted a more independent position. See Hanisch (1989, pp. 88ff.).

8. For the party-list systems, see Chapter Five, pp. 107ff. 9. Jakarta Post, 11 November 2002. Examples are Lieutenant Colonel Ahmad Syatibi (PKB), Lieutenant Colonel Octavius Riam Mapuas, Major General Raja Kami Sembiring Meliala, Major General Sidarto Danusubroto, Brigadier General Sudarsono, Major General Theo Syafei, Air Commander Ismangoen Notosapoerto (all PDI-P), and Darwis Rida (Golkar). 10. Examples are General Arthit Kamlang-ek (Puangchon Chao Thai Party), Lieutenant General Harn Leenanond (Democrat Party, Prachachon Party), Major General Chamlong Srimuang (Phalang Dharma Party), and many others. 11. Examples are former movie actor-turned-president Joseph E. Estrada and radio broadcaster Noli de Castro, actor Freddy Webb, comedian Vicente Toto Sotto, and basket ball player Robert Jaworski. At the time of writing (February 2003), the Estrada camp pressured known actor Fernando Poe, Jr., to run in the 2004 presidential elections (Törnquist 1993, p. 488). 12. Philippine Daily Inquirer, 5 September 2001, p. 1. 13. Philippine Star, 22 September 1999, p. 2. 14. Korea Times Online, 28 February 2002. 15. Jakarta Post Online, 4 September 2002. 16. Majalah Media Akutansi (http://www.akuntan.iai.or.id/media/ma-19/ lipsus1902.html). 17. Philippine Star (no date). 18. Korea Herald Online, 17 February 2001. 19. Korea Herald Online, 7 July 2001. 20. Straits Times, 6 January 1998, p. 19. 21. Philippine Daily Inquirer, 30 August 2001, p. 1. 22. Jakarta Post Online, 21 September 2001. 23. Jakarta Post Online, 21 September 2001. 24. Jakarta Post , 1 and 8 July 2002; Tempo-Online, 30 September 2002; Kompas-Online, 30 September 2002. 25. Jakarta Post, 10 October 2002. 26. For a documentation of legislative corruption, see also Schuck (2003 pp. 137–38). Interviews in Jakarta, 15 November 2002.

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27. Tribune Online, 12 July 2002; Narayan (2003, p. 114). See also Saha (2000). 28. BBC News Online, 12 September 2000; Asia Times Online, 10 July 2002. 29. See also Chapter Ten, surveys on trust in institutions. 30. Worldwide, Sweden, with 42.7 per cent of women legislators, ranks first, while Germany, with 31.7 per cent, ranks seventh. See Interparliamentary Union (http: www.ipu.org/wmn-e/classif.htm). 31. Interparliamentary Union (http://www.ipu.org/wmn-e/classif.htm). 32. In South Korea’s first National Assembly, elected in 1948, there was only one woman out of 200 MPs (Lee 1997, p. 72). 33. Korea Times Online, 10 June 2002. 34. The Blue House is the presidential palace. 35. Far Eastern Economic Review, 15 August 2002, p. 21. 36. A point made by Kusnanto Anggoro and Tommy Legowo at the workshop “Parliaments in Asia: India, Indonesia, the Philippines, South Korea, Thailand”, organized by the Konrad Adenauer Foundation in Bangkok, 11–12 March 2003. 37. http://www.congress.gov.ph/feature/profile.htm. 38. Interview, Manila, 4 September 2000. 39. Jakarta Post Online, 16 July 2002. 40. Interview, Manila, 3 February 2003. 41. Makati Business Club. Congress Watch, no. 63, 21 August 2001 (http://www.mbc. com.ph). 42. For the share of the population under 20 years, see Chapter Five, p. 101. 43. See Chapter Six, p. 145. 44. Muslims have a share of 88 per cent of the population, Christians slightly less than 10 per cent. 45. Törnquist (1993, p. 487) also supports the argument that the “old structures are falling apart”. 46. Interviews conducted in the Philippines in September 2000.

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Reproduced from Parliaments and Political Change in Asia by Jurgen Ruland, Clemens Jurgenmeyer, Miichael H. Nelson and Patrick Ziegenhain (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2005). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

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Chapter Eight

The Internal Structure of Parliaments

The last two chapters have examined the actor composition of legislatures. This and the next chapter will now turn to the way legislatures in the five countries operate. To this end, we first analyse the internal structure of parliaments, their level of institutionalization and their internal procedures, before, in a further step, we try to assess the performance of the legislatures in four key parliamentary functions. Influential legislatures are usually characterized by “robust” institutionalization (Copeland and Patterson 1994, p. 4; Park 1997, p. 97). Institutionalization refers to a high degree of regularity in collective behaviour through the development of a set of widely acknowledged “norms, rules, and decision-making procedures that shape the expectations, interests and behavior of actors” (Keohane 1989, p. 3). Although these norms, rules, and decision-making procedures need not necessarily be formalized — most democracies have indeed developed unwritten conventions and various forms of informal politics (Lauth

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and Liebert 1999) — in most cases they are more or less codified. Institutionalization is usually also marked by an elaborated division of labour within legislatures which is indispensable for coping with the proliferation of policy fields and the increasingly technical, complicated, and complex nature of legal matters confronting societies in the era of globalization. In order to counter the executive’s superiority in policymaking, a trend visible in Western democracies as well, and in order to exert effective oversight over government affairs, the generalist type of legislator must give way to a type of legislator specialized in a limited number of policy areas. The establishment of committees therefore serves the function of organizing the specific expertise available among legislators. While we accept formality and complexity as indicators for institutionalization, we do not follow Huntington (1968), Copeland and Patterson (1994), and Park (1997, p. 98) in accentuating autonomy as a third major indicator for the institutionalization of parliaments. If legislative “autonomy is gauged by its political independence from other institutional structures, such as the executive” (Park 1997, p. 98), then this indicator may well apply to presidential systems, but certainly not to parliamentary systems. In the latter the legislature is by definition closely intertwined with the executive through the parliamentary majority which forms the government. Moreover, legislatures in both presidential as well as parliamentary systems have lost policy-making autonomy. However, this is less a problem of the legislatures per se than of the polity as a whole. Under the impact of the border-crossing interdependencies accompanying globalization, the steering and policymaking capacities of the state and its institutions have increasingly been eroded by transnational networks and international organizations. This process is compounded by economic crises. As a result of the Asian financial crisis a heavy-handed economic and financial restructuring regime was imposed on the South Korean, the Thai, and the Indonesian government by the International Monetary Fund (IMF), which severely impaired the scope of autonomous governmental decision-making. It is widely acknowledged in the literature that the Congress of the United States and the legislatures of most Western European parliamentary democracies exhibit a high degree of institutionalization. To what extent the legislatures of the five Asian countries studied here

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are institutionalized constitutes the puzzle of this chapter. We therefore take a closer look at four aspects of institutionalization: The rules of procedure, parliamentary party groups, parliamentary committees, and parliamentary services. Rules of Procedure A working democracy is not only the product of constitutional engineering, but also the result of how democratic political institutions operate in practice. In order to ascertain whether parliaments work in consonance with democratic principles laid down in the constitution, and in order to assess their inclusiveness, we must therefore examine the procedural framework under which legislatures conduct their business. These procedural matters — the obligations and rights of legislators, procedures for sessions, debates and voting, the powers of the Speaker, and the standards for proper conduct — are normally regulated by the House Rules. While the constitutional provisions defining the powers of the legislature vis-à-vis the executive are the hardware, the rules of procedure may be considered the software of a legislature. Often, therefore, even minor amendments of the House Rules may have a greater impact on the efficiency of the political system than cumbersome and politically costly constitutional amendments. Most parliaments define their rules and procedures themselves. This is certainly the case in India, the Philippines, Indonesia, and Thailand. Article 191 of the Thai Constitution of 1997, for instance, explicitly grants both Houses of the National Assembly the right to draw up their own rules of procedure. To accommodate the needs of the reformed parliament, new rules were passed in 2001 by the National Assembly. In the Philippines every newly elected House passes its own House Rules. Minor modifications and adjustments are common in this process. Moreover, all parliaments have a Steering or Rules Committee to steer legislation and to review the rules of procedure. Compared with the other four legislatures, the South Korean National Assembly is less autonomous in setting its rules of procedure. The House Rules are codified in a National Assembly Act which, as a legal act, is also subject to the consent of the president. The act has been revised more than 30 times. Of great importance was the 23rd revision

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in 1988 which freed the National Assembly from the restrictions imposed by the military rulers. The House Rules of the five parliaments are highly detailed and — 1 at least in formal terms — allow for democratic decision-making. All of them protect legislators by indemnity and immunity provisions. In Indonesia, for instance, the rules of procedure in the DPR (Peraturan Tata Tertib DPR) have been changed in the Reform Era in line with the new rights of parliament, while formally its structure and working methods remain largely the same. Oversight rights of the parliament such as the right of interpellation, summoning state officials, demanding explication from the president and forming an investigative committee were already part of the House Rules, though never practised in the Orde Baru legislature. The new rights of the parliament as a result of the constitutional amendments redefining its position vis-à-vis the executive are reflected in the new House Rules. Article 4 of the House Rules of 2001 explicitly extends to the DPR — in accordance with Article 20a of the Second Constitutional Amendment — legislative, budgetary, and supervisory functions. The new House Rules must thus be regarded as a conduit enabling the DPR to exercise the new powers vested in it by the constitutional amendments. Another novelty is the Ethical Code (Kode Etik ) which is referred to in Article 10 of the House Rules. The Code was passed as a supplement to the House Rules on 16 October 2001. It aims at raising the professionalism of the individual MP, but also the image and credibility of the DPR as a whole. The Ethical Code prohibits practices in connection with corruption, collusion, and nepotism. Yet, the sanctions for offences are unclear and have to be decided by the parliamentary leadership. Like in the other legislatures discussed here, the Code still lacks teeth, not least because legislators, despite all their controversies, usually develop a certain esprit de corps which makes it 2 difficult to go after offenders. In all five legislatures much discretion is given to the Speaker in applying the House Rules. The Speaker — usually in concertation with the leadership of the executive and the ruling party — not only has important agenda-setting powers, but also powers for steering the debates, determining the order of speakers, closing the list of speakers and deciding on the timing of voting. He may adjourn sessions, cut short debates,

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and enable the government party or the ruling coalition to ram through legislation. Uthai Pimchaichon, the Speaker of Thailand’s House of Representatives, facilitated precisely this in late September 2002. The government of Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra was eager to pass a bill on bureaucratic reform to take effect on 1 October 2002. After the government majority in the House had passed the law, the opposition intended to appeal to the Constitutional Court via the House Speaker. This can be done only before the prime minister presents an act to the King for his signature (Article 262). However, this move was blocked because, as soon as the law was passed in the evening and long after office hours, the Secretariat of the House hurriedly sent it to the Prime Minister’s Office, and the latter equally hurriedly sent it on to the Royal Household Bureau. Reportedly, all this took not even half an hour — not enough to allow the opposition to type their petition and send it to the Speaker of the House. One can certainly say that this behaviour by the Speaker did not conform to what the constitution stipulates in Article 153, namely that he “shall be impartial in the performance of duties”. A particular irony lies in the fact that Uthai used to be the chairman of the Constitution Drafting Assembly. Government quarters argued that the opposition had the right to let the Constitutional Court check the constitutionality of the law, but that its wish — in this case — represented an illegitimate tactic to prevent the prime minister from achieving his aim of starting bureaucratic reform on 1 October. As a consequence of this episode, it seems to have been agreed upon that laws should be kept for three days after passing the House before the Speaker can send them on to the prime minister. In the Philippines and South Korea, the Speaker not only has access to all committee sessions, but also the right to participate in their 3 deliberations. The Speaker of the Philippine House of Representatives consciously uses these powers when important government legislation 4 is at stake and threatened by legislative deadlock. As we shall see later, a skilful Speaker such as former President Ramos’ close ally José de Venecia plays a crucial intermediary role in the legislative process between the House of Representatives, the Senate, and the executive. In order to carry out his manifold functions, the Speaker is supported by an administrative infrastructure of his own. The Office of the Speaker

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provides him with technical advice and establishes links with other parliaments and international organizations. Other legislatures such as the Korean National Assembly and the Indonesian DPR have also endowed the Speaker with his own office and infrastructure. Like the Speaker of the Indian Lok Sabha, the Speaker of the Indonesian DPR is elected by the Assembly for a five-year term. The importance of the office is evident from the fact that it became part of the deals surrounding the pacted transition following the resignation of former strongman Suharto. After the first free elections in 1999, the DPR elected Golkar politician Akbar Tandjung, a former minister under Suharto, as new Speaker of the House. His election was balanced by the election of pro-reformasi leader Amien Rais as Speaker of the MPR. Given the power and the prestige of the Speaker, it is hardly surprising that there is considerable wrangling behind the scenes for the post prior to the opening of the House after an election. In the Philippines, political leaders vying for this influential post build alliances in support of their candidacy. They promise committee chairmanship to potential allies, sometimes the same position to more than one aspirant, thereby frustrating all those who have to settle without tangible rewards. This creates factional rifts which may result in defections when the administration’s popularity begins to wane. Even more pronounced is the rivalry for the office of the Senate president where factional realignments in anticipation of elections have repeatedly led to replacements of incumbents. Presidential pretenders view the Senate presidency as an ideal platform for enhancing their political stature and building a national constituency. Senators Jovito Salonga in 1992 and Edgardo Angara in 1995 were victims of such Senate coups and voted out of office during the legislative term (Landé 1996, p. 124; Hernandez 1997, p. 207). The Speaker of the South Korean National Assembly — usually a 5 legislator of many terms — is also very powerful, although he is more dependent on the president than his Philippine counterpart. Moreover, with only two years, his term is one year shorter. The presidential nomination is preceded by consultations behind the scenes among the leaders of the party groups in parliament. After an agreement has been reached at that level, the National Assembly formally elects the Speaker

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(Park 1997, p. 101). As the latest succession in the office from Speaker 6 Lee Man Sup to Park Kwan Yong has shown, the intense infighting for the position may paralyse the legislature for weeks. The dependency of the Speaker on presidential consent is a consequence of the hierarchical internal organization of Korean parties. Especially during the military dictatorships, the Speaker was the extended arm of the government and helped to push through government legislation in the National Assembly by suddenly cutting off debates and calling snap votes (Park 1997, p. 103). Partisanship has also been a trademark of the Speaker after the democratic transition, yet — as most observers admit — less so than previously. Recent amendments to the National Assembly Act passed in February 2002 and designed to enhance the neutrality of the Speaker now oblige the latter to give up his party 7 membership for the term of his office. While the House Rules seem to conform to democratic standard procedures in all five countries, parliamentary reality does not. The legislatures are replete with stories about unruly behaviour of lawmakers. The existence of Ethics Codes and Ethics Committees notwithstanding, there are repeated incidents of fistfights, slandering, defaming, shouting matches, and other forms of misbehaviour (Kim 2000c, p. 897). Session boycotts and walk-outs also go against established parliamentary etiquette. They may leave parliament deadlocked for weeks, thereby even blocking the enactment of the budget such as in South Korea (Park 1997, p. 103; Kim 2000a, p. 196; Seliger 2000, p. 58), or merely delaying for some days the passing of controversial bills such as in Thailand. Brawls during the opening of the annual session of the MPR in 2001 made Indonesians think of former President Abdurrahman’s reference to the DPR as a “kindergarten” (van Dijk 2001, p. 469). His own PKB party, however, gave no good example when it boycotted parliamentary sessions for months after he was ousted in the same year. Moreover, parliamentary plenary sessions are seldom attended by more than half of the MPs. In the Philippines, however, the notorious absenteeism in the old Congress (1946–72), the concomitant lack of a quorum and adjournment of sessions seems to be a phenomenon of the past (Mitra 1998, p. 84), although in early 2003 several sessions dealing with important legislative matters had to be adjourned due to lack of a

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8

quorum. The publication of the attendance record of congressmen and congresswomen on the homepage of the House of Representatives is 9 certainly a factor compelling lawmakers to minimize their absences. Despite occasional turbulences the proceedings and the style of debate in the Indonesian DPR are less spectacular and even somewhat dull compared with legislatures in other countries. The plenary and committee sessions usually follow strongly ritualized rules leaving very little space for spontaneity and unexpected actions. Speeches are — with very few exceptions — all read from a paper and mostly contain wellbalanced phrases. Usually the speakers do not respond to previous speakers, but read out their pre-formulated statement. Now and then a legislator interrupts the speaker and voices a statement which was not foreseen in the session’s agenda. These interrupsi make the parliamentary sessions more colourful, but are not well accepted by most fellow parliamentarians or the public. In the Philippines, with a high percentage of lawyers among legislators, and in India, too, the debating style is much more lively and characterized by a high degree of eloquence, though the “ruralization” of the Lok Sabha has certainly lowered the previous 10 high standards set by a Western-educated elite. In order to prevent MPs from resorting to unduly behaviour and interrupting ongoing debates, a code of conduct on discipline and decorum in parliament 11 was adopted by the Lok Sabha in November 2001. Parliamentary Party Groups In Indonesia and South Korea political parties represented in parliament organize themselves as parliamentary party groups which are granted more rights than individual MPs. The minimum number of MPs for such a parliamentary party group ( fraksi ) is ten in Indonesia and 20 for a parliamentary negotiation group in the South Korean National Assembly. Although — as we have seen in Chapter Six — turncoatism is rampant in the Philippine Congress and small parties sometimes get assimilated by larger parties in the bandwagoning following a presidential election, political parties are still identifiable. Yet, much of their identity fades as party divisions are overarched by the formation of a majority and a minority group. Usually it is the election of the Speaker which decides who belongs to the majority or minority. Congressmen siding

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with the elected Speaker are considered the majority; those voting against 12 him, the minority group and hence the opposition. In Thailand and India neither the constitution nor the rules of procedure provide for formalized parliamentary groups consisting of a minimum number of MPs. In all legislatures except for the Philippines, a certain degree of party discipline prevails. It is predictably stronger where — as in India and Thailand — regulations concerning party switching exist. With her tough Anti-Defection Law, India has by far the most stringent provisions in this respect. In 1985 the Tenth Schedule to the Constitution was introduced, laying down the conditions regarding disqualification from membership of parliament on the ground of defection. It specifies that MPs will be disqualified if they voluntarily relinquish their membership of the party on whose ticket they were elected or vote or abstain from voting in the House contrary to the party line. This means that MPs do not enjoy the basic right of freedom of vote. They fully depend on the directions of the party whip and are not allowed to vote as they think 13 fit. They run the risk of losing their seat if they choose to do otherwise. While such a regulation contradicts the constitutional guarantees of the free mandate, nobody has so far challenged it in the Supreme Court. In Thailand, where party discipline was notoriously low prior to the 1997 Constitution, party switching has also been made much more difficult by the constitutional stipulation that candidates must have been members of the political party under whose banner they intend to run for at least 90 days before registering their candidacy. The usual “shopping” for the best deal is thus no longer possible. MPs intending to switch parties are thus forced to resign from parliament well in advance of the scheduled election. As party switching has become politically more risky and costly, it is hardly surprising that this stipulation has come under attack by politicians, and it may be amended if necessary. There have even been calls to reintroduce independent candidates. The new regulation greatly strengthens the position of the prime minister relative to the MPs and thus, in tandem with the newly introduced constructive no-confidence provision, may enhance government stability even though the ruling TRT is by no means homogeneous, but rather consists of a number of factions centred around the leaders who brought

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their followers to join TRT before or after Thaksin’s election victory. Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra is probably the first elected Thai prime minister who is able to serve out his full term. This is a manifestation of “rationalized parliamentarianism” — a process that has been observed in most Southern European transitions (Liebert 1990). In the Philippines, after virtually every presidential election, a sizeable percentage of the newly elected congressmen switch sides and align with the party of the president soon after the election in an act of bandwagoning. The motive is very obvious. Unless they are supporters of the president, congressmen and congresswomen cannot hope to obtain the funding and pork barrel projects that their voters expect them to channel back into their constituencies. In fact, 24 former Marcos loyalists switched to the Aquino camp in the 1987 congressional elections (Thompson 1996, p. 178). Five years later, President Ramos narrowly won the presidency, but his Lakas-NUCD fared poorly, winning only 38 of 200 seats in the House. Soon afterwards, 58 LDP legislators changed sides and aligned themselves with Lakas. By 1995 the Lakas contingent in the House had increased to 119 lawmakers, while the LDP had dwindled to only 25. From the largest party in the House, the LDP had shrunk to only the third largest party, even falling behind the National People’s Coalition (NPC) with its 37 members (Manacsa 1999, pp. 216–17). In 1998, the situation reversed. While Joseph E. Estrada won the presidency, his campaign vehicle, the Labang ng Makabayang Masang Pilipino (LAMMP), won only 65 of the 208 mandates, while with 112 seats Lakas seemed set to control a comfortable majority in the House. A few weeks after the elections, however, Lakas had dwindled to a minor party with only 35 to 40 seats in the House (Frehner 2001a, p. 64). The remainder had joined the camp of the new President. Estrada himself facilitated this process by persuading Manuel Villar, a senior and immensely wealthy Lakas leader, to join the LAMMP together with ten other senior congressmen belonging to his faction. Villar was rewarded with the Speaker’s post (Go 1998, p. 53; Bolongaita 1999, pp. 241–42). Finally, in November 2000, faced with an impeachment trial on charges of graft and corruption, 45 of Estrada’s erstwhile supporters in the House and five senators defected and rejoined the Lakas-NUCD-fold (Landé 2001, p. 93). For long, Lakas-NUCD again

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became the party controlling a majority of seats in the House. The weak party loyalties are perhaps best illustrated by the allegation that Lakas candidates had run under this party’s banner in order to gain campaign financing, but had at the same time clandestinely worked for the seemingly irresistible Estrada presidential bid (Teehankee 2002, p. 171). This means that — as Teehankee argues — “Filipino politicians affiliate with two parties: one during the election period, and one after it” (Teehankee quoted in Manacsa 1999, p. 216). While flexibility — more critical observers would say opportunism — can be traced in all political systems studied here, Philippine politicians certainly stand out in this respect. Philippine lawmakers do not even hesitate to consider themselves members of several parties at the same time when it suits their needs. They may run for one party, while declaring 14 themselves to be “on leave” from another. In South Korea, legislators of the opposition party come under pressure to change sides whenever the ruling party has failed to get a majority of the seats in National Assembly elections. The latter are not synchronized with presidential elections and voters tend to punish the ruling party for the mistakes, scandals, and malperformance in the first years of the presidential term. In 1996, for instance, the ruling NKP fell short of the majority by 11 seats. It finally managed to persuade eight independents and three members of the opposition DP to change sides (Koh 1997, p. 2). Less than two years later newly elected president Kim Dae Jung and his NCNP faced a National Assembly in which the party of his predecessor controlled the majority of seats. Much to the consternation of the GNP, responding to a mixture of pressure and incentives, 17 deputies of the GNP eventually defected to the NCNP and eight to 15 the ULD. Even more unique was the situation after the April 2000 elections, when the ruling NCNP, now renamed MDP, failed to win a majority of seats. Without a coalition or the weakening of the opposition through the defection of MPs to the ruling party, the president’s agenda for reform legislation would have been at stake. In its attempts to rebuild the coalition with the ULD which had collapsed prior to the elections, the MDP “rented” four of its legislators to the ULD, which had won only 17 mandates in the election and thus fell

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short of the 20 seats needed to form a negotiation group in the National Assembly. Without the status of a negotiation group the ULD would not only have been deprived of the right to committee chairmanships, but also of state subsidies. The four legislators “on loan” returned to the MDP after the coalition broke up a second time following a motion of no-confidence against the government’s re-unification minister in 16 September 2001. While in the absence of regulations preventing legislators from crossing the floor during the term, turncoatism continues unabated in the Philippines and South Korea, this is rare in Indonesia even though it is not prohibited by law. Yet, the more ideological nature of Indonesian parties works against indiscriminately changing party affiliation. This, however, did not prevent splits within parliamentary factions from occurring. In 1996/97, with the Orde Baru still in place, the PDI faction disintegrated into two groups, one under Suryadi, a Suharto loyalist, and one under Megawati Sukarnoputri, who was an opponent of Suharto. In January 2002, the PPP faction likewise split, when a group under Zainuddin MZ formed a new party called PPPReformasi. Since January 2002 PKB is divided into two groups, one led by the current Defense Minister Matori Abdul Jalil, the other by former Foreign Minister Alwi Shihab, who both claim to represent 17 the whole party. In Golkar, Akbar Tandjung’s leadership is challenged by an East Indonesian caucus (Iramasuka) led by Marwah Daud Ibrahim from South Sulawesi. Rifts are also visible in most other major parliamentary party groups, where several members resigned from parliament and founded new parties. As may be expected, such party splits have also affected parliamentary voting behaviour, as renegade factions refused to follow the party line. So far, however, this has not had a major impact on parliamentary majorities. While in the Orde Baru legislature non-compliance with the party line evoked the recall of recalcitrant MPs by the political parties, this 18 practice was curtailed by Article 38, 2 of Law No. 3/1999. Possibly in response to the factional rifts, the new Party Law (Article 12, 2) passed by the House in November 2002 returned to the political parties the power to expel dissenting members from legislative bodies. While some quarters criticized the regulation as a return to authoritarian practices,

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the new regulation in fact only legalized existing practices, as even under Law No. 3/1999 it was not excessively difficult for the party leadership to exert pressure on MPs who had become a liability, so that they eventually resigned. In 2002 alone, three PDI-P MPs — Dimyati Hartono, Sophan Sophiaan, and Indira Sugondo — gave up their mandates. The recall practice, which finds its equivalent in South Korea where MPs defying the party line are also expelled (Park 1998, p. 209), is another move towards “rationalized parliamentarianism”. In India, Thailand, South Korea, and Indonesia party unity in debates and voting is maintained by “whips”. Party whips belong to the leadership of a parliamentary party group and are expected to ensure that rankand-file MPs do not stray away from the party line. The latter is usually determined by the party leaders and explained to the members of the parliamentary party group in a caucus before committee deliberations start. In Indonesia, where committees have a major impact on legislation, regular reports of the committee members on the committee proceedings keep the party leadership informed, enabling it to sustain or adjust the party line, and eventually give other members of the party group a chance to voice their opinion. Though not all committee deliberations are strictly checked in the daily parliamentary business, in important matters like the new Election Law or the new Party Law, MPs have to stick to the 19 line of the party leadership. Party whips are usually not elected by MPs, but appointed by party leaders. Such practices certainly perpetuate autocratic internal party structures. The case of party whip Dimyati Hartono of the Indonesian PDI-P is illustrative in this respect. After criticizing party leader Megawati Sukarnoputri he was immediately replaced by fellow-MP Arifin 20 Panigoro. Other resignations must be attributed to a formally legal, yet very questionable practice: the “sharing” of a parliamentary term by two persons due to stembus acoord during the 1999 elections. According to Election Law No. 3/1999, the number of voters in each regency (kabupaten) determines the minimum votes a candidate needs to be elected as a representative. As the minimum quota of votes cannot always be met, candidates from other districts or even other parties are allowed to combine their below-the-threshold votes to reach the minimum quota

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of votes for a seat. The law requires that the decision to combine the votes be made prior to election day, but in practice it happened after the balloting. In such a case of combining votes the candidates involved may agree that one has to resign after half of the term in favour of the other, who gets a seat for the second half of the term (Sulistyo 2002, 21 p. 80). South Korean MPs, too, are under enormous pressure from the party leadership and floor leaders to follow the party line. While the party leadership determines policies, MPs have autonomy only on minor issues. Still, contradicting this semblance of rigidly enforced party unity, is the factionalized nature of parliamentary party groups. The ruling MDP, for instance, is divided into at least four major factions: the “Dawn 21” group, a group of first-term lawmakers, the “Right Politics Meeting”, another group of reform-minded lawmakers, the powerful “Donggyodong” faction, a group of President Kim Dae Jung’s confidants, and the “Middle of the Road Reform Forum”, the largest faction inside the 22 MDP. Despite a modicum of party cohesion, rumours about money politics are rife in virtually all legislatures. The more the vote of the individual MP is needed and the more important the issue at stake, the higher the price for the vote and the more intense the bargaining behind the scenes. South Korean parties without negotiation group status such as the ULD after its departure from the coalition with the ruling MDP suffer major disadvantages. They are neither entitled to committee chairmanships, nor are they able to introduce a bill which needs the signature of at least 20 MPs (Park 1998, p. 209). Even more painful are the financial losses they have to bear due to the withdrawal of state subsidies associated with negotiation group status. According to Article 16 (4) of the Indonesian House Rules, parliamentary party groups with less than ten members do not have the right to membership in the working bodies of parliament, except for committees. Their members cannot be elected as Speaker of the House nor can they be nominated for parliamentary delegations. As the South Korean example of “renting” MPs for attaining parliamentary group status shows, parties seek to avoid such a situation by all means. In Indonesia small parties with only one or two deputies

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have joined hands in order to form a parliamentary party group. In early 2003, there were two parliamentary party groups composed of numerous splinter parties — the Fraksi Kesatuan Kebangsaan Indonesia — which is composed of nine parties with altogether 12 deputies, and the Fraksi Perserikatan Daulatul Ummah which combines six parties with altogether ten deputies. In 1999 the five members of Partai Keadilan joined hands with Partai Amanat Nasional (PAN) of Amien Rais to create the Reform Faction (Fraksi Reformasi), while in 2002 four members of Partai Demokrasi Kasih Bangsa (PDKB) joined the parliamentary party group of the PKB and one went to the Fraksi 23 Kesatuan Kebangsaan Indonesia. The accession of four PDKB members to the PKB’s parliamentary party group is in itself quite remarkable, because the PDKB is a Christian-based party, while the PKB is close to the Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), with a following of more than 30 million, the largest socio-religious organization of Indonesian Muslims. Yet, the move is testimony of the fact that despite considerable “greening” in recent years (Hefner and Horvatich 1997), Indonesian society — and Indonesian Islam in particular — is still more tolerant than usually portrayed in Western media reports after 24 the terrorist bombings on Bali on 12 October 2002. South Korean negotiation groups exhibit a greater degree of internal organization than Indonesian and Philippine parliamentary party groups. 25 While the former are organized according to committee memberships, given the abundance of committees, this is virtually impossible in the Philippine Congress. Although there are task groups crossing party lines in order to solve certain issues, Philippine parliamentary party groups are characterized by a marked lack of specialization. Although parliamentary party groups occasionally marshall support from think tanks, the low level of institutionalization of the party groups in Congress is a major obstacle to parliamentary professionalization. Committees As in most Western democracies, the five legislatures studied in this volume are subdivided into standing, special, or temporary committees, ad hoc committees, subcommittees, and investigative committees. As Table 8.1 shows, the number of standing committees varies considerably

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across the five legislatures, ranging from nine in the Indonesian DPR to a staggering 51 in the Philippine House of Representatives. Second chambers are also subdivided into committees. Between 1999 and 2003, there were 21 committees in the current Thai Senate, 29 in the Indian Rajya Sabha, and 36 in the Philippine Senate. A feature peculiar to the Indian parliament are the joint standing committees of both Houses of which presently 24 exist. While some legislatures such as the South Korean National Assembly, the Indian Lok Sabha and Rajya Sabha, and partly also the Indonesian DPR have devised their committee jurisdiction corresponding to that of government ministries, departments, or agencies, the Philippine Congress pursues a different rationale. The exorbitant number of committees reflects less a response to increasing societal differentiation, but rather indicates that the committee structure is more 26 influenced by the politics of patronage than by professional criteria. The more committees exist, the greater the chances for congressmen and senators to be rewarded with prestigious committee chairmanships. The latter are allocated on the basis of proportional representation between majority and minority, a sensible regulation enhancing inclusiveness of the legislature. The greater the size of a committee, the greater the number of official committee positions. Large committees, for instance, have as 27 many as 12 committee vice-chairmen. Apart from the ubiquitous pork barrel funds, committee chairmanships are the glue that brings and keeps together the loose alignments between the executive and the factions in Congress. In order to combat this proliferation of committees, by the early 1990s the number of committee memberships in the Philippine House of Representatives was limited to six and chairmanships to one. Due to the small size of the Senate the number of committee memberships per senator is even higher than the size per legislator in the House. At the beginning of the 8th Congress (1987–92) senators held on average 21 committee memberships and several chairmanships. This was soon restricted to a maximum of 14 committee memberships — still an extraordinarily high number (de Leon 1998, p. 100). Congressional reform, however, has not gone as far as in the United States where the 1946 Legislative Reorganization Act cut down the number of committees by more than half from over 50 per House to about 20 (Olson 1994, p. 71).

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Chapter Eight Table 8.1 Number of Standing Committees

Country Philippines South Korea Thailand India Indonesia

Number of Standing Committees, Lower House

Number of Standing Committees, Second Chamber

51 19 31 34* 9

36 No second chamber 21 29* No second chamber

* Of these, 24 are joint committees of both Houses. Source: Own compilation based on documents of the Parliamentary Secretariats, 1999–2003.

What has been said about Philippine congressmen and congresswomen in Chapter Five may here be recalled, namely, that they view themselves in the first place as representatives of local interests. Their performance is hence measured by their voters by the extent to which they are able to mobilize pork barrel funds and to attract projects to their constituencies. Multi-membership in committees enhances information on available resources and is thus seen as a chance to increase influence over their distribution and eventually to channel resources into one’s own constituency. Seen against this background it is hardly surprising that congressmen scramble for membership in the powerful Appropriations Committee. Membership in the Appropriations Committee helps to defend the pork barrel funds mobilized for one’s own constituency, to expose the pork barrel funds of rival MPs and, for a member of the minority group in the House, to accuse rivals and the administration of graft and corruption. The strategic importance of the Appropriations Committee for the resource flows in the Philippine political system explains why with 130 (previously 115) members and 11 subcommittees it is by far the largest 28 committee. Next in importance is the Ways and Means Committee to which all bills for fund raising are referred. But unlike in the United States, the power of the committee is less related to the fact that it creates new revenues for the government but rather to how new taxes and fees can be averted. Equally important avenues to patronage funds are the Public Works Committee and the Transportation and Communication

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Committee which — like the Ways and Means Committee — has 75 members. The Rules Committee, which has been likened to a “legislative traffic control officer” (Plano and Greenberg 1976, p. 184), has also steadily grown in terms of membership over the last years. It defines the rules and procedures of legislation and parliamentary work and may thus predetermine the outcome of important decisions. Senators are also keen to chair or be members of the Committee on Accountability of Public Affairs and Investigations, better known as the Blue Ribbon Committee, a high-profile body responsible for investigating irregularities in 29 government. In the 8th Congress 18 out of 24 senators sat on that committee (Timberman, p. 365). Politically less influential committees have fewer members and tend to be manned by neophytes and backbenchers. Bicameral Conference Committees are composed of five members of the Senate and ten members of the House, who are nominated on a case-by-case basis by the Speaker of the House and the Senate President. Usually they include the sponsors of the bills. The Conference Committee is the place where diverging versions of bills passed by the House and the Senate are reconciled in a time-consuming process to a compromise before the bill is then submitted to the president (Foth 1991, p. 55). Although, compared with the legislation passed by Congress, only a fraction of bills goes to the Conference Committee, major legislation is 30 actually shaped by it. The proliferation and the inequitable size of committees — varying between 25 and 130 — have repercussions on the quality of parliamentary work. The size of the Appropriations Committee and the Committee on Agriculture, Food, and Fisheries, for instance, resembles more a plenary than a committee. Such a large membership clearly reduces efficiency. Moreover, as there are too many committees and legal matters transcending committee boundaries are becoming increasingly complex, there are frequent jurisdictional disputes over which committee should 31 be responsible for deliberating a bill. Moreover, many committees face attendance problems. Due to overlapping meeting schedules, “committee hopping” is widespread among congressmen or senators (de Leon 1989, p. 100). In other words, they usually show up briefly in a committee

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meeting before leaving for the next, leaving behind their assistants (Foth 32 1991, p. 93; Caoili 1998, p. 107). The latter can hardly do more than observe the proceedings and report back to their bosses. In response to this practice, with one-fifth of members, the quorum for committee 33 meetings is very low. Yet, it is evident that such circumstances are not very conducive to the professionalization of parliamentary work. Faced with many committee meetings, which often deal with highly diverse topics, it is hardly conceivable that legislators develop sufficient expertise in a certain policy area. While — as may be expected in a presidential system — committees play an important role in the legislative process, this lack of professional expertise and the absenteeism in the committees as a result of multi-membership are major reasons why especially in the Senate many bills are prone to major revisions in the second reading 34 (Caoili 1991–92, p. 11). There is less proliferation of committees in the South Korean National Assembly. Yet, South Korean MPs pursue interests similar to those of Philippine congressmen and congresswomen. They too scramble for membership in influential committees. Although membership is restricted to two at the same time, the fact that a revamp takes place every two years gives more MPs a chance to sit on major committees. Like in the Philippines, membership in the Special Committee of Budget and Accounts is most valued by MPs. However, there are two major differences: first, with 50 members the Special Committee of Budget and Accounts is smaller; second, although membership fluctuation may reduce professionalism in the commission, there is some continuity as a core of financial and economic experts serves longer than two years. This coincides with the information provided by interviewed legislators and officials of the Secretariat of the National Assembly who maintained that there is a gradual increase in the quality of committee deliberations. According to these sources, specialization among legislators is on the rise. Committees dealing with legal, environmental, labour, and 35 educational issues were named as particularly active. Unlike in the Philippines and prior to 1987, committee chairmanships are distributed on a proportional basis among parties. After the mid-term revamp in the current 16th National Assembly, nine chairmanships went to the GNP, eight to the MDP, and two to the

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ULD. Committee chairmen are normally hand-picked by the party leadership and the parliamentary negotiation group. Chairmanships are often rewards for long-serving and loyal standard-bearers of the parties (Park 1998, p. 209). With them go additional benefits such as more office space, better office equipment, more personnel, and more per diems.36 The frequent changes promote a continuous elite circulation which serves the party leadership well: it makes it more difficult for individual MPs to build up power bases from where they are able to challenge the party leadership. Yet, frequent rotation — with turnover rates among committee members of between 60 and 80 per cent (Park 2002c, p. 9) — diminishes professionalism as much as multi-membership à la Philippines. Committee work in the South Korean National Assembly largely follows party lines. As a result, there is more confrontation than deliberation (Park 1999a, p. 78). In fact, although all bills are referred for further scrutiny to the committees, careful deliberation rarely takes place (Park 1997, p. 105). Political motives dominate and prevent a corporate identity from emerging. Park therefore concludes that “the committee system has yet to take firm root in the deliberative process for the National Assembly” (Park 2001, p. 31). As in the Philippines, South Korea’s committees may thus be categorized as “permeable”, not “corporate committees” (Park 1998, p. 223). In Thailand, the National Assembly had only seven committees during the 1960s and 1970s (of which only three met regularly) and, as Morell remarked, “in the Thai legislature … committees played a decidedly minor role” (Morell 1974, p. 345). Even then, MPs and observers considered the time spent in meetings as too short (ibid., p. 353). Furthermore, “for future legislatures, a more influential committee role has been advocated by Thai political scientists” (ibid., p. 346). As mentioned above, the number of committees has increased enormously, and their influence likewise. However, on average they do 37 not even meet once a week. Some committees even seem to be inactive. Many committee members stay away from meetings; the work is unsystematic and discontinuous. Systematic legislative and investigative activities by the committees seem to be the exception rather than the rule. Most time is spent dealing with individual cases and, apparently

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very important in a number of committees, with petitions to investigate wrongdoings by state agencies. As in the Philippines, MPs value official positions in committees highly. For example, the Committee on Agriculture and Cooperatives boasts a chairman, four deputy chairmen, one secretary, three deputy secretaries, the spokesperson, three deputy spokesmen, and four committee advisers. In fact, this committee does not even have a single ordinary committee member — this suggesting that membership without a position is deemed undesirable. Given this situation, one may say that the mere existence of committees does not lead to an increased degree of expertise and professionalism. There may be better perspectives in this regard if we look at the Senate committees. Given that the executive almost completely dominates the House, the question whether the Senate and its committees can assume a genuine control function becomes a critical matter concerning democratic oversight of the executive. Tellingly, rumours are rife that the government has been successful in informally recruiting a majority of senators into its fold. With only nine standing committees in the Indonesian DPR, it has the smallest number compared with the other four parliaments. Membership varies between 35 and 50. Unlike in the other parliaments, most MPs sit on only one committee. Outside the standing committees are the Household Committee (Badan Urusan Rumah Tangga, or BURT), which handles the budget, the Legislation Council (Baleg, Badan Legislasi), the Committee for Inter-Parliamentary Cooperation (BKSAP), and the powerful Steering Committee (Badan Musyawarah, or Bamus), which is coordinating parliamentary activities. Apart from this, there are several ad hoc investigating committees, special law preparation committees (both named Panitia Khusus or Pansus) and subcommittees (subkomisi ). As in the South Korean National Assembly and the Philippine Congress, committees dealing with financial matters are the most important ones. Like the committees of the Philippine Congress, DPR committees play an important role in the legislative process. Due to the large size of DPR committees, a special committee (Panitia Khusus RUU) is formed when a bill has been transferred to a committee. As even special committees may still be quite large in membership, a working committee

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(Panitia Kerja) of about 15 MPs is usually formed. If the bill concerns only one committee, all members of the special committee are drawn from the same committee. All bills on the formation of new regencies 38 (kabupaten), for instance, are discussed by members of Committee II only. If, however, a bill concerns several committees as, for example, the new law on political parties, the special committee is composed of members of several committees. It is up to the parliamentary party groups to decide who will be members in which special committee, thus once more underlining the dominant position of the party leadership. The powerful position of the committees is well illustrated by the fact that after an agreement has been reached at committee level — if necessary by voting — the subsequent plenary session usually adopts the committee version of the bill without further changes. There is no real debate in the plenary session, because all factions would have already agreed. The adoption of the bill in the plenary session is thus more a 39 formal procedure and voting in a plenary session is unusual. If a committee fails to agree on a certain issue, the decision can be transferred to the plenary session. Because, for example, in early 2003 there was no agreement on 8 articles of the Election Law, these issues were decided by 40 voting in the plenary session. Despite their elevated position, committees in the Indonesian DPR are also haunted by poor attendance, which underscores the lacklustre attitude of many MPs towards detailed and technical committee work. According to a study of Forum Komunikasi Massa, about 50 MPs did not show up in at least 30 per cent of the sessions in the first half of the year 2001. Mentioned among these so-called “lazy” parliamentarians are prominent figures such as Taufik Kiemas (PDI-P), the husband of President Megawati Sukarnoputri, who did not turn up for any committee session between October 2000 and July 2001, Guruh Sukarnoputra (PDI-P), the brother of the president, Arifin Panigoro 41 (Party whip of PDI-P), and Ishak Latuconsina (Fraksi TNI/PolRI). As in Thailand, South Korea, and the Philippines, committees of the DPR have the right to summon government officials. While in most countries this includes ministers, in Indonesia even the president may be requested to hold a “working session” (rapat kerja) with the respective committee. Article 35 (2) of Law No. 4/1999 rules that any state or

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government official who refuses to give information will be punished for insulting the dignity and courtesy of the DPR by imprisonment of up to one year. In the Indian Lok Sabha there are three financial committees, 14 other parliamentary standing committees and, since April 1993, 17 42 departmentally related standing committees. In addition, ad hoc committees are convened to deal with special issues. As in the other parliaments discussed, the three financial committees are the ones that carry the highest prestige. Their members are elected by the Lok Sabha from among its members according to the principle of proportional representation for a term not exceeding one year. Rajya Sabha members are nominated by that House. Normally the ratio of Lok Sabha and Rajya Sabha members in these joint committees is 2 : 1. The important Committee on Estimates, however, consists of Lok Sabha members only. As a general rule, the committee members are nominated by the Speaker of the Lok Sabha or the Chairman of the Rajya Sabha and seats are allocated to the parties in proportion to their strength in the House. The term of office is one year. Committees are not entitled to examine the annual reports of the ministries or consider long-term policy documents suo motu, unless they are expressly asked by the Speaker or the Chairman to do so. Committees are barred from suggesting anything of the nature of cut motions. They are too big and amorphous. The departmentally related standing committees consist of 45 members, many of whom have become members to fill the required number of positions or due to the whims of party whips. To conduct its business, a full committee requires a quorum of one-third, yet about seven to ten members do most of the work. An additional five to ten can be made interested, while another five to ten sign in merely to receive their daily allowances and some never come at all. (Rubinoff 1999, p. 27)43

Like in the South Korean case, and due to the rotation procedure, high fluctuation among committee members is normal. Committees are not allowed to co-opt external experts. They can only call them to tender evidence. Normally expert opinion comes from government departments or public-sector companies which are supposed to be scrutinized by the committee members. Accordingly, the influence of the bureaucracy on

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these committees is overwhelming. Some of the MPs are thus of the opinion that committees are toothless. Another reason for such a view is that unlike in all other parliaments studied here — they cannot summon ministers (Prakash 1995, p. 199). Furthermore, although the departmentally related standing committees produce numerous reports, their quality is deemed poor because they lack depth and comprehensiveness of the issues concerned (Godbole 2003, p. 143; Kashyap 1994–2000, vol. 6, p. 552).44 They only have persuasive value and are treated as considered advice. They are not discussed on the floor of the House. The ministry or the government department concerned is required to look into the recommendations given by each report, and then report on the action taken within a period of six months. However, in reality these reports are often submitted by the ministry concerned only six years later (Prakash 1995, p. 199). Therefore, as Rubinoff put it, committees clearly play a subordinate role in the legislative process (Rubinoff 1999, p. 27).45 Parliamentary Services The parliaments studied are supported by administrative infrastructures of varying size and strength. With a staff of 3,000, the parliamentary bureaucracy is the largest in South Korea (Park 1997, p. 104), followed by the Secretariat of the Indonesian DPR with 2,400, the House of Representatives of the Philippine Congress with 1,220, and the Thai House of Representatives with some 1,100. The parliamentary secretariats also vary in terms of functional specialization. Most of them have a division for general administration and divisions for budgetary planning, legislation, committees, research staff, archives, libraries, and, in the South Korean case, even a training institute. The Parliament Library and Reference, Research, Documentation and Information Service (LARDIS) of the Indian parliament is a highly developed institution servicing the MPs and rendering assistance to them by providing all kinds of information. It has a library with a collection of 1.2 million books — probably the best-equipped facility in the country. Moreover, Internet facilities are provided for each MP free of charge. In general the Indian 46 parliamentary services are deemed adequate. However, less than 10 per cent of all MPs make use of them. Their own perception of their role

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as directly elected representatives of the people in their constituencies does not allow them to spend much time on tiresome reading of books and related material. “MPs are not used to hard intellectual work. They regard themselves more as a people’s tribune than as a sophisticated 47 lawmaker.” Fluctuation of academic staff is modest, because all — perhaps with the exception of Indonesia — parliaments offer attractive employment conditions. Positions are permanent, though civil service status — as in Indonesia — is not the rule. The relatively high degree of social security, attractive payment schedules, and an array of fringe benefits permit the recruitment of quality personnel. Officers of the Secretariat of the Philippine House of Representatives, for instance, have a chance to qualify for advanced training abroad or to enrol in Master’s courses at the School 48 of Government of the prestigious local Ateneo de Manila University. It is thus hardly surprising that many of the senior and medium-level technical and professional staff in the Secretariat of the Philippine House of 49 Representatives serve ten and more years. Yet, as the case of the Thai Secretariat shows, political turmoil — as, for example, after the 1991 coup and the redemocratization after May 1992 — may have a destabilizing 50 effect on the staff by substantially accelerating personnel fluctuation. While there are deliberate attempts to upgrade the competence of the academic staff in the parliamentary secretariats in the Philippines and in South Korea, there are less visible advancements in Thailand, both in terms of quantity and quality (although there is a section that deals with human resource development, which even publishes a newsletter). Here, the lack of academic support staff for the work of committees is a serious hindrance to the professionalization of parliamentary work (although this may be conceded by only a minority of MPs). The Thai King Prajadhipok Institute (KPI) — an independent academic organization under the supervision of the National Assembly — was established (by the KPI Act of 1998) mainly to promote democracy via civic education measures. However, it also has a research function. In this context, the KPI may be asked by parliament (which also has its own, albeit weak, academic services sections) to study issues of interest to the legislature. Yet, the institute’s research capacity is limited. When assigned research tasks, the KPI will thus normally hire or cooperate with university-based academics.

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The Internal Structure of Parliaments Table 8.2 Size of Parliamentary Staff

Country South Korea Indonesiaa Philippines Thailandb India

Number of Personnel Employed by the Secretariats of Legislatures 3,000 2,400 2,000 1,100 3,350

Only DPR. Only House of Representatives. Sources: Park (1997, p. 103); Ocampo-Salvador (2000, p. 70); personal interviews in Jakarta, Bangkok, and New Delhi.

a

b

Even more virulent are the support problems in Indonesia where the DPR probably faces the greatest problems in recruiting competent personnel. The academic staff of P3I (Pusat Pengkajian dan Pelayanan Informasi), a parliamentary research centre, is limited to between 30 and 50 researchers only. This is totally insufficient, given the complicated issues to be looked into to restore the Indonesian economy and to reform the outdated legal system. Moreover, unlike the South Korean and the Indian parliaments, and to a lesser extent the Philippine and Thai legislatures, the library and the archives are not well staffed and the computer equipment is outdated. Due to the lack of systematic registration, many documents are thus not readily accessible when needed. It is obvious that with such poor services as in Indonesia, MPs rarely seek support from the parliamentary secretariat. On the other hand, low demand on the part of the MPs also creates little pressure to improve the supply side. Not surprisingly, therefore, most of the stimuli for upgrading the parliamentary services come from foreign donors. In Indonesia at least ten international donors provide assistance for building 51 up effective parliamentary services. While in the majority of cases the staff of the parliamentary secretariats is recruited on merit and qualification, personal staff of MPs is selected more on the basis of loyalty than of competence. In

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the Philippine House of Representatives, the Thai Lower House, and the South Korean National Assembly, legislators have up to six staffers. Indian MPs do not even have adequate secretarial staff or personal assistants (Rubinoff 1999, p. 32). Unlike in Thailand, where one staffer may have an MA and five staffers a BA, in the other legislatures not all staffers are required to have academic qualifications. Among them are secretaries and clerks and liaison officers of the constituency. Committee chairmen in the Philippine House of Representatives have eight staffers and senators up to 20, compared with 40 in the US Senate. Less favourable is the situation in Indonesia where three to five MPs have 52 to share one staffer. However, in our interviews legislators expressed the hope that by 2003 each MP would have at least one adequately 53 qualified personal assistant. Unlike in the parliamentary secretariats, the turnover of personal staff of MPs is high. One obvious reason, of course, is that the change among MPs is high as well. Newly elected MPs bring their own staff with them. Personal staff of MPs is generally very young; women are assigned typically female jobs such as secretaries, clerks, receptionists. While in the Philippines, Thailand, and South Korea, personal staff of the MPs seems to have received at least a good formal education, the qualification level of Indonesian and Indian staffers seems to be lower. In all legislatures, however, there is a tendency to limit staffers to auxiliary work. Their involvement in the preparation of legislation is more procedural than substantive. Although many of them have a background in law and arts and sciences, their preparation for legislative work is insufficient. Much of their work thus relates to constituency work. Finally, as far as the system of government is concerned, again, there is no marked performance differential between presidential and parliamentary systems. The strong legislative support structure of the US Congress hardly serves as a model for other presidential systems. While the Indonesian parliamentary services are weak, services in the other presidential system — that of the Philippines — are certainly better, though by no means significantly superior to those in parliamentary systems such as India and Thailand and by no means superior to that of the South Korean National Assembly.

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SUMMARY

To conclude, some changes of actor behaviour can be ascertained. The parliamentary process has become more lively since regime change, though violations of the House Rules have also increased. Ethics Codes and Ethics Committees have so far proven unable to contain such offences. Moreover, all legislatures are still plagued by recurring (corruption) scandals which, due to the greater transparency of democratic polities, have been more easily exposed. Old-style politics based on patronage and prestige still guides decision-making concerning the internal organization of the legislatures and appointments to parliamentary positions such as the post of the Speaker and committee chairmanships. Political opportunism as exemplified by frequent party defections is also fading very slowly and, if at all, only where antidefection rules have facilitated such behavioural change. Finally, professionalization and specialization of legislative work have also increased only slowly and are counterbalanced by the growing localism of legislators which makes them devote greater attention to their constituencies than to national policies. Behavioural change effected by parliamentary processes related to the legislature’s internal structure have thus not supported to any notable extent — in fact, sometimes even impeded — “positive” consolidation of new democracies, though in the case of India, they have not undermined the public’s firm belief in a democratic order. On paper, the new rules of procedure certainly have helped to democratize the parliamentary process and thus provided a basis for more inclusive policy-making. In practice, however, parliamentary processes are still hierarchical. Especially in parliamentary and presidential-parliamentary systems as well as electoral systems based on proportional representation, rank-and-file MPs still greatly depend on the party leadership and the leadership of party factions. The more factionalized a party, the greater the informal influence of ordinary MPs, albeit usually at the price of political instability. Inclusiveness could be enhanced through serious and competent committee work, especially if genuine advocates were able to protect the interests of less well-represented societal groups. However, lack of expertise and

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specialization, insufficient deliberation, and the ensuing lack of a corporate identity of committees impede such a development. While Polsby argued nearly three decades ago that legislatures in presidential and parliamentary systems differ markedly in terms of internal organization (Polsby 1975, p. 277), our findings suggest otherwise. The government system seems to have only a modest impact on the way the internal organization of legislatures affects their performance. There is, for instance, no close relationship between system of government and the definition of House Rules. While it seems that the presidential system of the Philippines and that of Indonesia give their parliaments more autonomy to define the House Rules, in South Korea’s presidential-parliamentary system these must be passed in the form of a bill which may be vetoed by the president. This leaves the legislature with even less autonomy in the setting of House Rules than in the two parliamentary systems where, through its parliamentary majority the government is able to make its influence felt to some extent. Nor can any significant variation be observed in the way the Speaker exercises his functions. In all cases he is supposed to act impartially, though in reality he often sides with the government (majority). However, it is noteworthy that in Indonesia under the Wahid and Megawati presidencies, the Speaker did not belong to the party of the president. His conduct of parliamentary business was thus less partial than in the other legislatures. Furthermore, the government system seems to have a modest impact on the intensity of committee work. Committees seem to be more active in the Philippine and Indonesian presidential systems. At the same time, however, they suffer from problems similar to those in parliamentary and presidential-parliamentary systems, such as frequent rotation, absenteeism, and high turnover rates of committee members. While rotation may allow for a certain degree of inclusiveness, it is principally a device to pacify backbenchers and thus does little to overcome the hierarchical structure of parliamentary party groups. Committees in the two presidential systems do not appear to be more professionalized and specialized than committees in other systems of government. Cohesion of parliamentary party groups seems to be greater in parliamentary systems but, as has been pointed out, only if anti-defection rules make it

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difficult for legislators to switch parties, as in India since 1985 and in Thailand since 1997. With a view to most other aspects of parliamentary organization — that is, rules, ethics, and parliamentary services — there are no major variations attributable to the government system. NOTES 1. See, for example, the two voluminous compendia on parliamentary procedure in India published by Kashyap (2000). 2. Interview, Manila, 3 February 2003; interview, Jakarta, 4 December 2002. 3. Interview, Manila, 21 September 2001. 4. Interview, Manila, 21 September 2001. 5. The previous Speaker, Lee Man Sup, was an eight-term lawmaker; his successor, Park Kwan Yong, served for six terms (Korea Times, 8 July 2002). 6. Ibid. 7. Korea Times, 5 March 2002. 8. Interviews, Manila, 11 and 21 September 2001 and personal observation of parliamentary sessions. 9. http://www.congress.gov.ph/attendance/index.htm. 10. The decline not only in decorum but also in parliamentary life and performance is deplored by academics, political observers, and parliamentarians alike. Interviews, New Delhi, August/September 2001, March 2002. See, among others, Rudolph and Rudolph (1987, pp. 95–98); Godbole (2003, pp. 138f ); Kashyap (1994– 2000, vol. 6, pp. 538f ); and Rubinoff (1999). Arora (2003, p. 15), however, argues that “the signs of disorder that India’s parliamentary system frequently displays are in fact the consequences of its progressive democratization”. 11. About 10 per cent of the total time spent during the 10th Lok Sabha (1991–96) was lost due to unruly behaviour and interruptions (Lok Sabha Secretariat 2000, p. 5). 12. Interview, Manila, 21 September 2001. 13. Interviews, New Delhi, 4 September 2001 and 2 April 2002. 14. Such behaviour is reported of former Cebu Governor Lito Osmena, who ran for President under Promdi, a party formed by him, while considering himself on leave from Lakas, his erstwhile party (Philippine Star, 20 September 1999, p. 1). See also Far Eastern Economic Review, 10 June 1993, p. 28, which cites more examples. 15. For a documentation of the changes and the manoeuvrings of the government preceding them, see Kim (2000a, p. 195).

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16. Korea Herald Online, 4 September 2001, p. 2. 17. Jakarta Post Online, 13 and 15 May 2002. 18. Jakarta Post Online, 4 and 7 September 2002. 19. Interview, Jakarta, 25 December 2002. 20. Dimyati Hartono dared to run as a candidate for party chairmanship at the PDI-P party congress in Bali in 2000 against incumbent party leader Megawati Sukarnoputri who preferred to run unopposed. In an interview, Dimyati declared that he had no aspiration for the party’s top post but he wanted to give a lesson on inner-party democracy as, in his opinion, there should always be at least two candidates (interview, Jakarta, 16 January 2001). 21. Interview, Jakarta, 17 December 2002. 22. Korea Times Online, 29 October 2001. 23. Jakarta Post Online, 17 June 2002. 24. An example is the designation of Southeast Asia as a “second front” by Pentagon strategists and the US media (Wagener 2002). 25. Interview, Seoul, 5 September 2001. 26. Interview, Manila, 21 September 2001. 27. Rules of the House of Representatives, Section 22. 28. Interview, Manila, 12 September 2001. 29. Philippine Daily Inquirer, 4 August 1999, p. 2. 30. For a more detailed discussion, see p. 227 on the legislative process. 31. http://www.senate.gov/ph/senators/composition.htm. 32. However, officials working with the House Secretariat have downplayed or outrightly denied such practices (Interviews, Manila, 11 and 21 September 2001). 33. Interview, Manila, 12 September 2001. 34. See also Chapter Nine on legislative functions. 35. Interview, Seoul, 4 September 2001. 36. Interview, Seoul, 10 September 2001. 37. They mostly meet on Wednesday and Thursday, the meeting days of the plenum. 38. Kapubaten are local government units below the provincial level, equivalent to districts in Thailand. 39. Interviews, Jakarta, 19 November and 17 December 2002. 40. Jakarta Post Online, 19 February 2003. 41. Martian Damanik, “Tingkat Kehadiran Anggota DPR Masih Memprihatikan”,

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Kompas, 27 December 2001; and “Anggota DPR ‘Pembolos’ Bisa Diberhentikan”, Suara Pembaruan, 4 January 2002 (http://www.suarapembaruan.com/News/2002/ 01/04/Nasional/nas02.htm). 42. For a discussion of the theoretical and political reasons for the creation of the 17 departmentally related standing committees, see Rubinoff (1996). 43. Shastri reports that average attendance at committee meetings is around 40 per cent and only in very few cases slightly above 50 per cent (Shastri 2003, pp. 230– 31). These figures were confirmed in two interviews, New Delhi, 30 March and 2 April 2002. See also Goswami (2002). 44. See as an example for such a report Lok Sabha Secretariat (2001). 45. This assessment was confirmed by various interviews in New Delhi, August/ September 2001 and March 2002. 46. Interview, New Delhi, 28 August 2001. Surya Prakash, however, reports that all of the 100 MPs interviewed by him want a better secretarial assistance or an adequate allowance to employ a full-time secretary. See Prakash (1995, p. 329). 47. Interview, New Delhi, 30 March 2002. 48. Interviews, Manila, 12 and 19 September 2001. 49. Interview, Manila, 12 September 2001. 50. Interviews conducted by Jürgen Rüland in the Thai Parliamentary Secretariat in September 1993. 51. Interviews, Jakarta, 10 October 2001. 52. Interviews, Jakarta, 10 October 2001. 53. Interview, Jakarta, 15 November 2002.

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Reproduced from Parliaments and Political Change in Asia by Jurgen Ruland, Clemens Jurgenmeyer, Miichael H. Nelson and Patrick Ziegenhain (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2005). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

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Chapter Nine

Parliamentary Functions

We may expect greater insight into the way the five parliaments operate, if we move on from the internal division of labour to the functional performance of legislatures. The latter is best gauged by the extent to which they fulfil the functions assigned to them by the scholarly literature. In his pioneering study on the English Constitution, Walter Bagehot named five such functions: elective function, expressive function, teaching function, informative function, and legislative function (Bagehot 1963). Since then the catalogue of parliamentary functions has been widely extended. Yet, it is neither desirable nor necessary here to go into all ramifications of this debate. As most authors, in one way or another, acknowledge that parliaments perform elective, legislative, oversight, and representative functions, we have decided to concentrate on these four core parliamentary functions. However, when referring to legislative functions we do not contend that the entire legislative process rests with 1 parliament. But even though bills are predominantly formulated by

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the executive, parliaments still have a pivotal role in the deliberation, that is, the screening and amending of bills introduced by the executive. Moreover, closely related to policy deliberation is the power of parliaments to pass resolutions which, though not being binding for the executive and not becoming law, may help to popularize certain norms and may even exert pressure on the executive to take into account such norms for policy-making. We do not follow Mezey (1979, p. 48), who subsumed oversight functions under what he termed the policy-making functions of parliaments, suggesting that, by checking the efficacy of legislation, oversight is the last stage in the law-making process. This is a rather narrow concept of oversight which in our view should extend to a very general and broad supervision of executive departments and is thus a very important function in its own right. Elective Function

The elective function is more important in parliamentary systems than in presidential and semi-presidential government systems. But in parliamentary systems as well there is a great deal of variation. While in Thailand the House of Representatives elects the prime minister, who is then appointed by the King, in India the prime minister is appointed by the president. However, the appointment is normally preceded by consultations of the president with the parliamentary leaders and takes into account existing majorities. Appointing a prime minister who is not at least tolerated by a parliamentary majority and who is brought down by a vote of no-confidence soon after appointment would seriously damage the authority and the prestige of the president and is thus avoided by the latter. The Indian parliament participates more directly in the election of the president than in the appointment of the prime minister. The president is elected by an electoral college composed of the elected members of both Houses and all state legislatures. The members of important high-ranking institutions such as the Election Commission, the comptroller and auditor-general or the judges of the Supreme Court are all appointed by the president after consultation with leading representatives of the respective institutions. Generally speaking, the president acts on the advice of the cabinet with the prime minister at its

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head. The speaker and deputy speaker of the Lok Sabha are elected by the House from among its members. The Thai Constitution of 1997 endows not only the House but also the Senate with elective functions. Based on certain procedures by pre-selection bodies, the Senate selects the members of major independent organizations such as the Election Commission of Thailand, the National Counter Corruption Commission, the National Human Rights Commission, the Constitutional Court, and the State Audit Commission, which have been accorded important oversight functions by the Constitution of 1997. The Senate also selects the Commission of the Courts of Justice, the judges of the Supreme Administrative Court, and two members of the Judicial Commission of the Administrative Courts. Formal appointment is by the King “on the advice by the Senate”. However, the Senate cannot normally act unilaterally in these selections. Rather, senators have to make their choice from a list containing twice as many candidates as there are vacancies. This list is prepared by an independent committee tasked with searching for candidates and cutting them down to the required number. But the naming of the committee members and the process of selecting the candidates to be presented to the Senate for making the final selection can be problematic. The result can be satisfactory — as in the case of the National Human Rights Commission (Klein 2002) — or leave a lot to be desired — as in the case of the second batch of election commissioners (Nelson 2002, 2 pp. 393–94). In the latter case, two headlines read “Senate Sinks to 3 4 Lowest Ebb” and “Murky Dealings in the ECT Selection”. In February 2003, the Senate had to defend itself again — and point to the choices presented to it by the selection committee (whose four political party members also belonged to the government) — when it elected four new judges to the Constitutional Court. Three of the new appointments were said to have close ties to the government, which means that the 5 government is assured of the 15 votes. On 1 May 2003, these three new judges promptly joined four other presumed pro-government colleagues to pass “another highly controversial ruling” by endorsing 6 the constitutionality of the government’s two telecom excise decrees. In the presidential and presidential-parliamentary systems of the Philippines and South Korea, the parliament has no role in the election

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of the chief executive. In both countries the president is directly elected by the people. Here it is worth more than a footnote to recall that even in the Philippines, the most presidentialist among the five government systems studied here, three out of five recent presidents (Marcos, Estrada, and Macapagal-Arroyo) had parliamentary careers before rising to the top political position. Indonesia is, as we have seen, a special case, because its current categorization as a presidential system is disputed by constitutional experts and it is considered by many as a hybrid between presidentialism and parliamentarianism. Until 2004, the president is elected by a special body, the MPR. Yet, as 500 out of a total of 700 delegates come from the DPR, the legislature has a major influence on the outcome of presidential elections. Accordingly, since 1998, parliament has been decisively involved in the election of Presidents Abdurrahman Wahid and Megawati Sukarnoputri. Moreover, by rejecting President Habibie’s accountability report, the MPR derailed Habibie’s campaign for a new presidential mandate. Some 20 months later, in July 2001, in an even more dramatic move, the DPR was also instrumental in the impeachment of President Wahid. However, with the Fourth Constitutional Amendment, which will take effect in 2004, the Indonesian president will be directly elected by the people and the DPR and MPR will lose their power to elect the president. Legislatures in presidential and semi-presidential systems are still involved in executive appointments. In the presidential-parliamentary system of South Korea, the prime minister nominated by the president must be confirmed by the National Assembly (Article 86 [1]). This is by no means an automatic process, especially if the ruling party does not command an absolute majority in the National Assembly. Moreover, presidential appointments of ambassadors, justices, senior police, and military officers, and the members of major constitutional commissions also need to be confirmed by the legislature or at least have to pass a parliamentary hearing. The Indonesian DPR enjoys similar powers. As this gives the legislature a say in the selection of the still powerful positions of the national army and police chiefs, parliament has a leverage to select a military leadership amenable to the principle of civilian supremacy and

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to curtail the powers of anti-democratic veto players. Appointments are screened in the committee corresponding to the portfolio under which the appointment falls. The appointment of the chief of staff of the Indonesian Army, Endriartono Sutarto, in 2002 seems to suggest that the parties predetermine the position of their MPs on the committee and — if the decision-making process in the committee does not deviate too much from the party line — then support the committee’s recommendation in the plenary session.7 This is also corroborated by the fact that in the case of General Endriartono, only 250 of the 500 House members attended the plenary session endorsing his nomination 8 as the new army chief. In addition, parliament has the right to appoint the members of the Constitutional Court, the National Audit Commission, the National Election Commission, and the National Human Rights Commission. In the Philippines, the screening of presidential appointments is constitutionally vested in a bicameral Commission on Appointments. However, because these confirmation processes imply a scrutiny of the professional record as well as the personal background of the nominees, they will be treated in greater detail in the context of oversight functions. Legislative Function

Legislative procedures in the five parliaments resemble each other to a 9 certain extent. In all legislatures bills must pass three readings, usually on three separate days. After the first reading, bills are normally referred to committees for further deliberation. Changes made during the committee deliberations vary. They are greater in the Philippines than in Indonesia and much greater than in South Korea, Thailand, and India. Although in the South Korean National Assembly 70 per cent of bills are changed at committee stage, changes are only minor, concerning details, and leave the bill’s substance untouched (Park 1999a, p. 71). In the Philippines, unlike in the other parliaments studied here, both Houses can also make major changes to bills in the second reading in the plenary session (Caoili 1991–92). In contrast, the plenary of the Indonesian parliament usually adopts the committee versions more or less unchanged.

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In the Philippines with its symmetric bicameralism, initiatives may come from both Houses. However, over time a division of labour between the two Houses has evolved. Bills introduced in the House of Representatives are mostly bills of local application, whereas bills originating from the Senate are usually of national application. In order to emphasize its national responsibility, the Senate has frequently 10 conducted hearings outside Metro Manila on bills deliberated by it. Examples are the proposed amendments of the Local Government Code and the plans for federalization, which, however, had to be ended 11 prematurely due to lack of funds. Nevertheless, all in all, the Senate held 71 consultations outside the capital during the 11th Congress (1998–2001). All money bills originate exclusively from the House. The government may also initiate bills which, however, must be introduced by a member of Congress. In addition, the president has the right to propose urgent bills in the event of a public calamity or emergency (Article VI, Section 26 [2]) which must also be tabled by a legislator and, if accepted by the Rules Committee, may then be enacted within a 12 few days. Bills introduced in the House must be passed within 30-session days and then sent to the Senate. Unfortunately, once a bill is submitted 13 to the other chamber, there is no deadline for passing it. If the House and the Senate versions of a bill vary, they are referred to a Joint Conference Committee. Its members, composed of legislators of both 14 Houses, are free to negotiate a compromise version — which is often a highly time-consuming process — and which may end up as an entirely new version of the bill (Foth 1991, p. 55). While the Joint Conference Committee is thus sometimes labelled the “Third House” (Vogler 1971) or a “Congress en miniature”, such designations somewhat exaggerate the importance of the institution — especially if one takes into account the fact that only a small percentage of bills — House officials speak of 2 or 3 per cent — are sent to a bicameral 15 committee. On the other hand, it is usually the major bills, the bills of real substance such as the recent Budget Bill, the Absentee Voting Bill, or the Anti-Money Laundering Bill that go to the Joint Conference Committee. Yet, with all the steps a bill has to pass, the Philippine legislative process opens up many opportunities for veto players to

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intervene, to derail, or to dilute reformist and status-quo threatening bills. In contrast to the Philippines, in Indonesia bills can be proposed by the president, the government, and parliament itself. The powerful Steering Committee of the DPR ranks the bills according to priority, thereby determining their sequence of deliberation. The bills are then amended in the parliamentary committees and finally accepted or rejected by the plenary session. Rules of procedure for the DPR do not specify a time limit for the deliberation of bills. As a result, bills are often delayed for a long time, even when there is urgency and high public interest. Absenteeism during the deliberations is also rampant in the DPR. Many experts and even MPs themselves thus complain about what they see as an unprofessional attitude on the part of the parliamentary leadership, 16 MPs, and parliamentary party groups towards legislation. But even a public admonition by the House leadership has done little to remedy 17 the shortcomings. In South Korea, the scope for legislative activities of MPs is curtailed by the practice of introducing the majority of government bills immediately before the opening of the regular session in September (Park 2001, pp. 32–33). Moreover, deliberation in the plenary sessions and the committees is short and sometimes takes only a few minutes. While bills do undergo changes at the committee stage, plenary sessions rarely amend the committee version of a bill. Changes at the plenary stage are impeded by the stipulation that they must be based on a motion signed by at least 30 MPs; in the case of a budget proposal, by at least 50 MPs. Interestingly, and unexpectedly, the average lapse of time between the tabling of a bill and its final passage decreased after regime change. While the authoritarian 11th (1981–85) and 12th National Assemblies (1985–88) needed 74 days and 80 days, respectively, the average deliberation time shrunk to 45 days in the 13th National Assembly (1988–92), 61 days in the 14th National Assembly (1992–96), and 49 days in the 15th National Assembly (Park 2001, p. 33). For comparison, in the German Bundestag passage of a bill took on average 162 days in the 8th Bundestag, 128 days in the 9th Bundestag, and 203 days in the 10th Bundestag (Hesse and Ellwein 1992, p. 222).

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Unlike in the Philippines the Thai House of Representatives has no time-frame for considering a bill. However, as a precaution against gridlock, the Senate must complete its deliberation within 60 days or, with money bills, within 30 days (Article 174). If the Senate rejects the bill and the House does not agree with the changes, a joint committee has to be set up. If one of the two Houses does not agree with the result of the joint-committee version of the bill, it will also have to be held back. In both cases, nevertheless, where a bill is held back, the House of Representatives can take it up again only after 18 days have elapsed and pass it into law when half the total number of MPs, that is, 250, approve it. Legislative delays as in Thailand and Indonesia or gridlock as in the Philippines cannot occur in India, as both Houses have a time-frame of six months for voting on a bill that has been passed by the other chamber. If this deadline elapses, the president may summon both Houses to meet in a joint sitting. A crude and admittedly preliminary, because exclusively quantitative, measure for the legislative performance of parliaments is the number of bills approved per year. A closer look at these figures shows great variations among the five parliaments and changes over time within some of the parliaments studied. In many cases, the number of bills passed by the legislature is quite modest. Statistical records show that the South Korean National Assembly seems to be the most productive legislature in terms of legislation. The 15th National Assembly (1996–2000), for instance, passed no less than 1,120 bills, which amounts to 280 bills per year. This is a fourfold increase compared with the number of bills tabled during the authoritarian rule 18 of the Fifth Republic. Compared with the other legislatures, the Philippine Congress must also be considered productive in terms of legislation. Both Houses passed an annual average of 37 bills of national application during the 8th Congress (1987–92), 52 bills during the 9th Congress (1992–95), and 49 bills during the 10th Congress (1995–98). While the Ramos administration (1992–98) was especially active in terms of legislation, the number of bills passed by both Houses declined markedly under the Estrada and Macapagal-Arroyo administrations — to 22 bills per year during the 11th Congress (1998–2001) and an all-time low of only six

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to seven bills per year in the 12th Congress (2001–2004). Moreover, some of these are bills merely granting franchises to investors. This dramatic decline in legislative production may be explained by two factors: First, Estrada’s disregard for the legislative mechanisms set up by his predecessor and, second, the impeachment of Estrada, which paralysed both Houses for nearly half a year and left the new administration of Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo unprepared as far as a 20 deliberate legislative programme is concerned. Yet, on average and excluding the special situation surrounding the Estrada impeachment, legislative output for the present Congress is significantly higher than 21 for the Batasan Pambansa of the Marcos years. Legislative output could even be better, if many House bills were not stalled by the Senate which, due to its small membership, is unable to respond quickly to the bills 22 transferred to it by the House. Yet, casting a shadow over the legislative performance of Congress is the fact that many laws enacted are not implemented. The reasons may be lack of funds or the ability of vested interests to block implementation by exerting pressure on the executive. Nobody, and Congress least of all, has so far bothered to analyse how 23 many bills passed by Congress have not been implemented. The Indonesian parliament elected in June 1999 passed 41 new laws in 1999 and 38 laws in the year 2000. In the subsequent two years, legislative performance declined to 22 new laws yearly. This is even below 24 the DPR performance during much of the Orde Baru period, especially if taking into account the fact that between 1999 and 2002 on average 14 laws (or 35.4 per cent) were devoted merely to the creation of new regencies (kabupaten) and that these laws which “follow a formula and largely differ only in the name of the particular district or city involved” (Sherlock 2003, p. 19). This dismal legislative performance looks even more bleak, given the enormous pressure for reformist legislation after over 30 years of authoritarian rule and in view of the disastrous economic crisis. According to the Coordinating Minister of Economic Affairs, Dorodjatun Kuntjorojakti, by early 2002, the backlog of pending bills 25 had grown to 120, among which were 60 economic bills. An excuse for the sluggish legislative output might be that a large number of MPs were newcomers, who were inexperienced in legislation. Moreover, new mechanisms and legislative procedures had to be adopted. Also

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contributing to the low output were the time-consuming debates on the re-positioning of the legislature within the government system, which found expression in four rounds of constitutional amendments between 1999 and 2002, and the great amount of time spent by legislators on oversight functions. The impeachment of President Abdurrahman Wahid occupied the House for six full months and much time was also spent in 26 hearings scrutinizing state institutions. Therefore, all in all, even if taking into account initial difficulties, after several years in operation, one cannot help thinking that legislative efficiency is still quite low. The Thai National Assembly altogether passed 295 laws (including 20 executive decrees) during the period 1997–2000 (1997: 55; 1998: 75; 1999: 98; 2000: 67). The year 2001 saw a sharp drop to 27 acts, probably because of the change in government in January 2001, and the subsequent Constitutional Court case against Prime Minister Thaksin 27 Shinawatra. In April 2003, parliament also has to decide whether to abolish some 2,283 laws that, for various reasons, no longer seem 28 applicable. The legislative output of India’s parliament comes close to the Thai performance. The short 12th Lok Sabha (March 1998 to April 1999) passed 56 bills, the 11th Lok Sabha (May 1996 to December 1997) 61 bills. Previous legislatures, which served out their full five-year term, had a higher annual legislative output. While, with 51 bills per annum the 10th Lok Sabha (1991–96) was in the current trend, both the 7th (1980–84) and 8th (1985–89) Lok Sabha passed nearly 70 bills per year (Lok Sabha Secretariat 2000). However, the number of bills passed does not provide a full picture of the workload confronting legislatures. In the Philippines, during the Aquino administration (8th Congress, 1987–92) a total of 37,380 bills were tabled in both Houses — 35,420 in the House of Representatives and 1,960 in the Senate. In addition, some 3,847 resolutions were filed. However, 85 per cent of the House bills were of local application — the same percentage as during the first year of 29 Marcos’ Batasan Pambansa (1984–86). These local bills are usually related to the sponsor’s constituency and frequently entail little more than changing the names of sublocal administrative units (barangay), streets, schools, and hospitals. It is not surprising that the overwhelming

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Chapter Nine Table 9.1 Number of Bills Passed per Year by Legislatures Country India Indonesia Philippines South Korea Thailand

Average Number of Bills Passed per Year 56a 37d 22b 280e 64c

12th Lok Sabha (March 1998 to April 1999). This figure coincides with the average for the years 1991–2001. b Only bills of national application, 11th Congress (1998–2001). c 1997–2001. d 1998–2002. e 15th National Assembly (1996–2000). Sources: Materials provided by the parliamentary secretariats; Lok Sabha Secretariat (2000, pp. 131ff.); Park (2002b, p. 339).

a

majority of these bills is shelved at the committee stage. For the 8th Congress this translated into an enactment ratio of only 2.6 per cent. The percentage of bills passed declined to between 1.2 and 1.7 per cent in the 9th to 11th Congress, in some cases even declining below the 1.7 per cent which Caoili calculated for the pre-martial law Congress (Caoili 1989a, p. 24). However, this is still better than for the Batasan Pambansa, which in its first year passed a mere 0.23 per 30 cent of bills into law. This leads to the conclusion that — even though legislative output seemingly increases markedly if the bills of local application are included in the legislative record of Congress — with 195 bills per year during the 8th Congress, 185 during the 9th Congress, 201 during the 10th Congress, and 170 during the 11th 31 Congress — overall, the legislative process in the Philippines must be considered rather ineffective. Yet, despite the waste of energy devoted to bills eventually shelved by the committees, legislators consider it heresy to leave these mostly irrelevant and merely symbolic bills of local application to the local government for decision. While such a move would strengthen decentralization as envisaged under the Local Government Code, it would certainly also declog Congress and give lawmakers more time for the deliberation of crucial national bills.

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The percentage of approved bills is much higher in the Korean National Assembly. The 15th National Assembly (1996–2000), for instance, passed 63 per cent of all bills filed. The preceding 13th (1988– 92) and the 14th National Assemblies (1992–96) had passed 60 per cent and 77 per cent of the bills, respectively. Interestingly, however, even though the number of bills filed rose tremendously between the Fifth and the Sixth Republic, the percentage of bills approved did not change markedly. While in the Philippines the budget bill and bills certified by the government as priority are prepared by the executive, they must nevertheless be introduced by legislators. Due to the enormous number of bills of local application, the percentage of such executive bills is rather low. In all other parliaments, executive bills dominate the legislative process. In South Korea, for instance, the percentage of governmentsponsored bills — though mostly tabled by MPs of the ruling party — oscillates between 70 and 80 per cent. This tallies well with the figures for most Western European parliamentary democracies, but is lower than in the US Congress. In Germany, for instance, 80 per cent of the bills introduced to the Bundestag come from the executive (Hesse and Ellwein 1992, p. 225). The performance of the Indonesian DPR is even worse in this respect. It approved only five bills proposed by the DPR between 1998 and 2001. This figure does not signify much change in the area of legislation since the days of Suharto’s façade legislature. In all five parliaments bills prepared by the executive have a much better chance of being adopted by the legislature than private members’ bills. For example, the Indian parliament passed only 14 private members’ 32 bills altogether between 1952 and 2001. An exception was the Aquino era in the Philippines, where Congress-initiated laws accounted for 60.54 per cent of all laws enacted. However, their share declined to 40.61 per cent under the Ramos administration (Limauig 1998, p. 66). Presidential vetoes are rare — even in the Philippines where the president has a lineitem veto. President Aquino, for instance, used her veto 36 times — compared with a total of 984 bills passed by Congress between 1987 and 1992. This is less than 3.7 per cent of all bills passed. In the 9th Congress the percentage of vetoes rose to 7.4 per cent, before again declining to 3.1 per cent and 4.6 per cent in the 10th and 11th Congress,

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respectively. More recently, under President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo made use of her veto right in only two instances against franchise bills. However, none of the vetoes was superseded by the legislature, for which a two-thirds majority is necessary. Moreover, except for the 11th Congress, most of these vetoes were directed against bills of local application. In South Korea, most presidential vetos came during the 13th National Assembly (Park 1999a, p. 70), just after the regime change. South Korea is indeed a particularly telling testimony of the recalcitrant nature of legislatures immediately following regime change when the institutional claims in the new political system are staked out. In the Philippines priority legislation is usually announced by the president in his State of the Nation Address (SONA). To what extent he is able to implement his agenda depends largely on the support he can marshall in Congress. This again depends on his own as well as his lieutenants’ coordinative and bargaining skills. One explanation for Ramos’ successful legislative record was the rampant and ruthless use of patronage funds (Gutierrez 1998). In this respect, the Countrywide Development Fund (CDF) was basically a tool of the president to persuade hesitating congressmen and senators to support his political agenda (Abueva 1997, p. 31). That the proverbial executive-legislative gridlock, frequently seen as a major evil of presidential systems (Linz 1990, p. 53), was less apparent under Ramos was mainly due to the fact that he was able to install an efficient coordinative mechanism between executive and legislature and between the two chambers, namely, the Legislative-Executive Development Administration Committee (LEDAC). Masterly orchestrated by Ramos’ close ally in the House, Speaker José de Venecia, LEDAC was composed of the president, leading members of the executive, and the floor leaders of both Houses. LEDAC served to determine priority legislation, find compromise solutions for diverging House and Senate versions of bills, thus sidelining the Joint Conference Committee, and speeding up delayed legislation. LEDAC was supposed to convene at least once every three months. In practice, however, it met almost weekly. Not accidentally, therefore, LEDAC was likened to a 33 legislative “fast track”. Apart from increasing legislative efficiency by also involving — or even co-opting — the opposition, LEDAC also

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increased parliamentary inclusiveness which, in turn, resulted in a more consensual legislation. However, this system worked only on the condition that the parliamentary leadership, the party, and faction leaders were able to persuade their fellow congressmen to support the compromises reached under the auspices of LEDAC. At this point, however, we are back to square one. In many cases this only succeeded when patronage funds were made available to convince the rank-andfile legislators. The pork barrel needed to smoothen policy-making is difficult to quantify — yet, there can be no question that in a resourcestrapped society it binds considerable resources which are then lacking for more systematic development projects and structural reforms. Under President Joseph E. Estrada’s (1998–2001) erratic style of government, LEDAC more or less fell apart before it was hesitantly revived under his successor Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo and José de 34 Venecia who was again elected House Speaker. Yet, LEDAC is a good example of how a presidential system can be made more effective without resorting to the fundamental constitutional changes that have been proposed from time to time and which seek to replace the existing time-honoured presidential system by a parliamentary system of 35 government. Moreover, early informal deliberation of a draft bill between the pertinent House and Senate committee chairs and the technical staff of both Houses can also considerably reduce the potential for gridlock. Executive-legislative gridlock has been more serious in South Korea and Indonesia than in the Philippines. Repeated attempts by the South Korean government and the ruling party to blackmail opposition MPs to change sides after elections have been met by the opposition with boycotts of parliamentary sessions and paralysed legislation for weeks. Gridlock may also arise when marriages of convenience like that between the MDP and the ULD in 2001 break up. In such a case the ruling party must seek ad hoc majorities, a task exacerbated by strong party discipline. As South Korea lacks a tradition of co-habitation, blockades of the legislative process are difficult to overcome. Summit meetings between the party presidents to break the impasse have exhibited only short-term effects and been of limited success (Yoon 2001, p. 34).

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Indonesia seems to be an example for Mainwaring and Shugart’s (1997) assertion that the combination of presidential democracy and multi-party system creates a high level of political instability. Multiparty coalitions, on which the president has to rely, are notoriously instable. President Abdurrahman Wahid’s party, the PKB, controlled only 10.2 per cent of the DPR mandates and was thus unable to stem the growing erosion of confidence in the president. The result was a tense stand-off for several months between the president and the DPR, which was only resolved by the impeachment of Abdurrahman in July 2001. However, the current executive-legislative relationship, with the strong dependence of the president on the legislature, is not typical of a presidential system, and with the Fourth Constitutional Amendment it will undergo change, strengthening the position of the president in 2004. Yet, selective quantitative data alone do not provide an adequate picture of legislative performance. This means that we must take a closer look at the substance of the bills discussed, which would in turn require examination of the socio-economic consequences of bills passed by the legislatures as done by Foth for the Agrarian Land Reform Law in the Philippines (Foth 1991). However, given the time-frame and the resources available for this study, such an in-depth scrutiny was not possible. Our assessments thus rely merely on an analysis of the titles of the bills passed and the literature on a few key bills. In the case of the Philippines, it has already been pointed out that the overwhelming majority of bills filed are of local application and more or less irrelevant from a developmental perspective. While these bills, even if approved, hardly contribute to greater inclusiveness of the polity, neither do most national bills. Yet, the performance is better than in the old pre-martial law Congress which was blamed by analysts for being outrightly anti-developmental. Caoili, for instance, reports that between 1946 and 1970 industry and agriculture, which are central to the process of development, were utterly neglected in Congress: Bills passed by Congress regarding agriculture constituted only 1.1 percent of the total in 1946; 5.7 percent in 1954; 4.7 percent in 1962 and none in 1970. Bills on industry made up 8.7 percent of all bills in 1946, declining to 8.4 percent in 1954; 1.6 percent in 1962 and 1.9 percent in 1970. (Caoili 1989a, p. 15)

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While the Marcos-controlled Batasan Pambansa by all accounts also seems to have enacted only a few laws genuinely contributing to socioeconomic development (Caoili 1989b, p. 55), there was certainly greater concern for developmental issues in the post-martial law Congress. Especially during the Ramos administration (1992–98) much reformist legislation was pushed through Congress. Still, much of it did not have a major impact on the living conditions of the poor, even though the 1987 Constitution set high standards for the legislators in terms of social 36 justice. Most of the bills enacted by the Ramos administration, for instance, sought to create favourable conditions for a neoliberal economic policy as outlined in the Philippines 2000 strategy. Liberalization, privatization, and deregulation may have freed the economy from many obstacles to a more dynamic growth and created a short-lived mini37 boom on the eve of the Asian financial crisis, but the trickle down to the urban and rural poor was minimal. Poverty incidence still hovers around 40 per cent (Gonzalez and Gregorio-Manasan 2002, p. 220). Redistributive legislation passed during the Aquino and Ramos presidencies was usually watered down by a status quo–conscious Congress. Cases in point are the Comprehensive Agrarian Land Reform Law (RA 6657) (Foth 1991) and the Comprehensive Urban Development and Shelter Act (RA 7835) passed under the Aquino administration. Ramos, in turn, failed to push through Congress a comprehensive tax reform that would have created a more just tax structure, which, due to indirect taxes, is presently weighed against the poorer sections of Philippine society. The Comprehensive Tax Reform Law was finally approved, but was greeted by reform-minded observers with great reservation. Other pro-poor action, perhaps with the exception of the amended Labor Code (RA 6715) and the Cooperative Code of the Philippines (RA 6938), tended to content itself with inconsequential reforms or only covered singular issues such as the Philippine Micronutrient Fortification Program (RA 8976) or a law helping single parents (RA 8980). There was no major change of congressional legislative priorities under the Estrada and the Arroyo-Macapagal presidencies. Estrada was at no point able to translate his “pro-poor” populism into legislative action and under Gloria Arroyo-Macapagal too there is a gulf

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between rhetoric and action. The LEDAC meetings of 14 January 2003, for instance, listed 20 priority laws — none of them has a 38 redistributive effect. It is also telling that the government’s health budget declined from 4.87 per cent during the 1980–89 period to 3.07 per cent in the 1990s (Croissant 2003b). One may thus conclude that if there is concern for socially disadvantaged groups at all, legislative action follows a piecemeal, fragmentary approach, marked by short-term dole outs, charity, and a conspicuous lack of systematic coordination. Much of the neoliberal economic legislation passed during the Ramos years also show the narrowing scope of action for parliaments (and governments) under the impact of globalization. The same holds true for the legislation passed in Indonesia, Thailand, and South Korea in response to the conditionalities imposed by the IMF in the aftermath of the Asian financial crisis. A particularly illustrative example is the Philippine Anti-Money Laundering Act (RA 9140). The act responds to a deadline set by the Financial Action Task Force (FATF) — a Parisbased affiliate of the OECD — to give more teeth to the country’s anti– money laundering regulations. Yet, while legislators couched in nationalistic rhetoric their objection to FATF’s demands including the lowering of the threshold for investigation into bank accounts from 4 million peso (€80,000) to 500,000 peso (€10,000) and the retrospective lifting of bank secrecy, they in fact acted out of self-interest, for apart from themselves only a small segment of the Philippine population is in a position to handle transactions exceeding €10,000. The bill finally passed by Congress (after President Arroyo-Macapagal refused to sign into law an earlier version) scrapped the provision prohibiting the Anti–Money Laundering Council (AMLC) from examining deposits and investments prior to RA 9140’s taking effect. Congress thereby responded to pressure exerted by the FATF, which in unequivocal terms announced its recommendation of sanctions after 15 39 March 2003. Failure of the legislators to adequately address the conditionalities of the FATF would have had serious consequences for the Philippine economy as a whole and — even worse — for the five million Filipino overseas workers, as foreign banks have allegedly 40 threatened to stop handling their remittances.

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The Local Government Code enacted in 1991 is undoubtedly a major piece of reformist legislation and has since assumed a model function in much of Southeast Asia. Nevertheless, viewed from the perspective of inclusiveness, the results are more ambiguous. True, the Code has certainly widened the scope for formal political participation and has also brought in NGOs and other advocates of less advantaged groups to local institutions. Yet, as implementation studies show, this process has been hijacked in many localities by traditional politicians (Clarke 1994) who have also gained access to the new resources accruing to local governments. As a result, the Local Government Code has been frequently instrumentalized by traditional local oligarchies to strengthen 41 their political position. Inclusiveness of the legislation seems to be greater in the other countries studied. In Indonesia, despite the fact that the quantitative legislative performance of the DPR is the poorest among all five legislatures, a number of laws protecting lower-class interests have been passed. Foremost among these laws is the law on manpower (ketenagakerjaan) which passed second reading at the end of 2002. Related legislation had already been passed earlier. Examples are Laws No. 19-21/ 1999 adopting the International Labour Organization (ILO) Convention on Forced Labor, the ILO Convention on Minimum Age for Admission to Employment and the ILO Convention Concerning Discrimination as well as Law No. 28/2000 on workers’ rights. Other social reform bills discussed include the draft law on child protection, the bill on social contributions of workers, and the bill on the protection of workers abroad. Finally, the constitutional amendments passed by the MPR, the anti-discrimination bill concerning ethnic groups, race, and religion, the bill concerning the right to receive public information, and the bill on the protection of witnesses can be categorized as political reforms. However, if these social reforms enacted by the DPR have changed little on the ground, this must be attributed to the enormous gulf between 42 legislation and law implementation, which has reached such dimensions that observers have begun to wonder whether Indonesia is on the verge of becoming a “failing state”. Although law implementation is indeed dismal in Indonesia, to equate the country with a failing state is clearly 43 an undue exaggeration of existing problems.

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While generally trusting the invisible hand of the market, and despite an undeniable bias in favour of capital and employers’ interests, Thai and South Korean legislatures cannot be considered as outrightly negligent of social concerns. In 1992 the Thai National Assembly passed a Social Security Law for the private sector (Reinecke 1993; Schramm 2002; Amara, Rakawin, and Naruemol 2002; Croissant 2003b), which is far from spectacular, but certainly a milestone on the way towards a tighter social security network. Like most other Asian nations, Thailand’s social security legislation followed an essentially top-down approach. It first covered the better-off and at the same time politically more vocal urban and industrial groups before descending to the rural population, the poor, and destitute (United Nations Development Program 2003, p. 59). Yet, recent legislation such as the 30-baht hospital scheme and the debt moratorium for peasants explicitly target these disadvantaged groups. In a recent study, Croissant has also shown that Thailand’s and South Korea’s expenditures for social services rose markedly during the 1990s, whereas the defence budget decreased by around 40 per cent (Croissant 2003b, p. 96). Yet, in Thailand and Indonesia the austerity measures following the Asian financial crisis clearly favoured the propertied classes, especially the recapitalization of the ailing banking sector where private losses were passed on to the taxpayer. The IBRA in Indonesia as well as the Thai Asset Management Corporation (TAMC) established by the Thaksin government in June 2001 to deal with the huge amount of non-performing loans (Punjaporn 2001) in Thailand have been slow in restructuring the financial sector of either country. The Indian state has a long-standing tradition of social commitment to the poorer classes of Indian society going back to the days of the independence movement when leaders like Jawaharlal Nehru and of course Mahatma Gandhi frequently criticized any kind of discrimination and exploitation. Not only does the Indian constitution right at the beginning emphasize the values of justice, liberty, equality, and fraternity upon which independent India shall rest, it also explicitly mentions in articles 23 and 24 the fundamental right against exploitation, prohibiting all forms of forced labour, child labour, and traffic in human beings. The enforcement of fundamental rights through the individual’s right to move the Supreme Court is guaranteed (Paragraph 32). Part IV of

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the constitution enumerates an extensive list of Directive Principles of State Policy obliging the “State to secure a social order for the promotion of welfare of the people” (Paragraph 38). The citizens of India can expect the state to pursue a policy securing their right to an adequate means of livelihood, though its implementation leaves a lot to be desired. By law the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes have the right to fill 22 per cent of all public service jobs and university places provided by the Union government. This reservation policy was extended in 1993 to the Other Backward Classes raising the overall quota of reservation to 49 per cent now. Other laws include constitutional provisions relating to village councils, minimum wages for landless labourers, extensive labour laws, to name only a few. Workers in India, for example, are not at the entrepreneur’s mercy and enjoy a relatively good social security system and one-third of all seats and offices of chairperson in the threetier system of village councils (panchayats) are reserved for women. In India as elsewhere in Asia, there exists an enormous gap between the existing laws and their implementation. Child labour occurs everywhere, the Scheduled Castes and Tribes still belong to the most disadvantaged sections of Indian society, and many of the village councils are still a disguised form of the rule of the landowning dominant castes. Nevertheless the new village council laws of 1992 can be seen as an important step towards more equality and inclusiveness because they grant women, Scheduled Castes and Tribes, and other weaker sections of Indian society membership in local institutions otherwise the exclusive domain of powerful and rich men (Institute of Social Sciences 1995; Mitra 2001; Hust 2002). Inclusiveness of legislation also depends to a considerable extent on the access of interest groups to legislators. Although much more scholarly work is needed on the relationship between lobbies and legislators, a few preliminary observations can be made at this point. Due to the conservative political outlook of many legislators and their affiliation with business interests (such as large conglomerates — the chaebol — in South Korea), economic lobbies have better access to parliamentarians than NGOs advocating social causes. NGOs usually approach individual legislators, often coming from the NGO camp themselves, who are known to have sympathies for social issues and poverty alleviation. While

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in parliamentary systems lobbyists seem to concentrate on the executive, in the Philippine presidential system much lobbying activity also targets legislators. The reason may be that in parliamentary systems the government majority has limited interests in making major changes in the legislation prepared by the executive. In a presidential system, due to the stronger and more independent position of the legislators vis-àvis the executive, bills may undergo major changes at the committee stage. Interest group influence may also vary according to the stage of legislation. Since most laws, as shown in all cases studied, originate in the executive, lobby groups tend to concentrate on the executive in the formative stages of a bill, while they exert pressure on legislators when they seek amendments of the executive draft bill. Oversight Function

Formally, legislatures — or in parliamentary systems the opposition — have many means to exert control over the executive. They may create investigative committees, organize hearings, discuss the State of the Nation Address of the prime minister or the president, and conduct question hours. They may also file a complaint with the Constitutional or Supreme Court and initiate motions of no-confidence or impeachment. Finally, the budgetary process provides legislatures with a potentially powerful instrument to control the executive. Oversight seems to be the most developed function in the legislatures studied in this volume. Yet, such an impression must be taken with a grain of salt. A closer look at parliamentary practice suggests that many oversight activities are pursued in the context of intra-elite power struggles. They are mainly motivated by attempts to change the power equation in parliament or — in presidential systems — between parliament and president. Reshuffling the ruling party coalition or even toppling the government and calling fresh elections then become more important objectives than promoting good governance. Investigations and hearings in-aid-of-legislation are a major instrument of parliamentary oversight in the Philippines (Foth 1991, p. 94), South Korea, India, and Indonesia; they are also important in Thailand. They have proliferated in the Philippines to such an extent

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that in September 2001, House Speaker de Venecia proposed a six-month moratorium on House probes.44 The Senate was no less active and conducted 396 meetings dealing with public inquiries and investigations during the 11th Congress (1998–2001). 150 hearings were conducted by the powerful Blue Ribbon Committee, which, however, completed 45 only approximately one-third of its investigations. Contributing to this proliferation is the fact that investigative hearings are often conducted on the same issue in both Houses. Usually they create a lot of noise, but rarely have major repercussions on government performance and in some cases even fizzle out inconsequentially. While alleged or real government irregularities are the most frequent topic of such hearings, they may in fact even compound and entrench corruption. It is no secret that lawmakers use such probes as a leverage for persuading government agencies and bureaucrats to strike deals with them. One Filipino 46 columnist even spoke of outright “extortion”. Needless to say, such 47 “probes for profit” serve personal and particularistic interests of the respective legislators. Moreover, oversight often also pursues the twin-purpose of weakening political rivals by blocking their access to patronage, thus loosening their clientelist networks, and, by politically discrediting them, obtaining better access to state resources for oneself. Finally, investigative committees provide a platform for grandstanding and publicity stunts. Hence, it comes as no surprise that despite democratization, corruption has not much declined in the countries studied here. Even though they may be open to methodological critique, surveys such as those published by the Berlin-based NGO Transparency International show that all five countries perform poorly in this ranking. Endemic corruption, however, certainly inhibits a better development performance and greater inclusiveness. Without going into the controversies seeking to explain the causes of the Asian financial crisis, there is indeed evidence that corruption and patrimonialism were among the domestic factors contributing to the outbreak of the crisis in Thailand and the contagion of South Korea, Indonesia, and the Philippines (Dieter 1998; Henderson 1998). As a result of the strong cohesion of the ruling party’s parliamentary party group, investigative hearings in the South Korean National

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35 (2.78) 36 (2.77) 34 (2.79) 41 (0.26) 41

India

Philippines

Thailand

Indonesia

Number of countries observed 54

45 (2.65)

37 (3.33)

44 (2.69)

46 (2.63)

27 (5.02)

1996 Rank (Score)

52

46 (2.72)

39 (3.06)

40 (3.05)

45 (2.75)

34 (4.29)

1997 Rank (Score)

85

80 (2.0)

61 (3.0)

55 (3.3)

66 (2.9)

43 (4.2)

1998 Rank (Score)

Note: A score of 10 stands for no corruption; 0 for the highest level of corruption. Source: Transparency International (various years) (http://www.transparency.org).

27 (4.29)

South Korea

Country

1995 Rank (Score)

99

96 (1.7)

68 (3.2)

54 (3.6)

72 (2.9)

50 (3.8)

1999 Rank (Score)

Table 9.2 Corruption Incidence in Asian Democracies

90

85 (1.7)

60 (3.2)

69 (2.8)

69 (2.8)

48 (4.0)

2000 Rank (Score)

91

88 (1.9)

61 (3.2)

65 (2.9)

71 (2.7)

42 (4.2)

2001 Rank (Score)

102

96 (1.9)

64 (3.2)

77 (2.6)

71 (2.7)

40 (4.5)

2002 Rank (Score)

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Assembly have had only limited impact on the government for most of the time since 1987. An exception was the 13th National Assembly, the first after the transition to democracy, corroborating our earlier assumption that parliaments immediately after regime change seem to gain in terms of policy influence and stature vis-à-vis the government. Unprecedented for the National Assembly, legislators launched a series of investigative hearings to probe the brutal crackdown on the Kwangju uprising in 1980 and other abuses of power under President Chun Doo Hwan (Park 1999a, p. 70). The legislative session of the South Korean National Assembly parliament opens every September with a 20-day auditing of ministries and government agencies by the legislators. Every standing committee scrutinizes the government ministry falling under its jurisdiction. However, effective oversight is impeded due to a lack of expertise among legislators and obstructive practices by a government bureaucracy still mired in authoritarian attitudes. Bureaucrats often complain about the high-handed behaviour of the legislators and the fact that they have to repeatedly submit the same set of documents, while legislators decry the seemingly unresponsive attitude of bureaucrats to documentation queries. Moreover, with no follow-up and no verification that the weaknesses uncovered by the audit are remedied, the exercise has limited effect on government performance. Yet, as in the Philippines, legislators gain in 48 public stature, especially if they are able to uncover irregularities. Lately, resistance has built up among local government agencies against their inclusion in the annual audit. They view these audits as a violation of the Local Autonomy Act, which stipulates that regional governments, metropolitan cities, and provinces are subject to the probe only until local councils have been formed to inspect the local government on their own. With the establishment of local councils in 1991, local governments should thus have been freed from the scrutiny by the National Assembly. Others, however, contend that local governments are still in their formative stage and are heavily plagued by corruption. Therefore, until the local governments have taken root firmly, inspection 49 and monitoring by the National Assembly should continue. Since 1999 the Indonesian DPR has frequently established investigative committees to check executive actions. For example, in

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June 2003 the House of Representatives set up a special committee to investigate alleged irregularities in the purchase of Russian Sukhoi jet fighters and helicopters, a deal worth US$192.6 million that involved two government officials. The inquiry team was established in order to follow up on allegations by leading legislators who believed there were irregularities in the deal. The suspicion of the legislators was aroused by the fact that the transaction violated important laws regarding defence, 50 budgetary law, as well as banking procedures and regulations. In the end, as in nearly all other cases brought up in investigative committees, no evidences could be found and the DPR stopped its activities without concrete results. In Thailand, India, and the Philippines, oversight functions have also been assigned to the second chambers. The Philippine Senate, for instance, has explicitly been created to keep in check the seemingly myopic localism of the House of Representatives and to generate visions for national policies (Foth 1991, p. 40; Bernas 2000, p. 53). By the end of the 1980s, the Senate indeed seemed to be the more progressive chamber (Timberman 1991, p. 266). It passed a more progressive version of the agrarian land reform law than the House (Foth 1991) and it was the Senate which, albeit by only one vote, rejected an extension of the military bases agreement with the United States — a decision receiving much praise from Filipino nationalists (Salonga 2001, pp. 445–46). Since then, however, as argued in Chapter Seven, the changing composition and the rise of populist figures in the Senate 51 has led to a continuous decline of the political stature of the Senate. Its deteriorating public reputation may also be attributed to the dubious role it played in the impeachment of President Estrada and to the persistent factional infighting. The Senate has increasingly developed into an obstructive institution, an arena for personal vanity fairs of presidential pretenders. The Thai Senate’s oversight efficacy is compromised by repeated failures of the prime minister and other cabinet ministers to appear 52 before Senate Panels set up to probe controversial issues and policies. Whether the Thai Senate will ultimately be able to provide some supervisory balance is thus an open question. On the one hand, there are a number of senators interested in taking their role seriously; on the

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other, it is widely speculated that the majority of senators, especially retired civil servants, have been lured to support the Thaksin government. Interpellation and question hours have a limited impact on control of the executive. In the 10th and 11th Philippine Congress, there was 53 no question hour at all, while in the Korean National Assembly question hours (due to time constraints and rigid party lines) give lawmakers little opportunity to delve deeper into alleged irregularities. Nevertheless, the range of topics touched upon widened considerably after a regime change. Thus, for a responsive government, they may still be viewed as early warning mechanisms. In principle, privilege speeches in the Philippine Congress may also give clout to legislative oversight; yet, again, in many cases they are more publicity stunts of individual lawmakers targeting petty problems rather than exposing serious malfunctioning of the administration. As budgets reflect major decisions on policy directions, the budgetary process is an important instrument of legislative control over the executive. Yet, even more than in Western democracies, it is the executive which prepares the budget and, in the parliamentary system, also introduces it into parliament. Often budgetary debates are short of substance for several reasons. First, the expertise of many lawmakers is limited. Second, individual legislators are overwhelmed by the sheer bulk of figures and items submitted to them for scrutiny. And, third, constitutional provisions curtail the powers of legislators to change the budgetary proposal of the government (Foth 1991, p. 82). In the Philippines, Congress is prohibited from increasing “the appropriations recommended by the President for the operation of the Government as specified in the budget” (Article VI, Section 25[1]). Perhaps debilitating the congressional power of the purse even more are laws stemming from the Marcos era which provide for the automatic allocation of funds for 54 the servicing of debts (Bernas 1999, p. 77). In a similar vein, the South Korean Constitution stipulates that “the National Assembly shall, without the consent of the executive, neither increase the sum of any item of expenditure nor create any new items of expenditures in the budget submitted by the Executive” (Chapter III, Article 57). In South Korea, budgetary control is further hampered by strict party discipline. The MPs of the ruling party or the coalition parties do

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nothing to jeopardize the government. Rather than closely scrutinizing the items of expenditure, they seek to foil opposition attempts at scoring popularity points. Even though the pertinent sections of the budget are first submitted to the Standing Committees in charge of supervising the respective ministry before they are scrutinized by the Special Committee on Budget and Accounts, the whole review process is usually a matter of only two weeks. Accordingly, changes in the government’s budget proposal are minimal, averaging at less than 1 per cent (Park 2001, pp. 34–35). In the 2001 budget, for instance, the cuts enacted by parliament were a mere 0.8 per cent (Park 2002c, p. 14). Three years earlier, at the height of the Asian currency crisis, the budgetary bills were rushed through with minimal changes after a long paralysis of parliament due to intense politicking between the government parties and the opposition. Not surprisingly, given South Korea’s financial crisis, this behaviour of political parties was criticized by observers as “an act of extreme irresponsibility” (Kim 2000a, p. 196). It also suggests that in the priorities of political parties deliberation on budget bills is low. Referring to the budgetary process in 1997 and 1998, Byung-Kook Kim thus contends that “political parties lacked both the technical expertise and the ideological commitment necessary to articulate a clear hierarchy of budgetary goals” (Kim 2000a, p. 197). Compared with the authoritarian past, the budgetary powers of the National Assembly have thus hardly increased. The Indian budgetary review faces similar constraints which must also be attributed to the strict party discipline imposed on MPs by the Anti-Defection Law. The House Rules further circumscribe oversight functions. While the former allot a specific number of days for the budgetary debates, the time is inadequate for any serious discussion. When the allotted time has elapsed, the Speaker applies the guillotine, which means that a vote is taken on a whole package of non-discussed demands for grants. As a result, 85 per cent of the annual demand for grants was passed by the House without closer examination during the 8th Lok Sabha (1984–85). Surya Prakash thus concludes that on average 60 to 80 per cent of the demands for grants each year are passed without examination (1995, p. 189). This average has increased in the 1990s because there is a decline of hours taken for discussion since 1985

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(Goswami 2002, pp. 15–16). In 1996/97 95.5 per cent of all demands for grants were guillotined (Godbole 2003, p. 142). Budgetary debates are somewhat more lively in the Philippines where, due to the lack of party cohesion, congressmen and congresswomen try to identify and eventually cut expenditure items hiding patronage funds earmarked for political rivals. In the same manner they seek to conceal and defend their own patronage funds. In the preparatory stage of the budget proposal, congressmen and congresswomen inform the executive about projects they plan in their constituency. Because of their visibility in the constituency these are in many cases public works projects. The respective expenditure items are then included in the budget proposal 55 and difficult to uncover by outsiders as merely serving patronage ends. It goes without saying that this type of project has little bearing on national development. Scarce resources are spent on a piecemeal basis, often only benefiting those parts of the constituency that have voted for the respective legislator. Such phenomena inevitably delegitimate the system as corrupt from the perspective of those who were left out. Not surprisingly, therefore, the dynamics of Philippine politics in the premartial law era has been described as “the shouts of the ‘outs’ against the corruption of the ‘ins’” (Milne 1969, p. 183). This has not markedly changed since. Given the substantial amount of money spent for political patronage, these resources are not available for national priorities and thus impede long-term development planning. Still, budgetary hearings are feared by bureaucrats summoned to them. Some describe the procedure as demeaning due to arrogant behaviour on the part of legislators. Technocrats also tend to assail their lack of expertise. According to them, many questions are off the mark and bear little relation to the work of the government agency under scrutiny. More often than not, the technocrats complain, the examination is characterized by questions and interventions of a particularistic nature, geared towards the local interests of the legislators participating in the 56 hearing. A crucial stage in the budgetary process is the Joint Conference Committee. As in all cases where House and Senate versions of bills vary, the differences have to be reconciled by the Joint Conference Committee. There are allegations that administrators desperately

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struggling to avert spending cuts try to influence the administrative staff preparing the figures for the committee session. Although without firm proof such allegations must be treated with great care, the intransparent nature of the process and the abundance of expenditure items to be decided upon does not rule out that it sometimes goes unnoticed by the legislators when expenditure items agreed upon earlier are modified at 57 the last minute through behind-the-scene deals. In Indonesia the draft budget is elaborated by the state administration and then submitted to parliament, which is pressurized into passing it quickly. Due to a lack of capacity and competence, parliament usually changes less than 1 per cent of the draft. Legislators complain that parliament does not have enough time to deliberate details, because the executive is pushing the legislators to agree. Therefore, the DPR plays only a minor role in budgetary matters.58 In presidential and semi-presidential systems, parliaments also have powers to control personnel decisions of the government. In the Philippines the heads of executive departments, ambassadors, consuls, or officers of the armed forces from the rank of colonel or naval captain upward are subjected to scrutiny and approval by a powerful bicameral 59 Commission on Appointments. Yet, from its inception the work of the Commission has been clouded by controversies. A persistent tug-ofwar erupted over congressional moves to expand the list of officials who, based on Article VII, Section 16 of the 1987 Constitution, need confirmation by the Commission on Appointments (Caoili 1991–92, 60 p. 18; Bernas 2000, pp. 64–69). Moreover, decisions of this Commission are not always guided by criteria of merit. Quite frequently they are driven by clientelist motives and often they serve as a leverage for congressmen to extort concessions from the president in other areas. There is also a tendency to block the rise of inconvenient persons or reformist politicians into executive positions of influence (Caoili 1998, p. 107). The rejection by the Commission of designated Agrarian Reform Ministers Miriam Defensor-Santiago and Florencio Abad are cases in 61 point. Both appointees were perceived by the congressmen as antagonistic to landed interests (Caoili 1998, p. 112). More recently, the Commission, after deliberating for more than one year, finally approved the nomination of Heherson Alvarez as Secretary for

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Environment and Natural Resources, only to see allegedly vested interests succeed in toppling the newly appointed secretary barely two months 62 after he took office. The South Korean National Assembly and the Indonesian DPR also have major confirmation rights enabling them to control government appointments. Ambassadors, justices, police chiefs, and high-ranking military officers must appear in confirmation hearings and field the questions of the legislators. Interestingly, tendencies similar to those practised by the Philippine Commission on Appointments can be observed: Parliament increasingly uses its power to scrutinize executive nominees to reject reformers. A case in point is the examination by the DPR’s Commission II of 43 candidates for membership in the National Human Rights Commission (Komnas HAM). The committee, failing to establish substantive criteria for its selection, eventually endorsed 23 names, rejecting experienced human rights activists such as Todong Mulya Lubis, Hendardi, and Wardah Hafiz. Worse, it endorsed several members known for their pro-military stance in handling human rights abuses involving servicemen in conflict-ridden provinces such as Aceh, 63 West Papua, and the Moluccas. The relative strength of South Korea’s National Assembly following a regime change is underscored by the fact that the legislature disapproved the president’s nominee for chief justice — unthinkable a few years earlier and improbable afterwards (Park 1999a, p. 70). Only very recently, in July 2002, after the departure of the ULD from the alliance with the ruling MDP and thus in a situation of shifting majorities, the legislature was able to reject presidential nominees for high office. A case in point is the rejection of the woman prime minister nominated by President Kim Dae Jung in July 2002. She fell victim to this tough confirmation procedure which generates a lot of publicity and encourages the opposition and their media to delve deeply into the lives and careers of the nominees. Draft-dodging by the nominees themselves or of close relatives, tax evasion, or the involvement in scandals of any nature are usually what they are after. Normally, however, due to the strong party discipline, the government appointees survive the procedure and sail through. Seen in this light, the rejection of President Kim’s nominee for the position of prime minister has more to do with the loss of majority

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by the ruling party in the National Assembly than with the personal 64 qualifications of the nominee. In parliamentary systems, a vote of no-confidence is the strongest weapon of executive control. While nowadays most Western democracies use it rarely and as a means of last resort, in the Thai House of Representatives, prior to 1997, the opposition filed a motion of noconfidence against the prime minister or individual cabinet ministers quite frequently. However, the instrument was less used as a means to control the executive than as a device to provoke defections from the multi-party government coalition in order to weaken and even destabilize the government. The opposition aims not so much at forcing the prime minister to call fresh elections, which would be costly for all sides, as to effecting a major cabinet reshuffle which would pave the way into the coalition for one or several opposition parties. This would give them access to state resources and patronage funds which they need in order to recoup their election expenses. With the plurality vote and the introduction of a constructive no-confidence vote, which can be initiated only during the annual general session of the National Assembly but not during its legislative session, there will certainly be less abuse of this powerful instrument of control. Moreover, censuring the prime minister requires the support of 200 MPs, while a no-confidence motion against a minister requires only 100 supporters in the House. It is widely assumed that Thaksin’s reason for building an“oversized” coalition government was to prevent the opposition from starting a motion against him. Having essentially only their own 128 MPs, the opposition Democrats could thus — in May 2002, the first such move under the 1997 Constitution — only target individual ministers. A further “rationalizing” element is that ministers cannot be censured for reasons of corruption, unusual wealth, or malfeasance in office (that is, the most important arguments in any such debate) without the opposition also submitting a petition to remove that person from office. This is then followed by an investigation by the National Counter Corruption Commission (NCCC). By May 2003, the NCCC has absolved most of the ministers targeted in the motion of May 2002. Thus, many people may ask whether that no-confidence debate was justified, and the government can use the NCCC’s decisions to argue

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against another Democrat-initiated censure attempt in the upcoming House session. Understandably, Democrat MPs were unhappy, saying that this result “made a nonsense of accountability tools such as censure 65 debates and impeachment proceedings”, and that the NCCC had no 66 need to use “criminal standards” in its judgments. Furthermore, since the NCCC may proceed to investigate civil servants involved in the cases raised against the ministers, the opposition may increasingly face difficulties in finding people in the ministries willing to provide them with data. When the time came for the next no-confidence motion in late May 2003, a commentator warned that “the opposition lost some credit in the eyes of the public when the NCCC decided that all [sic] targeted ministers were not guilty”. He advised the Democrats to “learn from last year’s failure” by targeting only a small number of ministers 67 with thoroughly checked evidence. In sum, the “weapon” of a noconfidence motion may have been “rationalized” to a degree where it has become practically useless as a tool the legislature can use for holding the executive accountable. This may become even worse if TRT were to be successful — and this is a real possibility — in pushing the number of Democrat MPs below 100 in the next elections scheduled for early 2005. No-confidence motions against the prime minister or cabinet ministers have also been launched in the South Korean National Assembly. As long as the ruling coalition or the ruling party were united, they stood little chance of success. However, rifts in the coalition as between the reformist MDP of President Kim Dae Jung and the staunchly anti-communist and ultra-conservative ULD of Kim Jong Pil over the president’s “Sunshine Policy” towards North Korea gave motions of noconfidence a good chance to win. A case in point is the no-confidence motion against National Unification Minister Lim Dong Won, which was initiated by the opposition GNP and supported by the ULD irrespective of the fact that the party was the junior partner in the government coalition. Needless to say, the support of the motion and the ouster of Minister Lim caused the break of the coalition and a political crisis in South Korea. Impeachment motions against the president have been initiated only rarely in the presidential systems of the region. In the Philippines, the

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impeachment initiated by the House against former President Estrada in November 2000 is only the second if we include the unsuccessful impeachment motion by the opposition in the Batasan Pambansa against then President Marcos. Estrada was earlier accused by a provincial governor of accepting bribes and kickbacks in connection with illegal gambling operations.68 As is well known, the subsequent impeachment trial collapsed in mid-January 2001 after eleven senators thwarted a move by the House prosecutors to open for inspection a bank account linked to Estrada. The collapse triggered mass protests in Manila which were countered by rallies of the president’s supporters. In this highly volatile situation, amid flurrying coup rumours, the military withdrew its support for Estrada, and Chief Justice Hilario Davide eventually declared Vice-President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo president of the Philippines. Yet, the circumstances leading to Estrada’s ouster raised questions about the constitutionality of his replacement (Landé 2001). Apart from the fixed term of office of the president, which makes it extremely difficult and politically costly to remove him from office, the partisanship displayed by the Senate in the impeachment process has eroded both the legitimacy of the presidential system and bicameralism. Another cause for concern is the fact that the impeachment provisions of the Philippine Constitution are increasingly abused for myopic partisan objectives pursuing no other purpose than scoring publicity points. The impeachment procedures initiated against Ombudsman Aniano 69 Desierto, COMELEC Commissioner Luzviminda Tancangco, and a resolution for impeaching the president submitted to parliament by an 70 obscure group calling itself the People’s Consultative Assembly, are testimony of this attrition of an austere constitutional device which should serve only as a last resort to rid the polity of non-performing, inept, or criminal officials. In the present Philippine debate the inflationary use of the impeachment may be construed by critics of the existing presidential system as another proof of its rigidities which can only be remedied by a shift to a parliamentary system. Proponents of such a change, however, close their eyes to the fact that with the even more powerful no-confidence weapon at hand, censure motions against high government officials would proliferate and have an equally

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debilitating effect on legislative work due to the preoccupation of parliament with no-confidence motions. In Indonesia, President Abdurrahman Wahid, who at the beginning of his term explicitly acknowledged the importance of a strong opposition (Pahlevi 2001, p. 12), was forced out of office by an impeachment in July 2001. Mr Wahid had lost parliamentary support by the end of 2000 due to his erratic political style, lack of success in economic matters, and his dismissal of several ministers of other parties which had earlier supported him. The parliamentary leadership then discovered financial irregularities in which Wahid was allegedly involved. Wahid subsequently refused to explain his role in these cases to the DPR, arguing that it had no constitutional right to do so. The DPR finally convoked a special session of the MPR with the impeachment of Wahid as the sole item on the agenda. The conflict between President Wahid and the legislature further escalated when he tried to install a new national police chief without the consent of the DPR. In a last ditch effort to prevent his impeachment, Wahid released a decree declaring a national state of emergency and ordering the dissolution of the MPR, the DPR, and Partai Golkar. Because the military leadership ignored Wahid’s order and the Supreme Court immediately decided that the president had violated the constitution and MPR decrees, the Special Session commenced and dismissed him, installing his Vice-President Megawati Sukarnoputri as the new president (Malley 2002, pp. 125–26). The conflict over the impeachment reinvigorated the supervisory powers of the parliament, but because of the unclear legal and constitutional provisions on impeachment, a bad taste remained. As in the case of Estrada in the Philippines, the impeachment of Wahid was widely perceived as a power struggle of the political elite and thus resulted in a decline of public legitimacy for the Indonesian parliament and democracy as a whole. The fact that oversight is instrumentalized for intra-elite power games certainly has repercussions on democratic consolidation. The self-healing forces of parliaments must therefore be regarded as limited. On the other hand, the publicity of scandals uncovered by parliamentary control is undermining the reputation of the democratic system. Even worse, and in the long run equally delegitimizing, is the fact that oversight and

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control are rarely used to promote the interests of the lower classes and disadvantaged groups of society. One cannot but conclude that in presidential and parliamentary systems alike, oversight as it is exerted in the legislatures studied in this volume contributes little to increase the inclusiveness of the respective government systems. Representative Function

The representative function of parliaments refers to the commitment of legislators to devoting “their time and effort to dealing with the problems, requests, and needs of mass publics” (Mezey 1979, p. 145). In order to get a better understanding of the representative performance of the legislatures in the five countries studied, we must answer the following questions: Whom do legislators represent? How do they represent societal interests? And how accessible are legislators for their constituents? A partial answer to the first question has already been given in Chapters Six and Seven. Political parties only partly represent societal cleavages and the social profile derived from our data was strongly biased towards an oligarchical elite in the Philippines with extensive business interests in virtually all sectors of the economy, a parliament dominated by business elites in Thailand and somewhat less elitist legislatures in Indonesia and South Korea. Only the Indian legislature exhibited a greater degree of inclusiveness by also representing a sizeable segment of the agricultural interests. Yet, it was also pointed out that there is not necessarily a mechanistic relationship between the social background of legislators and class-based policies. It is quite conceivable that elite and middle-class members among the legislators are able to respond to the entire spectrum of interests and demands in their constituency. However, Chapter Nine has shown that particularly in the Philippines, and to a lesser extent in Thailand, Indonesia, and South Korea, legislation was indeed biased in favour of the landed elites and big business, while lowerclass interests and redistributional policies, though not entirely neglected, were relegated to a back seat. Land reform, tax laws, and the bail-out packages for ailing banks clearly protected elite interests at the expense of other societal groups. This brings us to our second question: How do legislators represent

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interests? To answer this question a closer look must be taken at how legislators are interconnected with societal interest groups. First of all, interest groups that legally existed under the authoritarian predecessor regimes such as business, employers’, property owners’ associations, as well as agro-industrial pressure groups continue to be very influential under the new democratic order. In some cases, as in the Philippines in 1986 and in Thailand in 1992, business organizations were at the forefront of the democracy movement. Even though a direct relationship between interest groups and political parties was prohibited by rigid associational laws in some countries, in an individual capacity, many legislators were members of powerful economic interest groups (Montri 1979; Anek 1991; Rüland and M.L. Bhansoon 1993). These ties were reinforced by membership in elite clubs such as Rotary and Lions: Legislators were thus integrated into a tight network of formal and informal elite circles. Lowerclass pressure groups such as trade unions or farmers’ groups could hardly compete with these networks as most legislators are not members of them. The same holds true for NGOs which have mushroomed in the countries studied here since the 1980s and advocated lower-class interests in many sectors of life. A small number of NGO activists has entered the Thai and, marginally, the Philippine legislature through the party-list system, whereas in South Korea, the MDP, in line with its reformist claims has to some extent accommodated civil society representatives. In Indonesia, due to its electoral system of proportional representation, several NGO activists placed on the party lists were also able to enter parliament. On the other hand, many of these groups, especially if they were militant critics of the government, were often harassed and could not develop their organizational potential. Very frequently, the contacts of legislators to lower-class organizations are thus restricted to cultural, religious, and educational organizations or sports clubs. They serve mainly as vote banks and, if they articulate demands, these are only taken up to the point that elite interests are not endangered. While, due to the reasons explained above, elite and business interests are politically well connected and better organized, lowerclass interests have gained in strength since regime change, but in the absence of close networks between activists and legislators, they have to resort to collective action and extra-parliamentary tactics. This leads

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in some cases to the desired results as a reinvigorated labour movement in the Philippines, South Korea, and Indonesia, and the Forum of the Poor in Thailand show. Yet, the bargaining power of these groups is limited through pro-management and pro-business legislation, which is deemed essential for attracting the crucial foreign direct investment on which the industrialization strategy of these countries depends. While the concessions of business interests towards such groups are by necessity greater after regime change, and outright repression of lowerclass interest articulation is no longer possible, the pro-business bias in policy-making of governments and legislatures has hardly changed given the continued dependence on foreign capital in an era of accelerated globalization and the concomitant intensifying competition for capital and technology. While lower-class interests have their greatest political leverage in the large urban centres, in hinterland constituencies they are articulated in a much more traditional and, hence, individualized and particularized form. Petitions and visits at the home of the legislators are the means to air grievances or to seek help in emergencies such as loss of job, eviction from land, sickness, death of a family member, or other calamities. In all five countries, legislators and those who aspire for a parliamentary mandate are expected to extend their help in such situations as well as in the case of requests to sponsor baptisms, weddings, and funerals, or in mediating conflicts with the authorities. Many legislators in all the countries studied, except Indonesia, thus spend much time in their constituencies, constantly attending social functions and providing help if requested from constituents. It goes without saying that the costs for these services by far exceed their salaries as legislators. In South Korea, based on figures from the early 1990s, legislators spent for constituency services an amount three times as high as their salary as MP (Köllner and Frank 1999, p. 72). This — apart from the prohibitive campaign costs — explains why legislators must have a wealthy background and why many have to resort to complementing their incomes. Moreover, this ad hoc type of aid also cushions the pressures stemming from social inequities for major social reforms. Especially in plurality-based electoral systems the constituency absorbs most of the MPs’ time. From a national perspective legislators’

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political behaviour may thus be considered particularistic; from a local perspective it may be regarded as generalist. This is true if MPs live up to the expectation of their constituents by attracting so-called pork barrel in the form of public works and other projects seen as fostering local development. They constitute the main criterion for performance evaluation of an MP by his or her constituents and the flow of funds from the centre to the electoral district is hence a major precondition for re-election. Yet, in a resource-strapped polity such as the Philippines, the resources available for the individual MP to attract “pork barrel” are inevitably limited. Available funds must thus be used economically from the perspective of the MP, which means that in the first place they are used as a reward for his or her bailiwicks. A frequently cited example is that of the concrete roads in rural areas of the Philippines which all of a sudden turn into a dirt track. The concrete road, often only passing a few houses and stretching less than 100 metres, visibly marks the area where supporters live. While, traffic-wise, the concrete road may not make any sense at all, the residents benefiting from it use it primarily for drying their agricultural products during harvest time. This is a good example of how scarce resources are wasted for the purpose of political patronage, so that funds are then lacking for more comprehensive and more common good–oriented development projects. The same may be suspected in Thailand, where every MP used to have a state-funded personal “development budget” that he or she could spend for projects in their constituencies. More often than not, however, these funds were probably used to repay political debts to vote canvassers and supporters. The Constitution of 1997 abolished this fund on the grounds that MPs should not meddle with the tasks of the executive branch but concentrate on lawmaking. Unlike their colleagues in the other four countries, Indonesian legislators are only weakly connected with their constituencies. This is due not only to the electoral system, party structure, and power relationships, but also to a lack of commitment on the part of the MPs themselves. The party leadership in Jakarta determines in which province a person is placed on the party list and not the local party organizations. It thus happens quite often that candidates are placed on the party list in a province to which they entertain no or only a very loose relationship. As

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the electoral system is based on proportional representation with a closed 71 list, voters can only elect parties and not persons. To get a good position on the party list, it is more important to have good relations with the party leadership than with the local voters. Otherwise candidates may end up at the bottom of the list with very poor chances of getting elected. In Article 20a of the Indonesian constitution, which lists parliamentary functions, a representative function is not assigned to parliament. Some analysts say that this explains why MPs do not feel obliged to represent the population in general or their voters in particular.72 Moreover, virtually no Indonesian MP maintains an office in his or her constituency. The sole exceptions are Alvin Lie Piao of PAN and Susono Yusuf from PKB, both of whom set up offices in their constituencies in Semarang (Central Java) and Bondowoso (East Java). Yet, these are private initiatives, which are not financially supported by their parties. During the one-month recess, which is four times a year, parliamentarians are expected to visit their constituencies and listen to the requests of the local people. In reality, however, most MPs make only a short stopover in their constituency, meeting perhaps the local regent (bupati ) and other local notables, and then soon return to Jakarta. SUMMARY

Summarizing this chapter, actor behaviour has changed in so far as, on average, parliamentarians have become more productive in terms of legislation, even though the overwhelming majority of bills has been introduced by the executive. Especially in the first years after a regime change, the number of laws passed has increased. Actor behaviour has, however, changed less as legislators still tend to utilize the legislative process for advancing their narrow class-based interests. But legislators have become more vigilant as regards government actions, resulting in a more systematic exercise of their oversight functions. On the other hand, oversight as exercised by legislators in the Philippines, Indonesia, and South Korea, has increasingly been criticized as obstructionist, often absorbing much of their time at the expense of urgent legislation, and more often than not reflecting elite power struggles and clashing vested interests. Oversight and endless parliamentary investigations have thus

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helped to exacerbate the image problem of legislatures and undermined the “positive” consolidation of democracy. Representative functions are still strongly influenced by old-style machine politics including the dispensing of individual favours among the constituents. Since regime change, the inclusiveness of legislation has changed only slightly. Legislation is still in the first place geared towards the business world and landed interests, though cushioned in its exclusive effects by laws facilitating democratic reforms and populism. Oversight, due to its association with elite power struggles, likewise does not markedly contribute to inclusiveness; it hardly benefits lower-class interests. Representation, even though principally favouring established business and elite interests, somewhat balances the pro-business bias of legislation, as enormous pressure rests on legislators to provide personal help for the poor and disadvantaged groups residing in their constituency. All in all, there is no difference between parliamentary and presidential systems of government in terms of legislative output. It does, however, slow down in presidential systems, if the legislature has initiated a process of impeachment against the chief executive. The constitutional court case against Thai Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra in 2001, however, shows that parliamentary systems are not immune to such problems. In presidential systems, the legislature seems to exert more control over the executive than in parliamentary systems. Inclusiveness is less a function of the government system than of the electoral system. Localism and concern for the constituency is greater in plurality voting systems than under proportional representation. Finally, elective functions of legislatures are more developed in parliamentary systems than in presidential systems. They are, however, balanced by the appointive functions of presidential systems which enables them to scrutinize government appointments to major executive positions. Yet, the contribution of elective functions to greater inclusiveness is impaired by the tendency of governments as well as the controlling parliaments to curtail the rise of social, human rights, and democracy activists into executive positions. NOTES 1. For a discussion of the legislative functions of parliaments, also see Krumwiede and Nolte (1999, p. 69).

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2. See also Chapter Four, p. 62. 3. Bangkok Post, 10 October 2001, p. 13. 4. Nation Review, 6 October 2001, p. 4A. 5. “Laying the Groundwork for Favourable Judgments”, Bangkok Post, 5 March 2003, p. 12. 6. Nation Review Online, 6 May 2003. 7. Jakarta Post Online, 28 May 2002. 8. Jakarta Post Online, 29 May 2002. 9. In Indonesia only House bills need three readings; government bills only require two (www.dpr.go.id/humas/house.htm). 10. See also Foth (1991, p. 94). 11. Interviews, Manila, September 2000. 12. Interview, Manila, 3 February 2003. 13. Interview, Manila, 21 September 2001. 14. For the composition of Joint Conference Committees, see the section on committees, p. 143. 15. One recent example is the Absentee Voting Bill, which languished for months with the Joint Conference Committee before it was eventually passed by Congress in early February 2003 (interview, Manila, 3 February 2003). 16. Interviews, Jakarta, October 2001. 17. Jakarta Post Online, 3 September 2002. 18. Based on House statistics, received in Seoul on 4 September 2001. 19. Including House and Senate bills. Data provided by the Bills and Index Division, House of Representatives of the Philippines. 20. Interviews, Manila, 3 February 2003. 21. In its first year, the Batasan Pambansa had passed only 14 bills out of a total of 6,141 bills introduced to the chamber for first reading (Caoili 1989b, pp. 55–56). 22. The bottlenecks described by Foth (1991, pp. 58ff.) for the 8th Congress still characterize the current situation. 23. Interview, Manila, 3 February 2003. 24. According to Rohdewohld, 56 laws (UU) were passed in 1973/74; 37 in 1978/79; 50 in 1983/84 and 46 in 1988/89 (Rohdewohld 1995, p. 18). 25. Südostasien aktuell, no. 1 (2002), p. 24. 26. Jakarta Post Online, 15 July 2002.

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27. For the data, see Noranit and Somkhit (2002, p. 98). 28. Krungthep Thurakit, 26 April 2003, p. 3. 29. Calculated from Caoili (1989b, p. 56). 30. Calculated from Caoili (1989b, p. 55). 31. Including House and Senate bills. Data provided by the Bills and Index Division, House of Representatives of the Philippines. 32. http://mpa.nic.in. 33. Interview, Manila, 12 September 2001. 34. It seems, however, that the President is more inclined to confer individually with committee chairmen, thereby reducing legislative efficiency. 35. For this debate see, inter alia, Bolongaita (1995), Rocamora (1997), Rüland (1998), and Sabio (2000a, 2000b). For an analysis of the most recent constitutional debate, see Rüland (2003). 36. As outlined in Article II under “State Policies” and Article XIII (“Social Justice and Human Rights”). 37. For a compilation of bills passed under Ramos, see Velasco (1997a, p. 252) and Lamauig (1998, pp. 67–74). 38. Makati Business Club, Congress Watch, no. 73, January 2003 (http://www.mbc. com.ph). 39. Makati Business Club, Congress Watch, no. 75, March 2003 (http://www.mbc. com.ph). 40. Manila Times, 24 January 2003, p. 1; Philippine Daily Inquirer, 14 February 2003, p. 1. 41. Interviews conducted in the Philippines in September 2000. 42. For a critical assessment of law implementation see Hikmahanto Juwana, “Indonesian Laws Are Unrealistic, Dead Letters”, Jakarta Post Online, 17 April 2002. 43. Among the many contributions to this issue see, for example, Jusuf Wanandi, “Indonesia: A Failed State?” (http://www.twq.com/02/summer/wanandi.pdf ); Jonathan Paris, “Indonesia” (http://www.foreignpolicy2000.org/library/issuebriefs/ IBIndonesia.html); Carl Thayer, “Indonesia: A Potentially Failed State?” (http:// www.littlespeck.com/region/CForeign-Ind-010620.htm). 44. Malaya, 14 September 2001, p. 8; Philippine Daily Inquirer, 16 September 2001, p. 1. For the 8th Congress, see Timberman (1991, p. 265). 45. Philippine Daily Inquirer Online, 2 August 2001 and 28 October 2001. 46. Ibid. 47. Ibid.

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48. Interview, Seoul, 10 September 2001. 49. JoonAngIlbo, English edition, 11 September 2001, p. 1. 50. “House to Probe Irregularities in Sukhoi Deal”, Jakarta Post Online, 20 June 2003; “The House and the Controversial ‘Sukhoigate’ Deal”, Jakarta Post Online, 18 June 2003. 51. Philippine Daily Inquirer, 4 September 2001, p. 1 52. Bangkok Post, 23 April 2002, p. 2. 53. Interview, Manila, 21 September 2001. 54. How these laws are abused for dispensing pork barrel funds is detailed by Gutierrez (1998, pp. 66–67). 55. Interview, Manila, 17 September 2001. 56. Interview, Manila, 17 September 2001. 57. Interview, Manila, 17 September 2001. One concrete case is mentioned in Gutierrez (1998, p. 69). 58. Interview, Jakarta, 22 November 2002. 59. On the composition of the Commission, see Chapter Four, p. 62. 60. These moves continued even after the Supreme Court had ruled attempts to lengthen the list as unconstitutional (Caoili 1991–92, p. 18; Bernas 1999, p. 64). 61. Another cabinet member failing to receive confirmation was Secretary of Finance, Ramon del Rosario (Bernas 1999, p. 71). 62. Philippine Star, 19 December 2002, p. 14. 63. Jakarta Post Online, 5 and 16 July 2002. 64. See also Chapter Seven, p. 178. 65. Bangkok Post Online, 14 January 2003. 66. Nation Review Online, 17 January 2003. 67. Matichon, as reported in Bangkok Post, 11 May 2003. 68. Labrador (2001, p. 223). 69. Far Eastern Economic Review, 27 December 2002, p. 28. 70. According to press reports, the group has been remote-controlled by MPs close to former president Estrada. However, they denied any involvement as the move began backfiring on them (Philippine Daily Inquirer, 24 January 2003, p. A2). 71. In the new election law passed in February 2003, the closed lists have been replaced by open lists. 72. Interview, Jakarta, 22 November 2002.

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Reproduced from Parliaments and Political Change in Asia by Jurgen Ruland, Clemens Jurgenmeyer, Miichael H. Nelson and Patrick Ziegenhain (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2005). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

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Conclusion: Reputation, Reform, and the Future of Parliaments

Returning to the research questions formulated in the introductory chapter, a number of conclusions can now be drawn. A first is that indepth studies of legislatures are a useful complement to macropolitical studies of political change, as long as they are related to the contextual structural factors and actors. Our study is part of a second-generation research agenda on political change and democratic consolidation which, in consonance with studies concentrating on other aspects of the political system such as elections and electoral systems, constitutional processes, the party system, the functioning of parliamentary committees, and the interplay between parliament and civil society, may provide more detailed insights into processes of democratic change and consolidation in a particular arena. A second conclusion is that behavioural change of political actors spurred by parliamentary processes has been slow, limited, and ambiguous, albeit not elusive. After all, processes of behavioural change

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generally tend to be sluggish and prone to reversals; they are rarely linear. Seen in this light and taking into account the low level of institutionalization from which our legislatures entered the process of democratic change and consolidation, this is hardly surprising. Nevertheless, our analysis shows that some change of actor behaviour took place in key areas of parliamentary processes. One is the change of behaviour in electoral politics. Though machine politics still dominates electoral campaigning and subsequent strategies of preserving and consolidating political power, electoral violence and fraud are on the decline. Moreover, the watchdog functions exercised by NGOs, pollwatch organizations, and an attentive media, have made it more difficult for political parties and their candidates to engage with impunity in rampant vote buying and cheating. While in South Korea and — to a lesser extent — India these practices have been largely eliminated, they are still endemic in the Philippines. In South Korea and in Thailand, too, as a result of more effective election supervision, there is now a growing tendency among political parties to woo voters with populist policies and promises. Whether such policies, if implemented, enhance the inclusiveness of legislation or whether they only promote a personal cult centred on certain political leaders remains to be seen. What is more certain, however, is that in most cases politicians still rely more on personal appeal than programmatic policies. Party politics is still an arena where opportunism, patronage, and prestige relegate problem-oriented and institutionalized policy-making to a back seat. Not surprisingly, party defections are still endemic and have only been contained where strict anti-defection laws discouraged parliamentarians from party-switching as in India and since 1997 in Thailand. Nevertheless, party structures seem to be slightly less fluid than ten years ago — there are several political parties in all countries except South Korea which have been in existence for more than a decade. Nevertheless, institutionalization of political parties is proceeding slowly. Most political parties still have loose organizational structures, are basically urban-centred phenomena which do not permanently and deeply penetrate the rural hinterland, are top-heavy organizations dominated by the parliamentary party group and a few political entrepreneurs, and conspicuously lack internal democracy. Political parties therefore contribute only modestly to increasing parliamentary

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inclusiveness as they are hardly able to aggregate societal interests and even less to serve as pre-parliamentary clearing houses for a broader section of conflicting societal interests. Parliamentary politics also seems to have enhanced the acceptance of democracy by veto players. Parliaments have at least to a certain extent succeeded in socializing veto players into the new democratic order. In all four transition countries, a majority of active military officers now accepts civilian supremacy which in India was never questioned. Successful “negative” consolidation is seen in the practice of (retired) military officers forming their own political parties or running on the ticket of established parties for parliamentary seats. Yet, this was by no means a linear and smooth process. As coups and aborted coups in Thailand and the Philippines show, the military became restive when it felt excluded from policy-making, or major corporate interests where threatened — giving rise to allegations of a “parliamentary dictatorship” — or when parliaments were deadlocked. Despite the undeniable restrictions placed on legislatures by external actors (executive, media, global financial institutions), parliamentary policy-making has indeed become more meaningful than hitherto. Parliamentary deliberations have become more lively and controversial than under the authoritarian predecessor regimes, and parliamentary actors have greater influence on determining policy directions of the government. Their influence, however, varies; it is greater in Indonesia and the Philippines than in South Korea, India, and the “rationalized” parliamentarianism of Thailand. Yet, in none of the cases and under none of the systems of government studied here, does parliamentary policy-making exhibit a clear trend towards specialization and professionalization. Moreover, while rules of procedure ostensibly guaranteeing a fair and democratic conduct of parliamentary business exist, unruly behaviour, procedural tricks, and corruption scandals have not been eradicated and seriously undermine the reputation of parliaments and “positive” consolidation of democracy. Legislators seem to place greater emphasis on lawmaking especially after a regime change when the need for new norms and regulations is particularly urgent, thereby shedding the image of legislatures as rubber stamps and acclamative bodies. At later stages of the consolidation

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process, however, lawmakers seem to become more interested in exercising their oversight functions, though often guided by narrow-minded partisan and particularistic interests. Oversight then degenerates to a vehicle for elite power struggles. Perceptions of representation are also changing only slowly. Representation is usually less group-based than individualistic and clientelist and is thus hardly able to strengthen links with the civil society. On a more positive note, learning effects, in response to the deficiencies of the parliamentary process, can be ascertained in all countries, though they did not necessarily originate from within the legislatures. More often they have been stimulated by civil society groups. Most notable in this respect are the reforms initiated by the Thai Constitution of 1997, which strengthen the mechanisms to exert oversight over both the executive as well as the Lower House, and the constitutional amendments in Indonesia. In India the anti-defection laws may be mentioned, in South Korea electoral reforms. The third conclusion is that in the four transition countries studied here — Indonesia, the Philippines, South Korea, and Thailand — parliamentary inclusiveness has certainly increased as a result of democratization. Processes of leadership recruitment are more open and those who have the material resources needed for a successful election campaign, now have much better chances of winning a parliamentary seat even if running for an opposition party. Changes of the government as a result of elections, a vote of no-confidence, or even an impeachment are now a contingency political leaders have to be aware of and to face. Moreover, the restrictions imposed on legislatures by the authoritarian predecessor regimes have been removed, resulting in a considerable upgrading of the status of parliaments. Although at the constitutional level executive constraints on parliamentary sovereignty still exist, they have been lowered. The exception is Thailand, where the 1997 Constitution, though introducing participatory counterweights, has introduced majoritarian elements into the Thai National Assembly. These find their expression in a plurality voting system and in what may be termed “rationalized parliamentarianism”, two phenomena which have enabled the incumbent Thaksin government to firmly establish its supremacy over parliament. In all other countries, constitutional restrictions curtailing executive power have been introduced and have

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widened parliamentary oversight rights. Of greater effect are the new constitutional restrictions curtailing, or at least containing, executive power and widening parliamentary oversight rights, in a deliberate attempt to prevent authoritarian reversals. In India, the only established democracy of the five cases studied here, the declining popularity of the Congress Party and increasing fragmentation of political parties after years of executive centralization under Indira Gandhi have also facilitated a shift of power towards parliament. Yet, all five parliaments are confronted with obstacles on the way towards greater inclusiveness. Majoritarian electoral systems, electoral fraud, and manipulation (which are exacerbated by the socio-economic imbalances of the five societies), weak political parties, the top-heavy decision-making processes in the parliamentary party groups, informal politics, patronage, and lack of legislative professionalism and specialization have created legislatures which, despite the opening, still rest on a narrow social base. With the partial exception of India, the parliaments studied in this volume exhibit an essentially elitist and plutocratic social profile. Labour as well as the urban and the rural poor are only marginally represented and there are no groups in parliament which, beyond populist rhetoric, genuinely champion their interests. India at least reserves seats for the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes, whereas the Philippines explicitly provide marginalized groups with access to parliamentary mandates via the party-list system. However, as pointed out in Chapter Five, the Philippine party-list system does not facilitate a strong representation of these groups. A noteworthy and unique development is the “ruralization of parliaments” in India, where agrarian parties and lawmakers with a rural background have gained significant influence in the last two decades and have thus enhanced the inclusiveness of Indian parliamentarianism. The net effect of the contribution of legislatures to democratization and the consolidation of democracy is thus quite ambiguous. Without a vital and vocal public as corrective, and further consolidation of the changes in actor behaviour discussed above, parliaments are in constant danger of degrading into clientelist institutions, dominated by the patronage networks of conservative traditional politicians whose unprincipled wheeling and dealing endangers the deepening of

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democracy. Congruent representation in second chambers is another factor inhibiting greater inclusiveness of the legislatures studied. While greater inclusiveness was not the rationale for the reforms of the Thai Senate, the more prevalent objective of strengthening the Senate’s oversight functions over the Lower House has been achieved as far as current evidence suggests. Yet, the restructured Thai Senate reflects the deep distrust of Thai political reformers in the reformist potentials of the Lower House, the quality, and propensity for behavioural change of its legislators. The Philippine Senate was also created as a counterweight to what many reformers saw as a parochial and opportunistic House of Representatives. While initially the Senate seemed to live up to these expectations, more recently it has increasingly become a haven for populists and hence lost much of its previous prestige. As a result, and despite our initial reluctance, we cannot but conclude that at least in the Philippines and, to a lesser extent in Thailand, Indonesia, India, and South Korea, lawmaking is still class-based in many ways. Or, in other words, legislators use their power for influencing decisions in such a way that it suits themselves or at least does not contradict their economic and political interests. Reformist legislation was mainly enacted in the economic realm and in many cases paved the way for financial and economic deregulation, giving a headstart to those who already dominate the economy. In South Korea, Thailand, and Indonesia some of this legislation was imposed on the governments and subsequently on the legislatures by the conditionalities of the IMF in exchange for its rescue packages after the Asian financial crisis. Political and democratizing reforms facilitated by parliament played a major role in the initial phase after regime change. However, they continued in South Korea and Indonesia, and in the case of Thailand even gained momentum quite some time after the transition, at a time when the forces of traditional politics were increasingly losing ground among the more politicized segments of the population. In the Philippines they slowed down in the 1990s — in particular during the short-lived Estrada administration. The Indian parliament, operating in the environment of an established, age-honoured set of democratic institutions, only intermittently enacted political reforms aiming at facilitating popular participation. Social and redistributive reforms

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explicitly and specifically benefiting the economically less advantaged classes have been rare in all cases or — when they have been enacted as in the Philippines under President Ramos — were often watered-down versions of earlier, more radical drafts devised or championed by NGO networks. Effective redistributional policies have thus been a backburner in all five legislatures. A fourth conclusion is that at least as far as our five cases are concerned, there are, if at all, only weak causal relationships between parliamentary performance and government systems. Unlike what is frequently argued in constitutional debates, neither parliamentary nor presidential systems of government have an independent influence on the composition of parliaments. The party system reflected in the legislature is primarily an expression of the extent to which societal cleavages are transformed into political parties but also of the electoral system. Furthermore, as the cases of India and Thailand prior to 1997, on the one hand, and Indonesia, on the other hand, show, neither are there any clear causal links between system of government and party cohesion per se. These findings corroborate Sartori’s conclusion that a system of government may not have a major impact on party-building (Sartori 1994, p. 95). Variations in the organizational infrastructure of legislatures may likewise not be attributed to the system of government. As our empirical evidence suggests, these variations are more a reflection of the stage of economic development, the resource endowment, and the duration of a democratic order. Seen in this light, it is hardly surprising that the organization and institutionalization of the Indonesian DPR is least advanced of all five cases. Likewise, there are no significant differences in terms of legislative professionalism and specialization, or in terms of cohesion of parliamentary party groups. The latter may be relatively cohesive as in Indonesia’s presidential system due to the fact that non-compliance with the party leadership and the parliamentary leadership (which are often identical) may lead to a loss of the mandate or failure to be nominated on the party-list, or be less cohesive such as in Thailand prior to 1997 when there were no regulations punishing party-switching. The Thai case shows that greater cohesion at least of the parliamentary party groups can be achieved with relatively simple constitutional amendments — there is no need to change the entire

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system of government. Nor does legislative performance differ much between presidential and parliamentary systems, if we leave aside the avalanche of bills of local application tabled and passed by the Philippine Congress. An exception is the South Korean National Assembly, which passed considerably more laws than any other legislature of our sample, though this slowed down in the last year of President Kim Dae Jung’s term when the coalition of his MDP with the UDP broke up and he subsequently lost his parliamentary majority. Presidential systems, however, displayed marked decline in their legislative output when impeachment procedures absorbed many of their energies such as in the Philippines and Indonesia in 2000 and 2001. Yet it should not be overlooked that the frequent no-confidence motions tabled by the opposition in Thailand prior to 1997 had virtually the same effect. Oversight functions are not necessarily better developed in presidential systems. In the Philippines the majority of MPs in the Lower House is normally more interested in bandwagoning with the president in order to secure access to patronage funds and projects for channelling into their constituencies than in existing rigorous control over the executive. The Upper House is more assertive, but often also more obstructive in its criticism of the government. The greater assertiveness of the Indonesian DPR may subside as soon as the realignment of interests and forces has come to an end with the elections in 2004. After initial assertiveness, the South Korean National Assembly has likewise turned into a body supportive of the government. Yet, even though the opposition aggressively exercises oversight functions and despite comparatively welldeveloped parliamentary services, opposition parties constitute a minority, lack the apparatus and the know-how of the executive, and are hence hardly able to exert meaningful control. With the recent majoritarian electoral reforms and the large parliamentary majority of the Thaksin government, the Thai Lower House has lost some of its independent controlling power, but likewise some of the unpredictability previously characteristic of executive-legislative relations. Last but not least, the case of India demonstrates that even in an established parliamentary democracy the control/oversight function of parliament varies from that of a rubber-stamp institution — as was the case during Indira Gandhi’s emergency — to a critical surveyor of the executive.

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Finally, the often deplored gridlock between executive and legislature and between Upper and Lower House is likewise not necessarily the result of a particular system of government. As the Ramos administration in the Philippines demonstrated, gridlock in presidential systems can be avoided, while the case of Indian minority governments during the 9th, 11th, and 12th Lok Sabha and — outside of our study area — the German example show that gridlock may occur in parliamentary systems, too. The presidential-parliamentary system of South Korea also repeatedly had to contend with gridlock situations. A fifth and final conclusion is that our initial assumptions about the role of parliaments in the process of political transition have at least been partially confirmed. In three of the cases studied — in South Korea, the Philippines, and Indonesia — parliaments have played a greater role in the demise of the authoritarian order than usually acknowledged by the transition literature. There was more variation in their role during the phase of democratization that was defined by us as the period of devising a new institutional framework. Parliaments only played a major role where pacted transitions led to negotiated changes in the institutional set-up of a polity. This was the case in Indonesia, South Korea, and Thailand after 1992. Where a new constitution was written after a nonpacted regime change, as in the Philippines in 1986 and in Thailand in 1973, parliament was not at all or was only indirectly or marginally involved. However, it became a player in the constitutional process at a later stage — amending the constitution where it had been flawed, in cases when the power equation had changed markedly or in cases where the framers of the constitution had left details to be determined by the legislature at a later stage. There was less evidence to corroborate our prediction of a curvilinear development of parliamentary activities in the phase of consolidation. At least the South Korean, the Indonesian, and — to a lesser extent — the Philippine legislatures were visibly more active and independent from the executive for some time after regime change. However, as the process of consolidation continued, the South Korean and the Thai legislatures lost power to the executive which — as it had regrouped after regime change and adjusted to the new political conditions — succeeded in introducing “rationalized” forms of parliamentarianism. While Indonesia

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with its new Party Law seems to be on a similar route, the case is less clear for the Philippines, where executive-legislative relationships were characterized by continuous ups and downs. After the initial democratic reforms assigned by the new constitution to the legislature were brought to an end and political decision-making began to revolve around economic reforms, political issues became increasingly technical and complex in nature. Confronted with this more specific type of legislation, the government is clearly superior in terms of expertise and hence able to dominate the legislative process. With the exception of the South Korean National Assembly, where the submission of private member bills is on the rise, preparation of bills has increasingly shifted to the executive and its bureaucracy. The more specific and technical legislation is, the less legislators are specialists and the less legislatures can match the government’s know-how and access to information, the less it is able to exert meaningful oversight — thus giving rise to the frequent complaints in South Korea and Thailand that parliament is not able to control the executive adequately. Even in India this situation prevails as most of the MPs have neither the time nor the inclination to deal with and scrutinize specific and technical issues of legislation. The low attendance in the committees is testimony to this attitude of most parliamentarians. Reputation While parliaments of transitional countries have benefited much from the initial euphoria over the ouster of the authoritarian predecessor regime and democratization, appreciation of the people of the newly formed democratic institutions declines when political routine takes over. The legitimacy of the new institutions declines the more they are unable to solve the problems immediately affecting the living conditions of the majority of the population. This is particularly the case when the transition coincides with an economic crisis as in the Philippines after 1986 and in Indonesia after 1998. Contributing to the increasingly negative image of parliaments are cultural dispositions of people to avoid conflict in most East and Southeast Asian societies. As legislatures “institutionalize conflict” (Olson 1994, p. 7), they appear to the average person to be overly divisive and to be run by people who

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violate established codes of proper conduct. Acrimonious debates and dirty procedural tricks are considered as kasar — rude behaviour — in Indonesia or as being at variance with the principle of pakikisama — smooth interpersonal relations — in the Philippines. Coinciding with this growing disenchantment is the statist and corporatist political culture which amalgamated political thought imported from continental Europe with indigenous pre-colonial absolutist concepts of power — emphasizing unity as a key virtue of a political system and demonizing interest pluralism as a testimony of disorder (Anderson 1972). A similar impact derives from the credo of authoritarian rulers who justified their rule with their seeming ability to make quick decisions and to act decisively. While confidence in the legislatures is waning, it is not necessarily tantamount to a reduced trust in democracy as the preferred political system. This is what can be drawn from scattered survey data that tally well with similar surveys conducted in Latin America (Nolte 1999). A 1996 survey conducted simultaneously in 17 Latin American countries found 61 per cent of the respondents agreeing to the statement that “Democracy is preferable to any other form of government” (Nolte 1999, p. 47). A Philippine national survey conducted in 1995 by the Social Weather Station (SWS) reported a similar level of consent: 56 per cent of the respondents agreed with the statement: “Democracy is the best political system in all circumstances.” This consent increased to 72 per cent in 2001 (Hutchcroft and Rocamora 2003, p. 286). Nevertheless, the survey also showed that there are still considerable ambiguities in the attitudes towards democracy as a quarter of the respondents (27 per cent) agreed that “In certain circumstances, a dictatorship could be a good thing”, while 16 per cent exhibited political indifference, agreeing to the statement “Whether we live in a democracy or a dictatorship makes no difference to people like me” (Abueva 1997, p. 23). While the majority of the Filipinos believe in democracy, trust in parliament is weaker. In a 1991 survey, Congress ranked last among six institutions covered. Interestingly, civil society institutions such as churches and religious organizations (68 per cent), schools and the educational system (67 per cent), and business/industry (43 per cent) had a clear edge over government and state institutions such as the courts

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and the legal system (39 per cent), government departments (34 per cent), and Congress (33 per cent) (Abueva 1997, p. 77). The majority of South Koreans at least superficially support democracy. In 1998, at the height of the Asian currency crisis, 85 per cent of South Koreans supported democracy in principle. According to the same survey, the same percentage of respondents (85 per cent) also “did not want to return to military rule”, while 74 per cent were against abolishing parliament and “having a strong leader to decide everything” (Diamond and Kim 2000, p. 5). Yet, like Filipinos they also exhibit critical attitudes towards their legislature. In a survey conducted in 2001, more than 89 per cent of respondents said that they do not 1 trust the National Assembly or the political parties. As pointed out in Chapter Seven, business people in particular regard the National 2 Assembly as a corrupt institution. Consequently, similar to the situation in the Philippines, the National Assembly ranks behind other institutions such as the military, the judicial system, the mass media, and the police. Even more worrisome for most observers is the fact that public approval 3 ratings for parliament have been constantly declining over the last years. Even in Indonesia the honeymoon of the public with the legislature seems to be over. According to a Kompas survey conducted in February 2002, 69.6 per cent of the respondents believe that parliament does not 4 perform well, while even more respondents — a staggering 86.9 per 5 cent — believe that legislators are involved in corrupt practices. Further criticism is directed at what is considered privileges of the legislators. Deviating from these cases is India. Recent studies not only confirm a broad general agreement with democracy that is not seen as a luxury item and a playing ground merely for the wealthier social strata. Agreement with democracy is even increasing and hence supports the belief that it is deeply entrenched and a well-integrated element of India’s political system. If criticism is aired, it focuses on individual institutions and actors such as the police, the bureaucracy, political parties, and members of parliament, but not on democracy as such. In a 1996 survey, almost 70 per cent of the respondents denied that India 6 could be better governed without democratic institutions. In India there are no major veto powers working against democracy — even right wing parties such as the Hindu nationalists and leftist parties

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such as the communists do not question democracy. In Przeworski’s words, there is no question that in India “democracy is the only game in town”. Demands that participatory rights of the population be restricted in order to increase the efficiency and effectiveness of the government are virtually absent. Most of these data conform with survey findings in Latin America. 7 In the eleven countries surveyed in 1998, trust in legislatures was in all cases lower than in respect of the executive and in six out of 11 lower than with regard for the judiciary. Trust in parliaments was relatively high in Uruguay (41 per cent) and Chile (40 per cent), but low in Argentina and Ecuador (18 per cent, respectively), Venezuela (20 per cent) and Brazil (23 per cent) (Nolte and Krumwiede 1999, p. 59). In contrast, Germans had a much higher trust in their parliament. In 2001, 54 per cent of German survey respondents indicated that they had confidence in the Bundestag (Niedermayer 2001, p. 66), which ranked fourth among nine major institutions. While the Constitutional Court, police, and court system ranked ahead of the Bundestag, the legislature was trusted more than the federal government, labour unions, churches, TV, and press (Niedermayer 2001, p. 63). The conclusion to be drawn from these data is evident: While “negative” consolidation has made some progress, with the exception of India, the contribution of parliaments to “positive” consolidation leaves much to be desired. In fact, in some cases such as the Philippines, Indonesia, and Thailand, and to a lesser extent in South Korea, parliaments have often been an impediment to “positive” consolidation. Reforms of Parliaments The parallelism of problems encountered by legislatures irrespective of the government system calls for some caution towards institutional engineering as a strategy for reforming parliaments and political systems. This is certainly the case if institutional engineering is equated with farreaching and radical changes in the government system as demanded in the Philippines and to a lesser degree in South Korea and India. In the first two countries, reformers have repeatedly called for a shift to a purely parliamentary system, in India demands for a change towards a presidential system are occasionally aired. It is our belief that in order to

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improve the effectiveness of the crucial legislative-executive relationship and combat the weaknesses of legislatures, no wholesale change of the government system is needed. The strong criticism of Linz and his followers directed against presidential systems (Linz 1990a, 1990b; Stepan and Skach 1993; Linz and Valenzuela 1994; Lijphart 1994, 1999; Abueva 2002) or Merkel’s scepticism towards semi-presidential systems (Merkel 1999, p. 154) must be revaluated in the light of empirical evidence which has shown that many presidential and semi-presidential systems have performed better than expected in the more recent past and that the record of parliamentary systems after regime change is not necessarily superior (Horowitz 1990; Nohlen 1992; Thibaut 1996; Riggs 1995; Mainwaring and Shugart 1997; Rüland 1998, 2003; Nolte 1999; Kurmwiede and Nolte 2000; Roper 2002). Moreover, Riggs’ remark that few shifts from pure presidentialism to pure parliamentarianism have ever succeeded should be taken as a warning (Riggs 1995, p. 541).8 A closer look at the more recent constitutional debates in the region suggests the following: •

•

•

•

Demands for sweeping constitutional changes are usually based on best-case scenarios for the political system envisioned and worstcase scenarios for the government system to be replaced. Most proposals for constitutional reforms lean heavily towards European and other Western models, while the potential impact on them by existing local institutions and the prevailing time-honoured political culture have not been sufficiently taken into consideration. The resilience of traditional elites, their capacity for mimicry and adjustment to changing political conditions have hitherto been underestimated. Consequently, under any political system, they will still provide the personnel for the reformed institutions and thus water down any of the changes anticipated from the institutional reforms. Similarly neglected is a regional comparative perspective. While constitutional experts are inclined to look for Western models, knowledge of the political systems of neighbouring countries is limited. Even a superficial analysis would suggest that deficiencies vary only marginally among the political systems. Gridlock, weak party systems, high incidence of corruption, electoral fraud and manipulation, and limited legislative professionalism are a feature

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of presidential, semi-presidential, and parliamentary systems alike. Finally, constitutional debates have also largely ignored the state of the art reached in the Latin American parliamentarianismpresidentialism debate — suggesting, as it does, that there are considerable variations among presidential systems which make it difficult to demonize this form of government. Moreover, as has been shown earlier, presidential powers are much weaker and more circumscribed in the presidential systems studied in this volume compared to their Latin American counterparts.

We thus follow scholars who have advised against fundamental changes (Nohlen 1992; Riggs 1995; Thibaut 1996; Diamond 1997; Rüland 2003; Nolte 1999; Krumwiede and Nolte 2000). Much more emphasis should be placed on reforming the existing systems. Such internal reforms should focus on making existing institutions more inclusive, strengthen their internal structure, and improve the rules of procedure. One important step to make parliaments and political systems more inclusive is electoral reform. And, indeed, as electoral laws have a crucial effect on the power equation in a polity, electoral reforms are intensively discussed in all political systems studied here. Unfortunately, while parliaments have passed electoral reforms, there is considerable variation in terms of their implementation. While implementation has gone relatively far in Thailand and South Korea, it is sluggish in the Philippines. Even though Congress has passed major legal provisions for electoral reforms such as the computerization of the election, for a long time it did not appropriate the funds needed for their implementation. Behind this stalemate stood a deeply divided Commission on Elections (COMELEC) which has become a battlefield for intra-elite power struggles. It has to contend with an unholy alliance of corrupt COMELEC officials and traditional politicians who still rely on their coercive powers, enabling them to turn electoral defeats into victory. Electoral reforms have been more successful in South Korea, where open vote-buying is more or less eliminated. Yet, problems remain as regards party finances and illicit electoral spending by candidates and parties, which in many cases exceed the legally fixed ceilings. Thailand, too, has instituted major electoral reforms whose results, however, as we have seen in Chapter Five, are still ambiguous. Electoral reforms were

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also the subject of an intensive public debate in Indonesia in 2002 and early 2003. Scholars and NGO activists demanded a shift from the proportional to the plurality election system, arguing that this would lead to a closer relationship between legislators and their constituencies. While this proposal was rejected by the DPR, another demand, the open instead of the closed party-list was included in the 2003 election law. Further electoral reforms are, however, absolutely vital for the inclusiveness of the polities at large as well as for the legislatures. Such reforms must as a first step target the fraudulent or at least manipulative election administration, including an accelerated adjudication of violators of the electoral code. It should also include the introduction of hybrid electoral systems that combine the advantages of plurality-based systems with those of proportional representation. In the Philippines, there is a dire need of a reform of the Party-List Law to give the less-advantaged groups of society and new reformist political parties a real chance. In India the plurality system remains unchallenged, although the National Committee for the Review of the Working of the Constitution has suggested some revisions. Perhaps the most salient proposal is a run-off election if the winning candidate receives less than 50 per cent plus one of the votes cast in the first round. In order to avoid lengthy campaigning and a regrouping of electoral alliances, the run-off between the two candidates with the highest and second highest share of votes should 9 take place the following day. Parliamentary reforms have so far played a subordinate role in the countries studied here. However, reforms aimed at creating a working parliament should be supported, as they are at the same time reforms conducive to the professionalization of legislative work. Among the measures to be considered are the strengthening of parliamentary party groups, of the committees, and of the parliamentary secretariats, including the parliamentary services. The proliferation of committees should cease as well as the frequent rotation of committee memberships. In India the introduction of a vote of constructive no-confidence could have an equally stabilizing effect on the government as in Thailand, while in the Philippines restrictions for the submission of bills of local application could enable lawmakers to devote more time to crucial national legislation. In bicameral systems, time-frames could be defined

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for the deliberation of bills in both Houses and in the Joint Conference Committee. Equally important is the establishment and strengthening of coordinating mechanisms between the Houses as well as between the executive and the legislature, as with LEDAC in the Philippines, which helps to avoid bicameral gridlock. Finally, where congruent Lower and Upper Houses exist, representational principles might be changed to make the system more inclusive. However, beyond these urgently needed reforms we expect that legislatures in the five polities studied will further mature and, as societies evolve, will also shed their procedural and structural flaws. In some of the countries under the threat of terrorism — for example, the Philippines and Indonesia — it is hoped that new emergency rules will not be abused by veto players, instrumentalizing the fight against domestic and international terrorists to roll back the democratic advances made in recent years. NOTES 1. Korea Times Online, 28 December 2001. 2. Korea Herald Online, 17 February 2001. 3. Korea Times Online, 9 January 2001. 4. This is an increase of over 10 per cent compared with a Kompas survey conducted in October 2001. See also Simanungkalit (2002, p. 202). 5. Unpublished survey, “Litbang Kompas”, 2002. 6. India Today, 31 August 1996, pp. 28–43. For more details, see Mitra and Singh (1999). A volume edited by Atul Kohli (2001) and bearing the programmatic title “The Success of India’s Democracy” confirms this positive overall assessment of India’s democratic record. See also Rudolph and Rudolph (2002). 7. Survey data were presented for Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Chile, Ecuador, Columbia, Mexico, Paraguay, Peru, Uruguay, and Venezuela. See Krumwiede and Nolte (2000, p. 59). 8. Larry Diamond argued similarly, stating that as “major structural decisions (especially that of presidentialism versus parliamentarism), once made, are very difficult to change, a democracy seeking consolidation is probably better off pursuing specific institutional reforms that address specific problems” (Diamond 1997, p. XXVIII). 9. http://lawmin.nic.in/ncrwc/finalreport/v2b1-9.htm. Interview, New Delhi, 28 August 2001.

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore

Reproduced from Parliaments and Political Change in Asia by Jurgen Ruland, Clemens Jurgenmeyer, Miichael H. Nelson and Patrick Ziegenhain (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2005). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

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Index

Index

Abad, Florencio, 250 Abdurrahman Wahid, 71, 83, 218, 231 Aberson Marle Sihaloho, 47 Abu Sayyaf, 10, 142 Acosta family, 186 Agrarian Land Reform Law, 236 Akali Dal, 144 Akbar Tandjung, 201 Anand Panyarachun, 43 ancien régime, 11, 51, 52, 55, 58, 59, 103, 169 Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia (ABRI), 30 Anti–Money Laundering Council (AMLC), 238 Appropriations Committee, 206 Aquino, Benigno S., 28, 127 Aquino, Corazon, 28, 42, 55, 150, 237 Arifin Panigoro, 211 Arroyo-Macapagal, Gloria, 237 Asian currency crisis, 31, 248 Asian financial crisis, 43, 120, 191 Assam Gano Parishad, 144 Association of Philippine Electric Cooperatives (APEC), 111 authoritarian political culture, 3 authoritarian regimes, 2, 41, 45, 152

Autonomous Region of Muslim Mindanao (ARMM), 122 Bagehot, Walter, 222 ballot paper structure, 106–7 Bambang Warih Kusuma, 47 Banharn Silpa-archa, 61 Bank Niaga, 173 barangay, 231 Basic Law (Grundgesetz ), 52 Batasan Pambansa, 28, 46, 47, 54, 231, 254 Batasan Pambansa elections, 28, 45 Bayan Muna, 111, 117 Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), 39, 98, 138 Bicameral Conference Committees, 207 bicameral gridlock, 281 bicameral legislature, 27 bicameral system, 68, 280 bicameralism, 66–76, 280 Bicol Saro, 139 Bihar, 173 Black May, 42 Bloody May, 35 Blue Ribbon Committee, 207, 243 Board of Audit and Inspection (BAI), 156

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Broad Guidelines of the State (GarisGaris Besar Haluan Negara), 71 budgetary hearings, 249 budgetary powers, 86 budgetary process, 249 Byung-Kook Kim, 149 capital-labour cleavage, 147, 148–50, 168 Carey, John M., 77 Carter, Jimmy, 44 Catholic clergy, 28 cause-oriented groups, 41 Centre for Parliament Watch, 128 centre-periphery cleavage, 141–44 chaebol, 241 Chamber of Real Estate Brokers Association (CREBA), 111 Chamlong Srimuang, 43 Chan Wook Park, 20 Chatichai Choonhavan, 35 Chang Myon, 32 Chart Thai, 159 Chuan Leekpai, 61 Chun Doo Hwan, 33, 48, 245 Citizens Battle Against Corruption (CIBAC), 111 Citizens’ Alliance for the 2000 General Elections (CAGE), 129, 157 Citizens’ Coalition for Economic Justice, 128 civic culture, 96 civil society, 41, 44, 268, 275 cleavage structure and party-building, 151–53 cleavages, 140–51 Collier, David, 27 Commission on Election Monitoring and Development of Democracy, 128 Commission on Elections (COMELEC), 110, 140, 279 Committee for Inter-Parliamentary Cooperation (BKSAP), 210

Index committees, 204–13 Commonwealth Constitution, 1935, 27 Communist Party of India (CPI), 159 Communist Party of Thailand (CPT), 149 Communist Party of the Philippines (CPP), 146 Comprehensive Agrarian Land Reform Law, 237 Comprehensive Tax Reform Law, 237 Concerned Citizens Aggrupation (CCA), 139, 142 Conference Committee, 207, 245 Congress, see Indian National Congress consensus democracy, 9–11 consolidation phase, 12 Constitution Drafting Assembly (CDA), 61 Constitution Drafting Committee, 57 Constitution of India, 37 constitutional authoritarianism, 27 Constitutional Commission, 53, 55 Consultative People’s Assembly, 68, 71 Cooper Act, 69 Cooperative Code of the Philippines, 237 Countrywide Development Fund (CDF), 234 coup d’état, 34 Croissant, Aurel, 79 dagdag-bawas, 121 Dahl, Robert A., 1, 12, 50 Dawn 21 group, 203 decentralization law, 142 Declaration of Democratic Reform, 34 decree-making powers, 78, 80 Defensor-Santiago, Miriam, 158, 250 Democracy consolidation of, 11, 29, 137, 269 elite support for, 25 Democracy Development Committee (DDC), 61

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Index Democrat Party, 148 Democratic Alliance (DA), 150 democratic consolidation, 29 Democratic Justice Party (DJP), 34, 45, 59 Democratic Korea Party (DKP), 45 democratization, 11, 50, 51, 92, 269 Desierto, Aniano, 254 Development and Shelter Act, 237 Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (DPR), 30, 47, 70, 251, 255, 280 Diamond, Larry, 1 Dimyati Hartono, 202 district delimitation, 101–3 domino theory, 126 Donggyodong faction, 203 Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK), 144 East Indonesian caucus (Iramasuka), 201 East Timor, 142 EDSA II, 29 Eith, Ulrich, 141 election administration, 121–40 Election Commission of India, 174 Election Commission of Thailand (ECT), 35, 62, 66, 73, 123, 224 elections, 96, 123, 137–41, 172 electoral fraud, 45, 115–25, 121, 266, 269 electoral principles, 96–97 electoral reforms, 279 electoral system, 97, 138, 140 electoral thresholds, 105–6 electoral violence, 45, 116, 266 emergency powers, 81 emergency rule, 38 Enrile, Juan Ponce, 42 Estrada, Joseph E., 29, 199, 230, 235, 270 Ethical Code (Kode Etik ), 193

Ethics Codes and Ethics Committees, 217 ethnic cleavages, 150 executive-legislative gridlock, 235 executive-legislative relationship, 8, 76–89 Financial Action Task Force (FATF), 238 floating mass (massa mengambang ), 31 Forum Komunikasi Massa, 211 founding elections, 12, 95, 166 Fraksi Kesatuan Kebangsaan Indonesia, 204 Fraksi Perserikatan Daulatul Ummah, 204 Frank, Rüdiger, 154 Freedom Constitution, 54, 55 Gandhi, Indira, 38, 272 Gibbs, Eugene, 117 Golkar (Golongan Karya), 30, 42 Grand National Party (GNP), 144, 154, 172 Green Card, 100 Green Party, 151 Guided Democracy (demokrasi terpimpin ), 30 Guruh Sukarnoputra (PDI-P), 211 Habibie, B. Jusef, 31 Hukbalahap Rebellion, 126, 150 impeachment, 253 inclusiveness, 9–15, 23–24, 60, 67, 77, 93, 95–97, 100, 103– 5, 107–15, 117, 120, 131, 136– 38, 147, 153, 163–89, 192, 205, 239, 241, 256, 261, 266–70, 279–81 incongruence, 68 India agriculturalists, 168

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Anti-Defection Law, 159, 198, 248 colonial legislatures, 26 Lok Sabha election results, 1999, 112 plurality voting, 97 ruralization of parliaments, 74, 175, 183, 269 vote of constructive no-confidence, 89, 280 Indian Constitution, 52, 54, 63 Indian independence movement, 38 Indian National Congress, 38, 98, 146, 147, 159 Indian president, 81, 84 Indochina War, 126 Indonesia Constituent Assembly (konstituante ), 30 Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (DPR), 45–47, 78, 115, 172, 245, 210, 271 Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (DPR), election results 1999, 115 first free elections, 120 election-watch body, KIPP, 49, 128 open-list election, 106 proportional representation, 97, 99, 132, 139 reservation of seats in parliament, 171 Indonesian Bank Restructuring Agency (IBRA), 173 Indonesian electoral law, 100 Indonesian House Rules, 203 Indonesian independence declaration, 30 Indonesian judiciary, 46 internal colonialism,141 Institute for Strategic and Development Studies, 53 International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance, 71 International Labour Organization (ILO), 239

Index International Monetary Fund (IMF), 3, 191 Interparliamentary Union (IPU), 21 investigative committees, 204 Islamic insurgencies, 27, 30 JAMPPI (Jaringan Masyarakat Pemantau Pemilu), 128 Jayalalitha, 174 Joint Conference Committee, 207, 249 Jones Act, 69 Jungug Choi, 139 kabupaten, 230 keterbukaan, 45 Kilusang Bagong Lipunan Party (KBL), 46 Kim Dae Jung, 154 King Prajadhipok (Rama VII), 34 King Prajadhipok Institute (KPI), 214 Komite Independen Pemantau Pemilu in Indonesia (KIPP), 126 Köllner, Patrick, 154 Kompas survey, 276 Korea partition of, 32 Kothari, Rajni, 38 Kohli, Atul, 173 Korean War, 32, 149 Krumwiede, Heinrich-Wilhelm, 9 Kwangju uprising, 33, 245 Laban ng Demokratikong Pilipino (LDP), 111 Lakas ng Bayan (Laban), 139 Lakas-NUCD, 199 Landé, Carl, 70 Law on Manpower (ketenagakerjaan), 239 Legislative Reorganization Act, 205 Legislative-Executive Development Administration Committee (LEDAC), 234, 281

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Index legislature, 3, 8, 14, 26, 79, 96, 136, 171, 179, 222, 232, 271, 274, 281 Leones, Eroll B., 119 Letters of Intent (LOI), 3 Levitsky, Steven, 27 Liberal Party (LP), 27 Lie Piao, Alvin, 260 liberalization, 11, 41, 45, 49 Lijphart, Arend, 9, 67, 68, 75, 76, 97, 99 Lim Dong Won, 253 line-item veto, 85 Linz, Juan J., 8, 9 Lipset, Seymour M., 9, 140, 141, 148 Local Autonomy Act, 245 Local Government Code, 239 Lok Dal, 147 Lok Sabha, 74, 75, 98, 103, 181, 183, 212 Macapagal-Arroyo, Gloria, 9, 230, 235 Madiun rebellion, 148 Magsaysay era, 150 Magsaysay, Ramon, 126 Mahkamah Konstitusi, 89 Mainwaring, Scott, 9, 236 Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat (MPR), 17, 31, 60, 68, 254 majoritarian democracy, 9–11 Manpower Bill, 47 Marcos, Ferdinand E., 27, 28, 40, 44, 68, 139 Marcos loyalists, 199 Marcos regime, 41, 44 martial law, 27 Megawati Sukarnoputri, 47, 48, 149, 218 Merkel, Wolfgang, 278 Mezey, Michael L., 40, 223 middle classes, 28, 42, 43, 45, 148 Middle of the Road Reform Forum, 203

Mielke, Gerd, 141 Millenium Democratic Party (MDP), 143, 148, 154 Mindanao, 150 Mindanao Alliance, 139 Moro rebellion, 150 Mitra, Subrata K., 39 Moluccas, 150 Moraleda, Miel, 119 Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF), 141 Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF), 141 Morris-Jones, Wyndraeth Humphrey, 37 Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat (MPR), 31 Nacionalista Party (NP), 27 NAMFREL, 126, 127 National Assembly, 32–34, 61, 62, 65, 93, 128, 172, 177, 192, 208, 209, 216, 229, 272–74 National Capital Region, 42 National Congress for New Politics (NCNP), 154 National Counter Corruption Commission (NCCC), 35, 62, 224, 252 National Election Commission (KPU), 122–23 National Election Commission (NEC), 102, 155, 172 National Human Rights Commission (Komnas HAM), 251 National Human Rights Commission (NHRC), 62, 73, 224 National Peace Keeping Council (NPKC), 60 National People’s Coalition (NPC), 111, 199 Nelson, Michael, 21 neo-institutionalism, 4–8

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New Aspiration Party (NAP), 61, 143, 160 New Force, 149 New Korea Democratic Party (NKDP), 45 New Korea Party (NKP), 98 Nohlen, Dieter, 9, 138 Nolte, Detlef, 9 Non-Aligned Movement, 152 non-governmental organizations (NGOs), 2, 266, 280 non-legislative powers, 78, 87–96 non-pacted transitions, 54–58 O’Donnell, Guillermo, 11, 92 ombudsman, 62 Orde Baru, 30, 71, 142, 175 oversight, 242–56, 260, 268 P3I (Pusat Pengkajian dan Pelayanan Informasi), 215 pakikisama, 275 Pancasila, 145 panchayat, 241 Panitia Khusus RUU, 210 Park Chan Wook, 174 Park Chung Hee, 32, 33 Parliament Library and Reference, Research, Documentation and Information Service (LARDIS), 213 parliament of the streets, 42 parliamentary functions, 222–61, 223 parliamentary party groups, 7, 192, 197–204, 271 parliamentary reforms, 280 parliamentary services, 192, 213–16 parliamentary staff, 215 parliamentary sessions, 91 parliamentary sovereignty, 76 parliamentary statistics, 182 Partai Amanat Nasional (PAN), 147, 204 Partai Bulan Bintang (PBB), 145

Index Partai Demokrasi Kasih Bangsa (PDKB), 204 Partai Demokrasi Indonesia (PDI), 47 Partai Golkar, 143 Partai Keadilan (PK), 145 Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa (PKB), 147, 260 Partai Komunis Indonesia (PKI), 145, 148 Partai Nasional Indonesia (PNI), 145 Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (PPP), 47, 143, 147, 201 Partai Rakyat Demokratik (PRD), 149 Partido Komunista Pilipinas (PKP), 146 Partido ng Bayan (PnB), 150 Party Fund Act, 155 party whips, 202 party-list component, 113 Party-List Law, 53, 109, 150, 168, 280 party-list system, 110, 113, 131, 257, 269 party-switching, 271 Pasuk Phongphaichit, 174 People’s Assembly, 57 People’s Constitution, 36, 62 People’s Party, 34, 57 People’s Power Revolution, 28, 54 People’s Solidarity for Participatory Democracy (PSPD), 128 Permesta rebellion, 142 Phalang Dharma Party (PDP), 107 Philippine Commission, 69 Philippine Congress, 109, 247 Philippine Constitution, 53, 254 Philippine Reform Party (PRP), 158 Philippine Senate, 70, 270 Philippines, 99, 168 1935 Constitution, 27, 68, 69 1987 Constitution, 29, 64, 69, 93 House of Representatives, 29, 216 House of Representatives, election results, 1998, 114

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Index State of the Nation Address (SONA), 234 Philippines Micronutrient Fortification Program, 237 Pinay!Abanse, 180 Phoolan Devi, 176 Pilipino Democratic Party (PDP), 142 plebiscite, 87, 92 plurality voting systems, 98, 100, 101, 138, 268 Political Party Law, 177 pollwatch activities, 126–30, 266 Polsby, Nelson W., 218 polyarchy, 1 pork barrel, 205, 235 PPP-Reformasi, 201 Praphat Charusathien, 57 Prawet Wasi, 61 Prem Tinsulanonda, 35 presidential-parliamentary systems, 32, 93 Prevention of Terrorists Act (POTA), 74 Prevention of Terrorists Ordinance (POTO), 74 Pridham, Geoffrey, 95 proportional representation, 99 Przeworski, Adam, 50, 95, 277 Pusyon Bisaya, 139 Rajya Sabha, 67, 74–76 Ramos, Fidel V., 29, 237, 238, 273 Rashtriya Janata Dal, 147 rationalized parliamentarianism, 93, 161, 268 referendum 87, 91–115 Reform Faction (Fraksi Reformasi), 204 reform movement (reformasi ), 31 representative function, 256–61 reserved seats, 103 Reunification Democratic Party (RDP), 59 Roh Tae Woo, 42

Rokkan, Stein, 9, 140, 141, 148 rubber-stamp legislatures, 2 Rudolph, Lloyd I., 39 Rudolph, Susanne Hoeber, 39 Rules Committee, 207 rules of procedure, 192–97 Sakdalista Party, 146, 150 Samajwadi Party, 147 Sarekat Islam, 145 Sarit Thanarat, 36 Sartori, Giovanni, 96, 271 Scharpf, Fritz, 7 Schmitter, Philippe C., 11, 92 Sekhar, Chandra, 159 semi-presidentialism, 17 Senate, 29, 73, 99, 224 sharia, 145 Shiv Sena, 144 Shugart, Sobert, 9, 77, 236 Siam, 34 Singh, Charan, 147 Singh, V.B., 39 single-member constituencies (SMCs), 97 snap presidential election, 42 Social Action Party (SAP), 143 social profile, 164, 163–87 Social Weather Station (SWS), 275 Socialist Front, 149 South Korea, 32–34 Constitution of 1945, 59 National Assembly election results, 2000, 114 11th National Assembly, elections for, 98 Southeast Asia, 144 Southeast Asian politics, 4 Sri Bintang Pamungkas, 47 standing committees, 204–6 State Audit Commission, 62 Steering Committee (Badan Musyawarah, or Bamus), 210

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Steering or Rules Committee, 192 stembus acoord, 202 Stufentheorie, 81 Suharto, Mohamed, 16, 30, 31, 43, 45, 46, 80, 140, 149 Sukarno, Ahmed, 30, 152, 277 Suchinda Kraprayoon, 42, 60 Sungsidh Piriyarangsan, 174 Sunshine policy, 253 Supreme Court of India, 38 Surya Prakash, 176, 248 Susono Yusuf, 260 Swatantra Party, 147 Syngman Rhee, 32 Tancangco, Luzviminda, 121, 122, 254 Taufik Kiemas (PDI-P), 211 Team of Eleven, 140 Telugu Desham Party, 144 Thai Asset Management Corporation (TAMC), 240 Thai Constitution of 1997, 192, 224, 268 Thai House of Representatives, 43, 229 Thai Lower House, 216 Thai National Assembly, 268, 240 Thai Rak Thai (TRT) Party, 160 Thai Senate, 67, 246, 270 Thailand, 53, 66, 176, 182 Constitution of 1946, 62 Constitution of 1997, 53 Constitutional Court, 35 House of Representatives, election results, 2001, 113 Thaksin Shinawatra, 36, 108, 199, 252 Thanom Kittikachorn, 57 Thibaut, Berhard, 9 Trade Union Congress of the Philippines (TUCP), 168

Index transition theory, 11–27 Transparency International, 243 trapo, 185 Treaty of Friendship and Cooperation, 152 turncoatism, 159, 197 UNFREL (University Network for Free Elections), 128 unicameralism, 66–76 United Liberal Democratic Party (ULD), 23, 144 United Nationalist Democratic Opposition (UNIDO), 28 United Nations Development Program (UNDP), 128 urban-rural cleavage, 146–48 US Central Intelligence Agency, 126 Uthai Pimchaichon, 194 Uttar Pradesh, 173 utusan daerah, 72 Venecia, José de, 194, 235 veto players, 267 veto powers, 68, 84 volatility, 137, 138 Volksraad, 26 vote of no-confidence, 89, 252 voter turn-out, 130–37 Watch for Fair Election Campaigns, 128 Wealth Audit Commission (KPKPN), 171 Yoon, Young O., 174 Yushin Constitution, 33 Zainuddin MZ, 201

© 2005 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore