The Routledge Handbook to Religion and Political Parties 2019036289, 2019036290, 9781138500464, 9781351012478

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THE ROUTLEDGE HANDBOOK TO RELIGION AND POLITICAL PARTIES

As religion and politics become ever more intertwined, relationships between religion and political parties are of increasing global political significance. This handbook responds to that development, providing important results of current research involving religion and politics, focusing on: democratisation, democracy, party platform formation, party moderation and secularisation, social constituency representation and interest articulation. Covering core issues, new debates and country case studies, the handbook provides a comprehensive overview of fundamentals and new directions in the subject. Adopting a comparative approach, it examines the relationships between religion and political parties in a variety of contexts, regions and countries with a focus on Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Judaism and Hinduism. Contributions cover such topics as:     

religion, secularisation and modernisation; religious fundamentalism and terrorism; the role of religion in conflict resolution and peacebuilding; religion and its connection to state, democratisation and democracy; and regional case studies covering Asia, the Americas, Europe, Sub-Saharan Africa, the Middle East and North Africa.

This comprehensive handbook provides crucial information for students, researchers and professionals researching the topics of politics, religion, comparative politics, secularism, religious movements, political parties and interest groups, and religion and sociology. Jeffrey Haynes is emeritus professor of politics at London Metropolitan University.

THE ROUTLEDGE HANDBOOK TO RELIGION AND POLITICAL PARTIES

Edited by Jeffrey Haynes

First published 2020 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2020 selection and editorial matter, Jeffrey Haynes; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Jeffrey Haynes to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Haynes, Jeffrey, 1953- editor. Title: The Routledge handbook to religion and political parties / edited by Jeffrey Haynes. Other titles: Handbook to religion and political parties Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019036289 (print) | LCCN 2019036290 (ebook) | ISBN 9781138500464 (hardback) | ISBN 9781351012478 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Religion and politics. | Religion and politics--Case studies. | Political parties. | Political parties--Case studies. Classification: LCC BL65.P7 R79 2020 (print) | LCC BL65.P7 (ebook) | DDC 322/.109--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019036289 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019036290 ISBN: 9781138500464 (hbk) ISBN: 9781351012478 (ebk) Typeset in Bembo by Taylor & Francis Books

CONTENTS

List of illustrations List of contributors

ix x

Introduction Jeffrey Haynes

1

PART I

Core issues and topics

7

1 The next Middle Ages: religion and political culture Manlio Graziano

9

2 Religion, state and nation: Islamic parties between ideology and religion Jocelyne Cesari

20

3 Religion and society David Herbert

31

4 Religion, modernisation and secularisation Steven Kettell

44

PART II

New debates

55

5 Religious fundamentalism Luca Ozzano

57

6 Religion, democratisation and democracy Jeffrey Haynes

69

v

Contents

7 Religion and party platform formation Esen Kirdis¸

80

8 Religion, social constituency representation and interest articulation Nil S. Satana, Alperen Özkan and Jóhanna K. Birnir

92

9 The politics of being Muslim and female: religion, feminism and hierarchies of knowledge Sariya Cheruvallil-Contractor

105

10 Religious violence and political parties Mark Juergensmeyer

117

11 Conflict resolution and peacebuilding Christine Schliesser

126

PART III

Country case studies

139

Asia

141

12 Religious violence and political agenda setting in post-colonial South Asian states: why political parties fail Subrata K. Mitra and La Toya Waha

143

13 Political parties and religion in Myanmar Kristian Stokke

154

14 Religious political parties in Pakistan Muqarrab Akbar

169

The Americas

181

15 Religion and political parties in America Allen D. Hertzke

183

16 Religion and political parties in Brazil Linsey Moddelmog and Pedro A.G. dos Santos

200

17 Religion and political parties in Mexico Luis Felipe Mantilla

213

vi

Contents

Europe

224

18 The Politics of Religion in Germany, 1945 to the present Sabrina P. Ramet

225

19 Religion and political parties: the case of Italy Alberta Giorgi

238

20 Religion and political parties in Poland Katarzyna Dos´piał-Borysiak

249

Sub-Saharan Africa

261

21 Old and new alliances: Christian churches and the African National Congress in South Africa Barbara Bompani

263

22 Religion and political parties in Zambia Austin Cheyeka

275

23 Religions and political parties in Senegal (1980–2018) El Hadji Samba Amadou Diallo

287

24 Nigeria Toyin Falola and Chukwuemeka Agbo

298

The Middle East and North Africa

311

25 Israel: political parties Hayim Katsman and Guy Ben-Porat

313

26 Religion and politics in Palestine: the case of Hamas Benedetta Berti

324

27 Turkey: the contested role of Islam and pro-Islamic parties Sultan Tepe

335

28 Islam and factional politics in Iran Paola Rivetti

346

29 Religion and political parties in Tunisia Francesco Cavatorta and Fabio Merone

358

vii

Contents

30 Moroccan constitutional reform and Islamism(s): renegotiating the role of religion in the political field Emanuela Dalmasso

370

31 Egypt Sumita Pahwa

381

Index

398

viii

ILLUSTRATIONS

Figures 1.1 1.2 13.1 13.2 15.1 20.1 20.2

Religiosity by country Growth in population size of Istanbul over time Religious affiliations in Myanmar Major political divides within Myanmar’s party system Pew Research Center: ‘How the Faithful Voted: A Preliminary Analysis’ Support for political parties in Poland (1991–2019) Ideological divisions of Polish Parliamentary Parties, 2011–2019

10 17 155 162 193 253 254

Tables 13.1 Distribution of parliamentary seats at the union level, 1990, 2010 and 2015 elections 15.1 Religious composition of voters of the electorate, 2012–2018 national elections 15.2 Percentage of the electorate by religious tradition 15.3 Exit poll breakdowns of presidential elections, 2000–2016 15.4 Presidential vote by religious category, 2012–2014 15.5 Religious breakdowns by midterm election 15.6 Religious composition of the 116th Congress 16.1 Religious affiliation by major groups: 1940–2010 16.2 Last presidential poll before 2018 presidential elections by religious affiliation 16.3 Survey of Federal Deputies: religious identification 16.4 The Evangelical Caucus: 1986–2018 18.1 Confessional distribution in Germany, 1939 and 2016 22.1 Religious affiliations in Zambia

ix

159 185 186 187 188 189 196 201 203 205 207 229 276

CONTRIBUTORS

The editor Jeffrey Haynes is emeritus professor of politics at London Metropolitan University. He is the author or editor of 45 books. The most recent are: From Huntington to Trump: Thirty Years of the Clash of Civilizations (2019); The United Nations Alliance of Civilisations and the Pursuit of Global Justice: Overcoming Western versus Muslim Conflict and the Creation of a Just World Order (2018) and World Politics: International Relations and Globalisation in the 21st Century, 2nd edn (2017).

The contributors Chukwuemeka Agbo is a PhD student in the department of History at the University of Texas at Austin, USA. Muqarrab Akbar is Chairman, Department of Political Science, Bahauddin Zakariya University, Pakistan. His PhD, from Glasgow, UK, is entitled: ‘Pakistan at Crossroads: War against Terrorism and International Law’. He has published many research papers – on policy analysis, international law, the War on Terror and the politics of Pakistan – and presented over a dozen papers in intentional conferences. Guy Ben-Porat is a professor in the Department of Politics and Government, Ben-Gurion University. His most recent book is Policing Minorities: Minority Policy in Israel (2019). Benedetta Berti is a Senior Fellow at the Foreign Policy Research Institute, an Eisenhower Global Fellow, a TED Senior Fellow and Head of Policy Planning in the Office of the Secretary General at NATO. Her research focuses on armed groups, internal wars and protection of civilians. Her most recent book is Armed Political Organizations: From Conflict to Integration (2013). Jóhanna K. Birnir is a professor in the department of government and politics at the University of Maryland and the director of the All Minorities at Risk project (AMAR). Jóhanna studies the effect of identity (ethnicity, religion, gender) on elections and violence, and has done extensive fieldwork in the Andes, South-East Europe and Indonesia.

x

List of contributors

Barbara Bompani is a reader in Africa and International Development at the Centre of African Studies at the University of Edinburgh and a research associate at the African Centre for Migration & Society at the University of the Witwatersrand. Her work focuses on the interconnection between religion, politics and development in Uganda and in South Africa. Francesco Cavatorta is Professor of Political Science at Laval University, Québec, Canada. His most recent book is Political Parties in the Arab world, co-edited with Lise Storm (2018). Jocelyne Cesari is Professor of Religion and Politics at the University of Birmingham, UK, Senior Fellow at Georgetown University’s Berkley Center on Religion, Peace and World Affairs and President of the European Academy of Religion (2018–2019). Her most recent book is What is Political Islam? (2018). Sariya Cheruvallil-Contractor is Assistant Professor at the Centre for Trust, Peace and Social Relations, Coventry University. She is a feminist sociologist of religion. Her publications include Muslim Women in Britain (2012), Religion or Belief, Discrimination and Equality (2013) and Islamic Education in Britain (2015). Austin Cheyeka is Associate Professor in the Department of Religious Studies at the University of Zambia. Emanuela Dalmasso is currently a post-doctoral researcher at the University of Amsterdam. She earned her PhD in Political Science from the University of Turin (Italy). Her main areas of expertise and interest are Middle East politics and gender studies with a specific focus on Morocco. Dr Dalmasso has previously published on these topics in the Journal of Modern African Studies, Totalitarian Movements and Political Religions, Contemporary Arab Affairs and Mediterranean Politics. El Hadji Samba Amadou Diallo is a lecturer in the Department of African and AfricanAmerican Studies, Washington University, USA. Diallo’s doctorate is from the École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, Paris (2005). He is author of La Tija-niyya sénégalaise: les métamorphoses des modèles de succession (2010). Katarzyna Dos´piał-Borysiak is an associate professor at the University of Lodz (Poland), Faculty of International and Political Studies. She is the author of three books and more than 45 scientific articles, chapters and reviews. Her most recent book is the co-edited Civic and Uncivic Values in Poland: Value Transformation, Education, and Culture (2019). Toyin Falola is the Jacob and Frances Sanger Mossiker Chair Professor in the Humanities and Distinguished Teaching Professor at The University of Texas at Austin, USA. Alberta Giorgi is Assistant Professor and Researcher in Sociology at the University of Bergamo, Italy. Manlio Graziano is Assistant Professor at the American Graduate School in Paris, France. His research focuses on geopolitics, international relations and the geopolitics of religion. David Herbert is Professor of Sociology at Kingston University, London, UK. xi

List of contributors

Allen D. Hertzke is David Ross Boyd Professor of Political Science at the University of Oklahoma, USA. He is author of Freeing God’s Children: The Unlikely Alliance for Global Human Rights and co-author of Religion and Politics in America. He is a member of the Pontifical Academy of Social Sciences. Mark Juergensmeyer is Distinguished Professor of Sociology and Global Studies at the University of California, Santa Barbara, USA. He is author or editor of 28 books including Global Rebellion: Religious Challenges to the Secular State, God at War: A Meditation on Religion and Warfare and the award-winning, Terror in the Mind of God: The Global Rise of Religious Violence. Hayim Katsman is a PhD candidate at the Henry M. Jackson School of International Studies at the University of Washington, USA. His research focuses on religion and nationalism in Israel Palestine. Steven Kettell is an associate professor in the Department of Politics and International Studies, University of Warwick, UK. His research interests focus on the politics of secularism, non-religion and religion in the public sphere. He is a co-executive editor of British Politics and co-author of The Politics of New Atheism (2018). Esen Kirdis¸ is Associate Professor in International Studies at Rhodes College, USA. She is the author of The Rise of Islamic Political Movements and Parties: Morocco, Turkey and Jordan and has published on comparative religion and politics in Democratization, Politics, Religion & Ideology and Religion, State & Society. Luis Felipe Mantilla is Assistant Professor of Political Science at the University of South Florida St Petersburg, USA. His research explores religious political mobilisation in comparative perspective, and has appeared in Party Politics, Democratization and the Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion, among others. Fabio Merone is a researcher in the Middle East and North Africa Research Group at the University of Ghent, Belgium. Subrata K. Mitra, emeritus Professor of Political Science, Heidelberg University, Germany, is the author of Culture and Rationality (1999), The Puzzle of India’s Governance (2005) and Politics in India (2017). His main research interests are: comparative politics, South Asian area studies, rational choice, game theory, citizenship, governance, post-colonial democracy and re-use/hybridity. Linsey Moddelmog is an assistant professor of political science at Washburn University, Kansas, USA. She completed her PhD at the University of Kansas. Alperen Özkan is a PhD candidate at University of Maryland, College Park, USA. He is currently a research associate at Istanbul Medeniyet University, Turkey. His research focuses on the politics of language and religion, ethnic conflict, and terrorism. Luca Ozzano is Assistant Professor of Political Science at the University of Turin, Italy. Sumita Pahwa is an assistant professor of politics at Scripps College in California, USA. She received her PhD from the Johns Hopkins University. xii

List of contributors

Sabrina P. Ramet is Professor Emerita of Political Science at the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU), in Trondheim, Norway, and the author of 14 scholarly books, among them Alternatives to Democracy in Twentieth-Century Europe: Collectivist Visions of Modernity (2019). Paola Rivetti is Assistant Professor in Politics and International Relations in Dublin City University. She is author of Political Participation in Iran: From Khatami to the Green Movement (2019) and co-editor of Islamists and the Politics of the Arab Uprisings (2018). Pedro A.G. dos Santos is an associate professor at the College of Saint Benedict and Saint John’s University, Minnesota, USA. His research focuses on political representation in Brazilian politics. He has published various book chapters as well as articles in Latin American Politics and Society, Politics & Gender and Opinião Pública. Nil S. Satana is Visiting Associate Professor at University of Maryland, USA. Research interests include democratisation, religious and ethnic extremism and violence. She has published in Comparative Political Studies, Terrorism and Political Violence, Studies in Conflict & Terrorism, Armed Forces and Society and Turkish Studies. Her 2019 co-authored book on religion and civil conflict is published by Cambridge University Press. Christine Schliesser is Lecturer for Systematic Theology and Ethics, Zurich University, Switzerland, and Research Fellow at the Chair for Historical Trauma and Transformation, Stellenbosch University, South Africa. Recent books: Religion Matters: On the Significance of Religion in Conflict and Conflict Resolution (co-author) (forthcoming), and Alternative Approaches in Conflict Resolution co-edited with Martin Leiner (2018). Kristian Stokke is Professor of Human Geography at the University of Oslo. His research focuses on democratisation, peace and civil society politics in South and South-East Asia, with special attention to Myanmar’s democratic opening, political parties and ethnic politics since 2010. For more information, see: www.sv.uio.no/iss/english/people/aca/stokke/index.html. Sultan Tepe is an associate professor of political science at the University of Illinois and Chicago. She is the author of several reports and journal articles on religion and politics and the book Beyond Sacred and Secular: The Politics of Religion in Israel and Turkey. Her forthcoming book analyses transnational Muslim communities in the United States. La Toya Waha is Senior Programme Manager at Konrad-Adenauer-Stiftung, Singapore. She holds a doctoral degree in political science from Heidelberg University. She was Research Fellow at the Institute for Interdisciplinary Research on Conflict and Violence, Visiting Fellow at CEIAS in Paris and at the University of Colombo.

xiii

INTRODUCTION Jeffrey Haynes

Religion and political parties The study of religion and political parties represents a relatively understudied subfield of research that has nevertheless recently witnessed a resurgence of scholarly interest as it becomes clear that this relationship is of increasing political significance globally. Initially, the field focused rather narrowly on the intersection of religious cleavages and party formation in Western democracies in the mid-twentieth century (Lipset and Rokkan, 1967). More recently, the potential subject area has expanded both in terms of geographic extensiveness – that is, to cover much of the non-Western world in the wake of the third wave of democracy from the mid-1970s, reflecting the spread of multi-party elections and the rise of party politics around the globe and in relation to the number of religions that are actively involved in political considerations, both domestically and internationally.1 In addition, the focus has expanded in terms of the depth in scope of inquiry to focus beyond the subject of traditional social cleavages – such as, left/right, urban/rural – to expand analysis to include the complexity and multiplicity of forms by which religion and political parties interact in current contexts. For example, the recent (albeit temporary) victories of Islamic political parties in several countries in the Middle East – such as Tunisia and Egypt – as a consequence of the Arab Spring of 2011–2012, was added to the growing political influence of the Party of Justice and Development (PJD) in Morocco. Together, these democratic successes of Islamist political parties highlighted the increased significance of the interaction of religion and political parties in shaping such countries politically, in ways which were surprising to many observers. However, despite their proclaimed adherence to the same religion, Islam, the rise to power or prominence of these parties highlighted not only their religious dimensions but also how differently ‘Islam’ could be manifested electorally in individual country contexts. This lack of similarity drives a need for further research on questions of religion and political parties with regard to areas such as democratisation, party platform formation, party moderation and secularisation, and social constituency representation and interest articulation. It is not ‘only’ Islam which has been analysed in this regard. In various parts of the world, the relationship between religion and political parties is now widely observed. This follows a renewed focus on religion and political parties which occurred from the late 1970s. Then, numerous political developments reminded social scientists of the power of religion to influence 1

Jeffrey Haynes

parties and social movements in different parts of the world. In particular, the Iranian revolution of 1979 exemplified that a revolutionary religious movement could overthrow a regime which was once seen as the regional exemplar of secularisation and, in addition, establish and consolidate in power a modern religious and revolutionary regime (Skocpol, 1982). In the United States at roughly the same time, the rise of the ‘Christian Right’ indicated how religious movements can evolve along with political parties (Robinson and Wilcox, 2007), especially the Republican party, changing both in the process. Elsewhere, the role of Pope John Paul II and the global Catholic Church in supporting Solidarity in Poland during the 1980s further demonstrated the power of religious actors to encourage social movements and parties to challenge incumbent regimes. Moreover, contrary to what many assumed, the Church’s more complex role with post-independence political parties in Poland showed that democracy does not necessarily simplify the relationships between religious institutions and parties (Byrnes, 2001). Like the broader field of religion and politics, the study of religion and political parties was for a long time circumscribed by the once-dominant secularisation paradigm. For several decades after the Second World War, both modernisation and secularisation theories channelled scholarly attention away from religious politics (Gill, 2001). They predicted confidently that the importance of religion on politics would significantly decline. The claim was shown to be erroneous however when, as already noted, the political resurgence of religion occurred in many countries, as well as internationally, from the late 1970s. Although secularisation has clearly occurred in many countries (Norris and Inglehart, 2004), especially Europe’s northern and western sections, there has also been a substantial revival or growth of religion in other parts of the globe (Finke and Stark, 1992). Thus, contrary to the claims of secularisation theory, the impact of religion on politics has not declined tout court; instead, it has changed in often complex ways (Bruce, 2003), while the separation of religion and state has paradoxically decreased with higher socio-economic development throughout the world (Fox, 2006). In other words, the focus of this handbook – the relationship between religion and political parties – reflects developments over several decades which have confounded perhaps the most authoritative and definitive claim of political science: as we modernise, we secularise, and as we secularise, religion loses its once pre-eminent position both socially and politically. The study of religion and political parties, the subject of this handbook, has been a difficult area for inquiry due to the complexity of the interrelationship between the two. Although there are is a burgeoning number of studies of the relationship between religion and political parties in particular countries, as well as a growing number of accounts of transnational political parties and movements, such as the Muslim Brotherhood, there is a paucity of comparative analyses on this theme, perhaps because of the often-complex relationships involving this issue. Consider just a few recent examples: 



In officially secular India, the Hindu nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) first came to power in the mid-1990s after staging a 10,000 kilometre march that sought to destroy an ancient mosque that was alleged to be built on the remains of the Hindu god Rama’s temple (Sahu, 2002). In 2014, the BJP won the majority of seats in the parliament – the first time any single party has accomplished such a feat since 1984 – propelling BJP party leader Narendra Modi to the position of Prime Minister of India. In power, however, Modi has played down the Hindutva rhetoric in favour of seeking to highlight the BJP’s economic competence and its willingness to ‘stand up’ to regional rival, Pakistan. In the United States, where constitutionally church and state are forever separate, candidates of both parties, especially Republicans, make speeches from church pulpits and appeal 2

Introduction









to the USA’s tens of millions of ‘believers’. Today, it is sine qua non for candidates for political office to proclaim their faith and what it means in its implication for their policies. The current president, Donald Trump, selected a presidential running mate, Mike Pence, for the latter’s electoral appeal for many right-wing Christian evangelicals. Trump surrounds himself with right-wing Christian evangelicals and their followers are among his most fervent supporters (Haynes, 2019). In Turkey, a constitutionally secular state with a mainly Muslim population, parties deemed ‘insufficiently’ secular were routinely banned from seeking power (Özbudun, 2010). Today’s ruling party – the Justice and Development Party (AKP) – has been in power since 2002. The party is the tool of the powerful and increasingly autocratic president, Recep Tayyip Erdog˘ an, and is increasingly Islamist, while attempting to balance its religious rhetoric with secular goals of security and economic development. Critics fear a creeping Islamisation orchestrated by Erdog˘ an. Municipal elections in April 2019 demonstrated that the AKP was electorally vulnerable to economic downturn with Erdog˘ an’s party losing control of the capital, Ankara, for the first time in decades (Kaya, 2014). In the Netherlands, three separate confessional parties once represented distinct pillars of politics. These three parties merged in 1980 but their strength declined consequential to continuing secularisation (Lucardie, 2004). In 2002, a new party – the Pim Fortuyn List –focused many Dutch people’s anger towards what they saw as an influx of Muslim immigrants (Van Holsteyn and Irwin, 2003). More recently, several other overtly antiMuslim political parties have emerged and have gained a strong parliamentary presence in the country. Following the 2017 elections, one such party became the second-largest party in parliament (Vossen, 2011). These parties are not however pro-Christian; they are both secular and anti-Muslim and claim that what they see as ‘Muslim values’ are harmful to Dutch culture and are divisive. Several majority Buddhist countries, including Cambodia, Thailand and Sri Lanka, have seen emergence or consolidation of Buddhism-inspired political parties. Sometimes such parties are inspired by a proclaimed desire to ‘clean up’ politics according to Buddhist precepts while others bring in Buddhist ideals in the context of a focus on nationalism (Walton, 2018). Nowhere in the ‘Buddhist world’ however are political parties exhibiting ‘Buddhist values’ in power. Israel is the home of the Jews and it is hardly surprising that religious political parties characterised by adhesion to the Jewish religion and culture have vied for power, sometimes quite successfully, over the years. On the other hand, Israel is a country marked by increasing secularisation and the electoral reach and political power of the Jewish religious parties does not show signs of growing.

The handbook is primarily aimed at researchers and graduate students. I hope that upperlevel undergraduates and professionals (policy-oriented, government, corporations) will also find the handbook useful, especially for research purposes. Note, however, that the handbook does not claim to be a definitive global survey. I hope that this handbook will be a useful complement to the Routledge Handbook of Religion and Politics (2nd edition, 2016), which I also edited. While the Routledge Handbook of Religion and Politics has a global focus, including a section on how ‘religion and politics’ interact in the context of international relations, the Routledge Handbook of Religion and Political Parties has an overtly comparative focus. It seeks to examine the relationships between religion and political parties, with a focus on several world religions – Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Judaism and Hinduism. The handbook aims to do this in relation to a variety of political contexts, countries 3

Jeffrey Haynes

and regions. Given the focus and comprehensive nature of the handbook, I see it as having a very useful role in providing crucial, up-to-date information for students, researchers and professionals from a number of backgrounds and orientations. Given that the handbook cannot hope to have global coverage, how is it structured? The editor was extremely fortunate in being able to recruit a highly impressive array of expert contributors, 35 in all. The handbook seeks to cover the major sub-disciplines of a general area: ‘religion and political parties’. The handbook has a general introductory chapter, plus 32 chapters of approximately 8,000 words each, divided into three sections: ‘Core issues and topics’, ‘New debates’ and ‘Country case studies’. Overall, the handbook provides a thorough overview of both the fundamentals and new directions of the general topic: ‘religion and political parties’.

The handbook’s structure and coverage The editor was fortunate in being able to commission an internationally renowned line-up of contributors, including authors from Europe, Asia, the Middle East and North Africa, Sub-Saharan Africa and the Americas. The handbook comprises four parts of unequal length, plus an introduction. Part I is entitled ‘Core issues and topics’. It covers what I consider to be significant topics for an understanding of the relationship between religion and political parties in today’s world. The four topics covered in this part’s chapters are: ‘religion and political culture’, ‘religion and state’, ‘religion and society’ and ‘religion, modernisation, and secularisation’. Part II examines new and emerging debates which help to contour contemporary and current analyses of the relationship between religion and political parties. The part has seven chapters: ‘religious fundamentalism’, ‘religion, democratisation and democracy’, ‘party platform formation’, ‘social constituency representation and interest articulation’, ‘gender’, ‘“religious” terrorism’ and ‘conflict resolution and peacebuilding’. The third part is the largest. It covers country case studies, 21 in all. The section is divided into several subsections: Asia (three country case studies), the Americas (three), Europe (four), SubSaharan Africa (four) and the Middle East and North Africa (seven). Which countries to include? Which countries to exclude? I freely admit that this is a subjective issue, dependent to some degree on the personal preferences of the person doing the choosing. I have tried to include both the most interesting and the most comparatively important of country case studies. Everybody would choose a different set of countries and I hope the ones covered in the handbook are both of interest and of value for the reader to find out more about.

Note 1 This phenomenon occurred as a result of the third wave of democracy and the end of the cold war. See Gilbert and Mohseni (2011).

References Bruce, Steve (2003) Politics and Religion, London: Blackwell. Byrnes, Terence (2001) Transnational Catholicism in Postcommunist Europe, Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield. Finke, Roger, and Stark, Rodney (1992) The Churching of America, 1776–1990: Winners and Losers in Our Religious Economy, New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Fox, Jonathan (2006) ‘World Separation of Religion and State Into the 21st Century’. Comparative Political Studies 39, 5: 537–569. Gilbert, Leah, and Mohseni, Payam (2011) ‘Beyond Authoritarianism: The Conceptualization of Hybrid Regimes’. Studies in Comparative International Development 46, 3: 270–297.

4

Introduction Gill, Anthony (2001) ‘Religion and Comparative Politics’, Annual Review of Political Science, 4: 177–198. Haynes, Jeffrey (ed.) (2016) Routledge Handbook of Religion and Politics, 2nd edition, London: Routledge. Haynes, Jeffrey (2019) From Huntington to Trump: Thirty Years of the Clash of Civilizations, New York: Lexington Books. Kaya, Ayhan (2014) ‘Islamisation of Turkey under the AKP Rule: Empowering Family, Faith and Charity’. South European Society and Politics 20, 1: 47–69. Lucardie, Paul (2004) ‘Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained: Christian Democracy in the Netherlands’, in Christian Democratic Parties in Europe Since the End of the Cold War, Steven van Hecke and Emmanuel Gerard (eds), Leuven: Leuven University Press, 159–178. Lipset, Seymour Martin, and Rokkan, Stein (1967) Party Systems and Voter Alignments: Cross-National Perspectives, New York: Free Press. Norris, Pippa, and Inglehart, Ronald (2004) Sacred and Secular: Religion and Politics Worldwide, New York: Cambridge University Press. Özbudun, Ergun (2010) ‘Party Prohibition Cases: Different Approaches by the Turkish Constitutional Court and the European Court of Human Rights’. Democratization 17, 1: 125–142. Robinson, Carin, and Wilcox, Clyde (2007) ‘The Faith of George W. Bush: The Personal, Practical, and Political’, in Religion and the American Presidency, Mark J. Rozell and Gleaves Whitney (eds), New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 215–238. Sahu, Sunil K. (2002) ‘Religion and Politics in India: The Emergence of Hindu Nationalism and the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP)’, in Religion and Politics in Comparative Perspective: The One, the Few, and the Many, Ted G. Jelen and Clyde Wilcox (eds), New York: Cambridge University Press, 243–268. Skocpol, Theda (1982) ‘Rentier State and Shi’a Islam in the Iranian Revolution’. Theory and Society 11, 3: 265–283. Van Holsteyn, Joop and Irwin, Galen A. (2003) ‘Never a Dull Moment: Pim Fortuyn and the Dutch Parliamentary Election of 2002’. West European Politics 26: 41–66. Vossen, Koen (2011) ‘Classifying Wilders: The Ideological Development of Geert Wilders and His Party for Freedom’. Politics 31: 179–189. Walton, Matthew J. (2018) Buddhism and the Political: Organisation and Participation in the Theravada Moral Universe, London: Hurst.

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PART I

Core issues and topics

1 THE NEXT MIDDLE AGES Religion and political culture Manlio Graziano

Defining ‘political cultures’ is at least as difficult and controversial as defining religions. It is therefore necessary to begin by abandoning all claims to objectivity and declare unambiguously how religion and political culture are addressed in this short chapter. By ‘political cultures’ we mean, in a broad sense, the codification of politics, both from an intellectual perspective and from an administrative, juridical and institutional point of view. Religion – that is, popular beliefs in a higher (or divine) reality which determines and dominates the lower (or human) reality – is essentially considered herein as a social fact. The relationship between religion and political culture typically follows a chronological order: the latter necessarily comes after the former; but, as we shall see, the intervention of political culture almost always influences and modifies religion, triggering an interaction mechanism that is characteristic of all natural processes. However, the ability of political culture to influence and modify religion has been wrongly assumed as a universal law by those who believe that politics can dominate religion: these so-called secularists ignore the third law of political dynamics, according to which religion in turn influences and modifies politics. Thus religion and political culture enjoy a dialectical relationship, that is, that of reciprocal influence, insomuch that one sometimes assumes the appearance of the other and vice versa. If religion emerges as a social fact, and political culture (a code or philosophical principle) is only its intellectual and/or juridical reflection, the latter may also assume the forms and contents of the former: the Reformation is an example of how the intellectual contestation of the religious form of feudal society (Catholicism) was transformed into religion. The same is true of Buddhism, which emerged as a contestation of Vedic Brahmanism; for Islam, which emerged as a protest against Arab polytheism; but also for the successive metamorphoses of Judaism in a process of internal dispute, evidence of which can be found in different layers of the Tanakh – beginning with its progressive transformation into a monotheistic religion. *** Religion is a social fact: it emerges – or develops, or regains popularity – for a variety of reasons, but they are all generally connected with the need to give meaning to certain facts that are apparently meaningless. This ability to provide consolation (albeit imaginary) in the face of inconsolable reality (not in the least imaginary), gives religion the status of faith, that is, of a belief based on feeling and not on reason and thus unquestionable and unappealable. The more 9

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the surrounding reality is disordered and incomprehensible, the more acutely the need for order is felt and the more the religious feeling becomes central to the existence of those human beings – generally perceived as a sum total, a mass, rather than as individuals. This mechanism appears clearly in the correlation between social religiosity and social wealth: it is empirically demonstrated that the less affluent a country is, the more religious it is, and the wealthier it is, the less religious. If we compare ten countries with the highest per-capita GDP1 to ten countries with the lowest per-capita GDP setting them in descending order along the horizontal axis of a graph, while on the vertical axis we set the ‘religiosity rate’,2 this fact becomes clearly visible: eight out of ten richest countries have a religiosity rate equal to or less than 40 percent, and three of them equal to or less than 20 percent; conversely, nine out of ten of the poorest countries have a religiosity rate of 90–100 percent, and the ‘least religious’ (Zimbabwe) has the rate of 88 percent. Obviously, religiosity cannot be measured only in quantitative terms. On the contrary, it is evident that the religious feelings of those who maintain their faith in a social environment where religion has lost much of its relevance are qualitatively more intense and solid than the feelings of those who practice to conform to collective norms. The greater is the social relevance of religion, the greater political relevance it acquires. It is clear that in order to be able to acquire social relevance, a given religion needs legs on which to march, that is, people in flesh and bone who would act as its promoters and propagators: if the need for religion (that is, a fantastic explanation of a rationally incomprehensible or unfathomed fact) is a fact that imposes itself objectively, the type of explanation offered – that is, the choice of religion – depends subjectively on the specific belief of those who promote it. If we imagine for a moment that these heralds of religion are completely immune to any political contamination and that their unique and exclusive role is spiritual in nature, in this case we have a clear separation between politics on the one side and religion on the other. In this theoretical case (hypothesised as is hypothesised the absence of friction in the first principle of dynamics), it is the political culture that will not be able to remain extraneous to religious culture at length: since politics is the art of seizing and preserving power, all social factors likely to favour seizing

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Figure 1.1 Religiosity by country Source: The author

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and preservation inevitably end up falling into its sphere of interests. So that is how – in a world bereft of friction – the religion that has social relevance inevitably ends up acquiring political relevance. However, friction is present in the real world. With the exception of certain particular cases, from the very moment a given religion acquires social relevance, it is rare that its heralds remain insensitive to the appeal of political sphere, that is, to the struggle for power (and when they do remain extraneous, it is precisely because their religion has no social relevance, as in the case of Jehovah’s Witnesses). In general, they initially enter this sphere to negotiate from the position of force such and such favour for their religion, that is, to exchange their influence on the masses into political currency; from that moment on, religious boundaries with politics also become more and more blurred. It is at this stage – when we get to the level of reciprocity – that we can talk about the relationship between political culture and religion. Yet in the real world, reciprocity often results in intertwining and hybridisation of fields, or, to be precise, into the shift of the realm of the divine to the domain of humans: when the divine is annexed by the human; when the divine has invaded the field of the human; or, finally, when the human and divine coincide (as in the case of theocracy or of many divinised political functions, from Roman to Japanese emperors). *** The reaction of political culture to the social relevance of religion depends on both the strength of this relevance and the level of the political culture’s self-confidence. Usually – with the exception of theocracies and other forms of consubstantiality of the divine and human – the process is quite regular: at first, political culture tends to ignore or underestimate an emerging (or re-emerging) religion; when the latter becomes socially perceptible, politics usually reacts with annoyance and, in extreme cases, with various attempts at containment; finally, when the weight of religion is sufficient to influence social stability, political culture tends to lose confidence in its abilities and therefore moves from repression to co-optation. Bearing in mind that the social relevance of a religion does not necessarily concern its popularity, this process is crystal clear in the case of the first diffusion of Christianity and Islam. During the first century CE, Christianity was first ignored, then confused with one of the many Jewish sects, and finally, starting from the second century, attacked by political culture. Pliny the Younger (112 CE) spoke of it as a ‘superstitio prava, immodica’, a depraved and excessive superstition (Letters to Trajan, X, 96); Tacitus presented Christians as ‘per flagitia invisos’, hated for their abominations (Annales, XV, 44); for Suetonius, they were ‘genus hominum superstitionis novae ac maleficae’, a class of men given to a new and mischievous superstition (De vita Caesarum, Nero, 16). Only in the following centuries there was some sporadic persecution to punish their obstinatio and amixia, their obstinate refusal to perform the rites of civil religion and take part in public life;3 but the most frequent attitude of the authorities was indifference (Moreschini, 2013: 45–48; Crossan, 1999: 3–4). Only between the late third and the early fourth centuries, in the part of the empire where Christianity had really taken root (the eastern provinces and Egypt under the control of Diocletian), did the persecution become official. According to Rodney Stark, at the end of the first century there were 7,530 Christians throughout the Roman Empire, i.e. 0.012 percent of the population; at the end of the second century there were 217,795 (0.36 percent), while at the beginning of the fourth century between 5 and 7.5 million, about 10 percent (Stark, 1997: 6–7).4 For all they are worth, these figures confirm what has been said: the social relevance of a religion depends not only on the number of its followers but also and above all on their quality. The true authors of significant turning points in the 11

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human existence are so-called creative minorities, according to the definition of Arnold Toynbee: those few who are capable of finding innovative solutions to the challenges of time and who, therefore, become a source of inspiration for growing sectors of society. Between the late third and the early fourth centuries, political culture was confronted with a choice between an extreme attempt of the eradication of the Christian ‘creative minority’ (which was Diocletian’s policy) and its cooptation (which was the policy of Constantine). The legalisation of Christianity was a building block of Constantine’s policy of unification of the empire. However, in order to complete its structure it was also essential to unify the very Christianity which was then divided into a series of communities, each with its own beliefs;5 the bishops at the head of each community were continuously at war with one another to such an extent that Constantine, in a letter to the Bishops at Tyre, accused them of ‘do(ing) nothing but that which encourages discord and hatred and, to speak frankly, which leads to the destruction of the human race’ (Drake, 2000: 311). To put an end to this state of affairs, in 325, he convened and presided over the Council of Nicaea, during which he dictated fundamental religious canons, which today are still recited in the Creed with minimal changes.6 As Graham Fuller said, ‘for the state, theology is too important to be left to the theologians’ (Fuller, 2010: 48). Constantine is considered the prototype of ‘caesaropapism’, which is, according to the famous definition of Max Weber, a secular ruler who ‘exercises supreme authority in ecclesiastical matters by virtue of his autonomous legitimacy’ (Weber, 1968, II: 1160–1161). A particular but no less effective form of caesaropapism runs throughout the entire history of Islam too. On its way to success, Islam followed the same steps as Christianity, although condensed within a much shorter period. At first derided, then expelled from Mecca, Muhammad extended his influence over an increasingly large and determined creative minority insomuch that he forced his former persecutors to allow him to return to the city and to grant the new cult the monopoly over the Kaaba, the traditional site for pilgrimage of merchants of all faiths. Islam’s founder possessed both religious and political authority; whereas the priority of his successors, caliphs, was dealing with a series of political and military problems, while ceding the management of religious affairs to a class of specialists – the ulema. The ulema were trained to derive practical guidance from approximately two hundred commandments which, in the Quran, distinguish between what is lawful (hala-l) and what is illicit (hara-m): ‘sharia law’. But, as Olivier Roy explains, in the ‘political society’ in which the Muslim community had been transformed, ‘no ruler could accept the complete autonomy of sharia’ (Roy, 2013: 114). As Richard Bulliet puts it, ‘rulers who were tempted to go beyond the law, and thereby achieve absolute power, had to devise ways of coopting, circumventing, or suppressing the ulema’ (Bulliet, 2004: 62). Examples are hard to find of the ‘learned’ men daring to stand up against the authority of caliphs, writes Sadakat Kadri, and they often paid for it with their lives. He then concludes, ‘The Abbasids had managed to turn God’s law to the service of their regime’ (Kadri, 2012: 58). *** When religion becomes instumentum regni, it in turn transforms political culture in instrumentum religionis, at least in part: in exchange for the support guaranteed to Constantine and his successors, Christians ensured that their religion was the only one recognised, protected and imposed by the state. However, the relationship between politics and religion is always unbalanced: usually the weight of the former tends to dominate but it is not always the case. Depending on the historical circumstances, and above all on how deeply entrenched and organised is the religion in question, power relations can be balanced or even reversed. This seems to be the case of the Catholic Church. Which, however – insofar as the Church has fused together in itself spiritual and temporal power 12

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attributes – somewhat strays from the subject of this chapter that deals with the relationship, and not the fusion, of politics and religion. Yet there is a fundamental aspect that remains consistent with the purpose of this text: the Catholic Church’s unscrupulous use of its duality. As an institution of a political nature, it has interacted with other institutions of a political nature exploiting its religious nature, of which it maintained a monopoly. Its duality stems from its early experience in the western part of the Roman Empire, when the Church was immediately forced to fill the void left by deliquescent central and peripheral political powers, growing into a more political rather than a religious practice. The bishop of Rome did not attend the Council of Nicea, sending instead two of his legates who could at least understand Greek; yet the successors of the Greek bishops became anonymous servants of basileus, whereas the successors to the bishops of Rome became the leaders of the most powerful and enduring political-religious institution in human history. They became such because, due to their apprenticeship, they were capable of coping with other political authorities for at least the next thousand years, starting from the turbulent relationship with that emperor – sacred and Roman – that they themselves had invented and invested. When the bourgeoisie began to challenge the feudal order, the first offensive was inevitably launched against the Catholic Church: progressively, and with increasing vigour, political culture had set the goal of circumscribing and then eliminating its influence. Given the total confusion between the spiritual and the temporal at the time of Christianity, this emancipation initially took a religious form, first with the medieval ‘heresies’ and then with the Protestant Reformation (which immediately became the instrumentum regni in a series of caesaropapist kingdoms of Northern Europe). But the real great schism, which manifested itself in that same sixteenth century, was between politics and religion. The former began to separate from the latter, at least on the cultural level (think about Machiavelli and Jean Bodin), and in the following century moved to the practical level: with the Peace of Westphalia, in 1648, the great powers agreed to exclude the Catholic Church from issues of international politics. In the seventeenth century, philosophical thought began to contest not the Church but religion. In the eighteenth century, this schism reached its apogee with the Enlightenment, the revolutionary separation between state and Church and the birth of secular ‘civil religions’. *** In the Middle Ages, the princes’ legitimacy was based on the divine law, which the Church guaranteed. Progressively excluding this source of legitimation, the state had to sacralise itself on its own; this was the task of ‘civil religion’ and its forms that echo those of the old traditional religions: a mythology (history of the fatherland), places of worship (fatherland altars, monuments to the fallen), collective ceremonies (parades, demonstrations, rallies), sacred symbols (the flag), rites (oaths, anthems, elections, national holidays), prophets and saints (the founding fathers), as well as new immanent deities (Homeland, Reason, Progress, etc.). In the era of secularisation, the expansion of political space is directly proportional to the contraction of religious prerogatives, but this transition takes place everywhere in mimetic ways. In the twentieth century, the militants of pro-Russian parties had the faith, insofar they could see what the unfaithful could not, such as the Soviet Paradise, and they behaved with the same average intolerance to others as did believers of conventional religions. Many of the political features of China’s so-called Cultural Revolution resembled those of Afghanistan under the sway of the Taliban: there was only one true god and one only holy text, and in both cases, male–female mingling, public display of feelings, music, songs, dance, and any other form of amusement were strictly forbidden and severely punished, with the ritual objects of the previous cults destroyed. The same sort of rigorous puritan bigotry can be found in the Calvinist 13

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Republic of Geneva in the sixteenth century, as well as in the Massachusetts ‘Bible Commonwealth’ in the seventeenth century and under France’s Comité de Salut Public at the end of the eighteenth century. ‘Civil religion’, however, can only take root when the state that it sacralises is able to respond to real needs and to give meaning to what it apparently does not have. In a novel published in 2002, a Frenchman named Hector travels to a developing country and reads a sign on a wall that reads ‘The Good Lord Protects Us’, and then, writes the author of the novel, ‘he understood that the people here still had faith in God, much more so than in Hector’s country, because there, the people still counted on Social Security to protect them’ (Lelord, 2010: 68). To put it short, if the state – or another earthly entity – responds to the need of ‘protection’, recourse to God wanes, at least at the grass-roots level. At the social level, this phenomenon is called ‘secularisation’, or – to use the famous definition of Max Weber – ‘die Entzauberung der Welt’, the disenchantment of the world. Secularist political culture believes that secularisation is a product of reason. It is, yet again another concession in the face of metaphysical temptation made by a political culture that claims to base its emancipation from religion on conscious intellectual adherence, neglecting material satisfaction, which is the only means truly capable of ‘disenchanting’ the world. But when, for one reason or another, the state is no longer able to provide the aforementioned protection, when it is no longer able to respond to the needs and demands of its population, then the rationalists find themselves in the same situation of avant-garde patrols surrounded by the enemy, abandoned by their retreating troops. *** The eighteenth-century revolutionary bourgeoisie had promised heaven on earth; once it came to power it found itself dealing with the most prosaic, and sometimes definitely hellish, reality of industrialisation. Like the sorcerer’s apprentice in Goethe’s ballad who could not control the forces that he had unleashed, where only recourse to the master could prevent the disaster. In 1892, Friedrich Engels described this reconversion: ‘Nothing remained to the French and German bourgeoisie as a last resource but to silently drop their free thought, as a youngster, when sea-sickness creeps upon him, quietly drops the burning cigar he brought swaggeringly on board’ (Engels, 2006: 23) Traditional religions were thus seen as extrema ratio regum. But also as extrema ratio populorum when peoples lose their faith in civil gods. The most recent episode of collective loss of faith in civil gods occurred starting in the 1970s; since then, we have seen a progressive restoration of the social relevance of religions. In the long process of forming and consolidating nation-states, the trend to secularisation seemed irreversible. When it reached its climax – from the late nineteenth century through the first two-thirds of the twentieth century – the large majority of intellectuals considered religion as anachronistic, an obstacle to progress, even a psychological disorder; some went so far as to assume its inevitable demise. The new ruling classes of younger countries, anxious not to upset the fragile social balance from which they originated, had no trouble persuading themselves, albeit erroneously, that the superiority of the ‘advanced’ countries lay in their ideas and institutions; they hoped to reach modernity by simply adopting both. Among their key measures were the secularisation of the state, the confiscation of clerical properties and the relegation of religion to the private sphere. From Italy to Mexico and from Iran to Spain, examples of countries that had already followed this pattern are legion, the most famous and the most accomplished of all being Mustafa Kemal Ataturk’s Republic of Turkey. In the 1950s and 1960s, the incompatibility of religion and politics was taken for granted. The popularity of the state as a major economic player and provider of jobs, social services and 14

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security reached its peak. It was now the state that seemed able to fulfil prayers that in previous generations had been addressed to gods. Things began changing, as was said before, in the 1970s. In much of what was then called the Third World, the very rapid process of industrialisation poured millions of peasants into the cities, disrupting in just a few years a social balance that had prevailed for centuries; and in the ‘advanced world’, industrial society failed to keep its promises of continuous improvement of living standards. The crisis of modernity – although experienced very differently in different parts of the world – restored to all religions the role of anchor of solace and consolation when exclusively ‘civil’ solutions revealed their limits. The social and political transformations that have since succeeded one another at an increasingly rapid pace – ‘globalisation’ – have blurred, confused and mixed identities, making acute the need for reference points that would appear stable. As Peter Berger wrote in 1999, ‘modernity, for fully understandable reasons, undermines all the old certainties; uncertainty, in turn, is a condition that many people find very hard to bear; therefore, any movement (not only a religious one) that promises to provide or to renew certainty has a ready market’ (Berger, 1999: 7). *** Religions have a decisive advantage over non-religious movements promising certainty for three reasons: (1) because they pre-dated the birth of the nation-state; (2) because the nation-state has imposed itself by fighting against them; (3) and, finally, because today when the nation-state is in crisis, they are always there, and are even inspired by renewed enthusiasm: it is this continuity that offers an appearance of stability in a world undergoing rapid and convulsive transformation. Religions are perceived as eternal not because of any promise of eternal life but because they are seen as the roses in Bernard de Fontenelle’s 1686 fable, upon perceiving their gardener: If roses, which last but a day, were to tell stories … they would say, ‘we have always seen the same gardener, in our roseate memories we have seen but him, he has always looked like himself, surely he does not die like us, he simply does not change’. (Entretiens sur la pluralité des mondes 1686) Yet roses are unaware of how the gardener looked before their birth. The Catholicism of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries has also very little to do with that of the age of Christianity (and even with that of prior to the Second Vatican Council), and today’s Islam bears only vague traces of that of the era of the triumphant Muslim civilisation. But what matters is that Islam and Catholicism – like other religions – are presented to today’s public as formally uninterrupted continuity, and those who feel an urgent need for answers believe in that continuity while cautiously avoiding the investigation of historical and even theological hiatuses that have intervened in the meantime. Invested by this apparent continuity, Islam and Christianity – but also Buddhism, Hinduism, Judaism, etc. – provide a more secure and cohesive foothold of collective identity than the state: in fact, in the collective imagination, they represent a mythological golden age when populations identified within themselves a common religious feeling which served both as a banner and as a protective shield; the era of the modern state – when it no longer seems to offer the protection which it had been able to offer in the past – becomes retrospectively, and just as much mythologically, the era in which division (of interests, ideologies, parties) has spread, and in which a potpourri of populations of the most disparate origins, with their baggage of alien and alarming religious beliefs, has torn the uniform fabric of society. Even in France, the most secular of all secular nations, the rediscovery of the country’s ‘Christian roots’ is becoming more and more popular 15

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among the population and politicians. It is worth mentioning that the adjective ‘Christian’ in this phrase has no spiritual, but only political and identitary value, and is the synonym of unpronounceable (but nevertheless intensely thought) ‘non-Muslim’. The need to believe is metaphysical: it must ignore the facts of reality which risk undermining the certainties of the faith thus nullifying its soothing effect. The facts of reality in this case are those exposed by two Catholic historians, René Rémond and Paul Kennedy. For the former, the romantic idea of Christianity ‘arises in considerable part from nostalgia for a largely mythologised past’ (Rémond, 1998: 130), and ‘it would be a great illusion to represent medieval Europe as a homogenous and unified world’ (Rémond, 1998: 151). For the latter, unlike the Ottoman, Chinese and Mughal empires, ‘there never was a united Europe in which all parts acknowledged one secular or religious leader’ (Kennedy, 1987: 4). On the contrary, for almost all of its history Europe has been the theatre of particularly wild and devastating internal wars. Playing on the counterfactual history, Richard Bulliet launches a counterattack against Gibbon’s famous thesis of the outcome of a possible Arab victory at Poitiers (734) suggesting that if Europe had become Muslim, it would most likely be less torn, more peaceful and certainly richer and more cultured than it was under triumphant Christianity (Bulliet, 2004: 7). *** As stated before, the reaction of political culture to the social relevance of religion depends on the intensity of this relevance and on the self-confidence of political culture. In the 1970s, the level of self-confidence of political cultures in developing countries was extremely low: the hopes raised by decolonisation were shattered against the inevitable limitations of state political entities hastily erected and lacking the social foundations from which traditional nation-states emerged after centuries of struggles and compromises. The tribal logics – fed by the colonial powers – finally ‘cauterised’ every impulse of local coalition: every group of interests, every clan, every ethnic group, every religious group was thus thereinafter in open competition when not at war with the others, and the war was suspended only when one of them was able to impose itself on others. Almost all post-colonial history reproduces this simple model with different local nuances. What made the situation even more chaotic was the destruction of the fragile social balance in these countries caused by industrialisation and by their concomitant entrance into the demographic transition phase. The most immediate result was an extremely rapid and chaotic urbanisation with millions of peasants pouring into the cities lacking infrastructures and services, or in any case totally insufficient to accommodate the flows of such proportions. Almost everywhere, seeking a last-ditch defence against the effects of their brutal uprooting, urbanised peasants found refuge in their traditional ties of clan and religion. Small secularised cities dominated by a narrow ‘westernised’ elite were submerged by masses for whom tradition was the only lifeline. And they transformed dramatically. Ali Allawi writes that in Iraq in the 1950s, Islam was not a noticeable factor in daily life … Nobody taught us the rules of prayer or expected us to fast in Ramadan … The pilgrimage to Mecca was only for the old, more in the nature of an insurance than an act of piety … Women wore only western clothes … Cinemas and snack bars, cabaret and country clubs, freely flowing alcohol and mixed parties … And it was not much different … in Casablanca, Cairo, Damascus, Istanbul, Tehran, Karachi and Jakarta … Neither did Islam’s public position improve materially in the decade of the 1960s. (Allawi, 2009: 9–10) 16

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It was the same in Kabul: Mohammad Qayoumi writing in 2010 recalls that ‘a half-century ago, Afghan women pursued careers in medicine, men and women mingled casually at movie theatres and university campuses in Kabul’ (Qayoumi, 2010); ‘Afghan women’, writes Elisabeth Bumiller in the New York Times, ‘not only attended Kabul University, they did so in miniskirts’ (Bumiller, 2009). Since then, these cities have experienced a quantum leap that has become qualitative due to its size: Baghdad from about 600,000 inhabitants at the time passed to more than seven million in the early twenty-first century incorporating almost a quarter of the population of Iraq (against one-seventh in 1950). Turkey witnessed a real ‘Anatolisation’ of Istanbul: millions of deeply religious people have inundated a traditionally secular city, which as early as in 1994 elected as its mayor a prominent figure of the Islamist Party Refah, Recep Tayyip Erdog˘ an. In short, it is not Erdog˘ an who Islamised Turkey, but it is the Islamisation of Istanbul that ‘created’ Erdog˘ an. The same phenomenon has occurred in almost the entire developing world, not only Muslim majority countries. In the 1950s, 1.7 million people lived in Delhi; they reached 19 million in 2017 (28 million if the metropolitan area is included). The Hindu nationalist party, the Bharatiya Janata Party, has been in power since 2014, having already ruled between 1998 and 2004, almost the same years when Refah was elected as the largest political party in Turkey for the first time under the premiership of Necmettin Erbakan (1997).7 Today in India, wrote Meera Nanda in 2010, ‘the worship of nation is becoming indistinct from the worship of Hindu gods and goddesses’ (Nanda, 2010: 8). Developing countries offer the best example of the chain of actions and reactions that has set in motion the tendency for the reunification of the human and the divine in today’s world (even if, on the divine side, formalism seems to overwhelm and sometimes cancel spirituality). This tendency also seems now launched in the developed world. This chain can be simplified as follows: the return of religious relevance is ridden by a political class seeking new legitimacy, and the political use of religion in turn makes the latter once more an indispensable factor in public life. The case of Egypt in the 1970s is emblematic: in order to get rid of the old Nasserist guard, to proceed with painful economic reforms, to expel the Russian advisors, and to open to the Americans, the extremely weak Anwar el Sadat8 relied among others upon the clerics’ support and in particular on the Muslim Brotherhood, whose leaders were recalled from exile. But he was able to do so because, following the 1960s development, Egypt – or rather its capital – was already being re-Islamised: Michael C. Dunn, the editor-in-chief of the Middle East Journal, upon return to Cairo after a long absence was surprised to see that ‘people were wearing beards everywhere … The mosques were overflowing, with people spilling out into

Figure 1.2 Growth in population size of Istanbul over time Source: The author

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the streets’ (Dreyfuss, 2006: 149). In a nutshell, urbanisation precedes and explains the people wearing beards, and they precede and explain Sadat’s policy. However, this is not a simple relationship of cause and effect, but rather a relationship with multiple and reciprocal influences in which the political exploitation of religion in turn acts as a multiplier of religious influence on society as a whole. *** To conclude, it remains to be seen on what level the current relationship between religion and politics is situated at a time when religion increasingly neglects the spiritual realm and when politics in an increasingly evident way takes on the appearance of religious beliefs. While in the religious field formalism and/or political action become more important than the care of the soul, in the political field the faith in miraculous solutions becomes more important than the composed and rational calculation of the real forces at stake and their mutual interests. Politics does not take on the appearance of religion because it wants to replace it, like in the age of secularisation, but because the rapid and convulsive processes of great international disorder have made faith and miracles the privileged terrain for electoral competition and legitimacy of the ruling classes. These same processes have accelerated and accentuated the phenomenon that Olivier Roy labels as ‘holy ignorance’, that is, the separation between religions and their cultural roots. Both the emigration of the faithful to lands of different religious cultures, as well as the exportation of standardised religious models foreign to the local culture contribute to it. Examples are the Sunni currents that call for a return to Islam of the seventh century identical for everyone everywhere making a clean sweep of successive cultural stratifications; Shiism that tends to reshape itself by following the Iranian example everywhere, from Yemen to Afghanistan; fundamentalist evangelicalism that employs the same messages, behaviours and rituals in countries as diverse as the United States, Brazil, Korea and Ghana, supplanting local cultures, religions and traditions; Hassidism that thrives in Sephardic communities, and so on. They are ersatz religions reduced to their (presumed) minimum common denominator, vestigial, aesthetic and moral recipes simple and equal for all, indifferent to the cultural (and religious) traditions of each. As a general phenomenon, ‘holy ignorance’ has always existed: all religions, at one time or another, have migrated, breaking the umbilical cord with their place of origin and their cultures. Yet, in the past, these movements required centuries, giving rise to new specific local cultures. Braudel states that by crossing the Himalayas Buddhism got ‘lost in translation’ in order to adapt to the Taoist culture, thus acquiring its own physiognomy, radically different from the original Indian one (Braudel, 1997: 266–268). Today, however, this migration process is regulated by the pressing needs of the just-in-time capitalist circulation; it is, as writes Roy, a serial production, which circulates like capitals, goods and people, and, in order to be able to get anywhere, ‘the religious object must appear universal, disconnected from a specific culture that has to be understood in order for the message to be grasped’. After all, adds Roy, ‘religion does not require people to know, but to believe’ (Roy, 2013: 6). Today, when politics too ‘does not require people to know, but to believe’, we witness a new reconciliation between the two camps. It is a soft return to the Middle Ages, in which both politics and religion lose their specific features and are drawn towards the flattening of an ignorance which, although it still preserves its formal pretence, has nothing ‘holy’ any more.

Notes 1 Such anomalous cases as Qatar, Luxembourg, Singapore, Brunei etc., all of which bear little statistical significance, have been excluded from this list.

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The next Middle Ages 2 ‘Religiosity rate’ refers to the percentage of people who answered affirmatively to the question ‘Is religion an important part of your daily life?’ in a 2009 Gallup poll (Crabtree, 2010). 3 Hypothetical Nero’s persecution of the Christians at the time of the fire of Rome (64 CE) is now considered by most historians as myth. See Shaw (2015). 4 According to Charles Freeman, Stark’s figures should be taken cum grano salis, especially because at the time ‘there was no clear definition of what it was to be a Christian’ (Freeman, 2002: 371). 5 At the time, each of these communities was called αἵρεσις (haíresis), the term traditionally used to refer to philosophical schools; when the struggle between Christian groups became bitter, the term took on a negative meaning, and an opinion turned into ‘heresy’. 6 According to many historians, at the time of the Council of Nicaea Constantine was still pagan (Freeman, 2002: 167–171). 7 Erbakan was removed by a military coup a year after his election. 8 American undersecretary of State, Elliot L. Richardson, in Cairo for Nasser’s funeral, told President Nixon that the new president ‘wouldn’t survive in power for more than four or six weeks’ (Dreyfuss, 2006: 148).

References Allawi, Ali A. (2009) The Crisis of Islamic Civilization, New Haven, Yale University Press. Berger, Peter (1999) The Desecularization of the World: Resurgent Religion and World Politics, Grand Rapids, Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing. Braudel, Fernand (1997) Grammaire des civilisations, Paris, Arthaud. Bulliet, Richard W. (2004) The Case for Islamo-Christian Civilization, New York, Columbia University Press. Bumiller, Elisabeth (2009) ‘Remembering Afghanistan’s Golden Age’, New York Times, 18 October. Crabtree, Steve (2010) ‘Religiosity Highest in World’s Poorest Nations’, Gallup News, 31 August. Crossan, John D. (1999) Birth of Christianity, New York, Harper & Collins. Drake, Harold A. (2000) Constantine and the Bishops: The Politics of Intolerance, Baltimore, The Johns Hopkins University Press. Dreyfuss, Robert (2006) Devil’s Game: How the United States Helped Unleash Fundamentalist Islam, New York, Henry Holt and Company. Engels, Friedrich (2006) Socialism, Utopian and Scientific, New York, Mondial. Freeman, Charles (2002) The Closing of the Western Mind, New York, Vintage Books. Fuller, Graham (2010) A World without Islam, New York, Little, Brown and Company. Kadri, Sadakat (2012) Heaven on Earth: A Journey Through Shari‘a Law from the Deserts of Ancient Arabia to the Streets of the Modern Muslim World, New York, Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Kennedy, Paul (1987) The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers: Economic Change and Military Conflict from 1500 to 2000, New York, Random House. Lelord, François (2010) Hector and the Search for Happiness, London, Penguin Books. Moreschini, Claudio (2013) Storia del pensiero cristiano tardo-antico, Milan, Bompiani. Nanda, Meera (2010) The God Market: How Globalization is Making India More Hindu, New York, Random House. Qayoumi, Mohammad (2010) ‘Once Upon a Time in Afghanistan’, Foreign Policy, 29 May. Rémond, René (1998) Religion et société en Europe. Essai sur la sécularisation des sociétés européennes aux XIXe et XXe siècles (1789–2000), Paris, Seuil. Roy, Olivier (2013) Holy Ignorance: When Religion and Culture Part Ways, New York, Oxford University Press. Shaw, Brent D. (2015) ‘The Myth of the Neronian Persecution’, Journal of Roman Studies, 105, 73–100. Stark, Rodney (1997) The Rise of Christianity. How the Obscure, Marginal Jesus Movement Became the Dominant Religious Force in the Western World in a Few Centuries, New York, Harper & Collins. Weber, Max (1968) Economy and Society, New York, Bedminster Press Incorporated.

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2 RELIGION, STATE AND NATION Islamic parties between ideology and religion Jocelyne Cesari

Islamic political parties have generated literature from political scientists, which mostly focuses on their acceptation or rejection of formal politics. The widely accepted ‘inclusion-moderation’ paradigm contends that unlike repression, the inclusion of Islamic political parties into political systems leads to a greater ideological tolerance among Islamist leaders (Schwedler, 2007). From this perspective, numerous scholars have focused on behavioural moderation, especially pragmatism within the parties’ platforms and searches for political alliances (Wickham, 2013). Others have explored the opportunity structures that facilitate the inclusion of Islamic parties into the political system, mostly examining institutional constraints and types of political culture. This literature shows that the more participatory Islamic parties become, the less they use religious themes. Repression by the state expands their constituency beyond religious themes to include all oppressed political actors in coalition building. On the other hand, competition with other religious parties tends to increase religious rhetoric. Literature also highlights a dilemma specific to Islamic parties; that is, more than others, they are characterised by their dual constituencies based on religious claims and social grievances. The underlying assumption is that the differentiation of strategies among parties is correlated with the degree of democracy of a political system. In particular, authoritarian regimes by systematically repressing political opposition have contributed to the politicisation of mosques and other Islamic insitutions as free speech spaces. This political pre-eminence has continued after political liberalisation and recognition of political parties. But why Islam and no other ‘secular’ alternatives? To respond to this question, it is necessary to take a closer look at the broader landscape of state–society relations. Moreover, state–Islam relations are crucial to the differentiation of the strategy of Islamic parties, which has to be addressed beyond the binary ‘coercion versus cooptation’ dilemma. In almost all Muslim countries, the state has appropriated Islam by nationalising and transforming religious institutions into administrative elements, even in ‘secular’ countries such as Turkey (Nasr, 2001; Cesari, 2014). This nationalisation of Islam became a powerful tool for opposition groups to use the staying power of Islam in society for mobilisation, while other ideological unifications were banned. As a result, Islamist oppositional parties possess ideological coherence, legitimacy and potential for social mobilisation that are not accessible to other political forces, like for example communist parties that have been mercilessly crushed by authoritarian regimes. This is not to say, however, that secular political forces are non-existent in these countries. In fact, they have played a 20

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significant role in the Arab Spring revolution, and they have influenced the strategy of Islamist forces in the unfolding transitions.1 Most interestingly, secular influence does not come primarily from professional political parties but from civil society itself which played a decisive role in the Arab world, in the uprisings against the authoritarian regimes in 2011. Their focus has been on better living conditions, freedom of expression, labour rights and economic justice, as illustrated by the Egyptian ‘Tahririan’ Revolution and the April 6 Youth Movement, an ideological group that was born through Facebook for a strike in Mahalla on 6 April 2008 and known for being at the forefront of street politics without having any clear political propositions (Carr, 2012). It is, however, important to keep in mind that ‘secular’ in this context refers to the dismissal of what Bassam Tibi calls the Shari’atisation of politics (Tibi, 2013), which is the inscription in constitution and legislation of fixed (if not fossilised) Islamic prescription. But it does not mean systematic rejection of religious references in public life. Once the political system starts to open, like in Malaysia or Indonesia, or even Morocco, the diversification of political offerings makes Islamic parties less central to political opposition and they lose their edge in voicing all grievances. This was the reason for the downfall of the Freedom and Justice Party (FJP) in Egypt after the 2011 revolution and of the incapacity of Islamic parties in Indonesia to win elections. In a nutshell, a broader view of the status of Islam in society and national culture can explain the differentiation of strategies among parties as well as their probability to win elections. The problem is that the moderation-inclusion paradigm cannot provide such a broader view because it operates on the assumption of a dualist power structure, where Islamist movements are the reaction to the state ideology. Hence, it implicitly posits the existence of a rigid, stark opposition between the state and religious groups and takes for granted a clear division between what is Islamic (party) and what is secular (state), while in political reality Islamic parties and states straddle both. Consequently, to investigate normalisation processes, it is necessary to analyse the Islamic policies of states that directly impact the ideological and behavioural moderation and inclusion of these parties. In other words, political Islam, broadly defined as national political culture, is key to any political development. That is why the political influence of Islamic parties is in part explained by the framing and pruning of Islam by the authoritarian state. While the state has appropriated Islam through means of institutionalisation and nationalisation, the Islamist opposition groups have, in turn, been able to use the staying power of Islam on society to form their influential opposition to the point of becoming the main political force across countries. As a result, the Islamist groups have major assets required for the emergence of a capable political opposition (Hafez, 2010, 103): (1) ideological coherence rooted in national identities and (2) legitimacy and credibility in terms of political mobilisation. However, these assets have been made fragile by their lack of (or mitigated) political success during the Arab Spring and by the rise of alternative forms of mobilisations. Finally, the acceptance of democracy by these parties continues to be questioned by analysts.

Islamism as a national or counter-national project One of the major reasons for the political strength of Islamist groups is that they tap into a political repertoire already set up by the authoritarian regimes. As explained by abundant scholarly literature, Islamists do not reconnect with the Islamic tradition but with the political movements, mainly pan-Islamist and revivalist, including: Muslim Brothers (MB), the Deobandi, and the Jama’at Islamiyya, that were all generated by the encounters with Europe at the end of the Ottoman Empire after the First World War. However, the approach of Islamist 21

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groups has evolved everywhere from a pan-Islamist to a national strategy with the goal to oppose the corruption and despotism of the nation-state (Pratt, 2007, 167). As a result, Islamist opposition groups have constructed political Islam as a national project to achieve social justice. At the time of its inception at the end of the Ottoman Empire, pan-Islamism was opposed to nationalism, perceived as a Western concept. However, after decolonisation processes, the national framework became the ‘natural’ political space. Thus, Islamist oppositions gradually used Islam more as an alternative to the secular nationalism promoted by state elites and less as a way to promote a pan-Islamic Caliphate. In this sense, they have increasingly operated within the context of the newly defined national political community. In Egypt, the MB believed that state policies were impure and that their movement held the key to the ‘true’ Islam and to the rightful authority. Hassan al-Banna (1906–1949) argued that the purest period of Islam, the ‘Golden Age’, happened when Muhammad and his successors, the Four Rightly-Guided Caliphs, ruled the political community. Thus, the MB’s ultimate political goal was to create an ‘Islamic Order’ or al-nizam al-islami, which has its foundation in Islamic principles. While al-Banna promoted the Islamic political order to come, his vision also translated into multiple social, economic, and cultural activities geared at improving the daily conditions of Egyptian people. Therefore, the political vision of the MB was progressively shaped by the national Egyptian framework and domestic politics. After the death of al-Banna in 1949 and the Free Officers’ coup in 1952, the relationship between the MB and the state turned into mistrust. At first, the MB was allowed to exist as an organisation despite the prohibition of political parties in 1953. However, the MB’s refusal to grant legitimacy to a regime that did not implement sharia soon led to further political protests. In October 1954, a member of the MB attempted to assassinate President Nasser and the MB was subsequently outlawed, while its members were jailed or sentenced to death. In the same vein, the turn towards radicalisation reinforced the nationalisation of the Islamist strategy by focusing the fight against the ‘unjust’ ruler. Sayyid Qutb’s (1906–1966) redefinition of jihad was instrumental in such an evolution. In Milestones (1964), Qutb argued that the Egyptian society was steeped in Jahiliyyah. While Jahiliyyah in the Islamic tradition refers to the pre-Islamic period, before the Prophet Muhammad’s revelation, Qutb gives the term a new political meaning. Because Egyptians do not live under sharia law, they experience in his view, a situation comparable to the pre-Islamic period, hence justifying the fight against the ruler, even if this ruler is a Muslim (Qutb, 2005, 23; Zollner, 2009, 86). Jihad against the rulers becomes a political and religious priority. Qutb’s vision led to splits within the MB. Groups, such as Islamic Jihad and al-Takfir walHijra, adopted his focus on jihad as the priority (Rubin, 2002, 56). In contrast, the mainstream MB operated under the guidance of Hasan al-Hudaybi (1891–1973), who in his book, du’a la quda (Preachers, Not Judges), directly questions Qutb’s idea of jihad. He argued that the duty of all Muslims is ‘to enact all of God’s orders and statutes and to pave the way for the establishment of His religion’ (Johnston, 2007, 43). More specifically, under Hudaybi, the MB began to discuss (1) their involvement in Egyptian political life, (2) their compromise with the Egyptian state and (3) the acceptance of democratic rules.

Political party vs. social movement Since its conception, the MB’s initial goal was to prepare Egyptians for the Islamic political order. For this reason, the emphasis was on education rather than partisan politics. After al-Banna’s death in 1950, the leadership went to Hassan al-Hudaybi, who combated the movement’s affiliation with violence and emphasised its social vocation (Johnston, 2007, 40; Mitchell, 1993, 204). Hudaybi 22

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argued that only God could judge if society is in a state of Jahiliyyah, not man. The implications of this argument were that Hudaybi supported the Egyptian state, arguing, ‘God has delegated to the Muslim nations many aspects of their political, economic and social life … He has revealed to us that this delegation is for the application and realisation of purposes he has determined’ (Johnston, 2007, 47). Despite this conciliatory position, presidents Nasser in the mid-1960s, and Mubarak decades later, continued to implement strict crackdowns against all affiliated Islamist groups who posed a threat to the regime. Nevertheless, the movement gradually became more integrated within the Egyptian political space, specifically when President Sadat (1970–1981) released political prisoners. In 1976, the latter allowed opposition parties to function (although he did not overturn the longstanding ban on the MB). Additionally, the Mubarak regime in the 1980s brought a new level of tolerance for the MB, by allowing the organisation to participate in the 1984 parliamentary elections in alliance with the Al-Wafd Party, gaining 58 seats (Johnston, 2007, 49). Al-Hudaybi’s ideology resulted in the grounding of the MB’s programmes in multiple aspects of Egyptian society, such as social services and education. This emphasis on social activism led to debate and divisions within the MB when the time came to create a political party after the demise of the Mubarak regime in 2011. More specifically, the younger generation raised objections to the creation of the MB’s Freedom and Justice Party (FJP) for its loss of main social mission in favour of partisan activities (Cesari, 2014, 137).

Compromise with the state One of the most significant examples of accommodation within the political system happened during the 2005 parliamentary elections in Egypt. In compliance with US President Bush’s Freedom Agenda, President Mubarak allowed the MB more space and freedom to conduct its electoral campaign as an independent unofficial group. The MB won 20 percent of the vote and proved to be a contending opposition group to the incumbent regime. In 2007, it established a platform which brought to the fore heated discussion about its position on citizenship rights based on gender and religion, the role of the official religious establishment, and its interpretation of sharia (Brown and Hamzawy, 2008). After the 2011 revolution and the ousting of Mubarak, the attitude of compromise with the political system continued. When the protests against the ruling Supreme Council of the Armed Forces (SCAF) turned violent in late November 2011, the MB refused to continue its participation in the demonstrations as it could compromise the first round of elections in which the FJP was poised to be victorious (Nisman, 2011). After its victory in the parliamentary elections, the FJP multiplied its appeasing gestures towards the SCAF and announced that it would not participate in anti-military rallies because the handover of power to civilians must occur in a stable environment (Zayan, 2011). The same evolution towards conciliation took place in Tunisia. The MTI movement, created by Rached Ghannouchi in 1981 with a focus on Islamic education, became more politicised and radical over time, adopting the Jihad approach of Qutb. As a consequence, most leaders were jailed and Ghannouchi fled to London in 1989. From this date until his return to Tunisia in 2011, Ghannouchi’s thinking went under profound changes illustrated in its acceptation and promotion of state authority and elections. In particular, he addressed the idea of ‘Islamic democracy’ as a solution to Tunisia’s problems; ‘It was an intellectual necessity for the Islamic movement to offer clear answers to the challenges facing Islamic thought in a country such as Tunisia, which had become extremely Westernised. There was no other alternative’ (Hamdi, 1998, 102). His aspiration has since then been to rethink the possibilities of democracy in conciliation with Islamic principles. 23

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From oppressed to rulers Being the ‘oppressed’ meant that Islamists did not benefit from the nepotistic practices of the regimes and therefore gained an aura of purity and honesty, not to mention martyrdom, hence gaining unparalleled political legitimacy. In both Tunisia and Egypt, Islamic political actors acquired legitimacy and credibility due to state oppression. The self-exile of Rached Ghannouchi also contributed to the party’s aura. He did not return to Tunisia until January 2011 when Ben Ali was ousted. No doubt, his return reignited the Ennahda movement and symbolised the New Tunisia; some members even suggested he should run in the upcoming elections (which he declined). The electoral victory of the FJP or Ennahda turned Islamic groups into partisan groups and disabled them from claiming to represent aspirations of the entire population. This erosion of popularity was documented by media coverage and polling in the case of the FJP in Egypt, between the parliamentary elections of 2011 and the May 2012 presidential elections. A May 2012 Gallup poll indicated a significant decline in favourable opinion towards the FJP and the Salafis. The findings from University of Maryland polling during 4–10 May indicated that while the FJP won the largest block of votes, Morsi trailed in last place, garnering only 8 percent of support (Telhami, 2012). It is also noteworthy that 71 percent said that the MB’s decision to field its own presidential candidates after it said that it would not, was a mistake. These polls however were contradicted by the electoral results when Morsi won 51.7 percent of the vote. Ultimately, a question remains about the consequence of professional politics and electoral strategies on the legitimacy of once excluded political actors. The 2012 rift between the revolutionary groups at Tahrir Square and the FJP illustrated the new challenges for actors who have moved from prisons to the ruling seats. There is also the difficulty of addressing new forms of protest and political communication through social media that has become the privileged channel of mobilisation for urbanised youth. The April 6 Youth Movement clearly illustrates this new trend, as it gained political weight through protesting against the SCAF. Politically unaffiliated youth also played an integral role in enforcing government accountability through the online ‘Morsi Meter’ which tracked fulfilment of Morsi’s promises made to the Egyptian people. On 23 October 2011, the first free election in the country’s history took place to elect the Tunisian constituent assembly. The Ennahda Party won 37.04 percent of the vote (more than the next four biggest vote-getters combined) and 89 of the 217 seats, making it by far the strongest party in the legislature. However, as the ruling party, Ennahda started to lose popularity because of its mediocre economic performance and, most importantly, for not monitoring radical Islamists (such as Ansar al-Sharia) who were feared for their attempts to Islamise the country, not to mention the 2012 ransacking of the American embassy and the assassination of two leftist politicians. As a consequence, Ennahda lost the 2014 parliamentary elections, making up 28 percent of the government, down from 40 percent in the previous coalition, with independents forming 48 percent of the new cabinet. The Arab Spring has also highlighted the erosion of the mobilisation capacity of Islamic parties. Neither the MB nor Ennahda had a central role in the Tunisian and Tahririan protests that eventually brought down Ben Ali and Hosni Mubarak respectively. But, the skills of the MB’s student wing probably influenced the successful tactics of some of the January 2011 protests in Tahrir Square. Generally, it can be argued that the success of mobilisation in Egypt was the result of several decades of youth experience with the MB, even if they were not officially affiliated with the movement.

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Acceptance of democracy Interestingly, the question about accepting the results of elections has become less acute both with the evidence of electoral success and also with acceptance of electoral defeat as in the case of Ennahda in 2014. At the same time, authoritarianism remains a possibility as attested by the return of the military rule in Egypt in 2013, not to mention the authoritarian turn taken by President Erdog˘ an in Turkey.2 In any case, the question of civil liberties and individual rights has become central in the assessment of the democratic nature of Islamic parties. The MB’s 2007 platform initially raised questions about its commitment to democracy because of its proposal to create an Ulema Council and its ambiguous position on women and (Christian) Copts. After the ousting of Mubarak, the platform of the FJP illustrated a greater sense of compromise; there was no more mention of the Ulema Council that would supersede the elected institutions, and Copts and women were acknowledged as full citizens. In the same vein, FJP was officially declared a secular party and opened its membership to both Copts and women. According to the party’s secretary general and co-founder Dr Sa’d Katatny, the FJP had 8,821 founding members across Egypt’s 27 governorates and the electoral list for the first parliamentary election included over 900 women and 93 Copts (Cesari, 2014, 176). While this opening did not convince all women or Copts, the FJP was also the target of critiques by more conservative religious voices, mostly the Salafis (Salafi in this context refers to groups or individuals who follow the Wahhabi/Saudi doctrine of Islam). More broadly, the uncertainty about the acceptance of democracy by the new regime arose because of what was dubbed at the time the ‘Brotherisation’ of Egyptian politics, which refers to the placement of members of the MB in key governmental positions. These ambiguities facilitated the military coup of July 2013 and the political demise of the MB. As a result, political repression is, at the time of this writing, worse than under Hosni Mubarak and ironically by the hand of general Sissi, who started his career as an ‘Islamist’ military officer. In stark contrast to the FJP, Ennahda succeeded in providing evidence for its support of democracy. It meant creating alliances with ‘secular’ political forces, and multiplying efforts not to alienate key segments of the population, including women. All these factors created the conditions for a successful democratic transition in Tunisia. First, there was sufficient agreement about political procedures among the different protagonists to produce an elected government. Second, a free and popular vote in 2011 made possible a change of government. Third, the transition government de facto had the authority to generate new policies. Fourth, the executive, legislative and judicial powers did not share power with other bodies de jure (e.g. the military, such as in Egypt). Nevertheless, the assassination of the left-wing politician, Chokri Belaid, in February 2013 opened a serious crisis that endangered the consensus among the different protagonists when liberals and secularists accused the Islamists of having amassed too much power. The failure of the then prime minister, Hamadi Jebali, to form a coalition government in response to this political crisis (partly due to his plans not having the backing of his Ennahda party) caused him to resign, and Mehdi Jomaa was named as the interim prime minister ahead of the 2014 elections as a result of an agreement between Ennahda and its opponents. The 2014 elections saw the defeat of Ennahda to the secularist party, Nidaa Tounes. This defeat was a strong indicator of the acceptation of electoral outcome by the Islamist party which congratulated its opponent on its victory (Amara and Markey, 2014). After two rounds, Nidaa Tounes’ candidate, Essebsi, also won the presidential elections that were held a month later and for which Ennahda had agreed not to put forward a candidate (Amara, 2014). Besides elections results, Ennahda contributed actively to the adoption of the first constitution in a Muslim majority country that guarantees equality between men and women, 25

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freedom of expression, freedom of conscience, freedom of thought, the right of association, and the right to difference and political pluralism. Ennahda has particularly been adamant in its reassurance to women that the Family Code3 will not be changed. At the same time, tensions have arisen between secular and more conservative segments of the Islamic party on the advancement of women’s rights, especially in the light of existing indecency laws. Although the Tunisian Penal Code provides various punishments for rape, including death and life imprisonment, it doesn’t actually protect victims of rape because there are ways for the perpetrators to evade punishment, for instance by marrying the victim, which also means that there is no legal protection of spousal rape. Moreover, non-Muslim women who are married to Muslim Tunisian men suffer legal disadvantages, such as the inability to inherit from her Muslim husband (nor can he from her) and the inability of her children to inherit from her. In order to remove these inequalities, President Essebsi declared on Tunisia’s Women’s Day in 2018 that legislative changes would be introduced to make inheritance law equal for men and women. His position was supported by Ennahda but sparked protests from the most conservative part of the Islamic groups since the legislation would be in their eyes anti-Islamic. Another component of Ghannouchi’s vision of Islamic democracy is the status of non-Muslims in Tunisian society. Although Jews and Christians in Tunisia were wary of the political leadership of the Islamist party, Ghannouchi tried to reassure them. There are however signs of intolerance in civil society and on the political right of Ennahda.

Unsecular democracies As attested by the Tunisian debates on law and constitution, state–Islam regulations will be crucial to further democratic development. In this regard, surveys (Cesari and Fox, 2016; Cesari, 2018) show that some forms of governmental involvement in religion (e.g. recognition of religious holidays) are more compatible than others (e.g. legal privilege to one religion over others) with democracy. In this sense, the compatibility between Islam and democracy is indirectly related to the non-democratic forms of state regulations of Islam and other religions. That is why recognition of freedom of religious affiliations and practices is critical to the democratisation process, while removing culturally, historically and nationally dominant forms of Islam is the main challenge. Consequently, accepting democracy does not lead automatically to ideological liberalism when it comes to women rights, religious minorities’ rights and freedom of speech. Such a distinction between procedural and substantial democracy poses a challenge to the ‘inclusionmoderation paradigm’ based on division between ‘secular’ political system and religious parties. One can argue that greater inclusion of religious parties into the political system leads indeed to greater moderation. The evolution of the Salafis in Egypt portrays such a case: from being antisystem, from 2011 they accepted the concept of the nation state and the legitimacy of electoral rules. But such moderation has limits on questions of civil rights, therefore showing that the alternative for religious parties is not between being anti-system or pro-system. There can be acceptance of the political system and at the same time promotion of unsecular politics, defined by Kalyvas (2003) as political contexts in which religious ideas and symbols are used as the main mode of mobilisation by at least one major political party. I would add that unsecular politics is not limited to political parties but can also be inscribed in the constitution and in the law when religious principles are utilised as sources of legislation or define the boundaries of the public space. In such circumstances, unsecular politics defines the whole political system, as in Egypt in particular or in most of Muslim-majority countries in general. In other words, when the rule of 26

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law and the allocation of public resources differentiate between religions, unsecular politics is shared by both political system and Islamic parties and cannot be explained solely by the inclusion-moderation paradigm

Muslim democracy: an oxymoron? The response to the question above is not a straight yes or no. First and foremost, the combination of any religious prescriptions with secular principles of democracy is a challenge for individual rights. Even in Western secular democracies, we can see that some of these religious prescriptions on abortion, contraception or sexuality can for some citizens conflict with the indiscriminate tenets of secular law. In this respect, disputes over the role of Islamic parties and their legitimacy across countries stem from disagreements on how much of these principles can and should be implemented in secular laws, and whether these rules should be applied to all citizens, believers or not. In these conditions, the question is instead: which dimension of political Islam influences which domain of democracy? Most scholars agree that nowadays there is no clear-cut distinction between democracy and non-democracy and that most regimes fall in between these two opposite and can be described as hybrid (Levitsky and Way, 2002). Being hybrid means that they lack one or more of the following features that define democracy: 1 2 3 4

free and fair elections; separation of powers; rule of law and independence of the judiciary; and civil liberties.

Political experiences in Egypt and Tunisia show that most of the Islamic movements have come to terms with elections and operate within the framework of the nation-state. Rather, it is the recognition of separation of power and judicial independence that is more ambiguous. This is attested by the praetorian role of religious authority in the Islamic Republic of Iran, along with the turn to authoritarianism observed in the last five years in Turkey under the AKP rule. The exception is Tunisia since the Jasmine Revolution, where the majority Islamic party has complied with the four major features of democratisation mentioned above. In the case of Muslim democracies like Senegal, where elections and separation of power do exist, the most controversial aspects concern the limits imposed on freedom of speech and sexual orientations by Islamic prescriptions. Some refer to this situation as illiberal democracy. Nonetheless, such a qualification is confusing because it implies that these limitations come primarily from Islamic actors, when, in fact, the so-called liberal or secular actors also implement them. As noted above, although individual rights are acknowledged (e.g. voting, freedom of press), rights of the self are limited when it comes to blasphemy, sexual orientations or gender relations, because they are seen as an impingement on the morality of the political community. This tension between ‘self and community’ is a challenge even in well-established democracies. Many analysts have pointed out that the polarisation of the political debate in the 2016 American presidential elections reflects the social, economic and cultural divides that plague the country. In other words, Trump voters largely come from Middle America, left behind by the growth of the service-based economy, and whose lifestyle is scorned and frowned upon (often called ‘white trash’ or ‘redneck’). We can go one step further and argue that this political split also derives from the tension between the validation of the self and the interests of the community, especially when religion is at stake. In the case of Muslim states, not all countries are characterised by the same level of tension between self and community, nor do they address it the same way. Nonetheless, it is evident that 27

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the self remains limited by the fate and boundaries of the religious community, which overlap with the boundaries of the national and/or political community. For this reason, political Islam is much broader in scope than Islamic political parties. In fact, it is a foundational element of modern political identities framed by the nation-state (Cesari, 2018). The distinction between political Islam as culture and Islamism as ideology can help solve the riddle (Williams, 1996). Islam as culture refers to a set of taken-for-granted assumptions shared by a group about one’s duty to God and to society. The political influence of such a standpoint is effective without the active awareness of those experiencing it and it does not systematically translate into political parties or competition for power. In the case of Muslim countries, the modern political cosmology brought by the nation-state has deeply altered the status of Islam vis-à-vis political power. The nation-state has created an alignment between belonging to Islam, national membership and political power in ways unknown in premodern Muslim empires. As such, this configuration creates a connection between Islam and citizenship by establishing Islam as the parameter of public morality for Muslim and non-Muslims, believers and non-believers alike. Take for example, the current (2018) absurd use in Egyptian political rhetoric of the term ‘Islamic sharia’ by all protagonists from secular to Islamic, usually to discuss part of state law that specifically deals with Islam. If the sharia has to be qualified as Islamic it means that it is first secular state law or the law of the land. Political Islam as culture is the bedrock on which political actors can ideologically compete through partisan divisions, including Islamic parties, which explains why these parties can lose (as in Indonesia) without endangering political Islam as culture. The ingrained conviction that the nation and Islam are intertwined, and that politics must follow some rules inspired by Islam, is shared by a majority of citizens across the secular/religious divide. A study published by the Pew Research Center in 2013 reveals that 74 percent of Egyptians agree that sharia should be made the official law, with 74 percent believing that it should apply to both Muslims and non-Muslims (note that in historical Caliphates, sharia was applied only to Muslims) (Wormald, 2013). While most respondents accept Islamic prescriptions in civil law, they do not agree about the expansion of sharia to other domains like criminal law. This disagreement is revelatory of the gap between Islam as political culture and Islam as ideology: Islam as culture is a moral feature of political life, while Islam as an ideology results in political tensions and competition among different groups who want to either keep the status quo, remove Islamic legal prescriptions or expand them. For example, as previously discussed, Ennahda in Tunisia has been very keen to remove sharia from the new constitution and has renounced legal sanctions based on Islamic law, like blasphemy or even female inheritance. On the other hand, Islamic groups on the right of Ennahda are opposing these changes. All political actors agree that Islam is a key feature of the national community and the state, hence revealing the Islamic dimension of their political culture. Political Islam is also a resource for the state to shape and control the citizenry. In What is Political Islam? (2018), I have shown that across Muslim countries state policies are very active in defining right and wrong in religious matters. Most states, to varying degrees, have utilised Islamic references to forge the public morality of the national community, and to define who is a good and who is a bad citizen.

Conclusion Could Islamic political cultures evolve towards more inclusive forms of civil religion in the future? Judging by the polls mentioned above, a significant majority of Muslim citizens would think so. More generally, it seems that the more independent the religion is from the state, the higher the probability for a more inclusive, pluralist approach to civil society. Nonetheless, the 28

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current regional and international contexts, along with high concerns about security, tend to push all states and even citizens in the opposite direction: towards more control and regulation of religion.

Notes 1 For example in Tunisia, since the Jasmine Revolution, the most prominent secular parties include: the Democratic Modernist Pole (PDM), Ettakatol (the Democratic Forum for Work and Liberties), the Democratic Progressive Party (PDP) and the Congress for the Republic (CPR), each of which holds a varying stance on references to Islam in the constitution, but all stress the freedom of religion. 2 Authoritarianism in Turkey has been brought about by a series of institutional changes introduced by Erdog˘ an, during both his time as prime minister and president. These changes include the trying of Erdog˘ an’s opponents in courts and the manipulation of the legal system to jail journalists and force changes in ownership in the media industry in order to exert control over the press. In 2015, Erdog˘ an ‘debased Turkey’s electoral laws to ensure the passage of a referendum on constitutional amendments’ which granted extraordinary powers to the presidency (Cook 2016, 2018). The scale of these actions intensified after the attempted military coup of July 2016, since when Erdog˘ an has governed under a state of emergency. Erdog˘ an’s victory in the 2018 presidential and parliamentary elections has afforded him new powers to vastly extend his authoritarian rule. After a controversial referendum in 2017 which had the support of 51 percent of voters, the post of prime minister was abolished and parliament was weakened. In addition, the president was given the power to intervene in the country’s legal system, impose a state of emergency, and directly appoint top officials, such as ministers and vice-presidents. The new system, which Erdog˘ an justified as empowering him to strengthen Turkey’s weak economy and to defeat Kurdish rebels, was widely criticised for its lack of checks and balances, leading to opposition presidential candidate, Muharrem Ince, describing Turkey as entering a dangerous period of ‘one-man rule’. 3 The Majallah Code, adopted in 1956 under Bourguiba, grants equality of husband and wife in matters of marriage and divorce and has been further liberalised since then.

References Amara, T. (2014) ‘Tunisia’s Main Islamist Party to Stay Out of Presidential Election’, www.reuters. com/article/us-tunisia-election-ennahda/tunisias-main-islamist-party-to-stay-out-of-presidential-electio n-idUSKBN0H20LJ20140907, 7 September 2014, accessed 1 October 2018. Amara, T. and Markey, P. (2014) ‘Tunisian Islamists Concede Election Defeat to Secular Party’, www. reuters.com/article/us-tunisia-election/tunisian-islamists-concede-election-defeat-to-secular-party-i dUSKBN0IG0C120141027, 27 October 2014, accessed 1 October 2018. Brown, N.J. and Hamzawy, A. (2008) ‘The Draft Party Platform of the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood: Foray into Political Integration or Retreat into Old Positions’, Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, Washington, DC. Carr, S. (2012) ‘April 6: Genealogy of a Youth Movement’, www.jadaliyya.com/Details/25558/April-6Genealogy-of-a-Youth-Movement, 5 April 2012, accessed 21 July 2012. Cesari, J. (2014) The Awakening of Muslim Democracy: Religion, Modernity and the State, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Cesari, J. (2018) What is Political Islam?, Lynne Rienner Publishers, Boulder. Cesari, J. and Fox, J. (2016) ‘Institutional Relations Rather than Clashes of Civilizations? When and How is Religion Compatible with Democracy?’, International Political Sociology 10(3), 241–257, https://doi. org/10.1093/ips/olw011 Cook, S.A. (2016) ‘How Erdog˘ an Made Turkey Authoritarian Again’, www.theatlantic.com/international/a rchive/2016/07/how-Erdog˘ an-made-turkey-authoritarian-again/492374/, 21 July 2016, accessed 1 October 2018. Cook, S.A. (2018) ‘Strongmen Die, but Authoritarianism Is Forever’, https://foreignpolicy.com/2018/07/ 05/strongmen-die-but-authoritarianism-is-forever/, 5 July 2018, accessed 1 October 2018. Hafez, K. (2010) Radicalism and Political Reform in the Islamic and Western Worlds, Cambridge University Press, New York. Hamdi, M.E. (1998) The Politicization of Islam: A Case Study of Tunisia, Westview Press, Boulder.

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Jocelyne Cesari Johnston, D.L. (2007) ‘Hassan al-Hudaybi and the Muslim Brotherhood: Can Islamic Fundamentalism Eschew the Islamic State?’ Comparative Islamic Studies 3(1), 39–56. Kalyvas, S. (2003) ‘Unsecular Politics and Religious Mobilization’ in Kselman, T. and Buttigieg, J.A. (eds) European Christian Democracy: Historical Legacies and Comparative Perspectives, University of Notre Dame Press, Notre Dame, 293–320. Levitsky, S. and Way, L. (2002) ‘The Rise of Competitive Authoritarianism’, Journal of Democracy 13(2), 51–65. Mitchell, R.P. (1993) The Society of the Muslim Brothers, Oxford University Press, New York. Nasr, S.V.R. (2001) The Islamic Leviathan: Islam and the Making of State Power, Oxford University Press, Oxford. Nisman, D. (2011) ‘Egypt Elections: The SCAF’s Window of Opportunity?’ https://middle-east-online. com/en/egypt-elections-scafs-window-opportunity, 11 December 2011, accessed 23 December 2011. Pratt, N. (2007) Democracy and Authoritarianism in the Arab World, Lynne Rienner Publishers, Boulder. Qutb, S. (2005) Milestones, trans, Create Space, USA. Rubin, B. (2002) Islamic Fundamentalism in Egyptian Politics, Palgrave Macmillan, New York. Schwedler, J. (2007) Faith in Moderation: Islamist Parties in Jordan and Yemen, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Telhami, S. (2012) ‘What Do Egyptians Want? Key Findings from the Egyptian Opinion Poll’, www.brook ings.edu/research/what-do-egyptians-want-key-findings-from-the-egyptian-public-opinion-poll/, 21 May 2012, accessed 13 September 2018. Tibi, B. (2013) The Shari’a State: Arab Spring and Democratization, Routledge, New York. Wickham, C.R. (2013) The Muslim Brotherhood: Evolution of an Islamist Movement, Princeton University Press, Princeton. Williams, R.H. (1996) ‘Religion as Political Resource: Culture or Ideology?’ Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 35(4), 368–378. Wormald, B. (2013) ‘The World’s Muslims: Religion, Politics and Society’, www.pewforum.org/2013/04/ 30/the-worlds-muslims-religion-politics-society-overview/, 30 April 2013, accessed 24 December 2016. Zayan, J. (2011) ‘Egypt Brotherhood Rallies Behind Military to Save Political Gains’, https://middle-east-on line.com/en/egypt-brotherhood-rallies-behind-military-save-political-gains, 24 December 2011, accessed 27 December 2011. Zollner, B.H.E. (2009) The Muslim Brotherhood: Hasan al-Hudaybi and Ideology, Routledge, New York.

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3 RELIGION AND SOCIETY David Herbert

In what ways does the interaction between religion and society shape political parties, in terms of their voters’ preferences, culture and programmes? Broad questions about the relationship between religion, society and politics have often been answered using theories of secularisation and modernisation, but as this is the topic of Steve Kettell’s chapter in the current volume (Chapter 4), we shall instead focus on mechanisms other than those generally considered by secularisation theory. Nonetheless, because of the centrality of this theory to the field, we shall first locate the position developed here in relation to it. Likewise, to avoid overlap with Kettell’s chapter, which focuses on European Christian Democracy, Islamist political parties and the Republican Party in the United States, we shall use different cases: from England, Northern Ireland, Denmark and India. These represent respectively: a highly secularised case, yet still marked by religion-related cleavages (Tilley 2014); a mixed Catholic–Protestant case, where religion is widely regarded as a key marker of ethnicity and sectarian identities (Mitchell 2005); a Lutheran Protestant case, in some ways highly secularised, but where religion arguably still plays a key role in defining national identity which can be mobilised by populist nationalist parties; and a Hindu majority society that has seen the rise to electoral dominance of a party ‘which seeks to establish the primacy of Hindu identity’ (Flåten 2017: 1). Together, these cases illustrate eight mechanisms through which religion impacts on political parties, under a range of conditions.

Religion, society and secularisation: some positioning comments Kettell’s chapter describes some dimensions and processes associated with secularisation, outlines some counter arguments and responses, then highlights the diversity of secularisation processes while endorsing Norris and Inglehart’s (2012) version of the theory, which draws on World Values Survey (WVS) data. This holds that religion declines not as a direct result of social change but rather of ‘existential security’ partly contingent on it; security tends to increase with modernisation, as humanity’s control over the natural environment, manufacturing capacity and distribution of welfare improves, which is reflected in the declining importance of religion as societies transition from agrarian to industrial to post-industrial conditions. There are, however, exceptions to this trend, as countries as diverse as Brazil, Russia and South Africa show continuous increases in

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religious participation throughout the period for which WVS data is available – as does our case study country India from the early 1990s (WVS 2016). Furthermore, it should be noted that by making security (a psychological state) and not modernisation (a social process) primary in shaping religion’s importance, Norris and Inglehart sever the direct link between religion and modernisation that is central to the secularisation paradigm as generally understood (Tschannen 1991). Thus, if conditions other than modernisation impact on human security (like terrorism or eco-disaster – or inequalities and violent crime, in the case of our three global exceptions), the trend towards religion’s declining significance may be reversed. Additionally, it will be argued here that at least some modernisation processes (here, communications change) may favour religion’s reproduction. Kettell’s chapter then considers three cases, each of which shows a declining trajectory for religion’s influence on political parties. Thus, European Christian Democrats have been ‘forced to downplay their sense of religious identity to conform to … an increasingly secularised environment’, Islamist political parties have undergone a process of ‘internal secularisation’ and, through his partisan mobilisation of White Evangelical support, Trump has inadvertently fuelled secularisation by accelerating religious disaffiliation. Here we shall raise further questions about the conceptualisation of secularisation in this account, outline European cases which suggest that even against a background of declining religious participation religion can continue to shape politics in a variety of ways, examine the Indian case to suggest that some forms of structural change favour some kinds of religious reproduction, with implications for political parties, and finally consider evidence which questions the likely direction of travel (towards greater global security, and hence declining influence of religion on politics) indicated by Norris and Inglehart. Kettell’s chapter describes the dynamics of secularisation as shaped by several related factors. First, ‘scientific and technological advances undermine religious claims about the nature of reality’. Here, sociologists of religion tend to be careful to distinguish between the effects of intellectual arguments between religion and science and the cumulative effects of rationalisation, ‘the pursuit of technically efficient means of pursuing this worldly ends’ (Bruce and Wallis 1992: 14), as rationalised specialist systems (medical, bureaucratic, educational, etc.) come to shape more and more of human interaction with the environment. They see rationalisation and not intellectual defeat as a source of religion’s declining influence. Furthermore, even rationalisation is called into doubt by Norris and Inglehart, who claim that they ‘can rule out the Weberian argument … that belief in science and technology has undermined faith in the magical and metaphysical’ (2012: 67), because: Societies with greater faith in science also often have stronger religious beliefs … The publics in many Muslim societies apparently see no … contradictions between believing that scientific advances hold great promise for the future of humanity and that they have faith in common tenets of spiritual belief, such as the existence of heaven and hell. (Norris and Inglehart 2012: 67) This positive co-existence of faith in science and religion relates to a further characteristic of secularisation described in Kettell’s chapter, namely that ‘processes of functional differentiation lead to religious provision in areas such as health, education and welfare becoming supplanted by specialised secular agencies’. In practice, however, anthropologists examining the impact of such developments sometimes find that instead of being ‘supplanted’, religions functionalise within specialised modern systems, both at a discursive and organisational level. For example, in Putting Islam to Work Starrett argues that in Egyptian school textbooks: 32

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Functionalization occurs without the desacralisation of the material … Naturalistic and materialistic explanations coexist with supernatural ones, for Muslims perceive the two as non-contradictory … Since God is concerned with the welfare of the Muslim community, the presumptions of Islam are not only beneficial, but manifestly rational. (1998: 153) A parallel functionalisation of religion in school textbooks – in this case Hinduism – has also been observed in India (Flåten 2017). More broadly, religious organisations have become major providers of health care, welfare and international aid in many contexts worldwide (Mavelli and Wilson 2016). This matters in the context of the relationship between religion and political parties, because when religion is seen as relevant to addressing practical day to day issues, its attractiveness as an authority or resource for political parties is enhanced. Kettell’s chapter states that a further proposed mechanism of secularisation is that ‘multiculturalism and social diversity increasingly relativise religious worldviews and challenge notions of universal truth’. It is not clear whether multiculturalism here refers to policy responses to the cultural diversity produced by globalisation, which seek to incorporate minorities by recognising their cultural backgrounds and actively attempting to accommodate them (Herbert 2013: 8) or has the looser descriptive sense of ‘cultural diversity’. But either way it is not evident that either ‘policy multiculturalism’ nor the sheer fact of cultural diversity in practice undermines religious belief. On the contrary, policy multiculturalism arguably enables the reproduction of religious culture by supporting institutions (whether by co-funding places of worship, permitting distinctive religious dress or teaching diverse religious traditions in schools) which enable its intergenerational transmission. Likewise, large data sets like the WVS show no overall relationship between societal religious diversity and religious participation; if anything, comparison of Europe (where state– church religious monopolies have been common) and America (denominationally diverse from its early history, and religiously due to many waves of immigration) would suggest diversity is rather positively linked to religious strength; but there are cases on either side. Kettell’s chapter also proposes that ‘globalisation and the emergence of an individualised consumer culture disrupt traditional community structures and erode the role of religion as an agent of social cohesion’. However, there are many cases globally and cross-culturally of religion prospering under conditions of consumer culture (Smith 1998; Izberk-Bilgin 2012), while in diverse societies there is much evidence that urban and transnational religious institutions function as agents of social cohesion (Martin 2002; Werbner 2004). Finally, in its outline of secularisation dynamics Kettell’s chapter argues that ‘once underway, processes of intergenerational decline cause each generation to become progressively less religious than the last, putting religion on an inexorably downward path’. Yet, even in Western Europe where secularisation is most advanced, demographers argue that higher religious retention levels together with a younger age structure and higher fertility amongst ethnic minorities means that if current trends continue the ‘desecularisation point’ is fast approaching, where losses from historic denominations become outweighed by growth in minority religions, meaning that the religiously active proportion of the population will begin to rise again (Kaufmann et al. 2012). In short, none of the dynamics associated with secularisation necessarily point in that direction when examined at a global scale; not even in Western Europe where secularisation is most marked, given demographic trends. In this context, we may at least expect religion to remain available as a potential resource for political mobilisation. Indeed, in the UK context even the most committed secularisation theorist (Bruce 2016) has recently argued that the different trajectories of religious reproduction by ethnicity point to the likely continuing political relevance of religion as a marker of ethnic difference, and potentially conflict; when religion becomes 33

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‘something other people do’ the potential for divisive mobilisation is clear, and apparent in populist political parties across Europe, of which more below. However, religion also impacts on political parties through other mechanisms, even in highly secular parts of Europe.

Religion as legacy: ‘frozen cleavages’ and party politics in England Across Britain, where decline in religious participation amongst the majority population has occurred over many generations (Bruce 2016: 613), religion has remained ‘consistently important in predicting voters’ party choices’ (Tilley 2014: 907). Tilley argues that in the English case this is not because of a strong relationship between religion, class and political affiliation, nor because party policies resonate with specific religious values, but rather because of patterns of party support established in the early twentieth century along religious lines continue to be transmitted intergenerationally, even when religious participation is not. Hence, ‘divisions based on religion may continue to structure voting behaviour even after the issues that linked parties to particular religious groups have faded away’ (Tilley 2014: 910). Even though intergenerational transmission is not always successful, these ‘frozen cleavages’ (Lipset and Rokkan 1967) may ‘allow the divisions that characterized the political world of people’s parents, grandparents and beyond to continue to shape the way in which people choose political parties today’ (Tilley 2014: 911). Thus, in England support for Labour remained a fairly constant 20 points higher amongst Catholics than amongst practising Anglicans between 1962 and 2012 (Tilley 2014: 917), a difference which remains when controlling for social characteristics and ideology (Tilley 2014: 919). This English Catholic tendency to vote left is particularly striking, given the Catholic church’s association with social conservatism and Labour with socially progressive causes, and contrasts with Catholic voter orientations in every other Europe country (Tilley 2014: 921). The association remains even amongst non-practising Catholics, whereas the Anglican tendency to vote Conservative is much stronger for attenders. Tilley links the enduring and counter-intuitive association between Catholicism and English Labour to the late nineteenth and early twentieth century origins of many Catholics in Irish immigration, and the efforts of Labour during that period to recruit Catholics into its growing movement. For Conservatives, he highlights links between the party of the establishment and the established church, which is more dependent on reinforcement through attendance than that for minorities, because it has a less central protective function (Tilley 2014: 923). Plausibility is lent to Tilley’s claim that parental socialisation is the primary mechanism of transmission here, both by the stability of denominational affiliation amongst English Christians: ‘As … very few people change their denomination from their parents, other than to give up religion, someone’s religious denomination tells us in what kind of political household their parents and grandparents were raised’ (Tilley 2014: 923), and by the finding that a substantial part of the difference between Catholic support for Labour and Anglican support for the Conservatives disappears when parental voting preference is controlled for – in contrast to structural variables (Tilley 2014: 922). The centrality of this legacy or frozen cleavage mechanism to explaining voter preferences in England overall has diminished over time as the proportion of White British and White Irish in the population has itself fallen. Nonetheless, in 2010 practising Anglicans still accounted for 11 percent of the English population, Catholics for 12 percent, so between them nearly a quarter. Thus, while these findings do not exactly support Tilley’s claim that English voters ‘“do religion” after all’, they do show how the legacy of religion–politics alliances can continue to exert significant electoral effects, even generations later. In our next case, these alliances remain much more powerfully present. 34

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Religion, society and political parties in Northern Ireland: five mechanisms of influence In much literature on politics and society in Northern Ireland, religion is seen a significant ethnic marker – one characteristic marking the boundary between Nationalist and Unionist communities – but not as contributing much to the substance of politics, either in terms of political culture or political platforms (Ganiel 2007). However, several recent accounts show that Catholic and Protestant institutions, identities and in the Protestant case theologies have a significant impact on political parties (Mitchell 2005; Mitchell and Ganiel 2011), which can be grouped into five distinct though related mechanisms. First, religion plays a role through links between the leadership of churches and political parties, most obviously in the case of the Rev. Ian Paisley, founder of the Democratic Unionist Party, but more generally, ‘Protestant churches have many representatives within unionist political parties’. For Catholics these links are mostly constituted by delegations ‘sent to key processes of political consultation [where] they can be seen to-ing and fro-ing from parliament buildings in full clerical dress’ (Mitchell 2005: 39). Second, religion functions as ‘the dominant ethnic marker, maintained through segregated education, marriage, housing patterns and social networks’ (Ganiel 2007: 1). Despite two decades of attempts to promote integration between the communities, with notable successes in terms of the creation of shared public spaces, access to city centres and out of town facilities, Northern Ireland remains a deeply segregated society (McAtackney 2015). Third, religion, especially Catholicism, plays a role in the construction of communities – without any intention of exclusivity, simply by providing shared rituals and access to spaces within which they take place, the Catholic church builds a sense of belonging and group identification that does not include Protestants (Mitchell 2005: 69–90). Divided into multiple denominations, Protestant churches do not perform the same role. However, Protestantism is more influential in the fourth and fifth mechanisms. Fourth, Protestant religion provides cultural tropes that feed into vernacular identities through which Protestants distinguish themselves from Catholics, such as ‘liberty, the “honest Ulsterman,” and anti-Catholicism’ (Ganiel 2007: 1). Fifth, particularly amongst Evangelical Protestants, theological concepts such as the ‘faithful remnant’, ‘chosen people’ and ‘the end times’ feed into Unionist politics, especially the DUP. However, alongside these polarising concepts, amongst the religious active both Protestant and Catholic, theologies of peace and ecumenism have also had have some influence (Liechty and Clegg 2001; Mitchell and Ganiel 2011). But how relevant are these mechanisms in other contexts, beyond similarly divided societies such as Bosnia, Cyprus and Israel? In a thoughtful conclusion to her article ‘Is Northern Ireland Abnormal?’, Mitchell writes: It might be that through marking out boundaries, religion actively helps constitute what it means to belong to a particular community. It may give meanings and values to the boundary. These are integrally human processes and are at work in peaceful pluralist, as well as deeply divided, societies. The point is that group formation and boundary maintenance are a universal part of social relationships and as Britain becomes increasingly multicultural and religiously plural, it is reasonable to ask how religion may play a role in these processes of identification. (2005: 251) This passage provides an interesting frame through which to view a phenomenon that has been increasingly visible across Europe since the financial crisis of 2008, and especially since the spike 35

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in refugees entering Europe in 2015–16 – the use of Christianity and its symbols and history as part of a European identity, sometimes presented as a reason for European hospitality to refugees regardless of religion (Ralston 2017), but more prominently in the media and more relevantly for party politics, as in need of defence against Islam as the (at least supposed, and often actual) religion of many refugees and other migrants.

Christian identity and the European populist right: boundary-marking, vicarious religion and the Danish People’s Party (DPP) Folkekirken [the Lutheran Evangelical Church] is the Danish people’s church. Christianity has for centuries been upheld in Denmark and is inseparable from people’s lives. The importance of Christianity has been immense and shapes the Danish people’s way of life. It has throughout the ages been the guide of the people. (Danish People’s Party Principles 2019: 3, author’s translation) In Denmark the religion of Islam … provides the DPP with an identity. (Hellström and Hervik 2014: 449) [In 2016] Slovakian, Polish, Bulgarian, and Cypriot governments issued statements that they would only accept Christian refugees as Muslims would threaten their identity. (Ralston 2017: 23) As Brubaker argues, across Europe ‘references to Christianity have become increasingly central to national-populist rhetoric in the last decade or so’ (2017: 1198), arguably powerful enough to lead (or at least be deployed to legitimise) European governments abandoning their obligations under international law to provide safe-haven for refugees regardless of religion (Ralston 2017: 23). Populism here is understood as polarising forms of popular political movement characterised by: a twofold opposition between ‘us’ and ‘them’: a vertical opposition between ‘the people’ and a corrupt, self-serving, out-of-touch political, economic, or cultural ‘elite’; and a horizontal opposition between ‘the nation’ and groups, institutions, or forces that are stigmatized as non-national or characterized as threatening the nation from within or from without. (Brubaker 2017: 1205) The broader relationship between religion and populism is a significant political phenomenon, but here we are concerned more narrowly with mechanisms linking religion to political parties, which we will examine using the case of the Dansk Folkeparti [Danish People’s Party, DPP], which mobilises Christian identity, especially against a supposed Islamic threat. The DPP was founded in 1995. It had a close relationship with the governing centre right wing coalition from 2001 to 2011, entered opposition from 2011 to 2016, then the governing coalition in 2016 with 21 percent of the vote. Analysts have drawn attention to the role of leaders of the party as discursive entrepreneurs influential in altering ‘tone of the debate’ (tonen i debatten) on immigration in Denmark during this period:

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The ‘tone of the debate’ has become a catch-all term in the Danish debate for … the brutal directness of the language used in representing issues of the ethnic minorities and refugees in Denmark. An example is the statement by Søren Espersen of the DPP: ‘We have a sharp tone and we say whatever the hell we want’. (Hellström and Hervik 2014: 451) The key question to address here is whether the mobilisation of Christianity by populist political parties is best understood through the category of an ‘ethnic marker’ introduced above, in which religion coincides with and hence is used to mark a boundary, but contributes little to the substance of politics, or whether the invocation of Christian identity taps into deeper roots, and hence may expose other mechanisms through which religion’s role in society influences party politics. The DPP is an interesting case, because measured by conventional indicators such as church attendance Danish religiosity is extremely low; yet in other ways Danish Christian roots seem to run deep. In his analysis, Brubaker takes the first view in relation to North-Western Europe, and hence Denmark: The Christianity invoked by the national populists of Northern and Western Europe … is not a substantive Christianity; it is a ‘secularized Christianity-as-culture’ … a civilizational and identitarian ‘Christianism’. It is a matter of belonging rather than believing, a way of defining ‘us’ in relation to ‘them’ … Crudely put, if ‘they’ are Muslim, then ‘we’ must, in some sense, be Christian. But that does not mean that ‘we’ must be religious. (2017: 1199) In support, Brubaker cites the low attendance at regular religious services amongst Protestant North Europeans (about 5 percent; 2017: 1199), then extrapolates from this to the wholesale de-institutionalisation of Christianity in North West Europe: It is precisely the ongoing erosion of Christianity as doctrine, organization, and ritual that makes it easy to invoke Christianity as a cultural and civilizational identity, characterized by putatively shared values that have little or nothing to do with religious belief or practice. (2017: 1199) In one sense, Denmark more than exemplifies the type: regular church attendance in Denmark is even lower than the North-West European average, at 2–3 percent (Nielsen 2012: 3). However, in the Danish case this does not necessarily mean that Christian organisation or ritual has eroded, nor that Christian (and specifically Lutheran) identity is meaningful to Danes only in defining what they are not, i.e. in contrast to Muslims. Consider Nielsen’s comment in Islam in Denmark: The Challenge of Diversity, that if one is not of Lutheran heritage: in the Danish context, the institutional structures are such … that it is difficult to avoid being reminded that one is somehow different. Although one of the most secular societies in Europe, Danish society and institutions are thoroughly impregnated with Lutheran Christianity. Normally less than 3 percent of the population is in church on Sundays … [but] 80 percent are members of the state-sponsored Lutheran church. (Nielsen 2012: 3–4)

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Indeed, the latest figures available show that roughly two-thirds of live births in Denmark were followed by parish church baptisms in 2018 (41,456 of 62,488), while even more 14-year-olds underwent confirmation (47,198, Statistics Denmark 2019). In this context, consider further this comment of an ethnic Danish convert to Islam interviewed in 2016: ‘There was the episode with my cousins, who responded by saying, well, then you are not a part of my family now – you are not my flesh and blood anymore because you converted’ (‘Amina’, ethnic Danish convert to Islam, in Herbert and Hansen 2018: 4). This reaction is not an isolated case: another convert refers to himself as no longer ‘culturally Danish’ due to his conversion, while expressing his wish to show to fellow Danes that ‘he [remains] a good person. He is still a human being’ (Herbert and Hansen 2018: 4), suggesting a sense of having traversed a fundamental boundary. Indeed, an earlier study of ethnic converts concluded that conversion is commonly regarded by ethnic Danes as a change of ethnicity: ‘Danes who convert to Islam are seen as people who have become “the other”, and thus are considered members of the immigrant minority population in Denmark’ (Gudrun Jensen 2008: 390, emphasis added). Thus, while Brubaker construes Danish ‘belonging without believing’ as ‘not being religious’, these examples suggest a more complex picture – even if most Danes are not regular churchgoers, their identification with Christianity is closely bound up with their sense of ethnic identity, to the extent that conversion is viewed as a change of ethnicity. Furthermore, Danes widely participate in life-cycle rituals and pay the (not inconsiderable) church tax: The most striking aspect about the Nordic countries is the relatively small number of people who decide to ‘contract out’ of this system. Some do, but most continue tangibly to support their churches (the financial contribution is not negligible), despite the markedly low levels of both churchgoing and orthodox religious belief in this part of the world. Why do they do this? One assumes that they hope these institutions will continue in existence for a wide variety of reasons. (Davie 2010: 266) How can we best make sense of this? While Brubaker reads the mobilisation of religion by ‘NWE national populism’ as ‘entirely secular’, such a reading does not sit comfortably with the evidence presented, at least on behalf of the population who are mobilised; while political leaders may instrumentally use religion, this evidence suggests that in doing so they tap into something that runs deep, something better described as a form of ‘attachment’ than ‘nominal membership’. Through her concept of ‘vicarious religion’ Davie offers a more subtle interpretation of what may be going on, both in Denmark (combination of high participation in membership rituals and national identification but low regular attendance, typical of Scandinavia), and in contexts where membership rituals too may be in sharp decline (like England), but where historic churches continue to a play some significant role both in national life when national tragedies or moral crises occur, and in parallel events at the individual and family level. Davie defines ‘vicarious religion’ as ‘the notion of religion performed by an active minority but on behalf of a much larger number, who (implicitly at least) not only understand, but, quite clearly, approve of what the minority is doing’ (Davie 2007: 22). Despite limited attendance and low levels of orthodox belief, the institution, life rituals and identity of the Lutheran church remains significant for many, indeed most Danes, judging by some indicators of membership – and by the powerful emotions that conversion to another religion elicits for some. Doubtless, the latter has been heightened by politicians and media who have between them produced a hostile tone of public debate around immigration and Islam. So, there is instrumental use and opportunism here; but there is also something else being accessed. In Mitchell’s terms, this is religion

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structuring politics by ‘community building’ of a specific kind – a national, ethnic community (whatever the official doctrines of the church). Indeed, in the light of the experience of Danish converts to Islam of crossing an ethnic boundary, the payment and participation in rites of passage may in practice function as the dues and rites of an ethnic religion (again, regardless of church doctrine). This may be mobilised both to produce both high levels of solidarity (enabling, possibly, support for high taxes to maintain a strong welfare state), and powerful rejection of others who may (or may be represented as) threatening to it (see also Jørgensen et al. 2016 on welfare chauvinism in Denmark). It is this sense of identity and belonging that the DPP accesses in its appeals not to Christianity in general, but the ‘people’s church’. Religion here is not, as in Bruce’s (2016: 628) characterisation of the British majority, ‘something other people do’ but ‘part of who we are’ – a kind of repository of Danish national identity. So far, our cases have been drawn from North-West Europe, the global region where decline in religious participation is most marked and seen by many as exceptional (Davie 2002). Our final example is from India, where regular religious participation is much higher, rising from 32 percent in 2001 to 45 percent in 2014, according to WVS data (WVS 2016). Hinduism, the religious tradition of 80 percent of Indians, features distinctive worship practices, including a strong emphasis on the visual. A major development globally in the last few decades has been in media technologies and culture, especially towards more visual and interactive forms. How have these changes impacted on Hinduism, and what are the implications for the religion’s relationship to political parties?

Media culture, religion and politics: the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) in India Founded in 1980, the BJP [India People’s Party] has been described as ‘an identity political party, which seeks to establish the primacy of Hindu identity’ (Flåten 2017: 1). In Brubaker’s terms, it is a right-wing national populist party. After struggling to establish itself as a major contender in the 1980s, it emerged as India’s largest party in the 1996 elections, and today (February 2019) it is the world’s largest political party, measured by primary membership. Though it was unable to form a durable coalition in 1996, as the major party in the National Democratic Alliance (NDA) it won further elections in 1998 and 1999, remaining in office until 2004. In opposition from 2004 to 2014, the NDA won a landslide victory in the 2014 elections, and is currently the dominant political force in India, also running 16 of India’s 29 states. In its visual repertoire, the BJP draws heavily on Hindu imagery, and has sought to change the way Indian history is taught to reflect views more aligned to Hindu nationalism (Flåten 2017). While the BJP’s rise to power has multiple causes – not least how it has succeeded in extending is appeal to groups who have a subordinate place in its ideology (Thachil 2014), we focus here on one aspect of the BJP’s mobilisation which may give insight into further mechanisms through which changes in religion and society may effect political parties – its success in tapping into a ‘Hinduized visual regime’ (Rajagopal 2001: 283) and related discourse, transmitted across multiple media platforms which have followed in quick succession since the late 1980s. Early media theorists (Benjamin 1978 [1935]; McLuhan 1964) believed the potency of religious symbols would be diluted or undermined through their mass mediation, a view consistent with secularisation theory. However, evidence from many global regions and cultural contexts now shows that increasing the circulation of image and voice through their mass reproduction in many cases enhances their potency, as well as increasing their public presence (Ginsburg et al. 2002; Meyer and Moors 2006). For example, Pinney (2002) analysed the use Hindu devotees make of postcard reproductions of deities, which serve as a focus for domestic devotion. Pinney found that reproduction magnifies the perceived value of the original: 39

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The mass dissemination of postcard reproductions serves to reinvest originals with a new aura. The original artwork now comes to embody what the reproduction lacks and must be enclosed in shrine-like security structures to protect them from the admiring and sometimes hateful, gestures of their devotees. (Pinney 2002: 356) Pinney argues that darshan, the core Hindu devotional practice of ‘eye contact’ with the deity achieved through sight of the image (murti) and reproduced in Hindi cinema and photography, offers an example of a cultural practice which taps into an optical unconscious to create a powerful bodily aesthetic sensibility. While it is culturally specific, darshan is ‘not strikingly unlike a whole range of culturally diverse practices that stress mutuality and corporeality in spaces as varied as those of religious devotion and cinematic pleasure’, practices that Pinney describes as ‘corpothetics’ (embodied aesthetics; 2002: 359). Indeed, other commentators such as Jain (2007) have gone further than Pinney, arguing that the interaction of Hindu conceptions of the efficacy of images, modern notions of the public sphere and mass media practices results in the mutual transformation of all three (Jain 2007). The emotional intensity developed through such engagement is not only confined to private devotion, but also may find public and political expression, from the mob storming of a power station when the transmission of an episode of a popular Hindu religion epic was interrupted, to its more organised channelling by the BJP (Rajagopal 2001). Rajagopal argues that the BJP benefited from the creation of an India-wide Hinduised visual regime, brought about through the creation of a national television audience in the late 1980s, and especially through the broadcast of the religious epics the Ramayana from January 1987 to September 1990, and later the Mahabharata. This made religious imagery that had previously been largely regionally defined nationally available, and crucially influenced the representation of gods in commercial advertising, which in turn reinforced the trend towards national convergence. The narrative of the Ramayana also resonated with the BJP’s message of Hindu unity and purity, by offering a model of a past golden age in which ‘authoritarianism’ and ‘complete mutual recognition between rulers and subjects’ were miraculously combined (Rajagopal 2001: 149). This was unintentional – the producers worked for the secular state broadcaster Doordashan, closely linked to the rival Congress Party. Rajagopal’s argument concerning the impact of these developments on the popularity of the BJP works on two levels. First, the availability of imagery and narrative on a national basis which resonated with the BJP’s ideology, and which they could draw on in political advertising. Second, these events precipitated a crisis in the Indian public sphere, which also created opportunities for the BJP. In particular, it exposed the narrow social base of Indian secularism: ‘If secularism had been declared by state fiat, the power of new communications brought home the fact that secularism existed … as largely the sign and exercise of membership in a cultural élite’ (Rajagopal 2001: 149). Rajagopal highlights the ambivalent effects of the broadening of the Indian public sphere through the advent of television and video to which the circulation of Hindu imagery has been central, and the BJP the principle political beneficiaries – on the one hand, participation has been extended to a wider range of social groups; on the other, the terms of debate have coarsened and polarised. This process has been further radicalised by the next (2.0) wave of media technologies, which enable Hindu nationalist volunteers to ‘archive’ – assemble facts, figures and treatises as weapons in an information war. For example, Udupa (2016) highlights the activities of users of ‘Indiafacts.com’, a website with an avowed mission to ‘act as a watchdog by closely monitoring anti-India and anti-Hindu propaganda, distortion and slander’, which include: 40

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targeting journalists who are critical of Hindu nationalism or seen as insufficiently respectful of Hindu traditions owing to their professed liberal secularism … gathering texts, commentaries, and arguments that portray the fecund repertoire of Hinduism as the civilizational essence of India, and inserting them aggressively into online media through Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, and hundreds of websites. (Udupa 2016: 213) Arguably, such practices (though not necessarily for national populist ends) are a key aspect of the reproduction of religion in intensively mediatised contemporary societies, and, contra secularisation theory, reveal a process of structural change (the continual development and diffusion of new, increasingly multi-sensory and interactive media forms) which tend to increase the public presence and potentially social and political significance of religion symbols and discourses (see Herbert 2011 for a fuller theory of religious publicisation). The mechanisms through which this process impacts on the mobilising capacity of the BJP are both direct and indirect. Directly, nationally standardised Hindu imagery and mythical narratives provide cultural resources for the BJP to fashion for their ideological purposes; indirectly, structural changes in the Indian public sphere have helped both by exposing the narrow social base of opposing ideologies and by shifting the terrain of political debate to communicative forms (television and social media) which arguably favour populist forms.

Conclusion We have identified eight mechanisms by which religion’s influence on society impacts political parties – frozen cleavages; links between religious leaders and political parties; as an ethnic marker; through the construction of communities; through cultural tropes; through theological concepts (for the religiously active); as a repository of national identity; and as an especially potent cultural resource where the transmission of religious symbols and narratives is invigorated by developments in media culture. Looking to the future, we questioned whether structural modernisation necessarily tends to diminish religion’s social significance and hence political potency, as most forms of secularisation theory hold; and whether global conditions of human security are likely to continue to improve with further modernisation and diminish religion’s influence that way, as Norris and Inglehart’s version of the theory holds. Returning to this last point, as well as environmental and terrorism threats, we note that inequalities are growing within most societies (Klasen et al. 2018: 11), a feature associated with many negative developments from rising violence to poorer health (Klasen et al. 2018), both factors that are likely to negatively impact existential security. Under these conditions and given the positive association of religion with fertility (Norris and Inglehart 2012), we anticipate that religion’s global social significance, and hence impact on political parties, will grow over time.

References Benjamin, W. (1978 [1935]) ‘The work of art in the age of mechanical reproduction’ in Arendt, H. (ed.) Illuminations, New York: Schoken, 217–251. Brubaker, R. (2017) ‘Between nationalism and civilizationism: the European populist moment in comparative perspective’, Ethnic and Racial Studies 40(8): 1191–1226. Bruce, S. (2016) ‘The sociology of late secularization: social divisions and religiosity’, The British Journal of Sociology 67(4): 613–631. Bruce, S. and Wallis, R. (1992) ‘Secularization: the orthodox model’ in: Bruce, S. and Wallis, R. (eds) Religion and Modernization: Sociologists and Historians Debate the Secularization Thesis, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 8–30.

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David Herbert Danish People’s Party Principles (2019) https://danskfolkeparti.dk/politik/in-another-languages-politics/ 1757-2/, accessed 13 September 2019. Davie, G. (2002) Europe: The Exceptional Case: Parameters of Faith in the Modern World, London: Darton, Longman, and Todd. Davie, G. (2007) ‘Vicarious religion: a methodological challenge’, in Ammerman, Nancy (ed.) Everyday Religion: Observing Modern Religious Lives, New York: Oxford University Press, 21–35. Davie, G. (2010) ‘Vicarious religion: A response’, Journal of Contemporary Religion 25: 261–267. Flåten, L. (2017) Hindu Nationalism, History and Identity in India: Narrating a Hindu Past under the BJP, London: Routledge. Ganiel, G. (2007) Review of Mitchell, C (2005) Religion, Identity and Politics in Northern Ireland: Boundaries of Belonging and Belief, Sociological Research Online 12(4): 1–2. Ginsburg, F., Abu-Lughod, L. and Larkin, B. (eds) (2002) Media Worlds: Anthropology on New Terrain, London: California University Press. Gudrun Jensen, T. (2008) ‘To be “Danish”, becoming “Muslim”: contestations of national identity’, Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 34(3): 389–409. Hellström, P. and Hervik, P. (2014) ‘Feeding the beast: nourishing nativist appeals in Sweden and in Denmark’, International Migration and Integration 15: 449–467. Herbert, D. (2011) ‘Theorising religion and media in contemporary societies: an account of religious “publicisation”’, European Journal of Cultural Studies 14(6): 626–648. Herbert, D. (2013) Creating Community Cohesion: Religion, Media and Multiculturalism in North Western Europe, London: Palgrave Macmillan. Herbert, D. and Hansen, J. (2018) ‘“You are no longer my flesh and blood”: social media and the negotiation of a hostile media frame by Danish “reverts” to Islam’, Nordic Journal of Religion and Society 31(1): 4–21. Izberk-Bilgin, E. (2012) ‘Infidel brands: unveiling alternative meanings of global brands at the nexus of globalization, consumer culture, and Islamism’, Journal of Consumer Research 39: 663–687. Jain, K. (2007) Gods in the Bazaar: The Economies of Indian Calendar Art, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Jørgensen, M., Bak, T. and Lund, T. (2016) ‘Deservingness in the Danish context: welfare chauvinism in times of crisis’, Critical Social Policy 36(3): 330–351. Kaufmann, E., Goujon, A. and Skirbekk, V. (2012) ‘The end of secularization in Europe? A sociodemographic perspective’, Sociology of Religion 73(1): 69–91. Klasen, S., Giovanni, A., Cornia, R., Grynspan, L., López-Calva, N. and Lustig, N. (2018) ‘Economic inequality and social progress’, Chapter 3, International Panel on Social Progress Final Report, www.ip sp.org/download/chapter-3-2nd-draft-long-version, accessed 22 February 2019. Liechty, J. and Clegg, C. (2001) Moving Beyond Sectarianism, Dublin: Columba Press. Lipset, S. and Rokkan, S. (eds) (1967) Party Systems and Voter Alignments: Cross National Perspectives, New York: Free Press. McAtackney, L. (2015) ‘Memorials and marching: archaeological insights into segregation in contemporary Northern Ireland’, Historical Archaeology 49(3): 110–125. McLuhan, M. (1964) Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man, London: Routledge Kegan Paul. Martin, D. (2002) Pentecostalism: The World their Parish, Oxford: Blackwell. Mavelli, L. and Wilson, E. (eds) (2016) The Refugee Crisis and Religion: Secularism, Security and Hospitality in Question, London: Rowman & Littlefield. Meyer, B. and Moors, A. (eds) (2006) Religion, the Media and the Public Sphere, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Mitchell, C. (2005) Religion, Identity and Politics in Northern Ireland: Boundaries of Belonging and Belief, Aldershot: Ashgate. Mitchell, C. and Ganiel, G. (2011) Evangelical Journeys: Choice and Change in a Northern Irish Religious Subculture, Dublin: Dublin University Press. Nielsen, J. (ed.) (2012) Islam in Denmark: The Challenge of Diversity, Plymouth: Lexington. Norris, P. and Inglehart, R. (2012, 2nd edition) Sacred and Secular: Religion and Politics Worldwide, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pinney, C. (2002) ‘The Indian work of art in the age of mechanical reproduction: or, what happens when peasants get hold of images’, in Ginsburg, F., Abu-Lughod, L. and Larkin, B. (eds) Media Worlds: Anthropology on New Terrain, London: California University Press, 355–369. Rajagopal, A. (2001) Politics After Television: Hindu Nationalism and the Reshaping of the Public in India, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Religion and society Ralston, J. (2017) ‘Bearing witness: reframing Christian–Muslim encounter in light of the refugee crisis’, Theology Today 74(1): 22–35. Smith, C. (1998) Evangelicalism: Embattled and Thriving, Chicago: Chicago University Press. Starrett, G. (1998) Putting Islam to Work: Education, Politics and Religious Transformation in Egypt, Berkeley: University of California Press. Statistics Denmark (2019) www.statbank.dk/10226, accessed 19 February 2019. Thachil, T. (2014) ‘Elite parties and poor voters: Theory and evidence from India’, American Political Science Review 108(2): 454–477. Tilley, J. (2014) ‘“We don’t do God”? Religion and party choice in Britain’, British Journal of Political Science 45: 907–927. Tschannen, O. (1991) ‘The secularization paradigm: a systematization’, Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 30(4): 395–415. Udupa, S. (2016) ‘Archiving as history‐making: religious politics of social media in India’, Communication, Culture and Critique 9(2): 212–230. Werbner, P. (2004) ‘Theorising complex diasporas: purity and hybridity in the South Asian public sphere in Britain’, Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 30(5): 895–911. World Values Survey (WVS) (2016) World Values Survey Waves 1–6, 1981–2014, available online from 2016, www.worldvaluessurvey.org/WVSOnline.jsp, accessed 15 September 2018.

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4 RELIGION, MODERNISATION AND SECULARISATION Steven Kettell

Religion has been an important factor shaping the development of political parties and party systems in many parts of the world. Religious cleavages have had a formative influence during processes of democratisation and the links between religiosity and voting are well-established. As a general rule, citizens with higher levels of religiosity (especially when measured by frequency of attendance at a place of worship) are more likely to vote for parties of the centre right, while the least religious, as well as those identifying as having no religion, are more likely to cast their votes for parties of the centre left (Norris and Inglehart, 2012). The impact of secularisation, as the process of religious decline in the face of modernisation, thus contains the potential to disrupt, undermine and refashion party politics in new and unpredictable ways. The purpose of this chapter is to outline the impact of secularisation in three key arenas of world politics: on Christian Democratic parties in Europe, on Islamist parties in Muslim majority countries, and on the Republican Party in the United States under the presidency of Donald Trump.

The secularisation debate Secularisation is one of the most enduring and contentious concepts in social science. Originating with thinkers such as Comte, Marx and Durkheim during the nineteenth century, the core assertion is that as society develops under conditions of modernity, so religion will progressively decline, lose its social and political influence, and perhaps disappear completely. The dynamics underpinning this process are said to be shaped by a number of interconnected factors. Scientific and technological advances undermine religious claims about the nature of reality, multiculturalism and social diversity increasingly relativise religious worldviews and challenge notions of universal truth, processes of functional differentiation lead to religious provision in areas such as health, education and welfare becoming supplanted by specialised secular agencies, and globalisation and the emergence of an individualised consumer culture disrupt traditional community structures and erode the role of religion as an agent of social cohesion. Once underway, processes of intergenerational decline cause each generation to become progressively less religious than the last, putting religion on an inexorably downward path (for an overview see Fox, 2018). Supporters of secularisation theory typically make the case for religious decline by pointing to a range of empirical indicators. Much of these are drawn from Western Europe, Canada, 44

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Australia and New Zealand, and show significant declines across multiple dimensions of religiosity – including membership of religious organisations, attendance at places of worship, personal belief in God and trust in religious authorities – throughout most of the post-war period. In recent decades this trajectory has been compounded by a substantial rise in the proportion of adults self-identifying as being ‘non-religious’ (see Norris and Inglehart, 2012). Critics raise a number of conceptual and empirical objections to these claims. Amongst these are the methodological problems of obtaining sufficient (and sufficiently robust) data on which to base judgements about the decline or otherwise of religion (many states do not collect data about religion and available datasets often measure religiosity in different ways), the related difficulties of defining and measuring ‘religion’ itself (critics claim that an emphasis on participation in formal rituals fails to capture other aspects of religiosity such as the endurance of ‘religious values’, and may not be applicable to types of religion such as Buddhism or folk religions) and the idea that statistical indicators of decline might be a sign that religion is changing form, shifting away from traditional institutionalised models to more flexible, individualistic categories such as the ‘spiritual but not religious’ (e.g. see Ruff, 2005; Ammerman, 2013; Etrit, 2018). Critics relatedly highlight what they see as the ethnocentricity of secularisation theory, pointing out that the idea of secularisation had been designed to explain historical developments in Western Europe, based on particular Western liberal conceptions of the relationship between religion and the public sphere (Clark, 2012), and maintain that the Western European experience of religious decline is a global anomaly (this being described by Casanova (2014) as a case of ‘European exceptionalism’). Indeed, as critics point out, far from being in decline religion is advancing in many other regions of the world, notably illustrated by the rapid globalisation of Islam and the upsurge in evangelical Christianity throughout Africa and Latin America. The high levels of religiosity in modernised and technologically advanced countries such as the United States also show that religion is not a fixed and rigid category, but a dynamic and adaptive social force capable of responding to the pressures and challenges of modernity in novel ways. The so-called return of religion to public life during the latter years of the twentieth century, visibly manifest in high-profile events such as the Iranian Revolution, the rise of the Christian Right in the United States and the emergence of religious nationalist and fundamentalist movements, further underscores this point (on which see Micklethwait and Wooldridge, 2009; Hjelm, 2016). Proponents of secularisation theory have responded to these criticisms in a number of ways. Supporters maintain that measuring the endurance of religion through the use of amorphous terms such as ‘religious values’ and the growth of ‘spirituality’ dilutes the concept of religion to the point where it risks losing all meaning (e.g. Bruce, 2013), and draw attention to the fact that (despite lagging behind Western Europe) religion is nevertheless in measurable decline in the United States as well as other technologically developed countries, such as Japan (e.g. see Reader, 2012; Pew Research Center, 2015). One of the most important theoretical developments in secularisation theory responds to the criticisms levelled against it by focusing on the role of existential security. This revised theory argues that people turn to religion as a way of dealing with conditions of uncertainty, and claims that as societies gain greater control over their social and physical environments (via technological advances, democratisation and welfare systems) the psychological need for religion declines (Norris and Inglehart, 2012). By comparing global levels of religiosity with measures of existential security using data drawn from human development indices (including variables such as income inequality, educational attainment and infant mortality rates), proponents of this approach claim that religion is predominantly expanding in societies that are less developed and hence subject to greater levels of uncertainty. Thus, the proportion of adults claiming that religion is ‘very important’ is highest (at 64 percent) in agrarian societies, where technological advances are at their weakest, declines to 34 45

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percent in industrial societies, which are characterised by greater environmental control and the application of scientific rationality, and is at its lowest (at 20 percent) in post-industrial societies, which enjoy the highest levels of human development. A similar pattern is found for belief in God (falling from 78 percent in agrarian societies to 72 percent in industrial societies and 69 percent in post-industrial societies) and a belief in life after death (which declines from 55 percent in agrarian societies to 44 percent in industrial societies, but then rises to 49 percent in post-industrial societies, perhaps reflecting a shift to post-material values afforded by high levels of security) (see Norris and Inglehart, 2012).1 These debates around secularisation highlight a number of important issues. One key point is that the notion of secularisation should not be thought of as being bound up with a singular theoretical approach but is more accurately seen as a loose collection of ideas (described by Gorski (2000) as a ‘secularisation paradigm’) replete with a variety of causal influences and possible trajectories. The secularising impact of modernisation is neither clear-cut nor straightforward. Assessing the impact of secularisation on political parties and party systems thus needs to take this multidimensional character into account. The following sections examine this in respect of three general trends: the influence of secularisation on Christian Democracy in Europe, the secularisation of Islamist parties in Muslim majority countries, and the relationship between the Christian Right and the Trump presidency in the United States.

Christian Democracy The case of Christian Democracy in Europe presents something of a paradox. On the one hand, Europe is the most secularised region in the world, but on the other Christian Democracy is the continent’s most successful form of political party since the emergence of mass democracy. The key to unlocking this paradox can be found in the particular combination of structural factors and the strategic behaviour of leading religious and political actors that together created the political space for Christian Democracy to emerge. These developments had their origins in the social conditions and cleavages that shaped the nascent Western European party systems during their formative phase in the latter third of the nineteenth century. A defining factor at this point was the religious geography of the region, which had remained largely unchanged since the Westphalian settlement of 1648, consisting (broadly speaking) of Protestant countries in the north, Catholic countries in the south, Orthodox Christian countries in the east and a mixed confessional band of countries in-between. While Protestant countries tended to be structured around class-based cleavages and did not, as a rule, develop strong Christian Democratic parties (the notable exceptions being the Netherlands and Norway), a central characteristic of those countries that did form successful Christian Democratic parties was a sharp division between a right-wing, rural-conservative bloc loyal to the Catholic Church and a secularist bloc comprised of liberals and socialists that posed a strong challenge to the interests of the Church on a number of critical issues, such as education, the family and disestablishment. In response, the Church sought to mobilise a range of grassroots organisations in its defence, a number of which (and against the stated wishes of the Church) formed religiously inspired political parties. Although most of these proved to be unsuccessful, they nevertheless provided a valuable political resource for the later emergence of Christian Democratic parties (for an overview of these developments see Kalyvas and van Kersbergen, 2010). Christian Democratic parties were established in the period following the Second World War and were distinguished from their inter-war forerunners in a number of important ways. With the political position of the Catholic Church having been weakened by its close relationship to fascist regimes, the new Christian Democratic parties avowedly renounced authoritarianism and 46

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openly committed themselves to promoting liberal democracy (the Church itself did not do so until the Second Vatican Council of the 1960s), effectively framing themselves as a bulwark against the threat of Communism. Christian Democratic parties also promoted the process of European integration and adopted the language of compromise and pluralism, becoming umbrella organisations (a classic ‘catch-all’ party) able to accommodate a diverse range of social groups, classes and sectors. Critical to this endeavour was a particular construction of religious identity. While the new Christian Democratic parties drew on notions of Christian principles and ethics, the religious component was effectively toned down in order to secure the widest possible social appeal to both Christians and non-Christians alike. Instead, the emphasis was on broader normative themes, turning the religious dimension into ‘a nebulous humanitarian and moral concept’ (Kalyvas and van Kersbergen, 2010). In many ways this particular framing of the Christian dimension was a strategic response to processes of secularisation that were now underway throughout Western Europe. The decline in the numbers of avowedly religious voters and a wider social movement away from religion compelled political leaders to present a form of religious morality that could connect with citizens in secular terms. The overall result, according to van Kersbergen (2008), was to establish a form of ‘unsecular politics’ in which religious ideals and symbols were used as a tool of political mobilisation but refracted in ways that could appeal to societies that were becoming less religious (see also Brocker and Künkler, 2013). This model also proved to be highly successful. Drawing electoral support from across the social and political spectrum, Christian Democratic parties went on to dominate the electoral landscape in a variety of countries, being especially strong in Italy, Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg and Switzerland, helping to create the central features of post-war European politics, including the construction of welfare states, corporatist policy-making processes, a mixed economy and the movement towards closer European integration. However, during the latter part of the century the fortunes of Christian Democratic parties began to decline. This was driven by a number of interrelated factors. Socioeconomic changes such as globalisation, de-industrialisation and shifting demographics progressively undermined the social balance of corporatism and put welfare states under growing pressure, the fall of Communism removed one of the central planks of appeal for Christian Democratic parties, multiculturalism helped to establish new political cleavages based around notion of race, ethnicity and religion while processes of party dealignment transformed traditional voting patterns, leading to the rise of floating voters and new political parties such as the Greens and the New Right. These dynamics put Christian Democratic parties in a keen political bind. Attempting to move politically to the left or right would undermine the centrist basis of their catch-all appeal, while trying to emphasise their religious element would cost them support from non-Christian voters, and especially from the non-religious citizens that now constituted a growing share of the electorate (see Keman and Pennings, 2006; Duncan, 2015). From this point Christian Democracy lost its historical dominance in Western Europe. However, at the same time, a new opportunity was presenting itself with the demise of Communism in Eastern-Central Europe. Yet Christian Democracy did not find political favour in the way that many hoped it would. A number of key differences between the conditions of post-war Western Europe and post-Communist regimes help to explain why political success did not materialise. In Poland, for example, the collapse of Communism removed the threat of a common enemy (thereby reducing the value of an anti-Communist stance) and most new parties of the centre right supported the values of the Catholic Church, thereby limiting the need for religious leaders to seek out political support and establish close links with any one particular party. The influence of secularisation was also a critical factor. Many post-Communist 47

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societies were by this point highly secularised (largely related to the experience of Communism itself) and overt Church support for political parties was not something that would have attracted a wide measure of public support. Indeed, where Christian Democratic parties have proved to be most successful is in countries where such parties could point to some kind of historical legacy effect, having been involved in state-building efforts during the interwar period – such as the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Slovenia and Lithuania (on these points see Bale and Szczerbiak, 2008; Grzymala-Busse, 2011). Nevertheless, while secularisation continues across Europe, religion remains an influential (albeit declining) guide to voting behaviour in the region. Research has shown that support for Christian Democratic parties is still higher from citizens with stronger levels of religiosity (Duncan, 2015). And while the success of Christian Democratic parties may have been predicated on adapting religious identity to the constraints of a secularising social and political context (Brocker and Künkler, 2013), scholars need to be careful not to assume that this trajectory will simply continue. Research suggests that religious groups mobilising in reaction to secularisation can politicise religious elements and push religious issues back into the formal political domain. One way in which this might possibly manifest itself in the European context is through an alignment with current nationalist and populist trends, perhaps leading to the re-emergence of Christian ideas mixed with liberal secular values posed as a defensive reaction to Islam (on which, see Vollaard, 2013). While the decline of religion poses an obvious problem for religiously inspired political parties, religion has the capacity to adapt in new and unexpected ways.

Democracy in Muslim countries Measuring the impact of secularisation on political parties in Muslim majority countries faces two particularly salient problems. The first is that the extent of secularisation in many Muslim countries is largely unknown. Social, cultural and in some cases legal restrictions (including blasphemy laws and prohibitions on apostasy) mean that the scale of the non-religious population remains substantially hidden from view. In the absence of detailed and comprehensive work in this area, there is simply no way to know for sure what the real situation might be (see Sevinç et al., 2018). The second issue is a notable ‘democracy gap’ throughout much of the Muslim world. While the dynamics and causes of this continue to be debated by scholars, democratic politics remains the exception rather than the rule. According to the Democracy Index compiled by the Economist Intelligence Unit (2017) there are a total of 19 ‘full democracies’ in the world, none of which are in Muslim majority countries. The highest listed Muslim majority country, Malaysia, is classed as a ‘flawed democracy’ and ranked 59th, while the next Muslim country, Indonesia (the third largest democracy in the world), is in 68th position. Research by Pew (2013) has also found high levels of support for religious (Sharia) law in Muslim countries. While this varies widely (just 12 percent of Muslims in Turkey support the idea of making laws in this way), significant majorities can be found in countries such as Indonesia (72 percent), Pakistan (84 percent) and Afghanistan (99 percent). Public attitudes to democracy, however, run contrary to these trends. Muslim countries have been found to possess greater support for democratic ideals than countries in many other parts of the world (especially in Eastern-Central Europe and Latin America), and while Islamic societies record high levels of support for rule by religious authorities, they are not unique in this regard. Higher than average levels of support for the involvement of religious authorities in politics have also been found in countries such as the United States and Greece, and are also prominent in many parts of Africa (see Norris and Inglehart, 2012). Nevertheless, high levels of religiosity and a receptivity to religious appeals have (unlike Christian Democratic parties) encouraged political parties in Muslim countries to put greater 48

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emphasis on issues of religious identity. Since the 1990s religiously inspired parties have taken part in elections, and have won positions of power, in a number of Muslim countries, including Morocco, Algeria, Bangladesh, Malaysia, Jordan, Turkey, Kuwait, Egypt, Yemen, Indonesia and Pakistan. None of this means that secularisation processes are devoid of any impact. One way in which their influence can be seen is through the inclusion-moderation hypothesis. The key argument here is that engagement with democratic institutions and the availability of political opportunity structures provide incentives for radical groups to move away from, or abandon, anti-democratic forms of politics. In this way, Islamist groups which typically reject democracy and seek to impose religious law and theocratic forms of governance, can be encouraged to adopt a more moderate, pro-democracy stance (see Nasr, 2005; Schwedler, 2011). While this does not necessarily imply a diminution of their religious appeal, the move towards moderation can nevertheless lead to a process of internal secularisation. In a similar fashion to the way in which Christian Democratic parties downplayed their religious appeal to maximise their electoral support, radical groups seeking to take their place within the political systems of Muslim majority countries face pressures to reframe their religious beliefs and practices in secular terms, to commit themselves to ideas of popular sovereignty and rule of law and to engage in processes of electoral compromise and the peaceful settlement of disputes (Brocker and Künkler, 2013; Gurses, 2014). Evidence suggests that the pressures and incentives of conventional electoral politics can have a moderating impact on Islamist parties, compelling them to adopt strategies of centrism, compromise and pragmatism. Useful illustrations of this process can be seen in Egypt, where the Muslim Brotherhood engaged in de-radicalisation measures (Schwedler, 2011), and Turkey, where the Justice and Development Party (AKP) sought to adopt a public discourse conforming to the bounds of a secular constitution and to appeal to voters who would have reacted negatively to an overtly religious appeal (Hale, 2005). More recently, the Ennahda Movement – the main Islamist party in Tunisia (to date, the only real democratic success of the Arab Spring) – has also elected to pursue a strategy of moderation in order to reap the benefits of engagement in democratic politics (McCarthy, 2018). A general, longitudinal trend in this direction has also been observed. In their study of elections in Muslim majority countries during the period 1970–2009, Kurzman and Naqvi (2010) have suggested that moderation pressures have encouraged Islamist parties to slowly liberalise their political platforms, de-emphasising the ‘Islamic’ aspect of their political identity and putting greater emphasis on themes of democracy, women’s issues and minority rights. That said, the inclusion-moderation hypothesis is not without its critics. Some scholars have questioned the value of labels such as ‘moderate’ and ‘radical’, noting that both descriptions cover a variety of often very different positions. Others have pointed out that the use of a more moderate form of rhetoric does not necessarily entail a genuine commitment to democratic politics, and that Islamist groups can use this as a political strategy in order to disguise their real motives and attract support prior to switching back to more radical ideas. Indeed, as events involving the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt and the AKP in Turkey have shown (where both sought to promote religious ideas upon gaining power), inclusion in democratic political processes does not mean that moderation is the inevitable direction of travel (see Schwedler, 2011; Brocker and Künkler, 2013). Other critics have argued that political inclusion alone is not sufficient for moderation, and that a commitment to abide by the norms of democratic politics has often been shaped by other factors. Nasr (2005), for example, highlights three main structural variables. The first is the role of state repression. In countries where the path to democratic transition has been shaped by periods of military rule (such as Turkey, Pakistan and Egypt) the impetus for moderation has 49

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come from the conditionality of the military withdrawal from political life. In these circumstances the military retained the potential to return to politics in the event that democracy was threatened by radical groups (as indeed happened in the case of the Muslim Brotherhood in post-revolutionary Egypt). These pressures are combined with the role of economic forces. A growing middle class is said to be essential for democratic civil society to take root, and a burgeoning private sector is needed to reduce the power of the state over society (a central barrier to democratisation in many Muslim countries being the rentier state problem associated with an over-reliance on oil). Third, the role of electoral competition is also considered to be essential. Here, the presence of a strong and competitive, multi-party politics encourages strategies of centrism, pragmatism and compromise. An alternative model developed by Lust (2011) centres on the interactions between three strategic actors: an authoritarian elite, secularist opponents and Islamists. In countries where fear of Islamism was high, and where the regime had excluded Islamists from the political process (such as Egypt, Morocco and Tunisia) secularists were more likely to align themselves with the authoritarian elite in order to prevent Islamists from gaining power, thereby impeding the development of democratic politics. In countries where the regime had allowed Islamist groups to enter the political system (such as Jordan and Indonesia), on the other hand, the fear of Islamism was subsequently reduced, encouraging secularists to press for democratic reforms. These dynamics, it is argued, help to explain why democracy has thus far failed to take root in much of the Middle East (where fear of radical Islamism remains high) but has developed in Muslim countries in Asia and North Africa (where fear of radical Islamism is far lower). While secularisation in Muslim majority countries can be seen in the process of political moderation, its impact can also be felt in the comparative lack of electoral success for Islamist parties. Notwithstanding some notable exceptions – such as the case of Algeria in the early 1990s, in which an impending victory for Islamists was forestalled by the election being cancelled (see Warner, 2012) – electoral breakthroughs have been few and far between. The scale of this failure is laid bare in research conducted by Kurzman and Naqvi (2010). In an analysis of 89 parliamentary elections in Muslim countries in which an Islamist party took part over a 40-year period, they found that the average performance amounted to 7.3 percent of the overall vote and just 6 percent of the seats. In one respect these findings are something of a surprise given the relatively high levels of support in Muslim majority countries for rule by religious authorities. One possible explanation for the lack of Islamist success is the presence of a strong religious/secular divide. In research examining a decade and a half of opinion polls in Muslim countries, Driessen (2018) finds that declarations of support for religious laws fall away when voters are confronted with the practical realities of Islamist parties in government.

The Christian Right in the United States The United States is often considered to be an outlier among liberal democratic nations: sustaining high levels of religiosity while being economically and technologically advanced. Religion also plays a key role in US electoral politics. This is expressed principally through close links between the Republican Party and the Christian Right, a political movement comprised predominantly of white evangelical Protestants (with a smaller number of like-minded Catholics, Mormons and Jews) that formed in the 1970s to promote conservative political views on issues such as abortion, prayer in public school and (later) homosexual rights (Norris and Inglehart, 2012; Barrett-Fox, 2018). Although the political fortunes of the Christian Right have been mixed – helping the Republicans to win the presidency under Ronald Reagan and George W. Bush but succumbing to a series of sexual and financial scandals and registering limited policy successes 50

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(Clifton, 2004) – their influence appears to have increased dramatically with the election of Donald Trump in the 2016 presidential campaign. Trump secured extremely high levels of support from the Christian Right, winning 81 percent of the white evangelical vote (Pew Research Center, 2016b) and since the election has continued to cement the relationship. Amongst the key measures that have been taken here include: appointing evangelicals to leading positions within the Trump administration – notably Mike Pence (as Vice President), Betsy DeVos (Secretary of Education), Ben Carson (Housing and Urban Development) and Rick Perry (Secretary of Energy) – making evangelical-friendly appointments to the Supreme Court (Neil Gorsuch and, controversially, Brett Kavanaugh), expanding religious exemptions in areas such as reproductive and gender rights, as well as pledging to abolish the Johnson Amendment prohibiting churches from publicly endorsing political candidates. The Trump administration has also used overt religious messaging in its targeting of Muslims under a travel ban and in attempting to justify a policy of separating immigrant children from their parents at the border (Barrett-Fox, 2018). Many commentators have wondered how the two sides have come to be so aligned, not least given Trump’s less-than-impressive moral character and clear lack of personal interest in religion. Indeed, in the run-up to the 2016 presidential election, the success of Trump and the failure of the preferred candidates of the Christian Right – Ben Carson, Marco Rubio and Ted Cruz – was seen by many commentators as a defeat for their agenda. Moreover, the subsequent high levels of evangelical support for Trump was in many respects based on a negative view of his presidential opponent rather than a positive endorsement of his own political qualities. Polls prior to the 2016 election found that 35 percent of white evangelical Protestants were intending to vote for Trump not because they necessarily approved of his views, but because he was not Hillary Clinton (Pew Research Center, 2016a). The explanation for the close relationship between the president and the Christian Right is to be found in the way that Trump has successfully appealed to the sense of entitlement and longheld grievances nursed by many evangelical Christians about their role in American society. One key factor driving this is the projection of a demographic transition in which white Christians will soon become a minority in the United States. In 1972 almost three-quarters (74 percent) of Americans identified as white Christians, by 2012 that figure was just over half (55 percent). And while around seven out of ten Americans aged 65 or over are white Christians, the proportion in the 18–29 age group falls to just three in ten (FORUM, 2017). In this context, the support of the Christian Right for Trump is readily explicable in terms of a raw cost–benefit analysis. As BarrettFox (2018) puts it: ‘Trump’s relationship with conservative Christians is highly transactional: votes in exchange for political power or at least for a sense of continued cultural and political importance despite a demographic decline.’ Or, as Sutton observes (FORUM, 2017), Trump offered evangelicals ‘not a partner to pray with, but a hitman whom they trust will root out and destroy much of what is threatening them’ (also see Brittain, 2018; Whitehead et al., 2018). Yet here too, amidst the politicisation of religious identity, the influence of secularisation can be observed. This is captured most vividly in the rising proportion of US adults now identifying as religiously unaffiliated (a category known as the ‘nones’). According to research conducted by Pew (2015), this group, which includes a variety of perspectives such as atheists, agnostics and those who are still religious but who are not a member of any formal religious organisation, has experienced a dramatic rate of growth in recent years, increasing from 16 percent of the adult population in 2007 to 23 percent by 2014. Moreover, with the nones tending to lean politically towards more progressive, liberal causes and being more likely by a considerable margin to vote for the Democrat rather than the Republican Party, this process of secularisation adds to the threat posed to the future of the Christian Right. 51

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Ironically, scholarly research into the rise of the nones suggests that this growth has, to a significant degree, been driven by the overt politicisation of religion by the Christian Right themselves. The argument here is that the rapid growth in the numbers of the religiously unaffiliated coincided with the increasing influence of the Christian Right within the Republican Party and has been fuelled by the extreme positions taken by evangelicals on moral issues such as gay rights and abortion (see FORUM, 2017). Studies also indicate that rise of the nones has been particularly notable in Republican states and at periods of visible political conflict over controversial moral issues, suggesting that the activities of the Christian Right have tainted the very idea of being religious to the extent that moderates and liberals are increasingly less willing to self-identify in this way (Djupe et al., 2018). Moreover, while research has also highlighted the quasi-religious nature of Trump’s style of political campaigning – replete with sacred objects (red baseball caps emblazoned with the slogan ‘Make America Great Again’), ritualistic elements (mass rallies of devotees) and an emphasis on mythological beliefs (such as a nativist form of American exceptionalism) (Fernandez and Clark, 2018) – and while some have seen Trump as constituting the logical end-point of decades of evangelical political action (‘a white male candidate who reinforces biblical sexual and gender norms, is suspicious about immigrants and Islam, and, most importantly, believes in white America’, FORUM, 2017), others have maintained that Trump represents an essentially secularised version of the evangelical worldview. For all the overt appeals to the Christian Right, Trumpism denotes a political project that is completely devoid of any meaningful religious content. The result, as Gorski (2017) notes, is that it becomes nothing more than ‘a reactionary and secularised version of white Christian nationalism’.

Conclusion Debates about the future of religion have been central to the social sciences since their inception. Secularisation remains a contested topic, with critics raising a number of questions about its conceptual, methodological and empirical claims, but there is substantial evidence to suggest that support for religion – certainly in its institutionalised form – has declined in the face of modernity. Yet secularisation can appear and make itself felt in a number of ways. This can be seen in terms of its impact on political parties and party systems. In Western Europe Christian Democratic parties dominated the post-war electoral landscape but were forced to downplay their sense of religious identity to conform to the social conditions of an increasingly secularised environment. In Muslim majority countries, where religious identities are more politically salient, Islamist parties have often responded in a similar way to the structural pressures and strategic incentives of democratic politics, moderating their electoral stance as part of a process of internal secularisation. In the United States, where religion also plays a key political role, the politicisation of religious identity by the Christian Right, particularly in conjunction with their support for President Trump, has been critical in driving the growth of the religiously unaffiliated and has itself fuelled the secularisation process.

Note 1 Data are taken from World Values Surveys, 1981–2001.

References Ammerman, N.T. (2013), ‘Spiritual but not religious? Beyond binary choices in the study of religion’, Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion, 52(2): 258–278.

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Religion, modernisation and secularisation Bale, T. and Szczerbiak, A. (2008), ‘Why is there no Christian democracy in Poland – and why should we care?’ Party Politics, 14(4): 479–500. Barrett-Fox, R. (2018), ‘A King Cyrus president: How Donald Trump’s presidency reasserts conservative Christians’ right to hegemony’, Humanity and Society, 42(4): 502–522. Brittain, C.C. (2018), ‘Racketeering in religion: Adorno and evangelical support for Donald Trump’, Critical Research on Religion, 6(2): 269–288. Brocker, M. and Künkler, M. (2013), ‘Religious parties: Revisiting the inclusion-moderation hypothesis’, Party Politics, 19(2): 171–186. Bruce, S. (2013), ‘Post-secularity and religion in Britain: An empirical assessment’, Journal of Contemporary Religion, 28(3): 369–384. Casanova, J. (2014), ‘Secularisation, religion and multicultural citizenship’, in W. Weisse, K. Amirpur, A. Koers and D. Vieregge (eds), Religions and Dialogue: International Approaches, Waxmann, New York. Clark, J.C.D. (2012), ‘Secularization and modernization: The failure of a “Grand Narrative”’, The Historical Journal, 55(1): 161–194. Clifton, B.M. (2004), ‘Romancing the GOP: Assessing the strategies used by the Christian coalition to influence the Republican party’, Party Politics, 10(5): 475–498. Djupe, P.A., Neiheisel, J.R. and Conger, K.H. (2018), ‘Are the politics of the Christian Right linked to state rates of the nonreligious? The importance of salient controversy’, Political Research Quarterly, 71(4): 910–922. Driessen, M. (2018), ‘Sources of Muslim democracy: The supply and demand of religious policies in the Muslim world’, Democratization, 25(1): 115–135. Duncan, F. (2015), ‘Preaching to the converted? Christian democratic voting in six west European countries’, Party Politics, 21(4): 577–590. Economist Intelligence Unit (2017), Democracy Index 2017: Free Speech Under Attack, available from: http s://pages.eiu.com/rs/753-RIQ-438/images/Democracy_Index_2017.pdf. Etrit, V. (2018), ‘Secularization: The decline of the supernatural realm’, Religions, 92(9). Fernandez, M.E. and Clark, R. (2018), ‘Trump and Clinton rallies: Are political campaigns quasi-religious in nature?’ Sociology Between the Gaps: Forgotten and Neglected Topics, 4. FORUM (2017), ‘Studying religion in the age of Trump’, Religion and American Culture: A Journal of Interpretation, 27(1): 2–56. Fox, J. (2018), An Introduction to Religion and Politics: Theory and Practice, second edition, Routledge, London. Gorski, P. (2000), ‘Historicizing the secularization debate: Church, state and society in late medieval and early modern Europe, ca.1300 to 1700’, American Sociological Review, 65(1): 138–167. Gorski, P. (2017), ‘Why evangelicals voted for Trump: A critical cultural sociology’, American Journal of Cultural Sociology, 5(3): 338–354. Grzymala-Busse, A. (2011), ‘Why there is (almost) no Christian democracy in post-Communist Europe’, Party Politics, 19(2): 319–342. Gurses, M. (2014), ‘Islamists, democracy and Turkey: A test of the inclusion-moderation hypothesis’, Party Politics, 20(4): 646–653. Hale, W. (2005), ‘Christian democracy and the AKP: Parallels and contrasts’, Turkish Studies, 6(2): 293–310. Hjelm, T. (ed.) (2016), Is God Back? Reconsidering the New Visibility of Religion, Bloomsbury, London. Kalyvas, S.N. and van Kersbergen, K. (2010), ‘Christian democracy’, Annual Review of Political Science, 13: 183–209. Keman, H. and Pennings, P. (2006), ‘Competition and coalescence in European party systems: Social democracy and Christian democracy moving into the 21st century’, Swiss Political Science Review, 12(2): 95–126. Kurzman, C. and Naqvi, I. (2010), ‘Do Muslims vote Islamic?’ Journal of Democracy, 21(2): 50–63. Lust, E. (2011), ‘Missing the third wave: Islam, institutions and democracy in the Middle East’, Studies in Comparative International Development, 46(2): 163–190. McCarthy, R. (2018), ‘When Islamists lose: The politicization of Tunisea’s Ennahda Movement’, Middle East Journal, 72(3): 365–384. Micklethwait, J. and Wooldridge, A. (2009), God is Back: How the Global Rise of Faith is Changing the World, Penguin, London. Nasr, S.V.R. (2005), ‘The rise of “Muslim democracy”’, Journal of Democracy, 16(2): 13–27. Norris, P. and Inglehart, R. (2012), Sacred and Secular: Religion and Politics Worldwide, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

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Steven Kettell Pew Research Center (2013), The World’s Muslims: Religion, Politics and Society, April 2015. Available at: www.pewforum.org/2013/04/30/the-worlds-muslims-religion-politics-society-overview/. Pew Research Center (2015), America’s Changing Religious Landscape, May 2015. Available at: www.pew forum.org/2015/05/12/americas-changing-religious-landscape/. Pew Research Center (2016a), Many Evangelicals Favour Trump Because He Is Not Clinton, September 2016. Available at: www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2016/09/23/many-evangelicals-favor-trump-becausehe-is-not-clinton/. Pew Research Center (2016b), How the Faithful Voted: A Preliminary 2016 Analysis, November 2016. Available at: www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2016/11/09/how-the-faithful-voted-a-preliminary-2016-analysis/. Reader, I. (2012), ‘Secularisation R.I.P? Nonsense! The “rush hour away from the gods” and the decline of religion in contemporary Japan’, Journal of Religion in Japan, 1(1): 7–36. Ruff, M.E. (2005), ‘The postmodern challenge to the secularization thesis: A critical assessment’, Schweizerische Zeitschrift für Religions- und Kulturgeschichte, 99: 385–401. Schwedler, J. (2011), ‘Can Islamists become moderates? Rethinking the inclusion-moderation hypothesis’, World Politics, 63(2): 347–376. Sevinç, K., Coleman III, T.J. and Hood Jr., R.W. (2018), ‘Non-belief: An Islamic perspective’, Secularism and Nonreligion, 7(1). van Kersbergen, K. (2008), ‘The Christian democratic phoenix and modern unsecular politics’, Party Politics, 14 (3): 259–279. Vollaard, H.J.P. (2013), ‘Re-emerging Christianity in West European politics: The case of the Netherlands’, Politics and Religion, 6(1): 74–100. Warner, C.M. (2012), ‘Christian democracy in Italy: An alternative path to religious party moderaton’, Party Politics, 19(2): 256–276. Whitehead, A., Perry, S.L. and Baker, J.O. (2018), ‘Make America Christian again: Christian nationalism and voting for Donald Trump in the 2016 presidential election’, Sociology of Religion, 79(2): 147–171.

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PART II

New debates

5 RELIGIOUS FUNDAMENTALISM Luca Ozzano

A controversial concept The last decades of the twentieth century brought about a global resurgence of religion in the public sphere, labelled by scholars as ‘revenge of god’ (Kepel 1991) or ‘deprivatization of religion’ (Casanova 1994): a development which seemed to contradict the tenets of the socalled secularisation thesis, accepted by most social science classical authors as well as by most nineteenth- and twentieth-century social scientists. According to this thesis, religion is a regressive phenomenon, incompatible with modernisation, and bound to disappear (or, in some versions, to be confined into the private sphere) with the advent of the latter (Haynes 1997; Swatos and Christiano 1999). On the contrary, religion not only did not disappear, but between the 1970s and the 1980s made a spectacular comeback on the political scene, with the creation of religiously oriented parties and social movements in diverse places such as the United States, India, Iran, Israel, Poland and Afghanistan (just to mention the cases with a greater influence at the international level). In many cases, moreover, this resurgence took an aggressive shape, with the development of fundamentalist religious movements and groups aiming at bringing back religion into the public sphere, in some cases with non-peaceful means. The international social science community, which mostly regarded secularisation as a matter of fact, was taken by surprise by this development, and did not produce anything relevant on it for about a decade. In the words of one of the pioneers of studies on fundamentalism, Bruce Lawrence, many social scientists would have preferred to see this phenomenon ‘evaporate, becoming a bad dream limited to the eighties’ (Lawrence 1989, 8); in some cases, scholars even prematurely celebrated its demise (Bruce 1988). This resistance to carry out thorough studies on fundamentalism, however, was not only due to dependence on the secularisation thesis. There are other reasons, linked to the controversial nature of the concept itself. First, the American academic world was reluctant to accept the idea of fundamentalism as a theoretical concept applicable to all religious traditions. Indeed, the term fundamentalism had been coined in the early twentieth century within the Protestant tradition (notably with the publication of a series of books entitled The Fundamentals) (Torrey and Dixon 1994), to define a movement aiming at a reform of American religion, which could bring back the United States to the ‘fundamentals’ of the Christian faith (Ammerman 1991). Some American specialists of religious studies however rejected the application of the concept to other religious traditions, 57

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seeing it as a sole preserve of American Protestantism (see, for example, Barr 1981). Moreover, the term was originally not intended to have a pejorative connotation, but in US popular culture it gradually became synonymous with ‘fanatic’ or ‘redneck’. Before the 1980s, only a handful of scholars used it to define movements from other religious tradition: Hamilton Gibb, for example adopted the concept to include Wahhabism and other Islamic movements of religious reawakening of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (Gibb 1962). It was only after the Iranian revolution in 1979, and other events with international ramifications, that scholars generally grasped the global dimension of the ‘return of religion’ and started to widely use the term fundamentalism to define the new wave of extremist religious movements throughout the world. Notwithstanding, many continued to oppose the use of the concept, on different grounds. In some cases, the pejorative bias it often leads to is regarded as unhelpful when seeking objective analysis of relevant social and political actors. Therefore, some scholars propose instead more ‘neutral’ labels, such as ‘religious nationalism’ (Juergensmeyer 1993b). This orientation is particularly strong at the local and regional levels, where scholars are often reluctant to label movements as ‘fundamentalist’, and to engage in comparative analysis, often preferring terms such as ‘integralism’ (in Catholicism), ‘zealotism’ (in Judaism) or ‘Hindutva’ (in Hinduism). Other scholars put forward instead criticisms on methodological grounds, rejecting the concept of fundamentalism as flawed. Particularly, since fundamentalist movements belonging to different traditions are marked by significant differences, they warn about the risks of ‘concept overstretching’ (Sartori 1970): to define the concept too specifically means not to make it applicable to different cases; on the other hand, if we make its connotation vaguer to widen its denotation, the concept becomes heuristically useless. Indeed, the attempts to single out the main features of fundamentalism, such as the one carried out by the Fundamentalism Project (see below), have often been criticised for being allegedly descriptive rather than analytic (Iannaccone 1997b).

Early studies As already mentioned, the social sciences academic community was quite slow in acknowledging the new phenomenon. Only in the late 1980s did scholars engage thoroughly with the issue of religious fundamentalism and its political and social connotations. Probably, the first well-regarded comparative work to be published was Bruce Lawrence’s Defenders of God. Lawrence explicitly criticised the Protestantism-centred approach of authors such as Barr, and carried out an analysis of Christian, Muslim and Jewish fundamentalisms. Although starting from a philosophical perspective, his work set the pace for many subsequent contributions on religious fundamentalism. In methodological terms, Lawrence defends the primacy of the comparative approach to study the phenomenon. In philosophical terms, he cast light for the first time on the complex relation between fundamentalism and modernity, claiming that ‘fundamentalists are modern but not modernists’: they often accept the material benefits of modernity (in terms of technology, organisation, etc.) but reject its secular, pluralist and relativist orientation in terms of values (Lawrence 1989, 6). Finally, in sociological terms, he points out that Fundamentalists do relate to the public sphere. They do care about political power, economic justice, and social status … they are reacting against the notion of intellectual hegemony as well as sociopolitical privilege … They are not granted access to the circles of the dominant ruling group; they are challenging their exclusion from such echelons of power. (Lawrence 1989, 1–7; emphasis in original) 58

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Lawrence’s view of religious fundamentalism as a modern phenomenon was however not shared by a German author, Martin Riesebrodt, one of the first sociologists to approach the topic with a view to elaborating a theoretical model. He defines the phenomenon in terms of ‘radical patriarchalism’, that is, ‘an urban movement directed primarily against the dissolution of personalistic, patriarchal notions of order and social relations and their replacement by depersonalized principles’, as a consequence of ‘the dramatic reduction in chances of the traditionalist milieu to reproduce itself culturally under conditions of rapid urbanization, industrialization and secularization’ (Riesebrodt 1993, 9). Riesebrodt also makes distinctions among different varieties of fundamentalism, later re-elaborated by other contributions, such as the Fundamentalism Project: particularly, he distinguishes between ‘world-fleeing’ and ‘world-mastering’ fundamentalisms (the latter one further divided into a reformist and a revolutionary orientation), between experience-centered (charismatic) and book-centered (rational) ones; and between fundamentalism as social movement and as secret society (Riesebrodt 1993, 17–19). Another pioneering European work, by the Italian sociologists Enzo Pace and Renzo Guolo, tries to compile a list of recurring features of religious fundamentalisms. The authors focus particularly on four principles: inerrancy of the sacred texts; a-historicity of the truth contained in them; superiority of divine law over human one; and primacy of the ‘myth of foundation’ (a real or invented tradition which at the same time absolutises the principles to be followed by the faithful and ensures the cohesion of the community) (Pace 1990; Pace and Guolo 1998).

The Fundamentalism Project During the period the first books about religious fundamentalism – reviewed above – were written, at the University of Chicago a pool of scholars was planning a much more ambitious work, which marked the end of the pioneering phase of the studies on the phenomenon. This research project, involving dozens of scholars from all over the world, eventually gave birth to five huge edited books, published between 1991 and 1995 (a summary of their contents was published some years later with the title Strong Religion) (Almond et al. 2003). Although the volumes include dozens of case studies, the editors also took care to develop the theoretical side of their research focus. Particularly, in the last volume of the series, they attempt the first comprehensive review of the recurring features of the phenomenon, by singling out nine points (five related to the movements’ ideology, and the remaining four to their organisation): 1

2

3

Reactivity to the marginalisation of religion. The authors maintain that ‘to qualify as genuine fundamentalism … a movement must be concerned first with the erosion of religion and its proper role in society’. This perception of religion under threat is the consequence of ‘the general processes of modernisation, from other religions and/or ethnic groups, from a secular state (imperial or indigenous) seeking to secularise and delimit the domain of the sacred, or from various combinations of these’. Selectivity. This is a feature of fundamentalist movements which draws them apart from traditionalist groups, illustrated in three different ways: by selecting and reshaping specific parts of the tradition rather than simply defending it; by selecting some manifestations of modernity ‘to affirm and embrace’ (particularly technological developments and organisational models); and by singling out some consequences of the processes of modernity to which they devote a special attention. Moral Manichaeism. Fundamentalists perceive reality as uncompromisingly divided into good and bad, light and darkness, a world inside marked by ‘a minimum standard’ of purity and an outside one that ‘may be graded in different degrees of contamination’. 59

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4

5

6

7

8

9

Absolutism and inerrancy. These usually refer to a faith’s sacred texts but may also include their ‘analogues (e.g., papal infallibility, a privileged school of Islamic jurisprudence, etc)’. This monolithic view of sources and/or tradition also makes fundamentalists ‘steadfastly refuse hermeneutical methods developed by secularized philosophers’, as well as ‘the canons of critical rationality’. Millennialism and messianism. Fundamentalists don’t perceive history simply as a succession of events, but they are convinced that it must have a miraculous culmination, with ‘an end to suffering and waiting’ and the coming of ‘an all-powerful mediator’ (such as the Messiah in Judaism, the hidden imam in Shia Islam, the second coming of Jesus in Christianity, etc.). Elect, chosen membership. The members of fundamentalist groups perceive themselves as an ‘elect’ group in opposition to a doomed world: a condition variously described as ‘the faithful’, ‘the remnant’, ‘the last outpost’, etc. In some cases, this dichotomy can be blurred with the presence of an intermediate circle of sympathisers around the inner group. Sharp boundaries. As a consequence of point 6, fundamentalists tend to put in place a more or less strict separation between themselves and the outside world. Such boundaries are often symbolic in nature, implemented though rituals, the media and education; but they can also be material, as in the case of groups such as the Israeli Haredim, who live physically apart from the mainstream society. Authoritarian organisation. Fundamentalist groups are structured according to a charismatic leader–follower relation, while the relations among common followers are based on equality. Groups are also marked by the absence of ‘bureaucracy in the sense of rationallegal division of power and competence’: a situation which often engenders fragmentation, in the absence of the possibility of a loyal opposition. Behavioural requirements. These are represented by a set of rules (related to music, rules of dress, rules about sexuality, drinking, discipline of children, etc.) which aim at creating ‘a powerful affective dimension, an imitative, conforming dimension’ (Almond et al. 1995b, 405–408).

Beside this list of recurring features, the editors of the project also elaborated on Riesebrodt’s and others’ previous typologies to propose a fourfold classification of fundamentalists’ attitude towards the world: 1 2 3 4

World conqueror. They try to get control over the social structures which have given life to the enemy. World transformer. They do the same in a ‘softer’ way, by seeking to influence a society’s laws, institutions, structures and practices. World creator. Their aim is not to control mainstream society, but to create new and alternative structures and institutions, alternative to the mainstream. World renouncer. They privilege the research for purity and preservation of their way of life over hegemony, which prompts them to construct a fundamentalist world, separated from the threatening outside (Almond et al. 1995a, 438–439).

The above distinction between type 1 and 2, particularly, follows the classical dichotomy (already pointed out for example by Kepel (1984)) between a top-down strategy, aiming at seizing the power before social hegemony, even with violent means; and a bottom-up one, focused on social influence and education, usually preferred to the former in democratic systems (Almond et al. 1995c, 486). The authors also maintain that fundamentalists ‘are first and foremost men and women of religion rather than of government’ and have to resort to the help of professional politicians to engage in politics (Marty and Appleby 1993, 631). 60

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The FP conclusions still remain a milestone in the literature on fundamentalism, since in the following 25 years there has been no other project so ambitious and encompassing. However, they have been criticised for many reasons and from many different perspectives. First, methodologically, their nine-points definition of fundamentalist movements has been criticised in relation to the above-mentioned ‘concept overstretching’ as too inclusive; their case choices (for example in relation to the exclusion of Jehovah’s Witnesses from the fundamentalist field) are also regarded by some as questionable (Introvigne 2005). Moreover, even a contributor to the project such as Rhys H. Williams disagrees with the FP’s view of fundamentalists as not fit for politics: fundamentalists who actively engage public politics seldom approach it with modest, partial agendas. The attack on the distinction between the public and the private in social life is often explicit in fundamentalist programs for change … For these reasons periods of large-scale fundamentalist activity coincide with periods of generalized political instability often leading to ‘regime crises’. (Williams 1994, 802) The editors of the project have also been criticised as too influenced by the secularisation paradigm, which allegedly made them see the movements as doomed to decline and to withdraw into enclaves and ghettos (Simpson 1994; Swatos 1993); finally, they are critiqued for their focus on Abrahamic faiths, which also makes their definitions scarcely fit for non-monotheistic religious traditions: a bias admitted by the authors themselves, when they declare that their ‘definition of the properties of fundamentalism has been derived from a focus on Christian, Islamic and Jewish cases, all of which have sacred texts and codified religious laws and share in a millennial–messianic cosmology’ (Almond et al. 1995b, 415). To sum up, the categories used by the authors of the FP seem to be designed for small, charismatic and text-centred groups, marked by a problematic relation with mainstream society and by charismatic forms of control and transmission of power: which does not apply well to many cases of modern fundamentalist movements, which show a higher degree of internal differentiation and power relations, and nuanced relations with the external world (Ozzano 2009). As already mentioned, after the FP no other project engaged in trying to provide an encompassing definition of the phenomenon. On the other hand, a number of authors have provided ‘partial’ explanations of fundamentalism, defining the phenomenon according to a single relevant feature. The following paragraphs will review the main strains of this wide and complex literature.

Other perspectives Fundamentalism and globalisation A number of works dealing with fundamentalism share the common idea – despite the differences in perspective and approach – that the rise of the phenomenon is intimately connected to globalisation processes. Roland Robertson, for example, points out that globalisation (defined as ‘involving the compression of the world’) inevitably brings about a global ‘search for fundamentals’ related to ‘tradition, identity, home, indigeneity, locality, community and so on’. According to this view, fundamentalisms ‘constitute ways of finding a place within the world as a whole’ (Robertson 1992, 166). The author also declares that at first he saw fundamentalism as a reaction to globalisation, with the aim to defend local identities: a perspective very similar to 61

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that proposed by Misztal and Shupe, who propose the concept of ‘global fundamentalism’ as a series of interrelated responses to globalisation processes (Misztal and Shupe 1992). On the other hand, Robertson admits that in a later stage he changed his mind, becoming convinced that fundamentalisms are not to be seen as a reaction opposing globalisation, but rather as a consequence of it. In relation to this, the author coins the concept of ‘glocalisation’, which represents the dyad local/global as two faces of the same coin. According to this perspective, when a community becomes unable to assert its identity at the local level, it reacts by asserting a new (often fundamentalist) identity at the global level (Robertson 1992, 166–180). A perspective not far from Robertson’s was proposed some years later by the sociologist Benjamin Barber, in his book, Jihad vs McWorld. According to Barber, in the contemporary world it is possible to identify two opposing forces: neo-liberal globalisation; and a number of regressive collective identities which included fundamentalists, as well as other contentious phenomena. These forces ‘operate with equal strength in opposite directions, the one driven by parochial hatreds, the other by universalising markets, the one re-creating ancient subnational and ethnic borders from within, the other making national borders porous from without’. As in the case of Robertson, however, the author maintains that these two forces are only apparently opposed to each other, while in reality they are strictly interconnected, and ‘they both make war on the sovereign nation-state’s democratic institutions’ (Barber 2010, 6). Fundamentalism is connected to globalisation and modernisation processes also in the work of Olivier Roy. In his view, the cancellation of local cultures engendered by globalisation implies the loss of religions’ roots: particularly, according to Roy, ‘two factors play a key part in the transformation of religion today: deterritorialization and deculturation’. As a consequence of these processes, which imply a detachment of religion from culture and local roots, ‘religion therefore circulates outside knowledge. Salvation does not require people to know, but to believe’. Which means, among other consequences, that fundamentalist movements which allegedly aim to restore a ‘pure’ version of religious tradition are, in reality, a phenomenon of ‘holy ignorance’ (Roy 2010, 6–12). Fundamentalism and the ‘clash of civilisations’ A second group of contributions dealing with fundamentalism share the idea that the phenomenon is connected to the ‘clash of civilisations’: a concept first coined by Bernard Lewis, and popularised by Samuel P. Huntington. His 1996 book, which raised innumerable debates and became particularly popular after 9/11, in the years of the Bush administration’s ‘war on terror’, is based on the idea that identities and conflict of the post-cold war era are based on ‘culture and cultural identities, which at the broadest level are civilisation identities’ (Huntington 1996, 20). According to the author, civilisations are ‘the broadest cultural identity … the biggest “we” within which we feel culturally at home as distinguished from all the other “thems” out there’ (Huntington 1996, 43). Religion plays a major role in Huntington’s theoretical construction, not only because in his view it is one of the pivots (together with language and a few other factors) of a civilisation (not by chance most civilisations are named after the major world religions), but also because it plays a major role in the world’s answer to westernisation. An answer which can take the shape of total rejection, total acceptance (Kemalism) and reformism. When reformism extremises, according to Huntington, it becomes fundamentalism: a strong reaction to the feeling of emptiness engendered by the sudden adoption of western values. While Huntington is particularly concerned about the anti-western fundamentalist movements in the Muslim world, the Syrian-born political scientist Bassam Tibi, who had participated in the FP, tries instead to merge the conclusions of this latter with Huntington’s theses, by proposing the 62

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idea of fundamentalism as a global reaction to modernisation processes. In his view, Islamic fundamentalism is not to be regarded as the ideal type of fundamentalism, but only a variety of it among many. Broadly speaking, he defines fundamentalism as a political ideology, which fights the national state and aims at the creation of a theocratic state, in a context marked by a global clash of civilisations (Tibi 2002). The idea that the main clash lies inside the nation state, between secular and religious forces (rather than among civilisations at the global level), has been developed by Mark Juergensmeyer. In his view, the political life of most countries will be marked by a ‘new cold war’ between the supporters of secular nationalism, and those of religious nationalism: a force denouncing the moral decline of the western world and, outside it, denouncing the failure of democratic political institutions imported from the west (Juergensmeyer 1993a). Fundamentalism and totalitarianism Another group of studies on fundamentalism interpret the phenomenon as a form of totalitarianism (seeing similarities, particularly, with the ‘left-wing’, Stalinist version of this latter). According to Ernest Gellner, fundamentalism repudiates the tolerant modernist claim that the faith in question means something much milder, far less exclusive, altogether less demanding, and much more accommodating; above all something quite compatible with all other faiths, even, or especially, with the lack of faith. (Gellner 1992, 2–4) In his view, however, Islam is more prone to fundamentalism because of its alleged insufficient secularisation. For this reason, according to Gellner, ‘Islam fulfils some of the very functions which nationalism performs elsewhere’; particularly, the transition to a modern society, which elsewhere ‘expresses itself as nationalism, expresses itself in the Muslim world as religious revivalism, as fundamentalism’ (Gellner 1995, 285–286). Shmuel Eisenstadt also regards fundamentalism as a form of totalitarianism, and defines it as ‘a modern Jacobin anti-modern utopia and heterodoxy’. Here he refers to the thesis (already mentioned above) according to which fundamentalism is inspired by anti-modern values but does not reject the material benefits of modernity. Particularly, he focuses on the Jacobin side of fundamentalism, which makes it deny intermediate social institutions, sacralise the centre and expand with a missionary zeal. He maintains that ‘communist and fundamentalist movements and regimes share the tendency to promulgate a very strong salvationist vision or gospel’, since both visions imply ‘the transformation of both man and society, and the construction of new, personal and collective identities’, which demand ‘total submergence of the individual in the general totalistic community’. At the political level, both of them are focused on ‘the active construction, by political action, of a new social and cultural order … aiming at transforming the structure of society in general, and of centre-periphery relations in particular’ (Eisenstadt 2000, 106–107). Both Gellner’s and Eisenstadt’s contributions on fundamentalism are based on the concept of ‘axial age’ made famous by Jaspers. Another contribution adopting the same framework, although with different conclusions, is The Battle for God, written by the theologian Karen Armstrong, which carries out a comparative historical analysis, from the end of the fifteenth century, of Christian, Islamic and Jewish fundamentalisms. Armstrong’s work on the subject is based on the opposition between the two domains of mythos (myth) and logos (rational thought): while the two 63

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principles coexisted in the pre-modern times, according to Armstrong with the advent of modernity the former has become predominant over the second. Fundamentalists try thus to ensure religion’s survival in modern times by regarding the mythos as if it was logos, a rational truth (Armstrong 2001). Fundamentalism and the religious market A very different framing of the fundamentalist phenomenon has been proposed by the ‘religious economy’ school, which analyses religion according to a rational choice model, in terms of supply (religious groups and institutions) and demand (individuals) (Iannaccone 1997a). According to Finke and Stark, the different religious orientations can be arranged according to their degree of tension with mainstream society, on a continuum ‘with one end focusing on the supernatural to the fullest extent possible and the other accepting only a remote and inactive conception of the supernatural’. The shape of the religious demand is represented by a bell curve, with the central niches (conservative and moderate) providing low benefits, but also demanding low costs to the faithful; on the other hand, the niches closer to the side of the bell (liberal and ultra-liberal on the one side; strict and ultra-strict on the other) we will find religious groups marked by increasingly high costs and benefits (Finke and Stark 2001, 25–44), with fewer – but much more committed – followers and a low level of free-riding (Olson 1965). This is the case, according to the authors, of fundamentalist groups, which are situated in the strict niche, while the ultra-strict is occupied by small extremist and terrorist groups who often resort to violence to achieve their aims (Introvigne 2005). Fundamentalism and political parties So far, this chapter has focused on broad definitions of fundamentalism, often elaborated within the disciplines of religious studies and sociology of religion. As we have seen, in these literatures the references to the relations of religious fundamentalism with power and state institutions are scarce and not rarely contradictory. We find a particularly limited number of contributions if we look at the role of religion in political parties: which is not surprising when we consider that most classical studies on parties were written before the so-called return of religion, and often mostly refer to secularised Europe. However, because of the presence of Christian democratic parties in government in several European countries after the end of the Second World War, scholars had to take them into account. For example, Kirchheimer does so by creating the category of denominational mass party, as the religious version of the mass party (Kirchheimer 1966). In terms of parties’ genetic profile, on the other hand, the well-known Lipset and Rokkan’s cleavages thesis explains the birth of religious parties with a ‘religious vs. secular’ social cleavage, engendered by the formation of the national state and by this latter’s expropriation of the Church’s privileges (Lipset and Rokkan 1967). More in line with the secularisation theory and Comte’s idea of the three stages of social evolution (Comte 1864), Duverger connects instead the rise of totalitarian parties in the twentieth century to the decline of traditional religions in the west. He points out that totalitarian parties have developed particularly in countries, such as Germany and Russia, which were marked by a deep religious devotion before secularising (Duverger 1966). It is only with the end of the twentieth century and the growing awareness among the scholarly community of the different roles played by religion in political affairs, that classifications become less dependent on old categories and more nuanced, acknowledging the existence of different kinds of religious parties. Gunther and Diamond’s quite elaborate parties typology, which 64

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includes 15 types of parties, does so by singling out religious parties marked by a ‘pluralistic’ and a ‘proto-hegemonic attitude’: the former identifies with the category of denominational-mass party already defined by Kirchheimer; the latter is labelled by the two authors as ‘religious fundamentalist’. This latter kind of party tries ‘to reorganise state and society around a strict reading of religious doctrinal principles’: therefore, in it ‘there is little or no room for conflicting interpretation of the religious norms and scriptures that serve as the basis of the party’s programme and the laws which it seeks to impose on all of society’. These parties don’t believe in the separation between religion and the state and require from their members and followers an intense level of participation, structured through ancillary organisations in the framework of ‘hierarchical, undemocratic and even absolutist’ relations within the party. In terms of social base, ‘they disproportionately attract support from the poor and downtrodden and the marginalized middle class’, because of both their ‘denunciations of injustice and corruption’, and their wide web of social and welfare activities (Gunther and Diamond 2003, 182–183). An even more nuanced typology of political parties according to their religious orientation had been proposed by Ozzano, who singles out five types of religiously oriented parties (defined as ‘not only explicitly religious parties, but also formally secular parties that have significant sections of their manifestos dedicated to religious values, explicitly appeal to religious constituencies, and/ or include significant religious factions’): conservative, progressive, fundamentalist, nationalist and camp. In relation to the fundamentalist type, Ozzano builds on Gunther and Diamond’s description, and adds that, in Neumann’s (1956) terms, fundamentalist parties are parties of ‘total integration’, aiming at radically restructuring society and at getting the full and unquestioning obedience of their members. As a consequence, in the author’s view, they also have a strong anti-systemic orientation, and their commitment to democracy is at best questionable. This means that they might accept the pure mechanical procedures of democracy, but believe in very serious constraints in terms of liberal rights. Thus, it can be argued that they regard democracy as a means to conquer power (or at least get public recognition for their issues), not as an end. (Ozzano 2013, 818) The debate on the compatibility with democracy of fundamentalist parties, particularly in relation to Islamist parties, is very wide and cannot be accounted for here. To sum up, many authors focus on the already mentioned distinction between moderate and radical religious parties: the former seeking ‘gradual reform within the existing system’, the latter seeking ‘revolutionary change often through the use of violence’ (Schwedler 2006, 8). A distinction further nuanced by Brumberg, who singles out reformist, fundamentalist militant, tactical modernist and strategic modernist positions, according to the different degrees and modalities of acceptance of democracy (Brumberg 1997). The focus of many contributions is however not the static, but the dynamic, of fundamentalist parties: that is, the conditions and the paths through which a religious party can moderate or, the opposite, radicalise. The best-known strand of this field is the so-called moderation through inclusion literature, arguing that the participation of religious extremist parties in democratic institutions and electoral democracy can have a moderating effect (an idea already proposed for non-religious parties such as the Communists), because of the socialisation effect and the need to compromise in order to forge alliances. The focus, therefore, is the analysis of religious parties according to the notion of progressive moderation, and the different ways through which such a moderation can be achieved and understood (see, for example, Schwedler 2006 and Clark 2006). 65

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The moderation through inclusion thesis has however been criticised by many. For example, Cavatorta and Merone argue that it has a significant shortcoming, which undermines in part its applicability and validity across all cases. Crucially, there is very little thinking about the possibility that exclusion might have led anti-systemic parties to revise their ideological tenets and political strategies towards moderation in cases where there was no inclusion to speak of. Therefore, in relation to the path of the Tunisian Islamist party Ennadha, they provocatively put forward a ‘moderation through exclusion’ thesis, since ‘there is, at least in theory, the possibility that the vast majority of those who are repressed and rejected in large sectors of society might end up critically revisiting their activism’ (Cavatorta and Merone 2013, 864).

Conclusions The short review above shows the richness and the complexity of the literature on religious fundamentalism, which has approached the subject from several methodological points of view and disciplinary perspectives, from theology, to social sciences and philosophy. However, a thorough assessment of the phenomenon in the context of the political science literature is still lacking. This need for further research is clearly shown by the scarce number of contributions about the relations between religious fundamentalism and political parties, a subject still understudied. In relation to this, a comparative assessment of the characteristics of religious fundamentalism-linked political parties and their paths towards either radicalisation or moderation, which can go beyond the focus on the Islamic world, is surely needed. A more careful assessment of the political side of religious fundamentalism at large is, however, more broadly required, to better understand the strategies, the leadership dynamics, the power relations and the political perspectives of fundamentalist movements. This is surely very urgent, in order to better grasp the role played by religion in the domestic and international affairs of the contemporary world.

References Almond, Gabriel A., R. Scott Appleby and Emmanuel Sivan. 2003. Strong Religion: The Rise of Fundamentalisms around the World. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Almond, Gabriel A., Emmanuel Sivan and R. Scott Appleby. 1995a. ‘Explaining Fundamentalisms’. In Fundamentalisms Comprehended, edited by Martin E. Marty and R. Scott Appleby, 425–444. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Almond, Gabriel A., Emmanuel Sivan and R. Scott Appleby. 1995b. ‘Fundamentalism: Genus and Species’. In Fundamentalisms Comprehended, edited by Martin E. Marty and R. Scott Appleby, 399–424. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Almond, Gabriel A., Emmanuel Sivan and R. Scott Appleby. 1995c. ‘Politics, Ethnicity and Fundamentalism’. In Fundamentalisms Comprehended, edited by Martin E. Marty and R. Scott Appleby, 483–504. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ammerman, Nancy T. 1991. ‘North American Protestant Fundamentalism’. In Fundamentalisms Observed, edited by Martin E. Marty and R. Scott Appleby, 1–65. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Armstrong, Karen. 2001. The Battle for God. New York: Ballantine Books. Barber, Benjamin R. 2010. Jihad vs McWorld. London: Random House. Barr, James. 1981. Fundamentalism. 2nd edition. London: SCM Press. Bruce, Steve. 1988. The Rise and Fall of the New Christian Right: Conservative Protestant Politics in America, 1978–1988. New York: Oxford University Press.

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Religious fundamentalism Brumberg, Daniel. 1997. ‘Rhetoric and Strategy: Islamist Movements and Democracy in the Middle East’. In The Islamism Debate, 11–34. Tel Aviv: The Moshe Dayan Center for Middle Eastern and African Studies. Casanova, José. 1994. Public Religions in the Modern World. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Cavatorta, Francesco and Fabio Merone. 2013. ‘Moderation through Exclusion? The Journey of the Tunisian Ennahda from Fundamentalist to Conservative Party’. Democratization 20(5): 857–875. Clark, Janine A. 2006. ‘The Conditions of Islamist Moderation: Unpacking Cross-Ideological Cooperation in Jordan’. International Journal of Middle East Studies 38(4): 539–560. Comte, Auguste. 1864. Cours de Philosophie Positive. Paris: J.B. Ballière et fils. Duverger, Maurice. 1966. Political Parties: Their Organization and Activity in the Modern State. New York: Taylor & Francis. Eisenstadt, S.N. 2000. Fundamentalism, Sectarianism, and Revolution: The Jacobin Dimension of Modernity. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Finke, Roger and Rodney Stark. 2001. ‘The New Holy Clubs: Testing Church-to-Sect Propositions’. Sociology of Religion 62(2): 175–189. Gellner, Ernest. 1992. Postmodernism, Reason and Religion. London and New York: Routledge. Gellner, Ernest. 1995. ‘Fundamentalism as a Comprehensive System: Soviet Marxism and Islamic Fundamentalism Compared’. In Fundamentalisms Comprehended, edited by Martin E. Marty and R. Scott Appleby, 277–287. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Gibb, H.A.R. 1962. Mohammedanism: An Historical Survey. New York: Oxford University Press. Gunther, Richard and Larry Diamond. 2003. ‘Species of Political Parties A New Typology’. Party Politics 9 (2): 167–199. Haynes, Jeffrey. 1997. ‘Religion, Secularisation and Politics: A Postmodern Conspectus’. Third World Quarterly 18(4): 709–728. Huntington, Samuel P. 1996. The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order. New York: Simon & Schuster. Iannaccone, Laurence R. 1997a. ‘Rational Choice: Framework for the Scientific Study of Religion’. In Rational Choice Theory and Religion: Summary and Assessment, edited by Lawrence A. Young, 25–44. New York and London: Routledge. Iannaccone, Laurence R. 1997b. ‘Toward an Economic Theory of “Fundamentalism”’. Journal of Institutional and Theoretical Economics (JITE) / Zeitschrift Für Die Gesamte Staatswissenschaft 153(1): 100–116. Introvigne, Massimo. 2005. ‘Niches in the Islamic Religious Market and Fundamentalism: Examples from Turkey and Other Countries’. Interdisciplinary Journal of Research on Religion 1: 2–25. Juergensmeyer, Mark. 1993a. The New Cold War? Religious Nationalism Confronts the Secular State. London: University of California Press. Juergensmeyer, Mark. 1993b. ‘Why Religious Nationalist Are Not Fundamentalists’. Religion 23: 85–92. Kepel, Gilles. 1984. Le Prophète et Pharaon: Les mouvements islamistes dans l’Égypte contemporaine. Paris: La Découverte. Kepel, Gilles. 1991. La revanche de Dieu: chrétiens, juifs et musulmans à la reconquête du monde. Paris: Editions du Seuil. Kirchheimer, Otto. 1966. ‘The Transformation of the Western European Party Systems’. In Political Parties and Political Development, edited by Joseph La Palombara and Myron Weiner, 177–200. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Lawrence, Bruce B. 1989. Defenders of God: The Fundamentalist Revolt Against the Modern Age. London: Taurus. Lipset, Seymour Martin and Stein Rokkan. 1967. ‘Cleavage Structures, Party Systems and Voter Alignments: An Introduction’. In Party Systems and Voter Alignments: Cross-National Perspectives, edited by Seymour Martin Lipset and Stein Rokkan, 1–64. New York: Free Press. Marty, Martin E. and R. Scott Appleby. 1993. ‘Conclusion: Remaking the State: The Limits of the Fundamentalist Imagination’. In Fundamentalisms and the State: Remaking Polities, Economies, and Militance, edited by Martin E. Marty and R. Scott Appleby, 620–644. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Misztal, Bronislaw and Anson Shupe. 1992. ‘Making Sense of the Global Revival of Fundamentalism’. In Religion and Politics in Comparative Perspective: Revival of Religious Fundamentalism in East and West, edited by Bronislaw Misztal and Anson Shupe, 3–9. Westport: Praeger. Neumann, Sigmund. 1956. ‘Towards a Comparative Study of Political Parties’. In Modern Political Parties, edited by Sigmund Neumann, 395–421. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Olson, Mancur. 1965. The Logic of Collective Action. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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Luca Ozzano Ozzano, Luca. 2009. ‘A Political Science Perspective on Religious Fundamentalism’. Totalitarian Movements and Political Religions 10: 339–359. Ozzano, Luca. 2013. ‘The Many Faces of the Political God: A Typology of Religiously Oriented Parties’. Democratization 20(5): 807–830. Pace, Enzo. 1990. Il regime della verità: il fondamentalismo religioso contemporaneo. Bologna: Società editrice il Mulino. Pace, Enzo and Renzo Guolo. 1998. I Fondamentalismi. Rome and Bari: Laterza. Riesebrodt, Martin. 1993. Pious Passion: The Emergence of Modern Fundamentalism in the United States and Iran. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Robertson, Roland. 1992. Globalization: Social Theory and Global Culture. London: SAGE. Roy, Olivier. 2010. Holy Ignorance: When Religion and Culture Part Ways. New York: Columbia University Press. Sartori, Giovanni. 1970. ‘Concept Misformation in Comparative Politics’. The American Political Science Review 64(4): 1033–1053. Schwedler, Jillian. 2006. Faith in Moderation: Islamist Parties in Jordan and Yemen. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Simpson, John H. 1994. ‘Review of Marty and Appleby: Fundamentalisms and the State’. Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 33(4): 388–389. Swatos, William H., Jr. 1993. ‘Fundamentalism in the Islamic World’. Review of Religious Research 35(1): 66–68. Swatos, William H. and Kevin J. Christiano. 1999. ‘Introduction—Secularization Theory: The Course of a Concept’. Sociology of Religion 60(3): 209–228. Tibi, Bassam. 2002. The Challenge of Fundamentalism: Political Islam and the New World Disorder. Berkeley: University of California Press. Torrey, R.A. and A.C. Dixon (eds). 1994. The Fundamentals: A Testimony to the Truth. Grand Rapids: Baker. Williams, Rhys H. 1994. ‘Movement Dynamics and Social Change: Transforming Fundamentalist Ideology and Organization’. In Accounting for Fundamentalisms: The Dynamic Character of Movements, edited by Martin E. Marty and R. Scott Appleby, 785–833. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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6 RELIGION, DEMOCRATISATION AND DEMOCRACY Jeffrey Haynes

The question of how religious actors1 might affect democratisation has been controversial for decades. Scholars stressed the importance of political culture in explaining the success or failure of democratisation after the Second World War in West Germany, Italy and Japan (Linz and Stepan, 1996; Stepan, 2000; Huntington, 1991). In addition, religious traditions – for example, Roman Catholicism in Italy and Christian Democracy in West Germany – were said to be important in the (re)making of a country’s political culture after an experience of totalitarian regimes (Casanova, 1994; Madeley, 2009). During the ‘third wave of democracy’ (mid-1970s to late-1990s), a lot of attention was paid to the role of religion in democratisation (Huntington, 1991). For example, it was widely noted that in Poland, the Roman Catholic Church played a key role in undermining the communist regime and helping to establish a post-communist, democratically accountable regime (Weigel, 2005, 2007). This undermining and eventual replacement of an unelected government by ‘people’s power’ had a wider political effect beyond Poland, extending to elsewhere in formerly Soviet controlled Central and Eastern Europe, as well as Latin America, Africa and parts of Asia. There was also the contemporaneous rise of the Christian Right in the United States, and its considerable impact on the electoral fortunes of both the Republican Party and the Democratic Party. Add to this the widespread growth of Islamist movements across much of the Muslim world, with significant ramifications for electoral outcomes in various countries, including Algeria, Egypt and Morocco, successive electoral successes for the Hindu nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party in India, and substantial political influence over time for various ‘Jewish fundamentalist’ political parties in Israel, and we have clear and sustained evidence of religion’s recent importance in democratisation and experiences of democratic regimes. Focusing upon the Central and East European democratising experience more generally, Juan Linz and Alfred Stepan argued that religion was not generally a key explanatory factor explaining democratisation outcomes (Linz and Stepan, 1996). In relation to Muslim countries, Fred Halliday (2005) argued that apparent barriers to democracy in some such countries, especially in the Middle East and North Africa, are primarily linked to certain shared social and political features. These generally include long histories and experiences of authoritarian rule and weak and often fragmented civil societies and, although some of those features tend to be legitimised in terms of ‘Islamic doctrine’, there is in fact nothing specifically ‘Islamic’ about them. On the other hand, for Huntington (1996), religion has a crucial impact on democratisation. 69

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Huntington claims that Christianity has a strong propensity to be supportive of democratisation and the consolidation of democracy while most other religions, including Islam, Buddhism and Confucianism, do not. This chapter seeks to build on such insights and arguments. To do so, it examines key debates on religion and democratisation reflected in the following three hypotheses:   

religious traditions have core elements which are more or less conducive to democratisation and democracy; religious traditions may be multi-vocal – but at any moment there are dominant or loudest voices more or less receptive to and encouraging of democratisation; religious actors rarely if ever determine democratisation outcomes. However, in various ways and with a range of outcomes, they are often of significance for democratisation.

The chapter is divided into four sections: (1) Religious deprivatisation and political change: a worldwide phenomenon; (2) Defining democratisation and religion; (3) Religion, political society, civil society and the state; and (4) Concluding comments. Overall, the aim is to examine the veracity of the three hypotheses in the bullet points above. In the next section, we examine how religious deprivatisation has led to political changes in many parts of the world. After that, we look at how religion is defined, in order to clarify how it can affect politics and political outcomes, including democratisation and democracy. The third section examines three important components of politics: political society, civil society and the state, with a view to identifying and discussing religion’s influence in relation to each and, overall, how they affect democratisation and democracy. Our general starting point is that in general around the world, religions have left their assigned place in the private sphere. This means they have in many cases become recognisably politically active in various ways and with assorted outcomes. This re-emergence from political marginality dates back until at least the 1980s. At that time, Casanova notes, ‘what was new and became “news” … was the widespread and simultaneous refusal of religions to be restricted to the private sphere’ (Casanova, 1994: 6). This involved a remodelling and re-assumption of public roles by religion, which theories of secularisation had long condemned to social and political marginalisation. What, if anything, is politically distinctive about secularisation? ‘Secularisation’ involves a significant diminishing of religious concerns in everyday life. Secularisation was once thought to be a unidirectional process, characterising progress from tradition to modernity. As societies moved in this direction, it was thought inevitable that they would progress from a sacred condition to one where religion had decreasing ability to influence public outcomes. The point would eventually be reached whereby the sacred would become both socially and politically marginal. Secularisation theory confidently proclaimed that religion was destined universally to become ‘only’ a private matter, losing its public significance. As Shupe (1990: 19) notes, ‘the demystification of religion inherent in the classic secularisation paradigm posits a gradual, persistent, unbroken erosion of religious influence in urban industrial societies’. Such was secularisation theory’s hold on the understanding of successive generations of social scientists, that the Spanish sociologist José Casanova (1994: 17) was correct when he wrote that secularisation theory ‘may be the only theory which was able to attain a truly paradigmatic status within the modern social sciences’. Casanova’s comment followed the understanding of most of the leading figures of nineteenth- and twentieth-century social science – including Auguste Comte, Emile Durkheim, Sigmund Freud, Karl Marx, Talcott Parsons, Herbert Spencer and Max Weber. All believed that secularisation was an integral facet of ‘modernisation’, a global trend of major developmental relevance everywhere as societies modernised. They 70

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all believed that religion would gradually fade in importance and cease to be significant with the advent of industrial [that is, modernised] society. The belief that religion was dying became the conventional wisdom in the social sciences during most of the twentieth century. (Norris and Inglehart 2004: 3) As modernisation extended its grip, so the argument went, religion would everywhere be ‘privatised’, losing its grip on culture, becoming a purely personal matter. Thus, religion would no longer be a collective force with significant mobilising potential for social and/or political changes. In short, secularisation, the US sociologist, Donald Eugene Smith proclaimed, was ‘the most fundamental structural and ideological change in the process of political development’ (Smith 1970: 6). It was thought a one-way street: societies gradually – but inexorably – move away from being focused around the sacred and a concern with the divine to a situation characterised by significant diminution of religious power and authority. Secularisation theory tout court turned out to be wrong. Rather than fading away, it is frequently observed that religion has made a return to social and political prominence in many countries, especially in the developing world, over the last two or three decades. Many would now accept that the opposite to religious marginalisation occurred: widespread religious resurgence, with ramifications for how we understand politics and international relations (Haynes, 2013). Religion’s social and political influence is said to be high in several regions of the world, not ‘only’ in much of the developing world, but also in a key Western, ‘developed’ country: the United States. Whereas in the 1960s and 1970s secularisation theorists predicted the ‘death’ of religion, now many accept they were wrong. For example, the late Peter Berger (1999: 3), once a leading proponent of the secularisation thesis, later accepted that, ‘far from being in decline in the modern world, religion is actually experiencing a resurgence … the assumption we live in a secularized world is false … The world today is as furiously religious as it ever was’. Thus, contrary to conventional wisdom, ‘modernisation’ did not actually weaken religion – but instead strengthened it, leading to a widespread religious resurgence. We are now as a result experiencing a religious revival, which consequently brings religion into renewed political activity and prominence in many parts of the world. Norris and Inglehart (2004: 215–216) state that ‘some of these reported phenomena [of religious resurgence] may have been overstated’ but it is the case that ‘the simplistic assumption that religion was everywhere in decline, common in earlier decades, ha[s] become implausible to even the casual observer’. It was once believed to be axiomatic that modernisation inevitably leads to religious privatisation and secularisation. As a result, there would be a fundamental, global decline in religion’s social and political importance. This was believed to be the case, regardless of religious tradition or form of political power dominant in the context in which religion found itself. The 1979 revolution in Iran posed fundamental questions in relation to this conventional wisdom. Contemporaneously, the Roman Catholic Church began to play an increasingly important role in relation to democratisation in Central and Eastern Europe, Africa, East Asia and Latin America. These two developments not only collectively emphasised that modernisation does not always lead straightforwardly to increased secularisation and its corollary, religious marginalisation, but also that religion may play a fundamental role in issues of political representation and legitimacy, including democratisation and democracy. Contrary to secularisation theory, there has been a widespread – some say, global – resurgence of religion, often as a political actor in numerous countries (Casanova, 1994; Davie, 2000; Stepan, 2000). This has involved various religious traditions. Overall, this emphasises not only that there is more than one relevant interpretation of modernisation but also that religion can and does play a role in political changes, even in parts of the world, such as Western Europe, long regarded as inevitably and invariably secularising. 71

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Religious deprivatisation and political change: a worldwide phenomenon Globally, two phenomena are simultaneously taking place. First, there is said to be an increase in various forms of spirituality and religiosity, although this also implies in many cases both fragmentation and decline in societal clout of hitherto leading religious organisations in many countries (Davie, 2000). The increase in spirituality and religiosity are manifested in various ways including ‘new’ religious and spiritual phenomena, including manifestations of ‘New Age’ spirituality; ‘foreign’, ‘exotic’ Eastern religions, including Hare Krishna; ‘televangelism’; renewed interest in astrology, and ‘new’ sects, such as the Scientologists. Note, however, that such religious entities, as Casanova (1994: 5) points out, are ‘not particularly relevant for the social sciences or for the self-understanding of modernity’, because they do not present ‘major problems of interpretation … They fit within expectations and can be interpreted within the framework of established theories of secularization’. The point is that they are normal phenomena. They are examples of private religion. They do not individually or collectively question or challenge the extant arrangements of society, including political and social structures. Indeed, such religious phenomena are apolitical; and ‘all’ they really show is that many people are interested in spiritual issues and sometimes they involve new expressions. In addition, in many Southern European countries with Roman Catholic cultures – for example, Italy, Poland and Spain – the Church is losing moral appeal for many people, especially among the young (Ceccarini, 2009). In sum, globally the multiplicity of existing and new religious phenomena belies the idea that religion would inevitably lose its appeal for many people, even in apparently highly secular countries, including France and Turkey. In addition, innovative religious forms appear to be increasing their appeal, often at the expense of traditional religions. But from a political perspective these new religions are rarely of political importance. Second, not only Christian churches – especially the Roman Catholic Church in both transnational and national contexts – but also Islamic religious actors in many countries, as well as Judaist political parties in Israel, now openly seek to articulate viewpoints on a variety of political and social issues, more readily and openly than in the past. Such religious entities typically resist state attempts to side-line them. Three questions are central in seeking to account for religion’s current political impact in many countries. First, why should religious organisations seek to become actors with political goals? This occurs when religious entities feel that change is necessary and that the state is not well equipped to oversee and lead such changes, not least because the solutions it seeks are secular ones; and they do not chime well with religious interpretations. Second, how widespread is the phenomenon? Our starting assumption is that it is extensive, although the following account indicates that it is not uniform in its implications. Third, what are the political consequences of religion’s intervention in democratisation and/or the workings of an existing democratic polity? The short answer is that they are variable. For example, sometimes religion appears to have a pivotal influence on political outcomes – for example, the role of the Roman Catholic Church in Poland in relation to democratisation in the 1980s. Elsewhere, related outcomes can be both unexpected and variable, sometimes expressed at the level of what Ulrich Beck has called ‘sub-politics’, that is, political contestation played out not in political society but at the level of civil society (Beck, 1997). While differing in terms of specific issues that encourage them to act politically, religious actors commonly reject the secular ideals that have long dominated theories of political development in both developed and developing countries, appearing instead as champions of alternative, confessional outlooks, programmes and policies. Seeking to keep faith with what they interpret as divine 72

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decree, they typically refuse to render to secular power-holders automatic material or moral support. Instead, they are concerned with various social, moral and ethical issues, which are however nearly always political to some degree. Religious actors may challenge or undermine both the legitimacy and autonomy of the state’s main secular spheres, including government and more widely political society. In addition, many churches and other comparable religious entities no longer restrict themselves to the pastoral care of individual souls. Now, they raise questions about, inter alia, interconnections of private and public morality, claims of states and markets to be exempt from extrinsic normative considerations, and modes and concerns of government. What religious actors also have in common is a shared concern for retaining and increasing their social importance. To this end, many religious entities now seek to bypass or elude what they regard as the cumbersome constraints of temporal authority and, as a result, threaten to undermine the latter’s constituted political functions. In short, refusing to be condemned to the realm of privatised belief, religion has widely reappeared in the public sphere, thrusting itself into issues of social, moral and ethical – and in many places, political – contestation. However, the key point is not from which religious tradition individual religious actors come. Instead, religious entities are very often also political actors, wielding varying degrees of influence in relation to political outcomes, while sharing a focus on a key issue: a desire to change their societies in directions where what they regard as religiously acceptable standards of behaviour are central to public life, including political life. Pursuing such objectives, they use a variety of tactics and methods, operating either at the level of civil society and/or political society. In democratising and already-democratic polities, religious actors are compelled to play by the rules of the democratic game if they wish to enjoy legitimacy and, in most cases, continued existence. Like any other political actors, if a religious party or entity resorts to extra-democratic means, such as extremism, violence or terrorism, it will quickly find itself beyond the pale and no longer allowed to function within the parameters of ‘normal’ political interactions.

Defining democratisation and religion Before turning to these issues in detail, it is useful to start by discussing two of the key terms used in this chapter: ‘democratisation’ and ‘religion’. Democratisation is a process. It can occur in four not necessarily discrete stages: (1) political liberalisation; (2) collapse of authoritarian regime; (3) democratic transition; (4) democratic consolidation. Political liberalisation is the process of reforming authoritarian rule. Collapse of the authoritarian regime stage refers to the stage when a dictatorship falls apart. Democratic transition is the material shift to democracy, commonly marked by the democratic election of a new government. Democratic consolidation is the process of embedding both democratic institutions and perceptions among both elites and citizens that democracy is the best way of ‘doing’ politics. The four stages are complementary and can overlap. For example, political liberalisation and transition can happen simultaneously, while aspects of democratic consolidation can appear when certain elements of transition are barely in place or remain incomplete. Or they may even be showing signs of retreating. On the other hand, it is nearly always possible to observe a concluded transition to democracy. This is when a pattern of behaviour developed ad hoc during the stage of regime change becomes institutionalised, characterised by admittance of political actors into the system – as well as the process of political decision-making – according to previously established and legitimately coded procedures. Until then, absence of or uncertainty about these accepted ‘rules of the democratic game’ make it difficult to be sure about the eventual outcome of political transitions. This is because the transition dynamics revolve around strategic interactions and tentative arrangements 73

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between actors with uncertain power resources. Key issues include: (1) defining who is legitimately entitled to play the political ‘game’; (2) the criteria determining who wins and who loses politically; and (3) the limits to be placed on the issues at stake. What chiefly differentiates the four stages of democratisation is the degree of uncertainty prevailing at each moment. For example, during regime transition all political calculations and interactions are highly uncertain. This is because political actors find it difficult to know: (1) what their precise interests are; and (2) which groups and individuals would most usefully be allies or opponents. During transition, powerful, often inherently undemocratic, political players, such as the armed forces and/or elite civilian supporters of the exiting authoritarian regime, characteristically divide into what Huntington has identified as ‘hard-line’ and ‘soft-line’ factions (Huntington, 1991). ‘Soft-liners’ are relatively willing to achieve negotiated solutions to the political problems, while ‘hard-liners’ are unwilling to arrive at solutions reflecting compromise between polarised positions. Democratic transition is most likely when ‘soft-liners’ triumph because, unlike ‘hard-liners’, they are willing to find a compromise solution. A consolidated democracy is often said to be in place when political elites, political groups and the mass of ordinary people accept the formal rules and informal understandings that determine political outcomes: that is, ‘who gets what, where, when and how’. If achieved, it signifies that groups are settling into relatively predictable positions involving politically legitimate behaviour according to generally acceptable rules. More generally, a consolidated democracy is characterised by normative limits and established patterns of power distribution. Political parties emerge as privileged in this context because, despite their divisions over strategies and their uncertainties about partisan identities, the logic of electoral competition focuses public attention on them and compels them to appeal to the widest possible clientele. In addition, ‘strong’ civil societies are thought to be crucial for democratic consolidation, in part because they can help keep an eye on the state and what it does with its power. In sum, there is democratic consolidation when all major political actors take for granted the fact that democratic processes dictate governmental renewal. Despite numerous relatively free and fair elections over the last two decades in many formerly authoritarian countries, in most cases ordinary people continue to lack ability to influence political outcomes. In many cases, this may be because small groups of elites – whether civilians, military personnel or a combination – not only control national political processes but also manage more widely to dictate political conditions. Under such conditions, because power is still held by relatively small groups of elites, political systems have narrow bases from which most ordinary people are, or feel, excluded. This can be problematic because, by definition, a democracy should not be run by and for the few, but should signify popularly elected government operating in the broad public interest. In sum, during the third wave of democracy, increased numbers of governments came to power via the ballot box – yet not all of them have exhibited strong democratic credentials (Carothers, 2002). Turning to the issue of defining religion, it has long been noted how extraordinarily difficult it is to reach a consensus on this issue. Sociologists have tended to use two main approaches in this regard. Religion is either: (1) a system of beliefs and practices related to an ultimate being, beings, or to the supernatural; or (2) that which is sacred in a society, including ultimate inviolate beliefs and practices. For purposes of wider social science analysis, religion can usefully be approached (1) from the perspective of a body of ideas and outlooks – that is, theology and ethical code; (2) as a type of formal organisation – that is, ecclesiastical ‘church’ or comparable entity; or (3) as social group – that is, a religious organisation, movement or party. Religion can affect the temporal world in one of two ways: by what it says and/or does. The former relates to religion’s doctrine or theology, the latter to its importance as a social phenomenon and mark of 74

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identity, which can function through various modes of institutionalisation, including civil society, political society and religion–state relations. It is necessary to distinguish between religion expressed at the individual and group levels: only in the latter is it normally of importance for understanding related political outcomes. From an individualist perspective, we are contemplating religion’s private, spiritual side, ‘a set of symbolic forms and acts which relates man [sic] to the ultimate conditions of his existence’ (Bellah, 1964: 359). But to move into the realm of politics, as we do in this volume, is necessarily to be concerned with group religiosity, whose claims and pretensions are always to some degree political. That is, there is no such thing as a religion without consequences for value systems, including those affecting politics and political outcomes. Group religiosity, like politics, is a matter of collective solidarities and, frequently, of inter-group tension, competition and conflict, with a focus on either shared or disputed images of the sacred or on cultural and/or class, in short, political, issues. To complicate matters, however, such influences may well operate differently and with ‘different temporalities for the same theologically defined religion in different parts of the world’ (Moyser, 1991: 11). To try to bring together the relationship between democratisation and religious actors in all their varied aspects and then to discern significant patterns and trends is not a simple task. But, in attempting it three points are worth emphasising. First, there is something of a distinction to be drawn between looking at the relationship in terms of the impact of religion on democratisation, and that of democratisation on religion. At the same time, they are interactive: one stimulates and is stimulated by the other. In other words, because we are concerned with the ways in which power is exercised in society, and the ways in which religion is involved, the relationship between religion and democratisation is both dialectical and interactive. Both causal directions need to be held in view. Second, religions are creative and constantly changing; consequently, their relationships with democratisation can also vary over time. In this volume, the authors are all concerned to examine religious entities in democratisation outcomes both currently and over the last few decades. Finally, as political actors religious entities can only usefully be discussed in terms of specific contexts; in the chapters that comprise this volume, it is the relationship with government which forms a common, although not the only, focal point. Yet, the model of responses, while derived from and influenced by specific aspects of particular religions, is not necessarily inherent to them. Rather this is a theoretical construct suggested by much of the literature on state– society relations, built on the understanding that religion’s specific role is largely determined by a broader context. The assumption is that there is an essential core element of religion shaping its behaviour in, for example, Christian, Islamic or Jewish societies and communities. It is, however, possible to question this assumption. The focus of many earlier studies was to seek to analyse how existing religious beliefs or affiliations affect political outcomes, including those related to democratisation. In this volume, however, we are equally concerned with the reverse process: how do specific political contexts affect how and what selected religious entities do in relation to democratisation?

Religion, political society, civil society and the state To understand the general political importance of religious actors, and by extension how they involve themselves in democratisation, it is necessary first to comprehend what they say and do in their relationship with the state. When we refer to the ‘state’ we mean something more than ‘mere’ government. The state is the continuous administrative, legal, bureaucratic and coercive system that attempts not only to manage the various state apparatuses, but in addition to 75

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‘structure relations between civil and public power and to structure many crucial relationships within civil and political society’ (Stepan, 1988: 3). As a result, almost everywhere in the world, apparently regardless of the nature of political systems and/or the level of economic development in a country, states have over time sought to reduce and control religion’s political importance and involvement. That is, around the world states have sought to privatise religion, and thus considerably to reduce its political impact. Sometimes, for example in the United States (mainline Protestantism), Poland and Italy (Roman Catholicism) and Turkey (‘official’ Sunni Islam), states attempt to erect a ‘civil religion’ arrangement, whereby a certain designated religious format effectively ‘functions as the cult of the political community’ (Casanova, 1994: 58). The declared purpose is to try to create and develop forms of consensual, corporate religion, claiming to be guided by general, culturally appropriate, specific religious beliefs of intrinsic and ‘universal’ societal significance. In short, when states seek to develop ‘civil religions’ it is an attempted strategy to try to avoid social conflicts and promote national coordination and cohesion. Religious actors’ relationships with the state are by no means limited to attempts by the latter to build civil religions. In fact, in many countries, relations between religious entities and the state are not only now more visible, but also increasingly problematic. Why is this the case? First, it may be that recent increases in religious challenges to the authority of the state are merely transitory reactions in the context of the onward march of secularisation. Second, even if the modern state is particularly vulnerable to legitimation crises, it does not necessarily mean that religion is again becoming automatically relevant to state functioning. Third, religion-based challenges to state hegemony have roots in endeavours by the latter to assert a monitoring role vis-à-vis religion, in effect to control it. We can see such a development at three levels: political society, civil society and at the level of the state itself. This underlines that in many countries religion is now liberated from providing sometimes slavish legitimacy to secular authority. Many religious actors are now willing routinely to criticise and challenge the state in various ways in relation to a variety of issues and themes. Yet, even if heightened concern about the state’s policies can be held up as evidence of the regeneration of the sociopolitical power of religion, we still need to ask further questions. The issues are themselves secular and in so far as religious agencies are active in these areas, this is a radical shift of concern from the supernatural, from devotional acts, to what are largely secular goals pursued by secular means. However, a note of caution is in order: we need to bear in mind that when religious interests act as ‘pressure groups’ – rather than as ‘prayer bodies’ – they are not necessarily going to be effective in what they seek to achieve. This is because the more secularised a society, the less likely it is that religious actors will be able to play a politically significant role (Wilson, 1992: 202–203). Religion and political society At the level of political society – that is, the arena in which the polity specifically arranges itself for political contestation to gain control over public power and the state apparatus – we can note a range of religious responses that are in part dependent upon the degree of secularisation. These include (1) resistance to the disestablishment and the differentiation of the religious from the secular sphere, the goals of many so-called religious ‘fundamentalist’ groups; (2) religious groups and confessional political parties’ mobilisations and counter-mobilisations against other religions or secular movements and parties; and (3) religious organisations’ mobilisation in defence of religious, social and political freedoms – that is, demanding the rule of law and the legal protection of human and civil rights, protecting mobilisation of civil society and/or defending institutionalisation of democratically elected governments. In recent times in pursuit 76

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of such goals, we can note Roman Catholic transnational political mobilisation in and between various countries, as well as activities of Islamist groups in various countries, including Turkey, Egypt, Mali and Indonesia. Religion and civil society Civil society is the arena where various social movements – including neighbourhood associations, women’s groups, religious entities and intellectual currents – join with civic organisations, including lawyers’, journalists’, trade unions’ and entrepreneurs’ associations, to constitute themselves into an ensemble of arrangements to express themselves and seek to advance their interests. Sometimes, the concept of civil society is used in contrast to political society. Unlike the latter, civil society refers to organisations and movements – not political parties – formally uninvolved in both the business of government and overt political management. Note, however, that this does not necessarily prevent civil society organisations from sometimes seeking to or actually exerting political influence, on various matters, including democratic outcomes and the content of national constitutions. Regarding religion at the level of civil society, one can distinguish between hegemonic civil religions – such as Evangelical Protestantism in nineteenth-century America – and the recent public intervention of religious entities, concerned either with single issues such as anti-abortion or with morally determined views of wider societal development, for example, in relation to homosexual rights or appropriate days for shops to open. In trying to influence public policy – without themselves seeking to become political office-holders – religious entities may employ a variety of tactics, including, in no particular order: (1) lobbying the executive apparatus of the state; (2) going to court; (3) building links with political parties; (4) forming alliances with likeminded groups, both secular and/or from other religious traditions; (5) mobilising followers to lobby and/or protest; and (6) working to sensitise public opinion via mass media. The overall point is that religious actors may use a variety of methods to try to achieve their objectives. Religion and the state Interactions between the state and religious entities are often referred to as ‘church–state’ relations. It is useful to point out, however, that one of the difficulties in seeking to survey contemporary ‘church–state relations’ is that the very concept of church is a somewhat parochial, Anglo-American standpoint with direct relevance only to Christian traditions. It is derived primarily from the context of British establishmentarianism – that is, maintenance of the principle of ‘establishment’ whereby one church is legally recognised as the only established church. In other words, when we think of church–state relations we may assume a single relationship between two clearly distinct, unitary and solidly but separately institutionalised entities. In this implicit model built into the conceptualisation of the religion–political nexus there is but one state and one church; both entities’ jurisdictional boundaries need to be carefully delineated. Both separation and pluralism must be safeguarded, because it is assumed that the leading church – like the state – will seek institutionalised dominance over rival religious organisations. For its part, the state is expected to respect individual rights even though it is assumed to be inherently disposed towards aggrandisement at the expense of citizens’ personal liberty. In sum, the conventional concept of state–church relations is rooted in prevailing Christian conceptions of the power of the state of necessity being constrained by forces in society – including those of religion. Expanding the problem of church–state relations to non-Christian contexts necessitates some preliminary conceptual clarifications – not least because the very idea of a prevailing state– 77

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church dichotomy is culture-bound. As already noted, church is a Christian institution, while the modern understanding of state is deeply rooted in the post-Reformation European political experience. In their specific cultural setting and social significance, the tension and the debate over the church–state relationship are uniquely Western phenomena, present in the ambivalent dialectic of ‘render therefore unto Caesar the things which be Caesar’s and unto God the things which be God’s’ (Luke 21:25). Overloaded with Western cultural history, these two concepts cannot easily be translated into non-Christian terminologies. The differences between Christian conceptions of state and church and those of other world religions are well illustrated by reference to Islam. In the Muslim tradition, mosque is not church. The closest Islamic approximation to ‘state’ – dawla – means, as a concept, either a ruler’s dynasty or his administration. Only with the specific Durkheimian stipulation of church as the generic concept for moral community, priest for the custodians of the sacred law, and state for political community can we comfortably use these concepts in Islamic and other non-Christian contexts. On the theological level, the command–obedience nexus that constitutes the Islamic definition of authority is not demarcated by conceptual categories of religion and politics. Life as a physical reality is an expression of divine will and authority (qudrah’). There is no validity in separating the matters of piety from those of the polity; both are divinely ordained. Yet, although both religious and political authorities are legitimated Islamically, they invariably constitute two independent social institutions. They do, however, regularly interact with each other. Yet, there may be sometimes serious tensions between Islamist actors and the state in regard to democratisation and political outcomes more generally. The overall point is that tensions widely exist between secular power-holders and religious actors of various kinds in the modern world. It is often the case in some European countries, for example, that religious actors, apparently regardless of their religious persuasion, may work individually or collectively towards reducing the ability of the state to side-line them. Barras shows this in relation to France where recent years have seen a campaign by some Muslim women to wear Islamic dress. While they regard it as a fundamental human right to be allowed to dress as they wish, French secularists see things differently: Muslim women’s efforts to dress as they wish is regarded by the secularists as a direct contravention of a core French post-revolutionary principle: subjugation of religion by the state. In effect, such religious challenges reflect a wider development: a wish on the part of some religious actors to reverse religious privatisation, a course of action which impacts on a variety of political and social concerns.

Concluding comments To try to bring together the relationship between democratisation, democracy and religious actors in all their varied aspects and then to try to discern significant patterns and trends is not a simple task. But, in attempting it three points are worth emphasising. First, there is something of a distinction to be drawn between looking at the relationship in terms of the impact of religion on democratisation and democracy and vice versa. Yet, they are also interactive: one stimulates and is stimulated by the other. In other words, because we are concerned with the ways in which power is exercised in society, and the ways in which religion is involved, the relationship between religion, democratisation and democracy is both dialectical and interactive. Both causal directions need to be held in view. Second, religions are creative and constantly changing; consequently, their relationships with democratisation and democracy can also vary over time. Finally, as political actors, religious entities can only usefully be discussed in terms of specific contexts; it is the relationship with government – whether supporting it or seeking to undermine it – which forms a common, 78

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although not the only, focal point. Yet, the model of responses, while derived from and influenced by specific aspects of particular religions, is not necessarily inherent to them. Rather this is a theoretical construct suggested by much of the literature on state–society relations, built on the understanding that religion’s specific role is largely determined by a broader context. The assumption is that there is an essential core element of religion shaping its behaviour in, for example, Christian, Islamic or Jewish societies and communities.

Note 1 Religious faith encourages a religious actor to undertake action. Such actors include: churches and comparable religious organisations in non-Christian religions; social movements whose main motivating factor is members’ religious beliefs; and political parties, whose ideology identifiably also has its roots in religious beliefs and traditions.

References Beck, Ulrich (1997) ‘Subpolitics’, Organization & Environment, 10, 1: 52–65. Bellah, Robert (1964) ‘Religious Evolution’, American Sociological Review, 29: 358–374. Berger, Peter (ed.) (1999) The Desecularization of the World: Resurgent Religion in World Politics, Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans. Carothers, Thomas (2002) ‘The End of the Transition Paradigm’, Journal of Democracy, 13, 1: 5–21. Casanova, Jose (1994) Public Religions in the Modern World, Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Ceccarini, Luigi (2009) ‘The Church in Opposition: Religious Actors, Lobbying and Catholic Voters in Italy’, in Jeffrey Haynes (ed.), Religion and Politics in Europe, the Middle East and North Africa, London: Routledge, 177–201. Davie, Grace (2000) Religion in Modern Europe: A Memory Mutates, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Halliday, Fred (2005) The Middle East in International Relations: Power, Politics and Ideology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Haynes, Jeffrey (2013) An Introduction to International Relations and Religion, 2nd edn, London: Pearson. Huntington, Samuel (1991) The Third Wave: Democratization in the Late Twentieth Century, Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Huntington, Samuel (1996) The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order, New York: Free Press. Linz, Juan and Alfred Stepan (1996) Problems of Democratic Transition and Consolidation: Southern Europe, South America, and Post-Communist Europe, Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press. Madeley, John T.S. (2009) ‘E unum pluribus: The Role of Religion in the Project of European Integration’, in Jeffrey Haynes (ed.), Religion and Politics in Europe, the Middle East and North Africa, London: Routledge, 114–135. Moyser, George (1991) ‘Politics and Religion in the Modern World: An Overview’, in George Moyser (ed.), Politics and Religion in the Modern World, London: Routledge, 1–27. Norris, Pippa and Ronald Inglehart (2004) Sacred and Secular: Religion and Politics Worldwide, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Shupe, Anton (1990) ‘The Stubborn Persistence of Religion in the Global Arena’, in Emil Sahliyeh (ed.), Religious Resurgence and Politics in the Contemporary World, Albany: State University of New York Press, 17–26. Smith, Donald Eugene (1970) Religion and Political Development, Boston: Little, Brown. Stepan, Alfred (1988) Rethinking Military Politics: Brazil and the Southern Cone, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Stepan, Alfred (2000) ‘Religion, Democracy, and the “Twin Tolerations”’, Journal of Democracy, 11, 4: 37–57. Weigel, George (2005) Witness to Hope: The Biography of Pope John Paul II, 1920–2005, New York: HarperCollins. Weigel, George (2007) Faith, Reason, and the War against Jihadism: A Call to Action, New York: Doubleday. Wilson, Bryan (1992) ‘Reflections on a Many-Sided Controversy’, in Steve Bruce (ed.), Religion and Modernization, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 195–210.

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Why do some religious political actors continue to pursue a closed and rigid religious worldview, ‘immoderation’, in their party platforms? Extant literature expects religious political actors to ‘moderate’ within the party system ‘from a relatively closed and rigid worldview to one more open and tolerant of alternative perspectives’ (Schwedler, 2007: 3) either because they want to expand their constituency by using a less confrontational party platform (‘behavioural moderation’), or because they have internalised liberal democratic ideals through their interactions with secular forces within the party system (‘ideological moderation’) (Schwedler, 2011: 352–361). Nonetheless, with the exception of Christian Democratic parties in Western Europe, immoderation defines the party platforms of most religious political actors today, which often demand to bring public policies in line with a particular religious interpretation and are unwilling to compromise with secular forces in this quest. To discuss this unexpected development, this chapter utilises a ‘most different systems approach’ and looks at what factors explain the similar use of immoderation in the party platforms of two religious political actors, the Christian Right coalition within the Republican Party in the United States and the pro-Islamic movementparties in Turkey, in two dissimilar political regimes. Through this comparative discussion, this chapter argues that religious political actors use ‘immoderation’ in their party platforms both strategically in order to form a small yet dedicated supporter base, and ideologically to consolidate their moral majority. This chapter looks at immoderation in party platforms because ‘platforms can be used as a shorthand understanding of what the party stands for and what its policy positions and priorities are’ (Conger, 2010: 653). After all, party platforms tell us both about what is going on inside parties, such as about intra-party discussions between factions, party goals, and about the party base (Harmel, 2018: 229–239). Here, a ‘party platform’ not only refers to written statements, such as party programmes, but also to public statements made by party leaders. This is because the use of religion by political parties often serves a symbolic function to ‘appease public concern without necessarily directly or substantively addressing the underlying problems’ by reassuring voters of the party’s capacity to solve problems and by proposing a moral model to be emulated (Oliver and Marion, 2008: 400). Hence, this chapter takes a comprehensive perspective on party platforms and looks at how religious political actors define and set out their formal political agendas and how their leaders communicate this agenda to the public via statements and policy proposals. 80

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To elaborate further, the rest of this chapter is organised into four parts. The first part delineates the methodology and research design of this study, while the second and third parts analyse the strategic and ideological use of immoderation by religious political actors in the United States and in Turkey comparatively. The fourth part concludes with a discussion of this chapter’s findings.

Methodology and research design This chapter uses a ‘most different systems’ approach in order to identify similar relations between the independent and the dependent variables that are observed in different contexts (Przeworski and Teune, 1970: 34–39). Thus, this chapter looks at how both the Christian Right within the Republican Party in the United States and pro-Islamic movement-parties in Turkey, despite operating in different socio-political contexts, have gone through a similar political evolution from the margins of the political spectrum to its centre. In doing so, this chapter engages in a crossreligious comparison, which allows the examination of ‘whether certain political processes are unique to specific religions or regions’ (Altınordu, 2010: 518) ‘without making essentialist arguments’ (Tepe, 2012: 470). Furthermore, it compares rather different organisations: one, which for the most part of its existence has operated as a political party with a clear hierarchy (pro-Islamic parties in Turkey) and another that influences party politics as a diffuse coalition partner of an existing political party (Christian Right and the Republican Party in the United States), because both represent a similar breed of entity in politics: the ‘movement-party’. Movement-parties operate in between social movements and political parties wherein political activism inside and outside of institutionalised politics complement each other (Goldstone, 2004: 6). Foremost, ‘movement-parties’ combine intra- and extra-institutional mobilisation: ‘one day, legislators of such parties may debate bills in parliamentary committees, but the next day, they participate in disruptive demonstrations or the non-violent occupation of government sites’ (Kitschelt, 2006: 281). As such, within the seemingly permanent two-party system of US politics, the Christian Right can only influence intra-institutional politics, such as decisionmaking within the Republican Party, through its extra-institutional political activities, such as through its mobilisation of alienated voters to the polls for the party, and by advising decisionmakers, such as the president. Similarly, in Turkey, where new political actors can only express their demands in party politics within the strict boundaries of laicism and where party closures are common when they become, or appear to become, ‘too Islamic’, pro-Islamic movements can only survive these strict institutional laws by preserving their organisational strength and societal influence outside institutional politics, such as grassroots social service provisions. Furthermore, ‘movement-parties’ have dual organisations between a political party with a centralised decision-making circle and a social movement with diffuse grassroots organisations at the local level. In particular, in US party politics, where political parties are umbrella organisations composed of various ‘coalitions’ representing diverse interests, the Christian Right is one of the most important coalitions within the Republican Party, yet at the same time it also represents a social movement with diverse local level offshoots that aim to influence policy at the grassroots level. Likewise, pro-Islamic movements in Turkey, such as the National Outlook Movement, have formed Islamic political parties, which have been backed up by a larger Islamic counter-hegemony outside formal institutions housing various Islamic Orders, media outlets, publishing houses and private schools. Thus, both religious political actors influence politics through their participation in party politics as well as through their scattered grassroots organisations. To engage in such a cross-religious comparison of two similar movement-parties in two different political contexts, the next section will address the strategic immoderation of religious political actors in the United States and in Turkey. 81

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Strategic immoderation In his famous work on the ‘spatial model’, Downs (2000) argues that parties are strategic voteseekers, which, in their quest to maximise votes, formulate ‘moderate’, more widely accepted and uncontroversial, party platforms to appeal to a wider array of voters than a narrow one would. Such a focus on vote-maximising ‘strategic moderation’ by mainstream parties, however, cannot explain the party platform formation of those smaller political actors, such as niche religious political actors, that know they cannot win the masses’ approval and thus instead seek office, influence or policy instead of votes per se (Müller and Strøm, 1999: 1–35). Kitschelt (1995: 1–47), in his study of extreme right-wing parties in Europe, for instance, finds that such niche ideological parties formulate radical (immoderate) party platforms in order to invigorate the electorate at the margins of the political spectrum by addressing issues mainstream parties ignore. Hence, the formation of an immoderate party platform serves the strategic purpose of situating a niche religious political actor as a prospective ‘kingmaker’ or ‘blackmail party’ with potentially crucial political leverage over mainstream actors with the support of a small but dedicated ideological supporter base. The early platforms of the Christian Right within the Republican Party and of pro-Islamic movement-parties within Turkish party politics that situate them as strategically immoderate kingmakers illustrate this point. Christian Right and the Republican Party Some Evangelical groups in the United States, witnessing the liberal socio-political atmosphere of the 1960s/1970s, feared the decline of religion in American life, and thus sought to increase their political role (Wilcox, 1992: 10–14). This religious revivalism was ‘not any single organization or any other formal entity, but rather a loose collection of people and organisations with a shared socially conservative religious, moral, and social agenda that they identif[ied] with “Christian” values’ (Feld et al., 2002: 175). Its political rise was mainly displayed by local movements, seeking ‘the defense of traditional cultural and social values against what the participants saw as a godless society that had replaced firm moral standards with a system of relativism’ (Le Beau, n.d.). Fearing the social liberalism of this era, Evangelical leaders, who previously advised political abstention, started directing their followers to seek an increased role within politics in order to improve the world to prepare for Christ’s return (Buzzard, 1989: 133–146). In this political climate, Jimmy Carter’s presidential candidacy in 1976 was a turning point for these religious groups as it mobilised apolitical Evangelical voters to the polls (Wilcox, 1992: 11). This mobilisation also caught the attention of the Republican Party, which was ‘look [ing] for a way to capitalise on what appeared to be widespread conservative dissatisfaction over the country’s moral drift’ (Lambert, 2008: 196). Through a ‘calculated, sophisticated strategy to build a disorganised social movement into a formidable party faction with a grassroots-oriented network of activists’ (Rozell and Wilcox, 1996: 271), the Republican Party started integrating this religious awakening, the Christian Right, into its ranks. In these early years, the Christian Right was a niche player. Institutionally, it was bound by the first-past-the-post system of US congressional and presidential elections and thus could only have a political voice ‘by forming extra-party organizations that can mobilize voters’ within the ranks of the Republican Party (Mohseni and Wilcox, 2009: 198). Organisationally, the religious constituencies forming the societal base for the Christian Right were ‘too few in number, and too divided by tradition, to command a majority’ (Mohseni and Wilcox, 2009: 218). Therefore, the Christian Right could only seek political influence and access rather than votes. 82

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In such a political context, the Christian Right’s political significance was rather in its appeal amongst Evangelical voters, who historically abstained from politics because they wanted to focus on individual salvation. Hence, in order to mobilise these apolitical constituents to the polls, the Christian Right pushed for a strategically immoderate party platform within the Republican Party because an immoderate party platform would not necessarily appeal to the majority of American voters, but it would nevertheless mobilise this niche Evangelical voting bloc (Conger and Racheter, 2006: 128–142). In particular, the Christian Right, foremost, pushed for a party platform that was purposefully extreme and confrontational in order to invigorate this religiously passionate voter base. It defined, for instance, the Christian Right’s political quest as a ‘religious war’ in defence of ‘American against Satan’ (Rozell and Wilcox, 1996: 285). In this, the Christian Right saw the ‘decline of traditional family values’ as its main party platform. Under the banner of ‘the family’ fell issues such as: abortion, LGBT rights, school prayer and the passage of the Equal Rights Amendment. The ‘decline’ in these concerns amongst many ordinary Americans led the Christian Right to view these issues as parts of ‘satanic attempts to destroy the biblical concept of the Christian home’ (Williams, 2010: 139). In response, the Christian Right pushed for the introduction of policies and principles in accordance with the Bible in the Republican Party’s platform, such as issues concerning LGBTQ rights and abortion, and ‘attacked alternative views as misguided biblical interpretations or secularism’ (Moen, 1994: 349). Taking this further, the Christian Right also sought to push its agenda further by preparing ‘morality ratings’ for politicians and media outlets, rating their perceived commitment to ‘Christian values’ (Banwart, 2013: 10). Via this approach, the Christian Right succeeded in organising the disengaged [right-wing] Evangelical voters around a political movement. Hence, although the Christian Right started out as a small ideological movement at the margins of US politics, within a decade it had gained significant national and local influence within the Republican Party and more widely. Specifically, as a result of the Christian Right’s influence, issues, such as abortion and sex and violence in the media, took their place in the Republican Party programmes of 1976 and of 1984 respectively (Feeney, 2012). Pro-Islamic movement-parties in Turkey A similar strategic use of party platform immoderation helped pro-Islamic movement parties in Turkey win a stable presence in party politics despite their initial niche appeal. For decades, Islamic Orders, informal religious organisations under the leadership of charismatic figures preaching a wide range of Islamic interpretations, defined the religious landscape of the Ottoman Empire. With the establishment of the Turkish Republic, however, Orders were banned under the secular laws of the country. As a result, Islamic Orders first tried to influence politics by lending support to the existing centre-right Democratic Party of the 1950s. Nonetheless, the heir to the Democratic Party in the 1960s, the Justice Party, marginalised Islamist parliamentarians and their demands in favour of big businesses and remained unresponsive to their calls for de-secularisation (Emre, 2002). Hence, some Islamic Orders under the leadership of the Naks¸ibendi Order and marginalised Islamist parliamentarians decided to join forces and to form their own political party under the banner of the National Outlook Movement (NOM) (Emre, 2002). This arrangement was similar to that between the Christian Right and the Republican Party: the Christian Right was an accumulation of Evangelical demands looking for a way to influence institutional politics through the Republican Party, and likewise, the NOM was a build-up of Islamic Orders and marginalised Islamist politicians within existing centre-right parties aiming to exert influence in politics through a new political party. 83

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Like the Christian Right, the NOM was initially a minor player, in the late 1960s/early 1970s. Institutionally, the ‘laicist’ Turkish regime was formally secular, while also bringing the religious field under its supervision via religious affairs and religious education, and limiting their sphere of influence with its strict application of secularism. Within this context, the NOM’s first party, the National Order Party (Milli Nizam Partisi), was closed down in its very first year for its alleged ‘un-secular’ activities by the Turkish Constitutional Court, while a second party, the National Salvation Party (Milli Selamet Partisi), was under close scrutiny. Furthermore, the NOM was facing strong contenders in party politics. Existing mainstream parties, the centreright Justice Party and the centre-left Republican People’s Party, were electorally and politically dominating the party system. Organisationally, although the Turkish electorate was conservative, it also had strong centre-right political parties, such as the Democratic Party in the 1960s and the Justice Party in the 1970s, to vote for. Thus, the NOM could not hope to win national elections but only expect at best to influence policy of incumbent administrations. Meanwhile, although mainstream parties, the centre-right Justice Party and the centre-left Republican People’s Party, were leading in the elections of 1973 and 1977, their votes were increasingly not enough for them to form a government on their own and thus they were in need of minor coalition partners. Within this new political context, similar to the Christian Right’s niche appeal amongst Evangelicals, the NOM’s niche appeal was primarily amongst ‘the homogeneous Sunni-Muslim base of farmers and the conservative petty bourgeoisie of shopkeepers, small merchants and artisans from provincial towns and cities’ (Yavuz, 2009: 49). Such people were a political asset that could potentially turn the NOM into a strategic kingmaker and/or blackmail party. Tactically, it appeared that an immoderate party platform emphasising the economic underdevelopment and political marginalisation of these societal groups by the laicist establishments might yield desired results. As a result, the NOM in the 1970s and 1980s, like the Christian Right, formulated a party platform defined by, foremost, a confrontational religious rhetoric that emphasised how alienation from Turkey’s traditional Islamic culture was leading to moral and thus to political decay (Özbudun, 1986: 142–156). Specifically, NOM’s first party programme stated that the party was established because its leaders wished from God peace, happiness, prosperity and salvation for the Turkish people (National Order Party Programme, 1970). Within this framework, NOM also took a critical stance against (1) the secularisation of Turkey on the grounds that secularism would undermine Turkey’s morality and authenticity and move the country away from Islam, and against (2) economic liberalisation, which the party associated with the infiltration of Turkish society Western/foreign/non-Islamic values. Instead, the NOM advocated a new system called the ‘Just Order’ (Adil Düzen) (Erbakan, 1991), which would minimise the influence of Istanbulbased big corporations and Western companies in the economy in favour of small businesses and state-owned heavy industry, ban interest-based banking, and instead introduce Islamic financing (Erbakan, 1991). Moreover, the NOM advocated for a closed and rigid application of Islam by seeking social engineering through the state. Hence, it paid particular attention to the education of a new pious generation in its party platforms (National Order Party Programme, 1970; National Salvation Party Programme, 1973). Such an immoderate party platform established the NOM as a minor yet vital and stable presence in Turkish party politics. NOM’s movement-parties brought small-town merchants and the urban poor to the polls gathering about 12–15 percent of the votes throughout the 1970s and 1980s and filling the void between them and the mainstream parties. As a result, NOM parties became minor coalition partners to mainstream parties that no longer could form a majority government by themselves and thus needed the support of the NOM. By doing so, the NOM thrived, having more influence than its votes, for instance, taking over crucial 84

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ministries, such as the ministries of Interior, Justice, Trade, and Industry, as a minor coalition partner. Hence, like its Christian Right counterpart that increased its role in party politics by commanding a small yet decisive minority, the NOM increased its importance in party politics by establishing itself as a kingmaker party. However, such a kingmaker role would soon face new socio-political obstacles and opportunities.

Ideological immoderation In the inclusion-moderation literature, one of the most important mechanisms behind ideological moderation – moderation as a result of an ideological transformation towards the acceptance of political pluralism – is ‘political learning’, through which religious political actors internalise liberal democratic values by interacting with (secular) opposition leaders with whom they need to engage in dialogue, negotiations and compromise (Schwedler, 2007; Wickham, 2004). The assumption in this formulation is that religious political actors are operating from a position of weakness vis-à-vis the political system and other political actors. This is especially the case for religious political actors operating under authoritarian regimes wherein the regime has the means and the will to crush any political actor not playing by their rules of the game, and thus wherein opposition parties across the political spectrum need to collaborate against the regime. Such an arrangement, however, does not account for a situation where religious political actors are holding a dominant position in the party system, and thus where religious political actors do not need to engage in dialogue, negotiations and compromise in the absence of strong political competitors who counterbalance them, contest their social engineering agenda, and from whom they can learn to respect political pluralism. In such situations, a religious political actor rather will want to consolidate its dominance. Hence, instead of moderation, it will adapt an immoderate party platform that serves the ideological purpose of consolidating the dominant religious political actor’s moral majority in the society by redefining the political centre to which other political actors need adjusting. The increasing dominance and immoderation of the Christian Right coalition within the Republican Party and of pro-Islamic movement-parties within Turkish party politics illustrate this point. The Christian Right and the Republican Party By the 1990s, the Christian Right realised the limits of its strategic immoderation. Institutionally, although the Christian Right–Republican Party collaboration reached its peak during Reagan’s 1980 presidential campaign, this ended up being a short-lived victory because Reagan remained largely unresponsive to the demands of the Christian Right (Le Beau, n.d.). Organisationally, although the Christian Right was gaining momentum amongst right-wing Evangelical voters, many Americans believed in an individual’s right to choose his or her personal moral path (Wald, 1997: 201–238). As a result, the Christian Right started assuming a ‘more mainstream conciliatory approach’ (Feld et al., 2002: 181) in the belief that this potentially could allow them to reach a wider audience. According to Moen (1996: 461), this redirection of the Christian Right, from a protest movement bent on installing moral uniformity through law, to a coalition partner willing to bend on compliance with moral principles, [was] emblematic of a gradual and thoughtful public adjustment to the realities of politics. Foremost, in stark contrast to their previous critique of secularism, Christian Right leaders started using a dual language, one towards their core supporters filled with biblical references, 85

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and another towards a wider audience stripped from extremist and religious references (Rozell and Wilcox, 1996: 279–280). For instance, ‘instead of arguing for laws that would clearly favour their preferred ways of believing and living, they argued for a law that would not “discriminate” against their preferred ways of believing and living’ (Feld et al., 2002: 175). Furthermore, instead of asking for the protection of the traditional family, the Christian Right started expressing common concerns, such as corruption and crime, problems they suggested were the result of a moral decline and family values in the society, in order to appeal to voters beyond their Evangelical base (Rozell and Wilcox, 1996: 281). And, instead of preparing morality ratings to demand accountability from policymakers, the Christian Right started demanding new ‘rights’. For example, instead of condemning abortion as a sin, the movement started demanding the ‘rights of the unborn’ (Moen, 1994: 352). As a result of its behavioural moderation, the Christian Right established itself as an integral part of the Republican Party and thus of US politics (Conger and Racheter, 2006: 128–142). With the support of the Christian Right in 1994, the Republican Party became ‘the majority party for the first time since the New Deal’ (Cibulka and Myers, 2008: 171). Consequently, while a ‘religiosity gap’ was non-existent between the Republican and Democratic voters prior to 1972 (Cibulka and Myers, 2008: 171), ‘over the last twenty years, church attendance [became] the main dividing line between Republican and Democratic voters’ (Campbell and Putnam, 2012: 35). This influence was consolidated when the presidency was transferred from a Democrat (Bill Clinton) to a Republican (George W. Bush) in 2000, allowing the new president to appoint ‘key Christian conservatives to cabinet and White House posts in his administration’ and to consult ‘members of [Christian Right] advocacy groups’ regularly ‘to plot strategy’ (Cibulka and Myers, 2008: 170). Such dominance was further expanded through the Christian Right’s reach to the people through its media outlets and schools, which in turn mobilised voters for the Republican Party. Today, under the Trump presidency, the Christian Right has reached its pinnacle as ‘white Evangelical Protestants have become the Republican base’ (Jelen and Wald, 2017: 21–22; emphasis added). Given such dominance within the Republican Party base, the Christian Right today does not need to moderate its policies because it not only defines the Republican Party platform as a vital coalition within the party but also provides voter mobilisation for the party. This is especially important considering that other coalitions within the Republican Party, such as libertarians or business coalitions, had success in providing material resources but only minimal success in mobilising masses under a powerful ideology. Furthermore, the structure of US party politics does not really allow the Christian Right to be subjected to political learning from opposing political forces. Rather, the Christian Right’s main interactions in politics are with other conservatives within the Republican Party, who depend on the Christian Right for its mobilising potential. And on top of all, the Christian Right does not risk marginalisation anymore while continuing to advocate for an immoderate party platform given its stable place within the Republican Party and hence in US politics. As a result, the Christian Right today is turning its dominance within the Republican Party to support its immoderate agenda. In particular, under President Bush (2001–2008), the Christian Right influenced the allocation of public funds when federal funding was withheld from policies opposed by the Christian Right, such as contraceptive education, and instead spent on policies supported by the Christian Right, such as abstinence-based sex-education programmes (Herzberg, 2004). Even under President Obama (2009–2017), a Democrat, the Christian Right continued its influence. The Christian Right saw President Obama as hostile to their causes – given his support for same-sex marriage and stem-cell research. Some also believed that he was a secret Muslim, and thus unsuited to be president. These factors led to the Christian Right’s grassroots influence 86

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against Obama that helped to block his policies in the Congress and led eventually to the Trump presidency. Today, although President Trump’s personal life seems to be at odds with the values the Christian Right advocates, Christian Right leaders have welcomed him as a ‘Dream President’ given his support for their causes (Wilson-Hartgrove, 2018). For instance, in domestic politics, President Trump only considered and eventually choose a pro-life justice to the Supreme Court, and appointed Betsy DeVos as the Secretary of Education, who is an advocate for voucher programmes wherein ‘funds used for public education [become] available for parents to send their children to private religious-based schools [… thereby …] defund[ing] public schools while transferring tax revenues to religious academies’ (Rozell, 2017: 11). In foreign policy, President Trump introduced the ‘Muslim ban’ on travel from Iran, Iraq, Syria, Libya, Somalia, Sudan and Yemen, and signed on to move the US Embassy in Israel from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. Consequently, ‘the religious right [has become] the singular, unwavering loyal constituency of President Trump’ today (Rozell, 2017: 12). A similar development in the meantime has been taking place in Turkish politics. Pro-Islamic movement-parties in Turkey By the 1990s, the pro-Islamic movement in Turkey, like its Christian Right counterpart, was at a critical juncture point when it realised its relative weakness vis-à-vis the secular regime. Institutionally, the Turkish Constitutional Court closed down four NOM parties on the grounds that they undermined the secular foundations of the Republic. Organisationally, the movement’s new grassroots activism was forcing the organisation ‘to confront new demands requiring pragmatic approaches to problem-solving’, and pressured them ‘to deal with the daily needs of the people’ (Yavuz, 2009: 63). This was a similar situation in which the Christian Right was finding itself within Republican Party: both actors had one foot in grassroots activism at the local level engaging with the pious, and another foot in party politics trying to establish themselves as major actors with clear demands and platforms. Consequently, like their counterparts in the Christian Right, ‘moderates within the [NOM] realised that they could also win national elections if they lowered their ideological commitments and stressed pragmatic policy solutions’ (Yavuz, 2009: 63). Other factors, such as changes in the socio-economic bases of Islamism (Önis¸, 1997), institutional constraints (Mecham, 2004; Tepe, 2012) and political learning (Yavuz, 2009), amongst others, were equally influential in this decision. As a result, NOM’s third party, the Welfare Party (Refah Partisi) started to moderate its party platform until it was halted in 1997 by a ‘post-modern coup’ that ousted the Welfare Party out of the parliament for its un-secular activities. Thereafter, the Party was closed down by the Turkish Constitutional Court and an internal split erupted between the older generation that blocked the rise of the younger generation into leadership positions and resulted in the establishment of the Justice and Development Party (Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi – AKP) in 2001 by the younger generation. Like the Christian Right that shifted from demanding moral policies to demanding religious rights, this new party, in its early years, shifted from its ‘old claim that Turkey was not religious enough to the claim that Turkey was not democratic enough’ (Mecham, 2004: 346). This new party rebranded itself as a ‘conservative-democratic’ party devoid of Islamist associations in its platform. Furthermore, instead of claiming that they were the vanguards of the Turkish society leading the society towards Islam, the new leaders of the pro-Islamic movement claimed that they were the representatives of a pious majority that was barred from decision-making by secular elites for decades. Within this framework, both democratisation and European Union (EU) membership were presented as complementary components allowing freedom of religious exercise. In stark contrast to its past calls to reverse Westernisation and to replace the economic 87

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system with one based on Islamic finance, they now prioritised a liberal economy and EU membership. Such prioritisations sharply contrasted with their predecessors, who were describing the liberal economy as being led by global Freemasons and the EU as a ‘Christian Club’ (Tanıyıcı, 2003: 464). Through such behavioural moderation, the AKP has developed into a ‘dominant party’, one ‘that outdistances all the others (and thus) is significantly stronger than others’ (Çarkogˇ lu, 2011: 44). In the last election of 2018, despite the rise of opposition figures and rising criticism, the AKP secured 42 percent of the votes in the parliamentary elections and won the presidency with 52 percent of the votes. This electoral dominance has allowed the AKP to institutionalise its political dominance. Today, the AKP has not only controlled the Executive since 2001 without a coalition partner but also the national legislature by controlling majority seats in the parliament. Furthermore, EU reforms in the mid-2000s altered the historical supervision of the Turkish military over party politics by limiting the military’s executive powers and areas of responsibilities and by increasing civilian control over the military. The judiciary’s role has also diminished in that party closures have become more difficult. In short, like its Christian Right counterpart, which has become both one of, if not the, most important coalition partner within the Republican Party and has built a Christian counter-culture with its own media and schools, the pro-Islamic movement in Turkey has become the dominant actor in Turkish party politics through the AKP and is supported by a counter-hegemonic Islamic bloc composed of various media outlets and businesses. All of this political dominance today contrasts sharply with the pro-Islamic movement’s relative weakness in its initial years, when they were facing strong political contenders and a strictly laicist regime always on their neck, and even with AKP’s early years, when the Islamic movement as a new centrist party needed to prove itself as a transformed party. However, now that the pro-Islamic movement is in a position of strength through the AKP, there is no motivation for it to continue to moderate. Today, the AKP does not need to moderate its policies that are acceptable to all political parties because the AKP does not need to make compromises with other political actors to pass its desired legislation. Moreover, since its inauguration into office, the AKP had no coalition partners. Thus, the ‘political learning through interactions with seculars forces’ did not take place with the AKP. In other words, the AKP, given its political dominance, never really had to engage in coalition building or in consensus building – the stuff through which actors internalise democratic values and political pluralism. Furthermore, moderation involves a ‘movement’ towards a political centre (Somer, 2014: 246), but in its absence, it is the dominant party that defines the centre. And in this case, it is the AKP that is defining the political centre of Turkish party politics today. In this, it is not the AKP that needs to adapt to an existing political centre but other political actors that need to adapt to the political centre that the AKP has redefined over the last decade. Within this context, immoderation for the AKP, like its Christian Right counterpart, has not risked political marginalisation given the weakness of the opposition and given AKP’s control of political institutions. Instead, it has allowed the AKP to consolidate its dominance in the party system. Foremost, although there is no open Islamic reference left in the AKP’s official party programme and although the AKP has accepted to play within the boundaries of secular politics, its party platform nevertheless remains immoderate. In particular, the party often invokes policies aimed to consolidate its moral majority in the society, such as policies asking to ban alcohol because the government claims responsibility to protect the youth from alcoholism (Milliyet, 2013), or halting theatre plays and art exhibitions because the AKP government found them to be ‘too vulgar’ (Steinvorth, 2012). Furthermore, the social engineering agenda of AKP’s predecessors is still prevalent in its stated desire to construct a ‘religious generation’ (Hürriyet, 2012). In this, the Diyanet, the Presidency of Religious Affairs, ‘under AKP rule, [has] transformed 88

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into a pliable state apparatus geared towards implementing the political ideology of the ruling cadre’ (Öztürk, 2016: 619). Minor moral policy issues have also replaced the economy and EU focus of the AKP in its early years. For instance, reproductive issues, such as abortion, caesarean section, and encouragement of three kids – issues that historically have not carried much political importance – were politicised on the grounds that ‘foreign’ forces are trying to control Turkey’s population growth (Hürriyet, 2013). In short, the AKP, like its Christian Right counterpart, is using an immoderate party platform to consolidate its moral majority in the society today.

Conclusion Through a discussion of the Christian Right’s evolution within the Republican Party and of pro-Islamic movements in Turkish party politics, and thus through a cross-religious comparison of two similar behaviours in two fundamentally different political contexts, this chapter aimed to show why religious political actors continue to use immoderation, a closed and rigid religious worldview, in their party platforms despite expectations to the contrary. This chapter argued that the answer to this could be found in the status of religious political parties vis-à-vis other parties in the party system. Specifically, it argued that when religious political actors are in the minority, they may strategically adapt an immoderate party platform in order to form a small but loyal supporter base and thus have a niche yet vital role in politics. This chapter also argued that when religious political parties dominate the party system, they might pursue an immoderate party platform for ideological reasons to consolidate their moral majority in the society.

References Altınordu, A. (2010). The Politicization of Religion: Political Catholicism and Political Islam in Comparative Perspective. Politics and Society, 38(4), 517–551. Banwart, D. (2013). Jerry Falwell, the Rise of the Moral Majority, and the 1980 Election. Western Illinois Historical Review, 5, 133–157. Buzzard, L. (1989). The ‘Coming-Out’ of Evangelicals. In C.E. Smidt (ed.), Contemporary Evangelical Political Involvement: An Analysis and Assessment (pp. 133–146). Lanham: University Press of America. Campbell, D.E. and Putnam, R.D. (2012). God and Caesar America: Why Mixing Religion and Politics is Bad for Both. Foreign Affairs, 91(2), 34–43. Çarkogˇ lu, A. (2011). Turkey’s 2011 General Elections: Towards a Dominant Party System? Insight Turkey, 13(3), 43–62. Cibulka, J.G. and Myers, N. (2008). Fearful Reformers: The Institutionalization of the Christian Right in American Politics. Educational Policy, 22(1), 155–180. Conger, K.H. (2010). Party Platforms and Party Coalitions: The Christian Right and State-Level Republicans. Party Politics, 16(5), 651–668. Conger, K.H. and Racheter, D. (2006). Iowa: In the Heart of Bush Country. In J.C. Green, M.J. Rozell and C. Wilcox (eds), The Values Campaign? The Christian Right and the 2004 Elections (pp. 128–142). Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Downs, A. (2000). An Economic Theory of Democracy. New York: Harper & Row. Emre, S.A. (2002). Siyasette 35 Yıl. Istanbul: Kes¸if Yayınları. Erbakan, N. (1991). Adil Ekonomik Düzen [Just Economic Order]. Ankara: Anadolu Matbaacılık. Feeney, L. (2012). Timeline: The Religious Right and the Republican Platform. Retrieved from http://billm oyers.com/content/timeline-the-religious-right-and-the-republican-platform/, accessed 29 May 2014. Feld, S.L., Brown Rosier, K. and Manning, A. (2002). Christian Right as Civil Right: Covenant Marriage and a Kinder, Gentler, Moral Conservatism. Review of Religious Research, 44(2), 173–183. Goldstone, J.A. (2004). More Social Movements or Fewer? Beyond Political Opportunity Structures to Relational Fields. Theory and Society, 33(3/4), 333–365. Harmel, R. (2018). The How’s and Why’s of Party Manifestos: Some Guidance for a Cross-National Research Agenda. Party Politics, 24(3), 229–239.

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Esen Kirdis¸ Herzberg, H. (2004, June 7). New Time Religion. The New Yorker. Retrieved from www.newyorker. com/archive/2004/06/07/040607ta_talk_hertzberg/, accessed 1 June 2014. Hürriyet. (2012, February 1). Bas¸bakan, Il Bas¸kanları Toplantısı’nda konus¸tu [Prime Minister Speaks at Provincial Leadership Meeting]. Hürriyet. Retrieved from www.hurriyet.com.tr/gundem/19819372. asp/, accessed 30 April 2013. Hürriyet. (2013, June 19). Sezeryan kürtajla cinayet is¸lediler [Those Having Caesarean Sections Are Committing Murder]. Hürriyet. Retrieved from www.hurriyet.com.tr/gundem/23537027.asp/, accessed 2 July 2013. Jelen, T.G. and Wald, K.D. (2017). Evangelicals and President Trump: The Not So Odd Couple. In M.J. Rozell and C. Wilcox (eds), God at the Grassroots 2016: The Christian Right in American Politics (pp. 19–32). Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield. Kitschelt, H. (1995). The Radical Right in Western Europe: A Comparative Analysis. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Kitschelt, H. (2006). Movement Parties. In R.S. Katz and W.J. Crotty (eds), Handbook of Party Politics (pp. 278–290). London: SAGE. Lambert, F. (2008). Religion in American Politics: A Short History. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Le Beau, B.F. (n.d.). The Political Mobilization of the New Christian Right. Retrieved June 22, 2013, from http://are.as.wvu.edu/lebeau1.htm. Mecham, R.Q. (2004). From the Ashes of Virtue, a Promise of Light: The Transformation of Political Islam in Turkey. Third World Quarterly, 25(2), 339–358. . Milliyet. (2013, June 2). Erdog˘ an: Içki içen alkoliktir [Erdog˘ an: Those Who Drink Are Alcoholics]. Milliyet. Retrieved from http://siyaset.milliyet.com.tr/Erdog˘ an-icki-icen-alkoliktir/siyaset/detay/1717637/defa ult.htm/, accessed 2 July 2013. Moen, M.C. (1994). From Revolution to Evolution: The Changing Nature of the Christian Right. Sociology of Religion, 55(3), 345–357. Moen, M.C. (1996). The Evolving Politics of the Christian Right. PS: Political Science and Politics, 29(3), 461–464. Mohseni, P. and Wilcox, C. (2009). Religion and Political Parties. In J. Haynes (ed.), Routledge Handbook of Religion and Politics (pp. 211–230). London and New York: Routledge. Müller, W.C. and Strøm, K. (1999). Policy, Office, or Votes? How Political Parties in Western Europe Make Hard Decisions. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. National Order Party Programme. (1970). Retrieved from www.tbmm.gov.tr/develop/owa/e_yayin.eser_ bilgi_q?ptip=SIYASI%20PARTI%20YAYINLARI&pdemirbas=197600505/, accessed 31 May 2014. National Salvation Party Programme. (1973). Retrieved from www.tbmm.gov.tr/develop/owa/e_yayin.eser_ bilgi_q?ptip=SIYASI%20PARTI%20YAYINLARI&pdemirbas=197600567/, accessed 31 May 2014. Oliver, W.M. and Marion, N.E. (2008). Political Party Platforms: Symbolic Politics and Criminal Justice Policy. Criminal Justice Policy Review, 19(4), 397–413. Önis¸, Z. (1997). The Political Economy of Islamic Resurgence in Turkey: The Rise of the Welfare Party in Perspective. Third World Quarterly, 18(4), 743–766. Özbudun, E. (1986). Islam and Politics in Modern Turkey: The Case of the National Salvation Party. In B.F. Stowasser (ed.), The Islamic Impulse (pp. 142–156). London and Washington, DC: Center for Contemporary Arab Studies. Öztürk, A.E. (2016). Turkey’s Diyanet Under AKP Rule: From Protector to Imposer of State Ideology? Southeast European and Black Sea Studies, 16(4), 619–635. Przeworski, A. and Teune, H. (1970). The Logic of Comparative Social Inquiry. New York: WileyInterscience. Rozell, M.J. (2017). Donald J. Trump and the Enduring Religion Factor in the U.S. Elections. In M.J. Rozell and C. Wilcox (eds), God at the Grassroots 2016: The Christian Right in American Politics (pp. 3–18). Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield. Rozell, M.J. and Wilcox, C. (1996). Second Coming: The Strategies of the New Christian Right. Political Science Quarterly, 111(2), 271–294. Schwedler, J. (2007). Faith in Moderation: Islamist Parties in Jordan and Yemen. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Schwedler, J. (2011). Review Article: Can Islamists Become Moderates? Rethinking the Inclusion-Moderation Hypothesis. World Politics, 63(2), 347–376. Somer, M. (2014). Moderation of Religious and Secular Politics, a Country’s Centre and Democratization. Democratization, 21(2), 244–267.

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Religion and party platform formation Steinvorth, D. (2012, June 19). Erdog˘ an the Misogynist: Turkish Prime Minister Assaults Women’s Rights. Spiegel. Retrieved from www.spiegel.de/international/europe/turkish-prime-minister-Erdog˘a n-targets-women-s-rights-a-839568.html/, accessed 2 July 2013. Tanıyıcı, S. (2003). Transformation of Political Islam in Turkey: Islamist Welfare Party’s Pro-EU Turn. Party Politics, 9(4), 463–483. Tepe, S. (2012). Moderation of Religious Parties: Electoral Constraints, Ideological Commitments, and the Democratic Capacities of Religious Parties in Israel and Turkey. Political Research Quarterly, 65(3), 467–485. Wald, K.D. (1997). Religion and Politics in the United States. Washington, DC: CQ Press. Wickham, C.R. (2004). The Path to Moderation: Strategy and Learning in the Formation of Egypt’s Wasat Party. Comparative Politics, 36(2), 205–228. Wilcox, C. (1992). God’s Warriors: The Christian Right in Twentieth-Century America. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Williams, D.K. (2010). Jerry Farwell’s Sunbelt Politics: The Regional Origins of the Moral Majority. Journal of Policy History, 22(2), 125–147. Wilson-Hartgrove, J. (2018, February 16). Why Evangelicals Support President Trump, Despite His Immorality. Time Magazine. Retrieved from http://time.com/5161349/president-trump-white-evange lical-support-slaveholders/, accessed 27 June 2018. Yavuz, M.H. (2009). Secularism and Muslim Democracy in Turkey. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press.

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8 RELIGION, SOCIAL CONSTITUENCY REPRESENTATION AND INTEREST ARTICULATION Nil S. Satana, Alperen Özkan and Jóhanna K. Birnir

Former army parachutist and the self-proclaimed ‘Trump’ of Brazil, Jair Bolsonaro came to power in the 2018 Brazilian presidential elections supported by a coalition of Christian evangelicals, Catholics and secular voters grown weary of corruption scandals that landed several leading politicians in prison (Puglie 2018). Similarly, the Republican Party in the United States, although not a religious political party per se, draws on votes from evangelical Protestants, highly committed members of other religions and secular conservatives (Castle 2018).1 In turn, religious parties such as the Hindu nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) in India include a wide spectrum of religious and secular nationalist politicians and voters, a coalition that made the BJP the world’s largest political party in terms of membership (Vaishnav 2019). Seemingly, secular and religious parties alike rely on support of both secular and religious constituencies to win elections. The questions we contemplate in this chapter are how religious parties appeal to voters’ secular programmatic preferences and how such appeals are related to religious party electoral success. A brief answer provided by the cases we consider is that, like other parties, religious political parties appeal to voters in a variety of clientelistic and programmatic ways that include but often extend well beyond the faith. For example, religious parties, like United Torah Judaism, in Israel appeal to non-orthodox constituencies through their housing, education and social policies (Shalev 2019). The BJP in India appeals to secular nationalists through its economic programmes (Mohseni and Wilcox 2009: 213). Indonesian Islamist organisations such as the Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) and Muhammadiyah provide various services including food programmes to the public in the Outer Islands of the archipelago, helping to secure votes for parties with which they affiliate (Hadiz 2010, 2016). Many of these secular policies likely also appeal to the pious who do not care only about religious issues but consider a range of policies when deciding which party to support (Pepinsky et al. 2018). Therefore, where secular parties compete with religious parties for the votes of the faithful, support for both types of parties likely fluctuates with their relative appeal across religious and more secular issues and constituencies. In contrast to the literature that has focused mainly on established Western democracies, (Mohseni and Wilcox 2009), we explore the cases of Turkey and Indonesia to speculate about the mechanisms between religious party appeals for voter support and resultant party electoral 92

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fortunes in younger democracies. We suggest that in Turkey, an Islamist political party built strategic coalitions around secular issues that garnered the party broad support from the pious and more secular voters alike, while in Indonesia, secular parties are effectively competing with religious parties as representatives of issues relating to the faith and beyond. The rest of this chapter is divided into four parts. The first provides a brief review of the literature on religion, political parties and motivations of voters in young democracies. Second, we examine how the Islamist Justice and Development Party (Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi, AKP) aligned with and articulated the interests of liberal, ultra-nationalist, ethnic and anti-military constituents in Turkey. The third part probes the case of Indonesia to discuss how moderate religious parties originally garnered the votes of corruption-weary middle-class voters. However, over time, Islamist parties began losing this support due to rising corruption in their own ranks and increase in competition over the religious constituencies with secular parties that more effectively built coalitions to incorporate voters who care both about religious and other policy issues. The fourth section summarises and concludes.

Religion, political parties and representation of constituency interests In Lipset and Rokkan’s (1967) framework of party system development, religion defines voter alignments in terms of both religious/denominational differences within the centre–periphery cleavages and religious versus secular conceptualisations of church–state relations. Subsequent proponents of secularisation theory emphasised the progressively declining role of religion in politics (Parsons 1966; Tönnies 2001), particularly in economically developed democratic countries (Broughton and ten Napel 2000). In contrast, Finke and Stark (1992) argue that despite secularisation, the role of religion in politics did not subside, it merely transformed. For example, post-1945 Christian Democratic parties in Western Europe acted as ‘people’s parties’ (Volksparteien) and coalesced with secular parties to stay in power. More broadly others showed evidence of increasing religiosity in less developed nations at the turn of this century, and in largely secular nations a high number of people that professed a belief in some form of a higher power (Gill 2001).2 Thus, scholars continued examining how religious parties participate in secular democratic politics (Kalyvas 1996; Gehler and Kaiser 2004; Birnir and Satana 2013; Brocker and Künkler 2013). Briefly, some maintain that religious identity and religiosity are an important determinant of political mobilisation and party loyalties, often overlapping with class cleavages (Bartolini and Mair 1990; Layman 1997; Knutsen 2004). Others attribute the electoral success of nominally ‘religious’ parties to their flexibility in attracting voters who are not church-goers but nonetheless share core values such as anti-communism and social market economy (Duncan 2015: 577). While the research on religion and political parties has long focused on Christian democracy in Western Europe, more recently, interest has surged in the formation and rise of religious political parties in developing democracies (Mainwaring and Scully 2003; Wuhs 2013), especially in the Middle East and Muslim world (Kalyvas 2000; Tezcür 2010). For example, various theories explain why Islamist parties in the Middle East and North Africa gained popularity. These include religious parties providing an alternative to repressive secular regimes (Mohseni and Wilcox 2009), as providers of social services (Tessler 1997; Langohr 2001), and as a reaction to Israel (Hamid 2011). Others suggest Islamist parties are better able credibly to commit to voters’ expectations that they deliver public goods (Rohac 2013) and/or address income inequality, poverty and underdevelopment in ways that their secular counterparts have failed to do. For example, Chibber (1996) demonstrates that, in Algeria, the rising discontent of the middle class with the economic policies of the secularist incumbent National Liberation Front 93

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led middle-class voters to shift their support to the Islamic Salvation Front (Front Islamique du Salut, FIS). Although the Islamist FIS was dismantled by a military coup in 1992, it had sweeping success in local elections in 1990 and in the first round of the 1992 general elections. Similarly, Clark (2004) shows that rather than owing their success only to patron–client relationships between the Islamist elite and the religiously conservative poor, Islamic social institutions in Egypt, Jordan and Yemen serve affiliated parties by creating and mobilising middle-class networks that cut through Islamist versus non-Islamist divisions. Overall, just as Christian democracy in Europe successfully adapted to liberal democratic institutions by expanding party platforms beyond confessional identity, the rise of Islamist parties is not exclusively driven by appeals to religious identity and religiosity but more broadly encompasses common economic and social concerns. Accordingly, the case studies of Turkey and Indonesia show that religious political parties in these cases have exploited non-religious issues and engaged with different interest groups in society to consolidate and expand their social religious and secular constituencies, with greater or lesser success.

Coalition of multiple social constituency interests: the rise and reign of the AKP in Turkey The AKP came to power in Turkey as a single party majority government in 2002 following more than a decade of political and economic instability. It was the first time in Turkish political history that a political party descending from a radical Islamist movement, Milli Görüs¸ (National Outlook) established in the 1970s, won an election and formed the government without any coalition partners. The AKP was a split from the Virtue Party (Fazilet Partisi, FP), the fourth in the chain of political parties founded by the Milli Görüs¸, which were all banned by the Constitutional Court in Turkey on the grounds of their anti-secular activities. From the beginning, AKP leaders attempted to distance the party from the political Islam discourse of the FP and its predecessors, identifying more with ‘conservative democrats’ (Akdog˘ an 2004). Symbolically, the leader of the party, Recep Tayyip Erdog˘ an, publicly declared that he ‘took off the shirt he wore in Milli Görüs¸’. Despite these overtures to centre-right and liberal elements in the Turkish political spectrum, the founding cadre of the AKP were clearly ‘reformed’ Islamists (Atacan 2005). Thus, the Islamist agenda and background of the party guided its policies in social issues, such as in lifting the ban on headscarves and in the controversial regulations of the status of Islamic high schools, which became increasingly prominent as the party consolidated power among its electoral support base of religious Sunni Muslims. Mardin’s (1973) classic framework on centre–periphery relationship in Turkey is often invoked to explain the AKP’s rise into power in 2002 and its repeated success in subsequent elections (Dag˘ ı 2005; Çarkog˘ lu 2008; Hale and Özbudun 2009). The framework, that identifies the division between an urban, secularist elite at the centre and religiously conservative, traditional periphery as the main social cleavage in Turkey is, indeed, a good explanation of voting behaviour in Turkey (Çarkog˘ lu 2008; Özkan 2017). However, the AKP has also frequently sought and succeeded in expanding its electoral base by forming pragmatic alliances to appeal to the non-religious preferences and interests of both secular and religious segments of society. Consequently, the AKP has won six parliamentary and two presidential elections since 2002. To provide an example of how religious political parties strategically build constituencies around secular issues to rise to and stay in power, the remainder of this section identifies and discusses AKP alliances throughout its reign of almost two decades with four actors across the spectrum from more secular to more devout. These are the (1) liberal intelligentsia, (2) newly emerging provincial capitalists, (3) ethnic Kurds, and (4) Turkish nationalists. These examples do 94

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not constitute an exhaustive list of all the interest groups that AKP partnered with.3 Rather, our aim is merely to illustrate the range of constituencies whose interests were represented at some point across a variety of policies by this Islamist party. Since the 1980 coup, a powerful economic and politically liberal current runs through the Turkish intelligentsia, the media, non-governmental organisations (NGOs) and the business elite.4 Early on, optimists in this group praised the liberal and reformist agenda of the AKP that consisted of a commitment to free market economy, and political liberalisation, and aimed for Turkey’s full European Union membership. Moreover, many considered the AKP a model that could demonstrate to the world and to the region that Islam and democracy can coexist (Fuller 2004; Tas¸pınar 2012). One of the most important pillars of this support was the government’s stance against the military tutelage that had long afflicted democratic consolidation in Turkey (Satana 2008). The AKP’s religious conservative constituency, the EU and the liberal intelligentsia all supported the continued decrease of the military’s role in national security affairs and dismantling of the idea of the military as a ‘guardian of the secular state’.5 Similarly, some scholars welcomed the entry of the AKP into Turkish political life as a powerful actor with Islamist credentials (Kinzer 2003; Önis¸ and Keyman 2003; Nasr 2005; Somer 2007). It is difficult to measure the tangible effects that this alliance had on the AKP’s votes. Support from the liberal media and NGOs as well as the EU undoubtedly strengthened the AKP’s hand in delivering early religious reforms such as removal of the headscarf ban. This support also afforded legitimacy to more controversial actions such as the Ergenekon and Balyoz trials that on questionable legal grounds prosecuted hundreds of military officers with accusations of coup plans. At the time, sceptics, doubting the AKP’s commitment to democracy and secularism (Onar 2007), questioned the AKP’s role as a democratising actor that brings together liberal values and Islamism and warned against a creeping Islamisation and/or authoritarianism (Toprak et al. 2009; S¸en 2010; Rodrik 2011). After 17 years of AKP rule that has grown increasingly authoritarian in recent years, the debate as to whether the AKP’s transformation from an Islamist to a merely conservative party was genuine or takiye 6 has subsided. The alliance between the liberals and the AKP has dissipated and many optimist scholars have joined the camp of the sceptics (e.g. Önis¸ 2013). Another alliance crucial to the electoral success of the AKP centred on reviving the economy and achieving high growth rates following the greatest economic meltdown in modern Turkey’s history in 2001. To this end, the party aligned its economic and foreign policy with strong corporate interest groups (Kiris¸çi 2009). A particularly significant alliance among these was with the so-called ‘Anatolian Tigers’, which include newly emerging small and medium-size business owners, based in provincial centres in largely religious and conservative Anatolia (the periphery), who are represented by the Independent Industrialists and Businessmen’s Association . . (Müstakil Sanayici I¸s Adamları Derneg˘ i, MÜSIAD). The Tigers’ ascendance in the 1980s coincided with military rule and Prime Minister Turgut Özal’s replacement of the import substitution model of development with export-oriented growth strategy and liberal market reforms (S¸en 2010). However, the biggest winners of the export-led growth strategy were not the small entrepreneurs in the provinces but rather the big industrialists in urban centres. Consequently, small religiously conservative business owners abandoned Özal’s Motherland Party and shifted their support to the radical Islamist Welfare Party (Refah Partisi, RP) (Shambayati 1994). At the time the anti-Western and anti-EU rhetoric of the RP aligned well with the sectoral and structural interests of these religiously conservative entrepreneurs (Demiralp 2009). However, as this new religiously conservative business class became much more competitive in the early 2000s, and started to seek more . profitable export markets, their interests changed again. That time many MÜSIAD members 95

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found home in the new more moderate AKP that had split from the radical Islamist RP. AKP policies such as frequent tax amnesties, banking reforms that favoured small and medium-size entrepreneurs, and the EU-oriented reforms that provided access to the new small business class have led to unprecedented growth in Anatolian cities such as Konya, Kayseri and Gaziantep (Demiralp 2009). Therefore, these provincial centres have been AKP strongholds in every election since 2002, even during the recent downturn of the economy. Kurds are a third constituency that the AKP sought to engage with using a mixture of religious and secular rhetoric and policies.7 The AKP’s rhetoric concerning Kurdish demands and the solution to the violent conflict with the PKK is based on the notion of ‘Islamic Fraternity’ and the religion, Sunni Islam, that the majority of Turks and Kurds share (Yavuz and Özcan 2006; Birnir and Satana forthcoming). The emphasis on common religious bonds with respect to the Kurdish question is an approach that the AKP adopted from the Milli Görüs¸ tradition (Sakallioglu 1998). While religion overtly remains the main driver in the AKP’s efforts to garner support among the ethnic Kurdish electorate, it is possible to identify at least two other mechanisms through which the party appeals to the Kurds, particularly secular Kurds. The first of these mechanisms is urban patronage politics in western parts of the country, where ethnic Kurdish activists in AKP ranks use clientelistic networks to instrumentally mobilise Kurdish voters in Istanbul (Akdag˘ 2015). The second mechanism centres on reconciliation with the PKK and secular policies to address Kurdish demands. The AKP started addressing Kurdish demands by passing EU reform packages in 2003 and 2004, that included amendments to lift the ban on broadcasting and naming of children in languages other than Turkish. In 2005, in a speech in the predominantly Kurdish city of Diyarbakır, Erdog˘ an acknowledged the ‘Kurdish issue’ in Turkey and committed to its resolution. In 2009, secret government negotiations with PKK leaders were revealed. Shortly thereafter, the government declared the ‘Democratic Opening’, under which negotiations with the incarcerated PKK leader Öcalan and the organisation’s leadership in Northern Iraq were carried out, through the mediation of the PKK affiliated ethnic-Kurdish Peace and Democracy Party (Barıs¸ ve Demokrasi Partisi, BDP) and the Peoples’ Democratic Party (Halkın Demokrasi Partisi, HDP).8 ‘The Solution Process’, as the initiative came to be called, continued until after the June 2015 elections, when the PKK broke the latest ceasefire alleging the government supported ISIS in its July 2015 attack against a proPKK demonstration in the town of Suruç, S¸anlıurfa bordering Syria. The AKP’s success in garnering Kurdish voters’ support varied over time. The initial reforms seemingly increased the popularity of the party among Kurds. Thus in 12 provinces in Southeastern Anatolia where a majority of the population is ethnically Kurdish, the party’s vote share increased from 19 percent in 2002 to 44 percent in the 2007 election. In contrast, the Solution Process seemingly reified ethnic boundaries, granted legitimacy to the PKK and led many Kurds to identify, instead, with the HDP. Consequently, in the June 2015 elections, at the height of the Solution Process and right before its demise, the HDP received more than 50 percent of the votes in the region whereas the AKP’s total vote share plummeted to around 15 percent. Overall, therefore, the AKP opened an unprecedented platform for articulation of ethnic Kurdish interests and continues to engage with Kurds to garner their support, albeit with little sustained electoral success. The AKP’s most recent partner is situated at the opposite end of the Turkish political spectrum from the Kurdish consituencies. The 2018 presidential and parliamentary electoral alliance . between the ‘People’s Alliance’ (Cumhur Ittifakı) with the ultra-nationalist Nationalist Movement Party (Milliyetçi Hareket Partisi, MHP) formed after the Gülenist coup attempt in July 2016. While nationalism dominates, most of MHP’s constituency is also religiously conservative. Therefore, voter shifts between the two parties are not unprecedented albeit on a much smaller 96

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scale (e.g. 2011 elections, see Aydın-Düzgit 2012). However, the alliance with the AKP, led by MHP’s leader Devlet Bahçeli, split the 50-year-old party when Meral Aks¸ener and her cadre . exited to form the Good Party (Iyi Parti) after the 2015 elections. Even so, the combined support of AKP constituents, Bahçeli and that of the remaining MHP voters, sufficed to garner the AKP 42 percent of the vote in the parliamentary elections. Furthermore, relying on this alliance Erdog˘ an had the support he needed in the controversial 2017 referendum that amended the constitution to change Turkey’s parliamentary system to a presidential system with expansive powers (Bertrand 2017), and returned him to the executive with 53 percent of the votes in the first election to the presidency after the referendum. The cause and consequences of this alliance include a return to the national security paradigm as opposed to the more conciliatory approach in dealing with the PKK and growing antiWestern rhetoric in foreign policy. It remains to be seen if this alliance will be sustained in the face of the deepening economic crisis and coming foreign policy challenges such as the end of Syrian Civil War and increasingly strained relations with the United States.9 In sum, the AKP exhibits all the traits of a religiously conservative, if not Islamist, party, a label that the party’s leadership has long denied. In concert with its authoritarian tendencies, the religious tone in the AKP’s politics became more overt over time. Even though fears of a sharia-based regime that interferes in private lives of the citizens have not materialised, the Islamisation of the public sphere through policies such as burgeoning number of the state-funded religious schools, the large share in the central government budget allocated to the Directorate of Religious Affairs (Diyanet . I¸sleri Bas¸kanlıg˘ ı), and state support to religious NGOs exclusively, still raise questions. However, despite this strong religious undertone, the political appeals of the AKP are not limited to religious issues. The party has successfully formed numerous strategic alliances with more or less religious actors at different times, including but not limited to the liberal intelligentsia, provincial capitalists, ethnic Kurds and Turkish nationalists, using a variety of constituency-specific secular appeals ranging from economic liberalism to ethnic politics, in addition to the faith. These alliances were instrumental to the AKP’s success to take office in 2002 and to its consolidation of its power through subsequent electoral victories.

Religion in all party and candidate agendas: the rise of Islam in Indonesian politics On 17 April 2019, Prabowo Subianto lost the presidential elections to the incumbent Joko Widodo.10 Both candidates had picked running mates with strong religious credentials; Widodo’s running mate Ma’ruf Amin is reportedly ‘the country’s most senior Islamic cleric’ (Aditya and Abraham 2019). This election illustrates the current importance of religion, Sunni Islam, to national politics in Indonesia. Similarly, polls suggest that Islam is increasingly important to social and political discourse (Tanuwidjaja 2010; Aditya and Abraham 2019) and that conservative orthodox interpretations of the faith are edging out more syncretic versions (Ufen 2008). Paradoxically, at the same time, collective vote shares for major Islamist parties have not improved, counting 36 percent and 38 percent in the 1999 and 2004 elections, 26 percent in 2009, and 31 percent in 2014 (Cochrane 2014). In this section, we ask what explains why support for Islamist parties is not increasing as Islam is becoming increasingly prominent in Indonesian politics. Recent research shows that religious affiliation in Indonesia is not strongly related to the economic and political preferences of highly diverse Indonesian constituencies (Pepinsky et al. 2018). Thus, our explanation of this puzzle suggests that Islamist parties are failing to consolidate a convincing secular programmatic appeal at the same time that secular parties, which realise the increasing importance of Islam in 97

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Indonesian politics, are effectively incorporating religious concerns into their platform. Consequently, while they are not gaining new secular constituencies, Islamist parties are losing their pious supporters who care about policies other than religion only to secular parties that better articulate both types of interests and preferences. An Indonesian political legacy is that of Sarekat Islam, a coalition of secular and Islamist nationalist groups, which led the movement for Indonesia’s independence from the Dutch in 1945. Islamist nationalists tried to include, in the 1945 constitution, the Jakarta Charter which aimed to have Indonesia, a Muslim majority country, ruled by Islamic sharia law. Secular nationalists, concerned about losing the support of large non-Muslim minorities, i.e. the Hindu Balinese and Christian populations, prevailed and omitted the Charter from the constitution (McDonald 2015: 19). Subsequently, Islamist and secular nationalist groups coalesced and competed in the Indonesian party system. For example, during Sukarno’s ‘Guided democracy’ that lasted 22 years, his Indonesian National Party (Partai Nasional Indonesia, PNI), founded in 1927, included different factions subscribing to Islam, Marxism or nationalism. To keep identity fragmentation minimised, Sukarno formulated in 1945 an official ideology: Pancasila, which prescribes five principles of governance for the unity of Indonesia. One is belief in a supreme God, which in practice extends citizenship to populations who practise Islam, Protestantism, Catholicism, Buddhism, Hinduism or Confucianism. Suharto’s subsequent rightist and military-backed 30-year reign implemented his own version of Pancasila by consolidating the party system into three groups, which were obliged to proclaim Pancasila as their central ideology. Golkar was the government association of functional groups, PDI pooled minorities and nationalists, and Islamist groups were merged in the Unity Development Party (PPP). Because Suharto’s supporters were installed in every organisation, including Islamist ones, religion was mostly relegated to the private sphere until the transition to democracy in 1999. Aside from a brief backlash after Suharto’s fall, Pancasila is still viewed as the glue that holds together the different ethnic and religious groups in Indonesia. Thus, while Islamist parties freely declare their religious ideology only very few openly espouse an intention to change the regime (Hadiz 2016). Consistent with the original interpretation of Pancasila, Clifford Geertz (1960) observed that Indonesians mobilise in aliran (streams) where syncretic abangan, orthodox Muslim santri and Hindu priyayi organise politically within their groups, into different political parties and vote in blocs (Aspinall 2011; Hefner 2018). According to King (2003), the major aliran party cleavages expressed in the 1999 elections during democratisation were similar to those found in 1955. However, while dynamics of party politics still adhere to the traditional aliran, following the 2004 elections, Ufen (2008: 6) argues that the options for voters have changed and social constituencies have become more detached from their party choices. The institutional context underpinning this political change was the sweeping reform during and after re-democratisation in 1999. Among other things this institutional change transformed Indonesia’s governing structures from being highly centralised to devolving substantial power to local governments (Nordholt and van Klinken 2007). At the same time, the party law was changed to require greater national presence of parties and the electoral system was changed in ways that made elections more direct – especially for local heads of government (Hicken and Kasuya 2003; Erb and Sulistiyanto 2009; Dettman et al. 2017). While many laud the new institutional design for decreasing ethnic contention (Reilly 2006) and increasing ethnic coalitionbuilding (Aspinall 2011), others posit that the complex institutional design and its practical consequences augment clientelism at every level of governance (Mietzner 2013; Tomsa 2018: 95). Scholars also suggest the reforms weakened the party system and increased electoral volatility (Carothers 2006). Furthermore, some argue that parties that articulated interests of different social 98

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constituencies are replaced with charismatic leadership and personal reputation in the new system (Fox and Menchik 2011). Patronage politics, however, is systemic in Indonesia and does not explain why secular parties are recruiting pious constituents away from more overtly religious parties. One important reason for this trend – we suggest – is that Islamist parties have lost the edge they gained during democratisation as uncorrupt representatives of a moderate religious agenda with emphasis on inclusion and a variety of secular policies. This change has occurred at the same time that religion was becoming increasingly important in Indonesia, in part due to the institutional changes requiring national constituencies for party registration. This institutional structure incentivises all parties to compete for the national religious constituency and likely some religious parties to push a more religiously conservative agenda, alienating their supporters who care about moderation and secular policies. During re-democratisation, beginning in 1998 when Suharto’s Pancasila-based dictatorship collapsed, Islamist parties differentiated themselves from nationalist and secular parties with their religious agenda but also with their claim of being less corrupt than other parties. In 2004, the Prosperous Justice Party (Partai Keadilan Sejahtera, PKS), for instance, promised to end corruption and with this promise attracted secular middle-class urban voters. This won the party several governor positions as well as ministries in President Yudhoyono’s coalition government (Onishi 2009). The party’s stated agenda at the time included implementation of sharia rule but this seemingly did not deter voters, who were weary of corrupt secular governments (Bulkin 2013), and the party won plurality in major cities like Jakarta (22 percent) (Aspinall 2005: 19). Over time, however, Islamic parties themselves became associated with corruption in the establishment and lost their edge on this front (Onishi 2009). For instance, the leader of the National Awakening Party (Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa, PKB), Abdurrahman Wahid, a religious cleric who served as president between 1999 and 2001, was impeached from the presidency due to the Buloggate and Bruneigate scandals where he was accused of using state funds for personal reasons and of accepting gifts, including US$2 million from the Sultan of Brunei (Budiman 2001). Similarly, despite a recent revival in 2019 elections, the PKS lost credibility when its leadership became implicated in a graft scandal in 2013, and the PPP credibility is currently being questioned in relation to an alleged bribery case centring on a promotion at the Religious Affairs Ministry (Kahfi 2019). Another way Islamist parties originally appealed to voters was through moderate community ties that cut across religion. The PKB, for example, had deep roots in Indonesia’s largest Islamist organisation, the NU, that appealed to rural, traditionalist Javanese, abangan and santri alike. The National Mandate Party (Partai Amanat Nasional, PAN), in turn, provided services through Muhammadiyah, the moderate and second largest Islamic organisation in Indonesia, and remained committed to political moderation. For example, when the more radical Crescent Moon and Star Party (Partai Bintang Bulan, PBB) and PPP proposed to amend the constitution in 2000–2001 so that sharia law would be enforced for Muslim citizens, Muhammadiyah and the NU opposed the proposal (Hefner 2018: 213). This moderation earned the PAN, for example, the support of Christians in Papua (Bulkin 2013). However, after the institutional reform, secular parties begun courting religious constituencies more aggressively and some Islamist parties took a conservative turn in an attempt to retain pious voters, which likely further alienated some of their supporters. For example, in 2017, Basuki Tjahaja Purnama, known as Ahok, was sentenced to prison for blasphemy when he quoted a Qur’anic verse during his re-election campaign for Jakarta governor (Lamb 2017). It was the Islamists who led the charge against Ahok by organising mass street protests. Following the ouster and imprisonment of Ahok, the subsequent movement, called the 212, including 99

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some of the more conservative Islamist organisations, sought to further advance a conservative Islamist agenda but with little political resonance (IPAC 2018). Consequently, realising the increased importance of the religious vote, secular parties also pushed for Ahok’s indictment. This included president Widodo, who took great care to distance himself from his former ally. As the candidate of the Pancasila-based incumbent party PDI-P in the 2019 election, Widodo aligned with a Muslim cleric, Ma’ruf Amin, who is the supreme leader and chairman of Indonesian Ulema Council, the central authority in Indonesia that issues fatwas (Dewi 2018). Religious appeals have increased in importance in elections to all major offices in Indonesia (Aspinall 2011). After the institutional change requiring national registration of political parties, this is hardly surprising as Islam is the only pan-Indonesian identity represented in most localities. In addition to overtly religious parties, Pancasila-based and nationalist, secular parties use religion in national and local level politics to court support across the political spectrum. With their religious agenda, Islamist parties still likely appeal to conservative religious voters and to some voters on the basis of their social outreach. However, they are seemingly less effective than are their secular counterparts at combining religious appeals with the variety of secular programmatic appeals voters care about, especially as some of the Islamist parties push for more conservative interpretations of Islam.

Conclusions This chapter has examined how religious parties appeal to constituencies with varying religious and secular preferences and what determines their success or failure. We argued that religious parties that strategically build coalitions and effectively appeal to secular policy concerns in their discourse and programmatic platforms, in addition to religious appeals, have greater success at the polls. In the case of Turkey, the AKP formed numerous alliances with religious and secular actors at different times, including but not limited to the liberal intelligentsia, provincial capitalists, ethnic Kurds and Turkish ultra-nationalists, using a variety of appeals, i.e. economic liberalism, EU membership, Kurdish ethnic appeals and Islam. These pragmatic alliances were instrumental to the AKP’s success in taking office in 2002 and its dominance in subsequent elections. Indonesia, on the other hand, shows that despite the opportunity that the sudden fall of Suharto’s secular dictatorship granted, Islamic parties were not able to consolidate their original support as the best choice of a pious public, because that public also cares about a great variety of other issues in ways that do not correlate well with religion. Moreover, Indonesia’s secular parties have stepped in to build the kind of alliances that AKP formed, with religious clerics and Islamist mass organisations, to better represent the interests of religious Indonesian constituencies. Together, the cases of Turkey and Indonesia are interesting, since surveys show that both societies have recently become more religiously conservative. However, only the former witnessed the rise and reign of a pragmatic Islamist political party through coalitionbuilding across more and less religious actors and policy areas, while the latter saw secular parties successfully follow this strategy, with Islamist parties seemingly not living up to their potential.

Notes 1 In contrast, the Democratic Party is perceived as secular if not neutral to religion (Layman 2001) but still manages to get the votes of low-commitment members of other religions (Castle 2018). 2 For a recent review of the role of religion in political mobilisation, see Birnir and Overos (2019). 3 The most notable exception is the Gülen Movement, which is referred to as Fethullah Terrorist Organization (FETÖ) by Turkey after the July 2016 coup attempt. The multifaceted and tangled relationship between the AKP and the Gülenists is beyond the scope of this study.

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Religion and interest articulation 4 The 1970s in Turkey was plagued by intense political violence by radical left-wing and right-wing organisations that claimed around 5,000 lives. On 12 September 1980, the military overthrew the civilian government for its inability to cease political violence. 5 The beginning of the transformation of the civil–military relations in Turkey actually pre-dated the AKP and was at least partially consented to by the military as a necessary step towards the objective of EU membership (Satana 2008). 6 Taqiyah is an Arabic term that means ‘caution against danger’ and refers to dissimulation of religious beliefs in the face of potential persecution. Although the term derives from Islamic jurisprudence, it was employed by the AKP’s secularist critics to emphasise that the Islamist nature of the party has not changed; it is merely disguised. 7 Turkey’s Kurdish Question originates in the resistance of autonomous semi-feudal Kurdish rulers to centralising reforms of the Ottoman Empire in the late nineteenth century. Kurdish nationalism developed in the wake of the First World War and became a prominent motive in anti-centralisation Kurdish revolts of the early republican Turkey. The Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK) was born in the 1970s in close alliance with the Turkish radical left. The PKK insurgency has claimed tens of thousands of lives in the last 40 years. 8 In 2014, BDP leadership adopted a new strategy and formed the HDP in alliance with many radical left-wing factions in Turkey. This alliance is reflected in the cadre and MPs of the party; however, it is still closely associated with the PKK and its agenda is driven by Kurdish ethnic demands. 9 Including but not limited to disagreements over Gülenists (FETÖ), US policy in Syria and Turkey’s procurement of Russian S-400 Air Defense System. 10 In 2004, the electoral system in Indonesia changed to allow direct elections of Indonesia’s national and local heads and deputy heads of government. Subianto is backed by Gerindra and Widodo’s party is the Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle (Partai Demokrasi Indonesia Perjuangan, PDI-P); however, the influence and contribution of parties is minimal in presidential elections.

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9 THE POLITICS OF BEING MUSLIM AND FEMALE Religion, feminism and hierarchies of knowledge Sariya Cheruvallil-Contractor

By prioritising male ways of being and knowing, existing social hierarchies marginalise women (Le Doeuff 1998). For centuries women have been engaging in activism to challenge their marginalisation and to demand equal recognition of women’s contributions to civilisation. Such activism by and for women is ‘politics’, yet ‘for most of its history, western political theory has ignored women’ (Bryson 2003: 1). Focusing on the experiences of Muslim women and informed by a feminist epistemological stance, this chapter will unravel women’s negotiations around religious and gendered identity markers, exploring how one influences the other to ‘politicise’ Muslim women. In doing so this chapter will take its readers on a journey through the evolution of feminist political thought, particularly where it intersects with women’s religious practices and beliefs.

Is feminism political? Feminism may be understood as a struggle for women’s emancipation for rights and respect (Watkins et al. 1992). This is a struggle that takes place on many fronts – the personal, communal, moral and political. In its note on feminism, the Concise Oxford Dictionary of Politics describes it as ‘a relatively recent term for the politics of equal rights for women’ (McLean and McMillan 2009: 197–198). Although the term ‘feminism’ may be relatively recent – in Englishuse since the 1890s (McLean and McMillan 2009) – struggles for women’s equality as undertaken by women or by women and men in partnership have existed since long before the word existed. Politics is inherent within these struggles. Rather than provide a conceptualisation of politics (which is a separate discussion, dealt with elsewhere in this book), it is sufficient to say that in this chapter, politics is used in a wide and inter-disciplinary sense aimed at capturing the diversities, contradictions and porous boundaries within its conceptualisation. Politics can be about the structures of government. It is also about the hierarchies within everyday life. For this chapter, politics involves the myriad ways whereby women organise to secure equality through critical engagement with structures of government, through challenge of attitudes within communities, and through transformative consciousness-raising of their own selves.

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A brief history of activism for women’s rights Feminist thought is often described as having emerged in three and now possibly four ‘waves’ (Llewellyn 2015; Cheruvallil-Contractor 2012). The first wave emerged in the nineteenth century and early twentieth century and consisted of western localised movements in reaction to patriarchal attitudes in the west, including the British suffrage movement (Holton 1995; Pugh 1980). The Suffragettes are an example of women’s activism that demonstrates a direct link between women’s demands for rights and structures of government. In Britain this movement was led by the British Women’s Social and Political Union (WSPU), founded in 1903 by Emmeline Pankhurst (Purvis 1995). The WSPU engaged in direct action and civil disobedience aimed at securing women’s right to vote in elections. Yet in seeking the right to vote, the suffragettes fought against the patriarchal political structures that are deeply embedded in society and which deny the equality of women’s political rights (Holton 1995; Pugh 1980). During the 1960s and 1970s, second wave feminism sought to move beyond the political spheres of women’s existence into women’s social and economic lives. This movement grew out of first wave feminism and is often perceived as an exclusively middle-class white movement that got its ideals from the political struggles of social-haves in western society (Brah and Phoenix 2004; Afshar and Maynard 2000). This led to the development in the 1990s of what is now known as third wave feminism: women who were not white and not middle-class began to articulate their needs and demands. These ‘new’ feminists interspersed arguments against racism along with arguments against sexism and classism. They argued that women of colour had to challenge the marginalisation they experienced in their own language and using symbols and norms that were their own. A possible contemporary fourth wave calls for solidarity across diverse women. As discussed by Cheruvallil-Contractor women have much in common: This finding of commonality does not nullify difference in any way instead it coexists with difference and allows for a philosophical space and praxis of solidarity where people (and not just women) can work together for the cause of the marginalised, whoever this may be. (2012: 143) It is important to reflect on the labels and categories which we use, including our use of ‘waves’ of feminism. The feminist intellectual endeavour insists on unpicking the assumptions and biases that underpin how we ‘do’ knowledge. We have already alluded to the challenge of trying to define ‘politics’. Debates around the term feminism are similarly fraught with some women (of all ethnicities) embracing it as a ‘label’ for their struggles and other women eschewing it as a white western construct that is of no relevance to women from other ethnicities. A key criticism of the wave model is that it privileges histories of white western women’s struggles (starting with the Suffragettes) and overlooks women’s struggles for rights prior to the 1890s. In relegating the activisms of women of colour to the third wave, such histories ignore the rich history of activism by these women including, for example, by anti-slavery feminists (Watkins et al. 1992) who prior to the 1890s spoke about diverse women’s rights. See for example this excerpt from a speech by black activist Sojourner Truth: They have got their liberty – so much good luck to have slavery partly destroyed; not entirely. I want its root and branch destroyed … I want women to have their rights. In 106

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the courts women have no right, no voice, nobody speaks for them. I wish women to have her voice there among the pettifoggers. (Sojourner Truth, excerpt from her address to the First Annual Meeting of the American Equal Rights Association, New York City, May 9th 1867; Truth 1867) Truth demanded equality and rights for women but did not call herself a feminist. Nawab Sultan Jahan Begam (1838–1901), ruler of the erstwhile princely state of Bhopal (now in India), did not call herself a feminist. Yet she used her political power to reform women’s education and to institute political and marital rights for women in India (Lambert-Hurley 2007). Although feminism may be a recent word, throughout history women have challenged their marginalisation in ways that reflected their local contexts. Feminism, politics and hierarchies of knowledge So is feminism political and what kind of politics does it represent? The Suffragettes were political in the most obvious sense, as are many women’s movements that use governmental, constitutional and legal frameworks to garner equality for women – a good example of this is evolution of discourses around women’s human rights (Cheruvallil-Contractor 2018). On a less obviously political level, feminists seek to change deep-rooted hierarchies prevalent within society, which determine how society is known, experienced and governed. Feminist political theory includes women as central to political analysis and experience. It questions, ‘why it is that in virtually all known societies men appear to have more power and privilege than women, and how this can be changed’ (Bryson 2003: 1). In their struggles for equality and rights, feminists realised that there was a need to question and disrupt existing sources of knowledge that were created by and for dominant social groups (namely white middle-class men) and which were biased towards favouring the interests of this group. As feminists attempted to reclaim systems of knowledge and governance for women, they realised that the tools they developed could be used to further the cause of any marginalised group (not just women) who, like women, remained under-represented or mis-represented in traditional discourses of knowledge. For some thinkers, feminist thought has evolved to advocate emancipation and rights for any ‘othered’ group within society, who may be marginalised on account of ethnicity, gender, sexuality, religion or age (Cheruvallil-Contractor 2012). According to Flax, Feminist philosophy thus represents the return of the oppressed, of the exposure of particular social roots of all apparently abstract and universal knowledge (p. 249) … Feminism is a revolutionary theory and practice. It requires simultaneously an incorporation, negation and transformation of all human history, including existing philosophies. (1983: 271) Feminist thought may best be understood through its deconstruction and interrogation of traditional conceptualisations and constructs of truth, objectivity and neutrality (Cheruvallil-Contractor 2012; Cohen et al. 2000; Webb 2000). The intellectual influence of feminism now extends beyond a celebration of women’s social contributions. It includes for example the work of thinkers such as Hannah Arendt who has written among other things on revolution, human rights and political action (1951, 1965); Saba Mahmood who is critical of secular liberal politics and liberal feminisms which she considers inadequate to explore the lived experiences of religious women (2005); and Michelle Le Doeuff who interrogates the politics of knowledge production (1998). Through its challenge of the structures of knowledge, feminism is intrinsically political. 107

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Disrupting gender and religion in women’s intersectional identities The term ‘intersectionality’ is used to discuss the multiple realities and layered identities that are possible within everyday human existence (Crenshaw 1989; Brah and Phoenix 2004). It is also used to depict the interconnections between different hierarchies within society that collude to either marginalise or privilege particular actors and voices in society. This term emerged from within feminist scholarship, to depict the multiple modalities of identity of an individual and their impact on the individual. An individual’s identity is made up of a number of aspects – gender, ethnicity, religion, class, education, geographical location – that together determine how an individual is affected by marginalisation. In this chapter we focus on religion and gender. Women understand and experience the intersection between religion and gender in diverse ways, which on occasion may even be mutually antagonistic. For example some women reject religion as a patriarchal construct designed to subjugate women, whereas others embrace religion as an emancipatory tool through which to enable women’s activism for equality and rights. Between these two camps, a number of diverse standpoints exist, each with a specific take on the significance or not of religion in facilitating either more or less equal lives and opportunities for women. Whatever the stance an activist or a thinker takes either embracing religion or eschewing it, religion is embedded in women’s debates around their politics, their activism, their identities and their preferred ways of being a woman. The ontological position that religion is important in determining gender needs to be unpicked. To begin with we explore the argument that as a patriarchal tool religion affirms the dominance of men or at least male ways of knowing. Gender is a social construct that is shaped by these and other social hierarchies (Haug et al. 1999). So for example through the veiling of women, the prescription of domestic roles for them and their exclusion from positions of public leadership, it is argued that religion has systematically shaped understandings of gender, gender identities and gender politics. Through the privileges vested by religion in (usually upper-class) men, they had the rights to lead congregations, interpret religious texts and to be citizens. In ancient Greece, from where we still draw much of our ideas about politics, women were considered less rational than men and as citizenship was confined to (free) men, women were emphatically not citizens (Minogue 1995). But women have and continue to shape religion through their conformance to, rejection of and negotiations with religion. To deny women’s knowledge production and (in the context of this chapter) their shaping of religion, is a symptom of the very same hierarchies that silence women. Often dismissed as unauthentic, inaccurate or informal, women’s belief (whether religious or not) remains a powerful intellectual and experiential space for women’s political and social activism. So for example in the context of the development of Islamic theology, women’s scholarship is generally ignored and scholarly women are often simplistically reified as pious and pure beings. Yet in the discipline of hadith studies the contributions of Aisha (a wife of Prophet Muhammad) are invaluable, particularly her narratives about the private life of Prophet Muhammad. Nadwi’s (2007) work about the Muhaddithat or female scholars of hadith provides evidence of the position of authority that female scholars historically enjoyed in Islamic societies, yet these women are largely forgotten. Recovering these women’s scholarship and a feminist retelling of their stories can be a powerful tool for women’s emancipation. The diverse ways in which women ‘do’ religion is reflected in how their struggles for equality have emerged. For many feminists, most if not all formal religion consists of patriarchyimposed religious symbolism which is invariably aimed at establishing and perpetuating male dominance (Christ 1997; Irigaray 1993; Daly 1970, 1985; De Beauvoir 1949). Yet across all three/four waves of feminism religion was important to women (Zwissler 2012) and there is 108

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evidence of women utilising religion and religious language in their social, moral and political struggles for equality. During the so-called first wave of feminism, although the Suffragettes in Britain faced many criticisms from various religious institutions, they themselves appropriated religious arguments in support of their claims: that is, ‘their militant actions were supported by, and given credibility by, their many references to traditional Christian experiences and beliefs’ (Nelson 2010: 227). They even adopted the French Catholic saint, Joan of Arc, as their model for political activism. During second wave feminism the relationship between religion and women’s political activism for equal rights was even more complex. In her analysis of the relationship between second wave feminism and the ongoing struggle for equality within American religious institutions, Foxworth describes how religious leaders, both male and female, opposed the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA). Yet the women’s equality movement inspired religious women in different ways, encouraging them to seek religious expression outside of the church, which led to increased explorations of ‘woman’s spirituality’ and understandings of the female divine. In her conclusions, Foxworth contends that although second wave feminisms were primarily a battle for secular equality, it also became a powerful movement within religious institutions. Despite enduring and significant inequalities within religious institutions (in Foxworth’s analysis she refers to the church), there are also now leadership roles for women within these institutions (Foxworth 2018). Third wave feminisms in their critiques of white, middle-class women’s feminism and culturally contextualised approach to women’s studies were more direct in their inclusion of religious discussion. Latino women were inspired by the Mujerista1 movement that contextualised Latino languages, theological understandings and feminist demands for rights into a movement that was relevant to their realities (Asisi-Diaz 1989; Anzaldua 1987). Similarly Alice Walker’s (and others) writings clearly articulate how black women’s Womanist struggles incorporated spiritual threads that reminded women of their African cultural and spiritual roots (Walker 1983). Third wave feminist understandings accepted the heterogeneity within the sisterhood and recognised that feminist activism had to contextualise differences of caste, class, culture, religion and ethnicity among women. Islamic feminisms began to evolve as a way to address the inequalities experienced by Muslim women (Cheruvallil-Contractor 2012). A key tool for women was to reclaim religion by interpreting religious text and practice in ways that were amenable to women and their rights – in doing so they reclaimed the making of religious knowledge from male-dominated structures (Zwissler 2012; Ruether 2005; Ford 1990; Hassan 1997). Feminist spirituality has also transformed how women (and men) practice religion. In her research with a largely Christian cohort of female participants (although a few women from other religious backgrounds are included), Aune identified three characteristics of feminist approaches to religion and spirituality. They are de-churched in that women usually do not have an affiliation to a religious institution; are relational, which means that women draw inspiration for their faith practices and beliefs from their family and social networks (rather than from texts); and, finally, feminist spiritualties emphasise practice and ‘lived religion’ (Aune 2015). So, having established a role for religion in women’s political activism, it is important to point out that this is by no means a straightforward relationship. As noted previously politics is a word that cannot easily be defined simply. Feminism is similarly notoriously difficult to pin down (see Zwissler 2012 for a wider contextualisation of this debate). And, finally, religion and belief both defy easy categorisation (see Cheruvallil-Contractor et al. 2014 for a discussion of the complexities in defining religion). So when it comes to the intersection between feminist political activism and religion, the observer must explore a galaxy of different perspectives, methods and ontological stances. At this intersection religious and non-religious, male and 109

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female, feminist and anti-feminist, political and non-political all engage in activism for increased equality for women in diverse social institutions – including government, religious structures, communities and families. The aim of this movement is clear – equality for women. Yet the actors, methods, contexts and impacts of this movement are far-reaching, which presents a rather broad palette for the scholar to work from. To bring our so far largely theoretical discussion to the practicalities of everyday life, the chapter’s next section provides an overview and analysis of feminist activisms that have taken place in Muslim contexts. How do Muslim women do feminism? How do feminists do Islam? And what does this tell us about the relationship between feminist political activism and religion?

Why focus on Muslim women for this chapter? Muslim women are the focus in this chapter for three reasons. These reasons contribute towards the objective of this chapter, which is an exploration of feminist political practice, and are therefore outlined here. My positionality as a Muslim woman: an authentic voice? Positionality refers to the stance or positioning of the author in relation to the social and political context of the study – the community, the organisation or the participant group (Coghlan and Brydon-Miller 2014). As noted previously, central to the feminist cause is its challenge of the hierarchies of knowledge and to reflect on inherent biases and blind-spots within existing knowledge. Concomitant with this is an urgent need to include and invest in lesser heard and mis-heard voices, and for authenticity (another difficult to define term!) in knowledge production. Reflections on positionality are a feminist response to these concerns. Rose (1997) and Sultana (2007) provide useful discussions about the theoretical frameworks around positionality and the challenges that the reflective researcher can face. Here I reflect on my positionality as a Muslim woman and feminist writer. Being a Muslim woman does not preclude me from writing about other groups who are not Muslim or not feminist, just as anybody really may write about Muslim women. However, a feminist stance encourages the author to be transparent about his or her place in society and to reflect carefully on how their role influences their work. As a Muslim woman who believes and practices her faith, I have privileged access to many Muslim women for whom religion is an important determinant in life. I have the cultural awareness and sensibility to understand their life choices. I am also part of the same socio-cultural-religious milieu as many of these women who perhaps like me (and indeed like religious sisters from other faiths) have been frustrated by enduring patriarchy within religious institutions. My frustrations led me to embrace feminism, making it my own (Cheruvallil-Contractor 2012). This has also meant that I see the world in a particular way that is unique to me. At this point it is important to state the diversity among Muslim woman. Muslim women come from different ethnicities and socio-cultural backgrounds and have different ways of believing ranging from the deeply religious to the non-religious Muslim. My feminism is a religious one. Yet for a number of Muslim women, frustrations with patriarchy have led to the rejection of religion, which brings me to the second reason for this focus on Muslim women within this chapter which the diversity among Muslim women’s activisms.

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Diversity among Muslim women’s activisms Writing about Islamic feminism in 2012, I described it as a contentious term that is: eschewed by some Muslim women (Bullock 2003), who dismiss it as an oxymoron (Haddad 2009), a contradiction (Cooke 2001: xxvi) or ‘a dilemma between faith and feminism’ (Afshar 2008: 411) and which is embraced by others (Badran 2005). There are further disagreements about who invented the term – was it ‘invented by observers of the rise of a new feminist paradigm in the Middle East, who began to call it Islamic feminism’ (Badran 2005: 14–15) or is it the ‘identity of choice for some Muslim scholars and activists’ (Haddad 2009: 1) who choose to be known as Islamic feminists? This debate is further confounded by the contrasting opinions of thinkers who feel that Islam and feminism are incompatible because either Islam as a faith is too misogynistic to support any feminist discourse (Hirsi Ali 2006; Sultan 2009) or Feminist discourse is a corruption and incompatible with sacred Islamic thought (Jameelah 2009). (Cheruvallil-Contractor 2012: 95–96) The lives and work of two Muslim female activists, Fatima Mernissi (1940–2015) and Zaynab AlGhazali (1917–2005) illustrate two ends of a spectrum of approaches that Muslim women may take in their activism (Cooke 2001). Moroccan Fatima Mernissi accepted western philosophies and strived to work for women’s rights in a context that was ‘western’, whereas Egyptian Zainab Ghazzali tried to garner rights for women within a framework that was Islamic. Both women have inspired women’s activisms in the Muslim and Arab worlds, yet their philosophical approaches to activism were poles apart. Between them they have set up a template for Muslim women’s activism, which either dismiss or embrace Islamic faith values. In thinking about women’s politics it is important to acknowledge the diverse ways in which religious women perceive and experience feminism. In their struggle for rights do they reject religion preferring instead to adopt secular models of activism, equality and rights? Or do they allow their religious beliefs, values and sentiments to define their political struggles. And in undertaking their struggles how do they negotiate between their religious and gender identities. Then there are those who reject feminism. This rejection of feminism is not limited to Muslim or religious women, recent research suggests that less than one in five young women would call themselves a feminist (BBC 2019). This rejection of feminism does not imply a rejection of gender equality; women reject feminism yet support equal rights for women. They however disagree with the politics of the label ‘feminism’. Cheruvallil-Contractor notes that Muslim women in her research often spoke about their disagreements with feminist discourse which they characterised as ‘anti-religion, anti-hijab, anti-men and anti-family (!)’ (2012: 95). Other Muslim women spoke about feminism as being a western label for a western movement, instead these women wanted to articulate a movement for rights and equality that was situated in their specific geographical, religious and social contexts. After her transnational journey to explore women’s movements in the ‘Muslim’ world, Elizabeth Warnock Fernea (1998) was convinced that most Muslim women’s activisms (whether or not they call them feminism) are underpinned strongly by their religious beliefs. Muslim women’s feminisms, by reclaiming religion, challenge patriarchy in Muslim contexts that deny women’s rights, including rights that these women believe are divinely ordained for them (Cheruvallil-Contractor 2012). They also challenge wider societies’ perceptions of Muslim women.

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The visible Muslim woman A final reason for focusing on the Muslim woman is the disproportionate scrutiny that she faces in contemporary public discourse. Tarlo writes about women who are ‘visibly Muslim’ because of their adherence to Islamic faith practices including, but not limited to, wearing the hijab or headscarf (2010). In popular and also in some academic discourse, Muslim women have been reified into a homogenous construct that does not recognise the ethnic, social and religious diversity among Muslim women. Furthermore, according to these constructs, the Muslim woman is innately different from other women. When combined with current media and political preoccupation with extremist or ‘radical’ Islam, society has all the stimuli needed to create an environment that in its scrutiny of Muslim women (and their choices) also dismisses them as different, deviant and suspicious (CheruvallilContractor 2012; Tarlo 2010). A Muslim woman’s intersectional identity, her gender, faith and social contexts (that fear her faith), leads to her marginalisation. For this discussion on women’s politics, the case of Muslim women offers the possibility of richer analysis that interrogates their marginalisation.

The ‘politicised’ Muslim woman This section starts with vignettes about two Muslim women who are ‘political’ in different socio-political, professional and geographic contexts:

Vignette 9.1: the artist Mennel is a young French-Syrian Muslim woman – a YouTube artist who was recruited to sing on a popular French TV talent show. For her first public appearance she performed a famous Christian spiritual song, composed by a Jewish artist. She started the song in English, using its original words and halfway through (rather dramatically) switched to Arabic and used words with Islamic significance. She moved the audience and emerged as a strong contender to progress through the show. However this story has a twist, tweets from Mennel were ‘found’ that were deemed anti-national. Mennel was removed from the show. She became a politicised Muslim woman who was to be viewed with suspicion (for details see Fadil 2018). Her political agency, as demonstrated in her choice to sing in a way that expressed her French-Syrian hybrid identity, her faith, her life-journey as a migrant, was simply forgotten.

Vignette 9.2: the politician Baroness Sayeeda Hussain Warsi is a well-known British politician.2 The daughter of Pakistani immigrants, who became Britain’s first ‘Muslim cabinet minister’, famously wore a traditional shalwar kameez to her first cabinet meeting (Telegraph 2010). Although no longer a cabinet minister and despite political upheavals, her political and social influence as a Muslim woman in ‘power’ remains significant in British politics. She is well-known among other things for her consistent and influential campaigning against Islamophobia. She has been criticised for being ‘not British enough’ and not ‘Muslim enough’, yet through her work she is publicly visible as a strong and powerful Muslim woman – a role model for young Muslims, female and male and for all Britons. Her political agency is clearly apparent.

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Politicise is a useful word to denote the multiple and often contradictory ways in which Muslim women are perceived – by themselves, by religious and/or Muslim men, by their feminist sisters and by society, which at least in the west is increasingly secular (Weller et al. 2014). According to the Oxford dictionary, the word politicise could mean either to ‘cause (an activity or event) to become political in character’ or to ‘make (someone) politically aware’.3 In the case of Muslim women, the former definition may be used to refer to the Muslim woman as an inert object of society’s gaze – the locus of societal perception, approval or disapproval, suspicion and/or empathy. Historically perceptions of Muslim women have varied. Male colonialists described her as exotic and sensuous even though eighteenth-century writer Mary Montagu reports that they would never have had access to Muslim women (1716–1717). Societal gaze has varyingly positioned Muslim women as exotic, in need of rescue, sensuous or on the other hand as powerful, not needing ‘saving’ and as scholars. Somewhere in between also lie notions of the pious Muslim woman, who depending on how and from where you view her may be perceived as subjugated to religious patriarchy or challenging the male gaze (Cheruvallil-Contractor 2012; Bullock 2003). Society perceives her and politicises her, subsequently assuming a self-righteous need to protect her or rescue her or leave her alone. This narrative politicises Muslim women without recognising their roles as citizens and actors in a shared society. She is different. Her choices in choosing to practice her faith, to wear a hijab or possibly even a niqab make her and her dissent visible. She embodies a critique of western secular culture and must therefore be viewed with disapproval and suspicion. Alternatively, if her faith is not her choice, she must be rescued. Going back to the dictionary definition of the word ‘politicised’, the latter definition may refer to Muslim women’s agency as they co-exist in this society that may ‘fear’ them. Baroness Warsi is an example of this agency that is socially transformative on a large scale. Such agency is also evident on an ‘everyday’ level, as part of what might be described as the mundane routines of Muslim women’s lives. As they go about their lives, Muslim women challenge stereotypes (Cheruvallil-Contractor 2012). Over and over again, Muslim women who are teachers, doctors, social workers, students or just neighbours, flatmates or co-travellers describe how the act of being a Muslim woman in a public space vests in them agency. By doing ‘normal’ things, they are viewed as less suspicious and as part of society. Not all women enjoy this attention – the benevolent gaze of society – yet for some this can be agentive (Cheruvallil-Contractor 2012). What about Muslim women challenging patriarchy? Consider the emotive voice of Farhat – a young Muslim woman living in central England: Yes women should fight for their rights … Firstly, you should have full knowledge of the various rights that Islam has given you. And then if a particular right isn’t being given to you, you must fight for and demand that right … if you remain quiet you will never be given anything. So rallies should march, unions should be formed and other forums should be organised which can help women garner their rights. A woman should be aware of what her rights are rather than her living a suppressed life without knowing the different aspects of life that she can experience and enjoy. (Farhat, Loughborough, August 2008, cited in Cheruvallil-Contractor 2012: 104) For Farhat and other women like her, who hold diverse religious beliefs, their beliefs become a central aspect of the struggles for rights and equality. In utilising religion as a tool of their struggles, these women acquire knowledge of it. They study it, interrogate it, interpret it and ultimately transform it. This is a political struggle that is shaped both by the gender and religion of the women who embody and drive it. In such contexts women subvert existing social hierarchies to become holders, creators and

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drivers of knowledge. It is important to acknowledge the political agency of these women who challenge such religious patriarchies through their knowledge of religion. Finally, through their lives, voices and struggles, Farhat and other women like her also depict the commonalities across all women’s lives. These women may be different on account of their religion, their ethnicity or the social background. Yet inherent across all women’s struggles is a need to challenge inequalities deeply ingrained in most societies. So, when Muslim women articulate their struggles they are also politically contributing to the global feminist cause, adding to a space of solidarity where commonalities can be uncovered and differences recognised. This is political agency too.

Conclusion Women have always engaged in political struggles. Yet their politics remain under-recognised. This is due to a trenchant privileging of male voices and experiences in political discourse, which has also led to conceptualisations of politics in grand terms: nations, war, citizens, laws and rights. Women have had important roles in all of these. But women have also been involved in politics at a more ‘mundane’ level – rights in the family, authority in the home, authenticity in religion, dialogue in the community. The cumulative transformations in our societies, which are brought about by such ‘everyday’ politics, need to be acknowledged and included in our studies of politics. Women’s politics are characterised by diversity, multiplicity and intersectionality. Women’s everyday lives are determined by who they are. Religion as experienced by women (rejection, conformance, interrogation) remains an aspect of their intersectional identities. The debate around women, religion and politics should not be reduced to a simple narrative of religious and non-religious women and good or bad religion. Instead we need (many) new narratives of women’s politics that problematise the complexities brought about by the different ways in which women believe and which recognise the impact of women’s social contexts and personal agency in determining how they believe.

Notes 1 ‘A mujerista is someone who makes a preferential option for Latina women, for their struggle for liberation. Mujeristas struggle to liberate themselves not as individuals but as members of a Latino community’ (https:// users.drew.edu/aisasidi/Definition1.htm). 2 www.parliament.uk/biographies/lords/baroness-warsi/3839. 3 https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/politicize.

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10 RELIGIOUS VIOLENCE AND POLITICAL PARTIES Mark Juergensmeyer

Although the concept of the secular state would seem to imply that religion and politics do not mix, the opposite is often the case. In almost every part of the world, from Myanmar to Poland, religion is on the agenda of political parties and movements, and often the threat or fear of religious violence is a dominant theme. In some cases, such as the Muslim Brotherhood, the very name signifies their dedication to advancing policies meant to protect and advance a particular religious community. In other cases, such as the British Nationalist Party, the name does not reveal the religious elements of their political positions but the targets of their ire and the foci of their restrictive policies are often particular religious groups deemed as being dangerous to the dominant religious community of the country. The rise of violent right-wing political parties and movements around the world often have a religious character. In a fast-moving globalised world, many people feel marginalised, even when they are part of a dominant religious community. Minority religious communities become scapegoats. Both Shi’a and Sunni Muslim activists in Iraq, for example, fear the opposing religious community, and political parties and movements in Iraq have based much of their appeal on their professed ability to defend their religious communities and protect them from the violence of their perceived religious foes. Curiously, the same sentiment is voiced by supporters of right-wing Christian parties and movements in Europe and the United States where Muslims are the target of much of the anti-immigrant rhetoric of right-wing political parties. One of the paradoxes of globalisation is that it produces anti-globalism in its wake. The rise of right-wing religious politics throughout the world, many of them strident and some of them lethal, are a sign of the backlash to the notion of global citizenship. Immigrant communities and minority groups that profess a faith different from the dominant community become targets of violent political rhetoric and policies. In the twenty-first century, the fear of the religious ‘other’ has become a major rallying cry for many political groups and parties. Implicitly they suggest that support for their polities and political leaders will protect the populate from the imagined violence of the minority groups and lead to a tough stand on such threats, including bans on new immigration and restrictions on religious minorities communities deemed to be a threat.

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Religious violence in political parties in particular areas of the world United States Although the separation of religion and politics was inscribed in the constitution by the founding fathers of the country – particularly by Thomas Jefferson, who was adamant on the topic – religion has consistently been a feature of American political life, and violence has been a feature of its extremes. All US presidents have been professing Christians, and most of them Protestant. When John F. Kennedy, a Roman Catholic, ran for the presidency his religious affiliation was a major issue. This was not, however, such an issue when another Roman Catholic, Joe Biden, ran for the vice-presidency with Barack Obama, or when a Jew, Joe Lieberman, was the vice-presidential running mate for the unsuccessful candidacy of Al Gore. Religious themes promoting the dominant Protestant Christian community has consistently been a subtext of American political parties’ rhetoric. The great sociologist of religion, Robert Bellah, analysed the inauguration speeches of American presidents and found a consistent Christian biblical narrative (Bellah, 1967). He regarded this is a component of the civil religion of American society. Implicitly it marginalised Jews, Muslims and other minority groups professing non-Christian faiths. This anti-religious minority theme has taken a more strident political turn in the ethnic politics of the twenty-first century, touching on religious violence. The American Freedom Party was launched in California in 2010, led by Los Angeles attorney William Daniel Johnson, with a strident anti-Semitic platform. Within the decade it had branched throughout the country and nominated candidates for president and vice president in the national elections. The larger and better-known American Independent Party was founded in 1967 primarily over racial issues, promoting the pro-segregation policies of Alabama governor George Wallace and keeping African Americans in a subservient position in society, forcibly if necessary. In recent years, however, the concerns of the party have shifted to include what it regards as the threat of violence from Muslim immigrant communities. In 2016 it embraced the presidential candidacy of Donald Trump largely because of his perceived stance against non-White immigrant groups. The most strident right-wing party in the United States is the American Nazi Party founded by George Lincoln Rockwell in 1959, which has been renamed the National Socialist Movement. Followers of these extreme parties have been involved in violent clashes in the United States, including the 2017 confrontation in Charlottesville, Virginia between anti-immigrant groups holding a White supremacy rally and anti-fascist counter-protestors. At this rally a counterprotestor was killed when one of the supporters of the rally rammed the crowd with his vehicle. A featured speaker at the rally was Richard Spencer, founder of the National Policy Institute, a think-tank devoted to promoting White supremacy. Among the targets of its wrath are Jews and Muslim immigrants. Religious extremism in political rhetoric became mainstream with the candidacy and election of President Donald Trump in 2016. Among the main features of his platform during the election and in his administration were xenophobic fears of foreign trade and foreign immigrants invading and changing the culture. Trump indicated that Norwegians would be welcome as immigrants, but not darker-skinned Hispanics or Muslims who, he has said, would bring criminal elements into the country (Flagg, 2018). In banning immigrants from selected Muslim countries, it was the fear of violent foreigners, including Hispanics who were Christian, but mostly those from Muslim cultures who by his definition were prone to be terrorists. Some Evangelical Christian pastors who have supported Trump claim that Islam is by nature a terrorist religion, and Protestant televangelist Pat Robertson has described it as ‘satanic’ (Kilgore, 2016). 118

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United Kingdom In the UK the fear of violent religious communities – particularly Muslims – has been a part of the political rhetoric surrounding Brexit, the vote to withdraw from the European Union in 2016. The primary right-wing parties have been the British Nationalist Party, founded by John Tyndall in 1982, and the British National Party, which joined other groups to create the National Front in 1967, currently led by Tony Martin. A spin-off party from the National Front in 1995 led to the creation of the National Democrats. The ideology of these parties is similar: they advocate the idea that Britain should be dominated by White Christians. One of the early suggestions was to deport all British Jews to some other location, a policy proposal that led many to compare them with Nazis. Increasingly the vitriol of the members of these parties has been against Britain’s immigration policy, especially opening doors to large numbers of Muslims from South Asian, Middle East and African locations. These parties were solidly behind the Brexit move, which they saw as a way of stifling immigration from these Muslim locales. The Brexit vote was promoted most prominently by the small, right-wing United Kingdom Independence Party (UKIP), founded in 1993 and led most recently by Gerard Batten. In promoting Brexit, spokesmen such as Nigel Farage, the leader of the UKIP during the Brexit campaign, regarded Britain’s immigration rules as required by the EU’s policies as one of the main reasons for rejecting EU membership. While he thought that the influx of Eastern Europeans was part of the problem with EU membership, the huge Muslim immigrant population was what stoked the Islamophobic fears of many British who eventually voted for a British break from the EU. The UK’s immigration policies tapped into the ‘anti-Muslim populism’ that had emerged among a significant section of the British population (Trilling, 2012: 154). After the Brexit vote UKIP has taken an even stronger anti-Muslim stand. In November 2018, it appointed Tommy Robinson, former leader of the anti-immigrant English Defence League, to be an adviser to the party. He has been called ‘the loudest Islamophobic voice in Britain’ (Peachey, 2018). Shortly after Robinson joined the party as adviser, the former leader of UKIP and its most prominent spokesman, Nigel Farage, resigned from the party in protest. Though it would appear that he wanted to distance himself from the extreme anti-Muslim sentiment of Robinson, Farage himself has been accused of stoking anti-Muslim fears during the Brexit campaign. In an interview before the Brexit vote he said he had no problem with good Muslims immigrating to the UK but had objections to those who are ‘coming here to take over’ (Bromwich, 2014). The vagueness of this category suggested that Farage and his many followers were suspicious that many Muslims were violent by nature and would upset the civil order of the country. Europe The anti-immigrant Islamophobic stance of the right-wing British parties that supported Brexit is mirrored by many similar parties that have prospered elsewhere in Europe in the twenty-first century. As in the UK, the fear of religious violence by imagined Muslim ‘terrorists’ has led to strident political positions that often verge on violence of their own. By far the most successful right-wing party in Europe is Fidesz, the Hungarian Civic Alliance, headed by Victor Orbán, which came to power in the 2014 elections and maintained its control in the 2018 elections. It has garnered a reputation of being strict on immigration, especially curtailing the influx of Muslim refugees from Syria, a stance that is regarded by many observers as Islamophobic. It has also singled out the billionaire American philanthropist, George Soros, for contempt and closed down the respected Central European University in Budapest that he had founded. The focus on Soros raised the suspicion that the party was pandering to anti-Semitic 119

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fears of Jewish financial power. In Poland a similar party, Prawo i Sprawiedliwos´c´ (Law and Justice), founded by Lech and Jaroslaw Kaczyn´ski, is the largest party in the Polish parliament. In sheer numbers the Alternative für Deutschland (AfD) in Germany is the largest in Europe with over five million votes in the 2013 federal elections. The party received just under 5 percent of the vote total, the number that would have allowed it to play a role in the government. The surprising victory of the AfD sent shock waves through the more liberal parties in Germany. Its success was attributed in part to growing German resentment over government policies that allowed large numbers of Muslim Syrian refugees to flood into the country. Several violent incidents involving Muslim refugees prior to the election was said to have contributed to the party’s support. Elsewhere in Europe similar parties have appeared. Most notable are the National Front in France that was led by Jean-Marie Le Pen and later by his daughter, Marine Le Pen, whose rhetoric included Islamophobic and anti-Semitic overtones. Switzerland and Austria have seen the rise of right-wing anti-Muslim parties that have garnered as much as a fourth of the popular vote in national elections. In Italy, the Fratelli d’Italia (Brothers of Italy) party gained strength in the 2018 national elections in part because of fears of boatloads of new Muslim and other immigrants arriving from Africa and the Middle East on the country’s Mediterranean shores. In Northern Europe, Norway, Sweden, Finland, Denmark and the Netherlands have all witnessed the rise of parties that oppose immigration and the assimilation of Muslims into their societies. One of the most extreme acts of terrorism in recent European history was the 2011 attack of Anders Breivik on a youth camp hosted by the pro-multicultural Norwegian Labour Party, killing 69 young people, in protest against what Breivik thought was the party’s permission for a Muslim takeover of Northern Europe (Juergensmeyer, 2017). Turkey In the early twentieth century when Turkey was transitioning to a nation-state following the end of the Ottoman Empire, its emphasis on Turkish ethnic nationalism alienated non-Muslim and non-Turkish communities in the extreme. The deportation and destruction of large groups of Armenians, Syrian, Greek, Assyrian and Chaldean Christians has been described as genocide, a term rejected by Turkish officials, but generally accepted as fact by much of the rest of the world. This attitude of marginalisation towards non-Muslim and non-ethnically Turkish groups has continued even though the politics of the country has been dominated by the secular philosophy of Turkey’s modern founder, Kemal Ataturk. In recent years that secular political culture has been challenged by a new political party, Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi (the Justice and Development Party, commonly known by its Turkish initials, AKP), though the situation of minority communities has not improved. The party, led by Recep Erdog˘ an, came to power in 2002. Though he has quarrelled with the secular Kemalists over policies that would liberalise the use of the Muslim headscarf and other policies in line with Muslim sentiments, his main fights have been with other Sunni Muslims, primarily ethnic Kurds and followers of the Gülen movement. With the Kurds his opposition is primarily ethnic; he sees them as separatist. With the Gülenists, however, his hostility is directed towards a religious movement led by a former cleric, Fethullah Gülen, who has lived in the United States since 1999 in a retreat centre in Pennsylvania’s Pocono Mountains. The movement involves a cluster of various social service and educational organisations united in their ascription to Gülen’s philosophy, which advocates a modern and moderate Islam in tune with multicultural societies. Initially the relations between Erdog˘ an’s AKP and the Gülen movement were mutually supportive in a political alliance. Around 2011 cracks began to emerge in the alliance, in part 120

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over criticism of Gülen-related journalists, judges and other officials regarding what they observed to be mounting corruption within the AKP in general and more specifically among Erdog˘ an’s closest allies and family. Erdog˘ an blamed the Gülen movement for launching the investigations that incriminated him and his associates in corruption, and blamed it for trying to take over the government. Erdog˘ an closed down the Gülen-related newspaper, Zaman, which had one of the largest circulations in Turkey, and in May 2016, declared the Gülen movement to be a terrorist organisation. A few weeks later, on 15 July 2016, a mysterious coup attempt was launched, killing over 300, but was quickly quelled. Erdog˘ an immediately blamed the Gülen movement and Gülen personally for orchestrating the coup. Subsequently he has expelled or imprisoned tens of thousands of teachers, journalists, administrators and others related to Gülen’s Hizmet movement. Erdog˘ an has demanded the extradition of Gülen to Turkey to be put on trial for his alleged terrorist plots, but the US State Department has denied the requests owing to a lack of credible evidence of any crime. Egypt The Egyptian constitution does not allow political parties to organise on the basis of religion, though religion has been an aspect of many political parties in the country, and religious-related parties have been the subject of violence and persecution. After the Arab Spring when the dramatic massive demonstrations in Cairo’s Tahrir Square and elsewhere throughout the country in 2011 led to the ouster of strongman Hosni Mubarak, an arena for democracy was opened and political parties could contend freely in national elections. The largest Islamist movement, the Muslim Brotherhood, created the H . izb al-H . urriyyah wa al-‘Adala (Freedom and Justice Party) which ran on a plank of Islamic values, though it was careful to include Egyptian Christians as part of the party’s leadership. In the 2012 elections the party received the largest number of votes, and on 20 June 2012, the party’s leader, Mohamed Morsi, was installed as prime minister. Though it had come to power with the appearance of a moderate and tolerant Islamic political stance, within a matter of months the new government attempted to revise the constitution, institute hard-line Islamist policies, and curtail the power of the judiciary in what some observers described as an ‘Islamist coup’ (El Rashidi, 2013). Many of the young people who had protested in Tahrir Square during the Arab Spring felt that their revolution had been hijacked for undemocratic Islamist purposes, and new protests against the Morsi regime emerged throughout the country. On 3 July 2013, in response to the protests, the leader of the military, General Abdel Fatah al-Sisi, ousted Morsi, outlawed the Muslim Brotherhood and its Freedom and Justice Party, and took direct control of the government. It was a move supported at the time by democratic opposition groups, the Grand Imam, and the Coptic Christian Pope. It was anticipated that al-Sisi would quickly call for new elections. He did, although it was held a year later. The winner was al-Sisi himself, who assumed office on 8 June 2014. Since then he has solidified his power in a regime that is often described as more autocratic than Mubarak’s reign. Al-Sisi has also ruthlessly destroyed his political enemies, including the Muslim Brotherhood’s Freedom and Justice Party, in what he described as crackdowns on terrorism. In protests organised by the Muslim Brotherhood against what it described as al-Sisi’s abrogation of democratic rule, al-Sisi ordered the national police to use any means necessary to break up peaceful protests that were organised against him. In protests in Cairo in August 2013, police action led to the deaths of over 600 protestors with over 4,000 injured. In March 2014, the courts under al-Sisi’s urging sentenced over five hundred Muslim Brotherhood protesters to death and by May 2016 the British Broadcasting Corporation reported that over 40,000 followers of the movement had been imprisoned (BBC, 2016). 121

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Iraq and Syria In Iraq, the ouster of the dictator Saddam Hussein in 2003 by a coalition of military forces led by the United States led to a vacuum of political power. It was soon filled by the organisation of political parties and movements, many of which were based on religious affiliation. Competition among these rival religious-related political groups has led to much of the violence in the country in the first two decades of the twenty-first century (Juergensmeyer, 2017). Shi’a Muslims constitute 60 percent of Iraq’s population, so it is understandable that Shi’a political parties dominate post-Saddam governments. The largest Shi’s party is the Supreme Islamic Iraqi Council (al-Majlis al-alalith-thaura l-islamiyya fil-Iraq), though compromises among the leading Shi’a groups led to the installation of Nouri al Maliki, leader of the Islamic Dawa Party (Hizb al-Da’wa al-Islamiyya) as prime minister of Iraq from 2006 to 2014. Left out of this Shi’a coalition was the firebrand Shi’a cleric, Muqtada al-Sadr, and his Sadr militia. It was members of this militia that were accused of violence against the US occupation forces and Sunni Arabs in the years following the end of Saddam’s regime. In 2018 Sadr became directly engaged in the national elections and his Sairoon alliance won the largest number of seats. A power-sharing agreement later in the year, however, led to a more moderate coalition government that in October 2018 selected Adil Abdul-Mahdi as prime minister. On the Sunni Muslim side of Iraqi politics, the official Sunni party, the Iraqi Islamic Party, has sided with both al Maliki and his successor, Haider al-Abadi, in the coalition governments in Baghdad. The unofficial political organisations, however, have included violent activists, including supporters of al Qaeda in Iraq. This movement, led by Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, orchestrated a reign of terror in 2004–2006 aimed primarily at the US occupation force and secondarily at the Shi’a government in Baghdad and moderate Sunni leaders. After Zarqawi was captured and killed by US military the movement survived and its leadership eventually was passed to Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, who reconstituted the movement under a new name, the Islamic State (also known as the Islamic State of Iraq and al-Sham, greater Syria, or ISIS). ISIS prospered in Syria in the second decade of the twenty-first century for the same reason that al Qaeda in Iraq flourished for a time in that country: it fed on the disaffection of Sunni Arabs who felt marginalised from the political culture. In Iraq the Sunnis were in the numerical minority. In Syria they were in the majority, but the regime of Bashar al Assad was led by a kind of Shi’a religious community, the Alawites, which many Sunnis felt had excluded them from public life. In the protests against Assad after Arab Spring in 2012 that led to a civil war in the country, radical Islamic groups such as al Nusra and the Islamic State provided the organisation and military might to be effective vehicles for Sunni Muslim opposition to Assad. In 2014 the Islamic State forces were able to mount a blitzkrieg across eastern Syria and western Iraq. Within weeks they had conquered large sections of the two countries with over ten million people under their control, including the major Syrian city of Raqqa and the second largest Iraqi city, Mosul. Within days of capturing Mosul, al Baghdadi appeared on the parapet of the main mosque and declared himself caliph of the Islamic State. The regime lasted until 2018, sustained largely through violence and a reign of terror against its own citizens as well as its enemies. Thousands died, some in the most intentionally sensational manners. Videos of beheadings and execution by flames were posted on the internet and contributed to the movement’s reputation for abject brutality. Myanmar In Myanmar religious violence has taken an ugly turn in recent years, fostered in part by the prevailing political parties. During the time of its independence in 1948, the country known at 122

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that time as Burma, leaders such as Aung San were tolerant of the religious minorities in the country, including Christian tribal groups in the north and east and Muslims in the northwest. The first prime minister, U Nu, included Muslims from the Rohingya ethnic community in his cabinet. Nonetheless relations with both Christian and Muslim minorities have been rocky over the years, including during the long period of military rule. In 2010 with the liberalisation of politics and the freedom of political parties to contest elections, Muslims were often targeted as scapegoats for Buddhists nationalists’ fears that their culture was under assault. In the 2015 elections, the military-backed party, Union Solidarity and Development, was said to have been stoking fears of Muslim terrorism in the country and the need for a strong party to control them and promote the country’s Buddhist identity. Nonetheless, the opposition party, the National League for Democracy, won the elections, led by Aung San Suu Kyi, the daughter of Aung San, the general who had been the leader of Burma’s independence movement. The military maintained control of the police and army within the country, however, and these agencies have been blamed for the crackdown on the Rohingya Muslim minority community. According to a March 2018 report from the Association of Southeast Asian Countries (ASEAN), over 40,000 Muslims were killed in the anti-Rohingya pogroms in Myanmar from 2015 to 2018 (ASEAN, 2018). The military’s political party has been accused of allowing a strident anti-Muslim monk, Ashin Wirathu, to incite angry Buddhists mobs to riot against the Muslim minority, burning mosques and Muslim-owned shops and houses. In the town of Meiktila, a Buddhist mob surrounded a Muslim man and set him on fire. The prevailing anti-Muslim religious nationalism in the country, promoted by the military’s party, has put Aung San Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy Party in a difficult situation where it feels it cannot speak out for the human rights of the Rohingya people without risking political repercussions (Juergensmeyer, 2015). Pakistan and India Although Pakistan was founded in 1948 to be a secular nation the politics of the country have become increasingly Islamicised over the years, especially under the regime of General Muhammad Zia ul-Haq, who came to power in a military coup in 1977 and ruled until his death in 1988. Zia formed alliances with right-wing religious parties, especially the Jamaa-e-Islami, and promoted politics that not only favoured Islam within the political culture of the nation but also marginalised non-Muslim religious communities, including Sikhs and Christians. A heresy law allows for punishment, including death, of those accused of assaulting Islam. Most of the victims of this law have been Christian. In the twenty-first century, right-wing Islamist religious parties have fielded candidates who have been accused of being terrorists by the United States and India, including cleric Hafeez Sayeed, whom the Indian government has accused of being complicit in the 2008 Mumbai terrorist attack that killed 166 people (Reuters, 2018). In India, the violent struggle between the Sikh separatist Khalistan movement and the Indian government led to thousands of deaths in the 1980s (Juergensmeyer, 2017). Although some members of the Sikh political party, the Akali Dal, joined the movement, most leaders of the party opposed it. After the uprising was defeated, some of former leaders of the separatist movement have created their own political parties. Simranjit Singh Mann, once accused of masterminding the assassination plot that killed Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, has led the Shiromani Akali Dal (Amritsar) Party, though it has fared with little success in Punjab state elections. The pro-Hindu policies of the ruling political party in India, the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), has made it arguably the largest religious party in the world. In the 2014 national elections it won an outright majority allowing it to create the federal government without coalition support. The prime minister was named Narendra Modi, who had been Chief Minister of the state of Gujarat 123

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where he and his political allies had been implicated in an incident of religious violence. In 2002, Hindu mobs had attacked innocent Muslims in the outskirts of the city of Ahmedabad and over two thousand were killed, often by having been savagely beaten or tossed alive onto burning fires (Ghassam-Fachandi, 2012). Modi was said to have encouraged the mobs. After an investigation no formal charges were levied against him, though international human rights groups blacklisted him and he was not allowed to visit the United States until after he was named prime minister. A member of Modi’s cabinet, BJP member Maya Kadnani, was brought to trial and convicted of terrorism for her role in actively encouraging the mobs in the midst of the riot. China Though the ruling Communist Party of China is officially atheist, the party’s government does recognise the existence of five ‘religions’: Buddhism, Taoism, Islam, Protestantism and Catholicism (though the last two are, of course, branches of one religious tradition, Christianity). Officially sanctioned organisations related to these five religions have been allowed to practice after the liberation of religion in China in 1982. They are closely monitored and controlled by the government, however, and upstart groups within these religions and sects that fall outside the category of officially sanctioned religious organisations have clashed with the government, sometimes violently. In 2018 the government cracked down on unauthorised Christian churches, destroying them, taking down crosses, burning bibles and destroying church buildings. Some Christians have been killed in attempting to keep their places of worship from being demolished (Galli, 2018). Attempts to quash the Chinese meditation movement, Falun Gong, have led to incarceration and torture. According to investigative journalist Ethan Gutmann, tens of thousands of Falun Gong prisoners were killed in order to harvest their organs for transplant (Gutmann, 2014). Muslim Uighurs in western China have also been under attack, in part because some activist Uighur separatists have instigated violent acts of terrorism against the government. Since 2014 Uighurs in Xinxiang Province have been placed in massive re-education camps, and in 2018 the numbers swelled to over 100,000. The efforts to make Uighurs more Chinese in these camps include lessons in Mandarin. The Chinese government has also curtailed some aspects of Muslim religious practice including the use of ‘abnormal beards and unusual names’ (Bristow, 2018).

Global context The rise of religious nationalism around the world at the end of the twentieth century and first decades of the twenty-first has led to situations where religious violence is an aspect of the policies of, and opposition to, political parties. Extremist political groups in one country are encouraged and supported by those in others. Some of the first responses to the victory of Donald Trump in the 2016 presidential elections, for instance, were scenes of cheering right-wing Hindu BJP supporters in India. In other cases, religious violence promoted by a political group in one part of the world have been countered by political responses elsewhere in the world. An example is the incident that led to the protracted Benghazi investigations by Republican committees in the US Congress that was a mainstay of the Republican Party’s political accusations against former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, especially during her unsuccessful candidacy for US president in 2016. The incident began with a 2012 attack on the US Consulate in Benghazi, Libya that killed four American staff members, including the US Ambassador to Libya, Chris Stevens. It was not a random mob. Truckloads of militia attacked the Consulate and a mortar attack eventually demolished the building and killed the Ambassador. The militants were likely jihadis, either al 124

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Qaeda-related or Saudi-funded from a neighbouring town that had been a centre of anti-American activism in the early years of the Iraq war. In attacking the US Consulate they were also trying to delegitimise the moderate Libyan government that had rejected the extremists even as it was accepting US government support. In the US Congress investigations were mounted and accusations were made that Hillary Clinton, as US Secretary of State, had allowed the attack to happen. Five committees in the Republican-controlled US House of Representatives and two in the Republican-controlled Senate conducted investigations and held hearings over several years, though no evidence of wrong-doing or criminal charges were ever advanced against her. Public support for the hearings were bolstered by a movie, 13 Hours: The Secret Soldiers of Benghazi, which implicated Secretary Clinton but which critics decried as based on false or misleading information. During the 2016 presidential election campaign the Benghazi issue was widely criticised by Democrats as an attempt to use an incident of religious violence for xenophobic political purposes. As such it is an example of the globalisation of the politics of religious violence and its utility for political parties.

References ASEAN Parliamentarians for Human Rights. ‘The Rohingya Crisis: Past, Present, and Future’. March 2018. Online. https://aseanmp.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/APHR_Bangladesh-Fact-FindingMission-Report_Mar-2018.pdf. BBC. ‘Egypt Crackdown Widens with Arrest of Civil Rights Lawyer’. BBC (British Broadcasting Network), 6 May 2016. Online. www.bbc.com/news/world-middle-east-36231986. Bellah, Robert. ‘Civil Religion in America’. Daedalus, 96:1, Winter, 1967. Bristow, Michael. ‘China Uighurs: Xinxiang Legalises “Re-Education” Camps’. BBC (British Broadcasting Company), 10 October 2018. Online. www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-45812419. Bromwich, Kathryn. ‘Boris Johnson and Nigel Farage: Their Wit and Wisdom’. Guardian, 20 August 2014. Online. www.theguardian.com/politics/2014/aug/31/boris-johnson-nigel-farage-in-quotes. El Rashidi, Yasmine. ‘Egypt: The Rule of the Brotherhood’. New York Review of Books, 7 February 2013. Online. www.nybooks.com/articles/2013/02/07/egypt-rule-brotherhood/. Flagg, Ann. ‘The Myth of the Criminal Immigrant’. New York Times, 30 March 2018. Online. www.nytim es.com/interactive/2018/03/30/upshot/crime-immigration-myth.html. Galli, Mark. ‘What to Do About Persecution in China?’ Christianity Today, 16 October 2018. Online. www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2018/november/persecution-prayer-china-xi-jinping.html. Ghassem-Fachandi, Parvis. Pogrom in Gujerat: Hindu Nationalism and Anti-Muslim Violence in India. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012. Gutmann, Ethan. The Slaughter: Mass Killings, Organ Harvesting, and China’s Secret Solution to its Dissident Problem. New York: Prometheus Books, 2014. Juergensmeyer, Mark. ‘Myanmar’s Buddhist Terrorist’. Religion Dispatches, 17 February 2015. Online. http://religiondispatches.org/chatting-with-myanmars-buddhist-terrorist/. Juergensmeyer, Mark. Terror in the Mind of God: The Global Rise of Religious Violence. Fourth edition. Oakland: University of California Press, 2017. Kilgore, Ed. ‘Pat Robertson Does It Again’. New York Magazine, 15 June 2016. Online. http://nymag. com/intelligencer/2016/06/robertson-wishes-death-for-gay-people-muslims.html. Peachey, Paul. ‘Brexit Party Leader Hires Prominent Anti-Muslim Extremist as Adviser’. The National, 23 November 2018. Online. www.thenational.ae/world/europe/brexit-party-leader-hires-prom inent-anti- muslim-extremist-as-adviser-1.795130. Reuters. ‘Ultra Religious Parties Contesting Pakistan Elections’. Tolo News, 18 July 2018. Online. www. tolonews.com/world/ultra-religious-parties-contesting-pakistan-elections. Trilling, Daniel. Bloody Nasty People: The Rise of Britain’s Far Right. London: Verso, 2012.

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In a briefing to the European Parliament in 2016, policy analyst Philippe Perchoc points out: ‘The role of religious groups in conflict and conflict resolution is at the centre of lively academic debate … International organisations, states and think-tanks are giving increasing consideration to the religious dimension of conflict resolution’ (Perchoc 2016, 1). Paradigmatic for this growing interest in the role of religion on the political level is the European Union’s appointment of its first ever Special Envoy for the promotion of freedom of religion or belief outside the European Union in 2016. This appointment recognises the link between the right of freedom of religion, conscience and thought on the one hand and stability and peace on the other hand. As the EU ‘Guidelines on the protection and promotion of freedom of religions and belief’ state, ‘Violations of freedom of religion or belief may exacerbate intolerance and often constitute early indicators of potential violence and conflicts’ (Council of the European Union 2013, 1). At the same time, this appointment takes the increase of the number of people professing a religion or belief in the next decades into consideration. According to the Pew Research Center, all main religions – except Buddhism – will experience growth in numbers. By 2050, the number of Muslims will have increased to equal Christianity and 10 percent of Europeans will adhere to Islam (Pew Research Center 2015). The interest in the religious dimensions of societal and political processes in general and in conflict resolution and peacebuilding in particular is fairly recent, however, as the secularisation thesis had dominated academic and political thought for decades. This contribution thus provides a brief overview of the rise of interest in the religious factor, before discussing key concepts in the field of conflict resolution. A third part examines the role of religious actors in conflict and conflict transformation, while a final part relates religion, conflict transformation and political parties. A focus on post-genocide Rwanda serves as a case study.

From a ‘disenchantment of the world’ to a ‘desecularisation of the world’ For decades Max Weber’s pronouncement of a ‘disenchantment of the world’ – in combination with the so-called secularisation thesis – had been dominating discourses in politics and academia. In recent years, however, a different perspective has attracted interest. A ‘return to the question of religion’ (Freeman 2012, 1), even a ‘desecularization of the world’ (Berger 1999) is now being 126

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proclaimed. Instead of moving towards a more and more secularised world, the role of religion in different contexts and in the making of modern society has become a focal point of attention of policy makers and academics alike. Yet studies dealing with religion generally face the problem that up to now ‘no universally accepted definition of religion or faith exists’ (Ware et al. 2016, 324). Moving beyond substantial versus functional definitions of religion (Werkner 2016), this contribution is based on the pragmatic premise to understand as ‘religion’ what is described as ‘religion’ by interlocutors and communities (Waardenburg 1986). The contexts in which the role of religion has increasingly become the object of scientific reflection include conflict resolution and peacebuilding as well as political institutions and organisations such as political parties. In line with the global agenda of the 17 Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs), constructive conflict transformation and political institutions need to be seen as embedded in the larger context of sustainable development. Sustainable development is no longer regarded as pertaining exclusively to the Global South, but rather as having worldwide implications. Different from their predecessors, the eight Millennium Development Goals (MDGs), the SDGs make the inherent connection between sustainable development, peacebuilding and strong institutions explicit. SDG 16 calls for ‘Peace, Justice and Strong Institutions’. It is this connection that UN General Secretary António Guterres underlines: ‘We need a global response that addresses the root causes of conflict, and integrates peace, sustainable development and human rights in a holistic way – from conception to execution’ (Guterres 2017). The question regarding the role of religion in conflict transformation and political parties thus becomes part of the larger question for the role of religion in sustainable development in general. To put it pointedly: ‘The question is no longer whether religion matters for development … The question now is: how to systematically include the potentials of religious organizations for development, and according to what principles and criteria?’ (Religion and Sustainable Development Conference 2015, 7).

Conflict resolution, conflict transformation, peacebuilding, reconciliation: what are we talking about? Conflict is part of the human condition. During its existence, humankind has engaged both in conflicts and in attempts at settling them. Conflict includes the individual, communal, national and international level. Conflict in itself is ethically neutral. Conflict can serve as a means to grow personally and it can be a motor for desirable social change. Instead of conflict itself, it is thus the way conflict is dealt with that becomes ethically significant. Conflict resolution (CR) is the term most often employed for describing discourses and activities designed to end conflict in a constructive manner. Rather than employing violent, at times military, means for ending conflicts, conflict resolution aims for solutions that are beneficial to all sides involved, while minimising the use of violence. There is no consensus on an overarching theory that would define scope, objects, approaches and methods of conflict resolution. Instead of constituting an academic discipline of its own or a distinct approach, conflict resolution might best be described as a mode of constructively dealing with conflict that is inter-disciplinary, utilises different approaches and engages both theory and practice. Louis Kriesberg points out that ‘The CR field is in continuing evolution’ (Kriesberg 2009, 30). In the evolution of conflict resolution, Kriesberg differentiates between four phases: 1

Preliminary developments took place during 1914–1945, when the horrors of two world wars led to a strong interest in finding alternative ways of conducting and ending violent conflicts. 127

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3 4

The period between 1946 and 1969 served to lay the groundwork of contemporary conflict resolution as numerous governmental and nongovernmental initiatives were designed to prevent future wars. These included the creation of supranational institutions (e.g. the United Nations (UN), the European Economic Community) and projects to facilitate national reconciliation between former enemies. The third phase between 1970 and 1989 is characterised by expansion and institutionalising of conflict resolution. The end of the Cold War in 1989 signalled significant changes for the field of conflict resolution that has since been in a phase of diffusion and differentiation.

The changing world landscape became marked by globalisation that on the one hand brought the spread of economic and political liberalism and an increase in the number of democratic countries, thereby contributing to the decline of the number and scale of international wars since 1989. The 9/11 terrorist attacks in 2001, however, signalled the advent of a new global situation, marked by terrorism and the instrumentalisation of religion and ethnicity for violence. A different perspective on globalisation became apparent, marked by resentment, demarcation and a sense of humiliation. These developments greatly impacted conflict resolution, which was now increasingly taken up by nongovernmental actors. The recurrence of violence and war, even after a negotiated agreement, drew attention to both the later stages of conflict and conflict prevention. External intervention, reconciliation, relationship building, participatory governance and institution building came more into focus. Attention was increasingly paid to middle- and long-term transformations necessary for building sustainable peace rather than quick and short-term solutions. Since the early 1990s, the concept of conflict transformation emerged as a field of study and practice from within the broader context of conflict resolution. The development of conflict transformation has been significantly influenced by the author and practitioner, John Paul Lederach (Lederach 1997, 2003). By way of supplementing conflict resolution, Lederach proposes a different perspective on key issues, seeking to relate peace to justice concerns. The focus shifts from content to relationships and from immediate solutions to long-term transformations. These differences are based on a difference in the understanding of conflict itself. While conflict resolution tends to emphasise the need to quickly de-escalate conflict, the transformative view focuses on conflict as a means to produce constructive change. Conflict and change affect four central modes, namely the personal, the relational, the structural and the cultural. With regards to the personal dimension, conflict transformation seeks to reduce destructive effects of social conflicts, while increasing personal growth at the physical, emotional and spiritual level. Conflict transformation in the relational dimension aims at reducing ineffective communication, while enhancing mutual understanding. On the structural dimension, the goals include a comprehensive understanding of the root causes of violent conflict, while minimising violence and promoting structures that meet basic needs and encourage public participation. At the cultural level, the focus is on understanding the cultural patterns that contribute to violent expressions of conflict and on recognising cultural resources for dealing with the conflict in a constructive manner. Like conflict resolution, conflict transformation is a fluid field with no overarching meta-theory and encompassing different ideas and implementations (Bercovitch et al. 2009, Kriesberg 2011, Ramsbotham et al. 2005), yet it signals a shift in focus from a particular conflict in need of resolution to the larger context of building sustainable peace. The concept of peacebuilding as a field of study and practice was prominently put forward by Johan Galtung among others in the late 1960s. Galtung sought to integrate peacekeeping, peacemaking and peacebuilding into a comprehensive perspective on sustainable peace (Galtung 1969, 1976). The 1992 UN document An Agenda for Peace (Boutros-Ghali 1992) helped to 128

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create international visibility for this idea as it served as catalyst for more extensive studies and innovative approaches (Kumar 1997, Lederach 1997, Maynard 1999, Doyle and Sambanis 2000, Pugh 2000, UN 2000, 2004, 2006, 2010, Reychler and Paffenholz 2001). The UN concept of peacebuilding came to rest on four pillars, namely security, development, democratisation and human rights (Chetail 2009). UN peacekeeping and peacebuilding have been criticised for various reasons, including a perceived bias towards Westernised liberal thinking. This perspective can marginalise the role of gender as well as ethnic, religious and national identity issues (Enloe 2004, Porter 2007). Furthermore, UN peace operations focus on structures and tend to neglect actors. In interventions, some of which are highly invasive, top-down approaches and external actors are favoured. Recent work in this field has therefore emphasised the need for a stronger role of NGOs and local stakeholders during peacebuilding. Capacity building must be accompanied by relationship building and more attention needs to be paid to ‘reconciliation, truth recovery, inter-communal dialogue, building empathy and reducing prejudice’ (Ryan 2013, 33). These different approaches can be roughly categorised as representing the two main paradigms in peacebuilding studies. The problem-solving approach focuses on the immediate conflict and short-term solutions, while the critical paradigm seeks to take the wider context and the root causes of the conflict into consideration, including justice issues and power relations in society (Pugh 2013). In general, governments and international organisations are more interested in the policy-oriented problem-solving paradigm, even though this poses the danger of ‘“epistemic closure” or like-minded academics and policy-makers talking to each other and continuation of policy regardless of whether it works or not’ (Mac Ginty 2013, 4). While negotiation and mediation are key concepts within conflict resolution, it is reconciliation that has recently attracted special attention of policy makers and academics. Once primarily at home in religious contexts, it has long since become established in political and historical discourses. Especially societies-in-transition employ this term to denote their quest for stability, (economic) growth and a new beginning after periods of violent conflict, the South African Truth-and-Reconciliation Commission being the most well-known example. Reconciliation refers to both a process and a result. Its focus is on the building of long-term positive relationships and the (re-)establishment of mutual trust through incorporating different elements such as the confession of guilt, remorse, asking and granting forgiveness, truth finding and reparations (Schliesser 2018b). Reconciliation incorporates top-down and bottom-up initiatives and includes a transformative, in addition to a retributive perspective on justice. Recent scholarship promotes understanding reconciliation as the overarching paradigm that encompasses conflict resolution, rather than the other way around (Bar-Siman-Tov 2004, Leiner 2018).

Religious actors in conflict resolution and peacebuilding: potentials, problems and challenges Religion is inherently ambivalent (Appleby 2000). It can serve to fuel hatred and violence, yet it also incorporates potent resources for reconciliation and overcoming violence. Most public and academic attention, however, is focused on the conflictive side of religion. Much less consideration is given to religious peacemaking, despite the fact that ‘religious groups … have recently and collectively increased their peacemaking efforts’ (Haynes 2007, 69, cf. Schwarz 2018). Gradually, however, policy makers and academics have come to realise the potentials of religion for conflict resolution and peacebuilding (Smock 2008, Hayward 2012). Examples for the productivity of religion in conflict resolution and peacebuilding include both conflicts that do not have an explicitly religious dimensions and conflicts that do. The mediation work of the Catholic community Sant’Egidio has frequently been used as 129

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paradigmatic for religiously inspired conflict resolution (Morozzo della Rocca 2013). Sant’Egidio was significantly involved, for instance, in helping to end the civil war in Mozambique (1977–1992), a proxy war during the Cold War with no apparent religious dimensions. Reverend James Wuye and Imam Mohammed Ashafa of the Interfaith Mediation Center in Nigeria are examples of religious peacemakers within religious conflicts. Wuye and Ashafa have been successfully promoting reconciliation and conflict resolution between Muslims and Christians in Nigeria, developing an interfaith methodology for prospective peacemakers that can be used in Africa and beyond (Smock 2008). Potentials What are the characteristics of religious actors in processes of conflict resolution? While any attempt at generalisation needs to take the vast diversity of religious actors and faith-based organisations (FBOs) into account, certain specific features regarding form and content emerge – even though the borderline can be blurry. Formal characteristics include religious actors’ distinctive capability in building relationships, even between different ethnic and religious groups (Appleby 2006). In addition, religious actors oftentimes enjoy high trust and a reputation of moral competence, especially by economically and socially marginalised people groups (Heist and Cnaan 2016). This trust is related to the perception of religious actors as neutral, i.e. committed exclusively to peace and not pursuing their own interests (Bouta et al. 2005). Religious actors can furthermore oftentimes rely on extended and well-organised networks, supplying financial, institutional and human resources. Religious communities are, without questions, the largest and best-organised civil institutions in the world today, claiming the allegiance of billions of believers and bridging the divides of race, class and nationality. They are uniquely equipped to meet the challenges of our time: resolving conflicts, caring for the sick and needy, promoting peaceful co-existence among all peoples. (World Conference on Religion and Peace, in: Heist and Cnaan 2016, 6) For a better understanding of the distinctive contribution of religious actors in conflict resolution and peacebuilding it is helpful to turn to social network analysis and its distinction between ‘weakties groups’ and ‘strong-ties groups’ (Granovetter 1973). While members of weak-ties groups are loosely connected to each other, for instance, in a chat forum, members of strong-ties groups are in close personal contact, as in a traditional village structure or in a religious community. Strong-ties groups show a high degree of reliability among their members, yet their strong group coherence and self-referentiality makes the acceptance of new ideas more difficult. Weak-ties group are less dependable for their members, yet their structure allows for the rapid dissemination of new information. Religious actors often originate from strong-ties groups. Due to their strong relationship capabilities, they are able to function as ‘connectors’ between different groups. ‘What is extraordinary about them [i.e. religious actors] is their ability to generate loose ties within and between religious and secular worlds’ (Gopin 2009, 79). This competency is of great significance for processes of social change. If new and unconventional concepts, such as regarding conflict resolution or reconciliation, are to find acceptance within a community, they are dependent on connectors, who are able to quickly reach a large number of people (weak-ties), yet still enjoy enough trust and credibility in order for the new ideas not be rejected a priori (strong-ties). Paradigms shifts in thinking and behaviour as are required in the transformation of conflicts rest on the joint efforts of weak-ties and strong-ties groups, oftentimes connected by religious actors. 130

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Next to these formal characteristics, certain content-based features of religious actors in conflict resolution can be pointed out. These include specific concepts and values. The Christian tradition, for example, offers the concepts of reconciliation, grace and personal transformation. By teaching forgiveness and love rather than retribution and hatred, religious values are disseminated that call for concrete behavioural implications. Attitudes and stereotypes, ways of thinking and acting begin to change (Kadayifci-Orellana 2009). Religious concepts thus not only serve as motivation for action but also as a framework for ethical orientation. The emphasis on grace and forgiveness includes moreover resources for dealing with guilt, shame and failure, existential experiences inevitably encountered in processes of conflict and conflict resolution. Other religious traditions such as Islam offer concepts including nonviolence, compassion, the pursuit of justice and doing good. The use of content-based concepts and values has proven to be particularly fruitful in the quest for common ground between different faith traditions. Interfaith dialogue aims at the exchange of religious understandings, including but not limited to issues of peace and conflict resolution, thereby promoting mutual understanding and the reduction of interfaith tensions. The Jordan-based initiative ‘A Common Word Between Us and You’, for example, launched a seminal Muslim–Christian dialogue in 2007 based on the principles of loving God and neighbour (www.acommonword.com). This ongoing project has elicited positive reactions from Christian, Muslim and Jewish leaders worldwide and contributes to interfaith cooperation. In addition, faith-based conflict resolution offers resources for meaning and dealing with trauma. Violent conflicts leave the survivors not only with physical but also with psychological wounds. If these are left unaddressed, they can foster bitterness, feelings of revenge and hatred. Social healing and reconciliation become all the more difficult, which in turn promotes the return of violence, turning former victims into perpetrators. Yet if experiences of loss and hurt can be integrated into a larger horizon, meaning can be restored. The religious perspective offers hope and an eschatological framework that assist in dealing with the past and the present. This relates to what may be called a holistic perspective on conflict resolution. Religious actors often embrace an anthropology that understands well-being in a comprehensive manner, namely as encompassing the physical and the spiritual, the material and the emotional. Besides bringing material and practical help, religious actors also offer emotional and spiritual support (Bouta et al. 2005). In short, ‘they [religious actors] can draw on behavioural expectations like peace-oriented teachings, or repentance for furthering reconciliation, and use negotiation between denominational or inter-faith organisations to bring people together for dialogue in ways secular NGOs may not be able’ (Ware et al. 2016, 328). Problems Religious actors are often associated with two main problems, amplification of conflict and proselytisation. In the context of conflict resolution, the first allegation is all the weightier. ‘It is somewhat trite, but nevertheless sadly true, to say that more wars have been waged, more people killed, and these days more evil perpetrated in the name of religion than by any other institutional force in human history’ (Kimball 2002, 1). While this statement seems to resonate with much of popular opinion – and with various conflicts worldwide including the so-called Islamic State, the Northern Ireland conflict or the conflict between Israel and Palestine – it reveals several problems. First, the underlying difficulty of defining religion remains unaddressed. Yet if it is unclear what constitutes religion, religious violence remains equally ambiguous. A selective legitimisation of violence follows. Secular violence is portrayed as rational, controlled and conducive to peace, while religious violence is viewed as irrational, fanatic and totalitarian 131

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(Cavanaugh 2004). At the same time, the inherent ambivalence of religion is ignored. While religion indeed can be employed to ignite and amplify violent conflict, it can also serve to further reconciliation and conflict resolution. For an adequately complex analysis, both aspects need to be considered. Concerning proselytisation, it needs to be pointed out that the transformation of thinking and behaviour is part of the central aims of any organisations – secular or faith-based – working in conflict resolution. Normative assumptions are part of any agenda. An adequate response thus aims for transparency rather than denial or disguise. The charge of proselytisation for FBOs therefore needs to be rephrased in terms of discrimination and justice. Is religious conversion made mandatory for gaining access to support? Are individuals or groups privileged or discriminated against on religious grounds? Affirmative answers would give rise to concerns that fundamental principles of justice and non-discrimination are being violated. Challenges Conflict resolution, understood as including conflict transformation, peacebuilding and reconciliation, continues to be a dynamic field. In view of the role of religious actors, a number of challenges emerge (Hayward 2012, Abu-Nimer 2015). Integration. According to Mohammed Abu-Nimer, religious peacebuilding ‘operates in the fringes of peacemaking and peacebuilding field, which itself is in the fringes of realpolitik or government policy making’ (Abu-Nimer, in: Hayward 2012, 7). While some progress has been achieved in terms of integrating the religious factor in conflict resolution by both policy makers and academics, much of secular and religious engagement is done independent from each other. The policy maker/ researcher/practitioner divide is further deepened by the religious/secular divide. In order to reduce ignorance and suspicion on all sides, further studies and joint initiatives are necessary. Evaluation. The need for integration points to another desideratum, the ‘pressing need for greater monitoring and evaluation of religious peacebuilding work – and peacebuilding generally – to understand better which interventions, led by whom, and in which situations, have the greatest effect’ (Hayward 2012, 8). A deeper understanding of the nature and methods, of the strengths and weaknesses of religious conflict resolution will help integrate it into mainstream conflict resolution. Women and youth. While conflict resolution in general has been criticised for neglecting gender aspects (Buckley-Zistel and Stanley 2012, Rehrmann 2018), religious conflict resolution faces the same challenge. Engaging religious leaders oftentimes means engaging older men. Yet women have been particularly efficient in conflict resolution and peacebuilding efforts (Marshall and Hayward 2015, O’Reilly 2013, Rehrmann 2018). Besides engaging women, conflict resolution theory and practice must do better in including the youth. The so-called ‘youth bulge’ in many countries of the Global South has been noted as a potential destabilising factor. So not only in terms of resolution, but also from a prevention perspective it is vital to integrate children and youths in peacebuilding education, for instance, through partnerships with local churches and mosques. Indigenous and non-Abrahamitic religions. Much of Western conflict resolution scholarship and practice has focused on the Abrahamitic religions Christianity, Judaism and Islam. The wisdom offered by indigenous and dharmic religions, including Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism and Sikhism, has so far been largely neglected. With its concepts of ahimsa (nonviolence) and shanti (peace) Hinduism, for instance, contains powerful resources for conflict resolution. Politics/political parties. While the interplay of politics and religion has meanwhile become a focus of attention (Copson 2017, Haynes 2016, McGraw 2010, Rosenberger 2012), the intersection of religion, conflict resolution and politics, political parties in particular, remains 132

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understudied (Barkan and Barkey 2015, Steen-Johnsen 2017), not least due to the inherent complexity of each factor in itself and the diverse configurations than can form between these three factors. The following attempt aims to provide an example for a possible analytical framework in the context of post-genocide Rwanda.

Conceptualising religious actors, conflict resolution and political parties: the example of post-genocide Rwanda Present-day Rwanda is marked by its history of violent conflict. Civil war erupted in 1990, culminating in 100 days of genocide in 1994 that left up to one million children, women and men dead. While most of the victims were Tutsi and most of the perpetrators Hutu, countless moderate Hutu were killed as well. The terms Hutu (84 percent), Tutsi (15 percent), and Twa (a minority of about 1 percent) are not considered conventional ethnic descriptions. Rather, they refer to social groups sharing one and the same language, religion and culture. Rwanda belongs to the smallest, yet most densely populated countries in Africa. Perpetrators and survivors must therefore find a way to live side by side. To encourage social cohesion, development and sustainable peace, current president Paul Kagame has initiated a ‘National Politics of Reconciliation’. Christian churches, as major actors in Rwanda’s civil society, partner with the government by supplementing its mostly top-down approaches with bottom-up initiatives (Schliesser 2018a). In order to conceptualise the relationship between religion, conflict resolution and political parties, a modified version of Mohseni’s and Wilcox’s multi-dimensional framework (Mohseni and Wilcox 2016) is employed. The term ‘political party’ is understood here in a wider sense, considering that in practice political parties can be difficult to distinguish from other political groups. Religious movements may, for instance, act as ‘indirect parties’ (Duverger 1963), such as by recruiting and supporting candidates. Regime type. Rwanda is a unitary dominant-party presidential republic. After a constitutional referendum in 2003, a multi-party system was established. As before, the 2018 parliamentary elections were dominated by the RPF (Rwandan Patriotic Front) ruling party of President Paul Kagame, whose coalition won 74 percent of the seats (Kwibuka 2018). Rwanda has been frequently criticised for its disregard of basic human rights, including freedom of press and political opposition (Thomson 2015). Officially, religious freedom is granted under article 37 of the 2003 constitution, which was amended in 2015. Religious marketplace. Over 90 percent Christian, Rwanda is one of the most ‘Christian’ countries. Christian churches constitute significant players in Rwanda’s civil society (Kubai 2016). Rwanda’s religio-scape changed significantly after the genocide in 1994 (National Institute of Statistics 2012). The membership of the Catholic Church, hitherto the strongest religious player, dropped from 65 percent of Rwanda’s population in 1990 to 44 percent post-genocide. Protestant denominations almost doubled in membership to 38 percent of the population, with Pentecostal and charismatic churches being currently the fastest growing religious groups. The SeventhDay Adventists Church increased from 8 to 12 percent. Muslims make up about 2 percent of the population. Religious institutional structure. Rwanda’s religio-scape exhibits a mixture of hierarchical (Catholic Church) and decentralised (Protestant churches) structures. Next to the Catholics, the Pentecostal Church in Rwanda (ADEPR) is the largest denomination (ca. 2,000,000 members). The Province of the Anglican Church in Rwanda has about 1,000,000 members. Countless independent churches vary in size and membership. In 2018, the government shut down up to 700 churches, mainly Pentecostal, officially due to safety and hygiene concerns. Observers suspect, however, that the crack-down has political motivations (Clark, in: Müller-Jung 2018). The 133

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exponential growth of Pentecostal churches with large numbers of followers collides with the government’s policy of tight control over all areas of political and social life. The associational nexus of religion and political parties. In Rwanda, religious institutions have created a large net of associations involved in social and community work. Religious actors are highly engaged in various kinds of service delivery including schools, hospitals and different types of social work. Oftentimes, the churches partner with the government in caring for the infrastructure and supplying personnel. Party system. Rwanda exhibits a hybrid system that includes a proportional system as well as a ‘consensual’ system. The system contains certain stipulations, for instance, the party that won the parliamentary elections cannot have more than 50 percent of seats in the government and specific social groups (women, youths, disabled) are granted representation in parliament. No religious party is represented in parliament. The stance of religious groups towards the state and government. Multiple factors led to the churches’ complicity in creating and sustaining the conditions in which the 1994 genocide could occur, including the close relationship between church and state, the churches’ endorsement of ethnic policies, power struggles within the churches, and a problematic theology emphasising obedience to authorities (Schliesser 2018b). At the same time, various church-led initiatives for peace and reconciliation prior to and during the genocide indicate a more complex picture of church involvement. In general, Christian denominations today strive for good relationships with the state. With regards to conflict resolution work, the churches support the state-led initiatives for reconciliation and social healing. Quantitative studies indicate that there are no systematic differences between different religious groups and their engagement in peacebuilding (Bazuin 2013). The government’s rhetoric of forgiveness, reconciliation and unity is easily compatible with the churches’ religious principles. The close relationship between religious groups and the government becomes apparent as prominent religious leaders have accepted major government positions, such as Anglican bishop John Rucyahana, president of the National Unity and Reconciliation Commission (NURC). While the churches’ collaboration with the state, especially in matters of reconciliation, aligns with their own Christian concepts and values, it needs to be pointed out that the Rwandan state has a firm grip over all levels of society and is not lenient towards criticism. Opposition is silenced swiftly and effectively, even over matters as Catholic criticism of its family planning policy (Bureau of Democracy Human Rights and Labor 2005, 2011). While there is some inner-church critique of the lack of prophetic stance towards the government (Kazuyuki 2009, Nsengimana 2015), most denominations ‘try to see how to gain favor from the state instead of challenging it’ (Nsengimana 2015, 108). Reconciliation initiatives of state and church actors. The government has pushed its ‘National Politics of Reconciliation’ throughout society. On the national level, the NURC has implemented various sensitisation and reconciliation projects throughout the country, including mediated perpetrator–victim encounters and ‘reconciliation villages’. The designations ‘Hutu’, ‘Tutsi’ and ‘Twa’ were banned. Instead, a new national identity is being forged under the official motto ‘We are all Rwandan’. On the judicial level, the so-called gacaca courts were established (2002–2012), traditional conflict resolution mechanisms that encompass retributive and restorative approaches to justice (Molenaar 2005). Furthermore, in its attempt to build a new national identity, the state is creating an official discourse of remembrance. The official memory often excludes deviant narratives, for instance, regarding the massacres executed by the now ruling RPF against the Hutu population. The churches complement and support the government strategies on the grassroots level. Their peacebuilding initiatives can be structured along four levels (Nsengimana 2015), namely the intrapersonal level (including Bible study, prayer, meditation), interpersonal level (including various congregational activities such as 134

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Sunday worship, Bible study groups, youth and women groups, commemoration of the genocide), structural level (including programmes against HIV/AIDS, inter-religious dialogue, school programmes) and cultural level (including the dissemination of democratic values and the incorporation of the arts in peacebuilding). Stance towards the state. The churches in Rwanda are generally pro-state. Prophetic critique is rare. The religious orientation of the party. Most Christian churches in Rwanda are conservative in outlook and so are their politically active members. Based on this framework, a complex picture of religious actors, conflict resolution and political parties in Rwanda emerges. With over 90 percent of the population Christian, the Christian churches function as major players in Rwanda’s civil society. Rwanda has no religious parties, yet the interconnections between politics and religion are manifold and include individual religious leaders in prominent political offices as well as common concepts such as reconciliation and forgiveness. With their various bottom-up, grassroot-based initiatives, the Christian churches supplement the government’s top-down ‘National Politics of Reconciliation’. In general, the churches are pro-state, with little prophetic critique, despite or perhaps because of the authoritarian regime and its neglect of basic human rights.

Conclusion The secularisation thesis and its prediction that the influence of religion would decline fail to explain the resurgence of religion in many political systems and societal processes worldwide. Policy makers, academics and practitioners are increasingly turning their attention towards the role of religion in processes of social change. This holds also true for the fields of conflict resolution and peacebuilding that need to be seen as embedded in the larger context of sustainable development. The question here is no longer if religion can contribute towards these processes, but rather what kind of potentials and problems are connected with religion’s contribution. With much attention being paid to the conflictive sides of religion in furthering conflict and violence, this chapter focused on the constructive resources of religion, examining both formal and content-based characteristics. Three insights for conflict resolution theory and practice emerge from the discussion above. First of all, the constructive contributions of religious actors in processes of conflict resolution need to be recognised and appreciated. A second insight aims at the necessity for further critical reflection and research on both the potentials and the problems of religious conflict resolution, especially in connection to politics and political parties. Finally, the success of desired processes of social transformation as constituted by complex processes of conflict resolution depends on the collaboration of all relevant actors. For it is in the cooperation of all actors, religious and non-religious, that ‘the overall potential for change is phenomenal’ (Freeman 2012, 26).

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Christine Schliesser Reychler, Luc and Thania Paffenholz (eds) (2001) Peacebuilding: A Field Guide, Boulder: L. Rienner. Religion and Sustainable Development Conference. Building Partnerships to End Extreme Poverty (2015) Conference Proceedings. http://jliflc.com/resources/key-findings-recommendations/. Rosenberger, Sieglinde (2012) Politics, Religion, and Gender: Framing and Regulating the Veil, Abingdon: Routledge. Ryan, Stephen (2013) The Evolution of Peacebuilding, in: Roger Mac Ginty (ed.), Routledge Handbook of Peacebuilding, Abingdon: Routledge, 25–35. Schliesser, Christine (2018a) The Politics of Reconciliation in Post-Genocide Rwanda, in: Martin Leiner and Christine Schliesser (eds), Alternative Approaches in Conflict Resolution, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 137–146. Schliesser, Christine (2018b) From ‘A Theology of Genocide’ to a ‘Theology of Reconciliation’? On the Role of Christian Churches in the Nexus of Religion and Genocide in Rwanda, Religions 9(34), 1–14. Schwarz, Tanya (2018) Faith-Based Organizations in Transnational Peacebuilding, London: Rowman & Littlefield. Smock, David (2008) Religion in World Affairs. Its Role in Conflict and Peace, United States Institute of Peace Special Report. www.usip.org/publications/2008/02/religion-world-affairs-its-role-conflict-and-peace. Steen-Johnsen, Tale (2017) State and Politics in Religious Peacebuilding, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Thomson, Susan (2015) Rwanda, in: Sebastian Elischer, Rolf Hofmeier, Andreas Mehler and Henning Melber (eds), Africa Yearbook: Politics, Economy and Society South of the Sahara in 2014, Vol. 11, Leiden: Brill, 323–334. United Nations (2000) Report of the Panel on United Nations Peace Operations, A/55/305, New York: United Nations. United Nations (2004) A More Secure World: Our Shared Responsibility, Report of the High Level Panel on Threats, Challenges and Change, New York: United Nations. United Nations (2006) Inventory United Nations Capacity in Peacebuilding, New York: United Nations. United Nations (2010) Review of United Nations Peacebuilding Architecture, A/64/868, New York: United Nations. Waardenburg, Jacques (1986) Religionen und Religion, Berlin: de Gruyter. Ware, Vicki-Ann, Anthony Ware and Matthew Clarke (2016) Domains of Faith Impact, Development in Practice 26, 321–333. Werkner, Ines-Jacqueline (2016) Religion in der Friedens- und Konfliktforschung, Baden-Baden: Nomos.

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PART III

Country case studies

Asia

12 RELIGIOUS VIOLENCE AND POLITICAL AGENDA SETTING IN POST-COLONIAL SOUTH ASIAN STATES Why political parties fail Subrata K. Mitra and La Toya Waha

Politics in contemporary South Asian states is marked by significant outbreaks of violence, mostly sparked by religious conflict. The violence that marked the partition of British India into two independent states of Pakistan and India on the basis of religion has had its sequel in terms of a string of violent clashes between Hindus and Muslims. The civil war in Sri Lanka that lasted almost 30 years shows how the pattern of communal violence repeats elsewhere. Breakaway fringe groups from political parties, or radical elements of society, often launch violent struggles against the state and religious establishments of opponents in the name of religion. Parties remain helpless, either to rein in their renegade supporters, or to express themselves firmly on the issues of militant groups acting in the name of religion. In India, Muslims were targeted for alleged illegal transportation or slaughter of cows. In Sri Lanka, anti-halal and cattle slaughter campaigns have been launched by such elements. In both post-colonial societies, these activities were accompanied by violence and death. The Buddhist–Muslim clashes in Aluthgama (2013), Galle (2017) and Kandy (2018)1 and the lynching of Muslims in cow-related violence in India,2 are only the most recent examples of the violence that lurks under the surface of democratic politics and breaks out sporadically. These political acts have pushed the states towards specialised agencies of security, bureaucracy and taken recourse to appeals to civil society. Political parties – the main, significant actors of democratic politics – besides expressing politically ineffectual homilies, have been conspicuously absent from the scene in terms of articulation of the issue, or its aggregation into their political agendas. When interests are ‘negotiated’ in the streets, rather than in parliament, or put on the hustings as electoral issues, for all practical purposes, parties have failed.

Political parties and religion in India and Sri Lanka In both India and Sri Lanka, the role of religion has changed significantly since Independence from British colonial rule. India and Ceylon both started as secular states after they regained 143

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their independence from British colonial rule in 1947 and 1948 respectively. Today, India’s major governing party is often described as a ‘Hindu nationalist’ party, and Sri Lanka – the name itself a concession to religious nationalism – provides Buddhism with ‘the foremost place’ since the rewriting of the constitution in 1972,3 and even the recent (2018) constitutionmaking process is unlike to change that. Despite these successful implementations of central demands made by religious movements and groups in India and Sri Lanka respectively, religious violence perpetrated by the religious parties’ milieux frequently erupts along the way. Linked through religious-political organisations, riots and acts of violence appear to be no isolated incidents, but elements of repertoire in the contentious politics of religion in the post-colonial state. Key political parties in both countries are linked to those violent organisations in one way or the other, like the Bharatiya Janata Party (the Indian People’s Party, BJP) to the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (the National Volunteer Force, RSS) in India and the Sri Lanka Freedom Party (SLFP) and the Jathika Hela Urumaya (National Heritage Party, JHU) to the Bodu Bala Sena (Buddhist Power Force, BBS) milieu in Sri Lanka. Despite those links, violence does not wither when these parties hold power in the state. The parties appear to fail in transporting the interests of religious agents successfully to the non-violent, constitutional decision-making process. So, why do established parties fail and religious parties – fringe groups that are actually political movements but contest elections under the label of ‘political parties’ – take up the space that should normally belong to political parties? Violence in multiple forms linked to religion – ranging between mobilisation of angry crowds, bloody riots and suicide bombings – is today on the political agenda of many states. Extensive religious conflicts such as those in the Middle East are reminiscent of the Thirty Years War, which destroyed wide parts of Europe in the early seventeenth century. While the atrocities of the Thirty Years War4 resulted in the Westphalian peace, which made war the business of the state, and the subjects’ religion a private matter, religious violence at a non-state level has returned to many countries. In democratic states, political parties – key intermediaries between state and society and central element of political modernity – would be expected to moderate religious tensions by negotiation at the state level. Political parties should serve as a key link between the modern state and the society, convey interests from one to the other and provide the organisational framework for interest articulation, elite recruitment and persuasion (LaPalombara and Weiner, 1966: 3). Religious rioting, which one may interpret as ‘mini-civil-wars’, often expresses the diverging interests of different religious communities. Here, it seems, the political parties are unable to transport the interests of the society into the state and vice versa. In the agenda setting, it seems, political religion slipped out. Instead, the issue is tackled by private entrepreneurs, who bring religious contention not to parliament but to the streets.

Boundary conditions for moderation of religious conflict5 In post-colonial societies, political parties are often torn between the opposing poles of the formally secular credentials of the modern state and the political demands of their religious clients. Since the outset of independence, religious parties are between the poles of playing to the rules of the democratic state and discharging their duty to represent their voters’ interests, which are linked to the redefinition of the state’s values. We argue the field of tension lies in the incompatibility of the religious demands and the four factors required for parties’ political moderation. The boundary conditions are: (1) an institutional arrangement that provides a secure territorial niche for identity demands; (2) an ecclesiastic order that is capable of ‘confining the storm troopers to the barracks’, i.e. restraining the fringe fanatics from upsetting the political limitations on their public activities that moderation entails; (3) the relative power of party managers vs. party activists: 144

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the more the managers have room to manoeuvre, the more likely is moderation; and (4) a shared basis of values between state and society. The conditions will be discussed below in detail. 1

2

A secure territorial niche for religion, of the kind that the Westphalian peace provided to dominant religions, helps them moderate their stance and extend toleration to minorities. A condition for moderation is, thus, either a national state based on a dominant faith, or, within a state, power sharing, based, in particular, on federalism and the capacity of the regional government to accommodate the core values of religious activists. In India, the induction of Sikh values and leaders into high governmental office in the State of Punjab (e.g. the 1999 recognition by the Punjab government of Sikh religious values and leaders) took the sting out of religious extremism.6 Hindu nationalists drew their inspiration from Swami Dayanand who founded the Arya Samaj, a Hindu reform movement in 1875. The core ideas of this movement were subsequently enriched and complemented by Vivekanand, the founding of Akhil Bharatiya Hindu Mahasabha (1915), and, of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) in 1935.7 Hindutva, a coded word which merges Hindu religious values and community with the unity of India, is a key concept. The concept of swadeshi, originally formulated by Mahatma Gandhi and now co-opted into the pantheon of Hindu nationalism, was added as well as were political demands for a Uniform Civil Code, the reconstruction of the Ram Temple and the abolition of special rights to the State of Jammu and Kashmir. Buddhism in Ceylon, too, links religion to the unity of the country. Since the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century political aims were formulated within the Buddhist revivalist movements. A central figure herein was Anagarika Dharmapala who spread the idea of a Buddhist nation, linking the Sinhalese to Buddhism and to the united island.8 The idea of the nation reflected in the demand for a ‘Unitary Buddhist State’ and became a central political aim of Buddhist organisations prior to and after independence. The second condition puts the onus on the inner organisational and power structure of the religion itself. The capacity of a political party to self-police, and encourage the more extreme elements into politically brokered moderation (or expel them) is a crucial part of the bargain. Such is the case of the Sikh religion, which is equipped with its one and only holy book (the Guru Granth Saheb), a religious order (the Khalsa) and religious properties (Gurdwaras), and is governed by a high administrative act and order, the Shiromani Gurdwara Parbandhak Committee. This institutional capacity is conspicuously lacking in Hinduism. The Hindu community, split among so many different sects, competing orders and belief systems and an ontology that conspicuously denies the existence of one ultimate and supreme truth, does not have a central coordinating body that can generate the basic agreement on scripture, sacred beliefs and symbols, in order to strike a deal with its adversaries.9 The two major religions of India, Hinduism and Islam, do not have such national organisations or bureaucracies that would have binding power over all the adherents of these religions. The major religious institution in Sri Lankan Theravada Buddhism is the sangha, the monastic order of monks (and nuns) (Bechert, 1974). The sangha has great religious authority in the society but is divided in different sects, which share the basis of religious teachings, but derive from different lineages. These sects and their temples have head monks, the mahanayakes. While mahanayakes are quite influential in the Sri Lankan society, they have little handle with regard to monks’ expulsion. Repeatedly in Sri Lanka’s independent history, attempts were made to give the head monks a legal basis for excluding or ‘derobing’ monks in case of misconduct – each of which failed (Waha, 2018). In addition, the heads of the sects are not part of a unified authoritative body. Therefore, different 145

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3

4

sangha authorities can support or reject different stances. Since the politicisation of the Vidyodaya and Vidyalankara, the erstwhile major centres of monastic education, the sangha is divided with regard to party and ideological affiliations (see Seneviratne, 1999). While in Theravada Buddhism the monastic order, the sangha, plays a central role, it is divided and therefore lacks a singular religious authority, too. Third, the relative power of party managers over party activists encourages moderation. Mobilisation along religious lines often works via the support of ‘related’ institutions or organisations. Potential deficiencies of the party, particularly its elite character, are overcome by its association with religious and charitable organisations. The BJP draws from the support of social service institutions (Thachil, 2014: 457) and the mobilisation capacities of the RSS. Similarly, SLFP and JHU gained from the support and legitimacy provided by the sangha and monk organisations (Wickramasinghe, 2014). This was particularly the case in the 1956 election, where the SLFP came to power with much support from Buddhist monks (see Manor, 1989; Wickramasinghe, 2014) and in the 2004 formation of the Jathika Hela Uruma (Waha 2018). For these religious parties, mobilisation capacity and legitimacy largely remain with the (religious) party activists and limit the party managers’ room to manoeuvre. Finally, the opponent and the shared basis of values matter. In Europe, the position of religion was fought over brutally in the Thirty Years War. In India, the Muslim–Hindu divide and the subsequent partition left Pakistan as an explicit Muslim state, and India as a secular state. Congress, initially the major political party – and for long the only party with direct political power – regarded Muslims, who had remained in India without political leadership, as its ‘guaranteed’ electorate. The perception of no ‘secure niche’ for Hinduism in a Hindu majoritarian state, which required persistent consideration for Muslim sentiments, would not allow for the overcoming of religious cleavages. Separate Muslim marriage laws instead of a shared civil code underlined the lack of consensus on values. In Sri Lanka, the Tamil demand for autonomy and the separation of the country juxtaposes the idea of a unitary state. These demands have been pursued by military force and international support. In addition, the adaption of Muslim marriage laws to human rights regulations led to protests from Muslim organisations, and emphasised again the lack of a shared basis of values. In addition, the political demands by the Muslim minority for an autonomous region based on religious identity10 encouraged Buddhists to politicise their opposing religious demands. Similarly, one can hardly expect Hindu nationalism – tied together with political Islam in an action-reaction-syndrome – to be willing to conceptualise, specify, institute and deliver a moderation deal when a similar deal from India’s Muslims is not yet forthcoming.11

India: religion in a ‘secular cage’? The Indian state upholds the idea of secularism, yet, for the first time in three decades, the Hindu nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party12 (BJP) gained a single-party-majority in 2014. Even more, Narendra Modi, who was a full-time activist (pracharak) of the RSS, the former Chief Minister of Gujarat, who is alleged to have been connected to the communal clashes there in 2002,13 became Indian prime minister. The constitution of India recognises a diversity of cultures, creeds and religions, none of which is accorded a status of superiority over the others. That makes India, in terms of the formal structure of the country, a multi-cultural and multi-religious state. The word ‘secular’ was inserted into the preamble to the constitution in 1976. In India, it implies both a wall of separation between the ‘church’ and the state (dharmanirapekshta) and an equal status for all religions (sarva dharma samabhava). Consequently, though in terms of the data generated by 146

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India’s decennial census India is a Hindu ‘majority’ country, this fact does not give a special status or hegemony to Hinduism. Hindus themselves are divided into many sects and denominations as well – to the point where some scholars question the status of Hinduism as a distinctive religion altogether. The Indian independence struggle headed by the Indian National Congress (INC) und the leadership of Jawaharlal Nehru, had sought to unite different social strata for the common cause. Organisations representing religious interests had also formed and sought to shape India. Particularly Hindu and Muslim organisations had formed and evolved as a reaction to diverging interests and increasing conflicts. Already in the nineteenth century Hindu demands, such as cow protection, were articulated (Kulke and Rothermund, 2006: 398). The RSS, an important Hindu organisation promoting Hindutva, was founded in 1925. The idea of a Muslim nation and the claim to require protection from a Hindu majority, too, had furthered the agitation of the AllIndia Muslim League for the separation of India and the formation of a separate Muslim state, Pakistan, on the basis of Muslim majoritarian provinces. After independence and partition, the INC sought to accommodate minorities, find consensus and establish a meaningful equilibrium of forces within the realm of the secular state. The RSS was banned following Gandhi’s assassination by an RSS member, while Hindu religious interests were prevented from taking a direct influence on political decision-making in the state via their own political party. When the ban on the RSS was lifted, Hindu nationalists were free to seek election in the elections of 1951–1952. They were led by the Bharatiya Jana Sangh (BJS), a party founded by Shyama Prasad Mukherjee to act as the political wing of the RSS.14 While during the ‘Congress System’, religious interests could be indirectly articulated into the political decision-making process, the BJP provided the opportunity for the voter to transport religious interests directly to the political arena. Keeping informal relations to the RSS, the BJP could mobilise along the religious cleavage and drew ‘on the desire of many Hindus to see a more prominent role for Hindu culture within the institution of the secular state and to deny special treatment for minorities, and a special status for the Muslim majority State of Jammu and Kashmir’ (Mitra, 2017: 154). Thereby, the issue related to the contested sacred space in Ayodhya became – and remained – a part of the BJP’s election manifesto. Having set the construction of the Temple of Rama in Ayodhya on the political agenda, the BJP’s room to manoeuvre was limited by constitutional frames and the party anyway failed to implement its promise. Compromises on the sacred places could not be found and made. While the party political representation of this radical Hindu interest failed to produce the desired result, private entrepreneurs furthered the creation of precedents. Consequentially, the issue was taken out in the streets and resulted in the demolition of the Babri mosque in 1992. The Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP), a global Hindu activist organisation, and not the BJP was the main force behind this, though, many prominent leaders of the BJP have alleged to have been involved. In relation to the failed erection of the Ram Temple, and Hindu–Muslim strikes and counterstrikes, violence escalated in Godhra in 2002.15 The BJP, led by Narendra Modi, was in power in Gujarat at the time. The election campaigning on this issue and the soft stance taken by the BJP government towards the perpetrators of violence, had provided a fertile ground for the escalation of means on the Hindu site. While some ministers of the BJP were alleged to be responsible for instilling violence, the wider party leadership’s involvement could not be confirmed. Yet, the BJP government accepted the political responsibility (Juergensmeyer, 2017: 104–109). Beyond the ambiguous relation to the violent organisations and communal violence, the BJP moderated its stance once in power. Indian coalition politics required moderation to retain power and office. The commitment to moderation was repeated when the BJP was re-elected 147

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as the largest party in the National Democratic Alliance (NDA) government in 1999. Yet, rather than cultural and confessional issues, the BJP turned to the promotion of good governance (Mitra, 2017: 154). In 2004 and 2009, the Congress Party-led United Progressive Alliance won elections. Restoring the pattern of single-party majority, the BJP returned to power in 2014 as the largest party (Mitra and Schöttli, 2016). 16 However, the BJP, which had garnered handsome political dividends from its invocation of Hindutva, moved on to vikasvad – development in Hindi – once in office, at the head of a 14-party coalition. However, when under electoral pressure, the party’s organisation wing, with the support of the RSS, moved to promote Hindutva. While in the BJP’s 2014 election manifesto traditional BJP positions were softened, like the stance taken on Ram Mandir, the Uniform Civil Code and the rejection of the special rights given to Jammu and Kashmir (Article 370),17 the issue of cow slaughter became a part of the political agenda. Violent actions were taken by religious activists acting in their personal capacity and not in the name of the BJP, to try to settle the issue. Despite the BJP government’s focus on development, it made efforts for legislation in this regard. Giving in to the pressure of activists’ demands, the government sought to implement a nation-wide ban on slaughtering cows. Again, the party was caught between the opposing poles of rule of a democratic secular state and the representation of electoral demands. Although the courts ruled that the ban had to be lifted, activists again took the issue to the streets.

Sri Lanka: the violent underbelly of the Buddhist state? Sri Lanka, originally called Ceylon, started as a secular state with a strict separation of state and religion. At the time of independence in 1948, political parties were not overtly concerned with religion and the political leadership of the major party, the United National Party (UNP), sought to prevent religion from entering the political scene. Today, Sri Lanka’s constitution provides for religious freedom, but gives Buddhism the ‘foremost place’. Since 2004 the parliament and successive governments have encompassed a political party led and mainly filled by Buddhist monks, and a new party has emerged from the radical Buddhist monk organisation, Bodu Bala Sena, explicitly borrowing its model (and name) from the BJP and RSS in India. In contrast to India, the religious majority in Sri Lanka is not divided along the lines of ethnicity or language. To the contrary, the religious and ethnic identifications of the majority are widely interlinked. The mahavamsa, Sri Lanka’s great chronicle, relates the Sinhalese, Buddhism and the country to one another and links the fate of the Sinhalese to the continuation of Buddhism on the island. As distinct from India, independence movements in Ceylon did not unite different ethnic and religious communities. To the contrary, the politicisation of wider parts of the Sinhalese society had occurred in the context of the Buddhist revivalist movements and related campaigns, such as the Temperance movement, in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Organisations like the Sinhala Maha Shaba, powerful due to their mobilisation capacities among the masses, yet, were not allowed to play a leading role, neither in the attainment of independence nor in shaping the constitution. Similar to the Indian Congress, the UNP sought to be a party without a particular ethnic or religious label. The break-away of D.S. Senanayake from the Ceylon National Congress and the formation of the UNP were intended to present a new start, with which the relations between the majority and the minorities should be strengthened (de Silva, 2014: 602). Despite the evident tensions between the ethnicities and the existence of powerful Buddhist forces, the Sinhalese leadership decided not to form a special Sinhalese or Buddhist party. The UNP included members of the ethnic and religious groups and sought to establish a secular state and a balance of power between the communities. 148

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In India, under the leadership of Gandhi and the Indian National Congress, a modicum of unity was achieved between Hindus and Muslims. It failed to keep India united, but succeeded in keeping the rump Indian state that emerged from colonial rule, formally secular. In contrast, in Ceylon, the democratic and secular state had come under attack from two contentious claim makers, the Tamils and the Sinhalese Buddhists, after independence. The idea that it is the Sinhalese’s given duty to protect the existence of Buddhism on the island, suggested Buddhist nationalist movements to demand the protection of Buddhism by the state and all over the whole island.18 The UNP’s moderation furthered the resentments held by Buddhist groups. But D.S. Senanayake was, like Nehru in India, able to link state and society by his personality. With the trust put in him, the UNP leader and first prime minister of independent Ceylon was able to establish a fragile equilibrium between the religious and ethnic communities. After Senanayake’s death in 1952 and his successors’ failure to publicly respect Buddhist sentiments, religious issues became key components of political differences. Under the guidance of the SLFP led by the widow of the prominent politician, S.W.R.D. Bandaranaike’s widow, a new constitution was established in 1972. Its provisions included the stating of Buddhism’s foremost place. This provision was taken over by the UNP’s reformulation of the constitution in 1978. To appease the minorities, proportional representation was introduced, which secured a favourable political representation for the minorities. At this point, religion and state could, from a Buddhist perspective, have found equilibrium. Yet, the calls for a separate Tamil homeland grew louder and challenged the security of Buddhist dominance over the whole island. The Sinhalese’s interests for the security and unity of the sacred Buddhist land and the mainly Hindu Tamils’ interests for a homeland and their own secure niche were so adverse that any attempts to moderate were considered by many Sinhalese to be betrayal. No shared consensus on Buddhism’s place could be achieved. Buddhism’s dominance in Sri Lanka was fundamentally contested by the Tamils’ demand for autonomy. Political turmoil spilled over into the streets. The brokered peace negotiations with the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) in the early 2000s19 incentivised further politicisation of the Muslim identity for political gains. The parties involved in the talks would not consider religious communities’ interests, neither those of the Muslims nor of the Buddhists. The violent repression by the LTTE and the negligence thereof in the negotiations, provoked the demand for their own Muslim Thesam in the east of the country. The simultaneous moderation by both major political parties, the party organisers’ inability to tame the radical fringes, and the implicit prohibition to use religion in partisan politics by media and international agents, created the basis again for negotiation of religion’s place to be taken from the party level to the public level. In addition, the support of certain segments within the sangha helped to raise awareness that Buddhism was ‘in danger’. The claim of the whole island for Buddhism led to the formation of new political parties, and more moderate parties found things electorally challenging. By the early 2000s, both major parties were losing legitimacy and support among Buddhists. In response, certain Buddhist religious actors – monks – formed a political party to capitalise from the discontent. For the first time monks collectively engaged directly and actively in party politics, leading and contesting elections within their own political party. Thus, religion has now taken a new and prominent place in the modern state of Sri Lanka. The 2004 electoral success of the then newly formed Jathika Hela Urumaya (JHU) reflected the party’s ability to channel the extreme interests into party politics – and gain from representing radical religious interests. Although the JHU had achieved a prominent position, it joined the SLFP-led coalition, together with Muslim parties. As a member of the coalition government the JHU moderated its stance. Dissatisfaction with the JHU’s political achievements led to a break-away of extremist 149

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fringes. Low-level violent interactions in the course of the contestation of sacred Buddhist land between religious groupings began to grow. In the course of an increasing cleavage along the lines of religion, Buddhist extremist organisations emerged, the most prominent of which is the Bodu Bala Sena (BBS). The lack of ability of the sangha leadership to ‘call back the Buddhist monastic stormtroopers’ – even the initial support of the organisation by high-ranking sangha representatives – encouraged this development. The voting out of office of President Mahinda Rajapaksa in 2015, who allegedly profited from support of the BBS, and the electoral victory of a never-seen-before coalition led by moderate forces of the two major parties, UNP and SLFP, including minority parties and the JHU – which had withdrawn support from the president – seems to have curtailed religious radicalism. Even today, however, members of the governing coalition of moderate parties keep an ambivalent political stance on Buddhism, torn between the modern state and religious interests of their electorate, much like their equivalents up north in India.

Conclusion: why do parties fail? The modern state was born in South Asia as a result of a relatively peaceful transfer of power, and not the 30-year bloodbath of all against all in the name of religion that gave birth to the modern national states of Europe, which eventually became liberal, democratic and secular. Still, both India and Sri Lanka took over parliamentary democracy and first-past-the-post electoral rules. Despite the tendency of convergence towards the position of the median voter and a structural incentive to moderate, the logic of moderation has built into it the seeds of resentment on the part of potential losers on the extreme flanks of religion-inspired political groups competing for office against the tendency towards moderation. Post-industrial liberal democratic societies with deeply rooted modern political institutions seek to overcome the potential danger to legitimacy through a combination of techniques, aimed at co-opting the ‘naysayers’ (as the German CDU co-opts the Bavarian CSU), the second ballot system (as in France) neutralising opposition to the core values of the system through legislation, or keeping the extremists out of the arena through explicit or implicit rules of exclusion. However, whereas the rules of exclusion are applied fairly across the ideological spectrum, if they end up excluding a substantial number of voters and candidates through restrictive electoral laws, results of these elections cannot claim full legitimacy from the underlying society. The rules of exclusion, the price that liberal democracy and communal violence has to pay to sustain moderation, can imperil a fragile democracy, particularly in a post-colonial democracy. Seen from this angle, Indian democracy in the 1950s was put under a double bind. In the first place, its electoral rules had to rein in anti-system forces to balance representation, effective law making and governmental coherence. In addition, the new post-colonial state, lacking the credibility that comes through long and incremental evolution, had to generate trust from the vast, new, inchoate, sprawling and often physically inaccessible national electorate. The ‘Congress System’, in this sense, was a masterly invention that maintained a personal linkage with the society through the founding generation of the state like Nehru who had led the national struggle for decades prior to Independence. The one-party dominant system that resulted gave the Congress Party a hegemonic position from which to steer the society from colonial rule towards popular democracy. As the Congress Party started losing strength in the 1960s, the alienated and excluded flank voters started moving towards a new, radical, anti-system dimension. The availability of large anti-Congress coalitions helped mobilise the discontented into large anti-regime blocs which in some instances produced chronic instability. Similarly, the Modi government appears to have generated the conditions for a return to the mobilisation of 150

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all anti-government forces under one umbrella. The memory of the 1960s when a grand coalition of the extremists brought a new, anti-system dimension to Indian politics remains fresh in the strategic calculations of dissidents in current Indian parties as one can see in the elections held after the 2014 victory of the BJP-led NDA coalition and serves to keep up their hopes to gain power without having to become moderate. In Sri Lanka, the secular state came first and the negotiations about the place of religion in state and society came later. Repeatedly, the moderation of major parties in these ‘negotiations’ and the attempts by party managers to ignore the radical fringes in favour of an understanding with the minorities led both to the formation of new parties and the outbreak of violence. The sangha is a mobilising factor, and the willingness of certain parts of the sangha to support groups which claim to protect Buddhism in face of an unresponsive, incapable or corrupted elite, allows party organisers little room to manoeuvre with regard to making concession against Buddhist interests. The Sri Lankan case shows the necessity of an agreement between different groups for shared values and the rule for interaction within the state. Banning the identity interests of the majority from the political agenda, while simultaneously allowing for claims based on identity by the minorities, leads to an imbalance, which the majority is unlikely to tolerate for long. If major political parties seek the consensus with the minorities by dropping the majority’s religious interests, private entrepreneurs are likely to ‘negotiate’ the issue violently. The political systems of both post-colonial states, Sri Lanka and India, have incentivised coalition building between diverse parties. While coalition building is able to ‘turn rebels into stakeholders’ and allows for the moderation of extreme parties, which in turn can further the stability of the system, the moderation of extreme religious parties prevented them from constitutionally accommodating central values held by a religious community. When parties, which had rallied on religious cleavages, thus turned to consensus building and moderation, the electorate, who had hoped to express religious interests through parties, felt betrayed. At the same time, it has been shown, the links between the party cadre and the extreme – and at times militant – organisations remain. While the parties fail to implement central values and vote promises with regard to religious dominance and programmes, they provide patronage and support for the radical organisations. The nation-states of South Asia have not evolved through the violent purges of minorities and religious pogroms that Europe saw. To get the kind of state–religion linkage that Europe established in 1648 and gradually refined over the years as societies, democratised South Asian states will first need to understand the enormity of the ‘religious problem’, and move firmly both in the direction of power-sharing and constitutional conflation of the sacred and the secular. Political parties have a critical role to play in the creation of an institutional arrangement and cultural basis of the state that can take religions seriously enough to write it into its basic structure and in the process, and take it off the sound and fury of everyday politics.

Notes 1 Guardian, 7 March 2018, ‘Sri Lanka blocks social media as deadly violence continues’ (www.theguardian. com/world/2018/mar/07/sri-lanka-blocks-social-media-as-deadly-violence-continues-buddhist-templeanti-muslim-riots-kandy, last accessed 20 August 2018). 2 Guardian, 21 July 2018, ‘India: suspected vigilantes kill Muslim man transporting cows’ (www.theguardia n.com/world/2018/jul/21/india-suspected-vigilantes-kill-muslim-man-transporting-cows, last accessed 20 August 2018); Independent, 21 July 2018, ‘Man accused of cow smuggling beaten to death by mob in India’ (www.independent.co.uk/news/world/india-man-beaten-death-mob-cow-smuggling-rajasthan-a 8457641.html, last accessed 20 August 2018). 3 According to ‘Chapter – II Buddhism’ of the Sri Lankan constitution: ‘The Republic of Sri Lanka shall give to Buddhism the foremost place and accordingly it shall be the duty of the State to protect and

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4 5 6 7 8 9 10

11

12 13 14 15 16 17 18

19

foster the Buddha Sasana, while assuring to all religions the rights granted by Articles 10 and 14(1)(e).’ (See also online at www.parliament.lk/files/pdf/constitution.pdf). This was introduced in 1972 and kept since the constitution of 1978. See for a quite encompassing analysis Münkler (2017). See Mitra (2013) for the formal derivation of these conditions. Concerning INC and BJP, a kind of ‘syphoning’ of the sacred values from one another, a ‘political osmosis’ leading to value consensus between adversaries has been observed (see cow slaughter ban in several states). A major theoretical foundation for the movement was provided by Vina-yaka Da-modara Sa-varakara’s concept of Hindutva articulated with great force in his book Hindutva: Who Is a Hindu? (1949 [1925]). See a collection of Dharmapala’s writings in Guruge (1965). Compared to Semitic religions, Hinduism’s commitment problems are enormous. The status of Hinduism as a ‘religion’ itself remains a subject of scholarly controversy. The demand for more autonomy in a ‘Muslim Thesam’ (homeland) was proclaimed in the Oluvil Declaration in 2003. Reflecting the rejection of the claim, newspapers compared it to the Vaddukkoddai Declaration made by TULF in 1976, which furthered the escalation of the conflict between Tamils and Sinhalese representatives. See for example The Sunday Leader, 9 February 2003, ‘Oluvil declaration proclaims advent of Muslim Thesam’ (www.thesundayleader.lk/archive/20030209/issues. htm, last accessed 21 August 2018). For a detailed analysis see Waha (2018). Splits among Shias, Sunnis, Ahmadyyas, divided on lines of caste and language, lacking a national order or even a consensus on the validity of a national order is reminiscent of the pre-independence split between the Deoband and the Aligarh Schools. Muslims of India were left leader-less when the Muslim League left India for the happy hunting ground of the promised land of Pakistan. For Muslims who were left ‘stranded’ in India, the state, claiming to be secular, remained aloof in the beginning, and in little incremental steps, acquired a Hindu majoritarian lustre. The continuation of the Ramjanmabhumi–Babri Masjid dispute is only a further indicator of this problem of an ambivalent co-existence of non-moderating Hindu nationalism and non-moderating Islamic extremism, living cheek-by-jowl. Indian People’s Party See for example Jaffrelot (2003: 4). The RSS’s own constitution prohibits its direct participation in politics. For a detailed description of the events, which due to a lack of space cannot be given here, see Jaffrelot (2003) and Juergensmeyer (2017). For details of the campaign and electoral outcome, see Mitra and Schöttli (2016). See Mitra and Schöttli (2016: 618) for an analysis of the BJP’s 2014 election manifesto. As mentioned above, Sri Lankan Buddhist collective identity in wide parts inextricably links the island, the Sinhalese and Buddhist faith to one another. In the revivalist movements this notion has been spread or refreshed among the local Buddhist Sinhalese population. Identifications along regional lines, for example as Kandyan or Low-Country Sinhalese, have played a significant role in political representation during British colonial rule, but were covered by the shared identification as Buddhist-Sinhalese in the political realm. In the early 2000s both major parties, the UNP and SLFP, converged in their programme at the median. Despite the Sri Lankan Army’s recurring war activities with the LTTE, the parties sought to make concessions to Tamils’ autonomy demands in order to gain the support of the more moderated Tamil actors. The insecurity for Buddhism’s place in the state allowed new political entrepreneurs to seize the opportunity. Until the military conclusion of the civil war in 2009, the JHU was able to bind the radical Buddhist fringes.

References Bechert, Heinz. 1974. ‘Buddhism and Mass Politics in Burma and Ceylon’. In Religion and Political Modernization, ed. D.E. Smith. New Haven: Yale University Press. De Silva, Kingsley M. 2014. A History of Sri Lanka. Colombo: Vijitha Yapa Publications. Guruge, Ananda. 1965. Return to Righteousness: A Collection of Speeches, Essays and Letters of the Anagarika Dharmapala. Colombo: Government Press. Jaffrelot, Christophe, ed. 2003. Communal Riots in Gujarat: The State at Risk? Heidelberg: South Asia Institute, Department of Political Science, University of Heidelberg.

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Post-colonial South Asian states Juergensmeyer, Mark. 2017. Terror in the Mind of God: The Global Rise of Religious Violence. Oakland: University of California Press. Kulke, Hermann and Rothermund, Dietmar. 2006. Geschichte Indiens: von der Induskultur bis heute. München: C.H. Beck. LaPalombara, Joseph and Myron Weiner. 1966. ‘The Origin and Development of Political Parties’. In Political Parties and Political Development, ed. Joseph LaPalombara and Myron Weiner. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Manor, James. 1989. The Expedient Utopian: Bandaranaike and Ceylon. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mitra, Subrata K. 2013. ‘The Ambivalent Moderation of Hindu Nationalism in India’. Australian Journal of Political Science 48: 269–285. Mitra, Subrata K. 2017. Politics in India: Structure, Process and Policy. Second edition. London: Routledge. Mitra, Subrata Kumar and Jivanta Schöttli. 2016. ‘India’s 2014 General Elections: A Critical Realignment in Indian Politics?’ Asian Survey 56: 605–628. Münkler, Herfried. 2017. Der Dreissigjährige Krieg. Berlin: Rowohlt Berlin Verlag. Sa-varakara, Vina-yaka Da-modara. 1949 [1925]. Hindutva: Who is a Hindu? Fourth edition. Poona: Gokhale. Seneviratne, H.L. 1999. The Work of Kings. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Thachil, Tariq. 2014. ‘Elite Parties and Poor Voters: Theory and Evidence from India’. American Political Science Association 108: 454–477. Waha, La Toya. 2018. Religion and State-Formation in Transitional Societies: Sri Lanka in a Comparative Perspective. Baden-Baden: Nomos Verlag. Wickramasinghe, Nira. 2014. Sri Lanka in the Modern Age: A History. New York: Oxford University Press.

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13 POLITICAL PARTIES AND RELIGION IN MYANMAR Kristian Stokke

Myanmar is characterised by a puzzling paradox when it comes to the relationship between religions and political parties: while religions, especially Theravada Buddhism, are omnipresent in society and frame politics in multiple and contentious ways, the reintroduction of electoral politics has not been followed by the formation of religious parties or major party-driven politicisation of religious identities and interests. Although religious beliefs and belongings are parts of politics in a broad sense, the links between religions and political parties seem relatively weak and are difficult to discern. Myanmar is a multi-ethnic country that officially recognises eight ‘national races’: Bamar, Chin, Kachin, Kayah (Karenni), Kayin (Karen), Mon, Rakhine (Arakan) and Shan. Bamar comprise approximately two-thirds of the population. The Union of Myanmar is territorially organised in seven Bamar-dominated regions in the central parts of the country and seven ethnic states along Myanmar’s borders (Figure 13.1). Myanmar is also a multi-religious country where the large majority are identified as Buddhist, but there are also important Christian, Muslim and Hindu minorities, and some of these are prominent in particular areas (Carstens, 2018; Fink, 2018). Whereas Buddhism is the dominant religion and has fundamentally shaped Myanmar’s cultural and political history, Islam has also had a long history in the country and Christianity is a major religion among ethnic nationalities (especially Chin, Kayah, Kachin and Kayin) (Gravers and Ytzen, 2014). Animist traditions and worship of nat spirits and Hindu gods are also common, including as part of Buddhism. Myanmar has no state religion and the 2008 Constitution states that ‘every citizen is equally entitled to freedom of conscience and the right to freely profess and practise religion’ (Union of Myanmar, 2008, section 34). However, the Constitution also authorises the state to restrict these rights if necessary and recognises the ‘special position of Buddhism as the faith professed by the great majority of the citizens of the Union’ (section 361). The 2014 census enumerated a total of 50.3 million people, while an estimated 1.2 million remained non-enumerated due to armed conflicts or contentions over the census classification system (Ferguson, 2015; Transnational Institute, 2014). Most significantly, an estimated 1.09 million people residing in Rakhine State were not enumerated because they were not allowed to self-identify as Rohingya. Based on the assumption that these are mainly affiliated with Islam, the census concludes that Buddhists constitute 87.9 percent of the total population, followed by Christians (6.2 percent), Muslims (4.3 percent), Animists (0.8 percent) and Hindus (0.5 per cent). This classification of the population by religion also has a distinct geography: Buddhists are 154

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in the majority in almost all states and regions; Muslims make up a large part of the population in Rakhine State and many Muslims reside in Mandalay and Yangon; Christians have a prominent position in Kayah, Kachin and especially Chin states and there are also many Christians in Kayin, Shan, Ayeyawady and Yangon states and regions (Figure 13.1).

Figure 13.1 Religious affiliations in Myanmar Source: adapted from: The Republic of the Union of Myanmar, 2017

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Moving beyond general census figures, it can be noted that religious identities and practices are integral parts of everyday life. Myanmar is a country where the dividing line between the sacred and the mundane domain is blurred, and religion is intimately intertwined with communal relations and contentions, political values and leadership, state law and education (Gravers, 2014). Religious institutions also have a long history of providing important services in society, especially education, health services and welfare support (Gravers and Ditlevsen, 2014). Gravers and Ytzen observes that the position and potential power of Buddhism in Myanmar means that ‘successive governments have sought to harness Buddhism to their own purposes or otherwise tame the Sangha’ (Gravers and Ytzen, 2014, p. 67). While the democratic government of U Nu promoted Buddhism and declared it as the state religion in 1961, the subsequent, non-democratic, military socialist regime led by Ne Win imposed strong restrictions and established a governmental body of senior monks to oversee and regulate the Sangha (Charney, 2009; Smith, 1991). It is notable that the iconic leader of the pro-democracy movement and the current government, Aung San Suu Kyi, has used Buddhist ideals of moral perfection and freedom to explain democracy and criticise the military rulers (Aung San Suu Kyi, 2010). Outside of the formal political sphere, Buddhism has also played a role in contentious movement politics in society. The 1988 democracy uprising and the 2007 Saffron Revolution are well-known examples of the use of Buddhist ideals and the role of Buddhist monks in popular mobilisation against the military rulers (Rogers, 2008; Walton, 2015a). After the democratic opening, monks played a leading role in Buddhist nationalist movements, with reference to their duty to protect race and religion from the threat of ‘Islamisation’ (Cheesman, 2017b; Frydenlund, 2017; van Klinken and Su Mon Thazin Aung, 2017). Religion is also intertwined with Myanmar’s protracted and multiple intrastate conflicts, but it is misleading to portray these as religious conflicts (Cheesman and Farrelly, 2016; Smith, 2018). Sadan (2014) argues that there is a tendency to see religion as the core of Myanmar’s armed conflicts, based on the centrality of Christianity in Kachin, Chin, Kayah (Karenni) and Kayin (Karen) nationalism. The assumption is that the core of the Kachin conflict, for example, is about religious antagonisms between the Buddhist-Burmese majoritarian government and the Christian Kachins. Sadan asserts that this is an oversimplification, contradicted by the fact that the Mon, Rakhine, Shan and many of the Kayin are Buddhists. Instead, Myanmar’s intrastate conflicts revolve around the antagonism between majoritarian, centralised and militarised statebuilding and demands for ethnic self-determination, representation and equality (Smith, 2018). Discrimination of religious minorities is among the contentions that have triggered ethno-nationalism, but it is misleading to conflate ethnicity with religion and to reduce ethno-nationalism to religious grievances. Buddhist nationalism has, however, played a decisive role in the growth of communal anti-Muslim violence since 2012 and the large-scale ethnic cleansing of Rohingyas in Arakan State (Crouch, 2016; Ibrahim, 2016; van Klinken and Su Mon Thazin Aung, 2017; Wade, 2017; Ware and Laoutides, 2018). The latter has attracted international attention and condemnation and has been described as a textbook case of genocide by the UN human rights chief Zeid Ra’ad Al Hussein.1 It can thus be observed that religions are intertwined with the state and politics and have been politicised in complex and contentious ways (Crouch, 2016; Walton, 2017). Yet, it can also be argued that political parties and electoral politics have not played a primary role in this politicisation. Myanmar’s political parties and party system do not revolve around religious identities, and religious belongings and inter-faith relations played a relatively subdued role in the electoral campaigns in 2010 and 2012. The 2015 election, however, saw the emergence of Buddhist nationalist monks endorsing the ruling Union Solidarity and Development Party (USDP) while questioning the Buddhist credentials of the National League of Democracy and its leader Aung San Suu Kyi. This also raises concerns about potential party-politicisation of 156

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religious issues in the forthcoming 2020 election. In general terms, it can be observed that although the reintroduction of competitive elections and parliamentary politics since 2010 have widened the political space for religious politics, political parties have been at the receiving end rather than the driving force behind politicisation of religion in recent years. This chapter will provide tentative analytical reflections on this conundrum. The next section will review the reintroduction of electoral democracy and party-politics, with special attention to the character of parties and the party system, and their links to religion. Thereafter, the attention turns to how the majority religion (Theravada Buddhism) frames democratic politics and is a basis for contentions over the relationship between Buddhism and politics. The chapter concludes with brief reflections on the increased role of religion in electoral competition and how this may be furthered or ameliorated in future elections.

Political parties in contemporary Myanmar Following five decades of direct military rule, the ruling State Peace and Development Council (SPDC) crafted a new constitution in 2008, held fraudulent elections in 2010 and transferred power to a nominally civilian government in 2011 (Bünte, 2017; Egreteau, 2016; Stokke and Soe Myint Aung, forthcoming). This military-imposed transition produced a formal institutional framework for electoral democracy, parliamentary politics and civilian government, but the democratic substance is constrained by constitutional regulations that grant the military (Tatmadaw) authority over national security and strong military influence in parliament, government and public administration (Williams, 2014). The state and politics in contemporary Myanmar are thus to a large degree shaped by the changing continuity of military domination, and this is also the key for understanding the weak institutionalisation and capacity of most political parties (Selth, 2018; Stokke, forthcoming-a). The military-designed 2008 Constitution introduced elected parliaments both at the union and state/region levels, and held general elections in 2010 and 2015 and by-elections in 2012, 2017 and 2018 (Ardeth Maung Thawnghmung, 2016; Huang, 2016; Tin Maung Maung Than, 2013). A legal framework for registering parties was created, and a large number of new electoralist2 parties were formed and contested the 2010 election. Older movement parties rooted in the 1988 pro-democracy uprising and the annulled 1990 election refused to re-register under the 2008 Constitution and boycotted the 2010 election. Following amendments to the electoral laws, however, they subsequently changed this position and have engaged in elections and parliamentary politics since 2012 (Marston, 2013). Myanmar has a large number of political parties (Table 13.1). More than 90 parties registered with the Union Election Commission and contested the 2015 election, but most of the parties remain small and few of them have been successful in winning parliamentary seats within the first-past-the-post electoral system (Lemargie et al., 2014). The list of parties includes both old movement parties from the 1990-era and new electoralist parties that were formed for the 2010 election (Stokke, forthcoming-b). Most of the electoralist parties were defeated in the 2015 election, when the old movement parties participated in the first free general election since 1990 (Huang, 2016). Both old and new parties are poorly institutionalised, as the old parties were repressed and largely defunct during the 1990s and 2000s and the new parties are electoralist organisations with weak party structures and links to society. This means that most parties have limited political capacity to represent their constituencies in parliamentary politics and government (Stokke et al., 2015). There are, however, two dominant parties that have substantive organisational resources and union-wide reach: the military-affiliated Union Solidarity and Development Party (USDP) that governed Myanmar from 2011 to 2016 and the 157

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pro-democracy National League for Democracy (NLD) that stems from the 1988 democracy uprising and which has been in power since 2016. The polarised opposition between USDP and NLD represents the pivot of party politics in Myanmar today. In terms of the identities and interests that parties claim to represent it is notable that none of them are based primarily on religious belonging and can be labelled as religious parties. This seems paradoxical, in light of the aforementioned omnipresence of religion in Myanmar. One possible explanation may be found in how the Constitution defines an overall political framework for ‘disciplined multi-party democratic system’ and impose restrictions on political parties (Egreteau, 2016). Section 364 of the Constitution states that ‘the abuse of religion for political purposes is forbidden’ (as it also was in the 1947 Constitution) and Section 407 adds that parties ‘abusing religion for political purpose’ shall have ‘no right of continued existence’ (Union of Myanmar, 2008, pp. 152, 163). These regulations make divisive party politicisation of religious issues unconstitutional. Nevertheless, constitutional restrictions are not the most plausible reason for the absence of political parties. A more convincing explanation may be that other grievances and cleavages have taken precedence over religion in shaping the party system and strategies for mobilisation of support. Myanmar’s current party-system is not organised around social or religious cleavages in society, but rather reflects political polarisation between opposed state- and nation-building agendas (Figure 13.2). On the one hand, there is a divide between parties advocating Burmese unity and nationalism and those representing ethnic nationalities and nationalism, where ethnic nationalism is criticised for undermining the unity of the nation and Burmese nationalism is portrayed as a disguised Bamar majority nationalism (Stokke et al., 2015). What Burmese and ethnic nationalisms have in common is that both rest on a cultural rather than civic conception of national communities, where the notion of ‘national races’ (taingyintha) has become the primordial cultural core of the nation. Cheesman (2017a) traces the genealogy of taingyintha to nationalist movements in the late colonial period that sought to unify colonial subject populations by creating a distinction from European, Chinese or Indian foreigners. After independence, taingyintha gradually came to refer to eight national races – Arakan (Rakhine), Bamar, Chin, Kachin, Kayin (Karen), Kayah (Karenni), Mon and Shan – that became a legitimising frame for ethno-nationalist mobilisation as well as military rule to protect the unity of the Burmese nation (Charney, 2009; Smith, 1991). Later, the military rulers constructed a detailed taxonomy of 135 national race groups that became the basis for the 1982 Citizenship Law and a tool for governing the population (South and Lall, 2018). While the list of 135 ethnic groups is contested, Cheesman (2017a) describes taingyintha as a truth regime that has subsumed civic conceptions of political communities and created a basis for Burmese and ethnic nationalisms. It is also the basis for exclusion of non-taingyintha groups such as the Rohingyas from citizenship, which means that achieving taingyintha status has become a strategic priority among many Rohingya organisations. Since independence, this polarised opposition between Burmese unity and unitary state-building and claims for ethnic self-determination, equality and representation within a federal state, has been the core of Myanmar’s multiple and protracted armed conflicts (Smith, 2018). Through the 1990 election and the democratic opening in 2010, this polarisation has also come to be expressed in electoral politics as an opposition between national parties and ethnic parties. On the other hand, there is also a divide over the state-building and the form of rule, between military-affiliated parties that prioritise securing state authority and political order and pro-democracy parties that emphasise state legitimacy based on democracy, rule of law and federalism (Stokke et al., 2015). This divide can be traced back to the early post-independence period, when there was growing political instability and armed intrastate conflicts in the context of multi-party democracy and state fragility, creating a pretext for a short-term military 158

Ethnic parties: Kachin State

Ethnic parties: Chin State

2013 2013

Kachin State Democracy Party (KSDP)

Lisu National Development Party (LNDP)

2010

Chin National Party (CNP)

2010

2010

Chin Progressive Party (CPP)

Unity and Democracy Party of Kachin State (UDPKS)

1990

Mara People’s Party (MPP)

1990

1989

Mro or Khami National Solidarity Organisation (MKNSO)

Kachin State National Congress for Democracy (KNCD)

1988

Zomi Congress for Democracy (ZCD)

2010

National Democratic Front (NDF) 1989

1988–1990

Other democracy parties

Chin National League for Democracy (CNLD)

1988

National League of Democracy (NLD)

2010

Union Solidarity and Development Party (USDP)

Democracy parties

1988

National Unity Party (NUP)

Military parties

Founded

Party name

Party type

Pyidaungsu Hluttaw

National Assembly

3

1

1

2

3

7

392

10

2

4

6

12

388

17

Number of parliamentary seats

2010

1990

Table 13.1 Distribution of parliamentary seats at the union level, 1990, 2010 and 2015 elections

2

1

4

390

41

1

Pyidaungsu Hluttaw

2015

160

Ethnic parties: Rakhine State

Ethnic parties: Mon State

Ethnic parties: Kayin State

Ethnic parties: Kayah State

2010 2010

Kayin State Democracy and Development Party (KSDDP)

Phalon-Sawaw Democratic Party (PSDP)

2010

1989 1990 2010 2014

National Democratic Party for Human Rights

Kamans National League for Democracy (KNLD)

Rakhine Nationalities Development Party (RNDP)

Arakan National Party (ANP)

1989

Arakan League for Democracy (ALD)

All Mon Region Democracy Party (AMRDP)

1988

2010

Kayin People’s Party (KPP)

Mon National Party (MNP)

1990

1990

Kayah State Nationalities League for Democracy (KSNLD)

Karen State National Organisation (KSNA)

1989

Democratic Organisation for Kayan National Unity (DOKNU)

1

4

11

5

1

2

16

7

5

1

2

Pyidaungsu Hluttaw

National Assembly 2

2010

1990

22

1

Pyidaungsu Hluttaw

2015

161

1990 2010

Kokang Democracy and Unity Party (KDUP)

Shan Nationalities Democratic Party (SNDP)

Military-appointed Members of Parliament

Elected Members of Parliament

492

7

Vacant

3 6

1988–90

1

1

1

2

3

23

Independent

Other ethnic parties

2010

1990

Shan State Kokang Democratic Party (SSKDP)

Wa Democratic Party (WDP)

1990

Lahu National Development Party (LHNDP)

2010

1989

Union Danu League for Democracy Party (UDLD)

Ta’ang (Palaung) National Party (TNP)

1989

Ta’ang National League for Democracy (TNLD)

2010

1949

Pa-O National Organisation (PNO)

Inn National Development Party (INDP)

1988

Shan Nationalities League for Democracy (SNLD)

166

498

5

2

3

2

1

21

4

Pyidaungsu Hluttaw

National Assembly

Source: Burma Fund UN Office, 2011; Khin Kyaw Han, 2000; Myanmar Information Management Unit, 2016

Total

Other

Ethnic parties: Shan State

2010

1990

166

498

7

3

1

5

1

4

15

Pyidaungsu Hluttaw

2015

Kristian Stokke

caretaker government (1958–1960) followed by protracted military rule (1962–2011) (Smith, 1991; Taylor, 2009). With reference to the dangers of disunity and instability, the Tatmadaw came to see itself as the guardians of stability and political order, in contrast to divisive and ineffective multi-party politics and government (Callahan, 2003). The military rulers have thus had a persistent focus on building and defending the sovereignty and authority of the unitary state, including by strong military force against multiple armed ethnic organisations (Selth, 2018). Such military rule has been challenged by popular struggles for democratisation, especially in the form of democracy ‘uprisings’ in 1988 and in 2007, and movement parties demanding democracy, human right and federalism. Following the democratic opening, this divide is expressed in electoral politics as a polarised opposition between the two dominant parties, the USDP and the NLD. Myanmar’s party system has thus revolved around opposing agendas for nation-building/ nationalism and state-building/form of rule (Figure 13.2). These divides have created a partysystem that revolves around three clusters of parties: national parties that originate from and maintain close links to the military; national parties that stem from the pro-democracy movement; and, ethnic parties representing non-Bamar nationalities (Kempel et al., 2015; Stokke et al., 2015). Most of these parties were either repressed under military rule during the 1990s and 2000s or are new electoralist parties, which means that they tend to be poorly institutionalised with limited political capacity. The foremost exceptions are the two dominant national parties, the military-affiliated USDP and the pro-democracy NLD. It is striking that the party system continues to be shaped by these state-centred divides rather than socio-economic interests or religious identities. It is the ebb and flows of military rule and state-building that are the foremost determinants behind Myanmar’s tripartite party system of military parties, democracy parties and ethnic parties, as well as the divide between old movement parties and new electoralist parties (Stokke, forthcoming-a). It can be argued that this is a key to understanding the general absence of religious parties, in combination with the constitutional restrictions on religious politics that was mentioned earlier.

Religious framing of party politics While there is a general absence of religious parties in Myanmar, religious beliefs and ideals are prevalent in society and especially Buddhism frames politics in a broad sense (Crouch, 2016; Rogers, 2015; Walton, 2017). Also, religious actors exert political influence in multiple ways. This is most strikingly demonstrated by politically engaged Buddhist monks, but also by the

Figure 13.2 Major political divides within Myanmar’s party system

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political influence of Baptist and Catholic organisations in Kachin and other ethnic states (Frydenlund, 2017; Gravers, 2013; Sadan, 2014; van Klinken and Su Mon Thazin Aung, 2017). Christian leaders in Kachin State, for example, have advocated a merger of ethnic parties as a strategy for improved political representation based on ethno-nationalism, while local Buddhist monks have pursued the same agenda in Mon State (Stokke, forthcoming-b). Although the Constitution forbids abusing religion for political purposes and it is widely held that Buddhist monks should refrain from political engagement, there are strong, yet complex links between Buddhism and politics in Myanmar (Gravers, 2014). This section provides a brief overview of Burmese Buddhist political thought and the role of politically engaged Buddhist monks. Walton (2015b, 2017) portrays Theravada Buddhist beliefs and practices as a moral framework that defines the boundaries of political authority, legitimacy and participation. This framework is, however, not a unitary and totalising perspective on politics, but rather religious raw material for contestation and reformulation. Theravada Buddhism contains multiple modes of reasoning that have been used in different ways, by diverse actors and for divergent political purposes, often in combination with political ideologies from other sources. Walton thus observes that ‘while Therava-da Buddhism is not a totalising influence on Burmese politics, the religion has provided both a set of ideational raw materials and a general conceptual framework within which most Buddhists in Myanmar think about and practice politics’ (Walton, 2015b, p. 1). A foundational premise in Burmese Buddhist thought, according to Walton (2017), is a duality in the conception of human nature: humans are seen as enslaved by desires that produce conflicts and are hence in need of protection against their basic instincts, but humans also have the capacity of controlling their cravings through moral living. These views on human nature support a dual conception of the purpose of politics. While one perspective holds that the aim of politics is to create political authority that can control human actors and make them live in agreement with moral and mundane laws, an alternative position sees the end goal of politics as freedom or liberation. In the latter perspective, personal liberation and political freedom are closely related, as expressed for example in the writings of Aung San Suu Kyi (Aung San Suu Kyi, 2010; Walton, 2015a). This twofold understanding of the relationship between Buddhism and politics is paralleled by paired notions of political authority. Houtman (1999) identifies two different concepts of authority in Burmese Buddhism: a model of centralised authority (ana) and an alternative notion of distributed influence (awza). These models are distinct, yet also blend into one another: One who is greatly influential is often given authority, and one who is in a position of authority is also able to influence. Nevertheless, there is a world of difference between these concepts. To be influential may make one authoritative, but there is a world of difference between being influential and authoritarian. In Burmese history all Burmese kings invariably had ana, but exceptionally few were described as having awza. (Houtman, 1999, p. 169) Resembling this primacy of authority in pre-colonial and colonial times, the model of ana has held a dominant position in most of the post-colonial period. Walton (2017) points out that there was a shift within the ruling Anti-Fascist People’s Freedom League after independence, from an emphasis on liberation to political authority. After the military coup d’état in 1962, state authority and order became the raison d’être for the ruling Burma Socialist Programme Party (Callahan, 2003). By the late 1990s, Houtman finds that a deep divide had been created between the model of ana (authority) associated with various military regimes since 1962, and the model of awza (influence) that was associated with the democracy movement and Aung San 163

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Suu Kyi. By extension, it can be argued that this opposition between ana-based centralised power and awza-based moral opposition is also manifest in contemporary party politics, as a divide between the military-affiliated Union Solidarity and Development Party and the prodemocracy National League for Democracy. The current divide is, however, less clear-cut and conflictual than in the past, due to the military’s acceptance of formal democratic institutions and the emphasis on unity and political order also within the NLD. In contemporary Myanmar, Walton (2017) argues that these notions of human nature, politics and authority are linked to competing models of democracy rather than an opposition between democracy and military rule. On the one hand, the Tatmadaw and USDP have pursued a model of disciplined democracy that prescribes a sequenced democratisation process and sees state sovereignty and authority as prerequisites for political liberalisation (Stokke and Soe Myint Aung, forthcoming). The core argument is that a transition to democratic politics has to be gradual and carefully managed to avoid political disunity and instability (Egreteau, 2016; Selth, 2018). The democracy movement and NLD, on the other hand, have championed a model of rights-based democracy. This position holds that democracy is compatible with Buddhism and Burmese culture, and ‘valuable as a political system because it enables and supports human efforts to create their world freely’ (Walton, 2017, p. 175). These models of disciplined or rights-based democracy indicate that Buddhism continues to frame political dynamics. Buddhist political thought is used as raw material for criticising or legitimating political authority, with Buddhist monks as key political actors in society (Walton, 2015a). Such political engagement by the Sangha seems to challenge the ‘generally assumed prohibition against monastic political activity among Burmese Buddhists’ (Walton, 2015a, p. 123), but monks can abstain from direct participation in party politics and still be politically influential (Walton, 2015b). They enjoy deep respect in society and are expected to protect Buddhism, engage in the problems of the followers of Buddha and offer advice to both laypeople and rulers (Gravers, 2013). On this basis, monks have engaged politically as advisors to pre-colonial kings, participants in anticolonial mobilisations, critics of military rule, advocates for democracy, and leaders of Buddhist nationalist movements. Gravers identifies two principal positions within politically engaged Buddhism: One is the political spirituality of the NLD and young monks aimed at establishing a new moral and democratic order. It is critical of corruption, violence and repression. The other is the conservative, nationalist ‘line’ of ‘Burmanisation’ or ‘Myanmarification’, which emphasises Burman cultural hegemony, Buddhism as the national religion, and the order established by the state as above the Sangha. (Gravers, 2014, pp. 319–320) While ‘liberal’ pro-democracy engagement was especially visible in the 1988 and 2007 mass uprising, ‘conservative’ Buddhist nationalism has gained a prominent position in recent years. In 2007, Buddhist monks played a lead role in the so-called Saffron Revolution, which was the most significant mass mobilisation against the military regime since 1988 (Rogers, 2008). Emphasising loving kindness (metta) and compassion, this mobilisation was framed as a defence against the decay and decline of Burmese society. For some monks this meant expressing support for NLD, while other monks saw themselves as politically neutral. The military rulers, however, responded forcefully against the protesters and legitimated this by arguing that Buddhist morality means loyalty and obedience to the regime and the nation (Rogers, 2008; Selth, 2008). This Buddhist nationalist conception was explicitly expressed in the slogan ‘one race, one language and one religion’. It is this nationalist line that has gained prominence among politically engaged 164

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monks in recent years, enabled by the introduction of basic civil and political freedoms and conducive relations with military personnel and the USDP-government (Frydenlund, 2017; van Klinken and Su Mon Thazin Aung, 2017). Under protracted military rule, the links between personal and political freedom/liberation created a common ground between pro-democrats and Buddhist monks. In contrast, the contemporary merging of nation and religion in Burmese Buddhist nationalism has become a convergence point between the Tatmadaw and nationalist monks in recent years. This is most clearly demonstrated by the Buddhist nationalist movements, 969, and the Association for Protection of Race and Religion (MaBaTha), which were formed to protect the Burmese Buddhist ‘race and religion’ (Gravers, 2015). Whereas the 969 movement was a loosely organised campaign for a boycott of Muslim-owned businesses, MaBaTha has been a more formal organisation with both monastic and lay leaders (Gravers, 2015). Both organisations have been banned by the Maha Nayaka Sangha Council (MNSC), but MaBaTha continues to exist under new name and as informal networks of meaning and activism. MaBaTha has been active in framing religious pluralism and especially ‘Islamisation’ as a threat to Burmese Buddhism in general, and to vulnerable Buddhist women in particular (McCarthy and Menager, 2017). Contemporary Buddhist nationalism has primarily targeted Muslims, including in the form of anti-Muslim communal violence and ethnic cleansing of Muslim Rohingyas by the Tatmadaw (Cheesman, 2017b; Crouch, 2016; van Klinken and Su Mon Thazin Aung, 2017). MaBaTha has been at the forefront of pushing for legislative measures to protect Buddhism and successfully advocated the USDP-government to propose and approve four controversial ‘race and religion laws’ before the 2015 election. The laws were designed to regulate interfaith marriage, prevent forced conversion, abolish polygamy and promote birth control, and are commonly understood as being targeted at Muslims (Frydenlund, 2017). USDP together with the Rakhine National Development Party (RNDP) and the National Democratic Front (NDF) supported the laws in Parliament. NLD and several ethnic parties voted against without providing a strong counter narrative to MaBaTha’s anti-Muslim rhetoric. This created a basis for politicisation of religion during the electoral campaign in 2015. USDP was framed as being more tolerant towards Buddhist nationalism and supporting the laws in Parliament, in contrast to NLD (Frydenlund, 2017). USDP office holders and government officials had ‘tacitly or explicitly sided with the Buddhist community against alleged Islamic “intruders”’ (Cheesman, 2017b, p. 337) while some military personnel and business owners had donated funds (Fink, 2018). Van Klinken and Su Mon Thazin Aung (2017) describe this as a process of skilful brokerage, whereby disparate groups were pulled together through deals between monks and influential political actors. Before the 2015 election, MaBaTha monks endorsed USDP for its commitment to protecting the future of Buddhism, while the Buddhist credentials of NLD and Aung San Suu Kyi were called into question. Both USDP and NLD refrained from nominating any Muslim candidates, although USDP had Muslim legislators in the prior parliament period and NLD had earlier portrayed itself as an inclusive party with many non-Buddhist members. In this manner, it can be observed that questions of ‘race and religion’ were politicised prior to the 2015 election. However, it can be argued that this was not primarily driven by the electoral rivalry between two national parties dependent on support from the Buddhist majority. The main driving force was rather a Buddhist nationalist movement in society seeking to utilise the USDP-NLD rivalry to gain political influence. Reporting on the 2011–2016 period, Win and Kean (2017) find that USDP suppressed rather than fuelled communalist views in parliamentary politics. While the legislature could have done more to suppress communal violence, it did not descend into conflictual religious identity politics during the USDP government period, and has 165

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also shown some restraint in the heated political context of military ethnic cleansing of Rohingyas (Win and Kean, 2017). Looking towards the forthcoming 2020 election, the implication is that the electoral rivalry between USDP and NLD may lead to party politicisation of religious identities, while the prevalence of other political cleavages than religion and the constitutional restriction on religious politics may continue to hamper religious identity politics in parliament.

Conclusion This chapter has sought to untangle the paradox of relative absence of religious parties and religious issues in electoral politics and the omnipresence of religion in society, especially Theravada Buddhism. The chapter has paid special attention to the character of parties and the party system, and their links to religion. A key finding is that the party system continues to revolve around political questions of state- and nation-building rather than socio-economic interests or religious identities. This may hold a key to understanding the general absence of religious parties, in combination with constitutional restrictions on religious identity politics. The chapter also highlights that religious beliefs and ideals, especially Buddhism, frames politics and specific religious actors in society exert considerable political influence. This is most strikingly demonstrated by politically engaged Buddhist monks. Although the Constitution forbids abusing religion for political purposes and it is widely held that Buddhist monks should refrain from political engagement, there are strong and complex links from Burmese Buddhist political thought and politically engaged Buddhist monks to democratic politics. It was especially found that Buddhist nationalism have politicised religious identities and Buddhist–Muslim relations, despite regulations that constrain large-scale party politicisation of religion. Yet, it is not inevitable that Myanmar will see further intensification of religious identity politics. The diverse links between religion and politics highlight how the political use of Buddhism is situational and strategic. Buddhist doctrine provides resources that can be used by different actors for different purposes in a changing political field. Buddhist identity has strong mobilising capacity, not least in a period marked by major political, economic and social changes, and Buddhist organisations provide a social infrastructure for mobilisation and leadership. Thus, Buddhism in Myanmar should be seen not as a fixed framework of politics, but as a rich source of raw materials that can be used by diverse political actors and agendas.

Notes 1 https://news.un.org/en/story/2017/09/564622-un-human-rights-chief-points-textbook-example-ethniccleansing-myanmar. 2 ‘Electoralist’ parties are those engaged in politics during a ‘mid-way’ transition from an authoritarian towards a democratic system. The term ‘electoralist’ was first used by Schmitter and Karl (1991).

References Gravers, M. (2015). Anti-Muslim Buddhist Nationalism in Burma and Sri Lanka: Religious Violence and Globalized Imaginaries of Endangered Identities. Contemporary Buddhism, 16(1), 1–27. Gravers, M. and Ditlevsen, M. (2014). The Religious Dimension. In M. Gravers and F. Ytsen (eds), Burma/Myanmar: Where Now? Copenhagen: NIAS Press. Gravers, M. and Ytzen, F. (eds) (2014). Burma/Myanmar: Where Now? Copenhagen: NIAS Press. Houtman, G. (1999). Mental Culture in Burmese Crisis Politics: Aung San Suu Kyi and the National League for Democracy. Tokyo: Tokyo University of Foreign Studies, Institute for the Study of Languages and Cultures of Asia and Africa.

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Political parties and religion in Myanmar Huang, R.L. (2016). Myanmar’s Way to Democracy and the Limits of the 2015 Elections. Asian Journal of Political Science, 25(1), 25–44. Ibrahim, A. (2016). The Rohingyas: Inside Myanmar’s Hidden Genocide. London: Hurst. Kempel, S., Chan Myawe Aung Sun and Aung Tun (2015). Myanmar Political Parties at a Time of Transition: Political Party Dynamics at the National and Local Level. Yangon: Pyoe Pin Programme. Khin Kyaw Han (2000). 1990 Multi-Party Democracy General Elections. Oslo: Democratic Voice of Burma. Lemargie, K., Reynolds, A., Erben, P. and Ennis, D. (2014). Electoral System Choice in Myanmar’s Democratization Debate. In N. Cheesman, N. Farrelly and T. Wilson (eds), Debating Democratization in Myanmar. Singapore: ISEAS. McCarthy, G. and Menager, J. (2017). Gendered Rumours and the Muslim Scapegoat in Myanmar’s Transition. Journal of Contemporary Asia, 47(3), 396–412. Marston, H. (2013). Myanmar’s Electoral System: Reviewing the 2010 and 2012 Elections and Looking Ahead to the 2015 General Elections. Asian Journal of Political Science, 21(3), 268–284. Myanmar Information Management Unit (2016). Myanmar Election Maps 2010–2015. Yangon: MIMU. The Republic of the Union of Myanmar (2017). Census Atlas Myanmar: The 2014 Myanmar Population and Housing Census. Nay Pyi Taw: Department of Population, Ministry of Labour, Immigration and Population. Rogers, B. (2008). The Saffron Revolution: The Role of Religion in Burma’s Movement for Peace and Democracy. Totalitarian Movements and Political Religions, 9(1), 115–118. Rogers, B. (2015). The Contribution of Christianity to Myanmar’s Social and Political Development. The Review of Faith & International Affairs, 13(4), 60–70. Sadan, M. (2014). Religion, Identity and Separatism. In M. Gravers and F. Ytsen (eds), Burma/Myanmar: Where Now? Copenhagen: NIAS Press. Schmitter, P. and T. Lynn Karl (1991). What Democracy Is … and Is Not. Journal of Democracy, Summer, 3–19. Selth, A. (2008). Burma’s ‘Saffron Revolution’ and the Limits of International Influence. Australian Journal of International Affairs, 62(3), 281–297. Selth, A. (2018). All Going According to Plan? The Armed Forces and Government in Myanmar. Contemporary Southeast Asia: A Journal of International and Strategic Affairs, 40(1), 1–26. Smith, M. (1991). Burma: Insurgency and the Politics of Ethnicity. London: Zed. Smith, M. (2018). Ethnic Politics and Citizenship in History. In A. South and M. Lall (eds), Citizenship in Myanmar: Ways of Being in and from Burma. Singapore: ISEAS. South, A. and Lall, M. (eds) (2018). Citizenship in Myanmar: Ways of Being in and from Burma. Singapore: ISEAS. Stokke, K. (forthcoming-a). The Party-State Nexus in Myanmar: Military Statebuilding and Constrained Development of Political Parties in Myanmar. In E. Mobrand and E. Hansson (eds), The Party-State Nexus in Asia. Copenhagen: NIAS Press. Stokke, K. (forthcoming-b). Political Representation through Ethnic Parties? Electoral Performance and Party-Building Processes among Ethnic Parties in Myanmar. Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs. Stokke, K. and Soe Myint Aung (forthcoming). Transition to Democracy or Hybrid Regime? The Dynamics and Outcome of Democratization in Myanmar. European Journal of Development Research. Stokke, K., Khine Win and Soe Myint Aung (2015). Political Parties and Popular Representation in Myanmar’s Democratisation Process. Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs, 34(3), 3–35. Taylor, R.H. (2009). The State in Myanmar. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Tin Maung Maung Than (2013). Myanmar’s 2012 By-elections: The Return of NLD. Southeast Asian Affairs, 204–219. Transnational Institute (2014). Ethnicity without Meaning, Data without Context: The 2014 Census, Identity and Citizenship in Burma/Myanmar. Amsterdam: TNI-BCN Burma Policy Briefing 13. Union of Myanmar (2008). Constitution of the Republic of the Union of Myanmar. Nay Pyi Taw: Union of Myanmar. van Klinken, G. and Su Mon Thazin Aung (2017). The Contentious Politics of Anti-Muslim Scapegoating in Myanmar. Journal of Contemporary Asia, 47(3), 353–375. Wade, F. (2017). Myanmar’s Enemy Within: Buddhist Violence and the Making of a Muslim ‘Other’. London: Zed. Walton, M.J. (2015a). Buddhism, Politics, and Political Change. In D.I. Steinberg (ed.), Myanmar: The Dynamics of an Evolving Polity. Boulder: Lynne Rienner. Walton, M.J. (2015b). Burmese Buddhist Politics. In Oxford Handbooks Online. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Kristian Stokke Walton, M.J. (2017). Buddhism, Politics and Political Thought in Myanmar. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ware, A. and Laoutides, C. (2018). Myanmar’s ‘Rohingya’ Conflict. London: Hurst. Williams, D.C. (2014). What’s so Bad about Burma’s 2008 Constitution? A Guide for the Perplexed. In M. Crouch and T. Lindsey (eds.), Law, Society and Transition in Myanmar. Oxford: Hart. Win, C. and Kean, T. (2017). Communal Conflict in Myanmar: The Legislature’s Response, 2012–2015. Journal of Contemporary Asia, 47(3), 413–439.

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14 RELIGIOUS POLITICAL PARTIES IN PAKISTAN Muqarrab Akbar

The role of religion in international politics gained much attention due to the impact of beliefs and/or of theology, the link to particular cultures, and the origin of related customs. A country which has both religious beliefs and a specific hierarchy in relation to religion might be expected to have a role for religion in its foreign policy, for example, in relation to how to create favourable interactions with allies and enemies in the political domain and/or to play a pivotal role vis-à-vis existing political systems and specific groups in the wider political structure. In Pakistan, religion has a key role in politics, probably the dominant influence in the political and religious history of the country. It began from the ideology of a separate homeland for India’s Muslims and in the foundation of Pakistan’s ‘Objective Resolution’ and related constitutional innovations to practical infrastructure;1 over time, religion has remained the main pillar of governance in Pakistan. Religious attachments and attainments were intended to have both an acceptable and positive impact on political culture, with Islam serving as a mechanism uniting society. Political parties and other relevant actors use religion in their political prisms and manifestoes which relate it to policy-making processes to help coordinate interactions between political leaderships and grassroots party members and supporters. These are all elements of how religion affects politics in relation to political parties and help us to understand its role in Pakistan’s domestic and international politics. Initially, the slogan of ‘Islam in Danger’ united India’s Muslims under the platform of the Muslim League which resulted in the creation of Pakistan. Islam was cited as the binding force to hold the Muslims together. Soon after the creation of Pakistan, the religious groups which had initially opposed the partition of the Indian subcontinent started calling for the country’s Islamisation and adoption of Islamic laws into the future constitution. These religious groups used Islam as a political means to achieve their goal: implementing ‘hardcore’ Islamic values and principles, including Sharia law in the newly independent state of Pakistan. General Zia-ul-Haq, Pakistan’s president from 1978 to 1988, once claimed that ‘Pakistan is like Israel, an ideological state. Take out Judaism from Israel and it will collapse like a house of cards. Take Islam out of Pakistan and make it a secular state; it would collapse’ (quoted in Akhtar, 2018: 94) Almost two decades later a similar statement was given by the then Chief of Army Staff, General Ashfaq Pervez Kiyani, ‘Pakistan was created in the name of Islam and Islam can never be taken out of Pakistan. However, Islam should always remain a unifying force’ (quoted in Paul, 2014: 127).

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Islam, Pakistan’s raison d’être, is highlighted by the authorities, whether civilian or military, to encourage people to realise that Islam is the driving force by which they could diminish or do away with any regional or sectarian differences. The unity of the people of Pakistan could be realised by appealing to the denomination of an Islamic republic or Islamic state, whether by comprehending its theoretical underpinnings or its practical layout. Because it was used as a rallying cry to mobilise the masses for the creation of Pakistan, early leaders of Pakistan tried to follow the principles of Muhammad Ali Jinnah, founder of Pakistan and revered in the country, as Quaid-e-Azam. Jinnah clearly opposed the idea of a theocratic state and invited Pakistanis to support the project of building a modern, that is, secular nation state. Ziring contends that Jinnah as the leader of the nation aspired to build the state on modern democratic ideals with liberal principles. He stated that ‘Islam was cast as a moderating element, reinforcing secular guarantees of fundamental liberties’ (Ziring, 1984: 934). Ziring argues that after Jinnah, the leadership of Pakistan was not able enough to transform the idealistic goal of the Muslim League into a practical programme due to both internal rifts within the party and to personal desires to give benefits to family, friends and supporters. ‘As a consequence, the politicians could bicker and intrigue, but they could not manage policy’ (Ziring, 1984: 934). Ziring also states that the early leadership of Pakistan compromised the institutional norms and laid the foundation of opportunistic politics. Finally, Pakistan’s early political leadership even failed to project the symbolic image of the state as a republic – whereby every citizen was to be envisioned as equal without any discrimination on the basis of race and sect. Ziring’s critical view is that the state and society of Pakistan passed through a tumultuous period, a shift from so-called democracy to autocracy or dictatorship. Personnel at the helm of affairs tried to use Islam to get legitimacy for their role and sought to project an image to the public that they were seeking to make the society more egalitarian via their policies and programmes. Yet they were not able to ‘normalise’ the role of religion in politics mainly because they were unable to formulate a successful strategy to achieve unity among the different cultural groups of Pakistan. The result was that Pakistan’s journey from Islamic republic to Islamic state was problematic and not achieved. Ziring opines that, in the view of the nation’s principal architect, they required tutors and guides, not political leaders who exploited their historic fears and suspicions. By the same token, references to Islam were deemed counterproductive, and appeared more to divide than unite the nation in common endeavour. (Ziring, 1984: 935) Later, during the rule of Zia-ul-Haq, political use of Islam increased, not least by Zia himself who was religiously motivated, to try to build the state upon the moral philosophy of Islam. In the same vein, Haqqani opined that ‘Zia-Ul-Haq is often identified as the person most responsible for turning Pakistan into a global center for political Islam. Undoubtedly, Zia went farthest in defining Pakistan as an Islamic state’ (Haqqani, 2005: 131). In the context of Pakistan’s polity, the legacy of the past is still functional to try to operationalise the system of governance whereby people are encouraged to be satisfied by the working of what is claimed to be a moral social order and a patronage mode of deliverance of political goods, including welfare. This kind of thinking was imbued with the idea of a ‘people’s democracy’ which sought the effective support of the community by relying upon the force of Islam to encourage political mobility and to act as a key justification to support state-building efforts. Against this backdrop, politicians of Pakistan sought to serve the people by increasing religious symbolism, using various cultural idioms to trumpet their democratic ideals. In his 170

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book, Vying for Allah’s Vote, Haroon K. Ullah (2014: 17) observes that ‘Pakistan was not established as [a] true democratic republic. Its system of government was cobbled together from a host of competing traditions, including feudalism, Islamism, tribalism and Western-style representational government’. Pakistan is a country which drew upon the faith of Islam to justify its existence, employing it as a signifier of cultural difference in the context of the Indian subcontinent and later as political ideology following independence in 1947. However, the country moved cautiously, seeking to develop a sense of common purpose in between a religiously informed national identity and liberal democratic ideals. This discourse achieved primacy while forming the structure of government, envisioned in the process of constitution making. Different interests and ideals of democracy were to be reconciled by giving vent to the principles of Islam in its doctrinal form. In short, leaders of Pakistan sought to use Islam to provide an ‘outlet for expressing their religious concern in the political arena’ (Gilmartin, 1979: 498). Different authorities of Pakistan used Islam as the sole cause and purpose of the existence of the state and nation, strongly informing their commitment to upholding Islam as the supreme law of the land as the foremost duty of the true believer. Yet, this approach caused much harm to the image of Pakistan as a progressive state which was still malignly affected by serious cultural, ethnic and sectarian differences. The approach of Zia to run the country during his time as president was dictated by rightwing forces which were visible through strong encouragement to implement Sharia law in a doctrinal way. Zia enforced Sharia law through newly introduced related institutions which sought to make the people submissive to a single authority – rather than trying to change their behaviour to observe the code of social justice. In her book, The Making Sense of Pakistan, Farzana Shaikh explains this posture of Zia’s government as a ‘co-option of religious parties which pressed for an ever more rigid understanding of Islam as a set of regulative, punitive and extractive commands’. She has a view that his way of thinking was quite different from the founder of Pakistan, Jinnah. She states that ‘Zia’s vision of Pakistan [was] as an ideological state based on Islam [different] from Jinnah’s more liberal understanding of a Muslim State diffusely informed by Islam’ (Shaikh, 2009: 102). Zia issued and implemented the Hudood Ordinances in 1979; established a Federal Shariat Court in 1980; issued the Zakat Ordinance (1981) and the Qunoon-i-Shahdat Order (1984), which decree that a woman’s testimony is only half as important as a man’s; and created the Nizat-e-Salat committees which decreed that religious sects would pray at the same times of the day. Collectively, these developments reflected the view that an Islamic state of Pakistan would act as a divine instrument with unquestioned sovereignty. This shift in the regime’s policy and attitude was highly appealing to many religious elements. Mumtaz Ahmad (1996: 375) notes that Zia-ul-Haq’s announcement of these Islamic reforms was hailed by the Islamic revivalists and conservatives; they saw the invocation of Islam by the military regime not only as a genuine revival of Islamic shari’a (Islamic Law), but also as a recognition of their special sphere of influence in matters of public policy. Islamists – that is proponents of a ‘political Islam’ – demanded an Islamic movement in the newly established state of Pakistan which was highly critical of colonialism and colonial powers. All religious groups in the country believed that Western ideas and institutions had spoiled Islamic societies leading to an alienation of Muslims from their Islamic values. When they learned ‘modernity’ and ‘progress’ from the West they wanted to incorporate these modern experiences into Islam. Even today many accept the Western idea of liberal democracy, while 171

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questioning the sovereignty of parliament and wishing to see it working under the supremacy of Islamic law (Rais, 2017: 211). Following the independence of Pakistan, liberals/modernists and Islamists were engaged in a struggle for supremacy, particularly in terms of the role of religion in the state. Religious political parties initially opposed the idea of creation of an independent state but after the creation of Pakistan, religious groups, particularly Jamaat-i-Islami (JI) and its founder Maulana Mawdudi, proposed that Islam should have the most important role as the main pillar in the constitution of Pakistan. However, it is interesting to note that successive civilian governments and military dictators repeatedly manipulated Islam as a tool to prolong their reign or to legitimise their rule. As a result, both religion and religious parties have posed problems in both the society and politics of Pakistan.

Inclusion of Objective Resolution (1949) It can be said that the first compromise between the secularists and religious groups came with the inclusion of the Objective Resolution in 1949, a set of guiding principles that was to form the country’s future constitution. The Objective Resolution is widely considered to be a set back to the vision of Muhammad Ali Jinnah in which he aspired for a state in which non-Muslims can live according to their will and can practice their religion with full freedom. This marks the first phase of political Islam in Pakistan and the influence of Islam in future constitutions. The secular elite thought that minor concessions like including the Objective Resolution of 1949 would quieten the religious groups. Hindu minority members of the Constituent Assembly quoted Jinnah on creating a state where all religious minorities would be provided with equal fundamental rights, and questioned the passage of the Objective Resolution. The response was that the Objective Resolution was ‘just’ included in the preamble, that is, the ‘non-operative’ part of the constitution that would not have any impact on the parliamentary-democratic character of the constitution (Rais, 2017: 211). According to Maulana Maududi (head of JI at that time), the Muslim majority had the right to shape the laws and the constitution in their Islamic state. This conventional thinking was also reflected in the 1956 constitution, when the country was named the Islamic Republic of Pakistan. As a result, only a Muslim can become president and no law that is contrary to the Islamic teachings can be promulgated (Mahmud-un-Nasir, 1980: 51–56).

An Islamic state or a state for Muslims? Prominent religious parties in Pakistan According to the religious parties there is a difference between a Muslim state and an Islamic state: A Muslim State is any state which is inhabited and ruled by Muslims. An Islamic state, on the other hand, is one which opts to conduct its affairs in accordance with the revealed guidance of Islam and accepts the sovereignty of Allah and the supremacy of His law, and which devotes its resources to achieve this end. (Ahmad, 1994) There was a continuous divide between the secular elite and the Ulema (religious scholars), religious groups and religious parties on how Islam should be included in the laws and constitution of Pakistan. To stay relevant, the Ulema’s strategy was two-fold. First, all religious groups provided consensus in the form of the Ulema Committee Report that was given to the Basic Principles Committee which recommended that an Islamic character should be given to the constitution of 172

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the newly established state (Rais, 2017). Second, the Ulema used mosques to deliver sermons and threats of agitation if their concerns were not accommodated. The interpretation of the Constitutional Assembly on the Objective Resolution was opposite to that of the Ulema. The Ulema considered it a huge success of political Islam, and started demanding the enforcement of Islamic laws based on the Objective Resolution. However, the ruling party thought that it had settled the issue of the idea of Pakistan as an Islamic state. At this time, the 1950s, Jamat-i-Islami and Jamiat Ulema-i-Islam (JUI) were the most prominent religious political parties. JI was the most organised among the religious political parties that produced an impressive literature, including both magazines and journals, targeting the middle class. The focus of JI was to build a political constituency to support demands for an Islamic state. JUI’s focus was towards establishing madrassas – that is, religious schools – across Pakistan so that the party could increase its support from among the large numbers of people who send their children to madrassas for educational purposes. Interestingly, while other religious groups in the 1950s were engaged only in ‘low politics’ and appeared to be competing with each other rather than working together, only Jamat-i-Islami tried to rise above the sectarian divide and present Islam as an ideology of national relevance. JI accepted the validity of the ‘Western’ form of democracy and used politics as a tool to achieve the goal of making Pakistan an Islamic state. However, ‘the religious political parties of Pakistan can be termed as intuitionalists and not revolutionary in their struggle for the supremacy of Islam and its central place in the affairs of the state’ (Rais, 2017: 190).

Movement against Ahmadiyya community Pakistan inherited the religious controversy regarding Ahmadis which emerged in the early twentieth century, but the demand to declare Ahmadis non-Muslims in Pakistan was formulated in Karachi by the Ulema in June 1952 (Government of Punjab, 1954: 125). Jamaat-e-Islami and Majlis-e-Ahrar led the movement to declare Ahmadis as non-Muslims and sought to dismiss them from significant government, bureaucratic and military positions (Rais, 2017: 190). Protests followed which caused bloody riots in different parts of the country, especially in Lahore. This ended with the imposition of Pakistan’s first Martial Law by General Ayub Khan in 1953, mainly for suppressing these riots and to maintain law and order in the country. All the leaders of the anti-Ahmadiyya movement were put on trial; some were given the death sentence, including Mualana Maududi. Although it was changed to a life sentence in prison, this development marked the first major confrontation between the state and religious groups, and the state did not surrender to the demands of the religious parties.

The Justice Munir Report The government appointed Justice Munir to head a special court of inquiry to identify causes of the anti-Ahmadi riots of 1954. The Justice Munir Report placed the onus of responsibility for the bloody riots on the then prime minister, Khawja Nizamuddin, accused of not taking a timely decision to reject the religious political parties’ demands. It accused religious parties of attacking the Ahmadi community. This report countered the claims of the religious groups by concluding that the religious groups have no role in the constitution making process, so they should stay out of it. On the other hand, the report also sought to prevent the government from defining who was a Muslim and to enforce Islam as a state religion. The report also recommended re-orientation of Islam as a modern world idea and to develop Pakistan’s Muslims into citizens of the modern world (Justice Munir Report, 1954). 173

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The Munir Report is widely considered to be the last significant effort to eliminate Islam from Pakistan’s political life. The reason behind this was that Islam was the only major tool used by successive governments to try to build national cohesion (Nasr, 1994). Yet, the demands of the religious groups conflicted with the principles of both law and the constitution. Unsurprisingly, Jamat-i-Islami and other religious parties strongly criticized the Munir Report.

Ayub Khan’s vision of Pakistan (1958–1969) During the period of Ayub Khan’s rule (1958–1969), the mainstream political parties faced many strictures but the religious political parties remained relatively free. The religious political parties continued working towards building an Islamic state with both Islamic law and constitution. Yet, Ayub’s vision for the state of Pakistan was entirely different from that of the Ulema and religious political parties. Ayub Khan was a modernist-reformist who wanted a modern, developmentoriented Pakistan and believed that religious politics was outdated and that the Ulema should not be allowed to hold the state hostage (Rais, 2017: 191–196), like they did during the anti-Ahmadi riots. Ayub viewed Islam as a positive force that would transform Pakistani society only if it was freed from the grip of religious orthodoxy. For him, Islam should be interpreted for modern times. As a result, Ayub created new institutions, such as the Advisory Council of Islamic Ideology and the Islamic Research Institute. Dr Fazlur Rahman was appointed in 1962 to head the latter (Qasmi, 2010). Ulema and religious political parties criticised their modern ideas about Islam and labelled Rahman as Munkir-i-Quran and Parvez as Munkir-i-Sunnat (Qasmi, 2010), that is, a person against religion.

Role of JI during the Ayub regime The Jamat-i-Islami was a source of irritation for Ayub Khan as its views were entirely different from his, and the JI engaged in the politics of agitation. JI was banned in 1964 due to an article written about the oppression of Islamists by the Iranian government that seriously damaged relations between Pakistan and Iran (Qasmi, 2010: 1244). The influence of the Ulema can also be seen during Ayub’s regime when certain reforms were introduced including the building of economic, social and political institutions informed by the teaching and principles of the Qur’an. Ayub was convinced that the Ulema were not interested in making Pakistan an ideal Islamic state rather they were more interested in strengthening their own position in society (Qasmi, 2010: 1227). The promulgation of Family Laws in 1961 is the best example of the divergent views of Ayub and the Ulema, which was marked as the time when the state bypassed the authority of the Ulema and gave the right to legislate in matters of private law. The laws passed and amended during Ayub’s rule included the Dissolution of Muslim Marriages Act 1939 and the Child Marriage Restraint Act 1929. The Ulema were not happy with these amendments so they demanded changes (Qasmi, 2010: 1232). The religious parties opposed Ayub’s reforms regarding women’s rights and family planning, claiming they were ‘against the spirit of Islam’ (Hussain, 2018). However, the Family Laws were implemented by the state, so religious parties shifted their focus against family planning (Hakim, 2001: 555). JI advocated that more children would increase the Muslim population in the world, and they turned their sermons, speeches and print media against Ayub Khan. The Ulema and religious parties were of the opinion that Ayub Khan was promoting secularisation in the disguise of social reform and modernisation. All religious parties rejected Ayub’s choice of scholars and intellectuals headed the Islamic Advisory Council and the Islamic Research Institute. 174

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General Ayub wanted to drop the prefix ‘Islamic’ from the Republic of Pakistan in the Constitution of 1962, but he was strongly condemned by the religious parties and, as a result, he changed his position. This in a way recognised and acknowledged the influence of religious parties in Pakistan’s domestic politics. All this led to anti-Ayub agitation around 1966–1967 in which the religious parties although with limited support presented a united front and brought many ordinary people onto the streets. However, the influence and popularity of religious parties was tested for the first time in the 1970 general elections. Up to five parties competed independently but lost in both East and West Pakistan. JI was able to win only four seats in the National Assembly whereas JUI secured seven seats and became part of the collation government in North West Frontier Province (NWFP) (now Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KP)), whereas Jamiat Ulema-e-Pakistan secured seven seats out of 300 seats at national level. The situation at the provincial level was similar: Jamaat-e-Islami could only secure one seat in East Pakistan, one each in Punjab, Sindh and NWFP (Rais, 2017: 196). This showed that ‘political Islam’ didn’t have much electoral support; and over the years, its popularity decreased further. In the 1977 election, the situation of the Islamic political parties was similar. Pakistan National Alliance, a right-wing political alliance consisting of both religious and non-religious political parties, secured only 36 seats out of 206 with almost 35 percent of the votes, whereas the Pakistan People’s Party (PPP), a left-wing party, secured 155 seats and received almost 60 percent of the votes. As a result of these elections, PPP’s Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto became prime minister. It is interesting to note that the PPP is considered as the secular party but many of its leaders are from families of hereditary saints and gets their political power from a religious perspective, including former prime minister Ayed Yousaf Raza Gillani, former foreign minister, Makhdoom Shah Mehmood Qureshi, former minister, Makhdoom Amin Faheem, and others (Lieven, 2012: 125). Bhutto was not interested in implementing Sharia law but due to popular interest in Islam and to achieve his political objectives, he proposed to seek ‘Muhammad’s egalitarianism’ and ‘Quranic Social justice’ (Paul, 2014: 137). The demand to declare Ahmadis non-Muslim was still being advanced by the religious political parties and the pressure on the government was increasing. Religio-political forces were demanding a ban on nightclubs and alcohol and sought to get the government to declare Friday as the weekly holiday. As a result, on 21 September 1974, in order to please the religious political parties and to help prolong his rule, Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto declared the Ahmadiyya community as non-Muslim. This proved to be counter-productive for the future politics of Pakistan, and raised many questions over the fundamental rights of religious minorities. The nuclear programme of Pakistan was another contentious issue. According to Bhutto, it was justified for a leading Muslim state to have ‘the bomb’. Later on, in his political testament written shortly before his death, Bhutto outlined his comprehensive view of Islamic ideology and its principles. He claimed that Pakistan was near to acquire the nuclear weapon capability when he was thrown out of government. He also claimed that Islamic civilisation was without a nuclear weapon capability whereas Hindu, Jewish and Christian civilisations had developed such a capability and parity demanded that Pakistan should have the same capability (Bhutto, 1979: 137–138). Pakistan’s nuclear programme can be seen from the perspective of Islam and pan-Islamism. The leaders of religious political parties particularly Jamaat-i-Islami argued that Pakistan’s nuclear weapons in the hands of an Islamic state would be a guarantee of world peace. The United States and many Western states were against the Pakistan’s nuclear programme. However, the JI played a crucial role in defending Pakistan’s stance of developing nuclear weapons. Many ‘ordinary’ people welcomed Pakistan’s development of nuclear weapons to the extent that any person speaking in favour of closing the nuclear programme of Pakistan was branded a traitor and their patriotism questioned (Delvoie, 1996). 175

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Another effort at Islamisation in Pakistan was launched by the Pakistan National Alliance (PNA). The PNA demanded the implementation of Nizam-i-Mustafa in 1977 that led to a conflict between PPP and PNA.2 Riots followed and Zia took the opportunity to impose martial law. By the time of General Zia-ul-Haq’s period in power (1977–1988), the basic principles of Islam and linked political institutions were well integrated in the state of Pakistan. Zia tried to suppress the left-wing secular political parties and movements, including the previously dominant PPP. Zia took strong measures to implement Islamic law and successfully promote the associated religious ideology. After seizing political power and establishing a military government under his control and seeking the support of right-wing religious groups and parties, he took many additional measures. The Islamic Ideology Committee was reorganised as an advisory body to the president, with responsibility to advise him on issues of Islam, politics and society. Despite this, after Zia, four general elections in Pakistan led to the same results: religious political parties were unable to secure a significant number of seats whether at provincial or national level.

Islamisation of Pakistan The Objective Resolution of 1949 can be considered as a first compromise among the competing forces who wanted to see Pakistan as either a secular or Islamic state. This resolution provided the guiding principles for the formation of the future constitution of Pakistan. The 1956 constitution also reflected its Islamic nature by including various conditions, such as the national president must be a Muslim, the name of the country would be the Islamic Republic of Pakistan and no law could be made that was repugnant to the teachings of Islam, the Qur’an and the Sunnah. To secure implementation of the teachings of Islam in the constitution, President Ayub Khan created an Advisory Council of Islamic Ideology in 1962. The military rule of Zia ul-Haq strengthened the role of Islam in the state and the state provided full support for Islamisation. For this purpose, Zia sought partnerships with religious political parties, particularly JI. He introduced Islamic reforms such as announcing compulsory Islamic education in schools, established the Federal Sharia Court, and promoted establishment of madrassas. He also introduced Islamic teachings into military training. The position of females was undermined during Zia’s rule due to various laws, including reducing the significance of a woman’s testimony to half that of a man in certain trials. Overall, the state was turned into an arena of sectarian and gender confrontation due to Zia’s policies. Zia’s successors did little to change his policies. In the 1988 elections, the main contest was between Islami Jamhori Ittihad (IJI) and the PPP. IJI was an alliance of nine political parties, including major Islamic political parties such as Jammat-i-Islami, Jamiat-i-Ahli Hadith and Jamiat-Ul-Ulema-i-Pakistan (JUP) (Dastori Group) and JUP (Noorani). Interestingly, the rule of Qur’an and Sunnah and upholding the ideals of Islam were aspects of the manifestoes of both major contestants. The PPP won the election by getting 92 seats whereas IJI secured only 44 seats. However, IJI was successful in forming the government in Punjab, gaining a majority of seats. The IJI also won the 1990 election in the Punjab, securing 105 seats and getting 37.27 percent of the vote. The PPP supported the People’s Democratic Alliance (PDA) but could get only 45 seats, although securing 36.65 percent of the votes (Mahmood, 2002: 168–171). In the subsequent elections of 1993 and 1997, the religious political parties won few seats. Later, in 1998, Nawaz Sharif tried to promulgate Sharia law as the supreme law of Pakistan but failed to do so and a military coup ousted him the following year (Paul, 2014: 142). Overall, it was not only military dictators who used Islam for personal motives but also civilian governments. According to Cohen (2004), both major civilian political parties, PML 176

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(N) and PPP, used Islam to seek short term political benefits. In addition, Haqqani (2005: 8) states that the alliance between the military and the mullahs gave rise to both armed and unarmed religious group and they were more powerful during military rule.

Dominance of religious parties in politics Today, Pakistan is still on its way to becoming an Islamic state. Yet, the Western-educated elite is still in leading positions in the state, controlling relevant institutions. Such policy makers are not in favour of implementing Islamic laws because of their modern and liberal way of thinking (Delvoie, 1996). Over the last 30 years, Pakistan has seen eight different general elections and the religious parties were unable to get mass political support at national level. None of these religious parties secured a majority in any of the provinces except once in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa in the 2003 elections. While they could often arrange a large number of protests within a short span of time, religious political parties were unable to convince most voters to vote for them. Interestingly the JI, often considered the most organised and well-structured political party, is unable to perform significantly in elections. The case of Jamiat Ulema-i-Islam, the second largest religious political party, is also not different from that of JI. They were also unable to perform well in elections.

Shaping domestic policy Although the religious political parties were unable to perform well in general elections, they are able to help mould public opinion on many vital national and international issues, including: the law of blasphemy, the Iraq war, the War on Terror, drone attacks, the Afia Siddique issue and the release of Raymond Davis.3 It was the fear of religious political parties that meant that many people were afraid of condemning the killer of Salman Taseer, governor of Pakistan’s largest province, Punjab. The killer of Salman Taseer was called a hero by a large number of people. Shahbaz Bhatti, the minorities’ minister, was assassinated for calling for reforms in the country’s blasphemy laws. Shereen Rehman, a Pakistani politician and former diplomat, member of the Senate of Pakistan since 2015, was threatened on the same issue. These events show that religious political parties have mass support at least for important national and international issues but not much electoral support. The 2002 election witnessed the success of Muttahida Majlis-e-Amal (MMA), the six-party Islamic coalition in Balochistan and Northwest Frontier Province (NWFP). MMA also won 59 seats out of 272 in National Assembly (Afzal, 2018: 125). This was the only election that showed that if Islamic political parties act as a united bloc they might make a difference by getting popular support – even in elections. However, it was alleged that the military regime of General Pervez Musharraf manoeuvred this because he wanted to marginalise the main opposition political parties, Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz (PML-N) and the PPP. Another important factor in this result was the 2001 US invasion of Afghanistan. The US invasion of Afghanistan not only removed the Talban from power but also caused the deaths of a large number of civilians in Pakistan. As a result, there was an anti-US wave across Pakistan in general and across NWFP (now KP) in particular and MMA benefited electorally. Overall, the MMA’s election campaigns were a strong appeal against US intervention in Pakistan’s concerns, while seeking to strengthen the country’s global interests. In addition, the Federation of Trade Unions succeeded in achieving its objectives in relation to popular rejection of America and its policies. On the War on Terror (WOT), the MMA and the United States had different views. Maulana Nurani the president of MMA rejected what he saw as America’s ‘inhuman massacre’ of 177

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Iraqi Muslims. Moreover, because of political pressure from MMA members, Pakistan changed its policy to send military personnel to Iraq. Many Pakistanis believed that the Wana operation in South Waziristan was a Zionist conspiracy against Islam (Pirzada, 2008). This proposition was also supported through a survey conducted by the author in which a simple majority of 54 percent of respondents believed that WOT was war against Islam whereas 36.2 percent did not (Akbar, 2014: 347). The MMA controlled Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KP) – the erstwhile NWFP province – and was a coalition partner of PML-Q at the centre. All parties, whether in government or in opposition, could not openly support the United States and the WOT. Pakistan’s establishment and politicians were reluctant to express views in favour of the United States, which prevented the country from supporting the United States in its WOT, refusing to send troops to fight with the United States. Nevertheless, in 2001 a referendum was arranged which expressed the opposition of people against terrorism and they intended to stop the terrorist activities as well. A survey conducted by the author also supports this fear as 59 percent respondents declared the American decision to wage the war against terrorism was unjustified whereas only 28.3 percent considered it justified (Akbar, 2014: 262). Later, the alliance broke up due to internal differences between the parties and in particular between the orthodox JUI and the revivalist JI. The MMA could not take part in the subsequent election, in 2008, due to an absence of military support and in the wake of a revival of other political parties such as the Awami National Party (ANP), Pakistan Muslim League (Nawaz) (PML (N)), and the PPP.

Shaping Pakistan’s foreign policy Pakistan’s foreign policy is the result of an interplay of its cultural heritage, its geo-political situation, the organisational structure of the state and of various interest groups. Pakistan’s government and its people have tried to maintain a neutral attitude while carving out relations with the non-Muslim world, although the country draws on its Islamic character when engaging with the Muslim world. So, Islam has had an influence on Pakistan’s foreign policy and this issue is consistently a major plank of the religious political parties when compared to non-religious parties. Their claim is that all Pakistan’s affairs – both external and internal – should be according to Islamic principles. Bhutto included Islamic elements in his foreign policy due to an instrumental response to some specific opportunities. Zia’s Islamisation on the other hand was on the basis of both strategic calculation and personal conviction. To try to legitimise his regime, Zia opted to shape Pakistan’s foreign and domestic policy in favour of supporting the Afghan jihad in the name of fighting Soviet infidels and to gain the support of the Muslim world by portraying Pakistan as the sole leader to defend Islam by waging jihad against ‘Godless communism’. Most religious political parties and several orthodox Islamic leaders collaborated with Zia during the Afghan jihad because of their opposition to the democratisation process (Misra, 2003: 186–215). Foreign policy during the Nawaz Sharif government (1990–1993) sought to become ‘more Islamic’ mainly due to the inclusion of Jamaat-i-Islami as a coalition partner in the government. This can be observed by Pakistan’s policies in relation to Kashmir, Bosnia and Somalia. The following government, that of Benazir Bhutto, continued the same policy, mainly due to strong Islamic sentiments held by many Pakistanis. In particular, both Nawaz Sharif and Benazir Bhutto showed great interest in the issue of Indian-held Kashmir as a key foreign policy priority.

Conclusion Following the independence of Pakistan, religious leaders felt themselves isolated and tried to establish their leadership on the basis of religion, sectarianism, extremism and violence. With the 178

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passage of time, orthodox ideology was strengthening rather than the Quaid’s concepts of pluralism and enlightenment. Over time, the unresolved role of Islam in Pakistan’s politics and political development created an identity crisis in the country. Recent years saw increases in numbers of religious political parties; and there are now many, including: Tehreek Labaik Pakistan, Pakistan Awami Tehreek, Sunni Tehreek, Sunni Ittehad Council, and Sipah-e-Muhammad. However, while these religious political parties have so far been unable to secure a significant number of seats in elections, they do achieve a sizeable number of votes that draws on support from other parties and thus favours some candidates for office over others. We have seen that religious political parties were not in favour of the creation of an independent state due to the concept of Muslim Ummah, which is anti-nationalist. Later on, after the creation of Pakistan, the religious political parties, notably JI, wanted to implement Islamic Sharia law. Overall, Islam has been used by successive democratic governments and dictatorial regimes in pursuit of their own personal vested interests. Finally, popular street support for religious political parties shows that many people in Pakistan trust them appropriately to address religious issues. However, many seem unconvinced that the religious political parties can improve the state’s political performance or development outcomes. To acquire political support consistently, Pakistan’s religious political parties should restructure their outlook to improve voters’ perceptions of them and thus encourage citizens to support them at the ballot box.

Notes 1 The Constituent Assembly of Pakistan passed the Objectives Resolution in 1949. This Resolution was designed, in part, to serve as a framework for the drafting of Pakistan’s first constitution. 2 Nizam-i-Mustafa is ‘The System of the Prophet Muhammad’, a nine-party popular movement in Pakistan begun by the Jamaat-i-Islami in 1977. 3 Afia Siddique is a Pakistani neuroscientist who was convicted by a New York court of trying to kill American military officers. Raymond Allen Davis is a former United States Army soldier, private security firm employee, and contractor with the Central Intelligence Agency. On 27 January 2011, Davis reportedly killed two armed men in Lahore, Punjab, Pakistan.

References Afzal, Madiha. (2018). Pakistan Under Siege: Extremism, Society, and the State, India: Penguin Random House. Ahmad. (1994). ‘Why Muslims want an Islamic State’, 25 March. Ahmad, Mumtaz. (1996). ‘The Crescent and the Sword: the Military, and Political Legitimacy in Pakistan, 1977–1985’, Middle East Journal, Vol. 50, No. 3, pp. 372–386. Akbar, Muqarrab. (2014). ‘Pakistan at Crossroads: War against Terrorism and International Law’, PhD Dissertation, Glasgow Caledonian University, Glasgow, UK. Akhtar, Asim Sajjad. (2018). The Politics of Common Sense, State, Society and Culture in Pakistan, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bhutto, Zulfiqar Ali. (1979). If I am Assasinated, New Delhi: Vikas Publishing House. Cohen, Stephen Philip. (2004). The Idea of Pakistan, Washington, DC: Brooking Institution Press. Delvoie, Louis A. (1996). ‘The Islamization of Pakistan’s Foreign Policy’, International Journal, Vol. 51, No. 1, pp. 126–147. Retrieved 31 January 2019, from www.jstor.org/stable/40203754. Gilmartin, David. (1979). ‘Religious Leadership and the Pakistan Movement in the Punjab’, Modern Asian Studies, Vol. 13, No. 3, pp. 485–517. Government of Punjab. (1954). Report of the Court of Inquiry Constituted under the Punjab Act II of 1954 to Enquire into the Punjab Disturbances of 1953, Lahore: Government of Punjab. Hakim, Abdul. (2001). ‘Population Policy Shifts and Their Implications for Population Stabilisation in Pakistan’, The Pakistan Development Review, Vol. 40: pp. 11–22.

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Muqarrab Akbar Haqqani, Husain. (2005). Pakistan: Between Mosque and Military, Lahore: Vanguard Books. Hussain, Akhtar. (2018). ‘Politics of Combined Opposition Parties (Cop) During Ayub Khan Era (1958– 1969)’, Journal of the Punjab University Historical Society, Vol. 31, No. 1. Retrieved 31 January 2019, from pu.edu.pk/images/journal/HistoryPStudies/PDF_Files. Justice Munir Report. (1954). Retrieved 12 December 2018, from www.thepersecution.org/dl/report_ 1953.pdf. Lieven, Anatol. (2012). Pakistan: A Hard Country, London: Penguin. Mahmood, Safdar. (2002). Pakistan, Political Roots and Development 1947–1999, Karachi: Oxford University Press. Mahmud-un-Nasir. (1980). Constitutional History of Pakistan, Lahore: Mansoor Book House. Misra, Ashutosh. (2003). ‘Rise of Religious Parties in Pakistan: Causes and Prospects’, Strategic Analysis, pp. 186–215. Paul, T.V. (2014). The Warrior State: Pakistan in the Contemporary World, Haryana: Random House. Pirzada, Sayyid A.S. (2008). ‘Pakistan: MuttahidaMajlis-e-Amal (COMBINED ACTION COMMITTEE) WORLD VIEW: 2002–2007’, Islamabad: IPRI. Qasmi, Ali Usman. (2010). ‘God’s Kingdom on Earth? Politics of Islam in Pakistan, 1947–1969’, Modern Asian Studies, Vol. 44, No. 6, pp. 1197–1253. Retrieved 19 August 2018, from www.jstor.org/stable/ 40926528. Rais, R.B. (2017). ‘Political Islam and National Identity’. In R.B. Rais (ed.), Islam, Ethnicity and Power Politics, Karachi: Oxford University Press, pp. 183–211. Nasr, Syed Vali Reza. (1994). Vanguard of the Islamic Revolution the Jama’at-i Islami of Pakistan, London: I.B. Tauris. Shaikh, Farzana. (2009). Making Sense of Pakistan, London: Hurst & Company. Ullah, Haroon K. (2014). Vying for Allah’s Vote: Understanding Islamic Parties, Political Violence, and Extremism in Pakistan, India: Cambridge University Press. Ziring, Lawrence. (1984). ‘From Islamic Republic to Islamic State in Pakistan’, Asian Survey, Vol. 24, No. 9, pp. 931–946.

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The Americas

15 RELIGION AND POLITICAL PARTIES IN AMERICA Allen D. Hertzke

To understand the relationship of religion and political parties in the United States one must first grasp the nature of the American party system. As Duverger’s law suggests, ‘first past the post’ plurality elections with single member districts tend to favour a two-party system. The Electoral College also militates against multiple parties and reinforces a long-standing political culture of two-party competition, now baked into public consciousness by the ubiquitous electoral maps of red states and blue states. Owing to their longevity and institutionalisation, parties in the ‘American mold’ are distinct in the democratic world (Epstein 1986). Party membership is loosely defined, not organised by duespaying members as elsewhere. Nor do American parties operate as private associations governed by their own rules. Rather, over time the two major parties have become like state-regulated public utilities – granted a duopoly but regulated in the public interest. Democrats and Republicans are given automatic ballot access by the states, while upstart parties face the daunting task of gathering specified signatures to get on the ballot. States also register voters under the two party labels, which provide party organisations with valuable lists of their identifiers. But regulation, in the form of state-run primary elections, also strips party organisations of their control over the nomination of candidates for local, state and federal office. Candidates are not selected by party leaders or organisational members, but rather gain the nomination through their own appeals to a mass primary electorate. This produces porous parties, which can be readily entered, shaped and possibly even captured by entrepreneurial candidates or outside movements. The durability of the two parties and their permeability tend to channel the salient religious cleavages of the nation. Indeed, throughout American history, religious currents have flowed powerfully through the party system, defining partisan attachments and shaping voting behaviour. Religion, in fact, played a key role in the first genuinely contested presidential campaign of 1800, when Thomas Jefferson’s Democratic-Republican Party challenged the Federalists, who were led by incumbent president John Adams. Since several states retained legally established churches or vestiges of them, adherents of these religious establishments, especially Episcopalians and Congregationalists, aligned closely with the status-quo Federalists. Committed to ending such privilege and the discrimination that came with it, Jefferson gained huge support from such religious minorities as Baptist and Methodists. Part of this alignment traced to the class profiles of these churches: members of higher-status churches supported the Federalists, whereas populist upstarts backed Jefferson (Reichley 2002). 183

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Mass emigration of Catholics from Europe, which began in the 1830s and continued unabated until 1920, resulted in a softening of earlier cleavages between Protestant denominations and produced the development of something far more durable: a Catholic–Protestant cultural and political divide. This division profoundly shaped political and voting patterns for more than a century. While Catholics quickly became heavily Democratic, northern Protestants gravitated towards their opponents: first the Whigs, then the Republicans. This alignment also shaped partisan positions on important issues. State aid to Catholic parochial schools, a perennial issue in American politics, found its strongest resistance among Republicans, who took many of their cues from Protestant activists. Moreover, the Republican Party’s platforms of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries contained ‘strict separationist’ planks designed to block Catholics from making social inroads (Reichley 2002). In addition, Catholics chafed at Protestant moral crusades, such as Prohibition, that seemed directed at them (Kleppner 1970). The turn of the twentieth century saw emergence of a momentous theological split between those (often higher status) Protestants who adapted to modernity and those who tightly adhered to ‘the fundamentals’ of the faith and stressed the need for a conversion (or born-again) experience. As seminaries of the Mainline denominations embraced higher criticism and less literal teachings about the Bible, the descendants of today’s evangelical churches formed their own separate cultural institutions. By the middle of the twentieth century, when those institutions came under perceived threat from an increasingly secular state, evangelicals became a cohesive political force (Marsden 1982). In the South, on the other hand, religious factors often were supplanted by the politics of race and regional pride. During the post-Civil War Reconstruction era (1865–1877), southern whites saw the Republican Party literally as a conquering army of occupation, so they voted Democratic. African Americans voted overwhelmingly for Republicans, but when southern whites seized control of politics in the South, where most African Americans resided, they disenfranchised and otherwise kept African Americans subordinate and made the South solidly Democratic up until the 1960s. The civil rights transformation that enfranchised southern blacks flipped the partisan dynamics of the South, but religion also played a key role in the subsequent realignment of white southern evangelicals to the Republican Party. The economic upheavals of the Great Depression in the 1930s produced the last stable partisan majority alignment – the New Deal Democratic coalition of working-class, poor, and rural voters (including most evangelicals in the South) along with religious and ethnic minorities. As a core New Deal constituency, for example, Catholics at every socioeconomic level were far more likely to identify themselves as Democrats and vote that way than were similarly situated Protestants. The peak of Catholic support came with the candidacy of John Kennedy, who received some 80 percent of the votes of self-identified Roman Catholics, or nearly half of his entire vote. Since then, loyalty to the Democratic Party has dropped dramatically. Jews, on the other hand, have remained solidly aligned with the Democrats from the New Deal on. The Republican Party remained the home to the white Protestant (predominately those from Mainline denominations, along with some evangelicals outside the South) From the 1960s onward, divisive cultural issues fractured the New Deal coalition, producing new political alignments that heightened religion’s political significance. Scholars attribute these phenomena to the nature of postindustrial society, in which cultural values structure political responses (Inglehart 1990). In this new era religious traditionalists, whether Protestant or Catholic, often find common cause against liberal cultural forces. In addition, since the mid1960s the enfranchisement of African Americans and waves of immigrants from Latin America, Asia, the Middle East and Africa have dramatically expanded ethno-religious diversity in the American electorate, fuelling disputes over national identity and inclusion. 184

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Finally, demographic shifts within American Christianity transformed the composition and character of the parties. With their higher birth rates and stronger intergenerational retention, evangelicals surpassed Mainline Protestants in the population and in the Republican electorate. In 1960, more than 40 percent of all white adults claimed membership in Mainline denominations, compared with only 27 percent in evangelical churches. White evangelicals now comprise over a quarter of the entire electorate compared to less than a fifth for Mainline Protestants. In turn, as the secular population grew dramatically – owing in large part to lapsing faith among Mainline Protestants and white Catholics – secular voters became a strong Democratic voting constituency. In brief, the Republican constituency now includes an overwhelming majority of religious traditionalists, especially evangelical Protestants, conservative Catholics and most Eastern Orthodox adherents, along with traditional business and rural voters. The broader Democratic coalition includes Christian progressives (particularly among liberal Mainline Protestants and Catholics), religious minorities (Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus and Sikhs), immigrant and ethno-religious communities, and a growing secular constituency. Before exploring these voting patterns in more detail, it is helpful to know the relative sizes of the different religious constituencies. Table 15.1 provides a broad snapshot of the religious composition of the electorate over the last four elections. Reflecting a long-term trend, we notice the declining proportion of Protestants and the corresponding increases in other faiths and the religiously unaffiliated (which increased from 12 to 17% as a proportion of the electorate, a huge shift). Table 15.1 Religious composition of voters of the electorate, 2012–2018 national elections Presidential 2012 %

Midterm 2014 %

Presidential 2016 %

Midterm 2018 %

Protestant/Other Christian

53

53

52

47

Catholic

25

24

23

26

2

3

3

2

Jewish Other faiths

7

8

8

8

Religiously unaffiliated

12

12

15

17

White evangelical/born-again Christians

26

26

26

26

Note: Figures for first five rows – denominational categories – may not add to 100 percent due to rounding. White evangelical/born-again Christians are a self-reported category, mostly from the Protestant/Other Christian category but also include a few Catholics and Mormons who so report. Source: Pew Research Center analysis of national exit poll data from Voter News Service/National Public Radio 2016 data. 2018 data from NBCNews.com.

Table 15.2 provides more detailed breakdowns from a different survey of the broad Protestant and Catholic categories. As we see here, Evangelical Protestants are the largest category at a quarter of the electorate. Oher Protestants are quite diverse, with shares of the electorate including Mainline Protestants at 17.5 percent, African American Protestants at 10 percent, and Hispanic Protestants at 3 percent (though that figure is higher and growing). Among Catholics we see that Hispanic Catholics comprised over 5 percent of the electorate at the time of a 2012 survey, a figure that has since grown. With this background we can now delve into patterns of partisan voting among different American religious groups. Tables 15.3 and 15.4 provide summaries from two different surveys of presidential elections, and Table 15.5 provides breakdowns in midterm elections. Since all 185

Allen D. Hertzke Table 15.2 Percentage of the electorate by religious tradition Religious tradition

% of voting electorate

Evangelical Protestants*

25

Mainline Protestants*

17.5

Hispanic Protestants African American Protestants

2.9 10.5

Hispanic Catholics Non-Hispanic Catholics

5.2 18.3

Mormons

2.0

Source: 2012 National Survey of Religion and Politics, Conducted by the University of Akron.

surveys have strengths and limitations, I draw upon several different sources to analyse voting trends of each different constituency.

Roman Catholics Intensifying clashes between the Catholic Church and liberal authorities over abortion, same-sex marriage and threats to conscience rights have created powerful cross-pressures for Catholic Democrats and pushed a cohort of devout white Catholics toward the Republican Party. But Catholic social teaching also contains strongly progressive stances on immigration, social welfare, and the environment. Not surprisingly, the Catholic constituency shows a relatively even split between the two parties, with considerable switching back and forth depending on issues and candidates. As we see in Table 15.3, George W. Bush won the overall Catholic vote in 2004, which flipped back to Barack Obama in 2008 and 2012, and then edged back to Trump in 2016, though other surveys question that finding (Latino Decisions 2016; O’Loughlin 2017). Hidden beneath this overview lies a demographic transformation. The significant decline in the white (European ethnic) Catholic population at large has been partly compensated by a massive infusion of new Catholic immigrants, especially from Latin America, but also from Asia, Africa, and elsewhere. These minority Catholics are far more Democratic in their voting loyalties than are their white counterparts. As we see in Table 15.4, Clinton won at between two-thirds and three-quarters of the votes of Hispanic Catholics, while she lost the white Catholic vote by a wide margin to Trump (Latino Decisions 2016). Nonetheless, the 2018 midterm results suggest that suburban white Catholics, especially women, are not comfortable with the Republican Party under Trump, as their votes contributed to the Democratic victory in the House (Exit Polls 2018).

Protestants, Mormons and the GOP While the American evangelical community includes many religious minorities, white evangelicals remain one of the largest and most cohesive voting blocks in America, pivotal to Republican fortunes. On the other hand, members of historically Mainline denominations, though smaller in number, have become swing voters. As liberalism – and by extension the Democratic Party – became associated with the counterculture, the sexual revolution and gay rights, Republicans made huge gains among conservative 186

45

65

79

62

61

n/a

n/a

White Catholic

Hispanic Catholic

Jewish

Other faiths

Religiously unaffiliated

White, born-again/ evangelical Christian

Mormon

56

n/a

n/a

30

28

19

33

52

47

40

19

21

67

74

74

65

43

47

80

78

31

23

25

33

56

52

59

%

Bush

n/a

24

75

73

78

72

47

54

45

%

Obama

2008

n/a

74

23

22

21

26

52

45

54

%

McCain

21

21

70

74

69

75

40

50

42

%

Obama

2012

78

78

26

23

30

21

59

48

57

%

Romney

25

16

68

62

71

67

37

45

39

%

Clinton

2016

61

81

26

29

24

26

60

52

58

%

Trump

4

-5

-2

-12

2

-8

-3

-5

-3

%

Dem Change '12-'16

Source: Pew Research Center analysis of exit poll data. 2004 Hispanic Catholic estimates come from aggregated state exit polls conducted by the National Election pool. Other estimates come from Voter News Service/National Election Pool national exit pools. 2012 data come from reports at NBCNews.com and National Public Radio. 2016 data come from reports at NBCNews.com and CNN.com.

42

50

Catholic

%

%

Protestant/other Christian

Kerry

Bush

Gore

%

2004

2000

Table 15.3 Exit poll breakdowns of presidential elections, 2000–2016

Allen D. Hertzke Table 15.4 Presidential vote by religious category, 2012–2014 2012

2016

Difference from 2012

Religion

Romney

Obama

Other

Trump

Clinton

Other

Republican

Democrat

White Evangelical

75

23

2

78

16

5

+3

-7

White Mainline Protestant

51

47

2

55

40

5

+4

-7

Black Protestant

4

95

0

8

89

3

+4

-6

Hispanic Protestant

50

47

3

51

44

6

+1

-3

Other Protestant

61

37

2

57

34

6

-4

-3

Non-Hispanic Catholic

54

45

1

54

42

5

0

-3

Hispanic Catholic

25

73

1

23

73

4

-2

0

Orthodox

54

44

2

60

36

3

+6

–8

Mormon

82

16

2

52

23

25

-30

+7

Buddhist

10

86

4

20

67

14

+10

-19

Hindu

12

88

1

18

82

0

+6

-6

Jewish

32

66

1

28

68

4

-4

+2

Muslim

16

82

2

14

81

5

-2

-1

None/ Unaffiliated

25

72

3

30

63

7

+5

-9

Notes: Totals may not equal 100 percent due to rounding. White Evangelical = protestant + born again + white. White Mainline = protestant + not born again + white. None = ‘nothing in particular’ or Atheist or Agnostic. Source: Ansolabehere and Schaffner 2013, 2017.

Protestants (Black and Black 2003). All surveys show voting support among white evangelicals of 70 percent and above for Republicans, with the highest margins at the presidential level. President Obama’s liberal presidency especially solidified evangelical support for the Republican Party. From abortion funding to same-sex marriage to contraceptive mandates to federal protection for transgender rights, the Obama era fostered among evangelicals a perception of assaults on religious autonomy and the right to live according to religious principles. In 2016 Republican presidential contenders, particularly Donald Trump, seized on this sense of threat and incorporated provisions, pledging to reverse Obama policies and protect conscience rights and religious liberty, into the GOP platform. In this sense, Obama’s presidency set the stage for the surprising election of Donald Trump, a man with no clear religious background or identity, to the White House. 188

Religion and political parties in America

Table 15.5 Religious breakdowns by midterm election % who voted for ___ candidate for Congress in their district 2006

Among those who are…

2010

2014

2018

Dem.

Rep.

Dem.

Rep

Dem.

Rep.

Dem.

Rep.

%

%

%

%

%

%

%

%

Protestant/other Christian

44

54

38

59

37

61

42

56

Catholic

55

44

44

54

45

54

50

49

Jewish

87

12

n/a

n/a

66

33

79

17

Other faiths

71

25

74

24

67

31

73

25

Religiously unaffiliated

74

22

68

30

69

29

70

28

White, born-again/ evangelical Christian

28

70

19

77

20

78

22

75

Note: Data on Jewish voters in 2010 are not included due to insufficient sample size. Source: National Election Pool national exit polls. 2018 data from NBCNews.com.

No figure in recent American politics has sparked such a vigorous and divisive response in the religious community as President Donald Trump. During the Republican primary season, more than a few prominent conservative Catholics and evangelicals joined religious liberals in criticising what they saw as Trump’s bullying style, impulsiveness, thin skin and ‘narcissistic’ character traits as unsuited for the presidency (O’Loughlin 2016; Crouch 2016). Not to mention the scant evidence of any serious ties to churches as an adult (Lee 2017). On the other hand, Trump actively courted Christian conservatives, especially evangelicals, and gained the endorsements of some of their key leaders. While Trump never won the majority of evangelical votes in the primaries and caucuses, he earned more than enough to prevail in such a crowded field of candidates. Once Trump secured the Republican nomination, some of his previous critics in the evangelical community offered grudging support. More importantly, his pledge to defend ‘embattled’ believers won him the overwhelming majority of the born-again vote in the general election. In a sense, Trump’s blustering style indicated that he would be the kind of ‘strongman’ evangelicals and other religious traditionalists felt they needed. As we see elsewhere around the world, religious traditionalists have joined working-class voters in backing populist nationalists against the perceived threats from globalisation and cultural liberalism. Many Mainline Protestants, on the other hand, seem to be re-evaluating their ties to a Republican Party so heavy invested in culture war issues. Especially on social issues like abortion and same-sex marriage, Mainline Protestants are more liberal than evangelicals (Olson and Warber 2008). Whereas two-thirds reliably voted for the GOP a generation ago, that margin now hovers at 50 percent, including a number of swing voters. As we see in Table 15.4, Mainline voters gave George W. Bush a 51 percent margin in 2004, shifted to Obama in 2008 (54 percent), then switched back to give Romney a 51 percent edge in 2012 (National Survey of Religion and Politics 2012). The Trump margin of 55 percent in 2016 represented almost entirely a surge in the votes of Mainline Protestants only loosely connected to actual congregations. In 2018, many apparently switched to back Democrats in congressional races. Mormons – adherents of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS) – share the cultural conservatism of evangelicals. With their high levels of religious practice, conservative 189

Allen D. Hertzke

moral values, large families, and relative affluence, Mormons form a cohesive political community, strongly identify with the Republican Party, and routinely give nearly three-quarters of their votes to Republican candidates (Campbell and Monson 2007). Mormon ethnic solidarity expanded that margin for Mitt Romney in 2012, who gained fully 90 percent of the Mormon vote, up from 72 percent for McCain in 2008, a margin almost matching African American support for Obama (National Survey of Religion and Politics 2012). In yet another irony of American politics, a group vilified by Republicans and evangelicals alike in the nineteenth century provided near monolithic backing for the Republican nominee. The election of 2016 was a different story entirely. Trump’s bombastic style and stigmatisation of ethnic minorities and immigrants offended many Mormons, who remember when they were the victims of religious repression. Romney criticised Trump during the primaries and Evan McMullin, a Mormon, mounted an independent candidacy for President. As shown in Table 15.4, Trump’s margin among Mormons was 30 points lower than Romney’s.

Jews American Jews always have been in the vanguard of a secular vision of American politics. The vast majority of Jews in the United States are liberals who celebrate the Enlightenment ideal of the nonsectarian state. It is only a slight exaggeration to say that, although they look like Episcopalian Republicans in socioeconomic status, they vote more like Hispanic Democrats. Here we see the impact of a kind of value-based voting that is independent of social class. And in this case, the values are liberal ones because liberalism constitutes a kind of ‘lay religion’ among American Jews (Greenberg and Wald 2001). As we see in the various tables, Jews commonly provide at least two-thirds of their votes for Democrats. Republicans have attempted to make inroads among this constituency, particularly by assuming a more hawkish stance towards Israel’s adversaries, and we do see variation from year to year among that constituency. But the results of the 2016 and 2018 elections not only show continuity in Jewish support for the Democratic nominee (with Clinton gaining 71 percent according to exit polls) but distinct weakness for Donald Trump and his party. Indeed, one of the most telling findings is the comparison of the last two midterm elections, in which Jews went from providing 66 percent of their votes to House Democrats in 2014 to 79 percent in 2018, a clear reaction to the Trump presidency. Given Jewish commitment to civil liberties, Trump’s divisive ethno-nationalist appeal likely alarmed even some conservative and Republican Jews. A long-term concern for Jews is that their share of the US population, though always modest, has declined in the past generation, from 4 percent to 2 percent (Abrams 1997). With barely any infusion of immigrants, low birth rates and intermarriage that tends to dilute Jewish identity with each generation, the Jewish population growth has not kept pace with that of most other religious groups. Because the Orthodox uniquely have large families and are successful in passing the faith to the next generation the Jewish population will become more Orthodox and conservative over time. Whether this trend increases Republican voting patterns will depend on candidates, parties and the salience of issues.

African Americans African Americans in the United States are overwhelmingly Christian and mostly evangelical. Moreover, religious salience is quite high in the African American community (Pew Research Center, Forum on Religion & Public Life 2015). Nonetheless, the blacks provide the highest 190

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margins to Democrats of any constituency. Part of the African American outlook is explained by the uniquely American tradition of black Christianity, which often blends evangelical pietism with prophetic and liberationist messages. African Americans also remain loyal to the Democrats because of their crucial support for the civil rights movement and because the party remains committed to government-sponsored welfare programmes and affirmative action. As the ‘precinct’ for African American mobilisation, the black church is central to the fortunes of the Democratic Party. Democrats now routinely campaign in black churches. Black church members are far more likely to vote than nonmembers. And contrary to the pattern for whites, frequent church attendance is correlated with increased identification with the Democratic Party (Harris 2001). The black electorate has also expanded. Inspired by the candidacy of Barack Obama, African Americans flooded the polls in 2008 and 2012, and for the first time in history, black voting rates surpassed white turnout in 2012 (66 percent compared to 64 percent) (Krogstad and Lopez 2017). African American churches have been crucial to the galvanising of the black portion of the US electorate. Democrat Hillary Clinton, however, could not equal that enthusiasm among African Americans in 2016, whose voting participation fell seven points to 59 percent, while her margin dropped from Obama’s (Ansolabehere and Schaffner 2017). An unheralded aspect of her loss of votes among African Americans was gender. Donald Trump won 13 percent of the votes of black Protestant men versus only 5 percent of the women. Clearly gender differences lurk beneath the surface of near monolithic voting support for Democrats. That gap did narrow in the 2018 midterm elections, benefiting the Democrats.

Latino religionists One of the fastest growing groups in America is the diverse Latino (or Hispanic) ethnic constituency. As a heavily immigrant population, its share of the electorate will rise significantly in the coming years (especially as the children of immigrants come of voting age), making the Latino vote increasingly important to the electoral fortunes of candidates and parties. Latinos also illustrate how religious voting patterns are shaped by the interweaving strands of religious beliefs, church involvement and ethnic solidarity. Like African Americans, Latinos in the United States combine high levels of religiosity with a deep consciousness of ethnic identity. Nearly eight in ten claim a religious affiliation, and 60 percent say religion is very important to them (Pew Research Center, Forum on Religion & Public Life 2014). Religious affiliation and commitment among Latinos account for a certain degree of social conservatism, especially among Latino evangelicals. On many issues related to immigration, government health insurance, and services for poor people, Latinos lean to the left of the ideological spectrum and routinely give at least two-thirds of their votes to Democratic candidates. Catholics represent the largest share of Latino voters. But a growing percentage of Latino Americans (nearly 20 percent) have found church homes within Pentecostalism and other branches of evangelical Protestantism (Pew Research Center, Forum on Religion & Public Life 2015). These evangelicals are more likely to describe themselves as conservative and prioritise sociomoral issues. They strongly oppose gay marriage and legalised abortion, for example. In various polls Hillary Clinton was 22–29 points higher among Latino Catholics than among Born-Again Protestants (Latino Decisions 2016). Republicans’ hope of making inroads in the growing evangelical segment of the Latino electorate, however, clashed with the populist revolt against immigration and the election Donald Trump. Trump’s vitriolic rhetoric about Mexican immigrants 191

Allen D. Hertzke

and harsh family separation policies at the border appear to have sparked a surge in Latino voting rates and Democratic support in the 2018 midterm. The continued erosion of support for Republicans among Latinos, especially among otherwise conservative evangelicals, remains a problem acknowledged by GOP strategists (Republican National Committee 2013).

Muslims and other religious minorities The increasing religious pluralism of America is reflected in measurable voting behaviour. Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Sikhs and other religious minorities represent a modest but growing constituency, and they overwhelmingly vote for Democratic candidates. In 2016, for example, Donald Trump earned 20 percent or less from several of these religious traditions, as we see in Table 15.4. No group has received the attention as American Muslims, whose civic participation has been forged in the crucible of the post-9/11 world. Though Muslims comprise slightly less than 1 percent of the American voting public, their concentration in certain states, rapid growth, and heightened political consciousness make them more important than their numbers might suggest. As a political community, American Muslims are conservative on moral values but progressive on economics and civil liberties. Owing to socioeconomic status and high marriage rates, many Muslims were initially drawn to the GOP. In fact, in 2000 George W. Bush won a plurality of the Muslim vote (but not quite a majority because many case votes for independent candidate Ralph Nader, who is of Lebanese descent) (Bukhari and Nyang 2004). Muslim attitudes, however, have never fully conformed to the economically libertarian agenda of today’s Republican Party, and reaction against domestic surveillance and Bush foreign policies moved them swiftly into the Democratic camp. Indeed, American politics seldom has seen as rapid an electoral turnaround as the shift in the Muslim electorate between 2000 and subsequent elections (Bukhari and Nyang 2004). This trend strengthened with the candidacy of Barack Obama, who enjoyed substantial support from the American Muslim community. Not surprisingly, the candidacy of Donald Trump, whose rhetoric about ‘Islamic terrorism’ and proposal to shut down immigration from some Muslim nations, solidified this Muslim loyalty to Democrats. In 2016 Hillary Clinton earned over 80 percent of the Muslim vote.

The secular vote In 1960, Americans were decidedly a society of churchgoers. Only a small percentage of the population claimed no religious preference, and those who were not religious had relatively low voting rates. By the 2000s, however, religious observance had declined among a much larger segment of the American public, and secular citizens were voting differently from the religiously observant. Figure 15.1 shows the yawning partisan gap by the frequency of worship attendance, indicating that the less embedded people are in religious communities, the more they vote for Democratic candidates. This pattern is especially pronounced among whites, where ethnic or racial solidarity does not confound the influence of worship attendance or moral traditionalism. As secular voters have grown in number and cohesiveness over time, they have become a crucial part of the Democratic coalition. By 2016 the unaffiliated comprised more than a fifth of the Hillary Clinton’s total voter base, which expanded further in 2018 for Democratic congressional candidates. The voting gap between secular and religious Americans is larger than differences in education, gender, income, age and numerous other factors (Olson and Green 2006). 192

Religion and political parties in America 100

80

60 Trump 40

Clinton

20

0

At least once per week

Monthly

Few mes a year

Never

Figure 15.1 Pew Research Center: ‘How the Faithful Voted: A Preliminary Analysis’ Source: www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2016/11/09/how-the-faithful-voted-a-preliminary-2016-analysis/

Summary on religion and partisan voting patterns The growing divide between religiously observant and more secular Americans has led some commentators to wonder whether a European-style party alignment is emerging in the United States, pitting a Christian conservative party (the Republicans) against a more secular, liberal party (the Democrats). As we have seen, this analysis is only partly accurate because many progressive Mainline Protestants and Catholics, along with religious minorities and immigrant groups, inhabit the same political coalition as secular voters. Indeed, recent surveys show that on religious values, ethnic and racial minorities and immigrants have greater affinity with Republican Christians than with white secular Democrats (Diamant and Smith 2018). Moreover, women remain overrepresented in most religious communities and they tend to vote more liberally than their male counterparts (Hertzke et al. 2019, Ch. 6). Beyond these specific dynamics, the electoral forces Trump ignited may portend new divisions in the religious community. The emergence of the so-called alt-right, which encompasses overt forms of white nationalism, has attracted some religious conservatives and repelled others. For years, critics of the Christian Right claimed that the movement in part reflected white southern resistance to integration and African American empowerment. Some figures in the alt-right movement overtly embraced that connection, but this fusion of white nationalism and religion also sparked countermoves in the religious community. Most notably, the Southern Baptist Convention explicitly condemned all forms of racism and ethnic hatred, including ‘alt-right white nationalism,’ as a ‘scheme of the devil’ antithetical to the gospel (Southern Baptist Convention 2017). Projecting into the future, demographic trends will also be fateful for religious alignments and electoral fortunes. Momentously, the US Census Bureau reported that minority births outnumbered whites in 2013 and continued to grow in the following years. Before the middle of this century whites will no longer be the majority in America, although assimilation and intermarriage may belay that trend somewhat (Cohn 2016). Thus, over time we will see a continued rise in non-Christian voters, such as Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs. But the Christian population will also become more diverse, with growing numbers of Latinos, Asians, Filipinos, Africans, Chaldeans, etc. The other 193

Allen D. Hertzke

trend is the anticipated rise of the non-religious sector, as older, more religious cohorts die out and are replaced by less religious generations. While these long-term trends favour the Democrats, Republicans retain certain structural advantages with the Senate and Electoral College, which provide disproportionate representation to smaller rural states that are home to religious traditionalists, both Catholic and Protestant. The results of the 2018 midterm elections provide a foreshadowing of these trends. With a nearly nine million vote margin of victory, Democrats surged to flip the House of Representatives, splitting the Catholic vote and receiving large majorities of religious minorities, ethnic minorities and secular voters. Republicans kept the Senate by gaining seats in states with large shares of religious traditionalists (Missouri, North Dakota and Indiana), while losing seats with growing minority populations (Nevada and Arizona).

Religious party activists While voting patterns rightly predominate any discussion of religion and political parties, party organisations and office-holders both lead and ratify such trends. Party activists represent the vanguard of America’s party organisations. They staff the vast volunteer and paid networks in states and counties, work for candidates, attend conventions and vie over the language of party platforms. Because of demographic changes and mobilisation, religious and secular activists have pushed the two parties farther apart on religious and cultural questions. Demographically, as evangelicals surpassed Mainline Protestants in the electorate, the activist pool for the Republican Party shifted accordingly. In turn, with the growth of the unaffiliated population, secular activists took a more prominent place in the Democratic coalition (Claassen 2015). Mobilisation also plays a key role. Capitalising on porous party structures, activists with religious or secular aims have gained increasing leverage in party organisations, shaping platforms and policy agendas (Bolce and De Maio 2002; Rozell and Wilcox 2017). For many evangelicals and other religious traditionalists, for example, a profound sense of threat from secularising forces catalysed them to flood Republican Party caucuses and conventions (Oldfield 1996; Rozell and Wilcox 2017). Surveys of national convention delegates from 1972 to 2012 show how this Christian Right infusion pushed the Republican Party to the right on social and cultural issues (Layman and Brockway 2018). The capture of the party by the Trump movement in 2016 both reinforced this trend and infused party counsels with an unpredictable cadre of populist nationalists. This alt-right mobilisation, in turn, has led some prominent figures, like Jewish neoconservatives, to leave the party or oppose its drift. On the left, we see the exceptional and growing influence of secular activists in the Democratic Party. Prior to the 1970s, ‘There was something of a tacit commitment among elites in both parties to traditional Judeo-Christian values regarding authority, sexual mores, and the nuclear family’ (Bolce and De Maio 2002). In the 1970s, however, secular activists began to take a more prominent place in some state- and local-level Democratic Party organisations. Ever since, Democratic activists have been far more likely than their Republican counterparts to describe themselves as secular or marginally attached to religion. And because they advance a liberal cultural agenda, they often see themselves in mortal clash with conservative religionists over the soul of the nation (Layman 2001). To be sure, ethnic minorities and immigrants often combine devout religion and Democratic affiliation, but the activists in the party are disproportionately secular in outlook. Party platforms, hammered out every four years at the parties’ nominating conventions, illustrate how these religious and secular cleavages now define party alignments. While often 194

Religion and political parties in America

dismissed as symbolic, party platforms do matter; they help set the agenda of legislative and executive officials. In 2016, religious conservatives were given a great deal of access to the GOP platform writing committee, which produced unusually detailed proposals backing the ‘sanctity of human life’, traditional marriage and religious liberty, as well as an unprecedented number of religious references. In turn, religious liberals and secular activists helped shape the Democratic platform to endorse unqualified abortion rights, contraceptive funding, LBGT rights, and marriage equality, demonstrating how deeply religious and cultural cleavages now separate the two major parties (Hertzke et al. 2019, p. 275).

Partisan religious patterns in Congress The voting and activist alignment of religious and non-religious Americans is increasingly reflected in their representation in Congress. As we see in Table 15.6, congressional Democrats are far more religiously diverse than their Republican counterparts, and that diversity is growing. Every Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist and unaffiliated member of the 116th Congress (beginning in January 2019) was a Democrat, as were all of those who refused to list a religion. Overall, the Democratic congressional membership was 42 percent Protestant, 35 percent Catholic, 11 percent Jewish, and over 10 percent non-Christian or unaffiliated. Meanwhile, over 99 percent of Republican members of Congress identify as Christian, with only two Jews (less than 1 percent) rounding out the GOP membership (there are no unaffiliated Republicans). Reflecting long-standing partisan loyalties, the majority of Republicans in Congress are Protestants (70 percent), with a solid number of Catholics (26 percent) and Mormons (over 3 percent). This pattern reflects both the Republican Party’s political constituency, as well as the overrepresentation of Republicans from rural and suburban communities, which feature less religious diversity than the urban and high tech areas that Democrats tend to represent (Sandstrom 2019).

Party affiliation of American clergy While national religious leaders capture the media spotlight, no group has more potential reach and collective influence than the thousands of local clergy across the country. Thanks to a creative new study, we have unique data on their partisan affiliations (Hersh and Malina 2017). By accessing directories of churches, Eitan Hersh and Gabrielle Malina obtained the names of some 180,000 Christian and Jewish pastors across 40 religious denominations. Using public voter registration records, they identified the party registration of the majority (130,000) of those pastors. With this massive dataset, they illuminate striking patterns of clergy partisanship in different American religious traditions. For example, more than 80 percent of rabbis in Reformed Judaism are Democrats, while less than 10 percent of Missouri-Synod Lutheran pastors share that party affiliation. The pattern of partisanship tracks what we would expect, with Jewish, African American and Mainline denominations having the largest proportions of registered Democrats among their clergy, while evangelical denominations have the largest percentage of registered Republican clergy. On the other hand, Roman Catholic, Eastern Orthodox and Seventh-day Adventist congregations had the largest shares of registered Independents among their clergy. A New York Times headline captured these patterns in a pithy way: ‘Your Rabbi? Probably a Democrat. Your Baptist Pastor? Probably a Republican. Your Priest? Who Knows’ (Quealy 2017). While these patterns roughly conform to the partisanship of the lay members of the clergy’s religious traditions, Hersh and Malina’s study found that clergy members in a specific tradition are somewhat more unified in their party affiliations than members of the congregations they 195

Allen D. Hertzke Table 15.6 Religious composition of the 116th Congress Democrats Religion

House #

Christian

Senate #

Republicans %

House #

Senate #

%

187

33

78.3

198

53

99.2

97

20

41.6

136

40

69.6

Baptist

25

2

9.6

36

9

17.8

Methodist

17

3

7.1

15

7

8.7

Protestant

Anglican/Episcopal

10

4

5

12

0

4.7

Presbyterian

5

3

2.8

8

10

7.1

Lutheran

10

3

4.6

9

4

5.1

Congregationalist

0

2

0.7

2

0

0.8

Nondenominational

2

0

0.7

7

1

3.2

Pentecostal

0

0

0

2

0

0.8

Restorationist

0

0

0

1

0

0.4

Adventist

2

0

0.7

0

0

0

Holiness

0

0

0

1

0

0.4

Reformed

0

0

0

1

0

0.4

26

3

10.3

42

9

20.2

Catholic

Unspecified/other

86

12

34.9

55

10

25.7

Mormon

1

1

0.7

5

3

3.2

Orthodox Christian

3

0

1.1

2

0

0.8

Jewish

24

8

11.4

2

0

0.8

Buddhist

1

1

0.7

0

0

0

Muslim

3

0

1.1

0

0

0

Hindu

3

0

1.1

0

0

0

Unitarian Universalist

2

0

0.7

0

0

0

Unaffiliated

0

1

0.4

0

0

0

Don’t know/refused

14

4

6.4

0

0

0

Total

234

47

100

200

53

100

Note: One race, in North Carolina had not yet been certified due to allegations of electoral fraud. Figures may not add to 100 percent or to subtotals due to rounding. Figures for Democrats include independents who caucus with Democrats. Source: Figures for Congress based on Pew Research Center analysis of data collected by CQ Roll Call, reflecting members of Congress to be sworn in on 3 January 2019. ‘Faith on the Hill: The Religious Composition of the 116th Congress’.

serve. The clergy in liberal traditions are consistently more Democratic than their congregants, while pastors in conservative traditions are routinely more Republican than their congregants. For example, while 55 percent of Episcopalians in the pews identify as Democrats, 76 percent of Episcopal priests do. In the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America (ELCA), 46 percent of members are Democrats compared to 73 percent of ELCA clergy. 196

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Given the substantial number of registered Independents among Catholic clergy, they constitute a swing group in the electorate. However, the study also found evidence of regional variation among Catholic clergy: ‘Catholics in states like Kansas, South Dakota, and Oklahoma are more Republican, while those in Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and Maryland are more Democratic’ (Hersh and Malina 2017). These findings suggest that the polarisation we see in American politics today is affecting clergy. Further evidence for this emerging pattern is found in the partisanship of seminary faculty. Hersh and Malina note that seminary faculty are even more uniform in their partisanship than pastors. For example, while Southern Baptist parishioners are 60 percent Republican in identification and their pastors 77 percent, Baptist seminary faculty members are 83 percent Republican. Democratic-leaning religious traditions are even more one-sided. United Methodist congregants and clergy are 45 percent and 51 percent Democratic, respectively, but their seminary faculty are 95 percent Democratic (Hersh and Malina 2017). This extreme partisan sorting in seminaries suggests we might see the effects of ideological and partisan socialisation among new clergy as the century wears on, which would almost certainly do nothing to mitigate the political polarisation currently gripping American politics. The striking polarisation of American politics, in which strong partisans view each other as a threat to their way of life or culture, suggests that party affiliation has taken on a tribal identity for many (Pew Research Center 2016). Indeed, the elite discourse in politics, reinforced by partisan media, seems to be leading party identifiers to align their issue stances to fit their party. For religiously devout immigrants and ethnic minorities this means accepting the regnant cultural liberalism of Democratic elites; in the case of the Republicans it involves embracing (or accommodating) the nativist populism of President Trump. This development presents fateful implications for the relationship between religion and political parties in American. As the account of seminary faculty suggests, polarised politics may lead to polarised religion. In other words, partisanship may be affecting religious life, rather than the other way around. Scholars see mounting evidence that the growth of religious ‘nones’ and their alignment with the Democratic Party represent a reaction against the politicised fusion of evangelicalism with the Republican Party. Moreover, scholars are picking up evidence that when people experience cognitive dissonance with the political messages in their churches, they change congregations to align with their party identity, instead of changing their party to align with their faith (Djupe et al. 2018; Campbell et al. 2018). The challenge this poses to the integrity of religious faith is beyond the scope of this chapter, but it bears pondering.

References Abrams, E. (1997). Faith or Fear: How Jews Can Survive in a Christian America, New York: Free Press. Ansolabehere, S. and Schaffner, B.F. (2013). CCES Common Content, 2012. Harvard Dataverse. Ansolabehere, S. and Schaffner, B.F. (2017). CCES Common Content, 2016. Harvard Dataverse, V3. Black, E. and Black, M. (2003). The Rise of Southern Republicans, Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press. Bolce, L.H. and De Maio, G. (2002). ‘Our Secularist Democratic Party’, The Public Interest, 154, 3–20. Bukhari, Z.H. and Nyang, S.S. (2004). Muslims in the American Public Square: Shifting Political Winds, Fallout from 9/11, Afghanistan, and Iraq, Washington, DC: Georgetown University and Zogby International. Campbell, D.E. and Monson, J.Q. (2007). ‘Dry Kindling: A Political Profile of American Mormons’. In J.M. Wilson (ed.), From Pews to Polling Places: Faith and Politics in the American Religious Mosaic, Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Campbell, D.E., Layman G.C., Green, J.C. and Sumaktoyo, N.G. (2018). ‘Putting Politics First: The Impact of Politics on American Religious and Secular Orientations’, American Journal of Political Science, 62(3), 551–565.

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Allen D. Hertzke Claassen, R.L. (2015). Godless Democrats and Pious Republicans? The Christian Right in American Politics, New York: Cambridge University Press. Cohn, D. (2016, 23 June). ‘It’s Official: Minority Babies are the Majority among the Nation’s Infants, But Only Just’. Retrieved from www.pewresearch.org. Crouch, A. (2016, 10 October). ‘Speak Truth to Trump’. Retrieved from www.christianitytoday.com. Diamant, J. and Smith, G.A. (2018, 23 May). ‘Religiously, Nonwhite Democrats are more Similar to Republicans than White Democrats’. Retrieved from www.pewresearch.org. Djupe, P.A., Neiheisel, J.R. and Sokhey, A.E. (2018). ‘Reconsidering the Role of Politics in Leaving Religion: The Importance of Affiliation’, American Journal of Political Science, 62(1), 161–175. Epstein, L.D. (1986). Political Parties in the American Mold, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Exit Polls. (2018). CNN. Retrieved from www.cnn.com/election/2018/exit-polls. Greenberg, A. and Wald, K.D. (2001). ‘Still Liberal After All These Years: The Contemporary Political Behavior of American Jewry’. In L.S. Maisel and I.N. Forman (eds), Jews in American Politics. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield. Harris, F.C. (2001). Something Within: Religion in African-American Political Activism, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hersh, E.D. and Malina, G. (2017, 11 June). ‘Partisan Pastor: The Politics of 130,000 American Religious Leaders’. Retrieved from www.eitanhersh.com. Hertzke, A.D., Olson, L.R., Den Dulk, K.R. and Fowler, R.B. (2019). Religion and Politics in America: Faith, Culture, and Strategic Choices, sixth edition, New York and London: Routledge. Inglehart, R.F. (1990). Culture Shift in Advanced Industrial Society, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Kleppner, P. (1970). The Cross of Culture: A Social Analysis of Midwestern Politics, 1850–1900, New York: Free Press. Krogstad, Jens Manuel and Mark Hugo Lopez. (2017). ‘Black Voter Turnout Fell in 2016, Even as a Record Number of Americans Cast Ballots’. Pew Research Center, 12 May. Retrieved from www. pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2017/05/12. Latino Decisions. (2016). 2016 Election Eve Poll. Retrieved from www.latinovote2016.com/app/#catho lic-national-all. Layman, G. (2001). The Great Divide: Religious and Cultural Conflict in American Party Politics, New York: Columbia University Press. Layman, G. and Brockway, M. (2018). ‘Evangelical Activists in the GOP’. In P.A. Djupe and R.L. Claassen (eds), The Evangelical Crackup? Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Lee, M.J. (2017, 4 June). ‘God and the Don’. Retrieved from www.cnn.com. Group International & The Ropercenter [Distributor]. Marsden, G. (1982). Fundamentalism and American Culture, New York: Oxford University Press. National Survey of Religion and Politics. (2012). Akron: University of Akron Survey Research Center. Oldfield, D.M. (1996). The Right and the Righteous: The Christian Right Confronts the Republican Party, Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield. O’Loughlin, M.J. (2016, 26 July). ‘With GOP Ticket Set, Catholic “Never-Trump” Camp Remains Defiant’. Retrieved from www.americamagazine.org. O’Loughlin, M.J. (2017, 6 April). ‘New Data Suggest Clinton, Not Trump, Won Catholic Vote’. Retrieved from www.americamagazine.org/politics-society/2017/04/06/new-data-suggest-clinton-not-trump-won-catholic -vote. Olson, L.R. and Green, J.C. (2006). ‘The Religion Gap’. PS: Political Science & Politics, 39, 455–459. Olson, L.R. and Warber, A.L. (2008). ‘Mainline Protestants and the American Presidency’. In G. Espinosa (ed.), Religion, Race, and the American Presidency, Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield. Pew Research Center. (2016). Partisanship and Political Animosity in 2016. Retrieved from www.peoplepress.org/2016/06/22/partisanship-and-political-animosity-in-2016/. Pew Research Center, Forum on Religion & Public Life. (2014). U.S. Religious Landscape Survey: Religious Composition of Latinos. Retrieved from www.pewforum.org. Pew Research Center, Forum on Religion & Public Life. (2015). U.S. Religious Landscape Study. Retrieved from www.pewforum.org. Quealy, K. (2017, 12 June). ‘Your Rabbi? Probably a Democrat. Your Baptist Pastor? Probably a Republican. Your Priest? Who Knows’. New York Times. Retrieved from www.nytimes.com. Reichley, A.J. (2002). Faith in Politics, Washington, DC: Brookings Institution Press. Republican National Committee. (2013). Growth and Opportunity Project.

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16 RELIGION AND POLITICAL PARTIES IN BRAZIL Linsey Moddelmog and Pedro A.G. dos Santos

The polarisation and fragmentation of the Brazilian political environment reached an all-time high following the 2018 general elections. An unprecedented 30 political parties won at least one seat in the Chamber of Deputies, the country’s lower house. Amid corruption scandals, many of the historic centre-right parties lost a significant number of seats both in the Chamber and the Senate to a surging nationalist party. Led by the presidential election of Jair Bolsonaro, the Partido Social Liberal (Liberal Social Party or PSL) went from a minuscule party (one Federal Deputy) to the second largest party in the Chamber of Deputies with 52 Deputies (10.1 percent of seats) and the fourth largest party in the Senate with four Senators (5 percent of seats) (Caesar, 2018; Venaglia, 2018). Emblematic of the party system in Brazil, the PSL traditionally had a somewhat ambiguous political ideology of social progressivism. However, when Bolsonaro switched from the Social Christian Party to the PSL in March of 2018 (his eighth political party), the party ideology changed to one of fiscal conservatism, nationalism and conservative family values (Federowski and Marcello, 2018). The rise of Bolsonaro propelled what has been called an onda conservadora (conservative wave), and the incoming Congress is considered by some the most socially conservative since the return to democracy in the early 1980s (Dip, 2018; Venaglia, 2018). This conservative wave includes causes connected to the rising Evangelical movement and traditional Catholic values in the country. Given the current political landscape, this is an opportune moment to re-analyse the relationship between religion and politics. Situating current developments within Brazil’s past helps contextualise the future impact religion may play in politics. Previous research suggests that Brazil’s electoral system created conditions that tend to limit religious groups’ ability to influence politics and policymaking. This chapter argues that the rise of the Evangelical Caucus in Brazil demonstrates an alternative way religious groups have attempted to influence the political system, one that transcends party relations and provides for a new way to coalesce in the pursuit of common political interests congruent with religious beliefs.

The Brazilian religious landscape Historically a Catholic nation, twenty-first-century Brazil is more religiously diverse than ever. While the constitution declared Brazil a secular state over a century ago, religion, specifically Catholicism, intertwined with the state during the colonial period and remains a significant 200

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influence and participant in Brazilian democracy (Azevedo, 2004; Smith, 2018; Souza, 2004). Theoretically, Brazilians have enjoyed religious freedom for over a hundred years; however, for much of its history the Catholic Church worked to inhibit the spread of other faiths (Montero, 2016). Since the end of the dictatorship in the 1980s religious freedom has blossomed, allowing for greater inclusion and tolerance of Protestants, Spiritualists and practitioners of Africanderived religions. According to the 2010 census more than 85 percent of the population identify with a Christian religion, although Catholicism continued to be the principal faith at 65 percent. In addition to Christianity, there is a small but present minority of practitioners of Espiritismo (a Brazilian adaptation of Spiritism and Spiritualism), Umbanda and Candomblé (religions with strong influence of Afro-descendant traditions and beliefs) that make these religious groups a part of the country’s socio-cultural space (Aureliano and Cardoso, 2015; Hess, 2010; Selka, 2007). Brazil’s history of religious syncretism means that the practice of these African-derived faiths does not necessarily exclude one from the simultaneous identity and practice of other faiths, especially Catholicism (Schmidt and Engler, 2016; Selka, 2012). A little over 2 percent of the population practices Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, and other indigenous and world religions. The most important demographic shift in the past decades has been the rise of Evangelical Christianity. We define Evangelicals in the Brazilian context, a highly diverse set of religious groups encompassing historical Protestants, Evangelical and Pentecostal groups (dos Santos and Moddelmog, 2019; Smith, 2018, 2019). Evangelical churches tend to promote traditional family values and a general rejection of secularism (Bohn, 2004). Believers are also encouraged to attend church frequently, tithe and spread the message of God through missionary work in their communities (Bebbington, 1989; Freston, 2008). Evangelicals in Brazil must be analysed as a heterogeneous group that share certain ideological stances and political objectives but that also differ in important ways. Nevertheless, in the context of party politics since the return to democracy in the country, scholars, journalists and the public in general use the term Evangelical to describe this heterogeneous group as one group with important common ideological and policy objectives (Smith, 2018). This demographic change has direct implications for the study of party politics in the country. As seen in Table 16.1, there are fewer Catholics in the country than ever before while the number of Evangelicals has risen at a fast pace since the end of the twentieth century. For most of Brazil’s political history, being a Catholic was a given among political leaders, where differences were delineated across material interests or ideological leanings and Catholics participated in politics across the political spectrum. There were little to no religious cleavages that translated into political issues (Mainwaring, 1999). The demographic shift that started in the 1980s Table 16.1 Religious affiliation by major groups: 1940–20101 Religion

1940

1950

1960

1970

1980

1991

2000

2010

Catholic

95.2%

93.7%

93.1%

91.1%

89.2%

83.3%

73.7%

65%

2.6%

3.4%

4%

5.8%

6.6%

9%

15.5%

22.4%

1.3%

1.3%

1.6%

1.3%

2%

0.6%

0.4%

0.3%

0.3%

Evangelical Espiritismo Umbanda/Candomblé

1.1% -

1.6% -

1.3% -

-

Other

0.9%

0.8%

1.4%

1%

0.4%

0.5%

1.8%

2.3%

No religion

0.2%

0.5%

0.8%

0.8%

1.9%

5.2%

7.4%

8%

Source: Pierucci (2004), Instituto Brasileiro de Geografia e Estatística (2018).

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coincided with the return to multi-party democratic politics in the country and created an environment that allowed for Evangelical politicians to increase their political influence and consequently change the Brazilian political landscape.

Political parties and religious participation The relationship between religion and parties has evolved since the establishment of republicanism in Brazil, changing at a fast pace since the return to democracy in the early 1980s. The presence of a strong Catholic Church throughout the Portuguese period in Brazil allowed for the religion and its leaders to maintain public and private influence in the country even after the separation between Church and state established in the Republican era in 1889. Therefore, while Catholicism lost the privilege of being the official state religion, it still had influence in maintaining a strong Christian tradition in politics and society (Azevedo, 2004; Mariano, 2011; Souza, 2004). This power, wielded by public figures and religious leaders, curbed the expansion of Espiritismo and Afro-descendant religions in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and included concerted efforts to undermine the growth of Protestantism in the country during the Estado-Novo period (1937–1946) and throughout the mid-twentieth century (Mainwaring, 1989; Mariano, 2011). The military dictatorship (1964–1985) changed the dynamic between the Catholic Church and the state. The initial role of the Catholic Church in the military regime is still debated. Historical records indicate some support from members of the high clergy, possibly out of fear of atheistic communism, but there was no official support or rejection coming from the Catholic Church at that time (Arruda, 2014; Cleary, 1997; Mainwaring, 1989). Of important note is a large protest that preceded the military coup. On 19 March 1964 a protest called the ‘Family March with God for Liberty’, organised by various religious groups (mostly Catholic and Protestant), but with no official support from the Catholic Church as an institution (Arruda, 2014; Melito, 2014). Angered by President Goulart’s policy proposals, a perceived move towards socialism, protestors called for his impeachment. Taking the cue, two weeks later a group of military officials successfully staged a coup and replaced civilian leadership with military. Nevertheless, as the authoritarian regime maintained its grip for over two decades, specific groups within the Catholic Church became important forces in the re-democratisation of the country, the fight for human rights, the development of future political leaders, and in the establishment of political parties. The most influential political party to be shaped by the Catholic Church was the Partido dos Trabalhadores (Worker’s Party, or PT). Given the demographic dominance of Catholicism as a religious identity, the influence of the Catholic Church in the creation of the PT comes from specific social movements inside the Church structure. Influenced by Liberation Theology (Boff, 1987; Smith, 1991; Tombs, 2003) and through the support of the National Conference of Brazilian Bishops (CNBB), various important groups shaped the ideology behind the PT (connecting it to other leftist causes such as those of labour unions and poverty alleviation). Groups such as the Comunidades Eclesiais de Base (Ecclesiastic Base Communities, or ECBs), the Comissão Pastoral da Terra (Pastoral Land Commission) and the Conselho Indigenista Missionário (Missionary Indigenous Council) provided a ‘voice for the voiceless’ and a breeding ground for future political leaders inside the PT and other political parties (Keck, 2010; Mariano, 2011; Souza, 2004). The role of the Catholic Church has changed throughout Brazilian political history. The legacy of being the official imperial religion contributed to the demographic dominance of Catholicism as ‘the only game in town’ for most of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. 202

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However, it is impossible to talk about the Catholic Church and Catholicism as monoliths, especially in a large and diverse country like Brazil (Boas and Smith, 2015). Catholics in the country support ideologies across the political spectrum, as evidence by support of some Catholics for the dictatorship, followed by opposition from many other Catholics to that same regime. As we enter the modern era of party politics in Brazil, Catholics are present in all political parties, and at the national level they are represented in every party that has a member in Congress. The leftist movements inside the Catholic Church and among the Catholic population helped in the creation and strengthening of the PT, the country’s second largest party today and one of the most influential parties of the late 1990s and 2000s. Today, certain institutions within the Catholic Church structure still support leftist ideals, candidates and parties. This sentiment, however, is not felt uniformly throughout the Church hierarchy and across the country’s Catholic population. In the 2018 presidential elections, Catholic priests became vocal supporters (sometimes in the pulpit) of both presidential candidates: Fernando Haddad of the PT and Jair Bolsonaro of PSL (Balloussier, 2018). The election of Jair Bolsonaro in 2018, a Catholic himself whose campaign slogan was ‘Brazil above everything, God above all’ (Seto, 2018), showed once again the ideological, political and party divisions among those of the Catholic faith. While efforts to establish a religion-oriented party have been present in Brazilian political history, success has been limited (Smith, 2019). Brazil did not experience the establishment of a strong Christian Democratic Party as was seen in many other countries in Europe and in the region (Souza, 2004, p. 86). The stunting of a strong Christian Democratic Party may have been a consequence of the 1964 military coup. The Christian Democratic Party (PDC) was officially created in Brazil in 1945, obtained important political victories in the 1954 election, but was extinguished, along with all other political parties in 1965 (Coelho, 2003). In 1985 the party was re-established, but saw limited success given the multiplicity of parties and the differing strategies to attract religious voters. Today, Democracia Cristã (Christian Democracy), the party that carries the legacy of PDC, is a small party with only one Federal Deputy in Congress and a relatively small number of party members. Throughout most of the twentieth century, the majority of the Evangelical population remained apolitical (Chesnut, 1999; Fonseca, 2008; Smith, 2018). It was not until the late 1970s and the early 1980s that Evangelical churches became more directly involved in the political process. According to Campos Machado and Burity (2014), the political incentives to enter the political landscape were three-fold: (1) to become less invisible and claim access to public resources newly available in a democratic regime; (2) the opportunity to become a more influential, less cultural subaltern, group; and (3) confrontation with the progressive social movements (such as feminist groups and LGBT Table 16.2 Last presidential poll before 2018 presidential elections by religious affiliation2 Religion (percentage of population)

Jair Bolsonaro (PSL)

Fernando Haddad (PT)

Catholic (65%)

44%

43%

Evangelical (22.4%)

59%

26%

Espírita (1.3%)

48%

39%

Umbanda, Candomblé and other Afro-descendant religions (0.3%)

27%

62%

No religion/Agnostic (8%)

46%

38%

Source: Instituto Brasileiro de Geografia e Estatística (2013), G1 (‘Datafolha de 25 de outubro para presidente por sexo, idade, escolaridade, renda, região, religião e orientação sexual’, 2018).

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rights groups) that were also gaining ground in the new political landscape (see also Borges, 2010; dos Santos and Moddelmog, 2019; Freston, 2001; Ogland and Verona, 2014; Pierucci and Prandi, 1986; Reich and dos Santos, 2013; Siepierski, 1997; Silva, 2016; Trevisan, 2013). In the three decades since the re-establishment of multiparty democracy, parties started to open spaces for previously under-represented sectors of society, including religious leaders from Evangelical churches (Campos Machado and Burity, 2014). This led to a marked increase in the number of Evangelical politicians elected to the Chamber of Deputies (see Tables 16.3 and 16.4). Additionally, scholars have increasingly found that Evangelicals make political decisions (including voting choices) based on their religious beliefs, while Evangelical churches have developed specific plans to promote their candidates (Boas, 2014; Boas and Smith, 2019; Lacerda, 2017; Mariano, 2011; Reich and dos Santos, 2013; Smiderle and Mesquita, 2016). As congregations started to develop corporatist models to promote their own candidates and interests, these new strategies did not bring about the creation of one umbrella Evangelical party. The clearest example of a congregation’s attempt to create a party is the Partido Republicano Brasileiro (Brazilian Republican Party, or PRB). Established in 2005, one of its most prominent members is Bishop Marcelo Crivella, a former National Senator (2003–2017) and mayor of Rio de Janeiro (2017). Crivella is the nephew of Edir Macedo, the founder of Igreja Universal do Reino de Deus (Universal Church of the Kingdom God), which is one of the largest Pentecostal churches in Brazil today. Crivella was once an ally of President Lula and his efforts to reduce poverty, however, he opposed abortion and voiced support for traditional family values, and in 2016 the PRB voted unanimously for the impeachment of Dilma Rousseff of PT. The PRB is able to utilise the resources of the church, including one of the largest television and radio networks in the country, to support their candidates. While Evangelicalism is not a requirement for membership of the party, 14 of their 21 elected Deputies in the 2014 Congress identified as Evangelicals. In 2018, the party won 31 seats in the Chamber of Deputies, 19 of them (62 percent) identified as Evangelicals (17 are members of the Universal Church of the Kingdom God) (Marini and de Carvalho, 2018). Evangelicals, like Catholics, differ on economic and some social policies. In 2016 Evangelical members of Congress hailed from 22 different political parties (Dip, 2018, p. 44) and preliminary accounts for the 2018 elections show at least 23 parties (Marini and de Carvalho, 2018). With the growing population of Evangelical voters, it is possible that there may be more concerted attempts to create Evangelical-minded political parties in the future. While not yet in existence, the Assembléia de Deus (Assembly of God) Church has announced plans to create the Partido Republicano Cristão (Republican Christian Party), demonstrating that these are not the only parties seeking Evangelical political leaders or voters (de Souza, 2009; Favretto, 2017, 2018).

Culture and institutions: impact of religion in politics The political landscape in Brazil is characterised by a curious paradox when thinking about religion: culturally, there appears to be a close association between religion and politics. However, Brazilian political institutions and electoral rules have limited the influence religious groups exert over political parties. Culturally, voters and politicians are supportive of their religious traditions and the influence of religious beliefs on societal dynamics. An overwhelming majority of elected officials in Brazil are religious (see Table 16.3). Politics become intertwined with religion as priests and pastors use the pulpit to show support for specific politicians, parties and policies. In fact, many pastors and priests run for office themselves, and frequently candidates have taken to signalling to voters their religious affiliation by using the moniker of Pastor or Brother (Boas, 2014). Additionally, 204

Religion and political parties in Brazil

while the constitution mandates secularism, there are plenty of uncontested examples of religious and governmental entanglements, funding of programmes and policies reflecting religious interests (Montero, 2016). Institutionally, the connection between religion and political parties is limited due to the pressures the electoral system places on parties. Brazil uses an open-list proportional electoral system for its Chamber of Deputies. In an open-list system, parties do not pre-rank candidates on party lists prior to the election. Rather the votes a candidate receives translates to the position they hold on the party list. Additionally, because district magnitude varies, in accordance to the state’s population between eight and 70 seats, numerous parties participate in the electoral process. For example, in the 2018 Congressional elections, the state of Paraìba elected 12 deputies, but over 138 candidates won significant votes, amongst a field of hundreds of candidates (Carr, 2018). This has several consequences for the party system. First, parties in Brazil are weak, and many of them lack in ideological consistency and resources. Elections tend to be candidate-centred, in that candidates raise their own money, craft their own messages, and easily move from one party another when their current party no longer serves their interest (Ames, 2002). Therefore, it is difficult to identify party ideology or treat parties and their connection to religion or congregations as fixed or entirely consistent. To win a larger share of the votes parties strategically attempt to ‘diversify their social base … as such, all the major parties are quite happy to have Protestant candidates on their list’ (Freston, 2001, p. 145). Adding a layer of complexity to the party system is the low level of partisan identification among the electorate. Survey results show that partisanship in the electorate remains low since 1988, with only two brief periods in which party identification was around 50 percent of the electorate (Samuels and Zucco, 2018). Mainwaring argues that partisanship has little impact on voter behaviour. Instead, agreeing with Ames, what matters most in elections is ‘pork, pageantry, and performance’, the candidates’ personal qualities and their ability to deliver constituent services (Mainwaring, 1992). In the case of Evangelical candidates, Freston (2001, p. 20) states, ‘Pentecostal official candidates are typically the following: men prominent in the church as itinerant evangelists, singers or media presenters, sons and sons-in-law of pastores presidentes; and Pentecostal businessmen who make agreements with their ecclesiastical leaders’, fitting well into the ‘pork, pageantry, and performance’ needed by successful candidates. Brazilians tend to be religious, and because of the numerous and weak parties, one can find religious candidates and religiously informed political positions in numerous parties. However, with few exceptions, parties in Brazil are not currently serving to coalesce or group religious influence in a coordinated way. Rather they are happy to work with whatever individuals or groups that can get elected. Which means the coordination of religious interests comes mostly from religious caucuses in the Congress. Additionally, because no party has successfully been able to stake a claim on the religious vote, Evangelical and conservative Catholic voters operate Table 16.3 Survey of Federal Deputies: religious identification Religion

1991– 1994

1995– 1998

1999– 2002

2003– 2006

2007– 2010

2011– 2014

2015– 2018

Protestant/Evangelical

6.1%

6.3%

6.9%

11.8%

13.6%

13.6%

16.7%

Others

1.7%

1.8%

2.1%

2.8%

2.7%

3.7%

3.9%

Catholic

57.5%

71.1%

73.6%

73.6%

73.5%

72.4%

68.9%

No response

34.6%

20.8%

17.3%

11.8%

10.1%

10.3%

10.5%

Source: Centro de Documentação e Informação (2018).

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like swing voters, particularly in presidential elections (Mariano and Oro, 2011; Mariano and Pierucci, 1992; Pierucci and Prandi, 2015). In presidential elections, the pressure of gathering a winning coalition is different than in the proportional elections used in the Chamber of Deputies. Presidential candidates court conservative Evangelical and Catholic voters by visiting places of worship and reading from the Bible during the service; producing pamphlets for distribution to churches; seeking endorsements from religious leaders; and, in the case of Dilma Rouseff’s elections, shifting support from policies in areas of abortion or LGBT issues in order to attract voters (Mariano and Oro, 2016).

The Evangelical Caucus During the 1988 Constituent Assembly, Evangelicals established the only religious ‘front’ to influence the creation of the new Constitution (Freston, 2001). Prior to the Constituent Assembly, the Assembly of God Church pursued a strategy to elected one Evangelical (preferably an Assembly of God member) per state to represent the interests of Evangelicals in the drafting of the new constitution (Freston, 1993). Other large congregations joined national parties in a more strategic fashion, with Evangelical candidates receiving direct support from their congregations (Fonseca, 2008; Mariano and Oro, 2011). A marked shift from the ‘believer does not mess with politics’ approach, Evangelical leaders pursued an aggressive strategy prior to the 1987–1988 Constituent Assembly for two main reasons: a marked interest in influencing social policy and an attempt to keep the power of the Catholic Church in check during the drafting of the new constitution. The strategy proved successful, as an estimated 32 Federal Deputies elected declared to be Evangelical (Trevisan, 2013), working at times as a cohesive group to protect their aligned religious interests. Since 1988 the party system has evolved to include numerous parties and attempts to formalise discussions across party lines inside the Federal Chamber of Deputies. Frentes Parlamentares (Parliamentary Fronts) are an attempt to organise in an official manner congressmembers interested in promoting a specific topic of interest to society. Once established, Parliamentary Fronts can request access to offices to organise meetings related to their interest. There are over 300 Parliamentary Fronts in Congress (‘Frentes Parlamentares’, 2017). Because these fronts require signatures from at least one third of the Chamber to become official, not all signatories are active participants of debates on said issues. Therefore, these Parliamentary Fronts are not the same as a caucus or lobby, but the official nature of the fronts allows caucuses to use the benefits provided to a Parliamentary Front to organise inside the Chamber of Deputies to discuss political objectives (Coradini, 2010; de Araújo, 2016). Currently, three Parliamentary Fronts have a religious focus: the Religious Freedom Front, the Catholic Front and the Evangelical Front. The Afro-Brazilian Front also discusses issues of religious freedom, focusing on the protection of Afro-descendent religions such as Candomblé and Umbanda. The words ‘front’ and ‘caucus’ are used interchangeably in the media. Of specific interest to the discussion of religion and political parties is the Frente Parlamentar Evangélica (Evangelical Parliamentary Front), also known as the Bancada Evangélica (Evangelical Caucus). The Evangelical Parliamentary Front has 199 signatories. While the front is the formalisation of the Evangelical Caucus, allowing the group to meet regularly, the Evangelical Caucus has an estimated 84 active members in 2019. The Evangelical Caucus has become an influential political group, one of the Parliamentary Fronts that meets regularly to discuss policies and political issues that Evangelical Deputies see as connected to their religious beliefs and those of his constituents and congregants.

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Religion and political parties in Brazil Table 16.4 The Evangelical Caucus: 1986–2018 Year

1986

1990

1994

1998

2002

2006

2010

2014

2018

Evangelical Deputies

33 (5.7%)

22 (4.4%)

21 (4.1%)

53 (10.3%)

69 (13.5%)

42 (8.2%)

63 (12.3%)

80 (15.6%)

84 (16.4%)

Sources: 1986 to 2010, Oro (2011). 2014, Bacelar and Carvalho (2014). 2018, Departamento Intersindical de Assessoria Parlamentar (‘Eleições 2018’, 2018).

The current political landscape, especially regarding the recent election of Jair Bolsonaro to the presidency, shows the importance of family values and religious identity in the current political marketplace. Evangelical groups and Evangelical politicians have been vocal opponents to key policy proposals during the 14 years the presidency was held by the Worker’s Party, most notably a fierce opposition to abortion (Mariano and Oro, 2011; Ogland and Verona, 2011) and rejection of key legislations seeking to promote LGBTQ rights (dos Santos and Moddelmog, 2019; Lopes and Vital, 2013; Ogland and Verona, 2014). In both of these issues, religious views become an important policy signal, and some of these policy stances are in line with the views of a large portion of Evangelical voters and politicians as well as with Catholics who hold more socially conservative beliefs (Bohn, 2004; Nishimura, 2004; Ogland and Verona, 2011, 2014). The Evangelical Caucus, through the formalisation of the Evangelical Parliamentary Front, has been an important space for Evangelical politicians to meet and promote political strategies that support their congruent religious and ideological objectives. According to various media and scholar accounts, the Evangelical Caucus is one of the most active caucuses in Congress (Dantas, 2011; Dip, 2018; Marini and de Carvalho, 2018; Medeiros and Fonseca, 2016; Quadros and Madeira, 2018). Since its official creation (as a Parliamentary Front) in 2003, the Evangelical Caucus has become more vocal about their interests, more disciplined in votes related to their own religious and political interests, and more ambitious in their political agenda. In the case of the Evangelical Caucus, similar to the Rural Caucus and the Security Caucus, the institutional establishment of a Parliamentary Front facilitated the ability of Federal Deputies to align across ideological and policy interests, bypassing the fragmented and sometimes weak party structures and dynamics (Alessi, 2017; Medeiros and Fonseca, 2017). Bolsonaro’s presidential campaign focused on religion and family values to attract moral conservative voters, propelled by a growing ‘conservative wave’ that has gained ground both in the general public and in Congress in response to progressive policies implemented by the Worker’s Party during the 14 years (2003–2016) it held the presidency (Almeida, 2017; Quadros and Madeira, 2018). While many voters and politicians pushing for moral conservative values and policies are Catholic, the powerful force propelling Bolsonaro’s candidacy and victory were Evangelical voters. This connection to Evangelical voters and the current fragmentation of the party system may strengthen the Evangelical Caucus. One evidence of this newfound influence is the fact that Bolsonaro asked the Evangelical Caucus to indicate names for his cabinet (Lopes Alves, 2018). This is an unprecedented move, as negotiations for cabinet positions have historically been a part of party negotiations among those forming the presidential coalition. As the number of Evangelicals in the population and in politics increase, the role of the Evangelical Caucus in shaping politics and policy may become more influential, which in turn may have a direct impact on party strategy in the country. 207

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Conclusion Our time has come! This is the moment for the church to take over the nation. It is time for the church to tell the nation what we came to do. It is time for the church to govern. (Damares Alves, quoted in Caleiro and Machado, 2018) The Brazilian demographic and political landscape has changed dramatically since the return to democracy. Religion is playing a larger role in party strategy and vote choice. Damares Alves, a lawyer and Baptist pastor, was named Jair Bolsonaro’s Minister of Women, Family and Human Rights in 2019. In one of her first official statements as minister, she stated, ‘the state is secular, but this Minister is very Christian … I believe in God’s intention and in God’s purpose’ (Borges, 2019). Jair Bolsonaro, in his inauguration speech, mentioned God 12 times, more mentions of God than all inauguration speeches of the democratic era (‘Análise’, 2019).3 The 2018 presidential campaign, the rise of Evangelical politicians, and the first speeches and political moves of President Bolsonaro and his staff indicate that religion will become an important component of Brazilian politics during his tenure. The 2018 elections also point to a new dynamic in Congress, one where party fragmentation and ideological polarisation may lead the president to attempt alliances across caucuses such as the Evangelical Caucus instead of the traditional model of coalition presidential that gives power to parties allied to the president (Cascione and Araújo, 2018; Schreiber and Shalders, 2018). The relationship between religion and party politics changed considerably following the return to democracy. A crowded party marketplace and a significant demographic shift contributed to many of these changes. The 2018 election arguably shifted once again this relationship. Future research on Brazilian party politics must include a continuous focus on understanding how Evangelical politicians influence their party platforms, the influence of Evangelical voters and politicians (through the growing Evangelical Caucus) on majoritarian elections and coalition formation, and the ways in which the Evangelical Caucus strengthen or undermine party dynamics in the country.

Notes 1 Data aggregation based on a simplification of the possible options for religious affiliation provided for respondents. For discussion of the issues regarding religious affiliation and the Brazilian Census, please see Santos (2014). 2 As for the writing of this chapter there were no analyses or studies relying on post-election polls and surveys that distinguished voters by religion. We rely on the last poll prior to the election (10/25) in this table. 3 José Sarney (1985) mentioned God once in his speech. Fernando Collor (1990) and Fernando Henrique Cardoso (1995 and 1999) did not mention God in their inauguration speeches, Luiz Inácio da Silva mentioned God once in 2003 and five times in 2007. Dilma Rousseff mentioned God once in her 2011 speech and did not mention God in 2015 (‘Ex-presidentes’, n.d.).

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Religion and political parties in Brazil blogs/roldao-arruda/marcha-da-familia-que-hoje-faz-50-anos-antecipou-ditadura-e-deve-ser-exorcizada -diz-pesquisador-catolico/. Aureliano, W. and Cardoso, V. (2015). Spiritism in Brazil. In C. Gutierrez (ed.), Brill Handbook of Spiritialism and Healing (pp. 275–293). Leiden: Brill. Azevedo, D. (2004). A Igreja Católica e seu papel político no Brasil. Estudos Avançados, 18(52), 109–120. Bacelar, C. and Carvalho, C. (2014, 8 October). Bancada evangélica cresce 14% e deve prejudicar causas LGBT. Retrieved 19 December 2017, from https://oglobo.globo.com/brasil/bancada-evangelica-cres ce-14-deve-prejudicar-causas-lgbt-14178049. Balloussier, A.V. (2018, 17 October). Padres usam missas e redes sociais para apoiar Bolsonaro e Haddad. Retrieved 21 December 2018, from www1.folha.uol.com.br/poder/2018/10/padres-usam-missas-e-re des-sociais-para-apoiar-bolsonaro-e-haddad.shtml. Bebbington, D.W. (1989). Evangelicalism in Modern Britain: A History from the 1730s to the 1980s. Abingdon: Routledge. Boas, T.C. (2014). Pastor Paulo vs. Doctor Carlos: Professional Titles as Voting Heuristics in Brazil. Journal of Politics in Latin America, 6(2), 39–72. Boas, T.C. and Smith, A.E. (2015). Religion and the Latin American Voter. In R.E. Carlin, M.M. Singer and E.J. Zechmeister (eds), The Latin American Voter: Pursuing Representation and Accountability in Challenging Contexts (pp. 99–113). Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Boas, T.C. and Smith, A.E. (2019). Looks Like Me, Thinks Like Me? Descriptive Representation as Voting Heuristics in Brazil. Journal of Politics in Latin America, 6(2), 39–72. Boff, L. (1987). Introducing Liberation Theology. Maryknoll: Orbis Books. Bohn, S.R. (2004). Evangélicos no Brasil: perfil socioeconômico, afinidades ideológicas e determinantes do comportamento eleitoral. Opinião Pública, 10(2), 288–338. Borges, A. (2019, 3 January). ‘O Estado é laico, mas esta ministra é terrivelmente cristã’, diz Damares Alves Política. Retrieved 4 January 2019, from https://politica.estadao.com.br/noticias/geral,o-estado-e-laico-ma s-esta-ministra-e-terrivelmente-crista-diz-damares-alves,70002664861. Borges, T.D.P. (2010). Identidade política evangélica e os deputados estaduais brasileiros. Perspectivas: Revista de Ciências Sociais, 35, 149–171. Caesar, G. (2018, 8 October). Saiba como eram e como ficaram as bancadas na Câmara dos Deputados, partido a partido. Retrieved 10 October 2018, from https://g1.globo.com/politica/eleicoes/2018/eleicao-em-num eros/noticia/2018/10/08/pt-perde-deputados-mas-ainda-tem-maior-bancada-da-camara-psl-de-bolsona ro-ganha-52-representantes.ghtml. Caleiro, J.P. and Machado, A.P. (2018, 6 December). O que pensa a futura ministra dos Direitos Humanos sobre LGBT e mulheres. Retrieved 4 January 2019, from https://exame.abril.com.br/brasil/o-que-pensa -a-futura-ministra-dos-direitos-humanos-sobre-lgbt-e-mulheres/. Campos Machado, M. das D. and Burity, J. (2014). A Ascensão Política dos Pentecostais no Brasil na Avaliação de Líderes Religiosos. Dados – Revista de Ciências Sociais, 57(3), 601–631. Carr, A. (2018). Brazil: 2018 Chamber of Deputies Election Results. Retrieved 4 January 2019, from Psephos: Adam Carr’s Election Archive, http://psephos.adam-carr.net/countries/b/brazil/brazil20183.txt. Cascione, S. and Araújo, S. (2018, 2 December). Frentes parlamentares são pouco para sustentar presidente. Retrieved 4 January 2019, from www1.folha.uol.com.br/poder/2018/12/frentes-parlamentares-saopouco-para-sustentar-presidente.shtml. Centro de Documentação e Informação (2018). Legislaturas: Corrente Religiosa. Câmara dos Deputados. Chesnut, R.A. (1999). The Salvation Army or the Army’s Salvation? Pentecostal Politics in Amazonian Brazil, 1962–1992. Luso-Brazilian Review, 36(2), 33–49. Cleary, E.L. (1997). The Brazilian Catholic Church and Church-State Relations: Nation-Building. Journal of Church and State, 39, 253–272. Coelho, S.A. (2003). O Partido Democrata Cristão: teores programáticos da terceira via brasileira (1945– 1964). Revista Brasileira de História, 23(46), 201–228. Coradini, O.L. (2010). Frentes parlamentares, representação de interesses e alinhamentos políticos. Retrieved 4 January 2019, from www.lume.ufrgs.br/handle/10183/80218. Dantas, B.S. do A. (2011). Religião e política: ideologia e ação da Bancada Evangélica na Câmara Federal. Pontifícia Universidade Católica de São Paulo, São Paulo, Brazil. Datafolha de 25 de outubro para presidente por sexo, idade, escolaridade, renda, região, religião e orientação sexual (2018, 26 October). Retrieved 21 December 2018, from https://g1.globo.com/politica/eleicoes/ 2018/eleicao-em-numeros/noticia/2018/10/26/datafolha-de-25-de-outubro-para-presidente-por-sex o-idade-escolaridade-renda-regiao-religiao-e-orientacao-sexual.ghtml.

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Religion and political parties in Brazil Mariano, R. and Oro, A.P. (2011). The Reciprocal Instrumentalization of Religion and Politics in Brazil. In The Reciprocal Instrumentalization of Religion and Politics in Brazil (pp. 245–266). Leiden: Brill. Mariano, R. and Oro, A.P. (2016). Religion and Politics in Brazil. In B. Schmidt and S. Engler (eds), Handbook of Contemporary Religions in Brazil (pp. 363–378). Leiden: Brill. Mariano, R. and Pierucci, A.F. (1992). O envolvimento dos pentecostais na eleição de Collor. Retrieved 4 January 2019, from http://bibliotecadigital.tse.jus.br/xmlui/handle/bdtse/5134. Marini, L. and de Carvalho, A.L. (2018, 17 October). Renovada, bancada evangélica chega com mais força no próximo Congresso. Retrieved 20 December 2018, from https://congressoemfoco.uol.com.br/leg islativo/renovada-bancada-evangelica-chega-com-mais-forca-no-proximo-congresso/. Medeiros, É. and Fonseca, B. (2016, 18 February). As bancadas da Câmara. Retrieved 4 January 2019, from https://apublica.org/2016/02/truco-as-bancadas-da-camara/. Medeiros, É. and Fonseca, B. (2017, 29 May). Bíblia, boi e bala: um raio-x das bancadas da Câmara. Retrieved 19 November 2017, from https://exame.abril.com.br/brasil/biblia-boi-e-bala-um-raio-x-da s-bancadas-da-camara/. Melito, L. (2014, 19 March). Marcha da Família com Deus pela Liberdade pedia queda de Jango há 50 anos. Retrieved 21 December 2018, from www.ebc.com.br/cidadania/2014/03/marcha-da-familia -com-deus-pela-liberdade-em-19-de-marco-de-1964-0. Montero, P. (2016). Secularism and Religion in the Public Sphere in Contemporary Brazil. In B. Schmidt and S. Engler (eds), Handbook of Contemporary Religions in Brazil (pp. 379–394). Leiden: Brill. Nishimura, K.M. (2004). Conservadorismo social: opiniões e atitudes no contexto da eleição de 2002. Opinião Pública, 10(2), 339–367. Ogland, C.P. and Verona, A.P. (2011). Religion and Attitudes Toward Abortion and Abortion Policy in Brazil. Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion, 50(4), 812–821. Ogland, C.P. and Verona, A.P. (2014). Religion and the Rainbow Struggle: Does Religion Factor Into Attitudes Toward Homosexuality and Same-Sex Civil Unions in Brazil? Journal of Homosexuality, 61(9), 1334–1349. Oro, Ari Pedro (2011). Algumas Interpelações Do Pentecostalismo No Brasil. Horizonte, 9(22), 383–395. Pierucci, A.F. (2004). ‘Bye Bye, Brasil’: O Declínio das Religiões Tradicionais no Censo 2000. Estudos Avançados, 18(52), 17–28. Pierucci, A.F. de O. and Prandi, J.R. (1986). A realidade social das religiões no Brasil: religião, sociedade e política. Curso de Pós-Graduação em Sociologia, Departamento de Sociologia, Faculdade de Filosofia, Letras e Ciências Humanas da Universidade de São Paulo. Pierucci, A.F. and Prandi, R. (2015). Religiões e voto: a eleição presidencial de 1994. Opinião Pública, 3(1), 32–63. Quadros, M.P. dos R. and Madeira, R.M. (2018). Fim da direita envergonhada? Atuação da bancada evangélica e da bancada da bala e os caminhos da representação do conservadorismo no Brasil. Opinião Pública, 24(3), 486–522. Reich, G. and dos Santos, P. (2013). The Rise (and Frequent Fall) of Evangelical Politicians: Organization, Theology, and Church Politics. Latin American Politics and Society, 55(4), 1–22. Samuels, D. and Zucco, C. (2018). Partisans, Anti-Partisans and Voter Behavior in Brazil. In B. Ames (ed.), The Routledge Handbook of Brazilian Politics (pp. 269–289). Florence, KY: Routledge. Santos, M.G. (2014). Os Limites Do Censo No Campo Religioso Brasileiro. In Christina Vital da Cunha and Renata de Castro Menezes (eds), Religiões Em Conexão: Números, Direitos, Pessoas (pp. 18–34). Rio de Janeiro: Instituto de Estudos da Religião. Schmidt, B. and Engler, S. (2016). Handbook of Contemporary Religions in Brazil. Leiden: Brill. Schreiber, M. and Shalders, A. (2018, 31 October). A matemática que pode alavancar (ou travar) projetos de Bolsonaro no Congresso. Retrieved 4 January 2019, from www.bbc.com/portuguese/brasil-46036919. Selka, S. (2007). Religion and the Politics of Ethnic Identity in Bahia, Brazil. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Selka, S. (2012). New Religious Movements in Brazil. Nova Religio: The Journal of Alternative and Emergent Religions, 15(4), 3–12. Seto, G. (2018, 24 October). Slogan de Bolsonaro foi inspirado em brado de paraquedistas militares. Retrieved 21 December 2018, from www1.folha.uol.com.br/poder/2018/10/slogan-de-bolsona ro-foi-inspirado-em-brado-de-paraquedistas-militares.shtml. Siepierski, P.D. (1997). Pós-Pentecostalismo e Política no Brasil. Estudos Teológicos, 37(1), 47–61. Silva, L.G.T. da (2016). O Brasil ao pé da cruz: notas sobre a representação política de pentecostais e neopentecostais. Pensamento Plural, 17, 101–127.

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17 RELIGION AND POLITICAL PARTIES IN MEXICO Luis Felipe Mantilla

Introduction Religion is at once everywhere and nowhere in contemporary Mexican politics. Since the return to democracy in 2000, when the conservative Partido Acción Nacional (PAN) ended the long hegemony of the Partido Revolucionario Institucional (PRI), debates associated with religion, most notably regarding reproductive rights and same-sex marriage, have become increasingly prominent in the public sphere (Blancarte, 2009). While the direct influence of the Catholic Church on Mexican society has diminished in many ways since the 1960s (Loaeza, 2009), most Mexicans consider religion very important to their lives, attend church regularly and express a high degree of confidence in their churches (Inglehart et al., 2014), creating conditions that potentially enable religious political engagement. Mass demonstrations for and against abortion and same-sex marriage, with those opposed often presenting their arguments in explicitly religious terms, have become regular occurrences and politicians on both sides of the ideological spectrum regularly participate in these events. However, despite its political salience, the relationship between religion and political parties is difficult to pin down. Nowhere is this more evident that in the case of the PAN, which has complex and often ambivalent ties to religion. On the one hand, the party functions as a reliable defender of conservative Catholic policies with regard to abortion and same-sex marriage (Beer, 2017; Beer and Cruz-Aceves, 2018), and its candidates are significantly more religious than those of other major parties (Magaloni and Moreno, 2003; Camp, 2008: 54–55). Moreover, from a historical perspective, Catholic activists played central roles in the formation of the party (Loaeza, 1999), lay Catholic organisations have been an important part of its elite recruitment strategies (Mantilla, 2016), and Catholic social thought is deeply embedded in its doctrine (Blancarte, 2009). On the other hand, the party does not recognise any formal connection to Catholicism or the Catholic Church and has persistently rejected any notion that it is a confessional party (Shirk, 2005). Moreover, the Catholic Church does not provide the PAN with explicit backing (Camp, 1997), and the party does not enjoy a disproportionate appeal among self-identified Catholics (Magaloni and Moreno, 2003; Camp, 1997). As a result, scholars are often at odds over whether the PAN is a religious party, driven in part by the aspect of the party they choose to emphasise. Camp, emphasising the behaviour of Catholic voters, draws on a wealth of survey data to challenge the notion that there are any 213

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links between the two, conceding only the coincidence of ‘some ideological tenets’ (Camp, 1994: 75). In contrast, Beer, focusing on the role of the party in policy debates, does not hesitate to describes the PAN as a ‘conservative Catholic party’ (Beer, 2017: 50). While other parties have periodically attempted to emphasise religion and appeal to devout voters, they have rarely met with any degree of lasting success. Thus, despite its ambivalent ties to religion, or perhaps because of them, the PAN is consistently at the centre of debates about religion and politics in Mexico. This situation is the result of the evolution of Mexico’s religious–secular cleavage, its distinctive institutional arrangements and its gradual process of democratisation. It is also a consequence of the preferences of the Catholic Church hierarchy, which seeks policy influence but avoids partisan entanglements (Grzymała-Busse, 2015), and the strategic choices of parties under democracy, whose members have often personal cultivated ties to religious groups and constituencies even as party leaders carefully protect the secular autonomy of their organisations (Loaeza, 1999). Understanding the relationship between religion and political parties thus requires awareness of the long history of religious political mobilisation in Mexico, the ways in which it was transformed by the process of democratisation, and its subsequent evolution under democratic rule. The rest of this chapter explores each of these elements in turn, concluding with a brief analysis of the 2018 presidential election.

Historical foundations Religious cleavages in Mexico run deep. As Kuru points out, ancien régimes are often a key factor in shaping modern patterns of religious politics (Kuru, 2009), and Mexico is no exception. Mexico, or New Spain as it was then known, was a crown jewel of the Spanish colonial empire and the Catholic Church played a critical, though often contentious, role in the legitimation and administration of the viceroyalty (O’Hara, 2010). This made the status of the Church a key point of contention in the post-colonial period. Indeed, during much of the nineteenth century Mexico was riven by civil wars between conservatives tied to the Catholic Church and increasingly anticlerical liberals. These post-independence struggles culminated with the period known as the Reforma (1857–1861), when liberals led by Benito Juarez implemented a series of major institutional reforms broadly aimed at separating Church and state and more specifically reducing the social, economic and political influence of the Catholic Church. The subsequent dictatorship of Porfirio Diaz struck a more pragmatic tone, allowing the Church to regain much of its prestige and informal influence even as growing disenchantment with the regime’s economic policies led many Catholics to embrace the ideals and activist stances associated with Catholic social thought (Andes, 2012). The Mexican Revolution of 1910 reignited partisan struggle over the role of the Catholic Church and cemented the modern secular–religious cleavage (Camp, 1997). The revolution did not initially focus on issues of religion, and its first president, Francisco Madero, allowed the electoral participation of the Partido Católico Nacional (PCN), a party that brought together conservative ultramontanists and rising social Catholics (Andes, 2012). The decision of the PCN to support Victoriano Huerta’s anti-revolutionary coup in 1913, which was also supported by the Catholic hierarchy, contributed to the sharp anticlerical turn of many revolutionary leaders. As a result, after Huerta’s defeat, the PCN was banned and victorious revolutionaries set up one of the most assertively secularist regimes in the world (Kuru, 2009; Fallaw, 2013). The 1917 Constitution set limits on the number of priests, banned political speech and action by clergy, ended religious education and deprived the Catholic Church of legal standing, placing its finances and property under state control (Fallaw, 2013). In addition, it explicitly banned 214

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confessional parties. Many of these articles were not immediately enforced as struggles among various factions continued to devour the energies of the revolution. However, the anticlericalism of revolutionary leaders like Álvaro Obregón and Plutarco Elías Calles, who emerged as the architects of the post-revolutionary era, ensured that these articles would not long remain de jure. When a Catholic activist assassinated Obregón, President Calles (1924–1928) pushed for effective enforcement of the constitution, expelling priests, seizing property and closing churches (Fallaw, 2013). In response to these developments, Catholics in the conservative Bajío region in central Mexico engaged in a campaign of violent resistance known as the Cristiada (Meyer, 1973). The intensity and duration of the conflict, which raged from 1926 to 1929, cost tens of thousands of lives and involved atrocities by both sides, alarmed the Catholic hierarchy and led it to rein in the Cristeros. Negotiations with the Mexican government led to a cessation of hostilities. However, President Cárdenas (1934–1940) steered Mexico to the left in ways that once again alarmed a broad range of conservatives, liberals and social Catholics. This led to a second, smaller, armed insurrection by Catholics triggered by his administration’s efforts to implement ‘socialist education’ from 1934 to 1938 (Meyer, 2003). Once again, the conflict ended after negotiations between the state and the Catholic hierarchy, this time leading to a more durable peace. The informal commitment to peaceful coexistence between the Catholic hierarchy and the Mexican state became known as the modus vivendi. There was no official recognition of the Catholic Church, but it would be allowed to effectively govern itself and engage in core functions like education. Open religious political engagement, whether by clergy or party, would remain effectively banned. Mexico’s ruling party, renamed the PRI in 1946, was thus allowed to operate relatively unchallenged by the Catholic hierarchy for decades (Blancarte, 1992). The modus vivendi was a profound disappointment for many devout Catholics, particularly those associated with the Cristiada. In the Bajío region, the Sinarquista movement arose to challenge the revolutionary state, relying on religious symbols to organise mass protests and eventually organising a political party called Partido Fuerza Popular (PFP) in 1945 (Meyer, 2003). The party, which had limited electoral success, was banned in 1948 after its members placed a black hood over a statue of its old anticlerical foe, Benito Juarez, in Mexico City. Critically, the Catholic hierarchy systematically starved these efforts of support and undermined its leaders, leading to the fragmentation and effective collapse of Sinarquismo by the 1950s (Meyer, 2003). In contrast, Mexican Catholic Action, the umbrella association set up by the hierarchy to oversee lay engagement in society, steered its members away from contentious political action and encouraged spiritual activity. The stability of the modus vivendi and the growing capacity of the Mexican Episcopal Council (CEM) allowed bishops to more effectively coordinate their actions and thus constrain lay attempts to mobilise Catholicism without their consent (Mantilla, 2012). The PAN, formed in 1939, reflected the possibilities and constraints of this complex scenario. It was initially designed as a broad anti-Cárdenas coalition that included Catholic activists, liberals, business leaders and disaffected revolutionaries, held together by the skill and influence of its main founder, Manuel Gómez Morin (Mabry, 1973; Shirk, 2005). Abiding by the law and reflecting the diversity of its founding coalition, the party declared itself strictly non-confessional. However, as the PRI moved to the centre and actively sought to co-opt moderate conservatives and business leaders, the PAN’s coalition became increasingly dominated by its Catholic faction (Loaeza, 1999; Shirk, 2005). Religious activists within the party, initially sceptical of political engagement, were won over by the argument that electoral action could be primarily proselytist and serve as a unique avenue to expose ordinary Mexicans to the values and principles of the party (Mabry, 1973: 37–41). From the mid-1940s to the mid-1960s, the party endured largely as a result of its ties to Catholicism, but this reliance was always fraught with tension. The PAN’s ability to appeal to devout Catholics, its informal ties to Catholic Action and other lay movements, and its 215

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alternative programmatic vision rooted in Catholic social thought allowed the party to survive its long ‘journey in the desert’ (Loaeza, 1999), a time when the party was perpetually bankrupt and electorally marginal. However, there were associated costs, as its doctrinal orientation alienated pragmatists and thus cemented its status as a minor party during those decades (Greene, 2007; Mantilla, 2016). The influence of religion within the PAN ebbed and flowed, peaking with the selection of José González Torres, a Catholic intellectual and leader of multiple conservative lay associations, as party president in 1959 (Pérez Franco, 2007: 164). However, even at its height, Catholic influence in the PAN was never hegemonic, as Gómez Morin and other prominent party leaders repeatedly signalled discomfort with the direction the party had taken and undermined the formal authority of González Torres (Loyola Pérez, 2000: 279–284). The pragmatic factions of the PAN worried that the growing salience of religion within the party would limit its electoral effectiveness, eventually forcing the replacement of González Torres and provoking a schism that cost the party a number of prominent youth activists that hoped to align the PAN with Christian Democracy (Fuentes Díaz, 1972). As a result of these processes, twentieth-century Mexico possessed a religious–secular cleavage and a party rooted in Catholicism, but the salience of religious issues was limited by institutional constraints, partisan strategy and the unwillingness of the Catholic Church hierarchy to enable assertive religious mobilisation. This delicate equilibrium was disrupted by the growing competitiveness of elections in the last decades of the twentieth century, a trend that eventually led to Mexico’s democratisation.

Religion and democratisation As in other Catholic-majority contexts (Driessen, 2014), the process of democratisation in Mexico transformed the relationship between religion and political parties in profound ways. Increasingly contested electoral contests, often marred by visible fraud, a major constitutional reform of religion–state relations, the growing willingness of the Catholic hierarchy to speak about social, economic and political affairs, and the mounting electoral successes of the PAN combined to increase the salience of religion in Mexican politics (Camp, 1994: 70–72). Yet this combination of factors also contributed to the maintenance of formal differentiation of partisan and religious organisations, such that the PAN and the Catholic Church maintained a careful distance even as they pursued similar goals (Shirk, 2005). The dominant party regime led by the PRI had always allowed opposition parties to participate in politics, but by means of patronage, institutional design and outright fraud did not allow them to secure more than a handful of seats (Greene, 2007). Limited electoral reforms in 1964 and 1977 marginally expanded the electoral opportunities available to the PAN and other opposition parties, but it was not until the financial crisis of 1982 deprived the PRI of much of its elite support and patronage advantage that meaningful opposition electoral victories became possible (Magaloni, 2006). Many of these businessmen and defectors from the PRI switched to the PAN, where they came to be known as neopanistas and became increasingly powerful within the party (Shirk, 2005). However, it was only the fracturing of the PRI in 1988 that led to the first gubernatorial victory by a PAN candidate (1988) and its first senate seat (1990), both in Baja California. Electoral participation under hegemony gradually enhanced the PAN’s ability to be a more effective political contender, but also led to conflicts within the party regarding its doctrinal commitments and its role in the hegemonic party system (Mantilla, 2018). Ideologues were often on the losing end of these debates, leading to periodic and symbolically important elite defections. The most visible of these crises came in 1976–1978, when open conflict between ideologues and pragmatists led to the resignation of the party president and prevented the party 216

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from fielding a presidential candidate (Reveles Vázquez, 2002). The process continued with smaller schisms in the 1980s and into the early 1990s that both reflected and contributed to the diminishing influence of doctrinal Catholics within the organisation (Loaeza, 1999; Mantilla, 2016). Together with the influx of neopanistas, this meant that by the 1990s, Catholic doctrines and associational ties had been relegated to a secondary role in the PAN, even as they retained symbolic importance among is cadres (Shirk, 2005). Beyond the PAN, the 1980s were a period of growing Catholic political engagement. The long-simmering pot of Catholic discontent in the Bajío led to the formation of the Partido Democrata Mexicano (PDM) in 1979, heir to Sinarquismo and the PFP, which rapidly emerged as a contender in the region and was able to secure seats in the national legislature (Aguilar and Zermeño, 1992). Although short-lived, the PDM demonstrated the limits and possibilities of reactionary religious mobilisation. Like the PAN, the PDM did not, and indeed could not, openly present itself as a Catholic party. However, the PDM drew far more explicitly on Catholic symbols and doctrines, and relied directly on its ties to the remnants of Sinarquismo in the Bajío to mobilise voters (Tagle, 1984). However, the persistent inability of the party to build upon its toehold in the legislature, along with internal conflicts among its leaders, led to a catastrophic decline in its voter share in 1988. The infusion of a handful of disaffected PAN elites in 1990, including the aging González Torres, did little to resolve the crisis, and the party lost its registration in 1994 and again in 1997 (Aguilar and Zermeño, 1992). Of more lasting consequences was the growing willingness of the Catholic Church hierarchy to become more active in Mexican politics. This process, which reflected a broader turn towards democracy by the global Catholic Church (Philpott, 2004), took distinctive forms in Mexico. Spurred in part by growing competition from Protestants, Catholic bishops became increasingly willing to express their anxiety regarding the economic and social crises the country endured in the early 1980s (Trejo, 2009; Mackin, 2003). They also began to voice discontent about the increasingly visible reliance on electoral fraud that accompanied the PRI’s diminishing patronage and loss of appeal among the electorate (Camp, 1994). Facing an increasingly discredited regime, the CEM issued statements calling for adherence to democratic norms and denouncing particularly egregious examples of fraud. While it declared itself to be speaking for Mexican Catholics in general and thus to be above partisan concerns, bishops’ ventures into electoral oversight were not free from critique. Indeed, some of the hierarchy’s most notable protests came when PAN candidates were seen as victims of electoral fraud. In one particularly noteworthy instance, the bishop of Chihuahua called for a suspension of the mass to protest the flawed 1986 gubernatorial race in his state, which had deprived the PAN candidate of a plausible victory (Blancarte, 1992). This gesture, which recalled the events that initiated the Cristiada, led to vehement protests by the Mexican government, which in turn led the Vatican nuncio, Girolamo Prigione, to intervene and countermand the bishop (Loaeza, 1996: 114). President Salinas (1988–1994), seeking to boost his legitimacy after his unexpectedly competitive and possibly fraudulent election, opted to ‘modernise’ religion–state relations by removing or revising the constitution’s most anticlerical articles (Loaeza, 1999: 484). Although the plan resembled proposals that had long been advocated by the PAN, the latter party was not invited to participate in the process. Similarly, although Protestant churches were included in the negotiations, many complained that the Catholic Church, and more specifically Vatican nuncio Prigione, dominated the discussion (García Ugarte, 1993: 105–106). The result was the constitutional reform of 1992, which did away with the most anticlerical, if long unenforced, language in the constitution, while retaining the ban on confessional parties and placing limits on explicit church engagement in politics. 217

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This change in religion–state relations improved the regime’s ties to the Vatican but had limited consequences for the PAN. Its leaders expressed annoyance that they were locked out of negotiations that they had long advocated, but in many ways the reforms resolved an issue that had historically caused tension within the party, namely the extent to which the party should campaign on the electorally marginal issue of religious freedom. Indeed, they had few reasons to complain, as 1994 was a remarkable year for the PAN, with its candidates achieving a degree of electoral success that would have been almost unimaginable a decade earlier (Loaeza, 1999). A critical component of its success was its ability to secure reforms to Mexico’s electoral governance mechanisms, most critically the independence of the body tasked with electoral oversight. As fraud became less likely, the PAN was able to leverage its experience with electoral competition to win a string of electoral victories as the local, state and national level (Shirk, 2005; Mantilla, 2018). The party therefore reached the 2000 general election with realistic hopes of capturing the executive. The election was a momentous one for Mexico, as the PAN’s presidential candidate, Vicente Fox, mounted a formidable challenge to the weakened PRI. While not a dominant factor, religion played a noticeable and often controversial role in this effort. As part of this campaign, Fox engaged in more explicit displays of personal religious devotion than Mexicans were used to seeing from a major party candidate. However, these were different from the strategies used by the PAN during the mid-twentieth century. Rather than imbue his platform with references to Catholic doctrines and ideals, or propose explicit changes to the status of religion in Mexico, Fox emphasised his own personal beliefs and alignment with popular traditions. This was consistent with his overall strategy, which was built around the ‘Amigos de Fox’ fundraising network, rather than the PAN, and generally emphasised his personal qualities over his party affiliation (Shirk, 2000). Among his most contentious displays of religiosity was the use of the iconography of the Virgin of Guadalupe, which provoked a cautious reaction from some members of the hierarchy who saw this as a bridge too far in terms of partisan religious appeals (Reveles Vázquez, 2002: 367). The Fox campaign also articulated a ten-point promise to promote religious freedom and uphold religious values, most notably a commitment to protecting life from conception. Notably, these statements were presented in an ecumenical context that aimed to appeal to a broad range of religious conservatives rather than exclusively to the Catholic Church, and as a personal promise by Fox rather than a formal political platform (Blancarte, 2006: 433). This was important insofar as it maintained the official distance between Church and party. The Catholic hierarchy put forward its own efforts to facilitate a democratic transition. Thus, in the lead-up to the election, Mexico’s bishops issued a series of statements that clearly signalled their preference for partisan alternation at the presidential level, as well as for a candidate that would defend values associated with Catholic teachings. Secularist critics argued that the list of candidates that plausibly fit this description was rather brief (Blancarte, 2004: 254). Nonetheless, the hierarchy staunchly and plausibly defended both its non-partisan status and its willingness to speak out in favour of democracy, religious freedom, and the sanctity of life. The process of democratisation, linked to the reform of religion–state relations, therefore substantially altered the relationship between religion and political parties. As electoral competitiveness increased, the PAN moved away from explicit and doctrinal approaches to religious mobilisation and instead relied on the personal reputation of its candidates to appeal to devout voters. The Catholic Church hierarchy became more active in political affairs, sometimes in ways that benefited the PAN, but sought to remain above the fray by consistently rejecting the notion that it was in any way a partisan actor. 218

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Religion and democratic politics Since the victory of the PAN in 2000 religion has become increasingly salient in Mexican politics, but not in the ways that many of that party’s conservative supporters may have hoped it would. The success of the PAN raised fears among secularists that there would be efforts to expand the role of religion in public affairs (Shirk, 2005; Blancarte, 2006). This contributed to pre-emptive mobilisation by progressive activists who waged successful campaigns to expand reproductive rights and extend legal recognition of same-sex unions. The Catholic hierarchy and the PAN worked to counter these efforts, but met with mixed results. Somewhat ironically, through this process of heightened awareness and contestation religion became too politicised to be appealing to political parties. The politicisation of abortion was a gradual process. The Catholic Church had been concerned with potential liberalisation of abortion in Mexico since the 1970s. Until that decade, abortion was banned across the country with the only exemptions being to protect the life of the mother and in cases of rape (Beer, 2017: 49). During the 1970s and 1980s, government efforts to promote population control led to some state-level reforms in abortion regulation, as part of a major push for family planning (Loaeza, 2009: 121). These early efforts triggered reactions by the PAN and the Catholic hierarchy, most notably the formation of ProVida, an anti-abortion organisation, in 1978 (Beer, 2017: 50). While feminist organisations had mobilised to push for enhanced reproductive rights as early as the 1970s, it was not until the late 1980s and 1990s that they began to play a prominent role in national debates (Lamas, 1997). The subnational electoral successes of the PAN in the 1990s changed the nature of the debate. As the PAN came to power in different states, their governments began to play a key role in the development of anti-abortion legislation, as in Chihuahua 1994 and (unsuccessfully) in Baja California and Guanajuato in 1999 (Beer, 2017: 52–53). This alarmed secularist activists, but these struggles did not become a central point of political contention until 1999, when the case of Paulina, a 13-year-old rape victim who was effectively denied access to an abortion by PAN officials in Baja California, became a major national scandal (Taracena, 2002). PAN state officials made her talk to a priest, brought ProVida members to her room and made her watch anti-abortion films (Beer, 2017: 53). The case became a major news event at the time and further ignited the emerging national debate on abortion and reproductive rights. Given that the Fox campaign had made explicit commitments to protect life from conception, the PAN’s victory provoked fears of a full-fledged return to conservative policies among reproductive rights advocates. Although the PAN’s direct ties to religion were much weakened, the party continued to have a reputation as a bulwark of conservative Catholicism, one that had only been deepened by the increasingly partisan debates around abortion. The reality proved more complex, in many ways reflecting Fox’s unorthodox and personalistic style (Shirk, 2000). Despite his willingness to display his Catholic faith and his promises to religious groups, Fox appointed a progressive secretary of health, Julio Frenk, who was not a member of the PAN (Amuchástegui et al., 2010). After prolonged consultations with a broad range of civil society groups, Frenk opted to include emergency contraception in public health services in 2004. The ensuing controversy witnessed severe conflict within the Fox administration, as conservative PAN ministers openly criticised the decision, and in the public arena, where Catholic activists and members of the hierarchy expressed their dismay at what they saw as state sanctioned abortion. The controversy only simmered down after Fox expressed his personal support for the policy (Amuchástegui et al., 2010), and led many conservative Catholics to become disenchanted with his administration.

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The narrow presidential victory of long-time PAN leader Felipe Calderón in 2006 resulted in a government more willing to consistently defend Catholic positions. Yet under his presidency the conflict around reproductive rights deepened as left-wing government in Mexico City moved to liberalise abortion policies. The decriminalisation of first trimester abortion came in 2007, shocking many conservatives and leading to a widespread reaction. Predictably, the Catholic hierarchy and conservative Catholic groups in civil society expressed dismay at the development and mobilised against it. There was also a political reaction, and the PAN played a central role in this process at the local, state and national level. The administration of President Calderón challenged the constitutionality of the policy in the Supreme Court, but its challenge failed in 2008. Yet that same year, 14 states passed foetal life amendments to their constitution, with the PAN playing a central role in these efforts, where it was opportunistically joined by the state-level PRI representatives (Amuchástegui et al., 2010). By 2013, when the PAN had been replaced by the PRI as the national governing party, the number of states with similar amendments had increased to 17 (Beer, 2017). While the political struggle surrounding abortion had been in many ways anticipated by the Catholic Church and the PAN, the advance of same-sex marriage caught them largely by surprise. Led by the small, progressive Partido Socialdemócrata (PSD), the government of Mexico City passed a civil unions bill in 2006. In 2009, the PSD put forth a bill that made marriage laws gender neutral, thus effectively legalising same-sex marriage in that jurisdiction (Beer and Cruz-Aceves, 2018: 14). The speed with which the law was passed contributed to the relative lack of reaction in terms of popular mobilisation, even as it was vocally opposed by both the PAN and the archbishop of Mexico City, Cardinal Norberto Rivera. The administration of President Calderón challenged the law in courts. However, the Supreme Court upheld it and went further, ruling that all other Mexican states had to recognise the marriages that had taken place in Mexico City, dealing a blow to an administration increasingly embattled on other fronts. While the controversies over abortion and same-sex marriage roiled many Catholic activists, they paled in comparison to the escalating security crisis surrounding Calderón’s decision to escalate the war against drug cartels. The sharp rise in violence brought about by the conflict, which saw homicide rates more than double between 2006 and 2011 (Shirk and Wallman, 2015), drove a further wedge between the PAN and many Catholic voters. The PAN thus entered the 2012 electoral contest in a severely weakened position. Seeking to appeal to a base of conservative voters, its candidate, Josefina Vázquez Mota, waged a campaign that was criticised for its reliance on Catholic values and rhetoric (Prados, 2012). Vázquez Mota came in a distant third among voters, contributing to the perception that religious political mobilisation was, at best, a double-edged sword. The winner of the 2012 election was the charismatic governor of Mexico State, Enrique Peña Nieto, of the once-hegemonic PRI. The return of the PRI to power prompted fears of democratic erosion, but President Peña Nieto proved unable to guide his party to electoral dominance. Despite passing some important pieces of legislation, notably in terms of energy sector reform, the new PRI administration struggled on many fronts. Religion–state relations, though hardly at the centre of the action, was one of these. Peña Nieto personally advocated a constitutional reform recognising same-sex marriage, which he argued would recognise the legal status quo. However, the move met spirited opposition from the Catholic Church, the PAN, and within his own party (Beer and CruzAceves, 2018). The magnitude of the counter-mobilisation, which involved well-coordinated mass demonstrations across the country, signalled that religious conservatives would not be caught unprepared on this front again. Peña Nieto was forced to abandon the project, leading to a de facto stalemate that endured for the remainder of his administration. If campaigning for religion was not an avenue to political success, neither was campaigning against it. 220

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Conclusion: the 2018 elections Religion has a complicated relationship with political parties in Mexico. The country has deep reservoirs of religious feeling and a historic religious–secular cleavage that, while altered by growing religious diversity and shifting social norms associated with secularisation, remains a potentially powerful motivator for political activism. However, the PAN, which by its history, doctrinal principles and conservative policy preferences would appear to be the most likely candidate for the role of religious party, maintains an ambiguous and often conflicted relationship to religion in general and the Catholic Church in particular. This situation is a consequence of Mexico’s distinctive history of religious–secularist struggle and accommodation, its gradual process of democratisation, and the strategies and preferences of key actors, both partisan and religious, under democracy. Many key features of this scenario can be grasped by considering the 2018 presidential election and its aftermath. In an effort to appeal to a broader swath of the electorate, the PAN’s presidential candidate and ex-party president, Ricardo Anaya, organised a coalition with his party’s long-time rival, the leftist Partido de la Revolución Democrática (PRD). Unsurprisingly, and perhaps by design, this alliance of rivals that straddles the religious–secular divide remained largely silent on religiously charged issues during the campaign. The PAN’s main opponents pursued a similar strategy, avoiding issues of religion as much as possible. The PRI, acutely aware of the divisions within the party that had been revealed by Peña Nieto’s ill-fated constitutional reform, predictably steered clear. More surprisingly, the man who ultimately won the election, Andrés Manuel López Obrador, opted to form a coalition between his own leftist Morena party and the tiny, ultraconservative Encuentro Social (ES) party, provoking scathing critiques from many progressive circles. Reflecting the incongruities of this partnership, Lopez Obrador avoided taking clear stances on same-sex marriage, abortion, and other topics potentially linked to religion during the campaign. The situation in 2018, in which major parties refused to position themselves on issues of religion and politics even as they remained important points of political contention, in many ways reflects long-running complexities of Mexican religious politics. Having learned from decades of conflict and accommodation, the Catholic Church hierarchy remains committed to maintaining its autonomy and moral stature, even as it seeks to project its values and principles onto the political arena. The PAN, though consistently willing to defend policy positions associated with Catholic doctrine, studiously rejects the notion that it is in any way a Catholic party. The PRI, once a staunch advocate of secularism, has adopted a pragmatic stance aimed at appealing to both socially conservative and progressive voters. Even parties on the left, which played a key role in advancing progressive policies resisted by the Catholic Church, have been hesitant to campaign on these issues at the national level. Religious politics may bring Mexicans to the streets but experience has taught political parties to treat it with caution.

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Europe

18 THE POLITICS OF RELIGION IN GERMANY, 1945 TO THE PRESENT Sabrina P. Ramet

Since the unification of Germany in 1871, the country’s churches have functioned under five distinct systems: Imperial Germany (1871–1918), with a privileged status for the Protestant Church in most of the country and for the Catholic Church in Bavaria; the Weimar Republic (1918–1933), which adopted a constitution that ‘pledged the neutrality of the state in religious affairs’ (Froese and Pfaff, 2005, 404) and was viewed with disfavour by the two major churches; the Third Reich (1933–1945), which worked to corrupt Christianity by delegitimating the Old Testament and reimagining Jesus of Nazareth as an ‘Aryan’ (i.e. non-Jew), while setting up a pro-Nazi German Christian Movement, which some Protestants joined; the German Democratic Republic (1949–1990), a communist state which promoted the secularisation of society and succeeded in dramatically reducing the number of Protestants within its borders; and the Federal Republic of Germany, in two incarnations – the so-called Bonn Republic (1949–1990) and reunified Germany (1990–present), both of which have been committed to preserving a multi-party system with a free press, guarantees of human rights, and Church–state separation. There is little left of the legacy of Imperial Germany or the Weimar Republic today, but the 12 years of Nazi rule scarred German society both physically and psychologically, and, in the years immediately following the war, the churches were the most forthright in admitting their failings in the Nazi era.

The legacy of the Third Reich and Allied occupation, 1945–1949 The churches were quick to try to come to terms with the Nazi legacy and what it meant for German national being. To put it plainly, was Nazi rule an organic outgrowth of certain longterm tendencies in German history (as some writers feared) or, rather, an aberration, a departure from what Germany had been and continues to be all about? Certainly, the Evangelical Church leaders believed that the latter was the case and that the Nazi regime should be understood as having been ‘imposed upon the German people by a group of thugs’ (Spotts, 1973, 60) who then led the German people down a violent path to tragedy, much as the Pied Piper of lore is said to have led the children of Hamelin to their doom. Although both major churches had been compromised, at least to some extent, the Evangelical Church had been more seriously penetrated by Nazism than the Catholic Church. Indeed, the Nazi-sponsored (Protestant) ‘German Christians’ took over all but three of the Evangelical provincial churches, although, 225

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even at peak, only a third of Evangelical clergy affiliated with this movement. A reaction set in, with a synod of Evangelical clergy, led by Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Martin Niemöller, meeting in May 1934 in the town of Barmen, where they organised the Confessing Church (Bekennende Kirche) to oppose Nazi corruption of the Christian faith and assert the supremacy of Scripture in defining the content of Christianity. Where the Catholic Church was concerned, it is noteworthy that both Pope Pius XI (reigned 1922–1939) and Pope Pius XII (reigned 1939–1958) issued encyclicals condemning the racism and glorification of the state associated with Nazism – respectively in the encyclicals Mit brennender Sorge (1937) and Summi pontificatus (1939). Catholics refused to join the ‘German Christian’ movement; indeed, the Vatican had barred priests from joining the Nazi party and few priests – only about 150 – did so (Spotts, 1973, 109). In the years of the Third Reich, 1933–1945, 417 German Catholic priests were taken to concentration camps (Gatz, 2009, 104). Among Catholic leaders, Cardinal Michael von Faulhaber of Munich, Bishop Konrad von Preysing of Eichstätt and Bishop Clemens August Graf von Galen of Münster had been the most outspoken in defending the basic equality of all people(s), including Jews, extending care to unbaptised Jews, and protesting various Nazi policies, including the euthanasia programme. After the war, Preysing and Galen were elevated to the College of Cardinals. Nonetheless, there were also arguments about how the Church had behaved in Nazi times, alongside a blanket repudiation by Catholic bishops of the notion of collective guilts – as opposed to Mitschuld or ‘shared guilt’, which they freely acknowledged. After the collapse of the Nazi regime, ‘German Christians’ were removed from leadership positions in those Evangelical Landeskirchen where they had taken control; adherents of the Confessing Church were behind most of these coups. Post-war Germany was divided into four occupation zones, administered respectively by the Americans, the British, the French and the Soviets. The first three of these were intent on promoting Western-style democracy in the country. In this context, it is curious that, in the first press conference in post-war Germany, the influential Pastor Martin Niemöller ‘said that democracy would not work in Germany’ (Knappen, 1947, 99). There were, nevertheless, differences between the policies of the four occupation powers. Initially, however, the four erstwhile Allies were able to agree on some aspects of Kirchenpolitik (Thierfelder, 1992, 5–6), with local communists feeling solidarity with pastors with whom they had shared time in Nazi concentration camps, but differences soon emerged. For example, the British left it up to the Evangelical Church hierarchy to root out ‘German Christian’ bishops and pastors; the French set up commissions to oversee the screening process; and the Americans were more interventionist, giving Bishop Hans Meiser of Bavaria a list of 170 pastors whom they wanted to see removed from their positions in that province. Nonetheless, the three Western Allies wanted to see the churches play a positive public role. Initially, the Soviet occupation authorities took a very similar line to that of the three Western Allies when it came to religious policy. Indeed, ‘a large number of Church witnesses from 1945 testified to the benevolent attitude of Soviet occupation authorities vis-à-vis the Churches’ (Thierfelder, 1992, 17). The Soviets also accepted the principle that the churches should be allowed to denazify their own ranks (Kleßmann, 1993, 34). But the Soviets wanted to exclude the churches from the public sphere, limiting their role to liturgical and ritual functions (on the model of the Russian Orthodox Church), and Propst Heinrich Grüber, who served during 1945–1947 as deputy chairman of the advisory board for ecclesiastical matters at the Berlin magistrate’s office, noted that he had to remind the Russians on several occasions ‘that we have a different concept of the Church from the Orthodox Church’ (as quoted in Thierfelder, 1992, 17). Specifically, the Russian Orthodox Church emphasised ritual, while the German Protestants placed their stress on pastoral work. Thus, while, immediately after the German capitulation, the 226

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Soviets ensured that the churches in their zone could work freely, over time they introduced restrictions incrementally. Among the acts of the Soviet occupation authorities, under the rubric of separation of Church and state, was to ban all confessional schools (Goeckel, 1990, 95). In July 1950, addressing the third Congress of the SED, Otto Grotewohl announced that instruction throughout the entire school system, including at the university level, would henceforth be grounded in (atheist) dialectical materialism. However, under the GDR’s 1949 constitution religious instruction could be conducted in schoolrooms at the end of the school day. In the late 1950s, new regulations specified that religious instruction could be held only after an interval of at least two hours following the end of regular classes. By 1968, religious instruction could no longer take place on school premises and had to be conducted on Church premises. As for the Americans and the British, at first they did not want to allow confessional schools, but angry protests from Catholic bishops forced the American and British occupation authorities to reconsider. The end of the war resulted in the expulsion of ethnic Germans from Poland, Czechoslovakia and elsewhere in Eastern Europe. As these German refugees flooded into post-war Germany, they changed the confessional demographics. About 80 percent of expellees gravitated to communities where locals shared the same religion; but the remaining 20 percent created changes in local confessional composition.

The Federal Republic of Germany, 1949–1990 For the churches, the founding of the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG) – or West Germany, as it was also known until 1990 – represented a fresh start, with the prospect of new directions in ecclesiastical structure, policies and politics. On the Evangelical side, the old German Evangelical Church was scuttled in December 1945 and a new umbrella organisation, the Evangelical Church in Germany (Evangelische Kirche in Deutschland, or EKD), marked a new beginning. At the time of its inception, it embraced all the Landeskirchen across all four occupation zones. Political parties and the churches On the Catholic side, it was recalled that the deputies of the ever-loyal Centre Party had voted unanimously, on 24 March 1933, to endorse the Enabling Act, authorising Nazi leader Adolf Hitler to exercise dictatorial powers. Rather than revive the old Centre Party, which had dissolved itself on 5 July 1933, Catholic authorities decided to collaborate with Protestants in launching a new interconfessional party – the Christian Democratic Union (CDU), with a sister party in Bavaria, the Christian Social Union (CSU). The Catholic bishops also decided not to revive the Volksverein, a lay organisation which they feared might act independently, i.e. without taking episcopal preferences into account. The Centre Party nonetheless reorganised itself, even without Church support, and contested the first elections to the Bundestag. Perhaps ironically, the Catholic bishops, having decided that the CDU/CSU would be their champion, used the power of the pulpit to urge Catholics to abandon the Center Party and vote for the CDU/CSU. The Centre Party survived for a few years, but by 1958 it had ceased to be a viable contender. Beginning in 1961, the CDU suffered a decline in its voting base, due to the defection of Protestants to the Social Democratic Party of Germany (SPD) and the Free Democrats (FDP); by 1965, Catholics were also switching their support from the CDU to the SPD. This was a result, in part, of the SPD’s increasingly friendly attitude vis-à-vis the Church (Spotts, 1973, 143, 160). By contrast with these dominant parties, the FDP, seen as unsympathetic to the churches’ interests, benefited in the early years from anti-clerical support. Later, in 1969, when the FDP joined the SPD to form a coalition government, the issue of abortion came up. The 227

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coalition partners decided to reform Paragraph 218 of the Criminal Code to allow abortions to be available within a fixed deadline. The vote in the Bundestag was so close (247 to 233) that the measure was referred to the Bundesrat, where the individual Länder were represented and where the CDU/CSU had the advantage. To no one’s surprise, the Bundesrat overturned the bill. However, the Bundestag had a chance to override the Bundesrat, provided it could muster more votes. It managed to do so on 15 June 1974, by a vote of 260 to 218 (Tichenor, 2014, 612, 622). Church–state relations, 1949–1972 In Imperial Germany, the state provided subsidies to the churches. One of the curiosities of the Church–state arrangement, as set up in the FRG, was the Church tax (Kirchensteuer), collected by the state on behalf of the religious organisations, even though Church and state were declared to be separated. The Church tax has been regulated by provincial governments and, while it is usually calculated at 9 percent of a person’s income, in Bavaria and Baden-Württemberg, it is fixed at 8 percent. Both the EKD and the Roman Catholic Church (RCC) were affected by the post-war loss to Poland of territories east of the Oder-Neisse rivers. It took the EKD until 1966 to address this question, when it issued its Memorandum on Expellees and the Relationship of the German People to Their Eastern Neighbours. In this memorandum, the EKD declared that ‘Germany ha[d] no right to reclaim the Oder-Neisse territories’ and that historical, political and theological arguments to the contrary should be considered specious (Spotts, 1973, 136). The RCC took even longer to adapt to the new political reality, waiting until 28 June 1972 to adjust diocesan borders to conform with national borders. Until then two episcopal sees (Schneidemühl and Breslau) lay entirely within Polish territory, and one (Ermland) was divided between Polish and Soviet territory. This opened up the possibility to appoint Polish bishops to head dioceses located in Poland. On 28 June 1972, the same day on which the papal bull, Episcoporum Poloniae, revised diocesan boundaries, Bolesław Kominek was appointed to serve as Archbishop of Wrocław (formerly Breslau). On the domestic front, the 1960s were years of student protest – demanding reform of the universities and protesting capitalism and the American war in Vietnam. The number of demonstrations by German university students increased in the latter half of 1967. Soon their demands were no longer limited to reform of the university but escalated to demands, from some quarters, to revolutionise society (Greschat, 2011, 111). There were also massive demonstrations against the Vietnam War in mid-February 1968. Then, at the end of January 1969, the EKD Council expressed its concern about the radicalisation of the conflict over social and political questions. Meanwhile Protestants were losing interest in their Church. In 1968, 60,000 persons registered their departure from the Evangelical Church (and thus from the obligation to pay the Church tax), setting a new record. In 1969, the number of exits from the EKD climbed to 112,000, and, in 1970, to 203,000. By 1972, some 40 percent of Christians admitted that they never visited church – up from 15 percent two decades earlier (Greschat, 2011, 114). While the number of Protestants declined (in part also due to the higher mortality among Protestants relative to births), in both West and East Germany, the number of Catholics stayed more or less level. Where Protestants had accounted for 60.7 percent of the population in 1939, against 33.1 percent for Catholics, by 2016, after decades of erosion of Evangelical ranks in both West Germany and East Germany, German Catholics outnumbered German Evangelical-Protestants (see Table 18.1). Debates about military service and rearmament. Military service was one of a number of controversial issues which the churches confronted. Already in 1950, in the context of US pressure on the FRG to rebuild German military strength, the EKD appealed to Germans to refuse to 228

The Politics of Religion in Germany, 1945 to the present Table 18.1 Confessional distribution in Germany, 1939 and 2016 Evangelical Protestants

Catholics

1939

43,396,437

22,583,998

2016

21,920,000

23,580,000

Sources: Goeckel (1990, 14) and Süddeutsche Zeitung (2017).

perform military service, in order to preserve the peace. At the first synod of the EKD (23–27 April 1950), some of those present wanted the Church to call for a general refusal to bear arms, even in the event of war; the majority rejected this proposal, however, and the final communique emphasised rather the need for governments to seek peaceful solutions to conflicts of interest. By contrast, ‘as early as 1950–51, the majority of Catholic clergy spoke out in favour of remilitarization’ (Kubbig, 1974, 92) and the Catholic Church was slower to take up the question of conscientious objection, to which it could give at most a qualified endorsement. After the option of ‘alternative service’ was introduced, the number of applicants for this option rose from 871 in 1967 to 3,495 in 1968 (Kubbig, 1974, 67). Where the Vietnam War was concerned, some Protestant theologians were urging German Christians (in 1968) to support the Viet Cong, who were fighting against the US-backed government in Saigon. When the Bundestag debated German rearmament and later debated conscription, some German Protestant pastors and theologians took to the streets of Bonn in protest. While most Evangelical bishops spoke out on political matters, Bishop Hermann Dietzfelbinger, chairman of the EKD Council from 1967 to 1973, thought his Church was becoming too political. Bishop Otto Dibelius of Berlin was likewise concerned about the political engagement of bishops and pastors, which seemed to go beyond defending the Church’s direct institutional and moral concerns. As a result, Gustav Heinemann, who had opposed rearmament and condemned nuclear weapons for the Bundeswehr, was not re-elected president of the synod in 1955 and Niemöller, another critic of rearmament, lost his seat on the EKD Council. Their removal signalled the advent of a politically more quiescent Protestant Church in West Germany; it would still speak out on burning issues and could even make appeals to the flock, but it would no longer enter forcefully into public debates. The RCC faced similar challenges. For example, in the early 1950s, a group of prominent Catholic lay persons spoke out against rearmament, only to be attacked in the ecclesiastical press. But cultural change was irresistible. Indeed, there were several factors which contributed to an erosion of traditional values and change in all social milieux, among which the introduction of television in 1954 was prominent: by 1957, roughly a million households had television sets. The erosion of Catholic traditional values (such as daily prayers and regular penance) loosened people’s attachment to the Church, manifested in the decline in attendance at Holy Mass by a third between 1968 and 1973 (Gatz, 2009, 186). The transformation in religious attachment was accompanied by a decline in the number of births, a transformation in the role of women, and changes in what was considered acceptable sexual behaviour. As traditional values declined in importance, there were freer discussions of abortion, with demands for a loosening of restrictions on abortion. In 1982, 40 percent of Catholic women in the FRG still felt a ‘very close’ attachment to the Church; by 1993, this figure would drop to just 25 percent (Gatz, 2009, 189). Values, sexual revolution and abortion, 1966–1990 Traditional values were likewise losing their hold on Protestants. Thus, in June 1966, Hamburg Bishop Hans-Otto Wölber published ten theses on Church reform, stressing inter alia personal 229

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piety, the need to enliven the liturgy, and the need to think about the Church of the future. In May 1967, the General Synod of the VELKD published 36 theses on structural reform. Some groups, especially those influenced by the Socialist German Student Union (Sozialistische Deutsche Studentenbund), went further and spoke of ‘revolutionising’ the Church. At the other end of the ecclesiastical spectrum, the aforementioned Bavarian Bishop Dietzfelbinger led a small minority opposed to the project of Church reform (Greschat, 2011, 123). It proved impossible to counter the Bavarian Church’s reservations about reform, with the result that the project of comprehensive Church reform stalled. Meanwhile, the sexual revolution which was sweeping both the United States and Western Europe opened up a free discussion of not only abortion but also homosexuality, divorce and pornography. Like the RCC, the Evangelical Church abhorred these phenomena and, as early as 1970, the EKD published a statement concerning marriage and divorce, underlining that marriage entailed a commitment to lifelong partnership. Nonetheless, on 14 June 1976, the Bundestag passed a law on the reform of marriage and family right. The EKD Council criticised the new law, and took its objections to the Federal Constitutional Court in November 1979. On 28 February 1980, the Court ruled that the law was in conformity with the constitution. Similarly, the EKD and the RCC alike were frustrated in their efforts to hold back liberalisation of the law on abortion. According to the teachings of both churches, abortion should be not only forbidden, but also punishable, even in cases of rape. In spring 1970, a group of professors of criminal law proposed that abortion should be allowed without penalty during the first three months of pregnancy, when the pregnancy was the result of rape or incest, or where there were medical or eugenic justifications. The churches rejected this proposal, but on 21 March 1973, after previous government drafts had been killed off, the government returned with a new draft law, proposing to allow abortion within a specific deadline. The Catholic Church responded with a massive propaganda effort. The EKD also came out against liberalisation of the law and joined the RCC in issuing a joint declaration. But within the EKD there continued to be a struggle, with liberal Protestants not prepared to accept the judgement of the Church leaders (Greschat, 2011, 169). Finally, the Bundestag took up the issue once again and, on 26 April 1974, sanctioned abortions within the first trimester. After an intervention by the Constitutional Court, the Bundestag adopted a revised draft of the law on 12 February 1976. In the years 1972–1982, there were 1.5 million more deaths of EKD members than baptisms, a shortfall of an average of 140,000 members per year (Greschat, 2011, 188). This, together with exits from the Church, produced a steady decline in income from the Church tax. Moreover, the shrinkage of the EKD membership contributed to a steady contraction of the Church’s influence in society. Resignations from the two mainline churches continued to take their toll throughout the 1970s and 1980s. In any given year in 1953–1967, the number of exits from the Evangelical Church never reached 45,000, while withdrawals from the Catholic Church never reached 25,000. In the 1980s, by contrast, between 113,006 (1983) and 147,753 (1989) left the Evangelical Church each year; among Catholics, between 54,962 (1982) and 93,010 (1989) left their Church each year (‘Kirchenaustritte’, 2017, 3). The number of baptisms also sank in the 1970s and 1980s – in the case of the Catholic Church, sinking from 80.8 baptisms per 100 children born to couples with at least one Catholic parent to 76.8 in 1990. And finally, abortion continued to be contested. Against pressure from women’s groups demanding access to abortion during the first three months of pregnancy, the Catholic Church especially maintained pressure on the Bonn government to keep abortion illegal. 230

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The German Democratic Republic, 1949–1990 From the very beginning, the confessional distribution in East Germany was dramatically different from that in West Germany. In 1946, when Germany was still under foreign occupation, there were 22,283,166 Protestants (49.7 percent) in the three Western zones of occupation, against 20,734,022 Catholics (46.3 percent) and 1,792,387 adherents of other religious associations (4.0 percent); in the Soviet zone of occupation that same year, there were 14,963,000 Protestants (80.0 percent), 2,233,000 Catholics (12.0 percent) and 187,000 others (1.0 percent) (Goeckel, 1990, 14). Forty years later, both major congregations had shrunk, with 6,435,000 Protestants (1986) and 1,050,000 Catholics (1987) in East Germany. The third largest religious association at that time was the New Apostolic Church, with 80,000–100,000 members. No other religious association in the German Democratic Republic (GDR) had more than 30,000 members (Ramet, 1992, 70; Goeckel, 1990, 115). Moreover, while both the EKD and the RCC were actively engaged in politics in the FRG, in the GDR only the Evangelical Church took an active role in politics, with the Catholic Church consciously distancing itself from any engagement with the regime and restricting itself to defending its core interests (such as its position on abortion). There were eight provincial Churches (Landeskirchen) in the GDR divided into two umbrella organisations: Anhalt, Berlin-Brandenburg, Saxony (Magdeburg), Görlitz and Greifswald – all members of the Evangelical Church of the Union; and Mecklenburg, Saxony (Dresden) and Thuringia – all linked with the United Evangelical Churches in the GDR (VELKDDR). The latter three remained purely Lutheran, while the EKU Landeskirchen reflected the heritage of the Prussian-era Union Church, which had brought Evangelical (Lutheran) and Reformed (Calvinist) Churches under a common roof. All of these remained associated with the all-German EKD (which had been established in 1948) until 1969 when, under pressure from the ruling party (the Socialist Unity Party or SED), they severed organisational links with the Evangelical Church in West Germany and established the League of Evangelical Churches in the GDR (Bund Evangelischer Kirchen in der DDR, or BEK). The constitution adopted in 1949 guaranteed freedom of religion and allowed the churches to pass their own constitutions and to enforce their own regulations. But although relations between individual SED members and individual pastors had been, on the face of it, friendly during the years of Soviet occupation, the climate changed soon after the establishment of the GDR. As early as 1951, the Central Committee of the SED (CC SED) issued a decree, requiring that all school teachers teach from a materialist-atheist perspective (Fricke, 1984, 72). The EKD replied at a district synod on 19 October 1951, charging that the decree violated the constitutional guarantee of freedom of religion. Meanwhile, after the Second Party Conference of the SED, the authorities stepped up pressure on the Evangelical Church’s youth organisation, the Junge Gemeinde, alleging that the organisation was engaging in espionage and other illegal activities (Fricke, 1984, 75). The SED was concerned that pastors were having an ‘undesirable influence’ on young people and, in the course of 1952–1953, 72 Evangelical pastors and youth leaders were arrested and more than 300 young Christians were expelled from secondary school. Starting in 1952, the SED characterised the Junge Gemeinde as a ‘criminal’ organisation. But then, on 11 July 1953, in the wake of nationwide protests against communist rule, Erich Honecker, at the time head of the SED’s youth organisation (the Freie Deutsche Jugend, or FDJ), declared that the Evangelical youth organisation was not illegal and that one did not have to embrace Marxism-Leninism in order to join the FDJ (Fricke, 1984, 76–77; Fulbrook, 1995, 94). Subsequently, in 1954, the regime introduced the Jugendweihe (Youth Consecration) as an alternative and rival to Church confirmation. On 26 December 1954, the country’s Catholic 231

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bishops issued a pastoral letter declaring that young Catholics should not take part in the Jugendweihe. This resulted in a boycott of the ceremony by Catholics; Protestants also avoided it in the short term. Thus, in 1955, only 1 percent of young people of the appropriate age took part in the regime-sponsored ceremony. But after the regime imposed negative consequences for those refusing to take part in the nominally voluntary dedication ceremony, participation climbed to more than 90 percent (Fricke, 1984, 77–78; Ramet, 1992, 52). That the Jugendweihe was aimed at the churches was completely obvious and, in any case, substantiated by a statement made by Albert Norden, Secretary for Agitation of the CC SED in 1958: ‘The Church’, he said on that occasion, ‘is the last organized enemy in the GDR’ (as quoted in Fricke, 1984, 79). The role of the CDU (East) in Kirchenpolitik Although the GDR was to be established as a one-party state, with the local SPD forced to unite with the Communist Party of Germany (KPD) to constitute the SED, Soviet occupation authorities decided soon after the end of the war to allow four small parties to emerge: a Christian Democratic Party not linked with the CDU in the West, a Liberal Democratic Party (LDPD), a German Farmers’ Party (DBD) and a National Democratic Party of Germany (NDPD). These were intended to reconcile, respectively, Christians, liberals, farmers and former Nazis to the communist system. These parties were too small to be politically relevant (except for the CDU, which at the end of 1989 became energised overnight). Where the churches were concerned, only one of the four small parties – the CDU (East) – had a role to play. In addition to the aforementioned task of reconciling Christians to the communist system, the CDU (East) also provided Christians with an organisational vehicle for their participation in the political life of the country. The CDU (East) was further intended to serve as a line of communication between the SED regime and the Churches. From the beginning the CDU (East) also did its best to advocate for the churches. As early as 1949, when the institutions of the GDR were being established, this party pleaded for religion to remain part of the curriculum; thanks to this party’s efforts, the churches were allowed to use school premises after hours for the teaching of religion, although religious instruction would not be considered part of the curriculum (Naimark, 1995, 453–454; Dähn, 1982, 23). Otto Nuschke, who served as chairman of the CDU (East) from 1948 to 1957, showed a certain independence and, in conveying the government’s official greeting to the Evangelical Church on the eve of its 1950 synod in Berlin-Weissensee, he ‘failed to mention the proclamations criticising the East Zone government made from pulpits throughout the Zone’ (CIA Information Report, 1950, 1). For that oversight, he was personally reproached by Otto Grotewohl and Walter Ulbricht. Nonetheless, in votes in the Volkskammer – the East German equivalent of the West German Bundestag – Christian Democratic deputies generally went along with whatever the SED wanted. The one exception came in March 1972 when some Christian Democratic deputies, supporting the churches’ position, refused to endorse a bill to make abortion more available. Collaboration with the SED regime and accommodation to the new reality The SED also tried to win over bishops and clergy to collaboration. In this spirit, SED authorities sponsored and financed a League of Evangelical Pastors, hoping to influence clergymen and use the league as their instrument. This league had its own newspaper but never counted even 200 members and was finally dissolved in 1974 (Henkys, 1982, 17). The SED had better success in finding bishops open to some form of collaboration and had its greatest success in Thuringia. Here, Oberkirchrat Gerhard Lotz reported on confidential internal Church affairs to the State 232

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Security Service (Stasi) (Fulbrook, 1995, 98). Better known is Lotz’s fellow Thuringian, Moritz Mitzenheim, resident Bishop of Thuringia from 1945 to 1970, who challenged the Evangelical consensus in the 1950s by arguing that participation in the Jugendweihe was not incompatible with Church confirmation. Mitzenheim rejected the confrontational posture preferred by Bishop Dibelius, trying rather ‘to maintain cordial and supportive relations with the regime and to seek concessions from it through persuasion and consultation’ (Ramet, 1992, 54). Mitzenheim met with SED General Secretary Walter Ulbricht in July 1958, signing a communique which stated, inter alia, that ‘the Churches … are in fundamental agreement with the peace efforts of the GDR and its regime’ (as quoted in Ramet, 1992, 55). The regime showed its appreciation of Mitzenheim’s work by decorating him with the Order of Service to the Fatherland (in Gold) in 1961 and with the Star of People’s Friendship (in Silver) in 1966. By then, a new state constitution was being drafted and, in the first draft of the 1968 constitution, guarantees of freedom of belief and conscience, and of the rights of the churches, were omitted (Goeckel, 1990, 70). In response, a letter signed by all the Evangelical bishops except Mitzenheim asked that these guarantees, found in the 1949 constitution, be restored. The final draft offered a partial accommodation of the bishops’ requests, granting freedom of belief but not providing as much assurance concerning education and Church finances as the bishops had sought (Goeckel, 1990, 71–73). Meanwhile, the Evangelical Landeskirchen were coming under increased pressure to effect the aforementioned organisational break with the EKD. Before doing so, the East German Landeskirchen sought the approval of the EKD Council, since the Evangelical Church in the GDR was heavily dependent on sizeable subsidies from the EKD in the West. Once this approval was secured, representatives of each East German Landeskirche had to give their approval; with that, the new Federation of Evangelical Churches in the GDR (BEK) was born on 10 June 1969. However, even though this new organisation had been set up to meet SED expectations, the authorities did not recognise it until February 1971, when Paul Verner, the Politburo member responsible for Kirchenpolitik, sanctioned the new ecclesiastical umbrella organisation and signaled a new openness to the Church (Goeckel, 1981, 81). The Church allowed itself to feel encouraged by this apparent olive branch and, at its July 1971 synod in Eisenach, the BEK embraced the formula ‘Church in Socialism’. Bishop Albrecht Schönherr explained the formula in these words: ‘We want to be a Church not alongside, not against [socialism], but rather within socialism’ (as quoted in Fulbrook, 1995, 106). From one point of view, this explanation might seem pointedly vague; but what was clear was that Schönherr and other Church leaders wanted the regime to allow the Church to operate without overt interference or obstruction. In 1974, in the context of the construction of new cities throughout the GDR, the BEK obtained permission for the construction of new church facilities. From the March 1978 ‘summit’ meeting to the celebrations of Luther and Müntzer. Relations between the BEK and the SED regime gradually improved over the course of the 1970s, in spite of systematic discrimination in career opportunities against conscientious objectors who opted to perform their military service as construction solders (Bausoldaten). This general warming of relations culminated in a historic ‘summit meeting’ on 6 March 1978 between Bishop Schönherr and Erich Honecker who, in 1971, had inherited the leadership position as General Secretary of the SED. After the meeting, there were improvements in pastoral access to prisons, state pensions for pastors and other Church employees, and an opening up for the importation of religious literature into the GDR. But soon after the Schönherr-Honecker summit meeting, the SED announced its plan to introduce obligatory premilitary training (including instruction in the use of hand grenades and riding around in miniature tanks) for both sexes in the ninth and tenth grades. The Evangelical Church Federation protested, but the regime went forward with its plan, later extending premilitary training to include the 233

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eleventh grade. Together with continued controversy over discrimination against those who served as Bausoldaten, this contributed to the emergence of an independent peace movement, sheltered by the Evangelical Church, which allowed the pacifists to meet on church premises. The Evangelical Church’s engagement with the independent peace movement was unacceptable to the SED, which, in the short run, curtailed travel by East German clergy to West Germany. But the SED wanted the Evangelical Church to collaborate in celebrating the quincentenary of Martin Luther in 1983. The official Martin Luther Committee of the GDR was established on 13 June 1980, with Erich Honecker as chair. In a 1947 East German publication, Luther had been excoriated as ‘the spiritual ancestor of Hitler’ (Ramet, 1992, 61), but within two decades Luther was well on the way to rehabilitation. Of course, the SED regime was not interested in Luther as a religious figure; rather, celebrating the religious reformer figured in the regime’s broader effort to reclaim the German past. Church representatives participated in the work of the Martin Luther Committee; the state, mainly to serve its own interests, allocated funding to restore churches and sites of historic importance. The SED was even more comfortable celebrating Thomas Müntzer, the sixteenth-century religious radical and political utopian whom both the Evangelical Church and the SED considered a ‘theologian of revolution’ (Ramet, 1992, 62). The SED set up a fresh committee to organise the commemoration of the Müntzer quincentenary in 1989; as in the case of the Martin Luther Committee, the Thomas Müntzer Committee was headed by Honecker. The Evangelical Church established its own Müntzer committee and also appointed three observers to sit in on meetings of the state committee. As was also the case with the Luther quincentenary, the regime commissioned biographies of Müntzer as well as musical works and theatrical productions to honour him. But collaboration between Church and state in honouring Luther and Müntzer – the latter, in any event, not a great favourite of the Church – did not signify an end of problems in their relationship. The Evangelical Church continued to complain about discrimination against those who had served as Bausoldaten and to demand a true social service alternative to military service. The Church also greeted Soviet General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev’s programs of glasnost and perestroika – both rejected by the Honecker regime. And, during 1988 alone, the authorities prevented distribution of the Church’s newspaper, Die Kirche, on 15 occasions (more details in Ramet, 1992, 65–66). Finally, even before the GDR came crashing down in late 1989, the Evangelical Church’s formula, ‘Church in socialism’, was being subjected to criticism from within Church ranks for possibly implying that the Church was embracing socialism.

Reunified Germany, since 1990 The reunification of Germany posed challenges for both mainline churches, giving rise to a number of controversies and disputes. One of the noisiest involved abortion, which had been legal during the first trimester of pregnancy in East Germany, but illegal in West Germany. In 1995, a compromise bill was passed, declaring abortion ‘illegal’, unless a woman agreed to participate in a programme of abortion counselling. The Catholic Church signed up to take part in this programme and, according to official data (from 1997), managed to dissuade almost 90 percent of the women it counselled from having abortions. Upon completion of counselling, women wishing to continue with abortion were issued certificates of eligibility for abortion. Archbishop Johannes Dyba of Cologne felt that it was inappropriate for the Catholic Church to be playing a role in facilitating abortion, even if only for about 10 percent of the women the Church counselled, and ordered Catholic counselling centres in his archdiocese to 234

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stop issuing ‘abortion licenses’. He also referred the matter to the pope who, in January 1998, ruled that Catholic counselling centres should stop issuing these certificates. Efforts to find a compromise failed and, by the end of November 1999, the German Catholic Church had withdrawn from this counselling programme. A second controversy involved allegations of collaboration with the Stasi, on the part of bishops and clergy of the Evangelical Church. The EKD ended up reviewing the records of all of its pastors and employees and concluded that only about 5 percent of them had had inappropriate meetings with the Stasi. Although this involved only a small minority of religious, the damage done to the EKD’s reputation was considerable. Withdrawals from the Church The revelations about pastoral collaboration with the Stasi was a factor in the increase in withdrawals from the EKD, while the Vatican’s refusal to compromise on abortion undoubtedly induced some Catholics to reconsider their affiliation with the Church of Rome. In the years 1990–2016, a combined total of 9,076,623 members left these churches (‘Kirchenaustritte’, 2017). The resultant decline in income from the Church tax induced both the RCC and the EKD to sell off church buildings. In the years 1990–2010, the EKD closed 340 churches, selling some and demolishing others (Schulz, 2013, 1, 3). East and West had developed different traditions as regards pastoral care in the military, with the FRG having authorised military chaplaincy in 1957 via an agreement with the EKD, while military officers in the GDR were usually members of the SED and, accordingly, were forbidden to have any contact with clergy (Goeckel, 1997, 41). At first, the BEK – before its absorption into the EKD – rejected any extension of the military chaplaincy to the new Bundesländer. In fact, both Churches objected to the requirement that chaplains abstain from political activity. But in 1991, a compromise was reached, granting civilian pastors access to military installations during a two-year transition period. Eventually, an agreement was reached with both churches and, as of 2009, there were just under 100 Catholic chaplains and more than 100 Protestant chaplains serving the Bundeswehr (Dörfler-Dierken, 2011, 81). The political parties and the Church Although the churches’ social agenda is broad, encompassing work for peace, easing poverty, providing counselling to married couples, and combatting racism, there are uniquely two controversies of high interest to the churches, which have divided the political parties of the Federal Republic: the legal status of same-sex couples and the legal status of abortion. The right of same-sex couples to get married under German law and to adopt children came up for a vote in the Bundestag in June 2017. The measure passed by a vote of 393 to 226, with four abstentions. All 193 deputies from the SPD, all 64 deputies from the Left Party, and all 63 deputies from the Green Party voted to support the measure. However, the CDU/CSU was divided, with 225 deputies, including Chancellor Merkel, upholding the churches’ view and voting against the measure, but with 75 Christian Democratic deputies supporting it, with four abstaining and five not voting (Deutsche Welle, 2017a). The compromise on abortion described above, involving mandatory counselling, was not entirely satisfying to anyone and, by early 2018, the issue was once again being debated, with Angela Merkel’s CDU, the CSU and far-right AfD (Alternative for Germany) seeking to keep Paragraph 219a (criminalising advertising or providing information about abortion) on the books. The SPD, FDP, Greens and the Left Party all want to repeal the law (Guardian, 2018). 235

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Other controversies Other controversies have included the implication of 49 Church members, including clergy, in the sexual abuse of 547 boys in the Regensburg Domspatzen boys’ choir over a period of decades (Deutsche Welle, 2017b); the demand by some Catholic women to be ordained (there are already women priests in the EKD); challenges to the practice of hanging crucifixes in classrooms in state schools in Bavaria; the influx of hundreds of thousands of mostly Muslim migrants, beginning in 2014; and the emergence of the Islamophobic Pegida movement and its political counterpart, the AfD. Both churches have supported taking in refugees/migrants, although the EKD has called for priority to be given to Christian migrants, Yasidis and Muslim families with children or ill family members (‘Kirche und Flüchtlinge?’, 2017). Given its Islamophobia, the AfD has been characterised as unChristian. As for Pegida, which has organised public rallies to protest granting refuge to Muslims, RCC and EKD bishops, clergy, and lay persons have come out against Pegida, rejecting the movement for dividing society – although there is also an ultraconservative wing within the RCC, which has welcomed the appearance of Pegida.

Conclusion In the three-quarters of a century since the end of the Second World War, the EKD and the RCC of Germany have operated first under Allied/Soviet occupation, and subsequently under two rival political systems: the German Democratic Republic; and, in two incarnations, the Federal Republic of Germany. In all of these periods, the churches have played positive roles, whether assisting in the post-war reconstruction of democracy, sheltering the independent pacifists in the GDR, defending human rights, advocating for ethnic minorities, calling for dialogue with Muslims, and supporting the democratic system of the FRG. But at all points in time, the churches have faced threats – from infiltration in the GDR; from scandals, especially involving sex abuse by Catholic clergy in the FRG and revelations of the collaboration of Evangelical clergy with the Stasi in the GDR; and from the steady haemorrhaging of both churches through the withdrawal of hundreds of thousands of persons from membership, with the consequent decline in Church income. Beyond that, secularisation has taken a heavy toll. In particular, according to data from 2017, 37 percent of Germans do not believe in God while, as of 2018, only 10.2 percent of Catholics and 3.5 percent of Protestants are attending church services regularly (Deutsche Welle, 2018). Beyond that, in the years since 1945, the churches have had to deal with shifting sands, not merely in terms of politics, but also in terms of changing sexual mores, increasing tendencies in both churches for believers to pick and choose what they are prepared to accept where Church commandments, strictures and doctrines are concerned, and, of course, the political and financial impact of the continued withdrawal of Christians from membership in these churches. Yet, thus far, the churches have failed to devise fundamentally new strategies to meet these challenges.

References CIA Information Report (1950). ‘Nuschke, the CDU and the Church in the Soviet Zone’, 16 June; originally classified SECRET; regraded to CONFIDENTIAL in 2003; subsequently DECLASSIFIED, at www.cia.gov/ library/readingroom/docs/CIA-RDP82-00457R005000300005-2.pdf [last accessed on 15 April 2018]. Dähn, Horst (1982). Konfrontation oder Kooperation? Das Verhältnis von Staat und Kirche in der SBZ/DDR 1945–1980, Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag. Deutsche Welle (2017a). ‘Germany’s Bundestag Passes Bill on Same-Sex Marriage’, 30 June, at www.dw.com/ en/germanys-bundestag-passes-bill-on-same-sex-marriage/a-39483785 [last accessed on 15 April 2018].

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The Politics of Religion in Germany, 1945 to the present Deutsche Welle (2017b). ‘Regensburg Domspatzen Choir: More than 500 Boys Abused’, 18 July, at www. dw.com/en/regensburg-domspatzen-choir-more-than-500-boys-abused/a-39731018 [last accessed on 15 April 2018]. Deutsche Welle (2018). ‘6 Facts about Catholic and Protestant Influence in Germany’, 23 March, at www. dw.com/en/6-facts-about-catholic-and-protestant-influence-in-germany/a-43081215 [last accessed on 15 April 2018]. Dörfler-Dierken, Angelika (2011). ‘The Changing Role of Protestant Military Chaplaincy in Germany: From Raising Military Morale to Praying for Peace’, Religion, State & Society, Vol. 39, No. 1: 79–91. Fricke, Karl Wilhelm (1984). Opposition und Widerstand in der DDR. Ein politischer Report, Cologne: Verlag Wissenschaft und Politik. Froese, Paul and Steven Pfaff (2005). ‘Explaining a Religious Anomaly: A Historical Analysis of Secularization in Eastern Germany’, Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion, Vol. 44, No. 4: 397–422. Fulbrook, Mary (1995). Anatomy of a Dictatorship: Inside the GDR 1949–1989, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Gatz, Erwin (2009). Die Katholische Kirche in Deutschland im 20. Jahrhundert, Freiburg, Basel and Vienna: Herder. Goeckel, Robert F. (1981). ‘The Kirchenpolitik of the German Democratic Republic and the Evangelical Churches, 1968–1978’, in Margy Gerber (ed.), Studies in GDR Culture and Society, Washington, DC: University Press of America, 77–94. Goeckel, Robert F. (1990). The Lutheran Church and the East German State: Political Conflict and Change under Ulbricht and Honecker, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Goeckel, Robert F. (1997). ‘Church-State Relations in the Post-Communist Era: The Case of East Germany’, Problems of Post-Communism, Vol. 44, No. 1: 35–48. Greschat, Martin (2011). Der Protestantismus in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland (1945–2005), Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt. Guardian (2018). ‘German Parties to Vote on “Out of Date” Nazi-Era Abortion Law’, 11 March, at www. theguardian.com/world/2018/mar/11/german-parties-to-vote-on-out-of-date-nazi-era-abortion-law [last accessed on 15 April 2018]. Henkys, Reinhard (1982). ‘Kirche – Staat – Gesellschaft’, in R. Henkys (ed.), Die Evangelischen Kirchen in der DDR. Beiträge zu einer Bestandsaufnahme, Munich: Chr. Kaiser Verlag, 11–61. ‘Kirche und Flüchtlinge? “Moralische Durchhalteparolen helfen nicht”’ (2017). Die Welt, 12 November, at www.welt.de/politik/deutschland/article170550630/Kirche-und-Fluechtlinge-Moralische-Durchha lteparolen-helfen-nicht.html [accessed on 14 January 2018]. ‘Kirchenaustritte evangelische und katholische Kirche’ (2017). Forschungsgruppe Weltanschauungen in Deutschland, 1 September, at https://fowid.de/meldung/kirchenaustritte-evangelische-und-katho lische-kirche [last accessed on 15 April 2018]. Kleßmann, Christoph (1993). ‘Zur Sozialgeschichte des protestantischen Milieus in der DDR’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft, Vol. 19, No. 1: 29–53. Knappen, M.M. (1947). ‘Allied Military Government Policy and the Religious Situation in Germany’, Church History, Vol. 16, No. 2: 92–103. Kubbig, Bernd W. (1974). Kirche und Kriegsdienstverweigerung, Stuttgart, Berlin, Cologne and Mainz: Verlag W. Kohlhammer. Naimark, Norman M. (1995). The Russians in Germany: A History of the Soviet Zone of Occupation, 1945–1949, Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Ramet, Sabrina Petra (1992). ‘Protestantism in East Germany, 1949–1989: A Summing Up’, in Sabrina Petra Ramet (ed.), Protestantism and Politics in Eastern Europe and Russia, Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 40–72. Schulz, Matthias (2013). ‘Germany’s Great Church Sell-Off’, Spiegel Online, 14 February, at www.spiegel.de/ international/zeitgeist/german-catholic-and-protestant-churches-sell-off-church-buildings-a-883054.html [accessed on 19 February 2015]. Spotts, Frederic (1973). The Churches and Politics in Germany, Middletown: Wesleyan University Press. Süddeutsche Zeitung (Munich) (2017). ‘Kirchen verlieren wieder gut halbe Million Mitglieder’, 21 July, at www.sueddeutsche.de/news/panorama/kirche-kirchen-verlieren-wieder-gut-halbe-million-mitglie der-dpa.urn-newsml-dpa-com-20090101-170721-99-331421 [last accessed on 28 February 2018]. Thierfelder, Jörg (1992). ‘Die Kirchenpolitik der vier Besatzungsmächte und die evangelische Kirche nach der Kapitulation 1945’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft, Vol. 18, No. 1: 5–21. Tichenor, Kimba Allie (2014). ‘Protecting Unborn Life in the Secular Age: The Catholic Church and the West German Abortion Debate, 1969–1989’, Central European History, Vol. 47, No. 3: 612–645.

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19 RELIGION AND POLITICAL PARTIES The case of Italy Alberta Giorgi

Italian secularism is characterised by the constitutional separation of religion and politics, on the one side, and, on the other side, policy collaboration, the public role of Catholic institutions and organisations, which is taken for granted, and a historically rooted Catholic culture, broader than religious affiliation per se, which permeates the political culture itself (Cipriani 2003; Garelli 2014; Ventura 2014). The absence of a unified channel and model for bringing religious claims into the political sphere, the increasing visibility of religions other than Catholicism, and current developments in political representation have profoundly transformed the relationships between political parties and religions and continue to do so (Giorgi 2018). The scholarly literature on religion and political parties in Italy has focused mainly on three interrelated aspects: the effects of the religious cleavage (that is, religious affiliation and religiosity rates as predictors of party voting); the relationships between political parties and religious actors (the Pope, the Catholic Church, the Episcopal Conference, religious movements or religiously inspired associations); and the role of religion in party ideology and discourse. Since Italy is well known to be a Catholic-majority country, scholars’ attention has overwhelmingly focused on Catholicism, seldom touching upon non-religion and atheism. Other religions have remained virtually undiscussed, and this chapter takes a step towards filling this gap in the political science and political sociology literature. The next section is devoted to the first phase of Italian republican history, which was dominated by the DC. The second section discusses the current transformations involving the relationships between political parties and religions. The third section draws attention to the role that other religions are likely to play in Italy’s near political future.

The Christian Democratic Party Italy’s first republic has been described as a ‘defective two-party system’ (Galli 1966). It was characterised by two powerful political parties - the Christian Democratic Party (DC) and the Communist Party (PCI) - one of which had, in reality, no chance of taking over the government. As a matter of fact, then, during the Republican period, known as the First Republic (19461992), Italian politics was dominated by the DC: a conservative, religiously oriented, centrist and moderate political party (Ozzano 2013; Warner 2012). It was not a confessional party, and its 238

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agenda did not overlap with that of the Catholic Church. However, even if their relations were often filled with tension and deceptions on both sides, the DC was and remained the Catholic Church’s political point of reference until its collapse in the 1990s (Ceccarini and Diamanti 2007). The DC’s constituency was a microcosm of Italian society and included different groups, classes and ideologies, with the characteristics of a ‘catch-all party’ (Galli 1993). Even though Catholics’ electoral unity has been called a myth (Pace 1995), the DC was able to collect the majority of Catholic votes (Maraffi 2007). This was supported by the capillary infrastructure of local parishes and the support of the wide network of Catholic associations and organisations. Beyond electoral support, the network of Catholic associations and organisations acted as an instrument of political socialisation, often providing a springboard into politics. It also offered a space for collective action and participation (Giorgi 2016; Marzano 1997). Catholic civil society assembled around the local churches, the heart of local communities. For a long time, voting for the DC was indeed an expression of social affiliation and locally rooted social and political identity. The DC vote was territorially concentrated in ‘white zones’ all over Italy (Ignazi and Wellhofer 2017). In the northern regions, Catholic civil society played the main role; in the south, where the Catholic associational network is more dispersed, parishes and the local clergy were the point of reference instead (Diotallevi 1999; Segatti 1999). In addition to its religious identity, because of its role as the principal opponent to the powerful Communist Party, the DC also had an anti-communist identity, making the party the reference point for a broad constituency that provided electoral support against the PCI. Furthermore, part of the electoral support for the DC was based on the party’s capacity to allocate resources to local actors and communities (a clientelist political system; see Ignazi and Wellhofer 2017). The relative weights of the different components of DC electoral support, as well as the party’s ideology and its relations with Catholic actors, changed over time. According to Ceccarini and Diamanti (2007), the history of the DC can be divided into three different phases. During the first phase, which lasted until the 1960s, the DC was both quintessentially Catholic (Parisi 1979) and anti-communist, governing from a steadily centrist position. It was the leading party in Italy, with a voting percentage exceeding 40 percent. Notwithstanding internal differences within its constituency, survey data show that Catholic affiliation, and especially practice, were strongly and positively correlated with voting for the DC (Mannheimer and Sani 1987; Cappello and Diamanti 1995). It must be noted that not even during this first phase did the DC appeal to Catholic unity or to the support of the Catholic Church (Diotallevi 2016). The second phase began in the 1960s and lasted until the early 1980s, during which time the DC became ‘a’, rather than ‘the’, Catholic party. Its voting percentage consolidated around 38 percent, but the composition of the constituency changed. Catholic practice was no longer a clear predictor of DC voting; moreover, electoral support diminished in the traditional ‘white zones’, signalling the decreasing role of Catholic political identity. At the same time, nonCatholic votes, which had traditionally been extremely low, increased in number. The growing dissatisfaction of practising Catholics with the DC was related to the impact of the processes of modernisation and secularisation but also to the internal transformations and pluralism of the Catholic world, which emerged with the Second Vatican Council (1962-1965). Among Catholic associations, sharper political cleavages emerged, giving rise to different kinds of spiritual, social and political engagement (Faggioli 2008; Marzano 2013a, 2013b). Because of its internal differences, the Catholic world has indeed been described as an ‘archipelago’ (Colozzi and Martelli 1988). Highly politicised religious groups, more or less connected to the Marxist cultural milieu, sprang up and promoted a renewal of Christian practices and culture (Margotti 2016; Tosi and Vitale 2009). At the same time, informal communities and new confessional movements were started (Faggioli 2008), destined to play a political role in the future. In these 239

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tumultuous times, the DC increasingly governed with the support of centre-left parties, and under its administrations were introduced the possibility of divorce and the legal termination of pregnancy. In this phase, electoral support for the DC was less an expression of identity and more the outcome of the absence of acceptable alternatives (Ceccarini and Diamanti 2007). In the third phase (from the 1980s to the early 1990s), anti-communism lost its role due to the collapse of the Soviet Union. DC electoral support shifted its geographical centre from the northern to the southern regions of Italy (Biorcio 1999; Diamanti 2009), and the electoral percentages remained above 30 percent. However, the party culture and reputation were collapsing: in addition to the decline of local political cultures and the loss of support from many Catholic associations, the detachment of the Italian Episcopal Conference became increasingly apparent. In the years 1990-1992 a series of nationwide judicial investigation into political corruption, collectively known as ‘Mani pulite’ - Clean Hands, led to the indictment of the leadership of all the ruling parties, and, in 1994, the DC disintegrated. The DC represented the model for channelling religion-related issues into politics: other political parties intervened on specific topics but without questioning the primacy of the DC in religious matters. Analysis of the parliamentary debate shows that religion-related issues were mainly ‘Catholic’ issues, apart from the many attempts at regulating, through a law on religious freedom, the role of non-Catholic religions (thus far without success). On the other hand, the main political goal of the other religions was the activation of the system of agreements (intese) which granted them political recognition. This occurred in 1984 with the revision of the Concordat between the Italian state and the Catholic Church (Margiotta Broglio 2014).

From religious monopoly to the free market Mani pulite marked a watershed in Italian politics: besides the conviction of a large proportion of the leadership of the parties in power, it resulted in a major loss of citizens’ confidence in political actors and institutions. At the same time, the collapse of the Soviet Union changed the international landscape, and led the Communist Party to rethink its political role. These processes triggered the transfiguration of the Italian political landscape, with new electoral rules and new political actors. The introduction of a quasi-majority system, in particular, changed the political opportunity structure, favouring bipolarism and large coalitions rather than centrist positions or specialised political representation. The conservative religious party model in Italy had flourished in a proportional electoral system by occupying the political centre, where the ability to reconcile the differences between Catholics in a single party was rewarded with political dominance. A bipolar system, on the contrary, led to political alternation between left and right and changed the role of the political centre (Giorgi 2013, p. 898). The political discontinuity was meant to be so profound that the period beginning in 1993 was welcomed as the ‘second republic’ of Italy. The Italian party system polarised into two large coalitions running for the national government: the centre-left, composed primarily of former communists and the leftist faction of the former DC, and the centre-right, composed mainly of Forza Italia, a brand-new party led by the media tycoon Silvio Berlusconi, Alleanza Nazionale, a post-fascist party that disappeared in 2009, and Lega Nord, which gradually dominated the coalition. In the 2013 elections, a third pole entered the arena: the Movimento 5 Stelle (M5S; Five Star Movement), led by the comedian Beppe Grillo, which rapidly gained electoral success by playing the role of the anti-system party (Biorcio and Natale 2013; Pasquino 2014). Its presence transformed the Italian electoral scene into a complex quasi-tri-polarism bounded by a fragmented bipolar electoral system. In 2018, the M5S formed a government with the Lega Nord, which changed its name to La Lega (The League), and undertook a process of internal reconfiguration from protest to ruling party. 240

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According to many scholars, the impact of the economic crisis between 2011 and 2013 marked a new phase of Italian politics - if not a third republic, at least a second phase within the second republic (Bull and Pasquino 2018; Bailey and Driessen 2016). As a matter of fact, the relationships between Italian political parties and religions can be analysed as divided into two phases: a first phase, during which political parties chased the Catholic vote, and a second phase, marked by a renewed political role for civil-society Catholicism, the increasing political visibility of non-Catholic religions, and the rise of populism. The political spectrum of the second republic also included religiously oriented parties. More specifically, at least five political parties stemmed from the DC and were renamed, merged or terminated over the years. The ‘new’ Christian parties’ political positions ranged from the centre-right, such as Centro Cristiano Democratico (CCD) and Cristiani Democratici Uniti (CDU), to the centre-left, such as the PPI and the Margherita - all claiming the DC legacy and including Christianity among their identity tenets (Ceccarini and Diamanti 2007; Ozzano and Giorgi 2016). Despite the many attempts to recreate a centrist party or coalition based on the DC model, these parties were unable to play a significant role in Italian politics and were inexorably split between the two main coalitions (Segatti 2006). This has been the case, for example, with the centre-left progressive Catholic party Margherita, which merged with the post-communists to form what today is the dominant centre-left party, the Partito Democratico (PD). Currently, there is only one explicitly religiously oriented political party, the Union of Christian and Centre Democrats (Unione dei Democratici Cristiani e Democratici di Centro, or UDC), which was founded in 2002 and inherited the DC symbol. Despite having low electoral support (around 5-6 percent), these parties’ political role has often been quite important, since they have frequently provided the opposing coalitions with the votes necessary to govern. Among the other relevant political parties, the explicit religious reference disappeared although the attention to the cultural aspects and values of Catholicism remained (Bailey and Driessen 2016). In fact, all the political parties in the second republic attempted to attract a supposedly ‘Catholic constituency’ by forging alliances with religious actors (such as movements and organisations), championing Catholic values and issues, and opposing legal initiatives disapproved of by the Catholic Church. Until the economic crisis, in the political and public agendas of the 2000s, religion-related issues featured prominently, with political discussions on topics such as the ethics of embryo stem cell research, the regulation of medically assisted procreation or the recognition of same-sex partnerships peaking between 2006 and 2008 (Ozzano and Giorgi 2016; see also Bolzonar 2016; Ignazi 2014). Centre-right parties became the champions of Catholic values, upholding neo-confessional moral conservatism and promoting and defending ‘non-negotiable’ values (valori non negoziabili, Diotallevi 2016). Berlusconi’s Forza Italia, for example, partly attempted to revive the DC’s conservative party model by modernising it and reframing Catholic values within a political ideology that included both conservative values and pro-free trade economic stances (Giorgi 2013, p. 900). The politicisation of religion-related issues caused internal dissent within the centre-left coalition, in which the progressive Catholic component coexisted somewhat uneasily with factions that opposed any religious reference in policymaking. This caused complex political misalignment around religion-related issues (Giorgi 2013). On the other hand, Catholic social teaching and solidarity are among the central tenets of centre-left parties’ identities (Diotallevi 2016). The third way of appealing to Catholic values was the Lega Nord defence of Catholic identity as a ‘militant’ identity seeking to build a sense of community and establish distance from others - be they political parties or ethno-religious cultures. Especially from the mid-2000s, the Lega Nord began to frame the defence of Catholic values and Catholicism as a way of protecting Italian identity and culture from ‘invasion’ by immigrants, particularly 241

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Muslims (Guolo 2000; Molle 2018). In this sense, Lega Nord promotes an ‘ethnicisation of religion’ (the overlap between country and religion) for both immigrants and natives. In his typology of religiously oriented parties, Ozzano convincingly argues that the Lega Nord exhibits many of the characteristics of nationalist religiously oriented parties, particularly the ‘subordination of religious orientation to strong nationalist sentiments’ and the display of ‘religious overtones’ against other communities, who are perceived as ‘alien’ and sometimes ‘threatening’ (Ozzano 2013, pp. 815-816). Several non-Catholic political parties are interested in the former DC’s supporters, even though no party seems ready to take on all of the Catholic policies. The M5S party instead expresses no clear positions on religion-related issues, being mainly secularist with an internally plural constituency (Palano 2016). The transformation of the political sphere is critical to an understanding of the current political role of Catholicism and other religions in Italy. Voting modes shifted from electoral behaviour based mainly on long-term factors, such as party, religious or class identification, to more volatile votes, based inter alia on opinions and choices. Consequently, the ‘DC subculture’ declined in importance, losing its ability to shape electoral preferences, while short-term factors such as political campaigns became increasingly relevant (Giorgi 2013, p. 899; Bellucci and Segatti 2010). In describing contemporary politics in Italy, scholars underline the pivotal role of a media-centred public sphere, the personalisation of politics and the rise of cartel parties, and citizens’ distrust towards traditional political institutions (Kriesi 2008; Rosanvallon 2008; Ruzza 2006). In this context, the ‘long-term decline of traditional political cultures has resulted in their effective replacement with political “narratives” usually tied to the figure of a leader’ (Bull and Pasquino 2018, p. 4). The reference to Catholicism, then, forms part of political narratives rather than being the expression of political elaboration of a Catholic milieu. As Diotallevi puts it, ‘Catholicism’ is more present in the institutional political sphere than it was in the first republic, but political Catholicism has disappeared (Diotallevi 2016). The Catholic Church, left without a privileged political position, on the one hand lost an intermediator but on the other became freer to convey different positions, seeking to appeal to the entire political continuum (Ceccarini 2009). In fact, as is widely recognised in the literature, the president of the Catholic Episcopal Conference, Camillo Ruini, who was elected in 1991, began what has been called the Cultural Project: the promotion of Catholic values and issues in the public and political spheres without any privileged political partner, adopting instead an ‘active neutrality’. The structure of the Catholic Church itself, as mentioned, is changing as a result of both internal (e.g. Second Vatican Council) and exogenous (secularisation process) factors. The Pope has a political role that transcends his position within the institution, and the Church structure has been defined as ‘sectarian’, composed of a heterogeneous galaxy of spiritual movements, both encouraged by the papacy and simultaneously autonomous (see Marzano 2013b). Religious movements are politically relevant in contemporary Italy: some engage in street protest and ‘anti-gender’ politics (Avanza 2015; Prearo 2017); others have mobilised in favour of immigrants; and yet others have entered the ‘new’ political parties which, without clear social basis, have offered many an opportunity to be heard (Giorgi and Polizzi 2015). Catholic associations, too, have played a relevant political role in the second republic. Such associations are divided between those that favour neo-collateralism close to the political lobbies and those that opt for advocacy activities focusing on pragmatic relations with local politics (Ceccarini and Diamanti 2007; Giorgi 2016, 2012). Catholic civil society associations benefited from the delocalisation and subsidiarisation of public policies, and their role and importance grew substantially in the 2000s. In 2011, they organised a large meeting in Todi, approved of by the Catholic Church, to discuss politics and Catholic political engagement (Diotallevi 2016; Giorgi 2013). According to some scholars, this initiative marked a new phase in Catholic politics which clearly expressed the urgency of doing politics without political parties’ mediation (Bailey and Driessen 2016). 242

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Indeed, the collapse of the DC entailed the demise of both the myth and the reality of Catholic political unity: the Catholic vote fragmented to support all the parties in the political spectrum, with no clear preference for any one political party or set of loyalties (Ceccarini and Diamanti 2007, p. 43; Ignazi and Wellhofer 2013). Rather than a constituency of loyal voters, the preferences expressed by practising Catholics in the second republic are volatile. Between 2006 and 2008, the analyses highlighted a leaning towards the centre-right, with the public agenda coagulating around religion-related issues (Ignazi 2014). This changed, however, with the economic crisis, which reoriented public priorities. Hence, even though there are value differences that can be politically activated, the system of values is not a clear predictor of political preference in the second republic (Segatti and Brunelli 2010); there is neither an ‘ethical cleavage’ (Ceccarini and Diamanti 2007) nor a ‘culture war’ (Ozzano and Giorgi 2016). The Catholic world is now significantly smaller than it was in the first republic as a consequence of the decline in religious participation (Vezzoni and Biolcati-Rinaldi 2015). Moreover, survey data show a progressive autonomisation of Catholics from the authority of the Catholic Church as an institution - Davie’s (1994) ‘believing without belonging’ - which has also influenced the cohesion of the constituency. On the other hand, data on Italian religiosity also shed light on what has been called ‘belonging without believing’ (Garelli 2014), namely the steady relevance of the Catholic Church as a public authority. Non-Catholics uphold Catholic values and defend the public role of the Catholic Church. From this perspective, Italian Catholicism can be defined as a low-intensity religion (Diotallevi 2016) that is acquiring the characteristics of a ‘vicarious religion’ - one actively practised by only a minority of the population but that nevertheless maintains its public role (Davie 2007). The Catholic minority has been defined as an ‘influential minority’ (Ceccarini and Diamanti 2007): regardless of the electoral fortunes of more or less explicitly religiously oriented parties, Catholicism still plays a relevant role in Italian politics in terms of policy, ideology and culture (Bolzonar 2016; Ozzano 2016; Marzano and Urbinati 2013). However, Catholic culture is increasingly detached from local communities, and it is more and more either an individualised spiritual journey or experienced through the mediation of participation in civil society Catholic groups and associations. In other words, ‘political Catholicism’ (intended as political culture elaborated by Catholics) still exists - albeit organised in associations and civil society groups rather than political parties - but with significantly less impact on the institutional political sphere (Diotallevi 2016).

Beyond Catholicism: the other religions Largely unnoticed in the public sphere - with the significant exception of Islam - other religions are expanding in Italy (Pace 2013), as is their political relevance (Giorgi 2018). Mainstream political parties have paid little attention to non-Catholic religions: with the exception of individual politicians and specialised niches, it is only in relation to the moral panic promoted by the Lega Nord against the ‘Muslim threat’ that other religions have properly entered the larger public and political debate. Issues related to minorities have mostly been framed as non-religion-related, as in the case of the role of Jews in post-war Italy. In terms of political discourse, Judaism has barely been addressed: the political sphere has primarily touched upon the topic of Israel as a state (with heated debates, particularly in the 1970s and the 1980s), antiSemitism and the importance of the public memory of the Holocaust. Despite some differences, in the first republic, the dominant political parties expressed a pro-Palestinian approach. In the second republic, instead, the balance shifted towards support for Israel, particularly as a consequence of the efforts of the post-fascist party Alleanza Nazionale, which was attempting to present itself as a reputable right-wing party at the international level and needed the legitimation of the Italy’s Jewish 243

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community (Marzano 2011). At the same time, centre-right support for the Israeli state stemmed from the anti-Muslim position of the Lega Nord. Apart from the first-republic DC with Catholicism, no political party displayed specific or privileged relations with religious actors (except for extreme-right parties and traditional paganism; Giorgi 2018). During the first republic, religious minorities were principally interested in gaining religious citizenship: as the literature widely recognises, while secularist liberal Italy granted space and freedom, the rise of the ‘Catholic nation’ in the aftermath of the Second World War made it more difficult for religious minorities to fit in (Schwarz 2009), and some were banned (such as the Pentecostals, which were debarred until the mid-1950s; see Zanini 2017). Only in the late 1980s could non-Catholic religious communities begin the process of political recognition: the first groups of religions signing an agreement with the Italian state included the Jewish communities and some Protestant churches (including the Waldensians, Methodists, Lutherans, Baptists, Assemblies of God and Adventists). In 2012, it was the turn of a second group of religions, including Buddhists, Hindus and other Protestant churches. Aside from the practical effects, such agreements granted religious minorities public visibility and legitimacy, in addition to enabling them to bring religious claims (Giorgi and Annicchino 2017). Indeed, the political action of religious minorities in Italy primarily manifested itself in civil society and within the religious community. Over the years, some community leaders of the larger and more ancient religious communities in Italy - the Waldensians and Methodists and the Jews - were elected to parliament via the different parties. However, this was mainly the consequence of individual political commitment rather than community efforts aimed at gaining representation. Low numbers and the absence of privileged connections with political parties do not allow us to speak of ‘electoral constituencies’, although specialised scholars underline that, in the first republic, the larger religious minorities (Jews, Waldensians and Methodists) leaned towards the centre-left and were particularly active in the movements of the 1960s and 1970s, which also impacted on the internal organisation of these communities (Fubini 1998; Papini and Tourn 2005; Rigano 2009; Vinay 1980 - see also Spini 1956, 2002). In the second republic, the landscape and the political alignments have changed. The Protestant camp includes the Union of Waldensian and Methodist churches, which is characterised by high levels of political commitment and liberal public stances on topics such as the end of life and marriage equality, and the Pentecostal churches, whose positions are closer to those expressed by the Catholic Church. The candidates put forward by the Jewish communities range from the centre-right to the centre-left. In the meantime, other communities have enlarged their presence, such as the many Muslim groups established all over Italy, which are showing significant growth in terms of numbers, visibility and integration. While in 2009 it was mainly an Islam of immigration, mostly interested in the politics of immigrants’ countries of origin (Allievi 2009), contemporary Italian Muslims are claiming full citizenship and variously engage in politics. In contrast to the situation in other European countries, Muslim migration in Italy is extremely plural and grew significantly faster in a context of restrictive immigration policies - and consequently often in irregular conditions. The territorial dispersion and low rate of ethno-cultural associations have contributed to the role of mosques and religious centres in shaping and organising the different immigrant communities (Allievi 2009). Umbrella religious organisations have been created since the mid-1990s to articulate the intrinsically plural organisation of Islam and negotiate with the Italian state the official recognition of Islam in the religion-state regime, an attempt that has thus far remained unsuccessful (Allievi 2009; Giorgi 2018; Guolo 2005). As a consequence, on the one hand, religious groups often adopt the practice of camouflage (Giorgi and Annicchino 2017), while on the other the recognition of Islam has remained an unresolved political issue in Muslim communities all over Italy. 244

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The absence of religious recognition also bears a symbolic weight in times in which hostility towards immigrants and towards Islam is on the rise (Giorgi and Vitale 2017). For this reason, the option of constructing a Muslim political party in Italy, which had emerged as a possibility among some communities, has been set aside for the moment in order to avoid fuelling political polarisation and conflict. At the same time, some consider their engagement in religious groups to constitute political activism (Guolo 2005). Many Italian Muslims have engaged in extant political parties over the last few years, making for a growing Muslim presence in politics, especially in local councils. As Stefano Allievi noted a decade ago, Italian Islam is locally integrated - a silent process that has either gone largely unnoticed or been actively ignored by politics and the mass media (Allievi 2009; Belluati 2007; Pace 2013). Muslim candidates have been particularly common in centre-left parties, sparking various debates. On the one hand, political parties are accused of ‘tokenising’ a religious minority, while on the other Muslims engaged in political parties are accused of having a secret religious agenda (as happens in many other countries; see Peace 2015). In addition, on some occasions, the political legitimacy of choosing Muslim women wearing the headscarf to represent leftists has also been questioned (Giorgi 2017, 2018). While some Muslim communities exhibit their interest in political activism, others - and other religions - are more cautious, with some even expressing discomfort at adopting political language (see Giorgi 2018 for a discussion). How these different positions will develop in the near future is open to question. So far, the political saliency of non-Catholic religions in Italy has been mainly an effect of political parties’ positioning on other topics, such as Catholicism or immigration. However, the political role of religious minorities is slowly increasing in the second republic. In fact, it is likely that they will play a significant role in the near future, not only as the objects of political discourse but also as politically engaged communities. Euroscepticism is a case in point: many studies show how Euroscepticism is negatively correlated with religion: religious individuals, especially if affiliated to Catholicism, or to immigrant minorities, are generally more pro-European than average (for a review, see Boomgaarden and Freire 2009). It will be interesting to see whether this creates political opportunities for strategic political alliances.

Conclusion The DC model for representing Catholic values in the political sphere no longer holds. Three main factors have intervened: the changes in the Italian political sphere, the transformation of Catholicism in Italy, and the increasing political role of other religions. In recent years, Italy has discovered both religious diversity and political distrust towards institutional politics: how this will play out in the near future remains to be seen.

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20 RELIGION AND POLITICAL PARTIES IN POLAND Katarzyna Dos´piał-Borysiak

For centuries, relations between state and Church have developed under the influence of various factors: religious and state leaders, concrete decisions, political and legal regulations, religious composition of the society and the level of its religiosity, national identity and culture. In modern times this bilateral relation is shaped to a larger extent by institutionalised political actors – especially, political parties. In modern political systems different religious organisations have had to learn the logic of party politics characterised by their structures, policy programmes, ideologies, electoral and campaign strategies, if they want to influence power relations. In that sense they also become political actors. The aim of this chapter is to explain the role of religion within the party system in Poland. The main focus will be given to the Polish Catholic Church (henceforward the Church) due to the fact that Poland is almost a homogenous society in terms of confession with around 92 percent of the population as Catholics. The Church is defined here as an entity wanting to influence the political system, with the full awareness that its basic role remains religious. That position is close to the argument of Carolyn Warner (2000). She classifies the Catholic Church as an interest group. In this context, the Church’s political subjectivity means it can act to realise its objectives and intentions and engage in power struggles. From the perspective of normative neo-institutionalism, the assumption is made that the Church exerts its influence on political parties in order to affect the legal acts, governmental decisions, the general shape of the party system, individual and collective behaviour of citizens and finally axiological orientation of the society. Our analysis is not limited to the Church’s goals and strategies but also includes characteristics of the Polish party system since 1989 and the responses of Polish society as a main transmitter of supports and demands between various political actors.

Historical development of the political role of the Church As Sabrina Ramet (2017: 2) wrote in her book The Catholic Church in Polish History: From 966 to Present: ‘In the history of Poland, religion has always been political.’ Undoubtedly Catholicism holds a unique position in Poland, as it is symbolically and historically linked to the foundation of the Polish state, and so is the relationship between the Church and political groupings. From as long ago as the system of the Nobles’ Democracy (fifteenth and sixteenth centuries), the Catholic Church has played a decisive role among political elites. It did not change the fact that 249

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at that time Poland was a refuge for religious dissidents. In the period of partitions of the country (1795–1918), the Catholic faith along with linked literature served as the only depository of the collective memory, national culture and tradition. The institution of the Catholic Church was the only glue binding together a divided nation, a key exponent of the idea of reunification. As a result, as Casanova puts it, in ‘the 19th century, Catholicism, romantic nationalism and Slavic messianism contributed to the development of the new Polish civil religion’ (2005: 160). Newly born inter-war Poland was a multi-religious entity with only about 60 percent of Catholics and visible Jewish, Protestant and Orthodox minorities. It wasn’t until the Communist People’s Republic was established after 1945, that Poland became almost exclusively Catholic (Dos´piał-Borysiak et al. 2018: 79–104). In post-war communist Poland, consolidation of the Polish-Roman Catholic bond became more evident. Due to religious homogeneity and public support the Church was the most important institution that was able to oppose the communist regime. However, as Stetkiewicz admits it is hard to estimate ‘whether a high level of churchgoing was a manifestation of religiosity or of objection to the imposed political system’ (2013: 5). The national religious mood was boosted when Cardinal Karol Wojtyła was elected pope in 1978. With the self-image of a national bulwark against communism, the Church involved itself in support of the resistance movement among workers in the 1970s and early 1980s, and offered protection to dissidents. Its position was unique as it played a role of mediator between the communist government and the opposition (Davies 2006). For example, in 1981 it was the government that wanted the Church to be involved in a dialogue with workers’ factions. The late 1980s collapse of the communist system led to a more profound role for the Church, when it acted as a form of safeguard during the roundtable talks shaping the new democratic political system.

The Catholic Church as a political actor after 1989 The Church’s influential role in upholding opposition views, its close links to the Solidarity movement, and its ability to reconcile factions brought it greater political influence in the postcommunist era. According to Maciej Potz, the Church set itself clear goals: institutionalising its position within a non-separationist model of Church–state relations; securing the material basis of its existence; retaining influence on decision-makers in the new pluralistic political environment; and retaining its societal authority to speak out on public issues (2018: 139). However, in one important sense, the previous visions and attitudes of the Church prevailed: it still perceived itself as a main depository of traditional national values, showed discontent with separation between Church and state, and although not officially also endorsed the idea of a homogenous Polish and Catholic community. In addition, it gained a new political role as supporter not only of some of the post-Solidarity political parties but also of individual politicians. As a result, the Polish Church became a proactive political player exercising its powers by taking a stance on economic, social and political issues per se or by acting as a voice of its political proponents. The position of the Church cannot be simply ascribed to its historical role. New economic hardships and political instability and changeability in the 1990s made it the sole institution paying attention to those left outside the benefits of a newly progressive and liberal system. In the next decade individuals who suffered most from the post-communist transformation turned to parties referring to the national identity and Catholic values, gaining support of much of the clergy. In the 1990s, the Church’s extraordinary position in public life was illustrated by both legal regulations and day-to-day practice. Church–state relations were mainly regulated by the 250

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Constitution of 1997 which granted a high standard of religious liberty, separation of Church and state, and legal equality of all religious groups. There is however a direct link to God and religion providing preferential treatment of religion in general (meaning in practice, the Catholic Church): ‘Both those who believe in God as the source of truth, justice, good and beauty, as well as those not sharing such faith but respecting those universal values as arising from other sources’ (The Constitution of the Republic of Poland). With reference to Benyamin Neuberger’s typology, in Poland Church–state relations resembled the ‘endorsed Church model’ (1999: 67–82). However, critics, such as Ryszard Małajny, underline constitutional practice and see more of a confessional model in the relationship (2007). The Polish situation is a kind of compromise between respect for the traditions and beliefs of the majority of the society and tolerance towards other faiths, religions and churches. This compromise is not however easy to accomplish because in the model neither legal solutions nor the practice of state–Church relations are obvious and consistent. It is sometimes impossible to distinguish when symbolic recognition ends and state friendliness towards the Church begins. This preferential model was introduced as long ago in 1990, when religion was reinstalled as a subject at public schools. The post-Solidarity parties dominating the Polish parliament agreed on returning expropriated properties, including both sacral and non-sacral buildings, to the Church. A favourable financial system was introduced with state subsidies covering religious instruction, funding of Catholic higher schools, and theological departments at state universities. Additionally, the state budget contributed to the construction of sacral buildings, social insurance fees for the clergy and the salaries of specialised chaplains. The Church gained a number of tax exemptions, such as non-taxable economic activity for cult and charity purposes, exemptions from property and legacy tax, and media concession fees. The collections from Catholics in church and fees for religious services such as baptism were not taxed (Stetkiewicz 2013: 7). Moreover, the Church managed to prove its axiological supremacy in several spheres mostly connected with family life and sex. With the help of post-Solidarity parties, in 1993 new regulations on abortion were passed allowing it only with the exception of cases when pregnancy endangers the life or health of the mother, is the result of rape or incest, or when the foetus is seriously damaged. As will be explained later, signals from senior Church officials were sent to political parties that this compromise did not fulfil the Church’s demands. Due to the same kind of pressure regulations on partnerships – both heterosexual and gay – were not passed in Polish parliament due to their alleged threat to a model of traditional Catholic family. Church strategies over the last three decades towards political parties took various forms and intensities. During 1990–1997, the Polish Church openly supported Catholic political parties and various candidates. For example, before the elections of 1991 the Episcopate issued a communication saying that the faithful should concentrate on a few civic committees representing values conforming with Christian ethics and Catholic social science. However, in some diocesan curiae the document was announced with an accompanying instruction to vote for specific parties: Catholic Electoral Action, Centre Civic Alliance, Peasants’ Agreement, Christian Democracy, Party of Christian Democrats (Kowalczyk 2012: 478). Since the 1997 elections this strategy of open political support was generally dismissed by the Polish clergy (Zuba 2010: 119–127). The reason was ineffectiveness, as some of the Church’s favourite parties dramatically lost which could lead to a possible loss of credibility of the whole institution. As a result, instead of open campaigning the Church’s new strategy focused on general guidance and norm creation. In the Episcopate’s 2005 statement on parliamentary elections the bishops indicated the importance of the following values: respect to the sanctity of human life from conception to natural death; protection of the family and marriage as a permanent bond of woman and man; placing the common good above personal benefits or party 251

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interests; avoiding the instrumental treatment of the Church in the electoral campaign (Os´wiadczenie Konferencji Episkopatu Polski 2005: 9). A key aspect should be underlined: the Polish Church is not monolithic. Like most social, society-wide institutions, it has reactionary, conservative and liberal faces. On the more progressive side is the ‘Łagiewniki church’ with its magazine Tygodnik Powszechny. Conservatives draw inspiration from Radio Maryja (‘Radio Holy Virgin’), run by Father Tadeusz Rydzyk. From a local radio station established in 1991 in Torun´, this priest has built a nationwide media concern consisting of a television station (Polish, Telewizja Trwam), a daily newspaper (Nasz Dziennik), a charity foundation and a college, as well as additional activities, including a geothermal company. Belonging to an independent Redemptorist Order Tadeusz Rydzyk can openly juggle with political arguments and moral imperatives. His programmes are characterised by xenophobia, anti-Semitic, xenophobic and nationalistic blends. The blame for most of Poland’s problems is given, variously, to privatisation, market economy, liberalism or the European Union. Rydzyk’s high aspirations and use of rhetoric attractive to many, especially older, voters, created a country-wide social movement, called the Radio Maryja Family. This group claims between 300,000 and 700,000 members, is politically conscious and keen on mobilisation and participation. This explains why the wide spectrum of right-wing political parties openly sought his acceptance and support: in the 1990s it was Christian National Union, Movement for the Reconstruction of Poland and Solidarity Electoral Action, then in the early 2000s, the League of Polish Families. Most recently, a special and unique bond has been created between the Catholic tycoon and the current conservative PiS government.

Axiological orientation of Polish political parties From the late 1980s, the Polish party system evolved from fragmentation to institutionalisation at least in quantitative terms. Under conditions of often harsh economic transformation and the introduction of a new representative democracy, a magnitude of post-Solidarity parties appeared. Internal political problems within the pro-democracy camp resulted from different approaches to the pace of economic reforms, the relationship to the communist past and personal tensions between individual politicians. It should be mentioned that within the spectrum of centrist and rightist parties none openly distanced itself from the Catholic Church or faith more generally. Post-communist parties took power in 1993. Sojusz Lewicy Demokratycznej – SLD (Democratic Left Allience) and Polskie Stronnictwo Ludowe – PSL (Polish People’s Party) created a coalition based more on values of social protection than deeper axiological orientation. The SLD became a typical social-democratic party aiming at liberties and secular state and the PSL turned into a traditional, Catholic agrarian electorate party. After elections in 1997, power was retaken by the post-Solidarity camp with the first ever Protestant prime minister Jerzy Buzek (later the president of the European Parliament), and then in 2001 power came back to the left (see Figure 20.1). Starting in 2005 the political focus of modern parliamentarism in Poland moved to the right. Two parties with anti-communist roots created in 2001 Platforma Obywatelska – PO (Civic Platform) and Prawo i Sprawiedliwos´c´ – PiS (Law and Justice) now dominate the Polish party system, with constant support of between 20 and 30 percent in both cases. New parties have emerged, such as the liberal Twój Ruch (2011) and Nowoczesna (2015) and the populist Kukiz’15 (2015). Yet, they are of marginal influence and often seem to disappear from the political landscape. In the most recent elections in 2015, five parties entered parliament: PiS – 38 percent, PO – 24 percent, Kukiz’15 – 9 percent, 252

Religion and political parties in Poland SLD

PO

PiS

PSL

Nowoczesna

Twój Ruch

Kukiz

45 40 35 30 25 20 15 10 5 0

1991

1993

1997

2001

2005

2007

2011

2015

2019

Figure 20.1 Support for political parties in Poland (1991–2019) Source: Years 1991–2015 data from National Electoral Commission, https://pkw.gov.pl and for 2019 polls from . January, 2019, Sondaz wyborczy, www.wnp.pl/parlamentarny/sondaze/pierwszy-sondaz-w-2019-r-39-1-p roc-dla-pis-26-3-proc-dla- po,410.html, accessed 8 January 2019.

Nowoczesna – 8 percent and PSL – 5 percent. For the first time in its modern history the Polish parliament – the Sejm – has no representatives of parties of visibly left orientation. Generally speaking the median Polish voter is conservative in terms of values and socially oriented in terms of economic outlook. In a simplified way, it can be said that PiS was a party of the Catholic right and PO of the ‘liberal’, that is, non-faith-based, right. Electorates of both parties derived from the same postSolidarity roots with only minor differences in frequency of participation in religious practices. With time, the process of crystallising the electorates of both parties took place and presently they became antagonistic groups. Both parties more and more clearly gathered around them various groups of voters. From the post-Solidarity nebula that previously existed mainly as an opposition to post-communist forces, there gradually appeared – metaphorically speaking – two Polands, differing in education, income level, place of residence, but also worldview, ideology and political attitudes (see Figure 20.2). After the 2015 elections PiS along with two other conservative parties Solidarna Polska (Solidary Poland) and Polska Razem (Poland Together) formed a three-party coalition (Markowski 2016: 1311). For the first time since 1989 the winning party was given an opportunity to form a government without having to negotiate with possible coalition partners. The idea behind forming PiS is defined by the concept of ‘the Fourth Polish Republic’ advocating ousting all remnants of Poland’s communist past (people, organisations, names of places) and introducing a new moral model based on Catholic and national values. The party was created by twin brothers, Jarosław Kaczyn´ski and Lech Kaczyn´ski, and can be labelled variously Christian-Democratic, social-conservative, patriotic or national-conservative. Due to the party’s approach it attracted many people negatively touched by economic reforms. In effect, the electorate of PiS is religious, less educated, older, living in the countryside, slightly more often experiencing economic disappointment, but not politically passive – and interested in political life to the same extent as better educated PO supporters. The party represents the Polish Church’s stance on family and sex including abortion, euthanasia, gay rights, same-sex marriages or in-vitro fertilisation. It also stands 253

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PiS

RIGHT

KUKIZ’15

ECONOMIC LEFT

PSL PO

LEFT

.N Twój Ruch

SLD

FASCISM

LIBERALISM

ETATISM

ANARCHY

RELATION TO ECONOMY AND LIBERTY

Figure 20.2 Ideological divisions of Polish Parliamentary Parties, 2011–2019 Source: The author

against ‘genderism’ seen as a threat to the traditional model of family. The PiS bonds with the Church are expected due to two reasons: axiological proximity and practical reasons – the support the party may get especially at grassroots level. This dual dependency is beneficial for both sides. However, it should be underlined that the PiS leadership decided to tighten cooperation with the most conservative and independent branch of the Polish Church – Radio Maryja, created by Father Tadeusz Rydzyk, which is used as a platform of communication between the government and its voters. Members of the government or members of parliament present their positions and plans on Radio Maryja sometimes before they are published on public media and participate in Radio’s ceremonies. Besides the sphere of mass communication Radio Maryja gets additional public funds for example for its geothermal heat station. The official voice of the Polish Episcopate is silent on the PiS party. The Church hierarchy does not take a position on state reforms, such as a changing court system, and is indifferent to mass demonstrations organised to safeguard constitutional order. However, as a political actor it sends its demands to the government. In March 2016, the Polish Episcopate issued a communication demanding a full ban on abortion (Konfederacja Episkopatu Polski 2016). A law on restricting abortion passed in 1993, although one of the most restrictive in Europe, was a compromise supported by most Poles. A popular initiative endorsed by PiS on this issue provoked a wave of mass demonstration of not only pro-choice movements but also ordinary citizens, mostly women. In effect, the party’s leader, Jarosław Kaczyn´ski, removed the issue from the agenda which simultaneously undermined its alliance with the Church. The typically political logic of bargain and exchange forced PiS to make different concessions, such as a partial ban on trade on Sundays and ending public funding to in-vitro fertilisation (IVF) introduced by the previous government. 254

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The PO, the biggest competitor to PiS, although having the same roots clearly represents a different style of relations with the Church, which results from its electorate’s demands. PO voters are more often residents of large cities, people with higher or secondary education, who are more often well-off in material terms. Among PO sympathisers, a drop in the percentage of people who regularly practice religious activities is visible. The party lost its clearly right-wing character, and increasingly often it was chosen by voters with centrist and even left-wing views, which probably stems from the lack of political party alternatives for such people. The PO, which managed to rule the country for two consecutive terms (2007–2015), reflects the liberal face of Polish urban society. It supports free-market, open economy, privatisation, entrepreneurship and integration with the European Union. During the years of European economic crisis Poland under its leadership remained a well-functioning and competitive economy and its founding father Donald Tusk became the president of the European Council. In contrast to PiS, Platforma Obywatelska has its visible conservative and liberal wings. Liberals within the party especially would appreciate a more secular state but simultaneously party conservatives maintain close relations with the clergy. In effect during eight years in power PO didn’t open new fronts of conflict with the Catholic Church despite calls from voters and party members to liberalise anti-abortion law or remove crosses from public spaces. Those dissatisfied with this evident status quo strategy created a new liberal party, Twój Ruch. Simultaneously the Church did not accept the ‘Western’ lifestyle the party was apparently promoting. In effect, although the Catholic Church backed Polish membership in the European Union in 2004 it was afraid of a ‘Europeanisation’ of its traditional values. The PO also ignored the mobilising potential of Father Tadeusz Rydzyk, becoming his major enemy. To a certain degree, the PO position was correlated with its coalition partner the Polish People’s Party, founded in May 1990, as a successor of the United Peasant Party representing the communists in the rural areas. The uniqueness of PSL derives from the fact that its history goes back to the nineteenth-century agrarian associations and to inter-war mainstream politics. Moreover, this is the only party that has managed to obtain seats in all elections since 1989. The axiological identification of PSL has evolved over two decades. Until the beginning of the twentieth century it was a left-wing party. After winning 132 seats in the Sejm in the 1993 election, the PSL formed a coalition with the post-communist SLD, and PSL leader Waldemar Pawlak became prime minister until 1995. After the victorious elections for the left in 2001, the party re-entered a coalition with the SLD, but withdrew in 2003. After the 2007 election, the PSL entered a coalition with the centre-right PO. Ideologically the party has moved to some extent from a leftist to a rightist position. In terms of the economy, the PSL continues to support state interventionism and enhanced spending on public welfare. However, as a representative of conservative, rural voters it keeps close relations with local priests. The PSL generally opposes legalisation of euthanasia and abortion, registration of homosexual relationships, or the legalisation of so-called soft drugs, such as cannabis. It is in favour of accepting IVF within marriage, as well as supporting other methods of infertility treatment and the so-called conscience clause for doctors, maintaining religion lessons in schools and generally solutions included in the Concordat. Despite these highly conservative demands, starting from 2015 the party has gained a new face under the leadership of a young and proactive politician, Władysław Kosiniak-Kamysz. During elections in 2015 voters dissatisfied with above-described well-established parties could choose Nowoczesna, a new liberal project in both economic and moral realms. Its programme called for improving the functioning of state administration and economic development based on 255

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individual entrepreneurship and protection of private property, as well as on the construction of ‘modern patriotism’ and enhanced civil society, understood as a ‘community of freedom’. Nowoczesna was not anti-clerical in its rhetoric but underlined the need to create a truly secular state. It was also a party with a fairly distinct social profile: metropolitan, educated and well-off. The first supporters of Nowoczesna were people with higher education, residents of larger towns (cities with 500,000 or more population, but also between 20,000 and 99,999 people), aged 35–44 and those infrequently participating in religious practices. Interestingly, despite winning 7.6 percent in elections, the social capital of this party was easily lost by its leader Ryszard Petru after just two years (CBOS 2017a: 12). The voters of the party underlined the loss of credibility of its founding father, but also felt that the fight with the conservatives could be won by the larger but also more liberal PO. The second newcomer to the Polish parliament of 2015–2019 was Kukiz’15 with 8.8 percent of votes. This right-wing party was created by the rock musician, Paweł Kukiz, calling for important constitutional changes, such as introducing a presidential model, and replacing proportional voting with a first-past-the-post formula. The party also proposed what it felt was a ‘patriotic’ national agenda based mainly on anti-immigrant rhetoric. The most evident loser of the 2015 elections was the SLD, the biggest and oldest parliamentary left-wing party, which in 2001 won more than 41 percent of seats in the Polish Sejm. In July 2015 most left-oriented organisations – that is, SLD, Twój Ruch and Zieloni (The Greens) – created a wide alliance – the United Left – to contest the upcoming parliamentary elections. The coalition led by Barbara Nowacka received only 7.6 percent of the vote, below the 8 percent threshold, leaving all left parties without parliamentary representation. For the first time in history SLD was left without any parliamentary representation. This party was created in 1991 and can be named as successor to the communist party. The main support for SLD came from the middle-rank state sector employees, retired people, leftist union members and people with anti-clerical attitudes. When in power (1993–1997 and 2001–2005) it allowed and sometimes initiated more discussion on axiological issues like abortion or overrepresentation of religion in public space. It also refrained from ratifying the Concordat, granting numerous rights to the Church signed by the conservative government in 1993. On the other hand, the SLD also presented a strategy of not opening new areas of conflict with the clergy aimed at gaining its support or at least neutrality in the key issues for the alliance. In 1997, the SLD needed acceptance for a new constitution regulating state–Church relations and in 2003 backing during the European Union membership referendum. Starting from 2005 the SLD electorate started to diminish, choosing the right or new leftist projects. One of the most interesting alternatives was Twój Ruch, created three months before the parliamentary elections of 2011. The party received 10 percent of the vote, reaching third place in the Sejm behind PO and PiS. This ‘new’ maverick not having any political processors made one of the best debuts for a party since the end of communism and undoubtedly it was a political beneficiary of discontent over the Polish Church. This centre-left party can be in short described as mixing elements of social liberalism, libertarianism, populism and anti-clericalism combined with a strong pro-European stance and with heterogeneous economic views. Twój Ruch adopted the arguments of the so-called New Left aiming at improving civil rights and a truly secular state – but it was simultaneously akin to the so-called Pirate Parties in several other European countries, including Sweden. Twój Ruch was the only parliamentarian political party calling for the abolition of all aspects of a special position for the Polish Catholic Church. It was a proponent of equalising rights of all religious groups by terminating the Concordat, removing all religious symbols from public spaces, ending religious education in state schools and state subsidies of churches. It also advocated abortion liberalisation and same-sex marriages, highly sensitive among Polish clergy. 256

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Besides covering topics more or less known in public discourse the party initiated the debate about LGBT rights, a topic which was neglected by both traditional parties and clergy. Robert Biedron´ became the first openly gay member of the Sejm in Polish history. His political career carried on after 2014 within local government although not under the auspices of Twój Ruch. Furthermore, Anna Grodzka, the first ever transsexual MP in Europe, was elected from the party lists in 2011. This wide spectrum of economic and moral proposals aiming at young, liberal, pro-European and anti-clerical Poles failed to reach a wider audience. A controversial leader with slogans of legalising marijuana dissatisfied many ‘moderate’ voters and the party disappeared from the parliamentary scene in 2015 together with other leftist parties.

The society: between the Church and political parties The analysis of the relationship between the Catholic Church in Poland and political parties must consider one more factor – society. The support and demands put forth by the Church towards politicians are only to a limited extent communicated as part of bilateral contacts. Most of the communication is directed towards the public, or more directly to the voters. They are the main transmitters of the Church’s vision in the political sphere and through the electoral act they legitimise or delegitimise the influence of religion on politics. As shown by the systematic publications of the Centre for Public Opinion Research (CBOS), after the death of John Paul II, Poles’ religiosity slowly but steadily weakened. Between 2005 and 2014, the percentage of people identifying themselves as non-believers rose from 4 percent to 8 percent, and the percentage of non-participants in religious practices increased from 9 percent to 13 percent. Still, the vast majority of Poles are believers (92 percent) and more or less regular practitioners – 87 percent (CBOS 2015a). The number of regular practitioners among the voters of PiS was always higher than average. Over the last decade, the participation of believers and at least once-per-week religious practitioners in the PiS electorate ranged from 70 percent to 74 percent. In the entire population this percentage was between 51 and 62 percent. In case of PO the percentage of people participating in religious practices (at least once a week) dropped from 51 percent in 2005 to 42 percent in 2015. Simultaneously in the same period the percentage of unbelievers rose from 12 percent to 19 percent. Not surprisingly more than half of these who identified themselves with the left practised only sporadically or did not participate in religious practices at all. Still the vast majority consider themselves believers, including ‘deeply believing’ (CBOS 2017b). However, it seems that religious factors are of minor importance in the context of voting. Regarding the most important conservative party, PiS, only 3 percent of respondents admitted that the decisive factor encouraging them to vote for this party was the fact that it implements the guidelines of the Catholic Church. Its general effectiveness and fighting poverty were far more important (36 percent and 15 percent, respectively). In case of the liberal PO and Nowoczesna problems of religion and the Church are not mentioned directly but a decisive number of supporters name simply ‘liberal values’ (PO – 10 percent, Nowoczesna – 15 percent). Even in the case of the left-wing SLD, freedom, equality, social justice and women’s rights are named as priorities ahead of separation of Church and state (CBOS 2018). Simultaneously Poles ‘don’t mind’ (as written in the questionnaires) the Church presence in the public sphere. This includes: crosses in public buildings – 88 percent, the religious nature of military oaths – 85 percent, religious lessons in schools – 82 percent, participation of priests and bishops in state ceremonies – 80 percent, ordination by priests of places and public buildings – 76 percent of priests appearing on public TV – 74 percent. However, as for the Church’s position on the laws adopted by the Sejm or for priests telling people how to vote in elections, 257

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the situation is inverse: the majority of respondents does not accept this, respectively 39 percent and 15 percent. In the majority of analysed socio-demographic groups, the attitude to the presence of religion and the Church in public life does not vary much. There are no significant differences of opinion in the context of gender, and only minor ones among age groups with the youngest (18–24 years) and the oldest (65 years and more) more accommodating in this respect. Only with residents of larger cities and people with higher education are the values of these indices much lower (CBOS 2015a). In terms of worldviews, political beliefs and party preferences, there are clearer cleavages. The presence of religion and the Church in public life is favoured by the deeply religious, regularly participating in Catholic practices, right-wing voters, mostly supporters of PiS (including Solidarna Polska and Prawica Rzeczypospolitej) and the PSL. Non-believers and non-practising people of leftist beliefs and who tend to voter for Twój Ruch and the SLD are among those dissenting from a strong public role for the Church. PO and PSL supporters are also closer to the liberal than conservative option (CBOS 2011). The above picture of the general acceptance of the presence of religion in the public sphere (but not in politics!) with its small diversity in terms of social and demographic criteria requires some nuancing. It applies to ‘soft’ wording questions – even if something ‘does not hurt’, it does not have to be a norm or be desired. For example, in 2013, nearly 90 percent of respondents were not offended by crosses in public buildings, but ‘only’ 62 percent decided that crosses ‘should’ hang in school classes or, in the case of the Polish parliament, 56 percent. Interestingly, the shift in attitudes starting from 1995 in all above-discussed categories is minor as all answers differ by less than 10 percent (CBOS 2018). One can say that over more than 20 years, opinions about the presence of the Church in public life, despite context-dependent fluctuations, remain fairly stable. The general public also see the problems with which the Catholic Church in Poland is struggling. According to CBOS polls from 2013 the most important problem is paedophilia (43 percent), homosexuality (29 percent) and Church involvement in politics (28 percent) (CBOS 2013a: 2). The same year nearly half of the respondents (48 percent) declared that they would like the new Pope Francis to introduce some changes in teachings of the Church. Respondents named first and foremost liberalisation and modernisation of the Church, its greater openness to the world and changes in teaching regarding the family. The vast majority of the respondents (79 percent) were in favour of allowing IVF for infertile couples. At the same time almost three-quarters believe that the Church should agree to the use of contraception (72 percent) and in some situations allow termination of pregnancy (73 percent). The second most common group of statements referred to the need for change certain ecclesiastical customs and traditions, including above all the abolition of celibacy (59 percent of respondents) (CBOS 2013b). Moreover, religion has become less institutionalised and more individualistic in Poland. In the years 2005–2014, the percentage of people declaring themselves believing and applying the Church’s norms fell from 66 percent to 39 percent, while those saying they believe ‘in their own way’ has increased from 32 percent to 52 percent. The conviction about the subjective character of ethical norms prevails in every socio-demographic group with the exception of those who attend Church several times a week (CBOS 2015b: 4). Symptoms of ‘secularisation of morality’ are becoming more and more apparent in Poland, expressed by the fact that Poles feel religious rules to a lesser extent justify their moral principles and declare that moral views on many issues are incompatible with their religion. It is not uncommon for people who claim to be believers (and even ‘deeply believing’) and regular religious practitioners to leave good and bad decisions to their own conscience. Nevertheless, 258

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moral principles proposed by the Catholic Church, although considered not very well suited to today’s reality and needing to be supplemented, in many areas still find recognition and acceptance – including among some who self-describe as non-believers and non-practitioners.

Conclusions After 1989 Poland was re-established as a democratic, secular state ensuring religious liberty for all citizens. A newly pluralistic system opened up possibilities for political actors, including political parties as well as the Catholic Church, to cooperate and compete for axiological supremacy. The Polish Church entered this power struggle indicating that it would not remain a passive subject of the political system but rather to try to influence it. Goals that were set vis-à-vis political parties included expanding or merely retaining the status quo in terms of Church’s economic position, a presence in public sphere, and ability to shape the moral agenda. Methods that the clergy used varied from direct lobbying for some right-wing or post-Solidarity parties (including grassroots mobilisation, writing letters) to indirectly pointing to rules that Catholic voters ‘should’ obey. This strategy of legitimisation or delegitimisation (including publicly praising and rebuking politicians, or the threat of excommunication) of candidates depended on time (more openly used in the 1990s) or level of activity (more frequent at the local level). The Church’s strategies became more effective after 2005 when two centre-right parties, PO and PiS, dominated Poland’s political landscape. The ‘natural’ alliance was created with the latter perceived as a natural advocate of Catholic imperatives and Father Tadeusz Rydzyk with his media concern proved to be the party’s most dedicated proponent. Moreover, with the disappearance of left-wing parties from the Sejm in 2015 the realisation of the Church’s valuebased goals like a full ban on abortion seemed to be easier than ever before. Society, however, does not support evident forms of Church interference in politics or radical changes of its position in the social system. The analysed period, covering 30 years, indicates the conclusion that Polish society accepts only to a certain degree the existing model of Church–state relations. The mere presence of religious symbols, the Church and clergy in the public sphere is well-established in history and not offensive for the majority. Still, Poles do not accept the Church taking a stand on particular legislation or pointing to its preferred political candidates.

References Casanova, J. (2005). Public religions in the modern world. Kraków: Nomos. CBOS (2011). Elektoraty partyjne o istotnych kwestiach społeczno-politycznych, No 103/2011, www. cbos.pl/SPISKOM.POL/2011/K_103_11.PDF [accessed 11 January 2019]. CBOS (2013a). O problemach Kos´cioła w Polsce, No 145/2013, www.cbos.pl/SPISKOM.POL/2013/K_ 145_13.PDF [accessed 11 January 2019]. . CBOS (2013b). Ocena obecnej sytuacji Kos´cioła katolickiego i oczekiwania wobec nowego papieza, No. 37/2013, www.cbos.pl/SPISKOM.POL/2013/K_037_13.PDF [accessed 11 January 2019]. CBOS (2015a). Oczekiwane zmiany w nauczaniu kos´cioła, No. 32/2015, www.cbos.pl/SPISKOM.POL/ 2015/K_032_15.PDF [accessed 11 January 2019]. CBOS (2015b). Zmiany w zakresie podstawowych wskaz´ników religijnos´ci Polaków po ´smierci Jana Pawła II, No. 26/2015b, www.cbos.pl/SPISKOM.POL/2015/K_026_15.PDF [accessed 11 January 2019]. CBOS (2017a). Historia elektoratu Nowoczesnej, 126/2017, www.cbos.pl/SPISKOM.POL/2017/K_ 126_17.PDF [accessed 11 January 2019]. CBOS (2017b). Elektoraty PO i PiS w ostatnich dwunastu latach, No. 130/2017, www.cbos.pl/SPIS KOM.POL/2017/K_130_17.PDF [accessed 11 January 2019]. CBOS (2018). Motywy głosowania na partie polityczne, No 63/2018, www.cbos.pl/SPISKOM.POL/ 2018/K_063_18.PDF [accessed 11 January 2019].

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Katarzyna Dos´piał-Borysiak The Constitution of the Republic of Poland, of 2nd April, 1997. Published in Dziennik Ustaw No. 78, Item 483. Davies, N. (2006). God’s playground: A history of Poland. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dos´piał-Borysiak, K., Klonowski, M. and Włodarska-Frykowska, A. (2018). European values in Poland: The special case of ethnic and national minorities. In S. Ramet, K. Ringdal and K. Dos´piał-Borysiak, eds. Civic and uncivic values in Poland: Value transformation, education, and culture. Budapest and New York: Central European University Press, pp. 79–104. . Konfederacja Episkopatu Polski (2016). Komunikat Prezydium KEP w sprawie pełnej ochrony zycia, https:// episkopat.pl/komunikat-prezydium-kep-w-sprawie-pelnej-ochrony-zycia-czlowieka/ [accessed 11 January 2019]. Kowalczyk, K. (2012). The Catholic Church in Poland as an entity influencing parliamentary elections (1989–2010). Polish Political Science Yearbook, 41, pp. 472–485. Małajny, R. (2007). Neutralnos´c´ a bezstronnos´c´ ´swiatopogla˛ dowa pan´stwa (uwagi na tle polskiej praktyki konstytucyjnej po 1989 r.). In T. Zielin´ski, ed. Bezstronnos´´c religijna, ´swiatopogla˛dowa i filozoficzna władz Rzeczypospolitej Polskiej. Warszawa: Chrzes´cijan´ska Akademia Teologiczna w Warszawie, pp. 71–92. Markowski, R. (2016). The Polish parliamentary election of 2015: A free and fair election that results in unfair political consequences. West European Politics, 39(6), pp. 1311–1322. Neuberger, B. (1999). Religion and state in Europe and Israel. Israel Affairs, 6(2), pp. 67–82. Os´wiadczenie Konferencji Episkopatu Polski w sprawie wyborów, Wrocław, dnia 23 wrzes´nia 2005 r., Wiadomos´ci KAI 2005, 39. Potz, M. (2018). Religion in public life. In S. Ramet, K. Ringdal and K. Dos´piał-Borysiak, eds. Civic and uncivic values in Poland: Value transformation, education, and culture, Budapest and New York: Central European University Press, pp. 131–152. Ramet, S. (2017). The Catholic Church, in Polish history: From 966 to the present. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Stetkiewicz, L. (2013). The role of the Catholic Church and Polish religiosity. The Journal for the Sociological Integration of Religion and Society, 3(2), pp. 1–17. Warner, C. (2000). Confessions of an interest group: The Catholic Church and political parties in Europe. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Zuba, K. (2010). The political strategies of the Catholic Church in Poland. Religion, State & Society, 38(2), pp. 119–127.

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21 OLD AND NEW ALLIANCES Christian churches and the African National Congress in South Africa Barbara Bompani

Introduction At the conference organised by the Programme to Combat Racism (PCR) of the World Council of Churches in Lusaka in May 1987 (4–8 May), the then president in exile of the African National Congress (ANC), Oliver Tambo, acknowledged the long history of partnership between churches and the ANC, at that time a liberation movement and not yet a political party, and called religious actors in the country to play an even more active role in the final stages of the joint struggle against Apartheid: The African National Congress has a long history of association with the Church. Our founders were churchmen and women. Throughout our 75 years [from 1912 to 1987] that link has never been broken. As we enter the final stages of our struggle, we believe that you, too, have a responsibility to contribute to the maximum to remove a regime which offends the very principles on which the Church itself was founded. (Oliver Tambo, SAHO online, 1987) While at its inception the ANC was, as Stephen Ellis put it, ‘a rather genteel organisation’ composed of middle-class black South Africans mostly educated in religious schools or religious leaders themselves (Ellis, 1991: 439), the relationship between religion and the ANC was almost completely forgotten or strategically swept away by the dominant public media coverage at the time of the 1987 WCC conference in Lusaka. Indeed, those were the years in which armed opposition and violent strategies intensified in South Africa and in which the Cold War was used to frame politics and public action. Therefore, the South African Church (with the exception of the Dutch Reformed Church that maintained its support to the regime of Pretoria), which had publicly supported the liberation struggle led by the ANC and the civil society umbrella of the United Democratic Front (UDF) since the 1970s, was accused by various voices – the Apartheid regime in primis – of collaborating with a liberation movement that was allied to the Communist Party (SACP) and colluded with the Soviet Union which persecuted churches and encouraged others to do so in neighbouring African countries (see for example in independent Angola and Mozambique from 1975: Helgesson, 1994; Blanes and 263

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Paxe, 2015; Morier-Genoud, 1996). In the polarised climate of the time, the ANC was, nationally and internationally,1 depicted as a secular anti-religious organisation that aimed to eradicate any form of religious presence if successful in its political struggle against the National Party (NP) regime. The fact that the ANC consistently pledged allegiance to the founding principles of the Freedom Charter (the precursor of the current democratic Constitution) that stated that the struggle aimed to build a ‘democratic state, based on the will of all the people, can secure to all their birthright, without distinction of colour, race, sex or belief’ counted for little (Freedom Charter, 1955: 1). Churches were publicly requested to take a clear separational stance from the ANC and the Communist Party, for example as the then president of South Africa P.W. Botha conveyed in a public letter to Archbishop Tutu on 16 March 1988: ‘You are no doubt aware that the expressed intention of the planned revolution by the ANC/SACP alliance is to ultimately transform South Africa into an atheistic Marxist state, where freedom of faith and worship will surely be among the first casualties’ (Journal of Theology for Southern Africa, 1988: 72).2 If the media controlled by the NP managed to forge the opinion, at home and abroad, that the relationship between religion and the ANC was of a dangerous nature, academic literature has not been successful in uncovering the relevance and specificities of this collaboration. The study of public Christianity in Africa went through considerable changes with the end of colonialism. In most of the African continent, the 1960s ushered in the idea that it was time to reinterpret much of the history, including the historical role played by religion in politics. The Department of World Mission and Evangelism of the World Council of Churches (WCC) meeting in 1962 was fundamental in sparking a new re-interpretative process putting a great concern on the idea of ‘building of bridges of mutual understanding and reconciliation’ (Pretorius, 1995: 185). In 1965 an international congress of African historians held in Dar el Salam marked a watershed in African historiography in general and it affected the writing of Church history in Africa. One of the main themes identified was that of resistance and rebellion against colonial rule and the uncovered work played by religion. At the centre of the debate there was the need to understand the workings of the African Church and its interaction with society and politics (Ranger, 1968). While this new attitude was pervading a large part of the continent, it is possible to identify problems and limitations in the South African academic production. As Lonsdale pointed out, South African historiography remained outside the mainstream: The situation is changing rapidly at the present [in the 1980s], but South African historiography had what was virtually a lost generation in the 1960s, the “Africanist” or nationalist historians who elsewhere began to rewrite the history of independent tropical Africa. (Lonsdale, 1983: 70) Without its own end of colonisation, South Africa did not reinvent its way of writing history, including religious history, as was happening elsewhere on the continent. Until the 1980s the study of religion in the country was mainly dominated by functionalist approaches that privileged typologies and classification of religious phenomena more than the analysis of their action and impact on society and politics. The functionalist paradigm persisted until the 1980s (Kruss, 1985) when Marxist thinkers started to dominate with the insistence that explanations should be founded in social and economic circumstances, to the exclusion of culture and religion (Marks and Atmore, 1980). Focusing attention on class analysis and political economy, though, the dominant South African academic production largely excluded analyses of the public role that religion played in Apartheid and post-Apartheid South Africa. Uniquely to the 264

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country, this intellectual dominant approach persisted until the end of the twentieth century, opening spaces for debates and investigations on the public role of religion only in very recent times. The history of how religion shaped politics during and after the Apartheid era, and vice versa how politics shaped religion itself, still need to be written in full. As this relationship changed and transformed across decades and through different political settlements, from Apartheid to the democratic transition to contemporary post-Apartheid, this chapter will explore the dynamic relationship between different Christian churches and the ANC across time. In doing so the chapter will highlight the importance of understanding the interconnective and evolving relations between religion and party politics in a country in which religion plays a major role in shaping society and visions for the future, and where the ruling party, at certain times, had tried to co-opt and develop preferential relationships with certain religious groups at the expense of others.

From Apartheid to democracy South Africa encompasses Christian denominations from across the spectrum (Elphick and Davenport, 1997), and while mainline churches – the so-called churches with European missionary origins – have been publicly dominant and more populous until the end of the twentieth century, in the past decades evangelical churches, especially African Independent Churches (AICs) and Pentecostal-charismatics have grown rapidly, a trend that reflects their dynamic ascent across the rest of the continent. Christianity, as the main religion in the country (79.8 percent according to the 2001 national census, the last census that included religious affiliation in the questionnaire, StatsSA online), has always had a privileged relationship with political parties. ‘We recognise that while there is extensive religious diversity, the majority of South Africans are Christians’ shouted Jacob Zuma from the altar of a Pentecostal-charismatic church just a few days before the presidential elections in 2009 that followed the general elections on 22 April (Rhema Church Prayer Service, 30 April 2009, cited in West, 2010: 52). This connection between Christianity and politics was particularly clear, for example, during the Apartheid era with the Dutch Reformed Church (DRC)3 and the National Party (for an analysis of the Dutch Reformed Church and the National Party during the Apartheid era, see for example Kuperus, 1999). Indeed, the National Party, continuously in government between 1948 and May 1994,4 found justification in Christian political theology through specific readings of Calvinist thought and through the unquestioning support of the DRC. The loss of the special connection with the ruling party and the crumbling of Apartheid, left this Church silent in the public arena in the 1990s, only beginning to reshape its public voice around issues of social justice in the middle of the following decade, when it also joined other ecumenical bodies, as for example the SACC in 2002 (Kuperus, 2011). The ANC, when it was a liberation movement, ran a Department of Religious Affairs in order to deal with religious organisations and leaders (African National Congress Records: 1970–1991. B2.5a Department of Religious Affairs, Historical Papers research archive, the University of the Witwatersrand). In 1995, a year after the first democratic elections that swept the ANC to power with majority support (62.7 percent of the total votes), the office was formalised with the establishment of ‘The ANC Commission for Religious Affairs’ that remains based in Luthuli House, the ANC national headquarters in Johannesburg. While the ANC founders were influenced by evangelical thinking and the speeches of the first ANC president, Rev. John Dube, ‘read as charismatic sermons’ (Balcomb, 2004: 6), during the Apartheid era the ANC had a preferential relationship with mainline churches, especially through the umbrella of the South African Council 265

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of Churches, an interdenominational forum that unites 36 member churches and other Christian organisations across the country. This did not preclude the collaboration with individuals or leaders belonging to other religions, for example, records can be found of the meeting between ANC leaders in exile and the interfaith delegation composed of Christian, Muslim and Hindu participants in Lusaka in 1987 (SAHO online, n.d.). Nonetheless, it was with the SACC and the churches and organisations it represented, including the Southern African Catholic Bishop Conference (SACBC), that the liberation movement developed a programmatic strategy of collaboration and seeking public and financial support. Founded in 1968, the SACC became a platform for anti-Apartheid activities in the country and internationally through church networks and ecumenical organisations, financially and spiritually they supported victims of the regime in the country and in exile, they collaborated with the international Anti-Apartheid Movement and the boycotts against the Pretoria regime, they led the formulation of the Kairos Document (Goba, 1987), the very first theological denunciation of the Apartheid regime as an evil force to vanquish, they urged churches in South Africa to distance themselves from the NP and the government. Several members of the SACC were, or became later in the post-Apartheid context, members of the ANC – for example an ex SACC general, Frank Chikane (1987–1994), served as Director General (1999–2009) in the office of president Thabo Mbeki. So closely was the SACC associated with the ANC that it was often raided by government security forces, members of the organisation were often persecuted and detained without trial and in September 1988 the headquarters in Johannesburg, Khotso House,5 were destroyed by a bombing that was personally ordered by the then South African president P.W. Botha because it was considered ‘a secret meeting place for members of the ANC, then a banned organisation’ (TRC final report, volume 5, 1998: 225–226, in SAHO online, 1998). The SACC’s strong connections with the ANC during the Apartheid era determined its relationship with the ANC-led post-Apartheid government and left the Council and other ecumenical organisations largely weaker and in search of a separate identity after the first democratic elections in 1994. Indeed, with the ‘historical friends’ taking power, ‘the role of SACC and its identity changed enormously and drastically. Churches were not able to relate to the new reality. The change is connected to the theology of power of persons who were now in charge in Parliament, colleagues and friends’ (author’s interview, Dr Molefe Tsele, SACC General Secretary, 30 May 2002). The problem of a close identity with power and other factors (such as the reduction in international financial support after the end of Apartheid, the growth of evangelical churches and also a considerable movement of well-educated religious people into well remunerated jobs in politics and business) determined what was defined as a period of ‘critical solidarity’ (Bompani, 2006) towards the government’s work, that indeed corresponded to a period of relative silence on the part of the SACC during Mandela’s presidency (1994– 1999) and the early Mbeki presidency. This was also in line with the invitation from Mandela himself to churches to retreat from the public sphere, returning to their denominational space and supporting the nation-building process by focusing on the moral reconstruction of the country. In short, an invitation to leave politics well alone was expressed in several speeches and through the institution of the National Religious Leaders Forum (NRLF), a permanent platform where churches were consulted and invited to co-operate with the government and act as moral agents for the new democratic dispensation (Bompani, 2006). Given the nature of contemporary South African party politics, where the head of the largest party is generally elected president of the country, the president of the country also shapes the direction of the ruling party and its interaction with governmental and non-governmental bodies. In this line, with Mandela we can observe a honeymoon period of ‘critical solidarity’ in which churches retreated from the political sphere. Under Thabo Mbeki churches started to adopt a slightly 266

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more critical tone and to reform around ecumenical organisations in relation to issues of service delivery, xenophobia, the neighbouring Zimbabwe crisis and most of all the Anti-Retroviral Campaign (ARC) and Mbeki’s peculiar policies towards HIV/AIDS in the country (author’s interview with Rev. Eddy Makue, SACC General Secretary, 8 June 2010. For more information, for example, see Bompani, 2012). This re-entrance into politics was not comparable, though, to the anti-government effort during the anti-Apartheid struggle, but can be interpreted as a ‘critical engagement’ and collaboration with other civil society organisations in publicly questioning the ANC’s impact and the president’s work. This second phase in the post-Apartheid era corresponded with the ANC’s attempt to recompose the ranks and old alliance with the SACC while regularly reminding them, through the voice of President Mbeki, that criticising the work of the ANC was like abandoning ‘the common struggle against the legacy of apartheid’ (Mail and Guardian, 2 November 2001, cited in Bompani, 2006: 1142). As with Mandela, Mbeki expected that the ANC’s old allies would remain supportive of the government’s mandate, distance themselves from politics and focus on issues of morality and spirituality. It is only with the Zuma presidency that this expectation of a neat separation between the moral and the political sphere from churches fully crumbled and religious voices, mainline churches but also evangelicals, found a new strong political public voice in the post-Apartheid era, and that the SACC reinvented its prophetic mission,6 as the next section will illustrate.

The Zuma era and the search for new allies Under the Zuma presidency between May 2009 and his resignation in February 2018, it is possible to observe a shift in the way the ANC engaged with religion in the public sphere. Throughout his presidency, and before then during the run-up to becoming the head of his party in 2007, Zuma made several appearances in selected evangelical churches (West, 2010), and encouraged the public support of religious leaders in relation to his court cases (for his ongoing 16 charges of corruption, fraud and racketeering in total, SABC News, 2018). He also famously made statements such as for example ‘When you vote for the ANC, you are also choosing to go to heaven’ (Mail & Guardian online, 2011) or ‘the ANC will rule until Jesus comes’ (Mail & Guardian online, 2016). This generated much public debate on the unprecedented lack of neutrality and secularity demonstrated by an elected head of state in the democratic dispensation. This shift towards religion not only altered political dynamics in the South African post-Apartheid context, but also reshaped long-standing alliances with religious actors. Indeed, if the ANC’s historical allies since the struggle against Apartheid have been mainline churches, with Zuma we can observe a clear alignment with Pentecostal-charismatic churches and African Independent Churches (AICs); religious groups that, for different reasons, until recently have remained quite distant from party politics. The now vibrant evangelical charismatic movement, previously politically aloof, has started to emerge as a political force and to define its position within the South African political establishment (Kuperus, 2011: 284). Although, as Anthony Balcomb (2004) demonstrated, the evangelical charismatic movement is complex and encompasses different political positions, from this group several Pentecostal-charismatic churches clearly emerged as ANC supporters under the Zuma leadership. No longer a minority in the country and with the urge to influence political leaders (Frahm-Arp, 2015, uses the term charismatic ‘chaplains’ in relation to those ones in the highest offices of government) in order to promote their values, some of which are opposition to some of the liberal and progressive South African Constitution, Pentecostalcharismatics found a way to express their voice during the Zuma presidency through the newly formed interfaith structures and the nascent alliance with the president: 267

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Our church has taken the view that leadership is required among politicians and business people, to provide a moral and spiritual, or prophetic voice, that calls for integrity, justice, fairness and accountability. We see this as a calling we have as a Church to engage the leaders of our society. It is for this reason that we have participated in ecumenical and inter-Church forums and structures. (Author’s interview with Marius Oosthuizen, Rhema Bible Church, 25 September 2018). AICs, although evangelical in their theology, constitute a separate reality from Pentecostalcharismatic churches in the country but they equally found a way to push through into the public scene. In the post-Apartheid period between, or at least from 1994 until the Mbeki era, there have been a few attempts from the government to involve AICs in the ‘moral reconstruction’ of the country, to echo the call started by president Mandela towards South African religious groups but only answered by a few individual AICs leaders (author’s interview with Archbishop Ngada, African Spiritual Churches Association, 8 March 2002). Although some cooperative links were created with individual AICs, the general sense from the within these religious communities was that there were still fractures in need of healing between AICs and the ANC given that the ANC did not understand or recognise their work during the liberation struggle (Bompani, 2010). AICs have not acted politically in South Africa as they have elsewhere in the continent. For example, AICs in the Democratic Republic of Congo (Kimbanguism) and in the Ivory Coast (Harrist Church) have supported political movements; while in South Africa AICs tend to stay away from national public discussions and debates. Reverend Cedric Mayson in 2001, then Head of the ANC Commission for Religious Affairs, pointed out that in the post-Apartheid era there have been various attempts by the ANC to collaborate with AICs, adding that in the case of independent churches traditionally their contacts were with people and not with institutions: These are fragmented churches. It is difficult to reach them also because they are in rural areas or in deprived urban areas, like informal settlements. The main problem when you talk of accessibility to AICs, is that these organisation are literally independent from everything, not just from mainline churches, but even from the government and political organisations. (Author’s interview with Rev. Cedric Mayson, ANC Religious Commission Affairs, 30 October 2001) He also stated that transformation in South Africa coincides with the proliferation of a new spirituality that needed to be recognised and taken into account by the political establishment: ‘We are aware of that and we, as the ruling party chosen by the majority of the population, have to consider this renovated need for religion and religious values, mainly Christian’ (author’s interview with Rev. Cedric Mayson, ANC Commission Affairs for Religious Affairs, 30 October 2001). It consistently emerged from several interviews with government bodies and ecumenical organisations (author’s fieldwork between 1999 and 2018) that AICs have always been considered as diverse, fragmented and ‘uneasy’ actors, difficult to involve in public debates and action for social transformation. In contrast, the political strategy of Zuma, with a mix of ‘rational populism’ and pragmatism (Marais, 2010), invoking ‘Africaness’ and national identity, provided a new public platform for those churches that similarly pose importance to tradition and African culture (Bompani, 2008). Zuma’s attitude and search for new alliances marked a change not only in terms of the kinds of religious actors that occupy the public sphere but also in the way the ruling party actively 268

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shaped and initiated the creation of new religious bodies in seeking religious and moral support for its mandate. Indeed, Zuma’s ascent to power had withstood a long succession of ethical and legal issues, from the rape trial in 2005 to the corruption case around the South African arms deal in 1999 (Gumede, 2008), which motivated the newly elected president to look for a way of demonstrating his own and his party’s morals. Similarly to other African contexts (for example in Uganda, Bompani, 2018; in Kenya, Deacon, 2015; and in Nigeria, Obadare, 2018) but also to the United States (Gorski, 2019), Zuma turned to the growing variegated group of Pentecostal-charismatic churches in the country to find moral and spiritual support. As a polygamist involved in multiple charges of corruption, coupled with their history of collaboration with the Mandela and Mbeki factions of the ANC (Pillay, 2017), Zuma could not find public support from the mainline churches united as they were under the umbrella of the SACC and of the SACBC. Zuma’s rise to power determined a shift from the placid public role of those bodies. From the period of ‘critical solidarity’ and ‘critical engagement’ discussed above, they shifted to becoming active critical voices of the government once again, this time a government ran by their historical allies. From press statements, to campaigns and public protests, to sermons and news interviews against corruption and the malfunctioning of the state in delivering services, Zuma in some ways managed to reignite the political nature of those bodies. In 2012 the SACC held a conference to redefine and renew its mission as a critical public voice in South Africa where the fight against corruption and poor state performance were articulated as priorities (author’s interview with Bishop Malusi Mpumlwana, SACC General Secretary, 31 August 2018, Johannesburg). ‘We have come to recognise that South Africa may just be a few inches from the throes of a mafia state from which there may be no return, a recipe for a failed state’ said the SACC General Secretary Bishop Mpumlwana in a press release in May 2017 while talking of the cases of corruption related to Zuma and the Gupta family (Reuters online, 2017). When President Zuma felt that the ANC were losing support from mainline churches, and their ecumenical bodies, he turned to other denominations for public support. It is in light of this shift that the institution of the National Interfaith Leadership Council (NILC) can be explained. In 2009 Pastor Ray McCauley of Rhema Bible Church and Dr Mathole Motshekga, head of ANC Religious Affairs Commission and ANC chief whip at the time, formed a new interfaith organisation called the National Interfaith Leadership Council. This network was defined as ‘a mass-based interreligious group intended to partner with the government in terms of improving service delivery regarding the provision of basic services like water, electricity and housing’ (Kuperus, 2011: 291) and saluted by Zuma as ‘The holy revolution of the people of God against corruption, moral degeneration and the invisibility and marginalisation of previously disadvantaged people and communities’ (IOLNews online, 2018). More orientated towards AICs and Pentecostal-charismatic groups, the NILC has been perceived as a substitute for the (more critical) SACC. This was confirmed by the fact that SACC was not invited to the launch of the new organisation in August 2009 (author’s interview with Rev. Eddy Makue, SACC General Secretary, 8 June 2010). Although they never publicly identified themselves as having a preferential link to the ANC, many NILC members were ANC MPs, no member was associated with other political parties and the organisation relied on the ANC parliamentary caucus’s communication facilities for their external communication and most of all they displayed an extremely strong support to Zuma (Mail & Guardian online, 2009). NILC had that special relation with the ANC and we do not want to have any kind of similar relation with political organisations. We want to protect jealously our autonomy and independence; we believe that it is the president prerogative to establish agencies

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that he respects; but we are worried that if every president has to choose the religious leaders that he wants, it will further weaken religious communities in South Africa. (Author’s interview with Rev. Eddy Makue, SACC General Secretary, 8 June 2010). The NILC subsequently merged with the existing National Religious Leaders Forum (NRLF) instituted by Mandela to form the National Interfaith Council of South Africa (NICSA) in 2011. This did not happen without contestation from many non-aligned religious leaders that felt that the original broad umbrella became co-opted by the government and was excluding religious voices that were not in line with the president. In February 2016 we arranged a meeting with ANC representatives to discuss corruption and other urgent matters for the country. The meeting took place at Oliver Tambo airport. There was a delegation of five bishops, including the SACBC General Secretary and myself from Justice and Peace. When we arrived, we were surprised to find out that instead of ANC delegates, we were welcomed by members of NICSA. Their agenda was to persuade the SACBC to join the platform. (Author’s interview with Father Stan Muyebe, Justice and Peace, Southern African Catholic Bishop Conference, 30 August 2018) NICSA maintained clear support to Zuma throughout his presidency and beyond, battling against other critical political and religious voices. Criticising the National Persecuting Authority, Bishop Bheki Ngcobo from NICSA, for example, publicly said: Some like the South African Council of Churches have found Zuma guilty before he appeared in court. We cannot tolerate being ruled by the SACC. They are nothing to us indigenous churches here in South Africa. We are not looking for anything from them. They can go to hell. (IOLNews online, 2018) Although there have been several public attempts, initiated both by the Presidential Office and by religious leaders, to reconcile churches and interfaith bodies (interviews with representatives of the SACC and SACBC, 2010–2018), and there has been a constant reclamation of political independence by those bodies, churches’ deployment in support of or against Zuma opened up a new form of divisiveness within public Christianity in South Africa and determined the emergence of new political strategies and alignments across churches. This fragmentation also reflects divisions within the same ruling party that struggles to grapple with fringes still supportive of Zuma’s populist style and critical of the so-called neoliberal, moderate style of other ANC leaders. When President Ramaphosa took power in February 2018, he was saluted by many as a politician respectful of the separation between religion and politics. ‘President Ramaphosa is a participative leader who has a history of consultation with multiple stakeholders, across the social and political sphere. As such, we expect the president will want to work with the Churches, while respecting their autonomy’ (author’s interview with Marius Oosthuizen, Rhema Bible Church, 25 September 2018). De facto, in marked contrast to his predecessor, Ramaphosa remained silent on religious matters and did not consult publicly with churches during his initial mandate (author’s interview with Bishop Malusi Mpumlwana, SACC General Secretary, 31 August 2018). Although it is quite early days to provide a serious analysis of the relationship between the ANC and religion under Ramaphosa’s leadership, it appears that one of the major challenges posed to him in the upcoming national elections in June 2019 is 270

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the issue of fragmentation within the party and across their religious and secular allies. His quiet strategy and cautious approach towards old and new religious allies may be dictated by the need to heal and mend divisions created by Zuma and to gain the broadest support across the electoral spectrum. After all, political leaders cannot ignore the power of the reservoir of the religious electorate in South Africa.

Conclusion From this analysis of the shifting relationships between the ANC and public Christianity across several decades it is possible to draw at least three distinct conclusions. First, religion in South Africa has been and continues to be relevant in the public realm, but its interaction with politics is dynamic, changes and evolves. Similarly, the religious subjects that become more politically active and visible alternate along the construction of new alliances to the detriment of older ones. Evangelical Christianity, in the case of South Africa especially in the form of Pentecostal-charismatic churches and African Independent Churches, remained distant from politics and public engagement with political parties and political movements during Apartheid and in the first democratic era. However, in the past decade it is possible to observe from these churches the building up of a political theology and practical involvement in the running of the state (for an analysis of the motivations beyond this political ascent, see for example Burchardt, 2017). While across the evangelical spectrum churches differ quite considerably in terms of organisation, priorities and theology, they all appear to emerge as political actors in ways that are new and different from the past. This is in sharp contrast with earlier analyses of African Pentecostalism as distant from democratic contributions and as apolitical in nature (for example, see Corten and MarshallFratani, 2001 and Gifford, 1998). As per other African contexts, South African political leaders found in these denominations alternative allies from mainline churches. Second, mainline churches, after the huge effort of participating into the democratisation process of several African countries in the 1990s (Gifford, 1995) and challenged by the growth of evangelical Christianity, have struggled to redefine a clear political theology of action in more recent times. An honourable exception being the extremely active Catholic Church in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) during the build-up and running of the national elections in December 2019. However, this may be determined by the fact that the DRC Catholic Church still represents almost half of the population (Pew Forum, 2016), is without a real challenge to its membership posed by the rise of evangelical Christianity, and that its networks and organisational apparatus is unique in the vast and badly connected country. The South African case, through the South African Council of Churches, also demonstrates how alliances shaped in pre-democratic contexts through liberation movements may affect the way in which religious subjects feel constrained to challenge old allies in the new democratic dispensation. For the SACC, it took more than two decades to begin to reformulate a critical active voice apart from the government. Third, this chapter highlights new distinct forms of contrast and division in political theologies and in the everyday between mainline churches oriented more towards progressive, liberal stances of social justice and equality and charismatic churches exhibiting more traditional and conservative values and objectives such as for example the fight against the ‘amoral’ modern world that disrupts old and ‘ethical’ ideas of family and gender divisions in South Africa (Burchardt, 2018). Even if constitutionally South Africa is a secular country, Christians remain an important political reservoir and leaders try to tap into them. The pragmatic and strategic intervention of Zuma in his search of new religious allies, ratcheted up this religious division that is now visible and ritualised in public action and public statements. This demonstrates how 271

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politics and political leaders can be effective in shaping religious public action and in privileging certain religious subjects over others in order to gain public support. This emerging clash between different denominations is quite new in South Africa where interfaith and multi-denominational fora have traditionally been dominant and faith interaction has been quite fluid. It will be interesting to observe in future years whether this division was merely the product of Zuma’s strategic intervention, or if deeper unreconcilable theological stances and political interpretations will forge ever broader separations between those two religious blocs. If we engage with recent literature on the public role of Christianity in Sub-Saharan Africa, we can observe many similarities between South Africa and other African countries. Tracing these parallels can be used, alongside other academic work, to vanquish the ‘exceptionalism’ that is often reserved for academic analyses of the South African context.

Notes 1 For example, preoccupations that a South Africa governed by the ANC could transform into an atheist state where religion was persecuted have been expressed by the then Pope John Paul II to the South African Archbishop Denis Hurley, president of the SACBC between 1981 and 1987 (author’s interview with Denis Hurley, Durban, 20 August 2001). 2 The full public correspondence between Desmond Tutu and P.W. Botha is published in that volume. 3 Under the umbrella of the Dutch Reformed Church, the Nederduitsch Hervormde Kerk (NHK), there are three main Afrikaner Reformed denominations, that during the Apartheid regime were divided along ethnic lines. 4 The National Party was in government from 1924 but then it became an opposition party during the Second World War. 5 In the previous year, 1987, Khanya House, the headquarters of the Southern African Catholic Bishop Conference in Pretoria, was also bombed in the night by the government secret police. 6 In 2012 the SACC called a conference to renew its public mission in the country and to elaborate new strategies, both political and financial. Six past general secretaries, Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu, Reverend Frank Chikane, Dr Brigalia Bam, Ambassador Dr Molefe Tsele, Rev. Eddie Makue and Rev. Mautjie Pataki, initiated this process. In order to overcome the financial impasse that conditioned part of the weak activities in the new political dispensation after the reduced flow of funding from international churches with the end of Apartheid and the diminishing of membership in mainline churches, the SACC re-modernised the building, Khotso House, in inner-city Johannesburg and entrepreneurially rented offices to external companies and privates. They also tried to revitalise forms of financial support and donations from grassroots South African church members (author’s interview, Bishop Malusi Mpumlwana, SACC General Secretary, 31 August 2018).

References Balcomb, A. (2004) ‘From Apartheid to the New Dispensation: Evangelicals and the Democratisation of South Africa’. Journal of Religion in Africa, 34(1–2): 5–38. Blanes, R.L. and Paxe, A. (2015) ‘Atheist Political Cultures in Independent Angola’. Social Analysis, 62(4): 62–80. Bompani, B. (2006) ‘Mandela Mania: Mainline Christianity in Post-Apartheid South Africa’. Third World Quarterly, 27(6): 1137–1149. Bompani, B. (2008) ‘African Independent Churches in Post-Apartheid South Africa: New Political Interpretations’. Journal of Southern African Studies, 34(3): 665–677. Bompani, B. (2010) ‘Religion and Development from Below: Independent Christianity in South Africa’. Journal of Religion in Africa, 40(3): 307–330. Bompani, B. (2012) ‘“It is not a shelter, it is a church!” Religious Organisations, the Public Sphere and Xenophobia in South Africa’ in Hopkins, P., Kong, L. and Olson, E. (eds) Religion and Place: Landscape, Politics and Piety. Springer: New York. Bompani, B. (2018) ‘Religious Economies: Pentecostal-Charismatic Churches and the Framing of a New Moral Order in Neoliberal Uganda’ in Wiegratz, J., Martiniello, G. and Greco, E. (eds) Uganda: The Dynamics of Neoliberal Transformation. Zed Books: London.

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Old and new alliances Burchardt, M. (2017) ‘Pentecostal Productions of Locality: Urban Risk and Spiritual Protection in Cape Town’ in Strhn, A. and Garbin, D. (eds) Religion and the Global City. Bloomsbury: London. Burchardt, M. (2018) ‘Citizenship beyond the State: Pentecostal Ethics and Political Subjectivity in South African Modernity’ in Bompani, B. and Caroline, V. (eds) Christian Citizens and the Moral Regeneration of the African State. Routledge: London. Corten, A. and Marshall-Fratani, R. (eds) (2001) Between Babel and Pentecost. Transnational Pentecostalism in Africa and Latin America. Indiana University Press: Bloomington. Deacon, G. (2015) ‘Driving the Devil Out: Kenya’s Born-Again Election’. Journal of Religion in Africa, 45 (2): 200–220. Ellis, S. (1991) ‘The ANC in Exile’. African Affairs, 90(360): 349–447. Elphick, R. and Davenport, R. (eds) (1997) Christianity in South Africa: A Political, Social and Cultural History. James Currey: Oxford. Frahm-Arp, M. (2015) ‘The Political Rhetoric in Sermons and Select Social Media in Three Pentecostal Charismatic Evangelical Churches Leading up to the 2014 South African Election’. Journal for the Study of Religion, 28(1): 115–141. Freedom Charter (1955) Available at: www.historicalpapers.wits.ac.za/inventories/inv_pdfo/AD1137/ AD1137-Ea6-1-001-jpeg.pdf. Gifford, P. (ed) (1995) The Christian Churches and the Democratisation of Africa. Brill: Leiden. Gifford, P. (1998) African Christianity: Its Public Role. Indiana University Press: Indianapolis and Bloomington. Goba, B. (1987) ‘The Kairos Document and Its Implications for Liberation in South Africa’. Journal of Religion and Law, 5(2): 313–325. Gorski, P. (2019) ‘Why Evangelicals Voted for Trump: A Critical Cultural Sociology’ in Mast, J.L. and Alexander, J.C. (eds) Politics of Meaning/Meaning of Politics: Cultural Sociology of the 2016 U.S. Presidential Election. Palgrave Macmillan: London. Gumede, W.M. (2008) ‘South Africa: Jacob Zuma and the Difficulties of Consolidating South Africa’s Democracy’. African Affairs, 107(427): 261–271. Helgesson, A. (1994) Church, State and People in Mozambique: A Historical Study with Special Emphasis on Methodist Developments in the Inhambane Region. Studia Missionalia Upsaliensia LIV: Uppsala. IOLNews online (2018, 15 April) www.iol.co.za/news/politics/churches-in-war-of-words-over-formerpresident-zuma-14451575. Journal of Theology of Southern Africa (1988, June) ‘The Church State Confrontation: Correspondence and Statements’, 63: 68–87. Kruss, G. (1985) ‘A Critical Review of the Study of Independent Churches in South Africa’. Paper presented at the Zululand Symposium. Available in Turner’s Collection, Microfiche 426, CSCNWW, the University of Edinburgh. Kuperus, T. (1999) State, Civil Society and Apartheid in South Africa: An Examination of the Dutch Reformed Church-State Relations. Macmillan: London. Kuperus, T. (2011) ‘The Political Role and Democratic Contribution of Churches in Post-Apartheid South Africa’. Journal of Church and State, 53(2): 278–306. Lonsdale, J. (1983) ‘From Colony to Industrial State: South African Historiography as seen from England’. Social Dynamics, 9(1): 67–83. Marais, H. (2010) South Africa Pushed to the Limit: The Political Economy of Change. UCT Press: Cape Town. Marks, S. and Atmore, A. (1980) Economy and Society in Pre-Industrial South Africa. Longman: London. Morier-Genoud, E. (1996) ‘Of God and Caesar: The Relation between Christian Churches & the State in Post-colonial Mozambique, 1974–1981’. La Fait Missionaire, 3: 1–84. Mail & Guardian online (2009, 11 September) https://mg.co.za/article/2009-09-11-zumas-new-god-squad -wants-liberal-laws-to-go. Mail & Guardian online (2011, 7 February) https://mg.co.za/article/2011-02-07-outrage-at-zumas-promises -of-heaven. Mail & Guardian online (2016, 5 July) https://mg.co.za/article/2016-07-05-zuma-repeats-that-anc-willrule-until-jesus-comes. Obadare, E. (2018) Republic: Religion and the Struggle for State Power in Nigeria. Zed Books (African Argument): London. Pew Forum (2016) DRC Religious Affiliation. www.globalreligiousfutures.org/countries/democratic-rep ublic-of-the-congo#/?affiliations_religion_id=0&affiliations_year=2010®ion_name=All%20Coun tries&restrictions_year=2016.

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22 RELIGION AND POLITICAL PARTIES IN ZAMBIA Austin Cheyeka

Known as Northern Rhodesia, before independence in 1964, Zambia is located in Southern Africa. The scramble for Africa and the partition of the continent in European territories led to the colonisation of the country in 1890 when Frank Lochner of the British South Africa Company (BSACo) signed what became known as the Lochner Treaty with Chief Mulena Lubosi Lewanika of the Lozi people in Zambia’s present-day Western Province. The Treaty gave the BSACo mineral rights over North-Eastern Rhodesia and Western Rhodesia. With the merger of the two regions, in 1911, the territory was renamed Northern Rhodesia. In 1923, the company handed over the administration of Northern Rhodesia to the British colonial government. In 1924, it became a British protectorate. Later, in 1953, the colony became part of the Central African Federation of Northern Rhodesia itself, Southern Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) and Nyasaland (Malawi). The federal decade (1953–1963) accelerated the tempo of African opposition to British rule through African political parties supported by a number of AngloSaxon Christian missionaries and the masses in rural and urban areas. On 24 October 1964, Northern Rhodesia became an independent nation-state and was renamed Zambia. Since then, the country has undergone three republics. The period of the independence constitution which had a competitive multiparty system from 24 October 1964 to 13 December 1972 is referred to as the First Republic; the period of the one-party system from 13 December 1972 to 17 December 1990 is referred to as the Second Republic; and the constitutional amendment which restored the multiparty system on 17 December 1990 introduced the Third Republic. The analytical framework is thus the three republics. The early colonial era (1890–1923) is not dealt with in this chapter as there were no political parties during that period. The chapter shows how missionaries of the Christian religion supported Africans in opposing the Federation and the struggle for self-rule. It also sheds light on post-colonial Zambia in terms of the relationship between religion and political parties in the first, second and third republics. In concluding, the chapter highlights the point that while, generally, the clergy in the mainline churches are divided over politics, Pentecostal ‘big men’ and women are not so divided and have supported politicians claiming to be born again. Before focusing on the chief concern of the chapter, a picture of the religious demography is in order.

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Religious affiliation Zambia is predominantly a Christian country, but there are other religions: Islam, Hinduism, Baha’i Faith, Sikhism, Judaism, African traditional religion, and others. My source here is the US Department of State Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labour 2016 Report on International Religious Freedom of 15 August 2017. The picture from the report appears as follows: The introduction of Christianity in Zambia, the focus of this chapter, was largely as a result of the life and death of the Scottish missionary and explorer, David Livingstone, which stimulated the arrival of different missionary groups from the south, north and the east between 1875 and 1905 and later (Macpherson, 1977: 7). But Christianity was not the first foreign religion to arrive in Zambia. It was Islam instead, but as Haynes (1996) observed, Muslims’ concern was largely trade rather than converting locals to Islam. At every Christian mission station, Catholic and Protestant alike, there was a school to disenchant the African’s (referred to as native) mind. Interestingly, it is the modern academic education in form of rudiments of the 3Rs and some more advanced schooling, which empowered the African to contest colonial rule through political parties. As Hastings (1995: 42) argued, from 1920s to the 1950s, the principal secular contribution of the churches to black Africa was probably the training for democracy of a tiny elite. The Christian institution, which had an enormous influence on the growth of African protest in Northern Rhodesia, and indeed throughout Southern Africa was Livingstonia in Malawi, built in memory of David Livingstone by the Free Church of Scotland in 1894 (Roberts, 1967). During the tenure of Dr Robert Laws, as the Institute’s director, students were encouraged to debate all sorts of current problems enabling them to gain very broad perspective on race relations both in Africa and in the United States (Roberts, 1967: 196). Subsequently, graduates from Livingstonia provided the major intellectual stimulus behind the formation of African welfare associations (Cook, 1975: 99) which served as forerunners to nationalist political parties. Christianity is the officially government-endorsed religion by virtue of the declaration of Zambia as a Christian nation on 29 December 1991 by the second republican president, Frederick Chiluba, who also ensured that the declaration became part of the republican constitution in 1996. The Christian churches are represented by Church ‘mother bodies’ as they are often referred to: the Zambia Conference of Catholic Bishops (ZCCB), the Evangelical Fellowship of Zambia (EFZ), the Council of Churches in Zambia (CCZ) and the Independent Churches Organisation of Zambia (ICOZ). As a liberal democracy, as Zambia claims to be, ideally everyone has the right to vote, to form political parties and interest groups, to publicise one’s political views, to engage in political campaigns, to stand and contest for political office and to take part in government. But in 1991, the ‘Islamic Party’ was not registered as an opposition political party because of the name ‘Islamic’. However, four Zambians (three Hindus and one Muslim) of Indian origin were elected Members of Parliament on the Movement for Multiparty Democracy (MMD) platform in 1991. Although

Table 22.1 Religious affiliations in Zambia Country’s population (July 2016 estimate)

15.5million

Christians

95.5%

Muslims

2%

Others

1.8%

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Hindus and Muslims are numerically small, they are not politically inconsequential. They have supported political parties of their choice in ways that many Zambians are unaware of.

Religion and political parties in colonial Zambia This part of the chapter sheds light on the relationship between religion and political parties in colonial and post-colonial times up to 1991. The term religion is often used in the material sense – referring to institutions and officials. This chapter focuses on Christian clergy’s involvement in politics rather than rehearsing the Church–state relationship motif. The chapter employs the basic definition of ‘party’ by Sartori (1976: 64) that it is ‘any political group that presents at elections, and is capable of placing through elections, candidates for public office’. Christian missionaries opposed colonial rule at both individual and institutional levels. The Federation issue became the ultimate test of the integrity of European church leaders (Carmody, 2006: 2). As Taylor and Lehmann put it, colonial rule and the Federation ‘provided a chance for them to prove whether they were prepared to make common cause with the disefranchised African majority in defense of their interests or whether they would take their stand with the rest of their own’ (Taylor and Lehmann, 1961: 153). Overall, the reaction of many church leaders to the Federation was somewhat divided (Weller and Linden, 1984; Haynes, 1996). Few would have been entirely supportive of it but a minority possibly saw it as a step towards eventual self-rule. Thus, churches failed to come out clearly against the Federation (Carmody, 2006). My concern is not so much with the churches’ position on the Federation, but how particular clergy, obviously with some backing of their churches, supported nationalist political parties. As Kaunda put it to Carmody in a personal interview: ‘The weakness of the churches in supporting nationalism as a whole was taken care of by what individual priests did’ (Carmody, 2006: 6). Kaunda here referred to the support he had received from people like Fr. Paddy Walsh, S.J., and others within the Catholic Church as well as a number of clergymen from other churches like Colin Morris and Merfyn Temple. Kaunda particularly commended the Catholic Church’s initiative in having a newspaper like The Leader, which published articles that enabled people like Kaunda and Nkumbula and many others like them to articulate their perspectives during colonial rule (Carmody, 2008: 3). In his opposition to the colour-bar in the country and the Federation, Rev. Colin Morris of the Methodist church on the Copperbelt even contemplated forming a political party to serve as a platform to contest racial discrimination and the Federation. Morris took the lead in Protestant Christianity in opposing the Federation. When the opposition was at its peak, he asked: ‘What does the Church do when a government constantly ignores her entreaties?’ (Morris, 1961a: 94). Consequently, Morris, Reverends Fred Sillet, Henry Makulu and Merfyn Temple came to the conclusion that the only alternative left was to organise Christians into a political party which would stand for the principles which the Federal Government was constantly rejecting. However, this scheme for a ‘Church Party’ foundered on a number of theological obstacles in spite of the encouragement Morris received from Dr George Macleod, the Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland when he visited Northern Rhodesia in 1957 (Morris, 1961a: 94). Overall, historians and academics are unanimous on the fact that Christian missionaries laid a firm foundation for the development of political parties in what is Zambia today, the forerunners of which were African Welfare Societies organised and presided over by mission-educated young men. In addition, Most of Northern Rhodesia’s nationalist leaders got their first test of democracy and their first experience of its methods in Leaders Meetings and Church Councils. Their 277

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political skills and efficiency in running party organisations are owed to the missionary to a degree that they would care to acknowledge. (Morris, 1964: 17) The first welfare society was formed in 1912 at Mwenzo in North-Eastern Zambia at a mission station of the Scottish Livingstonia. According to Hall (1965: 143), the association was the idea of four of the most educated Africans in the area: Donald Siwale, a Boma clerk, David Kaunda, Hezekiya Kawosa and Peter Sinkala. They discussed it with J.A. Chisholm, who was in charge of the mission hospital; he warned them that they were ‘seeking trouble for themselves by entering into politics’ but did not discourage them. The objective of the welfare society was to bring African views to the attention of the government. Due to the First World War, Mwenzo was evacuated. It was revived in 1923 but lapsed again in 1927 (Hall, 1965: 143). In 1929, 31 welfare associations were formed in several towns along the railway line. These were rather more purposeful and served as the first step towards the creation of African political parties (Hall, 1965: 124). In 1941, Roy Welensky, the spokesperson of the white miners and railwaymen, formed his Labour Party, the first real political organisation Northern Rhodesia had ever known (Hall, 1965: 122). The formal struggle for independence began seven years later with the formation of the Northern Rhodesia African National Congress (NRANC), a coalition of welfare societies in 1948 under the leadership of Godwin Mbikusita Lewanika (Rotberg, 1965). In 1951 the party changed its name to African National Congress (ANC) under the leadership of Harry Mwanga Nkumbula. A faction within ANC formed the Zambia African National Congress (ZANC) in 1958, which was banned in 1959 but morphed into the United National Independence Party (UNIP) under Mainza Chona as the interim president. In 1960, Kenneth David Kaunda was handed the leadership of UNIP after his release from jail. One novel innovation in the Northern Rhodesia’s political life, according to Morris (1962), was the involvement of clergymen and ministers in party politics. Their activities were not confined to silent membership of a political party: they held offices, made political speeches and did all the things expected of politicians. They became ‘political priests’ (Morris, 1962: 51).

Political priests in colonial days Rev. Merfyn Temple, a Methodist missionary, was the Chairman of the Multiracial Constitution party and became member of UNIP (Morris, 1962: 51). When Alexander Scott formed a political party known as Constitution Party, imbued with liberal principles, in 1957 in Lusaka aimed at improving race relations in the territory, he was backed by Rev. Temple and Rev. Fred Sillet, who according to Morris (1961b: 118–119), became the forerunner to the ‘political priests’, raising a storm of controversy throughout the territory. To be sure, Morris too was a member of Scott’s party. On 29 October 1960, liberals from all races gathered in Kitwe to form the Northern Rhodesia Liberal Party. Sir John Moffat was elected president and Morris and Alfred Gondwe vice-presidents (Morris, 1961b: 119). In November, the same year, Morris resigned his pastoral charge in the Free Church in Chingola on the Copperbelt. He represented the party in the Constitutional Talks in February 1961 at Lancaster (Morris, 1961b: 119).

Christianity and political parties in post-colonial Zambia On the eve of independence, there were four political parties (the Federal Liberal Party, the United National Independence Party, the African National Congress and the United Federal Party). At present, there are two dominant major ones; the ruling Patriotic Front (PF) and the 278

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opposition, United Party for National Development (UPND). The point, however, is that, on 24 October 1964 UNIP won national independence for Zambia; Kenneth Kaunda became the first president of the new republic. Earlier, in 1963, the Jesuits of the Catholic Church even arranged for Kaunda to receive his first honorary doctorate in 1963, at Fordham University in New York (Carmody, 2006). After attainment of self-rule, missionaries who had remained in the country played a huge role in building the new country, and Kaunda recognised their efforts by appointing them to undertake certain responsibilities in the new nation. For example, Rev. Colin Morris was made first president of the ‘national church’, the United Church of Zambia (UCZ) which he had conceptualised and made immense contribution to its formation, Rev. Fergus Macpherson became the first Dean of Students Affairs at the new University of Zambia in 1966. Churches cooperated in the building of the new nation, especially in the area of education and health. Generally, as Hastings (1995: 43) had put it: There was an anxiety on the part of the church’s leadership to give the state the benefit of almost every possible doubt … In most cases the church leaders were aware of a considerable weakness in their own position. If white, they could very easily be branded as interfering neo-colonialists; if black, their education and experience was generally far less than that of the political leadership. One event, in 1963, prior to independence is important to mention. Kaunda had to deal with one of his worst fears, namely, religious cleavage driven by an independent church called Lumpa which opposed European mission churches, the colonial administration and African political parties. Many years after the Lumpa uprising, the Prophetess, Alice Lenshina, denied any involvement with the ‘political’ disturbances and blamed some of her young men for the bloodshed because they had used the movement for their political ends (Hinfelaar, 1991). Fears of schism and cleavage in the new nation prompted Kaunda to blend the ideologies of secular humanism with Christian humanism of the Middle Ages in Europe into a brand he termed Zambian Humanism, whose central ideas evolved in dialogue with several European missionaries and clergy, most notably Reverends Colin Morris, James Oglethorpe, John Papworth and G.A. Krapf. All are acknowledged in Kaunda’s principal work of humanism (Gordon, 2012: 160). Particularly noteworthy was the appointment of Rev. Oglethorpe as one of the advisers to Kaunda (Mbikusita-Lewanika, 1994). Kaunda also came up with the national motto of One Zambia, One Nation and in 1972 he outlawed multiparty politics. In the 1970s, Christian clergy welcomed one-party rule, but did not want to be treated as a praying or spiritual unit of the party and its government. But, Kaunda was a shrewd tactician who used religious rhetoric and open display of emotions in the pursuit of the most hard-headed of political objectives. Further, his regular six-monthly supper with church leaders gave them a chance to approach him directly but the quid pro quo was that they would never speak out publicly in criticism (Hastings, 1979: 188) against Kaunda’s policies. By 1990, the Kaunda-dominated UNIP had become something of a by-word for poverty, mismanagement, institutionalised sycophancy and megalomania to the extent that during the political ferment of the 1990s precipitated by the collapse of the Soviet Union and Communism, churches felt they had no choice but to encourage the re-introduction of multiparty politics. In the second republic, Archbishop Emmanuel Milingo, Bishop Dennis de Jong, Fr. Umberto Davoli, all of the Catholic Church and others had claimed the heritage of political priests. Generally, Catholic priests set the tone of the relationship between a political party and religious leaders and activists. Kaunda’s rule came under serious scrutiny between 1975 and 1990. In 1975, liberal abortion laws were introduced. The Catholic Church engaged 279

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government on the policy. The government later declared abortion on non-medical grounds illegal (Lungu, 1986). Furthermore, the government’s attempt to introduce ‘scientific socialism’, remove religious education from the school curriculum and turn church halls into classrooms further alarmed all church leaders who expressed fear that atheism would become the norm in Zambia (Lungu, 1986). Kaunda abandoned the idea. The rest of the chapter is organised around two hypotheses. The first, by Jenkins, that ‘When a church helps establish a new government, religious leaders often expect some kind of recognition of their authority, perhaps even a share in government’ (Jenkins, 2011: 186) and the second by Mohseni and Wilcox (2015), that ‘when religious groups form or support a political party, they may lose ability to critique the party programme’. This is exactly what makes Zambia, in the words of Freston (2001: 154), a laboratory for studying some typical tendencies in a certain kind of evangelical politics in action in highly favourable circumstances. In the rest of the chapter, I ‘test’ Jenkins’ and Mohseni’s and Wilcox’s hypotheses. My focus is the period between 1991 and 2018.

Priests and political rewards, 1991–2018 Although Hastings (1995: 40) argued that democracy in the state can hardly convincingly be advocated by a church (referring to the Catholic Church), which refuses to practice anything comparable within its own life, the Catholic Church made a distinctive contribution to the reintroduction of multiparty democracy (Cheyeka, 1999; Gifford, 1998). In 2001, church leaders headed by the late Cardinal Merdado Mazombwe collaborated with non-governmental organisations (NGOs) and opposition political leaders in what was known as ‘the Oasis Forum’ to stop Chiluba from changing the republican constitution to allow him to stand as president for a third term. In the transition from a one-party to multiparty system, the church leaders served three specific functions. The clergy and Church media critiqued one-party rule and its sociopolitical and economic policies that were detrimental to the wellbeing of Zambians. Second, church leaders acted as the midwife of democracy by promoting peaceful discussion among the different political parties, which led to the constitutional changes mandating multiparty elections in 1991. Third, they formed the Zambia Elections Monitoring Committee to monitor the elections which were acknowledged by both international and local observers as free and fair. In surveying the period between 1991 and 2018, attention is given to some Pentecostal pastors who, quite clearly, expected religion to serve their political ends, and public policy to promote the dominant religion because of the declaration of Zambia as a Christian nation in 1991. Although Chiluba was a born-again Christian, he did not come to political power on a ‘Christian’ ticket in 1991. Rather, he was the candidate of the heterogeneous opposition coalition, which included the academic elites, businessmen and union members (Riedl, 2010: 44). His party, the MMD, had a number of other Pentecostals such as Revs. Danny Pule, Stan Kristafor, Peter Chintala, Kaunda Lembalemba, to mention a few. Pastor Nevers Mumba argued for the declaration of Zambia as a Christian nation, which President Chiluba did on 29 December 1991, and almost reflexively, Pentecostal pastors demanded positions in government and to be nominated as Members of Parliament. They also demanded that religious education be replaced with ‘Bible Knowledge’, churches be given land to build on, building of mosques to be halted, and the creation of the Ministry of Christian Affairs (Freston, 2001: 161–162). Overall, Chiluba did not meet the aspirations of Pentecostals but he appointed some of them who had won parliamentary seats as ministers and handed diplomatic passports to prominent pastors as they were to be ‘ambassadors of the Christian nation’ (Lockhart, 2001: 65).

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The end of the MMD era and the reappearance of Pentecostal pastors Presidents Levy Mwanawasa, Mr Rupiah Banda and Mr Michael Sata, who came after Chiluba, were not enthusiasts of the declaration of Zambia as a Christian nation and Pentecostals kept a low profile during the tenures of these leaders. To be noted, however, is the fact that among Sata’s friends were Bishop Peter Ndhlovu of Bible Gospel Church in Africa (BIGOCA) and Bishop Simon Chihana, President of the International Fellowship for Christian Churches. His successor, Edgar Chagwa Lungu, made the most of the declaration of Zambia as a Christian nation at campaign rallies to the delight of Pentecostals but they did not make him win the 2015 and 2016 elections. What is certain is that Lungu reconfigured the declaration of Zambia as a Christian nation after the end of the MMD era and in so doing enthused some Pentecostal pastors to get closer to him when he became president after winning the 20 January 2015 presidential by-election following the death of Sata on 28 October 2014. Bishop Ndhlovu began to serve as chaplain at Lungu’s residence, the State House.

Edgar Chagwa Lungu, Christian nation, Pentecostal pastors and politics The Christian rhetoric in Lungu’s campaigns was evident. If the general thinking in the Pentecostal fraternity, as Elias Munshya (henceforth referred to as Munshya wa Munshya, his blogger name) argues, is that Pentecostals lost their clout after the infamous fall of Chiluba and after that, subsequent presidents largely ignored them (Munshya wa Munshya, 2015b), Lungu restored that clout. During a PF campaign rally in Kabwe in January 2015, a bishop named Edward Chomba jumped onto the podium and campaigned for Lungu, warning Zambians not to vote for Hakainde Hichilema of the UPND, whom he accused of being a Satanist who could eat their children. Chomba was later to take centre-stage during the inaugural day of the Day of Prayer, Fasting and Reconciliation on 18 October 2015, which I will address later in the chapter. Later Chomba was appointed Permanent Secretary of the Ministry of Water Development, Sanitation and Environmental Protection. However, high-profile Pentecostal and nonPentecostal clergy did not go to political rallies, but politicians went to their churches and campaigned there in subtle styles.

Politicians’ appearances at religious functions From November 2015 to August 2016, President Lungu and his major political opponents started attending church services of both mainline and Zambian instituted Pentecostal/Charismatic churches more frequently. This ‘manipulation of religion’ according to Ogbu Kalu (2008: 221) has ‘always led politicians to co-opt the church’. More importantly, it has been noted in Africa, that many presidents have declared themselves to be born-again, so have myriads of politicians who seek the prayers and group intercessions of the Pentecostal and charismatic leaders and sodalities – a conscious use of charismatic mass appeal to build potential voters for godly candidates (Kalu, 2008: 221). On 8 December 2015, the Independent Churches Organisation of Zambia (ICOZ) Executive Director, Bishop David Masupa, issued a statement aimed at discouraging his fellow clergymen from hosting politicians in churches. He was quoted as having said the following: ‘Politicians should go and meet the people in the communities and not in the churches … It is wrong for politicians to stand boldly on church podiums and talk ill of other people to gain political mileage’ (Daily Nation, 2015).

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Masupa, who raised the concern, founded ICOZ with financial and moral support from Chiluba in return for a third term support. The Catholic Bishops in their Pastoral Letter of 23 January 2016, entitled ‘Let There Be Peace Among Us’, cautioned their priests to desist from engaging in partisan politics and not to permit politicians to campaign in churches. But Catholic priests, like other clergy, continued to welcome politicians and accorded them opportunities to address congregants. Most interestingly, after Lungu’s meeting with Pope Francis in Rome on 5 February 2016, his political rival, Hichilema, also met Archbishop Telesphore George Mpundu of the Catholic Archdiocese of Lusaka on 3 March 2016. In addition, retired Bishop John Mambo of the Church of God brought members of the clergy from ICOZ to a breakfast prayer meeting at Hichilema’s home. Surprisingly, Masupa was not there. During this breakfast prayer meeting, Hichilema told the members of the clergy that he was not a Satanist (Daily Nation, 2016a) and Bishop Mambo made the following statement: ‘Zambians need to make right choices on the 11th of August. Right choices bring success and abundance; wrong choices will bring problems. Experiments have killed Zambia. The Bible says, where there is no vision people perish’ (Daily Nation, 2016a). Pentecostals had awoken and become visible in the political space since 1991. Indeed, some of them positioned themselves to get something good from politics between 2015 and 2018.

Lungu and Pentecostal ‘big men’ and women alliance In discussing the alliance between Lungu and Pentecostal clergy, the chapter shows how the latter were rewarded. Some general statements for clarification’s sake are important. First of all, being an atheist, homosexual or Satanist is one of the biggest liabilities that a presidential candidate can have in Zambia. What seems to count is for a presidential candidate to share the religious beliefs of the majority of Zambians, and being seen as a religious or spiritual person is generally an asset for candidates. What has to be empirically proven is whether the qualities above and making ‘the declaration of Zambia as a Christian nation’ a refrain in political campaign translate into winning an election. Similar to Bishop Chomba’s support for Lungu, Dr Liya Mutale went further to organise what she called ‘Christians for Lungu Mobilisation Conference’, whose acronym is C4L.

Christians for Lungu (C4L) campaign On 9 April 2016, Lungu participated in the ‘Christians for Lungu Mobilisation Conference’ at the Mulungushi International Conference Centre in Lusaka. In her speech, the chairperson of the C4L, Mutale, said the following: Leadership is ordained by God and we must respect it. As Christians for Lungu, we are going to help mobilise for the PF so that President Lungu should be re-elected in the August general elections because leadership is ordained by God. We want to contribute to the growth of the PF because we recognize the strides the ruling party and President Lungu have made to the transformation to the country’s economy. (Daily Nation, 2016b) In response, Lungu said that he had made a clarion call to Christians to join politics so that they could help bring love and unity in the political arena and curb abuse of state power. He argued that unless the country harnessed the skilled professional Christian resource which had for a long time largely taken a backseat, the delivery of political and economic responsibilities would 282

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remain difficult (Daily Nation, 2016a). Liya Mutale herself was rewarded with a job as Permanent Secretary in the Ministry of Tourism and Arts. Other rewards bequeathed to the Pentecostal fraternity by Lungu in the name of Zambia’s Christian nationhood are discussed.

National Day of Prayer, Fasting, Repentance and Reconciliation The declaration of Zambia as a Christian nation did not introduce new substantive laws or establish any church in Zambia (Freston, 2001: 160), but during Lungu’s rule, new developments directly linked to the declaration began to emerge. The proclamation of the National Day of Prayer, Fasting, Repentance and Reconciliation was foremost. Scheduled for 18 October 2015, it subsequently became an annual national holiday. Munshya wa Munshya warned his fellow Pentecostals before the inaugural holiday that: After we have said ‘amen’ on Sunday, there is need for all Zambians to continue holding President Lungu accountable to democratic tenets. Pentecostals should not repeat the same mistakes made during the tenure of Frederick Chiluba. A Pentecostal political theology must be based on hard work and a commitment to the rule of law … A Pentecostal political theology must be based on clear commitment to the fight against corruption in both government and the private sector … It is not enough to quote 2 Chronicles 7: 14. (Munshya wa Munshya, 2015a) In agreement with Munshya’s caution, Bishop George Mbulo of Capital Impact Ministries (2015) wrote the following: we should not expect that things will just change by merely our concert of national prayer, but it’s our conferring with the Almighty God over national challenges that should guide us in how we should now put our capacities to the task, with hard work and holding our national leaders in check on key national policies and programs … We need to trust the Lord’s help towards a more focused and honest management of the national resources at our disposal. Such necessary dialogue and action, at the national level, should not recede with the silence that may follow after we say ‘AMEN!’ It’s significant that we desist, as ‘Pentecostals’ in all various strands of it, from messing up by losing a true prophetic stance of speaking out honestly, guided by God’s wisdom and divinely endowed understanding. The fundamental trap we should avoid is to lose our noble sacerdotal mandate through selfish and warped appetite for gauging our influence by merely being associated with those in national power positions. Pentecostal political theology is not yet on the horizon in Zambia. ‘Big men’ of this Christianity seem to have no ability to critique the ruling party’s failures and there is a good deal of evidence to support this assertion to prove Jenkins’ (2011) and Mohseni’s and Wilcox’s (2015) hypotheses already cited. In addition to endorsing Christians for Lungu and proclaiming the day of prayer, repentance and reconciliation, there was the laying of the foundation stone of the National House of Prayer.

National House of Prayer The foundation stone of a national ‘House of Prayer for All Nations Tabernacle’ in Lusaka at the cost US$5 million with seating capacity for 6,000 people was done on 25 October 2015. To the Catholic bishops and some mainline Protestant churches, the project was a 283

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grandiloquent ambition inappropriate to the grim economic realities of the country. The Catholic Archbishop Mpundu described it as a joke. In an interview with Friday Nkonde of The Post newspaper, he argued that the national church was going to be a white elephant and went on to say: ‘This is a secular society, not a theocracy … Here is a government coming up and trying to build something interdenominational. What about those who are not Christians? … So Hindus, Muslims, the non-believers are excluded’ (Nkonde, 2015). The building of the House of Prayer, argued the Pentecostal Bishop Joshua Banda (Chairperson of the Advisory Board, Fundraising and Technical Committee), was a concretisation of the declaration of Zambia as a Christian nation. Earlier, on 23 January 2016, during a fundraising dinner for the House of Prayer, President Lungu compared it to King Solomon’s project of building of the Temple and went on to say: I wish to humbly submit that my personal desire to align Zambia to God was not borne of my own human desire, but was inspired by the divine leading of the Holy Spirit … I know without doubt that God has always been interested in our well-being as a nation and that He has a purpose and a plan to prosper Zambia. (Kachingwe, 2016) The president later appointed 12 members of the Advisory Board, Fundraising and Technical Committee to spearhead the construction of the national House of Prayer. Among the appointees was Fr. Charles Chilinda, a Catholic priest of the Society of Jesus (Jesuits) who had been active at the prayer, fasting and reconciliation on 18 October 2015. Archbishop Mpundu, the ZCCB president, clarified that Fr. Chilinda was a Jesuit priest and not a member of ZCCB and that he was, therefore, only representing himself, not ZCCB or the Society of Jesus or St Ignatius Parish (Nkonde, 2015). Mpundu’s remarks attracted derisive comments from Pentecostals too numerous to cite. Rev. Suzanne Matale of the CCZ expressed similar sentiments to Archbishop Mpundu’s, such as the following: ‘CCZ is not against the construction of the Tabernacle National House of Prayer. Government needs to clarify a lot of things concerning the House of Prayer. Who will be in charge and how will it be maintained?’ (Munyinda, 2015). Finally, Lungu created a ministry of National Guidance and Religious Affairs.

Ministry of National Guidance and Religious Affairs On 29 August 2016, Lungu mused about creating a Ministry of Religion at a reception service for a newly elected United Church of Zambia (UCZ) Synod Bishop, Rev. Bishop Sydney Sichilima at St Andrews congregation in Lusaka (Daily Nation, 2016). He was not quite sure what to call it. On 28 August 2016, the Ministry of National Guidance and Religious Affairs (MNGRA) was created by President Lungu and subsequently ratified by parliament on 27 October 2016. The two overarching aims of the ministry were to spearhead and coordinate the promotion of national values and principles as outlined in the republican constitution as well as to actualise the declaration of Zambia as a Christian nation. A Pentecostal pastor, Rev. Mrs. Godfridah Sumaili was nominated as Member of Parliament and appointed minister in charge of the MNGRA. Conclusion This chapter has demonstrated that from colonial times to the present, the Christian clergy have been part of Zambian politics, either as allies or foes of political parties. Issues in the relationship 284

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between political parties and Christianity have been colonialism, one-party dictatorship and the failure of the declaration of Zambia as a Christian nation to develop institutions of democracy and develop the country. Currently, Zambian politicians seem to be under the illusion that Pentecostal preachers have the ability to influence and mobilise masses during elections. There is no evidence to support this. What is less disputable, however, is the assertion that when African heads of state face deepening political crises and increasing criticism from mainline church leaders and political opponents are gaining frightening popularity, they have turned to Pentecostals for religious and moral legitimation – which some Pentecostal leaders have been eager to provide (see, for example, Freston, 2001). Overall, it seems that Pentecostal preachers in Zambia have exhibited tendencies that encourage both democratic engagement and patrimonial authoritarianism (Gordon, 2012). In the end, submission to a ‘Christian state’ by Pentecostal ‘big men’ and women has turned into a wilful refusal to acknowledge serious failures of the current regime.

References Carmody, B. (2006). Perspectives on Religion and Nationalism in Zambia, African Social Research, 52, 1–14. Carmody, B. (2008). The Voice of the Catholic Church in Zambian Politics, JCTR Reader: Church and Politics, 1, 3–5. Cheyeka, A.M. (1999). The Distinctive Contribution of the Catholic Church to the Struggle for Justice in Kaunda’s Zambia (1970–1991), African Christian Studies, 15(3), 19–35. Cook, D.J. (1975). The Influence of Livingstonia Mission upon the Formation of Welfare Associations in Zambia, 1912–1931. In T.O. Ranger and J. Weller (eds), Themes in the Christian History of Central Africa (pp. 98–134). London: Heinemann. Daily Nation (2015, 9 December). Churches not Political Campaign Grounds, Daily Nation, p. 4. Daily Nation (2016, 10 April). Christians Strategise for Lungu’s Victory, Daily Nation, p. 4. Daily Nation (2016, 31 March). I’m Not a Satanist, Says HH, Daily Nation, pp. 1 and 3. Freston, P. (2001). Evangelicals and Politics in Asia, Africa and Latin America. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gifford, P. (1998). African Christianity: Its Public Role. London: Hurst & Company. Gordon, D.M. (2012). Invisible Agents: Spirits in a Central African History. Athens, OH: Ohio University Press. Hall, R. (1965). Zambia. London: Pall Mall Press. Hastings, A. (1979). A History of African Christianity, 1950–1975. London: Cambridge University Press. Hastings, A. (1995). The Churches and Democracy: Reviewing a Relationship. In P. Gifford (ed.), The Christian Churches and the Democratisation of Africa (pp. 36–46). Leiden: E.J. Brill. Haynes, J. (1996). Popular Religion and Politics in Sub-Saharan Africa, Third World Quarterly, 16(1), 89– 108. Retrieved from www.jostor.org/stable/39992975. Hinfelaar, H. (1991). Women’s Revolt: The Lumpa Church of Lenshina Mulenga in the 1950s, Journal of Religion in Africa, 21(2), 99–129. Retrieved from www.jstor.org/stable/1580801. Jenkins, P. (2011). The Next Christendom: The Coming of Global Christianity (3rd edn). New York: Oxford University Press. Kachingwe, K. (2016, 24 January). Zambia Beacon of Light-Lungu, Sunday Mail, p. 2. Kalu, O. (2008). African Pentecostalism: An Introduction. New York: Oxford University Press. Lockhart, K. (2001). Zambia Shall be Saved: The Nevers Mumba Story. Lethbridge: Paramount Printers Limited. Lungu, F.G. (1986). The Church, Labour and the Press in Zambia: The Role of Critical Observers in a One-Party State, African Affairs, 85(340), 385–410. Retrieved from www.jstor.org/stable/722967?seq= 1&cid=pdf-reference#references_tab_contents. Macpherson, F. (1977). Kwacha Ngwee: How the Zambian Nation was Made. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mbikusita-Lewanika, I. (1994). Evangelicals and Politics in Zambia, Transformation, 11(4), 21–25. Retrieved from www.jstor.org/stable/43053834. 29-08-2016.

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Austin Cheyeka Mbulo, G. (2015). Response to After We have Said ‘Amen’: Towards a Pentecostal Theology of Politics in Zambia, 17 October. Retrieved from https://eliasmunshya.org/. Mohseni, P. and Wilcox, C. (2015). Religion and Political Parties. In J. Haynes (ed.), Routledge Handbook of Religion and Politics (pp. 211–230). London and New York: Routledge. Morris, C. (1961a). The End After Midnight: A Missionary’s Experiences of the Racial and Political Struggle in Northern Rhodesia. London: Longmans. Morris, C. (1961b). The Hour after Midnight. London: Longmans. Morris, C. (1962). The End of the Missionary? A Short Account of the Political Consequences of the Missions in Northern Rhodesia. London: Cargate Press. Morris, C. (1964). Church and Challenge in a New Africa. London: The Epworth Press. Munshya wa Munshya (2015a, 16 October). After We Have Said ‘Amen’: Towards a Pentecostal Theology of Politics in Zambia, Daily Nation, p. 10. Munshya wa Munshya (2015b, 30 October). On Faith and Politics: Towards a Pentecostal Political Praxis in Zambia, Daily Nation, p. 11. Munyinda, S. (2015). CCZ Not Against Building of New Cathedral, New Vision, 7 November, p. 1. Nkonde, F. (2015, 1 November). Lungu’s Church a Joke, Sunday Post, p. 1. Riedl, B.R. (2010). Transforming Politics, Dynamic Religion: Religion’s Political Impact in Contemporary Africa, African Conflict and Peace Building Review, 2(2), West African Research Association Peace Initiative Conferences in Sierra Leone (2010) and Cape Verde (2011) (Fall 2012), pp. 29–50. Retrieved from www.jstor.org/stable/10.2979/africonfpeacrevi.2.2.29. Roberts, A. (1967). A History of Zambia. London: Heinemann. Rotberg, I.R. (1965). The Rise of Nationalism in Central Africa: The Making of Malawi and Zambia, 1878– 1964. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Sartori, G. (1976). Parties and Party Systems: A Framework for Analysis. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Taylor, J.V. and Lehmann, D.A. (1961). Christians of the Copperbelt: The Growth of the Church in Northern Rhodesia. London: SCM Press. US Department of State, Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labour (2016). Report on International Religious Freedom, August 15, 2017. Retrieved from www.state.gov/j/dr/rls/rls/irf/2016/af/ 268710.htm#.wogzekwv048.gmail. Weller, J. and Linden, J. (1984). Mainstream Christianity. Gweru: Mambo.

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23 RELIGIONS AND POLITICAL PARTIES IN SENEGAL (1980–2018) El Hadji Samba Amadou Diallo

Democratic transitions have been noted in Muslim-majority countries such as Indonesia, Turkey, Tunisia, Bangladesh and Senegal. The latter is 96 percent Muslim, 3 percent Christian and 1 percent ‘other religions’ including the indigenous ones. In Senegal, Sufi orders (Tija-niyya, Qa-dı-riyya, La-hiniyya and Murı-diyya) are the most expressive forms of Islam. These religious entities have correlatively played a considerable role in the pacification of the political space. This chapter is less about the formation and modes of organisations of political parties1 and more about how they play out in the electoral game for significant democratic advancement or sometimes its regression. Since 1960, in Senegal there have been ten presidential, 12 legislative and two senatorial elections, as well as five referendums. For the purpose of this chapter, we build on the expertise of law, politics, democracy and constitutional reforms achieved by scholars from the École de Dakar, especially researchers of the Department of Law and Political Sciences and the Centre for Research, Studies and Documentation on African Institutions and Legislations (CREDILA) of the University of Dakar. Authors such as Kanté (1989), Diop (2017) and Fall (2011) have collectively shown that the Senegalese democratic system is made up of political stability and institutional instability. Senegal’s political stability is well-known, frequently asserted by the international media and various centres for democracy assessment, such as Afrobarometer, Polity IV and Freedom House. The country has free and fair elections, peaceful transitions of power, freedom of thought, of religion and of expression. In addition, public order and rule of law exist in the country. All these factors are the long-term work of the ruling party, which is not at all separated from the state. The Senegalese secular tradition has slowly accommodated the post-colonial project of democratisation. The government, state institutions, political parties and religious institutions (marabouts and priests) are a key component of Senegal’s democracy. In parallel to the concept of political stability, institutional instability is related to the fact that the president’s party strives in general to stay in power at all costs and at the expense of opposition parties. That is why any election is preceded or followed by protest and sometimes by ambient violence. In general, the ruling party plays with institutions such as the National Assembly wherein it is often the majority, the Senate which it controls or other state institutions. Opposition parties are symbolically dominated and sometimes systematically quelled. Religious men either distance themselves from the state – for example, leaders of the Roman Catholic Church most of the time – or support those in power, as often seen with many marabouts from different brotherhoods. 287

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The chapter provides examples of political stability for the consolidation of democracy, especially in the context of organising elections. In addition, it offers examples of institutional instability that contribute to deconsolidating Senegal’s democracy, notably by frequent constitutional changes. The aim here is to push the opposition parties out of the circles of power. The chapter shows that in this context, religious leaders can help to consolidate or deconsolidate democracy. All depends on their interests and the stake of the ongoing election (presidential, legislative, senatorial, local, etc.) or the significance of the laws passed by the state. First, we discuss briefly how Senegal’s first president, Léopold Sédar Senghor, restricted political parties to four currents of thoughts and, later on, revised the Constitution to easily allow his prime minister, Abdou Diouf, to succeed him as the second president of Senegal. Nevertheless, Diouf proposed a bill limiting political parties. Like his political mentor Senghor, Diouf and the Socialist Party (PS) leaders set different sorts of law to prevent the opposition from achieving power. If the government is flexible, it is only because the opposition has forced them, including a key figure, Abdoulaye Wade, exhibiting both political talent and rhetorical skill. Achieving power in 2000, Wade worked hard to change the Constitution, managing to do so 15 times. In addition, Wade’s successor and rival, President Macky Sall, also did so, but in a more limited way. All in all, in Senegal politicians tend to try to pass laws weakening democracy while many citizens seek to defend their democratic achievements.

Political parties and the emergence of religious movements between 1980 and 2000 Religion is an integral part of politics in Senegal. Even if some political actors or candidates in elections do not exhibit their religious affiliations in public, it is important to understand the religious beliefs or spiritual inspirations that are guiding their actions. Léopold Sédar Senghor, a renowned Roman Catholic, was nominated president of Senegal in 1960. He was able to secure four consecutive electoral terms in 1963, 1968, 1973 (as a single candidate), and again in 1978.2Fall (2011: 142) notes that Senghor changed the Constitution eight times with some revisory amendments consolidating democracy and others that rolled back democratic principles. The appreciation of what democratic consolidation means, what is for the people and what is not, depends on the view of the analyst/beholder because the opposition always criticises the amendments but once in power they do the same to stay in power longer. Senghor did not complete his term: he resigned on 31 December 1980, after having amended the Constitution (Article 35) to be replaced by his Prime Minister, Abdou Diouf. Diouf was born from a Tija-nı- family of Louga in Central Senegal but known to be an ‘ordinary’ Muslim. On 1 January 1981, Diouf was sworn in and conducted a structural reorganisation of the PS. Diouf paved the way for opposition parties which were legally denied by his predecessor. The constitutional law of 6 May 1981 was on ‘integral multipartyism’ (multipartisme intégral). In the presidential and legislative elections of 27 February 1983, despite challenges related to Diouf’s legitimacy and his decreasing popularity, the results gave the advantage to the PS with 83.45 percent of the votes, and the Senegalese Democratic Party (PDS), represented by Abdoulaye Wade, came second with 14.79 percent. Coalitions of parties were outlawed, which is one of the reasons why three other candidates did not cross the 2 percent threshold. Except for deadly riots on 1 December 1963 (with 12 dead) and on 26 February 2012 elections (with 18 dead), the presidential and legislative elections of 28 February 1988 were among the most violent in Senegal’s contemporary political history. With the publication of the results, Abdou Diouf obtained 73.2 percent of the votes, while the PDS of Abdoulaye 288

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Wade gained 25.8 percent. For the elections of 1983 and 1988, many marabouts supported the incumbent candidate Diouf, boosted by a ndigal from the Khalifa General of the Murı-ds (henceforth KGM), Abdoul Lahat Mbacké (1905–1990). He talked to his taalibe (followers) through this call: ‘Whoever does not vote for Abdou Diouf has therefore betrayed Sëriñ Touba.’3 This is translated literally but means that Diouf did a lot for the holy city of Touba and if his actions were not rewarded by the Murı-ds, then they were disloyal to Cheikh Ahmadou Bamba, and by extension to the KGM who represents his father’s religious brotherhood. Despite tensions, suspicions of electoral frauds, university students’ strikes, impecuniosity in the country, youth unemployment, a crisis in many rural areas, and threats from opposition parties to the state officials, Diouf was re-elected president with the support of some marabouts and political movements. After the elections, results were contested and there was some violent retaliation against the ruling party. A few years later, the opposition liberal PDS, the left-wing Party for African Independence (PIT) and the Democratic League-Labour Party Movement (LD/MPT) entered the PS government and started right away to work on a new Consensual Electoral Code led by Judge Kéba Mbaye in 1992. They took great lengths to implement Senegalese democracy with different measures including reducing voting age from 21 to 18 years. Over time, Diouf revised the Constitution 14 times (Fall, 2011: 142). For the presidential and legislative elections of 9 May 1993 there were nine candidates. Abdou Diouf received 58.4 percent of the suffrages while Abdoulaye Wade (PDS) came second with 32.03 percent. The remaining votes were scattered across opposition parties which had difficulties exceeding the 2 percent threshold. For these elections, the most prominent religious group in the Senegalese public space was the Dahiratul Mustarshidı-na Wal Mustarshida-tı- (Community of the Rightly Guided Men and Women, henceforth DMWM).4 The Diouf regime applied a heavy policy of maintaining public order, repressing any movement likely to call into question the legitimacy of his power. The assassination of Judge Babacar Sèye, Vice-President of the Constitutional Council on 15 May 1993, exacerbated political tensions between the state and the opposition. The Mustarshidı-n leader, Moustapha Sy, claimed to know the mastermind of the murder. He was arrested a few months later and imprisoned at Rebeuss in Dakar.5 A crowd armed with machetes, clubs and axes embarked on a protest and attacked police officers present on the scene. Those policemen wanted to prevent them from reaching the presidential palace and the central prison of Dakar where Moustapha Sy was detained. On 16 February 1994, at a rally of the opposition parties mixed together with the Mustarshidı-ns, six policemen were killed on Charles de Gaulle Boulevard in Dakar. More than 150 members of the DMWM were arrested and on 17 February 1994, Djibo Kâ, then Minister of the Interior, banned the movement throughout the national territory by Decree No. 001123. Today the DMWM has at its disposal the Party of Unity and Rally (PUR), created under the receipt No. 9515 on 3 February 1998 by Khalifa Diouf, one of their disciples (Diallo, 2010: 431). Another important Sufi and political youth group, the World Movement for the Unity of God (MMUD) of the Murı-d marabout Modou Kara Mbacké also supported the PS in the lead up to the elections. This movement has institutions and practices that resemble those of the Mustarshidı-ns, and vice versa. The MMUD is correlatively managed with the Party for Truth and Development (PVD) that Modou Kara M’Backé created in 2004. Moustapha Sy, Modou Kara M’Backé and other religious leaders have been involved in politics for a long time. Of all the religious leaders mentioned above, Sidy Lamine Niasse (1950–2018) played the most important role of opinion maker and democratic vanguard in Senegalese politics, much better than many opposition parties. His radio and TV programme ‘Diine ak Jamono’ (‘Religion and Contemporary Issues’) continues to play a huge role in awakening political consciousnesses. ‘Diine ak Jamono’ has helped lead to the first alternation of power (or alternance) in Senegal in 2000. 289

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For the presidential election on 26 February 2000, there were eight candidates. On 24 March 1999, the Archbishop of Dakar Monsignor Hyacinthe Thiandoum took a stand for Moustapha Niasse, a Tija-nı-, leader of the Alliance for Progressive Forces (AFP). Thiandoum maintained that Niasse would have been the best candidate if ever Diouf had to be followed in power (Fall, 2018: 294). In the second round of the elections, Moustapha Niasse and the Coalition Hope 2000 and the Islamic organisation Jamra all supported the so-called liberal candidate (A. Wade). He was elected in the second round with 58.49 percent against 41.51 percent for his Socialist rival, Abdou Diouf, who was supported by a coalition of social movements such as the Coordination of Republican Forces (COFORE) and the PAI. It was the end of 40 years of socialist rule in Senegal, and the advent of a new political era alongside coalitions of political parties, and a strong civil society including religious ones: the Catholic Church and the main Sufi orders. Once Wade won the presidential election, he went to Touba and renewed his spiritual allegiance to his marabout the KGM, Saliou Mbacké (1914–2007). The president, gradually but increasingly, based his public speeches on a model of Murı-d favouritism to the detriment of the Catholic Church and other Sufi orders (Diallo and Kelly, 2016: 10). One can infer a few critical points from the 2000 elections. The distinction between the political and the religious is stated in the Constitution which, in a certain way, re-elaborates the French constitutional law of 1958 along with its many flaws. The Senegalese Constitution bans any political party based on religion, race, sex, province and ethnicity (Article 4). Did that apply to the presidential candidates who had religious programmes drawn from the Murı-diyya, as a viable alternative political system during the presidential election of 2000?6 The distinction between religion, secular and politics does not make sense at all because the Senegalese state is secular by its work to guarantee freedom of conscience and pluralism in religious practices, and not because the modern government is trying to secure the separation of state and religion. A secular state does not mean the enforcement of anti-religious laws of separation of church and state. Thiandoum asked both Diouf and Wade to respect the results of the elections for a peaceful transition of power. As a reminder, the guide of the Mustarshidı-n endorsed Wade’s candidacy for the 1993 presidential election.

The increasing role of religious leaders in politics from 2000 to 2012 What Buckley (2016: 24) has described as Senegalese ‘benevolent secularism’ is attributable to the role played by Sufi orders, considered as intermediaries between the state and the rural world. For Villalón, Sufi orders which belong to the civil society movements are at the foundation of the Senegalese state (1995: 150, 258). The cohabitation or the ‘social contract’ between the state and Sufi orders also serves to strengthen Senegal’s democracy. Yet, Wade broke this agreement between the state and other religious denominations since he established his tarı-qa as the best model for the Senegalese. Despite criticism by the civil society and opposition parties for example by putting the deposit for the election at 65 million FCFA instead of three million, Wade won the presidential election of 25 February 2007 in the first round with 55.9 percent of the votes. Multiple logics of negotiation-domestication were deployed in order to win the maraboutic cause. Wade exploited this logic with the most influential political marabouts such as the international Tija-nı- leader Mamoune Niasse (1944–2011) and his Rally for the People Party, and the Murıds, Modou Kara M’Backé and Béthio Thioune, during the 2007 elections. The Senegalese Catholic Church has always been, and is still today, an important component of Senegalese democracy. The Catholic Church, uncorrupted, or significantly less than a certain maraboutic class, weighs heavily on this democracy, and for that, deserves more attention in the scholarly interpretations on the Senegalese democratic system which is not exclusively based on the Sufi-state model. 290

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There are also other social bodies, sometimes invisible but deeply involved in strengthening the foundations of this democracy. There is a civil society – as diverse as it is unified in tense situations – as well as various non-governmental, cultural, regional and continental organisations, which participate extensively in the political space. Stricto sensu, by reinforcing a neoauthoritarian regime and enriching its allies including many marabouts, Wade unintentionally created a ‘unified’ civil society (Fall, 2011: 142). On 23 June 2011, after a day of demonstrations on the streets of Dakar, and in front of the National Assembly, demonstrators of various social strata and a youth movement called Y en a marre prevented MPs from voting on the ‘presidential ticket’ law. The ‘ticket’ consisted of a simultaneous election by universal suffrage of the president and the vice-president of the republic, to pass them only with 25 percent of the vote cast. The withdrawal of the ‘presidential ticket’ was due to the determination of the Senegalese to block President Wade’s undemocratic project. In addition, different Khalifa of Sufi orders asked Wade to withdraw his bill. In the end, with a participation rate of 51.6 percent, the results of the first round of the election published by the Constitutional Council attributed 34.81 percent of the votes to Wade’s coalition (The Allied Forces 2012 or Fal 2012). If Wade had achieved his institutional coup on 23 June 2011, he would have won the presidential election in the first round. The Coalition Macky 2012 came second with 26.58 percent of the votes. Two candidates each had fewer than 2 percent of the votes,7 and seven other candidates each had fewer than 1 percent of the votes. What is important to note is that the religious or maraboutic factor (of the most visible candidates, here the Murı-d ones Fall and Dièye, or allegedly Tija-nı-, Seck) was not ultimately decisive in the overall vote. The candidate Wade is an exception because he is the one who won polls in Touba (from 2000 until 2018). The holy city of Touba is the second largest demographic and electoral city in Senegal and is also the bastion of the Murı-diyya. In the second round, the 13 candidates of the first round all supported the best-positioned candidate, Macky Sall.8 Sall widely won the presidential election of 2012 with 65.8 percent of the vote cast. This was the end of Wade’s reign as president but not the end of his political life. Different political parties with religious connotations entered the Parliament in July 2012. The most important ones were The Citizen’s Movement for the National Refoundation/Tomorrow is a New Day or Bes du Ñaak, spearheaded by the Tija-nı- intellectual El Hadji Mansour Sy ‘Djamil’, the Movement for Reform and Social Development (MRDS) of Imam Mbaye Niang, the Senegalese Patriotic Movement (MPS-Faxas) of the Sufi disciples (or Ciantakón) led by Khadim Thioune, son of the influential Murı-d marabout Cheikh Béthio Thioune, and the PVD of Modou Kara M’Backé. These new ‘maraboutic’ or ‘Islamist’ parties included women, both Catholic and Muslim. Women’s participation in electoral politics is very important in Senegal, but they have few leadership positions in political parties and are likely to be dominated by their male counterparts. Reflecting development of the growing political power of females, in 2010, President Wade signed into law one of the most comprehensive and aggressive gender parity bills in Africa. The parity law was adopted on 28 May 2010: it calls for political parties to put forward candidate lists for local and national elections that are equally split between females and males. In short, what Senegalese journalists have described as the ‘rise of the religious’ to warn about the possible Islamisation of the state, thus surfing on Islamophobia to sell newspapers is, in fact, a simple citizen expression of a demand for more social justice. As a result, a new democratic era has surfaced within which social movements led by men belonging to Christianity or Islamic Sufi orders will play a vanguard role in the management of public goods and institutions.

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Catholic priests and marabouts have significantly contributed to the emergence and entrenchment of principles of social justice and sustainable civil peace in Senegal. President Sall’s new politics is the privatisation of religious affiliations and the equidistance of the state vis-à-vis religious institutions. Privatisation, however, does not mean removing religion from the political arena, and distancing does not mean neutrality or ignorance of religious values, leaders and organisations. Coming from the state, policies towards marabouts become legitimate and normal (such as support for their community projects). However, Senegalese laïcité (secularism) and democracy have two main weak points: the first is the significant grip of the main Sufi orders on the state. One example will suffice: nonapplication of the law on parity in Touba and other remote religious localities. This was a challenge to the state authorities and signifies that the state is weak or even non-existent in certain, remote areas of the country. There is also a second problem: the lack of equality of all citizens before the law. In general, the politicians, the rich and the well-known maraboutic family members are better treated by those in charge of the state’s authority (police and judges). This has been the case for different governments whether socialist or liberal.

President Sall’s first term and the ‘tracking’ of opposition leaders (2012–2018) In the midst of euphoria between the two rounds of the 2012 presidential election, the candidate Sall promised that if ever elected he would reduce the presidential term from seven to five years. He claimed this would strengthen Senegal’s democracy. Once in power, Sall established a National Institutional Reform Commission (CNRI) by Presidential Decree No. 2013–730 on 28 May 2013. The Commission conducted consultations at the national level to engage the citizens. Finally, faced with political and especially economic difficulties, Sall changed his mind for fear of losing the elections, if they were to be held as planned in February 2017. Supported by the presidential coalition Benno Bokk Yaakar, Sall proposed a constitutional reform project. The Constitutional Council validated the project but rejected the reduction of the current term of office from seven to five years. In effect, the Council gave a blank cheque to the president – who waited a little longer to set the date for a referendum. In Senegal, the Constitution has no sacred value among politicians, and constitutional judges are not independent: they are often under the control of the president of the republic (Fall, 2011; Diop, 2017: 110). The instrumentalisation of the Senegalese Constitution by the ruling party (socialist or liberal) allows politicians to stay in power as long as they wish. Macky Sall set the date of the referendum for 20 March 2016 and immediately began his campaign, leaving the Senegalese, whether the opposition or politicians in general, as well as international observers, uninformed of the issues. This was the first symbolic coup d’état of the Sall regime. Symbolic violence in Bourdieu’s sense (1997: 244, 246), and in this specific case, is related to the use of the constitutional text, and the interpretation of the following three sentences in French that the majority of Senegalese do not understand: ‘The term of office of the President of the Republic is five years. The mandate is renewable once. This disposition can only be revised by a referendum law.’9 Abdoulaye Wade took the opportunity offered by the misunderstanding and misinterpretation of these clauses, and applied for a third term, validated by the Constitutional Council. To correct the confusion in the text, the constitutional law professor Ismaila Madior Fall, also President Sall’s juridical adviser for the referendum, revised it restrictively into two sentences: ‘The term of office of the President of the Republic is five years. No one can serve more than two consecutive terms.’ Fall intended to definitely make Article 27 unalterable as he already did for the Nigérien Constitution Law in 2011. The limiting clause on the number of mandates is a problem for many countries in Africa. 292

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There were 2,203,062 votes cast in the referendum, of which 1,367,592 or 63 percent opted for ‘yes’ (Fall, 2017: 86). Yet, while the Senegalese people voted, it was not en masse – because the turnout was only 38 percent. Peripheral or minor marabouts, and the leader of Bes du Ñaak did campaign against the referendum but they were not sufficiently vocal or prominent for most voters. After the referendum, Sall started to track down his main opponents for office: the most serious one was Khalifa Ababacar Sall, the PS mayor of Dakar since 2009. He bears the name of the first Khalifa General of the Tijans (Babacar Sy, 1883–1957), but does not exhibit his Sufi affiliation in public. On 7 March 2017, Sall and his associates were indicted by the senior judge of the High Court of Dakar for fraudulent use of municipal funds. The same day, he was taken to the prison of Rebeuss in Dakar where his son and party collaborators were imprisoned for a while. On 30 March 2018, Khalifa Ababacar Sall was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment by the Court of First Instance. His associates also had various sentences ranging from six months to five years in prison. The most serious candidates dismissed by the Sall regime, the Alliance for the Republic (APR), launched the race for the 2017 legislative elections.

The legislative elections of 30 July 2017 For these elections, there were 47 lists of nominations including many political coalitions. A few candidates listed ‘religious leader’ as their profession and this goes against the Constitution (Article 4). The number of registered voters was 6,219,446 with 3,337,494 total votes for 3,310,435 valid votes, and the turnout was 53.66 percent.10 Leaders of opposition parties lamented the organisation of the polls. Wade gives an illustrative example: President ‘Sall has arranged that in all places where he thinks that the opposition will win, there is no vote’.11 For the results of the legislative elections of 2017, we focus more on the large coalitions and the parties that have a close relationship with religion. The Coalition Gagnante/Wattu Taxawu Senegal led by former President Wade won 552,095 votes with 19 seats in the National Assembly. Benno Bokk Yakaar (BBY), the presidential coalition, received 1,637,761 votes for 125 seats of the 165 seats. The PVD received 22,769 votes and one MP in the National Assembly. The coalition Mankoo Taxawu Senegal (MTS) gained 388,188 votes and seven seats, while their leader Khalifa Ababacar Sall was (and still is at the time of writing, February 2019) in prison. The PUR achieved 155,407 votes and three seats. Bes du Ñaak joined the MTS coalition. Khadim Thioune of MPS-Faxas joined the BBY coalition for these elections, probably because of his father’s rapprochement with the presidential party after being released from prison following an accusation of his complicity in the murder of two of his disciples.12 One final important entry in the Senegalese National Assembly and in Senegalese politics was Ousmane Sonko, the leader of the Patriots of Senegal for Ethics, Work and Fraternity (PASTEF) who was fired from the state administration because he denounced irregularities in the state tax management system. He is said to belong to the Wahhabi Islamist movement, Jama-t‘at ‘Iba-d al-Rahma-n (Assembly of the Servants of Allah). This claim comes from his rivals who reminded Sufi leaders against the danger of his candidacy in the presidential election of 2019. Yet, his speeches were appealing to many among the Senegalese public because they highlighted the importance of the values of moral integrity, telling truth to power, fair management of state resources, and anti-French hegemony in the context of the Senegalese economy. Finally, both PASTEF and PUR have programmes influenced by religion (Islam) – yet are not religious political parties comparable to the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt. The PUR has more voters than any other party with religious connotations: its total is the highest in the parliamentary history of Senegal in this respect. PUR was able to gain votes in 293

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the Murı-d stronghold regions (Diourbel and Mbacké). This indicates that in their own bases, the Murı-ds can vote for non-Murı-d candidates and that the Sufi order barriers are not as hermetic as people might think.13 Professor Issa Sall, who is the coordinator of PUR, explains that his party is secular because, in Senegal, the religious party is not allowed unlike in Germany where there is a Christian democratic party.14 However, this party identifies strongly with Moustapha Sy, the President of PUR, and his late father who is their spiritual guide. The above-mentioned examples show again that it is not easy to separate religion from politics in Senegal.

The debates on the Sponsorship Act (or loi sur le parrainage) In 2018, President Sall introduced a new bill.15 The revision or rewriting of the electoral code was entrusted to the minister Ismaila Madior Fall who is a constitutionalist, a leading African political scientist16 and, currently, Minister of Justice and Keeper of the Seals of the Republic of Senegal. Thus, Fall took charge of defending the bill, despite criticism from all sides. Indeed, the bill proposes that candidates in county, municipal legislative and presidential elections must collect sponsorship signatures amounting to 1 percent of the electoral register, in at least seven of the 14 regions of the country at the rate of 2,000 signatures per region. These are to be validated first by a commission receiving sponsor lists, supervised and controlled by the National Independent Electoral Commission (CENA), finally to be validated by the Constitutional Council.17 An elector must sponsor only one candidate which is difficult to do in a country with a low literacy rate (37.2 percent as of 2013). Once again, the inability of the majority to write or read is an electoral gain for those in power, in fact, facilitated by the constitutional judge, since signing for two candidates annuls the second signature. Some Senegalese have appreciated having a law on sponsorship for the country: the law has helped to decrease the number of candidates for the 2019 presidential election which makes things less complicated in choosing. Leaders of opposition parties, such as Mamadou Diop Decroix (African Party for Democracy and Nationalism/And Jëf (AJ/PADS)), was one of the leaders gathered in a new platform called the Democratic and Social Front of National Resistance Against Constitutional and Electoral Manipulations in Senegal. They ruled out any negotiations with those in power and called on the people to mobilise in front of the National Assembly on 19 April 2018, the day of the vote on the law. Nonetheless, the law was adopted on 18 June 2018, and on 9 May 2018, by Décision No. 1/C/2018, the seven judges of the Senegalese Constitutional Council declared their institution incompetent, as they usually do, to rule on the appeal introduced by some members of the opposition asking for the annulment of the sponsorship law. According to the opposition parties, the power seeks through the Sponsorship Act to eliminate some of the candidates, and give more chances to the current serving President Sall to be re-elected in the presidential election of 24 February 2019. Uncertain about his re-election in 2017, President Sall solicited the expertise of law specialists to stifle the presidential ambitions of his rivals. The discrediting and weakening of opposition leaders such as his former prime minister Abdoul Mbaye, the son of Judge Kéba Mbaye and leader of the Alliance for Citizenship and Labor (ACT), his former Socialist allies, such as Barthélemy Dias and especially the mayor of Dakar (Khalifa Ababacar Sall), went through appropriate court proceedings all controlled and supervised from above by the presidency. What the candidate Sall once decried as ‘institutional violence’ (Fall, 2018: 414) is Wade’s use of institutions and laws to stay in power. Yet, the same symbolic violence was adopted by Sall via the referendum and the Sponsorship Act, continuing his mentor’s strategies of destabilising political institutions. 294

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Conclusion This chapter sought to trace the political history of Senegal in regards to major religions, especially Islam, from 1980 to 2018. In December 1980, Abdou Diouf became the designated successor of Senghor, but he was also supported by some marabouts to secure three terms. Yet, his regime was unable to contain the rise of opposition parties and many political protests, especially in the streets of major cities, so he was forced to co-opt some religious figures between 1983 and 2000. Without being successful in the long run, Diouf adopted neo-authoritarian practices during his time in power. Later, Wade and the PDS, the most prominent party in the public space since Senghor’s time, with coalitions of political parties, prompted the first political alternation of power in Senegal in 2000. Wade became a Murı-d-president who collaborated with leaders of the two largest Sufi orders, the Muridı-yya and the Tija-niyya. The first time he visited the head of the Catholic Church, the Archbishop of Dakar, Monsignor Theodore Adrien Sarr was between the two rounds of the 2012 elections. He had limited or no actions vis-à-vis representatives of traditional religions and the so-called Islamist movements such as the leaders of Iba-du Rahma-n or the AlFalla-h Salafi Movement for Islamic Culture. Wade also experienced predatory and authoritarian practices that undesirably put together the opposition as a single political movement which finally supported the candidate Macky Sall in the 2012 presidential election. Sall tried to change the institutions but maintained the ‘Senegalese social contract’ (between the state and Sufi orders). His regime continued to work with religious leaders by investing in both Muslim and Christian religious cities. He also tracked down opposition leaders (President Wade’s son, Karim, among others) and put some in jail, and also instructed his advisers to rewrite the constitution and submit it to the people in a referendum. The president used an uncertain but more legitimate and democratic way to stay in power, not involving the Parliament where the vote might pass easily but be widely perceived as illegitimate. This subterfuge allowed him to break his word to change his presidential term from seven to five years and stay two more years according to the Constitution. Finally, for the opposition, President Sall set the Sponsorship Act to dismiss many candidates in the presidential election of 24 February 2019 (with only five candidates including himself). For all these institutional reforms, religious leaders remain divided: sometimes they denounce the undemocratic practices and sometimes they accept the policies of the head of state, because Sall has invested billions of local CFA francs in religious cities through his Programme of Rehabilitation of Religious Cities. The Catholic Church is constant in giving democratic lessons to the Senegalese in general and politicians in particular. For the Christmas Eve celebration of 2018, the Archbishop of Dakar, Monsignor Benjamin Ndiaye, made a patriotic speech, galvanising political actors and the Senegalese citizens in general. In Senegal religions, political parties and the central state have all contributed to strengthening democracy. But the citizens are the ones who are seeking to make the Senegalese model exemplary in the world. For example, they can resist any anti-democratic regime (that is, by dismissal of such a regime), as well as make a change through their votes (that is, election of a new regime). A residual problem for developing the country is that Senegalese tend to vote against a candidate rather than vote for a politician or his or her policies. As a result, candidates are not generally elected because of their party programmes but because of social, religious, political and economic affinities and, as a result, the more things change the more they stay the same.

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Notes 1 As of 29 December 2018, there were 309 political parties in Senegal, if we trust the Minister of the Interior, Aly Ngouille Ndiaye, who was talking in Wolof on a political show ‘Face aux citoyens’ on the National Television Channel (RTS), available on YouTube. 2 All the results of the elections from 1980 to 2012 are sourced from the African Elections Database (AED), retrieved from http://africanelections.tripod.com/sn.html. 3 My translation from Wolof, see also Villalón (1995: 263). A political ndigal is a vote order, a voting recommendation, a vote instruction or a vote consign pronounced by a marabout to ask his disciples to vote for a candidate. From 1988 onwards there is no ndigal from central caliphs of Sufi orders, nevertheless marabouts can support or predict the victory of their candidates. 4 The Dahiratoul Moustarchidine Wal Moustarchidati (French spelling) is the branch of the Tija-niyya whose ‘moral leader’ (or responsable moral) is Moustapha Sy, and his father Cheikh Tidiane Sy (1925–2017) is their spiritual guide. For more details on this vast Islamic movement, see Samson (2014) and Diallo (2010). 5 For the journalist Coulibaly, Wade was the mastermind of the murder of Judge Babacar Sèye who was a former member of the Senegalese Progressive Union (UPS) which became the PS in 1976. He is also a Tija-nı- adept from Saint Louis, disciple of the KGT El Hadji Abdoul Aziz Sy (1900–1997). Not only did Wade release the so-called murderers of the judge, he also offered them economic projects, ‘compensated Sèye family without informing the people’, and finally passed an amnesty law for the murderers, validated by the Constitutional Council. For more details on Sèye’s assassination, see Coulibaly (2005). It is important to recall the context in which the judge was murdered. Kéba Mbaye was the president of the Constitutional Council: he stepped down on 2 March 1993 without, for the first time, asking the advice of his spiritual guide the KGT (Sy) before taking his decision as he usually would do (Fall, 2018: 268). 6 Murı-d candidates Ousseynou Fall and his Republican Party of Senegal (PRS) received 1.11 percent of the votes, and Cheikh Abdoulaye Dièye and his Front for Socialism and Democracy-Benno Jubël (FSD-BJ) received 0.97 percent in the first round of the presidential election in 2000. Dièye’s slogan was Alla-hu Wa-hidu-n (He is Allah, the One). 7 Ibrahima Fall and his coalition Taxaw Tem (1.81 percent) and Cheikh Bamba Dièye, the mayor of SaintLouis (1.93 percent). Idrissa Seck was born into a Tija-nı- family but was not publicly submitted to a marabout. He recently joined the Murı-diyya, whether for electoral gains or personal convictions, it is difficult to tell. 8 Sall was born into a Tija-nı- family but recently embraced the Murı-diyya, one the most powerful political Sufi order in the country. He resigned from all his official positions won through the PDS and, on 5 December 2008, created his own party (Alliance for the Republic-Hope or APR-Yaakar). 9 This was the Constitution of 2001. 10 The complete results of the elections according to the Constitutional Council can be retrieved from: www.lesoleil.sn/images/Docs/Resultats_Legislatives_2017_2.pdf. 11 Mbaye Thiandoum, ‘Catastrophe électoral (sic): les opposants crient au scandale: Macky Sall se réjouit de la bonne organisation’, Les Échos, No. 199 of 1 August 2017, p. 7. The opposition claims that the APR leaders supported and financed some opposition parties. The constitutional expert Diop notes that ‘in Senegal, there are no laws on the financing of political parties even less legal or regulatory device setting a strict control of the limits of campaign expenses’ (2011: 301, my translation). 12 A. Nossiter, ‘Murder Case Against a Sheik Tests Senegal’s New President’, New York Times, 20 November 2012, p. A 8. 13 See also Diagne (2017: 150). 14 Mor Talla Gaye: ‘El Hadji Issa Sall, tête de liste natioinale du Parti de l’Unité et du Rassemblement (PUR): “Nous nous attendions à être majoritaires à l’Assemblée si…”’, L’Observateur No. 4156 of 1 August 2017, p. 5. 15 ‘Bill 12–2018 amending the Electoral Code (Dakar on 28 March 2018)’. See also Fall (2018: 17). 16 See among Fall’s major works (2011, 2012, 2017, 2018). 17 The Law No. 2018–22 of 4 July 2018 revising the Electoral Code is published in the Journal Officiel de la République du Sénégal on 5 July 2018, No. 7106.

References Bourdieu, P. (1997). Méditations pascaliennes. Paris: Les Éditions du Seuil. Buckley, D.T. (2016). Faithful to Secularism: The Religious Politics of Democracy in Ireland, Senegal, and the Philippines. New York: Columbia University Press.

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Religions and political parties in Senegal Coulibaly, A.L. (2005). Sénégal Affaire Me Sèye: un meurtre sur commande. Paris: L’Harmattan. Diagne, S.B. (2017). ‘The Constitution of a “Laïc” African and Muslim Country: Senegal’, in A.Ü. Bâli and H. Lerner, eds, Constitution Writing, Religion, and Democracy. New York: Cambridge University Press, 131–151. Diallo, E. (2010). La Tija-niyya sénégalaise: les métamorphoses des modèles de succession. Paris: Publisud. Diallo, E.S. and Kelly, C. (2016). ‘Sufi Turuq and the Politics of Democratization in Senegal’, Journal of Religious and Political Practice, 2(2), 7–35. Diop, E. (2011). Partis politiques, démocratie et réalités sociales au Sénégal. Essai critique pour une étude réaliste du multipartisme. Dakar: CREDILA. Diop, E. (2011). Les Révisions constitutionnelles au Sénégal. Révisions consolidantes et révisions déconsolidantes de la démocratie sénégalaise. Dakar: CREDILA. Diop, E.H.O. (2017). L’Instrumentalisation de la constitution dans les régimes politiques africains. Dakar: CREDILA/OVIPA. Fall, I.M. (2011). Les Révisions constitutionnelles au Sénégal. Révisions consolidantes et révisions déconsolidantes de la démocratie sénégalaise. Dakar: CREDILA. Fall, I.M. (2012). Sénégal: Une démocratie ‘ancienne’ en mal de réforme. Rapport sur l’état de la démocratie et de la participation politique au Sénégal. Dakar: OSIWA. Fall, I.M. (2017). La Réforme constitutionnelle du 20 mars 2016 au Sénégal. La révision consolidante record. Dakar: L’Harmattan. Fall, I.M. (2018). Les élections présidentielles au Sénégal de 1963 à 2012. Dakar: L’Harmattan. Kanté, B. (1989). ‘Le Sénégal: un exemple de continuité et d’instabilité constitutionnelle’, Revue juridique, politique, et économique du Maroc, 145–160. Samson, F. (2014). ‘Le Dahiratoul Moustarchidina wal Moustarchidaty’, in K. Fleet, G. Krämer, D. Matringe, J. Nawas and E. Rowson, eds, The Encyclopaedia of Islam, 3rd edition, Leiden: Brill, 70–73. Villalón, L. (1995). Islamic Society and State Power in Senegal: Disciples and Citizen in Fatick. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Writing on religion and politics in the developing world, Jeff Haynes observes that: there has been little general academic awareness of the importance of religion in most studies of politics in the Third World. Indeed, until recently it was generally considered in Western academic circles that religion was a declining force in politics in general. (Haynes, 1993: 1) Back in 1959, Wright Mills had argued that religion had no significant place in politics. He states that ‘neither preachers nor the religious laity matter, [they could] be readily agreed with and safely ignored’ (Wright Mills, 1959: 150). Discussing the place of religion in relation to politics and the state in the 1960s, Steve Bruce’s observation corroborates both Haynes’ and Wright Mills’ notes above. ‘Religion’, Bruce (2003: 1–2) writes: In the comfortable societies of the modern industrial world is now largely a private and domestic matter. The radicals of the French Revolution may have wanted, in a phrase popularized by Diderot, to strangle the nobility with the guts of the priest. The English Methodists may have wanted to break the power of the established Church of England with the Great Reform Act of 1832. But by the late 1960s most Western Europeans would have thought there was little of interest to say about the impact of religion on politics. What we believed about the supernatural was a personal matter, its reach largely confined to the private sphere of home and hearth. Most democracies were formally secular. They accorded few privileges to their dominant churches and inflicted few disabilities on the followers of minority creeds. Modern bureaucracies managed national systems of education, social control, and social welfare that paid little attention to religious affiliation and claimed little by way of divine approval. Elites might pay lip service to some God and great state ceremonies might be graced by clergy, but piety and theological rectitude played very little part in government policies. Regional peripheries tended to be more traditionally religious than cosmopolitan centers, but that was treated, along with thick accents, as proof of quaint backwardness. In most Western societies active participation in organized religion was in decline. If the Christian churches were politically 298

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active, it was usually in some worthy cause that was not especially religious: the plight of the homeless or the needs of immigrants. They were ignored by governments when they ignored public policy and they were ignored even by their own members when they criticized morals. A close consideration of the religious and political history of Nigeria will provoke questions such as: is the above assertion by Wright Mills true? If it was true when he wrote his book, is the situation still the same today? Francois Foret’s comments on the interaction between religion and politics helps us to begin to answer these questions. Foret suggests that encounters between religion and politics are unavoidable. To Foret, religion and politics are two fundamentally charismatic domains where individuals may be called upon to sacrifice their lives, or where at the very least the individual enacts his or her core identity and values. It would thus be a source of wonder if there were no relationship between temporal and spiritual powers … Religion and politics are interrelated and are bound to impact each other. (Foret, 2015: 1) As events in the domestic and international relations of states unfold in the twenty-first century, we are even more able to answer the above questions. A keen observation of developments in world history shows that the relationship between religion, political parties and politics continue to take new shapes and forms. The twenty-first century, for instance, has witnessed increased interaction between religion, state politics and political parties. An example can be drawn from the outcome of the presidential election in the United States in 2016. Religious sentiments and support were one of the major strengths of the Trump campaign which ultimately gave Donald Trump victory in the 2016 US presidential election over Hillary Clinton, a candidate who, given her political profile and experience, was considered many times more qualified for the job. Clinton’s qualifications notwithstanding, Donald Trump defeated her and rode to victory largely on the wings of religion and right-wing nationalism. Eighty-one percent of Evangelicals voted for Trump during the presidential election.1 Almost two years into his presidency, Trump continues to maintain that support base. A recent CBS News broadcast revealed that 78 percent of Evangelicals still support Mr Trump’s presidency while only 18 percent disapprove of it. In the broadcast, Michael Graham, a CBSN Political Contributor, noted as follows: ‘they are in’ (talking about the Evangelicals) ‘because they have hired him to do a job’. Michael quoted an Evangelical woman as saying ‘we didn’t hire a pastor’. He says that ‘what this meant is that the Evangelicals have hired a political hitman. Donald Trump in essence has made a deal with the Evangelicals. Instead of having a president who sees you as a problem, I will be for you. It is a transactional relationship’.2 The election and continued support for the Trump presidency by the Evangelicals is a strategy for mediating conflicts between their Christian culture/values and socio-political policies that opposed them. ‘The message from the church communities now’, said Graham, is you have to do it our way. This is why they are opposed to a Hillary Clinton presidency, who spoke against their treasured ideals back in 2015. They just wanted to be left alone to practice their faith and they felt like the government was not going to do that. But Donald Trump was the guy who stepped up to create some space for them and defend their freedom.3

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Rev. Samuel Rodrigues of the National Hispanic Christian Leadership Conference, responding to William Bragham’s question on why Evangelicals keep faith in President Trump, said: public policy. Evangelical experienced or felt that in the last number of years, in the past ten years, issues of religious liberty, issues of advancing original Christian values stood in a de facto and de jure matter for that fact threatened … their ability to advance the gospel of Jesus. So, all of a sudden, we have President Donald Trump and the public policy initiatives as it pertains to faith is much more favourable to the Evangelical community indeed.4 To the Evangelicals, the future of American Christianity was at stake during the elections hence, their support of Trump. Dr Michael Yousee equally noted that, ‘Evangelicals don’t just care about the candidate, but the people he surrounds himself with. So, the choice of his Vice President and the fact that he is a Christian gave him advantage over Hilary’.5 Bruce states that ‘in the United States in the 1980s, television evangelists led powerful political pressure groups. In Britain’s parliamentary elections of 1997 the Pro-Life Alliance fielded candidates on an anti-abortion ticket’ (Bruce, 2003: 4). The events of 1997 in Britain are similar to what played out in the United States in 2016. Evangelicals believed that Trump was pro-life and supported their argument on abortion. So, they gave him their votes. Nigeria experiences its share of the impacts of the interactions between religion, political parties and politics. Religious considerations affect not only the choice of political parties citizens identify with, it also impacts political decisions and government policies. Nigerian politicians and political party leaderships are aware that religion had become a significant and unavoidable force in its politics. The interaction between religion, political parties and politics is not new in the history of Nigeria. As far back as the colonial era, religious and political interests have overlapped. This chapter examines the intersections of religion, political parties and politics in Nigeria. Drawing examples from Christianity and Islam, it examines how religious and political interests in Nigeria have been pursued and managed. This chapter will attempt to answer the following questions: is religion relevant to political parties and politics in Nigeria? Why do religious leaders and institutions get involved in politics? What are the reasons for the increased interaction between religion, political parties and politics in Nigeria? What factors shape the nature of this interaction?

Understanding the concepts Efforts to study religion, politics and political parties have led to interesting conceptualisations of these terms. As a background for understanding the operationalisation of these concepts in this chapter, a few of these conceptual ideas will be highlighted in this section. Robert A. Dowd (2015: 3) defines religion as ‘a system of beliefs in the transcendent that communities develop and use to explain the world around them’. Bruce (2003: 9–10) defines religion as ‘beliefs, actions, and institutions that assume the existence of supernatural entities with powers of judgement and action. Religion may act as an autonomous force in politics’. For Haynes, ‘religion refers to the formal religious organisation and their practices, to groups sponsored or inspired by such religious organisations and, finally, to the general models of appropriate or proper behavior that helps to organise everyday life’ (Haynes, 1993: 8). In another study, Bruce and Wallis (1992: 10–11) suggest that religion refers to

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actions, beliefs, and institutions predicated upon the assumption of the existence either of supernatural entities with powers of agency, or impersonal powers possessed of moral purpose, which have the capacity to set the conditions of, or to intervene in, human affairs. Further, the central claims to the operation of such entities or impersonal powers are either not susceptible to, or are systematically protected from, refutation. Foret (2015: 5) adds that ‘religion retains a significant and potentially explosive power as a communicational raw material within the media and cultural landscape’. Kenneth Minogue notes that politics was formerly restricted to ‘the actions of monarchs, parliaments, and ministers, and to the activities of the politically committed who helped or hindered their accession to authority. Everything else was social or private life’ (Minogue, 2000: 7). Bruce (2003: 9) presents his concept of politics to mean ‘the nature and actions of states and governments, to political parties, to the actions of groups intended to influence governments, and to the basic liberties that these days, states are supposed to protect’. Haynes (1993: 8) defines politics as ‘formal political institutions and the relations of power in an organized setting’. Political parties also have received some level of attention. Edmund Burke defines political parties as ‘a body of men united for promoting by their joint endeavours the national interest upon some particular principles in which they are all agreed’.6 Nnamdi Azikiwe references the French sociologist, Gustave Le Bon, who sees political parties as ‘individuals differing greatly as to their education, their professions, and the class of society to which they belong, and with their common beliefs as the connecting link’. For Azikiwe (1957: 3), a political party is an organization of voters, freely and voluntarily formed, for the attainment of common ends. There is, however, an irresistible tendency actually to control the reins of government, and in so doing, there is a concentration of power in the hands of few people who are willing and have the time and ability to practice those arts by means of which the executive control is obtained and exercised. For Adekunle Amuwo (2010: 86), political parties are ‘societal institutions that bring together like-minded men and women to wrest the levers of power with a view toward ruling according to their own agenda’. While these definitions are important, this chapter draws more insights from the organisational aspect of Haynes’ definition. We look at religion as an organisation of people with a common belief and value system. Azikiwe’s definition of political parties suits our goal in this chapter, however, one fundamental aspect of that definition that is still lacking in Nigerian political parties is the absence of well-formulated ideologies.

Background to the development of political parties in Nigeria The emergence of political parties in Nigeria dates to the colonial era. The introduction of political parties originates from the idea of majority rule as the fundamental basis for democracy (Azikiwe, 1957: 3). In Nigeria, the development of political parties followed the generally accepted idea of the time that parliamentary democracy was the standard of political behaviouralism (Azikiwe, 1957: 3). As political parties began to emerge in colonial Nigeria, the politics of imperial domination and exploitation characterised its development in the country. The colonialists understood that a united Nigeria would be difficult to control. They, therefore, pitched the peoples of Nigeria against one another. The most profound lines of 301

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division were ethnic and religious. Colonial Nigeria was carved up ethnically into Northern, Western and Eastern Regions, corresponding with the geographical homes of the three dominant ethnic groups in Nigeria – the Hausa-Fulani to the North, the Yoruba to the West and the Igbo in the East. Religiously, Nigeria was divided into the Muslim North and the Christian South. This ethno-religious division crept into Nigeria’s political space in the colonial era and has remained in place. Akinola has noted that political parties in Nigeria fall into two broad categories – the progressives and the conservatives. According to Akinola (2014: xiii), the idea that one group is conservative and the other progressive, has its roots in colonial rule. The erstwhile politicians of southern Nigeria, where Christian missionaries had great influence, viewed themselves to be progressive, while their counterparts in the major political party from the Muslim-dominated north were the conservatives. The indirect rule system which the British used to administer Nigeria helped to fuel this division. The system was better accommodated in the North which operated the emirate system of government. Power, authority and sovereignty lay in the Muslim emirs who served as both traditional and religious heads for the peoples. The emirates had a well-established system of taxation. This structure presented the British with a ready platform to colonise the people. Indirect rule was partially successful in the West where the Yoruba kingdoms existed. But it failed in the East, whose people adopted a republican political structure. European colonialists were, therefore, careful not to disrupt the religious/political structures of Northern Nigeria where the Islamic religion had been established (Post, 1964: 47). One of the ways in which this colonial tolerance of Islam was manifested was in the educational policies of the colonialists. Akinola (2014: xiii) and Kastfelt (1994) have shown that the colonialists adopted a dual approach to education in Nigeria. The British strictly enforced the operation of two different education programmes in the country. Education in the South was in the hands of Christian missionaries. Although they were primarily interested in training the people to imbibe Christian values, they were also interested in their empowerment in other spheres of life. This ‘dual approach to education must be considered as the greatest legacy of disunity bequeathed to Nigeria by the British administration’. For instance, Falola and Agbo (2017: 621–641) as well as Kastfelt (1994) have shown that Christian missionaries and the influence of Western education which they spearheaded in the country were largely responsible for the rise of new African elites, who, empowered by the education which they had acquired and their understanding of the traditional practices of their peoples, were able to successfully wrest the political control of the country from the Europeans and lead the country to independence on 1 October 1960. The educational policies of the colonialists left serious consequences in Nigeria’s political space. The impact of this ambiguous educational approach on Nigeria’s party system can be viewed from two perspectives: first, the entrance of Christian missions to the nonMuslim areas of the North effected an antagonistic culture to the conservative culture of the Muslim areas; second, because the South had produced more educated men, well-nurtured in the dynamics of Western democracy, a feeling of suspicion and political incompatibility was developed by the North against the South. These effects, coupled with other tribal contradictions, would later translate into political loyalties. (Akinola, 2014: 9) 302

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The political loyalty referred to above was manifested in the ethno-religious focus of Nigeria’s pioneer political parties. The National Council of Nigerian and Cameroons (later National Council of Nigerian Citizens, NCNC) was the only political party at the time that started off with a nation-wide focus. But it was later pushed into focusing on Eastern Nigeria. The Action Group (AG) was a predominantly Yoruba party while the Northern Peoples’ Congress was dominated by the Hausa-Fulani. It would be recalled that it was this suspicion that led Nigeria to its bloody civil war between 1967 and 1970, ending the country’s first republic in just six years of regaining its independence from Britain. The ethnic and religious tensions introduced by the British were also responsible for the character of political party development in Nigeria. That political party formation in Nigeria first developed along ethnic and to some extent religious lines has its roots in the tense relationship which existed between the North and the South.

Religion, political parties and politics in Nigeria: an appraisal To begin this section, it is important to take note of Kastfelt’s comments on the politicisation of religion in Nigeria: The politicization of religion in Nigeria is nothing new. Ever since southern and northern Nigeria were united into one state in the early colonial period, the different religious orientations of the country’s regions have been inseparable from their political interests and strategies. What is new is the violent radicalization of religion which has taken place since the beginning of the 1980s. The historical roots of this tragic development, which has threatened to tear Nigeria apart along religious lines, are partly to be found in the 1950s with the emergence of constitutional regionalism and regionally based political parties. (Kastfelt, 1994: ix) The focus of this section is to present a critical analysis of the interaction between religion, political parties and politics in Nigeria. In doing so, emphasis will focus on the dominant religions in the country, Christianity and Islam. Kastfelt claims that the different political orientations of Nigerians cannot be separated ‘from their political interests and strategies’. Earlier in this chapter, we pointed out Wright Mills’ argument about the irrelevance of religion politics. With these two arguments in mind, this section will show that in the light of the present realities in the religious and political landscape of Nigeria, Wright Mills’ argument will not stand. In 2015, Nigeria’s leading political party, the People’s Democratic Party (PDP), which had been in power since 1999, faced what became its fiercest electoral battle. A coalition of some opposition political parties led to the emergence of the All Progressives Congress (APC), the party which eventually won the presidential election of that year, the majority of seats at the federal legislature, as well as a considerable number of state governorships. The APC took advantage of the terrorist activities of the Islamic sect, Boko Haram, to defeat the government of the PDP led by Dr Goodluck Jonathan. The APC also laid several accusations of corruption in the PDP government as well as raising claims that Nigeria’s economy was in bad shape. These three issues became the major campaign arguments of the APC as it promised Nigerians to make these issues the core focus of its government if elected to office. Muhammadu Buhari, a former military dictator, was the presidential candidate of the APC. Goodluck Jonathan of the PDP who was seeking re-election was ousted by the victory of the APC at the polls.

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Expectations were very high on the new feats the incoming government had promised. On 29 May 2015, the Buhari presidency was inaugurated, shifting the burden of leadership to the APC. It was time for the new government to nominate members of its cabinet as well as heads and directors of different federal government-controlled parastatals and agencies. This was the beginning of trouble for the APC as its insensitivity to religious matters immediately began to tear the government apart. It has become a convention in Nigeria’s politics to maintain some kind of religious balance in making federal appointments. Where the presidential candidate of a political party is a Christian, the vice-presidential candidate is automatically drawn from Muslims and vice versa. In 1999, Olusegun Obasanjo, the presidential candidate of the PDP, a Christian, chose Atiku Abubakar, a Muslim, as his vice president. In 2007, Umaru Musa Yaraduah, the presidential candidate of the PDP, had Goodluck Jonathan as his vice president. President Yaraduah died in office in 2010 making way for Jonathan to become president. Jonathan was immediately faced with the challenge of choosing a vice president. He chose Namadi Sambo, a Muslim. In 2015, Muhammadu Buhari of the APC chose Yemi Osinbajo, a Christian pastor, as vice president. In the sixteen years that the PDP controlled the federal government of Nigeria, 1999–2015, religious considerations were also a very important issue to consider in their allocation of the party’s strategic offices in its National Executive Council. In 2014, when the APC was formed, the party’s major challenge with gaining the confidence of Nigerians, especially Christians, was the allegation that its officials were mostly Muslims. Thus, Christians, especially in the South, concluded that the APC was a party of Muslims with the agenda of Islamising Nigeria if voted into power. The candidacy of Muhammadu Buhari, a devout Muslim, did not help matters for the APC. But the APC managed to win the election despite its alleged Muslim domination. The next issue for the new government was nominating members of the president’s cabinet. Again, religion was a major consideration. The Buhari presidency failed to demonstrate that it understood the character of politics in Nigeria. Buhari’s appointees were dominantly Northern Muslims. For example, in his appointment of security chiefs, the APC government of Muhammadu Buhari was accused of laying the foundation for the Islamisation of Nigeria by appointing more Muslims to lead the country’s most strategic security institutions. In fact, one of the major issues the APC and its government have had to deal with in its almost four-year rule is religious confrontations. It would appear that the PDP did better with managing religious matters than the APC has done. This is traceable to the poor handling of sensitive national issues by the Buhari administration. One such sensitive issue is the wanton killings that have characterised the conflicts between the Fulani cattle breeders and local farmers in different parts of the Nigerian Middle Belt region. Nigeria under the APC government of Buhari has witnessed gross insensitivity by the presidency on the country’s diversity while value for human lives could be said to be at an all-time low. Fulani cattle breeders share two things in common with Buhari – they come from the same region as the president and they are mostly Muslims. Christian leaders constantly accuse the president of victimisation and also condemned him for allegedly entertaining religious and ethnic sentiments in his handling of the uncontrolled killings of innocent Nigerians, mainly Christians, by his Fulani kinsmen. The Buhari government has not only refused to condemn these killings, it has also failed to take responsibility for the security of lives and property in the regions most affected by these killings. President Buhari himself did not accept that Fulani cattle breeders were responsible for the killings in Central Nigeria. Instead, he shifted the blame to the late Libyan leader, Muammar Gaddafi. While on a visit to Justin Welby, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Buhari said:

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the problem is even older than us. It has always been there, but now made worse by the influx of armed gunmen from the Sahel region into different parts of the West African sub-region. These gunmen were trained and armed by Muammar Gaddafi of Libya. When he was killed, the gunmen escaped with their arms. We encountered some of them fighting with Boko Haram. Herdsmen that we used to know carried only sticks and maybe a cutlass to clear the way, but these ones now carry sophisticated weapons.7 On another occasion, the Special Adviser to President Buhari on Media and Publicity, Femi Adeshina, responded to the killings in Nigeria by releasing a checklist of killings under the PDP. At a time when the APC government was expected by Nigerians to find a solution to the killings in the country, the party and its officials in power resorted to blame games and fingerpointing. In the over three years of its administration, this is common with the APC and the Buhari government. In an article published in one of Nigeria’s newspapers, Reno Omokri noted with disappointment the ‘childish’ behaviour of the president and his officials, describing the checklist as a reduction of the lives of Nigerians to a ‘mere killing contest’.8 Mr Omokri noted that the president was dealing with issues in different parts of the country with different standards and rules. He tasked the president to take responsibility for every issue in the country, just as he takes credit for federal government projects initiated under the previous administration of the PDP but completed under his tenure. A lengthy excerpt from Omokri’s notes is instructive at this point to help our understanding of the situation in Nigeria. Omokri writes: What a kindergarten President Nigeria has in Muhammadu Buhari. This is the same man who on Tuesday July 26, during his visit to Plateau State said: ‘there is nothing I can do to help the situation except to pray to God to help us out of the security challenges.’ Did we elect a president or a prayer warrior? I am shocked with Buhari’s statement that there is nothing he can do about the herdsmen violence other than pray. Did he pray before ruthlessly dealing with the Indigenous People of Biafra? Did Buhari pray before unleashing his army to kill 347 Shiite men, women, children, and infants on Saturday, December 12, 2015? Did he not send the military to kill defenseless IPOB demonstrators? How come he has now been reduced to prayers when it comes to his kinsmen? To say that Buhari is too sectional and biased to govern Nigeria is an understatement … President Buhari is able to roar like a lion for IPOB, for Shiites, for militants, and to some extent to Boko Haram, but when it comes to his beloved herdsmen kinsmen, he turns [in]to a pussy cat … [and] a prayer warrior. [T]welve hours after the Plateau killings, the Miyetti Allah9 Chairman spoke with a journalist and justified why herdsmen members killed almost 200 Christians in Plateau State and then eight hours later, the Buhari Presidency releases a statement absolving the herdsmen, who already claimed responsibility, and blaming politicians! And besides, look at the insensitive statement President Buhari released. It is so shameful that President Buhari’s statement blamed the death of 150 Nigerian citizens in Plateau on ‘one hundred cattle that were rustled by a community in Plateau.’ Even if this were true, does that justify killing 150 people? Is that the type of a talk a president talks? And I can’t believe President Buhari called what happened yesterday in Plateau State a ‘herdsmen/farmers clash.’ Those are his exact words. In 2018, more people have died from herdsmen attacks in Nigeria than the total 2018 war casualty in Afghanistan. These are not clashes. This is WAR! According to the International Crisis Group, herdsmen killed 2500 Nigerians in 2016, while Boko Haram killed 1079 in the same 305

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year. Where is the sense in Buhari declaring victory over Boko Haram when his herdsmen are killing 2 and a half Nigerians for every Nigerian killed by Boko Haram? Responding to what has been described as confusion and incompetence10 by the APC, religious leaders, especially Christians, have spoken out at various occasions against the killings and the government’s response to them. Bishop David Oyedepo, the president and founder of the Living Faith Church (AKA Winners’ Chapel), has on several occasions challenged the government to take responsibility for its failures. He has also consistently condemned the cattle breeders’ killings of Christians, describing them as a form of Jihads11 aimed at the extermination of Christians from Nigeria and converting the country into an Islamic state. Oyedepo has alleged that the president is in support of these killings hence his refusal to condemn the killings and take responsibility towards ending it and protecting Nigerians from such attacks. Citing a communique released by the Fulani Nationalist Movement, Bishop Oyedepo stated that the Fulani claimed to have received Nigeria as their inheritance from God. He further said that they claimed to have invited Muslims from around the world to come to Nigeria for a holy way to take over Nigeria.12 Further, Oyedepo has also criticised the government for its failures in securing Nigerian citizens, building a robust and prosperous economy, and the provision of basic amenities which the APC promised Nigerians during the campaigns.13 On one of such occasions, the revered bishop asked the president to resign because he was not performing.14 Early in the year, another popular pastor, Prophet Isa El Buba, on at least two separate occasions spoke against both the president’s conduct and the Fulani cattle breeders. Buba described the herdsmen as terrorists. He called President Buhari wicked. He encouraged all Nigerians to get their permanent voters’ cards (PVCs) and prepare to vote out the president in the upcoming general elections in February 2019. He advised the country to elect a leader who would fulfil God’s purpose for the country whether he/she is a Christian or a Muslim. Addressing the killings by the Fulani herdsmen, Buba asked the people to defend themselves because it is better to die fighting than to die a coward.15 After one of Prophet Buba’s messages against the government, the president was reported to have sent Nigeria’s secret police to arrest the pastor for criticising his government.16 But members of the pastor’s church vehemently resisted the arrest of their pastor. Furthermore, the Senior Pastor of the Dunamis International Gospel Center, Pastor Paul Enenche, has been very vocal in his condemnation of attacks against Christians and the inability of the government of the APC to live up to its responsibilities. Beside open condemnation of these killings and government’s failures, Pastor Enenche and Bishop Oyedepo had at different times led their congregations in prayer and fasting sessions for divine intervention in the country.17 These churches have also been involved in helping surviving victims of these attacks who now live in displacement camps because their houses and businesses were destroyed in the attacks.18 The unfortunate conditions in Nigeria painted above provoke important questions: first, why do religious leaders and institutions get involved in politics? What are the reasons for the increased interaction between religion, political parties and politics in Nigeria? And, what factors shape the nature of that interaction? The remainder of this chapter shall briefly discuss these questions. One of the possible explanations for the involvement of religious leaders and institutions in politics is that religion serves as the conscience of the nation. In the midst of corrupt leadership and poor value system in the society, the examples cited above would appear to suggest that religious leaders and institutions position themselves as moral judges for the society. The examples of the Fulani cattle breeders and the carnage they have unleashed on their victims and 306

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their communities presents a clear example of how religious outcry plays a major role in redirecting the society and its leadership to reprioritise its values. The society through religious institutions have to some extent held the government accountable for the uncontrolled loss of lives and property in the affected areas. In the midst of the failure of political parties and the governments they sponsor to power to meet the citizens’ expectations and deliver the dividends of democracy to the people, religion becomes an alternative for them to reduce the effects of government failures. Haynes has observed that: From the 1970s, government legitimacy plummeted in the wake of corruption, economic failure, and political repression. People turned to others to champion their interests. Ethnicity and religion intertwined in a cultural worldview … utilized potent forms of pressure within and upon political systems to try to gain political ends. As ruling elites failed to deliver the developmental goods in the overwhelming majority of Third World states, their own legitimacy was called into question by religious and/or ethnic leaders, who often framed their criticisms in religious doctrinal or sub-nationalist terms. Such leaders’ motivations were religious, political or personal; frequently, however, concerns were mixed. Such calls came in the midst of the failure of modernization to improve generally the poor’s living standards. Religion in its myriad forms would become an alternative to the failed certainties of the secular global ‘religions’, communism, socialism, liberal democracy, and capitalism. (Haynes, 1993: 7–10) Whether the motive behind the activism of religious leaders and their institutions are informed by collective or personal gains, what is most important to us in this chapter is that they present the people with a unifying platform to hold political parties and the governments they produce responsive to the demands of the people. Religious institutions since the colonial period have been significantly involved in nation building in Nigeria. Kastfelt (1994) has shown how Christian missionaries were instrumental to the development of Western education in the Adamawa Province in Northern Nigeria during the colonial era. In the last 16 years, religious institutions have invested markedly in the education sector in Nigeria. The Living Faith Church which Bishop Oyedepo heads, for instance, has established schools at all levels of education across Nigeria. With two universities and many of its elementary and high schools scattered across the nation, the church is a leading figure in the twenty-first-century development of education in Nigeria. The Redeemers University was established by the Redeemed Christian Church of God. Different dioceses of the Anglican church have combined to establish universities in the Eastern and Western regions of Nigeria respectively. Bruce (2003: 1) believes that poverty in the developing world is responsible for the increased interaction between religion and political politics. He notes that ‘religion in the comfortable societies of the modern industrial world is now largely a private or domestic matter’. Religion does not only offer succour and hope to the people, it turns them to God as the solution to their problems and, where necessary, offers financial and material support to members to alleviate whatever they may be passing through.19 Another important explanation for the nature of the relationship that occurs between religion, political parties and politics in Nigeria is religious diversity. In his study of the interaction between Christianity, Islam and liberal democracy, Dowd opines that religious diversity affects how religious leaders and ordinary believers apply their faith to politics. Christian and Islamic religious communities in Sub-Saharan Africa have tended to contribute more effectively to the 307

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formation of a liberal democratic political culture in settings that have long been religiously diverse than in those settings that have long been religiously homogeneous. Religious diversity has prompted religiously inspired support for liberal democratic political culture – a political culture that is characterised by social tolerance and civic engagement (Dowd, 2015: 2). This is the case for Nigeria where the tensions between Christians and Muslims and the activism of political leaders have helped to strengthen the country’s democracy. As Nigerians prepare to choose their next set of leaders in 2019, a peace committee comprising Christian and Islamic leaders are working towards peaceful elections in the country. The committee recently got the presidential candidates of different parties to sign a peace accord which, among other things, binds them to ensure that both themselves and their supporters eschew violence and conduct themselves in ways that will not jeopardise the peaceful atmosphere needed to have a successful election exercise.20 The influence of religious diversity seems also to suggest that geographical location and environmental factors shape the nature of the relationship between religion, political parties and politics. Dowd (2015: 6) records that ‘the religious, economic, social, and political environment may prompt religious leaders and ordinary believers to amend social teaching and create new political theologies’. One example of how a religious organisation adjusts in different environments to achieve political ends could be found among the Islamic community in Onitsha, Eastern Nigeria. Muslims in Onitsha have recognised that they constitute a minority in a predominantly Christian society. They have, therefore, adopted the strategy of supporting the traditional leadership of Onitsha people as well as the state government as a way of recording their presence in the city and gaining some level of political influence. Every year, during the ofala festival21 of the Obi22 of Onitsha, Muslim leaders in Onitsha visit the Obi with gifts to pay homage to the king. This has facilitated their gaining the Obi’s audience whenever they have any issue that required his attention. Likewise, whenever a new government is elected in the state, these leaders visit the governor to congratulate him/her and introduce themselves to him. Every Christmas, they send gifts to key leaders in the state. They do the same during Islamic festivities as well.23 The above example goes to corroborate Bruce’s (2003: 95) assertion that the political behaviours of religious leaders and their institutions is determined by their size and power relative to the rest of the population.

Conclusion This chapter has shown that while the nature of the interaction between religion, political parties and politics in the developed world seem to be concerned with the preservation of religious values from political policies that threaten to erode them, in Nigeria, the relationship is defined by the politics of development. Thus, every society functions with its own challenges in mind. The concern of Nigerians is to first have a government that respects and upholds the sanctity of human life by putting in place a well-developed security structure. As Nigerians strive to break the lines of poverty and have their basic needs provided for, religion responds to political parties and politics with these issues in mind. Widespread poverty has contributed to the increased interaction between religion, political parties and politics. As successive governments fail to meet the peoples’ expectations, citizens seek solutions from other means. Religious institutions play the vital role of providing the needed alternative. Religious diversity and the seeds of division planted by the colonialists continue to fuel suspicion and divisive politics in Nigeria. It was in line with this that Nigeria’s first republic political parties were mostly formed along ethno-religious lines. This was also the reason why the APC found it difficult to be accepted by Christians when the party came on board in 2014. 308

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Notes 1 See, for instance, ‘Evangelicals Keep Faith in Trump to Advance Religious Agenda’, www.youtube. com/watch?v=G-_8zI5EVLs. 2 See ‘Why the Evangelicals Still Support President Trump’, www.youtube.com/watch?v=m iROBFtuEYE. 3 ‘Why the Evangelicals Still Support President Trump’, www.youtube.com/watch?v=miROBFtuEYE. 4 See ‘Evangelicals Keep Faith in Trump to Advance Religious Agenda’, www.youtube.com/watch?v= G-_8zI5EVLs. 5 ‘Evangelicals Keep Faith in Trump to Advance Religious Agenda’, www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-_ 8zI5EVLs. 6 See www.coursehero.com/file/p7cvg3f/Edmund-Burke-had-defined-the-political-parties-in-1770-thus-Pa rty-is-a-body-of/. 7 See ‘Buhari Blames Gaddafi for Killings across Nigeria’, www.premiumtimesng.com/news/top-news/ 264764-buhari-blames-gaddafi-for-killings-across-nigeria.html. 8 www.vanguardngr.com/2018/07/1014135/. 9 Association of Muslim cattle breeders. 10 See http://dailypost.ng/2018/04/24/herdsmen-killings-buharis-govt-completely-confused-incompetentpdp/. 11 Jihad is the Islamic word for holy war. 12 www.youtube.com/watch?v=lAszfEMiOcE. 13 www.youtube.com/watch?v=pdJaIimD8bQ. 14 See www.youtube.com/watch?v=9zsKyDt6A7Q. 15 See www.youtube.com/watch?v=vExnpGPYGJ0 and www.youtube.com/watch?v=T6CBPmNNQiE. 16 https://lailasnews.com/president-buhari-reportedly-sends-dss-arrest-prophet-isa-el-buba/ and http:// dailypost.ng/2018/01/16/buhari-sending-dss-arrest-comments-herdsmen-killings-prophet-el-buba-alle ges-video/. 17 See www.youtube.com/watch?v=dVgRJG-kWnw and www.youtube.com/watch?v=VvDxF84JuYc. See also www.youtube.com/watch?v=wBZ-79GSILw. 18 See www.youtube.com/watch?v=pbMxAu82Yho, www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5PA22rQE1c and www.nairaland.com/4613265/bishop-oyedepo-sends-relief-idps. 19 www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZVkR2vAF8ok. 20 www.youtube.com/watch?v=iOan65ESc5k and www.youtube.com/watch?v=_XTPJ0OU_DM. 21 Ofala is the annual commemoration of the coronation of the Obi of Onitsha. 22 The Obi is the title of the monarch of Onitsha Kingdom. 23 Interview with politician, Ilyasu Mohammed, 2014.

References Akinola, A. (2014) Party Coalitions in Nigeria: History, Trends, and Prospects, Ibadan: Safari Books Ltd. Amuwo, A. (2010) ‘Stuck at the Gate of Political Transition? Dynamics of Political Parties and Democratization in Nigeria’, in L. Sindjoun, M. Simms and K. Lawson (eds), Political Parties and Democracy, Vol. 4: Africa and Oceania, Santa Barbara: ABC Clio, pp. 81–102. Azikiwe, N. (1957) ‘The Development of Political Parties in Nigeria’, an Address Delivered under the Auspices of the Oxford West African Students’ Union on June 11th at Rhodes House, Oxford, London: The Office of the Commissioner in the United Kingdom for the Eastern Region of Nigeria. Bruce, S. (2003) Politics and Religion, Cambridge: Polity Press. Bruce, S. and R. Wallis (1992) ‘Secularization: The Orthodox Model’, in S. Bruce (ed.), Religion and Modernization: Sociologist and Historians Debate the Secularization Thesis, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Dowd, R.A. (2015) Christianity, Islam, and Liberal Democracy: Lessons from Sub-Saharan Africa, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Falola, T. and C. Agbo (2017) ‘Nationalism and African Intellectuals’, in M. Shanguhyia and T. Falola (eds), The Palgrave Handbook of African Colonial and Post-Colonial History, New York: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 621–641

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Toyin Falola and Chukwuemeka Agbo Foret, F. (2015) Religion and Politics in the European Union: The Secular Canopy, New York: Cambridge University Press. Haynes, J. (1993) Religion in Third World Politics, Buckingham: Open University Press. Kastfelt, N. (1994) Religion and Politics in Nigeria, London: British Academic Press. Minogue, K. (2000) Politics: A Very Short Introduction, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Post, K. (1964) The New States of West Africa, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Wright Mills, C. (1959) The Causes of World War Three, London: Secker and Warburg.

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25 ISRAEL Political parties Hayim Katsman and Guy Ben-Porat

Religion is part of Israel’s political landscape, playing an important and disputed role in both private and public life. Israeli politics are exceptional for having so many religious parties all claiming to represent the same religion (Neuberger, 1997). Moreover, the religious parties’ influence on Israeli politics is disproportionate to their real power as a social group (Arian, 1985: 136), often beyond the size of their constituencies, enabling them not only to protect sectorial needs and demands but also to actively engage in public policy making on issues that pertain to the wider society and the state. The formal power of religious parties and institutions in Israel and the non-separation of church and state, de jure and de facto, is unique and different from most democracies. This can be explained by the fact that a large number of Israelis maintain their attachment to the Jewish religion in beliefs and practices, and many are becoming more religious in various ways. Moreover, the consensus among the Jewish majority that Israel is and must remain a ‘Jewish state’ guarantees the all but permanent importance of religion in public life. Religious parties in Israel, like elsewhere, differ in the way they relate to state and society. In this chapter, we describe three major religious political parties in Israel, their histories and transformations, and their impact on Israeli politics and society. The religious parties share a common ideological stance, that religion and religious mores should have more authority and presence in public and private lives. But, their constituencies differ ethnically and by religiosity, they have different perceptions towards state and society, and, consequently, different political behaviour and strategies. The national-religious party (formerly NRP and now the ‘Jewish Home’) is a Zionist party which has taken an active part in the nation and state building project and later adopted a hawkish-nationalist stance, spearheading Israel’s settlement of the occupied territories. For the ultra-Orthodox of ‘Haredi’ parties, the relation to Zionism and the state was more ambivalent and at times fraught with tensions. For United Torah Judaism (formerly Agudat Yisrael), the veteran ultra-Orthodox party, participation in politics was strategic and limited, avoiding for many years, among other things, ministerial portfolios that might force religious compromises. Conversely, Shas, which emerged in the 1980s, is an ultraOrthodox party representing Sephardic Jews, who are discriminated against in the ultra-Orthodox world. Due to its social and economic agenda, its supporters include also non-Orthodox Sephardic Jews who have found a home in the party. We begin this survey with the conditions that led to the significant role that religion and religious parties play in Israeli politics and society, and the political agendas and debates that 313

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concern them. Specifically, we explain why, despite the secular characteristics of Zionism, religion remains politically and socially important. Then, we go on to discuss the three Jewish religious parties participating in the current Knesset – ‘The Jewish Home’, ‘United Torah Judaism’ and ‘Shas,’ focusing on their formation, the ideological shifts they have undergone and their current agendas on major religious and non-religious political issues. Finally, we conclude with an analysis of the contemporary role of religious parties in Israeli politics and their influence on Israeli public and private life.

Israel: religion and politics Zionism, which appeared towards the end of the nineteenth century, was one form of modern Jewish identity related to growing national sentiment across Europe and to the anti-Semitism that threatened to undermine Jewish emancipation. The solution to the ‘Jewish problem’, argued Zionist leaders, was not emancipation in Europe and elsewhere but territorial sovereignty that would ‘normalise’ Jewish existence. As a secular ideology, Zionism challenged the religiousorthodox view that Jewish redemption would come about with the advent of the Messiah. National revival for Zionism implied a break with the past and the attempt to replace Judaism, a religion identified with the old world, with Jewishness, a modern identity of the Jewish people based on culture, ethnicity, a historical sense of belonging and a proactive approach towards the future. In his blueprint for the Jewish state, Theodor Herzl, the founding father of the political Zionist movement, stated: Shall we end by having a theocracy? No, indeed … We shall, therefore, prevent any theocratic tendencies from coming to the fore on the part of our priesthood. We shall keep our priests within the confines of their temples in the same way as we shall keep our professional army within the confines of their barracks … [T]hey must not interfere in the administration of the state which confers distinction upon them, else they will conjure up difficulties without and within. (Herzl, 1946 [1896]: 43) Notwithstanding Zionism’s challenge to orthodoxy, religion was, however, indispensable to the national movement as a marker of boundaries and a mobilising force, so that Herzl’s liberal vision of church–state separation could never in practice materialise. Both symbolic and practical political questions kept Jewish religion inside the political life of the nation and, later, of the state. First, the Zionist movement included religious groups that shared with secular Zionists the desire to establish sovereignty, and whose partnership was valued. Second, more importantly, the Zionist claim to speak on behalf of the Jewish people encouraged it to seek wide support and forced it to make compromises on practical religious questions. Third, religion has always remained in the background as a legitimating force for territorial claims. The state of Israel was established with no constitutional separation between church and state and therefore religion has always played a prominent role in the Israeli public sphere. Consequently, the Zionist movement and later the state had to find political compromises between religious and secular, providing an important role for the parties representing religious interests. Compromises forged in pre-statehood, described as ‘consociational’ (Lijphart, 1969), enabled the political system to resolve religious conflicts and maintain stability and democracy (DonYehia, 2000). The visit of the United Nations (UN) Special Committee on Palestine in 1947 was the trigger to a series of such compromises between the Zionist movement, dominated by the Labor Party (MAPAI) and the religious parties, first the ultra-Orthodox Agudat Yisrael and 314

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soon after with the Mizrachi (later the National Religious Party, NRP). The UN Committee’s task was to make recommendations for the future of Palestine following Britain’s request to end its mandate. In order to ensure that the Orthodox religious party would support the Zionist position a letter was sent by David Ben-Gurion, then Chairman of the Jewish Agency Executive and later Israel’s first prime minister, that became a cornerstone of religious–secular arrangements known as the ‘status quo’. The commitments in the letter were somewhat vague, but the status quo laid down a basic agreement on the Jewish character of the state of Israel that enabled secular and religious political elites to formulate compromises and avoid conflicts (Don-Yehia, 2000). The letter stated that the future Jewish state would maintain rules of kashrut (Jewish dietary restrictions) in state kitchens, declare the Sabbath an official day of rest, maintain Jewish family values and acknowledge religious rights to separate education. After independence, the status quo was formalised and developed, stating duties, obligations and jurisdictions. Two of the components of the status quo dealt largely with duties and obligations. First, ultra-Orthodox yeshiva students were exempted from military service, meaning that the burden of defence in a country with universal conscription would not be equally shared. Second, the government granted autonomy to the ultra-Orthodox school system, a decision that raised debates over issues of curricula and funding. Three other components had a more direct effect on the lives of secular Jews: the designation of Saturday, the Sabbath, as the day of rest, with the mandatory closing of stores and public services; the required observance of Jewish dietary rules (kashrut) in public institutions; and the Orthodox monopoly over burial, marriage and divorce. The status quo operated as a guideline for religious–secular negotiations during the first decades of statehood (Susser and Cohen, 2000). Beyond legislation and formal institutions regulating private lives, the status quo included informal institutions that helped overcome disagreements. These included refraining from formal and binding decisions over controversial matters, favouring of coalition partnerships over majority rule, allowing religious autonomy in specific areas, and attempting to shift disputes from national-political to judicial and local arenas. The formation of the status quo and its ability to remain effective for almost three decades is often attributed to many Jewish Israelis’ general desire to avoid conflict, under pressure of external threats and statebuilding challenges. These desires were matched by the pragmatism of the leading political parties, allowing cooperation between the dominant Labor Party and the major religious political parties, that upheld the functionality of the status quo for state and society.

Status quo: challenges The status quo, in face of new changes and challenges, gradually waned and religious-secular conflicts became more difficult to contain. First, many non-religious and non-orthodox Israelis became frustrated with the restrictions of the status quo, which translated into different demands that challenged the orthodox monopoly over different aspects of public life, among other things, recognition of civil marriage and burial. Second, economic growth and globalisation underscored new lifestyles and a consumer culture resisting religious restrictions, whether on non-kosher food or shopping on Sabbath. And, third, the immigration of one million Jews from the Former Soviet Union in the 1990s, mostly secular and many non-Jewish according to Orthodox rules, created more demands for civil marriage and added to secular consumer demands. The growing opposition to the status quo was also a response to the perceived empowerment of religious, especially ultra-Orthodox, parties from the 1980s. During that period, Israeli society and politics were divided over the future of the territories occupied in the war of 1967, 315

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between those advocating territorial compromise and those opposing compromise. UltraOrthodox parties, relatively indifferent to the debate, were endowed with significant political leverage. The inability to form a governing coalition without these parties allowed them new gains, including funding for religious institutions and secure the exemption from military service. Yet, these gains fuelled negative reactions from non-religious Israelis that protested the fact that ultra-Orthodox men do not serve in the military nor take part in the labour market, preferring religious studies and enjoying state subsidies. For their part, religious parties claimed they were fighting the growing secularisation and the breach of the status quo agreements. They also protested against increased commerce on the Sabbath, the sale of pork and the decline of traditional family values, attempting to use their political power to maintain the status quo, and at times to increase religious authority. Disagreements, previously de-politicised through compromises and agreements, became politicised as both secularisation and religious awakening demanded changes and the political parties representing the religious and secular were reluctant to compromise. The status quo and its gradual undermining were the political context for understanding the formation of religious political parties in Israel, their changing agendas and strategies. Next, we will describe these developments through the historical evolvement of the three main religious parties, their role in the status quo, the influence they had on its undermining and their contemporary ideologies and strategies.

National religious: ‘The Jewish Home’ As of today (2018), the largest religious party in the Israeli parliament is ‘The Jewish Home’ [HaBayit HaYehudi], representing religious-Zionism.1 Religious-Zionists formed a distinct ideology of a unique hybridity, seeking to live according to the Orthodox-Jewish Halakhic code while taking part in the Zionist movement and the establishment of a modern nation for the Jewish people (Schwartz, 2003). Against the Orthodox rabbis’ rejection of Zionism, the Mizrahi movement formed in 1902, under the leadership of Rabbi Yaakov Yitzchak Reines, adopted the slogan ‘The Land of Israel, for the People of Israel, according to the Torah of Israel’.2 The Mizrahi movement’s pragmatic approach enabled cooperation with the secular Labor Party (MAPAI). The so-called ‘historical alliance’ between the parties was formed in the 1930s and lasted until 1976. Another religious-Zionist sect, ‘HaPoel Hamizrachi’, identified with more socialist values, united with ‘Hamizrachi’ in 1957 in order to form the NationalReligious Party [Mafdal]. Between 1955 and 1977 the joint list consistently won 10–12 Knesset seats (8.3–9.9 percent of the popular vote) and was the third or fourth largest party. The NRP’s efforts were turned to the preservation of the status quo arrangements and the party platform did not suggest their desire for any substantial changes in religion and state relations. Overall, the alliance between MAPAI and the NRP was based on a division of labour: MAPAI controlled security and foreign affairs and the NRP was in charge of religious ‘internal’ affairs. In the 1960s, groups of young religious-Zionists began to express their dissatisfaction with this state of affairs and started seeking a more prominent role for religion (and for religiousZionists) in Israeli leadership, no longer willing to accept religious Zionism’s marginal role. Gush Emunim (‘Bloc of the Faithful’), which appeared on the scene during the 1970s, constituted an attempt by the religious Zionists to make headway into a position of leadership while fusing religion, politics and territoriality (Schwartz, 1999: 83). While these feelings were prevalent among many religious-Zionists, the most vocal group expressing them was formed in ‘Merkaz HaRav’ yeshiva, under the leadership of Rabbi Zvi Yehuda Kook.3 Religious Zionists came to believe that it was time to assume leadership and settle the new territories occupied in 316

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the war of 1967 to ensure they would become part of a larger Israel. The victory and the socalled ‘liberation’ of the occupied territories was attributed to divine intervention and the actualisation of the redemption of the People of Israel (Aran, 1987, 2013). The settlement of the territories – areas with historical and religious significance – was for religious Zionists both the fulfilment of religious commandments and national duty. The growing influence of the younger generation led, in 1976, to the NRP’s decision to end the ‘historical alliance’ with the Labor Party. The trigger was the arrival of F-15 jets to Israel during the Sabbath, allegedly violating tacit agreements, that led to the resignation of the party’s ministers, forcing the government to dissolve and declare new elections. The increasing influence of ‘the youngsters’ was also evident in the party platform for the 1977 elections. The platform started with a declaration that Jerusalem is ‘The eternal capital of the People of Israel’ and that ‘The NRP will demand that the Israeli government will establish a national settlement program throughout all the land of Israel’, including the territories (referred to by their biblical names, Judaea and Samaria). The platform officially stated that ‘the historical alliance’ had ended and the NRP ‘[S]ees itself free to act in order to establish a government that will satisfy the needs and challenges of the state and the people, in light of its national religious vision’.4 In the 1977 elections the Labor Party was ousted from power after almost 40 years. The NRP, which won 12 Knesset seats (9.2 percent of the popular vote), joined the coalition headed by the right-wing Likud Party, both committed to the settlement project. The new government accelerated the pace of settlement and during the first decade after 1977, 82 new settlements were established in the West Bank and 65,000 new settlers were added to the 5,000 settlers living there in 1977. Paradoxically, while the settlement movement’s power kept growing, the NRP’s political power decreased by more than 50 percent. From 1977 until the party’s transformation in 2008, the NRP regularly won only 4–6 Knesset seats (3.5–5 percent of the popular vote).5 However, its extra-parliamentary power was far more significant as Gush Emunim had immense influence on government policy. In the early 2000s, the NRP’s political power declined due to the establishment of an extreme-right-wing party ‘The National Union’ [Ha’Ichud HaLeumi]. The National Union (NU) was comprised of prominent figures from within the settlement movement and presented a more hawkish character. The NU brought under its wing several small parties and individuals, united in their opposition to the Oslo peace process (that began in 1993) and the future territorial compromises it entailed. In 2005, both parties resigned from government in opposition to the disengagement plan from Gaza, but failed to prevent its implementation. The disengagement plan, which included the removal of settlements from the Gaza Strip and the north of the West Bank, encouraged the parties to unite before the next election. The results of the 2006 elections, however, were disappointing for religious-Zionists, winning only nine seats. In 2008, the party rebranded itself as ‘The Jewish Home’, part of a wider attempt to reach new audiences. A committee of 40 public figures, led by former major-general Yaakov Amidror, was established in order to determine the party list of candidates. Daniel Herschkowitz, a mathematics professor, was elected party leader. But, shortly before the elections the NU withdrew from the party and won four parliament seats, while ‘The Jewish Home’ won only three seats. In the wake of its electoral failure, the party decided to hold open primaries among party members to elect representatives and the leader. The primaries were perceived as a struggle between the old party establishment, led by Zvulun Orlev (who himself was considered a leader among ‘the youngsters’ in the 1960s), and a new generation led by Naftali Bennet. Bennet, a successful entrepreneur who made his fortune in high-tech, joined the party along with his non-religious female political partner, Ayelet Shaked. Together, they presented an economic neoliberal agenda, along with populist statements against the old elites and the 317

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Supreme Court, in order to appeal also to secular right-wing constituencies. Bennet’s sweeping victory, with 67 percent of the votes, signalled another change in national religious politics, with a new and more comprehensive agenda and the attempt to seek support beyond the traditional constituencies. The party platform for the 2012 elections presented the settlement project as part of a national goal to advance the social periphery, rather than a religious obligation. Moreover, regarding issues of religion and state, the platform states that ‘[T]he state’s [Jewish] character must be determined through dialogue among the entire public … We must avoid religious legislation and coercive secular legislation’.6 In 2012, the party formed a joined list with the NU and won 12 Knesset seats (9.1 percent of the popular vote), restoring the political power they had in 1977. After the elections, the party joined Benjamin Netanyahu’s right-wing government, and Bennet served as the minister of economics and minister of religious services. During his first term in the Knesset Bennet did not try to implement any significant changes in religion affairs. This relatively moderate position, in line with the party’s strategy to expand its appeal, led to another split of the party led by Rabbi Zvi Tao (a disciple of Rabbi Zvi Yehudah), and the formation of ‘Yahad’, a more religious and radical-right party. Consequently, in the 2015 elections, the party’s seats shrank from 12 to 8 (6.7 percent of the popular vote).7 However, despite the setback, the party’s influence within the government grew. Bennet was appointed as minister of education and Ayelet Shaked as minister of justice. The party’s attempt to expand its base of support was criticised from within by those who demanded it should remain loyal to its core. Conversely, the growing influence of the party through its control of significant ministries, led to opposition from the outside for what secular Israelis perceived as the growing influence of religion [Hadatah] in public life, as the party took a more activist position, meshing religious attachment with national identity. In the education system, for example, it was the religious language used in textbooks, and the channelling of money aimed for extracurricular activities almost entirely to Orthodox organisations. The party has also adopted a hawkish agenda, more than other parties in the coalition, that included legislation to legalise settlements and advocating a militant policy towards Palestinians. Overall, the national religious party was transformed, first, from a moderate and somewhat marginal political force allied with a dominant Labor Party, to a right-wing and active party, heir to Labor’s Zionism. And, second, from 2012 it attempted to expand beyond its traditional constituency of religious Zionists and its agenda of religious affairs and settlements to position itself as a contender for national leadership.

United Torah Judaism United Torah Judaism (UTJ) is currently the largest party representing ultra-Orthodox (Haredi) Jews. Traditionally, ultra-Orthodox Jews rejected the Zionist movement from the outset, as it was perceived as violating ‘The three oaths’ prohibiting the immigration of Jews to the Land of Israel (Ravitzky, 1993). Moreover, the ultra-Orthodox opposition to Zionism persisted even after many of them immigrated to Palestine seeking refuge from anti-Semitism. In 1912 the ultra-Orthodox established a unified political umbrella organisation, Agudat Yisrael, its branch in Palestine established in 1919. The party did not take part in the Zionist project of nation and state building and explicitly rejected the authority of Zionist institutions. But, gradually the party has made different compromises and allowed some cooperation, as demonstrated in the status-quo arrangements. Opposed to these developments, some Haredi sects such as ‘Neturei Karta’ and ‘HaEda Hacharedit’ confronted the politics of Agudat Yisrael and demanded a total separation from the Zionist institutions. These groups maintained their distance from the state, 318

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refusing to participate in politics or public life. While they did not directly influence Israeli politics, they have created public pressure that affected Haredi community’s positions. Agudat Yisrael, despite its relatively small electoral clout, was able to negotiate and secure Haredi interests, and as a result became gradually involved in secular politics. The party was not officially part of the governing coalition but provided political support to the government. In return, Haredim received welfare support, autonomy for their educational system and exemption from enlistment to the army, mandatory for all Jewish men. These arrangements, sometimes perceived by the Israeli secular public as political extortion, supported the wide yeshivot (religious schools of higher learning) system that rapidly expanded. Thus, while the party representing Haredim opposed the secular state, its values, culture and symbols, it acknowledged the fact that Israel is the centre of the Jewish world. Consequently, Haredi politics also extended beyond sectorial interests and included demands for religious observance in the public sphere, over issues like marriage and divorce or the observance of Shabat (Sabbath). Between 1951 and 1981 the party regularly won 3–4 Knesset seats (2–3.7 percent of the popular vote) with a platform that advocated the establishment of a theocracy in Israel, implementing religious rules and mores as the foundation for all legislation. Specifically, Agudat Yisrael advocated the abolition of women’s enlistment to the army, strict observance of the Sabbath in the public sphere, prohibition on the sale of pork and on autopsies, as well as other religious issues. In addition, the party supported welfare policies important for Haredim with their mainly low-income households, large families and low participation in the labour force. Accordingly, Agudat Yisrael demanded universal public health care and financial aid for large families.8 The ultra-Orthodox parties in Israel are exceptional in the fact that all party institutions (including the politicians themselves) are not autonomous to make decisions but subordinated to a religious committee. ‘The Council of Great Torah Sages’ [Mo’etzet Gedolei HaTorah] is the Ashkenazi authority, and ‘The Council of Wise Torah Sages’ [Mo’etzet Chakhmei HaTorah] is the Sephardic authority controlling the Shas party. Both councils select the parties’ list of candidates, are involved with policy making and determine the parties’ agenda regarding political issues. Haredi parties are mostly concerned with religious affairs and consider issues of security, foreign affairs and economics as secondary. Consequently, while Agudat Yisrael advocated moderate positions on issues of security and foreign policy, it consistently supported in recent years right-wing governments more receptive to its demands over religious issues. The councils’ rulings do not allow women to be elected as Knesset members and in the Ashkenazi case, the council also forbade its members of parliament to serve as ministers, and therefore Agudat Yisrael (and later UTJ) did not take an active part in government and refused ministerial portfolios. The party did take part in the coalition and its members served as the heads of parliamentary committees (traditionally the finance committee).9 Lately, however, due to the party’s strong support for Benjamin Netanyahu’s government, the party agreed to appoint Yaakov Lizman as a deputy-minister of health (though he de facto serves as minister). These changes may be indicative of wider trends where the ultra-Orthodox become more involved in state and societal affairs, gaining ‘secular’ education and taking part in the labour market. The diversity and schisms of the ultra-Orthodox world eventually affected Agudat Yisrael. First, as elaborated below, Sephardic Jews marginalised in the party formed their own: Shas. The party was supported by Rabbi Elazar Shach, an Ashkenazi supreme rabbinical authority, who split from the party and ordered his followers to vote for Shas. The split within the Haredi community weakened Agudat Yisrael and in 1984 they won only two Knesset seats (1.7 percent). In 1988 Rabbi Shach completely removed himself from Agudat Yisrael and founded his own party, Degel HaTorah’ (‘The Flag of the Torah’) that in the elections of 1988 won two Knesset seats (1.5 percent) while Agudat Yisrael won five (4.5 percent). After the parliament’s 319

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decision to raise the election threshold to 1.5 percent the two parties decided to reunite and the UTJ (‘Yahadut HaTorah HaMeuchedet’) was formed in 1992. Since the unification, the party’s power grew gradually and in 2013 it reached a peak of seven Knesset seats (5.2 percent).

Shas Unlike Ashkenazi haredi parties, Shas entered Israeli politics not only to defend the interests of a specific public and advance the cause of Jewish halakhic legislation, but also to implement a farreaching change in the social agenda and the Israeli collective identity (Ben-Rafael and Leon, 2006: 309). The ethnic division in Israel is usually referred to as that between Ashkenazin (Jews of European descent) and Mizrahim or Sefaradim (Jews of Middle Eastern or North African descent). This division began before statehood but became more salient after statehood with the mass immigration of Jews from Muslim countries. The state and its institutions embarked on a project of assimilation that sought to culturally transform the newcomers, disregarding their traditional or religious preferences. At the same time, many of these immigrants were marginalised, relegated to the periphery and became blue-collar laborers in the developing economy. As a result, an ‘ethnic gap’ was formed, reflected in residency patterns, educational attainment and income distribution. Combining ethnicity and religiosity, Shas advocated a return to tradition against the secularisation forced on Mizrahi immigrants, and protested their marginalisation. Becoming a significant political force, the party was successful in channelling Mizrahi resentment not against the Ashkenazi element, being loyal to Jewish unity and the state, but rather against the secular element (Peled, 1998). Sephardic Jews, who became part of the ultra-Orthodox world in response to the secularising attempts of the state (Friedman, 1991: 176–177), also found themselves marginalised within Haredi society. Not represented in ‘The Council of Great Torah Sages’, where discussions were held in Yiddish, not represented in Agudat Yisrael institutions, and with limited access to prestigious educational institutions, Sephardic Jews became frustrated. At first, a Shas list participated in the 1983 municipal elections in Jerusalem, in response to the discrimination of Sephardic girls in orthodox schools, where it received surprising strong support. Encouraged by that success, a national party was formed and a separate Sephardic religious authority: ‘The Council of Wise Torah Sages’, led by the Rabbi Ovadia Yosef. Shas received support initially mainly from ultra-Orthodox groups: The Haredi Mizrahi community and The Haredi Ashkenazi followers of Rabbi Shach. In the 1984 elections, Shas won four Knesset seats (3.1 percent) and immediately became the biggest Haredi party. Like UTJ, Shas demands that the laws of the state be guided by religious rules. But, unlike Ashkenazi Haredi parties, Shas constituency extended well beyond the Haredi world and included also traditional non-Orthodox (Masorti) Mizrahim in peripheral towns and neighbourhoods. Consequently, the party’s attitude towards the state and its institutions was also very different. First, many of its supporters and political candidates served in the army and participate in the labour market. And, second, the party delegates willingly took upon themselves ministerial positions, with the support of the council. Through its political power Shas was able to create an extensive network of educational and welfare institutions, constituting a substitute for the receding welfare state and thereby reinforcing the party’s standing with both the state, which used it as an intermediary, and with its voters, who became more dependent on the party’s social and economic network (Levi and Amreich, 2001). If at the outset Shas aimed at rectifying the discrimination against Mizrahim, from the 1990s onward the party championed a religious revolution and a spiritual revival aimed at changing the balance of power between the secular majority and the religious minority (Tessler, 2003: 320

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167). Shas’s slogan: ‘Lehahazir Atara LeYoshna’ (‘Bringing back the crown (of the Torah) to the (good) old days’) refers not only to its demand for dominance in rulings over religious matters, but also to the marginalisation forced on it by the Zionist Ashkenazi hegemony. On security issues, its spiritual leader, Rabbi Ovadia, stated his support for peace with the Palestinians but the party gradually adopted a hawkish position and took part in ruling right-wing coalitions. Aside from its spiritual leader and founder Rabbi Ovadia Yosef, the figure most associated with the party is Rabbi Aryeh Deri. Deri was first appointed as executive director in the ministry of interior, held by Shas. After the minister resigned, Deri at the age of 29 became the youngest minister in Israel’s history. In the late 1980s, when a corruption investigation against Deri began, he was successfully able to depict it as an elitist attempt to curb the party’s power. Shortly before he was convicted in 1999 the party enjoyed its biggest success in the ballots: 17 Knesset seats (13 percent). Besides Aryeh Deri, over the years six additional MKs from Shas were convicted in felonies, though none of them received the same public support. After Deri’s conviction, he was replaced by Eli Yishai, who later became his political rival. Under Yishai, the party started emphasising its hawkish views and Yishai led the party to resign from the government due to the Camp David negotiations between Israel and the Palestinians in 2000. Without Deri’s charismatic leadership the party’s power declined and it won only 11 Knesset seats (8.2 percent). Moreover, Shinui, a new secular party, won 15 seats, with a powerful anti-religious campaign and left Shas outside the coalition for the first time in its history. In 2009 Shas re-entered the government and Yishai was appointed as minister of interior, a position he used in order to present a hard line against African asylum-seekers. Yishai opposed the outcries to acknowledge them as refugees and promoted policies in order to deport and imprison the asylum-seekers he referred to as ‘infiltrators’. In 2012 Aryeh Deri officially returned to politics and was re-appointed as the head of the party. Eli Yishai, in return, resigned from the party and formed a more right-wing party named Beyahad (Together). In the 2015 elections Beyahad won almost 3 percent of the popular vote but did not pass the electoral threshold, which was raised to 3.25 percent. The split of Shas, and more importantly the death of its spiritual leader, Rabbi Ovadia Yosef, caused another decline of the party’s power, down to seven parliamentary seats.

Conclusions Religious and secular politics in Israel shifted from a politics of accommodation, underscored by the status quo, to a ‘politics of crisis’ of deeper schisms and contention (Susser and Coen, 2000). First, economic and demographic changes rendered previous arrangements all but obsolete, leading, on the one hand, to secularisation and the undermining of religious authority, but, on the other hand, to a religious resurgence (Ben-Porat, 2013). Second, religious schisms overlapped with ethnic, economic and political divides, adding to religious-secular tensions. And, third, the political system was no longer able to enforce the status quo but also incapable of creating new, updated and accepted rules that could answer the rising challenges and contain the growing differences. The political standstill was not unique to questions of religion but was indicative of a deeper and wider political crisis and an unstable political system. Religious parties, as described above, while moving away from the status quo, followed different trajectories. For religious Zionism, the status quo implied a marginal role in politics and society. After the war of 1967, a younger generation challenged its marginal position, claiming their time had come to assume leadership. The settlement of the territories – areas with historical and religious significance – was for religious Zionists the fulfilment of religious commandments and national duty. Consequently, the NRP (and its successor the Jewish Home) 321

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became a right-wing party advocating both religious revival and a hawkish foreign/security policy, distancing itself from previous accommodation and compromises. For the ultra-Orthodox Agudat Yisrael the political divide between the secular parties provided an opportunity for substantial gains, funding for religious institutions, exemptions from military service and attempted religious legislation. These gains, however, deepened the schism between religious and secular, perceived by secular Israelis as ‘extortions’. Ultra-Orthodox religious parties struggle to defend the autonomy of their religious institutions and their exemptions from military service, both perceived as essential to protect the community from secularisation. Shas, more aligned with state and society, and supported by a wider constituency that took part in its education and social network, adopted a wider social and political agenda and different political strategies. Overall, religious parties, on the one hand, broke away from compromises in favour of a firmer religious agenda. But, on the other hand, became more nationalistic and more involved in secular politics and society.

Notes 1 This social group is also referred to as ‘National-religious’, e.g. in Herman (2014). 2 Gadi Taub (2007) interestingly notes the exclusion of the state of Israel from this trinity. 3 The son of Rabbi Avraham Yitzchak HaCohen Kook, an idiosyncratic ultra-Orthodox figure who served as the chief rabbi of Israel during the mandate period. While Rabbi Zvi Yehuda presents himself as following his father’s teachings, researchers have noted some substantial differences between their theologies (Ravitzky, 1993; Aran, 1987). 4 All quotes are taken from the NRP platform for 1977 elections, as appears on the Israeli Democracy Institute website. www.idi.org.il/media/6982/hamiflaga-hadatit-leumit-9.doc (Hebrew). 5 One exception to this is the 1996 elections (in which the NRP won 7.9 percent), though this idiosyncrasy can be attributed to the revision in the electoral system, which led to a general increase in the power of sectorial parties. 6 https://www.idi.org.il/media/6469/‫היה‬-‫הביה‬%D7%25. 7 Bennet explained these results by claiming that large numbers among the national-religious community decided to vote for Benjamin Netanyahu, in order to prevent a victory of the left, though some argue the data shows otherwise. See https://mida.org.il/2015/03/22/‫ש‬-‫על‬%D7%25. 8 1961 platform. www.idi.org.il/media/5901/yahadothatora_5.pdf. 9 The council changed this decision in August 2015, after the supreme court ruled that Yaakov Litzman cannot serve as a deputy-minister with no minister. In 2018 the Knesset law was changed so that Litzman can return to his position as deputy-minister after he resigned from the government due to railway construction taking place on the Sabbath.

References Aran, G. (1987) From Religious Zionism to Zionist Religion: The Origins and Culture of Gush Emunim, PhD dissertation, Hebrew University (Hebrew). Aran, G. (2013) Kukism: The Roots of Gush Emunim, Zionist Theology, and Contemporary Messianism. Jerusalem: Carmel Press (Hebrew). Arian, A. (1985) Politics and Government in Israel. Tel-Aviv: Zemurah-Bitan (Hebrew). Ben-Porat, G. (2013) Between State and Synagogue: The Secularization of Contemporary Israel. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ben-Rafael, E. and Leon, N. (2006) Ethnicity, Religiosity and Politics: The Question of the Sources of Ultra-Orthodoxy among Mizrahim. In U. Cohen, E. Ben-Rafael, A. Bareli and E. Yaar (eds), Israel and Modernity (pp. 285–312). Sde Boker: Merkaz le-moreshet Ben-Gurion (Hebrew). Don-Yehia, E. (2000) Conflict Management of Religious Issues: The Israeli Case in a Comparative Perspective. In R. Hazan and M. Maor (eds), Parties, Elections and Cleavages (pp. 85–108). London: Frank Cass. Friedman, M. (1991) The Haredi (Ultra-Orthodox) Society: Sources, Trends and Processes. Jerusalem: The Jerusalem Institute for Israel Studies (Hebrew).

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Israel Herman, Tamar (2014) The National-Religious Sector in Israel 2014. Jerusalem: The Israeli Democracy Institute (Hebrew). Herzl, T. (1946 [1896]) The Jewish State: An Attempt at a Modern Solution of the Jewish Question. New York: American Zionist Emergency Council. Levi, G. and Amreich, Z. (2001) Shas and the Mirage of Ethnicity. In Y. Peled (ed.), Shas: The Challenge of Israeliness (pp. 126–158). Tel-Aviv: Miskal (Hebrew). Lijphart, A. (1969) Consociational Democracy. World Politics, 21(2), 207–225. Neuberger, B. (1997) Political Parties in Israel. Raanana: The Open University. Peled, Y. (1998) Towards a Redefinition of Jewish Nationalism in Israel? The Enigma of Shas. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 21(4), 703–727. Ravitzky, A. (1993) Messianism, Zionism and Jewish Religious Radicalism. Tel Aviv: Am Oved (Hebrew). Schwartz, D. (1999) Religious-Zionism: Between Rationality and Messianism. Tel-Aviv: Am-Oved (Hebrew). Schwartz, Dov (2003) Religious-Zionism: History and Ideology. Tel Aviv: Ministry of Defense Press (Hebrew). Susser, B. and Cohen, A. (2000) Israel and the Politics of Jewish Identity: The Secular-Religious Impasse. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Taub, Gadi (2007) The Settlers and the Struggle over the Meaning of Zionism. Tel Aviv: Yediot Aharonot (Hebrew). Tessler, R. (2003). In the Name of the Lord: Shas and the Religious Revolution. Tel-Aviv: Keter (Hebrew).

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26 RELIGION AND POLITICS IN PALESTINE The case of Hamas Benedetta Berti

This chapter seeks to unpack the complex relationship between ideology and political practices in armed-political organisations by analysing how Hamas’s public theology – defined as the ‘reflection and implications of a religion in the activities that take place in the common space, including political and social life’ (Sandal, 2012: 69) – has shaped the group’s political agenda and behaviour as an armed group, a political party and a socio-political movement. The study emphasises the modalities and impact of the processes of religious reframing and reinterpretation spurred by the organisation’s complex and extensive political role, focusing on identifying Hamas’s efforts to strike a balance between ideology and political expediency. In doing so, the chapter contributes to the growing body of international relations and comparative politics literature addressing the role of religion (and of ideology more broadly) in shaping political behaviour of armed groups (Fox and Sandler, 2004; Norris and Inglehart, 2004; Sandal, 2012; Curtis and Sindre, 2019; Sanín and Wood, 2014). This is in contrast to a significant part of the post-Cold War literature on armed-political movements, which tends to either minimise the role of ideology or analyse it in mostly instrumental terms (Collier and Hoeffler, 2004; Mampilly, 2011). The study posits that ideology, as ‘a verbal image of the good society and of the chief means of constructing it’ (Downs, 1967: 237), deeply shapes Hamas’s broader political narrative, including its claims, electoral programmes, mobilisation strategies and political performances (Van Engeland and Rudolph, 2008; Curtis and Sindre, 2019; Knight, 2006; Sartori, 1969). The chapter zooms in specifically on understanding how religious beliefs influence Hamas’s political behaviour, driven by the notion that religiously based ideological claims tend to be especially resilient and strengthen a group’s sense of identity, its perception of duty and its rejection of compromise. Indeed, a religiously grounded ideology can grant a powerful justification for the refusal to comply with established socio-political norms and boundaries that openly clash with established religious beliefs (Asal and Rethemeyer, 2008; Juergensmeyer, 2000; Rapoport, 1984; Berti and Heifetz Knobel, 2015). However, neither Hamas’s religious beliefs nor its political behaviour should be simply assumed as static. Indeed, public theology is inherently context-dependent and religious belief is itself ‘socially and politically contingent, it does not and cannot determine or prescribe a certain kind of politics’ (Sandal, 2012: 67; Bromley, 1997). Moreover, while deeply shaped by its 324

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ideology and religious beliefs, Hamas’s political behaviour and practices are inherently connected to the evolution of the Palestinian political arena and continuously interacting with the broader socio-political milieu (Asal and Rethemeyer, 2008; Alimi et al., 2012). Moreover, sustained participation in politics and governance has also influenced the organisation’s attitude and interpretation of its religiously held beliefs and contributed to Hamas’s ideological reframing, reinterpretation and repositioning through a dynamic process of accommodation of political expediency and ideological aspirations (Finn, 2000; O’Donnel and Schmitter, 1986).

Hamas’s religious and political identity: the 1988 Charter Hamas is a sophisticated armed group, an Islamist political party and social movement. It is involved in administering and delivering social services, and, since 2007, the de facto government of the Gaza Strip. In the words of one of its historic leaders, Khaled Meshal: Hamas can be characterized as a comprehensive movement. It is an Islamic movement, a nationalist movement, a militant movement, a political movement—in addition to its cultural and social dimensions, its service functions, and its institution building. So you cannot say that Hamas is only a religious, or only a political, or only a military, or only a religious and social movement. It is not, for example, just an armed wing or a political party. It is all of these things. It is a fusion of all these dimensions. (Rabbani, 2008: 69) The organisation was officially established during the First Intifada in 1987 as the military wing of the Gaza branch of the Muslim Brotherhood. Shortly after, in 1988, Hamas published the ‘Charter of the Islamic Resistance Movement’, its official ideological manifesto. The document provides an overview of Hamas’s original political and religious ideology. In the Charter, Hamas self-identifies as the Islamic and nationalist Palestinian resistance. Hamas’s religious identity, and specifically its Sunni, Islamist and Muslim Brotherhood affiliation, play a prominent role in shaping the group’s political discourse and strategic vision as expressed in the Charter, articulating an overall universalistic, exclusionist and militant vision (Shultz, 1995). The Charter is itself deeply infused with historical and religious references, in line with Hamas’s aspirations to define the Palestinian struggle also in religious terms and, in doing so, to clearly differentiate itself from the Palestine Liberation Organisation’s essentially secular identity (Milton-Edwards, 2017). At the same time, Hamas’s Charter does not reject nationalism in favour of a broader Pan-Islamic agenda; on the contrary it posits that nationalism and wataniyya (patriotism/nationalism) are equally important principles in shaping the organisation’s worldview. Indeed, over the years, Hamas has relied on ‘Islam to augment its nationalist credentials, rather than pull Palestinians into the wider pan-Islamic orbit’ (Dunning, 2015: 291). The Charter grounds Hamas’s main objectives in a broader religious-nationalist framework. First, the organisation’s main stated goals – muqawama (resistance) as a comprehensive framework (Najib and Friedrich, 2008) and the ‘liberation of Palestine’, chiefly through armed struggle – are themselves presented and justified on the basis of the group’s public theology, albeit not exclusively. The Charter refers to mandatory Palestine as a waqf (religious trust), underlining its inherent sanctity, indivisibility and its status as belonging to the entire Muslim Ummah. An important corollary of this statement is that Hamas’s objective of ‘liberating Palestine’ serves both the Palestinian national cause as well as that of the broader Ummah. In addition, if the Palestinian land is a religious trust belonging to the entire Ummah, it follows that no individual or organisation should ever be entitled to forfeit the rights on Palestine. This framing, in turn, 325

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justifies the Charter’s explicit rejection of the possibility of accepting a negotiated settlement or a political compromise to the Israeli–Palestinian conflict (Hamas, 1993; Knudsen, 2005). What is more, by framing the group’s resistance as both a nationalist and a religious duty, and by specifically identifying armed struggle as a religiously based individual duty, Hamas is able to formulate a powerful call to action both towards fellow Palestinians as well as towards the broader Islamic world (Milton-Edwards, 2017). Importantly, some of the notions articulated in the Charter, including the primacy of the duty of jihad, have been further strengthened over time through the backing of religious leaders. For example, over the past decades, Sheikh Yusuf al-Qardadawi’s fatwas (religious opinions) backing Hamas’s resistance agenda, sanctioning istishhad (martyrdom) operations in the context of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, or rejecting the Oslo peace process, have all contributed to strengthened the organisation’s overall religiously based claims (Polka, 2017). Backing by religious clerics is especially important for an organisation like Hamas, whose leadership has historically largely been composed of lay men. Hamas’s broader political and social identity as expressed in the Charter is similarly shaped by the group’s religious ethos. With respect to domestic politics, Hamas’s political agenda draws on the Muslim Brotherhood’s call to Islamise and revive Muslim societies, emphasising the importance of education and social work (Knudsen, 2005). The Charter also indicates that the establishment of a system of government based on the principles of Sharia law represents the group’s main political aspirations with respect to the Palestinian political arena (Charter, 1988; Gunning, 2008). In addition, also building on the Muslim Brotherhood’s public theology, the Charter also stresses the importance of supporting a system of ‘mutual social responsibility’, stating that: Part of social welfare is providing aid to everyone who is in need of it, be it material, or spiritual, or collective cooperation to complete some works. And upon the members of Islamic Resistance Movement falls the responsibility of looking after the needs of the population as they would for their personal needs. (Charter, 1988: 129) In turn, this commitment to social work lays the foundation for the group’s extensive social welfare network as well as for its political focus on social change and development (Palestinian Information Centre, 2005; Gunning, 2004; Klein, 2007; Løvlie, 2013). The Charter hence squarely grounds Hamas’s main objectives, political goals and programmatic agenda in a broader religious context, highlighting the strong connection between the group’s political behaviour, its ideology and its local legitimacy and support. A key example is the link between the group’s religiously based ethos of solidarity, its social service network and practices, and the organisation’s political legitimacy (Szekely, 2015; Roy, 2011). Similarly, Hamas’s political resistance identity was initially built around the group’s claim to be the Islamist alternative to Fatah as well as the main catalyst of opposition to the Oslo Accords (Knudsen, 2005). In the words of historic Hamas leader Mousa Abu Marzook: ‘Islam is a self-engine … against oppression and occupation, and against all the features that oppress people and offend them … Islam is a strong engine for people to refuse oppression, occupation, discrimination and so on’ (quoted in Dunning, 2015: 284).

Hamas’s religious and political identity beyond the Charter At the same time, it would be extremely reductive to consider Hamas’s political agenda as solely a product of its religious beliefs, or to consider the Charter as the exclusive source of Hamas’s 326

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ideology. Similarly, it would be highly inaccurate to regard religion only as a constraint, an obstacle to political participation or an inevitable foe of adaptation or pragmatism. For example, Hamas’s religiously grounded commitment to the principles of social work and solidarity have served a key role and allowed the group to develop a clear political agenda on socio-economic issues, while awarding the group credibility. Similarly, the group’s religiously framed opposition to the peace process facilitated the construction of a self-standing political identity that allowed Hamas to emerge as a political party and gain legitimacy and support. And whereas the religious framework set in the Charter generally lacks flexibility, Hamas has, over time, also relied on religious principles to enhance its ability to adapt to the evolving social, political and security environment. For instance, Hamas relies on wasatiyyaa (balance/flexibility/‘centrism’), a religious jurisprudence interpretative framework established by Egyptian religious scholar Yusuf alQaradawi, to argue for the need to assume a balanced, ‘middle-of-road’/compromise position on issues where extreme and diverging religious interpretations exist, adopting a stance that takes maslaha (public interest) into consideration (Polka, 2017). What is more, since its foundation and since the original publication of the Charter, Hamas has articulated a parallel political discourse that has allowed the group to combine the ideological beliefs expressed in the Charter with the shifting political and security circumstances on the ground, questioning the notion that political actors who ground their political vision within a broad religious framework ought to be inherently unable to adapt or modify their political beliefs or behaviour. Although Hamas has never formally renounced its ultimate goal to liberate mandatory Palestine nor has it reversed its official rejection of the state of Israel, the organisation has, over time, developed a series of political concepts and religious interpretative frameworks that have provided the group with additional political and practical flexibility. A first important element of this reframing has been the crafting of a political discourse based on concepts such as the de facto, rather than the de jure, recognition of Israel and the possibility of pausing the struggle with Israel and reaching both short- and long-term ceasefires and truces. This notion has allowed the group to enter into ceasefire agreements with Israel without having to retract its Charter commitments (Mishal and Sela, 2000). According to Milton-Edwards, ceasefires have been used by Hamas both ‘for the purposes of tactical management of the conflict with Israel’ and as ‘a political entry point to negotiation of the conflict’ (Milton-Edwards, 2017: 218). As early as 1993, the group’s historical leader Sheikh Yassin expressed his acceptance of a tenor 20-year temporary hudna (truce) with Israel, provided a series of conditions were met (Scham and Abu-Irshaid, 2009). Similar offers, along with proposals for short-term ceasefires (or tahdi’ah), have since been reiterated by the group on several occasions (Tamimi, 2009). By incorporating the hudna discourse into its political vision, Hamas has been able to act on the basis of a de facto recognition of the existence of the state of Israel and the practical need to have to engage, directly or indirectly, with it, without having to retract its religiously grounded ‘nonrecognition’ and ‘no engagement’ dogmas (Scham and Abu-Irshaid, 2009). Importantly, the group has articulated a discourse on the permissibility of ceasefires and temporary pauses in the armed conflict also on religious ground, thus never portraying its de facto political reframing in opposition to its religious beliefs (Hroub, 2000). The hudna discourse also allowed the group to support and agree to participate in a Palestinian state in the pre-1967 borders without having to compromise its ultimate ideological premise that no compromise solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is acceptable. The group manages to participate in a political system which it ultimately does not wish to recognise by stating that participation does not equal acceptance and that the group can be involved in politics and even agree to a long-term hudna, as this is not the equivalent of forfeiting future generations’ rights to 327

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‘liberate Palestine’, but merely a ‘pause’ in the struggle. An example of how Hamas’s political leadership is able to articulate this message is provided by senior leader Mousa Abu Marzook. In a 2006 interview for an Israeli radio station, Marzook reiterated Hamas’s posture with respect to Israel and future negotiations. On that occasion, Marzook stated that Hamas was considering making changes according to reality: ‘[B]ut there are three principles we will not compromise on: government according to the laws of the sharia … our right to live in Palestine, and our right to resist the occupation’ (Halpern, 2006). Marzook added: Relations with the Jewish State are inevitable as the existence of Israel is a fact, but recognizing its legal legitimacy is another thing … Hamas may recognize Israel’s legitimacy, under certain conditions, such as the establishment of a Palestinian state in ‘67 borders in the West Bank and Gaza with Jerusalem as its capital and the return of millions of refugees to their homes in Israel. (Halpern, 2006) In addition, over the past two decades, Hamas’s political discourse also shifted with respect to its domestic political agenda. On this issue, Hamas started to downplay the centrality of the Islamic state project and to emphasise other aspects of the group’s Islamic political agenda, such as its interests in fighting corruption or providing relief for indigents within society. In its 2004 electoral platform, for instance, mentions of the Islamic state project were minimised in favour of a rhetoric that endorsed socio-political and socio-economic issues (Hroub, 2006). More broadly, the 2004 electoral platform presented a political programme focused on social change, anti-corruption and transparency, as well as on development and poverty eradication (Palestinian Information Centre, 2005). The 2005–2006 political campaign also gave Hamas a chance to explain how the group squared its investment in politics with its Charter-based commitment to focus on armed struggle. In an interview, then spokesman Sami Abu Zahra asserted: ‘Resistance is Hamas’ main focus, and we call for its continuation, but we also hope to become more involved in Palestinian society and provide services to the Palestinian people, hence our participation in these elections’, adding that: ‘It is our duty to progress, to move forward, to invest in infrastructure, and to invest in change and face challenges’ (Sukhtian, 2005). Importantly, this message, which the group has continued to reiterate in the following decade, successfully allowed Hamas to align political practices and ideological commitments. By branding the decision to participate in politics as complementary, not alternative, to armed struggle and by stressing that the prioritisation of politics was the result of a strategic decision rather than an ideological one, the group was able to ensure both internal cohesion and ideological continuity. In parallel, Hamas’s public diplomacy with respect to the international community, especially in the aftermath of its 2006 participation in the Palestinian Legislative Council elections and its 2007 takeover of Gaza, has often downplayed the Charter’s significance, without however renouncing or denying its validity. For example, speaking about the Charter in a 2007 op-ed written for the Los Angeles Times, Mousa Abu Marzook wrote, ‘As for the 1988 charter, if every state or movement were to be judged solely by its foundational, revolutionary documents or the ideas of its progenitors, there would be a good deal to answer for on all sides’ (Marzook, 2007). In a similar vein, former head of the Political Bureau Khaled Meshal argued in a 2009 New York Times interview that: The most important thing is what Hamas is doing and the policies it is adopting today. The world must deal with what Hamas is practicing today. Hamas has accepted the 328

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national reconciliation document. It has accepted a Palestinian state on the 1967 borders including East Jerusalem, dismantling settlements, and the right of return based on a long term truce. Hamas has represented a clear political program through a unity government. This is Hamas’s program regardless of the historic documents. Hamas has offered a vision. Therefore, it’s not logical for the international community to get stuck on sentences written 20 years ago. It’s not logical for the international community to judge Hamas based on these sentences and stay silent when Israel destroys and kills our people. (Meshal, 2009) Nor has Hamas’s religious framework as articulated in the 1988 Charter prevented the organisation from further debating and adapting its overall ideological framework based on the evolving political and security environment. Indeed, in 2017, Hamas published an updated ideological manifesto. This document, the ‘Document of General Principles and Policies’, released in Doha in May 2017, does preserve a core continuity with the 1988 Charter, but its tone is far less millenarian and exclusionist, with fewer religiously grounded references and with only a general assertion that ‘Islam – for Hamas – provides a comprehensive way of life and an order that is fit for purpose at all times and in all places’ (Middle East Eye, 2017). The 2017 document also relies on constructive vagueness (Yaghi, 2006) to smooth some of the ideological hard edges in the original text without however downright contradicting the 1988 text. For example, while the 2017 document drops all references to Palestine as a waqf, it still portrays the Palestinian cause as a central one for the Ummah (Hroub, 2017). Similarly, the 2017 document reiterates the need to pursue the full liberation of Palestine while also adding: without compromising its rejection of the Zionist entity and without relinquishing any Palestinian rights, Hamas considers the establishment of a fully sovereign and independent Palestinian state, with Jerusalem as its capital along the lines of the 4th of June 1967, with the return of the refugees and the displaced to their homes from which they were expelled, to be a formula of national consensus. (Middle East Eye, 2017; Hroub, 2017) The 2017 political-ideological manifesto also softens the group’s domestic political vision by stating that the organisation is committed to a sovereign Palestinian state, in favour of ‘pluralism, democracy, national partnership, acceptance of the other and the adoption of dialogue’, and that it aspires to build ‘Palestinian national institutions on sound democratic principles, foremost among them are free and fair elections’ (Middle East Eye, 2017). This brief account of Hamas’s political and religious identity highlights both the importance of religion and religiously grounded beliefs in shaping the organisation’s overall ethos, objectives, strategy and call to action. At the same time, even a cursory look at Hamas’s religious-political ideology stresses the evolving and context-dependent relationship the organisation has developed with its own religious framework. The same continuous dialectic relation between ideology and expediency has also shaped Hamas’s behaviour as a political party over the past three decades.

Religion and political behaviour: Hamas as a political party Hamas has a long historical record of political participation both in grassroots and institutional politics, has competed in multiple elections and has been involved in the provision of governance both at the subnational and national level. 329

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Hamas first became involved in grassroots politics shortly after its establishment in the late 1980s. At that time, the organisation began to take part in what the group described as ‘nonpolitical popular elections’, by competing to be elected in boards of educational and professional associations, including in universities, workplaces and trade unions (Zahhar and Hijazi, 1995: 82). Building on the Muslim Brotherhood’s legacy of social work and on its outward social orientation, the group also built its political brand around its Islamist identity and social welfare orientation. In parallel, Hamas’s early behaviour as a political movement was largely shaped by its resistance agenda and specifically its political and armed opposition to the peace process that had emerged between Israel and the PLO. Between the late 1980s and the early 1990s, Hamas quickly rose as the leader of the ‘rejectionist camp’ and the main political and ideological challenger to the PLO and Fatah (Berti, 2013; Salah, 2017). This challenge was both ideological, by framing the Palestinian struggle in religious terms and by arguing for the need or an Islamist alternative to the secular-nationalist Palestinian movement, and political – grounded on the rejection of the peace process. Through this dual Islamist and resistance agenda, Hamas gradually affirmed itself as the main grassroots political opposition movement in the Palestinian arena. Achieving this status also led the organisation on more than one occasion to invest in establishing broad issue-based coalitions, including with secular and leftist parties (Berti, 2013). An example is the Ten Resistance Organisation (TRO) Hamas led in the 1990s to coordinate the anti-Oslo political camp (Hroub, 2000). At the same time, the group did not position itself against institutional politics per se. For example, in a 1989 interview, Hamas leader Ahmed Yassin said that the organisation would accept any electoral result, including the victory of a non-Islamist force. He added that ‘There is no other way to choose representatives of the people except the way of elections’. Two years later, a Hamas communiqué also stated the same principle and made clear that no political force should be able to represent the ‘masses’ without having won ‘free, honest, and neutral elections’ (Piscatori, 2000: 37). The transition from grassroots socio-political movement to fully-fledged political party was gradual and complex for Hamas, also due to the ideological tensions surrounding the question of political participation. Hamas first discussed whether to create a parallel institutional political party to take part in electoral politics in the mid-1990s, following the Oslo Accords and the creation of the Palestinian Authority (PA) in 1994. The creation of the PA led, in turn, to the 1996 Palestinian legislative elections (Berti, 2013). In those years, Hamas’s political agenda became increasingly unpopular within Palestine, especially as its ideological rigidity came to be seen as a liability, rather than an asset. In the years immediately following the creation of the PA, Palestinian public opinion, hopeful that the peace process would succeed, strongly aligned with Fatah, with only 15 percent of Palestinians supporting Islamist groups by mid-1998 (Shikaki, 1998). Similarly, by 1996, support for armed struggle had hit an all-time low, with only approximately 20 percent of Palestinians expressing support for political violence (Matesan, 2012). Facing the prospect of decline pushed Hamas to think seriously about investing in becoming an institutionalised political party and in participating in the first Palestinian legislative elections as a way to restore popularity and legitimacy (Roy, 2000). However, the possibility of pursuing political participation brought the question of harmonising ideology and pragmatism to the forefront of the organisation’s strategic debate. On the one hand, Hamas’s political leaders in Gaza – where Hamas was the strongest in terms of legitimacy and presence on the ground – asserted that the organisation needed to take part in the electoral race, claiming that investing in politics would not undermine or distract from the group’s overall resistance agenda (Klein, 2009; Kristianasen, 1999). On the other hand, Hamas’s military wing, the Qassam Brigades, continued to place emphasis on carrying out violent 330

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operations against Israel, without becoming directly involved in the question of advancing political participation. Diaspora-based leaders were on the other hand extremely critical of entering institutional politics and against any type of cooperation with the PA: estranged from daily life in Palestine, they saw compromise through far more critical and ideological eyes, arguing that political participation may not only detract from resistance, but also weaken Hamas’s ideological commitment to armed struggle or lead to accept political compromise (Kurz and Nahman, 1997). Indeed, from an ideological perspective, a number of prominent leaders within Hamas perceived a tension between preserving the Charter-based, religiously grounded rejection of negotiations and political compromises, and deciding to take part in the elections, seeing the latter as tantamount to recognising the Oslo process they had so vehemently opposed (Mishal and Sela, 2000; Baconi, 2015). At the same time, the decision not to take part in the electoral contest was not grounded on ideological considerations alone: Hamas also asserted that taking part in the legislative elections was politically problematic and likely to be counter-productive as Fatah and its political leader, Yasser Arafat, de facto controlled the Palestinian political system (Mishal and Sela, 2000). Ultimately, a combination of ideological commitment and pragmatic considerations led the group to decide to refrain from competing in elections (Kristianasen, 1999). Yet, even though Hamas officially shied away from taking part in the 1996 elections, the debate on the legitimacy of political participation had a long-term impact on the group, leading Hamas to invest more resources in the provision of social and political goods and in grassroots politics as a deliberate strategy to deal with the group’s perceived loss of popularity and legitimacy (Roy, 2000, 2011). These investments in politics laid the groundwork for Hamas’s later decision to participate in the 2004–2005 municipal elections, as well as in the 2006 legislative contest. Indeed, Hamas’s decision to invest in institutional politics occurred a decade later, in 2004, when the organisation decided to take part in Palestinian municipal and national elections as a political party. This choice was influenced by a number of factors, including the demise of the Oslo process, the death of Yasser Arafat in 2004 and the subsequent ‘opening’ of the political arena, and the general decline in the levels of public support for armed struggle (Gunning, 2008; Berti, 2013). What is more, the rising weakness and internal conflict in Fatah (Shikaki, 2002), the crisis of governance of the PA, as well as Hamas’s regained popularity in the wake of the Second Intifada and after Israel’s unilateral withdrawal from the Gaza Strip, all pushed the organisation towards attempting to translate its grassroots popularity into political support (International Crisis Group, 2006). It is important to note how little ideological considerations shaped the 2004–2006 debate: Hamas de facto sidelined its constitutive objection to political participation in the institutions created by the Oslo Accords by stating that that system had been destroyed by the Second Intifada, whilst saying very little about the legitimacy of taking part in secular elections (Berti, 2013; Herzog, 2006). By formally competing in the Palestinian municipal and Legislative Council elections, the group de facto went beyond its ideological rejection of the status quo, making it far less consequential to its overall political identity. At the same time, the formal entry into institutional politics did not lead the group to formally retract or renounce on any of its ideological beliefs and commitments. Hamas was indeed able to justify its participation by arguing that the Oslo-driven peace process and its political legacy were, for all intents and purposes, dead (Herzog, 2006); while also asserting that its political activities would be carried out in the framework of, and complementary to, the broader resistance agenda. This balance between ideological coherence, political reframing and expediency also played a significant role in the immediate aftermath of Hamas’s electoral victory in the 2006 Palestinian Legislative Council elections. Indeed, in the post-2006 victory, the group’s willingness to enter into unity government deals with its political and ideological foe, Fatah, stressed Hamas’s 331

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internal struggle to balance ideology and pragmatism and to reform, rather than dramatically reshape, the political system (Berti, 2016; Sen, 2015). Ultimately, however, Hamas’s and Fatah’s inability to bridge their historical, ideological and political rift led to a de facto split of the Palestinian arena between the Hamas-controlled Gaza and the Palestinian Authority-ruled West Bank. As a result, Hamas rose to become the de facto ruler of Gaza. Again, a very brief examination of Hamas’s governance of Gaza since 2007 shows a mixed record in terms of implementing ‘religiously based’ governance. Since 2007, Hamas’s ‘Islamisation’ policies have focused more on reforms at the social, rather than at the high-institutional, level. For example, while changes have occurred in the realm of education, or with respect to gender equality or by introducing ‘morality policing’, among others, still there have not been revolutionary changes to the institutional and legislative institutions in place (Pelham, 2010; Milton-Edwards, 2007). In sum, Hamas’s political behaviour and governance practices have emerged as a result of a reiterative discursive reframing process seeking to accommodate political expediency and ideological aspirations. In the process, governance practices and ideological beliefs are contested, reshaped and adapted over time.

Conclusion Hamas’s political identity is deeply rooted in the group’s overall resistance framework, itself shaped around the organisation’s Islamist identity as outlined in the 1988 Charter. At the same time, an analysis of Hamas’s political discourse and behaviour underlines that neither is ideology a static concept, nor is the group’s own interpretation of its own religious beliefs inflexible. To the contrary, there is an ongoing dialectic tension between the need for ideological continuity and coherence and the necessity to respond to external changes to their broader socio-political milieu. This results in a twin process of developing a political discourse that reframes core ideological beliefs and, without rejecting them, seeks to reinterpret them in a way that allows to maximise political expediency. In the process, Hamas has adapted and sharpened its political agenda and platform, while continuing to rely on its pre-existing ‘cultural, religious and symbolic frames’ to preserve internal unity, project coherence and maintain a distinct and able political brand (Long, 2010).

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27 TURKEY The contested role of Islam and pro-Islamic parties Sultan Tepe

The role of religion in Turkey’s politics has been one of the most contested and controversial topics in the country’s political history. Different views have generated a large number of accounts that attempt to assess whether the country’s system of secularism and the role of religious movements have been an obstacle or a boon for Turkey’s democracy. A review of existing accounts shows that they fall into two clashing frameworks in their assessment of the ideational and institutional design of Turkey’s republic vis-à-vis religion and its religious politics. The first framework, known as the ‘Rupture Paradigm’, treats the establishment of the Republic of Turkey as a clear break from the Ottoman Empire’s regime and especially from its policies regarding religion. In such accounts, Turkey’s regime is viewed as an authoritarian secularist regime par excellence in which the state constrains the role of religion in the public sphere. According to the Rupture Paradigm, the establishment of Turkey’s Republic in 1923 was a radical and reactionary project that not only tried to undo the institutional legacy of the Ottoman Empire but also to change the role of religion in the entire society (Heper 2001). A second framework, referred to here as the ‘Continuity Paradigm’, emphasises the institutional and ideational connections and resiliencies between the Ottoman Empire and the Turkish republic and notes how the seeds of many of the Republic’s reformist policies were launched during the late years of the empire. When viewed from the Continuity Paradigm perspective, the common depiction of the newly acquired role of Islam in modern Turkey as the suppressed expression of marginalised masses against the radical policies of the republican elite oversimplifies many political processes.

Locating the role of religion in Turkey’s political history and party system Just as with any other religion in other contexts, Islam plays a multifaceted role in Turkey and matters to party politics on different levels. At the behavioural level, multiple interpretations of Islam influence the daily practices of individuals from the performance of rituals, celebrations and commemorations to the distribution of charity. At the cognitive level different meanings extracted from the main Islamic texts and theological discussions offer an interpretive framework that has an impact on many social and personal practices. The role of Islam also manifests 335

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itself at the formal and informal institutional level, in the role of imams, religious leaders, mosques and the state’s offices (such as the Directorate of Religious Affairs, DRA); therefore, Islam also serves as a direct social and ideological force to organise many institutions and exerts influence through them. As noted above, the Rupture Paradigm that treats Turkey’s secularism as a brand-new state ideology privileges the institutional aspect of Islam’s role in society and contends that Turkey’s history can be seen as a struggle between the forces of Islamic groups and ideas that seek to empower marginalised conservative groups against the forces of secularism that promote aggressive modernisation/Westernisation of the secularist elite. Such approaches use the rationale of the cleavage modelling of party formation rooted in the studies of Lipset and Rokkan (1967). According to Lipset and Rokkan’s (1967) approach, the party system of a given country captures the expression of underlying social conflicts that marked the formation of the nation. Such a perspective presumes that the basic social and political cleavages that came to the fore during the formation of the state (e.g. central state and peripheral communities; the central state and a supranational church; the industrial revolution induced urban/rural cleavage, and, later, worker/employer cleavage) shape the formation of parties. In other words, the formation of political parties is the political expression of self-conscious, socially closed groups, representing competing interests between workers and employers; between those living in peripheral communities and central state builders, and between secularists and defenders of the Church (Bartolini 2000; Bartolini and Mair 1990; Marks 1989). Using the rationale of the cleavage model, many accounts of Turkey’s political system attribute the formation of the parties to the conflict between two groups: those who want a more extensive role for Islam and those who want to curtail its influence. Conventional and uncritical studies of Turkey’s political regime, in line with the cleavage model that dominates studies of parties in Europe, contend that the establishment of the Turkish Republic meant the dominance of secularist policies and its embodiment within the Republican People Party (Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi), while multiple parties were formed to reinstate the role of Islam (Democratic Party and the National Outlook Parties). In contrast, the Continuity Paradigm views the politics of the Ottoman Empire and of Turkey as a struggle between modernisation and Westernisation vs. Islamisation. Although the Westernisation vs. Islamisation paradigm is applied widely to explain many events, such accounts disregard both conflicts within Islamic entities as well as other institutional and political interests. For instance, the Janissary-led popular opposition to the New Order (1792) is often depicted as a conservative resistance, fashioned by Muslim ‘anti-Westernisation’ reactions. Yet careful contextualisation of such events indicates that it was not the religious aspect of the New Order but the top-down disciplinary policies of the central state that unsettled some vested interests in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries that primarily sparked opposition to the reforms. While Islam played a role in the opposition, it was not perfunctorily evoked Islamic or anti-Western sentiments but rather intra-religious struggles such as a call for a ‘puritanical’ Islam, efforts to rejuvenate the Muslim order by eliminating invented traditions, or to discipline Muslim souls with the universal principles of revelation and reason; all played a role in the mobilisation of protestors (Yaycioglu 2018). Given the multifaceted role of religion in the Ottoman Empire, any attempt to understand the role of religion and religious parties in Turkey today needs to recognise the resilient approach that pits secularising Turkey and the Islam-centred Ottoman Empire against each other. These accounts obfuscate the multifaceted role of religion in both contexts. For instance, the treatment of the Ottoman past as a religious one ignores a key concern: despite the importance of religion, Islam did not maintain a primary role in the organisation of politics under the Ottoman system. A secular legal system (based on laws, kanuns) coexisted with a 336

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religious one based on Sharia, creating a hybrid system (Bottoni 2007). Likewise, for a thorough assessment of the role of Islam under the Ottoman Empire and later under the Turkish Republic, it is important to note that, despite the emphasis on Ottoman religious officials and institutions, the Ottoman state-appointed representatives such as qadis, muftis or teachers were an urban phenomenon. Only in the nineteenth century did the state-run religious institutions and leadership begin to have residence in and thus impact on the countryside. As a result, the institutionalisation of Islam had limited impact on the everyday practices and views of most ‘ordinary’ people. Similarly, in its early years, politics in post-Ottoman Turkey was affected by the fact that most people lived in the countryside rather than urban areas. While studies of religion often pay most attention to the institutional design of a country’s politics and any room left to the ability of religious authorities and religious parties to mediate between social movements and institutional structures, it is important to assess the impact of religious parties on political outcomes in Turkey. In the studies of Turkey’s religious politics (i.e. how religion and politics interact) many accounts refer to the country’s laïcité, that is, secularism as the root cause of the existing political cleavage. For many scholars, it was Turkey’s choice of laïcité, the decision of the founding elite, especially Ataturk, which caused mass reactions. Thus, one of the main cleavages of Turkey’s party politics, unlike those of the Ottoman era, became the issue of religious and secular conflict. Subsequently, conventional analyses of the newly emergent political system under Turkey’s republic centred their attention on the post-1950 era, when the country moved to a multi-party system. According to the Rupture Paradigm Turkey’s politics between 1923 and 1950 is a perfect example of modernist domination and Islamic backlash; yet according to the Continuity Paradigm any efforts to understand the parties in Turkey’s Republic necessitate a survey of the political movements and parties formed under the Ottoman Empire. A broader historical account recognises the Fedailer Party (1859) as the first political party. Fedailer was formed as a party prior to the adoption of the second constitution and the transition to a parliamentary democracy under the Ottoman Empire in 1908. A critical survey of Turkey’s political history reveals that the country’s early institutions, constituted during the country’s single party rule between 1923 and 1946 under the Republican People’s Party (RPP), were rooted in broader historical conflicts and compromises. Although the RPP was established on 9 September 1923, it was the continuation of ‘The Union for the Defence of Rights in Anatolia and Rumelia’, a national resistance movement that was formed to prevent the occupation of the disintegrating Ottoman Empire. Thus, the RPP’s roots predated the republic and adopted its current name in 1935. The four principles of the party, which became the state’s founding ideology, namely Republicanism, Nationalism, Populism and Secularism, were adopted in 1927. The ideal of ‘Republicanism’ was presented as a governance structure in which the ultimate sovereignty belonged to the people. It was a radical statement, especially from an Islamist-traditionalist perspective, due to its refutation of the motto that ‘the ultimate sovereignty belongs to God’. Although later it acquired a more ethnically specific meaning, the principle of Nationalism referred to the unity of different ethnic groups as one nation, defining the nation as consisting of all those groups who joined forces to establish Turkey’s Republic during the collapse of the Ottoman Empire. The Nationalism principle further cultivated the idea of nation as the source of sovereignty. The principle of ‘Populism’ centered on a notion of the ‘people’ (halk) that is not rift by social and class divisions. One of the most contested principles, which is often translated to English as secularism, was laiklik, a Turkish appropriation of the French term, laïcité, which sought to limit significantly the role of religion in the state’s politics and society.

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Due to its pivotal role in regard to religion and religious parties, the principle of laiklik requires special attention. The contested principle of laiklik promotes the idea that it is the separation of religious affairs from worldly or state affairs that creates an ideal political regime and social system. From the perspective of laïcité ‘religion’ is a matter of conscience and a personal issue; thus, its impact on political life should be curtailed. Such an approach to religion raises questions regarding the political claims of a monotheistic religion and whether and how Islam can be confined to personal domains. However, it is not only the principle of laïcité but, in part due to their broad terms and the specific history of the country, all of the state’s founding principles have evoked many controversies as did the state’s organising principles after their initial implementation (Dural 2009). The contestation around Turkey’s laiklik was among others shaped by the role of fatwas, religious opinions, issued by Sheyhul Islam in the late Ottoman Empire. For the proponents of laiklik, religiously sanctioned decisions and policies did not support the national interest (especially during the final years of the empire), indicating the need to create policies and institutions that cannot be legitimised by religious authorities alone. Sheyhul Islam’s complacency with regard to the invasion of Istanbul and efforts to suppress national resistance by religious verdicts (e.g. the fatwa of 11 April 1920) created an environment where national policies were contested by various publics depending on the weight they placed on such verdicts (Özçeli̇ k 2012). The centralised nature of formal religious education and the decentralised nature of dervish lodges created a pluralistic religious environment for the emerging republic.

Turkey’s pro-Islamic parties? As noted above, a thorough review of the role of religion and political parties in Turkey requires both a careful review of the existing frameworks as well as the specific context of state policies. Despite broadening interest in Turkey, many analyses continue to reiterate uncritical observations such as the adoption of drastically secularising policies in 1923, rendering the Ottoman Empire a religious and Islamic state without recognising the roots and context of the Republican Party’s policies. In fact, despite the assumption of an aggressively secularist model, the first constitution (1924) stated that the religion of the Turkish state was Islam. In April 1928, the statement regarding the state’s religion was removed. Removed also was the statement of religious phrases like ‘vallahi’ (by god) that were used in the official oaths of the members of parliament. On 3 February 1928, the delivery of Khutbas (Friday Sermons) in Turkish was accepted and a committee was formed to translate into Turkish the call to prayer and other prayers. Turkey’s republic became secular (Laik) on 5 February 1937, with the replacement of Article 2. Religiously and ethnically motivated revolts, challenges to the state (e.g. Sheik Said Rebellion of 1925) and violent attacks (e.g. the beheading of an army officer in 1930 during an attempt to contain one religiously oriented protest) created an environment where the establishment of the new state meant the adoption of many policies to subdue counter-state challenges. One of the main challenges to the RPP’s policies came from Turkey’s first successful opposition party, the Democratic Party (DP). Due to its opposition to the RPP the DP was perfunctorily considered a religious party. However, a review of the DP’s 1946 programme shows that, although the party stressed the importance of religious values, it did not adopt any overtly Islamist ideology (i.e. an ideology that treats Islamic sources as the only ones for state policies). Instead the party noted that its laicism was defined in the context of the state’s disinterest in religion, implying that religious beliefs would not have a role in either the formation or enactment of law, while still believing in religious freedom of individuals to practise the religion of their choice (Leder 1979). Likewise, the first election manifesto of the RPP in 1954, four years after the party lost its political dominance over the DP, focused on the negative impact of prevalent corruption, the use of state 338

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power and economics but not on the DP’s policies regarding Islam. In fact, the DP’s policy focused on the provision of religious education and services and addressed public discontent about the changes in some well-established daily religious rituals (e.g. changing prayers from Arabic to Turkish). The DP’s own programme noted that it was necessary to prepare a programme to address the religious education issue and to train religious clergy so that theology departments, placed in regular universities, should have authority over the issues they teach just as in other national education institutions. In July, 1932, the call for prayer was delivered in Turkish, ending a traditional practice of having prayers in Arabic. One of the most important policies of the DP was to remove the ban on Arabic recitation of Ezan (call for prayer) which had alienated religiously conservative groups (Kirkpinar 2018). While the DP’s policies pertaining to Islamic practices were reactionary, they refrained from using explicitly Islamic language and focused on the policies of the RPP; the first overtly Islamic party entered into Turkey’s politics with the establishment of the National Order Party in 1970. The discourse of the National Order Party focused on economic development yet also criticised the state’s laïcité directly and sought to change the role of religion in society. Under freedom of conscience, the party noted that: Our approach to laïcité is to oppose any understanding that turns it into an anti-religious institution. It is not acceptable to deprive our nation of religious knowledge—a nation that offered the best example of the protection of beliefs and conscience when in the Middle Ages Europe was marred by Inquisition courts and dark conservatism. (National Order Party 1970) Although the state’s founding ideals define broad guidelines and not specific policies, Turkey’s state founding ideology with its basic principles has become subject to a wide range of criticisms. Nationalism and republicanism have been questioned for not recognising class differences and ethnic plurality in defining the nation, while laicism has been questioned based on whether and how religion can be a question only of conscience without any public presence and policy impact. Turkey’s party politics generated movements in which some groups tried to strengthen and eliminate the principle of laïcité while other groups sought to promote the fusion of a laik state and religious public through a Turkish-Islamic synthesis. Those who sought to promote an Islamic secular synthesis with the motto of secular state and religious public created a genre of parties under the main name of the National Action Movement. Along with the presence of movements and ideas that claimed both the creation of a strong state and the importance of incorporating Islam to a state structure without turning it into a theocracy, those who argued that laïcité dominated the RPPs ideology and turned the entire state into an anti-religious institution, created a genre of anti-secularist parties. For these parties, despite its promises, Turkey’s laïcité sought to eliminate the role of religion in public and cut off Turkey’s cultural and institutional ties to the Ottoman Empire. One of the anomalies for critics of laïcité was the creation in 1924 of the Directorate of Religious Affairs (DRA). The DRA replaced Sheyhul Islam and assigned a place for religion in the state structure. For one group, the formation of DRA was meant to preserve the role of Islam in the state structure. For another group, the establishment of DRA was meant to create a version of Islam that is compatible with its goal to create a more Westernised regime. For the critics of laiklik as articulated by the National View movements and parties, the exclusion of Islam from state policies meant policies with excessively materialist ideas without enough consideration of moral growth. The reforms also included the closure of dervish lodges, thereby undermining different Islamic networks and pushing some underground. For the proponents of secularism, the goal of building a 339

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new state required, among others, not only centralisation of once decentralised government institutions but also limitation of the role of Islamic networks and foundations. Given the demographic conditions of the state, laicism was a necessity. Despite the plurality of views regarding Turkey’s state founding ideology, the use of antisystemic language and the undermining secular structure of the state were protected by Turkey’s constitution, presenting one of the paradoxes of Turkey’s party system. According to Turkey’s constitution, ‘The statutes and programs, as well as the activities of political parties shall not be contrary to the principles of a secular republic; they shall not aim to promote or establish class or group dictatorship or dictatorship of any kind, nor shall they incite citizens to crime’ (Constitution of the Republic of Turkey n.d.). Although the 2010 and 2017 constitutional changes, enacted under the current rule of the Justice and Development Party, altered the composition of the constitutional courts making such closures difficult, ethnic and religious based public discourse was banned under the constitutional system. However, the presence and enactment of the constitutional ban created an environment in which religious or ethnically oriented parties developed a hybrid public discourse to avoid any closure. Therefore, one can talk about an invisible rule in Turkey’s politics whereby parties convey their messages through a coded language in the public sphere; a more ethnically and religiously centred language is used at the local level or behind closed doors. The presence of a multiplicity of discourses not only resulted in terms such as ‘takiyya’ (intentional deception) to capture the idea that Islamist parties concealed their real and long-term goals but also decreased the level of public trust in parties and institutions. Although Turkey’s party closures are seen as the result of policies enforced against religious parties, a historical review of the parties that faced the closures shows that they were not always religiously focused parties. Two of the first parties that faced closure, the Progressive Republican Party (Terakkiperver Cumhuriyet Fırkası) and the Free Republican Party (Serbest Cumhuriyet Fırkası), articulated resentment against the RPP’s single-party government between 1923 and 1945.1 It was not the parties’ programmes that indicated that they were deferent to religious opinions and beliefs but the context of revolts against the state that played a crucial role in the first closures in 1925 and 1930. In fact, it was the 1925 Seyh Said Uprisings, one of the main rebellions against the newly formed state that combined both Kurdish and Islamic discontents against the new Republican regime, that formed the background of the closure decision. Research shows that, out of 45 cases, a total of 27 parties were banned in Turkey on two different grounds: (1) political Islamists and violation of secularism (separation of religion and politics); and (2) Kurdish left and violation of territorial integrity/national unity (Celep 2014). Turkey’s first overtly Islamist parties are often clustered as ‘National View (Milli Gorus)’ parties, indicating the impact of the ideas of Necmettin Erbakan, the leader of the movement. The Justice and Development Party (JDP) (in Turkish, Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi) is seen as a splinter of the movement while the leadership of JDP argues that they completely shed their National Outlook skin. The name comes from a manifesto entitled ‘Milli Gorus’, published by Necmettin Erbakan. Milli referred to ‘Millet’ a term that was used under the Ottoman Empire to distinguish different religious communities. The first party of Milli Gorus, the National Order, was established in 1970 after Erbakan won a seat in the parliament as an independent candidate. Due to the restrictions on party discourse and practices, the National Order Party was outlawed and re-entered Turkey’s politics as the National Salvation Party in 1971. Challenging the focus on economic development, the programme of the National Order Party and its reincarnation emphasised the critical role of moral growth to overall development. Adopting a rather different discourse from other parties, the party’s programme argued that:

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Drawing on the historical experiences and maturity acquired by our nation without damaging national and spiritual values within a democratic order, our party offers a heedful and focused synthesis of the moral and material development movements; doing so seeks to enlighten humanity and bring about welfare and prosperity and establish an exemplary civilisation and calls for our citizens to serve. (National Order Party 1970) While the party adopted other parties’ economic development ideals, such a development would require a nationally rooted moral foundation and incorporation of Islamic ideals and norms. The party closure indictment included many examples, such as the leadership’s classification of other parties as ‘batil’ those who are aberrant due to their inability to follow the ‘hak’ (right). ‘Batil’ and ‘hak’ were terms used in the Qur’an to describe the cosmic war between ‘good’ and ‘evil’. Use of such religious references, according to the chief public prosecutor, meant the deployment of religious terms and ideas to promote a political agenda. Sixteen parties were closed down by a military coup in 1980, including the Salvation Party, which in 1983 reorganised as the Welfare Party (Refah Partisi). When the party was closed down, it was reorganised as the Virtue Party (Fazilet Partisi) in 1998. The closure of the Virtue Party proved to be a critical event; a splinter from the party, considered to be the branch of the party that represented a new view, formed today’s ruling JDP while the traditionalists continued their activities as the Felicity Party. Unlike its predecessor, the JDP’s programme does not use any overtly religious terms and ideas. Regarding laïcité, the party’s 2002 programme noted that: In essence laïcité facilitates the expression by all faith groups of their beliefs and conducting their lives according to their beliefs as well as expression by those who do not have any beliefs. In this regard laïcité is the principle for freedom and societal peace. Our party refuses the abuse of beliefs and ethnicity for political purposes. Our party objects to the mistreatment of people who are religious and deems anti-democratic the treating them differently due to their practices. It also objects to the use of religion to oppress and economically dominate others who may think differently. (Justice and Development Party 2002) In order to assess the impact of the JDP’s policies regarding Islam it is important to note that parties that promote religious policies pursue several goals: (1) to advance public discourse that offers a religious account of events and political processes; (2) to promote policies that are informed by religious principles (e.g. discouraging alcohol consumption); (3) to expand the role of religious institutions and religiously sanctioned public roles (e.g. imams and religious foundations); and (4) to address the needs of people who are considered religious and conservative. At the discursive level, despite the party programme’s language, the party leadership refers to Islamic symbols extensively in daily discourse, as well as recitation of the Qur’an during many events, a practice that was once considered anti-secular. At the policy level, the party adopted or attempts to promote many policies (e.g. criminalising adultery) that are informed by Islam or to promote the rights of practising Muslims. The party also removed a long-standing headscarf ban in higher education institutions in 2010 and allowed the use of a headscarf for women working for the state in 2017. At the institutional level, the JDP has changed the structure of Turkey’s governance drastically. For instance, the 2007 constitutional amendments turned the symbolic position of the presidency of the republic into an elected position (elected directly by the people), reducing the presidential term from seven to five years with the possibility of reelection. The 2010 constitutional changes made the military more accountable to civilian courts 341

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and changed the procedures to appoint judges. The last round of constitutional changes altered Turkey’s governance structure, turning the symbolic non-partisan office of presidency into the partisan head of executive power and granting the JDP unchecked political power. A review of the JDP’s policies beyond its constitutional reforms indicates that the party removed the restriction on political and public expression of Islam and also promoted not only Islam but those who ascribe and practice Islamic principles in the country’s governance system. While each one of JDP’s policies, alone or in combination, can be seen as the promotion of Islam, one important question is whether or not any of these policies/practices forms a political end in and of itself or promotes other non-religious electoral and political interests. In other words, the non-religious aspects of the party’s policies are worth attention better to assess if or how material and non-material, or religious and non-religious, interests interact. For instance, the use of religious language is not only thought to increase the popularity of the party among the religious public but it may also provide legitimacy to the party’s policies in a context where parties suffer from a low level of support. Likewise, the expansion of the role of religious institutions under JDP rule allows the party to use its control of the state apparatus to offer more jobs to its political base. The party’s use of religious ties in forging its policies makes the party an important player in regional and global politics. The JDP faced the risk of being closed in 2002 and 2008 and the military, which assumed the role of protecting Turkey’s laïcité, issued what came to be known as an electronic memorandum which emphasised the importance of maintaining the secular nature of the republic during the presidential election process when the presidential candidates were overtly critical of the implications of laïcité-related policies such as the headscarf ban. The memorandum did not prevent the election of the JDP’s Abdullah Gul as national president (Yeni S¸afak 2007). The indictment referred to the public speeches of the current president, Recep Tayyip Erdog˘ an, makes explicit references to common religious values and institutions by imbuing different meanings, once citing a poem which compared minarets to bayonets, domes to helmets and believers to soldiers (Milliyet 1998). The scope of the indictment covered the JDP leadership’s foreign visits. For instance, on one of his foreign trips (to Spain) Erdog˘ an, the leader of the JDP and now national president, argued that even if a headscarf is a religious symbol, it should not be prohibited in the public sphere and he challenged the main idea of secularism which contends that public spaces should be protected from the use of any religious symbols since such symbols were deemed divisive and inclusive of religion in the public sphere. The joint proposal of the Nationalist Action Party and the JDP attempted to remove the ban on the headscarf with a constitutional amendment in 2008. The JDP avoided closure by one vote (six of 11 members of the court approved the closure while 10 of 11 agreed that the party had become the centre of anti-secularist policies), reducing state funds to the party. The JDP’s policies can be seen as successful integration of religion to Turkey’s politics. However, a failed coup attempt in July 2016, allegedly launched by the followers of Fethullah Gülen, a religious leader, who had worked as an imam employed by the DRA between 1959 and 1981, showed that the role of religion in Turkey’s democratisation efforts remains controversial. Over the years, Gülen has established a global grassroots movement known as Cemaat or Hizmet. The movement developed an elaborate educational network specially to recruit the urban and rural poor; its mix of religious–business–educational networks has grown stronger under the charismatic appeal and teachings of Gülen. At the same time, the support of the JDP granted the movement access to many state positions, police and military forces and gave it an international presence (Badar 2018). As the network’s organisational capacity, resources and public appeal were expanded by its access to state power granted by the JDP, the movement became one of the most successful Islamic international networks with branches in more than 50 countries. 342

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As noted above the withdrawal of the JDP’s support for the Gülenists, after the corruption allegations against the party and the subsequent closure of the group’s schools and boarding houses, undermined one of the movement’s most effective recruitment tools – its educational network. Attesting to the intricate nature of Islamic organisations, intra-Islamic block rivalry and the expected and unexpected outcomes of the involvement of religious networks in politics, the Gülenists did not focus on maintaining their network as a civil society group but sought to master the state’s control. The failed coup attempt of 15 July 2016, tied to the Gülenists by the regime, indicates that the group’s success as a faith group hinged on their access to the state’s power (i.e. controlling education, state employment); the weakened state access and lack of commitments to maintain group’s power could lead to a violent take-over. Although the Gülenists vehemently deny any involvement, the clandestine and extremely hierarchical nature of the Gülenist networks raises concerns about the credibility of such denunciations. While the group’s charismatic leader-centred organisation makes it difficult to study, the government’s increasingly ambiguous description of what it refers to as the ‘Gülenist Terrorist Organisation’ enables it to demobilise a range of groups critical of the JDP’s policies. Ironically, although the JDP offers a critical assessment of the Gülenist network’s enmeshing of religion and politics, the party has been centralising political power and expanding the budget of the DRA drastically, in part to demobilise Gülenist-like religious networks and prevent the spread of Gülen’s ideological ideas through the country’s state-run religious network. Once criticised by the National View parties, due to its control of all of the mosques and ability to offer religious opinions, the DRA became an important institution for the JDP’s policies. In 2012 the DRA’s budget exceeded the budget of 11 ministries, including the ministries of health and the environment and energy (Badar 2018). Despite the current state of emergency and declining economic performance, the JDP continued to increase the DRA’s budget by 34 percent, five times larger than that of the national intelligence service, making it one of the main state institutions. Meanwhile Turkey’s 2017 constitutional amendment and transition to executive presidency ended Turkey’s parliamentary regime, created ministers who are appointed and not elected, and put centralised power in the hands of the president. The JDP’s centralisation of political power, a position the National View parties once opposed, and investment in the institution that pro-Islamic parties once considered the secularising hand of the state, indicates that religion’s role in politics and pro-religious parties’ political stances cannot be simplified; instead they require finding a delicate balance between empirical foundations and theoretical approaches. The Turkish case becomes less an exception and more an ideal site that exemplifies the intricate interface of religion and politics when its analyses are released from the binaries of secular vs. Islamic positions.

Conclusion Although Islam plays an important role in Turkey’s politics, its role cannot be seen as the perfunctory rejection of the country’s secular practices, resentment against or break from the Ottoman Islamic past. A broad historical perspective indicates that many of Turkey’s so-called new secular policies adopted after the declaration of its republic were initiated under the Ottoman Empire. Thus, despite the dominance of the Rupture Paradigm accounts, the Continuity Paradigm based accounts seem more plausible from historical records. Likewise, despite the tendency to reduce Turkey’s pro-Islamic parties to a singular group, they differ significantly not only in their specific interpretations of Islam but also in their economic and foreign policies. For instance, Turkey’s first-generation Islamists, the National Order Parties, in one form or another adopted state-led industrialisation, seeking to use state power to promote nationalised 343

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production against the dominance of Western markets. Likewise, the National Outlook Parties called for the state’s disengagement from the religious sector while forging loose coalitions with Turkey’s religious orders. In a drastically different fashion, the JDP opted for rapid integration to the global economy by removing the state’s protective hand from many areas. The party also forged close political ties with Islamic groups like the Gülenists which eventually led to a power struggle in controlling state power. Despite their attachment to Turkey’s secularism, pro-secular parties also promote policies to appeal to religious groups although such policies have never gained the disproportional support extended by the JDP. The JDP’s exponentially growing support of the state’s directorate of religious affairs and state’s religious education shows that the pro-Islamic parties’ quest to remove state from the religious sector may be discursive. When given state control, the state’s authority is used to promote a certain Islamic theology through religious education, mosques and foundations. Thus, the secularist or laiklik ideal of establishing Turkey’s state neutrality visà-vis religious groups remains a work in progress. Various parties use religion discursively, and tap into the power of religious networks and Islamic idioms’ ability to legitimise certain policies while the country’s ban on the parties that rely on religious differences remains effective yet largely ignored.

Note 1 For the full list of the parties that were closed see www.tesav.org.tr/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/3. 1923ten_Bu_Yana_Kurulan_ve_Kapatilan_Siyasi_Partiler.pdf.

References Badar, Yavuz (2018) ‘Diyanet, Turkey’s Powerful Tool for Social Engineering’. The Arab Weekly, 4 February. Bartolini, Stefano (2000) The Class Cleavage: The Electoral Mobilisation of the European Left 1860–1980. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bartolini, Stefano and Mair, Peter (1990) Identity, Competition, and Electoral Availability: The Stabilisation of European Electorates, 1885–1985. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bottoni, Rossella (2007) ‘The Origins of Secularism in Turkey’. Ecclesiastical Law Journal, 9(2): 175–186. Celep, Ödül (2014) ‘The Political Causes of Party Closures in Turkey’. Parliamentary Affairs, 67(2): 371–390. Constitution of the Turkish Republic (n.d.) https://global.tbmm.gov.tr/docs/constitution_en.pdf. Dural, Buran (2009) ‘Transformation of Social Life in Turkey: 1930–1936’. Electronic Journal of Social Sciences, 8(29): 184–197. Heper, Metin (2001) ‘Turkey: Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow’. Journal of Southeast European & Black Sea Studies, 1(3): 11. Justice and Development Party Program (2002) www.akparti.org.tr/parti/parti-programi/. . Kirkpinar, Leyla (2018) ‘Demokrat Parti (Dp) Ve Din-Siyaset Ilis¸kisi (1946–1960)’. Journal of Modern Turkish Studies, 18(36): 349–359. Leder, Arnold (1979) ‘Party Competition in Rural Turkey: Agent of Change or Defender of Traditional Rule?’. Middle Eastern Studies, 15(1): 82–105. Lipset, Seymour Martin and Rokkan, Stein (1967) ‘Cleavage Structures, Party Systems, and Voter Alignments: An Introduction’, in S.M. Lipset and S. Rokkan (eds), Party Systems and Voter Alignments: CrossNational Perspectives. Toronto: The Free Press, 1–64. Marks, Gary (1989) Unions in Politics: Britain, Germany, and the United States in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Milliyet (1998) 22 April. www.milliyet.com.tr/1998/04/22/siyaset/siy00.html. National Order Party (1970) ‘Program’, Ankara: National Order Party. https://acikerisim.tbmm.gov.tr/xm lui/handle/11543/801. Özçeli̇ k, Mücahit (2012) ‘Ars¸i̇ v Belgeleri̇ ne Göre Kongreler Süreci̇ nde İ stanbul Hükümeti̇ ni̇ n Mustafa Kemal’i̇ n Faali̇ yetleri̇ ni̇ Engelleme Çabalari’. Ekev Academic Review, 16(52): 55–75.

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Turkey Yaycioglu, Ali (2018) ‘Guarding Traditions and Laws—Disciplining Bodies and Souls: Tradition, Science, and Religion in the Age of Ottoman Reform’. Modern Asian Studies, 52(5): 1542–1603. Yeni S¸afak (2007) ‘Abdullah Gul Elected President’, 28 August. www.yenisafak.com/politika/abdulla h-gul-339-oyla-cumhurbaskani-secildi-64827.

Additional source Full list of closed parties: www.tesav.org.tr/wpcontent/uploads/2017/03/3.1923ten_Bu_Yana_Kurulan_ ve_Kapatilan_Siyasi_Partiler.pdf.

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28 ISLAM AND FACTIONAL POLITICS IN IRAN Paola Rivetti

Built to celebrate two crucial events in the history of the Islamic Republic, that is the 1979 revolution and the subsequent Iran-Iraq war (1980–1988), Tehran’s Museum of the Holy Defence (muze defa’-e moghaddas) is a prism through which one can peruse the official narrative about the source of legitimacy of the current regime. The museum promotes a specific historical interpretation revolving around Islam as the pivot of both the revolution and the war. Islam was the source of inspiration for revolutionaries as well as the ideal that the soldiers and front volunteers defended during the war. It represents the central element of this official narrative – which, obviously, is one of the narratives present in society, yet it is ubiquitous and predominant. Likewise, the political landscape in the country is narrowly constructed around loyalty to Islam and the principle of the velayat-e faqih. While the constitution of the Islamic Republic recognises both divine and popular sovereignty, the principle of the velayat-e faqih (or the guardianship/leadership of the jurist) locates ultimate sovereignty into the hands of the vali-e faqih (the jurist), considered to be almost infallible because guided by God and knowledge of the Islamic law and philosophy (Ghobadzadeh, 2014). This principle gives to the faqih special powers in terms of supervision and intervention if mundane politics derails from the right path inspired by religion. In Iran, every legal political organisation is obliged to state its loyalty to the vali-e faqih, or the leader (rahbar), and must act in accordance with the principle. Additionally, yet needless to say, all permitted political organisations must be Islamic, in the sense of stating their allegiance to the Islamic religion and, consequently, the constitution. In such a narrow political and discursive space, in which religion represents the common obligatory reference for all political forces, is Islam still a criterion for differentiating amongst active political organisations? This chapter argues that, in spite of the limited discursive liberty available to organised political forces, diverging interpretations of Islam do represent a criterion along which differentiation takes place and popular consensus coalesces. Obviously, popular political orientations transcend the limitation of Islam: secular preferences, whether leftist, liberal or conservatives, are present among the population, but do not find representation in the political system because of said constitutional constraints. This chapter investigates how Islam constitutes an obligatory universal reference and an element of distinction at the same time. In fact, despite restrictions, political competition over elections and the distribution of resources is real (Alem, 2016). But, ‘where’ does such competition take place? What shape does organised politics have in Iran? How have Islam and the 346

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structuration of political competition in political parties/factions interacted? While parties do not exist as such, political preferences and interests regroup within factions. Instead of a derogatory term, faction (faksiun) indicates the coming together of like-minded individuals who share similar interests and mobilise to acquire elected positions as well as to orientate the policymaking process through a variety of means, ranging from alliance building to influencing public opinion. Building on the scholarship examining the relationship between religion and politics, this chapter analyses the formation of a factional system pivoted around – among other things – different interpretations of Islam, and proposes an investigation of the latter. More specifically, the chapter first examines Iran’s ‘political market’ and its evolution: the field where political competition takes place and the historical trajectories that have contributed to its current structure. Second, the chapter discusses the ideological differences between the competing factions. Two variations are proposed: reformist or liberal Islam and anti-liberal Islam. These two ideal-types aim to capture the differences both in terms of values and factional interests that they embody. The chapter argues, in fact, that while discursive and ideological differences matter, competition amongst factions also has a material dimension informed by interests and class politics. The chapter does not conceive of the ideational and material elements as separate, and aims to grasp and examine both.

Religion and political organisations: preliminary observations The scholarship on the relationship between religion and political parties – or political organisations and politics, more broadly – is vast and has preoccupied scholars for some time. The Iranian revolution of 1979 opened the door to such reflections: during a time when modernisation theory and its ramifications were still the dominant lenses for sociological and political analysis, the Iranian revolution showed that religion was not wiped away by the force of authoritarian secularisation (Keddie, 1997). Likewise, the rise of the Christian Right in the United States concomitant with the coming to power of the Republicans and the end of the ‘Golden age’ powerfully stated that the ideological traction of religion in politics was far from being relegated to Muslim-majority populations (Wald and Calhoun-Brown, 2014). The rise of political Islam across the Middle East and North Africa (MENA), in the meantime, suggested that a radical revision of dominant approaches to the study of politics was needed. As Volpi and Stein (2015) explained, Islamism was hardly considered as a salient variable. The scholarship regularly proposed analysis pivoted around modernisation and class theory, and regularly dismissed Islamism as an obsolete anomaly. The religious revival that occurred widely after the collapse of the Soviet Union forced scholars to reconsider extant approaches. In particular, the analysis of political parties and how they navigate the religious sentiment, how they instrumentalise it for electoral purposes and how parties are ‘taken over’ by religious constituencies has become central. As Payam Mohseni and Clyde Wilcox (2008) discuss, religion is a notion with multi-dimensional articulations, being at the same time an ideology, an institution, and a host of material and ideational resources for political organisations. Likewise, political parties can be equally difficult to define and analyse. While, at times, they have a clear structure and a defined political programme, at other times parties are poorly structured and their boundaries may be unstable, shifting and vary according to circumstances. As electoral laws change, in fact, parties may dissolve and then regroup under different names, with a larger or smaller, more or less religious membership (Bartolini et al., 2004).

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It follows that the relationship between religion and parties may be difficult to examine as a stable and roundly-defined correlation. Parties may not be either secular or religious: they may need to ‘hide’ their religious preferences or, on the contrary, ‘enrich’ their secular nature with religious references under the pressure of institutional conditions or the public opinion. In the case of Turkey, for instance, Islamist parties such as the Justice and Development Party (AKP) need to pledge allegiance to the laïcité of the Turkish constitution and navigate a narrow space for implementing religiously inspired policies that ‘moralise’ Turkish society (Yılmaz, 2015). On the other hand, Anne Wolf (2018) discusses how Nida al-Tunis, the secular party of Tunisia, still makes regular references to Islam and religion as a ‘moral compass’ for its policy choice, to the point that she talks about ‘secular forms of politicised Islam’. Likewise, Hendrik Kraetzschmar and Alam Saleh (2018) challenge the ‘secular vs Islamist’ polarisation in Egyptian party politics, showing how the ‘polarisation as it takes place at the discursive level is not necessarily a sanguine reflection of the factual ideological/policy distances extant between political parties’ (p. 222), but reflects the need to offer an alternative political discourse to voters. In the last decade, Italian political parties have increasingly relied on religious symbolism to gain the voters’ support, in the belief that resorting to traditions was a winning electoral strategy (Giorgi, 2013). Ideological shifts informed by environmental conditions and time are also present when it comes to the democratic preferences of religiously inspired parties: while scholars of Islamist politics debate whether Islamism is compatible with democracy or not, it is often forgotten that in the past Catholic political parties have often helped authoritarian political movements to achieve power – while their democratic commitment is today unquestioned (Conway, 2008). Finally, another important dimension of the analysis of the parties–religion relationship is the presence of non-state, non-party agents that intervene in such a relationship. Sometimes, in fact, religious bodies and associations interfere and put pressure on political parties by raising ethical issues and by injecting (or withdrawing) material resources into the ‘political marketplace’ of a country (Giorgi and Polizzi, 2015). It follows that, while religion is undoubtedly fundamental in structuring the party system and single parties’ policy choice and orientations, the way in which religion plays such a role depends on a larger configuration, and is informed by a multiplicity of factors. As Mohseni and Wilcox (2008) state, the relation between religion and political parties is complex because of the many ways in which religion can be examined – doctrinally, institutionally and socially – and the diverse articulations that such a relationship can have. In order to navigate such complexity, the two authors propose an analytical framework composed of six dimensions: regime type, the political/ religious marketplace, religious institutional structure (hierarchical or less so), the associational nexus, the nature of party system, and the parties and religious groups’ stance towards the state. The analysis proposed in this chapter utilises this framework in order to examine how the political system in Iran is structured and how Islam has intervened in this process – after which the chapter moves on to assess how is Islam a criterion for differentiation amongst factions.

The institutional context Regime type and opportunities for party formation Daniel Brumberg and Farideh Farhi (2016) distinguish the Islamic Republic from ‘full autocracies, which tolerate no uncertainty’, and define it as a ‘diffused-power semi-autocracy’ in which ‘power and authority [are] unevenly spread and concentrated among formal and informal mechanisms and arenas’ (p. 8). Brumberg and Farhi stress the role of fluid and informal dynamics by which ‘factions, cliques, and networks jockey for influence … while collaborating 348

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to deflect challenges coming from outside the ruling elite or family’ (p. 8). Alternatively labelled as an ‘hybrid regimes’ or ‘electoral authoritarianism’ (Abdolmohammadi and Cama, 2015), the Islamic Republic is considered to be able to survive instability thanks to its flexibility and accommodating capacity (Keshavarzian, 2005). In such a system, fluid institutional and legal mechanisms create a hobbled or ‘feckless’ pluralism (to use Tom Carother’s evocative term), one that seems to be incoherent, disorganized, and constantly improvised but uses such suppleness to channel, contain, or diffuse challenges to regime domination and elite unity. (Brumberg and Farhi, 2016, p. 8) ‘Feckless’ pluralism articulates limited ideological diversity which translates into the presence of contrasting opinions voiced by different political organisations. How do political groups organise in Iran? The Iranian constitution allows for the formation of political parties. More specifically, article 26 legalises the establishment of ‘parties, societies, political or professional associations, as well as religious societies, whether Islamic or pertaining to one of the recognized religious minorities’, unless they ‘violate the principles of independence, freedom, national unity, the criteria of Islam, or the basis of the Islamic Republic’.1 In the early days of the revolution, nearly a hundred political parties were established, including leftist and liberal, reflecting the ideological and political diversity of the revolutionary front. However, after a severe crackdown, the subsequent 1981 ‘Law Concerning the Activities of Parties, Associations, Political Associations and Guild Associations, Islamic Associations or the Associations of Recognized Religious Minorities’ was issued to strengthen the newly established regime’s control over political competition (Fairbanks, 1998). The 1981 law, in fact, introduced the need to get a permission to operate by the Ministry of Interior – a requirement that led to the ban of most of existing parties. The Islamic Republic Party (Hezb-e Jomhouri-e Islami – IRP), dominated by Khomeini’s supporters who were also taking over the institutions of the newborn Islamic Republic, then became the only legal party in the country. While the IRP self-dissolved in 1987 originating a factional system, as discussed in the next section, attempts at promoting the establishment of political parties regained strength again in the late 1990s. During the post-war period, in fact, one of the ambitions of ruling governments was to modernise, normalise and rationalise Iranian politics through the establishment of political parties. The necessity for more structured political regroupings was something that politicians and journalists voiced, lamenting the fact that existing factions lacked proper strategy and clarity about principles, ideas and programmes (Razavi, 2010). Towards this end, the reformist administrations led by Mohammad Khatami (1997–2005) established the House of Parties (Khane-ye Hezb) in 2002, with the goal of promoting the formation of parties. The House offered services such as registration and provided rooms and offices for meetings. It had the ambition of becoming a hub and a meeting point for reformist parties, increasing interactions among them and promoting the formation of inter-organisational structures. In spite of such efforts and in spite of the significant number of registered parties, very few became proper organisations with an independent programme and a working structure. According to one functionary of the House, most of the registered organisations were local groups whose function was to mobilise the electorate in favour of other ‘parties’ when local or national elections approached.2 These ‘parties’ were built on extant networks of interest, clienteles and professional associations that followed the government’s invitation to register, but did not have an independent electoral or political programme. Some new parties, however, emerged as real political forces with a specific identity and demands such as, for instance, the reformist Iranian Islamic Participation Front (Jehb’eh Mosharekat-e Iran-e Islami – IIPF). 349

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According to Reza Razavi (2010), however, the parties established during this period faced a number of difficulties. Such constraints were: the hostility of the conservative front towards party politics; the existing legal restrictions, which did not allow political parties to function freely; internal structural problems, which determined a democratic deficit; and the fact that parties were formed from above, originating from the elite’s need for public visibility rather than from a genuine popular demand. Structural conditions were unfavourable to the emergence of political parties, and in fact most of these new reformist political formations disappeared by the early 2010s under the joint pressure of state repression (especially after the 2009 crisis) and institutional marginalisation by mightier conservative bodies. From a one-party system to factions It is common understanding that factions run Iranian politics. Factions are loosely assembled groups that form along multiple lines of interests, ranging from shared economic interests to shared positions on cultural and social policies. Bahman Bakhtiari (1996) described Iran’s elite factional system with an analogy to the Italian system of correntocrazia, which identifies in correnti, similar to factions, the protagonist of Italian politics. In Italy, political parties represent the infrastructure upon which constitutional politics is based, but it is within correnti that decisions are made and interests align. In Iran, likewise, decisions are prepared and interests align within factions. As Bakhtiari (1993) explains, factions have been a major impediment to the centralisation of power in revolutionary Iran. They are fluid and allow for multiple memberships. Factions rarely participate in elections as such. Rather, candidates’ lists are usually formed for electoral purposes and they may gather members from several factions. Historically, these conditions have strengthened elite fragmentation which, in turn, originated limited ideological pluralism (Keshavarzian, 2005). Conventional wisdom makes the emergence of elite factionalism coincide with the dissolution of the IRP, the end of the Iran-Iraq war in 1988, and the death of Khomeini. During the first decade after the establishment of the Islamic Republic there was little or no opportunity for elite factionalism: the war was raging, a new system of institutions and power had to be routinised and, particularly between early and mid-1980s, Khomeinist forces united to side-line, when not physically eliminate, liberal and Marxist forces. The unity of pro-Khomeini forces was promoted through the IRP. However, as Maziar Behrooz (1991) discussed, political factionalism was rife during the 1980s and caused Khomeini’s frequent interventions in public affairs. While the elite was united within the framework of the IRP, a number of satellite associations existed and weakened such unity. In June 1987, Khomeini dissolved the IRP. Later, the absence of an equally charismatic leader to replace Khomeini with made it difficult to keep together the elite, leading to factionalism. The reasons why the IRP failed as an institution in the context of the routinisation of the Islamic Republic relate to increased factionalism on the one side, and to diffidence towards political parties as institutions on the other side. Political factionalism was boosted by the joint action of two phenomena, namely the presence of a range of contrasting opinions regarding economic policies and the failure of the IRP to develop into a mass party. These two elements led to the weakening of the IRP as a party structure, while diffidence played a fundamental role in destroying the party’s legitimacy. In particular, a vision that juxtaposed the clergy and the party as institutions developed, leading to the opinion that the possible creation of two centres of power was detrimental to the revolution. The presence of political parties was seen as threatening to the centrality of the rahbar. The clergy, then, was indicated as ‘the main guiding force for political activities in the country’ (Razavi, 2010, p. 85). Diffidence was also fomented 350

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by the idea that Khomeini’s original words and thought were enough to give political guidelines and instruction to the elite and population, without the mediation of structures such as political parties. Khomeini’s leadership was rooted in the notion of the oneness of society, which presented similarities with the Islamic concept of tohid (tawhid), that is the unicity of God. Ideally, this vision prefigured a stateless and classless society, which united around the words of a leader rather than a multi-layered governing system. The 1988 parliamentary election saw the formation of two competing groups: the Majma-e Rouhanniyoun-e Mobarez (Assembly of the Combatant Clerics – MRM) and the Jame-ye Rouhaniyat-e Mobarez (Association of the Combatant Clergy – JRM).3 The MRM included leftist members of parliament and candidates, earning the name of ‘Islamic left’ for itself. It counted on the presence of anti-capitalist personalities such as Mohammad Mousavi-Khoeinha, but also future reformists who would later become sympathetic to free market policies and willing to strike alliances with members of the JRM, such as Mohammad Khatami, Mir-Hossein Moussavi and Mehdi Karroubi. The JRM, or ‘Islamic right’, included rightist conservative personalities, such as the Ayatollahs Ahmad Jannati, Mohamamd Taqi Mesbah-Yazdi and Ali Khamenei, Khomeini’s successor as rahbar. The JRM also included ideologically flexible individuals, who will later ally with the reformists such as Ali Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani and Hassan Rouhani. The backbone of the Iranian factional system was in place. In 1989, Hashemi Rafsanjani was elected president replacing Khamenei, who replaced Khomeini as rahbar. The constitutional reform, approved in 1989, brought significant changes in the institutional make-up of the Islamic Republic: it increased the powers of the president of the Republic and, in parallel, those of the rahbar, who extended his powers of supervision and intervention in political disputes. The system was strengthened at the top at the expense of collegiality, and created a duality between the elected president and the unelected rahbar. The 1989 constitutional reform also dropped the requirement for the rahbar to be a marja-e taqlid (a source of emulation, the title distinguishing the most learnt and knowledgeable among the clerics), allowing an academically weak candidate, such as Khamenei, to ascend to the leadership. The foreseeable opposition of part of the Shia clergy – which present a significant variety of political opinion internally – to this change was easily contained thanks to Khamenei’s increased constitutional powers. He supervised religious seminars and centres in Qom, the clerics’ sermons and writings, appointed every Friday prayers’ leader in the country, and controlled the Special Court for Clerics (Dadgah-e Vije-y Rouhaniyyat), which became an effective tool to curb criticism against the velayat-e faqih. 4 The strengthening of the powers of the rahbar and the president sparkled criticism amongst Islamic leftists, who demanded democratic inclusion. In addition, the shift towards a ‘religionised politics’ (Ayubi, 2003) – epitomised by the politicisation of the role of the rahbar – generated discontent within the elite and the clergy. They feared that such a ‘mundanisation’ was eventually detrimental to Islam, stripping it of all spirituality and pushing the people away from the sphere of the sacred towards secularism (Mir-Hosseini and Tapper, 2006; Ghamari-Tabrizi, 2004). The emergence of these intra-elite conflicts was the fundamental condition for the differentiation of the factions’ interpretation of Islam. Iranian factions Scholars have repeatedly tried to map out the Iranian factional system, regrouping factions according to their political and ideological inclinations. Payam Mohseni (2016) suggests that sympathy (or lack thereof) towards elected or unelected institutions is the main criterion shaping political factions’ ideological sensitivity in the country. Mohseni identifies four sub-divisions: the 351

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theocratic right and left, and the republican right and left – where ‘right’ and ‘left’ are distinguished on the basis of their orientation towards the ‘social justice vs. the free market’ cleavage. The theocratic right is supportive of conservative cultural policies and favours economic liberalism. Although historically related to the JRM, part of this factions moved towards more democratic views in the 1990s, giving birth to the republican right – a shift epitomised by figures such as the former president Hashemi Rafsanjani and the incumbent Hassan Rouhani. The republican right supports more progressive and liberal views in the field of social and cultural policies, along with neoliberal policies in the economic field. The republican right represents the interests of the urban middle classes, professionals and entrepreneurs, and partially overlaps with the representatives of the reformist faction, who Mohseni originally located in the republican left. As Mohammad Maljoo (2017) points out, economic interests may overlap even if ideological preferences diverge. Examining the casualisation of the Iranian labour market since mid-1990s, Maljoo discusses how members of both the right and the left, who later joined the ranks of the reformists (eslahtalaban), supported the deregulation of job hiring and termination. In the 1990s, in fact, many Islamic leftists became owners of work placement agencies, thus benefiting from the presence of a growing mass of precarious workers. The republican and theocratic right, as well as the reformists, support the integration of Iran into global markets, but differ in their approach to the West as a cultural and political entity: eslahtalaban favour respectful cultural, religious and academic exchanges, while rightist factions are generally suspicious of such interactions. Their fear of cultural penetration, however, never clashed with the preference for an ‘open door’ policy in the economic realm. It also reflects the fact that many members of the Islamic right come from entrepreneurial families. On the opposite side, we have the theocratic and republican left. The theocratic left favours state intervention in the economy and holds strong anti-imperialist views. Attention for issues such as poverty and social justice is often coupled with emphasis on piousness and personal piety. The republican left had quasi-socialist economic views originally, but this changed with the end of the Iran-Iraq war and the decline of the left’s popularity. Ideologically, it turned to reformism and liberalism in the late 1990s, adopting optimistic views on issues such as the compatibility of Islam with civil and political rights and favouring a democratic reform of the law. The republican left argued for the need to soften the system’s ideological rigidity, becoming tolerant of political diversity, personal preferences and lifestyles, and supporting private entrepreneurial initiatives and privatisation in the economy.

Reinterpreting Islam The pluralisation of factions was accompanied by various interpretations of Islam. More specifically, while factions cannot transcend the limitation of holding Islam as their central and essential ideological reference, along with loyalty to the velayat-e faqih, what became plural was the interpretation of Islam that factions can hold. The diversity of interpretations revolves around issues such as whether Islam is more or less favourable to human rights, and whether Islam approves of women’s rights. This section examines the factions’ discourse. It identifies two different interpretations of Islam as a way to represent the diversity of the approaches to religion that elites hold. These two ideal-types have emerged in specific contexts, when environmental conditions pushed factions to adopt a different Islamic discourse in order to distinguish themselves. The two discourses are: reformist or liberal Islam and anti-liberal Islam. While a number of variations exist in the middle, these two ideal-types present the widest differences and are therefore considered here for analytical purposes. 352

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Reformist or liberal Islam Muslim reformers, in Iran and elsewhere, emerged in the 1990s after previous generations in the 1970s and 1980s had worked for translating into practice the slogan ‘Islam is the solution’. They believed that the promises of political Islam had remained unfulfilled considering that poverty, corruption and state inefficiency were still present despite Islamist revolutions and political commitment. Muslim reformers deduced, then, that these problems did not originate from the failure of religious morality to penetrate the state and society. Instead, they held authoritarian politics accountable, emphasising the need for a legal framework to enforce the rulers’ accountability, the respect for human rights and the right to dissent (Esposito, 1997; Browers, 2006). At the same time, the collapse of the bipolar world order freed up the space for Islamic reformers and democratic leaders to have international legitimacy. A few years later, in 2001, the attacks of 9/11 and growing global Islamophobia pushed Muslims and Islamists towards a discourse of moderation, with the goal of distancing themselves from radicalism. Between the late 1990s and the 2000s, the word ‘reform’ (eslah) had become one of the leitmotivs in the speeches of leaders across the Muslim world. Intellectuals such as Abdolkarim Soroush, Dalil Boubakeur, Abdou Filali-Ansary, Fatima Mernissi, Bassam Tibi, Soheib Bencheikh and Abdullahi Ahmed An-Naim argued in favour of a liberal, democratic and, in their words, modern reinterpretation of Islam and Sharia to make them compatible with modern-day values and norms such as democracy and human rights. Referred to variously as reformist, modern, protestant, positive, enlightened, liberal Islam emerged when ‘insistent calls’ for ‘reform and liberalization’ came both from within and outside of Muslim communities (Filali-Ansary, 2003). In Iran, reformist or liberal Islam emerged both as an echo of such transnational debates and as a localised phenomenon, rooted in the idea that the 1979 revolution was somehow unfinished. In fact, the revolution failed to deliver the promise of democratic rule. This idea was dominant amongst leftist intellectuals and politicians, who were experiencing an ideological transformation into democratic reformists. Hamid Reza Jalaeipour (2006), a university professor of sociology and a member of the reformist IIPF, described the Islamic Republic as a system navigating a ‘crisis of achievement’. The notion of a ‘betrayed’ revolution is crucial in the thought of other intellectuals, too. A towering figure in the history of the Islamic Republic, as well as in the field of religious philosophy and hermeneutics, Ayatollah Ali Montazeri has criticised the isolation in which the Islamic Republic plunged after the revolution, the violence of revolutionary slogans, and the restrictions to civil and political freedoms – factors that, according to him, endanger Islam, the nation and the foundations of the revolution. He insisted that unity, freedom and the efforts of create an open society should be the guiding principles of contemporary politics. Montazeri also argued that the ultimate goal of the velayat-e faqih is to keep alive the republican character of the system by encouraging the people’s political participation. The philosopher Abdolkarim Soroush is perhaps the most famous Iranian public intellectual. He criticised the crystallisation of Islam into a codified and immutable system of laws. In his view, religious interpretation needs to be dynamic (fiq-e puya) to allow the law and customs of Iranian society to adapt to modernity. Soroush suggested the idea that a-historical interpretations of Islam would have led to the social marginalisation of religion. With the same urgency, reformists looked favourably at protection of women’s and human rights (Farhi, 2001). The former president Mohammad Khatami identified in the obscurantist interpretation of Islam – which has been dominant in Iran for century, he argues – the origin of despotism (estebdad). Despotism and repression are inherent characteristics of Iranian society, nurtured by centuries of cultural deprivation and religious bigotry. Khatami proposed that reformism can break this lineage of authoritarianism because it expresses the revolution’s democratic principles (Tazmini, 2009). 353

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The reception of liberal or reformist Islam in Iran has been successful. Not only did the reformist front enjoyed several electoral victories (including Khatami’s double election as president of the Republic on an electoral platform emphasising cultural openness and democratic sovereignty), but the impact of reformism is long-lasting and still informs the political preferences of Iranians. The liberal interpretation of Islam, in particular, was crucial to popular appreciation of reformists’ and, later, Hassan Rouhani’s electoral campaigns. Anti-liberal Islam While anti-liberal Islam has always been present in Iran as an unstructured system of ideas voiced by single policy-makers – such as the rahbar Khamenei – and opinion leaders, it emerged as an organised force able to capture elected positions in reaction to the eight years during which liberal Islam dominated elected institutions and the public discourse through Khatami’s governments (1997–2005). Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was a crucial figure of this trend, but antiliberal Islamic interpretations were also proposed by other politicians, intellectuals and members of the clergy. Differently from liberal Islam, which was the expression of a specific faction and of reformist groups organised in quasi-parties such as the IIPF, anti-liberal Islam has remained the ideological reference of a cross-factional regrouping, considering the reluctance to expand this trend into a well-structured and cohesive party-like organisation. Such a reluctance was also connected to the fact that the proponents of anti-liberal interpretations of Islam were predominantly members of the Islamic right, which has historically displayed anti-party hostility. Anti-liberal interpretations were not only constructed in opposition to positive attitudes towards issues such as human rights and personal freedoms, but they also built upon the antiliberal legacy of the revolutionary ideology – which was an integral, albeit not exclusive, part of Iran’s revolutionary thought. For instance, Ahmadinejad utilised the phrase gharbzadeghi, or ‘Westoxification’ – a term popularised by the revolutionary literature in the 1960s and 1970s – to identify a positive predisposition towards liberal notions such as personal rights. Instead, he proposed that an Islam constitutes the sole ideological framework in which all political and ethical evaluations must be conducted (Randjbar-Daemi, 2018, p. 180). This resonates with ideas proposed by the rahbar Khamenei, who during a speech in 2011, declared that Islam is the sum of all ideologies, so that there is no need for other political and moral references.5 The emphasis on cultural and religious authenticity has an explicit anti-Western and anti-imperialist coloration. Part of anti-liberal Islam narratives do not only stand in opposition to reformism, but also to clerically induced social conservatism. Ahmadinejad’s anti-liberal Islam, in addition, was imaginative and focused upon slogans such as the promise to bring about an Islamic Japan (RandjbarDaemi, 2018, p. 181). Such exaggerated comments did not only have the function of attracting visibility. They also suggested that anti-liberal Islam had a propulsive, creative force of its own. Another articulation of this vivacity is the attempt at creating an authentic Islamic knowledge. During an interview, Hassan Abbasi – a far-right intellectual, war veteran, and head of the Center for Doctrinal Analysis, an independent political strategic think-tank – lamented that current university curricula are moulded on a Western and liberal model of science. He stated that: we know that concepts such as hoquq (rights), haqq (right), haqiqat (truth) have roots in the Qur’an and other religious sources. But where the roots of ‘rights’ [in English in the original] and ‘truth’ [in English] are? Not really in any religious source … and though, these are the English translation for haqq and hoquq. We translate hoquq-e bashar with human rights. Do you see the distance between our hoquq-e bashar and ‘human 354

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rights’ [in English]? … Psychology is translated with ravanshenasi, but it is not ravanshenasi, we should use ‘espiritoloji’ or something alike … This is why the 90 percent of the sciences that are taught in universities are wrong! How do you reconcile ‘law’ with hoquq? … This is the problem: our though is still secular, because we are merged in secular science and we only use Western secular sciences as a model.6 The kind of Islam that is proposed by adherents to this interpretation offers an all-encompassing vision of the world and politics, understandable through religion. No cross-cultural contamination is needed: rather, it is considered dangerous as potentially leading to the loss of identity. Such positions have inspired policies that are suspicious of diplomatic engagement with the international community, and have also translated into authoritarian stances towards political diversity. The notion of justice is fundamental in the construction of an Islamic society. In contrast to the typically liberal celebration of private entrepreneurship, anti-liberal Islam has prioritised social justice over private profit. This has often translated into a discourse critical of ‘the powerful’ in society and in support of ‘the dispossessed’. A champion of such rhetoric was Ahmadinejad, who pushed his discourse to the point of criticising the reformist clergy for appropriating resources and power by brutalising Khomeini’s legacy – although he promoted economic policies privatising state assets (Ehsani, 2009). The presence of anti-liberal Islam in Iran has been constant throughout the course of the revolution, although its electoral fortune has swung between success and defeat. Hybrid and moderate forms of anti-liberal Islam are however present in society, and enjoy both circulation and publicity through cultural artefacts that celebrate Islam’s central oppositional role in the history of Iran’s relationship with the West.

Conclusion This chapter has argued that, while there are no official political parties in Iran and religion is an obligatory frame of reference, different versions of Islam inform divergent ideological preferences. It follows that Islam is an important factor in structuring the way in which political orientations coalesce into more or less organised groups. The relationship between Islam and political organisations is, however, complex. A number of other factors must be considered, ranging from the presence of associations that enhance factionalism, to the resources that the Iranian ‘political marketplace’ can utilise for ideological renewal. Overall, environmental conditions constrain the establishment of organised political groups, as discussed in the chapter. Potential new political strands must, in fact, integrate in the pre-existing ideological framework and this may be sustainable only for so long. In Iran, in fact, while the right to dissent is rhetorically celebrated, the right to start an organisation to voice such a dissent is very often denied. In conclusion, the chapter sought to present a balanced analysis of how ideology interacts with material conditions when it comes to the establishment and the functioning of political organisations – that is, factions and parties – in Iran. While Islam is not simply a cover for the material interests that govern political differentiation and conflicts, attention also needs to be given to the role played by the logic of economic gains, the law, and the dominant political culture to offer a complete account.

Notes 1 Available at: www.constituteproject.org/constitution/Iran_1989.pdf?lang=en. 2 Interview with author, June 2008, Tehran.

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Paola Rivetti 3 The JRM formed before the revolution as a loose and general association of revolutionary clerics in Iran. After the revolution, while still existing as an informal association, it converged into the IRP. 4 Apart from this, constitutionally, the vali-e faqih nominates: the head of the judiciary system, of state TV and radio, has direct control over the defence forces (both the regular army and the IRGC – Islamic Revolution Guards Corps, or Sepah-e Pasdaran Enqelab-e Islami), nominates half of the members of the Guardian’s Council, influences the nomination of the Ministers of Intelligence and Interior, and plays a major role in the Supreme Council for the Cultural Revolution and National Security. 5 Available at: www.lenziran.com/2011/10/khamenei-islamic-republic-is-democracy-freedomsocialism -in-its-own-terms. 6 Available at: www.youtube.com/watch?v=e0kEoIeS4Vc.

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29 RELIGION AND POLITICAL PARTIES IN TUNISIA Francesco Cavatorta and Fabio Merone

Introduction Amidst the chaos that has gripped the Arab world since the 2011 uprisings, only Tunisia seems to have emerged as a democratic success story. Although the country suffers from a profound economic crisis and faces considerable security challenges, procedural democracy has been consolidated and ordinary citizens still support the liberal-democratic structures put in place after the fall of Ben Ali (Robbins, 2015; Teti et al., 2018). What has been more surprising for external and domestic observers alike is that the Tunisian political system has integrated the Islamist party Ennahda into the structures of the state despite the domestic and internationals scepticism about the ability and willingness of Islamist parties to play the ‘democratic’ game due to their religion-inspired ideology and policy preferences. Furthermore, the country seems to have found a shared constitutional framework within which to ‘do’ politics without either reifying or delegitimising religion. As Mekki (2018: 4) argues: more than four years after the promulgation of the new Tunisian Constitution on January 27, 2014 we can state that the Tunisian constitutional process has been a clear success on a number of dimensions. Elections have been organised according to the constitutional charter, there has been a peaceful change-over in power and new institutions have been set up, functioning relatively well. The academic and political discussions surrounding the role that Ennahda plays – and played – in Tunisian political and social history revolves inevitably around the relationship between religion and politics and more broadly around the compatibility between Islam and democracy (Goddard, 2002), although it should be recognised form the start that religion per se is a major social and political concerns for all sorts of actors and is therefore not limited to Islamist parties. For decades, scholars and policy-makers have been divided over the issue of the compatibility between Islam and democracy, with some arguing that Islamic religious precepts prevent democratic politics (Lewis, 1990) and others countering that Islam actually promotes it and even requires it (Mazrui, 1997). A more nuanced perspective holds that Islam can legitimise or delegitimise any political system and that it is necessary to instead look at how individual actors

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employ religion selectively to promote their policies and how the institutional environment around them deals with their emergence and success (Brumberg, 2002). The Arab uprisings reignited these debates, as Islamist parties and movements across the region became prominent actors in the processes of transition in Egypt, Tunisia, Yemen, Libya and, to a lesser extent, Morocco. The failure of democratisation in these countries – with the exception of Tunisia – together with the rise of extremist and violent Islamist groups brought back discussions about the role of religion as an obstacle to pluralistic and peaceful politics. While scholarship on the Middle East has moved away over time from the Orientalist perspective that had dominated the discipline in the past, the problem of the relationship between Islam and politics remains central, particularly when political actors claim religious precepts as a guide for their ideology and policy preferences, facing off other actors claiming secularism as the doctrine they abide by when they think about the nature of the state. The post-uprisings regional chaos, including democratic reversals, civil wars and authoritarian retrenchment, seem to confirm the validity of this binary opposition between religion and secularism. In this context, Tunisia then seemingly represents an exception to this binary trend, leading scholars and policy-makers to ask what has made the country exceptional in its ability to reconcile the tension between secularism and religion. A number of different explanations have been put forth to account for the ‘Tunisian exception’, ranging from the absence of a powerful military (Bellin, 2013) to the strength of civil society and from the power of trade unions (Yousfi, 2015) to the support of the international community (Marzo, 2018). They are all reasonably convincing when taken together, but it is also important to look at how the socio-political actors involved in the transitional game perceived their actions and the ones of their counterparts. How do actors themselves explain the apparent reconciliation between religion and secularism? As Volpi (2017) argues, just as the spark for political change is complex, messy and contingent on unexpected turns of events, so is its direction. In the Tunisian context, the controversial role of religion in politics has shaped the transition and political parties have had to contend with its presence in the process of negotiating the construction of a new political and legal system, but the narrative of reconciliation between secularity and religion seems to reflect more the selfperception of the actors than the reality. This chapter, building on the assumption that two concepts take on different meanings in the Arab world from the ones they have in the West, argues that the relationship between political parties and religion – in Tunisia and elsewhere – is much more complex than a simple binary division that needs to be bridged in order to have pluralistic politics. The reality is that so-called religious parties might not be that ‘religious’ in the doctrinal sense and are more interested in political outcomes and results while so-called secular parties might actually have policy preferences and references that are ‘religious’.

Religion and political parties There are three different stories that can be told about the way in which Islam has been ‘dealt with’ on the political and institutional scene and by extension there are different stories about the success of the Tunisian transition as political parties tell it from their vantage point. The Islamist story For the Islamist party Ennahda, the story is one of progressive change both inside and outside the party and this evolution has permitted the construction of a democratic system where religion is protected and the real Islamic state, providing justice and equality, is actually established. It is equality and justice thus that underpin a genuine Islamic state, not the application of sharia. 359

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The dynamics of change the party refers to are the outcome of the social, political and economic transformations the country went through since the 1970s and to which the party adapted, leading it to ultimately become a pillar of the new democratic Tunisia. In its own historiography, the party was founded in the late 1970s when religion was perceived to be under attack from a modernist and, crucially, authoritarian state. For the party, the later Bourguiba years in particular were ones when the very identity of Tunisians as Arabs and Muslims was in danger of being erased in favour of a mindless effort to ape Western modernity. Thus, at the time, the Islamist movement proposed a radical vision on how Tunisia should change and this vision, borrowed from the ideology of the Egyptian Muslim Brothers, revolved around the centrality and totality of religion in all aspects of political, social, cultural and economic life. For the party, the establishment of the Tunisian state was premised on the eradication of Islam in the spiritual, cultural and social life of the country and this was the reason why the country was experiencing a profound crisis in the mid-1970s when the Islamist movement first became active. It follows that Bourguiba’s modernist reforms needed to be opposed and reversed, if Tunisia was to solve that crisis. Back then the ideology of the Muslim Brotherhood influenced the political positions and the stances of what would become the Mouvement Tendance Islamique (MTI),1 Ennahda’s previous incarnation (Cavatorta and Merone, 2015) and it led the MTI to borrow symbols, language and references that did not necessarily reflect the Tunisian reality. The movement at the time did not have a fully developed autonomous ideology or a detailed political programme, focusing much of its attention on religious education and proselytising in order to create the social conditions for a political takeover. In that respect, the party reflected the mainstream approach of Muslim Brothers across the region whereby the increased religiosity of individuals would ultimately undermine the authoritarian systems in place, leaving the door open for political, social and economic solutions based on Islam. Despite some success in attracting support, Ennahda found it difficult to break through broader sectors of society because the movement’s ideological and political visions seemed only marginally concerned with social justice, economic policy or the management of state structures, preferring instead religious platitudes and sloganeering about sharia and the Islamic state without much detailed thought about how this would work in practice. In addition these concerns and solutions were distant from the daily preoccupations of ordinary Tunisians and the movement’s appeal stalled, particularly when it was confronted with a much more coherent and still broadly appealing leftist ideology, which many young Tunisians subscribed to, notably in university circles. Over time, the party and its leader shed the ideological influence of the Muslim Brothers, having experienced a considerable degree of social rejection in Tunisia precisely because the movement was perceived to be unable to offer concrete solutions to the daily problems of citizens (Cavatorta and Merone, 2013). Through internal debates and ideological re-articulation, by the late 1980s they embraced democracy and human rights as an alternative to the authoritarian system in place (Allani, 2009) and began ditching the more problematic aspects of religious influences on policy preferences. The decline of the left also contributed to the greater success the party had among Tunisians and for this reason it was harshly repressed. From an ideological perspective, the party remained ‘Islamist’ and religious precepts still played a central role, but religious symbols and language were employed differently from the past and began to be used to justify a return to democratic politics rather than simply offering ‘Islam as the solution’ to all problems. While underground and in exile, the party was committed to defend Islam against what it perceived as the encroachment of the radical secular modernism the ruling elites implemented because it was done through authoritarian means, while, in its view, religion was truly emancipatory because it advocated for pluralism and democratic politics. At the same time, the party began seeking out allies among secular opponents of the Ben Ali 360

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regime, reassuring them that the party had no intention of creating an Islamic authoritarian state (Wolf, 2018). By the eve of the uprising, Ennahda had moved away from the fundamentalist politics of the 1970s to embrace what can be called democratic Muslim conservatism (Cavatorta and Merone, 2013). When the uprising overthrew authoritarianism, the party was in a position to evolve in the context of pluralistic politics. Despite the volatility inherent in the transition, the party saw its participation in the constitutional assembly and in institutional politics more broadly as the vindication of its stance and of its attachment to the emancipatory values of religion against the potential authoritarian backsliding the country faced. According to the party, the new liberal and democratic institutions no longer see religion as an enemy of the state as was the case under the previous authoritarian regimes and therefore are accepted and acceptable as the only framework through which policy preferences can be articulated. In addition the constitution and the democratic structures in place guarantee individuals that they can ‘live’ their religion as they see fit without interference from the state as it was the case in the past. Thus, there is no longer any reason to have an Islamist party because religion is no longer under attack, having been secured through democratic politics, the construction of which has seen the party play a decisive role. The party can therefore become simply the party of Muslim democrats (Ghannouchi, 2016) and, at the 10th party congress held in 2016, the decision was made to separate the religious movement (haraka) from the political party (hizb). Following this congress, the party’s official instances declared that Ennahda was now the party of Muslim democrats, for whom the religious reference functioned as a moral inspiration rather than as an ideological all-encompassing vision of the world, as is the case for typical Islamist movements (Souli, 2016). Therefore, Islamist activism, in the sense of dawa-oriented activities pertaining to religious education and promotion of correct Muslim behaviour, should not be the party’s preoccupation any longer. Ennahda had to become a fully autonomous and specialised political party, on the model of parties in the party systems of liberal democracies, splitting from the wider movement and giving up completely on the original idea of radically transforming and re-Islamising society.2 Crucial to this outcome has been the internal debate about the role of dawa. The separation between dawa and politics is a typical debate within Islamist movements, which refers to the relationship between the haraka (movement) and the hizb (party). As mentioned, the Tunisian Islamist party, quite differently from some of its ‘cousin’ parties (the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt and Jordan or the PJD in Morocco), did not separate these two functions until 2016. The notion of haraka is directly linked to the idea of ‘transforming society’ with dawa as the main instrument. The concept of hizb for its part is an innovation in respect to the traditional religious concept of jama’a. The hizbiyya (partisanship) relates to the secular/liberal concept of politics, more technocratic and less holistic (shumuli), and is often rejected by hard-line Islamic actors such as Salafis. This debate between dawa and hizbiyya, haraka and hizb, as it developed after 2011 in the Tunisian Islamist party, came to represent the division between two different ideas of Islamic politics. On the one side were those who thought that the historical mission of the movement to provide an Islamic identity to the country was to be accomplished within democratisation and in particular through the drafting of a new constitution that would ensure the institutionalised recognition of Islam (Bobin, 2016). On the other side were those activists and preaching-minded members who wanted to keep the party fully focused on Islamic grassroots-type of politics, actively fostering ‘Islamic’ change within society. At Ennahda’s 2012 congress, the decision on separation was delayed to avoid potentially traumatic splintering at a crucial time in the Tunisian transition. Beginning in 2013, however, the political climate steadily changed. In response to the assassination of the Nasserist member of parliament, Mohamed Brahmi, in July, the Tunisian opposition leaders organised a ‘salvation front’, mobilising several 361

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thousands of people against Ennahda. In August, Ennahda’s president Ghannouchi met Beji Caied Essebsi (founder of Nidaa Tunès, a ‘big tent’ secularist party) in Paris and began preparing the ground for national reconciliation and institutional compromise to avoid being eliminated from the political scene through an Egypt-like scenario. In the following months, the so-called quartet, a group of four civil society organisations with the Union Générale Travailleurs Tunisiens (UGTT) at the helm, helped to set a political consensus, which eventually led to the approval of the constitution in January 2014. The agreement on the constitution and the acceptance of electoral defeat in 2014 (McCarthy, 2018a) signalled that Ennahda was ready to become a ‘real’ political party engaged in democratic institutions that catered to the material needs of ordinary Tunisians (Ghannouchi, 2016). The party achieved its historical objective of protecting religion and it has been able to do so because it has contributed to build a democratic political system, which is the only guarantee for the protection of the faith of individuals. In short, the party has saved Tunisia thanks to religion and now that Tunisia is safely democratic religion does not need to be any longer formally represented in the party structures. The secular story For the secular, leftist and nationalist parties and figures religion has always seemed a problematic ‘enemy’ that should not be employed for political and social mobilisation, but clearly restricted to the public sphere. At independence, Bourguiba’s secular modernist faction of the nationalist movement was able to marginalise the other currents, most significantly the Ben Youssef one, which was pushing for a Tunisian identity more clearly based on the Arab and Muslim heritage. Bourguiba then set about modernising the new state through the single party Neo-Destour and crucial to his vision was the marginalisation of religious institutions, which, according to him, would otherwise prevent Tunisia from embracing modernity and economic development. From reigning in the power and prestige of the Zeitouna as an institution of religious learning to passing a very progressive personal status code, Bourguiba became the symbol of secular Tunisia. By the mid to late 1970s, though, Tunisia faced a number of significant economic and social difficulties, as the post-independence developmental drive stalled. The regime became even more authoritarian and entrenched, facing both an Islamist and a leftist-Marxist opposition. By the mid-1980s the regime was on its last legs and Ben Ali replaced Bourguiba at the helm. Despite his early promises of democratisation (Anderson, 1991), Ben Ali installed an equally autocratic regime that also rhetorically promoted a modernist secular ethos. By then the left was no longer a powerful opposition and sectors of it supported Ben Ali’s political strategy, which was centred on preventing political Islam from taking root in the country. Ben Ali was thus able to ensure a type of authoritarian stability built on economic success that kept many leftists and modernists on board because the regime delivered political stability in an unstable region and a provided new economic opportunities (Sfeir, 2006). The repressive campaign against members of Ennahda found favour with a broad sector of Tunisian society afraid that Ennahda was employing religion to impose a theocratic government despite indications from the leadership of the party that this was not the case. However Islamists are very rarely believed when they proclaim their commitment to democracy and to human rights and this facilitated Ben Ali’s repressive measures. Thus, Ennahda’s ideological moderation throughout the late 1980s and 1990s was dismissed. For the secular modernist camp, religion has to be relegated to the private sphere because any attempt to make it central to policy-making inevitable leads to authoritarianism. In that case it was better to stick with a ‘known’ quantity – Ben Ali – rather than incurring the risk of ending up living in an Iranian-style theocracy. According to this broad informal alliance, the state and its institutions were for them in danger of falling prey to the authoritarian Islamo-fascist project of Ennahda. 362

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This ad hoc coalition between the regime and many leftist secularists held firm until the mid2000s when some leftist figures and movements, tired of the regime’s authoritarian practices and aware of the economic difficulties the country was encountering, entered talks with Ennahda in exile to create a united anti-Ben Ali front (the October coalition) that would be able to offer an alternative to the regime based on a shared belief in democracy and human rights. When the uprising occurred, the agreement on how to proceed to build a new political system held in place despite the inherent volatility of transitional processes. Soon after Ennahda became the leading partner in the post-uprising government coalition with two centre-left parties, Ettakatol and Congress for the Revolution, an anti-Ennahda front quickly emerged within the party system and in society. The bone of contention was again the role religion should play in public policymaking. For the self-styled seculars, Ennahda represented a mortal danger for the nascent Tunisian democracy because, they contended, the party had a hidden agenda. Harking back to the rhetoric of the 1980s and 1990s, many seculars argued that Ennahda had duped its non-Islamist partners after winning the 2011 elections. A number of self-proclaimed secular parties argued that Ennahda would employ democratic means to end democracy, imposing a theocratic state where sharia law would be the only source of legislation. This would bring to an end therefore the progressive and modernist drive that Bourguiba had set in motion since independence and that needed to be revived albeit through democratic procedures. The return of political leaders from the Bourguiba era on the scene to defend his legacy can be construed as an attempt to re-impose a Bourguibian order where religion would not be part of discussions on public policy-making issues. This renewed hostility between the Islamist camp and the modernist one seemed to characterise postuprising Tunisia since its inception and was most evident during the drafting of the new constitution when a series of polarising debates took place, suggesting a sharp division over the role of religion in politics. Thus, when Ennahda floated the idea of writing in the constitution that women were complementary to men rather than equal to them and that sharia should be considered as one of the sources of legislation, the modernist camp took to the streets to protest and secular members of the constitutional assembly worked tirelessly to prevent Ennahda from having its way. The very creation of the party Nidaa Tunès is the outcome of the coming together of different ideological currents and personalities with only one thing in common: their visceral opposition to Ennahda and its perceived attempt to hijack the institutions of the state through democratic means to subsequently employ religion to both devise policies and delegitimise opponents. According to this story then, the post-uprising period saw the victory of liberaldemocracy because the seculars stood firm against Ennahda and its neo-authoritarian project, forcing it to accept pluralism and democratic politics. In short, political parties in the nationalist secular camp successfully kept religion out of politics, ensuring the success of the transition and saving Tunisia from authoritarian backsliding. The real story? For more neutral observers, the story is not as simple as Ennahda and its adversaries tell it, although there is a degree of truth in both accounts. When one examines more closely the history of Tunisia as well as the history of the parties and personalities involved in the transition, it appears that the relationship between political parties and religion is much more complex and is bound up with the instrumental nature that the concepts of secularity and religion have been immersed in. When it comes to the secular and modernist camp and its relationship with religion, the selfperception of being the defenders of the secular Bourguibian heritage and the promoters of the relegation of religion to the private sphere out of ideological conviction does not reflect the 363

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way in which religion has also been employed. From the beginning of his tenure Bourguiba was more interested in getting rid of alternative centres of power such as religious institutions to cement in his own grip on the state than actually subscribing to a genuine secular project. As Boulby (1988) noted, Bourguiba did not present himself as a secularising reformer in the style of Turkey’s Kemal Ataturk. Instead he offered himself to the Tunisians as a modernist reformer of Islam. ‘Our concern’, he said in 1959, ‘is to return to the religion its dynamic quality.’ Ever sensitive to the Islamic personality of his country, Bourguiba knew that religious custom and belief were firmly entrenched in Tunisian society. He saw rightly that Islam was a powerful legitimising factor for the mobilisation of the masses. The Tunisian constitution, for instance, fully recognised the Islamic nature of the country. Under Ben Ali there was a similar attitude towards religion. Rather than undertaking a specific project of secularity, Ben Ali instrumentally employed religion to draw a sharp distinction between legitimate interpretations of it in on the public scene and illegitimate uses – the ones employed to undermine his rule. During the 2000s, for instance, Ben Ali – through the ruling party – ensured that the regime would appear ‘religious’ and in tune with the Muslim nature of the country. He permitted – in fact encouraged – a sort of Tunisian a-political Islam to counter religiously inspired opposition. He did so by allowing Islamic banks, a religious radio and a TV channel. In addition he permitted quietist Salafis to organise educational activities, implicitly undermining the education system of the country, which was nominally secular (Haugbølle and Cavatorta, 2012). Just like the regime’s secularity had been instrumentally employed in the past to generate international support for the regime (the mythology of a secular regime defending secular values against Islamist obscurantisme plays well in the West), so has been the use of religion. Many self-declared Tunisian secular parties have continued to perpetuate the problematic relationship with religion whether intentionally or not. Part of the problem is that both secularism and religion tend to have multiple meanings attached to them. In dominant and Western-inspired discourse, secularism is usually shorthand for modernity and liberalisation from the weight of oppressive religious precepts, particularly when it comes to individual beliefs and self-expression attitudes. On the contrary religion becomes shorthand for a return to obscurantist practices and beliefs that impinge upon individual rights. In short, secularism is modern and emancipatory while religion is un-modern and conservative. From a political perspective this translates into secularism being liberal democratic and religion authoritarian. In the Arab context, the two concepts of secularism and religion find a different ‘translation’ and this is the reason why the notion that secular parties are genuinely secular and religious parties genuinely religious might be misplaced. This becomes confusing then for both participants in and observers of the political interactions between parties. In the Tunisian context, as Wolf (2018) for instance convincingly argues: Nidaa Tounes … was created by strongmen to counter Islamists, but this occurred more out of a desire to defend … strategic interests than for ideological reasons. As such, Nidaa Tounes … initially adopted a distinctly negative identity centred on a desire to keep Islamism in check. In short, (Nida Tounes) did not follow any explicitly secular agenda. This explains why Essebsi – the leader of Nida and current president of Tunisia – often employs religious language and symbolism to implement policies and draw up legislation. The social 364

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conservatism of the party is furthermore in tune with the attitudes of the majority of Tunisians (Teti et al., 2018), suggesting that there are other factors beyond religion affecting such attitudes given that they find support in nominally secular parties and supporters. The summer 2018 debate about the controversial proposition to divide inheritance equally between male and female heirs has demonstrated once more that social conservatism is alive and well in Tunisia, with demonstrations and counterdemonstrations taking place in Tunis. The problem of the relationship with religion affects Ennahda as well, probably even more than the other political parties. As McCarthy (2018b) noted: ‘the relationship between the political and the religious within the movement has been conflicting and ultimately irreconcilable, rather than interdependent and cohesive.’ Following from this insight it becomes clear that religion can be both emancipatory and conservative/authoritarian. On the one hand, the story of the progressive moderation of the party is true insofar as religious precepts have been employed ultimately to liberate the party from its early ideological tenets (suspicious of democracy and imbued with Qutbist3 ideological tenets) and struggle in favour of democracy at a time when very few other opposition parties believed that taking authoritarianism on was the right choice. This change within the party has taken place not by abandoning religion as a source of inspiration, but by doing precisely the opposite: re-elaborating religious precepts to embrace their emancipatory value and using them as a moral guide for political action. On the other hand, the story of a seamless progressive moderation is problematic because it does not take into account how the party has in many ways betrayed some of its core beliefs and policy positions that are inextricably linked to a conservative and un-modern interpretation of religion. As Netterstrøm (2015) highlighted, the party leadership had to work hard and enforce a topdown approach during the transition to democracy to convince ordinary members that the road towards the construction of a democratic order was worth sacrificing the creation of an Islamic state with sharia at its centre because in the meantime the meaning of Islamic state had evolved to such an extent that it now coincided with a liberal-democratic order without sharia. This speaks to the conflicting ways in which religion and politics have co-existed within the party, which went through splits, defections and acrimonious partings during its history. This ambivalence can be seen clearly in the way in which the formal separation between movement and party functions. To be the guarantor of democracy at the political level and the proponent of a reformist form of Islam the new roles of the party/movement in the postrevolutionary institutional set-up. While the political participation of the party in a national unity government was the pillar of its political strategy, the teaching of a reformist Islam, based on the Malekite Tunisian tradition, was the guideline for the activities the dawa-oriented members undertook. This strategy is based on the implicit deal between (moderate) seculars and (moderate) Islamists that the Islamic frame of the constitution is shared and not negotiable. The separation is more a division of labour than a clear-cut parting, as Karim Azouz, at that time Ennahda MP, states.4 Azouz interestingly proposes to compare Ennahda’s separation between political and dawa activities to that of socialist European parties between the party and worker unions (Gaveriaux, 2018). In more practical terms, Ennahda members leaning towards preaching were asked to take their activism into civil society and pursue the strategy of implementing Islam there, indirectly following the Gramscian suggestion that political change could only occur when the battle of ideas and behaviour was won within civil society. Those members who were instead more interested in party politics were encouraged to get involved in actual governing. It should be highlighted though that this division of labour is not a Machiavellian move to dupe political opponents and the international community, but it is the outcome of the debates that took place over time within Ennahda and the choices it made. In particular, the constitutional 365

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compromise the party’s leadership struck with the representatives of the nationalist/secular sector of society meant the achievement/end of Ennahda’s historical mission to provide a clear Islamic identity to the country, as the constitution referred to Islam as the religion of the Tunisian state (art. 1) and, conversely, to the state as the protector of religion (art. 6). Whether this is sufficient to keep all party members on board is difficult to say, although a recent study by Grewal (2018) suggests that there will be a splintering of the party in the near future. Grewal notes that the party has been losing consensus since it tied itself to the experience of government while giving the impression of giving up dawa. This could lead to a split within the party, especially if the next parliamentary elections confirm the negative polling trends. However, Ennahda is not the only victim of the current tendency among Tunisians to feel disconnected from and dissatisfied with party politics. This has much less to do with the role of religion in politics than with the seeming inability of all political parties to deal with the considerable socio-economic challenges the country faces. In short, the success of the Tunisian transition did not rest necessarily on the bridging between religion and secularity thanks to the self-congratulatory actions of Islamists or seculars. It rests instead on the realisation that the social classes and constituencies that the two blocs represent have much more in common than traditionally argued (Gorman, 2018) when it comes to economic interests and social policy and that liberal-democracy represents the system to empower them equally while taming and marginalising the Tunisians from the lower classes (Merone, 2015). Salafi parties The conflicting relationship between religion and party ideology that has traditionally characterised political parties in Tunisia is absent when it comes to Salafi parties. While Salafism is not a new phenomenon in Tunisian history (Torelli et al., 2012), the presence of Salafi parties such as the Front of Reform, the Authenticity Party and the Mercy Party is a novelty and not only for Tunisia. With the exception of Kuwait where Salafi parties (Pall, 2017) had existed for some time, they represent a novel trait of the post-2011 period. Salafis had traditionally shunned institutional politics and preferred to focus on education and charitable work to ensure that individuals lived a ‘proper’ Islamic life (Meijer, 2009). After the fall of authoritarian regimes in Egypt, Tunisia and Yemen, many Salafis decided though that it was time to engage in politics and move away from their traditional quietist stance in order to protect religion against the encroachment of liberals and Muslim Brothers alike (al-Anani, 2017). Their participation in elections was a radical departure from their previous positions and their acceptance of the democratic game was surprising at the very least. This however does not mean that there is unconditional acceptance of the democratic system. Quite the opposite is true. For Salafis, religion and religious precepts are not simply a source of moral inspiration for acting in the political field as they are for Muslim Brothers (Lacroix, 2016). Religion is a totalising and exclusive guide for individual life and for managing society and the state. Solutions to all problems and answers to all issues are to be found in the religious texts and their literal interpretation. From this it emerges that ‘Islam is the solution’ is still the guiding principle of their political action, which means that they accept democracy only as instrumental to implement religious precepts as enshrined in sharia which are immutable and set in stone since the time of the Prophet because Salafis reject innovations and re-interpretations of religious texts. When these beliefs are translated into political positions and policy proposals, the liberal aspect of democracy disappears and democratic mechanisms become then dispensable. As Karagiannis (2019) convincingly explains, participation in the Tunisian democratic institutions and 366

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acceptance of the discourse of democracy are simply a master frame within which Salafis operate because clearly standing for authoritarianism and the imposition of behaviour would not fly with the majority of the electorate, but their policy preferences have a clear authoritarian bent. In any case, the presence of Salafi parties can paradoxically strengthen Tunisia democracy because ‘they have evolved into a movement that can utilise democracy as a master frame. In this way, electoral Salafis can gain legitimacy and support from pious Tunisians who participate in the democratic process’. The three parties mentioned above have been unable to win seats in the legislative assembly so far, but their very participation ensures that the preferences of a sector, however small, of Tunisian society that believes in the fusion of politics and religion find an official and legal outlet. In the case of Salafi parties, religion, or more accurately a specific reading of it, is the structuring ideology and the source of policy solutions. This clearly distinguishes from all other political parties in the Tunisian party system and they can be considered the only actors within which an authoritarian strain remains because their objective of radically transforming and reIslamising society would inevitably encroach on individual rights and enforcing state-sanctioned behaviour would create repressive dynamics incompatible with liberal-democracy.

Conclusion Tunisia, as the rest of the Arab world, continues to live the contradiction of political elites calling for democracy without fully accepting a strong Islamist party. Since 2011, Tunisia has confronted again this dilemma and it has seemingly been able to find a solution in the compromise between the secular and religious camps. On the surface, the agreement on the new constitution and the subsequent coalition between the leading party in the secular camp and the Islamist party in the religious camp testify to the success of bridging religion and secularism. This compromise has led to both camps claiming that the success of the transition and the triumph of democracy are due to their ability to withstand the authoritarian impulses of the other side, forcing it to accept the democratic game as the only viable compromise. The reality however is somewhat different. With the exception of Salafi political parties, which represent a very small part of the electorate and are clear about the necessity to fuse religious precepts and public policies, Tunisian political parties, including Ennahda, have had and still have a much more complex relationship with religion. This has to do with the conceptualisation of religion in the political field and with the meaning of secularism in the Arab world (Asad, 2003) as well as with the specific history of Tunisia. Thus while political parties might believe that there is a highly significant amount of polarisation between ‘secular’ and ‘religious’, both qualitative studies (Gorman, 2018) and quantitative ones (Wegner and Cavatorta, 2019) show that Tunisian voters and citizens are not that distant from one another on a number of sensitive issues where one would expect religion to play a prominent role in dividing people.

Notes 1 The Islamic jama’a became a party in 1981 under the name of Harakat al-Ittijah al-Islami (Islamic Tendency), just to change its name in 1988 to Harakat al-Nahda (The Renaissance Movement), to become finally HizbHarakat al-Nahda (Party Nahda Movement) in 2016. 2 The congress decided that the party’s members would be banned from proselytising or leading civil society organisations. 3 Sayyid Qutb was a leading member of the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood. In 1966, he was convicted of plotting the assassination of Egypt’s president, Gamal Abdel Nasser, and executed by hanging. 4 Ennahda members prefer to talk about ‘specialisation (takhassus)’ rather than separation.

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References Al-Anani, Khalil. 2017. ‘Unpacking the Sacred Canopy: Egypt’s Salafis between Religion and Politics’ in Francesco Cavatorta and Fabio Merone (eds) Salafism after the Arab Awakening: Contending with People’s Power. London: Hurst & Co. Allani, Alaya. 2009. ‘The Islamists in Tunisia between Confrontation and Participation: 1980–2008’. Journal of North African Studies 14(2): 257–272. Anderson, Lisa. 1991. ‘Political Pacts, Liberalism, and Democracy: The Tunisian National Pact of 1988’. Government and Opposition 26(2): 244–260. Asad, Talal. 2003. Formations of the Secular. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Bellin, Eva. 2013. ‘Drivers of Democracy: Lessons from Tunisia’, Middle East brief, Crown Center for Middle East Studies, Brandeis University. Available at: www.brandeis.edu/crown/publications/meb/ MEB75.pdf. Bobin, Frederic. 2016. ‘Rached Ghannouchi: Il n’y a plus de justification à l’islam politique en Tunisie’, Le Monde Afrique, 19 May. Available at: www.lemonde.fr/international/article/2016/05/19/rached-gha nnouchi-il-n-y-a-plus-de-justification-a-l-islam-politique-en-tunisie_4921904_3210.html. Boulby, Marion. 1988. ‘The Islamic Challenge: Tunisia Since Independence’. Third World Quarterly 10(2): 590–614. Brumberg, Daniel. 2002. ‘Islamists and the Politics of Consensus’. Journal of Democracy 13(3): 109–115. Cavatorta, Francesco and Fabio Merone. 2013. ‘Moderation through Exclusion? The Journey of the Tunisian Ennahda from Fundamentalist to Conservative Party’. Democratization 20(5): 857–875. Cavatorta, Francesco and Fabio Merone. 2015. ‘Post-Islamism, Ideological Evolution and “la tunisianité” of the Tunisian Islamist Party al-Nahda’. Journal of Political Ideologies 20(1): 27–42. Gaveriaux, Laura Mai. 2016. ‘Retour sur le congres de Ennahda en Tunisie’. ORIENT XXI, 9 June. Available at: https://orientxxi.info/magazine/retour-sur-le-congres-d-ennahda-en-tunisie,1357. Ghannouchi, Rachid. 2016. ‘From Political Islam to Muslim Democracy’. Foreign Affairs 95(5): 58–67. Goddard, Hugh. 2002. ‘Islam and Democracy’. Political Quarterly 73(1): 3–9. Gorman, Brandon. 2018. ‘The Myth of the Secular–Islamist Divide in Muslim Politics: Evidence from Tunisia’. Current Sociology 66(1): 145–164. Grewal, Sharan. 2018. ‘Where are Ennahda’s Competitors?’, Issue Brief, Baker Institute for Public Policy, Rice University. Available at: www.bakerinstitute.org/media/files/files/1b476ca4/cme-pub-carnegietunisia-050118.pdf. Haugbølle, Rikke and Francesco Cavatorta. 2012. ‘Beyond Ghannouchi: Islamism and Social Change in Tunisia’. Middle East Report 262: 20–25. Karagiannis, Emmanuel. 2019. ‘The Rise of Electoral Salafism in Egypt and Tunisia: The Use of Democracy as a Master Frame’. Journal of North African Studies 24(2): 207–225. Lacroix, Stephane. 2016. ‘Egypt’s Pragmatic Salafis: The Politics of Hiz Al-Nour’. Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. Available at: https://carnegieendowment.org/files/CP_287_Lacroix_al_Nour_ Party_Final.pdf. Lewis, Bernard. 1990. ‘The Roots of Muslim Rage’. The Atlantic Monthly. Available at: www.theatlantic. com/issues/90sep/rage.htm. Marzo, Pietro. 2018. ‘Supporting Political Debate while Building Patterns of Trust: The Role of the German Political Foundations in Tunisia (1989–2017)’. Middle Eastern Studies 55(4): 621–637. Mazrui, Ali. 1997. ‘Islamic and Western Values’. Foreign Affairs 76(5): 118–132. McCarthy, Rory. 2018a. ‘When Islamists Lose: The Politicization of Tunisia’s Ennahda Movement’. Middle East Journal 72(3): 365–384. McCarthy, Rory. 2018b. Inside Tunisia’s al-Nahda: Between Politics and Preaching. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Meijer, Roel. 2009. Global Salafism: Islam’s New Religious Movement. London: Hurst & Co. Mekki, Nidhal. 2018. ‘Le processus constituant tunisien: quels enseignements pour les pays de la région?’. Arab Law Quarterly 32(4): 355–384. Merone, Fabio. 2015. ‘Enduring Class Struggle in Tunisia: The Fight for Identity beyond Political Islam’. British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 42(1): 74–87. Netterstrøm, Kasper Ly. 2015. ‘The Islamists Compromise in Tunisia’. Journal of Democracy 26(4): 110–124. Pall, Zoltan. 2017. ‘Salafi Dynamics in Kuwait: Politics, Fragmentation and Change’ in Francesco Cavatorta and Fabio Merone (eds) Salafism after the Arab Awakening: Contending with People’s Power. London: Hurst & Co.

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Religion and political parties in Tunisia Robbins, Michael. 2015. ‘After the Arab Spring: People Still Want Democracy’. Journal of Democracy 26(4): 80–89. Sfeir, Antoine. 2006. Tunisie, terre de paradoxes. Paris: L’Archipel. Souli, Sarah. 2016. ‘Why Tunisia’s Top Party Rebranded Itself’. Al Monitor, 23 May. Available at: www. al-monitor.com/pulse/originals/2016/05/tunisia-ennahda-islamist-party-rebranding-congress.html. Teti, Andra, Pamela Abbott and Francesco Cavatorta. 2018. Social, Economic and Political Transformations in the Wake of the Arab Uprisings. London: Palgrave. Torelli, Stefano, Fabio Merone and Francesco Cavatorta. 2012. ‘Salafism in Tunisia: Challenges and Opportunities for Democratization’. Middle East Policy 19(4): 140–154. Volpi, Frederic. 2017. Revolution and Authoritarianism in North Africa. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wegner, Eva and Francesco Cavatorta. 2019. ‘Revisiting the Islamist-Secular Divide: Parties and Voters in the Arab World’. International Political Science Review 40(4): 558–575. Wolf, Anne. 2018. ‘What are Secular Parties in the Arab World? Insights from Tunisia’s Nidaa Tounes and Morocco’s PAM’ in Francesco Cavatorta and Lise Storm (eds) Political Parties in the Arab World. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Yousfi, Hela. 2015. L’UGTT, une passion tunisienne: Enquête sur les syndicalistes en révolution (2011–2014). Paris: Khartala.

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30 MOROCCAN CONSTITUTIONAL REFORM AND ISLAMISM(S) Renegotiating the role of religion in the political field Emanuela Dalmasso

On 16 April 2013, a lively debate arose in Morocco referring to the freedom of conscience issue. The Arabic-language daily, Akhbar al-Youm, got the ball rolling by writing about a fatwa, issued by the Morocco’s Superior Council of the Ulema, stating that those Muslims who would be willing to abandon their faith should be condemned to death.1 Besides the matter of the fatwa’s content, one of the reasons why this news sparked such a fierce debate is that the Superior Council was established by King Mohammed VI. In Morocco, the political relevance of religion is high. The king’s religious legitimacy is a significant, if not the most important, source of legitimation for the monarchy. This is because the king is widely considered to be a descendant of the Prophet and is constitutionally defined not only as the Head of State but also as the Commander of the Faithful by article 41 of the 2011 Constitution. Along with giving to the king, alone, the religious prerogatives connected to such a title, the same article defines the king as the Head of the Superior Council of the Ulema. The Council is the sole institution allowed, upon monarchical request and approval, to issue a fatwa, and the council’s attributions, the composition and the modalities of functioning of the council are established by royal decree. The king also appoints the Minister of Religious Endowments and Islamic Affairs and the Secretary General of the Mohammedan League of Scholars, the two most powerful religious institutions in Morocco. Since the 2003 terrorist attacks in Casablanca, carried out by a local radical Islamist group, alSalafyia al-Jihadia, the monarchy has constantly increased its monopoly on religious issues and institutions in order to highlight its pre-eminence over the religious sphere (Maghraoui, 2009; Bouasria, 2012). Moreover, the Moroccan law on political parties, promulgated in 2006, and replaced in 2011 by an organic law on political parties (BO, 24 October 2011) forbids parties explicitly based on religion in order to maintain a religious sphere that is strictly separated from the political. In fact, as the king is both the head of state and the Commander of the Faithful, the monarchy is the only Moroccan institution in which the religious and political dimensions are legally allowed to co-exist. However, various Moroccan political actors claim that their involvement in politics is based upon an Islamic ethos and reacted to the abovementioned fatwa. In particular, 370

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two Islamist political movements, Al-Adl Wal Ihsan (AWI) and Hizb Al Oumma (HO), dissociated themselves from the fatwa, arguing that its interpretation of Islam was incorrect (Lakome, 2013). The final episode of the fatwa-saga took place on 19 April 2013. On that day, in the presence of Mohammed VI, the imam of the Ohoud mosque in Safi dedicated almost the totality of his Friday prayer to the freedom of conscience issue, making clear that freedom of conscience ‘is the pillar of every freedom in Islam’ (Yabiladi, 2013). The king’s presence was immediately interpreted as a monarchical public endorsement of the right to freedom of conscience. At first glance, the debate about the Superior Council’s fatwa could be interpreted as a debate over religious interpretations. However, the AWI and HO not only share the same opinion regarding this particular debate. The Moroccan regime also denies both of them permission to create their own political party. With this clarification, their public statement can be interpreted as an attempt to occupy the public sphere from which they are partially excluded. Moreover, the debate can be considered as the follow-up to the one initiated during the period of constitutional reform that eventually led to the approval by referendum of the new Moroccan Constitution (1 July 2011). During the constitutional debate, freedom of conscience was one of the most discussed topics. However, despite having been introduced in the draft text of the new Constitution, the provision did not make it in the final text due to the opposition of the Islamist Party of Justice and Development (PJD) with the support of the Istiqlal Party (IP) and other so-called conservative actors. After briefly outlining the way in which the Moroccan regime used the constitutional reform to reconfigure and re-legitimise its hold on power, this chapter focuses on the ways in which different Moroccan Islamist political actors, including the ones that are not officially recognised, responded to this process. I argue that Islamists’ different stances on religious issues and on the monarchy during the constitutional reform momentum have to be understood primarily through an analysis of their political strategies rather than being viewed as a result of their religiously based ideological positions. Ideology plays far less of a role in the stances taken by the Islamist groups on constitutional reform than their respective political strategies. The first part of the chapter analyses the constitutional debates on the role of religious freedom. Despite the fact that the PJD’s stance on the freedom of conscience was the most intensely discussed position, closer scrutiny of the Moroccan Islamist sphere reveals the existence of different Islamist actors, strategies and outcomes. The second part of the chapter focuses on the stance taken by different Islamist actors with respect to the monarchy – that is, what role should it play in Morocco’s political system? Using Mohamed Darif’s taxonomy (2010), the chapter will analyse the ‘constitutional strategy’ of three kinds of Moroccan Islamism: ‘integrated’ (PJD), ‘protested’ (AWI) and ‘elitist’ (both HO and Al Badil al Hadari (BH)). The PJD, despite having been allowed to participate in institutional politics as a ‘loyal opposition’ party since 1996, had in practice to limit its political activity in order to be tolerated by the regime. As a consequence of the events of 2011, however, the PJD has been allowed to participate politically at the highest level and the party is currently leading the Moroccan government coalition. More importantly, the PJD’s legitimisation in the official political sphere was contingent on its ‘recognition of the King as the highest temporal and spiritual authority’ (Bartolucci, 2010: 129). In a contrary position, the AWI, which accepts democracy and is nonviolent, refuses to accept the king’s religious role and, consequently, despite having repeatedly requested permission to create its own political party beginning as early as 1981, has not been allowed to enter the official political game (Michbal, 2011). In 2005, the BH was given permission by the regime to create its political party and participated in the 2007 legislative elections. The HO followed BH’s path by requesting permission to create its own political party. 371

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However, in 2008, both BH and HO were effectively neutralised as a result of their leaders’ arrests following accusations of their involvement in a Moroccan–Belgian terrorist cell. This accusation, despite being interpreted as politically motivated, nullified a unique cross-ideological cooperation attempt as both movements ‘tried to reconcile ideas from the left wing (particularly the importance of human rights and constitutional change) and from Islam’ (Pruzan-Jørgensen, 2010: 9–10). In the wake of their leaders’ release following the 20 February Movement demonstrations, both the BH and the HO tried to be officially recognised, albeit unsuccessfully, as political parties.

The consensus game during the Arab Spring At the beginning of 2011, thousands of Moroccans, organised under the umbrella of the 20 February Movement (20FM), demonstrated throughout the entire country calling for democracy and for a new constitution. The royal answer came on 9 March when the king, carefully avoiding any citation of the 20FM, announced a constitutional reform and new legislative elections. This step revealed the uncomfortable position in which the 20FM had put the Moroccan regime. Indeed, for the very first time since Mohammed VI came to power, a royal national speech was timed to answer popular protests and not according to the royal agenda. Nevertheless, the royal speech brought the monarchy back to the political centre stage and enabled the king to portray himself as a reformist actor. The royal recipe for Morocco’s democratisation included the creation of two entities: the Consultative Commission for the Revision of the Constitution (CCRC) and the Political Mechanism Accompanying the Constitutional Reform (PMACR), with the latter charged to follow closely the CCRC’s work. Both the CCRC and the PMACR were regime-appointed committees and the king handpicked the president of the CCRC – Abdelatif Menouni – and its 18 members and consigned the PMACR to Mohammed Moatassim, one of his advisers. Thus, the king predetermined the structure and the components of the body charged to draft a proposal and fixed the main lines along which the text was to be reformed and the schedule of the proceedings, requiring the CRCC to deliver its work by June 2011. As Rkia El Mossadeq (2001) points out, the reform of the constitution in Morocco has always operated as a mechanism through which the monarchy and the different political actors reach a consensus by agreeing on a constitutional text meant to provide a political compromise that solidifies monarchical rule rather than guarantees genuine democratisation. Thus, constitutional reforms in Morocco should be interpreted as a consensus game, within which the monarchy seeks a renewed political agreement with political parties and unions without a significant downgrading of its executive constitutional prerogatives (El Mossadeq, 2001). Referring to the 2011 constitutional reform, Driss Maghraoui used almost the same definition, i.e. ‘politics of ideological consensus’ (2011: 682–684), so as to demonstrate that the pressure on the regime to reform the political system was met once again through the reform of the constitution but without significantly curtailing the royal executive power. To sum up, the 2011 constitution succeeded ‘to a limited extent in redistributing power by transferring certain levels and spheres of it to the government formed by the parliament’ (Belkeziz, 2012: 41), but did not significantly reduce the numerous royal prerogatives. Thus, the 2011 Moroccan constitution was meant, as the previous five did, to renew the monarchical power balance with political parties, unions and civil society groups2 while maintaining the royal pre-eminence. While providing a good understanding of the way in which the constitutional reform processes take place in Morocco, these analyses fail to pay attention to the transformation and changes occurring outside the official political sphere and, as a consequence, neglect the influence and 372

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effects promoted by the political movements that are not legally recognised in the official political landscape. Moroccan political Islam is also comprised of movements, such as AWI, BH and HO, which are not allowed to create their own party but which are, at the same time, de facto part of the political society. Extra-parliamentary political Islam’s activity cannot be neglected when analysing both the PJD and the monarchy political evolutions (or regressions) as all the actors who claim to act according to an Islamic ethos influence each other by taking different stances on matters related to the religious field (such as the abovementioned fatwa debate demonstrated). In addition, despite the fact that there is no doubt that the 2011 constitution was the product of a new consensus game, this reform also took place in a novel context in which the red lines delimiting the political discourse in the kingdom were moving back and forward (Hoffmann and König, 2013). A fundamental part of the Moroccan political Islam did not integrate the consensus game and, at the same time, moved the red lines by endorsing different kinds of discourse about religion and the monarchy’s political and religious role.

The freedom of conscience debate During the CCRC’s work, the freedom of conscience issue stood out as one of the most controversial and, as mentioned earlier, the PJD’s opposition to its inclusion in the new constitution was intensely discussed. First of all, the PJD’s objection vis-à-vis the constitutionalisation of the freedom of conscience right was in contradiction with the position taken by the party’s congress in 2008. The document issued on that occasion states that: the principle of freedom of conscience and of faith, along with the withdrawal of any kind of constraints in the religious field … is a core principle. It is compulsory, in the religious field, to work through persuasion, and not rely on the public authorities’ power or the constraints of religion. (PJD, 6th congress, quoted in Sassi, 2012) Moreover, during its 7th congress in 2012, the PJD reaffirmed its commitment to the freedom of conscience right by declaring that [t]he freedom of conscience principle, the freedom of artistic creation and the protection of public and collective freedoms are established; relying on the principle ‘there are no constraints in religion’, a core principle, it is forbidden to make use of any kind of constraint in order to impose a faith, both its practice and its ethics. (PJD, 7th congress, quoted in Sassi, 2012) Basically, the PJD during the constitutional debate stood up against a principle that had been included previously in the party’s official documents and, even more astonishing, reaffirmed subsequently. In order to explain such a contradiction, this analysis argues that the ‘movement moment’ framework elaborated by Zakia Salime (2011: xvii–xix) can apply to the PJD’s stance on freedom of conscience. Salime demonstrates that while analysing a movement, the concept of conjuncture allows for a deeper understanding than the trajectory one. Indeed, ‘the conjuncture, moment, or combination of critical events’ in which an event occurs must be kept in account so as to explain the ‘chronological separation of prevailing “tracks”, but also the subversion of these “tracks”’. The ‘party moment’, i.e. the party’s internal crisis due to the decision of leading members to participate in the 20FM demonstrations and the upcoming legislative elections, thus accounts for the pragmatic reasons that pushed the PJD to oppose the freedom of conscience right. 373

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There are two sets of explanations that account for the PJD’s stance on the issue of freedom of conscience. First of all, the constitutional debate occurred while political parties were campaigning for the November 2011 legislative elections. During the electoral campaign momentum, the PJD could not take the risk of being perceived as hesitant in defending the religious character of the Moroccan state. This identity battle was especially important for party’s supporters rather than members. Indeed, as a member of the party made clear, ‘freedom of conscience is not an issue for the party, but rather for society’ (interview with author, 2013). The fact that the PJD’s engagement in fighting identity battles would be better understood as an electoral stance is confirmed by a leading member of the PJD, who, referring to the freedom of conscience issue, declared ‘I’m engaged in the political field where people have material needs; I do not deal with religious issues’ (interview with the author, 2013). In the end, the PJD’s attitude towards religious and identity issues needs to be analysed in the context of the legislative elections of November 2011 so as to avoid the overestimation of identity issues and, as a consequence, overlooking the party’s pragmatic oriented discourses and strategies. The second explanation that accounts for the PJD’s attitude during the constitutional debate is located in intra-party dynamics. The constitutional debate was an opportunity for the party to overcome its internal divisions. Indeed, when the 20 February Movement decided to organise demonstrations all over the country three high-ranking members resigned from the General Secretariat in disagreement with the party’s official position not to support the protests. Precisely because of the political negotiations linked to the constitutional reform, however, the three members withdrew their resignations. The constitutional debate was thus perceived by the party as an opportunity to bind together the different wings of the PJD by focusing on shared objectives and avoiding issues that could have been contentious (interview with author, 2012 and 2013). Moreover, despite the fact that one of most discussed topics during the constitutional debate was the PJD’s position on freedom of conscience, it is worth noting that the party focused on many other issues. Tourabi (2011), for instance, stated that ‘the Islamists of the PJD formulated proposals aimed at introducing a balance between the King and the Government in the exercise of statutory and administrative powers’. The PJD’s attempt to restructure the Moroccan political system along more democratic lines received far less attention than its stance on freedom of conscience. This occurred despite the fact that there were other actors that supported the withdrawal of the right to freedom of conscience from the final text – ‘the King’s adviser Mohammed Moatassim with the support of the conservative party al-Istiqlal and the Islamists of the PJD’ (Chibani, 2011) also decided in the end to leave it out. Currently, the PJD, being fully integrated into the official political system, enjoys opportunities but also faces constraints that are not influencing the Moroccan Islamists excluded from the official political sphere, whose political strategies followed a different path during the constitutional debate. As mentioned before, both AWI and HO shared the same opinion regarding the fatwa debate; the BH’s position also does not differ, but its voices, for different reasons, went unheeded within the CCRC consultations. AWI criticised the CCRC as a mechanism set up with the sole purpose of maintaining the status quo and, consequently, refused to participate in the debate. It referred to the constitutional provisions that should be adopted, demonstrated with the 20FM and campaigned for a boycott of the constitutional referendum (interview with author, 2013). HO followed the same path and similarly criticised the CCRC and campaigned for a boycott (interview with author, 2013). Moreover, HO was also an active member of a coalition called ‘For a constitutional monarchy now’ (CMN). This coalition, which included leftist and members of Islamist political parties, unions and individual personalities, participated in the public 374

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constitutional debate by issuing communiqués that stigmatised the CCRC’s autocratic nature (Hallaoui, 2011). Finally, the BH, despite having participated in the CMN’s activities, opted in the end for a different stance vis-à-vis the CCRC. Contrary to the rest of the extra-parliamentary political Islam, the BH requested to be received by the CCRC in order to outline the constitutional memorandum they had prepared. Despite BH’s request, the CCRC denied it the right to be involved in its consultations precisely because it was not recognised as a political party (interview with author, 2013). However, once the constitutional project was submitted to vote, BH campaigned for a yes vote since, in its opinion, the new constitution represented at least an improvement in terms of a more democratic system (interview with author, 2013). Thus, the part of political Islam that did accept the principle of freedom of conscience was not included in the CCRC consultation mechanism. While in the case of AWI and HO it was the result of a selfexclusion process, the BH case demonstrates that the reform mechanism set up by the monarchy applied restrictive criteria in terms of the actors entitled to express their opinion. Certainly, it could be argued that the exclusion of a non-recognised actor in an official reform process is an expected outcome. However, the CCRC’s refusal to include BH was in contradiction with its own stance. Indeed, the commission was very keen to include as many actors as possible in the consultation process, as shown by the fact that many 20FM members received e-mails and phone calls on their private mobile phones, inviting them to submit their propositions to the CCRC (Waïl El Karmouni, 2012). The Commission also officially invited NGOs, such as ATTAC Maroc, which are not legally recognised by the Moroccan state (Yabiladi, 2011). Thus, for the Moroccan regime, a non-legally recognised civil society actor is entitled to participate in the consensus game, while a political actor under the same conditions cannot.

The debate on the religious and political role of the monarchy Between 1999, when Mohammed VI came to power, and 2011, the traditional political parties did not consider the readjustment of the power balance between the monarchy and the elected institutions, that a constitutional reform could provide, as an essential goal. Thus, the 2011 constitutional reform was, contrary to the previous ones, a royal priority despite the fact that the political parties did not demand it. Nevertheless, as mentioned above, the PJD used this unique opportunity in order to foster the democratic institutions’ prerogatives while, at the same time, not questioning the king’s religious role. The monarchy’s political role was discussed also with the PJD referring to the way in which the monarchical institution should be worded in the new constitution. This issue sparked an internal debate within the PJD between those claiming for the need to define the monarchy as ‘constitutional monarchy’ and others in favour of the ‘democratic monarchy’ option. This debate reflected the PJD’s internal division among those who were in favour of a meaningful downgrading of the royal executive powers, thus opting for the constitutional monarchy, and others that considered that the monarchy should reign and govern. The PJD’s members that backed up the constitutional monarchy option went as far as proposing that the party’s national council should vote on this issue. However, Abdelilah Benkirane, the former party’s general secretary, refused (interview with author, 2013). In the end, the PJD agreed that ‘it was not the time for a debate on certain issues’ (interview with author, 2013) and, thus, the PJD called for a democratic monarchy. Once more, the incoming legislative elections explain why the PJD took such a moderate stance, insofar as displeasing the monarchy has never been a successful electoral strategy in Morocco (Kalpakian, 2008). To the contrary, the religious role of the monarchy did not raise any internal debate and the PJD stuck resolutely to this principle during the constitutional debate. Abdellah Bouanou, despite being known as one of the most critical PJD member vis-à-vis the king’s executive 375

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powers, declared that ‘the Commander of the Faithful is one of the pillars of the Moroccan system, a modification of this institution would have been simply inacceptable for us’ (interview with author, 2013). The PJD’s acceptance of the religious royal pre-eminence in the Moroccan political landscape can be explained both in terms of opportunity and constraints. The Commander of the Faithful, in fact, constitutes the most powerful and indisputable guarantor of the public role of religion. As Benkirane clearly outlined: If the monarchy is the guarantor of Morocco’s national unity, the institution of the Commander of the Faithful is the guarantor of the country’s Islamic identity. It is to the interest of the Islamic cause to maintain the king as ‘Commander of the Faithful’ who is responsible to guard the implementation of Islam in the country. Command of the Faithful is the divine rope that will bridge the king to the Islamists. All in all, he will be accountable to the Moroccan Muslim masses on this respect. (Quoted in El Sherif, 2012: 667) Whereas in Tunisia Islamists are negotiating with the secular sphere on the role that religion must play in politics, in Morocco, the PJD can take it for granted precisely thanks to the religious role of the monarchy. Referring to the political and religious role that the monarchy should play in the Moroccan system, the extra-parliamentary Islamist camp is comprised of two different tendencies. The elitist actors were in favour of a constitutional monarchy that reigns but does not govern and, as a consequence, of a meaningful redistribution of power in favour of the elected constituencies but not in opposition to the monarchy’s religious role. The acceptance of the king’s religious leadership is the consequence of HO and BH’s efforts to be recognised as political parties. Indeed, with the acceptance of the king’s religious role being a pre-condition to integration in the institutional politics (Willis, 2008), HO and BH had no other choice than to accept this principle. The AWI, on the contrary, reaffirmed its commitment to a democratic system while avoiding expressing an opinion concerning the role the monarchy should play. In order to understand the AWI’s stance on this issue, it is important to take into account the fact that ‘[t]he monarch’s temporal role in politics is an extension of his spiritual power, which political parties take as one of the sacred institution in Morocco’ (Daadaoui, 2010: 201). Moroccan political parties, thus, accept the religious role of the monarchy in order to enter the official political sphere; once they are part of the institutional politics they cannot criticise the monarchy’s legitimacy. Still, it is precisely the denial of the monarchy’s legitimacy that in AWI’s opinion ‘would trigger the necessary radical transformation of the political system’ (Cavatorta, 2007: 393). Accordingly, since 2005, the AWI has proposed the establishment of a pact, previously labelled Islamic and nowadays national (Madani, 2006), between all the Moroccan political and civil actors in order to set up a constituent assembly in charge of writing a new constitution outside the king’s sphere of legitimacy (interview with author, 2013). As for the freedom of conscience debate, in the end, the different stances taken by the Moroccan Islamist political actors about the role that the monarchy should play have to be interpreted as the result of their political strategies. This is not to argue that religion and ideology do not play an important role in the Moroccan political landscape, quite the contrary is true. However, the role played by religious and ideologically related issues in the Moroccan political context is due, in the first place, to the monarchical political strategy. Since 2004, the monarchy has constantly institutionalised religious affairs by radically increasing its control over the religious sphere in response both to internal challenges derived from the galaxy of Moroccan Islamist actors and to the increasing role of foreign Islamic influences (El-Katiri, 2013). 376

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Conclusions In analysing what constitutions do, Cass R. Sunstein argues that a central goal of constitutional arrangements is to ‘clarify the basis for disagreement’. In doing so, constitutional law reduces the danger of the ‘group polarization’, i.e. ‘a process by which groups of like-minded people move one another to increasingly extreme positions’, by relying on the ‘incompletely theorized agreement’, i.e. ‘a process by which people agree on practices, or outcomes, despite disagreement or uncertainty about fundamental issues’ (Sunstein, 2001: 8). The limited constitutional reform should not lead to an underestimation of the consequences that this unintended reform process has brought about. As Mohamed Madani states, ‘due to the limits of the political system set up by the monarchy, the constitutional reform stands as one of the few opportunities for extra-parliamentary Islamists in order to express their opinion’ (2012: 125). The fact that the ‘protestor Islamists’ and ‘elitist Islamists’ expressed their opinions by participating in the activities organised both by the 20FM and by the CMN has increased, at least in the long term, the possibility of an ‘incompletely theorized agreement’. Indeed, during the Arab Spring momentum and the subsequent constitutional debate, part of political Islam was involved in a cross-ideological alliance with the extra-parliamentary leftists. Obviously, their cooperation did not materialise into a perfect agreement on every single issue,3 still for the very first time they mobilised together in opposition to the regime. The AWI’s participation in the 20FM can be interpreted as a radical change in strategy (Madhi, 2013). This interaction between political Islam and part of the political left occurred outside of institutional politics and raised consciousness among certain actors regarding the need to agree on practices and outcomes, i.e. a constituent assembly that would set up the rules of a democratic system, despite disagreement or uncertainty about fundamental issues, i.e. the role that religion should play in politics. While an analysis of the 2011 constitutional reform demonstrates that the different strands of political Islam are able and willing to downsize the role religion should play in politics according to existing political structures and opportunities, the monarchical trajectory does not seem to point in the same direction. On the contrary, in the aftermath of the events of 2011 the role religion plays for the survival of the Moroccan regime has increased. First of all, the constitution reform process has increased the group polarisation effect insofar as the king’s role as the supreme arbiter fosters the polarisation of the Moroccan society. Indeed, those Moroccans who consider that religion should play a role in politics see the king as their guarantor, like those who consider the ‘modern king’ as their protector from religious fundamentalism. Second, the events of 2011 and the instability and violence in various countries of the MENA region that followed have increased the monarchy’s need to foster its religious legitimation. As demonstrated by Del Sordi and Dalmasso (2018), even the role of privileged mediator and promoter of interfaith dialogue that Morocco plays at the international level has been used by the regime to foster its internal legitimation. Over time, in fact, Morocco has linked the promotion of moderation and ‘true Islam’ made at the international level to the internal political survival of the Commander of the Faithful. Finally, the monarchy’s management of the biggest unrest in Morocco since the Arab Spring reveals to what extent religion is increasingly important for the regime’s survival. In October 2016, after a fishmonger was crushed in a garbage compactor as he tried to retrieve his catch which was confiscated by the police, peaceful demonstrations started in the city of Al Hoceima. As it was the case for Mohamed Bouazizi’s tragedy in Tunisia, Mouhcine Fikri’s death sparked demonstrations all over the country. Starting as a request of serious inquiry into the tragedy, the demonstrations turned into a protest movement, known as Hirak Chaabi, 377

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whose targets are corruption and the lack of economic development in the Rif region. As corruption and underdevelopment are a widespread concern in Morocco, protests erupted in other parts of the countries and demonstrations were organised in solidarity all over Morocco. The Hirak and its leader, Nasser Zefzafi, have become over time the biggest concern for the Moroccan regime and until now (early 2019) the monarchy has been unable to respond other than with repression. While the analysis of the Hirak goes beyond the scope of this chapter, two events related to it are worthy of attention in order to shed light on the role religion plays for the regime’s survival. After the first demonstrations took place, Mohamed Hassad, former Minister of the Interior, went to convey the king’s condolences to Fikri’s family. Following this visit, Fikri’s father declared that his son’s death should not be exploited by those willing to bring the fitna, the sedition, to Morocco and among Moroccans and thus he and his family did not support the demonstrations organised in his son’s name.4 It is not by coincidence that Fikri’s father made a connection between participation in the demonstrations and highlighting sedition in Morocco after meeting with the king’s emissary. Indeed, the choice to use a religious concept such as the fitna to prevent people from protesting is linked to the need to portray the survival of the country as indissoluble from the monarchy’s preservation, being the Commander of the Faithful’s prerogative to guarantee the unity of the nation. In addition, Zefzafi’s arrest only occurred after he dared to challenge the king’s religious legitimacy by interrupting the Friday prayer sermon in Mohammed V mosque in Al Hoceima. Despite the fact that the Hirak made public its will to avoid protests during the 2017 Ramadan so to respect the sacredness of this period, the regime still required the imam to deliver a Friday prayer that targeted the protests. On the eve of Ramadan, as it has already been the case for Fikri’s father, also the imam made a connection between participating in the demonstrations and promoting the fitna. 5 Zefzafi’s reaction to this sermon went as far as declaring that the mosques belong to God and not to the regime, thus publicly denouncing the monarchical exploitation of worship places for political goals. Obviously this statement could not remain unpunished since it targeted the core of the monarchical power, i.e. its religious legitimacy, and led to Zefzafi’s incarceration and to an even harsher repression of the Hirak. To sum up, without sustained ability to oversee meaningful economic development and being apparently unwilling or unable to offer greater political freedoms, over recent years Morocco’s governing regime has increasingly relied both on repression and on its religious legitimacy to maintain its grip on power.

Notes 1 A translation of the fatwa in French is available at: www.marocpress.com/fr/lakome/article-42466.html, accessed 20 November 2018. 2 What distinguishes the 2011 constitutional reform from the previous ones is the fact that, along with political parties and unions, also various civil society’s groups participate in the negotiating mechanism both as members of the CCRC and as actors entitled to submit their propositions (Dalmasso, 2014). 3 Referring to the 20FM, Ahmed Benchemsi went as far as considering that: ‘[c]rippled by inexperience as well as internal conflicts between Islamists and leftists, Feb20 failed to produce key leaders, central structures, or much of an agenda beyond “Down with absolutism!” sloganeering’ (Benchemsi, 2012: 58). This interpretation, however, overestimates the importance of leaders and structures. Indeed, the Tunisian and Egyptian regimes did not fall as a result of protests organised by structured movements with clear analyses of the political dynamics of their respective countries, but because the regimes, under pressure from protesters, were unable to offer a credible political alternative. In Morocco, on the contrary, the monarchy could exploit the PJD’s political legitimacy. Furthermore, the AWI’s retreat from the 20FM corresponded to an impressive downgrading of its mobilising capacity and it is thus logical to estimate that the 20FM would have had even a smaller impact if the Islamists did not participate at all.

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References Bartolucci, V. (2010) Analysing elite discourse on terrorism and its implications: the case of Morocco. Critical Studies on Terrorism 3(1): 119–135. Belkeziz, A. (2012) Morocco and democratic transition: a reading of the constitutional amendments – their context and results. Contemporary Arab Affairs 5: 27–53. Benchemsi, A. (2012) Morocco: outfoxing the opposition. Journal of Democracy 23: 57–69. Bouasria, A. (2012) The second coming of Morocco’s ‘Commander of the Faithful’: Mohammed VI and Morocco’s religious policy, in Bruce Maddy-Weitzman and Daniel Zisenwine (eds), Contemporary Morocco: State, Politics and Society under Mohammed VI, London: Routledge, pp. 37–56. Cavatorta, F. (2007) Neither participation nor revolution: the strategy of the Moroccan Jamiat al-Adl walIhsan. Mediterranean Politics 12(3): 381–397. Chibani, A. (2011) Maroc: trois projets de Constitution et des doutes. Le Monde Diplomatique, 30 June. Available at: www.monde-diplomatique.fr/carnet/2011-06-30-Maroc. Accessed 15 March 2013. Daadaoui, M. (2010) Rituals of power and political parties in Morocco: limited elections as positional strategies. Middle Eastern Studies 46(2): 195–219. Dalmasso, E. (2014) Apolitical civil society and the constitutional debate in Morocco, in Andrea Teti, Gennaro Gervasio and Luca Anceschi (eds), Informal Powers in the Greater Middle East: Hidden Geographies, London: Routledge, pp. 145–158. Darif, M. (2010) Monarchie marocaine et acteurs religieux, Casablanca: Afrique Orient. Del Sordi, A. and E. Dalmasso (2018) The relation between external and internal authoritarian legitimation: the religious foreign policy of Morocco and Kazakhstan. Taiwan Journal of Democracy 14(1): 95– 116. El-Katiri, M. (2013) The institutionalisation of religious affairs: religious reform in Morocco. The Journal of North African Studies 18(1): 53–69. El Mossadeq, R. (2001) Les labyrinthes de la transition démocratique, Casablanca: Najah El Jadida. El Sherif, A.N. (2012) Institutional and ideological re-construction of the Justice and Development Party (PJD): the question of democratic Islamism in Morocco. The Middle East Journal 66(4): 660–682. Hallaoui, L. (2011) Pour une monarchie parlamentaire maintenant. Le Soir Echos, 1 June. Available at: www.maghress.com/fr/lesoir/23216. Accessed 10 November 2018. Hoffmann, A. and C. König (2013) Scratching the democratic façade: framing strategies of the 20 February Movement. Mediterranean Politics 18(1): 1–22. Kalpakian, V.J. (2008) A tug of war over Islam: religious faith, politics and the Moroccan response to Islamist violence. Journal of Church and State 50: 119–133. Lakome (2013) Apostasie: Des Islamistes marocaines contre la fatwa du Conseil des Oulemas. Available at: http://fr.lakome.com/index.php/politique/654-apostasie-des-islamistes-marocains-contre-la-fatwa -du-conseil-des-oulemas. Accessed 18 April 2013. Madani, M. (2006) Le paysage politique marocain, Rabat: Dar Al Kalam. Madani, M. (2012) Le champ politique au prisme de la réforme constitutionnelle (1999–2011): De la noninscription de la constitution dans l’agenda royal au texte du 29 juillet. Revue marocaine des sciences politiques et sociales 3: 115–159. Madhi, K. (2013) Islamism(s) and the Arab uprisings: between commanding the faithful and mobilising the protestor. The Journal of North African Studies 18(2): 248–271. Maghraoui, D. (2009) The strengths and limits of religious reforms in Morocco. Mediterranean Politics 14(2): 195–211. Maghraoui, D. (2011) Constitutional reforms in Morocco: between consensus and subaltern politics. Journal of North African Studies16(4): 679–699. Michbal, M. (2011) Enquête, à quoi joue Al Adl? Tel Quel, n°469. Available at: www.telquel-online. com/archives/469/couverture_469.shtml. Accessed 4 November 2012. Pruzan-Jørgensen, J.E. (2010) The Islamist movement in Morocco: main actors and regime responses. DIIS Report, 5, Danish Institute for International Studies, Copenhagen: Vesterkopi AS. Available at: www. econstor.eu/dspace/bitstream/10419/59863/1/624784975.pdf. Accessed 26 June 2012.

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Emanuela Dalmasso Salime, Z. (2011) Between Feminism and Islam: Human Rights and Sharia Law in Morocco, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Sassi, M. (2012) La liberté de conscience. Lakom. Available at: www.panoramaroc.ma/fr/la-liberte-de-con science-par-mohamed-sassi/. Accessed 30 November 2012. Sunstein, C.R. (2001) Designing Democracy: What Constitutions Do, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tourabi, A. (2011) Constitutional reform in Morocco: reform in times of revolution. Arab Reform Initiative, November. Available at: www.arab-reform.net/IMG/pdf/Morocco_EN.pdf. Accessed 5 November 2012. Waïl El Karmouni, G. (2012) Mouvement du 20 Février, Quels enseignements à tirer pour la gauche marocaine. Analysis prepared for the Rosa Luxemburg Stiftung. Available at: www.rosalux.de/fileadm in/rls_uploads/pdfs/Themen/Arabellion/20120315_ghassan_wail_maroc.pdf. Accessed 10 July 2012. Willis, M. (2008) Islamism, democratization and disillusionment: Morocco’s legislative elections of 2007. Research Paper, 1, Middle East Centre, Oxford: St Antony’s College. Available at: www.sant.ox.ac. uk/mec/morocco/Islamism-Democratisation-Disillusionment.pdf. Accessed 4 September 2012. Yabiladi (2011) Réforme constitutionnelle: Nouveaux refus à l’invitation de la Commission. Available at: www.yabiladi.com/articles/details/5235/reforme-constitutionnelle-nouveaux-refus-l-invitation.html. Accessed 12 November 2018. Yabiladi (2013) Liberté de conscience au Maroc: En présence du roi, un imam affirme que l’islam l’autorise. Available at: www.yabiladi.com/articles/details/16802/liberte-conscience-maroc-presence-imam.html. Accessed 10 November 2018.

List of interviews Arsalane, F., co-secretary general of Al-Adl Wal Ihsan, Rabat, 6 March 2013. Bouanou, A., chief whip of the PJD, Rabat, 14 March 2013. El Marouani, M., leader of Hibz Al Oumma, Rabat, 7 March 2013. El Moatassim, M., leader of Al Badil al Hadari, Rabat, 5 March 2013. Hamidime, A., member of the executive bureau of PJD, Rabat, 8 and 22 March 2013.

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31 EGYPT1 Sumita Pahwa

As the oldest and largest Islamist movement in the Arab world, the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood (MB) has long constituted a bellwether for the evolution of political Islam. Its shift from antisystem to electoral politics starting in the 1980s triggered a long-running debate in Middle East studies and policy circles about whether Islamist participation would help or hurt democratisation in the long run. As the largest political opposition in countries where political liberalisation was, per regime and international narratives, inevitable, what Islamists signalled about their democratic commitments mattered, for they might strengthen or sink democracy with their participation. While scholars debated the relative importance of Islamist positions versus the institutional barriers of electoral authoritarianism in determining whether democratisation would succeed, most agreed that a stake in electoral politics would reduce chances that Islamists might play spoiler in an ultimate transition to democracy.2 Despite a scholarly consensus that electoral incentives under authoritarian rule were ambiguous, and regimes and Islamists had different goals in expanding electoral inclusion, scholars identified key pathways of adaptation that were likely to boost motivations and behavioural norms functional for democracy: Islamists would adapt to electoral incentives in a cumulative fashion, reorienting operating principles and activities increasingly to electoral needs, expanding alliances with new social and political actors, and facing trade-offs between religious and electoral goals.3 They would then accept majority-based electoral politics with multiple legal parties as the only game in town, dropping calls for a polity governed by religious rules. Scholars used the phrase “inclusion-moderation” to summarise this path of adaptation and political learning. As the MB participated in Egyptian electoral politics through the 1990s and 2000s, despite regime reversals and crackdowns, it appeared to invest increasingly in the electoral process, developing a parliamentary cadre, pressing for party status, forming alliances, and evolving new official positions on matters of pluralism, multiparty democracy, and equal citizenship of nonMuslims.4 When the overthrow of Hosni Mubarak allowed for free elections in 2011 and 2012, the movement formed a legal party and won elections for the first time. Yet despite being visibly transformed by electoral participation, with deepening incentives to prioritise electoral outreach, the MB did not follow the institutional and ideological trajectory scholars had expected. The MB and its newly formed party, the Freedom and Justice Party (FJP), used fullthroated Islamist rhetoric in electoral campaigning in 2011–2012. Extensive organisational adaptation to electoral work did not weaken the movement relative to the party, and as large 381

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numbers of cadres engaged in electoral politics, they did not pull the movement in a more compromise-seeking direction. When the MB’s elected presidential candidate Mohammed Morsi faced the threat of military overthrow in 2013 (and was ultimately toppled later that year), the language of martyrdom for God and the framing of political enemies as religious enemies re-emerged in the public discourse of the Brothers, including those closely associated with electoral work. This development threw many assumptions of inclusion-moderation, particularly regarding the mechanisms by which Islamists would “moderate” their ideological positions, into question. Moderation can have multiple meanings, and is a politically charged term, historically used by authoritarian regimes to define the kind of public religion acceptable to them and categorise Islamists as uniquely anti-democratic.5 While measuring moderation as a set of ideological commitments conducive to democracy may be problematic (secular parties and regimes have rarely been democratic in the Middle East, after all), and playing by the rules of the electoral game does not necessarily reflect ideological support for it – we can identify pathways and dimensions of moderation that operate in similar ways across political contexts. The main dimensions of adaptation are organisational and ideational: the mother movement and its ideological leadership cede decision-making to an electorally oriented cadre, allowing everyday organisational priorities to be restructured around electoral incentives, the overall movement drops the more exclusionary aspects of its political ideology, and accepts those who do not share their religious commitments as political equals. The main mechanisms or path-ways are those of political learning – movements respond to electoral incentives by calculating the benefits of participation, pursue compromise and strategic gains, and become increasingly flexibly on core ideological beliefs that may be stumbling blocks for expanding constituencies6 – and organisational specialisation – political incentives increasingly separate party and movement work, and as movement resources are increasingly invested in electoral work, religious or ideological priorities are downgraded. The political incentives that encourage adaptation may vary, and scholars of Islamist parties in Tunisia and Morocco have shown that repressive political contexts can trigger moderation as well. The exact outcomes of adaptation may, similarly, be different, but in some form, they constitute an internalisation and institutionalisation of norms and practices that may have been adopted strategically for electoral participation but ultimately shift the movement’s perception of its own political mission and identity.7 The MB showed clear evidence of following many of the pathways outlined above both under Mubarak’s rule and after his overthrow. It adapted strategically to the expansion of political opportunity after 2011, forming a separate political party, introducing a new training curriculum to capitalise on political opportunities, and shifting operational priorities substantially to electoral outreach. Two major elections, for parliament in 2011 and the presidency in 2012, were genuine majority-seeking opportunities for the MB even as they ultimately allowed an entrenched security-military elite to delay the transfer of executive power to an elected government. The movement adapted its ideological positions strategically to signal its commitments to potential allies and to mobilise different coalitions. While the military coup and subsequent repression of the movement in 2013 ended this process, this case still offers an important and instructive test of how different mechanisms and conditions of political inclusion trigger substantial ideological and organisational adaptation for Islamist movements. I will argue that the evolution of the MB from 2011 to 2016 confirms the significance of the mechanisms outlined in inclusion-moderation theory while showing the multiple outcomes they may have depending on variations in adaptive strategies and conditions. Specifically, I find that (a) prior moderation under electoral authoritarianism was formative in shaping the movement’s ideological responses to new political incentives and its interpretation of new 382

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opportunities, without necessarily encouraging progressive adaptation; (b) the complex and dynamic political opportunity structures created by the shifting strategies of other parties and institutional instability of democratic transitions offered contradictory rather than incremental incentives for adaptation; (c) electoral strategies that protected core religious goals proved unexpectedly functional for new electoral thresholds, challenging assumptions that Islamists must trade off religious goals for power-seeking, and allowing the MB to alternate between older and newer outreach strategies rather than following a linear adaptive path; and (d) under specific conditions and given an adaptive strategy that prioritised message-seeking, new electoral thresholds strengthened hard-line positions within movement ranks, rather than encouraging cadres to invest in political office. Thus, while the MB did engage in many of the mechanisms of political learning hypothesised in the inclusion-moderation literature, the ideological, strategic, and organisational outcomes of this learning challenge the predictive utility of inclusionmoderation. Applying the comparative and theoretical contributions of Brocker and Kunkler (2013), Tezcur (2010), and Jaffrelot (2013) to the literature on political learning for religious parties, I will disaggregate the MB’s political learning experience in 2011–2016 into the different processes and stages in which it adapted to new political opportunities, and study how movement actors weighed message-seeking, power-seeking and organisational priorities and the risks and rewards of change in deciding which of several possible pathways to pursue. I use internal movement documents, interviews with movement cadres, and public reports to trace the MB’s political learning in this period, focusing particularly on how movement cadres interpreted political opportunity and justified their responses to it, and weighing this evidence against the assumptions contained in the inclusion-moderation literature.

Inclusion-moderation literature and the stakes of the MB’s experience The MB’s apparent divergence and ultimate reversal from a trajectory of gradual adaptation to expanding political opportunity in 2011–2016 was pointed to by some analysts as evidence that the movement’s increasing political inclusion had not been accompanied by significant rethinking of policies and ideas, particularly regarding its commitment to democracy, and that this conservative response to inclusion cast serious doubt on the inclusion-moderation thesis. While many anti-Islamist political commentators in Egypt argued that the MB’s behaviour in government made it clear they had never changed, others argued that the conditions of inclusion had never really been met, given the persistence of military executive authority. Yet the MB did follow pathways of adaptation that tested the assumptions and arguments of the inclusion-moderation literature. One key assumption was that ideological movements would adapt organisationally to new political opportunities in a way that strengthened propolitics constituencies within the movement and redirected its work from the message-seeking characteristic of niche parties,8 to the pragmatic outreach characteristic of office-seeking ones.9 Scholars of the MB pre-2011 attributed its prioritisation of organisational survival, religious goals, and base maintenance over wider outreach and alliance-seeking to the political opportunity structures of electoral authoritarianism, where limited opportunities alternated with bouts of repression to keep Islamists permanent outsiders, arguing that while Islamists had shown responsiveness to political opportunity, current electoral incentives were simply insufficient to trigger wholesale organisational change.10 Minimal inclusion weighed against the risk of ultimate repression tended to make leaderships “risk averse,” willing to develop a functional, but limited, political cadre and mission without allowing electoral work to dominate the organisation.11 Despite these limitations, scholars noted that the MB had clearly tailored their behaviour 383

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to political incentives and accepted the legitimacy and even necessity of electoral politics for achieving their goals, and as such had been “irrevocably transformed into a flexible political party that is highly responsive to the unforgiving calculus of electoral politics.”12 Given new opportunities for majority- and office-seeking, by implication, the movement could be expected to undergo substantial organisational change. Comparative and theoretical studies of Islamist moderation in other contexts also noted the importance of intra-movement political specialisation driven by electoral incentives: as Islamist parties became more autonomous from parent movements, they had greater scope for independent and pragmatic adaptation, even if they did not dominate eventually over their movements.13 As Islamists focused more on constituency services and “pothole fixing,” the argument went, routine governance would crowd out religious goals in their operational priorities.14 The MB’s formation of a political party in 2011 offered an opportunity to observe the process of institutional specialisation and a shift away from a survivalist, organisation-first strategy to one that could support alliance-seeking and promote pragmatists in the movement hierarchy. The inclusion-moderation literature also emphasised ideological adaptation as an important mediator of the behavioural adaptation of Islamist parties to electoral politics. Scholars of Jordan explored how electoral participation pushed Islamists to change ideological positions that alienated potential non-Islamist allies, or conflicted with the principles and values of democracy, such as pluralism and gender equality.15 Jillian Schwedler showed that electoral participation under authoritarianism in Jordan and Yemen produced ideological adaptation only when proparticipation leaders could successfully convince the base that electoral adaptation would not undermine core religious values, allowing them to redraw the “boundaries of justifiable action.”16 While Schwedler and other scholars cautioned that framing democratic procedures as Islamically acceptable did not constitute acceptance of liberal democracy, they argued that substantive ideological and operational commitments to democracy did occur in the process of electoral engagement and could be gauged from internal party documents.17 If the rules of further electoral participation stayed relatively stable,18 and new electoral thresholds continued to beckon, according to these mechanisms, religious parties would increasingly invest in electoral work, shedding earlier risk-averse strategies; if pragmatism was rewarded, parties would have to choose between core religious commitments and electoral gain,19 triggering intra-movement debates and fissures that would ultimately favour moderation. Yet moderation, as Brocker and Kunkler have noted,20 and as the assumptions and sequences outlined above show, is a process based on decision-making at different stages, and it is to these decisions and their consequences that we now turn.

The MB’s pre-2011 organisational and ideational adaptation and implications for future evolution Participating in limited parliamentary elections for the first time in the 1980s, the MB rapidly developed the organisational and strategic skills needed for electoral success. Through the 1990s and early 2000s, it responded predictably to political incentives and punishments, making accommodations with electoral authoritarianism in the hope of greater rewards in the future, rather than seeking a radical political transformation. However, a key assumption of inclusion-moderation, that movements would give up the mission of “fundamentally … reorganiz[ing] social and political relations” when they became “primarily electoral parties seeking a popular mandate for change” did not hold for the MB.21 Participation did not force the movement to downgrade its religious mission relative to a political one: the MB developed an electorally functional, religious-political hybrid organisational 384

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structure that assimilated new political demands while preserving the primacy and overarching framework of the religious project and limiting organisational adaptation.

Organisational priorities and political specialisation Analysts of the MB’s inclusion in the electoral-political order in Egypt from the 1980s to 2000s noted the importance of political participation in shaping a new, more pragmatic cadre that would drive the movement’s future leadership.22 While political work did produce and embolden a younger reformist cadre with a broader mission of social outreach, as Wickham shows, reformist advocacy for further organisational reform, including the formation of a separate political party, invariably faltered against movement conservatives’ insistence on the priority of the movement’s religious mission. Conservative “organisation men” exercised control over day-to-day movement work and member education despite a low public profile. While some leaders explored the legalisation of a party at various points in the 1980s and 1990s, the conservative preference for prioritising organisational discipline was reinforced by bouts of repression and threatened splits in the mid-1990s.23

Interpreting political opportunity and integrating electoral work into a religious mission Electoral participation paid steady dividends for the MB at first. By maintaining a parliamentary presence and participating in syndicate elections, it gained access to legal protections and new resources, and challenged the Mubarak regime’s narrative of an Islamist threat by showing that Islamists could be responsible political actors in an eventual post-authoritarian system. But new political opportunities required little substantive adaptation at first. Greater political freedom had helped the MB gain more visibility, and rather than threatening the core goals of the movement, electoral work was quite consistent with pursuing them. MB leaders promoted electoral work as a means to achieve the goals of social Islamisation framing campaigning as a tool for expanding preaching.24 Electoral participation allowed Brothers to perform “good Muslimhood” in new ways, demonstrating what a good Islamic representative looked like in parliament, and voting righteously to stand up for one’s values.25 The desire to be counted was as expressive as it was instrumental: arguing for participation in a flawed election, one leader said: “We are a popular power. We must present our popularity as a whole and in the system.”26 Even rigged elections served as a skill-development “workshop” for training thought and action, and “attracting notice” to their ideas.27 Like other religious parties navigating new electoral opportunities while maintaining ideological base organisations, the pre-2011 MB retained its message-seeking priorities while power-seeking, using elections to show that it spoke for a religious constituency and could pressure the ruling party on matters important to this constituency.28

Ideological adaptation and the institutionalisation of political learning As expected by inclusion-moderation, politics triggered internal debates over strategy and ideology that forced an overhaul of key ideological positions – in short, political learning occurred. Yet its outcome was mixed. The MB pre-2011 justified democracy as a net positive for religion, a process that would allow the righteous to justly assert their values, and Muslims to fulfil the requirement to live their faith by serving others and fighting injustice, rather than supporting electoral politics for its own sake.29 New curriculum materials developed in the mid385

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2000s demonstrated how this ideological adaptation had been distilled into internal doctrine: texts directed at full members affirmed the movement’s newer public commitments to the equal citizenship of Christians, but also emphasised the functionality of electoral politics in allowing righteous majorities to govern, argued that religious qualifications were needed to participate in shura (consultation), and that democracy needed conclusive majorities obeyed by those defeated in elections.30 Training materials embraced politics as a central, not supplementary, part of the movement’s mission, and as a collective religious obligation; governance, they argued, was a “sixth pillar of Islam.” They cited religious examples to argue that good governance brought people closer to God, framing government as a bulwark against moral corruption in society and, therefore, essential to the Islamic project.31 This framing of electoral politics as a means to a religious end was effective in cementing organisational commitment to politics, yet limited the elaboration of a more pluralistic political project. The movement leadership emerged from this period optimistic that full electoral liberalisation could offer further benefits, yet unconvinced of the need for comprehensive internal reform to achieve the next threshold of majority-seeking. While others have posited that religious ideology was unexpectedly “sticky” in the MB’s adaptation to electoral politics,32 I argue that this stickiness was not because religious matters were immune to reform in the movement’s ideology: rather it was due to a particular formative adaptation that persisted due to its functionality for repeated electoral experiences, and that shaped future paths of ideological and organisational adaptation for the movement. The lessons of pre-2011 adaptation formed a lens through which MB saw the opportunities of the post2011 period.

Political opportunity structure, field and MB responses February– November 2011 The overthrow of President Hosni Mubarak via mass protests in early 2011 and subsequent transition to free elections presented the MB with dramatically new political opportunities, necessitating important strategic, organisational and ideological choices. The MB leadership responded to early anti-Mubarak protests in 2011 cautiously, resisting pressure from younger Brothers eager to join them until the odds of success were high, and cooperating with the Supreme Council of Armed Forces, which had taken over transitional authority, to support a military-guided transitional roadmap that scheduled early parliamentary elections, betting that the group’s organisational resources would allow it to benefit from this opportunity to attain a new electoral threshold. The MB responded to new incentives as strategically as the literature might have expected: it immediately sought legal political party status, creating the Freedom and Justice Party (FJP), but with its popularity as yet untested in truly free elections, it cautiously reached out to and reassured prospective voters. For the first free parliamentary elections in post-Mubarak Egypt, the FJP formed a coalition with non-Islamist parties, and promised to compete in only about half of constituencies to show that its goal was “participation, not domination.” Several allies broke away, and the FJP ran a higher number of candidates following changes in electoral rules, but it retained an inclusive and more technocratic campaign slogan, “Doing Good for Egypt,” instead of the older, more ideological “Islam is the solution.”

Organisational adaptation The MB embraced new freedoms as vitally important to elaborating and harnessing popular energies for the Islamic project, even as its leaders maintained that the movement must be an 386

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instrument of integration rather than one of competition.33 The MB leadership reoriented the movement’s resources and activities substantially for high-stakes elections. In the summer of 2011, the MB organised camps for young members to explain changes necessary for electoral work and to divide them into separate groups for political vs. preaching work. There was an incipient process of independent party formation: by 2012, the FJP had set up a separate membership and training process, with a shorter trial period to encourage new members – even non-Muslims or uncommitted Muslims – to join. A new curriculum focusing on communication and electoral outreach skills was being developed in 2012–2013. Leaders noted an influx of non-MB members as politically ambitious outsiders sought to benefit from the movement’s political success, stating that the party aimed for 30 percent non-MB members.34 Electoral work created new paths for promotion: some mid-level MB leaders raised their profile as effective spokespersons, electoral outreach in the provinces allowed youth secretaries new opportunities to prove themselves, and Muslim Sisters, denied formal representation in the Guidance Council despite their importance in campaigning, comprised 25 percent of FJP membership.35 Successive large-scale electoral and constitutional referendum campaigns meant that the time and resources of the entire movement were reallocated substantially away from preaching and education, to the point that activists resentfully noted that because of leaders’ preoccupation with politics, there was no tarbiya (religious education) left.36 In time, this process may have forced the movement to formalise a division of labour, an important step for parties in loosening the ideological stranglehold of parent movements.37 Yet the party was only nominally separate: cadres were invariably Brothers, canvassers used outreach and distribution networks developed for movement charity work, and status in the movement translated into status in the party.38 The FJP’s membership, estimated at 8,000–9,000 members, was a small fraction of the MB’s overall membership, with only about 15 percent non-Muslim-Brothers in the party by 2013.39 Debates over party-movement separation also intersected with struggles for organisational control. While deputy supreme guide and de facto organisational head Khairat al-Shater had asserted that electoral outreach could coexist with preaching, youth leaders demanded structural changes for the movement to continue its core tasks while also competing in elections and maintaining pressure for macro-level political reform in alliance with other groups.40 They called for separating party work from the movement’s traditional preaching mission, and restructuring the movement to be more internally democratic.41 Movement leaders treated these proposals as rebellion, reminding youth of the importance of discipline in the movement’s long-term survival, and rejected the separation of a party from the movement as an unacceptable repudiation of the movement’s comprehensive mission.42 Dissenters were ejected from the MB for threatening its carefully cultivated unity and discipline of organisation and purpose.

Ideological adaptation New electoral thresholds were framed by the MB leadership as historic opportunities to pursue core goals, maintaining the older movement lens on politics as part of a broader mission of Islamisation. They acknowledged that the Islamic project must be elaborated through a political process, as Islam rather required reaching out to society “so that all the people participate in the developing of their own nahda (renaissance) and that of the ummah (nation) on the basis of Islam.”43 MB leaders recognised that political adaptation required internal ideological retraining as well. The leadership introduced a new training curriculum titled “The Art of Working with 387

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Society” in mid-2011 that emphasised social activism and mobilisation, and winning over people with good manners, where older curricula had focused on cultivating good Islamic behaviour; younger members said that it had taught them to apply their preaching skills to the new social and political outreach required for the new era.44 Yet the curriculum still framed social outreach as an act of religious self-perfection (ihsan), rather than a step towards elaborating an independent political project. Similarly, curricula for leadership training covered organisational skills, managing differences and respecting public property, yet retained a religious reference, with a workshop on youth leadership named after the Prophet’s youngest military commander, and stories from the lives of the Prophet’s companions about sacrificing one’s own material well-being for the poor were discussed as examples of good leadership.45 Electoral outreach justified in religious terms reduced conflict between message-seeking and powerseeking priorities. Young and mid-level activists saw political activism, like all social activism, as a path for implementing the movement’s religious goals because “the solution won’t come from God – it requires you to do something.”46 Politics allowed Brothers to build their capacity to do God’s work, particularly by building up “credit” with common citizens; campaigners used Islamic conversion metaphors like “opening up society” to their ideas to describe their mission.47 Activists argued that pious Egyptian voters could hardly attend to religion while struggling to make a living, so by using politics to give the people a dignified life, the MB would bring them back to Islam.48 As the first generation of MB parliamentarians had done, younger MB campaigners believed that modelling “good Muslim behaviour” like honesty and selfsacrifice, and showing that good Muslims in positions of authority could improve people’s lives, would further the Islamic cause.

Interpreting dynamic political opportunity structures and the turn to Islamic populism November 2011–June 2013 Strategic adaptation The presidential election of mid-2012 offered an important test for the MB/FJP’s responsiveness to political opportunity, given that successive electoral cycles are expected to allow a movement to calibrate its strategies for majority-seeking. However, the political opportunity structure it faced was increasingly ambiguous, throwing up challenges on the right rather than incentives to move to the ideological centre, and forcing parties and voters to balance multiple electoral and constitutional priorities simultaneously. As a result, the cost of appealing to religion did not appear higher with successive electoral thresholds as inclusion-moderation had assumed. The unexpected success of the new Salafi Al-Nour party, which came in second behind the FJP in parliamentary elections, forced the MB to focus on its right flank rather than ideologically centrist voters. The FJP read Salafi success in parliamentary elections as confirmation that Egyptian voters favoured more “Islamic” candidates, and a warning that the MB risked losing its position as the premier Islamist movement, and must consolidate its base to win elections.49 While voters’ explicit preference for candidates who championed shariʻa may have signalled trust in Islamists to work for social justice and economic redistribution rather than support for religious goals, the FJP/MB interpreted it as a signal that going “back to the basics” would reap electoral dividends.50 Instead of simply promising good governance, then, MB leaders in the 2012 presidential campaign burnished their religious credentials, reminding voters that they had worked for Islam longer than anybody, to fight off Salafi pretensions to being the “candidates of Islam.”51 As

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their traditional face-to-face outreach strategy could only reach a limited audience, they also mobilised Islamic populism in media outreach. The MB leadership framed religious populism as a somewhat distasteful concession to the needs of office-seeking rather than a reflection of core principles. Cadres admitted with embarrassment that electoral promises to apply shariʻa contradicted movement doctrine, which emphasised building social justice and equality from the ground up first. However, they argued, the “simple” voter who loved Islam must be won over, and then taught that the Islamic project required broader, comprehensive work; electoral success, in turn, would permit the state to “pave the environment for the real principles and basic pillars of shariʻa,” including freedom, economic welfare and justice, and therefore to deliver on the promise of building an Islamic order.52 Organisational adaptation Competition from the Islamist Right threatened the MB’s internal unity as well as its electoral gains: the newly competitive political sphere boosted charismatic independent Islamists who had an avid following among younger Brothers, forcing the leadership to adapt. Ex-Brother turned Salafi candidate Hazem Salah Abu Ismail campaigned for president on the simple promise to apply shariʻa, and was narrowly disqualified, but many younger Brothers privately expressed a preference for him over any official MB candidate.53 The MB’s decision to run a presidential candidate, after previously insisting it would not, was reputedly aimed as much at disciplining its base and preventing defections to other campaigns as at attaining new electoral thresholds.54 The MB candidate Mohammed Morsi’s presidential election campaign in mid-2012 vowed to apply shariʻa sooner rather than later, wooed firebrand preachers, including those popular among MB youth, and touted their endorsements.55 Rather than pulling its base to the centre for electoral gain, then, the MB leadership was pulled to the right by both electoral competition and organisational pressure. The instability of the political field in 2012 also reduced incentives for the MB to court ideologically dissimilar parties. Egypt’s transitional roadmap scheduled constitutional assembly formation between parliamentary and presidential elections, increasing fears among non-Islamist parties that Islamists could convert short-term electoral gains into permanent constitutional influence, and pushing them to weigh the costs of cumulative Islamist victories more seriously. They therefore sent ambivalent signals about cooperation with the MB. The second round of presidential elections, which pitted Morsi against the old regime candidate Ahmed Shafiq, offered a brief exception to this strategic context: Islamists of all stripes feared repression if Shafiq were to win, and rallied behind Morsi, and non-Islamist parties agreed to back Morsi as the best hope for defending democratic gains, even if their support was conditional on future concessions by Morsi. In the months that followed, the MB catered more to Islamists than to non-Islamists, however, seeing them as more loyal allies.

Interpreting the “people’s will” and ideological learning, 2012 Morsi won the presidency in a narrow second-round win, despite a decline in the raw number of votes for the FJP since 2011. This second successive electoral victory had not required significant trade-offs between message-seeking and majority-seeking, and strategic adaptation had, if anything, reinforced the MB’s religious commitments rather than weakening them. Further, the MB/FJP leadership used an older lens of elections as a path to empowering righteous majorities in interpreting the ambivalent lessons of its electoral success. It had capitalised on its parliamentary success to justify an over-representation of Islamists in a new constituent assembly 389

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in early 2012, arguing that the majority could not be held hostage to the “dictatorship of the minority.”56 When the ruling SCAF refused to allow parliament to nominate a government, and the judiciary overturned parliamentary election results due to procedural violations, the MB again framed themselves as defenders of a righteous majority, warning those who crossed them that they were thwarting the “people’s will.”57 The lens of righteous majoritarianism that the MB had developed in prior electoral experience also informed how it perceived its mandate in constitution-writing. The MB and their Islamist allies proposed and defended religiously inflected provisions such as articles that enjoined the state to uphold the morals and religious character of the Egyptian family, and made all subsequent laws subject to the limits of “morality” as in line with a religious-democratic mandate: these articles would defend Egyptians against international treaties signed by unelected leaders that violated popular religious commitments.58 Under pressure from Salafis in the assembly to introduce more robust protections for shariʻa, the MB leadership introduced a provision for the religious review of laws by the official Al-Azhar religious institution. Still, all MB officials insisted that they did not seek to enact religious rules except by the “people’s will.”59 When secular parties and leaders, alarmed by Islamist majoritarianism, began to withdraw from the constituent assembly in protest by mid-2012, MB leaders framed them as a disloyal minority of Christians and secularists conniving with the old regime.60 As secularists increasingly called for military intervention in 2013, top MB politicians accused “brothers in opposition … and in religion, and in the nation, and in the revolution” of trying to overturn the results of democracy by supporting Morsi’s removal.61

Lessons of electoral experience and responses to military intervention The incentives of new electoral thresholds did not force the MB to reconsider or trade off ideological and electoral priorities, but were easily interpreted to reaffirm older Islamist understandings of politics as part of a wider project to revive religious righteousness. In demonstrations against a threatened (and ultimately realised) military coup against the Morsi government at Rabaʻa al-Adaweya square, pro-MB speakers aligned democracy with Islamist goals, pitting opposition “thuggery” against the Islamists’ protection of “sharaʻiyya” (with a dual connotation of political legitimacy and religious lawfulness), insisted they spoke for the “Egyptian people,” who had demanded “God’s law” as well as bread, freedom, and social justice in the 2011 uprising.62 Repression may have pushed the Brothers in an accommodationist direction before 2011, but the military-led coup against the Morsi government and subsequent ban on the MB in the summer of 2013 fuelled moral outrage and called electoral engagement into question. That violent repression discredits political participation is hardly surprising, though repression in contexts where movements had continuing incentives to woo new constituencies has often had moderating effects.63 Yet several MB activists, while sceptical about the benefits of future democratic participation, did weigh the costs and benefits of electoral experience in a way that acknowledged several adaptive possibilities. The lessons they drew from short-lived success at the majority- and office-seeking thresholds did not increase appreciation for alliance-seeking that inclusion-moderation might expect, but rather confirmed pre-existing perspectives on politics as part of a macro Islamic project: the new era had offered Islamists an opportunity to reorganise society more justly, but they had not been as “revolutionary” as circumstances required.64 Some said their leaders had been mistaken to work with old regime institutions, seeking “superficial political solutions” instead of the deep social transformation demanded by 390

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Egyptians.65 Some saw the true “revolutionary” approach as one in which the MB took on the mandate for comprehensive change alone, even by antagonising others, arguing that the events of 2013 had shown that compromise didn’t pay, and the MB should have openly challenged the army and old regime elite from the beginning.66 By being accommodationist, youth leaders argued, the MB had emboldened opposition parties to demand representation in an MB-led cabinet, against established democratic norms, and allowed non-Islamists to unfairly discredit the Islamist government.67 Activists generally saw compromise-oriented politics as having served the movement poorly: as support became conditional on political performance, the Brothers lost “credit” in society, and their compromises and sacrifices did little to advance the goals of an Islamic polity.68 Further, alliances with new Islamists parties with their own projects for Islam meant that the MB had to answer for their errors, and for promises they could not fulfil.69 Some activists saw the events of 2012–2013 as confirming the old movement precept that the state could not be Islamic before society was adequately educated. By the end of the electoral experiment, the MB was divided between those impatient with the leadership’s inability to use electoral success to advance Islamisation, and those who believed an excessive focus on politics had weakened the core religious mission. The benefits of participation were therefore weighed against long-term religious goals, and political learning focused on achieving religious goals rather than strategising differently to draw new support.

The effects of political learning: ideology, strategy, organisation Ideology Multiple cycles of electoral participation did not force the MB to abandon message-seeking in favour of majority-seeking, in part because its message was more an ethic meant to be applied in new arenas – defending righteousness, empowering pious individuals, enacting good Muslim citizenship – than a clear set of policy goals, and in part because its leaders used the lens of righteous politics to absorb electoral work into the obligations of religious outreach. Majority-seeking and electoral competition strengthened the movement’s identity as the premier defender of Islam in Egypt, and the overthrow of an MB president revived older religious narratives that combined themes of righteous resistance to oppression with those of democratic legitimacy. Exclusionary ideological discourse became more prominent in MB ranks following the coup and subsequent crackdown on the movement: reports in 2013 suggested that the works of Sayyid Qutb, a radical Nasser-era ideologue who declared un-Islamic rulers apostates, were regaining currency amidst renewed disenchantment with politics, and the language of sin reemerged to describe participation in an illegitimate political order.70 A more fundamental ideological debate within the movement concerned the value of appealing to “the people” and working through “the state.” Some factions argued that overthrowing the corrupt regime in order to return Egypt to “legitimacy” must be a priority.71 This position was supported by an international committee of Muslim scholars,72 but strongly opposed by exiled leaders who cited the moderation and patience that had protected the MB over the decades,73 and urged members to be “revolutionary” through nonviolent resistance and outreach to other political groups.74

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Political learning and accommodationist vs. revolutionary strategy MB factions took conflicting lessons on mass outreach versus a vanguard strategy from the experience of 2011–2013. Some leaders favoured continuing popular outreach, whether for revolutionary ends or organisational rebuilding. A 2014 FJP statement argued that the Egyptian coup must be reversed so as to return the state to its rightful and sovereign owners, the people, insisting that the Brothers had won the trust of the people in the past and must continue to address God’s truth to them.75 Some younger Brothers questioned the value of political outreach amidst widespread social rejection and mass arrests, but disagreed on what strategy the group should adopt next.76 Several cadres asked how Islamic reform would be served by sacrificing “just to be part of a state that was based on oppression, coercion, entitlement, and seeking personal gain.”77 But even among rejectionists, there was disagreement on whether to prioritise gradually rebuilding a vanguard organisation or to immediately confront the state. Factions of MB youth openly challenged the traditional leadership’s statements by 2014– 2015. As organisational discipline weakened, movement messaging was fragmented by local initiatives.78 “Revolutionary” youth wings and Islamist-sympathetic television preachers, including those on MB-founded channels, began calling for “retaliation” against state violence.79 A tract issued by a self-described, informally organised MB “shariʻa committee” in early 2015 titled “Jurisprudence of Popular Resistance to the Coup” cited scriptural justifications for armed resistance to the state as part of a historic struggle against the “enemies of Islam” and a religious-legal (shar’i) duty.80 Yet this committee also attributed the current regime’s illegitimacy to the fact that it had not achieved power through free elections, echoing the fusion of religious and majoritarian notions of legitimacy evolved through electoral experience.81 The MB’s remaining senior leadership continued to be responsive to political opportunities even as its horizons changed: it was reluctant to openly support violence that could hurt its public image and achieve little against a powerful state, but could neither credibly offer followers political rewards nor apply organisational discipline to enforce nonviolence.82 As repression increased, the leadership called on Egyptians to “rise in revolt” to defend their homeland and to take on “injustice and tyranny.”83 An MB-affiliated religious scholar attempted to reconcile revolutionary anger with traditional movement principles by affirming that Banna had accepted the need for different kinds of power to achieve movement goals, led by the power of faith but extending to force, argued that the new situation required new efforts, thinking and methods, and used the Islamist tenet that God’s law was above all tyrants to argue that the Brothers had an obligation to confront the new illegitimate regime until victory or martyrdom.84 Organisation If the MB leadership successfully resisted pressures for more internal democracy in order to run disciplined election campaigns, organisational discipline was impossible to maintain after the coup and crackdown on the MB organisation that followed. With most of the top leadership in jail or in exile, the remaining leaders were pressured by youth to hold new internal elections in February 2014, which installed youth cadres in most leadership positions.85 As the old guard failed to reassert control ultimately leading to a leadership split in May 2015, the new leadership favoured decentralisation, and decisions were increasingly driven by local circumstances and in coordination with non-MB Islamists. More grassroots input led the MB in a less, not more, accommodationist direction – young activists scorned the trust their older leaders had had in the Egyptian deep state and older leaders worried about the pull that more radical Islamist 392

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organisations might exert on young activists.86 As the movement developed separate domestic and exiled leaderships targeting Egyptian and international audiences respectively,87 the political arenas it worked in and therefore the incentive structures that would guide its future development, multiplied. This marked the end of a unified movement confronting the single target of the Egyptian state that had prevailed for 40 years.

The MB today and implications for inclusion-moderation theory The MB case confirms the responsiveness of religious movement-parties to electoral incentives and overall political opportunity structures. It challenges the assumption, however, that parties will be forced to trade off expressive or movement-centric goals for more pragmatic constituency-focused ones, by showing that multiple pathways of adaptation, even at the majorityseeking threshold, can be functional under different circumstances: Islamic populism was as functional as centrist alliance-seeking at key electoral junctures, for instance. While inclusion-moderation theory assumed that political opportunity structures would offer cumulative, stable incentives to downplay religious goals in favour of political ones, the incentives of the electoral field and strategies of other parties in Egypt in 2011–2013, notably an Islamist-populist challenge from the right and an Islamist vs. non-Islamist polarisation that revived suspicions of anti-Islam conspiracies, offered ambiguous incentives for majority-seeking. Just as importantly, the path that the MB chose from among functional alternatives at new electoral thresholds was strongly influenced by its core religious-organisational mission, which formed a lens through which it weighed choices at subsequent electoral thresholds: for example, the threat of Salafi outflanking on “Islamic” issues was more serious than the possible gains from allying with non-Islamist parties, and a political-religious understanding of legitimacy shaped its perception of political opposition as an anti-Islam conspiracy. Because adaptation did not entail dropping older goals so much as reconfiguring the means by which they could be achieved, and because democratic incentives were inconsistent, the MB’s political learning process was not as linear as inclusion-moderation theorists had assumed it would be. Inclusion-moderation theory expected that successive electoral thresholds would push movements to become institutionally specialised and compartmentalised, with an increasingly dominant political cadre driving further change. Yet because the integrity of the movement was uncertain and remained a priority for the leadership through these years, an “organisation-first” mindset persisted through all electoral thresholds despite the evolution of a political cadre, and the parent movement retained control of the new political party. The most important organisational change triggered by majority-seeking could be seen in base-leadership relations: as the potential rewards of politics and the proportion of the base involved in it expanded, the cautious accommodationism of the previous small cadre of MB politicians gave way to a wider, less predictable range of views, including demands for concrete religious policies. Greater internal democracy does not necessarily produce moderating pressures in religious movement-parties, as Tezcur and Jaffrelot have observed elsewhere. An increasingly impatient and empowered youth base pressured the MB leadership to take more conciliatory and democratic and more openly Islamist positions respectively in the post-2011 period. The leadership sidelined reformists early in 2011, but had to cater to more religiously militant youth because of Islamist outflanking, in an example of what Brocker and Kunkler call “simultaneous moderation and immoderation processes” in party evolution.88 Does the MB’s trajectory and its importance as the premier Islamist movement-party in the Middle East critically undermine inclusion-moderation theory?89 The analysis above shows that strategic adaptation can occur without being comprehensive or irreversible along all dimensions. The leadership’s success in absorbing electoral politics into its core religious mission both 393

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allowed it to engage in politics without serious internal dissent and prevented it from making key trade-offs that would facilitate further adaptation. This case also highlights the difficulty of assuming that office-seeking forces movements to downgrade other goals, showing that mission-seeking and expressive goals can be incorporated into adaptive mechanisms instead of being jettisoned for political ends. Further, the MB’s experience points to the difficulty of achieving the incremental feedback outlined in inclusion-moderation theory in most contexts of actual democratic transition and dynamic political fields. The shift from outsider status to a (much contested) party of government and back to outsider status will continue to shape the MB’s adaptation. The movement’s fragmentation following the 2013 is significant: factions within the MB took different lessons from the movement’s experience depending on their age, place in the hierarchy, and location in Egypt or in exile. Most rejected an immediate return to electoral politics, some favoured violence and others a slow rebuilding of the movement, but all remained invested in achieving political change.90 Some leaders are reportedly undertaking “comprehensive reassessments” of the MB’s work including a potential separation of political and religious functions, framed as a kind of necessary “self-examination” to avoid errors that had resulted from the “overlap of preaching and partisanship” in the post 2011 period.91 As scholars of Islamist movements in Tunisia and Morocco have argued, however, movements are likely to retain internal diversity and their evolution to be shaped by a more complex set of political variables than we have traditionally presumed, even after electoral success, and transformations of movements into parties are neither inevitable nor irreversible.92

Notes 1 This chapter was originally published as an article in the journal Democratisation and reprinted by permission of Taylor & Francis. Sumita Pahwa (2017) Pathways of Islamist adaptation: the Egyptian Muslim Brothers’ lessons for inclusion moderation theory, Democratisation, 24:6, 1066–1084, DOI: 10.1080/13510347.2016.1273903. 2 Masoud, “Are They Democrats?”; Schwedler, Faith in Moderation. 3 Schwedler, Faith in Moderation. 4 El-Ghobashy, “Metamorphosis.” 5 Grewal, “Pathways of Moderation in Tunisia’s Ennahda.” 6 Wegner and Pellicer, “Islamist Moderation without Democratisation.” 7 Schwedler, Faith in Moderation. 8 Gunther and Diamond, “Species of Political Parties,” 183. 9 Schwedler, Faith in Moderation; el-Ghobashy, “Metamorphosis.” 10 El-Ghobashy, “Metamorphosis”; Brown, When Victory is Not an Option. 11 Tezcur, “The Moderation Theory Revisited”; Brown, When Victory is Not an Option. 12 El-Ghobashy, “Metamorphosis,” 390. 13 Brocker and Kunkler, “Religious Parties,” 174–180; Jaffrelot, “Refining the Moderation Thesis.” 14 Masoud, “Are They Democrats?” 15 Clark, “The Conditions of Islamist Moderation.” 16 Schwedler, Faith in Moderation, 152. 17 Kramer, “Islamist Notions of Democracy”; Schwedler, Faith in Moderation. 18 Hamzawy and Brown, “A Boon or a Bane for Democracy?,” 52 19 Brocker and Kunkler, “Religious Parties.” 20 Brocker and Kunkler, “Religious Parties.” 21 Tezcur, “The Moderation Theory Revisited,” 70. 22 Shehata and Stacher, “The Brotherhood Goes to Parliament.” 23 Wickham, The Muslim Brotherhood, 92–94, 102, 129–147. 24 Shehata, “Political daʻwa.” 25 Rady, Al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun. 26 Wickham, The Muslim Brotherhood, 149. 27 Masoud, Counting Islam, 221–222.

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Egypt 28 Jaffrelot, “Refining the Moderation Thesis,” 878; Rady, Al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun. 29 Brown, When Victory is Not an Option, 51; Kandil, Inside the Brotherhood, 14–15, 29. Abou Rayyah, Fi Nour al-Islam, 622–623, 718–727. 30 Abou Rayyah, Fi Nour al-Islam, 629–631. 31 Brown, When Victory is Not an Option, Ch. 3. 32 al-Shater, “The Nahda Project.” 33 Interview, AD, Cairo, September 2013. 34 Interview, AB, Cairo, September 2013; Interview, HAM, November 23, 2013. 35 Interview AK, Cairo, May 2013; Interview, AS and YS, Cairo, September 2013. 36 Jaffrelot, “Refining the Moderation Thesis.” 37 Interview, AB, Cairo, September 2013. 38 Interview, AD, Cairo, September 2013. 39 Interview, MQ, Cairo, September 2013. 40 Amira el-Howeidy, “Message from the Young Brothers,” Al-Ahram Weekly No. 1041, March 31 – April 6, 2011. 41 al-Shater, “The Nahda Project.” 42 al-Shater, “The Nahda Project.” 43 Interviews, YS and AB, Cairo, September 2013. 44 Interview, AK, Cairo, May 2013; Fann al-Taʻamul. 45 Interview, AB, Cairo, September 2013. 46 Interviews, YS and AB, Cairo, September 2013. 47 Interviews, AB and YS, Cairo, September 2013. 48 Interview, AD, Cairo, September 2013; Jamal and Masoud, “Who Votes Islamist and Why?” 49 Hamid, Temptations of Power; Masoud, Counting Islam, 135. 50 Speeches by Morsi and Essam el-Erian at election rally, Cairo University, May 12, 2012. 51 Interviews, AB and AD, Cairo, September 2013. 52 Al-Anani, “Rethinking the Muslim Brotherhood”; Noha el-Hennawy, “Morsy Campaign Rediscovers Religion’s Potency in Politics,” Al-Masry al-Youm (English edition), May 3, 2012. Interview, AS and YS, Cairo, September 2013. 53 Hamid, Temptations of Power, 154–155. 54 Maggie Michael, “Egypt Brotherhood Takes Harder Line in Campaign,” Associated Press, May 15, 2012; Ahmed Owais, “Al-Ikhwan yaftahun al-nar ‘ala al-‘ilamiyin wa yasfunuhum bi kadhbat faraon,” Al-Shorouk, May 14, 2012; Personal observations at Morsi election rally May 12, 2012. 55 Wickham, The Muslim Brotherhood, 253. 56 Wickham, The Muslim Brotherhood, 266. 57 Al-Arabiya, “Brotherhood Member Responds to Criticism over Women’s Rights Article in Egypt Constitution,” October 7, 2012; Ahmed Aboul Enein, “Brotherhood Leader Defends Constitutional Article,” Daily News Egypt, October 7, 2012. 58 Ahmed Feteha, “Egypt Tourism Officials Expect Little Change under Morsi – For Now,” Ahram Online, June 27, 2012; Tom Perry and Tamim Elyan, “In Power, Egypt’s Brotherhood Seeks Balance on Islamic Law,” Reuters, July 25, 2012. 59 Khaled Amayreh, “Egypt’s Unreasonable Opposition,” Ikhwanweb, February 2013. www.ikhwanweb. com/print.php?id=30662; further columns from MB leaders on online forums since closed down, echoing these views, are archived and translated at: https://mbinenglish.wordpress.com/2014/11/25/ christians-and-liberals-take-part-in-28-november/. 60 www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y1f5oZppJIQ&feature=youtu.be. 61 Personal observations at Rabaʻa al-Adaweyya, June 28, 2013. 62 Wegner and Pellicer, “Islamist Moderation Without Democratisation.” 63 Interview, AS, Cairo, September 2013. 64 Interviews in Brown and Dunne, “Unprecedented Pressures”; Charles Levinson, “Egypt’s Islamists Struggle to Bridge Divide,” Wall Street Journal, August 30, 2013; Robert F. Worth, “A Familiar Role for Muslim Brotherhood: Opposition,” New York Times, July 28, 2013. 65 Interview, AS, September 2013. 66 Interview, AS and YS September 2013; Jayson Casper, “The People Chose Us: Inside the Mind of the Muslim Brotherhood,” Atlantic Council, August 22, 2013; Interview with FJP leader Gehad elHaddad, PBS NewsHour, September 17, 2013. 67 Sarah Lynch, “Muslim Brotherhood Down, but Not Out, in Egypt,” USA Today, September 23, 2013.

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Sumita Pahwa 68 Interviews, AS, YS and AB, Cairo, September 2013. 69 Tom Perry and Abdelrahman Youssef, “In Egypt, Ideas of a Radical Islamist Make a Comeback,” Reuters, December 2, 2013; “Azhar and Brotherhood Exchange Conflicting Fatwas over Referendum,” Mada Masr, December 22, 2013. 70 Youssef, “The Brotherhood’s Changing Approach.” 71 “Calls for Unity on January 25 Revolution Anniversary,” January 22, 2014. www.ikhwanweb.com/article. php?id=31536&ref=search.php. 72 “Muslim Brotherhood Supports Call for Retribution,” Daily News Egypt, May 31, 2015. www.daily newsegypt.com/2015/05/31/muslim-brotherhood-supports-call-for-retribution/; statement titled “Nida’a el-Kenanah” here: www.youtube.com/watch?v=DIc_5bTHjq0. 73 Mahmoud Ghozlan, “Bi munasibah murur sabaʻ wa thamaneen ʻaman ʻala taʻsees al-gamaʻa: daʻwatna baqiyah wa thawratna mustamirrah,” May 22, 2015. http://old.egyptwindow.net/Article_Details.aspx? Kind=5&News_ID=80417. 74 Mayy el-Sheikh and David Kirkpatrick, “Push for Retribution in Egypt Frays Muslim Brotherhood,” New York Times, August 5, 2015. www.nytimes.com/2015/08/06/world/middleeast/younger-muslim -brotherhood-members-in-egypt-bridle-at-nonviolent-stance.html?_r=0. 75 “Al-Ikhwan yuqaddamoon khitah aʻjalah li-tasheeh al-wadaʻ al-maqlubah fi Misr,” Freedom and Justice Party, May 9, 2014 (no longer on the website, archived). 76 Mohammed Adam, “Waiting for God’s Victory,” Mada Masr, April 13, 2014. www.madamasr.com/ sections/politics/waiting-god’s-victory. 77 Brown and Dunne, “Unprecedented Pressures,” 11. 78 Awad and Hashem, “Egypt’s Escalating Islamist Insurgency.” 79 Brown and Dunne, “Unprecedented Pressures,” 13; Awad, “Egypt’s New Radicalism.” 80 Abu el-Ezz Dhiya al-Din Assad, “Fiqh al-Muqawamah al-Shaʻbiyah li-l-Inqilab,” January 27, 2015, archived at https://web.archive.org/web/20151115033242/http://www.m5zn.com/d/?15622076. 81 Fiqh al-muqawamah; reiterated in press release, “Bayan min al-hai’yah al-shara‘iyyah ila jamiyyat alIkhwan,” August 22, 2015. http://qalyubiagate.com/?p=46831. 82 Ibrahim el-Hodeiby, “The Muslim Brotherhood in Transition,” Mada Masr, March 18, 2015; Ayyash, “The Brotherhood’s Post-Pacifist Approach.” 83 “Muslim Brotherhood Statement on the Cold-Blooded Assassination of its Leaders,” July 1, 2015. www.ikhwanweb.com/article.php?id=32199. 84 Gamal abd al-Sattar, “Khutut faasilah bayn al-silmiyyah wa-l-thawriyyah,” August 25, 2015. http://qa lyubiagate.com/?p=47120. 85 Georges Fahmi, “The Struggle for the Leadership of Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood,” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, July 14, 2015. http://carnegie-mec.org/2015/07/14/struggle-for-leadership -of-egypt-s-muslim-brotherhood/idbr; Mostafa Hashem, “The Great Brotherhood Divide,” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, March 2, 2016. http://carnegieendowment.org/sada/?fa=62942. 86 Brown and Dunne, “Unprecedented Pressures,” 17–18. 87 Brown and Dunne, “Unprecedented Pressures,” 9. 88 Brocker and Kunkler, “Religious Parties,” 177–180. 89 Khalil al-Anani, “The Islamists’ Paradox: Inclusion and Moderation,” Al-Ahram Weekly, May 14, 2013. http://english.ahram.org.eg/NewsContentP/4/71454/Opinion/The-Islamists-paradox-Inclusion-a nd-moderation.aspx. 90 Ibrahim el-Hodeiby, “The Muslim Brotherhood in Transition,” Mada Masr, March 18, 2015. 91 Abdelrahman Youssef, “Egyptian Brotherhood Leader Reflects on Group’s Mistakes, Future,” AlMonitor, May 22, 2016. www.al-monitor.com/pulse/originals/2016/05/egypt-brotherhood-leader-in terview-sisi-mistakes-future.html; Amr Darrag and Steven Brooke, “Politics or Piety? Why the Muslim Brotherhood Engages in Social Service Provision: A Conversation,” Brookings Papers, May 2016. www.brookings.edu/research/papers/2016/05/muslim-brotherhood-social-service-darrag-brooke. 92 Monica Marks, “Reaction Essay: Rethinking Political Islam,” Brookings Institution, December 2015. www.brookings.edu/~/media/Research/Files/Reports/2015/07/rethinking-political-islam/reactio n-essays/Tunisia_Marks.pdf.

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Egypt Awad, Mokhtar. “Egypt’s New Radicalism.” Foreign Affairs, February 4, 2016. Awad, Mokhtar, and Mostafa Hashem. “Egypt’s Escalating Islamist Insurgency.” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, October 21, 2015. http://carnegie-mec.org/publications/?fa=61683. Ayyash, Abdelrahman. “The Brotherhood’s Post-Pacifist Approach.” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, July 9, 2015. Brocker, Manfred, and Mirjam Kunkler. “Religious Parties: Revisiting the Inclusion-Moderation Hypothesis – Introduction.” Party Politics 19, no. 2 (2013): 171–186. Brown, Nathan. When Victory is Not an Option. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2012. Brown, Nathan, and Michele Dunne. “Unprecedented Pressures, Uncharted Course for Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood.” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, July 29, 2015. http://carnegieendowment. org/2015/07/29/unprecedented-pressures-uncharted-course-for-egypt-s- muslim-brotherhood/ie2g. Clark, Janine. “The Conditions of Islamist Moderation: Unpacking Cross-Ideological Cooperation in Jordan.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 38(2006): 539–560. El-Ghobashy, Mona. “The Metamorphosis of the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 37 (2005): 373–395. Grewal, Sharan. “Pathways of Moderation in Tunisia’s Ennahda.” Paper presented at the American Political Science Association Annual Meeting, Philadelphia, September 2016. Gunther, Richard, and Larry Diamond. “Species of Political Parties: A New Typology.” Party Politics 9, no. 2 (2003): 167–199. Hamid, Shadi. Temptations of Power: Islamists and Illiberal Democracy in a New Middle East. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014. Hamzawy, Amr, and Nathan Brown. “A Boon or a Bane for Democracy?” Journal of Democracy 19, no. 3 (2008): 49–54. Jaffrelot, Christophe. “Refining the Moderation Thesis: Two Religious Parties and Indian Democracy: The Jana Sangh and the BJP between Hindutva Radicalism and Coalition Politics.” Democratization 20, no. 1 (2013): 876–894. Jamaʻat al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun. Fann al-taʻamul maʻ al-mujtamaʻ. 2011. www.balagh.com/pages/book. php?bcc=20&itg=12&bi=166&s=ct. Jamal, Amaney, and Tarek Masoud. “Who Votes Islamist and Why? Preliminary Evidence from Egypt and Tunisia.” Paper prepared for Midwest Political Science Association meeting, 2012. Kandil, Hazem. Inside the Brotherhood. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2015. Kramer, Gudrun. “Islamist Notions of Democracy.” In Political Islam: Essays from Middle East Report, edited by Joel Beinin and Joe Stork, 71–95. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1997. Masoud, Tarek. “Are They Democrats? Does it Matter?” Journal of Democracy 19, no. 3 (2008): 19–24. Masoud, Tarek. Counting Islam: Religion, Class and Elections in Egypt. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Rady, Mohsen. Al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun taht Qubbat al-Barlaman. Cairo: Dar al-Tawziʻ wal Nashr al- Islamiyya, 1990. Schwedler, Jillian. Faith in Moderation: Islamist Parties in Jordan and Yemen. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. al-Shater, Khairat. “The Nahda Project.” Speech in Alexandria, Egypt, April 21, 2011, transcribed and translated in Current Trends in Islamist Ideology 13 (2012): 127–157. Shehata, Samer. “Political daʻwa: Understanding the Muslim Brotherhood’s Participation in SemiAuthoritarian Elections.” In Islamist Politics in the Middle East: Movements and Change, edited by Samer Shehata, 120–145. Abingdon: Routledge, 2012. Shehata, Samer, and Joshua Stacher. “The Brotherhood Goes to Parliament.” Middle East Report 36, no. 240 (2006). www.merip.org/mer/mer240/brotherhood-goes-parliament. Tezcur, Gunes Murat. “The Moderation Theory Revisited: The Case of Islamic Political Actors.” Party Politics 16, no. 1 (2010): 69–88. Wegner, Eva, and Miquel Pellicer. “Islamist Moderation without Democratization: The Coming of Age of the Moroccan Party of Justice and Development?” Democratization 16, no. 1 (2009): 157–175. Wickham, Carrie Rosefsky. The Muslim Brotherhood: Evolution of an Islamist Movement. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013. Youssef, Abdelrahman. “The Brotherhood’s Changing Approach.” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, June 4, 2015. http://carnegieendowment.org/sada/?fa=60317.

397

INDEX

Abassi, H. 354–5 Abdul-Mahdi, A. 122 abortion: Mexico 219–20; Poland 251, 254–5; Reunified Germany 234–5; UK and US 300; West Germany 229–30; Zambia 280 Afghanistan: US invasion (2001) 177–8; women, Kabul 17 African Americans 184, 190–1 African Independent Churches (AICs) 267, 268, 269 African National Congress (ANC): South Africa 263–4, 265–6, 267, 269–71; Zambia 278 African Welfare Societies 277–8 African-derived faiths, Brazil 201 Agudat Yisrael, Israel 314–15, 318–20 Ahmad, M. 171, 172 Ahmadinejad, M. 354, 355 Ahmadiyya community, Pakistan 173, 175 Akinola, A. 302 AKP see Justice and Development Party (AKP/ JDP), Turkey al Abadi, H. 122 al Assad, B. 122 al Baghdadi, A. B. 122 al Ghazali, Z. 111 al Hudaybi, H. 22–3 al Malaki, N. 122 al Sissi, A. F. 25, 121 al Zarqawi, A. M. 122 Algeria 50, 93–4 All Progressives Congress (APC), Nigeria 303–4, 305, 306 Allawi, A. 16 Almond, G. A. et al. 59, 60, 61 alt-right movement 193 Alternative für Deutschland (AfD) 120, 235, 236 Alves, D. 208

America see United States (US) Amuwo, A. 301 Anatolia 96; ‘Anatolian Tigers’ 95 Anglicanism 34 anti-Muslim attitudes/Islamophobia: Denmark 36, 37, 38; Germany 236; Netherlands 3; and ‘reform’ 353; see also religious violence anti-Semitism 118, 119–20 anti-war protests, West Germany 228, 229 April 6 Youth Movement, Egypt 24 Arab Spring 20–1, 358, 359, 372–3, 377; Egypt 24, 121 Armstrong, K. 63–4 Ashfafa, M. 130 Ashkenazi Haredi Jews/parties 318–20 Aung San Suu Kyi 123, 156, 163–4, 165 Austria 120 authoritarianism 25; AKP, Turkey 95; and Islamism 21–2, 50 authority (ana) and influence (awza), Myanmar 163–4 Ayub Khan regime, Pakistan 174–6 Azikiwe, N. 301 Baptists 183, 193, 197 Barber, B. 62 Barrett-Fox, R. 51 Begam, N. S. J. 107 Ben Ali, Z. el A. 24, 358, 362, 364 Ben-Gurion, D. 315 Benghazi, Libya 124–5 Benkirane, A. 375, 376 Berger, P. 15, 71, 126–7 Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) and Hinduism, India 2, 17; media culture 39–41; religious violence 123–4, 144, 146, 147–8 Bhutto, B. 178

398

Index Bhutto, Z. A. 175, 178 blackmail/kingmaker party 82, 84, 85 Bodu Bala Sena (BBS), Sri Lanka 144, 148, 150 Boko Haram, Nigeria 303, 305–6 Bolsonaro, J. 200, 203, 207, 208 Bourguiba, H. 360, 362, 363, 364 Brazil 200, 208; culture and institutions: impact of religion in politics 204–6; Evangelicals 201–2, 203–4, 206–7, 208; political parties and religious participation 202–4; religious landscape 200–2 Brazilian Republican Party (PRB) 204 Brexit vote, UK 119 Brubaker, R. 36, 37, 38 Bruce, S. 298–9, 300, 301, 308; and Wallis, R. 300–1 Brumberg, D. and Farhi, F. 348–9 Buddhism 3, 18; Myanmar 123, 154–5, 156, 162–3, 164–5; Sri Lanka 145–6, 148–50, 151 Buddhist–Muslim conflicts 143, 146, 156 Buhari, M. 303–6 Bulliet, R. 12, 16 Burke, E. 301 Bush, G. W. 50–1, 62, 86, 186, 192 Calderón, F. 220 Casanova, J. 70, 72 Catholicism/Catholic Church 2, 12–13, 15; Brazil 200–1, 202–3; and democratisation 69, 71, 72; East Germany (GDR) 231–2; England 34; Italy 238–40, 241–3; Mexico 213–16, 217–18, 219, 220, 221; Nazi regime and 225–6; Northern Ireland 35; Poland 249–52; reunified Germany 234–5; Sant’Egidio community 129–30; Senegal 291, 292; US 184, 185, 186, 191; West Germany (FRG) 228, 229, 230; Zambia 279–80 Cavatorta, F. and Merone, F. 66 Center for Public Opinion Research (CBOS) 257, 258 Cheruvallil-Contractor, S. 106, 107, 111, 113 Chiluba, F. 276, 280, 281 China: religious violence 124 Christian Democracy, Europe 46–8, 93 Christian Democratic Party (DC), Italy 238–40, 243 Christian Democratic Party (PDC), Brazil 203 Christian Democratic Union (CDU): East Germany 232; reunified Germany 235; West Germany 227–8 Christian missionaries, Zambia 276, 277–8 Christian Right, US: and alt-right movement 193; and Republican Party 50–2, 82–3, 85–6; see also evangelicals, US Christian Socialist Union (CSU) 227, 228, 235 Christianity: China 124; continuity and rediscovery 15–16; Copts 25; and democracy 70;

early 11–12; Myanmar 156; Nigeria 304, 306, 307–8; Rwanda 133–5; South Africa 265–7; see also Catholicism/Catholic Church; evangelicals; Protestants; United States; specific European countries church–state relations 77–8; Brazil 202; FRG 228–9; GDR 227; Israel 313, 314; Mexico 214; Poland 250–1; Rwanda 134–5; Senegal 290; US 2–3 civil gods, loss of faith in 14 civil liberties 27 ‘civil religion’ 13–14 civil society 21, 50, 72, 73, 77; Italy 243, 244; Senegal 290, 291; South Africa 263, 267; Tunisia 359, 362, 365; Turkey 343 ‘clash of civilisations’, fundamentalism and 62–3 clergy: Brazil 204–5; East Germany 235; Iran 350–1; Nazi Germany 225–6; US 195–7; West Germany 229 Clinton, H. 124–5, 186, 191, 192, 299 communism/Communist Party: China 124; Italy (PCI) 238, 239, 240; Poland 250; post-Communist countries 47–8, 69; see also German Democratic Republic (GDR) (1949-90) Community of the Rightly Guided Men and Women (DMWM), Senegal 289 Confessing Church, Germany 226 conflict resolution and peacebuilding 126; ‘disenchantment of the world’/‘ desecularisation of the world’ 126–7; evolution and terminology 127–9; religious actors: potentials, problems and challenges 129–33; Rwanda, post-genocide 133–5 conflict transformation 128 Conservative Party, England 34 constituency representation and interest articulation 92–4; Islam in Indonesian politics 97–100; multiple constituency interests (AKP, Turkey) 94–7 Coptic Christians 25 cows, slaughter of 143, 148 creative minority 11–12 Crivella, M. 204 cultural diversity 33 Danish People’s Party (DPP) 36–7 dashan 40 Davie, G. 38, 39, 72, 243 de-radicalisation measures 49 Democracy Index 48 Democratic Left Alliance (SLD), Poland 252, 255, 256 Democratic Party, Turkey 83, 84, 338–9 Democratic Party, US 183, 184, 185 Democratic Unionist Party, Northern Ireland 35

399

Index democratisation and democracy 69–71; Brazil 202, 204, 208; India 150–1; Indonesia 98, 99; Mexico 216–18; in Muslim countries 25–8, 48–50; Myanmar 156, 164; post-war Germany 226; and religion, defining 73–5; religion and civil society 77; religion and political society 76–7; religion and state 77–8; religious deprivatisation and political change 72–3; Senegal 287–8, 292; South Africa 265–7; Sri Lanka 150; Tunisia 358, 360, 361, 362, 365, 366–7; Zambia 280 Denmark 36–9 developing/post-colonial countries 15, 16–17 dialectical relationship 9 Diouf, A. 288–9, 290, 295 Dowd, R. A. 300, 307–8 education/schools: Egypt 32–3; GDR 227, 231, 232; India 33; Israel 315, 318; Nigeria 302, 307; Pakistan 173; Turkey 339, 342–3; Zambia 276, 280 Egypt 21, 381–2; military rule 25, 390–1; re-Islamisation of 17–18; religious violence 121; Salafis in 26–7; school textbooks 32–3; sharia law 28; Tahrir Square protests, Cairo 24, 121; see also Muslim Brotherhood (MB) Eisenstadt, S. 63 Engels, F. 14 England 34; see also United Kingdom (UK) Enlightenment 13 Ennahda movement/Party, Tunisia 24, 25–6, 49, 66, 359–62, 363, 365–6 Erdog˘ an, R. T. 17, 94, 96, 120, 121, 342 Essebsi, B. C. 26, 362, 364–5 ethnicity 33–4; conversion to Islam 38, 39; Myanmar 158; US see United States (US); see also immigration Europe: Christian Democracy 46–8, 93; populist right 36–9, 119–20 European Union (EU): ‘Guidelines on the protection and promotion of freedom of religions and beliefs’ 126; and Turkey 87–8, 95 evangelicals, Brazil 201–2, 203–4, 206–7, 208 evangelicals, US 2–3, 184, 185, 186–8, 299–300; black 190–1; Latino 191–2; see also Christian Right, US evangelicals/EKD, Germany: East Germany 231, 232–4, 235; and Nazi regime 225–6; reunified Germany (1990) 235, 236; West Germany 227, 228–9, 230 existential security, and decline of religion 31–2, 45–6 Fall, M. 287, 289, 290, 291, 292–3, 294 Falun Gong, China 124 Farage, N. 119

Fatah, Palestine 326, 330, 331–2 fatwas (religious opinions) 326, 338; freedom of conscience debate, Morocco 370–1, 373–5 Federal Republic of Germany (FRG) (1949-90) 227–30; church–state relations (1949-72) 228–9; political parties and churches 227–8; values, sexual revolution and abortion (1966-90) 229–30 Feld, S. L. et al. 82, 85, 86 feminism see Muslim women; women Finke, R. and Stark, R. 64, 93 Five Star Movement (M5S), Italy 240, 242 FJP see Freedom and Justice Party (FJP), Egypt Flax, J. 107 Fontenelle, B. de 15 Foret, F. 290, 301 Fox, V. 218, 219 France 120 freedom of conscience/fatwa debate, Morocco 370–1, 373–5 Freedom and Justice Party (FJP), Egypt 23, 24, 25, 381, 386, 387, 389 Frenk, J. 219 Fulani cattle breeders, Nigeria 304–7 Fuller, G. 12 functionalisation of religion 33 fundamentalism see religious fundamentalism Fundamentalism Project (FP) 59–61 Galtung, J. 128–9 Gaza 317, 325, 328, 330, 331, 332 GDP per capita and religiosity 10 Gellner, E. 63 German Democratic Republic (GDR) (1949-90) 231–2, 231–4; collaboration and accommodation of new reality 232–4; post-war Soviet occupation 226–7; role of CDU in Kirchenpolitik 232 Germany 225, 236; AfD 120, 235, 236; East see German Democratic Republic (GDR); legacy of Third Reich and Allied occupation (1945-9) 225–7; reunified (1990) 234–6; West see Federal Republic of Germany (FRG) (1949-90) Ghandi, I. 123 Ghandi, Mahatma 145, 146 Ghannouchi, R. 23, 24, 25, 362 global context of religious violence 124–5 globalisation 15, 33; and fundamentalism 61–2; and violence 117 Goodluck Jonathan 303 Gorbachev, M. 234 Goulart, J. 202 Granovetter, M. 130 grassroots organisations and political parties 81 Gravers, M. 156, 163, 164, 165 Grillo, B. 240

400

Index group and individual level religiosity 75 Gülen, F. 342–3 Gülen movement, Turkey 120–1 Gunther, R. and Diamond, L. 64–5 Guterres, A. 127 Halpern, O. 328 Hamas, Palestine 324–5; 1988 Charter 325–6; beyond Charter 326–9; as political party 329–32 Haredi Jews/parties 318–20 Hassidism 18 Hastings, A. 276, 279, 280 Haynes, J. 298, 300, 301, 307 headscarf ban, Turkey 341, 342 Heist, D. and Cnaan, R. 130 Hellström, P. and Hervik, P. 36, 37 Hersh, E. and Malina, G. 195–6, 197 Herzl, T. 314 Hindu nationalism, India 40–1, 145; see also Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) and Hinduism, India Hindu–Muslim conflicts 123–4, 143, 146, 147–8 Hindus, Zambia 276–7 Hirak Chaabi protest movement, Morocco 377–8 HIV/AIDS, South Africa 267 ‘holy ignorance’ 18, 62 Houtman, G. 163–4 humanism 279 Hungarian Civic Alliance (Fidesz) 119–20 Huntington, S. 62–3, 69–70, 74 ideological adaptation/learning see under Muslim Brotherhood (MB), Egypt ideological immoderation, Islamic movement, Turkey 85–9 immigration 117; England 34, 119; Europe 119–20; Germany 236; Israel 315, 320; Netherlands 3; US 118 in-vitro fertilisation (IVF), Poland 254, 258 inclusion-moderation hypothesis 49–50, 65–6, 85; and Muslim Brotherhood (MB), Egypt 383–4, 393–4 Independent Churches Organisation of Zambia (ICOZ) 281–2 India: history of democracy 150–1; partition 147; religion in a ‘secular cage’ 146–8; religious violence 123–4, 143–4, 145; school textbooks 33; secure territorial niche for religion 145 Indian National Congress (INC)/Congress Party/‘Congress System’ 147, 148, 150–1 indigenous and non-Abrahamitic religions 132 individual and group level religiosity 75 individual rights 27 individualised consumer culture 33 Indonesia 97–100 interfaith dialogue 131

Interfaith Mediation Center, Nigeria 130 intersectional identities 108–10 Iran 346–7; 1979 revolution 2, 58, 71, 347; anti-liberal Islam 354–5; factional system 351–2; one-party system to factions 350–1; reformist or liberal Islam 353–4; regime type and opportunities for party formation 348–50; religion and political organisations 347–8 Iranian Islamic Participation Front (IIPF) 349 Iraq 16, 17; and Syria 122 Iraq War 122, 177–8 ISIS 122 Islam 12, 15, 18; church–state relations 78; Danish converts 38, 39; in Indonesian politics 97–100; Middle East and North Africa 93–4; political movements, Morocco 370–3; see also anti-Muslim attitudes/Islamophobia; entries beginning Muslim; specific countries Islami Jamhori Ittihad (IJI) 176 Islamic Orders, Turkey 83 Islamic parties 20–1; acceptance of democracy and unsecular politics 25–7; compromise with state 23; differentiation of strategies 20, 21; Islamism as national or counter-national project 21–2; Muslim democracy as oxymoron 27–8; oppression to leadership 24; party vs. social movement 22–3 Islamic Republic Party (IRP), Iran 349, 350 Islamic State (ISIS) 122 Islamisation: Egypt 17–18; Pakistan 176–7; Turkey 3, 17, 336 Islamism 347, 348; inclusion-moderation hypothesis 49; secularism and democracy 348 Islamist Welfare Party (Refah Partisis/RP), Turkey 17, 87, 95–6 Islamophobia see anti-Muslim attitudes/ Islamophobia; religious violence Israel 3, 313–14; and Italy 243–4; ‘The Jewish Home’ party 316–18; religion and politics 314–15; Shas 320–1; status quo: religious–secular arrangements and challenges 315–16; United Torah Judaism (UTJ) 318–20 Israel–Palestine conflict 327–9, 330–1 Italy 120, 238; Christian Democratic Party (DC) 238–40, 243; non-Catholic religions 243–5; religious monopoly to free market 240–3 Jalaeipoir, H.R. 353 Jamat-i-Islami (JI), Pakistan 173, 174–6, 177, 178 Jamiat-Ulema-i-Islam (JUI), Pakistan 173, 177, 178 Jammu, State of 145, 147, 148 Jenkins, P. 280, 283 Jews: Italy 243–4; US 118, 190; see also Israel JHU see National Heritage Party (JHU), Sri Lanka jihad 22, 326

401

Index Jinnah, M.A. 170, 171, 172 Judaism see Israel; Jews judicial independence 27 Juergensmeyer, M. 63 Justice and Development Party (AKP/JDP), Turkey 3, 49, 87–9, 94–7, 120–1, 340, 341–3 Justice Minir Report, Pakistan 173–4 Justice Party, Turkey 83, 84 Kachingwe, K. 284 Kagame, P. 133 Kashmir, State of 145, 147, 148, 178 Kastfelt, N. 302, 303, 307 Kaunda, K. 277, 278, 279–80 Kennedy, J. F 184 Kennedy, P. 16 Khamenei, A. 351, 354 Khatami, M. 349, 351, 353, 354 Khomeini, R. 349, 350–1, 355 kingmaker/blackmail party 82, 84, 85 Kitschelt, H. 81, 82 Kriesberg, L. 127–8 Kurds, Turkey 96–7 Labor Party (MAPAI), Israel 314–15, 316, 317, 318 Labour Party, England 34 laiklik, Turkey 336, 337–8, 339–40 Latino religionists, US 191–2 Law and Justice (PiS) Party, Poland 252–5, 256 Lawrence, B. 57, 58–9 Lederach, P. 128 Lega Nord, Italy 240, 241–2, 243–4 Lelord, F. 14 LGBT rights, Poland 257 Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) 149 Libya: attack on US Consulate 124–5 Lipset, S. M. and Rokkan, S. 1, 34, 64, 93, 336 Livingstone, D. 276 Livingstonia 276, 278 Lochner Treaty 275 Lonsdale, J. 264 Lopez Obrador, A. M. 221 Lungu, E. C. 281, 282–3, 284 Luther, Martin, quincentary, East Germany 234 Lutheranism, Denmark 36, 37 M5S see Five Star Movement (M5S), Italy MaBaTha, Myanmar 165 Madani, M. 377 madrassas, Pakistan 173 Makue, E. 267, 269–70 Mambo, J. 282 Mandela, N. 268, 269, 270 Marzook, M. A. 326, 328 Masupa, D. 281–2 Mayson, C. 268

Mbeki, T. 266–7, 269 Mbulo, G. 283 Mecham, R. Q. 87 media culture and BJP, India 39–41 Mekki, N. 358 Mennel (Muslim woman artist) 112 Mernissi, F. 111 Meshal, K. 325, 328–9 Methodism 183, 197, 244, 277 Mexico 213–14; 2018 elections 221; Constitution (1917) 214–15; historical foundations of Catholic–secular cleavage 214–16; religion and democratic politics 219–20; religion and democratisation 216–18 middle class 50 military coups/rule 49–50; Brazil 202; Egypt 25, 390–1; Myanmar 158–62, 164–5; Pakistan 176–7; Turkey 95, 341–2 military service and rearmament debates, West Germany 228–9 military–church relations, reunified Germany 235 ‘mini-civil-wars’ 144 Mitchell, C. 35, 38–9 Mizrahi/Sephardic Jews, Israel 314–15, 316, 319, 320–1 modernisation 31, 32; see also secularisation Modi, N. 123–4, 146, 147, 150–1 Moen, M. C. 83, 85, 86 Mohammed VI of Morocco 370, 371, 372, 375–6, 378 Mohseni, P. 351–2; and Wilcox, C. 82, 280, 347, 348 Montazeri, A.A. 353 Mormons 189–90 Morocco (constitutional reform and Islamisms) 370–2, 377–8; consensus game during Arab Spring 372–3; freedom of conscience debate 373–5; Hirak Chaabi protest movement 377–8; religious and political role of monarchy 375–6 Morris, C. 277–8, 279 Morsi, M. 24, 121, 382, 389, 390 Movement for Multiparty Democracy (MMD) 276, 280, 281 movement-parties 81 Mozambique 130 Mpumlwana, M. 269 Mubarak, H. 23, 24, 121, 385, 386 multiculturalism 33 Munshya wa Munshya 283 Müntzer, Thomas, quincentary, East Germany 234 Muslim Brotherhood (MB), Egypt 17, 22–3, 24, 25, 49, 381–3; and Ennahda, Tunisia 360; and Hamas, Palestine 325, 326, 330; ideological adaptation 387–8; ideological adaptation and institutionalisation of political learning 385–6;

402

Index inclusion-moderation literature and 383–4, 393–4; interpreting ‘people’s will’ and ideological learning (2012) 389–90; lessons of electoral experience and responses to military intervention 390–1; organisational adaptation 386–7; organisational priorities and political specialisation 385; political learning: ideology, strategy, organisation 391–3; political opportunity and electoral work as religious mission 385; political opportunity structure, field and responses (2011) 386; political opportunity structures and turn to Islamic populism (2011-13) 288–9; pre-2011 organisational and ideational adaptation and implications for future evolution 384–5; religious violence 121 Muslim League, Pakistan 169 Muslim women 110–14; diversity of activisms 111; ‘politicised’ 112–14; positionality 110; visible 112 Muslim–Buddhist conflicts 143, 146, 156 Muslim–Hindu conflicts 123–4, 143, 146, 147–8 Muslims: Italy 244–5; Nigeria 302, 304, 307–8; Rohingya, Myanmar 123, 156, 165–6; Senegal 287; Uighurs, China 124; United States (US) 192; Zambia 276–7 Mutale, L. 282–3 Muttahida Majlis-e-Amal (MMA), Pakistan 177–8 Muyebe, S. 270 Myanmar 122–3, 154–7; Buddhism 123, 154–5, 156, 162–3, 164–5; Constitution 154, 157, 158; contemporary political parties 157–62; democratisation 164; ethnic groups and religious affiliations 154–5; nation-building, nationalism and state-building 162; religious framing of political parties 162–6 Nasser, G. A. 22, 23 National Awakening Party (PKB), Indonesia 99 National Heritage Party (JHU), Sri Lanka 144, 146, 149–50 National Interfaith Council of South Africa (NICSA) 270 National Interfaith Leadership Council (NILC), South Africa 269–70 National League for Democracy (NLD), Myanmar 123, 158, 162, 164, 165, 166 National Order Party, Turkey 339, 340–1 National Outlook Movement (NOM), Turkey 83–4, 87 National Religious Party (NRP), Israel 314–15, 316, 317 ‘National View’ parties, Turkey 340 National Volunteer Force (RSS), India 144, 146, 147, 148 nationalisation of Islam 20–1

nationalism: Buddhist 145, 164–5; Hindu 40–1, 145; Islamic 98 Nationalist Movement Party (MHP), Turkey 96–7 Nazi regime and Evangelical church, Germany 225–6 Nehru, J. 147 Netanyahu, B. 318 ‘New Age’ spirituality 72 New Deal, US 184 Nida Tounes, Tunisia 25, 364–5 Nielsen, J. 37 Nigeria 130, 298–300; colonial background to development of political parties 301–3; concepts and definitions 300–1; religion, political parties and politics 303–8 ‘nones’/religiously unaffiliated, US 51–2 Norris, P. and Inglehart, R. 31, 32, 44, 45, 71 Northern Ireland 35–6 Norway 120 nostalgia 16 Obama, B. 86–7, 118, 186, 188, 191, 192 Omokri, R. 305–6 Oosthuizen, M. 268, 270 organisation and structure/institutional capacity of religion 145 Ottoman Empire 21, 22, 83; and modern Turkey (Rupture and Continuity paradigms) 335, 336–7 Ozzano, L. 65 Pace, E. and Guolo, R. 59 Pakistan: Ayub Khan regime 174–6; creation of 169; domestic policy 177–8; dominance of religious parties 177; foreign policy 178; and India, religious violence 123–4; Islam 169–72, 174, 179; Islamisation 176–7; Justice Minir Report 173–4; military rule 176–7; movement against Ahmadiyya community 173, 175; Objective Resolution (1949) 172, 176; partition 147; prominent religious parties (1950s) 172–3 Pakistan National Alliance (PNA) 176 Pakistan People’s Party (PPP) 175, 176–7, 178 Palestine–Israel conflict 327–9, 330–1; UN Special Committee (1947) 314–15; see also Hamas, Palestine pan-Islamism 21–2 Pancasila, Indonesia 98, 99, 100 Parliamentary Fronts, Brazil 206 Partido Acción Nacional (PAN), Mexico 213–14, 215–18, 219, 220, 221 Partido Democrata Mexicana (PDM), Mexico 217 Partido dos Trabalhadores (PT) (Worker’s Party), Brazil 202, 203, 207

403

Index Partido Revolucionario Institucional (PRI), Mexico 215, 216, 218, 220, 221 Party of Justice and Development (PJD), Morocco 371, 373–4, 375–6 party platform formation 80–1; ideological immoderation 85–9; methodology and research design 81; strategic immoderation 82–5 Peace of Westphalia (1648) 13; and South Asian post-colonial states 144, 145, 151 peacebuilding, concept of 128–9; see also conflict resolution and peacebuilding Pediga movement, Germany 236 Peña Nieto, E. 220, 221 Pentecostal charismatics, South Africa 267–8, 269 Pentecostal pastors see under Zambia People’s Democratic Party (PDP), Nigeria 303, 304, 305 Perchoc, P. 126 Pew Research Center 28, 51, 126, 190, 191, 197 Pinney, C. 39–40 PiS see Law and Justice (PiS) Party, Poland PKB see National Awakening Party (PKB), Indonesia PKK, Turkey 96, 97 Platforma Obywatelska (PO), Poland 252, 255, 256 Poland 2, 47, 69, 72, 249, 259; axiological orientation of political parties 252–7; Catholic Church as political actor (post-1989) 250–2; Constitution (1997) 250–1; historical development of political role of Catholic Church 249–50; society: between Church and political parties 257–9 Polish People’s Party (PSL) 252, 255 political culture: and democratisation 69; and social relevance of religion 10–12, 16, 17–18 political parties: conflict resolution and peacebuilding 132–3; definitions of 301; fundamentalism and 64–6; relative power of managers and activists 146 political society 76–7 politics, definitions of 301 Pope Francis 258, 282 Pope John Paul II 257 Pope Pius XI 226 Pope Pius XII 226 populism: Islamic 288–9; see also Christian Right; evangelicals; right wing movements/parties post-Communist countries 47–8, 69 power relations 12–13 private sector 50 proselytisation 131, 132 Prosperous Justice Party (PKS), Indonesia 99 Protestant Reformation 13

Protestants 46; Brazil 202; East Germany 231–2; Italy 244; Northern Ireland 35; US 184, 185; see also evangelicals; specific sects Punama, B. T. (Ahok) 99–100 Quran 12 Qutb, S. 22 Rabbani, M. 325 Radio Maryja, Poland 252, 254 Rafsanjani, H. 351, 352 rahbar, Iran 350–1 Rajagopal, A. 39, 40 Ralston, J. 36 Ram Temple, Ayodhya, India 147 Ramaphosa, M. C. 270–1 rationalisation 32 Reagan, R. 50–1, 85 reciprocity 11 reconciliation 129, 131 Refah Partisis (RP), Turkey 17, 87, 95–6 religion, definitions of 74–5, 300–1 religion and political parties, study of 1–4 religious decline see secularisation religious deprivatisation and political change 72–3 religious diversity, sub-Saharan Africa 307–8 religious fundamentalism: controversial concept of 57–8; early studies 58–9; Fundamentalism Project (FP) 59–61; other perspectives 61–6 religious rioting 144 religious violence 117; China 124; Egypt 121; Europe 119–20; global context 124–5; Iraq and Syria 122; Myanmar 122–3; Pakistan and India 123–4; and secular violence 131–2; Turkey 120–1; UK 119; US 118; see also South Asian post-colonial states; terrorist attacks Rémond, R. 16 Republican Party, US 50–2, 82–3, 85–6; history 183, 184, 185 Republican People’s Party, Turkey 337, 338–9 reunified Germany (1990) 234–6 Riesebrodt, M. 59 right wing movements/parties 117, 118, 119; BJP, India 39; Europe 36–9, 119–20; see also Christian Right; evangelicals rituals and rites of passage, Christian 38, 39 Robertson, R. 61–2 Rohingya Muslims, Myanmar 123, 156, 165–6 Roman Empire 11–12, 13 Rouhani, H. 352, 354 Roy, O. 12, 18, 62 RSS see National Volunteer Force (RSS), India Russian Orthodox Church 226 Rwanda: post-genocide conflict resolution and peacebuilding 133–5 Rydzyk, T. 252, 254

404

Index Sadat, Anwar el 17–18, 23 Saddam Hussain 122 Saffron Revolution, Myanmar 156, 164 Salafis: Egypt 26–7; Tunisia 366–7 Salinas, C. 217 Sall, K.A. 293 Sall, M. 291, 292–3, 294, 295 same-sex marriage, Mexico 220 Sandal, N. A. 324 Sant’Egidio community 129–30 schools see education/schools science and technology 32 Scott, A. 278 secular parties, Indonesia 97–8, 99–100 secular violence 131–2 secular vote, US 192 secularisation 2, 3, 31–4; Christian Democracy, Europe 46–8; Christian Right, US 50–2; democracy in Muslim countries 25–8, 48–50; theory 44–6, 70–1, 135 ‘secularisation of morality’, Poland 258–9 secularism: India 146–8; laiklik, Turkey 336, 337–8, 339–40; Tunisia 359, 362–3 security, existential 31–2, 45–6 ‘self and community’, tension between 27–8 self-confidence of political culture 11, 16 self-policing of political parties 145 Senanayake, D. S. 148, 149 Senegal (1980-2018) 27, 287–8, 295; Constitution 288, 289, 290; legislative elections of 30 July 2017 293–4; political parties and emergence of religious movements 1980 and 2000 288–90; role of religious leaders from 2000 to 2012 290–2; Sall’s first term and ‘tracking’ of opposition leaders (2012-18) 292–3; Sponsorship Act debates 294 Senghor, L. S. 288 separation of powers 27 Sephardic Jews see Mizrahi/Sephardic Jews, Israel sexual revolution and abortion (1966-90), West Germany 229–30 shared values between society and state 146 sharia law 12, 28 Sharif, N. 176, 178 Shas, Israel 320–1 Shi’a Muslims, Iraq 122 Sikhs, Punjab 123, 145 Social Democratic Party (SDP), West Germany 227–8 social diversity 33 social fact/factors of religion 9–11 social media: Hindu nationalist archives 40–1; new forms of protest and communication 24 social movements: and movement-parties 81; vs political parties 22–3 social wealth and religiosity 10

Socialist Unity Party (SED), East Germany 231–4 Soroush, A. 353 South Africa 263–5, 271–2; Apartheid to democracy 265–7; Zuma era and search for new allies 267–71 South African Council of Churches (SACC) 265–6, 267, 269, 271 South Asian post-colonial states (religious violence and political agenda setting): boundary conditions for moderation 144–6; India: religion in a ’secular cage’ 146–8; India and Sri Lanka 143–4, 145; Sri Lanka: violent underbelly of Buddhist state 148–50 Southern Baptists see Baptists Soviet Union: collapse of 240, 347; post-war occupation of GDR 226–7 spiritual realm, neglect of 18 spirituality: feminist 109; increase in 72 Sri Lanka 145–6, 151; independence 149; and India, religious violence 143–4, 145; violent underbelly of Buddhist state 148–50 Sri Lanka Freedom Party (SLFP) 144, 146, 149, 150 Starrett, G. 32–3 Stasi, East Germany 235 state 14–15; advantages of religion over 15–16; and ‘civil religion’ 13–14; see also church–state relations strategic immoderation 82–5 strong-ties and weak-ties 130 Sufis, Senegal 289, 290, 292 Suharto 98, 99 Sukarno 98 Sunni Muslims: Indonesia 97; Iraq 122; Turkey 94, 96 Sunstein, C.R. 377 Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) 127 Switzerland 120 Tahrir Square protests, Cairo, Egypt 24, 121 Tambo, O. 263 Tamil separatists (LTTE), Sri Lanka 149 Temple, M. 278 terrorist attacks9/11 2001, US 128; Casablanca 370; US Consulate, Libya 124–5 Theravada Buddhism 145, 146, 154, 157, 163 Tibi, B. 62–3 Tilley, J. 31, 34 Torres, G. 216 totalitarianism and fundamentalism 63–4 Trump, D. 51, 52, 86–7, 118, 124, 186, 188, 189, 190, 191–2, 194, 197, 299–300 Truth, S. 106–7 Tunisia 23, 27, 358–9; Ennahda movement/Party 24, 25–6, 49, 66, 359–62, 363, 365–6; Islamist story 359–62; real story 363–6; Salafi parties 366–7; secularism 359, 362–3

405

Index Turkey 17, 335; coalition of multiple constituency interests 94–7; Constitution 340, 341–2; Islamisation of 3, 17, 336; Justice and Development Party (AKP/JDP) 3, 49, 87–9, 94–7, 120–1, 340, 341–3; pro-Islamic parties 83–4, 87–9, 338–43; religious violence and political parties 120–1; role of Islam in political history and party system 335–8 20 February Movement (20FM), Morocco 372 Udupa, S. 40–1 Uighur Muslims, China 124 ul-Haw M. Z. 123 ulema 12 Ulema, Pakistan 172–3, 174 ultra-Orthodox Jews and political parties 314–20 Union Solidarity and Development Party (USDP), Myanmar 156, 157–8, 162, 164, 165–6 United Kingdom (UK)abortion 300; England 34; Northern Ireland 35–6; religious violence and political parties 119 United National Party (UNP), Sri Lanka 148, 149, 150 United Nations (UN)peacebuilding 128–9; Religion and Sustainable Development Conference 127; Special Committee on Palestine (1947) 314–15 United States (US) 183–6; African Americans 184, 190–1; Catholics 186; clergy, party affiliation of 195–7; Congress, partisan religious patterns in 195, 196; history 183–5; invasion of Afghanistan 177–8; Iraq War 122, 177–8; Jews 190; Latino religionists 191–2; Muslims and other minorities 192; Protestants, Mormons and GOP 186–90; religious party activists 194–5; religious violence and political parties 118; secular vote 192; terrorism against 124–5, 128; two-party system 183; Vietnam war 228, 229; voters, religious composition of 185–93; voting patterns, summary on religion and partisan 193–4 United Torah Judaism (UTJ), Israel 318–20 values shared between society and state 146 ‘vicarious religion’ 38 Vietnam war protests 228, 229 Wade, A. 288–9, 290, 291, 295 Walton, M. J. 163, 164

Ware, V.-A. et al. 127, 131 Warsi, S. H. 112, 113 Weber, M. 12, 126 Westernisation vs Islamisation of Turkey 336 white evangelicals 186–8 White supremacy 118 Williams, R. H. 61 Wolf, A. 348, 364 women 25–6; conflict resolution and peacebuilding 132; feminism 105; feminism, politics and hierarchies of knowledge 107; history/waves 106–7, 109; intersectional identities, gender and religion 108–10; Kabul, Afghanistan 17, see also Muslim women Worker’s Party (Partido dos Trabalhadores/PT), Brazil 202, 203, 207 World Movement for the Unity of God (MMUD) 289 World Values Survey (WVS) 31–2 Wright Mills, C. 290, 298, 303 Wuye, Rev. J. 130 Yassin, A. 330 Yavuz, M. H. 84, 87 youthApril 6 Movement, Egypt 24; conflict resolution and peacebuilding 132; Junge Gemeinde, East Germany 231–2; MMUD group, Senegal 289; student protests (1968), West Germany 228 Zambia 275; Christians for Lungu (C4L) campaign 282–3; colonial era political priests 278; colonial rule and Federation 277–8; independence struggle 278–9; Ministry of National Guidance and Religious Affairs 284; National Day of Prayer, fasting, repentance and reconciliation 283; National House of Prayer 283–4; Pentecostal ‘big men’ and women alliance 282; Pentecostal pastors, Christian nation, and politics 281; Pentecostal pastors, reappearance 281; Pentecostal pastors and political rewards (1991-2018) 280; politicians at religious functions 281–2; post-colonial Christianity and political parties 278–9; religious affiliation 276–7 Zefzafi, N. 378 Zia-ul-Haq, M. 169, 170, 171, 176, 178 Zionism 314–15, 316–17, 318; rejection of 318–19 Ziring, L. 170 Zuma, J. 265, 267–71

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