by Miranda Blell

INTRODUCTION

On the afternoon of July 30, 1914, Nicholas II issued the General Mobilization Order (GMO), effectively committing the Russian Empire to a war against Austria-Hungary and Germany. The decision was not linear; in the preceding twenty-four hours, Nicholas II had approved, rescinded, and then reinstated the order. This hesitation comports with historians' characterization of the Tsar as Russia's "peace-loving" master. Yet Nicholas II's eventual sanctioning of the GMO represented a divigation between his alleged commitment to a settlement and the mobilization that occurred under his authority. This dissonance is best understood when situated within assessments of his character, wherein he was described as "weak and excessively kindhearted." Indeed, McKinney (2018) observes that "the Tsar's resolve against the counsel offered by his hawkish advisors was weak." Clark (2012) advances this characterisation by identifying a contradiction within Nicholas II's disposition: "an ingrained aversion to conflict" conjoined with "exceptional pliancy in the face of external pressures." Considered together, these assessments portray a sovereign whose autonomy—and, by extension, authority—was susceptible to the exigencies of his advisors. By concentrating trust in his cabinet—principally War Minister Sukhomlinov, Chief of the General Staff Yanushkevich, and Foreign Minister Sazonov—the Tsar institutionalized an informational environment that favored the military establishment. This instability was compounded by the effects of the 1905 Revolution, which diminished the Tsar's authority through concessions that redistributed power to ministerial departments. The resulting configuration produced a quasi-fragmented autocracy in which discrete centres of influence operated with autonomy, thereby producing a state in which "the waxing of one node in the system produced the waning of others." Taken together, these conditions rendered the Tsar's sovereignty contingent upon the prerogatives of his advisors, who circumvented and, at times, outright subverted his executive oversight.

The issuance of the GMO was the outcome of a process in which procedural sequencing allowed the Tsar's cabinet to pre-emptively structure—and thereby pre-determine—executive assent. Drawing on diplomatic correspondence, autobiographical accounts, and contemporary testimony, this study reconstructs the mechanisms through which these officials constrained the sovereign's policy options. It contends that the GMO represented the culmination of a sequence in which Russian policymakers—through informational control, procedural orchestration, and the manipulation of perceived constraints—compelled Nicholas II's consent.

THE JULY CRISIS OF 1914 | A CHRONOLOGY

Upon being informed of Austria-Hungary's ultimatum to Serbia on July 24, Sazonov exclaimed: "It's a European war!" His reaction accorded with the dominant interpretation among Russian officials, who regarded the démarche as the precursor to a continental war; this perception situated the subsequent deliberations within a framework that assumed the imminence of a Europe-wide conflagration, rather than a conflict localized to the Balkans. With minimal effort expended toward securing a settlement, this perception was advanced as the only practicable course of action. That same day, the Council of Ministers authorized the War Preparation Period. Outlined in 1913 by Sukhomlinov, this phase was defined as "the period of diplomatic complications preceding the commencement of hostilities, during which all departments are required to undertake preparatory measures essential for the security and efficacy of mobilizing the army, navy, and fortresses, [and] for the deployment of forces to the threatened frontier." According to Fay (1921), the War Ministry's "Survey I" and "Survey II" regulations were authorized by the General Staff. "Survey I" permitted the call-up of reservists to complete the peacetime establishment of active units and to replace men recently discharged, thereby bringing regiments to wartime strength. These preparations were exemplified by the accelerated promotion of officers stationed at the Tsar's residence in Krasnoe Selo, as well as by the redeployment of the 2nd and 3rd Independent Cavalry Brigades to positions deemed advantageous. Moreover, General Danilov's orders stipulated the deferment of the Kazan 5th Cavalry Division's transfer to Poland, thereby preserving its readiness for operations against Germany. In parallel, "Survey II" vested Sukhomlinov with the authority to summon additional classes of reservists for training, even when such measures exceeded the appropriations fixed by the military budget. The concurrent activation of both surveys effectively constituted a Partial Mobilization Order (PMO), while preserving the legal fiction that mobilization had not yet been formally proclaimed. According to Kennedy (2014), these measures were in agreement with the Tsar's wishes.

On July 26, the War Preparation Period was instituted in the military districts of Kiev, Odessa, Moscow, and Kazan, while the municipal governments of St. Petersburg and Moscow declared a state of siege. Diplomatic correspondence from July 25 sought to minimize the significance of these measures, reporting that "His Majesty has decided in principle to mobilize the thirteen army corps ultimately earmarked for operations against Austria-Hungary," which had been framed as contingent upon an attack on Serbia. However, Florinsky (1927) stated that the operational constraints inherent in a PMO rendered its discontinuation impracticable, thereby necessitating a transition to a GMO under most conditions. Indeed, contemporary assessments corroborate this interpretation. Discussing the PMO, the French ambassador in St. Petersburg, Paléologue, concurred with his Russian counterpart, Izvolsky, that "It's war this time." The importance of the PMO's preemptive measures is evidenced in Nicholas II's telegram on July 30, wherein the Tsar acknowledged that "The military measures which have now come into force were decided five days ago." This admission is significant for two reasons. First, it locates the inflection point of 'no return' as occurring not with the Tsar's assent to a GMO, but with the antecedent, extra-imperial initiation of the Period Preparatory to War. This substantiates the contention that the institutional mechanisms of Russian mobilization had been operationalized before—and autonomous from—the Tsar's assent. Second, it underscores Yanushkevich's agency in exploiting the distinction between "preparation" and "mobilization" to advance Russia's war effort under the guise of administrative routine. This enabled Yanushkevich to initiate measures functionally indistinguishable from a GMO, thereby pre-empting Nicholas II’s ability to veto it, as discussed in a later section.

During this time, Nicholas II attempted to avert a continental war. On July 27, the Tsar proposed a mediation effort, suggesting that Austria-Hungary's conflict with Serbia be adjudicated by the Hague Tribunal after a consultation with France, Britain, Germany, and Italy. In a telegram to Sazonov, the Tsar urged immediate action: "Perhaps there is yet time before events happen which cannot be undone. To gain time, try to take this step today." However, Wegerer (1928) observes that Sazonov ignored the Tsar's injunction to seek Franco-British engagement or to initiate arbitral proceedings.

On 28 July, Yanushkevich participated in a conference with Generals Danilov, Dobrorolsky, and Ronzhin, all of whom reaffirmed the necessity of instituting a GMO. Acting upon this consensus, he prepared two separate edicts for the Tsar: one authorizing a GMO, and the other codifying the provisions of the PMO. According to Kennedy, this deviated from the policy agreed upon by Sazonov and Yanushkevich on 24 July, and from the preferences that, as previously stated, had been expressed by the Tsar himself. Turner (1968) argues that, although such a policy was practicable had the General Staff chosen to pursue it, Sazonov's confidence in its diplomatic innocuousness was ill-founded. Under the stipulations of the Schlieffen Plan, just the PMO would have compelled Germany to pursue mobilization. On July 27, the German Foreign Secretary, Jagow, stated that "if Russia only mobilized in the south, Germany would not mobilize; but if she mobilized in the north, Germany would have to do so." Nonetheless, on July 28, Sazonov and Yanushkevich issued divergent communications regarding their intentions to proceed with mobilization. According to Turner, Sazonov—likely with the Tsar's support—dispatched a telegram to Berlin, with copies to Vienna, Paris, London, and Rome, declaring: "In consequence of the Austrian declaration of war on Serbia, we shall tomorrow proclaim mobilization... Inform the German Government of this and lay stress on the absence of any intention on the part of Russia to attack Germany." By contrast, later that night, Yanushkevich dispatched an antithetical directive to the commanding officers of all military districts, issued even before the formal ratification of any plan: "July 30 will be proclaimed the first day of our general mobilization. The proclamation will be followed by the regulation telegram." This latter instruction, which presupposed a definitive course of action, suggests a degree of operational foresight at odds with the Tsar's disposition. Nicholas II’s discomfort with the policy adopted by his staff is discernible in a telegram to Kaiser Wilhelm II, in which he conceded his political impotence:

"I foresee that soon I shall be overwhelmed by the pressure forced upon me[,] and be forced to take extreme measures which will lead to war. To try and avoid such a calamity as a European war, I beg you in the name of our old friendship to do what you can to stop your allies from going too far."

Throughout July 29, Sazonov persisted in his circuit of diplomatic consultations. To the German Ambassador, Pourtalès, he reiterated similar assurances. Sazonov tempered such rhetoric with the contention that mobilization need not be synonymous with war, and that Russian forces could, if required, remain indefinitely at readiness without crossing the frontier. Yet by evening, Pourtalès warned that any further escalation would compel Germany to counter-mobilize, thereby precipitating a European war. Almost concurrently, the War Ministry obtained reports indicating that Germany and Austria-Hungary had already initiated the GMO's measures under conditions of secrecy. With this intelligence, Sazonov pressed for an audience with Nicholas II; the meeting, lasting roughly an hour, concluded with the Emperor's "reluctant" assent to the first GMO. In his memoirs, Buchanan identified this moment as an inflection point, recalling that "the Emperor, yielding to the pressure brought to bear on him by his military advisors, unwillingly consented to issue a GMO." However, Turner contends that this interpretation places undue emphasis on a single exchange. Turner argues that the momentum toward a GMO had become irreversible as a result of the cumulative logic of diplomatic commitments, operational planning, and the sequence of military alerts. Indeed, Yanushkevich sought to secure signatures from the Council of Ministers for the General Mobilization Order; as Albertini (1953) records, this reflected his determination to have everything ready “in advance, so as to lose no time once the final consent had been obtained,” stating further that Dobrorolsky “would never have waited till evening,” notwithstanding the absence of the Tsar’s authorization. This interpretation finds corroboration in the diary of the Russian Foreign Office:

“...Sazonov requested His Majesty to receive him today, to enable him to present a report concerning the political situation which admitted of no delay. After a silence, the Tsar asked: ‘Is it all the same to you if I receive you at 3 o’clock, at the same time as Tatistchev, as otherwise I have not a free minute today?’ The Minister thanked His Majesty and said that he would present himself at the hour named. The Chief of the Staff heatedly pleaded with S.D. Sazonov to persuade the Tsar without fail to consent to a general mobilization in view of the extreme danger that would result for us if we were not ready for war with Germany, should circumstances demand the taking of decisive measures by us after the success of a general mobilization had been compromised by recourse to a partial mobilization…During the course of nearly an hour, the Minister attempted to show that war was becoming inevitable, as it was clear to everybody that Germany had decided to bring about a collision, as otherwise she would not have rejected all the pacifying proposals that had been made and could easily have brought her ally to reason. Under these circumstances, it only remained to do everything that was necessary to meet war fully armed and under the most favourable conditions for ourselves. Therefore, it was better to put away any fears that our warlike preparations would bring about a war, and to continue these preparations carefully rather than by reason of such fears to be taken unawares by war.”

The effort to secure Nicholas II's approval of a GMO is best understood through an examination of diplomatic correspondence. In a dispatch to Austro-Hungarian Foreign Minister Berchtold, the Hapsburg's ambassador in St. Petersburg, Szápáry, recorded having told Sazonov that "it would be a good thing if his Imperial master were informed of the true situation, especially as it was urgently necessary, if one wanted to maintain peace, to put an end to the attempts of the military to outbid each other, which now seemed to threaten as a result of the false reports that were in circulation." Szápáry later reported that Sazonov "endeavored to belittle the monarchical aspect of the question," recasting the Austro-Hungarian ultimatum as a prelude to a broader offensive against Serbia, rather than a punitive measure in response to regicidal provocation. Sazonov's conduct embodied the broader predisposition of the Russian government to interpret any of Austria-Hungary's démarches as a German-supported initiative. Upon receipt of Vienna's ultimatum to Serbia, Sazonov reportedly "detected Germany's hand in Austria's demands," thereby reframing the issue from a circumscribed dynastic-legal dispute over regicide into putative evidence of a premeditated design to destabilize the European balance of power. This was accentuated during the ministerial deliberations of July 29, in which Sazonov portrayed Russia as having been "bullied" by "arrogant" German diplomacy and insisted it was "time to stop," thus transmuting mobilization from discretionary policy into a defensive necessity. In effect, the imperial staff restructured Nicholas II's perceived sphere of action, embedding his consent to mobilization within an informational matrix constructed with selective intelligence, despite Szápáry's assurances that Austria-Hungary's past conduct obviated such assumptions.

Nonetheless, inflammatory—if not outright false—reports proliferated during this period. Szapáry observed that, "It is by no means out of the question that military circles are busy trying to reduce this complicated political problem to some simpler formula in the hope that, as soon as a certain degree of readiness for war has been reached, they may precipitate events as far as possible by influencing the mood of the Tsar through false reports." The telegram pointed to deliberate manipulation of intelligence within Russian military and diplomatic circles, with distorted reports used to pressure Nicholas II into ordering a premature mobilization. It was not the only such instance; Sazonov appears to have relayed to his counterparts reports of a German mobilization which, in reality, rested on unsubstantiated rumor. In his foreword to the Diary of the Russian Foreign Office, Sazonov recalled the disruptive effect of a misprint in the Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger. The newspaper prematurely announced the beginning of German mobilization; its arrival in St. Petersburg preceded the appearance of any retraction. Sazonov conceded that "absolutely false" reports of German mobilization "were reported at Petersburg as fact, despite the absence of verified evidence at the time." Among the reports circulating in St. Petersburg was that from the Russian military attaché in Athens, Colonel Yerkovich. After traveling through the German banlieue on July 28, Yerkovich claimed to have observed indications of mobilization already underway, including what he interpreted as troop re-organization. While the Russian ambassador to Germany, Sverbeiev, informed Sazonov that reports of German mobilization were unfounded—explaining that the extent had been orders had been pre-printed for various contingencies—the Tsar’s staff nonetheless treated such information as incontrovertible evidence of German mobilization. However, there is no historical evidence of any German mobilization—partial or full—before August 1. As Count Brockdorff-Rantzau, President of the German Delegation, later asserted: "The general Russian mobilisation determined upon on the 29th, and ordered on the 30th, was in no way justified by any military measure on the part of Germany or Austria-Hungary."

These fabrications concerning German mobilization were compounded by misreports about Austria-Hungary. On July 29, Szápáry urged Sazonov to apprise the Tsar of the "true" state of affairs, emphasizing that the preservation of peace required an immediate cessation of the escalating 'bidding up' between militaries, which was aggravated by the dissemination of unfounded reports. According to Wegerer, the most significant of these was the allegation of Austrian mobilization, which can be traced back to a telegram sent by Ambassador Shebeko on July 28—a telegram whose authenticity was questioned by contemporaries and possibly antedated. Indeed, during this time, Austria-Hungary had only mobilized against Serbia. However, when Szápáry rejected Sazonov's assertion that Austria had mobilized, Sazonov reportedly terminated the exchange with the remark, "Let us drop this chronology!" Wegerer contends that such exchanges resulted from a persistent tendency within Russian intelligence to overestimate the mobilization capacity of the Austro-Hungarian army. This predisposition was derived from the General Staff's familiarity with Habsburg mobilization procedures, which inclined analysts to interpret minor irregularities as precursors to full-scale mobilization. For example, an internal estimate prepared in March 1914 concluded that five to six corps would be sufficient to defeat Serbia, yet the 1913 benchmark—seven corps—continued to serve as the prevailing standard in Russian assessments. By mid-July 1914, field reporting from Vienna pushed the figure upward: Shebeko wired that "thus far in all eight corps are undergoing mobilization," while attaché traffic cited sightings of VIII Corps at Prague and IX Corps at Leitmeritz, encouraging analysts to assume covert activation of the three Galician corps as well. Indeed, staff officers reasoned that as many as thirteen Austro-Hungarian corps were nearing wartime strength—an inference that fed St. Petersburg's portrayal of Habsburg preparations as a threat to Russia's western frontier, and thus as justifying counter-mobilization. In a telegraph to Berchtold, Szápáry underscored the degree to which such misinformation had shaped the Tsar's judgment, reporting to Berchtold that:

"I observed that it had been brought to my notice that some apprehension was felt in Russia because we had mobilized the Eighth Army Corps of action against Serbia. M. Sazonov stated that the Chief of the General Staff had expressed uneasiness and that he knew nothing about it. I endeavored to convince M. Sazonov that any unbiased person could be easily convinced that our Southern Army Corps could not be a menace to Russia…"

According to Wegerer, Danilov admitted that Austria-Hungary's mobilization of its Eighth Army did not constitute a direct threat to Russia. One of the army's corps, he noted, was earmarked for contingencies against Italy, further attenuating its relevance to operations on the Serbian front. Serbian defensive measures, including the demolition of the Save River bridge on July 28 and the preemptive withdrawal of the Belgrade garrison on July 25, further diminished the plausibility of an immediate Austro-Hungarian assault on the Serbian capital, much less Russia. Yet, such realities were subsumed to the political imperatives of selective intelligence. Concurrently, despite the General Staff's admission about "the slowness of [its] operational work," the Russian press advanced a triumphalist narrative. This was exemplified by the Birzhevye Vedomosti of February 27, wherein Sukhomlinov declared that "Russia wants peace, but is ready for war." Nonetheless, Sazonov sought to leverage public opinion, reportedly insisting before the Crown Council that "Russian opinion makes clear that it is both politically and morally impossible for Russia to allow Serbia to be crushed." This argument, however, has been discredited. The Interior Minister, Maklakov, confided to Dobrorolsky that: "In Russia, war will never be popular with the masses. Revolutionary ideas are more to their taste than a victory over Germany." Similarly, the British Ambassador to Russia, Buchanan, recounted that "The German Ambassador [in St. Petersburg] had predicted that the declaration of war would provoke a revolution." The discontent, desertion, and apathy prevalent among the Russian populace at the outset of the war further undermine Sazonov's claims. Nonetheless, declarations of Russia's putative readiness for war, when combined with inflated estimates of Austro-Hungarian mobilization capacity, engendered an optic in which Nicholas II's decision-making likely became reactive rather than deliberative. As a result, the Tsar confided in Wilhelm II that "the indignation in Russia shared fully by me is enormous," a sentiment that contributed to his eventual agreement to the GMO.

As several accounts of the July Crisis suggest, the convergence of misinformation, manipulation, and political coercion delimited Nicholas II's decision-making power. Issued on the afternoon of July 29, the Tsar's first authorization of the GMO was the product of competing institutional agendas within the imperial administration. That night, Kaiser Wilhelm II sent the Tsar a telegram urging a de-escalation. According to McMeekin (1974), the Tsar expressed "extreme agitation" and directed the Court Minister that "everything possible must be done to save the peace," appending that he "would not become responsible for a monstrous slaughter." He contacted Sukhomlinov, who cautioned that mobilization was "not a mechanical process" susceptible to arrest and resumption at will, and then Yanushkevich, who offered a parallel objection. Nonetheless, Nicholas II succeeded in instructing Yanushkevich to suspend all mobilization activity. This order, however, was effectively nullified by his advisors. Indeed, his advisor's actions amounted to outright insubordination. Sukhomlinov's account of the subsequent events, offered under oath during his 1917 criminal trial, constitutes one of the most damning windows into the dysfunction of Russia's civil-military hierarchy:

"General Ianushkevich asked what he was to do then. I replied to him, 'Do nothing at all.' I knew that the responsibility rested on me, and I gave orders that mobilization should not be suspended, for which General Ianushkevich thanked me… The next morning, I lied to His Majesty, explaining that mobilization was proceeding only in the districts of the Southwest. On this day, I nearly lost my reason. I knew that mobilization was in full swing and that it was impossible to stop it. Fortunately, on the same day, the Tsar was convinced afresh, and I was thanked for the good execution of mobilization; otherwise, I should have been in jail long ago."

Sukhomlinov's testimony reveals the degree to which Nicholas II's formal authority had, by this stage, been subordinated to the discretion of his advisors, among whom "general war was regarded as almost inevitable." By contravening the emperor's directive, he shifted the issue from the sphere of administrative negotiation to that of a fait accompli. In concert with Yanushkevich, Sukhomlinov wagered that, once the GMO had progressed past an irretrievable stage, Nicholas II would deem compliance preferable to the ignominy of publicly overruling his general staff. The wager ultimately succeeded, albeit only through the intervention of other officials—foremost Sazonov—who secured the emperor's assent to a second GMO. Sazonov presented Wilhelm II's attempts at reconciliation as subterfuge, contending that their objective was to secure Germany a temporal advantage. In an audience with the Tsar, he stated: "We shall not escape war now!… I don't think Your Majesty can postpone the order for general mobilization any longer. The war will break out just the same at Germany's appointed time—and will catch us in hopeless confusion." However, Sazonov's assertions were not confined to the immediacy of "these circumstances"; even before the promulgation of the first GMO, he had alleged that the Kaiser's objective was "to delay our preparations so that he can demolish us after having overpowered France." Considered together, these statements exemplify the instrumentalization of imminent-threat narratives to delimit Nicholas II's decision-making abilities. Paléologue recorded that Sazonov's intervention of July 30 was the final argument put before the Tsar before he reinstated the GMO. Irrespective of the Tsar's assent, the episode underscores the determination of Nicholas II's advisors to ensure the GMO proceeded to completion. Reportedly, Yanushkevich expressed his desire to insulate himself from any countermanding orders, remarking, "I shall go away, smash my telephone, and generally adopt measures which will prevent anyone from finding me to give contrary orders which would again stop our general mobilization." On July 31, upon learning that the second GMO had been implemented, Sazonov joked to Yanushkevich, "Now you can smash your telephone."

CONCLUSION

Debating the signing of the second GMO, Paléologue described the Tsar as "deadly pale" and recorded his protest: "Just think of the responsibility you're advising me to assume. Remember, it's a question of sending thousands and thousands of men to their death!" The Tsar recognized that the impending deaths would be the result of determined decisions made within his council, rather than merely the contingencies of combat. The audit conducted by G. F. Krivosheev approximated Russian fatalities to be approximately 2.05 million soldiers, comprising 1.20 million killed in action, 440,000 missing, 240,000 succumbing to wounds, 11,000 killed by gas, and 155,000 from disease. His willingness to proceed, despite consistent professions of pacifism, demonstrates the degree to which the decision was determined by intra-cabinet pressures rather than by personal conviction. Accordingly, this study construes the order as the culmination of a decision-making process shaped by the efforts of imperial advisors to supplant the sovereign's preferences. By engaging with contemporary historiography, primary sources, and recent scholarship, this study reinterprets Nicholas II's decision-making within the context of the imperial cabinet's internal politics, wherein competing military agendas worked to erode his authority. Rather than representing an autonomous exercise of his will, the Tsar's decision emerges here as the product of misinformation, manipulation, and deceit on behalf of his ministers—who, as Sazonov ironically remarked to Pourtalès, "could have prevented the war by one word: you didn't want to."

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By: D. Micah Stark

The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the United States Air Force Academy, the Air Force, the Department of Defense, or the U.S. Government.

Introduction

On November 15th, 2022, nearly a year into Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, a missile struck the Polish village of Prezewodów, near the country’s southeastern border with Ukraine, killing two Polish civilians (Euronews, 2022). Given Poland’s signatory status to the North Atlantic Treaty, the attack immediately raised fears that NATO’s collective defense mechanism, enshrined in Article 5 of the North Atlantic Treaty, might be invoked, compelling member states—including the United States—to respond militarily against the Russian Federation. Although the strike was later determined to be an errant Ukrainian air defense missile (Myre, 2022), the tragedy and resulting fear underscored the legal and geopolitical complexities of collective defense obligations and raised a critical question: Does Article 5 automatically bind the United States to military actions, or must Congress authorize any such response?

The North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) is founded on the principle of collective self-defense, meaning that an armed attack against one member is considered an attack against all (U.S. Department of State, 2025; Britannica, 2025). However, in the U.S. constitutional system, the authority to declare and wage war rests not with a treaty or international organization, but with the legislative and executive branches (U.S. Constitution, 1787). This raises a critical legal issue: Does Article 5 function as a “self-executing” treaty provision that has direct legal effect upon ratification, or is it “non-self-executing,” requiring additional congressional action before its obligations take effect?

The answer to this question has significant implications for both U.S. constitutional law and international treaty enforcement, and debates over the binding nature of NATO’s collective defense clause are not merely theoretical. In 2023, President Donald Trump publicly stated that the United States would not defend NATO allies who, in his view, failed to contribute sufficiently to the alliance’s military expenditures (Linskey, 2024). Alternatively, congressional reluctance to declare war highlights concerns about whether a willing president could even receive approval to commit forces beyond the scope of the War Powers Resolution (Fay, 2018). Such remarks illustrate broader uncertainty about the legal force of treaty obligations and whether a sitting president could unilaterally disregard them.

The following sections examine whether NATO’s Article 5 qualifies as a self-executing treaty under U.S. law. The first section outlines the relevant constitutional and statutory framework governing war powers and treaty implementation in the United States and the doctrinal distinction between self-executing and non-self-executing treaties. It draws on key precedents, including Medellín v. Texas, and explains how courts and legal scholarship have interpreted the binding force of international agreements. The second section applies the existing legal framework to the North Atlantic Treaty, analyzing the treaty’s language and the intent of its drafters to determine whether it meets the threshold of self-execution. The third section critiques the current interpretive test established in Medellín, arguing that it is overly vague and insufficiently structured to provide consistent results. In response, the fourth section proposes a new five-part test grounded in textual clarity and constitutional limits. Finally, the fifth section applies this new test to Article 5, concluding that NATO’s collective defense clause qualifies as a self-executing provision that imposes binding domestic obligations on the United States government upon ratification.

Historical Background

The North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) was established in the aftermath of World War II, during a period marked by escalating tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union (U.S. Department of State, 2025). Seeking to contain the spread of communism and solidify alliances in Western Europe, the United States spearheaded the formation of a collective defense arrangement (U.S. Department of State, 2025). This effort culminated in the signing of the North Atlantic Treaty on April 4, 1949, by U.S. Secretary of State Dean Acheson, and its subsequent ratification by the U.S. Senate under Article II, Section 2 of the Constitution, which requires a two-thirds majority for treaty approval (Chen, 1994). The treaty marked a significant departure from the United States’ longstanding tradition of isolationism, formally committing the country to a binding collective security pact for the first time in its history.

NATO’s founding members included the United States, Canada, and ten Western European nations, most of whom were allies during World War II or shared a common fear of Soviet expansionism (U.S. Department of State, 2025). At its core, the treaty was designed for self-defense. The key provision, Article 5, declares that an armed attack against one or more members in Europe or North America shall be considered an attack against them all (NATO, 2025). It invokes Article 51 of the UN Charter, affirming the right of individual or collective self-defense and allowing each member to respond in the manner it deems necessary, including through armed force (United Nations Charter, Article 51, 2025). While this provision forms the treaty’s backbone, it has also been the subject of legal debate in the United States regarding congressional war powers and treaty obligations.

During the Cold War, NATO’s primary strategic objective was to deter Soviet aggression (Haglund, 2025). After the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, NATO’s mission evolved. Several former Soviet Bloc countries, including Poland, sought and achieved membership in the alliance, motivated by lingering fears of Russian interference and the desire to secure political and military integration with the West. Poland officially joined NATO in 1999, an expansion that has since raised questions about the scope of Article 5—particularly in cases of ambiguous or accidental attacks on member state territory (Haglund, 2025).

NATO has also adapted its operations beyond traditional collective defense. It has intervened in regional conflicts such as the Yugoslav Wars and cooperated with coalition forces in Afghanistan and Iraq. In doing so, NATO has increasingly embraced peacekeeping, stabilization, and counter-terrorism as part of its modern mandate (North Atlantic Treaty Organization, 2022).

Recent geopolitical developments have brought renewed scrutiny to NATO's role and obligations. Russia’s 2022 invasion of Ukraine was partially provoked by Ukraine’s aspiration to join NATO, a move perceived by Russia as a direct threat to its sphere of influence (North American Treaty Organization, 2024). While Ukraine is not a NATO member and therefore not protected under Article 5, the war has reignited debates about the limits and implications of NATO’s collective defense commitments (Ciaramella & Green, 2025).

Domestically, NATO’s relevance has been a subject of political contention in the United States. Critics have argued that Article 5 may obligate the U.S. to engage in military action without explicit congressional authorization, potentially undermining the constitutional separation of powers. President Donald Trump’s public skepticism of NATO—particularly his suggestion that U.S. support should be conditional on other members' defense spending—highlighted concerns about the enforceability and political will behind collective defense obligations (Linskey, 2024).

The ambiguity of Article 5 has further fueled legal discourse. While it commits members to assist an attacked ally, it allows each country to determine what form that assistance should take. As a result, interpretations of what constitutes a “sufficient” or “legally binding” response vary widely. In the case of Poland, for instance, had the 2022 stray missile incident been interpreted as a direct attack, it could have triggered NATO’s collective defense mechanism. Yet such invocation would inevitably raise questions about the scope, necessity, and method of each member’s response—questions that continue to test the legal and strategic coherence of the NATO alliance.

Introduction of the Law

Classifying the North Atlantic Treaty—particularly Article 5—as a self-executing treaty raises essential questions at the intersection of U.S. constitutional law and international treaty obligations. The answer has profound implications for how and when the United States is legally compelled to act in defense of its NATO allies.

Issues surrounding a nation’s commitment to war implicate both domestic and international legal frameworks. Under the U.S. Constitution, war powers are distributed across Articles I, II, and IV (U.S. Constitution, 1787). Specifically, Article I, Section 8, Clause 11 vests Congress with the exclusive authority to declare war, while Article II, Section 2 designates the President as Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces (U.S. Constitution, 1787). This separation was deliberately designed to limit executive overreach and ensure democratic accountability. Chief Justice John Marshall emphasized this principle in Talbot v. Seeman, stating:

The whole powers of war being, by the Constitution of the United States, vested in Congress, the acts of that body can alone be resorted to as our guides in this inquiry. (Talbot v. Seeman, 1801)

In 1973, the War Powers Resolution reinforced this balance by allowing the President to initiate military action, but only temporarily: Within sixty days, Congress must either authorize continued military engagement or mandate withdrawal (War Powers Resolution, 1973). Though often contested, this resolution reflects the U.S. government's attempt to reconcile swift military response with legislative oversight.

From an international law perspective, treaty interpretation is primarily governed by the Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties (VCLT) (VCLT, 1969). Though the U.S. is not a party to the VCLT, American courts and legal scholars frequently invoke its principles. The Convention outlines the methods for interpreting treaties—examining text, context, object, purpose, and state practice—and distinguishes between self-executing and non-self-executing obligations (VCLT, 1969).

Under U.S. law, the President holds the constitutional authority to negotiate and enter treaties, but the requirement of Senate ratification checks this power (U.S. Constitution, Article II, 1787). However, the President also has certain statutory powers. According to the 1987 Restatement (Third) of Foreign Relations Law, the President may:

• Suspend or terminate an agreement in accordance with its terms;
• Determine that a breach or supervening event justifies withdrawal or suspension;
• Choose not to enforce or terminate an agreement even when justified. (Socarras, 2011)

Yet, this broad presidential discretion was recently curtailed. The 2024 National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA) includes a provision requiring congressional approval before the President can unilaterally withdraw from NATO (Linskey, 2024). This statute reinstates a measure of legislative control over treaty termination and reinforces the binding nature of ratified agreements.

U.S. courts have long recognized the role of international law within the domestic legal system. In The Paquete Habana (1900), the Supreme Court held that “international law is part of our law, and must be ascertained and administered by the courts...” (The Paquete Habana, 1900). Similarly, in The Nereide (1815), the Court emphasized that international law obligations apply unless overridden by a contrary statute or constitutional provision (The Nereide, 1815). These decisions affirm the doctrine of international legal supremacy, under which treaty obligations—once incorporated into domestic law—carry the force of federal statutes.

Nonetheless, a critical distinction in U.S. treaty law remains: whether a treaty is self-executing or non-self-executing. In Medellín v. Texas (2008), the Supreme Court clarified:

Not all international law obligations automatically constitute binding federal law enforceable in United States courts. A treaty is self-executing when it operates of itself without the aid of any legislative provision. Conversely, non-self-executing treaty stipulations require implementing legislation. (Medellín v. Texas, 2008)

This distinction is pivotal. A self-executing treaty has immediate legal effect upon ratification and can be enforced in U.S. courts. A non-self-executing treaty, by contrast, merely constitutes an international commitment until Congress enacts enabling legislation (Medellín v. Texas, 2008).

The Congressional Research Service (CRS) has elaborated on this point. In a 2023 report, it explained that self-executing treaties:

• Have the status of federal statutes;
• Supersede conflicting state laws;
• Are subordinate only to the U.S. Constitution. (Congressional Research Service, 2023)

Meanwhile, non-self-executing treaties “bind the United States as a matter of international law” but “do not create rights or obligations enforceable as domestic law in U.S. courts.” Therefore, implementation hinges on congressional action.

Classifying a treaty as self-executing or not affects the separation of powers. For example, treaties requiring appropriations, creating criminal liability, or authorizing war are typically considered non-self-executing because they intrude upon Congress’s exclusive powers. (U.S. Constitution, Article I, 1787)

Nevertheless, courts use interpretive tools to make this determination. As Medellín explained, treaty interpretation “begins with its text,” but also considers “the negotiation and drafting history of the treaty as well as the post-ratification understanding of signatory nations.” (Medellín v. Texas, 2008).  These are consistent with the VCLT’s guidance.

Application to the North Atlantic Treaty

The text of Article 5 of the North Atlantic Treaty is central to this inquiry:

The Parties agree that an armed attack against one or more of them in Europe or North America shall be considered an attack against them all [...] each of them [...] will assist the Party or Parties so attacked [...] such action as it deems necessary, including the use of armed force. (North Atlantic Treaty, 1949)

This language affirms a mutual obligation to respond, though it allows each state to determine the nature and extent of its response. While the discretion over how to assist could appear to weaken the binding nature of the provision, the obligation to act in some form remains clear.

The original intent also supports a self-executing classification. Internal documents from the Truman administration and NATO archives show that the drafters anticipated real-world application. The Treaty was signed by the Secretary of State and ratified by the Senate, indicating full constitutional compliance. NATO’s own records describe the treaty as a shift away from U.S. isolationism, made in the face of mounting Cold War threats (North Atlantic Treaty Organization, 2025).

Thus, the North Atlantic Treaty—particularly Article 5—meets the established criteria for self-execution: it was signed, ratified, and its language conveys a binding obligation without the need for further legislative implementation.

Application of the Law

Determining whether the North Atlantic Treaty—specifically Article 5—is self-executing follows the two-pronged interpretive framework laid out in Medellín v. Texas: (1) the language of the treaty and (2) the intent of its drafters (Medellín v. Texas, 2008). Both support the conclusion that Article 5 is, in fact, self-executing.

Language

Article 5 states that an “armed attack against one or more [signatory nations] in Europe or North America shall be considered an attack against them all,” and that each member will “assist [...] by taking forthwith [...] such action as it deems necessary, including the use of armed force.” (North Atlantic Treaty, 1949). While this provision allows for discretion in the type of assistance rendered, it does not allow discretion over whether assistance must be rendered at all. The language imposes an affirmative obligation—action is required; only its magnitude and nature is subject to national interpretation.

Although this strategic ambiguity provides diplomatic flexibility, it still creates a binding commitment. There is no language that conditions this obligation on further congressional approval or domestic implementing legislation. Accordingly, under the Medellín framework, the treaty contains the necessary self-executing language.

Intent

The intent behind the treaty further supports its classification as self-executing. NATO’s official account of the treaty’s formation emphasizes that American officials, though cautious of isolationist sentiments in Congress, sought to embed the United States within a permanent transatlantic security structure. (North Atlantic Treaty Organization, 2025). As NATO itself explains, the 1948 Berlin Blockade and the communist coup in Czechoslovakia transformed U.S. public opinion, strengthening support for a binding collective defense arrangement (North Atlantic Treaty Organization, 2025).

Statements by President Truman at the 1949 signing ceremony confirm this intention. He described NATO as “a shield against aggression” and emphasized its role in building a “fuller, happier existence” through peace (Truman Library, 2025). The treaty was duly signed and ratified by the Senate, and no implementing legislation was introduced as a prerequisite for its effect.

Given the treaty’s purpose—to deter aggression through credible and immediate obligations—the notion that Article 5 would lack domestic effect absent future legislative action is implausible. Practically and legally, the commitment must be binding to serve its deterrent purpose.

Critique of the Current Test and Proposal of an Alternative

While the Medellín framework provides a foundational distinction between self-executing and non-self-executing treaties, it suffers from interpretive vagueness and doctrinal inconsistency. Courts are directed to assess treaty text, drafting history, and intent—yet these elements can be conflicting, indeterminate, or unavailable. Moreover, the framework fails to account for the evolving nature of international threats and the practical expectations of treaty enforcement in modern geopolitics.

This article proposes a more objective and concrete test that provides greater clarity and judicial efficiency. The proposed five-part test is as follows:

1. Was the treaty signed by the executive?
2. Was the treaty ratified by the Senate?
3. Does the treaty obligate the U.S. government—conditionally or unconditionally—to take action either domestically or internationally?
4. Does the action require further legislative implementation (e.g., appropriation of funds, creation of criminal penalties, declarations of war)?
5. Does the treaty explicitly state that it is self-executing, or contain language indicating such intent?

If the treaty was signed and ratified (1–2), imposes obligations on the U.S. government (3), and either does not require further legislation (4) or contains explicit self-executing language (5), it should be classified as a self-executing treaty.

This model draws from the VCLT’s emphasis on text, ratification, and functional obligation, as well as U.S. constitutional law’s focus on the separation of powers (United Nations, 1969; U.S. Constitution, 1787). It also considers modern realities: that treaty enforcement must evolve alongside shifts in the global security landscape.

For example, NATO's original role as a bulwark against the Soviet Union has transformed into a check against post-Soviet Russian aggression. The interpretive framework should recognize that, while threats evolve, the binding nature of a defense pact does not.

Application of the New Test

Applying the revised five-part test to the North Atlantic Treaty produces a clear result.

1. Signed: Yes. Signed on April 4, 1949, by Secretary of State Dean Acheson on behalf of the President (Truman Library, 2025)
2. Ratified: Yes. Ratified by the Senate on July 21, 1949, fulfilling the requirements of Article II, Section 2 of the U.S. Constitution (North Atlantic Treaty Organization, 2025).
3. Obligation to Act: Yes. Article 5 obligates the United States to assist any NATO member that is attacked, invoking Article 51 of the UN Charter and affirming the duty to respond (Truman Library, 2025).
4. Further Legislation Required? No. The treaty does not call for congressional legislation to operationalize the defense obligation. While Congress retains the power to declare war, the War Powers Resolution allows for executive-initiated action within sixty days. Beyond this, as the treaty was approved by both executive and legislative action, both branches can be viewed as having already authorized the use of force should the Article 5 be invoked (North Atlantic Treaty, 1949).
5. Self-Executing Language or Intent? Yes. Article 5 contains strong operative language, and the legislative and executive branches both understood that the commitment would have automatic effect. As the Truman Library archives and NATO documentation show, there was a clear intent for the treaty to bind the U.S. upon ratification (Truman Library, 2025; North Atlantic Treaty Organization, 2025).

Thus, under both the traditional and proposed frameworks, the North Atlantic Treaty—particularly Article 5—qualifies as a self-executing treaty. While the President and Congress retain some discretion over how to respond, the obligation to respond exists by operation of law. Neither branch can legally deny that war can be legally invoked through this article.

Critically, even under the constraints of the War Powers Resolution, the President would be required to initiate action within the time window prescribed by statute. Political actors may question the wisdom or equity of U.S. participation in NATO, but their arguments hold no legal weight. Once an attack occurs, U.S. obligations are activated.

In the same way, Congress could not claim that military action taken by the President through Article 5 subverts congressional power, as the self-executing nature of the treaty means that Congress has already authorized the use of military force should the treaty be invoked. As a result, Congress cannot deny the President the authority to commit troops in response to a call from NATO.

As the Supreme Court affirmed in Medellín, even if courts cannot compel presidential compliance with non-self-executing treaties, the consequences of breach “on the international plane” are real (Medellín v. Texas, 2008). In the case of a self-executing treaty like NATO, those consequences would be domestic as well: failure to act would violate binding federal law.

Conclusion

The classification of Article 5 of the North Atlantic Treaty as a self-executing treaty is supported by both textual analysis and historical intent. Its binding nature is essential to its function as a deterrent against aggression, and its ratification by the United States without accompanying legislation confirms that it was intended to have immediate domestic legal effect.

While foundational, the current doctrinal test from Medellín v. Texas fails to provide a sufficiently concrete analytical framework. The revised five-part test proposed in this paper addresses that shortcoming, offering a more structured and objective methodology for classifying treaties. Applying this test to NATO’s Article 5 confirms its self-executing status under both constitutional and international law.

In an increasingly complex global order, the predictability of legal obligations is vital—not only to the integrity of the U.S. legal system but to the credibility of its international commitments. NATO’s value as a strategic alliance depends on the enforceability of its promises. Political rhetoric may challenge these obligations, but the law does not. Under both the Constitution and longstanding precedent, the United States is legally bound to come to the defense of its NATO allies.

By Wendy Lin, Lily Molesky, Nylah Moosa, Annika Pavlin-Jamal, and Eloïse Schlachet

Introduction

This document serves as a formal proposal addressed to Mr. Graeme Reid, the United Nations Mandate Holder on the Protection Against Violence and Discrimination Based on Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity (OHCHR 2023). As a global advocate for LGBTQ+ rights and a leader in addressing violence against individuals for their sexual orientation and gender identity, your mandate is uniquely positioned to confront the alarming and systemic human rights crisis of “corrective” rape in South Africa.

‘Corrective’ rape, a form of sexual violence intended to supposedly ‘cure’ the victim’s sexual orientation, disproportionately targets queer women and serves as a manifestation of deeply entrenched homophobia and patriarchal control (Anguita 2011, 493; Koraan 2012, 46). The brutal physical and psychological consequences of this crime, compounded by systemic discrimination and a lack of institutional response, demand immediate action.

We address this proposal to you due to the United Nations' vital role in setting global human rights standards and fostering accountability. Your mandate provides a platform through which this issue can be amplified, while also exploring ways of engaging with South African institutions and offering actionable solutions rooted in international law and best practices. The present proposal seeks to delineate the scope of “corrective” rape, the international legally-binding framework that demands intervention, while describing comprehensive remedies to empower survivors and prevent further violence.

Background

South Africa, despite its progressive constitution that enshrines equality and prohibits discrimination based on sexual orientation, continues to grapple with pervasive homophobia and heteronormativity, patriarchal ideology, and gender-based violence present within exogenous social convention.

The brutal murder of Noxolo Nogwaza in 2011, a lesbian activist, exemplifies the lethal intersection of homophobia and misogyny in South Africa: her body showing signs of extreme violence, including lacerations and fractured bones (Carter 2013). Although investigated by the local Tsakane police, no arrests were made (Mwambene & Wheal 2015, 65). Nogwaza’s case demonstrates violations of South Africa’s constitution of equal protection and benefit of the law, as well as protection from discrimination based on gender, sex, and sexual orientation, setting a dangerous precedent that allows more instances of “corrective” rape to continue unchecked (Mwambene & Wheal 2015, 67-68).

Estimates suggest that ten queer women are victims of a “corrective” rape each week (Koraan & Geduld 2015, 1931). Very few cases ever reach trial, and many are dismissed outright or postponed in favour of ‘more important’ matters, allowing perpetrators to walk free (Mwambene & Wheal 2015, 62). A 2004 study found that 33% of queer individuals in Gauteng, South Africa feared disclosing their sexual orientations to authorities, while 43% hesitated to report assaults due to fears of police abuse (Mwambene & Wheal 2015, 61). Of the cases that are reported, most are misclassified as unrelated to sexual orientation, despite the targeting of queer women (Mwambene & Wheal 2015, 61). The social marginalization of LGBTQ+ identities that survivors face further deters them from seeking justice or medical care, exacerbating their vulnerability.

Survivors of rape often endure severe physical injuries, as well as exposure to sexually transmitted diseases and pregnancy. With 19.6% of South Africa’s population aged 15-49 living with HIV, combined with rapists’ tendency not to use condoms, survivors of rape are at a heightened risk of infection (South African Government, “People of South Africa,” n.d.). Lesbian survivors are at a greater risk of unintended pregnancies, as they are less likely than heterosexual or bisexual women to use birth control (Doan-Minh 2019, 172). This increases their vulnerability to complications from unsafe abortions, particularly in South Africa, where nearly 50% of abortions occur outside medical facilities, and in Sub-Saharan Africa more generally, which has the highest abortion case-fatality rate in the world (HEARD, 2016; Bankole et al, 2020.) These physical harms are compounded by deep psychological scars, including post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, and suicidal ideation, worsened by the discriminatory and targeted nature of the violence (Doan-Minh 2019, 188; Padmanabhanunni and Edwards 2013, 385). The collective impact of these assaults further isolates survivors, forcing them to bear not only personal trauma but also the societal stigma of being doubly marginalized for their gender and sexual orientation.

‘Corrective’ rape does not occur in isolation; it is a collective, socially constructed form of violence embedded in power dynamic of community and regional structures (Naidoo et al. 2023, 318). It is not merely an assault but an attack on the entire LGBTQ+ community, reinforcing a system that prioritizes heteropatriarchy over the rights, safety, and freedom of LGBTQ+ women.

International Legal Framework

South Africa’s obligations under international law necessitate decisive action against “corrective” rape. The Convention Against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment (CAT) defines torture as any act inflicting severe physical or mental pain for purposes such as punishment or discrimination. “Corrective” rape, driven by the intent to punish individuals for their sexual orientation, falls within this definition. Article 2 of CAT mandates that each State Party takes effective measures to prevent acts of torture within its jurisdiction (United Nations 1984). Additionally, the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW) recognizes gender-based violence as a form of discrimination. General Recommendation No. 19 of CEDAW emphasizes that gender-based violence impairs or nullifies the enjoyment by women of human rights and fundamental freedoms (United Nations 1979). Furthermore, the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights (ACHPR) and its Protocol on the Rights of Women in Africa (Maputo Protocol) obligate State Parties to adopt measures to ensure the protection of women from all forms of violence, including sexual abuse (African Union 2003).

United Nations’ Role and Past Interventions

The UN has previously demonstrated its capacity to address gender-based violence through integrated support mechanisms and policy reforms. The establishment of Thuthuzela Care Centres (TCCs) in South Africa, supported by UN Women and UNICEF, serves as a pertinent example. These centers provide survivors of sexual violence with comprehensive services, including medical care, counseling, and legal assistance, under one roof (UN Women 2015; South African Government, “Thuthuzela Care Centres,” n.d.). The TCC model has been instrumental in improving the reporting and prosecution rates of sexual offenses and offering holistic support to survivors. However, while the TCCs have made significant strides in addressing general sexual violence, they must be adapted to cater specifically to the unique challenges faced by LGBTQ+ survivors. “Corrective” rape is deeply rooted in homophobia, necessitating interventions that specifically address discrimination against sexual minorities. Current TCCs often lack LGBTQ+-specific training for healthcare workers and do not adequately address the stigma that LGBTQ+ survivors face when seeking support.

Proposed Actions and Remedies

Building upon the lessons from the TCC model and other UN interventions, the following actions are recommended to combat “corrective” rape more effectively:

1. The Establishment of LGBTQ+-Specific Support Centers: These centers should provide healthcare services, legal aid, and counseling tailored to the needs of LGBTQ+ survivors. Healthcare providers must receive training in LGBTQ+ sensitivity to ensure non-discriminatory care. Legal aid should assist survivors in navigating the justice system and pressing charges. Community-based counselors who understand the unique challenges LGBTQ+ survivors face should be available to offer support.
2. Legislative Reforms and Anti-Discrimination Laws: Amendments to South Africa’s Criminal Code should explicitly classify “corrective” rape as a hate crime, with enhanced penalties. Comprehensive anti-discrimination legislation protecting sexual orientation and gender identity should be enacted, aligning with CEDAW and ICCPR obligations.
3. Police Training and Accountability Mechanisms: Mandatory LGBTQ+ rights training for law enforcement is essential to reduce bias and ensure respectful treatment of survivors. Human Rights Desks should be established in police stations, staffed by officers trained to handle LGBTQ+ cases sensitively and efficiently (Human Rights Watch 2023).
4. Community-Based Education Programs: Partnerships with local LGBTQ+ civil society organizations (CSOs) can facilitate community dialogues addressing homophobia and patriarchal norms. Implementing LGBTQ+-inclusive education in schools can challenge stereotypes and promote acceptance.
5. Monitoring and Data Collection: A national task force should be created to track cases of “corrective” rape and monitor state compliance with international human rights obligations. Collaboration with the South African Human Rights Commission (SAHRC) can ensure consistent oversight and accountability.
6. International Advocacy and Funding: Mobilizing international donors to fund grassroots LGBTQ+ initiatives in South Africa is crucial. Global solidarity campaigns should be advocated, highlighting “corrective” rape as a human rights crisis requiring immediate attention.

Effectiveness of Proposed Solutions

The proposed solutions draw upon successful interventions and best practices in addressing gender-based violence and discrimination. The TCC model, for instance, has been effective in providing holistic support to survivors of sexual violence, leading to increased reporting rates and improved prosecution outcomes (UN Women 2015). Adapting this model to cater specifically to LGBTQ+ survivors can enhance its effectiveness in addressing “corrective” rape. Legislative reforms that explicitly codify “corrective” rape as a hate crime can serve as a deterrent and signal a strong commitment to protecting LGBTQ+ individuals. Training law enforcement officers and healthcare providers in LGBTQ+ sensitivity can reduce discrimination and improve the quality of support services.

Conclusion

As the UN Mandate Holder on the Protection Against Violence and Discrimination Based on Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity, your leadership, Mr. Reid, is essential in addressing the crisis of “corrective” rape in South Africa. This violent act is a gross violation of international human rights obligations; South Africa’s inaction perpetuates cyclical violence, heteronormativity, patriarchal ideology, discrimination, and impunity. This crisis demands immediate action through targeted solutions, and your mandate offers a powerful platform to mobilize resources and drive substantive and sustainable change. By championing these measures, you can ensure justice for survivors, dismantle systemic discrimination, and uphold global human rights commitments.

By Matias Wheeler Næss

It is impossible to understand Bosnia and Herzegovina (BiH) and the Balkans today without understanding how Yugoslavia disintegrated. Bosnia remains hugely divided, and the same nationalisms that caused the war inspire modern Bosniak, Serb, and Croat movements for integration, separation, and even annexation. As Yugoslavia stagnated and dissolved, the West eagerly expected the new democratic nation-states to join their fold.[1] The Yugoslav idea had failed, and ultranationalists had made coexistence impossible. However, BiH, with its mixture of ethnoreligious nations, could not easily become independent or be partitioned without conflict, especially after democratic elections empowered nationalist parties. Even Bosniak leaders realized an independent Bosnia would become “inoperable.”[2] Yet, Bosnian independence was recognized, and fighting began. Planned and premeditated ethnic cleansing soon followed. The West and UN chose not to react even as civilians fled the advancing armies. The UN established ‘Safe Areas,’ but peacekeepers were not authorized to protect them. Only when thousands were massacred in Srebrenica did NATO decisively act, and quickly stopped Serb advances. Peace came but failed to reconcile the ethnic groups or establish true Bosnian statehood. Conflict is ever-present in BiH but remains frozen. That conflict was not inevitable, nor did it have to escalate as far as it did, except because of the choices of nationalists and the international community.

When war broke out in Croatia and Slovenia, few Bosnians expected the violence would affect them.[3] Ethnic parity was an assumed fact in Bosnia, which demanded all nations agree to significant constitutional change.[4] Though the region was divided between Muslim Bosniaks, Orthodox Serbs, and Catholic Croats, under Tito’s Yugoslavia, those from BiH were usually called Bosnian or Herzegovinian by regional rather than ethnic denomination.[5] Towards the end of the 1980s, this began to change.

In 1986, a memorandum of the Serbian Institute of Arts and Science was leaked which claimed Tito had culturally and economically repressed Serbs and compared Ustaše murders of WWII and actions by Albanians in autonomous Kosovo.[6] Slobodan Milošević, president of Serbia, and allies claimed genocide against Serbs was inevitable in a multinational state.[7] Serb nationalists claimed the only future for Serbs was in their own state.[8] When Milošević on this basis asserted Serb control of Vojvodina and Kosovo in 1989 Serbs and Montenegrins controlled half of Yugoslavia’s collective presidency. Many Croats and Slovenes no longer felt they could “pursue their republics’ interests within the federation.”[9]

In the elections of 1990, nationalist parties committed to independence won in Croatia and Slovenia.[10] In BiH, the vote was split along ethnic lines. Of the 240 seats of the Bosnian parliament, 86 were won by the Bosniak-led SDA, 72 by the Serb SDS, and 44 by the Croat HDZ.[11] A Bosniak, Alija Izetbegović, became president, while a Serb friend of Radovan Karadžić, leader of the SDS, became president of the parliament. Nationalist parties controlled most municipalities. Like the rest of Yugoslavia, Bosnia had been divided along national lines.

Bosnian Serbs “claimed they were threatened and victimized”[12] and wished to join a Greater Serbia including all Serbs. Bosnian Croats wanted to break away from Serb-dominated Yugoslavia and unite with Croatia. Chauvinistic nationalists on both sides did not want an independent BiH, but partition or outright annexation. Since Bosnia was largely intermixed, either outcome would lead to the disappearance or domination of the Bosniaks, who, therefore, felt they needed to strengthen their independent Muslim identity.[13] In 1991, Serb politicians announced the formation of Serb Autonomous Regions (SAOs), including the Autonomous Region of Krajina.[14] Serb leaders, including Karadžić and Milošević, said privately they were designed to undermine and intimidate the government of BiH and would be used to “destroy”[15]  the Bosnian state in any confrontation. After removing Bosnian state authority, they would form the base of Serb control. In a meeting with Milošević, Karadžić said he “would remove Bosniaks from Serb land when time and conditions permitted.”[16]

Despite this, Serb leaders attempted to convince Izetbegović and supporters to remain in rump Yugoslavia.[17] Milošević believed most Bosniaks would prefer a union; Karadžić did not think much would come of an agreement with the SDA and was committed to Serb separation. Bosniak leaders objected to staying within Milošević’s “corrupt Serb-nationalist” Yugoslavia,[18] so negotiations stalled.

The European Community (EC), seeking to end hostilities in the Balkans, declared “Yugoslavia is in the process of dissolution”[19] in November 1991. Citing the principle of self-determination, they allowed the Yugoslav constituent republics to declare independence. Contrary to Serb hopes, the same right did not extend to the Serbs in Bosnia.[20] If BiH declared independence, the Serbs would be left as a minority in Bosnia, so they attempted to block independence with the principle of national parity: no constitutional change without ethnic consensus. To Bosniak and Croat leaders, the EC declaration provided a final opportunity to leave Milošević’s Yugoslavia, so they voted to apply for recognition.[21] Serbs cast every opposing vote. The EC accepted the application but cited Serb opposition to independence, demonstrated by the establishment of the Bosnian Serb Assembly, the Serb plebiscite on remaining in Yugoslavia, and the declaration of the Republika Srpska (RS), and required a referendum on independence. None of those actions had any basis in the Bosnian or Yugoslav constitutions, nor were they sanctioned by the EC.[22] Since the referendum would not account for ethnic groups, its result was a foregone conclusion. This decision by the EC is strange since they recognized that Bosnia would not be able to control its territory nor have a consensus of its population, yet the EC required an action that would not achieve either.[23] Serbs would not be able to prevent international recognition, so they began preparing for war.

Having largely disarmed the multiethnic Territorial Defense (TO) increased the proportion of Serbs in the Yugoslav People’s Army (JNA), and sidelined non-Serb control of the army,[24] the JNA began arming Serb communities in BiH via the RAM plan.[25] Along with their JNA support, Serb paramilitaries would be better armed than their opponents for much of the war. A UN arms embargo made it difficult for Croats and Bosniaks to arm themselves, so they had to rely largely on the black market and support from Muslim countries respectively.[26]

The SDS developed a plan to create separate Serb institutions in municipalities, even those without Serb majorities, which could assume administration after the Serb military occupation.[27] Already speaking of the “disappearance of the Muslim nation,”[28] Karadžić was prepared for a war of conquest in Bosnia.

There were also attempts to peacefully partition BiH between Serbia and Croatia. In March 1991, in Karađorđevo, Vojvodina, presidents Milošević of Serbia and Franjo Tuđman of Croatia agreed that western Herzegovina and Posavina, two regions with Croat majorities, would join Croatia and the rest of Bosnia would join Serbia, ending BiH statehood to prevent war.[29] The agreement collapsed when the war began in Croatia, but Tuđman continued arguing for republics’ self-determination and territorial inviolability for Croatia, not Bosnia. Bosnian Serbs and Croats again agreed to partition BiH in May 1992, but the plan again failed.[30] Croats would fight independently until 1993 when they joined a Bosniak-Croat federation under US pressure to oppose RS together.

Though fighting had begun as early as 22 March,[31] EC recognition of Bosnian independence as the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina (RBiH), 6 April 1992, marks the formal beginning of the war.[32] Serb forces launched an offensive aimed to occupy 65% of Bosnian territory for the RS.[33] The siege of Sarajevo began in May.[34]By summer, RS would control two-thirds of BiH and began the ethnic cleansing of non-Serbs, including “massacres, rapes, torture, and deportations to concentration camps”,[35] especially of elites.[36] Bosniaks and Croats were expelled from previously mixed areas to make them easier to hold and ensure Serbs would become the majority.[37] An important question in the Bosnian war is how ethnic violence so quickly led to ethnic cleansing.

Western media as early as 1991 portrayed the conflicts in former Yugoslavia as “impossibly complicated, rooted in arcane ‘ancient ethnic hatreds’”,[38]implying that nothing could be done to prevent or stop it. This ignores the significant planning that preceded the conflict. Yugoslavia could have broken up peacefully, but Serb elites chose war to maintain their privilege. They convinced Serbs to imprison, rape, and murder their Bosniak neighbors to prevent an imagined “jihad”[39] and genocide against Serbs. Radovan Karadžić’s threats of Bosniak extinction were actively implemented in conquered areas to ensure that peaceful coexistence of the ethnic groups became impossible.[40] It was not a war between three ethnic groups doomed to hate one another but between conflicting nationalist views of what Bosnia was.

A second factor in the rapid turn to ethnic cleansing was the recent memory of interethnic violence. Memories of Ottoman domination and Ustaše murders during WWII were mobilized to inspire fear in Serb populations.[41] Violence occurred not against people, but “Turks.”[42] Offensives were presented as defensive in nature, meant to prevent a ‘jihad’ against the Serbs. Past traumas made violence a more acceptable option. Bosnia was polarized by ultranationalist leaders’ speeches, designed to generate and mobilize fear of one’s neighbors, which allowed other ultranationalist leaders to portray them as threats.[43] Fear of annihilation created a perceived need to pre-empt the other groups. In Bosnia, the Serbs acted first and were most prepared.

However, this leads to a misconception of the war in Bosnia as solely a Serb atrocity.[44] Though Serbs were responsible for the most crimes because they were more powerful and numerous and occupied significant non-Serb areas, Croats and Bosniaks each engaged in ethnic cleansing against other ethnic groups and operated concentration camps. The violence occurred between all three ethnic groups, and even within them, as extremists killed moderates or sacrificed members of their group for some “tactical or strategic aim.”[45] An estimated 10,000-12,000 women were raped during the war, sometimes ordered by low-level officers.[46]This occurred with the motives of imagined or mythologized revenge and humiliation, which the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) considered a tool of genocidal war. Some women were forced to bear children of other ethnicities as further humiliation. Violence against civilians was ubiquitous and something the international community failed to stop.

Before the war, the EC attempted to prevent bloodshed by partitioning Bosnia. In February and March 1992, Portuguese Foreign Minister Jose Cutileiro negotiated an agreement between Izetbegović, Karadžić, and Croat representatives to internally divide BiH into ethnoreligious entities called cantons.[47]The Cutileiro agreement would create a Bosnia that was not unitary; Serb negotiators had ensured it was never allowed “to be called a state”.[48] Therefore, the plan lacked the support of Bosniaks and would be reneged upon by Izetbegović.[49] Another agreement was reached in principle which would partition the country, giving Serbs 65% and Croats 20%. Bosniaks, 44% of the population, were offered just 15%. The agreement failed because Serbs and Croats could not agree on who would control Mostar. When the EC recognized Bosnian independence, they did so without guaranteeing that RBiH could survive as a multiethnic state.[50]

After the fighting began, the UN and EC failed to stop it because they were not committed to risking their own soldiers or the principle of international neutrality. Believing peacekeeping would not work in Bosnia, the UNSC committed to a policy of bare minimum action, seriously limiting the mandate of the UN Protection Force (UNPROFOR).[51] Its first task in Bosnia was merely to keep the airport in Sarajevo open. Britain and France provided 9,000 troops, not because they wanted to fight Serbia, nor prevent violence against civilians, but to ensure they could control UNPROFOR. The UN Secretariat withheld and delayed vital information to prevent UN involvement in what Secretary-General Boutros-Ghali described as a “rich people’s war.”  Thus, peacekeepers lacked the mandate to prevent the establishment of concentration camps, nor to close them when they were exposed.  UNSC resolution 770 authorized member states to take “all measures necessary”[52] to “facilitate”, not ensure, delivery of relief supplies. Resolution 771 called on member states to report abuses of international law. This was not “a direct mandate for a coalition of the willing to liberate Serb-occupied Bosnia,”[53] but could be used to justify military action, which did not occur. Therefore, humanitarian aid could be stopped by a single combatant with a gun, and it frequently was.

The UN wanted to protect its principle of neutrality, which was crucial to protecting the lives of peacekeepers.[54] However, this effectively neutered peacekeepers, who could not use force to protect civilians. When Bosnian Vice Prime Minister Hakija Turajlić was murdered in front of his French escort, they did not respond, according to the letter of their mandate. Serbs would continue firing on the French in Sarajevo.  The shelling stopped when Danish troops responded to Serb shelling with a burst of fire from their tanks.[55] UN diplomats expected difficulties over the incident but were met with none. There were those in the UNSC who called for stronger mandates, notably Venezuelan and Bosnian ambassadors Arria and Sacirbey, but they were “marginalized”[56] and “outmaneuvered”[57] by the P5. Nowhere would the consequences of this be clearer than in Srebrenica.

Srebrenica, a majority Bosniak town in eastern Bosnia, was surrounded by Serb forces in January 1993.[58] Its population was bolstered by refugees from nearby captured towns. On the brink of humanitarian disaster, Srebrenica was visited by UNPROFOR commander General Morillon on 11 March 1993, when he declared “You are now under the protection of UN forces.”[59] Morillon had no authority to make that promise, so the UNSC scrambled to act. Ambassador Arria demanded a significant commitment of force to protect civilians, but British, French, and Russian representatives ensured only a weakly worded resolution would pass. Thus, the UNSC declared that Srebrenica “should”[60] be a “Safe Area.” If they had declared it ‘shall’ be a ‘protected area,’ UNPROFOR would have a mandate to use military force to protect the enclave, but that was not the intention. Instead, the resolution was “totally meaningless,”[61] and could be interpreted however the UN chose.

UNPROFOR negotiated a deal for Bosniak disarmament within the Safe Area in exchange for  a ceasefire and free access to humanitarian supplies.[62] Bosniaks were offered evacuation but would have been agreeing to an ethnic cleansing of themselves.[63] When Ambassador Arria visited Srebrenica, he discovered UNPROFOR was totally cooperating with the Serb besiegers.[64]Local command operated with direction from London and Paris, not the UN.

The siege continued until June 1995. Having already stopped supply shipments and raided the enclave, Serbs began directly shelling UN observation posts.[65] The local UN force of Dutch soldiers (Dutchbat) called for air support, but no one replied. Even in obvious self-defense, the UN would not agree to use military force to defend Srebrenica, because they did not believe the Serbs wanted to take the whole enclave. In July, the Serbs attacked and took peacekeepers hostage.[66] The UN threatened airstrikes if peacekeepers were attacked, but not if the town was captured. On 11 July, Srebrenica fell; NATO dropped only two bombs to prevent the fall, but it was too little too late.[67] Dutchbat, women, children, and elderly men fled. Peacekeepers were disarmed, and the men of Srebrenica were put on buses to the fields where they would be killed.[68] Approximately 8,000 were massacred on the orders of Ratko Mladić, Radovan Karadžić, and Slobodan Milošević.[69]

When news of the massacre reached Washington and Paris, NATO began moving quickly.[70] The requirement for UN approval of airstrikes was abolished and the UN withdrew to leave no hostages. Operation Deliberate Force lasted between 30 August and 20 September, consisting of 3,500 sorties to destroy the Serb ability to keep fighting.[71] Serbs promised to retaliate but never did. The international community had failed to end the war in three years, but NATO did so in one month with no fatalities, based on a UNSC resolution from 1993. The war formally ended two months later with a peace accord in Dayton, Ohio.

The Dayton Peace Accords (DPA) were signed under enormous international pressure after Bosniak and Croat forces began advancing.[72] They divided BiH into two entities, a Bosniak-Croat Federation, formerly RBiH, and the RS, controlling 51% and 49% of Bosnian territory respectively. DPA accepted Serb ethnic cleansing to prevent violent retaliation by Bosniaks and Croats. Previously mixed areas became ethnically homogenous[73] and RS became a quasi-independent Serb nation-state.[74] Only a “thin roof”[75] of shared institutions was left of an integral Bosnian state. The right to return to ethnically cleansed areas was included in DPA, but no domestic institutions were created able to enforce it.[76]RS would veto attempts at reform. This division of BiH makes it difficult to redevelop a shared ‘Bosnianness’[77] and prevents reconciliation. International presence after DPA did not focus on individual human rights and oversaw the completion of ethnic cleansing, when those left on the “’wrong’ side”[78] of the boundary line left their homes. Ethnically homogenous enclaves became obstacles to future return. Those in BiH committed to a secular Bosnia-Herzegovina of equal citizens are becoming fewer and less enthusiastic as separation seems more permanent.[79] Bosniaks tend to support reintegration, while Serbs and Croats remained skeptical, supported by leaders who still dream of unity with Serbia or Croatia. Even today, those parties responsible for the war continue to be prevalent in politics.[80] At least in these respects, ethnic cleansing was successful in BiH.

Should the ethnic cleansing of Bosnia be considered genocide? The answer depends on definition and interpretation. The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) estimates the death toll at 25,000-329,000, 50% Bosniaks, 30-35% Serbs, and 15-20% Croats.[81] According to the ICTY, genocide did occur in Bosnia, but only in Srebrenica in 1995.[82] Radovan Karadžić and Ratko Mladić were convicted of genocide and aiding and abetting genocide in Srebrenica.[83]Slobodan Milošević likely would have been but he died before his judgment.[84] Other instances were deemed only ethnic cleansing, because the goal arguably was to create Greater Serbia or Greater Croatia, not by exterminating Bosniaks, but by expelling them. Normally only men between 16-and 60 and elites[85] were targeted for internment and murder, so it could be argued the goal was a military occupation, which removes the intent necessary for genocide. Only in Srebrenica was there an attempt to kill all men, hence the distinction. This may satisfy a legal definition of genocide, but ethnic cleansing did create large areas where Bosniaks became “physically and biologically extinct.” [86] Expulsion is effectively genocide when the expelled have nowhere to go. 900,000-1,200,00 Bosnians of all ethnicities became international refugees while 1,500,000 were internally displaced, 50% of them Bosniaks.[87] When civilian and military leaders of Serb forces were found guilty of genocide in Srebrenica specifically, but dissimilar actions led to similar results elsewhere, the claim that a genocide occurred in Bosnia at large is justified, regardless of an intent to exterminate, as the European Court of Human Rights ruled.[88]

Care should be taken to remember crimes by Bosniaks and Croats, between each other and against Serbs,[89] often ignored in the West for political reasons. Serbs were responsible for most crimes and the most serious atrocities, but Bosniaks and Croats also engaged in ethnic cleansing, war crimes, and possibly genocide. Narratives that ignore this distort and oversimplify the complexity of the war and compromise the potential for justice.

The war in BiH is likely the best covered by media in history.[90]Atrocities and ethnic cleansing were daily news as the UN failed to act to protect civilians while actively keeping victims from buying arms in self-defense. Using justifications based on total misunderstandings of the region, significant actors chose not to get involved in a conflict they could have ended with little cost to themselves. Nationalist leaders used memories of foreign domination and violence to stoke fears of total annihilation with the goal of making coexistence impossible. History was mythologized and weaponized to imagine a future of homogenous nation-states where those would be impossible without the destruction of entire nationalities. The EC rushed to recognize Bosnian independence with no reasonable expectation it could occur peacefully and did little to aid victims of ethnic cleansing after the war began. Serb leaders had planned a policy of ethnic cleansing which culminated in the genocide of Srebrenica, the deadliest mass killing in Europe since WWII. Where they advanced, Bosniaks and Croats also engaged in significant crimes. The war ended in the legitimization of the Serb separatist RS and accepted Serb jurisdiction in the areas they ethnically cleansed and failed to reconcile the ethnic groups. To this day, some nationalists still entertain dreams of secession. Bosnians, Croatians, and Serbians continue to see the war as one of “ethnic survival and national independence,”[91] ultimately as necessary.

In Bosnia, three very similar peoples were led to believe they could not continue to live alongside each other. They were misled by their politicians and failed by the international community. They murdered and were murdered. The war in Bosnia and Herzegovina shows how dangerous nationalisms can be when mobilized in mixed populations with memories of violence. It was not an accident, but the result of intentional efforts to make coexistence impossible. With that as their goal, the nationalists succeeded.

[1]Veremis, Thanos. A Modern History of the Balkans: Nationalism and Identity in Southeast Europe. London / New York: I.B.Tauris, 2017. 85-6.

[2]Veremis, Thanos. 2017. 91.

[3]Glenny, Misha. The Fall of Yugoslavia: The Third Balkan War. 3rd ed. New York: Penguin Group, 1996. 139.

[4]Glenny, Misha. 1996. 141.

[5]Glenny, Misha. 1996. 143.

[6]Weitz, Eric D. A Century of Genocide: Utopias of Race and Nation. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2015. 195-6.

[7]Weitz, Eric D. 2015. 198.

[8]Weitz, Eric D. 2015.199.

[9]Weitz, Eric D. 2015. 210.

[10]Weitz, Eric D. 2015. 210.

[11]Donia, Robert J. Radovan Karadžić: Architect of the Bosnian Genocide. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015. 118.

[12]Mojzes, Paul. Balkan Genocides: Holocaust and Ethnic Cleansing in the Twentieth Century. Plymouth, UK: Rowman & Littlefield, 2011. 164-5.

[13]Mojzes, Paul 2011. 165.

[14] Donia, Robert J. 2015. 142-3.

[15] Donia, Robert J. 2015. 143.

[16] Donia, Robert J. 2015. 148.

[17] Donia, Robert J. 2015. 153-5.

[18]Donia, Robert J. 2015. 155.

[19]Donia, Robert J. 2015. 239.

[20]Donia, Robert J. 2015. 239-40.

[21]Donia, Robert J. 2015. 241-2.

[22]This was decided by the Bosnian constitutional court, which only had an advisory role. Actual action would have to be taken by the Bosnian parliament, but this never occurred. (Donia, Robert J. 2015. 112.)

[23]Veremis, Thanos. 2017. 85.

[24]Donia, Robert J. 2015. 164-6.

[25]Glenny, Misha. 1996. 150-1.

[26]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 170.

[27]Donia, Robert J. 2015. 231-233.

[28]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 166.

[29]Glenny, Misha. 1996. 149-50.

[30]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 168.

[31]Glenny, Misha. 1996. 167.

[32]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 170.

[33]Glenny, Misha. 1996. 170.

[34]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 170.

[35]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 170.

[36]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 188.

[37]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 172.

[38]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 24-5.

[39]Glenny, Misha. 1996. 170.

[40]Hoare, Marko Attila. “Towards an Explanation for the Bosnian Genocide of 1992-1995.” Studies in Ethnicity and Nationalism 14, no. 3 (2014) & Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 172-3.

[41]Weitz, Eric D. 2015. 198.

[42] LeBor, Adam. 2008. 122.

[43]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 192.

[44]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 173.

[45]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 177.

[46] Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 184-6.

[47] Donia, Robert J. 2015. 263-4 & Glenny, Misha. 1996. 192.

[48]Donia, Robert J. 2015. 264.

[49]Glenny, Misha. 1996. 192-4.

[50]Veremis, Thanos. 2017. 86.

[51]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 31-3.

[52]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 34.

[53]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 34.

[54]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 34-5.

[55]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 65-6.

[56]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 35-6.

[57]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 40.

[58]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 37.

[59]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 39-41.

[60]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 40-1.

[61]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 41.

[62]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 41-3.

[63]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 179.

[64]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 42-3.

[65]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 93-5.

[66]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 99-100.

[67]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 104-5.

[68]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 110-1.

[69]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 181.

[70]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 129.

[71]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 129.

[72]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 171.

[73]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 190.

[74]Kofman, Daniel. “Self-Determination in a Multiethnic State: Bosnians, Bosniaks, Croats and Serbs.” In Reconstructing Multiethnic Societies: The Case of Bosni-Herzegovina, 1st ed. London: Routledge, 2001. 31.

[75]Belloni, Roberto. State Building and International Intervention in Bosnia. Security and Governance Series. New York: Routledge, 2007. 17.

[76]Lippman, Peter. Surviving the Peace. Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press, 2019. 35.

[77]Belloni, Roberto. 2007. 42.

[78]Belloni, Roberto. 2007. 23.

[79]Lippman, Peter. 2019. 35-6.

[80] Lippman, Peter. 2019. 377-8.

[81] Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 187.

[82] Vukušić, Iva. “Archives of Mass Violence: Understanding and Using ICTY Trial Records.” Südost-Europa 70, no. 4 (2022). 588.

[83]International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. “Trial Judgement Summary for Ratko Mladić.” ICTY, November 22, 2017. https://www.icty.org/x/cases/mladic/tjug/en/171122-summary-en.pdfhttps://www.icty.org/x/cases/mladic/tjug/en/171122-summary-en.pdf. & “Trial Judgement Summary for Radovan Karadžić.” ICTY, March 24, 2016. https://www.icty.org/x/cases/karadzic/tjug/en/160324_judgement_summary.pdf.

[84]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 190-1.

[85]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 188.

[86]Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 190.

[87] Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 187.

[88] Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 189.

[89] Mojzes, Paul. 2011. 193.

[90]LeBor, Adam. 2008. 114.

[91]Veremis, Thanos. 2017. 92.

Bibliography

Belloni, Roberto. 2007. State Building and International Intervention in Bosnia. Security and Governance Series. New York: Routledge.

Donia, Robert J. 2015. Radovan Karadžić: Architect of the Bosnian Genocide. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Glenny, Misha. 1996. The Fall of Yugoslavia: The Third Balkan War. 3rd ed. New York: Penguin Group.

Hoare, Marko Attila. 2014. “Towards an Explanation for the Bosnian Genocide of 1992-1995.” Studies in Ethnicity and Nationalism 14 (3): 516–32.

International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. 2016. “Trial Judgement Summary for Radovan Karadžić.” ICTY. https://www.icty.org/x/cases/karadzic/tjug/en/160324_judgement_summary.pdf.

International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. 2017. “Trial Judgement Summary for Ratko Mladić.” ICTY. https://www.icty.org/x/cases/mladic/tjug/en/171122-summary-en.pdfhttps://www.icty.org/x/cases/mladic/tjug/en/171122-summary-en.pdf.

Kofman, Daniel. 2001. “Self-Determination in a Multiethnic State: Bosnians, Bosniaks, Croats and Serbs.” In Reconstructing Multiethnic Societies: The Case of Bosni-Herzegovina, 1st ed., 31–61. London: Routledge.

LeBor, Adam. 2008. “Complicity with Evil”: The United Nations in the Age of Modern Genocide. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.

Lippman, Peter. 2019. Surviving the Peace. Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press.

Mojzes, Paul. 2011. Balkan Genocides: Holocaust and Ethnic Cleansing in the Twentieth Century. Plymouth, UK: Rowman & Littlefield.

Veremis, Thanos. 2017. A Modern History of the Balkans: Nationalism and Identity in Southeast Europe. London / New York: I.B. Tauris.

Vukušić, Iva. 2022. “Archives of Mass Violence: Understanding and Using ICTY Trial Records.” Südost-Europa70 (4): 585–607.

Weitz, Eric D. 2015. A Century of Genocide: Utopias of Race and Nation. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

By Omid Eliott Yeganeh

Introduction

In the wake of the Civil Rights era and the Vietnam War, Critical Legal Studies (CLS) emerged across American law schools as an avowedly ‘left-wing’ school of legal theory (Kennedy 1997, 8-11; Tushnet 1986, 505; Unger 1986, 1-5). From its origins, the movement was devoted to the critique of prevailing orthodoxy in legal academia. Key aims have included challenging the supposed moral neutrality of legal doctrine, promoting transparency in legal culture, and highlighting the sociological and empirical consequences of legal practice and theory.

One especially controversial target of the movement has been legal rights, whose political efficacy has been met with a suspicion from leading figures within CLS. This posture of skepticism towards rights has occasioned a body of literature known as the “critique of rights.” Participating in this discourse from an anti-CLS stance, David Andrew Price wrote for the Cambridge Law Journal that “[the Critical Legal Studies movement] is marked by a rejection of ‘legal rights’ as a desirable or even possible means of protecting individuals from government power” (1989, 283). That claim, which has somehow attained the rank of settled orthodoxy both within and without the movement, is based on a misreading (or non-reading) of seminal CLS texts.

This article puts a challenge to Price’s proposition on three distinct levels. (A) I begin by arguing that CLS is not marked by any given attitude towards rights. (B) Building on this argument, I add that even the most unsympathetic accounts of rights in CLS do not go as far as rejecting legal rights. (C) Finally, I argue that Price’s proposition overlooks important elements of the critique of rights, including the intrinsic (rather than instrumental) dimension of that critique, its emphasis on the language of legal rights rather than their substance, and the contextual significance of CLS’ postmodern leanings. I conclude that substantive legal rights hold a much more important place in CLS literature than its detractors (and sometimes its adherents) have suggested.

A. Diversity within CLS

It is crucial to stress, in the first instance, that the Critical Legal Studies movement is not “marked” by any particular attitude towards rights.While this paper is not the forum to litigate the precise meaning of CLS, it shall proceed on several expedient assumptions in that respect. Those who self-identify as members of CLS (Crits) will be forthrightly accepted as such, as will those treated as Crits by others within the movement. I also take for granted the distinction between CLS and the broader umbrella of Critical Theory (Stewart 2020, 148).

With those preliminaries set out, I may turn to charting the varying accounts of rights within CLS. The following typology places prominent Crits into three loose groupings in descending order of rights-aversion.

A Typology of CLS Rights-Stances (See Author's Notes, 2)

Rights-Averse Crits: Peter Gabel & Duncan Kennedy (1984, 33-34), William Simon (1985, 2, 34), Joseph Singer (1982, 1058-1059), Mark Tushnet (1984, 1386).

Rights-Ambivalent Crits: Morton Horwitz (1988, 396-397), Jeffrey Blum (1990, 71), Paul Brest (1981, 1096), Peter Fitzpatrick (2013, 100, 103-104), Allan Hutchinson & Patrick Monahan (1984, 1490), Mark Kelman (1984, 296, 302).

Rights-Affirming Crits: Edwin Baker (1974, 56), Anthony Chase (1984, 684-685), David Kairys (1982, 163), Joseph King & Zygmunt Plater (1973), Aviam Soifer (1979, 706), David Trubek (1986, 225-226, 229-230), Roberto Unger (1986, 37-40).

While my table cannot convey the breadth of scholarship within CLS, it provides a broadly representative overview of the dominant currents within the movement. If nothing else, the table illustrates a degree of nuance within CLS (Tushnet 1986, 510; Crenshaw 1988, 1350; Rhode 1990, 617) which Price overlooks.

Consider, to that effect, Fitzpatrick’s (2013, 103) concession that there have been “a multitude of instances where human rights have been drawn on effectively in the cause of the oppressed,” or Horwitz’s acknowledgment that “[o]ur modern, broad conceptions of rights have transformed our legal culture for the better, often providing legitimacy and entitlement to the weak and the powerless far beyond what their actual political power could have produced” (1988, 395).

Unger, a founding-member of CLS, dedicates a significant part of his seminal Critical Legal Studies Movement to a comprehensive account of the place reserved for legal rights in his political utopia, wherein he proposes a class of “immunity rights” which “establish the nearly absolute claim of the individual to security against the state” (1986, 36-57).

To claim that an intellectual current is “marked by” a particular stance requires that the relevant position appears with at least some consistency within its academic canon. Yet as the above analysis demonstrates, a considerable number of Crits believe that legal rights are a possible and desirable means of protecting individuals from government power (See Author's Notes, 3), such that CLS cannot be said to be marked by the opposite view in that respect (See Author's Notes, 4).

B. The Trouble with Rejection

Price is additionally wrong to suggest that the critique of rights amounts to a “rejection” of legal rights. I will take Price at his highest and rely only on the writings of rights-averse Crits, to show that even they do not “reject” rights.

Consider for these purposes Tushnet, who denies “that the idea of rights is on balance actually harmful” (1984, 1384) and concedes that “guarantees of participation in political action” (which he calls “rights”) are “obviously attractive” (1396).

Kennedy, in turn, stresses that “[t]here is nothing in the critique [of rights] that might suggest a reduction in the rights of citizens vis-à-vis their governments” (1997, 334). Elsewhere, Kennedy has proposed “working at the slow transformation of rights rhetoric… rather than simply junking it” (1981, 506).

The term “rejection” connotes considerable repudiatory weight. To say that one “rejects” a particular concept is to say that one wholly dismisses it—rejection requires more than mere critique. To provide an analogy, Crits are commonly critical of State power (See Gabel and Kennedy 1984, 26), but they do not ipso facto become anarchists. While some Crits exhibit robust hostility towards legal rights, few, if any, can be described as “rejecting” them.

More fundamentally, the post-modernist tendencies of (some) Crits make them broadly disinclined to make truth-statements of the sort Price attributes to them (Kennedy 1997, 11, 19). It is not clear, for example, how the “rejection” of legal rights can be reconciled with the CLS recommendation to “think about the law in a way that will allow students to enter into it, to criticize without utterly rejecting it” (Kennedy 1982, 599-600). Therein lies Price’s second error.

C. From Errors to Oversights

Price’s proposition is not only wrong—it is also incomplete. Whereas the foregoing sections have sought to identify mistruths in Price’s postulate, the following paragraphs will attempt to illuminate three additional omissions in his account of CLS.

Price’s first oversight is his purely instrumentalist framing of the critique of rights, which fails to acknowledge that Crits often stress the intrinsic, rather than instrumental deficiencies of legal rights. Consider, in this respect, Tushnet’s seminal exposé of the rights-critique, which contains four key arguments: (1) that the content of rights is context-dependent, and therefore unstable; (2) that rights, by their nature, cannot produce determinate outcomes; (3) that rights convert meaningful experiences into empty abstractions; and (4) that the use of rights in discourse impedes political progress (Tushnet 1984, 1363-1364). Of these four arguments, only the last is purely instrumental—the first three have an intrinsic bend. Tushnet does not merely say that rights have bad consequences—he is more crucially stressing that rights are somehow internally deficient (See also Kennedy 1982, 598). Price’s account of the critique omits this nuance.

Price’s second oversight is his failure to distinguish between the CLS critique of rights-doctrine on the one hand, and rights-discourse on the other. By failing to specify its (diverse) targets, Price leads us to believe that Crits focus on the substantive concept of legal rights, rather than the use of the terminology of rights in legal and political discourse. In fact, the opposite is true. Kennedy for example is critical of “rights discourse” but endorses the “radical expansion of citizen rights against the state” (Kennedy 1997, 334). Tushnet similarly launches a semantic rather than substantive critique of rights, as evidenced by his repeated references to “rights-talk”, “rights discourse”, and the “language/rhetoric of rights” (See Author's Notes 5; 1984, 1364) This facet of the rights-critique is absent from Price’s commentary.

Price’s third oversight is his failure to discern that Crits cannot reject rights “as a desirable or possible means of protecting individuals from government power” if they do not believe in the framing of “protecting individuals from government power” to begin with. Price overlooks the possibility that Crits do not believe in rights precisely because rights presuppose a normative tension between individual interests and government power (Tushnet 1984, 1392; Simon 1985, 29). As Kennedy puts it: “[t]his framework is, in itself, a part of the problem rather than of the solution” (1982, 598).

Conclusion

Taken as a whole, Price’s proposition is hyperbolic at best, and patently wrong at worse—it is a reductive account of CLS and of the critique of rights. There are many valid criticisms one might want to direct at CLS. Consider, to this effect, the regrettable failure of rights-averse Crits to articulate viable alternatives to legal rights (See Author's Notes, 6), or the undue degree of abstraction at which their critique of rights operates (See Author's Notes, 7). Crucially, however, none of this justifies the constant mischaracterizations endured by Crits.

While this paper may seem to operate as a vindication of CLS, I submit, in closing, that it is better understood as a meta-critique. The goal here has not been to defend Crits, but to attack their attackers. If these arguments lend strength to CLS, they do so incidentally and lack the force of an endorsement. The foregoing arguments, I hope, reveal a characteristic failure to engage authentically with CLS literature, evidenced by detractors often resorting to inflammatory exaggerations and/or generalizations of critical legal thought.

Author's Notes

1. This article draws extensively on coursework submitted as part of my Jurisprudence studies at the University of Oxford; for that reason, much credit goes to the influential seminars dispensed by Dr. Tom Adams. I am grateful also to Moayad Karar and Shivanii Arun for their considered contributions to the later drafts of this piece.
2. Authors included in this table have either associated themselves with CLS or appear in references to the movement (See Kennedy & Klare 1984, 461).
3. Rights-averse Crits often acknowledge that their views are minoritarian/controversial (See Tushnet 1986, 510, 516).
4. Elsewhere in his work, Price curiously acknowledges that "it is hazardous to refer to 'the' CLS position on a particular question" (1989, 283).
5. By my count, there are at least 25 combined references.
6. The point is made by various minority-critics: e.g. Crenshaw 1988, 1366-1367; Rhode 1990, 636. Some Crits are hostile to the very concept of alternatives: e.g. Tushnet 1984, 1398; Freeman 1981, 1230-1231; Simon 1984, 502. Others provide merely semantic substitutes: e.g. Tushnet 1984, 1394. Others still propose vague and anarchistic alternatives: e.g. Gabel & Harris 1982, 376.
7. Minority-critics have generally stressed that "we need less reliance on abstract principles and more on concrete experience" (Rhode 1990, 631). This has led scholars at the margin of CLS to conclude that: ‘[c]ritical legal theorists have built an argument of great force and yet one which... is sometimes blind to the significance of legal protections for certain fundamental human rights" (Sparer 1984, 510).

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by Ka Hang WONG

The people of the United Kingdom have had their say. They voted for a Labour government. While Hongkongers in the UK have a lot to feel gratified under Boris Johnson’s Conservative government, which introduced the British National Overseas visa scheme in 2021, with a newly elected government, it is time for healing and reconciliation to begin. The BN(O) route to British citizenship was introduced following the 2019 Hong Kong protests that led to the Chinese-imposed National Security Law. This draconian law is seen as a breach of the 1984 Sino-British Joint Declaration and a direct threat to the freedoms and autonomy of Hong Kong. However, while the Conservative government has made a courageous decision to offer a lifeboat to the Hongkongers, this decision is seen as a correction of a historical mistake (Yu, 2022, 2023). This article will outline the origin of the different classes of British nationality and argue that one of the unintended consequences of the British Nationality Selection Scheme of the 1990s is the perpetuation of political persecution in Hong Kong. Following the South African example, the article proposes a UK inquiry into the scheme that freely gave British passports to 50,000 important Hong Kong personnel and their families, including members of the civil service and the police force.

The background

After China was defeated in the First Opium War (1839-42), she continually ceded Hong Kong Island to Great Britain. The Treaty of Nanking was signed in 1842. The Second Opium War (1856-60) ended in 1860 when China ceded the Kowloon Peninsula to Britain under the Convention of Peking, also in perpetuity. As Britain sought to expand its territory in Hong Kong, the Second Convention of Peking was signed between the Qing government and Britain in 1898, and Britain leased the New Territories for 99 years, which would expire on June 30, 1997. It is from this second convention that the significance of the 1997 transfer of sovereignty is derived.

As the 1997 date neared, political uncertainty was intertwined with economic insecurity that threatened Hong Kong’s status as an important financial centre of the world. As a result, the Sino-British negotiations began with Thatcher’s visit to China in 1982. According to Mark (2020), the Chinese insisted that their sovereignty over Hong Kong was a non-negotiable basis for discussion. Although the British initially tried to propose an administration arrangement to the Chinese in exchange for their demand for sovereignty, the British eventually conceded both sovereignty and administration to the Chinese (Mark, 2020).

After two years of negotiations, both parties signed the Sino-British Joint Declaration on December 19, 1984. In the Joint Declaration, China agreed to maintain Hong Kong’s capitalist system and way of life for fifty years (Constitutional and Mainland Affairs Bureau of the Government of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region of the People’s Republic of China, 1984). According to Chua (1990), this was a concession in return for Britain forfeiting its legal right to Hong Kong Island and Kowloon Peninsula. Although China had claimed that the treaties were invalid because they were unfair treaties, both parties agreed to disagree on this point with the aim of a smooth transfer (Chua, 1990). Further, the PRC succeeded in requesting the United Nations to remove Hong Kong from the United Nations list of colonies after joining the United Nations in 1972 (Hung, 2022). This effectively stripped Hong Kong of the right to self-determination under the Declaration on the Granting of Independence to Colonial Countries and Peoples (United Nations Human Rights, 1960). In addition, the British Nationality Act 1981 (UK) sealed the fate of Hongkongers as it stripped the British Dependent Territories Citizens (BDTC) of Hong Kong of the right to abode in the United Kingdom.

The point at which the current controversy over the BN(O)s began with the 1981 Act. Literature on the historiography covering the British Nationality Act has been scant. According to Mark (2020), discourses of the Thatcher government at the time relating to the concept of “Britishness” were based on a White Britain and ties of blood. The Hong Kong Chinese were deemed not to have close ties with the United Kingdom, and racial prejudice against them was around. The Act repealed the right of the colonial citizens of the Citizen of the United Kingdom and Colonies (CUKC) to enter and settle in Britain and reclassified British nationality into three categories, of which Hong Kong Chinese were reclassified into the BDTC category (Benson, 2023; Mark, 2020).

The 1981 Act and the future of Hong Kong created an identity crisis among the Hong Kong elites. Within months following Thatcher’s visit to China in September 1982 for talks with the Chinese counterparts over the future of Hong Kong, the British Nationality Act came into effect. According to Mark (2020), these events threatened the “Britishness of Hong Kong” (p. 579). The weakening connection to Britain had produced a “collective identity crisis” (“A Matter of Identity”, 1981, as cited in Mark, 2020, p. 584). The people of Hong Kong felt Britain was abandoning them. They were reminded of the discriminatory policy of 1962 when non-white colonial citizens lost the right to abode in Britain (Mark, 2020).

The sharpening along racial lines became even more apparent when the United Kingdom enabled the Falkland Islanders and Gibraltarians to gain full British citizenship (Benson, 2023). According to Mark (2020), the Gibraltarians could register as full British citizens because Gibraltar was part of the European Community. This registration was made possible under section 4 of the British Nationality Act 1981 (UK). Falkland Islanders were also able to become British citizens through the British Nationality (Falkland Islands) Act 1983 (UK). Inclusive provisions were made for the British populations of both places (Benson, 2023). The granting of British citizenships to the Falkland Islanders and Gibraltarians caused the Unofficial Members of the Executive and Legislative Councils in Hong Kong to complain that the Hong Kong Chinese were being treated as “second-class citizens” and that the United Kingdom was discriminating against Hong Kong (Mark, 2020). This put enormous pressure on the United Kingdom government. As a result, the 1981 Act was amended following the signing of the Joint Declaration to accommodate the Hong Kong Chinese who wished to retain connection with the United Kingdom beyond 1997 (Benson, 2023; Mark, 2020).

A new category of citizenship known as the British National (Overseas) (BN(O)) was created under the Hong Kong (British Nationality) Order 1986 (UK). The BN(O) passport holder is afforded British consular protection in third countries but not the right of abode in the United Kingdom (Benson, 2023; Mark, 2020). In effect, the BN(O) became the travel document mentioned in the Joint Declaration that the Hong Kong Chinese could use to travel to other states and regions. The BN(O) status cannot be passed on to the holder's children. Following the 1989 Tiananmen massacre, the United Kingdom made a further concession through the British Nationality (Hong Kong) Act 1990 (UK) to provide 50,000 elite families of Hong Kong with full British citizenship under the British Nationality Selection Scheme. However, the purpose of this offer was more to retain important personnel in Hong Kong rather than encouraging them to emigrate to the United Kingdom (Benson, 2023; Chuang, 1990). Since then, the BN(O) issue was largely buried in the media and academic literature until the unfolding events of 2019.

The British Nationality Selection Scheme in the perpetuation of political persecution in Hong Kong

The Thatcher administration saw the British Nationality Selection Scheme as offering an incentive to 50,000 important personnel and their families to stay in the British colony rather than an offer of immigration. The British had to ensure the stability of Hong Kong and prevent mass emigration out of Hong Kong prior to the handover. But what was intended had unfortunately turned into an abuse of power. Let us revisit what Chris Patten, the last governor of Hong Kong, said in 2022:

Every one of my successors as Chief Executive of Hong Kong either had a foreign passport or had members of their family with foreign passports. The present Chief Executive had a British passport, which she gave up to become Chief Executive. Her husband has a British passport. Her sons have British passports. Now I’m not against that. I hope they’ll enjoy the liberties and freedoms which come with being a British citizen with that passport, but what is of course a rather unhappy paradox is the people at the moment, the quislings, including members of the police force, doing the persecuting, have British passports, and the ones who are being persecuted, the ones who are being locked up, don’t. I think we should address that rather unhappy imbalance in due course (Hong Kong Watch, 2022, 6:22, my emphasis).

In this extract, Patten raises an important issue. That is, the people who are persecuting ordinary Hongkongers are the very people to whom the British government awarded British citizenship. The context of Patten’s speech was to argue that post-1997 Hongkongers should be able to apply for the BN(O) route independently of their parents who hold the BN(O) nationality. Patten’s point was that although principal officials in the post-handover Hong Kong Special Administrative Region (HKSAR) are required to renounce their foreign citizenship before they are appointed, the connection with their immediate families meant that these officials could immediately go into exile in the United Kingdom should the political situation in the HKSAR turned tumultuous. In the example highlighted by Patten, Carrie Lam, the then Chief Executive of the HKSAR, whose term was arguably defined by her mishandling of the extradition Bill that led to the 2019 Hong Kong protests, could have escaped to the United Kingdom because of her connection with her husband and sons who were awarded British citizenships in the 1990s. Lam’s family was one of those 50,000 families who were handed British citizenship because of Lam’s work with the colonial government. The post-1997 Hongkongers who were persecuted or in jail would not have such luxury. Thus, Patten’s speech indicates that it is the inequality of British nationality law that enables the perpetuation of current persecution in Hong Kong. As a champion of those oppressed, Patten succeeded in this argument because the BN(O) scheme has been expanded since 2022.

Although Patten has succeeded in helping the post-1997 Hongkongers to gain independent access to the BN(O) scheme, this article recommends that the United Kingdom hold an inquiry into the role of the British Nationality Selection Scheme in perpetuating political violence in Hong Kong. Many Hongkongers are suffering from post-traumatic disorder since arriving in the UK (Liang, 2022). Hongkongers who do not possess the BN(O) nationality or could not afford to emigrate are grieving the loss of their hometown (Chan, 2024). In the context of South Africa, legislation that institutionalised racial segregation and domination came into effect after the Nationalists came into power in 1948 (Peacock, 2011). Similarly, after Thatcher came into power, the 1981 Act implemented a racial demarcation policy designed to segregate the white population who had the right to enter the United Kingdom from the Hong Kong Chinese who did not have such right. The 1986 Order similarly perpetuated the United Kingdom’s racial policy because the original intent of the BN(O) nationality was to exclude the Hong Kong Chinese from emigrating to the United Kingdom. It was the 1990 Act that gave 50,000 important personnel and their families full British citizenship as insurance policy so that they can have a home to go to should they wish to leave Hong Kong. The 1990 Act thus perpetuated the inequality of classes of people. Only those deemed important to the future of Hong Kong were granted British citizenship, while those who were not deemed important enough were treated as “second-class” British nationals.

Perhaps what was not realised then was the impact the British Nationality Selection Scheme would have on these “second class” British nationals. While the BN(O) route is now correcting a historical mistake of inequality, this article urges the British government to take responsibility for its nationality law that, according to Patten, perpetuates the current political persecution of Hongkongers. Following the South African example, a place to start could be a Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Both the perpetrators of rights abuses—including the then-British figures involved in legislating the British nationality law—and those persecuted by authority figures who were given British passports could be invited to the commission in the United Kingdom either physically or via video conferencing, where both sides could share openly and honestly about what went wrong that ultimately led to the Hong Kong protests, the extradition Bill of 2019, and the Chinese-imposed National Security Law in 2020.

A central agenda of a Truth and Reconciliation Commission could be promoting common understanding. This could include an open acknowledgment of the unintended consequences of granting full British citizenship to only a certain population of Hong Kong, the ongoing breaches of the Sino-British Joint Declaration by the totalitarian-party state after the transfer of sovereignty, the trauma resulting from the 2019 Hong Kong protests, and the silencing after the National Security Law, and more recently, Article 23. Further, the commission needs to facilitate the transformation of unjust inequality, as the BN(O) route has done, to address the dehumanising effect of being unable to enter one’s own country freely. Prior to the handover, the British colony had 3.5 million BDTCs (Hansard, 6 June 1989, col 16). With an estimated 2.9 million Hongkongers eligible for the BN(O) passport (Summers, 2022), this leaves approximately 600,000 Hongkongers out of the current BN(O) offer because they did not register for the BN(O) nationality prior to the handover. Some of these individuals may have been children at the time and are now left without the protection and potential pathway to British citizenship that the BN(O) status provides, leaving them particularly vulnerable in the current political climate.

In conclusion, we must amplify the voices of vulnerable people who are oppressed by the Chinese regime, perpetuated by an unjust British nationality law. Following his house arrest, former CCP general secretary Zhao Ziyang asked the CCP leadership to revisit the verdict of the 1989 Tiananmen massacre (Zhao, 2009). The CCP leadership has repeatedly silenced his lone voice, and the massacre has been largely erased from memory on the Chinese mainland. We, therefore, know that under the hardline leadership of Xi Jinping, the Chinese and HKSAR governments are unlikely to hold the Truth and Reconciliation Commission that this article proposes. However, Hong Kong has the benefit of British involvement and responsibility that can shed light on what happened to its own history. A United Kingdom Truth and Reconciliation Commission could prevent the suppression of memories by providing amnesty to people participating in the commission through an agreement with the HKSAR government. Alternatively, it could allow people to participate anonymously. Instead of silencing those memories, the voices of suffering under a brutal totalitarian regime after the transfer of sovereignty can be amplified. As Peacock (2011) states, “from silence and forgetfulness, memory and identity need to complete the past, providing the foundations of justice for future generations” (p. 333).

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The unique struggle against apartheid in South Africa represents a remarkable chapter in African history, marked by the tireless efforts of the African National Congress (ANC) and, more specifically, its military wing Umkhonto We Sizwe (MK). This movement spearheaded the dismantling of an oppressive system of institutional racism and stands as a testament to the power of African-led initiatives. This essay will explore the decision to adopt a policy of violence to achieve racial peace, the convergence of regional and global support during the armed resistance period, and the pivotal role of Nelson Mandela in bridging the gap between regional and international activism, further amplifying the ANC’s cause. In analyzing these aspects, this paper sheds light on the power of Pan-Africanism and its impact on global human rights history. The democratic transition in South Africa symbolized a triumph not only for its people but also for the wider African continent, exemplifying the ANC's ability to forge strong alliances and unite diverse groups on the path to liberation.

Apartheid policies in South Africa were racial segregation laws enforced by the National Party government from 1948 to 1994. These policies led to severe human rights violations against the majority Black African population, including forced removals from areas designated for white settlement, restricted movement, and the denial of basic civil liberties. Non-white populations were subjected to institutional racism, marginalization, and the destruction of their communities. Political dissent was suppressed, and activists faced imprisonment and torture. Before it was a political party, the ANC was the leading anti-apartheid movement in the country, mobilizing mass resistance and organizing protests under the leadership of Nelson Mandela.

The Sharpeville massacre, which occurred on March 21, 1960, marked a significant turning point in the ANC's shift in activism. During a peaceful demonstration in Sharpeville, South Africa, the police opened fire on the protesters, resulting in the deaths of approximately 69 people. This tragic event garnered worldwide condemnation and exposed the brutal nature of apartheid to the global community. In response, the South African government declared a state of emergency, detaining thousands of activists and banning several organizations, including the ANC. It was during this period of imprisonment that discussions surrounding armed resistance gained traction among the detainees as some members of the South African Communist Party (SACP) and ANC activists began contemplating it as a means to oppose apartheid. This growing wave of subversive activity was not lost on prominent ANC leaders like Nelson Mandela, who recognized the need to adapt their strategies in the face of escalating repression. In his famous speech on 20 April 1964 during his trial by the Supreme Court, he gave reasoned justification for the ANC’s choice to adopt a policy of violence, stating that “fifty years of non-violence had brought the African people nothing but more and more repressive legislation, and fewer and fewer rights.” He proclaimed that “experience convinced us that rebellion would offer the government limitless opportunities for the indiscriminate slaughter of our people. But it was precisely because the soil of South Africa is already drenched with the blood of innocent Africans that we felt it our duty to make preparations as a long-term undertaking to use force in order to defend ourselves against force.” The massacre catalyzed the ANC’s strategic direction, pushing them towards the formation of MK in the following years.

In terms of strategy and tactics, MK guerrillas generally avoided targeting civilians and employed violence in a more calibrated manner, adhering to a high standard Code of Conduct, which prohibited violence, assault, rape, cruelty, theft, drug use, and obscene language. MK leaders contemplated targeting State President PW Botha and his cabinet but decided against it due to the likelihood of civilian casualties, demonstrating a level of restraint in their actions. While the apartheid security forces derided MK guerrillas as “commuter bombers,” MK's claims of mauling the security forces were often exaggerated for propaganda purposes. Umkhonto We Sizwe played a significant role in discrediting and targeting the regime's governing structures during the State of Emergency in 1985, rooting out regime collaborators within black communities and fighting against apartheid proxy forces. From 1981 to 1983, MK conducted numerous high-profile attacks on government, military, and economic targets. These included the bombing of the SASOL oil-from-coal plant, the rocket attack on the Voortrekkerhoogte military headquarters, sabotage at the Koeberg nuclear power plant, and the bombing of the South African Air Force headquarters in Pretoria. These attacks received significant media attention and demonstrated MK's capacity for large-scale sabotage. The armed struggle waged by MK inspired and mobilized the population against apartheid, despite struggling to establish a visible presence within South Africa. Their recruitment efforts were based on kinship networks, extending beyond traditional hinterlands and encompassing urban areas. Their activities served as “armed propaganda,” exposing the weaknesses of the apartheid regime by transmitting the ANC's leadership to communities within South Africa, strengthening the ANC's credibility and symbolizing the liberation struggle. MK's armed struggle aimed to complement the ANC's mass struggle, and the movement adopted a policy of non-racialism and moral restraint.

The Front-Line States, including Tanzania, Angola, Zambia, Mozambique, and Zimbabwe, played a crucial role in providing sanctuary and support to the ANC and anti-apartheid activists during their years in exile. While these countries did balance the threats posed by apartheid South Africa, their support for the ANC and anti-apartheid activists went beyond mere strategic considerations. These impoverished African countries suffered significant economic losses and hardships for challenging apartheid, with an estimated $30 billion in lost development by 1988. The Front-Line States actively supported the ANC and anti-apartheid activists in various ways, including offering military training, logistical support, and diplomatic assistance. These states became bases for launching MK’s liberation movements’ operations against the apartheid regime and played a crucial role in sustaining the struggle. The apartheid regime, under President PW Botha's “Total Strategy” from 1979 to 1988, aimed at total militarization of South Africa's domestic and foreign policies. As part of this strategy, the regime engaged in destabilizing neighbouring countries by conducting raids in Zimbabwe, Botswana, Lesotho, and Swaziland and sponsoring proxy wars that led to the deaths of over 2 million people in Angola and Mozambique. The regional narrative of the struggle against apartheid offers a fresh perspective on African transnationalism, diverging from the conventional global solidarity framework.

Regional support can be understood through the lens of political culture and transnational activism. The theory of political culture, influenced by cultural sociology and neo-Marxist perspectives, emphasizes the importance of networks, groups, and institutions in shaping transnational political culture. The concept of “border thinking” offers insights into the dynamics of transnational activism by highlighting the significance of borders and boundaries in the context of globalization and colonial history. Movements and networks engage in practices that challenge fixed boundaries, including mobility, diaspora, and the construction of spaces that transcend borders. In the context of the armed resistance against apartheid, regional support involved activists and organizations crossing borders, establishing connections, and sharing experiences and strategies. The formation of MK solidified the ANC’s image as a revolutionary force committed to armed struggle, which resonated with many African countries and leaders engaged in anti-colonial and anti-imperial struggles. The solidarity between neighbouring countries and their active participation in supporting the ANC and MK reflected the shared goals of liberation and the rejection of racial oppression.

The emergence of international support played a transformative role in bolstering Umkhonto We Sizwe and its accomplishments in the fight against apartheid. Externally, the shifting balance of power and the end of the Cold War had a significant impact on ANC support. The negotiations between Western powers and the Soviet Union created an environment conducive to seeking solutions to conflicts in southern Africa. The removal of the “communist threat” that had helped sustain the apartheid regime's international position played a crucial role in changing perceptions and garnering support for the anti-apartheid cause. Additionally, the economic downturn experienced by South Africa during the 1980s was another factor. As the apartheid regime faced increasing financial challenges, international pressure mounted. The economic decline raised awareness of the injustices of apartheid and fueled solidarity movements around the world as the Boycott Movement in Britain mobilized public support and publicity for their consumer boycott of South African goods. The Special Committee against Apartheid, formed by ANC activist Razia Reddy, was a crucial node in the network of transnational anti-apartheid activism, providing well-researched information, financial support, and organizing conferences for representatives of anti-apartheid organizations. This allowed the ANC to increase their support and work towards the liberation of South Africa. Additionally, the advent of advanced communication technologies and the widespread dissemination of information played a vital role in mobilizing support for the anti-apartheid movement. From the 1980s, the transnational anti-apartheid movement relied heavily on mediated symbolic communication for organization and identification. The accessibility of global communication platforms allowed for the rapid spread of information, awareness, and coordination of efforts, resulting in increased international support for the cause.

Nelson Mandela's early involvement in the ANC and contributions to the anti-apartheid struggle played a significant role in establishing him as a representative figure of the organization. His unwavering commitment to justice and equality inspired people worldwide and galvanized support for the ANC, as his charisma, moral authority, and dedication to the cause made him an iconic figure of resistance against oppression. During his long imprisonment, Mandela became a focal point of international attention. The harsh treatment he endured in prison sparked outrage and fueled international campaigns for his release. The Nelson Mandela: Freedom at 70 campaign, initiated in the 1980s, mobilized global efforts to put pressure on the apartheid regime and secure Mandela's freedom. These movements played a vital role in raising awareness, organizing boycotts, and imposing economic sanctions against the apartheid regime. Once released, Mandela’s leadership during the negotiations with the apartheid government showcased his remarkable statesmanship and ability to bridge divides. Mandela's approach to reconciliation and inclusivity, as exemplified by the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, emphasized healing and unity as the path forward for a post-apartheid South Africa. Instead of prosecuting the guilty as the Nuremberg trials had done for Nazi war criminals, he created the commission to grant pardons to those willing to reveal their crimes. Mandela's legacy as an inspirational leader and his commitment to justice and equality continue to resonate worldwide.

The ANC's strategic shift towards armed resistance through the formulation of Umkhonto We Sizwe ensured its long-term effectiveness and ultimate success. During the armed resistance period against apartheid, both regional and global support played significant roles in the struggle. Regionally, support from neighbouring countries was instrumental in providing sanctuary, logistical support, and military training for ANC activists. These Front-Line states actively engaged in the struggle against apartheid, despite the risks and economic hardships they faced. Networks of ANC activists formed, facilitating the exchange of ideas, resources, and strategies. The shared political culture rooted in colonial history and the rejection of racial oppression further solidified regional support. On the other hand, global support for the ANC and the anti-apartheid movement was driven by factors such as the end of the Cold War, the economic decline in South Africa, and the global proliferation of communication media. These factors increased global support for the ANC, mobilizing efforts such as international campaigns, boycotts, and economic sanctions against the apartheid regime. Nelson Mandela managed to bridge the gap between regional and international activism, as his message of forgiveness and healing resonated with people from different cultural, ethnic, and national backgrounds, earning him immense respect and admiration worldwide. His ability to unite diverse groups, engage with global audiences, and build alliances contributed significantly to the ANC's cause. The convergence of regional and global support played a crucial role in MK’s strategies and achievements, providing resources, amplifying their message, and creating a global movement that ultimately contributed to dismantling apartheid in South Africa.

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Edward Said’s contextualization of Orientalism through The Bacchae underpins the ideologies and beliefs seen in the duality of reception between differing victims of international conflicts, where he notes how “[t]he two aspects of the Orient that set it off from the West in this pair of plays will remain essential motifs of European imaginative geography. A line is drawn between two continents. Europe is powerful and articulate; Asia is defeated and distant…It is Europe that articulates the Orient; this articulation is the prerogative not so much of a puppet-master as of a genuine creator, whose life-giving power represents, animates, constitutes the otherwise silent and dangerous space beyond familiar boundaries…Secondly, there is the motif of the Orient as insinuating danger. Rationality is undermined by Eastern excesses, those mysteriously attractive opposites of what seem to be normal values”. It is this ephemerality of the Orient that bleeds into societal conception and propagates the continuous violation of the 1951 UN Refugee Convention and 1967 Protocol relating to the Status of Refugees.

When the media depicts the crises in the Middle East, there is an implicit intangibility to their situation. CBS correspondent Charlie D’Agata detailed how the problem occurring in Ukraine “isn’t a place, with all due respect, like Iraq or Afghanistan, that has seen conflict raging for decades. This is a relatively civilized, relatively European – I have to choose those words carefully, too – city, one where you wouldn’t expect that, or hope that it’s going to happen”.  In other words, following Said’s argument of the separation between the West and the East, there is an implicit separation in people’s minds that tragedy and bloodshed do not befall the ‘civilized’ world since the rest of the world is a foil of what the West must not become, even as it is thrust in front of them. European Union nations, in particular, have struggled with allowing political refugees from the Mediterranean into their countries. In this essay, I have chosen to highlight the dichotomy of treatment between Ukrainians and other migrant groups in the Mediterranean and explain why these nations have a political will to protect these marginalized groups.

The COVID-19 pandemic helped exasperate the migrant crisis in Greece. By mid-October 2020, Greece had 25,802 confirmed cases and 520 deaths from the virus throughout the nation, striking fear into the hearts of its citizens and a total barring of migrants into the nation. The strict lockdown implemented in March was eased in May, yet still, the government maintained discriminatory restrictions on thousands of migrants and asylum seekers living in camps on the Aegean islands and mainland. It failed to alleviate overcrowding or improve sanitation in the camps. Cases soared in August, adding pressure on the already-strained public health sector after a decade of economic crisis and austerity measures that included drastic budget cuts for public hospitals. Healthcare workers protested throughout the year against working conditions and lack of staff, medicine, testing, and equipment in public hospitals. As of early October, children on the Greek mainland living in migrant camps under lockdown due to COVID-19 cases in these facilities were unable to attend schools, and only around 50 of more than 4,000 school-age migrant and refugee children on the Aegean islands of Lesbos and Samos were enrolled in schools, according to humanitarian agencies. With limited exceptions, the government maintained its policy of blocking asylum seekers who arrive on the Aegean islands from moving to the mainland.

The containment policy trapped thousands in overcrowded and abysmal conditions with limited access to protection, health care, adequate water, sanitation, and hygiene products to limit the spread of COVID-19. An estimated 19,000 asylum seekers were on the islands when this governmental inaction took place, including more than 16,000 in camps designed to host around 13,000. Fires destroyed Europe’s largest refugee camp at Moria in Lesbos, in September, leaving thousands, including more than 4,000 children, homeless and without food and water until the majority were rehoused in a temporary tent camp. According to aid groups, authorities failed to provide camp residents in the new camp with adequate and safe access to water, education, sanitation, supplies for menstrual hygiene management and health care, or sufficient protection from the elements and sexual and gender-based violence and harassment. Services remained insufficient, and access to pre and post-natal care and support for people with newborns remained limited. At the time of writing, there were 19 confirmed COVID-19 cases in the new camp, with a population of about 9,500. There were concerns about the risk of lead poisoning in the new camp due to its location on a former military shooting range and the spent cartridges used for practice tainting the landscape. A new asylum law that entered into force in January undermines access to protection and exposes asylum seekers to more significant risks of deportation and more extended periods of detention. In July, the United Nations Working Group on Arbitrary Detention said new provisions appear to introduce more restrictive procedures that may compromise the general legal principle that the detention of asylum seekers should be exceptional.

Following Turkey’s announcement in February that it would no longer stop asylum seekers and migrants from leaving Turkish territory to reach the European Union, thousands of people attempted to cross by sea and overland in March. In response, Greece barred the lodging of asylum claims for anyone crossing the border irregularly during that month, prosecuted people for irregular entry, arbitrarily detained nearly 2,000 people in unacceptable conditions in two newly established detention sites on the mainland under the pretext of COVID-19, and violently pushed back people attempting to enter Greece. Since then, law enforcement officers have summarily returned thousands of people to the Asiatic parts of Turkey, including people picked up by police hundreds of kilometers inside Greece. In June, Greece’s Supreme Court Prosecutor opened a criminal investigation into the March pushbacks in Evros, including the alleged shooting and deaths of two people by Greek security forces. The UN urged authorities to promptly and fully investigate all allegations of pushbacks, including any acts of violence or ill-treatment, and to ensure that such practices do not occur. In June, the Greek government began evicting more than 11,000 recognized refugees from government-provided apartments, hotels, and camps, leaving hundreds of people, including families, pregnant and single women, and people with disabilities, on the streets. The government announced in September a two-month pilot plan to house recognized refugees leaving the islands until they find a more permanent home.

In contrast, when the Russian offensive began its attack on Ukrainian soil, around 72,000 Ukrainians entered Greece at the end of February alone, and more than 18,000 have applied for protection under a never-before-used EU Temporary Protection Directive (TPD) that gives people escaping the fighting the right to live, work, and access to essential services in EU member states for up to two years. The reception of Ukrainians has been “astonishingly positive,” with Ukrainians referred to as “real refugees” in March by Greece’s Migration Minister Notis Mitarachi and can enter Greece without a visa. The Greek government has created an easy-to-use online platform for them to make appointments to register for protection status. Once registered, they are given social security and tax numbers that allow them to access the labor market, healthcare, and housing and food support. To contextualize, in comparison, around 7,000 asylum seekers and migrants have entered Greece by crossing the Aegean Sea or the land border between Greece and Turkey so far this year. The number is a far cry from the one million people – primarily Syrian refugees – who crossed from Turkey to Greece between 2015 and 2016 and the tens of thousands who entered annually in subsequent years.  Since March 2020, those numbers have dropped significantly as Greek authorities have systematically pushed asylum seekers and migrants back from the country’s land and sea border – an illegal practice under international law. But the Greek government denies they are taking place. For those who do make it into the country, asylum procedures are challenging to access, with too few asylum centers accepting claims and a non-functioning online appointment platform.  As a result, many people end up undocumented despite applying for sanctuary in Greece. This excludes them from essential services such as healthcare, accommodation, and the labor market. Even people who register as asylum seekers and receive refugee status face a bleak situation: The Greek government has been cutting back housing and financial support for refugees since 2019, leaving thousands of people destitute and homeless.

Troubles continue down the Mediterranean Riviera as after impeding the ability of search and rescue organizations to save lives in the Mediterranean Sea, Italian authorities have now passed Cutro decree, named after a shipwreck that killed 80, institutionally denies rights of those seeking asylum coming from the Mediterranean crossing. Far from offering a humane response to the rise in people crossing the Mediterranean to reach Europe, the new legislation doubles down on the government’s focus on deterrence and criminalization. The government pushed through the legislative changes by introducing them through an emergency decree measure and limiting parliamentary oversight when the decree was converted into law. Rights organizations in Italy raised concerns over the far-right government’s use of extraordinary processes and declaring a state of emergency earlier this month to respond to longstanding, structural issues like migration. The new law will devastate migrants’ rights, including their ability to seek protection, access fair asylum procedures, and enjoy freedom of movement. The Italian parliament’s legislative committee flagged a law limiting the right of appeal, highlighting that it may be unconstitutional to continue such strict opposition.

The law, by design, will make it more difficult for people to invoke “special protection,” a temporary but renewable right to remain in Italy on humanitarian and family grounds. Under the new law, migrants will no longer be able to convert the special protection into a work permit, a change likely to increase the number of undocumented workers in Italy. The law extends the amount of time people can be detained pending deportation from a maximum of 120 days to a maximum of 135 days and introduces a new process to detain asylum seekers at the border for up to four weeks while their claim is processed under a new accelerated border procedure. Also, the law removes access to vital services in first reception centers, such as psychosocial assistance for those traumatized by political violence, facilities providing legal information, and language courses. In all aspects, these people are kept as outcasts, distinctly separate from the general population.

The law comes against a backdrop of rising discriminatory discourse, criminalization of aid to migrants, and continuing cooperation with the Libyan government, where migrants face abuses the UN denotes as crimes against humanity. The report notes that more than 670,000 migrants from over 41 countries have been in Libya since July 2022, when the Mission’s mandate was extended until March, as overwhelming evidence of systematic torture and sexual slavery, among other violations, came to light. Detention centers where migrants were enslaved were “under the actual or nominal control” of the authorities, including the Directorate for Combating Illegal Migration and the Libyan Coast Guard. The “widescale” exploitation of migrants is a lucrative business, the Mission said, noting that “trafficking, enslavement, forced labor, no imprisonment, extortion, and smuggling generated significant revenue for individuals, groups and State institutions”. Detention-related violations were also found to affect Libyans on a large scale, and the Mission points to the responsibility of State authorities and their leadership. The report notes that victims “came from every segment of Libyan society and included children, adult men and women, human rights defenders, political participants, civil society representatives, members of military or security forces, legal professionals and persons of perceived or actual diverse sexual orientations and gender identities”. Most of those interviewed by the UN Mission were held without charge in horrific conditions, “subjected regularly to torture, solitary confinement, held incommunicado” and denied access to water, food and other essentials.

Why should people be upset? Why should governments be held to this standard? Although these questions seem unanswerable in the practical sense at first glance, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, Filippo Grandi, addressed delegates in Geneva regarding the circa 82.4 million displaced men, women, and children due to conflict, violence, and rights violations, double the number of a decade earlier, with 48 million within the borders of their own countries, and 26.4 million abroad as refugees. In his address, he stressed the importance of a political will for nations to become receptive, stating how “We [as a committee] have no shortage of laws and policy to protect the displaced [and] we have ample declarations of principle – the challenge is to implement them in practice”. Grandi refers to the Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees, also known as the 1951 Refugee Convention or the Geneva Convention of 28 July 1951, a United Nations multilateral treaty that defines who a refugee is and deserving of protection. According to the stipulations under Articles 1-D through 1-F of the treaty, The 1951 Convention defines a refugee as an individual who, due to events before 1st January 1951 and a well-founded fear of persecution, is outside their country of nationality. The 1951 dateline was initially established to confine responsibilities to known or transpired refugee situations.

Over time, as new refugee scenarios emerged, the need arose to extend the Convention's provisions to these new cases. To address this, the 1967 Protocol relating to the Status of Refugees was developed and enacted on 4 October 1967. By acceding to the 1967 Protocol, states commit to applying the substantive rules of the 1951 Convention to refugees as defined within it, without temporal limitation. The Protocol is a separate instrument linked to the Convention, available for accession by states regardless of their Convention status. The 1951 Convention and the 1967 Protocol encompass three provisions: Fundamental definitions of who qualifies as a refugee and who no longer holds refugee status. The interpretation of these provisions is the primary focus of this Handbook, designed for those responsible for determining refugee status. Regulations establish refugees' legal position, rights, and obligations within their host country. While these rules don't influence the status determination process, those overseeing it should be aware of these regulations, given their significant impact on individuals and families. Articles 35 of the 1951 Convention and Article 11 of the 1967 Protocol obligate Contracting States to collaborate with the UN High Commissioner for Refugees in performing its functions, particularly supervising the application of these provisions. Currently, 78 states are parties to either or both the 1951 Convention and the 1967 Protocol, though, despite the almost universal acceptance of refugee protection norms enshrined in the 1951 convention, Assistant Secretary General and Assistant High Commissioner for Protection Gillian Triggs noted that 195 countries fully or partially closed their borders on health grounds during the pandemic and that 64 made no exceptions for asylum-seekers. Meanwhile, 39 countries reportedly forcibly returned them to their own or adjacent countries where they face violence and persecution. This dichotomy of reception truly encapsulates the ever-growing refugee crisis, fraught with strife and underpinning sentiments of alienation that tear up the world and perpetuate violence, chaos, and suffering.

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Après la Première Guerre mondiale et le Traité de Versailles, la France et le Royaume-Uni mettent la main sur des nouveaux territoires proches et Moyen-Orient. Cette acquisition découle d’un accord secret entre les deux puissances coloniales: l’accord de Sykes-Picot ou la France et le Royaume-Uni ont essentiellement divisé le proche-orient en zones de contrôle et d’influence afin d’assouvir leurs intérêts. La colonisation européenne a eu des effets dévastateurs sur la région. Tirées par la recherche de nouveaux marchés pour écouler leur production industrielle et exploiter des ressources naturelles, les institutions politiques mises en place étaient non seulement extractives au détriment de la population locale, mais ont perduré à ce jour. Ceci est notamment le cas du Liban ou le mode de contrôle, le système de mandat, a façonné l'état-nation libanaise. Le système de mandature stipule que la France a pour but de guider et conseiller l’administration locale afin de l'amener sur le droit chemin et de la préparer à l'indépendance. En effet, les institutions religieuses, économiques et politiques du Liban découlent des politiques de contrôle mises en place par la France avant l'indépendance obtenue en 1943.

Dans un premier temps, on analysera les conséquences du sectarisme mis en avant sous le joug impérial français qui persiste malgré la fin de la mandature française, il y a 80 ans. Ensuite, on observe que les institutions extractives mises en place par la France perpétuent un rapport de force et de déséquilibre entre le Liban et son ancienne puissance coloniale. Dernièrement, on étudiera comment le discours d'exceptionnalisme de la langue française et du Liban par rapport à ses voisins perpétué sous la colonisation a modeler les élites politico-économiques au Liban.

Un sectarisme mis en avant sous le joug impérial français

Dans un premier lieu, il est important de détailler les raisons derrière l'expédition française au Liban et au Proche-Orient de manière plus générale afin de comprendre le mode de contrôle mis en place et les impacts sur les différentes communautés ethno-religieuses du Liban. La France se positionne comme la protectrice des Chrétiens au Moyen-Orient et plus particulièrement des Maronites. Son justificatif reste dans le fait que les chrétiens sont minoritaires dans la région face aux populations musulmanes qui menaceraient non seulement la vie de ces derniers, mais aussi la culture judéo-chrétienne. Les Chrétiens sont considérés comme un allié nécessaire et “civilisé” afin de s'établir en opposition face aux communautées arabo-musulmanes. En effet, cette relation privilégiée remonte à l'expédition de Napoléon III dans la région. Son expédition l'encourage à planifier des plans pour établir un pied-à-terre sur le bord de la Méditerranée afin de non seulement protéger la relation privilégiée de la France avec les maronites, mais de projeter la puissance de la France dans la région.

Le mandat français au Liban va perpétuer ces idées de menace ethno-religieuse et tentera de rééquilibrer les rapports de force en inscrivant dans la loi la protection de chrétiens. De plus, le mandat met en place une administration coloniale qui traite la population arabo-musulmane à travers une relation patriarcale. En effet, les musulmans sont considérés comme une “race d’enfants” qui doit être éduquée et mise sur le droit chemin tandis que les chrétiens, francophones sont considérés comme Phocéens et Méditerranéens. Le statut administratif spécial français favorise explicitement ces derniers comme dirigeants de l’administration locale. L’utilisation du système de mandat consiste à avoir des intermédiaires dans la colonisation du Liban, là aussi, on observe l’utilisation de l’église comme acteur colonial. Cette dernière a pour but “d'éduquer” les Arabes afin de leur enseigner le français et de tenter de les convertir dans la portée plus large de la “mission civilisatrice.” Ceci aura des conséquences dévastatrices, car elle braque la population musulmane qui se retrouve, une fois de plus, écartée. L'éducation des missionnaires change les discours sur l'identité mise en avant par rapport à la période de contrôle ottomane. Le Français est promu au détriment du Turque et de l’Arabe, l’administration voit la jeunesse comme une opportunité de “civiliser” les foyers libanais de l'intérieur. L’idée est que la mise en place d’un cursus scolaire universel permet une transmission universelle et la création d’une nouvelle identité qui effacera le nationalisme libanais.

La conception de l'État libanais et la formation des institutions axés sur les questions d’identités représentent un legs du colonialisme français. Avoir un Liban établi en tant qu'État indépendant est lui-même un héritage du mandat français. La conséquence du mandat français est donc le fait que les institutions politiques reproduisent les divisions ethno-religieuses au Liban rendant impossible le dépassement de ces impasses religieuses et les nouvelles sources d'identité politique. Ceci découle du pacte national entre la France et le Liban lors de la décolonisation. Ce pacte national consiste en une constitution non écrite de l'État qui fait reposer son équilibre sur le confessionnalisme et la représentativité proportionnelle avec une reconnaissance explicite des confessions. On observe aussi que le Liban calque son code civil et pénal sur celui de la France montrant à quel niveau les institutions politiques libanaises étaient modelés par la colonisation.

On constate une nouvelle reproduction de ces divisions ethno-religieuses dans les accords de Taëf en 1990. L'idée est que le jeu d'équilibre entre les différentes religions maintient une stabilité politique plus payante que le socialisme de l'après-guerre. On retrouve des dispositions pour un chef d'État maronite, un Premier ministre Sunnite, et président de chambre chiite. C’est aussi le cas pour la distribution du portefeuille ministériel. Ceci permet de satisfaire les demandes de chacun des trois grands groupes religieux, mais a pour contrepartie de paralyser le pays dans une mentalité sectaire. Ainsi, on retrouve des ententes politiques locales avec des chefs des différentes communautés ethno-religieuses qui tentent de saper la légitimité de leurs rivaux.

Une économie de rente:

Il ne faut pas oublier que ces divisions sur des lignes ethno-religieuses font le jeu de la France en détournant l’attention de la population locale du pillage systématique de l'économie libanaise. En effet, les institutions ayant pour but l’extraction des ressources (humaines et naturelles) ont aussi perduré après l'indépendance. Derrière le message de mission civilisatrice et le discours patriarcal de la France, on retrouve des intérêts économiques qui ont eu de profonds impacts sur le pays. On observe alors que les institutions mises en place dans les années 1900 ont été modelées par les exportations afin de créer une économie de rente au Liban. La rente est un phénomène hautement important qui a des impacts économiques et politiques. Une économie où la rente domine et est tolérée mène à une augmentation des coûts de production. La rente est un des nombreux héritages de la colonisation française, on différencie cette dernière des prélèvements sauvages, car elle obéit à des règles institutionnalisées depuis plusieurs décennies. En effet, la rente doit faire face à deux demandes antinomies. D’un côté, les acteurs économiques veulent augmenter leurs prélèvements pour assouvir leurs besoins, mais de l’autre ces derniers ont besoin d’une croissance permanente du système économique pour assouvir leurs besoins.

De nos jours, on constate que l'élite économique libanaise perpétue cette économie de rente en créant du profit à travers de la spéculation financière et immobilière, pillant les fonds de pension et attendant les plans de sauvetage de l'Etat. Ces plans de sauvetage ont tendance à venir vu la corruption inhérente aux institutions qui ont été modelées derrière le favoritisme de la colonisation. Dans le cas de l'élite moderne, l’augmentation de la production a été fortement aidée grâce à l'émigration des classes éduqués qui envoient des devises étrangères à leur famille restés derrière. L'émigration des populations éduquées vers les pays plus développés en quête d’un futur meilleur peut être définie comme une “fuite des cerveaux.” A nouveau, on peut voir le rôle de la France dans cette fuite des cerveaux en encourageant les Libanais à venir en Métropole et en facilitant leur immigration grâce à la proximité de la langue. Par contre, il ne faut pas dénigrer le fait que la plupart de l'émigration libanaise est le résultat de facteurs qui les ont poussés à quitter (guerre civile, pauvreté) plutôt que l’attirance de la France.

La dépendance sur l’exploitation de ressources non transformées a des impacts concrets tels que la malédiction des ressources. La malédiction des ressources est une situation paradoxale ou l’exploitation de ressources naturelles mène à une croissance économique faible, du chômage élevé et une hausse des inégalités. Ceci s’explique, car lorsque un pays développe son économie sur une exploitation de ressources, il ne fait pas les investissements nécessaires dans le capital humain (santé, éducation). De plus, des exports élevés ont tendance à surévaluer la monnaie locale et encouragent la consommation d'impôts qui sont donc relativement moins chers par rapport à la production nationale. Durant le mandat français, on observait une administration française qui encourage l’exportation de ressources primaires (qui n’ont pas encore été transformées) au détriment des investissements dans l’industrialisation du pays. Ceci vient d’une mentalité de supériorité et des intérêts économiques de l'élite coloniale. En effet, le Liban était vu comme un marché ou d'écouler la surproduction industrielle de la métropole. En inondant le marché local avec les biens industriels français, l’industrie libanaise fait face à une concurrence déloyale et ne parvient pas à décoller. Vu qu’il n’y avait pas d'intérêt pour l'élite coloniale de développer une industrie locale, les institutions ne sont pas protectrices envers le développement du secteur privé et n’encouragent pas la diversification de l'économie.

Les institutions coloniales ont perduré et modeler dans les institutions modernes et placer le Liban dans la dépendance au sentier. La dépendance au sentier est le fait que les décisions prises par les anciens dirigeants ont une inertie inhérente aux institutions qui perdura le mode de développement mis en place. Ainsi on peut constater que la crise économique et politique auxquelles fait face le Liban n’est pas conjoncturelle mais a des causes structurelles profondes qui remontent au mandat français. En effet, les mutations de l'économie libanaise dans les années 1970 sous Rafic Hariri perpétuent une dépendance sur les capitaux étrangers (notamment français). Or, le fait que le Liban n’avait pas les institutions établies pour mettre en place une politique de stabilisation monétaire a entraîné une bulle financière. Afin de rassurer les investisseurs étrangers, la banque centrale promet alors de rembourser les obligations d’état en devises étrangères tel que le dollar. Cette décision peut s’apparenter comme économique, mais est purement politique. En faisant ça, l'État libanais encourage et aide les investisseurs étrangers au court-terme au détriment de la bonne santé économique de la population locale. Lorsque la bulle financière éclate, le Liban dû suivre les demandes des investisseurs et organisations financières internationales et implanter des mesures économiques néolibérales. Le néolibéralisme peut être défini comme une théorie économique qui valorise la compétition et le libre marché au-dessus de tout. Les réformes mises en place ont affaibli les institutions libanaises qui ne parviennent déjà pas à s’occuper de la population locale.

Dernièrement, les plans économiques mis en place depuis l'indépendance ont suivi le modèle “Gaulliste” de la France. Entre 1958 et 1970, le Liban connaît de nombreux dirigeants, mais le plan de développement reste essentiellement le même. Ce dernier encourage une intervention de l'État en mettant en avant des grandes lignes directrices qui encouragent des plans de développement économique sur cinq ans. Sous Camille Chamoun, le Liban tente de se moderniser et de reconstruire son été après des décennies de colonisation française. Ce plan est un calque du modèle mis en place en France sous la reconstruction avec une focalisation sur l’infrastructure essentielle (logement, routes) et peu chère. Ensuite, sous la direction de Fouad Chéhab, l'État encourage une restructuration des institutions en suivant le modèle du conseil national de la résistance mis en place par Charles de Gaulle en 1943 afin de remplacer les institutions de Vichy. Le gouvernement libanais sous Charles Hélou encourage alors la modernisation de l'État et met en place un État-providence qui se base sur la sécurité sociale de la France de l'après-guerre. Or, les investissements étant trop élevés et la corruption rampante obligent l'État à emprunter de l’argent sur les marchés internationaux. Afin de pouvoir implanter des réformes néolibérales et de ne pas avoir à se préoccuper des caprices du peuple, Suleiman Frangié se tournera une nouvelle fois vers la France du général de Gaulle pour renforcer le pouvoir exécutif avec des administrations spéciales. Ainsi, on voit à quel point, malgré l'indépendance, la France garde une influence puissante sur le système politique et économique du Liban.

Une élite francophone et francophile

Malgré l’influence de la France au niveau macro à travers les anciennes institutions coloniales et le modèle économique d’exploitation des ressources au détriment d’investissements à long terme, il ne faut pas négliger l’importance des acteurs politiques au niveau personnel et leur rôle dans la construction des institutions libanaises. De plus, ces derniers perpétuent le récit colonial de l'exceptionnalisme français en favorisant certains groupes religieux au détriment d’autres.

On constate ainsi une dérive directe du modèle de mandature. La colonisation française reposait son administration sur une élite locale pour se déchaîner des responsabilités du colonialisme. Le paternalisme ambiant de la colonisation française considère le Liban et sa population arabo-musulmane comme un enfant qui doit être éduqué et remis sur le droit chemin par les chrétiens francophones. La France représente le Liban comme non éduqué et naïf alors que la France est un parent fort, libre, compatissant et remplit de sagesse qui doit savoir être ferme avec ses enfants (colonies). Le récit colonial propagé par l’administration française sert ainsi de justificatif pour les actes inhumains de la coloniale (travail forcé, racisme systémique etc…) De plus, les anti-colonialistes reprendront le régime patriarcal de la puissance coloniale à leur guise. Dans leurs discours, ils stipulent que le Liban a grandi et que c’est dorénavant une mère qui doit s’occuper de ses différents enfants qui découlent chacun des trois grandes sectes religieuses (chiites, maronites, sunnites).

On retrouve des traces de ces idées colonialistes dans l'éducation libanaise. Le système éducatif Libanais a historiquement utilisé le français comme langue d’instruction en plus de l’Arabe. Ce système scolaire a été étayé par l’Alliance Française. L’alliance française est un organisme non-lucratif qui est voué à la propagation de la langue française et aux valeurs démocratiques à l’étranger. Cet organisme est un outil essentiel de la politique culturelle française qui utilise la langue comme véritable levier de son soft power à l’etranger. L’Alliance Française fonctionne essentiellement comme un organisme diplomatique officieux. Au Liban, l'église travaille main dans la main avec cette dernière pour créer les premiers cursus scolaires libanais. Son implantation au Liban a permis une porte d'entrée à l’alliance française afin d’avoir l’oreille des dirigeants du pays et de leur convaincre des bienfaits d’utiliser le français comme langue de l’enseignement. En effet, la fin de la politique scolaire de la France après la colonisation n’est pas la fin de l’influence de l'État français sur le Liban. Ce dernier travaille comme médiateur, à travers l’alliance française entre l'Eglise et l'État pour encourager le déploiement d’hommes religieux comme enseignants. Cette collaboration avec les écoles religieuses pour pallier le manque d’enseignant orchestrée par la France durant le mandat, perpétue une politique de néocolonialisme.

En effet, le système éducatif à deux vitesses au Liban se fait rapidement ressentir. D’un côté, on retrouve les écoles qui enseignent en français (qui ont tendance à être des établissements chrétiens) et de l'autre, les établissements de langue arabe auxquels les musulmans ont recours. Ceci perpétue les inégalités socio-économiques, car, depuis la colonisation, le français sert de passerelle de mobilité sociale pour la population arabe. Le français effectue essentiellement un rôle de statut socio-économique qui est fortement corrélé à la représentation de ces derniers comme “civilisés.” On constate alors que le récit colonial de la France se perpétue de nos jours dans la société libanaise. En effet, le système scolaire Libanais a tendance à glorifier les écoles françaises, notamment les sacro-saints “Lycées Français” financés par l’Alliance Française, donc indirectement l'État français. Ces derniers ne font pas qu’enseigner en français, car ils suivent le programme officiel de l’état français et font passer le baccalauréat à leurs étudiants, encourageant et facilitant l’émigration pour les élèves. Ceci explique en partie pourquoi l'élite politique Libanaise se tourne plus vers l’ancien colonisateur comparé à ses voisins.

On retrouve le récit colonial dans tous les aspects de la société libanaise, mais elle est la plus visible auprès de l'élite francophone et francophile. Cette dernière a tendance à glorifier la France, car elle a passer le baccalauréat et poursuivre ses études dans les universités françaises les plus prestigieuses et onéreuses (SciencesPo, la Sorbonne, Paris-Dauphine) où elle a côtoyée des autres membres de la diaspora libanaise. De plus, cette dernière a tendance à se différencier de la population Arabe en s’identifiant comme “Méditerranéenne” ou “Phocéenne.” Ces deux termes sont les mots exacts des colons français pour décrire la minorité chrétienne comme plus blanche et ayant une certaine valeur supérieure relative à la population arabo-musulmane. On constate ainsi que l'élite Libanaise, en se rapprochant le plus possible de l'idéal colonial s’inscrit dans la lignée du récit français. De par leur éducation francophone et francophile, les élites libanaises ont eu tendance à entretenir une relation spéciale avec la France à travers des forts liens économiques et des accords politiques. Ceci est tout à l'honneur de la France qui a besoin du Liban comme base arrière afin de se projeter comme puissance dans la région.

Conclusion

Ainsi, on constate que le mandat français au Liban a non seulement impacté les institutions mises en place depuis l'indépendance, mais aussi modeler la société libanaise.

D’abord, on observe que la conception de l’Etat libanais en tant que tel, avec une telle hétérogénéité de groupes ethno-religieux, n'est pas un hasard, mais une décision explicite de l’administration coloniale. En effet, le Liban a gardé les mêmes frontières du mandat français depuis son existence. De plus, les institutions politiques reproduisent les mêmes divisions ethno-religieuses que la France a mises en place depuis sa première expédition au Levant. Cet héritage politique a été affirmé lors de l'indépendance avec le pacte national puis après la guerre civile en 1990 avec les accords de Taëf qui ont perpétué les mêmes dynamiques de partage de pouvoir entre les Maronites, Chiites et Sunnites. Cette mentalité de partage de pouvoir autour de ligne sectaire rendra impossible le dépassement des impasses religieuses.

Dans un second temps, on a analysé comment le modèle économique mis en place sous le mandat français perdure de nos jours. Ce dernier repose sur une économie de rente avec des institutions faibles qui n’ont pas la capacité d'établir la loi sur le territoire comme on peut le voir dans la théorie de la dépendance du sentier. De plus, les grandes lignées des plans de développement du Liban s’inspirent de la France de l'après-guerre et du modèle économique Gaulliste. N'étant pas adaptées aux institutions locales, ces dernières échoueront.

Ensuite, on a examiné la responsabilité de l'élite francophone et francophile Libanaise dans l'état actuel des institutions. Cette élite libanaise a tendance à adhérer et à perpétuer le discours colonial. Ce dernier évoque l'idée que les Français ont menée une mission civilisatrice au Liban avec pour but l'éducation de la population arabo-musulmane qui est opposée aux “Phocéens” francophones. Afin de justifier ses actes, l’état français use donc un discours paternaliste dans lequel la population arabe est associé à un enfant turbulent qui doit être remis sur le droit chemin par un parent fort et sage. En outre, on observe que l'élite libanaise a eu l'opportunité de poursuivre ses études non seulement en français mais en France ce qui les rapprocherait le plus possible de l'idéal colonial.

En fin de compte, on constate que la France a modelé les institutions politiques et économiques du Liban ce qui lui a permis d’y exercer une influence politique et stratégique. Ceci est d’autant plus redoutable que le Liban sert de base arrière pour ses missions militaires et diplomatiques à travers tout le proche et moyen-orient. L’influence française sur les institutions libanaises s’est opérée au détriment de la représentation démocratique du peuple libanais et de la croissance économique de la nation.

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Exceeding 75 years of displacement, the Palestinian refugee crisis has tested Arab states' commitment to Palestinian refugees and resolving the Arab-Israeli conflict. Within this complex history, shifting state policies toward refugees invite critical investigation as to what determines said state responses to displaced Palestinians. This analysis contributes to this body of research through a comparative analysis of Jordan and Lebanon. These cases show that amid ever-shifting political dynamics, Arab state responses to Palestinian refugees vary according to the perceived impacts of marginalization, resettlement, or naturalization on state power. State power is here defined as the capacity to produce desired outcomes, of which we can include the ability to realize a political agenda, maintain a given social order, and enforce compliance upon a given population. This analysis demonstrates that Jordan instrumentalizes Palestinian refugees to enhance state power, while Lebanon marginalizes them to preserve internal stability. From the Nakba to each country’s civil war, conditions of state strength or weakness determined that King Abdullah would naturalize Palestinian refugees, while Lebanon’s executive power would integrate select wealthy Palestinian Muslims and Christians. When challenged by the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO), both states attacked Palestinian refugees to preserve internal stability and re-establish domestic control. In postwar contexts, Jordan’s political marginalization of Palestinians demonstrates continued attempts to subordinate Palestinian identities, while Lebanon’s continued neglect of Palestinian refugees rejects integration in the name of political stability.

The Impacts of State Formation on State Responses to the Nakba

King Abdullah of Jordan’s naturalization of Palestinian refugees who were expelled in 1948 reflects the instrumentalization of refugee populations to enhance state power, a decision that was enabled by the strength of the Jordanian state. In 1948, over 700, 000 Palestinians fled their homeland under threat of ethnic cleansing by Zionist militias– an experience of mass dispossession known to Palestinians as the Nakba. A region of newly independent states soon found itself coping with one of the greatest humanitarian crises of the 20th century. Jordan’s trajectory of state formation ensured that it was a strong state capable of accommodating and integrating Palestinian refugees at independence (Evermon 2021), as the British protectorate of Transjordan had been strengthened by colonial rule that integrated local tribes into its political system. Governance over Transjordan’s nomadic areas, which accounted for 80% of the Emirate’s territory, was only possible through indirect rule that privileged tribal shaykhs. Where tribal life defined social organization, the moral authority that tribesmen conferred on shaykhs saw them become critical interlocutors to a mandatory power that was preoccupied with strengthening central authority and extending its reach beyond settled territories (Alon 2005). The indispensability of tribal shaykhs to mandatory governance determined that British colonial rule in Transjordan was less coercive than elsewhere in the region, enabling tribes to cultivate a central role in domestic politics. The resulting political configuration had elements of both a modern state and a tribal confederacy (Alon 2005; Evermon 2021, 34). Additionally, the Emir of Transjordan, later King Abdullah bin-Hussein, legitimized his rule in the eyes of the population by claiming Hashemite lineage to the Prophet Muhammad. Transjordan’s transition to independence was thus exceptional for its continuity and stability (Evermon 2021). Already domestically legitimate, King Abdullah coveted rule over Palestine and Palestinians, to the end of establishing and ruling Greater Syria (Plascov 1981). Within this context, Palestinian refugees were merely a tool for extending his power across the region (ibid), for legitimizing oneself as representative of displaced Palestinians was a prerequisite to capturing the prized leadership of the elusive pan-Arab bloc. Nasser’s aspiration for a united, Arab state that extended from the Atlantic Ocean to the Persian Gulf never came to pass, but Arab leaders of this era competed and  hungered for pan-Arab leadership, seeing it as the key to great power status. Power was measured by rule over people, so the decision to grant Palestinians citizenship saw the King’s subjects grow by approximately 75% (Bauer 2022, 2). The naturalization of Palestinian refugees was also seen as necessary to legitimize Jordan’s annexation of the West Bank, which symbolically unified the East and West Banks of the Jordan river in 1950. Jordan never signed onto the 1951 Refugee Convention, but more significantly, it committed itself to the Palestine question in Article 21 of its constitution (Evermon 2021, 45-46). Article 21 constitutionally affirms non-refoulement, the principle of international law that prohibits states from forcibly returning refugees to countries where they are likely to face persecution. Promulgated just three years after the Nakba, Article 21 ensured that the status of rights of Palestinians in Jordan would become a defining feature of Jordanian politics. Abdullah wanted to be seen as the sole representative of Palestinians, so he constructed Jordan as the protector of Palestinian rights and guarantor of their welfare. Under the guise of benevolence, the affirmation of Palestinian rights was purely strategic. As Plascov noted in 1981, Abdullah needed the Palestinians, but he neither liked nor trusted them. Though publicly a defender of Palestinians, he colluded with Israel to prevent the emergence of an independent Palestinian state (Plascov 1981). The extension of Jordanian citizenship to Palestinians who were expelled in 1948 thus demonstrates how King Abdullah’s great power aspirations, strategic interests, and lust for pan-Arab leadership informed his decision to integrate Palestinian refugees into the Jordanian populace.

The struggle to achieve Jordanian supremacy in the Jordanian-Palestinian relationship is the conflict that would come to define Jordan’s responses to Palestinian refugees, notably as Palestinians are a demographic majority in Jordan (Bauer 2022). King Abdullah’s ambitions were heavily criticized by other Arab leaders who saw his strategic agenda for what it was, and his preference for giving Palestinians equal citizenship rights to Jordanians was not always shared by his successors (Evermon 2021). Yet he set in motion historical forces that would make Hashemite monarchs permanently vested in the Palestinian cause and the outcome of the Arab-Israeli conflict, if not in the wellbeing of Palestinian refugees themselves. Enshrining the commitment to Palestinian refugees in the Jordanian constitution fused state policy on Palestinians to questions of internal stability, governmentality, and national identity (Evermon 2021,46). Since its promulgation, Jordan’s leadership has struggled to balance the competing commitments it made to refugees, naturalized Palestinians, and Jordanians. The Hashemites have blurred the lines between Palestinian and Jordanian identities when convenient, but underscored their distinctions when it served their agenda, producing discontinuous and contradictory policies that highlight the complexities of being Palestinian in Jordan.

Lebanon’s response to Palestinian refugees in 1948 was informed by the Lebanese state’s reactionary protection of elite power in the context of state weakness. Lebanon achieved independence from the French colonial administration in 1943 and inherited a power-sharing system that divides political power according to Lebanon’s religious demography. Power-sharing in Lebanon dates to 1861, but under the French mandate, it was instrumentalized for European interests (Delatolla 2021; Farsoun and Wingerter 1981). French colonizers privileged Maronite Christians and used their position of power to ensure continued economic and political access to Lebanon. In the process, they degraded Arab, Islamic identities and fomented sectarian divisions (Farsoun and Wingerter 1981). At independence, the power-sharing system underwent little transformation, and the political elite of Christians, Western businessmen, and traditional landholders continued to hold disproportionate power and wealth in Lebanese society (Delatolla 2021; Farsoun and Wingerter 1981). This history of state formation informed the motivations of the Lebanese executive, conventionally made up of a Christian president and a Sunni Muslim prime minister, to integrate or marginalize refugees from 1948. The few refugees who were granted citizenship were wealthy Christians and Muslims (Sayigh 1997, 40), as the executive hoped to tip the balance of power in their favour. By and large, Palestinians were denied the option of naturalization and were forced to remain stateless (Evermon 2021). Integration of Palestinian refugees threatened to destabilize the religious balance of the confessional system, and because most Palestinians are Sunni Muslims, it would have reallocated power away from Lebanese Christians (Farsoun and Wingerter 1981). Lebanon therefore self-labeled as a transit country and neglected its responsibilities to displaced Palestinians. Lebanon did not sign the 1951 Refugee Convention, nor did they promulgate formal legislation that would address the status of Palestinian refugees. Considered ‘foreigners’ in the eyes of the state, Palestinians were denied the right to work, freedom of movement, or any civil rights (Evermon 2021). State weakness determined that Lebanon had weak absorption capacity for refugees, meaning it lacked the ability to receive, safely house, and facilitate the provision of humanitarian aid to over 100, 000 refugees fleeing across their Southern border. More importantly, though, the executive power and the conservative right perceived that Palestinian integration would disrupt the fragile status quo (Farsoun and Wingerter 1981).

Palestinian Militancy, Insecurity and Repression of Refugees

The rise of the PLO challenged state authority in both Jordan and in Lebanon and pushed both countries into civil war. Such an overt threat to state power led the Jordanian regime, and constituent bodies of the Lebanese state, to violently attack refugee camps in their respective contexts. With consent from Gamal Abdel Nasser and the Arab League, the PLO was created in 1964 to centralize Palestinian leadership, but it dually served as an actor which could be manoeuvred to weaken Jordan, who was Nasser’s regional rival for pan-Arab leadership (Evermon 2021, 49). 1967 was a turning point for Palestinian-host state relations everywhere. Arab states’ stunningly poor performance in the Six-Day War betrayed Palestinians, as Arab leaders who each had strategic interests in securing Palestine and pan-Arab leadership failed to mount a united front and establish an independent Palestinian state (Farsoun and Wingerter 1981). Each was jockeying for position within the pan-Arab bloc, resulting in the losses of Gaza and the West Bank, in addition to immense casualties. The defeat made clear that only Palestinians themselves would be able to restore Palestinian statehood, causing the Palestinian Revolutionary Movement (PRM) and the power of the PLO to grow in exile (Shiblak 1997). In Jordan, refugee camps became the training and recruitment grounds for Palestinian fedayeen militants. Emboldened by Egyptian support, which went so far as to assert that the PLO should militarize along Jordan’s shared border with Israel, the PLO began to take radical actions which endangered Jordan’s national security (Evermon 2021, 49). Most boldly, in September 1970 the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine hijacked four planes to demand the release of Palestinian prisoners in Europe and in Israel. Their actions humiliated the Jordanian regime and showed an abuse of Jordanian territory, which by 1970, was hosting a state within a state (Barari 2008). Palestinian guerillas captured the Jordanian city of Irbid on September 15th, provoking military action from King Hussein and the Jordanian Army (Evermon 2021, 57). In what came to be known as Black September, the Jordanian regime attacked Amman-based refugee camps to eliminate the fedayeen who were stationed there (Evermon 2021). Thus, when Jordan’s internal stability and national security was threatened by the Palestinian government in exile, refugees were punished for the actions of their leaders. They were pawns in a greater landscape of civil war, not humanitarian subjects in need of protection. The regime triumphed in this conflict, and the PLO was expelled from Jordan, after which it crossed through Syria to establish bases in Lebanon.

Jordan triumphed militarily, but it lost the political fight to be seen as representing Palestinians, ultimately provoking King Hussein to disengage from the West Bank in 1988. The Rabat resolution of 1974 was the first major challenge to Jordan’s stance, as Arab states recognized the PLO as the sole representative of the Palestinian people (Barari 2008). Seemingly sidelined from peace negotiations, King Hussein waited for an opportunity to re-enter diplomatic talks as a legitimate player. Israeli invasion in the Lebanese Civil War provided this opportunity, as the weakened PLO made amends with Jordan in pursuit of a political solution (Susser 1990). Jordan was again rebuked in their claims to govern Palestinians, however, by the First Intifada in 1987. Such an overt and sustained display of Palestinian nationalism undermined King Abdullah’s attempts to make Palestinians into subjects of the Hashemite Kingdom. It was a totalizing rejection of occupation and cooptation of the Palestinian issue by Arab leaders for personal gain (ibid). In a political manoeuvre against the PLO, King Hussein renounced all claims to the West Bank and rescinded the citizenship of West Bank residents, rendering them stateless. King Hussein did not warn the PLO of his decision to disengage from the West Bank. As such, disengagement can be seen as Jordan challenging the PLO to live up to their mandate as the sole government of Palestinians (ibid). The rights of refugees became the central issue of disengagement. Residents of the West Bank had their Jordanian citizenship revoked and were given temporary travel documents in their place, marginalizing them to the same degree as Palestinians from Gaza and Palestinians who were displaced after the 6-day war. In an assertion of state power in the East Bank, Jordan pursued a strategy of Jordanization which removed Palestinians from government offices and scapegoated them for declining economic conditions (ibid). Shifting regional politics forced Jordan to recalculate its policy towards Palestinian refugees, but its motivations show continuity. At all stages, the Hashemite Kingdom was intent on asserting Jordanian supremacy within the Jordan-Palestine relationship, which King Abdullah had made a central facet of Jordan’s domestic politics.

The PLO in Lebanon similarly created domestic political unrest that would result in a civil war, wherein Palestinian refugees suffered violent retribution for the behaviour of their leadership. Because Palestinians in Lebanon were so marginalized, the PLO arrived to a readymade base of popular support. The PRM “created a sense of identity, national pride and confidence among Palestinians in Lebanon of all social levels” (Shiblak 1997, 264) and provided refugees with the protection and empowerment that the Lebanese state failed to provide. Ultimately, it was the Lebanese state’s failure to improve social and economic conditions for Palestinians that allowed the PLO to become as powerful as it did. Empowered by this reception and the Cairo agreement of 1969, which gave the PLO the authority to administer refugee camps, the PLO began to operate as a state within a state, as it had done in Jordan (Shiblak 1997). Their autonomy from Lebanon was so clear that the area of West Beirut where most Palestinian offices were located became known as the ‘Fakhani Republic’ (Shiblak 1997, 268). For the first time since the Nakba, Palestinian refugees in Lebanon were dignified through the provision of social services and advocacy from a government that recognized their humanity. Palestinian armed presence exposed the weakness of the Lebanese state and exacerbated sectarian divisions in Lebanese society by presenting a governing alternative for Lebanese Muslims, who were also economically marginalized under the power-sharing system. The PRM was used by Lebanese progressive parties to challenge the conservative elite, and as such, it destabilized the confessional system and contributed to the emergence of civil war in 1975 (Shiblak 1997). The PLO’s presence provided for Palestinian refugees in the short term, but it harmed them in the long term. Its role in the civil war caused Lebanese public opinion to turn against Palestinians and provoked various actors to attack refugee camps. Brynen argues that Israeli retaliation to the PLO’s guerilla warfare in Southern Lebanon, compounded by the PLO’s misbehaviour and the structural threat they posed to Lebanon, caused Lebanese sympathies for Palestinians to decline (1989). Their actions triggered invasion by Israel, while arrogant fedayeen made a mockery of Lebanese law and unmasked the fragility of the Lebanese state. The threat posed by the PLO gave rise to an unusual alliance between Syria, Israel, and the Maronite Phalanges, who terrorized and massacred Palestinian refugees on numerous occasions (Shiblak 1997, 266). Syrian intervention to root out the radical PLO further weakened Lebanon and justified a siege on West Beirut camps (Shiblak 1997). Thus, the challenge that the PLO presented to the Lebanese state saw multiple actors, some of which were Arab regimes or its constituent parts, justify the violent attacks on Palestinian refugees in the context of civil war. In this context of insecurity, the legal regression on refugee protection culminated with the abrogation of the Cairo agreement, which revoked Palestinians’ right to work, reside, and move within Lebanon (Shiblak 1997, 269). As in Jordan, the PLO’s challenge to state power provoked violent responses against Palestinian refugee populations.

Post-war Stances with Continuous Motives

The rights of Palestinian refugees in Jordan vary according to when they arrived in Jordan and from where, but across all policies, the most influential factor in Jordan’s response to Palestinian refugees is its preoccupation with asserting state power. This manifests today as a pursuit of supremacy within the Jordan-Palestine relationship (Susser 1990). In present-day Jordan, refugees from 1948 and their descendants have the same rights as Jordanian citizens, a status that was conferred on them by King Abdullah. Palestinians from Gaza after 1967 and the West Bank after 1988 are stateless, holding only temporary travel documents that do not give them a right to work, own property, or be educated by the Jordanian state (Evermon 2021). Palestinians in the East Bank are politically marginalized, and the regime continues to view them as a suspect group that is capable of destabilizing Jordan’s domestic politics (Reiter 2004). Contemporary marginalization of Palestinians is an assertion of Hashemite power, as the monarchy is bent on keeping Palestinians as second-class citizens. Though state policies have metamorphosed, and Jordan may appear to have distanced itself from the Palestine question, Jordan’s stake in the final solution is as important to the regime as ever. The Hashemites will never recover their position as representatives of the Palestinian people, but Jordan has successfully carved out a role for itself as mediator between Israel and Palestine to ensure that its interests will be considered in peace negotiations. This interest holds deep implications for governmentality over Jordan’s populations and for its internal stability.

State neglect of Palestinian refugees in Lebanon’s post-war context reflects the deeply entrenched perception that Palestinian integration would destabilize Lebanon. A chronically weak state that has historically seen Palestinians as politically threatening and economically burdensome, Lebanon today believes that Palestinian resettlement will only further weaken the country. Capitalizing on the change in public opinion since the civil war, refugee camps continue to be depicted as a security threat to the state, justifying increased surveillance and securitization from Lebanese authorities (Sayigh 1995). Lebanese politicians across the political spectrum continue to view Palestinian refugees as a threat to the confessional system, and they resent Palestinians for the PLO’s involvement in the civil war (Haddad 2000). Post-war reconstruction excluded Palestinians, and politicians have even encouraged them to leave the country (Sayigh 1995). There is no plan for resettlement, integration, or accommodation, while UNRWA funding declines as part of a broader international campaign to pressure all parties for a peace settlement. In what Carpi argues is an exercise of state agency (2019), Lebanon’s conscious neglect of Palestinian refugees and explicit destruction of refugee camps communicates two messages. To Palestinians, it communicates that Lebanon is not their home and that resettlement is not an option. To the international community, it signals that their patience awaiting a final solution has dried up. Refugee camps are evermore spaces of liminality –— in between spaces where refugees can live but not thrive, indefinitely awaiting a political arrangement that will dignify them (Carpi 2019). Lebanon’s hostility to Palestinian refugees has persisted through the decades because it has not been able to overcome its condition of state weakness. From independence, through civil war and Syrian occupation until present day, Lebanon has struggled to assert state power domestically and maintain social order. As it struggles to fulfill its obligations to Lebanese citizens, politicians still believe that Palestinian integration will undermine state power, resulting in unanimous hostility from the political establishment.

Conclusion

The cases of Jordan and Lebanon demonstrate that Arab state responses to Palestinian refugees vary according to whether states perceive resettlement or naturalization to enhance or undermine state power. King Abdullah’s naturalization of Palestinians from 1948 was instrumental. He saw Palestinian refugees as prospective subjects of the Hashemite Kingdom and calculated that naturalizing them would lend greater legitimacy to his annexation of the West Bank. His actions set in motion historical forces that explain Jordan’s continued investment in Palestine and the marginalization of Palestinians in Jordan today. All can be seen as attempts to subjugate Palestinian identities to Hashemite rule in an assertion of state power. Applied to Lebanon’s context of state weakness, resettlement or naturalization of Palestinian refugees has only ever been perceived as a threat to the Lebanese confessional system. The initial hostility of the Lebanese state towards Palestinian refugees was a reactionary response driven proximately by the Maronite Christian and Sunni Muslim state executive, but in post-war Lebanon, opposition to Palestinian resettlement is shared across the political spectrum. Owing to the PLO’s involvement in the civil war, politicians from all religious identities perceive integration as a security and political threat that would undermine state power.

Works Cited

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Evermon, Blake Nathaniel. 2021. “Chapter 1: Introduction” in The Effects of Public Policy on Refugee Assimilation: An Examination of the Palestinian Diaspora in Jordan and Lebanon. Order No. 29164217, 1-62. University of Illinois at Springfield. https://proxy.library.mcgill.ca/login?url=https://www.proquest.com/dissertations-theses/effects-public-policy-on-refugee-assimilation/docview/2671580373/se-2.

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With the end of the Second World War came the beginning of the era of development. “What we envisage is a program of development based on the concepts of democratic fair dealing,” declared President Truman in a speech to Congress (Esteva 2009, 1). The Marshall Plan could arguably be considered the first official development package to exist, but it would most certainly not be the last. New subfields of social sciences would concentrate on studying and analyzing development as a historic and present solution to fight poverty.

Economics and anthropology have had their fair share of scientists from their respective fields study development but through very different lenses. In fact, although both economists and anthropologists study development, often together, they have different methods of analyzing and understanding it as an academic subfield. These distinctions will be presented by reviewing academic literature from both fields of study. Corruption, that is “the sale by government officials of government property for personal gain,” will be used as a sort of case study to understand how Anthropology and Economics are distinct in their approach to development studies (Shleifer & Visknhy 1993, 599).

Corruption and Development: Anthropology

In his article “Blurred Boundaries: The Discourse of Corruption, the Culture of Politics, and the Imagined State,” Akhil Gupta creates “an ethnography of the state” to analyze corruption in India (Gupta 1995, 375). He bases his work on fieldwork he conducts in a small north Indian village he calls Alipur. Gupta begins by analyzing the encounter of the citizen with the state at the local level: “For the majority of Indian citizens, the most intermediate context for encountering the state is provided by their relationships with government bureaucracies at the local level” (Gupta 1995, 378). Interaction would be done either using the physical space of government to discuss with fellow citizens or to use the services provided in that space.

Either way, corruption was a component. On the one hand, citizens use the space as a place where “corruption was discussed and debated” while on the other hand, corruption is a complete component to local state mechanisms (Gupta 1995, 378). Gupta turns his attention to Sharmaji who is a patwari: “an official who keeps the land records of approximately fix to six villages” (Gupta 1995, 379). The author explains that transactions between villagers are done in a transparent fashion in front of the patwari though it is evident to all citizens that “these things “cost money,” [and] in most cases the “rates” were well-known and fixed” (Gupta 1995, 379). Usually the amount given, Gupta explains, is relatively small at such a local level, so the bureaucrats make their money off volume unlike public servants in higher levels of government.

The author then turns his attention to the discourse of corruption in public culture. Gupta argues that “the analysis of reports in local and national newspapers tells us a great deal about the manner in which “the state” comes to be imagined” including perceptions on corruption (Gupta 1995, 385). He goes on to explain how corruption played a huge role in national politics in the 1980s and how Rajiv Gandhi’s election in 1984 “was fought largely on the slogans of the eradication of corruption” (Gupta 1995, 386).

He continues by analyzing local and national newspapers to better understand the collective societal perception of corruption in India. Gupta finally turns to what he calls the imagined state: “The government […] is being constructed […] in the imagination and everyday practices of ordinary people” (Gupta 1995, 390). To analyze the imagined state, he interviews Ram Singh and his sons who are prosperous yet part of a lower cast from Alipur. Essentially, Akhil Gupta analyzes corruption through an often-used manner by anthropologists of case studies in the hope to find generalizations which can then serve further research in the field.

Unlike Gupta, Ravi Sundaram approaches the anthropological study of corruption in a more holistic way. He discusses how India’s urban reality is shaped by its postcolonial identity and how its urban modernity “has pushed urban discourse in new directions” (Sundaram 2021, 1). The author focuses on “the materialization of new technologies in Indian cities” and how they will affect not only governance and state, but also culture and lifestyle (Sundaram 2021, 3). There is a discussion on what the author calls ‘pirate modernity’ which depends on informal arrangements. It is a modernity that can be viewed as recycled while simultaneously commoditized.

Although the article deals mainly with how India’s colonial past affects how modern urban governance functions, there is a part allocated to transparency. Sundaram  explains how the postcolonial city after information “brings both urban space as well as documented populations in the domain of the visible” (Sundaram 2021, 6).  “Transparency has become one of the main slogans of urban and national politics for the Indian middle class, culminating in the anti-corruption campaigns in 2011-12” but that does not mean that corruption is not a component to Indian bureaucracy (Sundaram 2021, 5).

Nonetheless, improvements have been made, notably with the creation of the landmark Right to Information Law which allowed citizens to have access to documents within 30 days before civil servants would face a pay cut. As Sundaram puts it “While not all RTI requests were about corruption, they helped place transparency at the heart of public discourse, helping a liberal agenda around information culture and the modernization of urban governance” (Sundaram 2021, 6). It led to secrecy being associated to corruption and, in the desire for less secrecy, a decrease in corrupt behaviour by the State occurred. The Income Tax department also began using permanent account numbers for all taxpayers in the hope of reducing tax evasion. Essentially, what Sundaram displays in the article is how technology allows for a change in postcolonial institutions prone to corrupt behaviour.

Corruption and Development: Economics

Olken & Pande “review the evidence on corruption in developing countries […] focusing on three questions: how much corruption is there, what are the efficiency consequences of corruption, and what determines the level corruption?” in their article “Corruption in Developing Countries” (Olken & Pande 2012, 479). The article firstly analyzes the magnitudes and efficiency costs of corruption. Olken & Pande point out that “there are remarkably few reliable estimates of the actual magnitude of corruption, and those that exist reveal a high level of heterogeneity” (Olken & Pande 2012, 481). Corruption can either be studied through perception, surveys, estimates from direct observation, graft estimation by subtraction, and estimations from market inferences to name a few.

Another approach is by using equilibrium conditions in the labor market (Olken & Pande 2012, 486). The article then turns to the question of if corruption matters. Olken & Pande argue that “corruption could either have efficiency costs or lead to efficiency gains” (Olken & Pande 2012, 491). Continuing, the article explores what determines corruption and what would incentivize bureaucrats to take bribes. The authors present a mathematical formula to explain the situation where the bureaucrat is better off by taking the bribe (Olken & Pande 2012, 496). Transparency and punishment are viewed as ways to combat corruption. In the end, the article attempts to objectively present the economic theories which can explain issues of efficiency, regulation, and corruption.

Similar to Olken & Pande, Paolo Mauro analyzes corruption through a macroeconomic lens while focusing on data-oriented conclusions. In “Corruption and Growth,” Mauro analyzes “a newly assembled data set consisting of subjective indices of corruption, the amount of red tape, the efficiency of the judicial system, and various categories of political stability for a cross section of countries” (Mauro 1995, 681). In the introduction, the author explains how most economists agree that corruption causes economic inefficiency but that “some authors have suggested that corruption might raise economic growth” (Mauro 1995, 681).

Mauro’s work finds “that corruption lowers private investment, thereby reducing economic growth” (Mauro 1995, 683). The rest of the article describes the data from developing countries he uses to come to that conclusion including indices such as the Business International Indices of Corruption and Institutional Efficiency, the Bureaucratic Efficiency Index, and the Index of Ethnolinguistic Factionalization. In the end, Mauro finds a negative relation between all three mentioned indices above and the rate of investment, justifying that corruption is negatively correlated to economic growth (Mauro 1995, 695).  However, the author mentions that “there is only weak support for the hypothesis that corruption reduces growth by leading to inefficient investment choices” thus hinting at a relationship perhaps stronger than a simple negative correlation between corruption and investment. In all, Mauro uses empirical data and macroeconomics to argue that corruption has a negative effect on economic growth.

Conclusion

Both anthropology and economics study development though through completely different lenses. What the literature shows is contrasting ways in approaching development studies by the two social sciences. Anthropology is case study oriented, often focusing on the individual rather than the whole of society. As was displayed in Gupta’s reading, personal interviews and individual encounters make up the content used to then further research and eventually generalize patterns in the developing world. Nonetheless, this does not mean that a global view cannot be researched through Anthropology. In fact, Sundaram’s study on India allows for generalizations and a better understanding of Indian society and its view on bureaucracy and corruption. Through analysis of past and current events, anthropologists study development with a greatly humanistic approach which must be valued. On the other hand, Anthropology lacks more of the concrete data needed to end up with scientific generalizations.

Where Anthropology lacks is where economics thrives when discussing development studies. Economic development studies are heavily concentrated on quantifiable data and macroeconomic models which can then be used to come to a scientific conclusion. In Olken & Pande’s work, attempts to quantify perception are key to understand how corruption functions in the developing world. They depend on mathematics to rationalize the observations made and to come to a conclusion which can then be generalized. In fact, Paolo Mauro simply presents his hypothesis – that corruption negatively affects economic growth – and proves it correct by running regressions and seeing if there indeed is a negative significant correlation between a certain corruption index and investment. Very little of all this is human or personal and this is probably the biggest difference between the anthropological and economic study of development.

Corruption is an issue in developing countries as it obliges people who may not have much to pay for services the State should be able to provide with tax revenue. Many social scientists – both anthropologists and economists – agree that corruption allows for an unfair and inefficient economic context in frequently already dire situations in the developing world. Though the two sciences differ much in their approach to studying development, as is shown when using corruption as an template, they simultaneously bring forth a unique perspective which allows for a more complete and just research analysis. To sum up, anthropologists can learn to be more objective and quantitative in their study while economists can adjust to add more humane and qualitative components to their subfield of economic development. Both sciences have much to share with one another, especially when both scientists and subjects of the research done in the developing worlds are to surely benefit form such cooperation.

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Sundaram, Ravi. 2021. “The Postcolonial City in India. From Planning to Information?”. InTechniques & Culture no 67, Paris: Éditions de l’EHESS. pp. 1-15.

On December 6, 2022, the Indonesian House of Representatives voted unanimously to introduce a new criminal code that tightened penalties around key rights and civil liberties. The opposition Islamist coalition gave ground on morality issues, though the incumbent secular coalition also agreed to a five-year-max sentence for spreading views contrary to the Pancasila state ideology, the very constitutional bulwark against pronounced Islamist hegemony in legislating across the country’s hundreds of ethnic groups and faiths.

Roughly two weeks before the criminal code’s passage, Indonesia’s northern neighbour was having secular nationalist-Islamist spats of its own. Malaysia’s recent general elections had seen the Malaysian Islamic Party (PAS)’s seat count jump nearly threefold, leaving it the runner-up to the multi-ethnic, multi-religious coalition under President Anwar Ibrahim. In the wake of PAS spokesperson claims that Ibrahim voters would “go to Hell” (Ananthalakshmi 2022) during the election cycle, Ibrahim asserted in his victory speech that he would preserve Malaysia’s Islamist representation. With PAS’s federal influence at near-unprecedented levels, however, spokespeople still called for abidance by the constitution and against tensions that could threaten inter-partisan harmony, congratulating Ibrahim, and voicing confidence that he would “prioritise the concept of federalism for all states and the people” (Ananthalakshmi). Nevertheless, within these two Muslim-majority countries who have had long histories of institutionalizing minority rights, and preserving them through an established representative democracy, values of liberal democracy are incompatible with Islamist politics in Indonesia and Malaysia.

As per Hefner (1997), while the modern nation-state has eased the likelihood of territorial fragmentation, it has also threatened the autonomy of Islamist social organizations and rebel movements. Nevertheless, many Muslims see the state as a vehicle for making their legal aspirations societal realities, and have built their basic political assumptions around it. Islamist politics, in fact, includes many who believe in democracy; though not quite as many who would eagerly push for the protection of all minority rights, the rule of law, and other key liberal democratic tenets. Sharing widespread views that religion belongs in the public sphere, that it remains an “abstract moral ethos that pervades the whole of society” (Hefner), Islamist politics may show ready endorsement of popular sovereignty and respect for other religions, though without similar agreement on how to accommodate them within wider institutional structures, alongside the faith they hold most dear. Hefner describes a familiar conservative Islamist view that a state unregulated by sharia turns from Islam as a “‘total way of life’” (Hefner). This view of total legislative subservience to Islamic law, however, is often accompanied by an endorsement of democratic governance, such that Muslims must win control of the state and only then reorganize institutions in their favour. With the contrasting views of civic modernists, the unitarianism of abiding by sharia law as proposed by conservatives, regardless of one’s faith, does not come at the expense of diversity in religious practice, forum externum. Since God’s guidance is difficult to interpret, and one cannot confuse His oneness (tawhid) with state structures and authority figures, Muslim legislation must allow for the discretion necessary to tolerate religious pluralism.

The civic modernist tradition underlines historical context and conceptual reformation as necessary factors in the ultimate application of Muslim legal sources to earthly law. Thus, civic modernists broadly admit that “[w]here precedents for civic tolerance exist— and especially where their principles have been abstracted from public culture and reinforced in legal-political charters—they are among the most vital of resources for civil accommodation” (Hefner).

Adding more profile to Hefner’s theoretical profile of the assumptions and thought processes that help build consensus within Islamist politics, Fossati (2019)’s findings allow for closer examination of the Muslim voter base. Explaining that an Indonesian voters’ aliran (stream/identity) is a predictor of party support, Fossati deduces an unlikely chance that santri Muslims (who follow more orthodox, less-locally-syncretized practices) will not vote for a party that does not explicitly endorse Islam, whereas abangan Muslims (with more syncretic practices) are more likely to support secular parties. Fossati highlights that Islamist groups are seemingly more confident in a democratic system’s ability to solve societal issues, and that 64% of respondents who would vote for Islamist parties would rather the state prioritize democratic principles over economic development in a nominal tradeoff, compared to 54% of respondents who intended to vote for secularist parties. Voters (many of them more orthodox santri) that hope to see a more prominent role for Islam in state-society relations, then, appear no more willing to take a democratic system for granted than their secularist counterparts.

However, as Fossati finds, voters for Islamist parties may be less likely to endorse the assumed pluralism of religious law often found in liberal democracy. “Specifically,” he writes, “a pluralist conception of democracy based on checks and balances and horizontal accountability is more likely to be supported by secularist than by Islamist respondents.” Finally, while the differences in all of Fossati’s metrics are strongest in Java, a stronghold of the incumbent secularist coalition, his findings embody a useful guide to religious identity, partisanship, and ultimate perceptions of liberal democracy in Indonesia. As he puts it himself, “the kind of democracy so strongly supported by Islamist Indonesians may be quite different from a liberal and secular political system with a clear separation of powers and equality for all before the law [...] challenges for the consolidation of liberal democracy in Indonesia may intensify as hard-line Islamic groups become more influential in Indonesian politics.”

To round out the Indonesian case, Menchik (2014) emphasizes the Indonesian state’s unique approach to pluralism, namely under Pancasila: a constitutionalized idea that citizens adhere to one of six state-sanctioned religions, namely Buddhism, Confucianism, Islam, Hinduism, Catholicism and Protestantism, more broadly endorsing belief in God, humanitarianism, national unity, social justice and democracy as foundational values for the good Indonesian citizen to hold. These views are all given voice through representative government, birthing an imagined community “bound by a common, orthodox theism and mobilized through the state in cooperation with religious organizations in society” (Menchik). For Menchik, “the privileging of religious orthodoxy and the truncated pluralism of the Indonesian state” is a form of godly nationalism; belief in any of the six state-sanctioned gods under Pancasila, an “orthodox theism” that the state mobilizes in collaboration with religious organizations. The state can harness its patronage of various religious movements to mobilize religious groups against secessionism, militancy and for development purposes.

Godly nationalism is no more tolerant than secular nationalism, however: it is plural according to the state-decreed limits of religious tolerance, and theologically exclusionary of heterodox faiths the state does not sanction. It is also worth noting that godly nationalism is different from civil religion, as the ritual and/or state is not the object of worship, though rather a faith-informed channel to keep citizens in the ways of conduct.

Though Pancasila’s godly nationalism allows for representation of multiple state-sponsored faiths, it does not necessarily translate into the rule of law and respect for civil rights found in liberal democracies. Since the 1998 resignation of autocratic president Suharto, Ahmadiyya Muslims have faced attacks from Islamist vigilante groups such as the Islamic Defenders Front (FPI) and Hizb ut-Tahrir Indonesia due to their supposedly heretical beliefs that Mirza Ghulam Ahmad was an Islamic prophet that succeeded Muhammad. To make matters worse, as Menchik reports, “the pillars of Indonesian democracy—the state, the police, and Muslim civil society—have been either unwilling or unable to stop the attacks.” Such disregard for the welfare of non-orthodox faith-worshipping citizens is emphasized further when taking into account Liddle (1996)’s report showing that the mainstream ICMI, a supposedly representative Muslim technocratic association, was wholly subject to Suharto’s own regulation, who appointed and dismissed leaders as he wished. In light of Pancasila’s limits of tolerance and disregard for heterodox faiths, then, it remains clear that the system that enables Islamist political mobilization, while operating within a nominally democratic Indonesian state apparatus, can ignore basic principles of liberal democracy such as the rule of law and human rights when convenient for relevant political actors.

Across the Strait of Malacca, Indonesia’s northern neighbour Malaysia has been having its own issues with Islamist politics. With 30.5 million people, about a ninth of Indonesia, the country sees strong communalist divisions with just over half the country’s legally-required-to-be-Muslim Malays, another quarter Chinese, and another 8% Indian. In terms of its basic political organization, Peou (2014) lists Malaysia, along with Singapore and Cambodia, as one of Southeast Asia’s “non-liberal democratic countries that maintain hegemonic-party regimes”.

Indeed, this hegemonic party has historically come as UMNO and its various incarnations and coalitions over the years. Mass media is largely UMNO-regulated, and does not have full discretion to discuss communalist issues. Apostasy is illegal; so is conversion in multiple states. Whereas Dayley (2020) agrees that Malaysia is an illiberal democracy, it has apparently handled ethnic and religious conflict better than Indonesia. Similar to its neighbour’s orthodox plurality through godly nationalism, Dayley emphasizes that “Malaysia’s polycommunal situation is unique. Such a society cannot carry out its affairs in a fully democratic way if one segment of the society must be given special privileges  of  governance.” To make matters worse, Kubicek (2015) has revealed that proposals by some PAS members to form a pan-Malay coalition with the UMNO has roiled inter-communal political alliances and has called their very foundations into question. With its base in the north and east of the country, PAS has achieved state power since 1990 with its consistent electoral victories in Kelantan state. Whereas its former goals included the creation of an Islamic state, “recent  changes  in  the  party’s  leadership  reflect  a  more  conservative  Islamic  orientation (Dayley).” Given its near-unprecedented popularity in last year’s elections, then, these leadership changes and greater turn towards conservative Islamism are helping PAS gain a greater share of the Malay Muslim vote. If this approach has brought success to date where liberal democracy has little precedent, one must ask: what incentive does PAS have to respect it?

A final perspective on the disjoint of Islamist politics and liberal democracy in Malaysia comes from Norani Othman (2006). A founding member of Sisters in Islam, a Muslim civil society group for promoting women’s rights research and advocacy within Islamic societies, Othman assists with research into foundational Islamic texts, policy briefs, and raising awareness about the plight of Muslim Malaysian women. Promoting freedom of (in practice), from (in heterodoxy) and within religion (living with human rights in a religious society), Othman describes Mahathir Mohamed’s prerogative in the 1980s to appeal to Muslim Malay citizens. The outcome of Mahathir’s “Islamization agenda”, Othman proclaims, was human and citizenship rights restrictions for Muslim women. Kubicek also identifies a critical juncture of Islamist political confrontation with the ruling coalition: in 2003, spurred by Mahathir’s previous declaration that Malaysia was an Islamic state, PAS rolled out a vision for an Islamic state of its own, including required hudud; mandatory sharia punishments that, beyond calling for severe corporal punishment for crimes such as apostasy and extramarital sex, discount the validity of a female witness’s testimony with that of a man. While affirming sharia’s status as unfit for contextual interpretation to account for the intricacies of Malaysian social relations, PAS also proclaimed that only an admitted Muslim could lead the country, rather than a Hindu or Buddhist one, even at the head of an established ethnic coalition.

For Othman (2006), fundamentalist Islamist politics is an outcome of the “politics of cultural identity and authenticity”, a need to redefine Islam’s place in state-society relations in a Muslim-majority country. Recalling PAS’s lack of incentives to abide by liberal democracy in a political space that has never welcomed it, Othman notes that part of the reaction from Islamist political organizations is based on this lack of precedent; coupled with fundamentalist Islam’s historical hold in rural Malay-majority areas, it becomes apparent why fringe conservative and local tribal leaders have prevailed in such settings, in which majoritarian Malay/Muslim views are rarely challenged, and women cannot consolidate rights gains in marriage/family law. With the added insult that, according to Othman, few Malay Muslim politicians question religious rulings from Islamic intellectuals and scholars as they are afraid of their base seeing them as anti-Islamic, Othman laments that Islamist conservatives “are thereby seeking to legitimize their mandatory institutionalisation within the order of modernity, which is itself a set of laws and regulations which are narrowly-defined and do not take into account contemporary social realities and simply ignore vast social changes in all modern societies.”

In the end, Sisters in Islam, and Othman with it, maintains that there exists a third way between the embrace of secularist-tinged Western feminism, and its outright rejection, for women to take, and challenging mainstream Islamist politics’ legislative “monopoly of interpretation” (Othman) in doing so. Othman accepts the need for Muslim women's groups to form broad coalitions and alliances and to work with progressive and democratic Muslim intellectuals and scholars. Such efforts include the reinterpretation of foundational Muslim texts, and laws made under an Islamic pretext.

In explaining the incompatibility of values of liberal democracy with Islamist politics in Indonesia and Malaysia, this piece draws on key insights in Southeast Asian political scholarship to construct its arguments. It first invokes Hefner to give due credit to the diversity in views in Islamist politics more widely, namely those more on the side of civic nationalism and receptiveness to basic liberal democratic concepts such as the rule of law and protection from minority rights, and conservatives who would rather see Islamic legal influence privileged over that of other faiths, even while paying lip service to the democratic arena playing host. Fossati’s recent insights also help dispel the counterproductive notion of Islamist movement supporters as a whole being anti-liberal democracy in Indonesia, showing that Islamist nationalist supporters have relatively more faith in democracy than secularists, though less faith in a system of checks and balances for the president reminiscent of liberal democracy; while the strength of these correlations diminish when considering data beyond Java, the direction of correlation remains the same for all. Finally, Menchik details the state’s passiveness towards vigilante violence against heterodox faiths. When not protected under Pancasila’s godly nationalism, he emphasizes, expressions of faith in Indonesia are not necessarily protected under the rule of law found in liberal democracies. Continuing its argument in Malaysia, this piece describes the rising popularity of Islamist political movements/parties such as PAS with Dayley, Kubicek’s, and others’ insights into the state’s historically complicated relationship with communalism and its Muslim Malay base. Finally, Othman describes the vitality of civil society organizations such as Sisters in Islam, stimulating discussion about Muslim Malaysian women’s missing voice in laws that jeopardize their human rights in a questionably democratic space without precedent for liberal democracy itself. While this piece has paid due tribute to organizations such as SII, and other civic modernist movements in Indonesia and Malaysia as a testament to the diversity of views within their Islamist politics, the ever-present mainstream Islamist opposition coalitions to both states’ governments in the present day signals very weak commitment to liberal democracy should they ever attain power.

References.

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Dayley, Robert. Southeast Asia in the New International Era. 8th edition, Routledge, 2020.

Fossati, Diego. “The Resurgence of Ideology in Indonesia: Political Islam, Aliran and Political Behaviour.” Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs, 38, 2, 2019, pp. 119-148.

Hefner, Robert W. Islam in an Era of Nation-States: Politics and Religious Renewal in Muslim Southeast Asia. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1997.

Human Rights Watch. “Indonesia: New Criminal Code Disastrous for Rights.” www.hrw.org. 08 Dec. 2022. Web. 13 Apr. 2023.

Kubicek, Paul. Political Islam and Democracy in the Muslim World. Boulder: Lynne Riener Publishers, 2015.

Lamb, Kate, and Teresia, Ananda. “Analysis: Politics and Islam bring Indonesian compromise on criminal code.” Reuters [Jakarta], 20 December 2022. https://www.reuters.com/world/asia-pacific/politics-islam-bring-indonesian-compromise-criminal-code-2022-12-20/.

Liddle, R. William. “The Islamic Turn in Indonesia: A Political Explanation.” The Journal of Asian Studies, 55, 3, 1996,  pp. 613-643.

Menchik, Jeremy. “Productive Intolerance: Godly Nationalism in Indonesia.”  Comparative Studies in Society and History, 56, 3, 2014, pp. 591–621.

Neher, Clark. Democracy and Development in Southeast Asia: The Winds of Change. New York: Routledge, 1995.

Othman, Norani. “Muslim women and the challenge of Islamic fundamentalism/ extremism: An overview of Southeast Asian Muslim women's struggle for human rights and gender equality.” Women’s Studies International Forum, 29, 4, 2006, pp. 339-353.

Peou, Sorpong. “The Limits and Potential of Liberal Democratisation in Southeast Asia.” Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs, 38, 3, 2014, pp. 19-47.

Weiss, Meredith L. The Roots of Resilience: Party Machines and Grassroots Politics in Southeast Asia. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2021.

by Pratik Mahajan

Introduction

In 2009, a campaign against “Love Jihad” emerged in the state of Kerala, proclaiming that Hindu women needed to be protected from forced conversion by Muslim men (Strohl et.al, 2019, p. 27). The campaign involved Hindu-Nationalist groups Shri Ram Sena distributing warnings on college campuses, and the Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP) setting up an anti-Love Jihad helpline. Almost a decade since its emergence, the conspiracy theory has been successful in changing law, with the states of Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, Gujarat and Haryana passing anti-Love Jihad laws in 2020.

The puzzle this paper seeks to answer is why, despite emerging in 2009 and affecting law in 2020 in the aforementioned states, the conspiracy reached its peak engagement in India in September 2014 (Google Trends, 2022). Applying theories by Nattrass (2013), van Prooijen et.al. (2018), and Radnitz (2015), this paper tests three hypotheses to answer the puzzle. By a qualitative analysis of the sequence and content of news media stories about Love Jihad in August- September 2014, the paper finds support for the hypotheses that conspiracy theories are most likely to gain prominence when propagated by individual political agents, especially when the theory contains elements of threat by an outsider group whose influence must be counteracted through mobilization. Mobilization is key for conspiracy theorists, because the chief aim of a conspiracy theorist is to call on people to act in support of or against the content of the conspiracy. Furthermore, the paper suggests that the Radnitz’s hypothesis can be modified to shift its focus from political parties to individual leaders, who can independently use conspiracy narratives to improve their own political profile - this in reference to the prominent role of Yogi Adityanath, who was in 2014 a Member of Parliament belonging to the Hindu Nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party, in peddling the Love Jihad conspiracy theory.

1. Is Love Jihad a Conspiracy Theory?

Before moving to hypothesis building, it is important to clarify whether Love Jihad qualifies as a conspiracy theory under the frameworks of the theories this paper draws on.

Van Prooijen et. al. understand conspiracy theories to entail the identification of: a) a regular pattern of behaviour or a series events; b) an organized coalition of elites behind the pattern; and c) an intention to deceive or harm on the part of the coalition (van Prooijen et.al., 2018, p. 770). The particular instances of the conspiracy theory about the origin of AIDS, and the conspiracy following the 2010 riots of Kyrgyzstan studied by Nattrass and Radnitz, respectively, meet these properties of conspiracy theory.

In the case of Love Jihad, Hindu-Nationalist groups and their leaders allege that there exists a ‘globally coordinated’ plot of Islamic forces to convert Hindu women to Islam by their marriage to Muslim men, with the ultimate aim of turning India into an Islamic state (Gupta, 2009, p. 13). Groups such as the VHP and Shri Ram Sena have taken up particular cases of conflict that surround interfaith marriage which occur without the approval of parents, and allege that Islamic clerics train young boys to impersonate Hindus, with the goal of trapping Hindu women into relationships (p. 14). Focusing on instances of interfaith marriages allows the groups to point to a pattern of behaviour in society, while alleging a global plot identifies a perceived coalition of elites behind that behaviour. Furthermore, the alleged claim is that this plot exists to convert India into an Islamic state with Sharia law, where Hindu traditions would come under threat. Hence, the claims of Love Jihad qualify as a conspiracy theory for the purpose of this paper.

2. Explaining the dependent variable: Spread of the Conspiracy in 2014

The puzzle this paper aims to answer is why there was a spike in search count of the term “Love Jihad” on Google, as per Google Trends data. Google Trends provides an unfiltered sample of search requests made on the Google search engine for specific terms. While a spike in search requests does not necessarily indicate that the topic is popular at the time, it does indicate that there is higher than usual interest in the topic for an unspecified reason.

The graph below shows the Google Trends timeline for Love Jihad in India. Of the 4 noticeable spikes, 3 are tied to specific events. The first spike in October 2009 happened at the time when an anti-Love Jihad campaign emerged in Kerala in response to a specific court case (Strohl et.al, 2019, p. 28). The third spike in 2017 happened at the time of the Hadiya case heard in the Supreme Court, where the decision of a lower court to annul an interfaith marriage on the claims of Love Jihad was overturned. The fourth spike in November 2020 happened at the time of the Uttar Pradesh government passing an anti-conversion Love Jihad law.

However, the fourth spike, around August to September 2014, does not parallel any legal or policy incident related to Love jihad. Two important observations may thus be made from the Google Trends timeline on Love Jihad in India. First, the search timeline shows a pattern of sensitivity to actual events, making the Google Trends timeline an important indicator of the dependent variable of popular interest in the Love Jihad conspiracy theory. Second, the second spike, which was also the biggest of the four, observed in August-September 2014 must be explained in relation to events that may have spurred an interest in the conspiracy theory.

3. Theoretical Framework and Hypotheses

To answer the question of why the Love Jihad conspiracy theory became most salient in September 2014, this paper tests three hypotheses by drawing on the work of van Prooijen et. al., Nattrass, and Radnitz.

Nattrass’ analysis of conspiracy theories brings to light the role that individual elite agents play in drawing on ideas across social and cultural contexts to give legitimacy to, reshape, and propagate narratives of conspiracy theories. Comparing the spread of the conspiracy theories around the origins of the AIDS epidemic in the US and South Africa, Nattrass finds particular religious and political leaders respectively responsible for shaping and influencing the narrative of the AIDS conspiracies (Nattrass. 2013, p. 124). Because of their position as political and cultural agents, the conspiracy theory attracts attention of the public in ways that allow for a more concrete narrative to be propagated. From Nattrass’ analysis, the first hypothesis this paper will seek to evaluate is the following:

H1: Specific political and cultural leaders in positions of influence shaped and made the narrative of Love Jihad salient in 2014.

The first hypothesis looks at the ways in which conspiracy theories are propagated through a top-down mechanism. Moreover, what made the Love Jihad conspiracy theory an issue that attracted widespread attention needs an analysis of how the conspiracy theory is constructed for the masses. Van Prooijen et. al. discuss the adaptive-conspiracy theory model in their article. In understanding why conspiracy theories emerge and are propagated, the article focuses on the detection of two main mechanisms - threats and coalitions. When humans detect threats, conspiracy theories provide a way to make sense of and place the root of the threat on a particular source. Furthermore, when such threats are perceived to be coming from an “outgroup,” conspiracy theories take on the framework of deliberate plots by hostile coalitions, giving intentionality to the threat posed by the other. A consequence of the adaptive-conspiracy model is that if conspiracy theories are understood to be products of humans detecting threats and the hostile coalitions behind them, they are likely to have at least two distinct reactions: avoidance or approach (p. 774). Avoidance-oriented reactions entail developing a fear of the hostile coalition and avoiding confrontation with the other. Approach-oriented reactions entail direct confrontation, by way of minimizing or even eliminating the threat entirely. When a group has the means and networks to organize, van Prooijen et. al. predict a confrontational approach against the outsider group. From the adaptive-conspiracy theory model, the second hypothesis to be tested for the case of Love-Jihad is as follows:

H2: Cases of interfaith marriages between Hindus and Muslims without the consent of the families were perceived as a threat by Hindus, with the Love-Jihad conspiracy theory being a mechanism to mobilize action against and counteract the threat.

For answering this paper’s puzzle, the first hypothesis points in the direction of remarks and initiatives taken by prominent agents to propagate the theory, while the second hypothesis explains the conspiracy’s spread as a counteraction strategy in response to perceived threats of interfaith marriages. However, what remains to be explained are the motivations and particular circumstances of 2014 which may have prompted leaders to make the Love Jihad conspiracy theory more salient. For this, the paper draws on Radnitz’s claim that in times of uncertainty or political opportunity, conspiracy theories provide a focal point for elite-group consolidation in the absence of other grounds for support. Radnitz takes up the conspiracy theory that spread in the aftermath of ethnic violence in Kyrgyzstan in June 2010, where an official government panel declared the Uzbek minority and the former President as being responsible for plotting the riots without concrete evidence (Radnitz, 2015, p. 475). Radnitz claims that the conspiracy theory allowed the new governing elites to consolidate and establish their legitimacy and support amongst the Kyrgyz people. Radnitz relies on a comparative analysis of a similar riot in 1990, which did not lead to a conspiracy theory emerging. Radnitz claims that the circumstances at the time allowed the ruling elite to legitimize their rule on other factors, such as being a founding group governing Kyrgyzstan. Such socio-political factors did not exist in 2010, which made it necessary for elites to spread a conspiracy theory to establish support (Radnitz, 2015, o. 479).

Radnitz’s analysis can be extrapolated to claim that when elites detect either a threat against their own rule and cohesiveness or an opportunity to come into power, they allege the presence of a hostile coalition of outsider conspirators in order to mobilize electoral support in their favour. Applying this insight, the third hypothesis to be tested is the following:

H3: Electoral incentives existed in 2014 for Hindu-Nationalist political parties such as the Bharatiya Janata Party to peddle the Love Jihad conspiracy theory in order to consolidate support amongst Hindus.

4. Methodology

To test the hypotheses, this paper relies on a qualitative analysis of news stories that were run by prominent Hindi and English TV news channels between August and October of 2014, as well as news articles containing statements by political leaders and their party’s platforms. The video clips of these TV news stories were taken from the news channels’ YouTube archive. For the news stories in Hindi, the findings and analysis contain English translations of the statements made in the videos. An advantage of these primary sources is that their concentration in a particular time frame assists the identification of factors that led to the Love Jihad conspiracy theory becoming popular in 2014. However, while this method helps establish why the conspiracy theory became prominent in 2014, a lack of survey data means that the paper cannot establish if its increase in prominence in 2014 also meant an increase in people’s belief in the conspiracy theory. While the news stories make the perceived threat of Love Jihad more prominent, the ways by which Hindu-Nationalist groups consolidate the fear and mobilize counteraction against it require field studies. Due to this limitation, the paper’s scope is focused on asking how and why the Love Jihad conspiracy theory became a greater topic of public discussion in 2014, without answering whether the belief in the conspiracy theory also increased after 2014. Insofar as this remains the goal of the paper, an analysis of news stories provides suitable evidence to test the three hypotheses.

5. Findings and Discussion

On August 27, 2014, India TV channel reported a leaked video of comments made by BJP Member of Parliament Yogi Adityanath in 2008. In the video shown by India TV, Adityanath is caught declaring that “For every Hindu girl that [the Muslims] convert, we will convert a 100 Muslim women!” (translation). In the same story, Adityanath is invited to clarify his comments. While claiming ignorance of his comments from a few years ago, Adityanath doubles down on his rhetoric against conversion of Hindus to Muslims by claiming that serious investigations need to take place on the issue of forced religious conversions of Hindus (India TV, 2014). Within the span of the same week, Zee News, Aaj Tak, and India TV ran news stories and debates on the topic of “Love Jihad,” claiming that Hindu girls were being targeted by Muslim men, who changed their names and posed as Hindu, marrying them and then forcing their conversion to Islam. Yogi Adityanath was reinvited by India TV on August 31 for a town hall style interview, where he validated the claims that cases of interfaith marriages were not based on love but on deception, and this provided enough evidence for the existence of an “Islamic conspiracy against India.” He further claimed that Islamic institutions provide training and financial packages to Muslim men to convert Hindu women. Notably, Adityanath gave validity to the claim that Muslim men changed their names, were given new clothes and motorcycles, and were taught mannerisms to pose as Hindu, alleging that the issue of Love Jihad is not based on whether interfaith marriages should be allowed, but whether such deceptive and coordinated campaigns that result in forced conversions should continue (India TV, 2014).

5.1 Implications for Hypothesis 1

The emergence of a series of news stories discussing Love Jihad after Adityanath’s comments give credence to Nattrass’ claim that individual political agents play a critical role in shaping and propagating conspiracy theories. Being a sitting Member of Parliament, as well as a Hindu priest and a prominent leader of the Hindu far-right, Adityanath’s endorsement of the Love Jihad conspiracy theory allowed it to move from a theory peddled by far-right groups on the ground to a topic of discussion given a platform by the mainstream media. Furthermore, the particular ways in which Adityanath refers to particular cases of deceptive interfaith marriages as evidence for a Jihadist plan against India also gives credence to Nattrass’ theory that political agents borrow ideas across contexts. The use of the term Jihad in India particularly attains a militant connotation after the attacks of 2008 by Pakistani terrorists in Mumbai (Acharya et. al., 2010, p. 1) . To allege that the conversion campaigns of Hindu women are a part of a Love Jihad plot further allows the conspiracy theory to be placed in the context of a wider alleged threat of perceived attacks on India and Hinduism by “Islamic” agents.

Thus, the first hypothesis based on Nattrass’ suggestion, that one should look at the role of particular political agents in the reshaping and spread of a conspiracy theory, is confirmed in the case of the September 2014 peaking of the Love Jihad conspiracy theory. BJP MP Adityanath became the most prominent leader at the national level to endorse the Love Jihad conspiracy theory, and his political standing and controversial comments meant that mainstream news media channels gave a platform to discuss the conspiracy.

5.2 Implications for Hypothesis 2

While an endorsement by a sitting BJP MP made the Love Jihad narrative salient, the appeal of the conspiracy theory amongst audiences itself is rooted in choices made by media channels to present particular and unverified cases of forced conversions as evidence for a Love Jihad plot. A closer analysis of the news stories run by Zee News, Aaj Tak, and India TV indicates that deliberate choices were made to present the Love Jihad narrative as an issue of importance to the Hindu community.

The news stories present the issue of Love Jihad as new and pressing, claiming that cases of interfaith marriages through deception and coercion had gone up. In its story on August 27, Zee News claimed to have conducted an “independent investigation” on Love Jihad in the state of Uttar Pradesh (the home state of BJP MP Adityanath), and repeats the point that in an unstated number of cases Hindu girls had been approached by Muslim men posing as Hindu, and then deceived into marriage. In its town hall on August 30, Zee News then invited a Hindu Priest (Mahant) who claimed madrasas, or Muslim schools, taught nothing other than the “techniques of deception” which the Muslim boys incorporate to carry out Love Jihad with the promise of rewards. When asked for proof to back up his claims, the priest replies that merely the cases of “victims of interfaith marriages” were evidence enough to suggest that an Islamic conversion plot existed. Aaj Tak channel’s piece on September 3 further claimed that cases of Love Jihad had risen across North India. The piece focused on the narrative that in cases where interfaith marriage occurred, Muslim men had deliberately introduced themselves with a Hindu name to trap Hindu women. It further claimed that after being victim to a Love Jihad marriage, the Hindu woman lived a life of enslavement and torture. Finally, on October 14, Times Now ran a debate on Love Jihad, wherein the host Arnab Goswami pushed the narrative that the existence of an organized coalition of Love Jihads cannot be dismissed just because evidence of a connection is not found in one instance of forced interfaith marriage.

From these news stories, three things can be stated in support of the paper’s second hypothesis. First, the stories are engaged in presenting a pattern of behaviour of Muslim men that assigns an intentionality to their acts. The repetition of the claim that Muslim men hide their true identity by changing their names is one such example, which insinuates that this observation is evidence that there are links between such cases of deception. Second, while providing no evidence, the stories allow guest speakers to tie this pattern of behaviour to Islamic institutions. This ambiguity leaves room for the conspiracy that Islamic institutions train and fund Muslim men for Love Jihad to be circulated without being debunked. Third, repeated claims of Hindu girls being subjects of deception and violence in interfaith marriages attempts to make prominent the perceived threat to Hindus at large by Love Jihad. Thus, the evidence from the content of these stories on Love Jihad confirms the second hypothesis that the conspiracy theory was picked up and given a platform in mainstream TV news media in order to highlight the perceived threat to Hindus of an alleged coalition of Islamic Institutions.

5.3: Implications for Hypothesis 3

The question still remains around the timing of the conspiracy’s spread. While it can merely be attributed to the chance leak of Adityanath’s comments that sparked the series of news stories on Love Jihad, Radnitz’s theory suggests that electoral incentives and opportunities make it more likely for political elites to peddle conspiracy theories in the absence of other points of mobilization.

The BJP was coming off of a federal election victory in May 2014. However, the state government in Uttar Pradesh remained in control of the Samajwadi Party, an ideological opponent of the BJP. The by-elections for the Uttar Pradesh Legislative Assembly in September 2014 provided an opportunity for the BJP to challenge the hold of the Samajwadi Party in the state (India Today, 2014). The timing of the Love Jihad conspiracy theory could be attributed to the BJP’s attempt at consolidating support amongst Hindus for the elections in September 2014. However, the BJP did not include the topic of Love Jihad in its manifesto, and prominent federal leaders such as Home Minister Rajnath Singh claimed ignorance and distanced themselves from the conspiracy theory (The Times of India, 2014). The lack of coordination and initiative by the BJP to peddle the Love Jihad theory suggests that while the circumstances existed for the conspiracy to be adopted, no clear evidence exists for that the party itself was leading the effort that led to the conspiracy theory’s rise in 2014. Thus, as it stands, the third hypothesis can be rejected.

However, suggesting the prominent role of Yogi Adityanath in pushing the Love Jihad narrative points to a synthesis of Nattrass and Radnitz’s claims. While elites may use conspiracy theories to coordinate elite support, individual agents may also use such conspiracy theories to improve their own political prospects. I suggest here that the level of analysis be moved from political parties to individual political leaders in understanding why leaders engage in conspiracy theory propagation. While certain issues may not be used by political parties to turn into conspiracy theories for electoral gains, they may be taken up by individual actors to rise through the ranks of the political party. In the case of Adityanath, his endorsement of the conspiracy theory in 2014 came at a time when the BJP had won 71 of the 80 Lok Sabha seats, while the state government still remained in the hands of an opposition party. With elections for the state legislative assembly to be held in 2017, and with the BJP riding on a strong wave of support in the federal elections, an opening emerged for the position of the BJP leadership in Uttar Pradesh. The campaign during the by elections of 2014 provided an opportunity for Adityanath to place himself in the forefront of discussion, which the Love Jihad conspiracy theory allowed. While acting independently of the BJP high-command in the case of peddling the Love Jihad theory in 2014, Adityanath rose to power as the Chief Minister of Uttar Pradesh in 2017, and successfully incorporated the conspiracy into BJP’s 2022 manifesto for the state assembly elections (Pathak, 2022). The by-elections in Uttar Pradesh shifted the limelight from the national politics to the state, providing an opportunity for a local leader to emerge. Therefore, the Love Jihad conspiracy provided a focal point for Adityanath to raise his personal profile as a Hindu-nationalist leader of the BJP in Uttar Pradesh, setting up his trajectory as the BJP leader in the state.

6. Discussion and Conclusion

In examining the causes behind the rise of the Love Jihad conspiracy theory in 2014, this paper tested three hypotheses. Drawing from Nattrass, the first hypothesis pointed at the role of political agents in propagating conspiracies. Through a timeline analysis of news media stories between August 27 and September 3, the paper finds that the role of BJP MP Yogi Adityanath was consequential in bringing the Love Jihad narrative into national mainstream media. The attributes of pattern and coalition identification and threat perception discussed by van Prooijen et. al. that characterize most conspiracy theories were also found to be present in the news stories, giving evidence to support the hypothesis that the Love Jihad conspiracy theory had the right attributes for mobilization of Hindus. Finally, Radnitz’s claim that conspiracy theories will be used by elites to consolidate support for within the elite group as well as for electoral gains was changed to claim that the conspiracy theory provided an individual actor, Yogi Adityanath, to rise to prominence as a Hindu-nationalist political leader and consolidate his presence within the BJP, becoming the Chief Minister of the state of Uttar Pradesh in 2017, three years after the spread of the conspiracy theory.

In conclusion, while the first two hypotheses are supported by a qualitative analysis of news stories in 2014, it was suggested that the third hypothesis be adjusted to focus on individual political actors instead of elite groups or a political party at large. However, the paper’s application of theoretical lenses to the Love Jihad conspiracy can be strengthened by comparing the conspiracies’ rise post-Adityanath’s leaked comments with a close-to-counterfactual case, to provide stronger evidence for the factors discussed behind the conspiracy’s rise in 2014.

Bibliography

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Google Trends. Love Jihad trends in India. (2022). Retrieved from: https://trends.google.com/trends/explore?date=all&geo=IN&q=Love%20Jihad

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India Today. “Comeback for SP, Setback for BJP in Uttar Pradesh.” New Delhi. (September 14, 2014). Retrieved from: https://www.indiatoday.in/india/north/story/bypoll-results-lok-sabha-assembly-constituencies-gujarat-uttar-pradesh-telangana-292743-2014-09-16

Nattrass, N. “Understanding the origins and prevalence of aids conspiracy beliefs in the United States and South Africa.” Sociology of Health & Illness, 35(1), (2013). 113-129.

Pathak, Gyan. “BJP’s Manifesto 2022 for UP reflects panic at prospect of losing power in bellwether state.” The National Herald. (February 9, 2022). Retrieved from: https://www.nationalheraldindia.com/india/bjps-manifesto-2022-for-up-reflects-panic-at-prospect-of-losing-power-in-bellwether-state

Radnitz, Scott. "Paranoia with a purpose: conspiracy theory and political coalitions in Kyrgyzstan." Post-Soviet Affairs 32, no. 5 (2016): 474-489.

Strohl, David James. "Love jihad in India’s moral imaginaries: Religion, kinship, and citizenship in late liberalism." Contemporary South Asia 27, no. 1 (2019): 27-39.

Times of India, The. “As BJP rakes up ‘love jihad’ in UP, Rajnath Singh says he has ‘no idea about it.” New Delhi. (September 12, 2014). Retrieved from: https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/india/as-bjp-rakes-up-love-jihad-in-up-rajnath-singh-says-he-has-no-idea-about-it/articleshow/42356045.cms

van Prooijen, Jan-Willem, and Mark Van Vugt. "Conspiracy theories: Evolved functions and psychological mechanisms." Perspectives on psychological science 13, no. 6 (2018): 770-788.

References for Youtube clips of news stories.

Aaj Tak

September 3, 2014. Cases of Love Jihad on the rise  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Avz4o2kvFQ&t=568s

India TV

August 27, 2014. Controversial remarks of Yogi Adityanath leaked.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3RumQ75NJw

August 31, 2014. Yogi Adityanath Town Hall:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WsdqhzaH7qU

Times Now

October 14, 2014. Debate on Love Jihad.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1jYtYqlrs3Y

Zee News

August 27, 2014. Love Jihad Exclusive Survey: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YDQIDP8-APE

August 30, 2014. Special Townhall on Love Jihad

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k-YXm_9x2xM&t=3s

Après la prise de pouvoir de François Duvalier et sa mise en place d’un régime autoritaire, on constate qu’une partie non-négligeable de la population haïtienne cherche à quitter l'île d’Hispaniola et se répartit dans un certain nombre de villes concentrées où la diaspora est déjà implantée telles que: Miami, New York, Paris et Montréal. Le cas de Montréal se place dans un contexte spécial où Montréal a été un choix logique grâce à l’attrait de la langue comme vecteur d'intégration. De plus, il ne faut pas oublier que le Canada adopte le système d’immigration à point en 1967. En se basant sur des critères autre que l’ethnicité, on observe une ouverture des vannes de l’immigration des pays du Sud vers le Canada.

Or, les immigrants Haïtiens de Montréal se retrouvent pris au piège entre deux sociétés qui les rejettent. D’un côté, la société haïtienne a évolué et ils ne sont plus considérés comme suffisamment “Haïtiens” par leurs pairs de part de leur immigration qui peut être vue comme une trahison (Sara Del Rossi, 2020). De l’autre, la société québécoise, malgré son discours d’ouverture qui prône l'intégration par la langue française et le travail, ne parvient pas à accepter leur identité et conditions. L’ironie du sort est que le rejet de la société québécoise à accepter l'identité des immigrants haïtiens retarde leur intégration au sein du Québec.

Ainsi, on constate que le cas du racisme envers les Haïtiens dans l’industrie du taxi démontre que, malgré le fait qu’ils remplissent tous les critères des différentes agences d’immigration, tels que le fait d’être francophone ou travailleur, ainsi que de d’obtenir suffisamment de points pour immigrer les Québécois d’origine haïtienne sont rejetés par les institutions coloniales de la société québécoise.

Dans un premier temps, on étudiera le contexte historique spécifique au Québec et à Haïti ainsi que les milieux socio-économiques des diverses vagues d’immigration Haïtienne. Dans un deuxième temps, nous analyserons la situation difficile dans laquelle les Québécois d’origine haïtienne se retrouvent, de par leur intersectionnalité, pris au piège entre deux sociétés qui les rejettent. Dans un dernier temps, on observera la réaction de la société québécoise à la crise des Taxis Haïtiens et les diverses réactions d’organismes publics, des médias et de la société ainsi que leur évolution depuis les années 1980.

Contexte historique des vagues d’immigration haïtienne à Montréal

Afin de comprendre la situation dans laquelle se trouve la communauté haïtienne à Montréal, il est primordial d'établir le contexte historique et de comprendre qu’il n’existe non pas une communauté haïtienne homogène, mais plusieurs différents groupes qui interagissent ensemble et dont les membres se recoupent en fonction des occasions. Dans le cas de cette dissertation, je me focalise sur l’immigration haïtienne à Montréal depuis les années 1960 jusqu’en 1990.

La première vague importante d’immigration haïtienne à Montréal remonte aux années 1960 après la montée au pouvoir du dictateur François Duvalier en 1957 (Rochat, Désirée, 2022). Appuyé par les Etats-Unis et la France, ce dernier instaure un régime répressif qui mène à plusieurs vagues d'émigration. La première s’installe dans des villes refuges pour la diaspora Haïtienne, ou cette dernière retrouve des liens culturels et économiques qui la lient avec Haïti. En effet, la diaspora haïtienne se mobilise à travers les frontières transnationales grâce à ses différents liens dans les villes clé de Miami, New York, Paris et Montréal (Rochat, Désirée, 2022). Le réseau culturel et politique entre ces villes est extrêmement important afin de comprendre les enjeux et les raisons pour lesquelles les Haïtiens décident d’immigrer à Montréal. Effectivement, elle explique pourquoi 94,7% de la communauté haïtienne est établie à Montréal (Gerardo Silva, 2017). Depuis 1969, Haïti fait partie des 10 pays qui ont le plus d'immigrés au Québec, la diaspora Haïtienne comptant pour plus de la moitié des résidents noirs de la Belle Province (Tran, Nathalie, and Johanne Charbonneau, 2011).

La première vague d'immigrés représente surtout les strates de la société haïtienne les plus éduquées et venant de milieux socio-économiques privilégiés (Sara Del Rossi, 2020). On peut ainsi dresser un portrait de l'intersectionnalité de cette communauté haïtienne issue de la première vague d'exilés. Ces derniers sont des activistes politiques, bien éduqués, ayant une bonne connaissance du français et exerçant des métiers libéraux à une période où le Canada traverse une grave pénurie de main d'œuvre qualifiée. On peut ainsi constater que cette première communauté haïtienne fait face à moins de barrières à l'entrée pour s'intégrer dans la société québécoise (Sara Del Rossi, 2020).

Or, il est important de noter que, malgré le statut socio-économique de cette communauté, elle n’en est pas moins victime de racisme anti-noir (Sean Mills, 2016). Cette communauté est composée d’un grand poids artistique et intellectuel, leur activisme politique se reflète dans leur engagement dans la communauté haïtienne, mais aussi dans la lutte des Québécois pour une société interculturelle. En effet, cette première vague d’intellectuels a les outils et la capacité de faire des rapprochements et parallèles entre la cause des Canadiens-Français qui est en train de s'opérer dans la Révolution Tranquille et celle de la communauté noire et haïtienne (Sara Del Rossi, 2020). Alors que le recours aux métaphores raciales n’est pas nouvelle, son recours se popularise dans les années 1960 notamment avec la parution de l’œuvre de Pierre Vallière “N****s Blancs d'Amérique.”

Néanmoins, nous ne pouvons pas savoir si cette œuvre spécifique a eu un effet substantiel et aurait influencé la décision d’immigrer à Montréal au lieu des autres villes de la communauté transnationale haïtienne (Miami, NYC, Paris). Or, le parallèle entre les deux luttes démontre une compréhension de la question nationale et de l'identité québécoise de la part de la communauté intellectuelle haïtienne issue de l’exil politique. On retrouve cet activisme politique dans les organisations communautaires tel que la “Maison D’Haïti” qui est un haut lieu du militantisme autant pour le nationalisme québécois que pour dénoncer la dictature de Duvalier et le racisme anti-noir (Rochat, Désirée, 2022).

La deuxième vague d’immigration haïtienne arrive à Montréal à partir des années 1970 lorsque la répression Duvalière se durcit. L’autre variable qui mène à une nouvelle vague d’immigration est le changement des lois d’immigration du Canada avec un nouveau modèle qui prône le multiculturalisme et la création d’un “État sans races.” (Gerardo Silva, 2017). Ces évolutions changent la donne et attirent une toute nouvelle population haïtienne qui était jusqu’ici reléguée au second plan. En général, cette population immigrante est l'opposée de la première vague, elle est d’origine populaire et peu éduquée.

De plus, étant majoritairement moins aisée que la première vague, cette nouvelle population parle majoritairement le créole et sa connaissance du français est limitée, entravant son intégration dans la société québécoise. Une partie non négligeable de cette vague d’immigration vient du rapatriement familial (Gerardo Silva, 2017).

Il est aussi important de noter que cette nouvelle vague d’immigration est fortement attachée à la foi catholique étant donné que l'église représente un lieu de rassemblement et d'échange. De par leur rejet de la politique, cette communauté d’origine populaire exerce une méfiance des intellectuels de la première vague. En effet, ce rejet s’explique par le fait qu’une grande partie de cette immigration n’est pas ou bien peu politisée et ne participe pas autant dans la vie politique québécoise (Sara Del Rossi, 2020).  Au Québec, cette deuxième population est vue d’un œil méfiant, car, de par son origine socio-économique, elle est considérée comme une menace aux emplois peu qualifiés historiquement tenus par les “Québécois de souche” pour ainsi dire les québécois d’ascendance blanche, catholiques et prolétaires (Tran, Nathalie, and Johanne Charbonneau, 2011).

Depuis les années 1980, on constate l'émergence d’une troisième communauté haïtienne à Montréal. Cette dernière n’est pas issue de l’immigration, elle a été éduquée au Québec et a grandi en parlant le français. Cette nouvelle génération entretient un différend par rapport au “pays natal” qu’est Haïti avec un attachement communautaire qui est double. Ce tiraillement identitaire est d’autant plus renforcé qu’ils s’identifient plus souvent comme montréalais et non québécois (Sara Del Rossi, 2020). Une partie non négligeable des aînés de la communauté haïtienne voient la nouvelle génération d’un mauvais œil, considérant qu’elle rejette ses racines. En effet, cette communauté a délaissé le créole qui est souvent vu comme un poids qui ralentit leur intégration socio-économique. En effet, le créole est associé aux classes populaires peu éduquées tandis que le Français jouit d’un statut de langue “académique.” De plus, la nouvelle génération s’identifie plus avec la communauté noire au sens large qu'à une identité spécifiquement haïtienne (Sean Mills, 2016).

Entre exil et rejet : le cas de la communauté Haïtienne à Montréal

Le tiraillement culturel n’est pas propre à la troisième communauté haïtienne. Cette complication grandissante du traitement de la différence culturelle est vécue par ces trois communautés. Connaissant les contextes historiques de ces trois principales communautés haïtiennes, on peut en conclure trois différentes sortes. Le premier serait le rejet de la culture et société québécoise qui serait considérée comme étant incompatible avec l'identité haïtienne. Le second serait la préservation de l'identité première et l’ouverture à la culture québécoise. La troisième possibilité est l’assimilation, dans quel cas les contacts positifs avec la culture québécoise s'opèrent au détriment de la culture première (Richard Clément, 1991). Chacune des trois communautés a connu un différend, ce résultat est intimement lié à leur intersectionnalité de par leurs origines socio-économiques.

La première communauté, à travers son rejet de la dictature de Duvalier et de la langue créole ainsi que son intérêt et engagement pour la cause nationale québécoise a vécu ce que l’on pourrait qualifier comme une “assimilation.” En effet, la Maison d’Haïti qui a été fondée par les intellectuels de la première vague s’inspire alors du mouvement nationaliste québécois et des intellectuels issus de la Révolution Tranquille (Rochat, Désirée, 2022). Ceci démontre à quel point cette première communauté a des identités imbriquées entre d’un côté une forte connexion au “pays natal” et de l’autre des liens avec le nationalisme québécois.

Lorsque l’on observe l'idée de l'identité haïtienne, on constate une pression de la part de la diaspora qui va auto-évaluer qui est suffisamment “haïtien” et en quoi consiste cette “haïtienneté” en contraste avec l'identité québécoise et montréalaise. Cette auto-évaluation vient notamment des compétences linguistiques et de la fréquence et qualité de contacts et attitudes à l'égard des québécois. Ainsi, la communauté aura tendance à s'identifier plus québécoise car elle a une meilleure compréhension et aisance en français relative à la communauté de la seconde vague qui est plus à l'aise en créole.

De plus, en tant que professionnels dans les domaines libéraux, la première vague d’immigrants a plus de contacts et de valorisation avec ce qui est considéré comme les “Québécois de souche” ce qui renforce leur identification québécoise. Cette identité qui se rapproche plus de l'idéal “Québécois” empêche et limite la première génération à s’auto-identifier avec la population racisée qu’elle considère comme étant intrinsèquement différente (Tran, Nathalie, and Johanne Charbonneau, 2011). Ainsi, on peut raisonnablement conclure que l’assimilation à laquelle cette population fait face est tout autant volontaire, dans une démarche de différenciation de la communauté haïtienne plus précaire, que involontaire; de par son immersion totale dans la société québécoise.

Ceci est à l'opposé de la seconde vague d’immigrants qui est composée d’une population moins éduquée et plus prolétaire. Les oppositions des identités imbriquées mènent à des conflits entre ces deux communautés pour représenter le mieux les Haïtiens de Montréal (Gerardo Silva, 2017). Cette seconde communauté a une forte tendance à s'identifier exclusivement haïtienne (Richard Clément, 1991). Ceci démontre une incohérence entre, à la fois, l'idéologie multiculturelle prônée par le Canada, et l’interculturalisme voulu par le Québec et l'identité située.

De plus, arrivant à une période où le Canada a relativement moins besoin de main d’œuvre à cause de la crise economique des années 1970, la seconde vague d’immigration est de plus en plus victime de discrimination. Ceci s’explique par des causes culturelles et économiques (le chômage ayant doublé entre 1966 et 1970 (CBC/Radio-Canada, 1970). En effet, plus de 40% de cette communauté a le créole comme langue maternelle tandis que la majorité de la première vague a grandi en français (Tran, Nathalie, and Johanne Charbonneau, 2011). Ceci renforce l'émergence d’une auto-identification comme étant un groupe “à part” de la société québécoise de par sa couleur de peau en tant qu' “autrui racisé.”

Cette reconnaissance et identification comme groupe racisé mènent la seconde génération à refuser et rejeter la société québécoise (Tran, Nathalie, and Johanne Charbonneau, 2011). Ceci s’explique par le fait que cette communauté a été plus victime de discriminations (racistes et classistes notamment) qui l’ont amené à déduire qu’elle est, en somme, incompatible avec l'idéal de ce qu’est un “Québécois.” La hausse du taux de chômage est imputée à ces derniers qui auraient augmenté l’offre de travailleurs et menaient une pression sur les bas-salaires. C’est un abandon de l'idée d'intégration après avoir dévoilé au grand jour l’hypocrisie du discours d’interculturalisme dans la société québécoise. Malgré ceci, la communauté haïtienne issue des classes populaires ne parvient pas à s'identifier avec la communauté noire historique de Montréal. Cette dernière étant concentrée dans le quartier de la Petite-Bourgogne et étant historiquement anglophone tandis que la communauté haïtienne est concentrée à Saint-Michel et Montréal-Nord et est francophone (Gerardo Silva, 2017).

La troisième communauté d’haïtiens de Montréal est celle qui peut être vue comme s'étant “intégrée.” Or, cette intégration ne s’est pas faite au sein de la société québécoise mais à travers la grande société montréalaise qui a été repensée pour mieux accueillir et accommoder les minorités. La génération issue des années 1980 est plus apolitique que la première vague, mais est consciente de son statut en tant que minorité racisée. Dès les années 1990, on observe l’utilisation d’organismes communautaires pour résister au racisme ambiant à Montréal. Ayant grandi et été éduquée à Montréal, elle ne se fait pas de désillusions par rapport aux critères nécessaires pour être “Québécoise” et se considère comme montréalaise, une vitrine de la diversité multiculturelle du Québec (Rochat, Désirée, 2022). En effet, seulement 40% de la communauté s’identifie comme étant québécoise (Tran, Nathalie, and Johanne Charbonneau, 2011). Cette génération a compris que peu importe son statut économique et malgré le fait qu’elle ait une bonne connaissance de la langue française, ceci n'effacera pas les discriminations auxquelles elle fait face à cause de la couleur de sa peau. Et ce, après avoir vu l’instrumentalisation de la communauté haïtienne pour la cause nationale (Délice Mugabo, 2019).

C’est cette troisième communauté qui s’identifie fortement comme une minorité racisée qui mènera à un renouveau de la communauté noire de Montréal et changera la donne, car la communauté noire est dorénavant vue comme un allié du mouvement nationaliste (cette dernière étant francophone et non plus anglophone comme elle l’a été par le passé) (Délice Mugabo, 2019). Ainsi, la troisième communauté d'Haïtiens, ayant grandi à Montréal et éduquée en français de par la Loi 101, fait face à un tiraillement identitaire. Mais cette communauté a réussi à concilier cette double identité à travers un engagement constant, délaissant les tiraillements autour des problèmes socio-économiques du pays natal afin de promouvoir une collaboration autour de l'identité des minorités racisées (Sara Del Rossi, 2020).

La crise des taxis: une illustration de l’hypocrisie de la société québécoise

Malgré les différents niveaux d'intégration dans la société québécoise et leurs divisions, les trois communautés haïtiennes ont toutes été impactées par la Crise des Taxis en 1983.

L'arrivée des Haïtiens dans l’industrie du taxi mène à des tensions raciales dans l’industrie dès la fin des années 1978 (Taxi, le Journal, 2009). Les tensions causées par la montée du racisme ont causé de nombreux incidents qui ont apporté une visibilité médiatique sur la précarité des chauffeurs de Taxis haïtiens. La crise des taxis démontre un profond problème dans la société québécoise qui touche le public et les médias de manière différente.

La crise des taxis de 1983 s’inscrit dans un plus grand contexte de discrimination anti-noir auquel les Québécois d’origine Haïtienne font face (Sean Mills, 2016).  En effet, en mars 1983 les Haïtiens ont même été exclus des collectes de sang car la communauté noire de Montréal est associée au VIH. (Tran, Nathalie, and Johanne Charbonneau, 2011) Ainsi, même s’il n’y a pas de liens scientifiques entre la communauté haïtienne, cette dernière est considérée comme porteuse du SIDA et exclue des dons de sang sur des propos racistes.

De plus, les chauffeurs de Taxis, qu’ils soient noirs ou blancs, font face à une forte précarité économique. En effet, le travail de voiture de transport avec chauffeur (VTC) est souvent vu comme un tremplin avant d'accéder à un meilleur emploi et de s'élever de manière socio-économique. Les années 1980 sont une période de crise économique et la société québécoise, qui n’est donc plus en manque de main d'œuvre, voit d’un mauvais œil ces nouveaux immigrants qui ne parlent pas le français aussi bien et ne sont pas suffisamment éduqués pour trouver des emplois bien payés (Sean Mills, 2016).  Il y a un marasme ambiant comme quoi les Haïtiens seraient un poids sur le système de sécurité sociale québécois. Cet héritage de la Révolution Tranquille est considéré comme étant sous attaque à cause de la culture différente de la diaspora Haïtienne. Certains médias font ainsi le rapprochement entre l’immigration haïtienne et la menace potentielle qu’elle pourrait poser au projet national et à l'héritage de la Révolution Tranquille. De là, le raccourci entre précarité économique, menace au Québec et racisme anti-noir n’est plus loin.

La réaction des journaux Québecois face au racisme anti-noir et anti-haïtien est assez hétérogene. Le premier journal qui traite de la question est “Le Devoir” ce dernier a une ligne éditoriale de centre-gauche et nationaliste. Le 13 janvier 1983, “Le Devoir” sort un article qui dénonce l'intolérance des chauffeurs blancs et le racisme systémique de l’industrie du taxi. En effet, le journal a mené une enquête auprès des grandes entreprises de taxi montréalaise et, lors d’un entretien, un chef d’entreprise avoue considérer que les chauffeurs noirs vont faire chuter le chiffre d'affaires et l’achalandage pour l’entreprise (Le Devoir, 13 janvier 1983). En analysant sa réponse, on constate alors que les chauffeurs de taxi haïtiens, de par leur couleur de peau, font face à une barrière à l’embauche. De plus, les entreprises de taxi n'autorisent pas les chauffeurs haïtiens sur la liaison entre l'aéroport et le centre-ville, limitant grandement leurs revenus. “Le Devoir” dénonce le racisme des propriétaires d’entreprises mais ne parle pas spécifiquement des Haïtiens, le journal considérant que l’enjeu de race prime par-dessus tout (Le Devoir, 13 janvier 1983).

Or, le 29 juin, un autre article traite à nouveau de la discrimination dans l’industrie du taxi. Après avoir effectué une nouvelle enquête, le quotidien dénonce le fait qu’un gérant ait congédié 18 Haïtiens à cause de leur couleur de peau après avoir subi la pression du propriétaire de l’entreprise (Le Devoir, 29 juin 1983). Dans cet article, “Le Devoir” dénonce le racisme ambiant de l’industrie et traite explicitement des Haïtiens en les présentant sous un jour favorable comme étant les descendants de l’unique nation francophone indépendante de l'hémisphère ouest (Le Devoir, 29 juin 1983). On peut supposer qu’ils avaient à l'esprit la communauté intellectuelle de la première vague d’immigration et non la seconde vague de travailleurs prolétaires. Ceci est un exemple de l’instrumentalisation des Haïtiens pour le projet national.

Les “Journal de Montréal” et “La Presse” ont aussi sorti des articles sur le racisme dans l’industrie du Taxi. Le “Journal de Montréal” se focalise uniquement sur l’enjeu de race, il parvient à dévoiler le racisme anti-noir, mais échoue à reconnaître la diversité des communautés noires de Montréal (Journal de Montréal, 16 juillet 1977). De l’autre côté, “La Presse” s’est principalement penchée sur le raisonnement économique qui expliquerait la discrimination envers les Haïtiens qui étaient vus comme une “menace” pour les autres chauffeurs de Taxis (Jean-Pierre Bonhomme, 1983). Ainsi, on voit qu’une partie de la société québécoise, informée par les trois plus grands journaux, ne parvient pas à pleinement saisir les enjeux multiples et la complexité de la crise.

La crise des taxis a fini par remonter jusqu’au système judiciaire qui a pris une décision en exigeant une compensation de la part des entreprises pour les chauffeurs. Malgré le fait que la justice reconnaît que les chauffeurs locuteurs de créole étaient visés par les mesures discriminatoires, le jugement ne retiendra pas le fait que c’est pour cause de racisme (Esmeralda Thornhill, 2012). En effet, la justice considère que les remarques faites aux chauffeurs par leurs employés sont des remarques erronées et injustifiées et que la liberté d’expression n’est pas un droit absolu. Le manquement de reconnaissance de l’enjeu de racisme anti-noir pour se focaliser sur les enjeux de droit d’expression et économique démontre pleinement l’hypocrisie de la société Québécoise et Canadienne face à ses immigrants. Alors que le Canada se déclare souvent comme une société “sans races” notamment lorsque cette dernière se compare à son voisin États-Unien, la société Canadienne est en effet une société qui est consciente des races (Esmeralda Thornhill, 2012). De par leur timidité à discusser des enjeux autour du racisme, la politique migratoire et d’intégration Québécoise est incapable de reconnaître le fait que la connaissance du français est un outil de discrimination.

Malgré ces manquements, on constate un changement dans le discours politique au Québec et dans la société civile. Dès les années 1990, la ville de Montréal reconnaît et dénonce les discriminations dans l’industrie du taxi. De nouveaux articles depuis 2012 ont pour but de préserver et pérenniser l’enjeu mémoriel afin de ne pas oublier la lutte pour les droits égaux que les Haïtiens ont poursuivis. (Johanne Béliveau, 2017) Les associations de société civile telles que “La Maison d'Haïti” ou “La Ligue des Droits et Libertées” ont été dirigées et menées par des Québécois d’origine Haïtienne issue de la troisième communauté. (Alain Saint-Victor, 2020) Ces derniers ont à cœur la communauté haïtienne, mais se sentent pleinement montréalais et leur engagement permet de tisser des liens entre la société québécoise et la diaspora haïtienne.

Conclusion

Ainsi, on constate que la diaspora haïtienne à Montréal peut être divisée entre trois grandes communautés. La première est constituée d’intellectuels francophones dont l’assimilation dans la société québécoise, facilitée par leur statut privilégié au niveau socio-économique, s’est opérée au détriment de leurs liens avec le pays natal. La seconde communauté haïtienne est rejetée par la société québécoise de par son statut socio-économique, son manque d’aisance en français, mais aussi à cause du racisme ambiant qui est d’autant plus visible dans une période de crise économique. La troisième communauté haïtienne a grandi à Montréal et se sent pleinement québécoise, tout en gardant des liens avec son héritage Haïtien, elle est consciente des enjeux de race qui prévalent toujours au-dessus des différends sur les enjeux linguistiques ou de classe.

Alors que les immigrants haïtiens remplissent tous les critères nécessaires en termes de “désirabilité,” ils sont toujours victimes d’instrumentalisation politique et de racisme par les différents acteurs politiques et médiatiques. Le cas d'étude de la crise des Taxis démontre à quel point la société québécoise ne parvient pas à saisir les enjeux intersectionnels de race, langue et classe auxquels les Haïtiens font face à Montréal. Ainsi, on constate que les Haïtiens sont une vitrine de l’hypocrisie de la société québécoise face à ses immigrants. En effet, alors que cette dernière prône être une société ouverte qui met l’enjeu linguistique avant tout, elle éclipse les enjeux de racisme. Malgré des avancées dans le discours politique et sociétal notamment au niveau local, il est primordial que le gouvernement reconnaisse le racisme systémique de ses institutions coloniales avant de pouvoir réformer ses institutions.

Bibliographie

Alain Saint-Victor, “De L'exil à La Communauté. Une Histoire De L'immigration Haïtienne à Montréal 1960-1990, Boucherville, Dami, 2020 – Nouveaux Cahiers Du Socialisme.” Érudit, collectif d'analyse politique, 20 août. 2021, https://www.erudit.org/fr/revues/ncs/2021-n26-ncs06290/96624ac/.

“Archives: 1970: Le Canada Plongé Dans La Crise d’octobre: La Crise d’Octobre, 50 Ans plus Tard.” CBC/Radio-Canada, 30 Sept. 2020, ici.radio-canada.ca/nouvelle/1736288/crise-octobre-politique-quebec-canada-archives.

«Début de l'enquête sur le racisme dans le taxi. Deux Haïtiens incriminent les chauffeurs blancs: un Blanc impute aux Noirs la baisse de la clientèle» Le Devoir, 13 janvier 1983.

Délice, Mugabo. “Black in the City: On the Rise of Ethnicity and Language in an Anti Black Landscape.” RACE.ED, 3 June 2020, https://www.race.ed.ac.uk/black-in-the-city-on-the-ruse-of-ethnicity-and-language-in-an-antiblack-landscape/.

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Le Devoir, 29 juin 1983.

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Johanne Béliveau. “Taxi! Crises Et Racisme Dans Les Années 1980.” Mémoires Des Montréalais, 30 Nov. 2022, https://ville.montreal.qc.ca/memoiresdesmontrealais/taxi-crises-et-racisme-dans-les-annees-1980.

Mills, Sean. “A Place in the Sun: Haiti, Haitians, and the Remaking of Quebec.” Department of History, 8 Nov. 2019, https://www.history.utoronto.ca/publications/place-sun-haiti-haitians-and-remaking-quebec.

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Tran, Nathalie, and Johanne Charbonneau. “The Unwanted Gift : Haitians and the Legacy of the Blood Scandal.” EspaceINRS, https://espace.inrs.ca/id/eprint/9123/.

The European colonial powers, notably France and the U.K., once controlled nearly a third of the world’s landmass (Taagepera, 2017). With these various regions came thousands of tribes, hundreds of cultures, and millions of people who were all subject to colonial rule stripping them of their civil liberties. To manipulate and maintain these newly acquired territories, the colonial overlords often pitted different groups against each other as a means to their ends. By having different tribes focused on infighting, they would not be able to organize and unite to fight for freedom.

More often than not, there are still important remainders of this colonial biopower—the control of people through societal disciplinary institutions (International Monetary Fund, World Bank) in the developing world and many neoliberal policies. This can be seen in the modern female labor discipline of ex-colonies. The central political and cultural implications regarding female labor discipline are widespread, including public intervention in the private sphere by the modern state, variations in colonial policies, and the establishment of a binary moral compass for women. This piece examines the case studies of British colonial rule in Kenya and the role of gendered discipline in the industrialization of Japan and Sri Lanka.

Colonial Biopower Over Women

Colonial biopower was and still is a public intervention in sexuality. In a sense, it led to a clash between productivity and reproductivity, or the public and private spheres in the societal and economic realms. Michel Foucault, a philosopher whose work focused on power relations, the nature of knowledge, and how various forms of power construct and shape human subjects, elaborated on the idea of the modern state by stating that it could now control peoples’ lives and deaths. He argued that power is not just repressive but productive and operates at all levels of society, from the micro-level of individual interactions to the macro-level of institutions and systems. The sovereign power could accomplish this through two main forms: It could either use a disciplinary intervention of the state in the private sphere or construct moral binaries with imagined “good” and “bad.” This led to political dominance over the population, thereby instilling legitimacy and a monopoly on moral values.

The disciplinary tools of the state include laws, the modern state apparatus, such as stable and bureaucratic institutions, and language. An example of this may be law and moral discipline. As Foucault had elaborated, “Power is essentially what dictates its law to sex. Which means first of all that sex is placed by power in a binary system: licit and illicit, permitted and forbidden” (Foucault, M 2020). There were many goals of colonial biopower. The first of which was political dominance through colonial paternalism and violence. The second is the procurement of a monopoly on constructed moral values. These goals are achieved through the interlinkage of law, the modern state apparatus, and discourse used by government officials. There are also the establishments of essentialized gender binaries and an idea of cultural superiority between civilized and “backward” indigenous peoples (Thomas, L 2021).

This control over women’s bodies was important as it helped colonial leaders control the birth rates of their territories. An interesting case study would be that of Kenya in the early to mid-1900s. The colonial administration there first promoted anti-circumcision groups as circumcision was deemed barbaric and inhumane. (Thomas, L) Later, when they realized women would not have children until they were “circumcised,” they decided to promote it at an earlier age. (Thomas, L) It should be noted that what the British considered as female circumcision is, nowadays, better known as female genital mutilation due to its particularly gruesome and painful procedure. This was done purely out of material greed. The British colonial leaders needed manpower for extractive purposes yet did not want more “inferior” people being born. This shows a paradox in the colonial administration. On one side, local practices advocated for female circumcision as a means of sacredness and obtaining womanhood. The anti-colonialism and Kikuyu Central administrations, an institution that had for goal of the preservation of local culture, promoted local traditions by encouraging female circumcision. They saw this promotion of local practices as a way to fight against the cultural genocide that the British enforced on the general population.

On the other hand, colonial regimes used this issue as a public welfare policy. It provided formal medical procedures with top-down welfare and clinics; this was legitimized under the guise of modernity. While the anti-colonial nationalist civil society actors of Kenya advocated for female circumcision as a means to resist against the British, those same Anglo-Saxon colonizers promoted female circumcision for political and material goals. Therefore, while the goal of the Kikuyu Central Association was to resist the British, they were aiding them by providing them with a large labor pool for forced labor. This is because the earlier women were circumcised, the more children they could bear, according to local traditions. This shows the cause-effect between female circumcision and higher rates of population growth, which can be associated with labor exploitation. (Thomas, L)

This can be linked to a second paradox; the simultaneous empowerment and disempowerment of women. The state’s reproductive control or promotion of female circumcision led to biopower over women. On one side, this empowers women as they are pushed to become independent to have children or not. Women can then break their chains and dependence on the men in their lives. By choosing when and if they decide to have children, women are no longer constrained to the home due to childcare. However, despite this feminist idea of liberating women from their reproductive burdens, many of these policies promoted the civilizing mission of colonial masters. In reality, by facilitating women’s access to abortion and birth control, colonial rulers promoted systemic discrimination by encouraging racialized low-income groups to “stop proliferating.” (Vasconcellos, 2018) There is also the issue that the groups advocating against female circumcision focused on Western ideals and standards of morality. The British feminist groups and protestant missionaries therefore enforced Christian and Western ideas of morality on the local population.

However, whereas local traditional and anti-colonialist movements encourage female circumcision, so does the colonial government. The latter does this as a means of reproductive control. Early-age female circumcision, maternity clinics, public health, anti-abortion campaigns, and laws to deter pregnancy before marriage were all used to control population growth for material gains. The British colonial institutions wished to increase production through more labor. Promoting early-age circumcision led to fewer abortions, which increased population growth and, as a result, provided a stable labor supply for the British and their extractive goals in Kenya. This resulted in long-term colonial policies which still impact Kenya’s reproductive education and health clinics (Thomas, L).

Whereas colonial leaders used women as a means to an end, utilizing them to get children who would work in colonial ventures, (Vasconcellos), other nations cut out the middleman and instead used women as labor directly. This was the case in Japan and Sri Lanka, where local authorities used women as a way to industrialize quickly through biopolitical institutions (Caitrin Lynch).

Gendered Discipline in Industrialization

There is an oft-overlooked interaction between industrialization and female labor discipline. More specifically, women’s key role in Asian industrialization. In the case of Japan, there was a major mobility-immobility paradox concerning female labor participation. On one side, promoting women’s labor in Japan created many opportunities for the women involved who had previously been left behind. Japanese women could now have a stable income and empower themselves by no longer being dependent on the men in their lives. However, this employment also came with devaluation as women were paid less and had worse working conditions. Women were also disempowered as their factory owners subjugated them by controlling their private lives. In essence, women solved the question of industrialization in Japan through the economic domain as they provided cheap disposable labor for local markets. On the other side, women were used in the social domain as a vector of national values and civic duties; they represented gender norms and sexual orders.

In order to maintain the gendered moral discipline essential for Japan’s industrialization, the government, like the British in Kenya, used moral norms and surveillance tools. The moral binary instilled by the Japanese normalized labor docility by associating womanhood with being a good wife and a wise mother. (Elyssa Faison, Managing women: Disciplining labor in Modern Japan) Surveillance tools devalued female labor through physical institutions like factories and dormitories and discursive speech through corporate paternalism (Elyssa Faison, 2007). Substantially, the capitalist labor discipline of gender solved a number of societal issues. It absorbed female labor and the rural poor, promoted labor discipline through labor surveillance and moral discipline, and enabled high productivity (most notably in the textile industry) with limited costs. In fact, the physical surveillance occurred in the workplace with the factory floors, which resemble panopticons and dormitories where guards observed the women. This replicates the modes of control as discussed by Foucault. By surveilling their dormitories, the factory owners control the actions and bodies of their female employees. The moral discipline, however, was more hidden. It mainly occurred through forms of corporate paternalism, where the factory owner needed to protect the “daughters of the nation,” thereby promoting familialism. Family paternalism truly played a central role in Japan’s nationalist goals. The familial obligations and paternal orders were linked to militarism on one side with male discipline and industrialization with female discipline. Militarism and industrialization were both linked to nationalism through their respective “fathers,” the emperor on one side and the factory owners on the other.

The case of Japan can be paralleled with Sri Lanka’s industrialization and use of female labor discipline. Sri Lanka’s economic liberalization in the late 1970s. This was part of Sri Lanka’s larger national goals of industrialization, militarism, and nationalism. The idea was that industrialization would be the stepping stone for militarism, which in itself would promote nationalism. The regime believed it needed to achieve these goals in order to develop economically. However, these goals would be unachievable without a fourth hidden goal- gendered moral discipline (Caitrin Lynch, 2016).

It is important to put things into context. In the late 1980s, Sri Lanka faced two distinct threats: a political and a moral crisis. The political crisis comprised the civil war against the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE). The LTTE posed a direct threat to the state’s existence by calling for an end to the government and the establishment of new political institutions. The moral crisis was caused by globalization; it led to a loss of the nation’s “traditional culture” with increasing foreign direct investments and economic development. For example, the increased economic liberalization increased the amount of unemployment for men; this led to more women leaving their villages to work in the cities and, therefore, no longer being at home to take care of the household. By leaving their hometowns, women could no longer transmit the traditional culture to their children. The government's solution to this issue was to open 200 garment factories which would promote gendered moral discipline.

First, one may look into the political crisis in more detail. The Civil War led to a fragmented national unity, divisions between ethnic groups (the Tamil and Sinhalese), and divisions within the Sinhalese. The 200 GFPs proposed by the government were a solution as they promoted a more robust rural economy and military. The economic divide worsened with the rise of the JVP (Sinhalese People’s Liberation Front) protests in the 1980s. On one side, the educated Anglophone urban elites benefited from the economic liberalization, whereas the rural unemployed youth were left behind. This made unemployed men more likely to join the JVP and fight against the government, as they had no opportunities for economic integration. An important factor that has been forgotten is the role of rural women, who were absorbed into urban factories and became “Juki Girls.” Juki girls are defined as women colonized by globalization and, therefore, a threat to traditional culture. These are directly opposed to “Good Girls” which are uncolonized and represent the caretakers of Sinhalese culture.

Second, the moral crisis caused by globalization and gendered moral crisis. Younger girls left their native villages to work for foreign companies in the cities, abandoning their families and parents. This led to the emergence of a “Juki girl—Good girl” binary wherein Juki girls represented a threat to national Sinhalese values. This is because “Juki Girls” were seen as women colonized by globalization (Caitrin Lynch). Owing to the fact that the Juki girls were dislocated since they were no longer subject to their parent's control, the latter was disqualified for “marriageability” and represented cultural loss. On the other hand, the “good girls” were seen as caretakers of Sinhalese culture and moral values; they were viewed as pure and uncolonized.

Again, the 200 GFPs were seen as the solution as they would meet three main goals. First, they would provide rural poverty alleviation through jobs. Second, they would bring peace by preventing youth revolts like the JVP in the 1980s. Third, these garment factories had a moral and disciplinary goal, which would maintain women in their home villages. However, this caused a paradox with contradictory socio-cultural meanings of villages. The Sinhala Buddhist tradition saw them as uncolonized cultural purity, whereas it was often seen as the site of backwardness and laziness, being the root of social problems.

Nevertheless, the GFPs were economically indispensable to Sri Lanka. This is because the young rural women were seen as expendable. Their discipline represents productivity, their docility associated with Sinhalese womanhood represents fewer demands, and their socio-economic situations make them easily replaceable. Once again, it is easy to notice the paradox of mobility and immobility brought forward in this situation. The GFPs provided women with economic opportunities and certain empowerment but also reinforced the traditional subjugation of women in their familial units.

Ultimately, the disciplinary power of the modern state over individuals is exerted through two primary tools. First is governmentality, with the modern state’s imposition of absolute control over subjects' daily behaviors. Second, through biopower, which is more specific to the state’s control of the reproductive sphere. This enables the nation to meet two main goals: obtaining disciplined subjects and creating a dual morality. Using both moral constructions of womanhood in Kenya, Japan, and Sri Lanka, as well as their surveillance tools, have enabled and promoted the construction of docile workers.

Works Cited:

Caitrin Lynch Juki girls, Good Girls: Gender and Cultural politics in ... (n.d.).  Retrieved April 12, 2016, from https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.7591/j.ctvrf8cf8

Faison, Elyssa. Managing Women: Disciplining Labor in Modern Japan on JSTOR. https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1525/j.ctt1pnkvd., 2007

Gouvernance Globale du Travail (GGT). (2021, April 12). Elyssa Faison (2007). Managing women : Disciplining labor in Modern Japan. Berkeley, University of CALIFORNIA PRESS.  Retrieved April 12, 2021, from https://www.ceim.uqam.ca/ggt/spip.php?page=article-biblio-virtuelle&id_article=774

Taagepera, R. “Expansion and Contraction Patterns of Large Polities: Context for Russia.” International Studies Quarterly, 19 July 2017, https://escholarship.org/uc/item/3cn68807.

Thomas, L. (n.d.). Politics of the womb : Women, reproduction, and the state in Kenya. Retrieved April 12, 2021, from https://searchworks.stanford.edu/view/5476741

The History of Sexuality, by Michel Foucault, Penguin Classics, 2020, pp. 83–83.

Vasconcellos, C. (2018, February 01). Birth control in The DECOLONIZING caribbean: Reproductive politics and practice on Four islands, 1930–1970.  Retrieved April 12, 2021, from https://direct.mit.edu/jinh/article/48/4/584/49475/Birth-Control-in-the-Decolonizing-Caribbean