MJPS Print 2023

Volume XIII Winter 2023

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This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

To view a copy of this license, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/.

The McGill Journal of Political Studies (MJPS) is published annually by the Political Science Students' Association of McGill University (PSSA), 843 rue Sherbrooke Ouest, Montreal, QC H3A 0G4.

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Table of Contents 9: “Walk Out or Stay Seated? Evaluating the Naming and Shaming Strategy of Walking Out on Russia for the Invasion of Ukraine”

25: “Indigenous Electoral Participation and Non-Participation in Canada: Defining Their Ideological Differences and the Case for Cooperation”

39: “Priests, Politicians, and Pandemics: Drivers Of COVID-19 Conspiracy Theory Belief In Romania”

61: “State, Society, and Reckless Spending: 20th Century Argentina’s Near Miss with Superpowerdom”

74: “Indigenous Data Sovereignty: The Census as an Instrument of Canadian Decolonization”

89: “A Defense of Islamic Sectarianism” 108: “The Challenges of Mapping Undocumented Migration” 119: “Understanding the “Impending Climate Displacement Crisis” Discourse: Replacing Alarmist Narratives with Technical Solutions”

136: “Women’s Work: Risks and Opportunities for Gender Equality in Ghana’s Informal Economies”

150: “From Object to Author: Indigenous Peoples and International Law”

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Submission and Review Process The McGill Journal of Political Studies (MJPS) accepts manuscripts in either French or English from undergraduates of any faculty or major.

Papers must have been written for a Political Science course at the 300-level or above and must have received a minimum grade of 80% (A-) in the course. Selected manuscripts contain coherent and wellstructured arguments, good grammar, and strong syntax. original analysis and unique perspectives on relevant topics in political science and current affairs distinguish selected papers as some of the best that undergraduate students have written at McGill University.

Manuscripts are accepted throughout the Fall and Winter semesters in multiple submission rounds. All manuscripts enter a double-blind review process. Authors' names are withheld while an anonymous team of peer reviewers analyzes and critiques each paper. The Editorial Board then convenes to review the anonymous peer review feedback and select the strongest manuscripts for the journal. At this time, each editor is paired with an author for a revision phase to prepare the manuscripts for publication.

The Journal is a student-run enterprise with an Editorial Board consisting of undergraduate students at McGill University.

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Editorial Board Editor-in-Chief Matthew Molinaro

Managing Editor Emily Segal

Director of Peer Reviewers Juliet Morrison

Editors Catriona Arnott Rita Broberg Hannah Clarke-Andrews Julien Duffy Catey Fifield Amelia Fortier Lily Mason Chloe Merritt Jeremy Rotenberg 6

Words from the Editor-in-Chief With every year that comes, the members of the McGill Journal of Political Studies Print ask themselves: what can we do for political science and how can the discipline itself invite open dialogue, exchange, and curiosity into the nature of power, policy, and politics.

The undergraduate Political Science community at McGill responds with unmatched grace, precision, and rigour, making in turn our responsibilities as editors challenging, relational, and dynamic. The ten papers found in this journal push the boundaries of political theory, Indigenous politics, comparative politics, and international relations, each constituting a response, a timely reminder for the need for close attention and listening to the many sources that make up our politics.

I hope you enjoy reading these fantastic pieces as much as I have and look at political science with a different lens.

This journal would not have been possible without, above all else, the hard work and support of the Editorial Board and our team of peer reviewers. The editors proved themselves to be deeply invested in a mindful and interdisciplinary approach to the study of politics. I’d like to thank them individually.

My thanks to Lily, also a BSN comrade, for her critical eye to detail and brilliance across multiple political spaces; Catey, for bringing her outstanding copy editing skills and her curiosities from publishing to our paper; Hannah, for working across time zones on her exchange, and doing so flawlessly; Rita, a fellow English literature and political science student and classmate who breathes professionalism and sharp editing into pieces; Jeremy, for his keenness for policy implementation

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that radiates and his generous contributions to our editorial discussions; Catriona, a fellow Oakvillian, for her compassion and care for the field and for the people who make it; Julien, for writing one of the best writing samples an editor has ever submitted, a testament he embodies to how great writing and editing go hand-in-hand; Amelia, for thinking with the many historical voices that shape politics and doing so across disciplines; and Chloe Merritt, for choosing to delve into the editing side after writing one of the strongest papers last year, two years in a row, she has been a key collaborator in our move to unbind the relationship of Indigenous politics to the subgroup of Canadian politics.

I’d like to extend my deepest gratitude to Juliet Morrison, Director of Peer Reviewers, for coordinating such a large team with ease. I’d like to say a massive, massive thank you to my Managing Editor Emily Segal.

Juliet and Emily were joys to work with, and represent to me in their future endeavours as Arts Senator and an incoming law student respectively the kinds of journalists, policymakers, and lawyers we need in the future. I could not have completed this project without their support and extensive contributions.

Finally, I would like to thank my predecessor Kennedy McKee-Braide.

Now a law student at McGill, Kennedy has taken time out of her busy year to informally mentor me throughout this process. She models how a politics of hope, social change, and freedom can structure a life and make us think differently, collectively. In all, I could not be more honoured to have had the opportunity to lead the journal this year.

Matthew Molinaro Editor-in-Chief McGill Journal of Political Studies Print, Volume XIII 8

Walk Out or Stay Seated? Evaluating the Naming and Shaming Strategy of Walking Out on Russia for the Invasion of Ukraine Kiran Basra Edited by Rita Broberg

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Introduction On February 28th, 2022, Russia launched a full-scale invasion of Ukraine to prevent NATO from gaining a foothold in the East. Since then, tens of thousands of casualties have been reported, sparking Europe’s largest refugee crisis since the Second World War with nearly eight million Ukrainians being displaced thus far (UNHCR 2022). Russia’s unlawful invasion of Ukraine has violated several international human rights laws, including jus ad bellum, and Article 2(4) of the UN Charter. These violations of international law include the right to life, the right to liberty, the right to security, the right to sovereignty, genocide, war of aggression, and war crimes, among others. This paper will open with an extensive literature review that explains how walkouts are a form of naming and shaming that can be an effective, ineffective, and counterproductive strategy of enforcing compliance. Next, this paper will analyze the specific consequences of conducting walkouts against Russia for the invasion of Ukraine, concluding that although walkouts may be ineffective due to the Russian government’s insulation from domestic pressure, or even counterproductive, by threatening the purpose of diplomacy, failing to take notes, and inspiring backlash from the Kremlin, walkouts can also be effective because Russia cares about protecting its public image from international scrutiny. Due to these factors, state representatives should continue walking out against Russia because the arguments for ineffectiveness and counterproductivity can be mitigated and outweighed, and the international community has a responsibility to pressure false positive states like Russia into compliance.

Russia’s disregard for human rights law has sparked widespread condemnation from the international community. As a result, states have implemented foreign policy initiatives to express their disapproval. For example, states have applied individual sanctions by freezing assets and banning the travel of Russian leaders (Funakoshi et al. 2022). Other states have exercised material sanctions against Russia’s economy, transportation, energy, and defence sectors (European Council 2022). Unlike states, diplomats cannot leverage hard power to target dissidents. Instead, they must rely on soft power to influence state behaviour and force a country back into compliance with international law. A recent soft-power strategy that diplomats have used to condemn Russia’s invasion of Ukraine is a walkout, where states coordinate their behaviour by exiting a commission to express disapproval during Russian interventions in multilateral forums. Walkouts have occurred in several high-level conferences over the past year, ranging from the United Nations General Assembly and the G20, to the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation and the United Nations Human Rights Council.

10 While working for the Permanent Mission of Canada to the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime, I participated in a walkout against Russia

during the 31st Commission on Crime Prevention and Criminal Justice. During Russia’s intervention, the state representative propagated false claims that Ukraine was training cyber criminals and emulating neo-Nazism through the support of several other Western states, including the United States, the United Kingdom, France, and the Netherlands. These inflammatory remarks triggered a coordinated response from Ukrainian allies who collectively exited the room during Russia’s intervention. After the walkout, all delegates returned to the conference room and continued negotiations. This made me wonder, are walkouts a meaningful form of enforcing human rights law by naming and shaming countries into compliance? Do walkouts against Russia lead to greater harms or benefits in multilateral forums? Should state representatives continue walking out on Russia?

This paper will argue that walkouts are a form of naming and shaming because they follow a similar structure of identifying and condemning a target state to achieve the same goal of enforcing compliance with human rights treaties. Although walkouts may be ineffective because of the Kremlin’s immunity to domestic pressure, and counterproductive by inspiring backlash which impedes the creation of international law, contradicts the purpose of diplomacy, and fails to record the intervention, I argue that walkouts are ultimately an effective mechanism of enforcing human rights law because they offer an accessible and low-cost strategy of collective solidarity, spark international discussion through the media, and provide the most efficient response to Russia’s inflammatory interventions. In order to make walkouts more effective, state representatives must coordinate behaviour through identifiable trigger words, exercise institution-specific discretion when deciding whether to conduct a walkout, and selectively choose when to implement this strategy to avoid de-sensitizing Russia to its effects.

Literature Review Naming and shaming is a popular enforcement mechanism that diplomats use to pressure dissident states into compliance. According to Carraro et al., naming and shaming typically involves three actors: “the agents of shaming (who shames), the targets of shaming (those being shamed) and the audience (which amplifies the social pressure on the target)” (2019, 337). The agents name the target and then shame them through a variety of methods including public condemnation, boycotts, or staging a protest. The hope is that the pressure states feel from being shamed will reflect negatively upon their image, leading to reputational costs that deter other countries from forming partnerships or 11 granting benefits to the dissident state in the future. Naming and shaming is

therefore conducted with the expectation that the social discomfort of being reprimanded will force the dissident state back into compliance (Carraro et al.

2019, 337).

Walkouts are a form of naming and shaming because they follow a similar structure to achieve the same goal of enforcing state compliance. In alignment with Carraro et al.’s triangular relationship of naming and shaming, walkouts involve agents (those who walk out), targets (those being walked out on), and an audience (the public, the media, others in the room during the walkout, and so forth). Despite typically being conducted in silence, walking out on a delegate while they are speaking clearly names the country being reprimanded, and shames them by demonstrating that they are not worth listening to. In comparison with other forms of naming and shaming which verbally express state condemnation, silent walkouts can be unclear about the behaviour that is being reprimanded. To resolve this tension, many countries publish a written statement following their walkout to explain the motivation for their behaviour.

There is much debate about whether naming and shaming is an effective strategy in enforcing compliance with international human rights law. According to Ausderan, naming and shaming is effective because it creates domestic pressure against the dissident state by enforcing public accountability. When a citizen’s country is shamed by the international community for human rights violations, they will perceive the human rights conditions in their country more negatively and with greater scrutiny (Ausderan 2014, 83). Therefore, naming and shaming may be an effective tool in mobilizing domestic pressure against a dissident state. However, this strategy can also backfire. Citizens who witness international shaming against their country may strengthen their loyalty towards their government when confronted with information that runs counter to their predisposed beliefs (Ausderan 2014, 83). This operates similar to the rally around the flag effect where citizens who hold their government in high esteem may increase their support for them when their country is being criticized by the international community. Therefore, naming and shaming may be counterproductive in mobilizing a state’s domestic population, as it risks bolstering support for the dissident government.

Naming and shaming can also be effective at enforcing compliance because it shines a powerful spotlight on human rights violators who are eager to escape centre stage. Hafner-Burton argues that to avoid this attention, governments often decrease human rights violations after being called out in order to minimize international pressure: “governments named and shamed as human rights violators often improve protections for political rights after being publicly criticized” (Hafner-Burton 2008, 690-691). Gallagher argues that this is a particularly helpful tool in framing perpetrators as untrustworthy partners to 12 publicly signal international disapproval to allies and prevent dissident states from

forming profitable agreements in the future (2021, 5). The hope is that by exposing these human rights abuses, the moral credibility of the dissident country will be subject to intense scrutiny, forcing actors to take a stand (Gallagher 2021, 5). This can lead to material drawbacks for the dissident country as other parties begin to exclude them from economic agreements and trade partnerships. Studies have found that naming and shaming can significantly reduce foreign direct investment received by repressive states, including restricting access to portfolio investments and arms exports (DeMeritt and Conrad 2019, 130). Thus, naming and shaming can be an effective tool, especially for countries that are vulnerable to external pressure and rely on international partnerships. Despite these convincing arguments, the effectiveness of harming a state’s reputation through naming and shaming is subject to their relational power. It may be easy to convince other states to exclude Myanmar or North Korea from trade agreements as countries generally do not rely on their exports, but it will certainly be more challenging to persuade states to refuse trade deals with countries like China and Saudi Arabia, who are responsible for some of the world’s most valuable exports. Therefore, the effectiveness of naming and shaming in eliciting reputational costs that deter future partnerships with other countries is subject to the value of a partnership with the dissident state.

This connects to Apodaca’s argument that, while naming and shaming is an inexpensive alternative to enforcement mechanisms like economic sanctions or military aid, it still incurs social costs. In naming and shaming a target state, nations who rely on a relationship with that country will damage their prospect of continuing an alliance with them in the future (2020). For example, smaller states that depend on the target country for an export may face greater tariffs if they choose to participate in the walkout. Alternatively, states that require support from the target state in multilateral negotiations may risk jeopardizing their partnership in future diplomatic forums. While Apodaca raises a legitimate risk associated with naming and shaming, countries that do not name and shame may face similar or greater repercussions from the states who do choose to name and shame, placing an ultimatum between whichever party has the power to implement the most severe repercussions. Since there are more agents than targets in a walkout, a state will likely face the greatest harm from siding with the agent. Therefore, while there are costs associated with participating in walkouts as Apodaca theorizes, there may be greater repercussions involved in failing to walk out, incentivizing states to join the pack in naming and shaming the target nation.

Naming and shaming can also be ineffective because as violations reduce in one area, they may rise in another, leading to a balancing effect. DeMeritt and Conrad call this repression substitution, a process where the “shaming of one 13 physical integrity violation is jointly associated with decreases in that violation and increases in other violations of human rights” (2019, 129).Examples of this

include findings that shaming a country for political imprisonment increases the probability that the state will reduce the frequency of political imprisonment while subsequently increasing the rate of extrajudicial killings, torture, and/or disappearances (DeMeritt and Conrad 2019, 142). As a result, the benefits of a state complying with a previously violated human right become neutralized as the state begins to violate a different human right, calling into question the efficacy of naming and shaming. While DeMeritt and Conrad offer valuable insight into the possibility of repression substitution, it is questionable whether a decrease in one violation and an increase in another always leads to an equally balanced effect. Many tradeoffs that result from naming and shaming replace the frequency of a significant human right with a less important one. For example, naming and shaming leads some states to reduce their frequency of genocide for ethnic minorities while increasing their rate of imprisonment for the same group.

Although still responsible for committing a human rights violation, in this case, naming and shaming has reaped a net benefit by saving the lives of many ethnic minorities. Therefore, repression substitution need not always be ineffective, as it may replace a serious human rights abuse with a less harmful violation.

Beyond ineffectiveness, naming and shaming can also produce counterproductive consequences by incentivizing the dissident state to violate more human rights out of backlash. According to Snyder, responding to shame with dissidence is a natural psychological response because shame triggers a “self-reinforcing syndrome of anger, resentment, evasion, and glorification of deviance” (2020, 645). Thus, Snyder argues that “shaming is most likely to mobilize intense forms of backlash” which manifest in many different forms (2020, 645).

One form of backlash that Snyder finds violators regularly engage in is the restriction of space for compromise and bargaining (2020, 645). This is especially dangerous in multilateral political forums, where diplomatic walkouts occur, because states use these spaces to reach a consensus about international law.

Gallagher agrees with Snyder, arguing that backlash can produce ramifications at the international level, which could “jeopardize international society’s capacity to deal with human rights violations elsewhere in the world” (2021, 9). For example, this backlash could result in the target country withdrawing voluntary funds from an organization or refraining from signing a treaty that is being drafted. While Gallagher and Snyder pose legitimate threats, it seems equally dangerous to allow a country that actively violates the values of an international organization to also participate in it. This sentiment was echoed by Yevheniia Filipenko, the Permanent Representative of Ukraine to the United Nations, after walking out on Russia in the UN General Assembly, where she noted that the United Nations must step up and fulfill its duty, as Russia is violating the UN 14 Charter and its

members through its presence and contributions (Guardian News 2022). Thus, the restriction of space for dissident states in political forums may not be as harmful as Snyder and Gallagher claim, as it may be more damaging to allow the participation of an active violator.

Another counterproductive consequence of naming and shaming is the backfire effect of states increasing violations of the human right they are being shamed for, or other human rights. DiBlasi argues that countries are more likely to create pro-government militias after being named and shamed for a human rights abuse by the international community (2020, 907). Therefore, naming and shaming may be harmful because it triggers hostility from the target country, which causes the state to further increase violations of that human right or other human rights out of backlash.

Despite the harms and benefits, conducted correctly, naming and shaming can be an effective mechanism of enforcing compliance with human rights law.

So how should countries name and shame? Wong argues that diplomats do not usually express their dissatisfaction, thus an ally who is typically collegial but becomes upset symbolizes the importance of that topic to the country and informs other leaders’ expectations of their behaviour (2020, 83). Therefore, naming and shaming is most effective when it is conducted sparingly. If conducted too frequently, naming and shaming can normalize and desensitize the implications of a walkout for the target state. Moreover, Bates and LaBrecque argue that naming and shaming is most effective when conducted collectively (2020). Thus, mechanisms must be installed to ensure that all participating parties are clear on when a walkout is being conducted, to ensure that a co-ordinated and collective response is implemented.

Case Study: Walking Out on Russia for the Invasion of Ukraine Based upon Carraro et al.’s definition of the triangular relationship involved in naming and shaming, the case of walking out on Russia displays the following actors: state delegates, who are the agents of shaming, Russia, who is the target of shaming, and the audience, which is a combination of the media, citizens, international organizations, and other states. The media serves as an audience because it publishes reports on state representatives who walk out on Russia. These reports educate the public and spark conversations on whether this is an appropriate and effective diplomatic response to the invasion of Ukraine.

International organizations, like the United Nations, serve as an audience by observing walkouts and learning how to mediate the negotiations moving forward. Other states also form an audience because they can learn to emulate walkout behaviour by naming and shaming Russia in other political forums.

15 Walking out on Russia is a form of naming and shaming because

countries abandon sessions during Russia’s interventions to display their condemnation of the dissident state’s behaviour. The walkouts conducted against Russia are framed by the media according to naming and shaming principles with sensational article titles such as “Embarrassed at UN; Over 100 diplomats walkout in protest during Minister’s speech” (Hindustan Times). This media attention frames walkout behaviour as a tool used by diplomats to name and shame Russia back into compliance with international human rights law.

Naming and shaming is an effective tool because it damages a country’s reputation, forcing them back into compliance to protect their image. As a result, if a country does not care about its reputation, naming and shaming may be an ineffective strategy in punishing dissidence. To evaluate if walking out is an effective mechanism, it is thus imperative to determine whether Russia cares about its public image. Many argue that a country as powerful and dissident as Russia is unphased by shaming techniques. After all, Russia has faced severe criticism for decades in response to a variety of human rights violations within their own borders for their treatment of racial minorities and members of the LGBTQ+ community, and outside their borders for their violations of international humanitarian law in the First and Second World War, the Cold War, the First and Second Chechen War, the invasion of Afghanistan, the intervention in Crimea, and many others. As a result, some scholars argue that Russia has become normalized to this level of ostracization and condemnation from the international community, and thus naming and shaming will not reap significant progress.

However, this perspective is misguided, as it is evident that Russia continues to care about its public image, despite facing consistent backlash from other states. After all, this is why Russian representatives are desperately trying to advance the false claim that the invasion of Ukraine was actually a military intervention to protect citizens and end the “genocide of the Russian-speaking population by the Nazi government of Volodymyr Zelenskyy” (Fortuin 2020, 314); Russia, a consistent violator in the international community, does not want to be seen as a human rights abusing state, despite their willingness to continue committing atrocities. As a result, Russia clearly feels the pressure to conform.

Thus, walking out may be an effective mechanism to force Russia back into compliance with international human rights law.

There are several reasons why walking out against Russia is an effective strategy. First, walkouts are an accessible and low-cost method of supporting Ukraine as all that is required is coordination between member states. Therefore, walkouts are an easy way for smaller countries to express solidarity and condemnation, especially if they cannot afford more expensive demands like sending troops or imposing sanctions. A collective response to the invasion of 16 Ukraine is imperative to internationally condemning Russia, but it is unrealistic

to think all countries can act with similar means. Thus, walkouts provide a mechanism for every country to collectively support Ukraine.

Second, because walkouts are rare and controversial, they receive significant media attention and are heavily publicized in the news, sparking an important discussion from the public and valued stakeholders. This conversation, coupled with the fact that this response is an accessible and low-cost strategy, can inspire many around the world to participate in similar walkouts and boycotts, such as by not attending Russian sporting competitions or refraining from buying products sold by publicly owned Russian companies.

Unlike material sanctions or military aid, walkouts are a strategy that can be easily replicated by citizens. Thus, walkouts go beyond the diplomatic forum to affect people in real life and spark a mass movement.

Third, walking out is the most efficient mechanism of responding to Russia’s inflammatory interventions. When Russia makes an intervention that propagates false claims, countries have two options: to stay silent or speak up.

These inflammatory remarks dispel inaccurate information by equating Western countries with neo-Nazism, and arguing that the invasion of Ukraine is justified due to the human rights abuses committed by the Ukrainian government on their own people. Therefore, choosing to ignore Russia’s inappropriate interventions is dangerous because it condones statements that would reap harmful repercussions for many states involved. On the other hand, if states choose to respond to these statements, doing so would trigger Russia to use its right of reply, which would severely derail the conversation into a back and forth between Russia and opposing states. This would distract the committee from its main focus of creating human rights law, and vanquish the greater goal of protecting vulnerable minorities. In light of these two ill-fated responses, walking out introduces a third option which sends an equally strong message without eliciting a distraction from the conversation at hand. Not only do walkouts express clear disapproval of the factitious statements, they also allow the committee to stay on task. This is because Russian delegates cannot use their right of reply against a walkout like they can with an inappropriate intervention, thus limiting the opportunity for a right of reply face-off which will derail the conversation. Therefore, walkouts introduce a third, more effective response to Russia’s inflammatory and factitious remarks.

Despite the aforementioned benefits of conducting walkouts, this strategy may be ineffective in the case of Russia due to the authoritarian nature of the Kremlin which has made the government immune to domestic pressure. Despite countless Russian citizens bravely protesting Vladimir Putin’s invasion of Ukraine, domestic pressure has yet to reap significant progress in ending the intervention. Even if walking out on Russia did create domestic pressure against 17 the dissident state as Ausderan theorizes, it is unlikely that this internal

accountability is enough pressure to incentivize Russia to pull out of Ukraine and take responsibility for its international human rights violations. Therefore, relying on domestic accountability mechanisms to trigger Russia’s compliance may be futile.

Beyond ineffectiveness, conducting walkouts against Russia may be counterproductive by sparking backlash from the Kremlin. For example, naming and shaming could lead to stagnancy in the political forum. In multilateral committees where international law is being drafted, countries are searching for consensus so that all parties can agree to complying with the recommendations of a treaty. It is therefore dangerous to walkout against Russia because this hostility could deter Moscow from moving forward with the negotiations, or from signing the treaty at all. This is especially significant considering that Russia is one of the greatest violators of human rights, therefore, it is imperative to include them in multilateral conversations so they can contribute to a treaty that they will comply with.

Furthermore, naming and shaming Russia may be counterproductive as walking out on a delegate contradicts the very purpose of diplomacy. Diplomacy represents a space for conversation and compromise - this promise is what incentivizes states of all different ideologies to participate in the creation of international treaties. This promise is broken when states do not let others speak, or send the message that they refuse to listen. Exiting the room during a state’s intervention symbolizes that the country speaking is not worthy of participation in that political forum. This can lead to a slippery slope by deterring the state from participating in that particular committee or other multilateral forums in the future. Losing Russia’s diplomatic presence would jeopardize the international community’s ability to form peaceful agreements. If Russia abandons multilateral forums more dangerous responses and reactions will likely replace diplomacy, such as bargaining and swaggering. Therefore, walking out on Russia may jeopardize the international community’s ability to reach compromises on international law by excluding a key actor from the process of drafting legislation and contributing to human rights policies.

Lastly, and often ignored, when countries walk out they eliminate their opportunity to record the intervention made. Capitals rely on their diplomats to take detailed notes as many multilateral forums are not visually or audibly recorded. Most forums rely on the Chair to make notes on the important recommendations that states make, which they add to the drafting of the legislation. Walking out of the commission jeopardizes the chance for states to collect their own notes on Russia’s intervention, which risks normalizing inflammatory remarks that their delegates will not be able to respond to.

Therefore, walkouts may be ineffective as they increase the risk of legitimizing 18 Russia’s factitious interventions and prevent states from recording important contributions and responding appropriately.

Should walkouts on Russia continue, and if so, how?

To determine whether walking out is an effective mechanism of enforcing compliance, we can explore whether the benefits of naming and shaming Russia outweigh the ineffective and counterproductive outcomes previously described.

Perhaps the strongest response refuting the efficacy of walkouts is the risk that naming and shaming Russia may lead the dissident state to refuse further participation in the creation of a human rights treaty. However, despite receiving criticism for being one of the worst human rights abusers in the international community, Russia continues to participate in the drafting of human rights treaties. This hypocritical perspective is explained by Beth Simmons, who argues that countries like Russia who ratify human rights treaties despite having no sincere intention of complying with its recommendations, are false positive states (2009, 77). Russia has faced much stronger condemnation for committing human rights violations than naming and shaming. The Kremlin has been subject to economic sanctions, public condemnation, military intervention, and the breaking of alliances, yet Russia continues to attend multilateral human rights forums and contribute to international treaties. If Russia is already willing to participate in the treaty process, which involves a substantial investment of time, energy, and resources, Moscow is unlikely to be deterred from continuing negotiations because countries choose to exit the room while they are speaking.

In response to the argument that walkouts contradict diplomacy, it is more likely that the alternative, speaking up or staying silent, risks even greater harm. Speaking up initiates a right of reply battle which derails the conversation and does not allow member states to efficiently focus on the task at hand: formulating law to protect vulnerable minorities from human rights violations.

On the other hand, staying silent legitimizes the inflammatory remarks propagated by Russia, which, due to their factitious nature, can lead to greater harm. Moreover, diplomacy should be a space for actors committed to the values of diplomacy. Thus, states should not be allowed to participate in the creation of human rights treaties if they are currently breaking the very laws they strive to implement.

Third, while the failure to record Russia’s intervention during a walkout poses an important problem, it can easily be solved with the right solution. Many conferences are already live streamed, making them easy to record. Moreover, the international organization can hire note-takers to assist the Chair and notify all states about what was previously said. Regardless of whether or not walkouts are being conducted, the transcribing of these important political forums is imperative. Implementing this solution would not only alleviate a risk associated with conducting walkouts, but it will also provide state representatives and 19 international organizations with the resources they need to ensure full

understanding and transparency over the conversation and have more fruitful communication that is not burdened by a failure to remember.

Thus, considering the risks of walkouts can be solved or outweighed, why is it in the interest of the international community to continue this strategy? In order to foster greater compliance with human rights, states must strive to turn false positives into sincere ratifiers, countries that believe in the treaty’s purpose and intend to comply with its recommendations (Simmons 2009, 354). False positives act as they do because it is easy for them to not get caught cheating and even if they are caught the mechanisms in place are weak enough that they will not face significant consequences. Naming and shaming can therefore hold false positives like Russia accountable, so that they can receive proportional harm to deter future violations.

How can countries become more effective at walking out? There are three key methods that states can implement to conduct higher quality walkouts. First, countries must establish a coordinated response about when and how to act. The most effective walkouts are conducted when there is a collective and unified response which sends a clear message for why the action is being conducted and who it is being conducted against. This can be done by using trigger words, where a group of likeminded countries decide in advance which words will cause the group to abandon the commission during an intervention. In the case of Russia walkouts, these trigger words can include messages that refer to the West as neo-Nazis or imply that Ukraine is committing genocide against its own people. Trigger words are an easy and clear mechanism of establishing when to walk out and when to stay in the room, allowing all countries to operate consistently. Trigger words are also important because they act as a mechanism of fact checking Russia’s statements and ensuring that Moscow is reprimanded for spreading false information.

Second, walkouts should be specific to the organization that they are being conducted in. Some organizations are not conducive to a walkout, such as the UN Security Council, where a protest could inspire unwanted consequences from veto members like an unwarranted military response. Similarly, in a body like the UN Office on Drugs and Crimes where consensus is used to pass international law, conducting a walkout may risk jeopardizing the creation of a treaty. In other international organizations, especially those where human rights are the main area of focus such as the UN Human Rights Council, a walkout may be the perfect strategy to express condemnation of Russia without the political repercussions embedded in other institutions.

Third, walkouts should be conducted sparingly and intentionally. If conducted too frequently, walkouts may risk normalizing the consequences of being shamed for Russia. Moreover, continuous walkouts will disrupt the flow of20 conversation in a multilateral forum and prohibit progress in drafting recommen-

-endations. Thus, naming and shaming should be selectively carried out when and if Russia makes an extreme action, whether it be through a new military intervention in Ukraine or a novel inflammatory remark in a political forum. For example, if Russia were to commit an unprecedented human rights violation, or spread new misinformation that requires condemnation, a walkout may be an appropriate strategy. However, if Russia makes a similar statement the week following a walkout motivated by the same behaviour, a walk out may be redundant.

Conclusion Naming and shaming can be an effective tool of triggering domestic pressure and damaging a state’s reputation. However, walkouts can also be ineffective by replacing one violation with another, leading to repression substitution. Walkouts can also incur counterproductive effects by incentivizing the target state to act out of backlash by limiting room for compromise in future negotiations and increasing human rights violations out of hostility. To conduct walkouts effectively, this strategy must be implemented infrequently and collectively.

Naming and shaming is an effective mechanism of enforcing compliance because it is a low-cost and accessible strategy of collective action that sparks media attention and efficiently responds to Russia’s inflammatory interventions without derailing the conversation in a political forum. Despite these benefits, there is concern about how walking out against Russia may be ineffective because the country is immune to domestic pressure. Moreover, walkouts may produce counterproductive consequences by generating backlash from the Kremlin, leading Moscow to pull out of international negotiations on human rights treaties. Furthermore, walkouts may contradict the purpose of diplomacy and impair states’ ability to record Russia’s interventions. In response to these harms, Russia is unlikely to pull out of international negotiations, as they are frequently criticized, yet continue to participate in multilateral forums on human rights issues, like a true false positive state. Furthermore, the purpose of diplomacy is more severely harmed by allowing a country who regularly violates that international organization to participate in it. Finally, a lack of notetaking during walkouts can be solved by implementing transcribers and by recording meetings.

Since the benefits of naming and shaming outweigh the harms, walkouts are an effective strategy for enforcing Russia’s compliance.

To ensure that walkouts continue to be effective, states must do three things. First, states should establish a coordinated strategy of knowing when and how to act, by agreeing upon trigger words that determine when to exit a 21 political forum. Second, walkouts should be specific to the organization to ensure they do

not impede on certain institutional structures which are not conducive to naming and shaming. Third, walkouts should be conducted sparingly to ensure that Russia is not de-sensitized to their effects. If conducted properly, states can leverage the soft power strategy of naming and shaming to pressure Russia into compliance with international human rights law. While this mechanism may not be enough to force Moscow back into compliance, it is an important first step in protecting Ukraine and preventing future human rights violations.

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Works Cited Apodaca, Clair. 2018. “Chapter 6: The human rights costs of NGOs’ naming and shaming campaigns Crisis, Accountability, and Opportunity.” In Contracting Human Rights: Crisis Accountability and Opportunity, edited

by Alison Brysk and Michael Stohl, Edward Elgar Publishing, 73-88. https://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&scope=site&db=nle bk&db=nlabk&AN=1723866.

Ausderan, Jacob. 2014. “How naming and shaming affects human rights perceptions in the shamed country.” Journal of Peace Research 51, no. 1: 81–95. http://www.jstor.org/stable/24557536.

Bates, Rodger A., and Bryan LaBrecque. 2020. “The Sociology of Shaming.” The Journal of Public and Professional Sociology 12, no. 1. https://digitalcommons.kennesaw.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1162& context=jpps.

Carraro, Valentina, Thomas Conzelmann, and Hortense Jongen. 2019. “Fears of peers? Explaining peer and public shaming in global governance.”

Cooperation and Conflict 54, no. 3: 335–355. https://doi.org/10.1177/0010836718816729.

DeMeritt, Jacqueline, and Courtenay Conrad. 2019. “Repression Substitution: Shifting Human Rights Violations in Response to UN Naming and Shaming.” Civil Wars 21, no. 1: 128-152. https://doi.org/10.1080/13698249.2019.1602805.

DiBlasi, Lora. 2020. “From Shame to New Name: How Naming and Shaming Creates Pro-Government Militias.” International Studies Quarterly 64, no.

4: 906–918. https://doi.org/10.1093/isq/sqaa055.

Guardian News. “Dozens of diplomats walk out during Russian foreign minister's UN speech.” Youtube, March 1, 2022. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozgGPWnVLkY. Fortuin, Egbert. 2020. “‘Ukraine commits genocide on Russians’: the term ‘genocide’ in Russian propaganda.” Russian Linguistics 46, 313–347. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11185-022-09258-5.

Funakoshi, Minami, Hugh Lawson, and Kannaki Deka. 2022. “Tracking Sanctions against Russia.” Reuters, Thomson Reuters, 23 https://www.reuters.com/graphics/UKRAINE-CRISIS/SANCTIONS/b y

vrjenzmve/.

Gallagher, Adrian. 2021. “To Name and Shame or Not, and If So, How? A Pragmatic Analysis of Naming and Shaming the Chinese Government over Mass Atrocity Crimes against the Uyghurs and Other Muslim Minorities in Xinjiang.” Journal of Global Security Studies 6, no. 4. https://doi.org/10.1093/jogss/ogab013.

Hafner-Burton, Emilie. 2008. “Sticks and Stones: Naming and Shaming the Human Rights Enforcement Problem.” International Organization 62, no.

4: 689–716. http://www.jstor.org/stable/40071894.

OHCHR. 2022. “Ukraine: Civilian Casualty Update 5 December 2022.” United Nations. https://www.ohchr.org/en/news/2022/12/ukraine-civilian-casualty-updat e-5-december-2022#:~:text=From%201%20to%2030%20November,is%20y et%20unknown)%3B%20and.

Simmons, Beth. 2009. Mobilizing for Human Rights: International Law in Domestic Politics. Spain: Cambridge University Press.

Snyder, Jack. 2020. “Backlash against naming and shaming: The politics of status and emotion.” The British Journal of Politics and International Relations 22, no. 4: 644–653. https://doi.org/10.1177/1369148120948361.

UNHCR. 2022. “Ukraine-Fastest Growing Refugee Crisis in Europe since WWII.”Uploaded June 6, 2022. https://www.unhcr.org/hk/en/73141-ukraine-fastest-growing-refugee-crisi s-in-europe-since-wwii.html.

Wong, Seanon. 2020. “Mapping the Repertoire of Emotions and Their Communicative Functions in Face-to-face Diplomacy.” International Studies Review 22, no. 1: 77–97. https://doi.org/10.1093/isr/viy079.

24

Indigenous Electoral Participation and Non-Participation in Canada: Defining Their Ideological Differences and the Case for Cooperation Mia Gill Edited by Catriona Arnott

(Matt Comte / Getty) 25

Statement This paper must begin with an acknowledgement of my positionality. I am an Indigenous student: a Dehcho Dene woman and a status member of Liidlii Kue First Nation. I was born and raised in Kootsisáw/Wincheesh-pah/Moh-kíns-tsis (Calgary), on Treaty 7 land, separate from my nation. Despite not being raised in Liidlii Kue, I remain connected to my family and community. My Dene line comes from the Horassi and Horesay families of the Dehcho region - who are related, however have different spellings of a phonetically identical surname - my grandmother, a Horesay, married a settler man and had my father before 1985. Due to this, I am a Bill C-3 status person. My mother is a refugee-immigrant born in Poland who fled during the Polish People’s Republic communist rule. I have lived and worked in Liidlii Kue during the summers of 2020 and 2021 as an executive assistant to the Grand Chief of Dehcho First Nations.

Introduction Why do some Indigenous peoples believe in Canadian electoral participation while others do not? Are these ideologies counterintuitive, or can they work in collaboration? Indigenous peoples who seek the goal of self-determination are engaged in a perpetual debate on whether to vote in the elections of colonial political systems or abstain (Narine 2021). Some Indigenous peoples argue that electoral participation undermines their fight for sovereignty (Katsi’tsakwas [Gabriel] 2021; Waabshkigaabo [Landon] 2021). Nevertheless, in the 2015 election, 61.5 percent of registered voters on reserves cast a ballot (Slaughter and Macyshon 2019). This paper evaluates the interaction between two main factors: Indigenous self-determination and, therefore, rejection of colonial political systems and participation in the Canadian electoral system. This ‘Canadian electoral system’ excludes all chief and council elections while including those that make up the settler-colonial state apparatus: municipal, provincial/territorial, and federal elections. This paper will argue the following three conclusions using theoretical and empirical analysis. First, both Indigenous 26

non-participatory and participatory ideologies are determined by potential voters simultaneously considering the factors of electoral participation: rational choice theory and duty to vote. Second, while the non-participatory ideology is defined by considering electoral participation factors in relation to alienation and Indigenous nationalism, the participatory ideology is defined by these factors' interactions with strategy and representation. Lastly, Indigenous electoral participation does not undermine the goal of self-determination. This is because the goal of dual citizenship as a means for self-determination makes electoral participation both necessary and actively creates unique value for autonomy; the utilization of the four roles of the activism model requires the Indigenous active voter and elected representative while a role that includes those engaged in refusal is still vital.

Factors of Electoral Participation To uncover the patterns and coexistence of participatory and non-participatory Indigenous ideologies, one must understand why people vote.

Rational choice theory is one approach to understanding voter turnout. In brief, rational choice theory argues that voters decide whether to vote depending on an independent calculation that weighs the costs and benefits of their choice. A decision depends on which outcome results in the most significant personal benefits (Levin and Milgrom 2004). In the question of whether to vote, a calculation may look like this: an actor will accrue x cost from voting and is expecting to receive y benefits. If y minus x is positive, they will vote; if negative, they will not. An important caveat to this theory is that benefits must be expected, not merely potential; therefore if an elector votes for the most beneficial candidate who is sure to lose, the expected benefits are nil, and will choose a candidate with a higher expected benefit (Blais 2000, 1). However, this raises the “paradox of not voting:” if elections are decided by such a large number of people, one voter’s decision seems unlikely to make a difference, and therefore, they have no reason to vote (Feddersen 2004). An experimental study on student voters in the 1993 Canadian federal election showed that evoking the rational choice theory’s paradox in potential voters resulted in reduced turnout “mainly 27 because the presentation diminished the respondents’ sense of duty, an effect that was

indirect” (Blais and Young 1999). Opponents of rational choice theory may argue that it provides a limited scope on human behaviour, specifically by assuming the continuous rationality of individuals and ignoring the influence of affective dimensions. This objection, along with the implications arising from the paradox of not voting lead us to consider a second factor in the voting equation.

The second factor affecting whether an individual elector decides to vote is ‘duty’, which can be understood as the emotion of personal responsibility to vote. This factor is not concerned about potential gains but instead reflects a philosophical stressor that holds voting as a virtuous action for a citizen of a democracy. Through data collected in Canada during 2008 and 2009 and Spain from 2010 to 2012, researchers found that even though duty is reinforced after voting, it still strongly affects one’s motivation to vote before engaging in such behaviour (Galais and Blais 2016). It has also been shown that rational choice and duty can simultaneously affect individuals, and those with a weaker sense of duty rely more on the rational choice factor when deciding whether to vote (Blais 2000, 92-114). The factors of rational choice and duty will be used to analyze the differences between participatory and non-participatory Indigenous voters’ ideological underpinnings.

Defining the Indigenous Non-Participatory Ideology Non-participation of Indigenous peoples in colonial elections is motivated by two main factors: alienation and nationalism. To understand Indigenous peoples’ alienation from the Canadian electoral system, one must examine Canada’s colonial history of political disenfranchisement and attempted assimilation. Post-confederation Canada denied status First Nations peoples the right to vote; a string of assimilationist enfranchisement legislation (including the Gradual Citizenship Act of 1857 and the Indian Act of 1876) had meanwhile been providing the right in exchange for the adoption of ‘civilized’ ways of life (Leslie 2016). Inuit were allowed to vote in 1950, although it was not until 1962 that they were provided sufficient ballot boxes. First Nation peoples were given the federal right to vote in 1960 and, by the end of the 1960s, Indigenous peoples could vote in every provincial and territorial election (Leslie 2016). One result of 28 this recent history of the denial of voting rights to Indigenous peoples is the

continuing lack of elected Indigenous representation in government, which Dalton argues causes “a lack of legitimacy [of the electoral system] from the perspective of many First Nations” (2007, 252).

Indigenous nationalism is the foundation for theories of self-determination. Audra Simpson’s Mohawk Interruptus offers a succinct theory to understand how Indigenous nationalism presupposes the praxis of non-participation in colonial elections. Simpson coins “politics of refusal” as a response to “politics of recognition,” the latter of which is the tendency of Canada as a settler colonial state to attempt to undermine Indigenous sovereignty through the official recognition of Indigenous culture as distinct yet nested in Canadian citizenship (2014, 11). Politics of refusal instead "acknowledge[s] and uph[olds]" the "political sovereignty" of the colonized peoples while questioning the "legitimacy" of the colonizing force which maintains the power of "recognizing"; for Indigenous peoples, this can manifest in the refusal to vote in the elections of colonial structure (Simpson, 2014, 11).

Indigenous nationalism argues that engagement within the imposed colonial structure of elections is paradoxical and serves the harmful politics of recognition. Therefore, Indigenous peoples have an ideological basis for engaging in a politics of refusal as resistance to assimilation.

The interaction between alienation born from a history of disenfranchisement and subjugation and Indigenous nationalism as the resistance to this alienation is self-perpetuating: “the end result is an electoral system that lacks legitimacy for First Nations, ultimately leading to further alienation” (Dalton 2007, 274). Assimilationist motivations for expanding the right to vote directly undermine the self-determination of Indigenous peoples expressed through Indigenous nationalism. Canada’s history of enfranchisement as a civilizing force reveals that the right to vote was not given in order to strengthen the nation-to-nation relationships between Indigenous peoples and Canada but was instead “because of the idea that Canadian citizenship would further integrate First Nations into Canadian society, assist with socio-economic issues and help Canada in continuing to ignore First Nations autonomy, nationhood and their own citizenship” (Cowie 2021).

In a survey of Indigenous youth, many of those who have previously 29 abstained from voting reported doing so “as a matter of principle,” and instead,

alternative engagement in politics was referenced, including “traditional governance, radical politics and direct actions” (Gerald R., Pitawanakwat, and Price, 2007, 11). Understanding the interaction between alienation and nationalism, it is clear that for some Indigenous peoples engaging in non-participation duty has been transformed and is no longer applicable. A duty for the colonial democratic system has been nullified, and instead, a new duty has emerged: self-determination and support of non-electoral political participation.

However, since those with a weaker duty to vote rely more heavily on rational choice theory (Blais 2000, 92-114), why do Indigenous peoples without democratic duty not instead vote based on rational choice? In the survey of Indigenous youth, it was found that “[a] pragmatic calculation is being made that the Indigenous vote is unlikely to have an impact ‘unless you have an overwhelmingly high number of Indians in one province.’” (Gerald R., Pitawanakwat, and Price, 2007, 11). This shows that for some followers of the non-participatory route, it seems as though the paradox of rational choice voting is also motivating their non-participation.

Defining the Indigenous Participatory Ideology The motivations behind the Indigenous participatory ideology can be defined with two major themes: strategy and representation. The choice to vote is sometimes explained by Indigenous voters as strategic, with the goal of preventing worse outcomes that may result from not voting. One of the justifications provided multiple times by surveyed Indigenous youth who have previously voted was “a preventive strategy – as a means to prevent people with dramatically different values and beliefs from representing them” (Gerald R., Pitawanakwat, and Price, 2007, 7). In their testimony, individuals referenced the possible adverse effects of elected representatives on treaties, their communities, and their rights (Gerald R., Pitawanakwat, and Price, 2007, 6). This motivation can be seen as directly reflecting rational choice theory. While Indigenous individuals may understand that voting within colonial structures seems paradoxical, they may weigh the expected costs of not voting to be too large to abstain.

30 The second motivational theme is representation: specifically, a desire for elected representatives to represent Indigenous peoples and, therefore, electoral

support for candidates who identify as Indigenous. In the survey of Indigenous youth, those who have previously voted “argued that supporting, encouraging and voting in Aboriginal candidates was paramount,” specifically to ensure that those with similar beliefs and values as them influence colonial governance structures (Gerald R., Pitawanakwat, and Price, 2007, 7). This theme is supported by evidence of ‘affinity voting’: the trend of minorities being more likely to vote when a candidate that represents their minority identities is running. In a study of data from Canada’s 2006, 2008, 2011, and 2015 federal elections, researchers discovered that affinity voting is influential in Indigenous vote choice (Dabin, Daoust, and Papillon 2019). Vote turnout was higher in Indigenous communities when an Indigenous person was on the ballot; with three of four Indigenous candidates on the ballot, turnout increased by more than 15 per cent (Dabin, Daoust, and Papillon 2019, 50). Further, political parties also benefited from higher voter turnout for their party in Indigenous communities when they had Indigenous candidates, with the party support scaling alongside the number of Indigenous candidates (Dabin, Daoust, and Papillon 2019).

The theme of representation as a motivational factor for the participatory Indigenous ideology reflects both the factors of duty and rational choice theory.

Indigenous peoples likely feel an emotional duty to support their kin in politics.

It also follows logically that an Indigenous representative with the same values as Indigenous voters is more likely to work towards positive policy decisions for Indigenous peoples specifically. Thus the expected benefit of electing an Indigenous representative is boosted, and potential voters are more likely to decide using the rational choice theory that voting is more beneficial than abstaining.

Electoral Participation: Counterintuitive or Collaborative?

Is it possible for non-participatory and participatory ideologies to exist without undermining one another? Palmater argues this is impossible, as the virtues of electoral participation are mythological for Indigenous peoples, making the bold claim that “when Indigenous peoples vote, they vote for their next 31 oppressor” (2019). She claims that the Canadian political system intentionally subjugates and harms Indigenous peoples through their exclusion. Palmater

points to the Harper and Trudeau governments as examples of how regardless of stated intention or party in power, the Canadian political system actively works against Indigenous self-determination and autonomy: “What is the core difference between past racist and aggressive governments, which didn’t give our lands back or respect our treaties, and the charming and positive Prime Minister Trudeau, who does exactly the same?” (2019). Further, while the potential for increases in beneficial funding is acknowledged, these are temporary and do not make up for the lack of action on missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls and the increasing Indigenous overrepresentation in the foster care system, in the carceral system and poverty or homeless (Palmater 2019).

The crux of Palmater’s argument is that for Indigenous peoples who participate in the Canadian electoral system; “their voice makes no actual difference,” as the structures of colonialism and anti-Indigenous racism are ingrained into Canada’s party system (2019). Palmater is essentially asserting that there is no expected good from Indigenous voter participation, regardless of party platforms or leaders. Therefore, the rational choice for Indigenous peoples is to refrain from voting and engage in other means of political action to better their circumstances, whether through “protests, public pressure, litigation or outside intervention at the United Nations level” (Palmater 2019). Under this argument, there is no movement for strategic voting – the ‘worse option’ is essentially the same as the strategic ‘better.’

However, Palmater ignores the relevance of duty in Indigenous participatory ideology. While she does state that the conceptualization of civic participation as a duty is a myth for Indigenous peoples in the democratic sense of the term, as “both a right and a responsibility of citizens,” she ignores the representational duty Indigenous peoples have to each other when voting (Palmater 2019). As noted earlier, Indigenous peoples are much more likely to vote if there are candidates who identify as Indigenous. This duty lies outside of the Eurocentric democratic definition of duty and instead is the result of Indigenous relationality and responsibility to kin. Relationality as an Indigenous concept is expressed through ways of life and one’s responsibility to their relations (Tynan 2021). Further, relationality as a practice is a part of Indigenous self-determination by rejecting colonial impositions of identity and community 32 (Tynan 2021). In order to support Indigenous kinship ties, a new duty is created

and exists despite the failure of the rational choice calculation, and therefore Indigenous peoples have a reason grounded in self-determination under some circumstances to engage in electoral participation while not being counterintuitive. Further, as Palmater fails to consider Indigenous representation in Canadian politics altogether, she ignores that the election of Indigenous people into government can serve to lessen the harm of the colonial system from the inside.

Someone arguing in defence of Palmater’s thesis may respond that Indigenous representation in politics does not magically solve the colonial structure of that system – despite the reinforcement of Indigenous relationality in doing so. In “Being-in-the-Room-Privilege,” Táíwò makes his ‘elite capture’ argument, which raises critical issues with the acceptance of standpoint epistemology, particularly for people in positions of privilege. Standpoint epistemology is used in radical political spheres to refer to the claim that those with lived experiences of marginalization have access to unique knowledge that those without those experiences do not have – and thus, minority representation in positions of power can serve to undermine the marginalizing effect those in that position have historically reinforced (Táíwò 2020). An Indigenous proponent of standpoint epistemology would argue that Indigenous representatives in the Canadian government would champion the otherwise unheard perspectives of Indigenous peoples and therefore bring good to Indigenous peoples through policy. However, Táíwò argues that those who manage to gain access to ‘the room’ – in this case, by being elected as a representative – are most often the “elites” of their marginalized group and therefore do not have lived experiences that would be most useful for the average or the most marginalized of that minority group (2020). Using this argument, how can Indigenous voters be sure their Indigenous representative has the same values they do? The answer is that they cannot; instead, they ought to be wary about using representatives of their values and beliefs to gain further self-determination through action within the Canadian government.

Nevertheless, by reconceptualizing the goal for Indigenous self-determination as the journey towards dual citizenship, it becomes clear how engaging in electoral participation can further the political goals of Indigenous 33 peoples and communities. Cowie argues that Indigenous peoples ought to use

Canada’s political system in order to push for a society that embraces Borrows’ conceptualization of “dual citizenship:” wherein nation-to-nation relationships are respected in a political landscape of separateness rather than difference and equality rather than political entrenchment (2013, 84-96). By engaging in electoral participation, Indigenous peoples can push for the original nation-to-nation relationships between themselves and Canadians and increase the Indigenous sphere of influence across the Canadian landscape (Cowie 2013, 94). This latter benefit can further expand Indigenous identity and citizenship: past blood relations and towards a civic identity that exists alongside Canadian identities, thus returning self-determination to the very foundation of community and Indigenous identity itself (Cowie 2013, 92-93). It becomes clear how by defining Indigenous peoples’ goal for self-determination as the creation of a ‘dual-citizenship,’ the very act of electoral participation becomes necessary and productive for Indigenous sovereignty and well-being.

Lastly, Moyer’s conceptualization of the “four roles of social activism” shows how it is short-sighted to categorize Indigenous electoral participation as counterintuitive (2001, 21). Moyer describes four roles that are all needed for effective activism: the citizen, rebel, change agent, and reformer, all of which can be played effectively or ineffectively (2001, 21). The two roles that rely on electoral participation are the citizen and the reformer. The citizen’s purpose is “winning over and involving” the greater public through demonstrations of “good citizenship,” which keeps the social movement from being relegated to the fringes of society (Moyer 2001, 22-23). One of the explicit roles of the citizen to do so is “advocat[ing] and demonstrat[ing] a widely held vision of the democratic good society;” for Indigenous activists, those engaging in electoral participation are filling this role effectively (Moyer 2001, 24). The reformer’s job is to institutionalize newly accepted alternatives pushed forward by the other three roles into formal institutions of society through legislation, policies, and practices (Moyer 2001, 26). In order to have reformers able to perform this final act, Indigenous peoples must work to elect reformers into positions of institutional power. Therefore, electoral participation is a requirement for the furthering of Indigenous self-determination activism. It is crucial to note that under this model, there is still a role for those wishing to engage in a politics of 34 refusal purely: the rebel. The key specificity of the rebel is that even though they are meant to gain

attention for causes through dramatic acts, they do so with the goal that those causes can eventually be formalized by the reformer (Moyer 2001, 24). Murphy (2008) argues that electoral participation has been burdened by unrealistic expectations of its ability to result in Indigenous self-determination alone. By understanding the four roles of social activism and applying them to the goal of dual citizenship, it becomes clear how Indigenous electoral participation is not a counterintuitive act but rather a necessary tool for cooperation in the fight for Indigenous self-determination that cannot work alone.

Conclusion The use of rational choice theory and duty as explanatory factors illustrates the ideological differences between Indigenous electoral participation and non-participation. The former is defined by the influence of strategy and representation, while the latter is defined by alienation and Indigenous nationalism. Through the redefinition of the goal of self-determination as towards dual citizenship, it becomes clear that Indigenous electoral participation is not counterintuitive to greater goals of sovereignty. Rather, it is a mode of activism that fits into a more significant model that requires and is further propelled by its achievements. Indigenous activists seeking self-determination must cooperate whether they take the role of refusal or electoral participation, as both functions are crucial in the fight for sovereignty.

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Works Cited Aldrich, John H. 1993. “Rational Choice and Turnout.” American Journal of Political Science 37, no. 1: 246–278. https://doi.org/10.2307/2111531.

Alfred, Taiaiake, Brock Pitawanakwat, and Jackie Price. 2007. “The meaning of political participation for indigenous youth.” In Charting the Course for Youth Civic and Political Participation. Canadian Electronic Library.

Retrieved from https://policycommons.net/artifacts/1219752/the-meaning-of-political-pa rticipation-for-in digenous-youth/1772829/. CID: 20.500.12592/x9ktfv.

Blais, André. 2000. To Vote or Not to Vote?: The Merits and Limits of Rational Choice Theory. University of Pittsburgh Press Digital Editions. Pittsburgh, Pa.: University of Pittsburgh Press.

Blais, André, and Robert Young. 1999. “Why do people vote? An experiment in rationality.” Public Choice 99: 39–55. https://doi.org/10.1023/A:1018341418956.

Cowie, Chadwick. 2021. “A vote for Canada or Indigenous Nationhood? The complexities of First Nations, Métis, and Inuit participation in Canadian politics.” The Conversation, November 1, 2021. https://theconversation.com/a-vote-for-canada-or-indigenous-nationhoodthe-complexitie s-of-first-nations-metis-and-inuit-participation-in-canadian-politics-169312 Cowie, Chadwick. 2013. “Validity and potential: Dual-citizenship and the Indigenous vote in Canada’s federal electoral process.” MA diss., University of Manitoba. https://mspace.lib.umanitoba.ca/xmlui/bitstream/handle/1993/22226/C owie_Chadwick.pd f?sequence=1&isAllowed=y Dabin, Simon, Jean François Daoust, and Martin Papillon. 2019. “Indigenous Peoples and Affinity Voting in Canada.” Canadian Journal of Political Science 52 (1): 39–53. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0008423918000574.

Dalton, Jennifer. 2007. “Alienation and Nationalism: Is It Possible to Increase First Nations Voter Turnout in Ontario?” Canadian Journal of Native Studies 27 (2): 247–291.

Feddersen, Timothy J. 2004. "Rational choice theory and the paradox of not 36 voting." Journal of Economic Perspectives 18, no. 1: 99–112.

Galais, Carol, and André Blais. 2016. “Beyond rationalization: Voting out of duty or expressing duty after voting?” International Political Science Review 37 (2): 213–229. https://doi.org/10.1177/0192512114550372.

Katsi’tsakwas [Gabriel, Ellen]. 2021. “Respect my right not to vote: for Indigenous peoples, voting in a colonial system comes at a cost to our sovereignty.” Ricochet Media, September 14, 2021. https://ricochet.media/en/3776/respect-my-right-to-not-vote Leslie, John F. 2016. "Indigenous Suffrage." The Canadian Encyclopedia.

Historica Canada, March 31, 2016. https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/indigenous-suffrage Levin, Jonathan, and Paul Milgrom. 2004. Introduction to choice theory. https://web.stanford.edu/~jdlevin/Econ%20202/Choice%20Theory.pdf Moyer, Bill. 2001. Doing Democracy: The Map Model for Organizing Social Movements. Gabriola Island, BC: New Society.

Murphy, Michael A. 2008. “Representing Indigenous Self-Determination.” The University of Toronto Law Journal 58 (2): 185–216.

Narine, Shari. 2021. “Many Indigenous voters struggle with whether to vote.”

OrilliaMatters, September 6, 2021. https://www.orilliamatters.com/canadavotes2021/many-indigenous-voter s-struggle-with whether-to-vote-4303853 Palmater, Pam. 2019. “The irony of the First Nations’ vote.” Maclean’s, October 7, 2019. https://www.macleans.ca/opinion/the-irony-of-the-first-nations-vote/ Simpson, Audra. 2014. Mohawk Interruptus: Political Life Across the Borders of Settler States. Durham: Duke University Press.

Slaughter, Graham, and Jill Macyshon. 2019. “Indigenous voters broke records in the 2015 election. Will they do it again?” CTV News, September 13, 2019. https://www.ctvnews.ca/politics/federal-election-2019/indigenous-votersbroke-records-i n-the-2015-election-will-they-do-it-again-1.4593104 Táíwò, Olúfẹ́ mi O. 2020. “Being-in-the-Room-Privilege: Elite Capture and Epistemic Deference.” The Philosopher. https://www.thephilosopher1923.org/post/being-in-the-room-privilege-eli 37 te-capture-and-e pistemic-deference

Tynan, Lauren. 2021. “What is relationality? Indigenous knowledges, practices, and responsibilities with kin.” Cultural Geographies 28 (4): 597–610. https://doi.org/10.1177/14744740211029287 Waabshkigaabo [Landon, Will]. 2021. “As an Anishinaabe citizen, I can’t vote in good conscience in federal elections.” CBC First Person, September 17, 2021. https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/first-person-anishinaabe-vote-federal-ele ction-1.617823 6

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Priests, Politicians, and Pandemics: Drivers of COVID-19 Conspiracy Theory Belief in Romania Sara Parker Edited by Lily Mason

(Daniel Mihailescu / AFP) 39

Introduction Romania has one of the lowest rates of COVID-19 vaccination in Europe; less than half the population has received one dose and less than 10% have received their booster (ECDC, 2023). These low vaccination rates are not due to a lack of doses, however, despite an extensive vaccination program, Romania was forced to sell expiring doses to countries like Denmark, Ireland, and South Korea. Rather, Romanians chose to not get vaccinated. This paper will thus explore the drivers of COVID-19 conspiracy theory (CT) belief in Romania, paying particular attention to the content of CTs, the literature about CT belief, the literature about vaccine hesitancy, corruption in Romania, and sources of institutional distrust. It will then engage in a qualitative analysis of Romanian CTs and a quantitative analysis on sources of institutional distrust and vaccine hesitancy, demonstrating that the character of prominent COVID-19 CTs in Romania has strong roots in institutional distrust, which is, itself, correlated with low vaccine rates. Ultimately, it argues that institutional distrust, as motivated by personal economic hardship, increases the probability that an individual will believe COVID-19 CTs in Romania and, therefore, that they will not get vaccinated.

COVID-19 Conspiracy Theories In Romania A CT is defined, for the purposes of this paper, as a theory that “explains an event or set of circumstances as the result of a secret plot by usually powerful conspirators,” (Merriam-Webster). Every dominant CTregarding the COVID-19 virus in Romania implicates the government in a conspiracy to control the population. As described in Lup and Mitrea’s (2021) study on university students with conspiracy beliefs, the most pervasive theory is that the virus is not as dangerous as the government is leading the public to believe (7). Although not as severe as other theories – for example, the assertion that the pandemic is a scam to usher in the New World Order – this widely-held belief undermines the authority of government and sows distrust in Romanian, European, and international institutions. Other theories include the assertion that the pandemic 40 is a conspiracy by political elites to restrict and control citizens; that the virus was

created by scientists in a lab, likely in Wuhan, China; and that the pandemic is a conspiracy by interest groups, like the pharmaceutical industry, for financial gain (Lup and Mitrea 2021, 7). These theories were supported by Orthodox priests, many of whom assured their congregations that receiving the COVID-19 vaccination was unnecessary (Higgins 2021). The Romanian Orthodox Church further rejected a collaboration with the national government on a coordinated vaccination campaign, citing their refusal as “fundamentally ethical” because of the Church’s promotion of “personal freedom,” (Muresan 2021). Additionally, some doctors have contributed to the CTs, including Flavia Grosan, a pulmonologist who has falsely asserted that COVID-19 should be treated like pneumonia and that medical oxygen is dangerous to patients. Although the pandemic skeptics within the religious and medical communities in Romania infrequently support major CTs about a New World Order or the virus being made in a lab, they have all parroted – in one way or another – the theory that the government is exaggerating the severity of COVID-19, and that the subsequent public health restrictions are a means of controlling the population.

Drivers Of Conspiracy Theory Belief – Literature Evidently, it is not sufficient to simply characterize CTs, we must understand why people are inclined to believe them. The drivers of CT belief have been a subject of social science research since as early as 1992, when Goertzel conducted a telephone survey of 348 randomly-selected New Jersey residents to understand the characteristics underpinning susceptibility to CT belief (Goertzel 1994, 733).

Goertzel found that CT belief was not significantly correlated with gender, education, or occupation, but that there was a high correlation between CT belief and what he calls, “anomia”. Anomia refers to the belief that the situation of the average person is getting worse, that it would be unfair to bring a child into the world today, and that most public officials do not care about the average person. In other words, pessimists were more likely to believe in conspiracies (Goertzel 1994, 737). Castanho Silva, Vegetti, and Littvay continued this research in 2017 with a survey study on 1415 Amazon Mechanical Turk workers in the US that attempted to identify a potential relationship between populist

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attitudes (the belief in a malevolent government) and CT belief. They found that populist political beliefs, coupled with low levels of political trust, increased the likelihood that someone would believe that the government is engaging in a malevolent global conspiracy (Castanho Silva et al. 2017, 437).

Drivers of Conspiracy Theory Belief – Romania Some researchers have attempted to specifically identify the drivers of COVID-19 CT belief in Romania using survey methods similar to those aforementioned. Achimescu, Sultanescu, and Sultanescu (2020) conducted a web survey of 582 Romanian adults to determine if there was a connection between distrust in Western actors (i.e., the US, the European Union, and NATO) and noncompliance with COVID-19 public health guidelines (301).

They had two key findings relevant to this paper: first, 54% of respondents agreed with at least one COVID-19 CT (suggesting that approximately half of Romanians may believe in COVID-19 CTs and thereby asserting the importance of understanding their effects), and, secondly, that the level of concern an individual had about the spread of the virus – and, therefore, their adherence to public guidelines – was significantly dependent on trust in Romanian governmental institutions, illustrating the importance of institutional trust in taking COVID-19 seriously (Achimescu et al. 2020, 305). Butoroiu et al. (2021) also conducted a web survey of 945 Romanians, aimed at understanding the profiles of people who publicly endorse COVID-19 CTs. They found that perception of online fake news, perceived usefulness of social media, education level, and religiosity were significant predictors of CT belief (Butoroiu et al.

2021, 7). The authors specifically highlight high levels of church attendance as being associated with an increased likelihood that an individual will believe in CTs about COVID-19 vaccines, pointing to the impact that Orthodox priests have likely had on spreading COVID-19 CTs and driving the low vaccination rate (Butoroiu et al. 2021, 10). Although both studies are fairly small, and neither includes people from all regions of Romania, they represent an important first step in identifying the drivers of COVID-19 CT belief in the country.

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Vaccine Hesitancy – Europe Research has also been done specifically on drivers of vaccine hesitancy, the findings of which bear similarities to the drivers of CT belief. Most prominently, Jennings et al.’s 2021 study on COVID-19 vaccine hesitancy in the UK found that CT belief had a significant effect on vaccine hesitancy, while also identifying a consistent relationship between institutional distrust and unwillingness to get the COVID-19 vaccine (8). They ultimately conclude that “holding conspiracy beliefs is a significant predictor of vaccine hesitancy,” while institutional distrust acts as a key predictor of one’s likelihood of holding a CT belief (Jennings et al.

2021, 10). Recio-Roman et al. (2021) find similar results in their study on vaccine hesitancy and political populism in Europe. Using the 2020 Eurobarometer survey and an invariant cross-national study, the authors find that “distrust in institutions was the main underlying driver that was associated with both vaccine hesitancy and political populism,” (Recio-Roman et al. 2021, 10). Most notably for this paper, Recio-Roman et al. conclude that the cluster of countries of which Romania was a part (including France, the UK, Spain, Greece, Bulgaria, and Croatia) had the highest rates of populism, institutional distrust, and belief that vaccines are useless compared to the other European clusters (2021, 9).

Vaccine Hesitancy – Romania A handful of studies have aimed to understand vaccine hesitancy specifically in Romania and have found a similar link with institutional distrust. For instance, Radu (2021) used the city and surrounding suburbs of Cluj as a case study. He surveyed approximately 700 citizens about their demographic indicators, trust in public institutions, and compliance with public health measures, and found that citizens with high trust in public institutions were more likely to follow guidelines (Radu 2021, 143). Miko et al. (2019) also use Cluj as a case study to assess the prevalence of vaccine hesitancy – notably, prior to the COVID-19 pandemic. The authors found that 30% of respondents were hesitant to receive

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vaccines or allow their children to receive it (Miko et al. 2019, 6). Upon asking respondents why they were skeptical of vaccines (specifically those against varicella, measles, and HPV), most responded with assertions that various media sources and some political leaders had sowed doubt about their efficacy, while others pointed to a general mistrust of the pharmaceutical industry (Miko et al.

2019, 8).

Both papers experienced difficulty in clearly identifying the drivers of institutional distrust that specifically led to vaccine hesitancy: Radu (2021) found that level of education had a minimal effect on institutional trust, while occupation had a statistically significant but small effect on following public health measures (139, 142). Furthermore, Miko et al. (2019) could only speculate about why people mistrust political leaders and the pharmaceutical industry, suggesting that knowledge (or education) and averseness to risk could play a part (7-9). The following sections will therefore explore Romanian institutional distrust in more detail.

Corruption in Romania Trust in the Romanian government is hard to find. Romania consistently sits at the top of corruption lists in the European Union (in 2020, Transparency International ranked it third) and reports remarkably high rates of perception of corruption. For instance, 22% of Romanians reported having to bribe health officials for basic services (slipping the nurse a few bills to pay attention to a patient or change an IV, for example), while 51% of Romanians believe that Members of Parliament are involved in corruption (Transparency 2021). These attitudes are based in historical context: in conversation, many will allude to the notoriously corrupt Ceausescu regime, which, post-1989, gave way to an equally corrupt democratic government consisting of many “reformed” ex-Communist officials and frequently embezzled money. This persistent corruption ultimately complicated Romania’s case for ascension to the EU. Discussions began in 2000, yet the country was only admitted six years later on the condition that it demonstrated sufficient “political will to establishing rule of law and combating corruption” (Ristei 2010, 348). However, Romania’s fight against corruption

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has achieved limited success. For the past two decades, the ruling governments have maintained a pattern of legislating by way of government ordinances or attaching bills to motions of confidence, thereby either negating the role of Parliament in passing legislation or threatening it with another election (Ristei 2010, 342). Additionally, the autonomous anti-corruption directorate (Directia Nationala Anticoruptie, or DNA), with a 38-million-dollar annual budget, focuses “disproportionately on effectiveness of prosecution at the expense of reasonableness,” (Mendelski 2020, 251). Mendelski (2020) essentially argues that the DNA has focused too much on achieving guilty verdicts rather than actually identifying and preventing corruption. Citing the fact that, between 2009 and 2015, corruption convictions rose from 22 to 879 per year, Mendelski (2020) shows that the haste Romanian prosecutors have exercised in convicting those accused of corruption has undermined the right to a fair trial and ultimately derailed the fight against corruption (238).

Corruption, therefore, is a major aspect of Romanian political culture: politicians accuse one another of corrupt practices frequently, and many major protests in the past decade have been in response to public corruption of the national government. The country experienced two years of almost-daily protests from 2017 to 2019 in response to a series of secretly-passed bills that decriminalized abuses of power resulting in damages of under $50,000 and pardoned convictions of less than five years. Over 500,000 Romanians participated, making them the largest demonstrations in Romania since the overthrow of the Ceausescu regime in 1989.

Sources of Institutional Distrust As a result of corruption, institutional distrust is pervasive in Romania , however its source on an individual level remains disputed; in other words, why do certain people experience higher levels of institutional distrust than others, despite living in the same environment? Mishler and Rose (2001) analyzed 1998 survey data from “post-Communist” societies (that is, Bulgaria, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, Poland, Romania, Slovenia, Belarus, Russia, and Ukraine) in an attempt to identify the key drivers of political distrust (40). They found that

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most people trusted religious and military institutions and their community, but very few trusted government institutions, like Parliament, or private enterprises (Mishler and Rose 2001, 42). Notably, they found that aggregate economic and political performance had little effect on institutional distrust – in essence, people’s perception of their government’s economic or political performance did not necessarily affect their trust in the institutions themselves. Rather, evaluations of political and economic performance as they pertain to one’s personal conditions were significantly more important in predicting institutional trust. Respondents who were “hopeful about their own household’s future economic prospects” were much more likely to trust political institutions (Mishler and Rose 2001, 52). Puzzlingly, demographic characteristics, like education, gender, church attendance, and employment status were either not significant or had insignificant effects, therefore making it difficult to pinpoint the empirical factors that predict institutional trust (Mishler and Rose 2001, 50, 52). Drakos et al. (2019) complement these findings 18 years later with their exploration of the determinants of institutional trust in times of financial crisis.

Using the Eurobarometer survey, they find that unemployment has a consistent, although minor, effect on trust in the European Central Bank, the European Parliament, and one’s own national government (Drakos et al. 2019, 1239).

Drakos et al. ultimately conclude that one’s personal economic conditions have a direct relationship to institutional trust, particularly towards European institutions (1243).

Theoretical Framework My theory,therefore, is the following: an individual experiencing economic hardship is more likely to distrust the Romanian government and will thus be more susceptible to COVID-19 conspiracy theories, which will heavily influence their decision to not get vaccinated. This can be represented in diagram on the following page.

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I believe this will be reflected in analysis of main conspiracy theory sources, that will likely appeal to financial factors (such as Romania spending lots of money on vaccines) and use populist messaging (anti-COVID-19 rhetoric often comes from the main populist party, the AUR). Furthermore, a quantitative analysis of these factors and vaccination rates at the county level will show a negative relationship between personal economic hardship and vaccination status, with education level and religiosity having little to no effect on vaccination rates.

Methodology To assess the validity of my theory, I perform two types of analysis. First, I engage in a qualitative, textual analysis of particularly important sources of COVID-19 CTs in Romania to identify allusions to individual economic conditions, like unemployment as a result of lockdown measures. I then conduct a quantitative, regression analysis of COVID-19 vaccination rates and unemployment rates at the county level, with other variables like education, religiosity, and AUR support, to see whether there is a correlation between measures of personal economic hardship (such as unemployment) and low vaccination rates. In the qualitative analysis, I aim to identify the potential target audience of those who spread COVID-19 CTs; as the CTs question the validity of the COVID-19 vaccine, identifying their target audience will contribute to our understanding of what type of people are more susceptible to these CTs. In the quantitative analysis, I hope to prove that increased probability of believing in CTs contributes to the decision to not receive the vaccine by measuring the correlation between my established drivers of CT belief (institutional distrust as inspired by personal economic hardship) and vaccination rates.

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Qualitative Analysis of Conspiracy Theories Active News Active News is an independent Romanian-language website that describes itself as a “site of uncensored information and news, conservative analysis and opinions, dedicated to the defence of life, family, faith, and national culture.” It is also a major source of COVID-19 CTs (as of April 2022, their Facebook page has almost 88,000 likes), frequently posting impassioned reports of people who were vaccinated against COVID-19 and then experienced severe health problems related to the vaccine, such as blood clots or the virus itself. Other articles on the site assert that public health measures in Romania and other countries are “tyranny,” labelling vaccine passports as a “Nazi” invention to track and control everyone, and alleging the COVID-19 vaccine “hybridises” one’s DNA. In one notable article from March 2022, Active News argues that the COVID-19 pandemic masked a “genocide” by global elites. The article argues that doctors invented the virus to support a “masked genocide” necessary for ushering in the New World Order; hospitals received money for saying someone’s cause of death was COVID-19; hospital patients were “automatically diagnosed with COVID-19 and then given the ‘anti-covid’ protocol, a monstrosity of criminal cocktails designed to ‘treat’ a non-existent virus,”; the government banned autopsies; and that vaccine passports were a way to force people to get vaccinated so their DNA can be altered or so that they can die as a result of complications from the vaccine (ActiveNews 2022). This article demonstrates extreme distrust of institutions, both in Romania and globally, and aims to exploit the reader’s distrust of the government to further the CT about the “New World Order.” All institutions, from international bodies to local hospitals, are portrayed as malevolent and the whole pandemic is treated as an elaborate conspiracy to control the world’s population.

Another Active News article asserts that the Romanian government lost 95 million euros on unused vaccines, pointing to the incompetence of the Ministry of Finance and President Klaus Iohannis in using government funds and planning the vaccine rollout (Active News 2022). This article represents two central components of Romanian COVID-19 CTs. Firstly, it stokes institutional

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distrust, though in a different manner than the previous article. Wherein the “New World Order” piece asserted that the world’s governments are evil, this article asserts that the Romanian national government is incompetent. Although taking different angles, both articles are able to tap into the reader’s distrust of their government. Secondly, by highlighting the financial incompetence of the Romanian government, this article is likely most effective at attracting the attention of someone dependent on government-funded social programs.The article’s target audience, therefore, is likely composed of people facing personal financial challenges. In reality, though the Romanian government may have lost money, it likely did not lose 19 million euros on a failed vaccination program.

Although the government ordered a surplus (120 million doses, or 7.5 doses for each citizen), it did not receive all the ordered doses and sold at least 5 million units of the surplus to other countries.

Populism The Alliance for the Union of Romanians (AUR) is a right-wing populist opposition party that has surged in popularity over the course of the pandemic.

The party has four main pillars reflected in their policies: family, nation, Christian faith, and liberty, According to Doiciar and Cretan (2021), public health measures and rising unemployment have facilitated the party’s rise by giving it a platform to severely critique the government and organise mass protests to spread populist ideas (251). The AUR’s connection to anti-COVID-19 conspiracies is clear in an analysis of its leader, George Simion’s, Facebook page. As of March 2022, Simion has 1.2 million followers on Facebook (for reference, Romania only has a population of 19 million). He frequently posts unproduced videos of himself discussing key political issues, including (but not limited to) COVID-19. In a video from March 7, 2021 (the day new public health measures were announced nationwide), Simion posted a video of himself walking the streets of Bucharest. The caption reads, “Red script again!

Restaurants and schools are closing in Bucharest, Timis, and other areas. […]

Others decide on behalf of Romanians. It’s time for protests!” Although Simion does not explicitly repeat a CT, the content of this video evidently encourages it: he alludes to the previous Communist regime and asserts that public health

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measures are intended to facilitate the government’s control over the population.

This sentiment is echoed in a post from July 8, 2021, which reads, “Only 60 new COVID cases. CNSU [National Committee for Emergency Situations] proposes extending the state of emergency.” Again, public health measures are portrayed as an exercise of government control over the population, and the severity of the COVID-19 virus is ignored.

Simion also makes consistent appeals to the working class and rural population. In a series of videos from July 2021, Simion campaigns against a draft ordinance that would restrict how people raise pigs in their households. He interviews various inhabitants of rural areas and displays clips of friendly-looking pigs, juxtaposing this content with claims that the ordinance would severely impact people who raise pigs for food and the pigs themselves, who would have to be fed with “scraps.” Furthermore, in a video from March 22, 2021, Simion makes a speech to the Romanian Parliament, calling for an intervention for the miners “stranded” in Crucea, Suceava, during a multi-day strike for unpaid wages; the caption reads that the request was rejected, but that the AUR will “not give up.” Similar to other populist leaders, Simion consistently portrays himself as a hero for the working class, which, in conjunction with his stance against the government’s public health measures, demonstrates that his primary audience is not the middle or upper class.

Simion’s stances are further exaggerated by Diana Sosoaca, another Romanian Parliamentarian and former member of the AUR. As of March 2022, she has 452,000 followers on Facebook and is known for her recorded antics in Parliament and public spaces. Unlike Simion, Sosoaca is very clear about her endorsement of COVID-19 CTs. The cover photo of her Facebook page as of October 2021 is a picture of the Romanian flag with the text, “I do not wear a mask, nor do I get vaccinated against Covid. I chose God!” This exemplifies her consistent appeals to religion in her anti-COVID-19 rhetoric: Christianity appears frequently in Romanian discussions about vaccine hesitancy; a common refrain is, “if God wants me to get COVID-19, I will get it,” to justify not receiving the vaccine. Sosoaca also frequently spreads the CT that COVID-19 is a conspiracy by the government to control the population: the caption of a live video from July 12, 2021, reads, “the COVID dictatorship begins again! […]

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Either you will wake up or it is the end of freedom!” The comments below the post reflect a similar nationalist, militant ideal (e.g., “I swore to fight for my country,” “Come, brothers, defend the lady senator…”). Finally, Sosoaca also appeals to the Romanian lower economic class: the caption of a live video, showing a poor village in Romania, from July 3, 2021, reads, “Extreme poverty lives on the biggest gold reserve of Europe – Romania, Plain of Tears! The unimaginable ghettos of the Golden Zone! How much longer can you stand it, People of Romania?”

In their populist rhetoric, both Simion and Sosoaca spread the COVID-19 CT that the pandemic’s health measures are part of a conspiracy by the government to control the population. The other content on their Facebook pages suggest that their target audiences are lower-class Romanians who are likely experiencing financial hardship; there are also indications that they target devout Christians due to Sosoaca’s allusions to God and the AUR’s official policy pillar of Christianity. Thus, they demonstrate the clear connection between Romanian populism and anti-COVID-19 sentiment.

Quantitative Analysis I also attempt to prove the connection between institutional distrust and belief in COVID-19 CTs through quantitative analysis of vaccination, education, and unemployment rates, number of churches, and AUR support in Romania’s 42 counties. Although a township-based level of analysis would be preferable to capture the urban-rural cleavage, only county and region-level data was publicly available.

Dependent variable My dependent variable is the vaccination rate in each county as of July 2021. This rate, as well as the eligible population as a whole and people who have received the vaccine, was provided by the Government of Romania. A low vaccination rate is a good measure of vaccine hesitancy in Romania because, as established earlier in the paper, vaccine hesitancy is a key driver of low vaccination rates in the country(e.g., Marcau et al. 2021, 260; Higgins 2021).

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Furthermore, the low vaccination rate cannot be attributed to poor health infrastructure in rural areas, as the national government undertook specific initiatives to deliver vaccines to rural villages in April 2021 (HotNews.ro 2021).

Although access to primary healthcare in rural areas is undoubtedly limited relative to access in urban cities, this is not cited in the literature as a major component in driving low vaccination rates in Romania.

Independent variables The main independent variable of interest is the unemployment rate per county. This value is treated as a proxy for economic hardship. Although household income data would be preferable, this data is only available from the census which has not been conducted since 2011. Unemployment rates are therefore a more current measure of personal economic hardship. The unemployment rate for each county was calculated using data from the Government of Romania which provides the total number of people unemployed in a given county, which was then divided by the number of people eligible for vaccination as of July 2021. The vaccination eligibility number is suitable because, as of July 2021, all Romanian adults were eligible for vaccination.

The other independent variable is the percentage of support for the AUR in the 2020 Romanian legislative elections per county, determined by data from the Romanian National Media Agency. Since the other prominent parties in Parliament lean towards the centre, the percentage of AUR support is considered a measure of populist support in each county.

Control variables The control variables are the number of churches per capita per county and the percentage of adults who attended upper secondary school or higher. The data on churches was taken from the Government of Romania, while the education numbers are from Eurostat. The measure of churches per capita is used to determine the relative religiosity of each county. Unfortunately, due to the delay of the 2021 Romanian census, the most current education numbers were only available on a regional level. Each county in the dataset was therefore

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assigned a region; thus, the education variable may be inaccurate for many counties.

Results First, the percentage of vaccinated adults per county was regressed on the unemployment rate, which was interacted with support for the AUR because, as seen in the qualitative analysis, populist belief has a close connection to lower-income individuals (that is, those most likely to experience unemployment) and belief in COVID-19 CTs (Table 1). The religiosity and education variables were controls. This first model accounted for 29% of the variance in the data. A 1% increase in the unemployment rate, when interacted with AUR support, resulted in a 6.94% decline in the vaccinated population per county, with a p-value less than 0.01.

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Second, the percentage of vaccinated adults was regressed on the unemployment rate, this time controlling for AUR support to see if the personal economic hardship still had an effect on vaccination rates outside of public populist support (Table 2). This model accounted for 26% of the variance in the data and had less statistical significance. For each 1% increase in the unemployment rate, the vaccination rate per county declines by only 3.5%.

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Thirdly, out of curiosity, the percentage of vaccinated adults was regressed on the unemployment rate, interacted with the religiosity variable (Table 3). This model predicted 21% of the variance in the data and found that, with each 1% increase in the unemployment rate, interacted with the number of churches per capita, the percentage of vaccinated adults per county decreased by 7.2%.

The higher education rate and other combinations of variables did not have statistically significant effects on the vaccination rate in each county.

Therefore, as evidenced by the regression results, the unemployment rate per county – which, recall, is a proxy for personal economic hardship – is the primary variable determining vaccination rates. This quantitative analysis thus supports my theoretical framework.

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Limitations There are evidently limitations to this quantitative analysis. Primarily, it does not explicitly engage with the phenomenon of COVID-19 CTs; the vaccination rate acts as a proxy for belief in CTs, but there may be other factors at play, such as access to vaccinations. The model does not account for differences between urban and rural populations; people in cities evidently have easier access to vaccinations, although the Romanian government did launch a major “mobile clinic” initiative to compensate for poor medical service in rural regions.

Furthermore, a better way of understanding the key drivers of CT belief using quantitative methods would be a large-N analysis of comments on posts containing or alluding to COVID-19 CTs; if I could identify the frequency of key concepts in the comments (such as, God, jobs), I would gain a better understanding of why individuals support CTs. However, besides these limitations, the study provides valuable insight into drivers of vaccine hesitancy in Romanian counties. The CT explanation – that people facing economic hardship are inclined to distrust institutions and are therefore more likely to believe in CTs – is necessary to explain the relationship between unemployment and vaccination rates in the data.

Conclusion This paper has explored the sources of anti-COVID-19 CT belief in Romania as a way to understand the country’s low vaccination rate. It has engaged with the literature on CT belief, vaccine hesitancy, and institutional distrust, and has conducted an in-depth exploration of Romanian CTs and their sources. It has produced original analysis on the subject, and substantially contributed to the understanding of CTs in Romania. Ultimately, it has established that institutional distrust, as motivated by personal economic hardship, increases the probability that someone will believe anti-COVID-19 CTs in Romania and, therefore, choose not to get vaccinated. Future avenues of research should include a more detailed exploration of Romanians’ interaction with CTs online and utilise up-to-date census data once it becomes available.

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Parlamentare2020/BEC - rezultate finale (înainte de contestaţii): Senat - PSD: 29,32%, PNL:.. 2020. AGERPRES. http://www.agerpres.ro/politica/2020/12/09/parlamentare2020-bec-rezul tate-finale-inainte-de-contestatii-senat-psd-29-32-pnl-25-58-camera-psd-2890-pnl-25-19--625107 (March 27, 2022).

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Radu, Bianca. 2021. “Trust in Public Institutions and Compliance with Measures Against the COVID-19 Pandemic. Case Study on the Metropolitan Area of Cluj, Romania.” Transylvanian Review of Administrative Sciences 17(63): 128–50.

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State, Society, and Reckless Spending: 20th Century Argentina’s Near Miss with Superpowerdom Harlan Hutt Edited by Emily Segal

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Introduction The Río de la Plata river basin is amongst the most resource-rich regions on Earth. The river is flanked on all sides by fertile land, allowing for the cultivation of both cash crops and subsistence agriculture. The rivers themselves are practically highways for economic activity and trade, being easily navigable, yet wide enough for larger ships to transit. Possessing a fraction of the wealth of riverine connections and natural resources within the Rio de la Plata basin would be a boon for any nation, yet, one holds the lion’s share: Argentina. Situated within the Southern Cone region, Argentina controls much of the Rio de la Plata basin, granting it an enviable geographic position relative to other nations.

Argentina's peaceful neighborhoods, lack of inter-state conflicts relative to other regions, and favorable geography make its position in the region all the more impressive. By the early 20th century, Argentina was all but guaranteed a seat at the table of great powers, forecasted to join the United States as the second independent European settler colony superpower.

However, as the 20th century unfolded, the country’s previous exponential growth stagnated. The First World War and the subsequent Great Depression inflicted repeated economic crises on the country. Argentina soon descended into a series of military coups and fraudulent elections, which further destabilized the country and pushed Argentina into an extended period of social and economic decline. Despite a return to democracy in 1983, these problems persist in present-day Argentina. While various factors contributed to Argentina’s descent into political corruption and instability, the effects of its foundational economic structure permeated into all aspects of Argentinian life.

Thus, this essay will argue that the primary cause of Argentina’s existential decline is its dependence on an export-driven economy in the early 20th century, which set into motion a chain of events that drove Argentina from an aspiring great power to a country moving from one economic catastrophe to another.

Early 20th-Century Economic Rise & the Agrarian Economy Argentina entered the 20th century as a rising Latin American power.

Riding a wave of European immigration and foreign investment, along with

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policies of economic liberalism, the Argentine population quintupled and the economy exploded, leading to Argentina’s meteoric rise from a fledgeling, post-colonial state, to a major exporter and globally significant economic player (Whitaker 1961, 104). Argentina enjoyed remarkable political stability, which attracted substantial European migration, and precipitated massive foreign, particularly British, investment. The influx of foreign capital, along with high demand for its chief exports, beef and grain, allowed successive Argentine governments to reinvest in public infrastructure and programs, including a compulsory, free national education program under Law 1420, and massive expansions of the domestic railway network (Mosk 1990, 88). As a result of Law 1420, and broad investments into social programs and education, literacy rates ballooned from 22% to a staggering 65%, and GDP jumped alongside it (Mosk 1990, 89).

However, the export-driven nature of the Argentine economy gave rise to a problem that would characterize much of modern Argentina’s history: corruption. Economic elites in Buenos Aires became increasingly invested in Argentine industries, namely agricultural industries like cattle and grain. As they continued to invest, these elites grew into a pseudo-oligarchy and began to dominate the Argentine political system. Though governing as a nominal democracy, the ‘cattle barons’ and grain lobbyists were deeply involved in the Argentine government and firmly entrenched in Argentina’s political institutions. Though other factors influenced the slow growth of urban industry, the prevailing factor was the business interests of the Argentine economic elite, who profited immensely from the agrarian economy, and the British-funded railways used to bring grain from the fields of La Pampa to the docks of Buenos Aires (Wright 1967, 68).

Therefore, with elites continuously profiting from agrarian exports, there was little incentive to diversify the country’s economic activity, nor was there the capital to do so. Though overseas investment was plentiful, foreign economic activity was concentrated on infrastructure: particularly, railway infrastructure, to extract resources as efficiently as possible. Fundamentally, Argentina’s decline began as a direct result of this export-driven economy. The Argentine ruling elite consolidated economic activity into agrarian industries, creating a dominant

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export economy during a period in which demand for resources like beef and grain was extremely high. Though this allowed for a period of immense economic stability and prosperity, it also created a structurally inflexible economy uniquely susceptible to fluctuations in demand for its agricultural exports, and, therefore, unable to adapt to radical changes in the global economy.

Argentina’s dependence on agriculture is illustrated by its export metrics: in 1870, Argentina exported 100,000 tons of wheat per year - by 1910, they exported 2,500,000 tons, a major increase, and a significant portion of Argentina’s GDP (Mosk 1990, 89), In this respect, early 19th-century Argentina is not unlike Chavez’s Venezuela, or the contemporary Gulf states: nations whose economies are entirely dominated by the economic activity of one sector, and therefore more vulnerable to collapses than countries with effectively diversified economies. This collapse would reach its peak in 1933, and Argentina was woefully unprepared for its repercussions (Haring, 1936, 506). Though most, if not all, nations experienced significant economic consequences as a result of the Great Depression, the economic and political ramifications that Argentina endured were distinctively destabilizing.

The Great Depression & State Dependence on Foreign Capital Like many Latin American countries, Argentina’s reliance on exports and foreign, particularly European and American, investment made it vulnerable to a decline in prices for raw materials and agricultural products (Haring 1936, 506).

Agricultural exports were further neutered by a lackluster harvest in 1929, turning an already serious economic downturn into a substantial economic crisis (Federico 2005, 955). By 1932, the relative price of Argentine agricultural product exports had fallen 37.7% from 1929, one of the highest declines in agricultural relative price among agrarian nations in the Americas (Federico 2005, 955).

Furthermore, these declines were intensified by the increasing lack of foreign capital invested in the country, particularly British capital. Argentina had, by the 20th century, become increasingly reliant on British investment in domestic infrastructure. This dominant reliance is evidenced by British

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ownership of some 66% of the forty-thousand kilometers worth of railways in Argentina (Duncan 1937, 559). However, by 1932, Britain, suffering crippling economic consequences as a result of the depression, began to favor protectionist solutions to the crisis, particularly those favoring Commonwealth nations over foreign trade partners (Wright 1967, 75). Though mirroring much of the world’s tilt towards nationalistic solutions to the Great Depression, Argentina nonetheless suffered the consequences of UK protectionism, particularly of colonial imports. Argentina’s key competitors in the British market - the Commonwealth countries of Canada and Australia - were similarly agrarian, settler colonies who stood to benefit immensely in their respective recovery efforts through British protectionism. Thus, Argentina’s economic situation worsened, while Argentine farmers, a major component of the agrarian economy, were driven bankrupt.

In addition to agricultural protectionism, 1932 marked the British government’s imposition of the Imperial Preference, a system of mutually-reduced tariffs amongst British colonies with the stated intent of increasing internal trade within the Commonwealth (McGinty 1945, 525).

Specifically, Britain sought to protect Commonwealth economies by introducing greater tariffs on the import of foreign staples, namely wheat, corn, and, crucially to Argentina, beef (World Affairs, 83). Before 1933, Britain had bought more than 90% of Argentine beef exports, and the potential loss of the British market would have been a catastrophic blow to both Argentina’s economy and the “cattle barons” who dominated much of the industry (Duncan 1937, 76).

Unwilling to accept the likely massive loss of revenue, Argentina’s elites took drastic action to maintain access to the British market, signing the Roca-Runciman Treaty with the British in 1933 (Duncan 1937, 76). The Roca-Runciman agreements proved massively unpopular with the Argentine public. Britain was granted sweeping economic privileges, including preferred treatment of British-owned infrastructure and public services, in return for Argentina’s uninterrupted access to an already declining British beef market (Duncan 1937, 76). Though the treaty did prevent the complete collapse of Argentina’s cattle industry, it largely served the deeply vested interests of Argentina’s political and economic elite, who continued to profit immensely 65 from the export of beef.

As a consequence, Argentine intellectuals, and eventually, the public at large, began to perceive this relationship as imperialistic, with Britain gradually usurping control over much of Argentina’s industries, growing to dominate much of Argentina’s beef industry. These misguided and flagrantly corrupt efforts to insulate the economic elite from the ongoing economic crisis and failure to alleviate the public’s economic woes led to political turmoil and dissatisfaction with the prevailing policy of economic liberalism. This disaffection with the current political order led to growing nationalism among Argentines, especially the working class, who flocked to radical ideas and candidates in search of someone who would represent and protect their interests.

The Rise of Perón and Economic Reforms These radical ideas and nationalistic fervor led to the election of Juan Domingo Perón in the 1946 presidential elections, who cruised to an 11-point victory over José Tamborini’s Radical Civic Union. Perón had previously served in Argentina’s brief military junta, as both Secretary of Labor and Vice President.

Perón promised Argentine economic self-reliance, a message that resonated with vast swaths of the Argentine public, who had suffered nearly two decades of economic mismanagement and foreign domination of much of the country’s industries. Shortly after his victory, Perón began a program of self-sufficiency and nationalization to address the public’s concerns over foreign investment and influence.

The first, and most obvious, target of this program was Great Britain. By 1943, the British government owned a controlling stake of over 70% of Argentine railway shares, and prior treaties, like the previously mentioned Roca-Runciman agreement, had greatly solidified British domination over Argentine agriculture (Wright 1967, 84). Perón’s intention to nationalize the railways had been forecasted far in advance of his victory: railway unions were among his key supporters, who threw their support behind him in exchange for an enlarged role in the operation of railways (Wright 1967, 84). An expanded role would likely require government ownership over those railways, lest Perón be required to have every change approved by their British owners.

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Beyond campaign promises, the nationalization of railways and other industries was an essential component of the national image Perón had carefully crafted for himself and his ideology. Perón created justicialismo, an ideology which portrayed itself as a supposed ‘third position’ between the Cold War struggle of US-style capitalism and Soviet-style communism (McLynn 1982, 15).

Justicialismo, and by extension, Perón, supposed that this position lay in both a harsh condemnation of international capitalism, which Perón himself decried as a “cold and inhuman force,” and a rejection of communism in favor of a vaguely nationalistic alternative (McLynn 1982, 20). Justicialismo was in part a manifestation of Perón’s positioning of himself as Argentina’s ‘economic liberator’: he denounced British ownership, arguing that foreign control over essential railway infrastructure was the greatest obstacle to realizing the “national aspiration of being economically independent and politically sovereign” (Wright 1967, 84). Though he was the first President to espouse these beliefs publicly, they were very much a continuation of the dogma adopted by a notably anti-British group of Argentina’s intellectual class, who criticized Britain’s near monopoly of railways and agriculture as a form of ‘economic imperialism’ (Wright 1967, 83). This combination of factors drew Perón and Great Britain to the negotiating table and organized the railway’s purchase in 1947. Perón later issued the ‘Declaration of Economic Independence of the Argentine Republic’ and declared Argentina liberated from foreign economic imperialism (Wright 1967, 91). These bold declarations illustrated the issue of nationalization’s transition from a purely economic concern to an immensely symbolic and emotional issue among Argentines.

Symbolic issue or otherwise, the purchase was not symbolic for Argentina’s treasury. The purchase, amounting to 135 million pounds, equivalent to 4.1 billion in 2022, led to a trend of state spending under Perón.

Much of this state spending came in the form of the outwardly ambitious Five Year Plan, introduced in 1946. The plan, billed by Perón as a program that would “penetrate every department of Argentine life,” covered everything from land reform to labor laws to social insurance, with all its tenets falling under three categories: state government, national defense, and national economy (A.N.O, 398). The national economy, the largest beneficiary of the plan, included massive

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investments into public health programs, sanitation, and road infrastructure, along with plans for a guaranteed minimum wage and other promises to the Argentine population (A.N.O, 399). Along with public programs, Perón’s plan sought to finally diversify the Argentine economy away from the agrarian industry and towards industrialization and energy independence.The plan included billions of pesos in funding for the development of oil fields, hydroelectricity, natural gas, and state-led industrialization efforts (A.N.O, 399).

Although the Five Year Plan’s programs proved immensely popular with the Argentine people, they also yet again proved costly. Spending ballooned during Perón’s presidency, with the plan accounting for over 1.65 billion pounds. Along with the nationalization of Argentina’s railways, this exponential increase in spending put immense strain on the state treasury.

Perón’s nascent government also found itself plagued by another problem: lack of foreign capital. Where Argentina once had billions of dollars in foreign investment stimulating the economy, by 1947, it had very little. Unlike the Depression years, this was not due to an economic crisis but a fundamental mistrust of the Perón government amongst potential investors. Though relatively stable, Perón’s penchant for nationalization of foreign assets troubled investors, who opted to invest in nations with governments who had little risk of denouncing foreign corporations as ‘imperialistic’ and seizing their assets when it became politically expedient for them. Though Perón’s move towards nationalization would have likely occurred either way, a gradual process of nationalization, though far less politically advantageous, would have all but guaranteed a continual flow of foreign investment. Instead, Perón chose to alienate investors and quickly depleted much of the capital remaining within Argentina to fund his grandiose projects. Although the economy entered a brief, five-year-long upswing, the effect was temporary, as an early 1950s economic recession rapidly eroded the Peronist coalition of military, union, and church leaders collapsing (Little, 661).

Perón’s failed economic policies were doubtlessly the chief factor behind the collapse of his governing coalition and his subsequent loss of popular support amongst Argentines. His removal through a 1955 military coup, dubbed the Revolución Libertadora, placed yet another military dictatorship in power.

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Despite Perón’s reforms being met with popular support, they nonetheless continued and accelerated a trend of extreme state spending within Argentina.

With foreign capital all but evaporated after Britain’s departure, loans were necessary, causing the national debt to increase substantially (Little 1973, 659).

Another of Perón’s attempts to solve one of Argentina’s major shortcomings, the state’s excessive reliance on agriculture exports, generated even more problems. Peron’s efforts to implement import-substitution industrialization (ISI), which involved concentrating state-led industrialization efforts on replacing foreign imports with domestically-produced products, reduced dependence on foreign products and increasing self-sufficiency (Alexander 1960, 166). Simultaneously, Perón introduced a state agriculture monopoly, forcing farmers to sell grain and meat to the state below global market prices, causing rural production to shrink. Additionally, Perón’s ‘social justice’ initiatives and the Five Year Plan meant that rural producers were expected to simultaneously abide by a government-enforced minimum wage, significantly increasing worker pay, and sell their products to the government at a below-market rate (Alexander 1960, 166). Combined, these factors made rural agriculture largely unprofitable, and, predictably, the industry declined substantially during Perón’s tenure. Despite his intentions, these measures left Perón’s successors with even less capital and flexibility.

Democratization and Menem’s reforms After several years of regular shifting between nominal democracy and military dictatorship, the 1983 presidential election brought the government of Raúl Alfonsín to power. While this election initially provided hope that an end to Argentina’s economic struggles would arrive, Alfonsín’s attempts at economic stabilization failed, and by the 1989 election, he was replaced by Carlos Menem, a self-identified Peronist. Menem inherited an Argentina rife with economic instability. In 1998, another economic collapse under Alfonsín’s administration led to massive hyperinflation, with consumer prices rising 3610%, greatly impacting the average Argentine (Smith 1991, 45). Menem’s solution to this crisis was a radical program of neoliberal ‘free market’ reforms to the Argentine

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economy, explicitly rejecting the Perónist line of state-led economic development that had predominated Perón’s regime (Smith 1991, 46). However, despite this seeming repudiation of Perón’s economic policy, Menem’s economics retained an important Perónist characteristic: excessive state spending.

Menem engaged in a series of high-profile infrastructure projects with the intention of rallying popular support around his nascent government.

Emphasizing the need to modernize decrepit infrastructure, Menem’s government invested billions into roads, energy infrastructure, healthcare, and other public works projects (Wynia 1991, 58). These ambitious projects were funded, in part, through the privatization of state-run enterprises, including the national airline, phone company, coal and gas corporations, and, yet again, Argentina’s national railways (Wynia 1991, 58). Though these reforms only proved to be mildly successful, they nevertheless allowed Menem to coast to re-election in the 1995 presidential race. Although initially successful, Menem’s privatization failed to produce sufficient financial capital to fund his infrastructure and social spending projects. Instead, Menem’s reforms fundamentally overextended the Argentine state, which was effectively trying to solve too many problems at once. Though in the short-term, investment in infrastructure could generate popular support, over a protracted period of time, Argentina simply lacked the financial capital and economic stability to attempt such efforts at the modernization of their infrastructure. Coupled with the pre-existing issue of hyperinflation, infrastructure spending eventually forced the Argentine economy into a recession from 1998 until 2002 (Paddock 2002, 156).

By 2001, Argentina had defaulted on $93 billion worth of external debt, causing severe capital flight as foreign investors fled Argentina for stable markets (Paddock 2002, 156).

Much like Perón before him, Menem’s policies proved too ambitious for the fragile Argentine economy, prioritizing spectacle over practicality. Menem invested billions into infrastructure and healthcare programs, improving his standing amongst the public, yet undermining the stability of the economy.

Succinctly put, Menem spent money the Argentine state did not have, took out loans the state could not repay, and spent the money to finance projects that, while possessing short-term upside, were ultimately detrimental to long-term

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economic stability. As a consequence, the economic recession hastened and plunged Argentina into yet another economic catastrophe for which its government had no solution. Though Menem rejected Perónist economic policy in favor of pragmatic neoliberalism to combat hyperinflation, his tenure, particularly his extreme state-led spending, mirrors Perón’s tenure, and was, to an extent, a continuation of his overspending, despite some contrasts, namely Menem’s program of privatization.

Conclusion Despite possessing an enviable geographic position and entering the 20th century as an economic powerhouse, Argentina failed to capitalize and ascend to the status of great power. Fundamentally, the root of Argentina’s decline lies in the export economy, whose near complete reliance on agrarian exports enabled rampant corruption that kept Argentina stagnant and dependent on foreign capital. This economic infrastructure left the country susceptible to future global economic crises, like the Great Depression, which hastened its economic decline.

Economic recession led to political turmoil, empowering a series of coups that would eventually result in the rise of the Perón regime. Attempts by Perón to address the overreliance on agricultural exports and dependence on foreign capital led to the sudden decline of rural agriculture, and the complete departure of foreign capital from the country. Coupled with extreme spending, Argentina quickly depleted its financial resources. Finally, when democratization occurred and Menem eventually seized power, his reforms, though distinct from Perón’s, continued the trend of spending outstripping state funds, provoking another catastrophic economic recession. Therefore, Argentina’s failure to capitalize on its great-power potential was inevitable: internal mismanagement, in the form of overreliance on agricultural exports, reliance on foreign capital, state overspending, and failed efforts to address all three, was fundamentally caused by the Argentine export economy of the early 1900s, which failed to industrialize or adapt to market changes. Coupled with internal mismanagement, external events, like global market crashes and recessions, exacerbated these foundational flaws, and pushed Argentina from potential great power to economic pariah.

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Works Cited A. N. O. “Argentina’s Economic Outlook: The Five-Year Plan.” The World Today 3, no. 9 (1947): 398–407. http://www.jstor.org/stable/40392052.

Alexander, Robert J. “Argentina After Peron.” Current History 38, no. 223 (1960): 165–69. http://www.jstor.org/stable/45310413.

Duncan, Julian S. “British Railways in Argentina.” Political Science Quarterly 52, no. 4 (1937): 559–82. https://doi.org/10.2307/2143973.

Federico, Giovanni. “Not Guilty? Agriculture in the 1920s and the Great Depression.” The Journal of Economic History 65, no. 4 (2005): 949–76. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3874910.

Haring, Clarence H. “Depression and Recovery in Argentina.” Foreign Affairs 14, no. 3 (1936): 506–19. https://doi.org/10.2307/20030749.

Little, Walter. “Party and State in Peronist Argentina, 1945-1955.” The Hispanic American Historical Review 53, no. 4 (1973): 644–62. https://doi.org/10.2307/2511904.

McGinty, Alice B. “Britain’s Imperial Preference.” Current History 9, no. 52 (1945): 521–25. http://www.jstor.org/stable/45306822.

McLynn, F.J. “The Political Thought of Juan Domingo Peron.” Boletín de Estudios Latinoamericanos y Del Caribe, no. 32 (1982): 15–23. http://www.jstor.org/stable/25675123.

Mosk, Sanford A. “Nineteenth Century Economic Affairs.” People and Issues in Latin American History (1990): 89-90. https://archive.org/details/peopleissuesinla00hank.

Paddock, John V. “IMF Policy and the Argentine Crisis.” The University of Miami Inter-American Law Review 34, no. 1 (2002): 155–87. http://www.jstor.org/stable/40176532.

Smith, William C. “State, Market and Neoliberalism in Post-Transition Argentina: The Menem Experiment.” Journal of Interamerican Studies and World Affairs 33, no. 4 (1991): 45–82. doi:10.2307/165879.

“The Ottawa Conference.” World Affairs 95, no. 2 (1932): 83–84. http://www.jstor.org/stable/20662126.

Whitaker, Arthur P. “The Argentine Paradox.” The Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 334 (1961): 103–12.

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http://www.jstor.org/stable/1034592.

Wright, Winthrop R. “Foreign-Owned Railways in Argentina: A Case Study of Economic Nationalism.” Business History Review 41, no. 1 (1967): 62–93. doi:10.2307/3112421.

Wynia, Gary W. “Argentina’s Economic Reform.” Current History 90, no. 553 (1991): 57–84. http://www.jstor.org/stable/45316480.

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Indigenous Data Sovereignty: The Census as an Instrument of Canadian Decolonization Madalena Monteiro Edited by Chloe Merritt

(KNBA)

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Abstract This paper examines the Canadian census as a potent political technology that has served contradictory functions in both consolidating state power and advancing anticolonial projects. While some scholars contend that the census is an inherently colonial tool, a critical analysis of the historical and contemporary relationship between census design, statehood, and data decolonization unveils a more nuanced picture. Through an exploration of Indigenous counter-censuses, which seek to establish Indigenous sovereignty over data, this paper illuminates the potential of the census to challenge colonial structures and advance the self-governance of Indigenous communities and resources.

Introduction The notion of accumulation by dispossession lies at the heart of the Canadian colonial project. When we take stock of the consequences of colonialism, we often think of dispossession as it relates to material objects, such as land or natural resources. In practice, however, control over Indigenous peoples has been expressed not only through material dispossession but also through epistemicide: the ongoing denial, obstruction, and co-option of Indigenous modes of knowledge production. As the settler-colonial state seeks to legitimize itself and consolidate its power, it latches on to the census as a tool to establish itself as the ultimate authority on the people it governs. Indigenous peoples are thus dispossessed of sovereignty over their own data and are transformed into objects of the state.

Indigenous communities in Canada have resisted colonial data collection through data decolonization projects and counter-censuses. These projects aim to gather information about Indigenous peoples for Indigenous use, with the ultimate goal of advancing sovereignty claims and informing the autonomous governance of Indigenous peoples, communities, and lands. Indigenous counter-censuses can thus be characterized as anticolonial and sovereignty-affirming projects. Some academics have argued that the census is a colonial construction, and is therefore too enmeshed with colonial logics to serve 75

as a tool of decolonization (Thompson 2022). However, this position betrays fundamental assumptions about the origins of the census while simultaneously dissociating Indigenous peoples from modernity and statecraft. In the following pages, I will argue that Indigenous counter-censuses have demonstrated that, in the correct context, the census can serve as an instrument of decolonization. I will begin by discussing the role of the census as a state-building tool and examining how preconceptions about legitimacy can create hierarchies in data collection and use. In the subsequent section, I will provide a brief overview of the historical relationship between census design, statehood, and colonialism. Next, I will explore how data sovereignty initiatives have served to advance Indigenous claims about statehood and self-governance, followed by a discussion relating the census to rationalization and power. Finally, I will conclude by addressing counter-arguments and reasserting the legitimacy of censuses that challenge the colonial mold.

State-Building and the Census Leaders of the data sovereignty movement conceptualize Indigenous data governance as a “reciprocal relationship of data for governance and governance of data, which both contribute to the cycle of nation and data rebuilding and center on Indigenous conceptions of sovereignty” (Leone 2021, 63). Gathering internal data through counter-censuses allows Indigenous peoples to develop the foundational tools to govern their communities and resources in a self-determined form. Data sovereignty also reduces Indigenous dependence on data collected by the colonial state, and by extension, state-run programs and services that systematically marginalize First Nations communities. While governance of data implies repossession and self-definition, data for governance implies statecraft, autonomy, and sovereignty. Both imply decolonization that is achieved through the development of Indigenous data ecosystems.

The census is deeply rooted in notions of legitimacy. Both the Cambridge and Collins English Dictionaries stipulate that surveys of a given population must be ‘official’ to qualify as legitimate censuses; however, neither dictionary specifies what characteristics make a body official, and by extension capable of carrying

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out a valid census (Cambridge English Dictionary 2021; Collins English Dictionary 2014). Evaluating the legitimacy of a census thus necessitates a value judgement about whether or not the organization carrying it out can be considered official. It follows that to conduct a census is to assert oneself as a legitimate political body with some form of jurisdiction over a given population.

Regardless of its contents, carrying out a census is a distinctly political act that carries an implicit claim to legitimacy and authority.

Historically and currently, much of the data collected by Indigenous peoples has been deemed illegitimate by academia and the state. This can be attributed in part to epistemic biases; culturally-informed Western conceptions of knowledge often privilege quantitative data over other modes of research, particularly those that intersect with spirituality. Indigenous cultures often regard “place, cosmology, elders, dreams, visions, and paths” as legitimate sources of knowledge, while Westerners tend to remain skeptical of non-positivist modes of knowledge production (Campbell 2014, 21). Often however, Indigenous data-collection efforts are impeded and marginalized by the colonial state because they conflict with “constant efforts by governments, states, societies and institutions to deny the historical formations” of Indigenous oppression (Smith 1999, 4). In Canada, Indigenous researchers have been forced to pursue legal action against the federal government to secure the release of residential school documents which hold key information about the locations of mass graves (PressProgress 2017). As recently as 2020, the Canadian government won a second court case that blocked Indigenous researchers from creating statistical reports regarding abuse at the schools (PressProgress 2017). Such instances reinforce the colonial state as the legitimate collector and deployer of Indigenous data.

The notion of the ‘expert’ is another avenue through which Canadian colonizers have historically asserted their legitimacy and dominance over Indigenous communities. Development projects in First Nations communities frequently take the form of cultural imperialism wrapped in the technocratic knowledge of ‘expertise.’ For example, in 1964, Northern Canadian bureaucrats undertook a mission to reduce “tuberculosis rates, infant mortality rates, and incidence[s] of environmental diseases” that had been recorded in surveys of the

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Inuit population (Stevenson 2012, 592-613). State experts recommended that traditional accommodations and hunting camps be dismantled to improve health outcomes among Inuit peoples, resulting in the mass displacement of entire communities and a suicide epidemic among Inuit youth (Stevenson 2012, 592-613).

Similar dynamics are enabled by data-collection tools such as the census, which turn communities of people into problems to be solved by experts in the colonial bureaucracy. Expertise revolves around certain methodologies, particularly those drawn from quantitative and seemingly objective sources — such as the census. As a result, state-sponsored development experts look to census results to legitimize their development agendas. Since experts must be objective, they are also necessarily outsiders, resulting in a dynamic wherein Indigenous data is collected and appropriated without input from the communities targeted by data collection initiatives. Counter-censuses disrupt this colonial dynamic by situating Indigenous peoples as the rightful experts on Indigenous issues, data, and data use.

Counter-censuses assert the legitimacy of Indigenous governments and reject the hierarchies of data collection established by colonial powers. By countering information collected by the state, they also establish Indigenous communities as the ultimate authorities on Indigenous information, thereby challenging the colonial structures that restrict, co-opt, and marginalize internally-generated Indigenous data.

The Census As a Colonial Instrument In his iconic book Seeing Like a State, James Scott describes the census as a tool used by colonial states to increase the legibility of a given territory (Scott 1998, 2). The rationalization of diverse populations simplifies basic functions such as taxation, conscription, and the prevention of rebellion, thus facilitating the state’s interventions in and manipulations of social life. In Canada, efforts to define and enumerate Indigenous populations emerged as early as 1677, when the British government ordered official surveys of Native communities and their assets (Statistics Canada 2015). Initial censuses, which largely excluded women

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and children, aimed to determine the number of warriors residing in various tribes; the 1677 census, for example, identified 2,340 warriors belonging to the Mohawk, Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga, and Seneca nations (Statistics Canada 2015). The data collected through these initiatives was later used to inform military strategy in 1687, when British forces fought to further expand their colonies into Indigenous territories (Government of Canada 2018).

While early surveys relied on information gathered internally by Indigenous communities, the colonial state eventually began to conduct top-down enumerations of the peoples living within its borders. Autonomy over data collection was stripped from Indigenous groups and relocated within the state’s sphere of authority, thus arming the new Canadian government with the means to reconstruct Indigenous identity in ways amenable to policy intervention.

Census data eased the administrative burden of the state as it carried out various disciplinary and biopolitical projects, including the enrollment of Indigenous children in residential schools, the imposition of Catholicism, the seizure of Indigenous territory, and the forced relocation of Indigenous peoples into agricultural labour (Andersen 2013, 625-650). The transformation of robust social realities into static categories allowed the Canadian government to rearrange its population in ways that increased legibility and strengthened the state’s coercive apparatus, thereby transforming real people and communities into resources within a centralized, utilitarian logic.

Evidently, the census is a potent political instrument which, when allied with ideological power, has the capacity to reimagine and reconstruct the realities it represents. In the hands of the state, the census functioned to impose Western rationalities upon formerly-independent North American civilizations. In the hands of Indigenous communities however, it has had the power to challenge contemporary notions of data ownership and use in a distinctly anticolonial way.

The following sections analyze how Indigenous communities in modern-day Canada have made use of the census to assert their autonomy and challenge colonial structures.

Counter-Censuses in Practice While the census has been used to further colonial aims, it has also formed

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the backbone of Indigenous-led development. The First Nations Indigenous Governance Center (FNIGC) is one of the leading Canadian organizations engaged in data sovereignty initiatives. Censuses conducted by the FNIGC include the First Nations Regional Health Survey, the First Nations Regional Early Childhood, Education, and Employment Survey, and the First Nations Labour and Employment Development survey (FNIGC 2022). Censuses are used to inform Indigenous-led development projects, including The Aboriginal Diabetes Initiative, The Aboriginal Head Start Program on Reserve, The Children’s Oral Health Initiative, The Maternal Child Health Program, and The National Aboriginal Youth Suicide Prevention program (FNIGC 2022).

The programs’ focus on health is notable, as health services are traditionally provided by Canada’s provincial governments. Healthcare has also historically been a major driver of animosity between Indigenous communities and the Canadian state, largely because of racism and barriers to access experienced by Indigenous Canadians attempting to secure services. Further, Western models of medicine tend to privilege tangible indicators of health over patient experience, while Indigenous models often favour more patient-centered approaches (NCCIH 2022). The First Nations Health Authority (FNHA), an NGO operating in British Columbia, has “implemented holistic and affirmative [censuses] to track First Nations health within the province” (Geddes 2022).

Data gathered by the FNHA is used to inform workshops and provide internally-directed healthcare services, all of which are oriented towards advancing “First nations self-determination and traditions” (Geddes 2022).

The health disparities experienced by Indigenous communities are manifestations of colonialism that the FNIGC and FNHA have sought to challenge through data collection initiatives and increased self-sufficiency. It is distinctly anticolonial to conduct a census and use the information gathered from it to perform a state function. By collecting and using census data to address failures of the Canadian state, the FNIGC and FNHA demonstrate that Indigenous communities are more capable of performing certain state functions than their colonizers. This demonstration of self-reliance is a crucial step towards establishing de facto Indigenous statehood and self-governance.

As Scott writes in Seeing Like a State, censuses “have the power to

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transform the facts they take note of” (Scott 1998, 9). Censuses are generative; by constructing and categorizing Indigenous peoples, they transform the ways in which the general public conceptualizes indigeneity. In some instances, counter-censuses have functioned to reconstruct popular notions of indigeneity to better reflect the realities of Indigenous identity. As of 2021, the Canadian census asks respondents whether they identify as “Indigenous,” with subcategories allowing for “Metis” and “Inuit” identification (Statistics Canada 2022). Many Indigenous Canadians have expressed their distaste for these signifiers, arguing that labels such as ‘Indigenous’ or ‘First Nations’ define Indigenous peoples in relation to their colonizers. The term ‘Indigenous’ does not denote any particular culture, linguistic tradition, or geography. Rather, it is given meaning by its disjunct relationship with the settlers who arrived in Canada and displaced pre-existing civilizations.

Today, the homogenizing label of ‘Indigenous’ has been rejected by many Canadian communities and tribes, who “continue to resist colonial identification through means of self-determination and self-identification” (Leone 2021, 43).

The counter-census has been an important tool in advancing Indigenous self-identification and dismantling colonial racialization and classification schemes. Many of the surveys conducted by groups like the FNIGC prompt respondents to write in their own genealogical information rather than providing preselected options. By encouraging members of the Indigenous population to formally identify with their ancestral communities, groups such as the FNIGC begin to dismantle the homogenizing classification mechanisms that label all members of diverse and ancient North American civilizations as simply ‘Indigenous.’

Rationalization and Power The writings of Michel Foucault and Gilles Deleuze highlight the ways in which the census, as a political technology, is used to impose state power and subjectify individuals, yet also has the potential to shift power dynamics and increase agency for marginalized communities. Foucault imagines state power as both a totalizing and individualizing force which both groups individuals into a mass,

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and imposes upon them a process of self-definition that is mediated by an external authority (1982, 785). This is the process by which individuals are transformed into subjects of the state (Foucault 1982, 785). The census, which groups, enumerates, and identifies individuals, is one of many political technologies aiding the process of subjectification. Deleuze expands on this notion in Postscript on the Societies of Control, writing that “the numerical language of control is made of codes that mark access to information… individuals have become dividuals” (Deleuze 1992, 5). For Deleuze, technologies such as the census indicate that the individual self is no longer an indivisible entity; the power of the census lies in its ability to strip bits of information from the individual and reconstitute them in ways beyond the individual’s control, enforcing one’s position as subject.

To Foucault, power is a constitutive force, linked closely with capacity for action—particularly action which takes the form of governance (Foucault 1982, 790). Power is diffused through society by way of knowledge, making questions of authority over truth and data central to the legitimization of governing bodies.

To conduct a census, and by extension, to claim ownership over data and truth, is a deployment of power. Crucially, Foucault does not conceive of power as an inherently negative force, or a disavowal of freedom. Rather, it is embedded in the fabric of social reality. The most effective modes of resistance do not seek to oppose power itself, but instead seek to “[detach] the power of truth from the forms of hegemony… within which it operates at the present time” (Foucault 1984, 75).

Counter-censuses detach truth from hegemony by establishing techniques of knowledge that fall outside the purview of the state. The census’ anticolonial potential lies in its ability to relocate claims regarding authority over truth from the Canadian state to Indigenous communities, thereby transforming those communities from recipients to mobilizers of power. The census is therefore not an inherently oppressive tool, but an instrument of power that functions to increase the capacity for government of those who deploy it.

Counter-Arguments Some academics have argued that the census is a colonial construction, and

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can therefore never assist in the liberation of the population it was designed to objectify (Thompson 2022). Others have added that the quantitative enumeration which characterizes the census is inherently opposed to Indigenous epistemological traditions. For example, Evans et. al. list Indigenous research methods as “storytelling, personal reflection, visiting, sharing circles, ceremony, art creation, and dance” (2015, 1663).

While there certainly ought to be a place for alternative modes of knowledge production in academia, to present the aforementioned list of research methods as an exhaustive account of Indigenous epistemologies is to divorce Indigenous communities from statecraft and modernity. Historically, mainstream notions of which activities can and cannot be considered ‘Indigenous’ have been externally imposed, static categories that caricaturize Indigeneity and reduce Indigenous culture to its form at the point of initial colonial contact. This tradition is deeply embedded in Canadian law, partially as a consequence of the landmark 1996 Supreme Court case R. v Van der Peet. Van der Peet, a member of the Stó:lō First Nation in British Columbia, was charged with selling ten salmon caught under the authority of a fish-food license. The province argued that restrictions posed by s. 27(5) of the British Columbia Fishery (General) Regulations prohibited the sale of fish obtained under such a license; Van de Peet argued that these restrictions infringed upon s. 35(1) of the Constitution Act (Supreme Court of Canada 1996). A key element of the case was Chief Justice Joseph Lamer’s decision to adopt a ‘frozen rights’ approach, which defined Indigenous activities using the following criterion: It is precisely those present practices, customs and traditions which can be identified as having continuity with the practices, customs and traditions that existed prior to contact that will be the basis for the identification and definition of Aboriginal rights under s. 35(1) (Primeau 2010, 63).

Lamer’s ruling established a precedent requiring future Indigenous claimants to demonstrate continuity between their present-day activities and those practiced prior to the arrival of Europeans in North America. Lamer’s metric, known in Canadian law as the ‘Van der Peet test,’ determined that establishing such a 83 linkage would allow an activity to be deemed ‘Aboriginal.’

Lamer’s approach failed to recognize that Indigenous cultures, like any others, are in a constant state of flux; they undergo transformations and evolutions and are not incompatible with modernity. His ruling demonstrates how dominant, static characterizations of indigeneity have continued to impede Indigenous development initiatives, excluding Indigenous communities from the temporal flexibility that other cultures are assumed to be entitled to.

Suggesting the census opposes Indigenous epistemologies extends the logic of the Van der Peet case. In the Western imagination, Indigenous knowledge is reduced to the passing of sacred ancestral mythologies down through generations, unchanging over the past six centuries. However, Indigenous communities are not frozen in time; they hold important traditional knowledge, but they are also members of evolving modern civilizations and should not be excluded from popular quantitative modes of research. Discounting Indigenous perspectives, and limiting Indigenous forms of knowledge to 15th-century methodologies, are both acts of Indigenous erasure.

The notion of the census as a colonial construction is also more complicated than some researchers would suggest. While little is known about the pre-colonial practices of Canadian Indigenous groups, evidence of census-taking as a state-building exercise has been found among ancient societies elsewhere in the world, long before the advent of colonialism. In pre-colonial India, human inventories were undertaken for taxation purposes and to determine the populations of given castes (Peabody 2001, 823). In Egypt and China, census administration for the purpose of state-building occurred as early as 2,500 BC and 2 AD, respectively (Office for National Statistics 2022). In short, while the census has been used to further colonial aims, it is not an inherently colonial construction. The primary purpose of the census is to cement the legitimacy of a governing body and to bring a population under the control of the actor that is collecting data. When state-building activities are practiced by colonial powers, they reaffirm colonialism; when they are practiced by oppressed groups, they are sovereignty-affirming.

Conclusion As the Information Age unfolds, data is becoming an increasingly

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important resource. Pat Foster, a research analyst at the First Nations Information Governance Center, has been a leading voice among Indigenous activists expressing concern over the encroachment of two technologies — big data and artificial intelligence — into data collection spaces formerly monopolized by the Canadian state (Leone 2021, 174). New modes of data collection promise to ease the administrative burden of the state’s data-collection initiatives; in several Western countries, including Canada, they are being employed with increasing regularity to fill information gaps with externally-generated approximations and aggregations (Leone 2021, 174). While new technologies are imbued with an aura of neutrality, they are deeply political; they are engineered and operated by people, and the priorities and biases of their designers are embedded into their algorithms. Further, the abstraction of these technologies from the communities, individuals, and problems they describe threatens to reinforce the passive objectification of Indigenous peoples while expanding the interventionist capacities of the Canadian state. Foster articulated this concern in a 2021 interview, remarking that: It won’t be long before surveys aren’t being done because AI can do it quicker… [but] the world view we have versus the rest of the Western civilization, that can’t be modeled, it can’t be articulated in the form of artificial intelligence. So, it’s critical that an Indigenous way evolves (Leone 2021, 174).

Emerging technologies promise to pave the way for more totalizing forms of colonial control. In the wake of these developments, it is crucial that Indigenous communities establish independent information-gathering systems, such as counter-censuses, to assist in their anti-colonial endeavours.

This phenomenon is occurring at a critical juncture in time, during which pressure is mounting on the Canadian state to confront both its colonial legacy and its continuing appropriation of Indigenous assets. The decolonization of Indigenous data has proved to be a sticking point for the state’s reconciliation efforts; to relinquish control over data is, after all, to yield some degree of state sovereignty. In the wake of continuing colonial occupation, Indigenous

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communities have seized ownership over their own data through counter-census initiatives, and in doing so have taken on many of the responsibilities traditionally held by the Canadian state. Much of the content contained in counter-censuses is also distinctly anticolonial, and has assisted in efforts to challenge the construction and classification of Indigenous peoples by the state.

In light of the success of counter-census initiatives, we can begin to imagine a future wherein Canada’s Indigenous communities can use their own data to inform their state-building endeavours and assist in the self-governance of their peoples, lands, and resources.

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Works Cited Andersen, Chris. “Underdeveloped Identities: The Misrecognition of Aboriginality in the Canadian Census,” Economy and Society, no. 42 (2013): 625-650.

Cambridge English Dictionary, 4th ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021. S.v. “Census.”

Campbell, T.D. “A Clash of Paradigms? Western and Indigenous Views on Health Research Involving Aboriginal Peoples,” Nursing Research, no. 6 (2014): 39-43.

Collins English Dictionary, 12th ed. Glasgow: HarperCollins, 2014. S.v.

“Census.”

Deleuze, Gilles. “Postscript on the Societies of Control,” October, no. 59 (1992): 3-7.

Evans et. al. “Visibility and Voice: Aboriginal People Experience Culturally Safe and Unsafe Health Care,” Qualitative Health Research, no. 25 (2015): 1662-1674.

First Nations Information Governance Center. “Our Impact.” Accessed 2022.

Foucault, Michel. “Subject and Power,” Critical Inquiry, no. 8 (1982): 777-795.

Foucault, Michel. “The Foucault Reader (1926-1984).” (New York: Pantheon Books, 1984).

Geddes, B. “Measuring Wellness: An Indicator Development Guide for First Nations.” BC First Nations Data Governance Initiative, Accessed 2022.

Government of Canada. “The Arrival of the Europeans: 17th Century Wars.”

National Security and Defense, 2018.

Leone, Donald. “Data Colonialism in Canada: Decolonizing Data through Indigenous Data Governance,” M.A. diss., (Carleton University, 2021).

National Collaborating Center for Indigenous Health. “Access to Health Services as a Social Determinant of First Nations, Inuit, and Métis Health.”

Accessed 2022.

Office for National Statistics. “Census-Taking in the Ancient World.” Accessed 2022.

Peabody, Norbert. “Cents, Sense, Census: Human Inventories in Late Precolonial and Early Colonial India,” Comparative Studies in Society and 87 History, no. 42 (2001): 819-850.

Primeau, Stefanie. “Modernity, Resource Development and Constructs of Indigeneity: A Summary Analysis of Canadian Jurisprudence and Aboriginal Rights,” M.A. diss., (York University, 2010).

R. v. Van der Peet (Supreme Court of Canada 1996) Scott, James. “Seeing Like a State.” (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998).

Smith, Linda. “Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples.”

(London: Zed Books, 1999).

Staff Writers. “Why No-One Knows How Many Children Died Inside Canada’s Residential Schools.” PressProgress, 2017.

Statistics Canada. “Aboriginal Peoples.” Censuses of Canada 1665 - 1871, 2015.

Statistics Canada. Census Profile. 2021 Census of Population. Statistics Canada Catalogue no. 98-316-X2021001. Ottawa: Statistics Canada. Released 2022.

Stevenson, Lisa. “The Psychic Life of Biopolitics: Survival, Cooperation, and Inuit Community,” American Ethnologist, no. 39 (2012): 592-613.

Thompson, Debra. Guest Lecture. McGill University, 2022.

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A Defense of Islamic Sectarianism

Zahra Hussain Edited by Catey Fifield

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Abstract Islamic sectarianism is often wrongly conflated with ideas of sectarian discrimination and violence. Sectarianism is a word with many definitions, and these definitions are neutral at best and negative at worst.

This paper proposes a new definition of sectarianism—a sectarianism concerned with validating and empowering the participation of different sects in the same sphere of religious jurisprudence. It then argues that sectarian violence is not a result of sectarianism but is rather a product of political groups capitalizing on sectarian divides. Finally, the paper concludes by explaining the potential contributions of this new “sectarianism” to religious society. This paper argues that sectarianism can help to create a more democratic Islam by moderating extremist groups, empowering minority sects, and improving understandings of Islamic ideologies.

Key Words Shi’a, Sunni, religious violence, Islamic jurisprudence, democracy Introduction Sectarianism has become a buzzword in modern political discourse, especially as it pertains to Islam and the Arab world. The word is rarely free of negative connotations and is often used interchangeably with “sectarian violence” and “sectarian discrimination.” Yet, the word “sect” did not originate in a negative context. The earliest definitions of the word describe sects in neutral terms and in contrast to the principal leadership of the Roman Catholic Church.

Viewed through an Islamic lens, the word becomes even more neutral: a given sect is not set in inferiority or superiority to any other but is rather understood simply as one of many differentiated groups under the umbrella religion of Islam.

I will discuss in particular the most prominent of the Islamic sects: the Sunnis and the Shi’ites.

The Sunni-Shi’a enmity is one of the main issues raised in discussions of 90

sectarianism, with much of recent conflict in the Arab world being blamed on this divide. I disagree with the attribution of blame for these conflicts to the Sunni-Shi’a divide and build my argument on this point. Evaluating the origins of the word “sectarianism,” I argue first that without contextual modifiers the word is neutral. Next, I propose a counter-definition—one that paints sectarianism in a positive light and takes its meaning to be the equality and inclusion of distinct religious groups adhering to the same basic set of religious beliefs. I then discuss the framing of sectarianism as a discriminatory or violent force. I argue that this understanding of sectarianism is merely a manipulation of sectarian identities by political forces and that there is nothing inherently discriminatory or violent about sectarianism. To conclude, I demonstrate that sectarianism, as the empowerment of different Islamic ideologies, has great positive potential in religious society. Specifically, I argue that sectarianism provides the basis for a democratic reimagining of Islamic jurisprudence, is an essential condition for the moderation of extremist groups, empowers minority sects, and aids in affirming and reshaping individual religious beliefs.

Since the topic of Islamic sectarianism is necessarily broad, I must clarify some aspects of this analysis to more accurately set up the arguments I am making.

First, although my arguments mention democracy, I use the term only in reference to a political dimension of Islamic theology. The focus of this paper is not the compatibility of Islam or Islamic sectarianism with any political structure; rather, I focus on Islamic sectarianism as it may relate to political concepts. When I refer to Islamic jurisprudence, I refer specifically to rulings on religious practices prescribed to Muslims, not to jurisprudence within any given state. Second, I do not assume in writing this paper that authoritarian regimes or Islamist militant groups aspire to the positive aspects of Islamic sectarianism that I describe. The conclusions I draw are meant only to inform approaches to sectarianism in studies of sectarianism and in individual religious opinions.

The major project of this paper is to counter the prominent “just a Muslim” rhetoric that prides itself on being above sectarian identities and sectarianism but in reality centers the Sunni sect. Such rhetoric negates sectarian identities and benefits only the Sunni majority. I argue in this paper not only that sectarianism is not the evil it has become associated with but that sectarianism can be of 91 positive value to religious society.

Shi’a and Sunni Islam: Key Concepts Shi’a and Sunni Islam share beliefs with regard to many basic tenets of Islam: both believe that the Quran is the ultimate source of Islamic knowledge, both believe that Muhammad was the last prophet, and both consider Salah (prayer), Zakat (charity), Sawm (fasting), and Hajj (pilgrimage) to be pillars of Islam (The Metropolitan Museum of Art 2013). The sectarian divide begins after the death of the Prophet Muhammad in 632 CE and concerns the appointment of Muhammad’s successor. While the Shi’ites believed that the Prophet had appointed his cousin Ali as his successor, the Sunnis did not believe that the Prophet had chosen a successor at all (Farmanullah and Fakhr-ul-Islam 2015, 29–30). They wanted to appoint one of the Prophet’s companions, Abu Bakr, as the first caliph of the Rashidun Caliphate (Farmanullah and Fakhr-ul-Islam 2015, 29–30) (The Editors of Encyclopaedia Britannica 1998).

The Sunni view was the most widely accepted, and Abu Bakr became caliph (Farmanullah and Fakhr-ul-Islam 2015, 29–30). However, those who viewed Ali as the true successor did not relent their beliefs (Farmanullah and Fakhr-ul-Islam 2015, 29–30).

The succession debate was not simply about the individual successor chosen but about how the successor should be chosen. Sunnis believed that the caliph should be elected by the people, whereas Shi’ites believed that succession was hereditary and that the people were not capable of choosing the Prophet’s successor. They argued that the Prophet, in declaring Ali as the Mawla (master or friend) of everyone, was announcing the will of God (Farmanullah and Fakhr-ul-Islam 2015, 30). These disagreements began immediately following the death of the Prophet, and a non-sectarian Islam has not existed since the Prophet’s lifetime.

Although Shi’a thought has existed since the Prophet’s death, Shi'ism as a separate sect was firmly established after the Battle of Karbala in Iraq in 680 (Farmanullah and Fakhr-ul-Islam 2015, 35–36) (Newman, n.d.). The Battle was fought by the Prophet’s grandson, Hussain, and seventy-two of his supporters against the oppressive regime of the then-caliph Yazid ibn Mu'awiya (Newman, n.d.). Hussain and his supporters were martyred, and his family, including his

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sister Zainab, at least one of his wives, and his children, were taken captive (Newman, n.d.). The Battle of Karbala remains the central event in Shi’a Islam and a focus of Shi’a practices (Newman, n.d.). Hussain and his family’s decision to fight and not surrender their beliefs to tyranny strengthens Shi’ism’s claim to a resistance ideology. This ideology had begun forming in their opposition to Abu Bakr’s appointment but was solidified through Karbala.

While Sunnis believe a ruler may be legitimate even if they are oppressive, Shi’ites believe in questioning the legitimacy of rulers and in not relenting one’s values even where they are in the minority (Farmanullah and Fakhr-ul-Islam 2015, 31). Lastly, although there are many subsects even among Shi’a Islam (including Isnā Άsharīyyah, Ismā‘īlism, and Zaidism) and Sunni Islam (including Hanfī, Shāfī, Hambalī, and Mālikī) (Farmanullah and Fakhr-ul-Islam 2015, 31), this paper will be considering Sunni and Shi’a sects generally, and its conclusions are applicable to all sects and subsects.

Defining Sectarianism In order to define sectarianism, I will break the word down into its component parts before constructing the most straightforward definition. The root word in “sectarianism” is sect, which is defined as “a religious group that is a smaller part of a larger group and whose members all share similar beliefs” by Encyclopedia Britannica , “a dissenting or schismatic religious body” by Merriam-Webster , and “a religious group that has separated from a larger religion and is considered to have extreme or unusual beliefs or customs” by Cambridge Dictionary. Both Cambridge and Merriam-Webster note that the word carries negative connotations and is generally used disapprovingly. These definitions understand a sect as a subgroup of a religion that is generally viewed in a negative light by the larger group to which it belongs.

Islamic sects do not fit neatly into this definition. While Christian sects diverged from the central authority of the Catholic Church, Islam has been divided into sects almost since its beginning. Therefore, while these definitions of sect imply that a given group is necessarily a minority in the religion, the majority or mainstream group in Islam, the Sunnis, are still a sect among many others.

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Applying this definition more appropriately to Islam, then, sects can be understood as groups belonging to the same general religion with differentiated beliefs. Whether negative connotations should still apply in the Islamic context is a matter of subjectivity: sects may or may not view others with disapproval and suspicion. It is important to note that, in some contexts, the Sunni majority does view other sects to be heretical or unlawful, and vice versa (Zaman 1998, 692).

However, for the purpose of this definition, I will approach Islamic sects with a neutral stance; since there is no pure and unaffected version of Islam, nor any central authority applying to all Muslims, the existence of sects in itself cannot be negative, because each Muslim claims membership to one. For a Muslim to renounce the idea of sects would be to renounce their own allegiance.

Additionally, hostilities between sects are always marked by social and political contexts. Sects have always been subject to these contexts, but there is little to suggest that they are negative in themselves, or without contextual modifiers.

After all, claiming membership to a group, although not necessarily a neutral action, is not necessarily negative.

Developing the word further, we can take “sects” in the Islamic context to mean different groups or associations believing in Islam but diverging on key aspects. Often added to this word is the suffix -arian, which suggests belief in or the practicing of the root word (Oxford Dictionaries, n.d.). Thus, “sectarian” can be taken to mean the belief in or practicing of any one of the Islamic subgroups.

Where “sectarian” is an adjective, it can modify whatever noun follows it by relating the belief in or practice of an Islamic ideology to the noun. For example, sectarian allegiance may be allegiances formed on the basis of one’s belief in a certain set of Islamic teachings. None of these, again, are necessarily negative terms, and none of them suggest a harmful nature.

Finally, completing the word with the suffix -ism, we find a possible source for negative interpretations of it. This suffix carries a range of meanings, with the ones most relevant to this topic being its function of creating a word that signifies an act of something, prejudice or discrimination on the basis of a (specified) attribute, and a doctrine or theory of something (Merriam-Webster 2022a). Consolidating the above definitions, we arrive at three distinct definitions of sectarianism: the first, as the act of believing in or practicing the

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teachings of a subgroup of Islam; the second, as discrimination on the basis of one’s belief in or practicing of differentiated Islamic teachings; and the third, as the doctrine behind one’s belief or participation in an Islamic subgroup.

The first and third definitions are fairly neutral, while the second presents a key problem for sectarian discourse. Sectarianism becomes similar to -isms like racism and sexism, and it comes to be understood as an ideology of hatred towards other sects. This is the definition I contend in this paper. The next section of the paper directly addresses the wrongful association of sectarianism with sectarian violence and the reasons that sectarianism has been understood as an ideology of division and discrimination. In this section, I will focus on arguments that refute the application of this language and typology to Islamic sectarianism.

First, although I have presented here my own formulation regarding “sects,” “sectarian,” and “sectarianism,” I think it is pertinent to understand the origins of these words. The first author to thoroughly define “sect”—albeit in the framework of a Church-sect relationship—was Max Weber (Swatos 1976, 129).

For Weber, “sect” and related words were neutral descriptors, or “ideal types” for modes of membership, meant mostly to provide measures for comparison in a Christian context (Swatos 1976, 131–32). The Roman Catholic Church was the overarching organization to which membership was mandatory for Christians, and the sect was a subgroup to which membership was both voluntary and earned (Swatos 1976, 135). The language of sects became more subjective with the work of Ernst Troelstch, a contemporary of Weber’s who took his framework and configured it to his own purposes (Swatos 1976, 133–34). Troeltsch set the Church and sect in contrast, attaching the characteristic of being accommodating to the Church and the characteristic of being non-accomodating to the sect (Swatos 1976, 134).

Before Troeltsch, the words “Church” and “sect” had been nothing but names of different organizations, but Troeltsch, whether intentionally or unintentionally, laid the groundwork for subjective and potentially negative connotations of “sect.” As aforementioned, this dichotomy does not apply as concretely to Islamic sects due to the lack of a central religious authority.

However, since Western texts generally take the definition of “sect” from the

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works of Weber and Troeltsch, authors are unable to escape their subjective understandings of the term. Thus, sectarianism, even when meant to express belief in the teachings of a differentiated Islamic group, contains the negative underpinnings of being unobliging and strict. I argue that the concept of sectarianism has been unfairly grouped with a set of terms that indicate discrimination (such as racism or sexism) because of these pre-existing subjectivities. If definitions of “sect” had stayed true to Weber’s neutral ideas, there would likely be less of a predisposition to pessimistically define “sectarianism.”

Second, I argue that sectarianism does not exist in the same realm of language as racism or sexism due to the fact that there is space for numerous definitions to exist. While racism and sexism can be understood as nothing but discrimination on the basis of race or gender, for instance, sectarianism is understood and used in various ways. Focusing only on discriminatory behaviour “stigmatize[s] what are in fact perfectly legitimate expressions of sectarian identity and legitimate forms of sect-centricity” (Haddad 2020, 17). It is impractical to suggest disposing of any one definition altogether due to its contradiction with others. However, I would argue that for sectarianism to concurrently have all the meanings it has, it must on some level be neutral. Just as the discrimination-centered definition of sectarianism cannot be disregarded, I ask that the definition denoting a legitimate form of identity also not be discarded. For sectarianism to fit both these definitions simultaneously, it is the first and third definitions presented above that can most accurately cover all aspects of the word. Islamic sectarianism, without definitive context, can be understood as an act or ideology relating to belief in or the practice of a differentiated Islamic group.

I have established in the above paragraphs what I understand to be neutral definitions of “sect,” “sectarian,” and “sectarianism,” but the objective of this paper is not simply to suggest that sectarianism is a neutral concept. Rather, this paper focuses on shedding a positive light on sectarianism. To this end, I propose my own subjective definition of the term. I suggest defining sectarianism as the empowerment and inclusion of differentiated Islamic sects. I adopt an approach not just of tolerance but of encouraging political and social engagement.

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Cutting the Ties Between Sectarianism and Sectarian Violence In an interview I conducted with Sarmad Saeed Khan, a former Inspector General of Police in Pakistan, he noted that while he does not believe that terrorist groups in Pakistan have religious ideologies, he does believe they have anti-sectarian ideologies. In particular, he describes their motives as anti-Shi’a.

Interestingly, he understood anti-sectarianism the same way that many define sectarianism. I agree with his definition and argue that anti-sectarianism is a more appropriate term to attach to sectarian violence. The violence does not promote the divergence of groups but tries to suppress it. Even if this change in terminology is unwarranted, the flexibility in interpretation says something about the role of sectarianism in the violence. The ideology promoted by violent groups can be changing and dynamic, but despite changes in narrative, the groups remain consistently violent. Their violence is unaffected by changing motives, suggesting that they seek motives to support their violence rather than fighting for specific ideological purposes.

If sectarianism is the sole cause of “sectarian” violence, then “sectarian” violence should have been a significant issue since the beginnings of Islam. The Sunni-Shi’a divide began soon after the Prophet’s death in the seventh century (Farmanullah and Fakhr-ul-Islam 2015, 28), and yet sectarian violence did not become prevalent until the late twentieth century (Sein 2016, 109). According to the Religion and Armed Conflict (RELAC) data set, the casualty rate for all armed conflicts with a sectarian dimension rose from 0.03 percent in 1989 to 44 percent in 2017 (Hashemi 2019). If this is a sectarian issue, then why would the violence be increasing now, more than a thousand years after the events that spurred the division? Nader Hashemi argues that the missing piece is the presence of authoritarian regimes in most Muslim-majority states (Sein 2016, 109).

Especially since the Arab Spring of the early 2010s, these regimes have been weak states with little claim to legitimate government (Hashemi 2016, 69).

They try to compensate using divide and conquer tactics that particular identities, including sects, against each other (Hashemi 2016, 69). Religious identities are thought to be prone to radicalization, and regimes capitalize on this

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by exacerbating existing divides (Cavanaugh 2013). With their control over media outlets, authoritarian regimes fuel conflict by disseminating information that helps “discover a sectarian identity by perceiving, or imagining, the existence of threats to it” (Zaman 1998, 690). The creation of sectarian conflict divides the population so that no one group is capable of creating resistance. Some states side with one sect over another or others, gaining support from the sect they have validated and leaving opponents too weak to respond (Haddad 2020, 26). This is not to suggest that the Shi’a-Sunni divide was created by any given regime or that conflicts between Shi’a and Sunni do not predate the authoritarian regimes of Arab countries. The divide has existed for more than a millennium, but it was not until the manipulation of these sects by political leaders that sectarian violence became so prominent.

Fortunately for such leaders, the violence is cyclic, and once it has begun, it is almost guaranteed to continue. Targeted minority groups justify their own political violence as retribution. The initial majority perpetrators then come to believe that they are under attack and that the minority group is unjustified in their violence but that their own continued violence is simply a defensive response. For example, both the Sunni extremist group Sipah-i Sahaba and the Shi’a extremist group Sipah-i Muhammad blame the violent activities of the other for their own existence (Zaman 1998, 699). Both Shi’a and Sunni Islamist groups justify their violence against their opponents by stating that they are only enacting violence in defense. Violent groups make use of “human insecurities to attract recruits” (Sein 2016, 109), and once the state has initially contributed to the creation of insecurities, the cycle of Islamist violence will continue with little attention to the state’s role. As long as sects feel marginalized, they will start or join violent groups. Oppressing sects can lead to uprisings that the state can easily use to justify further control.

By focusing on religious issues, state leaders escape accountability and distract from their own oppressive regimes. The discriminatory notion of sectarianism means that it can become an easy scapegoat for political elites hoping to distract from their own governance issues. Putting all the weight on sectarianism contributes to an image of passionate and irrational fighting rather than one of calculated actions. This suggests both that so-called “sectarian”

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fighters are not reasonable actors and that their violent activity is not predictable enough for the state to take any concrete responsive measures.

By victimizing certain groups and vilifying others, regimes are able to paint one-dimensional images of political bodies and do little to address legitimate concerns of the groups. Setting the predominant motive of any group as sectarianism makes the opposition appear irrational and reduces their agenda to only one goal: the destruction of other sects. Opposing groups are understood to be irrational and solely concerned with religious violence, and their economic and political goals are entirely dismissed (Haddad 2020, 37). Regimes are able to gloss over the valid and complex goals of opposition groups and make them appear illogical to the general public. Thus, shedding a negative light on sectarianism allows political entities to shift the blame for their own part in the violence.

The Positive Potential of Sectarianism Having established a definition of sectarianism and negated the common conflation of sectarianism and sectarian violence, we reach the crux of this argument: the good of sectarianism. This section begins with an explanation of the bridge between Islamic jurisprudence and deliberative democracy. Then, I explain how, in framing Islamic society as a democratic institution, Shi’ites and other minority sects become small but politically relevant actors. Sectarianism, by this paper’s definition, is the perfect tool to enrich the deliberative process of democracy in Islamic society, and democracy creates the ideal situation for minorities to include themselves in the greater religion. I continue by explaining how a religious framework that resembles and embodies democratic ideals is likely to reduce extremism and empower minority sects. Finally, I argue that individuals should be incentivized to participate in positive sectarian discourse to enrich and confirm their own beliefs.

Islamic extremists like to suggest that democracy is an entirely Western ideal and that Islam and democracy are antithetical, but there is a wealth of Islamic literature to counter that argument. Islamic texts are not necessarily compatible with refined ideas of constitutional or popular democracy, but they

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reflect an Islam that is tolerant and egalitarian. In establishing the Constitution of Medina, the Prophet was noted as having a democratic spirit (Kubba et al.

2002, 1). His stance on Islam was democratic, tolerant, and compassionate (Kubba et al. 2002, 5). Furthermore, while scholars disagree as to whether the practice is mandated or recommended, they accept the legitimacy of Shura, “a consultative decision-making process” (Kubba et al. 2002, 4). The practice indicates that deliberation and acknowledgement of different viewpoints are foundational to Islam. Shura presents clear evidence that, by Islamic principles, decision-making is a collaborative process not to be limited to the wills of few.

Opponents of democratic principles in Islam argue that democracy gives too much power to flawed humans, who are not capable of making decisions as God is (Kubba et al. 2002, 4–5). This argument for opposition is weak, as the process of Shura indicates clearly that God expects the input of humans in legitimate decision-making. If humans were incapable of making important decisions, God would have created Islamic law to compensate for human deficiency. Opponents of democratic decision-making also have little to offer in the way of a viable alternative: decision-making by any other arbitrary means is likely to lead to tyranny (Kubba et al. 2002, 4–5). Democratic processes are criticized for putting sovereignty in the hands of too many, but arbitrary decision-making is more likely to instill God’s rightful sovereignty in a flawed individual.

Both Sunnism and Shi’ism endorse certain values that support democratic and tolerant Islamic leadership. Sunnis’ support for democratic processes lies in their belief that succession is elective (Farmanullah and Fakhr-ul-Islam 2015, 30).

Shi’ites, although they believe in hereditary succession, have strong convictions to show “resistance to corrupt and oppressive rulers” (Farmanullah and Fakhr-ul-Islam 2015, 31). Shi’ites are inclined to agree with a democratic approach to Islamic leadership in order to prevent oppression by decision-makers. Thus, the two major Islamic sects can be convinced of the validity of a deliberative democratic approach to Islamic leadership. Sectarianism is integral to this democratic approach in that a true consultative decision-making process can only occur if minority groups are empowered to provide their opinions.

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Moreover, anti-sectarian narratives do little to combat extremism. A special report by the United States Institute of Peace (USIP) shows significant correlation between the radicalization of Islamic political movements and repression and exclusion (Kubba et al. 2002, 3). In other words, strategies of violent pushback only empower extremist movements. Similarly, “moderation of Islamic political movements is closely linked to inclusion in the political process” (Kubba et al. 2002, 3), which supports the view that empowering minority groups is likely to decrease Islamic violence. As mentioned, violent and extremist groups are validated by oppressive state responses, and feeding into this cycle only strengthens claims to violence for these groups. Increasing their visibility—for instance, even in state-controlled media— is not likely to reduce their tendency to violence but is more likely to expose it for what it is: not religious in itself but justified on religious terms.

Another issue with anti-sectarianism is that it targets primarily minority sects, passing off Sunni Islam as the one true non-sectarian “Islam.” The narrative silences minority sects and subjects them to greater stigma. Islam is already divided and has been for centuries, and an anti-sectarianism mindset is not going to change this. Moreover, ideas of sect-blindness and Muslim unity only reinforce Sunni ideals and may force them onto dissenting minorities. Slogans to this effect claim virtuosity but in reality ignore histories of conflict and skewed power relations. Such approaches either overlook distinctions between sects or view them negatively, as flaws and points of conflict. The existence of divisions even within Sunni Islam shows clearly the inevitability of difference.

I believe sectarianism is the best remedy for this anti-sectarianism. By creating space for minorities to engage meaningfully, they will no longer be required to acquiesce to the decision-making of a religious majority. Empowered and socially engaged minorities are less likely to participate in conflicts between sects and are more likely to find their proper place in Islam. The aforementioned USIP special report emphasizes that civil society and debate are the antidote to violent groups; extremism and violence thrive where civil society and debate are limited (Kubba et al. 2002, 7).

Finally, the greatest positive of sectarianism is its ability to lead all Muslims 10 1

toward the truths of Islam. Many pluralists argue that truth is not a matter of relevance in the coexistence of diverse identities and beliefs, but I argue that the potential to reach truth should be the biggest incentive for collaboration.

Especially in religious debates, where one’s salvation and afterlife are at stake, wouldn’t seeking out the truth of the Islamic message be the most reasonable approach? If an individual is committed to Islam and believes that Islam is the key to a happy afterlife, then they benefit in ensuring—or at least in believing—that their version of Islam is the true Islam. To verify one’s beliefs against those of others, it is pertinent to empower minority voices alongside majority ones. Subjecting each sect to criticism creates space for individuals to reach some common understandings of Islamic jurisprudence. Common understandings are necessary in diminishing hostilities between different sects. It is unlikely that all issues will be resolved, but sects can connect over those aspects they agree on and create some non-sectarian truths of Islam.

Some will be wary of this process, and some will fear being manipulated into the wrong beliefs, but understanding other viewpoints will not necessarily dissuade you from your own. If it does, you may be compelled to change your belief—something that is not negative or harmful but rather an opportunity for you to “try[] to get and remain in the right relation to the truth” (Plantinga 1995, 187). If you are persuaded by opposing views and change allegiances, then you may be moving closer to true Islam. Sectarianism is thus valuable because it leads people to find an Islamic perspective that they feel serves their interests and protects them. Many may review the information they obtain and decide that, although they now understand opposing views, they stand most comfortably beside their own. These are both appropriate responses. Those worried about being misled will be satisfied by the possibility of the second response, whereas those worried only about seeking the truth will be satisfied by either.

Conclusion In conclusion, Islamic sectarianism is not equivalent to sectarian hatred and violence. This interpretation of sectarianism exists largely in the context of authoritarian regimes that benefit from using it as a scapegoat. It is crucial to 10 2

maintain the distinction between anti-sectarian movements that work to diminish intersect hostilities and anti-sectarian movements that only seek to oppress minority sects. Despite the negative connotation “sectarianism” carries, it has great potential as a positive concept. I seek to redefine sectarianism as an ideology of sect-empowerment and open Islamic discourse that provides a platform for the inclusion of all sects. I argue that this new “sectarianism” enables a more egalitarian approach to Islamic jurisprudence, works towards the weakening of extreme Islamist groups, validates minority sects, and helps individuals expand on their personal religious beliefs. I conclude by noting that although attitudes to sectarianism are unlikely to change anytime soon, an emphasis on the positive aspects of sectarianism can prevent the promotion of anti-minority sect arguments as solutions to sectarian violence.

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Works Cited Al-Hindawi, Fareed H., and Basim J. Kadhim. 2021. “Sectarianism: Nature and Defining Criteria.” Randwick International of Education and Linguistics Science Journal 2, no. 3 (September): 408–25.

Britannica. n.d. “Britannica Dictionary definition of SECT.” Sect Definition & Meaning | Britannica Dictionary. Accessed December 12, 2022. https://www.britannica.com/dictionary/sect.

Cambridge Dictionary. 2022. “SECT | English meaning - Cambridge Dictionary.” Cambridge Dictionary. https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/sect.

Cavanaugh, William T. 2013. “The Root of Evil: Does religion promote violence?” America Magazine, July 16, 2013. https://www.americamagazine.org/issue/root-evil.

Cavanaugh, William T. 2019. “The Church's Place in a Consumer Society.” In The Church in Pluralist Society: Social and Political Roles, edited by Fáinche Ryan and Cornelius J. Casey, 57–80. University of Notre Dame Press.

Cloutier, David. 2017. “Cavanaugh and Grimes on Structural Evils of Violence and Race: Overcoming Conflicts in Contemporary Social Ethics.” Journal of the Society of Christian Ethics 37, no. 2: 59–78.

Farmanullah, Dr., and Dr. Fakhr-ul-Islam. 2015. “The Genesis of Shi’ism in Islam.” Al-Idah 30 (June): 28–42.

Ghannouchi, Rached. 2018. “Islam and Democracy in Tunisia.” Journal of Democracy 29, no. 3 (July): 5–8.

Gutmann, Amy, and Dennis Thompson. 1995. “Moral Disagreement in a Democracy.” Social Philosophy & Policy 12 (1): 87–110.

Haddad, Fanar. 2020. “What is ‘Sectarianism’?” In Understanding ‘sectarianism’: Sunni-Shi'a Relations in the Modern Arab World, 15–48. Oxford University Press.

Hashemi, Nader. 2016. “Toward a Political Theory of Sectarianism in the Middle East: The Salience of Authoritarianism over Theology.” Journal of Islamic and Muslim Studies 1, no. 1 (May): 65–76.

Hashemi, Nader. 2019. “What causes sectarian conflict, and can it be undone?”

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https://www.abc.net.au/religion/the-middle-east-and-the-politics-of-sectarianis m/1161333 8.

Hellyer, H. A. 2018. “How Salafism May - or May Not - Be Changing: All Eyes are Now on Saudi Arabia.” ABC. https://www.abc.net.au/religion/how-salafism-may---or-may-not---be-changi ng-all-eyes-a re-now-on-/10094910.

Hurd, Elizabeth S. 2015. “Politics of Sectarianism: Rethinking Religion and Politics in the Middle East.” Middle East Law and Governance 7: 61–75.

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Huntington Library Quarterly 3, no. 2 (January): 197–223.

Kubba, Laith, Muqtedar Khan, Mahmood Monshipouri, and Neil Hicks. 2002.

Special Report: Islam and Democracy, United States Institute of Peace report.

United States Institute of Peace.

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Nasr, Vali. 2005. “The Rise of Muslim Democracy.” Journal of Democracy 16, no. 2 (April): 13–27.

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Pew Research Center. 2012b. “Chapter 3. Role of Islam in Politics.” Pew Research Center. https://www.pewresearch.org/global/2012/07/10/chapter-3-role-of-islam-inpolitics/.

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Plantinga, Alvin. 1995. “Pluralism: A Defense of Religious Exclusivism.” In The Rationality of Belief & the Plurality of Faith: Essays in Honor of William P. Alston, edited by Thomas D. Senor and William P. Alston, 172–92. Cornell University Press.

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The Challenges of Mapping Undocumented Migration Juliette Perinetti Edited by Julien Duffy

(Heather Beardsley)

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Introduction A highly contested topic in modern-day Western societies, the issue of undocumented migration has generated an abundance of media coverage and cartographic production in the past decades. Deemed more legible than mere statistical charts, migration maps often pass as an accessible yet no less scientific way of objectively representing the flows of people reaching the Global North.

However, behind maps’ “illusory lack of authorship and deceptive iconographic simplicity” – granting them the advantage of apparent uncontestable neutrality – often lie hidden political agendas, which have the potential to shape people’s perception of migrants. (Van Houtum & Lacy, 2020, 213-214). In fact, cartography is a procedure of exclusion carried out by an inevitably biased cartographer, who may fail (or refuse) to conceal their prejudice. As a result, maps reflect their author’s subjective take on what and who should be made visible, and through what means. This paper will argue that in the context of migration, curated visual depictions of undocumented migrants may reinforce popular anti-migration sentiment – especially if based on distorted data. Because maps only project snapshots of selected periods and regions, they may also fail to represent the intricacy of migrants’ mobilities accurately. Therefore, mapping migratory movements, which entails “immobilizing a complex spatial, temporal, social and political system,” presents major challenges this essay will attempt to address (Bacon et al., 2016, 1). First, I will focus on the dangers of the invasion rhetoric, which, through specific imagery and symbology, portrays undocumented migrants as threats to Western societies. Then, I will explain the intricacy of representing human movement on maps and present possible ways of depicting fairer accounts of migrants’ trajectories. Finally, I will focus on migrants’ narratives and explore more equitable alternatives to current mapping processes.

Tackling the Invasion Rhetoric Cartographers’ main challenge is visually representing mobility with numbers, dots, and figures without using adjectives or adverbs to add precisions. 10 8

This challenging exercise of simplification can be problematic for a subject as multifaceted and politicized as human migration, especially since meanings are ascribed to the symbols and characteristics that compose maps (Bacon et al., 2016, 2). Indeed, arrows, squares, circles, and lines symbolize refugees, camps, crossing points, walls, or borders. Although these symbols may be considered harmless, their very presence and characteristics on the map may contribute to generalizations about migration and, more specifically, about undocumented migrants themselves. Arrows reinforce the “invasion” rhetoric when too dense or straight. Indeed, thicker arrows that all point in the same direction risk evoking or unconsciously suggesting an “invasion” of migrants coming from the Global South. This may contribute to the spread of xenophobic theories such as “the Great Replacement,” which stipulates that non-white populations will displace and outnumber local white populations with the help of complying elites.

Further, thick arrows fail to account for migrants’ complex trajectories, as they suggest that undocumented migrants all come from the same place and share a destination. This linear framing of migration is problematic as it evokes images of “massive, unidirectional and unstoppable flows” of undocumented migrants reaching their home country. Such ideas profoundly shape the public’s understanding of migrants (Van Houtum, 2012, 408). Disproportionate arrows may also recall propagandistic military maps where migrants are implicitly shown as direct threats to the nation. By using such alarm raising arrows, whose colours, usually red or black, contrast the lighter tones of the map, cartographers present migration movements as anomalies that disturb the general order and stability of the regions they "invade.” In fact, the dichotomous use of colours on maps often makes for eye-catching “friend vs. foe” visual compositions, feeding into hatred towards migrants as well as what scholar Tazzioli (2015, 1) qualifies as “cartographic anxiety.” Because such symbology portrays migrants as crossing national borders massively and intentionally together, the latter tend to be considered a menace automatically. This is particularly the case when arrows do not originate from specific locations but instead show vague trajectories of migrants coming from “the great unknown” (Vermeulen, De Korte, & Van Houtum, 2020). Hence, “instead of a directional device, [arrows] take the role of a frightening metaphor,” thereby undermining their initial navigational 10 9

practicality (Van Houtum & Lacy, 2020, 201). Adjusting their dimensions – if not removing them – to make them smaller than the countries themselves could be a first step in tackling the invasion rhetoric.

Figures 1 and 2 show the similarities between European military invasion maps dating from the twentieth century and the 2015 Frontex map. In Figure 1, foreign armies and dangerous soldier’ invasion is depicted through large red, menacing arrows. The symbology quite clearly instills an idea of fear, calling for immediate counteraction. The same arrows are used in Figure 2, where migrating populations are shown as equally threatening to Western Europe as would a twentieth century rival army. Though depicting widely different phenomena, both maps emphasize a breach of territorial sovereignty and provoke anxiety and indignation.

Figure 1 ‘Military Invasion Map' (1940).

Source : https:// tinyurl.com/y4qerpaf

Figure 2 The Frontex map of 2015. Source: Frontex: https://tinyurl.com/y6o38jq3 11 0

Remapping mobilities One of the most critical challenges in mapping human mobilities is accurately depicting movements without oversimplifying people’s trajectories. As explained above, such mapping does not provide context for movements and often looks very similar to a map depicting trends in trade in goods. This overt lack of information on migrants’ countries of origin or final destination may feed into the aforementioned “invasion rhetoric”, for these maps fail to give proper or penetrating insights into migration trends. Indeed, depicting population movement without regard for the complex sociopolitical conditions that engender and shape such flows necessarily insists on the movement itself and not its cause or solutions. Such graphical simplification almost solely communicates the fact that foreigners are coming in. In fact, by representing groups of migrants moving uniformly on the map, little to no information is provided on the country they are emigrating from and the different borders they cross. Mobility is implied but not precisely depicted, which leaves plenty of room for data misinterpretation. Such maps will likely do more harm than good if they do not provide accurate or complete information. Hence, rethinking how migration maps are done is not merely an option but a necessity.

Fighting “state-border-gridism,” as scholar Van Houtum conceptualizes it, could tackle maps’ inherent struggle with mobility (2012, 408). The term refers to maps’ depiction of nation states as static entities surrounded by fixed and untouched borders. This fairly conservative perspective on territoriality perpetuates borders’ “objectification process, “ giving them their intrinsic meaning and power (Van Houtum, 2012, 412). By organizing maps relative to states’ borders, cartographers enhance the imaginary social construct behind them and grant them more visibility than migrants themselves. A satellite overlook of the world could easily prove to any cartographer that no borders physically exist. They are human made and could be understood as set in motion or evolving with conjuncture. Ultimately, they reflect countries’ willingness to isolate and “protect” themselves from undocumented migration. Presenting borders as fixed and an obstacle for migrants to surmount is neither innocent nor without consequences. Currently, migrants’ journeys are inaccurately depicted as 11 1

an accumulation of border crossings rather than a complex experience of multiple breaks and steps. Moving away from “simplistic, dehumanized and static grids” could thus lead to a fairer reordering of space and allow maps to convey information more neutrally (Van Houtum & Lacy, 2020, 201).

A possible way to inform readers about migration flows and trends without visually inducing prejudice are through circular migration plots (Sander, Abel, Bauer, & Schmidt, 2014). They allow for a better understanding of intercontinental and interregional migration without solely focusing on southern ‘flows’ of migrants reaching the North. They challenge the conventional practice of cartography in that they may be created through encoded algorithms with no input from biased cartographers. They convey the same statistical information about migration as traditional maps do, if not more.

Yet manage to do so without using suggestive symbols or evocative vocabulary.

Figure 3 and 4 are examples of circulation migration plots.

Figure 3 Intercontinental migration in millions, 2017. Source the New York Times, 2018 https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2018/0 6/20/business/economy/immigration economic-impact.html

Figure 4 Circulation migration plot between world regions in 2005-2010. Ticks indicate the volume of migration in millions. Source: https://www.researchgate.net/figure/Circular -migration-plot-of-migratio

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Contextualizing trajectories Condensing broad and complex data on maps surrenders critical information about migrants’ backgrounds and specificities. Although migration ‘flows’ make it seem like migrants live a universal experience, they disregard migrants’ varying trajectories and personal motives in migrating. It is impossible through generalized visual means to understand the challenges migrants might face in moving along or across borders. In showing migration as a one off linear movement, maps also suggest migrants undertake their whole journey as one long trip made of multiple illegal crossings to reach their final destination. Maps do not highlight the numerous borders migrants cross legally and the breaks they might be constrained to take. They also fail to give any notion of the time they might spend at different locations before even considering moving elsewhere.

Ultimately, “maps don’t take into account the heterogeneity of those who move, and the possible shuttle or circular movement migrants may have already made” (Van Houtum, 2012, 410). Although some maps show the most common routes taken by migrants, they ignore all the concrete details of what this extremely challenging experience means to migrants in very vulnerable and precarious positions. They do not convey qualitative information on what migration entails for these human beings, thereby failing both the reader and those who experienced migration. Their lack of qualitative information further damages undocumented migrants’ image and, in turn, locks them into a negative and degrading perception, which prevents the public from sympathizing with their cause. In fact, “a plethora of human rights violations that migrant peoples endure result from moral misjudgments of prescribing unequal value to [their] lives” (Nelson Agudelo Higuita 2022, 5). Although migrants often walk hundreds or thousands of miles in unsanitary and highly precarious conditions, maps portraying their journeys perpetuate the stereotype of a seamless or obstacle-free commute. Migrants are faced with surviving death, exhaustion, illnesses and the constant fear of being robbed, raped or killed; their stories and traumas are recounted through mere numbers, charts and simplified maps.

Hence, many have tried to create alternative maps featuring migrant subjectivity and narratives. A way to do this is by giving migrants the 11 3

opportunity to map their journey themselves as a form of migration countermapping, or “deep-mapping.” When asked to draw their experience moving countries, migrants will often emphasize the importance of natural landscapes, weather and shelters rather than simply the act of crossing borders and reaching nation states (Campos-Delgado, 2018, 490). Deep mapping also incorporates human experiences through the map by including audio or video footage. Doing so gives a deep, situational account of place related feelings migrants might sense. Visually, these maps could not fall further from ‘traditional’ world projection maps. Yet, they contain at least as much – if not more – information about migration. In fact, “by questioning standards of representation, these maps seek to challenge the positivist project of knowledge neutrality” as a contestation of emotionless state centred maps (Bacon et al., 2016, 13). Counter maps may also display migrants who died or the conflicts they are fleeing from to emphasize the complexity and harsh reality of irregular migrants’ journeys. “Mobile mapping” is another way of picturing migrants’ struggles. It uses many types of data – from phones, satellites or social media – to map mobility networks. Thus, it highlights the “dynamic, relational and convoluted paths of human interaction” through migrant based accounts of the routes they took (Van Houtum & Lacy, 2020, 211).

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Figures 5 and 6 are examples of migration counter maps and reflect individual, contextualized trajectories of undocumented migrants who risked their lives to move.

Figure 6 "Sarah's Map". Source: Campos-Delgado, A. (2018). Counter-mapping migration: irregular migrants’ stories through cognitive mapping.

Figure 5 “Five years to reach Hamburg from Kabul”. Source: Michalon Bénédicte (2010) Entretien réalisé à Bucarest. Credit: L. Bacon, 2015.

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Digital, interactive maps are other alternatives to traditional migration mapping. They invite the reader to click on buttons, lines and countries to access data about migrants. Because the public can interact with the information provided, it might understand and take away more than merely visualizing a static piece of paper. However, one must be careful not to confuse cartographers for graphic designers or digital developers. By moving away too much from more conventional mapping processes, the practice of cartography may be impacted to the point that end results may not be called maps anymore. Perhaps migration is not a reality that can be simplified through maps after all, especially since other techniques or modes of visualization would depict it better.

Finally, migration maps invite us to reconsider the way we think about cartographic processes. Every detail – from the symbols and colours used, to the projection of the world depicted – is crucial in shaping readers’ understanding of migration. Because cartographers may fail to present an objective account of migrants’ trajectories and ignore personal aspects of their journeys, alternative mapping has developed and introduced more profound ways of exposing migrants’ experiences. To avoid crudely categorizing those who migrate and representing them as threats, they focus “not on the roots, but on the routes of migrants” (Van Houtum & Lacy, 2020, 415). They reveal the hazardous paths irregular migrants take and denounce the few legal options they actually have to reach their final destination safely and lawfully. Ultimately, every map is productive and provides a lens through which readers may comprehend a particular topic. Maybe migration will never fully be explained through maps, but overall, there seem to be ways that, if combined, could better depict migration quantitatively and qualitatively.

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Works Cited Bacon, Lucie, Olivier Clochard, Thomas Honoré, Nicolas Lambert, Sarah Mekdjian, and Philippe Rekacewicz. 2016. "Mapping the Migratory Movements." Revue européenne des migrations internationales 32 (3): 1-28.

Campos-Delgado, Amalia. 2018. "Counter-mapping migration: irregular migrants’ stories through cognitive mapping." Mobilities 13 (4): 488-504.

Fias, Mona. 2020. Ethically mapping migration. December 7. https://childmove.com/2020/12/07/ethically-mapping-migration/.

Nelson Agudelo Higuita, et al. 2022. "U.S. bound journey of migrant peoples In Transit across Dante’s Inferno and Purgatory in the Americas." Travel Medicine and Infectious Disease, March 24: 1-5.

Orangotango, Kollektiv. 2018. Counter Mapping Militant Research. notanatlas.org.

Sander, Nikola, Guy J. Abel, Ramon Bauer, and Johannes Schmidt. 2014.

"Visualising Migration Flow Data with Circular Plots." Vienna Institute of Demography 1-37.

Tazzioli, Martina. 2015. "Which Europe? Migrants’ uneven geographies and counter-mapping at the limits of representation." Journal für kritische Migrations- und Grenzregimeforschung 2: 1-20.

Van Houtum, Henk. 2012. "Remapping borders." In A Companion to Border Studies, by Hastings Donnan and Thomas Wilson. Blackwell Publishing Ltd. Van Houtum, Henk, and Rodrigo Bueno Lacy. 2020. "The migration map trap.

On the invasion arrows in the cartography of migration." Mobilities 2: 196-219.

Vermeulen, Maite, Leon De Korte, and Henk Van Houtum. 2020. How maps in the media make us more negative about migrants. September 2. https://thecorrespondent.com/664/how-maps-in-the-media-make-us-more-ne gative-about-migrants.

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Understanding the “Impending Climate Displacement Crisis” Discourse: Replacing Alarmist Narratives with Technical Solutions Liam Blakely Edited by Jeremy Rotenberg

(UNHCR/Roger Arnold)

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Abstract By mid-2022, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) estimates that there will be 103 million people displaced around the world. There is considerable concern among the international community that further increases in human mobility due to climate change and environmental disasters will severely exacerbate the current backlog in displacement solutions. Still, the international community has failed to produce new laws that guarantee protection for those who are displaced due to these reasons. This paper explores the current legal shortcomings that jeopardize the human rights of environmentally displaced people (EDPs). It further evaluates the feasibility of solutions such as the amendment of the 1951 Refugee Convention, the drafting and ratification of a new international treaty, and the combination of environmental and mobility justice movements. Due to specific institutional constraints on the principle actors and traditional issues of cooperation at the international level, I argue against a top-down solution to the lack of legal protections for EDPs that often arises from alarmist discourse. Instead, drawing on tenets of the mobility justice movement, I advocate for an inclusive state-led approach that promotes cross-partisan policy solutions to climate change and displacement in consultation with regional and sub-regional actors.

Introduction By mid-2022, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) estimates that there will be 103 million people displaced around the world (UNHCR 2022). As the leading United Nations (UN) agency with a specific mandate for refugees, the UNHCR includes but differentiates between asylum-seekers, refugees, internally displaced people (IDPs), and other groups in their figure of mobile populations in 2022. This unprecedented volume of displacement continues a rising trend that has accelerated in recent years.

UNHCR data indicates that new displacements have outpaced the available solutions for both refugees and IDPs since 2010 (UNHCR Global Trends 11 9

2022). There is considerable concern among the international community that further increases in human mobility due to climate change and environmental disasters will exacerbate this backlog in displacement solutions. While rising sea levels, deforestation, extreme weather, desertification, environmental degradation, and natural disasters have become more frequent and widespread in the last decade, the international community has failed to produce new laws that guarantee the protection of those who are displaced due to these reasons (Coordination Unit: Platform on Disaster Displacement 2018).

The 1951 Refugee Convention mandates that states grant asylum to those who are “unable or unwilling to return to their country of origin owing to a well-founded fear of being persecuted for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group, or political opinion” (1951 Refugee Convention, 3). Those who are displaced due to climate and disaster related reasons are typically excluded from asylum on these grounds. I will refer to these individuals as environmentally displaced people or EDPs. Many academics and policymakers believe that to adequately protect these groups, states and international actors must adopt comparable legal agreements obliging them to grant asylum to EDPs in a less restrictive manner. While there is an emerging consensus in the international community of the need to recognize the intersection between climate change and human mobility, there is significant variability in approaches to framing and implementing these protections (Naser 2021). In some cases, there is support for a revised 1951 Refugee Convention. In others, academics and policymakers have called for a new convention to entrench and enforce states’ perceived obligations towards “climate refugees”. However, many key stakeholders are skeptical of the ability of the international community to effectively coordinate a top-down approach, electing instead to support national and regional processes (PDD 2018). Furthermore, some see humanitarian climate migration discourse and the “climate refugee” label as alarmist and reinforcing of the historical capitalist perspective that positions displaced people as “others” (Ahuja 2021, 4-5, Baldwin et al. 2019).

After considering the international system’s current inability to protect those displaced due to climate related reasons and evaluating the strength of proposed solutions, this paper seeks to identify the most effective way to mitigate 12 0

the impending climate mobility crisis. Due to specific institutional constraints on the most relevant actors and traditional issues of cooperation at the international level, I argue against a top-down solution to the lack of legal protections for environmentally displaced people that arises from alarmist discourse. Instead, drawing on tenets of the mobility justice movement, I advocate for an inclusive state-led approach that promotes cross-partisan policy solutions to climate change and displacement in consultation with regional and sub-regional actors.

Legal Barriers in the Current International Order As the introduction mentions, the 1951 Refugee Convention articulates a precise definition of who qualifies as a refugee. Being the primary international institution responsible for promoting and protecting the 1951 Convention, the UNHCR outlines the procedural standards for Refugee Status Determination (RSD). Although sovereign states can produce their own version of the RSD process, it is often based on the UNHCR’s procedural standard. In particular, the following basic requirements must be ensured by each contracting state, including: (i) A qualified and competent official (e.g., immigration officer or border police officer) with clear instructions for dealing with cases in accordance with relevant international principles. (ii) Adequate information for the applicant about the procedure. (iii) A clearly identified authority responsible for examining and deciding on requests for refugee status. (iv) The applicant should receive the necessary aid to facilitate the submission of their case to the authorities concerned including contact with a representative of UNHCR. (v) Recognized refugees should be promptly issued with documentation certifying refugee status. (vi) Reasonable time to appeal a refusal decision either to the same or to a different authority. (vii) The applicant should be permitted to remain in the country pending a 12 1

decision on his initial request, including in cases of appeal (UNHCR Handbook 42-43, 2019).

The UNHCR directly administers the RSD process through their local offices in about 50 states. Like the rest of the international community, the UNHCR is notoriously stingy when granting refugee status. In interviews with Eligibility Officers, the UNHCR protection staff who are responsible for conducting the RSD process, workers often felt that they lacked the resources or decision-making independence necessary to prioritize “quality, fairness,” and humanitarian aims (Fresia and von Kanel 2016, 114). Officers also described a “culture of suspicion” in the determination of a claimant’s credibility that develops alongside the cynical attitudes of more experienced peers and supervisors (Fresia and von Kanel 2016, 112). This atmosphere is supported and enforced by states who fund and regulate the extent of UNHCR operations in the interest of maintaining the sanctity of their borders. Given the restrictive nature of the UNHCR and the RSD process when considering traditional refugees, it is unsurprising that environmentally displaced people are largely excluded from the protections provided for under the 1951 Refugee Convention.

These legal barriers can be observed through cases such as that of the New Zealand Supreme Court v. Ioane Teitiota in 2015. Mr. Teitiota and his wife moved from the Pacific Island of Kiribati to New Zealand in 2007 under a three-year permit. Once the permit expired, Mr. Teitiota and his family remained in New Zealand illegally. When he was apprehended, Mr. Teitiota applied for refugee status based on the threat of environmental degradation caused by rising sea-levels in the Pacific Island of Kiribati (Buchanan 2015). After his RSD application was rejected by the Immigration and Protection Officer, Mr. Teitiota appealed the decision with New Zealand’s Immigration and Protection Tribunal, who upheld his rejection (Buchanan 2015). Mr. Teitiota then filed requests for appeal with the New Zealand High Court in 2013 and the Court of Appeal in 2014, both of whom denied his right to appeal the findings of the initial protection officer (Buchanan 2015). Finally, the Supreme Court of New Zealand “upheld the decisions of the lower courts and dismissed Mr. Teitiota’s 12 2

application for leave to appeal” in 2015 (Buchanan 2015, 1). The courts recognized that Kiribati’s capacity to support its population was “significantly compromised” by the effects of both “sudden-onset” environmental events such as storms, and “slow-onset processes” such as a consistently rising sea-level (Buchanan 2015, 2). Despite this, they found that Mr. Teitiota was not at risk of serious harm and that he had engaged in a “voluntary adaptive migration” strategy that was not protected under the 1951 Convention nor any other international law (Buchanan 2015, 2-5). As a result, his appeal was denied and neither he nor his family were granted refugee status. This case demonstrates the literal and strict reading of the 1951 Convention, preventing “climate refugees” such as Mr. Teitiota from claiming asylum on these grounds.

Addressing Legal Barriers: Amending the 1951 Refugee Convention?

Certain scholars and policymakers have reacted to cases like that of Mr. Teitiota by suggesting that the simplest way to address the gap in legal protections afforded to environmentally displaced people is to broaden the traditional definition of a refugee. Some believe this can be done by reconceptualizing the understanding of persecution in the 1951 Convention’s definition of a refugee (Scott 2020, 129). According to Scott, the principal aim of the 1951 Convention is to protect against non-discrimination (Scott 2020). In this context, instead of focusing on isolated acts of persecution, the basis of a well-founded fear of persecution “entails a condition of existence in which discrimination” contributes to an actual, or high risk of, exposure to “serious denials of human rights'' (Scott 2020, 129). Since climate change and environmental disasters often result in such “serious denials of human rights” and failures of state protection, EDPs could be recognized under the proposed definition. Scott believes that this “recalibrated'' definition addresses proven limits in the status quo understanding of what it means to be persecuted by incorporating better risk assessment, broader temporal and sociological consideration, and a narrower personal scope. Additionally, Scott claims this definition allows those facing environmentally-driven denials of human rights to access asylum without over-broadening and weakening the 1951 Refugee 12 3

Convention (Scott 2020, 129). Crucially, Scott specifies that denials of human rights must be “a consequence of the individual’s political or civil status” (Scott 2020, 156). Furthermore, Scott argues these changes are readily accessible and applicable in the context of RSD, making it a practical solution that does not undermine state sovereignty or the sanctity of the RSD process.

Scott’s novel definition for what constitutes a well-founded fear of prosecution in the context of determining the status of a refugee claimant is carefully developed alongside an established framework of non-discrimination and human rights. In fact, he argues that his definition is more aligned with the “principles for treaty interpretation” outlined in Article 31-33 of the 1969 Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties (Scott 2020, 131). However, I contend that re-negotiating the 1951 Refugee Convention to include this new interpretation of persecution could result in a political stalemate that might severely weaken the treaty. This view is held by former High Commissioner for Refugees and current Secretary General of the UN, Antonio Guterres (Prieur 2018, 235). The definitions of the 1951 Refugee Convention have only been modified once since the treaty came into force, to remove the temporal and geographic limitations via the 1967 Protocol Relating to the Status of Refugees.

It is important to note that in 1967, no new language was adopted; the international community already widely recognized the problems associated with a definition of “refugee” restricted to Europeans. Scott’s proposed definition alters the language of the treaty to impose new obligations on states without widespread consensus. Considering the pre-existing restrictive and emotional attitudes adopted by most states towards the issue of migration, it would be unlikely to convince a substantial group of states to draft and ratify this new definition of persecution at this time. Additionally, even if the new definition were to be entrenched in international law, it would have a negative impact on the ability of conventional refugees and EDPs to seek protections under the 1951 Convention. Anticipating the stinginess and culture of suspicion that pervades the RSD process and the broader border regimes, Scott proposed a definition that was designed to maintain the narrow conception of refugeehood that applied only to those individuals facing discrimination based on their civil or political status. In so doing, Scott reinforces a strict and principled RSD process 12 4

(Scott 2020, 156). While certain individuals who are specifically discriminated against due to an intersection of their political or civil status and environmental factors could be eligible for protection under Scott’s version of the 1951 Refugee Convention, larger groups fleeing more general and widespread denials of human rights would not. Consequently, this definition does not adequately reinvent the 1951 Refugee Convention to address the increasing needs of people displaced due to climate related reasons.

Addressing Legal Barriers: Drafting a New Convention?

There are other inherent issues in the language of the 1951 Refugee Convention that make it unsuitable for providing environmentally displaced people with legal protections. Two major concerns are the requirements that the displaced person cross an international border and that they are forced to do so.

Scott addresses neither of these. Recognizing the combination of the slow and sudden-onset impacts of environmental degradation, protections designed for those displaced by such threats must account for the agency of migrants to voluntarily leave their homes if they are no longer or beginning to become uninhabitable. Additionally, the protections must account for the reality that people who are displaced within their own countries may still be denied basic human rights. Considering the multiple aspects of the 1951 Refugee Convention that prevent environmentally displaced people from claiming asylum under international law, scholars like Michel Prieur have suggested drafting a completely new convention to recognize the distinct legal status of environmentally displaced-persons. This approach is still focused on human rights, but instead of trying to incorporate EDPs into the existing refugee structure it looks to create a unique and specific framework to protect these groups. While the aim is to develop “a legal instrument and protection mechanisms that are more flexible than the 1951 Convention”, they must also impose legally binding duties upon states (Prieur 2018, 238).

Together with the University of Limoges and the International Center of Comparative Environmental Law (CIDCE), Prieur presents a draft convention that radically attempts to fulfill these aims. The main innovation of their draft, 12 5

Article 10, grants “environmentally displaced persons” the right to freely choose whichever country or region they would like to reside in (Prieur 2018, 238). This article also allocates status holders the right to rejoin a family member or friend who lives abroad “without administrative obstacles” (Prieur 2018, 238). Unlike Scott’s narrowing of the personal scope for refugee consideration, Prieur’s draft convention recognizes both individual and collective rights to freedom of movement based on Article 9 and 12 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR). These flexible and broadly applicable rights are contingent on states accepting “the obligation to receive the displaced” and grant them asylum (Prieur 2018, 239). Prieur and their colleagues believe this obligation is supported by Principle 27 of the 1992 Rio Declaration, which provides the legal basis for state cooperation and solidarity in public international law, especially concerning the environment (Prieur 2018, 239). If implemented, this convention would direct signatory states to establish a special commission under domestic legislation who is responsible for determining the status claims of environmentally displaced people (Prieur 2018, 240). The commission’s members are to be appointed and monitored by the state’s “highest juridical authorities” and apply a set of international determined guidelines to determine the protection status of the claimant (Prieur 2018, 240). Importantly, the commission’s decisions would be reversible under the High Authority of the World Agency for Environmentally Displaced People (WAEP), an organization created by the draft convention for the purpose of monitoring, funding, and enforcing the operations of the convention (Prieur 2018, 240-241).

Prieur presents this draft convention as an alternative solution to the slow, bureaucratic approach taken by the UNFCCC and the Warsaw International Mechanism for Loss and Damage (WIM). While I agree that a legally binding international convention specifically designed to give environmentally displaced people access to human rights protections is a viable policy goal, I argue that Prieur and their colleagues’ draft convention is both premature and unattainable in the current international community. A convention of such magnitude and force cannot simply be imposed upon states in the anarchic world order. For successful ratification and observance, a significant and influential part of the international state system must adopt the perspective that they bear the 12 6

responsibility to protect environmentally displaced people. Finnemore and Sikkink (1998) describe the process by which these normative values are propagated as a “norm life cycle”, whereby emerging norms must be adopted by a critical mass of influential states who are considered “norm leaders” (Finnemore and Sikkink 1998, 895). This constitutes a tipping point that leads to “norm cascading”, the stage in which norm leaders convince increasing numbers of states and organizations to accept the norm themselves. Eventually, when a majority of the population of states accept the norm and it is no longer the subject of debate, the norm is considered to be “internalized” (Finnemore and Sikkink 1998, 895-896). The draft convention outlined by Prieur assumes that the international community can jump straight to the stage of norm internalization in the context of protecting environmentally displaced people.

Considering states’ marginalisation of refugees, IDPs and EDPs, I argue that states generally do not perceive themselves as obligated to protect the world’s mobile populations. Specifically, the normative obligation of states to receive EDPs has yet to reach the tipping point identified in Finnemore and Sikkink’s norm life cycle.

In addition to the international community’s overall unreadiness to adopt this norm, Prieur’s draft convention contradicts a number of other norms that are thoroughly internalized across the world. Most glaringly, the mechanism proposed to enforce the draft convention and monitor states’ compliance, the High Authority of the WAEP, violates the principle of state sovereignty that is of utmost importance in the current world order. In unilaterally dictating the international guidelines for each country’s special commission to follow when determining the status of an environmentally displaced person, the WAEP already encroaches on the right of states to protect and enforce their own borders. Moreover, in giving the High Authority the ability to appeal and reverse the decisions made by the concerned country’s special commission, Prieur’s draft convention is likely to raise serious sovereignty concerns among states.

Furthermore, Article 10 of the draft convention giving EDPs and their families the free choice of country or region to which they would like to relocate raises pertinent questions about what kind of limits states can reasonably impose on potentially overwhelming influxes of immigration. Contrary to the narrow 12 7

protections offered to EDPs in Scott’s remodelled 1951 Refugee Convention, Prieur’s draft convention proposes to broaden the rights available to EDPs beyond the capabilities of the current international state system.

It is clear that Prieur and their colleagues have deliberately produced a provocative draft convention that pushes the boundaries of state comfort. While the international community is certainly unwilling and unprepared to adopt such a convention, Prieur’s draft provides a fascinating model to consider when assessing and evaluating potential solutions to the intersection of increasing displacement and climate change. It raises important questions such as “who is responsible for climate change and its impacts on displaced citizens of the world?” and “what should states do to coordinate and engage in solutions to these issues?”

The Mobility Justice Movement and the Problem with Alarmist Discourse According to Mimi Sheller’s conception of the mobility justice movement, the predicament of environmentally displaced people is a result of global capitalist regimes that unevenly govern the control of movement based on access to resources, wealth, and urban life (Sheller 2018). In her book Mobility Justice, Sheller notes that while tourists and elites do as they please in various countries of their choosing, displaced people disproportionately suffer the consequences of restrictive border regimes and unequal distribution of resources (Sheller 2018).

Sheller’s idea builds on the climate justice movement, which recognizes the overwhelming consequences of environmental degradation faced by the world’s more vulnerable populations in spite of their minute contributions to the issue.

In 2014, the Canadian Centre for Policy Alternatives acknowledged a collective obligation to “climate migrants” in a report titled “Preparing BC for Climate Migration” as part of their Climate Justice Project (Dickson et al. 2014). The authors noted that although Canada constituted only 0.5% of the world’s population in 2012, it produced 2.1% of global greenhouse gas emissions (Dickson et al. 2014, 5). While global north states largely depend on fossil fuel reliant economies to maintain the quality of life standards in their own countries,12 8

97% of climate induced mortality occurs in the global south (Dickson et al. 2014, 5). Many interpret this reality to impart a sense of responsibility on the world’s largest polluters to help other countries respond to climate change and displacement issues through humanitarian intervention. In spite of this report, the authors acknowledge that there is very little governmental interest in Canada to depart from dominant fossil fuel economies (Dickson et al 2014, 9-10). This remains true to this day.

Fundamentally, Mimi Sheller’s conception of mobility justice views human movement as the “founding condition” of social organization rather than the exception to it (Baldwin et al 2019, 290). Still, as the impacts of climate change inevitably increase the volume of displacement around the world, such movement is often characterized by states and international organizations as a crisis that threatens the wellbeing of states and their citizens. This promotes alarmist discourse that warns against the inevitability of climate change that will directly cause massive hordes of “climate migrants” to arrive irregularly at the doorstep of wealthy global north countries in search of a better life (Munoz 2020, 1273). This perspective is reinforced by unidimensional representations of environmentally displaced people as boat people and illegal immigrants and prompts policies of securitization (Munoz 2020). Securitization can be understood as “the process through which non-traditional security issues, in this case climate change and migration, are discussed and acted upon in terms of security and thereby drawn into the security domain” (Boas 2019, 901). The strategic characterization of environmentally displaced people through this lens is employed by countries as a political tool to entrench state-centered security policies to minimize the “threat multiplier” that is climate change and displacement (Boas 2019, 901). This can be observed in arguments that “climate migration” threatens peace and development, especially in vulnerable countries and thus warrants an “integrated foreign policy approach” requiring the intervention of state militaries (Van der Vliet 2018, 18). These divisive policies reinforce the meaning of citizenship in global north countries and the perceived threat of asylum seekers, who are positioned as the “other” (Munoz 2020, 1273).

While neoliberal public policy and media propagate a humanitarian focus on reducing the inequalities of carbon emissions and restrictive immigration 12 9

regimes, the proposed solutions are often dominated by security discourse. In light of alarmist climate migration discourse, Neel Ahuja argues humanitarian justice narratives are co-opted by states to obscure the reproduction of capitalist behaviour that drives climate change and displacement to begin with (Ahuja 2021, 3-4). While this may be true, states remain the most powerful actors on the international scale and their ability to influence climate change and displacement paradigms cannot be overlooked.

Towards a Technical and Inclusive State-Led Approach Frequently, the anti-immigration and climate change-denying attitudes in global north countries are attributed to the political polarization of right- and left-wing ideologies. The staunch refusal of right-wing politicians and citizens to accept the impacts of climate change on the environment and human mobility is framed as a response to radical left-wing suggestions to completely do away with fossil fuel economies and border regimes (Stanley et al. 2021). While political polarisation is certainly a real issue in global north countries, I argue that it is often over emphasized by politicians and media personas. Drawing on their study of attitudes towards climate change and climate migration policy in Australia and New Zealand, Stanley et al. (2021) demonstrate that there is widespread recognition of climate change and support for immigration as a solution across political orientation (Stanley et al. 2021, 3-4). While respondents with more right-wing political orientations were on average slightly less supportive than respondents with left-wing political orientations towards climate migration policies, the significant majority of voters from all political parties in New Zealand and Australia were in favour of the policy (Stanley et al. 2021, 5). The only exception was the voters of the minority One Nation party. Overall, this suggests the existence of a cross-partisan political consensus in Australia and New Zealand on the need to mitigate the impacts of climate change and to welcome environmentally displaced persons.

Considering these findings, I argue that global north states do have the political will to provide protections to environmentally displaced persons.

However, this does not need to be accomplished through the revision of the 13 0

1951 Refugee Convention or a novel international convention. Instead, the alarmist discourse disseminated in various global north countries should be questioned and replaced with technical solutions informed both by experts such as the International Organization on Migration (IOM) and environmentally displaced persons themselves. An example of such solutions includes establishing direct and “early pathways for migration” between host communities and countries of origin (Stanley et al. 2021, 7). This allows the host community to frame migration in a beneficial and positive manner before there is extensive national and international attention on the issue, potentially prompting polarised politicised interjections (Stanley et al. 2021). This preventative and proactive approach to providing environmentally displaced persons with protections is one of the central goals of the Global Compact for Safe, Orderly, and Regular Migration (GCM), along with the aim for states to embed environmental considerations in their domestic immigration policy (Chazalnoel and Ionesco 2018, 107). Established in 2016 at the UN General Assembly in New York, the GCM is a crucial tool for pushing the norm of protecting EDPs towards the tipping point described by Finnemore and Sikkink. It is a platform through which states can share and debate national laws and policies permitting the “safe and effective management of climate migration” (Chazalnoel and Ionesco 2018, 112-113). Although it is imperative to recognize the difficulty in combining two contentious areas of international policy, mobility and climate change, state-led initiatives like the Platform on Disaster Displacement (PDD) is another key forum through which “policy makers, researchers, and practitioners'' can share technical policy solutions and further diffuse the norm of protecting EDPs (PDD 2018, 128). While the structure of the PDD is heavily influenced by the UNHCR and the UNFCCC, I argue that these forums must be used by states primarily to inform and influence their own national and sub-regional policies rather than participating in international agenda setting. As national and sub-regional organizations share their most effective policies and practices, the norm of protecting environmentally displaced people will naturally cascade across the international community.

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Conclusion While environmental degradation and climate change increasingly prompt migration as a necessary adaptive solution, there is consensus across the international community that the current legal and institutional frameworks insufficiently protect environmentally displaced people. Considering this situation, many have suggested altering or creating new international law to bridge the legal gap and enforce a top-down imposition of human rights protections for EDPs. However, the intent of the 1951 Refugee Convention was never to design a broad protection regime for migrants, making it extremely difficult to change in a way that would reflect the needs of EDPs today. On the other hand, a new convention such as the one drafted by Michel Prieur and the CIDCE would encroach too strongly on state sovereignty and push the international community in a direction that contradicts current attitudes. Yet, considering the overwhelming contributions of global north states to the proliferation of climate change and the subsequent impacts on human displacement, in addition to the central role played by states in the current international system, protecting the human rights of environmentally displaced people must become a state-led policy initiative. That being said, this policy must not manifest through alarmist and securitized frameworks that simply reinforce the issues they claim to address. As a result, states must endeavor to seek cross-partisan solutions in consultation with sub-regional actors that aim to protect environmentally displaced people by entrenching considerations of environmental mobility justice in domestic legislation. This may be an ad hoc solution that will only incrementally improve the rights of environmentally displaced people, but I argue it is the most logical way to begin extending the legal frameworks needed to accommodate displacement.

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Works Cited Ahuja, Neel. 2021. Planetary Specters: Race, Migration, and Climate Change in the Twenty-First Century. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press.

Andrew Baldwin, Christiane Fröhlich & Delf Rothe. 2019. “From Climate Migration to Anthropocene Mobilities: Shifting the Debate.” Mobilities 14, no. 3: 289–97. https://doi.org/10.1080/17450101.2019.1620510.

Boas, Ingrid, et al. 2019. “Climate Migration Myths.” Nature Climate Change 9, no. 12: 901–03. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41558-019-0633-3.

Buchanan, Kelly. 2015. New Zealand: Climate Change Refugee, Case Overview.

Washington, Law Library of Congress, Global Legal Research Center.

HeinOnline.

Chazalnoel, Miriam Traore and Dina Ionesco. 2018. “Advancing the Global Governance of Climate Migration Through the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change and the Global Compact on Migration.” In Climate Refugees: Beyond the Legal Impasse?, edited by Simon Behrman and Avidan Kent, 103–117. London: Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9781315109619.

Dickson, Stephanie, Takaro, Tim, and Webber, Sophie. 2014. “Preparing BC for Climate Migration.” Canadian Electronic Library. CID: 20.500.12592/090cd6.

Finnemore, Martha, and Kathryn Sikkink. 1998. “International Norm Dynamics and Political Change.” International Organization 52, no. 4 (Autumn): 887–917. https://www.jstor.org/stable/2601361.

Fresia, Marion, and Andreas von Känel. 2016. “Universalizing the Refugee Category and Struggling for Accountability: The Everyday Work of Eligibility Officers Within UNHCR.” In UNHCR and the Struggle for Accountability Technology, Law and Results-based Management, edited by Kristin Sandvik and Katja Jacobson, 101–18. London: Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9781315692593.

Munoz, Sarah M. 2021. “Environmental Mobility in a Polarized World: Questioning the Pertinence of the ‘Climate Refugee’ Label for Pacific Islanders.” Journal of International Migration and Integration 22, no.4 133 (Winter): 1271–1284. https://doi.org/10.1007/s12134-020-00799-6.

Naser, Mostafa. 2020. The Emerging Global Consensus on Climate Change and Human Mobility. Routledge.

Scott, Matthew. 2020. Climate Change, Disasters, and the Refugee Convention.

Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/9781108784580 Sheller, Mimi. 2018. Mobility Justice: The Politics of Movement in an Age of Extremes. Verso.

Stanley, Samantha K., Zoe Leviston, Caroline Ng Tseung-Wong, and Iain Walker. 2021. “Acceptance of Climate Change and Climate Refugee Policy in Australia and New Zealand: The Case Against Political Polarisation.” Climatic Change 169, no. 26. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10584-021-03278-8.

Platform on Disaster Displacement. 2018. “State-Led, Regional, Consultative Process: Opportunities to Develop Legal Frameworks on Disaster Displacement.” In Climate Refugees: Beyond the Legal Impasse?, edited by Simon Behrman and Avidan Kent, 126-152. Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9781315109619.

Prieur, Michel. 2018. “Towards an International Legal Status of Environmentally Displaced Persons.” In Climate Refugees: Beyond the Legal Impasse?, edited by Simon Behrman and Avidan Kent, 233–242. Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9781315109619..

UNHCR, the UN Refugee Agency. n.d. “UNHCR.” Accessed November 22, 2022. www.unhcr.org/3b66c2aa10.

UNHCR. 2019. Handbook on Procedures and Criteria for Determining Refugee Status under the 1951 Convention and the 1967 Protocol relating to the Status of Refugees. UNHCR. https://www.unhcr.org/publications/legal/5ddfcdc47/handbook-procedurescriteria-determining-refugee-status-under-1951-convention.html.

Van der Vliet, Jolanda. 2018. “Climate Refugees: A Legal Mapping Exercise.” In Climate Refugees: Beyond the Legal Impasse?, edited by Simon Behrman and Avidan Kent, 16–33. Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9781315109619.

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Women’s Work: Risks and Opportunities for Gender Equality in Ghana’s Informal Economies Magritte Gordaneer Edited by Amelia Fortier

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Introduction The informal market economy in Ghana may represent an impasse in gender equality efforts to an untrained eye. However, in reality, the informal economy — or black market — can be a bountiful space for an exploration of women’s development, or lack thereof. The presence of women in informal market economies, and the general failure in acknowledging their necessity, poses significant questions about how these markets should be addressed to account for developments in gender equality. Barred from formal or more traditional economies, women attempting to survive in informal market sectors face unregulated and unexpected risks, posing great risks to their survival. Women’s frequent inability to participate in formal markets in Africa, and specifically in Ghana, due to systemic sexism and a wide range of barriers leads to dependency on the informal economy to survive. While informal markets can harm women’s health and development, they also pose unique opportunities for their advancement. These opportunities should not be negated, but rather considered and analyzed in the context of authoritative efforts to regulate these sectors.

Women’s interaction with these black markets and informal sectors is a key feature in the story of Ghanian economies, and often negated despite broader attempts to assist gender equality in developing economies. Women significantly make up 80 per cent of the informal economy in Ghana (Dziwornu 2018, 417).

It is, therefore, crucial to examine how the interactions between the formal and informal sectors of Ghana pose multi-dimensional risks, barriers, and advantages to gender equality. Analysis of African economies and their ties to colonialist financial models contributes to further examination of women in these models.

Moreover, studying efforts by Western states to suppress information about the informal African economy can reveal how women face complicated and multidimensionally influenced forms of harm in these sectors. Given these multifaceted factors in the informal economy’s interaction with gender in Ghana, attempts to suppress illicit economies risk causing harm towards women, allowing abuse to run rampant, and extending the threat of continued violence against women, all of which challenge the potential positive gender opportunities within the informal sector. Women’s participation in Ghana’s 13 6

informal sectors illustrates the harmful nature of black market economies, in addition to their simultaneous offering of opportunities for gender equality, and provides a necessary lens to examine the market’s colonialist origins.

Barriers to Women’s Participation in the Formal Economy The informal economy, characterized by “small-scale units producing and distributing goods and services, and consisting largely of independent, self-employed producers in urban areas of developing countries… generally provide very low and irregular incomes and highly unstable employment to those who work in it” (Wrigley-Asante 2013, 526). First used to describe non-traditional income opportunities in Ghana’s urban markets in the 1970s, the informal sector became an essential piece of analysis in regards to Africa’s story of development (Wrigley-Asante 2013, 527). Ignoring the informal sectors within Africa would consequently negate much of the continent’s actual economy, in addition to reducing women’s contributions and economic and political realities. These informal economies — such as governmental work, financial institutions, and traditional trade of goods — are highly unregulated in direct contrast to formal markets in Africa. Informality in the broader African economy provides Africans with the ability to engage in commerce without paying taxes or having their commodities regulated by state authorities. The nature of these markets gives way for exploitation of workers in addition to opportunities for advancement and development without administrative overhead such as taxes (Obeng-Odoom 2011, 224). These informal markets are often the only form of work available to women, making their situations as precarious as the sectors they rely upon.

Barriers to women who enter and meaningfully participate in the formal or traditional economy are frequent and often insurmountable. These barriers are built on cultures of sexism and assigned gender roles and prevent women from participating in the traditional economy through rejection in the formal job market and suppression within it. This is especially true in natural-resource and mineral rich economies (Dzisi 2008, 262). The informal economy is also a deeply gendered environment. Much of the informal economy’s activity is based on the 13 7

unofficial jobs many women across the world fulfill daily: domestic work.

Domestic and informal work are highly gendered and tangled together, whereas domestic work expected to be done by women without pay can be commodified in the informal market. This entanglement provides women with more opportunities in black markets than in formal sectors where male labor is often favored. This is true in both resource-extractive jobs or jobs requiring higher education in government in the formal market. Many developing economies are based on primary resource exports thus often requiring a strong and physical-labor oriented workforce, which in turn favors the consistent hiring of men over women due to physical attributes (Ross 2008, 108). This is especially prevalent in the case of Ghana’s economy, which relies on the export of gold, cocoa, and crude oil (International Trade Administration, 2022).Additionally, trade itself in the informal economy is a gendered profession. Without education, women in Ghana see petty trading, the small-scale trading of items or services, as the only opportunity available to them (Owusu 2004, 119). Additionally, trading in the informal sector is often the only livelihood women can participate in whilst in urban centers and agricultural work is only available to women in rural settings in Ghana (Owusu 2004, 119).

Furthermore, cultural, and gendered, expectations of men and women infuse into the workplace, negatively impacting women. As Nadje Sadig Al-Ali discusses, economies can socially bar women from participating in various sectors, especially in primary-resource and conflict economies (2009, 57). These barriers are based in sexist institutions and the cultural roles assigned to women over men. Thus, responsibilities related to caregiving, cleaning, and cooking are placed solely on women. Given the barriers to women’s participation in the formal sector of economies, especially in developing nations, informal economies become the only source of additional income for these women. With the effects of Structural Adjustment Programs (SAPs) imposed by the International Monetary Fund in the mid-eighties, where the costs of living raised dramatically for ordinary Ghanaians, women are pressured to enter any form of market just to support and sustain their families (Owusu 2004, 117-19). Women, additionally, often instinctively feel the most pressure to provide basic goods for the family such as food, water, and shelter, thereby increasing the stressful need to enter 13 8

informal or hazardous markets (Owusu 2004, 118). These cultural pressures on women to ensure the survival of their family whilst not having access to safe or stable sources of income is what makes the informal economy so essential to many Ghanaians’ survival.

The Informal Sector as a Threat to Gender Equality Women working in the informal sector lack formal and comprehensive protection from any external or authoritative body, making them highly susceptible to exploitation and abuse. Women who engage in riskier labor in these informal economies often see monetary benefits for this harsher type of work (Wrigley-Asante 2013, 537). What has further been found among women working in informal economies, especially those tasked with facilitating cross-border trade between Ghana and neighboring states, is severe negative health impacts (Wrigley-Asante 2013, 537). Physical maladies in addition to various disorders — both physical and mental — are found more frequently in women engaging in harder labor associated with informal work (Wrigley-Asante 2013, 528). The primacy of hard physical labor is not only detrimental to womens’ health, but also women’s desirability and productivity in the economy.

Contrarily, men almost always hold more physical and cultural cachet to execute manual labor, further thrusting women to the fringes of primary-resource export sectors. Health risks to women in these areas also extend to diseases contracted via informal market activities. In a study by Charlotte Wrigley-Asante, it was found that many women develop sexually transmitted diseases as part of the trust-based or sex-work networks which they take part in to support their travel or commerce (2018, 534). Negative health impacts associated with the informal market hold obvious threats to gender equality and women’s development.

Women’s health not only directly affects gender equality, but can also be an indicator of broader trends in equality in developing nations. Informal economies can be exploitative by nature, however authorities targeting these sectors can put women in situations that further risk their health and safety.

Centralization efforts to combat the unregulated nature of these markets are also prone to being highly gendered and violent while being implemented.

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The informal economy poses a host of threats to the centralization and legitimation of governments in Africa, especially in the cessation of taxes in these sectors. When, for example, authorities crack down on informal marketplaces in order to enforce their own traditional markets and legitimacy, they often harm women’s economic endeavors and trades, either diminishing their potential for economic mobility by ceasing their activity, or by sending them further underground to continue to work informally with even less oversight. In Ghana, informal market workers and sellers face regular harassment and physical violence from state authorities who try to shut down their activities (Sowatey 2018, 336).

As Emmanuel Sowatey et al. explain, Ghanaian women in these marketplaces face violence, beatings, undue interrogations, and the destruction of their merchandise at the hands of authorities set on suppressing informal markets (2018, 336). Harsh environmental conditions, overcrowding, risk of fire, and theft also add to the hazardous conditions many Ghanaian experience in these markets. Furthermore, many market women in Accra report having to pay high and unchecked market tolls when caught by authorities (Agyei 2016, 306). Head porters or Kayayei — young women who transport goods on their heads — often experience sexual and physical harassment from customers due to their position and vulnerability in the market (Agyei 2016, 298). Kayayei encounter sexual assault at an alarmingly high rate in these markets whereby teen pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases are common having grave impacts on their health and ability to work (Agyei 2016, 298). Facing the rising cost of living in Accra, many workers are cordoned off into these dangerous professions that increase their vulnerability to threats and harassment, without much possibility for escape due to mounting economic pressures.

The informal nature of these market economies, thematically, do not support gender equality in Ghana. Without systems of protection hardened with enforcement in the formal market, exploitation of informal workers can run rampant and intensify sexist and violent cultural tendencies against women’s equality and development. Often, avenues to report violence are limited and accepting abuse becomes the only financial option for these women engrained in the informal sector. Women, unable to enter the formal economy due to disfavor in employability and diminishing jobs, are forced to seek out harmful, informal 14 0

work as an essential means to sustain themselves and their families.

Informality also prevents women from gaining recognition in an administrative capacity. Workers’ protection laws and other social insurances do not extend to the women in Ghana’s informal sector, making the work they do not only risky, but subject to punishment. Migrant women make up a large portion of Ghana’s informal economy, and without means to have recognized employment there are few paths, if any, to becoming citizens or gaining crucial rights such as voting, healthcare, or employment insurance (Ameyaw 2014, 225).

Additionally, as the informal sector’s market women are “self-employed,” their exploitation could be seen as self-inflicted and caused by greater trends and institutionalized sexism (Obeng-Odoom 2011, 382). Broadly, Ghana’s informal economy harbors many challenges to women’s development which are seriously detrimental to gender equality, and will continue to be if not corrected.

However, there remain some formidable outcomes and developments in the informal sector which should be considered in our research as positive avenues for improved gender equality.

Possibilities for Positive Gender Outcomes in Ghana’s Informal Economy While informal economies pose a host of challenges to improving gender equality, they also have unseen or undervalued positive outcomes, such as remittance networks and systems. A large and often unrecognized part of the African continent’s economy involves informal remittance wages. Remittance wages are an individual’s earnings that are repaid to their original communities, villages, or networks after migrating away. The repayments to their original communities are either for altruistic reasons, or more contractually after an initial investment in their endeavors by the aforementioned community. Remittances are widely used throughout Africa and essential to their economies, with women’s involvement in this form of investment being extremely relevant to any analysis of the informal sector. Remittance labor earnings provide communities and families a way to effectively make financial gains through informal means while supporting their kin or social networks (Medani 2021, 7). Furthermore, these remittance systems that send money directly into 14 1

communities are able to bypass formal authoritative financial bodies and waive excessive taxes, making the return on investment faster and greater (Medani 2021, 7). Women engage in remittance by either being the individual that leaves and sends money in return, or by financing someone initially. Both ways give them new agency to their financial decisions and investments. When barred from formal markets and investments, remittance offers women an opportunity to invest and increase their chances at social and financial mobility (UNODC 56).

Hawala, an anonymous and informal currency-transfer system based on kinship ties and trust, is key to these remittance funds as it is often how wages return to their communities (UNODC 56). Thus, remittance wages that are received in Ghana and many other African nations become essential for women to survive.

Another emerging aspect of the informal economy that women in Ghana could greatly benefit from includes mobile financial services. These services allow cash-transfers between individuals without the need for physical cash or visiting a bank (Dziwornu 2018, 416). Nearly 60 per cent of women working as entrepreneurs in Ghana’s informal markets studied by Raymond Dziwornu et al. use mobile financial services to conduct their daily business (2018, 423). These systems minimize the amount of physical cash present on a woman at any given time, reducing the likelihood she may be targeted for theft or harassment (Dziwornu 2018, 416). These systems are also more frequently used among educated women in these markets, potentially indicating what the future may look like for these sectors (Dziwornu 2018, 424 and Obeng-Odoom 2011, 229).

Mobile financial services are a small yet powerful way women can take charge of their industry and reduce their risk of being harmed in the marketplace.

Systems of credit are another key area of the informal economy that are highly utilized by Ghanaian women to make both financial and social gains.

Informal systems and lines of credit used by Ghanaian women in these markets operate outside of the international market, and thus do not ebb and flow with the devaluation of goods or fluctuations of foreign markets (Schindler 2010, 235). Credit given out by these market women are thus more stable than the formal economies they operate outside of. Furthermore, these loans and lines of credit given out and repaid by women in Ghanaian markets strengthen social ties to one another, deepening bonds between lenders and borrowers in this informal 14 2

system (Schindler 2010, 235). Women taking responsibility as financial lenders in the informal economy become important examples of the opportunities this sector holds when not impacted by bureaucratized sexism. These systems of credit also provide relief and risk-management, especially to lower-income and poor families during times of instability, whereas more affluent households typically only have access to formal avenues of loans and savings (Schindler 2010, 235). Additionally, credit offered by market women can aid other women in building enterprises on the informal market or ensuring basic necessities when formal financial institutions deny them (Owusu 2004, 58). The informal credit systems also help manage risk for market women and lenders themselves. By building strong ties among larger swaths of the market, they can not only help others weather market storms but ensure longevity and social capital (Schindler 2010, 249). Lines of credit provided and lent by market women in Ghana show immense promise in promoting gender equality and giving agency in stabilizing and securing their own economies when foreign markets falter and shock.

Informal economic structures show unique possibilities in giving new agency and mobility to women in Ghana. Opportunities to provide for family in other regions, escape dangerous conditions, and gain independence are all significant driving forces for women into the informal sector, despite its drawbacks (Agyei 2016, 295). There are numerous examples of women stepping into new and powerful roles in the informal sector which require consideration alongside the risks of operating on the black market. Moreover, it’s essential to reflect on the condition of the market as a whole: women represent only a small portion of the traditional economy, making up only 19 per cent of total typical household wealth (World Bank 2018, 4). It should then be understood that the informal economy provides a necessary outlet for women to gain independence and provide for themselves and their family financially, breaking gender roles and barriers. The informal economy, while being a source of great risk and potential harassment to numerous women, can also be a bountiful source of development.

Thus, informal economies must be understood for their gains in gender equality and women’s empowerment alongside the hazardous environments they produce.

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Informal Economies: Women Within the Context of Colonialism and International Actors Women are essential to both the formal and informal economies of Africa and thus, must be considered in analyzing these markets and their impact on broader trends in African politics. This marginal or peripheral economy destabilizes traditional or core financial systems, making way for new or reclaimed practices of informal network systems (Sowatey 2018, 329). Based on the struggles within the informal sector, pushed aside to the margins, women have the opportunity to seize control of new and emerging markets and make waves in challenging traditional norms and gender roles. The informal market can be used to recenter women’s power as drivers in the broader African economy and tear down gender roles that relegate women to the domestic sphere of unpaid work. In literature and research on Africa’s economies, study of formal market preferences and crashes must have a gendered lens. Without comprehending the internationalized and institutionalized sexism present in economies in Africa, such as Ghana, meaningful efforts done to bridge gender equality will have little to no impact. Additionally, it is important to recognize that women run the Ghanaian economy in multifaceted and complex ways.

However, this can also point to a past more oriented in complex trade-based informal networks.

Precolonial African economies were built on trade networks, informal credit systems, and distribution of resources (Medani Jan 12). The characteristics of pre-colonial African economies acutely align with that of Ghana’s informal economy today. This is anything but coincidence. When colonial intervention came into Ghana, and more broadly the rest of Africa, colonists destabilized these ‘informal’ economic systems and imposed new forms of foreign trade and currency on the continent (Dzisi 2008, 258). The postcolonial period has attempted in numerous ways to operate within the colonial-based foreign market system, with varied and minimal success due to the imposition of SAPs and other negative market tactics (Owusu 2004, 117 and Medani Feb 23). The ‘traditional’ or formal economic systems in this context in Ghana and the majority of Africa are colonial in nature and displaced from any semblance of 14 4

pre-colonial commercial methods. The imposition of these colonial markets undoubtedly exacerbated poverty and the exploitation of labor in Africa (Minnis 2011, 336). This exploitation of labor and, especially, women necessitates a return and reclaiming of informal sectors in the African economy. Thus, these sectors hold not only possibilities for actualized gender equality, but also postcolonial futures based on pre-colonial legacies. That is, the women in these markets must be understood for their efforts in decolonizing economic systems not only in Ghana, but also for their gains in decentralizing colonial-based financial methods across the continent. Colonial economies and understandings of the informal or ‘black market’ sector cannot account for its primacy and success and thus, use it as a scapegoat to combat other forms of illicit activities including terrorist organizing.

Regarding the role of international actors, Khalid Medani outlines in Black Markets, Militants, and Clans: Informal Networks, Islamism, and the Politics of Identity that, for the West, combatting terrorism requires the interruption of informal economic systems and transfer networks (2021, 3). The foreign policy of the United States has sought to target Islamic militant organizations located in African states such as Egypt, Somalia, and Sudan by disrupting informal financial-transfer systems such as hawala and other key features of the informal economy (Medani 2021, 4). Attacking these informal networks can have insurmountable effects on the women who rely on these systems for social and financial mobility. The UNODC handbook on Gender Dimensions of Criminal Justice Responses to Terrorism outlines three ways the crack-downs on these informal systems can harm women’s standing in these states: by shutting down remittances, spousal access to funds, and access of women's organizations to aid and support (2019, 56-7). While Ghanaian markets haven’t experienced a shutdown due to terrorist-based concerns, the threat these foreign actors and Western attempts at control pose could be extremely harmful to gender equality by reducing any positive investments women can make. The gendered implications of Western actors' attempts to regulate or shut down informal systems of finance risk the safety of already vulnerable women who rely on these economies for basic needs or to advance their fiscal standing. While informal economies and sectors can pose a great number of risks to women’s health and 14 5

wellbeing, Western intervention to shut these markets would only drive more ‘illegal’ economic activities underground, while at the same time diminishing the positive aspects and opportunities of these markets. Thus, informal sectors cannot thrive or continue to grow with possibilities for gender equality while being targeted by colonial-based foreign actors.

Conclusion The informal economy in Ghana represents a vast portion of the state’s economic productivity, with women accounting for the majority of actors in this sector of the broader economy. Gender equality in Ghana has made substantial strides in the past twenty years, but there is still much more to be done in renegotiating gender norms and cultural expectations of men and women, particularly in their contributions to the labor sector. The informal economy is, moreover, multifaceted both in its threats and its promise relative to goals of gender equality. The Ghanaian government must consider the positive natures of this system whilst meaningfully attempting to reduce the harms waged on women every day within these sectors — including by their own authorities. The colonial systems which make these markets ‘informal’ also allow for harm to go largely unaddressed by government officials and researchers, making the postcolonial analysis of these informal economies in comparison to ‘formal’ ones necessary. Women have been largely barred from entering Ghana’s formal economies, pushed into hazardous environments associated with the informal sector, yet they still manage to elevate their standing and gender equality within these markets they’ve been ‘banished’ to. Authorities have found they cannot fully shut down or control these markets, but their greater goals suggest they also cannot allow discrimination, harassment, and exploitation to occur as it has heretofore in these sectors. The complex and multifaceted role women play in the formal and informal economy preclude the shutting of these markets from a gendered perspective. Future policies regarding these economies must consider postcolonial analysis, women’s development, and broader equality in Ghana.

Addressing institutionalized sexism and colonialism is imperative for women’s development and equality in Ghana, and understanding informal marketplaces 14 6 as an opportunity to see these advancements remains essential.

Works Cited Agyei, Yaa Ankomaa, et al. 2016. “Is Better to Be a Kayayei Than to Be Unemployed: Reflecting on the Role of Head Portering in Ghana’s Informal Economy.” Geojournal : Spatially Integrated Social Sciences and Humanities, vol. 81, no. 2, 293–318.

Al-Ali, Nadje Sadig, and Nicola Christine Pratt. 2009. Women and War in the Middle East: Transnational Perspectives. Zed Books.

Ameyaw, Stephen, and Franklin Obeng-Odoom. 2014. “A New Informal Economy in Africa : The Case of Ghana.” African Journal of Science, Technology, Innovation and Development, vol. 6, no. 3:223–230.

Dzisi, Smile. 2008. “Entrepreneurial Activities of Indigenous African Women: A Case of Ghana.” Journal of Enterprising Communities: People and Places in the Global Economy, vol. 2, no. 3: 254–264.

Dziwornu, Raymond K., et al. 2018. “Emergence of Mobile Financial Services in Ghana: Concerns for Use among Informal Sector Women Entrepreneurs.”

Journal of Emerging Market Finance, vol. 17, no. 3 (Dec): 415–432.

International Trade Administration. 2022. “Ghana - Market Overview.”

International Trade Administration | Trade.gov, March 16, 2022.www.trade.gov/country-commercial-guides/ghana-market-overview.

Medani, Khalid Mustafa. 2021. Black Markets and Militants: Informal Networks in the Middle East and Africa. Cambridge University Press.

Medani, Khalid Mustafa. 2022. “Globalization, Economic Crisis and the Politics of Economic Reform.” McGill University. Zoom. 23 Feb. 2022. Lecture.

Medani, Khalid Mustafa. 2022. “Pre-Colonial Legacies and the Advent of Colonization.” McGill University. Zoom. 12 Jan. 2022. Lecture.

Minnis, John. 2011. “Non Formal Education and Informal Economies in Sub-Saharan Africa: Finding the Right Match.” Adult Education Quarterly, vol. 56, no. 2:119–133.

Obeng-Odoom, Franklin. 2011. “The Informal Sector in Ghana Under Siege.”

Journal of Developing Societies, vol. 27, no. 3-4:355–392.

Owusu, George, and Ragnhild Lund. 2004. “Markets and Women's Trade: Exploring Their Role in District Development in Ghana.” Norsk Geografisk Tidsskrift, vol. 58, no. 3:113–124.

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Ross, Michael L. 2008. “Oil, Islam, and Women.” The American Political Science Review, vol. 102, no. 1:107–123.

Schindler, Kati. 2010. “Credit for What? Informal Credit As a Coping Strategy of Market Women in Northern Ghana.” Journal of Development Studies, vol.

46, no. 2:234–253.

Sowatey, Emmanuel, et al. 2018. “Spaces of Resilience, Ingenuity, and Entrepreneurship in Informal Work in Ghana.” International Planning Studies, vol. 23, no. 4:327–339.

The World Bank. (2018). Women's Financial Inclusion and the Law. Nov, 2018. thedocs.worldbank.org/en/doc/637311477495506586-0050022018/original/ Edattainxtry4.pdf.

United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC). 2019. Handbook on Gender Dimensions of Criminal Justice Responses to Terrorism. https://www.unodc.org/documents/terrorism/Publications/GENDER/17-0 8887_HB_Gender_Criminal_Justice_E_ebook.pdf.

Wrigley-Asante, Charlotte. 2013. “Unraveling the Health-Related Challenges of Women in the Informal Economy: Accounts of Women in Cross-Border Trading in Accra, Ghana.” Geojournal: Spatially Integrated Social Sciences and Humanities, vol. 78, no. 3: 525–537.

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From Object to Author: Indigenous Peoples and International Law

Josephine Duc Edited by Hannah Clarke-Andrews

(Carl Bigras/The Canadian Press)

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Abstract From the Age of Exploration to the 20th century, powerful nations have used international law to further their imperial policies in the Americas, subjecting Indigenous peoples to unjust legislation. However, this practice has changed in recent decades; Indigenous peoples have become an authoritative party of the global civil rights movement. Initially unconsenting subjects, they have become the authors of international law.

This paper will investigate the change in the authorship of international law before moving to a case study on Canada. It will do so by examining the Papal Bulls on the New World, the International Labor Organization Convention 169 on Indigenous and Tribal Peoples, the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, and the current implementation of international legislation in Canadian domestic law. This paper finds that while many issues persist, Indigenous peoples have largely become contributors to international law through representation at intercontinental meetings, resulting in the reflection of their true demands in global policies.

Introduction Until the 20th century, the purpose of international law concerning the New World and Indigenous peoples was to further the imperialistic policies of powerful nations. Under the guise of the civilizing mission, Western countries sponsored assimilation practices and took advantage of comparative disparities in the technological development of Indigenous peoples (Anghie 2007, 751). This, however, has changed. In recent decades, “Indigenous peoples have arguably come to represent one of the most influential, and well recognized, parties of [the] global civil movement” (Barelli 2009, 959). Indigenous communities have made significant strides toward becoming the authors—rather than the objects—of international law.

This paper will investigate the evolution of international law with regard to Indigenous peoples, following it with a case study of Canada. It will do so by 15 0

examining the Papal Bulls on the New World, the International Labor Organization Convention 169 on Indigenous and Tribal Peoples, the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, and the current implementation of international legislation in Canadian domestic law. It will be concluded that Indigenous peoples have largely become contributors to international law through representation at intercontinental meetings, resulting in the reflection of their true demands in global policies.

The Papal Bulls: Christianity as Justification The Papal Bulls of the Catholic Church were the first of many international laws developed “in the 15th and 16th centuries… to manage more complex forms of interaction between European and non-European states and… the acquisition of sovereignty over non-European peoples” (Anghie 2007, 742). While individual countries made their own treaties with Indigenous nations upon their arrival in the New World, the Papal Bulls were implemented to regulate state-to-state interactions in the newly discovered lands. Importantly, these laws applied to all Christian nations — which, at the time, meant most of the big powers in Europe. The Papal Bulls were also the first pieces of international legislation to undermine Indigenous rights, especially those of territory and self-governance.

The most important Papal Bull for this paper is the 1493 Inter Caerta, or the “Doctrine of Discovery.” This legislation gave Spain a monopoly on most of the land in the Americas, temporarily blocking other European powers from acquiring land. In addition, “the Bull stated that any land not inhabited by Christians was available to be "discovered," claimed, and exploited by Christian rulers” and further elaborated that Catholicism should be spread to all people encountered in the new territories (The Gilder Lehrman Institute of American History n.d.). This meant that any land in the New World, including that inhabited by Indigenous peoples, was to be taken over by a Christian kingdom.

The Bull, therefore, gave massive amounts of jurisdiction to any Christian nation that wanted new land, whether that be for settlement or resources. The Doctrine of Discovery “became the basis of all European Claims in the Americas as well as 15 1

the foundation of the United States’ western expansion” (The Gilder Lehrman Institute of American History n.d.). The longevity of the Bull can be demonstrated in important court cases; the Doctrine was used in the 1823 US Supreme Court case Johnson v. Mcintosh — where the judges held “that the principle of discovery gave European nations an absolute right to New World lands” (The Gilder Lehrman Institute of American History n.d). The Supreme Court citation, over 300 years after the Papal Bull’s publication, demonstrates how important the Church’s decree was in shaping the norms that governed expansion and the treatment of Indigenous peoples in the Americas.

A second important Papal Bull is Sublimus Dei: on the Enslavement and Evangelization of Indians in 1537. In it, Pope Paul III declared that “Indians are truly men and that they are not only capable of understanding the Catholic Faith but… they desire exceedingly to receive it” (Pope Paul III 1537). This alleged eagerness of Indigenous peoples to convert was a reflection of the 1493 Bull: the only way to protect a nation from crushing conquest and exploitation was for it to accept Catholicism. However, being accorded the same basic status like their European invaders did not grant equal rights of self-determination to Indigenous nations. The Bull stated that Indigenous peoples, despite being declared men, were “unfit to found or administer a lawful State up to the standard required by human and civil claims” (Anghie 2007, 743). Due to this so-called “unfit” nature of Indigenous peoples and their governments, the church authorized Western control over them (Pope Paul III 1537). This is a clear demonstration of self-governance being taken away from Indigenous peoples, solely based upon the argument that they were unfit for sovereignty by Western standards.

Indigenous representatives were not present for the writing of either of these two Papal Bulls, nor any of those that followed. Through these international laws, native inhabitants of the New World suddenly found themselves without the rights that they had possessed for centuries. The rights taken away from them have still not been fully returned to the majority of Indigenous peoples. It would take centuries before Indigenous peoples could begin to fight to have their rights given back, and still longer before there would be any evolution in international law.

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International Labor Organization No. 169 on Indigenous and Tribal Peoples: the Start of Authorship While there had been earlier efforts to reclaim Indigenous rights, it was “during the 1960s [that] [I]ndigenous peoples began drawing increased attention to demands for their continued survival as distinct communities with historically based cultures, political institutions, and entitlements to land” (Sargent 1999, 455). One of the manifestations of the developments in the sixties was the International Labor Organization Convention on Indigenous Tribal Peoples (ILO 169) in 1989 in Brazil, adopted by the General Conference of the ILO. The two basic principles of ILO 169 are “respect for the cultures, ways of life and traditional institutions of [I]ndigenous peoples; and effective involvement of these peoples in decisions that affect them” (Sargent 1999, 455). These principles represent a significant departure from past Indigenous-oriented international law, especially when compared to very early international law such as the Papal Bulls. The legislation’s importance extends far beyond its text and principles.

ILO 169 was a landmark piece of law as it was “one of the only international instruments in force — in the countries that have ratified the Convention — that [dealt] explicitly with the rights of [I]ndigenous peoples to natural resources pertaining to their lands” (Anaya 1997). Until 1989, Indigenous peoples had relied on the United Nations’ Commission on Human Rights and other human rights legislation and bodies as the legal basis for their rights and land claims (Sargent 1999), but their arguments had not been accepted by the international community. ILO 169 was the first document specifically dedicated to Indigenous rights and needs in the modern international context.

The most important component of ILO 169 is the level of Indigenous involvement and its effects on the document text. This involvement is what allowed ILO 169 to be “international law’s most concrete manifestation of the growing responsiveness to [I]ndigenous peoples’ demands” (Anaya 1997).

During the discussions of the convention, “special arrangements were made to allow representatives of [I]ndigenous groups limited participation in the deliberations of the conference Committee” (Anaya 1997). This participation resulted in Indigenous organizations from around the world voicing their 15 3

support; these groups included Central and South American councils, as well as international groups such as “the Saami Council, the Inuit Circumpolar Conference, the World Council of Indigenous Peoples, and the National Indian Youth Council” (Anaya 1997). While limited participation is far from ideal, ILO 169 represents a monumental change in the level of involvement of Indigenous peoples in the drafting of international law as it concerns them. The Convention brought Indigenous peoples closer to authorship and further from subjugation.

However, ILO 169 fell short in several areas, disappointing many Indigenous communities and their aspirations. The legislation was “criticized by many [I]ndigenous organizations, particularly those of northern countries such as Canada” (Sargent 1999, 455). This was a strong contrast to the support it had gathered from groups in Central and South America. Most of the criticism was “leveled at several of the convention’s provisions that [contained] certain caveats or [appeared] in the form of recommendations, and at the underlying assumption of state authority of Indigenous peoples” (Anaya 1997). Many groups, therefore, did not see ILO 169 as a sufficient measure to protect their rights against the imposition of colonial policies. Moreover, the Convention had an incredibly limited scope as it was only ratified by 20 countries, most of them belonging to Latin America (Barelli 2009). This meant that many Indigenous communities that needed the protection afforded by the law were left out, and the strength of the legislation was undermined. Non-signatory states, including Canada, refused to ratify the treaty because of low levels of international enforcement (Daes 2008). This inspired Indigenous communities to rally for a more enforceable piece of legislation. Finally, the ILO 169 “[failed] to recognize indigenous peoples as “peoples,” to confer on them the right of self-determination, and address contemporary issues such as… indigenous intellectual property rights” (Barelli 2009, 958). Stopping short of these important Indigenous issues made ILO 169 unpopular despite its normative significance. ILO 169, however, contributed to the development of the movement because of its failures. By reviewing the issues of the legislation, Indigenous groups were able to push for more expansive and rights-affirming international law.

ILO 169 represented a new trend of treatment of Indigenous people 15 4

in international law. The limited participation allowed Indigenous groups to “exercise control over their own institutions, ways of life, and economic development and to maintain and develop their identities, languages, and religions, within the States in which they live” (Anaya 1997). However, the document fell short of providing enforcement mechanisms and in its affirmation of the right to self-governance. These issues inspired a continued Indigenous global civil movement for a better international law to protect them.

The United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples: the Current State of Indigenous International Law The United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) “represents the culmination of an extraordinary process which has gradually transformed indigenous peoples from ‘victims’ to ‘actors’ of international law” (Barelli 2009, 957). The United Nations General Assembly adopted UNDRIP on the 13th of September, 2007 (United Nations (General Assembly) 2007). This piece of international law guarantees the “survival, dignity, and well-being” of Indigenous peoples around the world (United Nations (General Assembly) 2007, 961).

UNDRIP represents the continuation in the trend of increased Indigenous representation in the formation of international law. Indigenous groups were involved in the drafting process regardless of their consultative status with the Economic and Social Council, a rare allowance by the UN (United Nations (General Assembly) 2007). Without such high levels of participation, shortcomings of other international laws such as ILO 169 would have persisted and lessened the Declaration’s impact. Indigenous involvement “during the drafting process, and subsequent negotiations, was key to the inclusion in the final text of the Declaration of vital, and yet contentious, provisions such as those on the right to self determination and land rights” ((United Nations (General Assembly) 2007, 966-967). In strong opposition to the legacy of the removal of these rights by the Papal Bulls and subsequent legislation, UNDRIP incorporates and emphasizes the importance of these rights. The higher level of representation also “allowed [I]ndigenous peoples’ representatives to directly 15 5

negotiate with States’ delegates, and created favourable conditions for international support to develop” ((United Nations (General Assembly) 2007, 969). Nation-to-nation style negotiations between Indigenous groups and states were vital to the legitimacy of the Declaration. The collaborative work led to “an international consensus, produced by representatives from the world’s national governments,” which gave “moral and ethical validity to political processes that previously existed largely in isolation from international conditions” (Coates and Holroyd 2014, 8). This adds vast normative weight to UNDRIP, making it difficult for the more reluctant governments to resist its implementation. The nature of negotiations also represents a more internationally unified approach to the discussion and affirmation of international rights. This sharply contrasts with much of the other legislation in regard to Indigenous peoples being written domestically on a nation by nation basis. The unified approach increases the legitimacy of UNDRIP as it demonstrates that its provisions are accepted as norms by the majority of the global community.

Importantly, UNDRIP addresses enforcement, which had been one of the largest shortcomings of ILO 169. Enforcement of UNDRIP exists at both the international and domestic level. Scrutiny of state policies by the “Human Rights Council and the Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination will provide in fact the most immediate form of monitoring State compliance with the Declaration” (Barelli 2009, 983). The strength of enforcement negates the argument that many states used in 1989 in order to avoid signing ILO 169. Many “national courts have already started to respect and implement the provisions of the declaration” (Daes 2008, 980), which means that violators of the Declaration in signatory states will have to face legal consequences. UNDRIP’s enforcement through United Nations bodies and domestic courts ensures a new level of protection to Indigenous peoples and their rights.

Another strength of UNDRIP stems from the fact that the majority of its important provisions are already entrenched principles of international law. The rights affirmed by the Declaration are grounded on “established norms of international law, and, specifically, international human rights law. This holds true also with regard to the most controversial rights, namely the right to self-determination and land rights” (Barelli 2009, 963). Being grounded in 15 6

existing international human rights law is another component that greatly increases the legitimacy of UNDRIP. The Declaration “acknowledges a range of international legal instruments that provide for self-determination and the internal right of self-government.” (Boyer 2014, 13). With the reinforcement of existing international law, UNDRIP makes the denial of Indigenous self-governance difficult for states since doing so would undermine the existence and legitimacy of their own governments. UNDRIP itself has already had a reciprocal impact on international law given that “references to the Declaration can be found in major documents recently adopted under the auspices of the United Nations” (Barelli 2009, 972). This is a demonstration of the feedback loop present in international law, in which UNDRIP was influenced by previous international policies, and now it in turn influences future policies. This feedback loop will aid in the further development of Indigenous-centered international law.

The Declaration has had an impact on the international discourse on Indigenous rights. UNDRIP affirms the right to self-determination, among other important rights, to Indigenous peoples who have had their rights taken away from them through domestic and international law since the Papal Bulls.

While UNDRIP is not legally binding on its participants as it is a declaration from the UN General Assembly, its normative influence on the state policies and dialogue makes it powerful nonetheless. It is also important for the future of international law and its treatment of Indigenous peoples. Many see it as “the first step toward the establishment of a future [international] treaty” (Barelli 2009, 967) that would guarantee Indigenous peoples their rights; an international treaty would also be enforceable and binding on all signatories.

Regardless of the future state of international law, UNDRIP “is one of the most significant international political achievements of this generation” (Coates and Holroyd 2014, 5). The Declaration and its level of Indigenous involvement in its creation signifies a big step toward the affirmation and return of rights, especially that of self-governance.

UNDRIP in the Canadian Context This paper now turns to the Canadian state to examine the current

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implementation of UNDRIP on a domestic level. Canada presents a valuable case study for this paper because it is widely thought by outsiders that “the array of legal, political and administrative accommodations with Aboriginal people in Canada is striking” when compared to other states (Coates and Holroyd 2014, 6). In reality, however, before the arrival of the UNDRIP in 2007, the Indigenous attitude on their rights in Canada was rather pessimistic. Indigenous groups had long petitioned for self-government because Canadian federalism “created an air-tight system that gives all law-making privileges to all but Aboriginal governments” (Jhappan 1995, 179). Due to the failures of the Canadian Charter and Constitution in the 1980s and 1990s, it seemed “unlikely that a constitutional amendment on self-government [could] be achieved in the near future” (Jhappan 1995, 180). Instead, many turned to outside sources to protect Indigenous rights; UNDRIP has become such a source. The Declaration “outlined a political strategy and a set of demands that resonated with Aboriginal activism in Canada” (Coates and Holroyd 2014, 5). Finally, there existed a law that protected the rights of Indigenous peoples — Canada just had to sign it.

To the dismay of Indigenous peoples living in Canada, the federal government “was a reluctant participant in the UNDRIP process, voting against the declaration… in 2007 and holding out until 2010” to sign it (Coates and Holroyd 2014, 5-6). Government officials justified their decision by stating that UNDRIP was “too sweeping and open-ended” (Coates and Holroyd 2014, 7).

Some of the controversial policies included the right to self-determination (Article 3), the right to autonomy (Article 4), the right to own land (Article 26), redress for stolen land (Article 28), and the right to determine the use of lands (Article 32) (United Nations (General Assembly) 2007). All of these had the potential to upset the balance of the Indigenous-settler order that the Canadian government has established.

In 2010, Canada finally signed the Declaration. However, the federal government “argued that UNDRIP is not legally binding and is only political in nature, that it does not create any procedural or substantive rights, and that it is not customary international law” (Boyer 2014, 13). This was an attempt to preserve the status quo of Indigenous-settler relations and to subdue those who hoped to utilize UNDRIP to achieve their rights. The aspirational argument 15 8

presented by the Canadian government, however, was quickly ignored by Indigenous groups across the country. Instead, as an example, the Declaration was often cited by various speakers during the Idle No More to illustrate the Indigenous vision of the future (Coates and Holroyd 2014).

The Canadian implementation of UNDRIP, while not complete, has begun in national institutions. Following the endorsement of the Declaration, “the Federal Court has accepted that UNDRIP applies to the interpretation of domestic human rights legislation” (Boyer 2014, 14). This is a major accomplishment; implementation of international law in domestic courts indicates that it has begun to be integrated into national law, and that it will continue to do so. However, full implementation of “UNDRIP will take a concerted effort from legal practitioners, … academics, policy makers, educators, and the indigenous and non-indigenous public” (Boyer 2014, 15). Implementing a new policy that overrides domestic laws has many barriers in its way. A complete implementation of UNDRIP will require “that all laws and state books will have to be checked for consistency… and if necessary, they’ll have to be amended” (Smith 2021). Despite its difficulty, this process is necessary to ensure the full affirmation and return of important rights.

Conclusion Through the examination of Papal Bulls, ILO 169, UNDRIP, and UNDRIP in Canada, this paper has found that Indigenous peoples have largely become authors of international law as it concerns them. They “have ceased to be mere objects of the discussion of their rights and have become real participants in an extensive multilateral dialogue that has also engaged states, NGOs, and independent experts” (Anaya 1997). Indigenous participation is at the root of this evolution of roles in international law. The Papal Bulls and other early international policies were drafted with no Indigenous representation.

Indigenous peoples were allowed limited representation with ILO 169, which then increased to full representation with the drafting of UNDRIP, where Indigenous representatives across the globe were invited for its creation. While this paper has demonstrated that Indigenous-centered international law is not yet15 9

as strong as other global policies, there is a high probability of further evolution.

The trend toward higher levels of Indigenous representation, stronger legal obligations, and enforcement mechanisms indicates that international law may, one day, be used to guarantee Indigenous peoples everywhere their rights. In the future, Indigenous peoples may use international law to ensure the complete and assured right to self-governance, the status of nationhood, and even seats in the UN General Assembly — with equal sovereignty and power to other nations of the world. International law has thus become a viable instrument for the future of the Indigenous civil rights movement.

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International and Comparative Law Quarterly 58, No. 4. (October 2009): 957-83. https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/international-and-comparative-law -quarterly/article/abs/role-of-soft-law-in-the-international-legal-system-the-cas e-of-the-united-nations-declaration-on-the-rights-of-indigenous-peoples/277C 7A9DB6C1D24DCA0A540A20E77999 Boyer, Yvonne. “Using the United Nations Framework to Advance and Protect the Inherent Rights of Indigenous Peoples in Canada.” In The Internationalization of Indigenous Rights: UNDRIP in the Canadian Context, edited by Terry Mitchell, 11-15. Waterloo: Centre for International Governance Innovation, 2014. https://www.cigionline.org/sites/default/files/indigenous_rights_special_rep ort_web.pdf Coates, Ken, and Carin Holroyd. “Indigenous Internationalism and the Emerging Impact of UNDRIP in Aboriginal Affairs in Canada.” In The Internationalization of Indigenous Rights: UNDRIP in the Canadian Context, edited by Terry Mitchel, 5-9. Waterloo: Centre for International Governance Innovation, 2014. https://www.cigionline.org/sites/default/files/indigenous_rights_special_rep ort_web.pdf Daes, Erica-Irina A. “An Overview of the History of Indigenous Peoples: 16 1

Self-Determination and the United Nations.” Cambridge Review of International Affairs 21, no. 1. (August 2008): 7-26. http://www.sfu.ca/~palys/Daes-2008-HistoryOfIndigPeoplesAndSelf-Deter mination.pdf Jhappan, Radha. “The Federal-Provincial Power-grid and Aboriginal Self-Government.” In New Trends in Canadian Federalism, edited by F. Rocher and M. Smith, 155-184. (Peterborough: Broadview Press, 1995). https://www.jstor.org/stable/3330968#metadata_info_tab_contents Pope Paul III. “Sublimus Dei: on the Enslavement and Evangelization of Indians.” Papal Encyclicals Online. (May 1537). Accessed 19 February, 2022. https://www.papalencyclicals.net/paul03/p3subli.htm.

Sargent, Laurie. “The Indigenous Peoples of Bolivia’s Basin Region and ILO Convention No. 169: Real Rights or Rhetoric.” The University of Miami Inter-American Law Review 29, Number 3. (Spring - Summer 199): 451-524. https://repository.law.miami.edu/umialr/vol29/iss3/3/ Smith, Dale. “UNDRIP’s Place in Canadian Law.” CBA National Magazine.

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The Gilder Lehrman Institute of American History. The Doctrine of Discovery, 1493. (n.d.) Accessed 19 February 2022. https://www.gilderlehrman.org/history-resources/spotlight-primary-source/d octrine-discovery-1493.

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