Journal of Global Affairs, Vol. VIII, 2019

Vol. VIII 2019

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Journal of Global Affairs Vol. VIII, 2019 Table of Contents Daniel Holland Best Paper Prize Fatwas and Feminism: How Iran’s Religious Leadership Obstructs Feminist Reforms Annapoorani Asokan...............................................................................................................................................................6 The Alternating Allegiances of the Ulama: An Analysis of Clerical Participation in the Constitutional Revolution Matthew Bray.........................................................................................................................................................................26 The Practice of Diplomacy: From Mesopotamia to the Present Cecilia Cain............................................................................................................................................................................46 Caught Between Cultures: Alsatian Autonomy amidst French and German Tensions, 1871-1939 Anne DeLong..........................................................................................................................................................................60 The Turkish Woman and the Politics of State Identity Joni Keaton.............................................................................................................................................................................85 The Influence of Citizens United v. FEC on the Conception of American Corruption Kayleigh Kuyon......................................................................................................................................................................106 Decades of Division: How Diverging Views of Ethnic Nationalism Affect Unification Han Pham............................................................................................................................................................................141 Gazettes, Guevara, and Government Repression: Uruguay, 1968 Will Runion..........................................................................................................................................................................160 About the Contributors.....................................................................................................................................................172

Fatwas and Feminism: How Iran’s Religious Leadership Obstructs Feminist Reforms* Annapoorani Asokan

Abstract The 1979 Iranian Revolution changed gender dynamics in Iran and paved the way for a new generation of Iranian feminists. The Iranian state, which incorporates the religious elite into its policy-making, has institutionalized gender inequality. In response, Iranian feminists have chosen varying avenues to contest this inequality. Some legal feminists choose to go to court; through lawsuits and trials, they ensure the enforcement of their rights. Religious feminists argue that Islam is compatible with democracy and gender equality; however, misguided interpretations by male clergy have limited women’s rights. Finally, secular feminists most compellingly argue that neither legal nor religious feminists permanently ensure women’s rights; rather, the first two groups rely on subjective men, such as judges and politicians, to expand women’s rights. Thus, secular feminists contend that gender equality must be established without religious influence, possibly with the modification of the entire Iranian political system.

Introduction In 2009, a pro-government Basiji militia member shot philosophy student Neda Agha Soltan in the chest. Neda attended protests opposing corruption in a recent election, and her death sparked the Green Movement and protests throughout the nation.1 As the video of her murder became viral, the foreign media was expelled from Iran and over 150 well-known reformists and journalists as well as thousands of demonstrators were arrested.2 Throughout the protests and the repercussions, women were at the forefront of activism. *

This paper also appears in the 2019 issue of Danesh, the University of Oklahoma’s undergraduate journal of Iranian Studies.

1 “‘Neda’ Becomes Rallying Cry for Iranian Protests,” CNN, June 22, 2009, www.cnn.com/2009/WORLD/meast/06/21/iran.woman.twitter.

2 Sanam Vakil, Women and Politics in the Islamic Republic of Iran (New York: Continuum International Publishing Group, 2011), 201.

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Iranian women have a long history of protest—the women’s movement was critical to the 1979 revolution and change of regime. Iranian feminists joined together with other factions such as leftists, the working class, and clerics to overthrow the Pahlavi monarchy. These very different groups followed the leadership of the charismatic Ayatollah Khomeini, who called for wealth redistribution.3 For a population that had endured a “repressive dictatorship, exploitative influence of the West, extremely uneven distribution of the wealth . . . and bureaucratic corruption in their workplaces,”4 the opportunity for a more just government was appealing.

Iranian feminists had a stake in the elimination of these unfair aspects of the Pahlavi government, but they also wanted to take action against the “shallowness of women’s emancipation” and human rights abuses that the monarchy had promoted.5 Although the pre-revolution Iranian feminists shared similar goals with other factions, especially the clerics, “the absence of a democratic, secular, and progressive leadership, as well as . . . the misleading promises of Khomeini” led them to perhaps put their faith in the wrong person.6 Even though these different factions worked together against the monarchy, “due to the lack of cohesion and organization, [the liberals] were marginalized by the clerical caste that brought about the second revolution, the Islamic one, and secured a theocracy in Iran.”7 Khomeini recognized the essential role of female activists in the 1979 revolution, but nevertheless set the stage for the rapid institutionalization of gender inequality through his policies.

3

Arzoo Osanloo, Politics of Women’s Rights in Iran (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), 152.

Paria Gashtili, “Gender Politics in the Contemporary Islamic Republic of Iran,” Philosophical Topics 41, no. 2 (2013): 123.

5 Ibid.; Osanloo, Politics of Women’s Rights, 172.

6 Gashtili, “Gender Politics,” 123.

7 Ibid.

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Under the Pahlavi dynasty, polygamy was outlawed, abortion allowed, and the minimum marriage age of women raised.8 After the 1979 revolution, when Khomeini took power, public spaces (such as beaches and schools) were gender segregated, female judges lost their positions, and polygamy was legalized. Women in particular were affected by this shift in rights; they lost custody of their children in most cases and their ability to divorce.9 The state’s current position on gender is “that men and women are fundamentally ‘different’ beings in nature . . . [which] has translated into a reality for women in which they occupy a subordinate status to men.”10 The Iranian government explicitly states that the life of a woman is worth only half of that of a man: the quessas law “stipulates that the amount of ‘blood-money’ payable to the family of a murdered woman should be half the amount that is payable to the family of a murdered man.”11 The government continues valuing men over women even in recent years. “In 2007/08 the state imposed a quota system, offering 60 percent of university places to male students and 40 percent to female students, even if female students’ grades are higher than male students’ grades,” once again institutionalizing the belief that women belong in the house.

The data support the claim that post-revolutionary Iranian women suffer greatly due to this discrimination. In fact, in 2003, “the ratio of estimated female to estimated male earned income was a mere 0.38.”12 Although some conservative Iranians argue that this income inequality is irrelevant because Iranian men provide for the family anyway, that is not always the case. The Association of Iranian Women in the UK, a non-governmental organization, found that “unemployment and poverty (clearly two interrelated issues) are the leading causes of why

8

Ibid.

Rebecca Barlow and Akbarzadeh Shahram, “Prospects for Feminism in the Islamic Republic of Iran,” Human Rights Quarterly 30, no. 1 (2008): 23.

10 Ibid.

11 Ibid.

12 Ibid., 24.

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disturbing numbers of Iranian women turn to prostitution as a means of subsistence.�13 Iranian women clearly have lost much in the past four decades despite their bravery and contribution to the revolution.

The future of feminism in Iran is highly dependent on both its history and its present culture and politics. Patriarchal beliefs have been widespread in Iran for millennia, but it is the modern-day, Islamic government structure that codifies these inequalities and makes it all but impossible for even elected officials to implement feminist or other reformist policies. Analyzing the history of Iranian feminism reveals that working within the current constitutional framework is fruitless and produces no real reforms. Despite the obstacles Iranian feminists face, with the appropriate conditions and ideologies, gender equality can prevail.

Motivations for Female Oppression The reasons for these recent changes and tragedies are numerous, but many can be traced back to a backlash against Westernization. Iranians have numerous examples of how detrimental certain events related to Westernization were to their sovereignty and quality of life. Many of these events occurred during the reign of Reza Shah Pahlavi and his son Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, who were staunch and often extreme supporters of modernization. For example, the industrialization that was praised by capitalistic societies brought tangible problems. Scholar Erika Friedl demonstrated that “in [twentieth-century] Iran, partial industrialization dislodged workers from agriculture faster than they could be absorbed into industry. Based on the traditional model of development, men were the primary target of absorption into industry.

Therefore, in spite of new job opportunities, . . . the overall daily life and economic position of

13

Ibid, 25.

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the majority of women declined.”14 In the eyes of many Iranians, Westernization could be linked with hypocrisy, interference, and false promises. Twentieth-century “Iranian men and women . . . perceived modernization as simply imperialism in disguise” because of their long history of unequal relationships between Iran and European or American powers.15 Unfortunately, this rejection of Western standards manifested itself uniquely in the constitutional and legal treatment of women.

The post-revolutionary state has focused on women for reasons that are particular to Iranian history and culture. The privilege and burden of being cultural repositories has often fallen upon women; women have a higher standard of upholding the traditions of an entire culture. This is reflected in one scholar’s assessment that “a woman’s failure to conform to the traditional norms could be labelled as renunciation of indigenous values and loss of cultural identity.”16 Westernization also brought a social and economic division among Iranian women, primarily because of the increasing “polarity between modern and traditional lifestyles. Among the urban middle class, two layers of women emerged . . . chadori (veiled) women, representing the female fold of bazaar-oriented (merchants, traders, artisans, shopkeepers) . . . and beechador (unveiled) women, representing modernized, educated females of the newly emerging edaari, that is, office oriented (professionals, technicians, government employees).”17 Among the Iranian public, these divisions were strongly associated with Westernization. Traditional, veiled women were seen as old-fashioned and knowledgeable, whereas modern, unveiled women were “soon considered to be ‘Westoxicated’ (meaning to be under the influence of the toxic culture of the

14 Nayereh Tohidi, “Modernity, Islamization, and Women in Iran,” in Gender and National Identity: Women and Politics in Muslim Societies, ed. Valentine Moghadam (London: Zed Books Ltd, 1994), 116.

15 Ibid., 114.

16 Ibid., 127.

17 Ibid., 119.

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West), objectified, and identity-less (beehoviyyat).”18 Iranian women who worked in the office, dressed in Western styles, and did not wear a veil were considered to be “complying with the forces of ‘Western imperialists.’”19 With these type of explicit associations between the evil of Westernization and Iranian women’s clothing and professions, it is not surprising that the revolutionary government tightened restrictions on women.

These revolutionary forces “mobilized the image of women as the symbolic bearers of virtue who represented the nation’s honor and hence needed to be saved from Western corruption.”20 The new government’s antagonism towards the Pahlavi monarchy and modernization was focused on its effects on women, and therefore the reversal of some of the women’s freedoms were motivated by a desire to return to tradition and to eradicate Westernization. More recently, the state has engaged in a “lengthy campaign against . . . Western cultural influences on gender relations. In schools, in the media, in political arenas, the government has identified women's subservience as a linchpin of Iranian and Islamic identity.”21 By framing its current regulations in the context of negative Westernization effects, the state is able to justify gender inequality and the limitation on women’s rights.

What is important to recognize is that most of these restrictions are based on interests in maintaining Iranian culture, virtue, national identity, and tradition; the backlash against Westernization is rooted in the remembrance of Iranian history. These restrictions are not solely, or even primarily, because of Islamic values; they are because of preexisting social and patriarchal values shared by many cultures worldwide. Islam has been used to justify inequality,

18

Ibid., 120.

Ibid., 127.

20 Osanloo, Politics of Women’s Rights, 129.

21 Charles Kurzman, “A Feminist Generation in Iran,” Iranian Studies: Journal of the International Society for Iranian Studies 41, no. 3 (2008): 298.

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but so have other methods. For example, the science that men and women have biological differences has been twisted to justify female oppression. In 1979, Ayatollah Morteza Mutahhari claimed that “the biological differences between men and women . . . [indicate that] woman’s most important duty is motherhood, so her ‘natural’ activities occupy her with family.”22 Ultimately, in order to establish equality, it is vital to recognize that the 1979 revolution is not solely responsible for promoting patriarchal oppression.

The justifications for female oppression have changed to suit the needs of the oppressors.

The strongest evidence for this contention comes from an analysis of government policies on the veil. In 1936, Reza Shah ordered the compulsory unveiling of Iranian women in the guise of women’s liberation. His actions did not free all women, as intended; specifically, “girls who refused to unveil or whose guardians refused to allow them to do so were withdrawn from schools. . . . Working-class women for whom unveiling was the equivalent of public nudity were compelled to leave their jobs and spend the rest of their lives confined to domestic spaces.”23 Religious or conservative women were forced to choose between their lifelong practices and their engagement in the public sphere, and many chose the former. Even this choice stigmatized them “as traditional, backward and uncivilized.”24 Years later, yet another restriction on women’s clothing was issued by the government—this time, Khomeini’s post-revolutionary government required that all women cover themselves in public with a veil. Surprisingly, the reasoning behind this law was not that different from the Pahlavi justification: that it would bring women’s liberation. Current Supreme Leader of Iran Ayatollah Khamenei has stated that the

22

Osanloo, Politics of Women’s Rights, 34–35.

Rebecca Gould, “Hijab as Commodity Form: Veiling, Unveiling, and Misveiling in Contemporary Iran,” Feminist Theory 15, no. 3 (2014): 234.

24 Fatemeh Sadeghi, “Bypassing Islamism and Feminism: Women’s Resistance and Rebellion in Post-revolutionary Iran,” Revue Des Mondes Musulmans Et De La Méditerranée 128 (2012): 210.

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modesty from veiling protects women “from abuse by men.”25 Supporters of mandatory veiling claim that women can participate in the public sphere more.

The striking similarity between the 1936 statist, coerced unveiling of women and the post-revolutionary, coerced veiling of women is that both decisions were made by men about women’s bodies. This is strong and clear evidence that the patriarchy, rather than Islam itself, has a significant part in the oppression of women; women were not included in either of these decisions, even though these laws only apply to women. Rebecca Gould, a scholar on Iran and Islam, notes that the veil itself is merely “an empty signifier, and has been deployed equally for the ends of women’s liberation as for their oppression. The crucial question is not whether or not a woman chooses to veil, but whether the choice to veil is forced on her by the state.”26 What must be emphasized is that patriarchal governments believe they can interfere with a woman’s individual choice by claiming that their way is best for her. This is true of both the secular Pahlavi and theocratic Khomeini governments; it is not unique to Islam. Thus, it is simplistic and dangerous to claim that women’s freedom cannot coexist with Islam because Islam is not the first, main, or only origin of or justification for gender inequality.

Implications of a Theocracy However, Islam does play a major role in the legalization of these unfair social constructs. Specifically, Islam is written into the very structure of the Iranian government, in the form of the Council of Guardians. The Guardian of Councils is not a mere advisory committee to

25 Khamenei (@khamenei_ir), “A woman can have active presence & deep influence on social arenas—as Iranian women are so influential. The features of today's Iranian woman include modesty, chastity, eminence, protecting herself from abuse by men, refraining from humiliating herself into appeasing men,” Twitter post, March 8, 2018, 2:50 a.m., https://twitter.com/khamenei_ir.

26 Gould, “Hijab as Commodity,” 235.

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the President; it is “the highest power in the country and the office of the president is the second highest.”27 This office of religious leadership was written into the Iranian Constitution. The Guardian Council comprises of twelve members, all of whom are directly or indirectly nominated by the Supreme Leader, whose role is also written into the constitution. Both the Council of Guardians and the Supreme Leader have final say in almost all political decisions, and the Supreme Leader is granted the ability to appoint the heads of multiple departments, including the military. For an Iranian law to be passed, it must be approved by both the majority of the Parliament and the Guardian Council.28 The implications of this government structure are highly relevant to women’s rights.

Even though women can exercise their constitutional right to vote and to run for government positions, these rights are greatly restricted by the Council. Since 1979, multiple women have applied to run for presidency, but all of these candidates were rejected by the Council of Guardians.29 This hindering of public participation is reflected in both the biggest elected office of the country as well as small community branches. Despite feminist efforts to increase women’s participation in local councils, their involvement has increased only a mere 1.5 percent between 1994 and 2004.30 These examples show that what is written into law—namely, that women have the right to become political candidates—is often starkly different from practice, and the legal, constitutional power of the Guardian Council is responsible for this difference. It is difficult to predict whether the Iranian people would vote for a female president, simply because no woman has ever reached that stage. Perhaps the Guardian Council would allow more female

27

Jamileh Kadivar, “Women and Executive Power,” in Women, Power and Politics in 21st Century Iran, eds. Tara Povey and Elaheh Rostami-Povey (Burlington: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2012), 122.

28 Gashtili, “Gender Politics,” 132.

29 Ibid., 121.

30 Elaheh Koolaee, “Women in the Parliament,” in Women, Power and Politics in 21st Century Iran, eds. Tara Povey and Elaheh Rostami-Povey (Burlington: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2012), 140.

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candidates if their own members were feminists, but instead women’s rights are dependent on the beliefs of twelve male members. Iranian citizens that support female empowerment would have more opportunities to enact their beliefs through their constitutional rights if candidates were not vetted by the Council.

In addition to this legalized limitation on women’s rights, religious institutions wield much indirect power over progressive political policies. In 2001, the liberal President Khatami and the Parliament supported hiring women for Khatami’s cabinet, but this plan was rejected by the religious elite. Khatami was strongly opposed by multiple grand ayatollahs.31 Because his position and the policies he wanted to promote would rely heavily on his relationship with the religious elite, he was not willing to anger them, as they could have issued retaliatory fatwas or instructed citizens to withhold taxes.32 The clerics have such great influence that they are as powerful as the elected president or elected representatives in Parliament. Even with liberal candidates and majority votes from Parliament, the disproportionate influence of the religious elite prevented women’s representation and increased rights. The rights of half the population are in jeopardy because the structure of the government grants an unelected office such great power.

The sheer power awarded to the unelected religious leadership has effects on every aspect of Iranian politics, not just women’s rights. Reform, both feminist and otherwise, should rely on public opinion, but here it relies on both the vote and the beliefs of the Guardian Council. Even though the Iranian Constitution awards the right to vote to both men and women, Iran cannot become a true democracy as long as the religious office has this type of superior control.

Opposition from Iranian Feminists

31 32

Kadivar, “Executive Power,” 126.

Ibid.

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With the structure of government as such, what is needed for change? Under what conditions would women’s rights improve? Some Iranian feminists argue that the laws are in place to help women, so therefore women must use the legal system to its full extent. The female judge and former politician Nahid Hajinouri believes that rights are re-established when women repeatedly try to enforce them with legal methods.33 For example, one law student was fined for wearing mascara and lipstick, but she told the judge that the penalties for modern makeup are not specifically listed in the Qur’an or in the civil code. Because she was informed, the judge greatly reduced her fine.34 In addition, Iranian women who feel powerless in their marriages can also use the courts “to renegotiate the terms of marriage or persuade their husbands to comply with the terms of the marriage.”35 For example, one woman who went to court asked the judge to file a divorce for her, but instead the judge obtained a signed statement from her husband promising to get better living quarters for their family. Although the woman ended up staying with her husband, she did have more power because he was forced to comply with his court-ordered duties. Legal anthropologist and former lawyer Arzoo Osanloo claims that “women’s increased petitions to the court, their increased use of the legal process and greater reliance on a discourse of rights pose challenges to statist patriarchy and compel the courts to implement women’s statesanctioned rights. Thus, women’s discourses of rights in Tehran’s family courts could be seen as part of the resistance.”36 These women resist the state—by complying.

However, these petitions do not increase women’s rights in actuality; the legal hassle simply results in courts finally executing the rights these women were already supposed to have.

The law student should not have been fined; the fact that she was, which was determined by a

33

Osanloo, Politics of Women’s Rights, 102.

Ibid., 104.

35 Ibid., 117.

36 Ibid., 135.

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judge who had no legal basis for doing so, demonstrates subjectivity and the negligence of individual rights. Perhaps Iranian feminists are “still happy about the small achievements of these brave and defiant women, simply because [they] do not see them just as women, but as women in a Muslim society, and that, unfortunately, makes [them] lower [their] expectations.”37 These women are improving the status quo by using the legal system to reclaim their rights, but this is not active, thorough resistance. The women who use this legal method are not calling for change to the laws or change to the government structure that enables this type of bias and subjectivity, and therefore the underlying problems themselves are not resolved. This method may bring benefits to their lives and they should be applauded for their persistence, but it is not enough to bring change by itself.

A second, more widespread, branch of resistance is Islamic feminism. Islamic feminists from both Iran and other parts of the Middle East believe that Islam itself is not the fundamental problem—rather, those in power (specifically, men) interpret Islam incorrectly, often to satisfy their own patriarchal principals. They believe that gender discrimination does not originate in the original texts of Islam, but rather in society.38 This viewpoint is partly a backlash to Western thought, especially because many Western and secular feminists point to Islam as the underlying cause of women’s oppression in the Middle East. Iranian feminists are skeptical of Western secular liberalism, which was responsible for a history of colonial exploitation and violence.39 Feminist pioneers in Iran, like Shahla Sherkat, the founder of women’s magazine Zanan, believe that “gender equality is Islamic”;40 therefore Iran can continue its Islam-based government structure and still bring change to women’s lives.

37

Gashtili, “Gender Politics,” 134.

Ibid., 126.

39 Rostami-Povey, “Introduction,” 7.

40 Gashtili, “Gender Politics,” 125.

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Islamic feminists in Iran have several contentions in favor of their perspective. First, they point to the Qur’an and to heroic Muslim women like Fatimeh and Zaynab, who were “nondomesticated, non-passive, socially engaged, and politically militant.”41 In fact, Zaynab’s participation in battles helped Shi’ism spread,42 which is even more significant considering Iran’s Shiite background. They point to the importance of over a dozen women directly mentioned in the Qur’an as well as strong and brave religious women from more recent Iranian history to prove that Islam has a long tradition of female power, and this power has been minimized and usurped by misogynists.43 In addition, the pride that Islamic feminists hold in these legendary Iranian Muslim women emphasizes that secular and Western states do not have a monopoly on female empowerment. This counterargument to Western secularism validates the legitimacy of Iran’s theocracy.

Second, they point to the specific patriarchs who began deemphasizing these brave and strong historical women. Ayatollah Mutahhari valued societies and families over individuals. His writings emphasized gendered social divisions by arguing that women could best serve their communities by adhering to domestic life and motherhood.44 By tracing the coercion of women into the domestic sphere back to Mutahhari’s fairly recent interpretations, Muslim Iranian feminists can argue that male misinterpretations of Muslim works, rather than Islam itself, are the cause of gender inequality.45 Finally, Islamic feminists in Iran point out that Islam can coexist with democracy and modernism. Iranian citizens have voted heavily for reformist candidates, demonstrating a belief in Fiqh Poya (dynamic jurisprudence); conservatism, like

41

Tohidi, “Modernity, Islamization,” 121.

Rostami-Povey, “Historical Context,” 25.

43 Zahra Nejadbahram, “Women and Employment,” in Women, Power and Politics in 21st Century Iran, eds. Tara Povey and Elaheh Rostami-Povey (Burlington: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2012), 74.

44 Osanloo, Politics of Women’s Rights, 35.

45 Barlow and Shahram, “Prospects for Feminism,” 25.

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with the Taliban or Saudi Arabia, has not taken root in Iran.46 Because Islamic conservatism is moderated by a democracy, and because there is such a high level of participation from the Iranian public, Islamic feminists contend that the Iranian people embrace their government’s unification of state and religion.

Islamic feminism is appealing because of the strength of its arguments and because it calls for internal change and reformation rather than instability and revolution. Instead of challenging the Iranian state, it focuses on specific state policies that are not Islamic.47 However, as secular feminists have contended, this method of resistance and philosophy can be problematic and unsuccessful.

Secular Feminism and Criticisms of Other Feminist Methods Secular feminists call for a government where religion does not have a formal role to play. Furthermore, they specifically believe that the merging of religion and state is responsible for gender inequality,48 which is where secular feminism strongly diverges from Islamic feminism. Nobel Peace Prize laureate Shirin Ebadi is a devoted Muslim, but she is still a secular feminist, because she has come to accept that when religion has political power, religious texts can easily be manipulated to justify gender inequality.49 Secular feminists do not argue that Islam altogether is incompatible with feminism or democracy. Rather, they wish that Islam, or any religion, would not have a legal role in the government.

Secular feminists contend that Islamic feminism is not effective, and they have numerous examples that support this contention. In the late 1990s, when the Parliament was more liberal

46

Rostami-Povey, “Introduction,” 3.

Barlow and Shahram, “Prospects for Feminism,” 26.

48 Ibid., 32.

49 Ibid., 38.

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than previously, the Iranian Parliament voted to ratify United Nations Convention on the Elimination of all Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW).50 Iranian feminists had been fighting for the ratification of this major international agreement for several years, and the passing of CEDAW was seen as a feminist victory. However, this success was short-lived. The Guardian Council vetoed CEDAW, claiming that women and men are inherently unequal and therefore CEDAW would be against Islamic principles.51 In a less extreme example, a law proposed increasing the minimum age for girls to marry from nine to thirteen. The Guardian Council agreed, but with the addition of a clause that would allow girls to marry when younger than thirteen if they had permission of a guardian.52 This effectively took away the point of raising the minimum age at all, because guardians could continue marrying off underage girls.

Thus, despite the representatives’ best efforts to minimize pre-teenage marriage, the Guardian Council’s power was so great that this law could be rendered useless. Islamic feminists maintain that women’s rights can be improved within the framework of the current government; the CEDAW and marriage age law failures are just a few of many strong examples against this belief. As human rights scholars Rebecca Barlow and Akbarzadeh Shahram explain, a reformoriented parliament under President Khatami hoped that the ulama would “incrementally yield their orthodox reading of Islam to the more enlightened version of the faith proffered by Khatami and his backers. . . . [However,] the conservative-dominated Guardian Council repeatedly exercised its veto power to block legislation that would cause any consequential change to the status quo. At root of this political impasse was the Iranian-Islamic principle of velayate faqih: governance of the most learned Islamic scholar. . . . It effectively relegates other branches of the

50

Ibid., 28.

Kambiz Fattahi, “Women's Bill ‘Unites’ Iran and US,”BBC News, July 31, 2007, http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/6922749.stm.

52 Barlow and Shahram, “Prospects for Feminism,” 28.

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government, including the parliament, to function as optional extras to a predetermined political agenda.”53 Therefore, the parliament’s intention was almost irrelevant because it opposed the beliefs of the Guardian Council. The Guardian Council’s overwhelming constitutional power successfully and repeatedly suffocated reformist ideas.

In fact, one female Parliamentarian expressed her extreme disillusionment with the government structure in a dramatic move: Fatemah Haqiqatjoo resigned to protest the Guardian Council’s disqualification of election candidates.54 Her resignation was fully justified: in the 2004 elections, the Guardian Council disqualified one third of the 8,200 applicants, allowing only conservative candidates to run.55 There is no higher authority on the powerlessness of Islamic feminists in the Parliament than a former member herself; for Haqiqatjoo to resign, with the public explanation “that reform from within the state system was no longer possible,”56 is shocking.

Not only is Islamic feminism unsuccessful, it actually hurts secular feminist efforts. For one, depending on the ulama to reinterpret Islam to support gender equality will leave women dependent on the interpretation of men.57 Rights that were carefully argued and won after years of activism could easily be reversed if new and more conservative scholars joined the Guardian Council. In addition, Barlow and Shahram explain that “the fact that any moves for reform and improvement of women’s conditions in Iran need to be formulated in the language of Islam . . . makes these moves hostage to a set of ideas and principles that are grounded in the experience of

53

Ibid., 28.

Ibid., 35.

55 Ibid., 34.

56 Ibid., 35.

57 Gashtili, “Gender Politics,” 129.

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seventh century Arabia.”58 For example, the Qur’an specifically states that only men and women exist, but modern Western feminism includes gender fluidity.59 If Islam does not acknowledge the possibility of gender fluidity, how would Muslim scholars be able to address this concept without simply using their own, perhaps outdated, views? Lastly, Islamic feminists may provide a less critical option than secular feminists, but one which does not cause genuine social change.60 What may be hailed as major Islamic feminist victories could be, as shown earlier, mostly insignificant. However, the Guardian Council and a conservative Parliament may be more willing to concede to some secular feminist demands if they did not have the option of less challenging and more flexible Islamic feminist policies.

The Future of Women’s Rights in Iran Where is Iran headed, in terms of gender equality and women’s rights? It is difficult to tell. On one hand, the Iranian public has become increasingly vocal about their demands for a less restrictive society. However, the Iranian state has continued to repress protests with harsh condemnation from its religious leadership and outright violence.

The 2009 presidential elections inspired monumental feminist activism and activism in general, closely paralleling the overwhelming activism exactly thirty years prior. The candidate Mir Hossein Mousavi promised to focus on women’s issues, and quite unusually, his wife campaigned heavily alongside him.61 Another candidate, Mehdi Karroubi, suggested appointing a woman to his cabinet, and his spokeswoman Jamileh Kadivar publicly criticized the mandatory

58

Barlow and Shahram, “Prospects for Feminism,” 32.

Gashtili, “Gender Politics,” 129.

60 Ibid., 128.

61 Vakil, Women and Politics, 2.

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hijab.62 The allure of these reform candidates was so strong that a previously apathetic public showed up in droves to the polls: turnout was an astonishing 85 percent.63 When the incumbent and fairly unpopular candidate, President Ahmadinejad, was declared the victor with an incredible 62 percent of the vote, the other candidates immediately called for a recount and claimed that the elections were rigged. When the Guardian Council and Supreme Leader reconfirmed that Ahmadinejad had won with the majority of votes, even in the hometowns of the other candidates, urban areas erupted in protest.64 When the protester Neda Agha Soltan was shot and her murder became highly publicized, hundreds of women became activists willing to protest the injustices of her death, the elections, and the state itself. The government swiftly took action against disagreeing voices by arresting thousands of activists. One hundred and seven demonstrators were killed. Within a year, the Iranian state neutralized its opposition in contrast to its public declarations of the merits of merging Islam with democracy.65 This suppression means that oppositional sentiments are festering and growing stronger, not that the government has succeeded in persuading all activists that the status quo is satisfactory. In 2017 and 2018, dozens of women have removed their headscarfs in public in protest, and many of these women were harassed by the police or arrested.66 Although Supreme Leader Khamenei reiterated his belief that women should be modestly dressed, the more moderate President Rouhani released a report stating that 49.8 percent of Iranian men and women believe that the government should not regulate veiling.67 This indicates that both the

62

Ibid., 200.

Robert Worth and Nazila Fathi, “Protests Flare in Iran as Opposition Disputes Votes,” New York Times, June 13, 2009, www.nytimes.com/2009/06/14/world/middleeast/14iran.html.

64 Ibid.

65 Vakil, Women and Politics, 201.

66 Thomas Erdbrink, “Tired of Their Veils, Some Iranian Women Stage Protests,” New York Times, Jan. 29, 2018, www.nytimes.com/2018/01/29/world/middleeast/head-scarf-protests-iran-women.html.

67 Thomas Erdbrink, “Compulsory Veils? Half of Iranians Say ‘No’ to Pillar of Revolution,” New York Times, Feb. 4, 2018, www.nytimes.com/2018/02/04/world/middleeast/iran-hijab-veils.html.

63

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Iranian public and the elected government are becoming less conservative, or at least less permissive of the religious leadership’s interference.

The possibility for change is increasing, especially as Iran changes; there is a greater proportion of young people, and Iran is globalizing. In fact, “65% of Iran’s population is below the age of thirty. . . . Because they are products of this government, their demands for reform cannot credibly be labeled as gharbzadeh [Westoxicated].”68 Gender equality is just one of the many issues that the legal apparatus of the state affects. The history of feminist activism is evidence that working within the framework of the state has failed repeatedly; in order to accommodate feminism and other reforms, the government structure must evolve to minimize the Guardian Council and Supreme Leader’s overwhelming constitutional power. This is the only way that people can have greater control over what they vote for. Whether these recent protests are successful, as they were in the 1979 revolution, or suppressed, as they were in the Green Movement, could determine the fate of women’s rights in Iran.

Works Cited Barlow, Rebecca, and Akbarzadeh Shahram. “Prospects for Feminism in the Islamic Republic of Iran.” Human Rights Quarterly 30, no. 1 (2008): 21–40.

Erdbrink, Thomas. “Compulsory Veils? Half of Iranians Say ‘No’ to Pillar of Revolution.” New York Times, February 4, 2018. www.nytimes.com/2018/02/04/world/middleeast/iranhijab-veils.html. _____. “Tired of Their Veils, Some Iranian Women Stage Protests.” New York Times, January 29, 2018. www.nytimes.com/2018/01/29/world/ middleeast/head-scarf-protests-iranwomen.html.

Fattahi, Kambiz. “Women's Bill ‘Unites’ Iran and US.” BBC News, July 31, 2007. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/6922749.stm.

Gashtili, Paria. “Gender Politics in the Contemporary Islamic Republic of Iran.” Philosophical Topics 41, no. 2 (2013): 121–37.

68

Osanloo, Politics of Women’s Rights, 17.

24

Gould, Rebecca. “Hijab as Commodity Form: Veiling, Unveiling, and Misveiling in Contemporary Iran.” Feminist Theory 15, no. 3 (2014): 221–40.

Kadivar, Jamileh. “Women and Executive Power.” In Women, Power and Politics in 21st Century Iran, edited by Tara Povey and Elaheh Rostami-Povey, 121–36. Burlington: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2012.

Koolaee, Elaheh. “Women in the Parliament.” In Women, Power and Politics in 21st Century Iran, edited by Tara Povey and Elaheh Rostami-Povey, 137–52. Burlington: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2012.

Kurzman, Charles. “A Feminist Generation in Iran.” Iranian Studies: Journal of the International Society for Iranian Studies 41, no. 3 (2008): 297–321. “‘Neda’ Becomes Rallying Cry for Iranian Protests.” CNN, June 22, 2009. www.cnn.com/2009/WORLD/meast/06/21/iran.woman.twitter.

Nejadbahram, Zahra. “Women and Employment.” In Women, Power and Politics in 21st Century Iran, edited by Tara Povey and Elaheh Rostami-Povey, 73–90. Burlington: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2012.

Osanloo, Arzoo. Politics of Women’s Rights in Iran. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009.

Rostami-Povey, Elaheh. “Introduction.” In Women, Power and Politics in 21st Century Iran, edited by Tara Povey and Elaheh Rostami-Povey, 1–16. Burlington: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2012.

Sadeghi, Fatemeh. “Bypassing Islamism and Feminism: Women’s Resistance and Rebellion in Post-revolutionary Iran.” Revue Des Mondes Musulmans Et De La Méditerranée 128 (2012): 209–28.

Tohidi, Nayereh. “Modernity, Islamization, and Women in Iran.” In Gender and National Identity: Women and Politics in Muslim Societies, edited by Valentine Moghadam, 110– 47. London: Zed Books Ltd., 1994.

Vakil, Sanam. Women and Politics in the Islamic Republic of Iran. New York: Continuum International Publishing Group, 2011.

Worth, Robert, and Nazila Fathi. “Protests Flare in Iran as Opposition Disputes Votes.” New York Times, June 13, 2009. www.nytimes.com/2009/06/14/world/middleeast/14iran.html.

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The Alternating Allegiances of the Ulama: An Analysis of Clerical Participation in the Constitutional Revolution* Matthew Bray

Abstract The Constitutional Revolution of 1905–1911 was a turning point in the modern history of Iran.

One of the largest ever challenges to the authority of the monarchy, the revolution paved the way for the events of the twentieth century. Although the ulama were not able to seize authority during the revolution, they contributed significantly to it. In the early stages of the unrest, the ulama, who had become political opponents of the Qajars, supported the protestors in their calls for a new government. As the revolution progressed, however, some religious scholars turned against the revolutionaries, believing the constitution to be a threat to Islamic law. Many, though, remained convinced that they would hold more power in the new government than they had under the Qajar dynasty. This divide within the ulama occurred as the revolution was already beginning to crumble and, in the end, ensured that the ulama saw almost no change in status through the course of the revolt. Despite this, the ulama underwent two crucial transformations during the course of the revolution. They became more politically savvy and more willing to unite over certain political issues. Within a matter of decades, these new skills helped the ulama gain control of the government during the Revolution of 1979.

Introduction In the summer of 1906, a group of theology students and other constitutionalists gathered in Tehran for what was expected to be a peaceful protest in favor of government reforms, a continuation of the nascent Constitutional Revolution. The demonstrators called for a variety of liberalizing reforms, from increased freedom of speech to a new parliamentary form of government, which could check the actions of the Shah. By the end of the day’s protests one of the demonstrators, a respected sayyed, (teacher and descendant of Muhammad), had been shot by police. In response, an even larger crowd of protesters gathered the next day, only for twenty-two

*

This paper also appears in the 2019 issue of Danesh, the University of Oklahoma’s undergraduate journal of Iranian Studies.

26

of them to be killed in an attack by the Cossacks.1 Following these gruesome events, almost all of the ulama—Iran’s religious leaders and scholars—turned immediately against the Qajar government. Even for those who had been uncertain about constitutionalism, this direct and inhuman affront to the clerical estate was more than enough to make the current government an enemy.2 Within days, many of the ulama and their followers had migrated to Qum, leaving the capital without religious leadership and clearly defining their stance on the revolution.3 In the years to follow, members of the secular intelligentsia, merchants, and other reformers would continue to push for constitutional reforms, with varying degrees of success; however, support from the ulama began to waver as time went on.

The involvement of the ulama in the Constitutional Revolution can be viewed through a variety of lenses. Some scholars would argue their participation, or lack thereof, derived primarily from economic aspirations; that is, the ulama supported whichever side seemed more inclined to protect their land holdings and their financial support from waqfs, the religious donations which gave the ulama wealth. Others would view the issue in a theological context, attributing the actions of the ulama to the way scripture was interpreted in relation to legislative issues. Still others would point to the social position of the ulama as the natural representatives of the people, particularly the bazaari, a merchant class with close historical ties to the ulama, and connect the ulama’s leadership during the revolution to their traditional role as an opponent of the government in favor of the people. One theme common to all of these perspectives, though, is the complexity of the ulama as an institution. The ulama held a unique position in Iranian society as an autonomous, revered, organized, and non-governmental entity. This

1

Ervand Abrahamian, “The Causes of the Constitutional Revolution in Iran,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 10, no. 3 (August 1979): 405.

2 Ibid., 406.

3 Ibid.

27

influence over society gave them the power to pursue their various goals, which included everything from maintaining Shi’ite religious purity to amassing economic wealth.

These observations and theories regarding the ulama explain their actions during the Constitutional Revolution. In the early stages of the revolution, the ulama were compelled to support the constitutionalist cause due to their roles as the leaders of the people and foil to the government, even though they had almost no political experience in a multi-party system. As time went on, however, the ulama split into two distinct groups based on their view of constitutionalism: those who believed representation was the best route to serve the ulama’s goals, and those who believed the new form of government was in fact at odds with religious precepts. In the end, the ulama lost out during the revolution, as much of their influence was transferred to the new government. Nevertheless, two important developments occurred within the clerical establishment. The ulama became far more politically savvy, which they would use to their advantage later on. Additionally, most clerics realized that in the grand scheme of politics, the ulama were more powerful united than divided and that it would be prudent for them to advocate for common religious causes.

Initial Revolutionary Involvement of the Unified Ulama While the constitutionalist movement was in its early stages, it was widely supported by the ulama, though not necessarily because they believed in Western government. In many ways, the ulama were swept into the revolution, compelled to join both by their historical role in society and the current state of Iran. At this point, the ulama were fully unaccustomed to participating in the public sphere of political discussion; their authority had never been questioned, but the rise of new political factions forced the ulama to compete for influence. Since

28

the interregnum period of the eighteenth century, the ulama had served as community leaders and formed particularly close bonds with the bazaari class. For decades, animosity had festered between the ulama and the Qajar state, centered on the lessening influence the ulama held within the government. As a result, the ulama had come to serve as a general opponent to the Qajars; whenever the people disagreed with the government, they looked to the ulama for support, as in the Tobacco Protests of late nineteenth century. Considering their responsibility to the people, it was only natural for the ulama to participate in the revolution.

Acts of direct violence against the ulama began around the same time as the first constitutionalist demonstrations and continued until the ulama’s migration to Qum in 1906. The first major incident was the application of the bastinado against Mirza Mohammad Reza, a mujtahid (preeminent scholar of Islamic law), in response to his preaching against government corruption.4 Within the span of the next year, the Qajar government initiated several more violent offenses against the ulama, mostly led by Qajar official Ayn ud-Daula.5 Having become accustomed to a great deal of independence and understandably angered by violence against their peers, the ulama became increasingly allied with the constitutionalist protesters, who had their own set of grievances against the government.

Among the other constitutionalist protestors was the bazaari class, which was not well adapted to modernization and held close ties to the ulama. This ulama-bazaari alliance formed in the eighteenth century due both to waqfs given by the bazaaris to the ulama and similar social outlooks.6 The first action by the bazaari against the government came after the tobacco 4

Said Amir Arjomand, “The Ulama’s Traditionalist Opposition to Parliamentarianism: 1907-1909,” Middle Eastern Studies 12, no. 2 (April 1981): 176.

5 Hamid Algar, Religion and State in Iran, 1785-1906: The Role of the Ulama in the Qajar Period (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1969), 176.

6 Ali Gheissari, “Iran’s Dialectic of the Enlightenment: Constitutional Experience, Transregional Connections, and Conflicting Narratives of Modernity,” in Iran's Constitutional Revolution of 1906 and Narratives of the Enlightenment, ed. Ali Ansari (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015), 32.

29

concession of 1890, when Qajar leaders attempted to give a monopoly over the production and sale of tobacco to a European corporation. Not only did many believe that this would cause a peasantization of the population, but the bazaari were particularly concerned that it would lead to increased foreign interference in Iran and hurt their businesses.7 In response to this and other concessions, the bazaari began to push for greater protections against foreign corporations and increased development of Iranian businesses to protect them from outside monopolies.8 The Qajars did not honor these requests due to either corruption or fear of European powers and drew increasing ire from the bazaari. Since the ulama held close ties with the bazaari, many would argue that “their [the ulama’s] major support for the economic interests of the bazaari, as the main financial contributors to the religious establishment, should not be taken for granted” when considering the factors that brought the ulama into the revolution.9 So, the Qajars’ apparent lack of care for the merchant’s interests turned the bazaari against them, and the bazaari, in turn, used their traditional relationships with the ulama to galvanize the clerics into leaders of the revolution.

The ulama were a natural choice to lead the revolution, not just because of their connection to the bazaari, but for their role as the leaders of Iranian society. For centuries, they had served as community heads and sources of emulation, and within the previous decades had become a counterpoint to the corrupt government. The Qajars tried to take power away from some religious institutions and often embraced Western powers and ideas over Iranian interests (as seen in the tobacco protests).10 Additionally, the ulama depended on the Iranian people for

7

Ibid., 34.

Ibid., 26.

9 Hani Mansourian, “Iran: Religious Leaders and Opposition Movements,” Journal of International Affairs 61, no. 1 (2007): 222.

10 Gheissari, “Iran’s Dialectic,” 34.

8

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support, as all of their power derived from the respect and reverence lent to them by believers.

Thus, if the people were at odds with the actions of the state, it was only logical for the ulama to side with the people and conserve their own power.11 So strong was this bond, in fact, that scholars have even argued that “the occasion for the disturbances was less important than the outcome—a clash between ulama and state” on behalf of the disgruntled citizens.12 In fact, this connection between the ulama and their followers seems almost certain when one realizes that “there was no significant faction among the ulama whose position over the contesting issues differed from the warring classes,” implying that the ulama simply followed along with the desires of the majority.13 At this point in the revolution, the ulama were not basing their support on the ideals of constitutionalism, but rather on protecting their own supporters against the government.

The ulama’s role as the representatives of the people went beyond direct opposition to the Qajar government, extending into social and religious spheres as well. As a result of this religious leadership, the ulama became inextricably attached to the Iranian people, especially through the course of the Constitutional Revolution. In a sense, the ulama played the role of the guardians of religion in society; the Shi’ite religion was seen as equivalent with the Iranian nation, and the ulama protected it from any impurities or attacks, even if these were from the government itself.14 This theme is particularly evident in the use of religious symbolism during the revolution, particularly with respect to ideas like martyrdom.15 Although they had long been the religious leaders of Iran, the ulama had only begun to exercise this power to a great degree

11

Algar, Religion and State, 241.

Ibid., 244, 252.

13 Mansoor Moaddel, “The Shi’i Ulama and the State in Iran,” Theory and Society 15, no. 4 (July 1986): 523.

14 Arjomand, “The Ulama’s Traditionalist,” 175.

15 Ramin Jahanbegloo, Democracy in Iran (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 36.

12

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within the past couple of decades.16 Much like their other roles as allies of the bazaari and antagonist of the state, the ulama developed this power over time in events like the tobacco concession before exercising it to its full extent during the Constitutional Revolution.

The ulama’s participation in the early part of the Constitutional Revolution was almost inevitable. The Qajars attacked clerics violently, and engaged in trade deals which hurt the bazaari, the ulama’s greatest allies. Not only that, but the ulama had developed a responsibility to protect the interests of the Iranian people and the purity of Islam. When Qajar leaders started to threaten these ideals, anger the people, and take steps that violated Islam, the ulama had to join in the revolution against them, lest they lose their legitimacy and betray their own position of power. Thus, the ulama’s united leadership at the onset of the Constitutional Revolution can be viewed as an instinctive reaction to fulfill their traditional roles, maintain the relationships that granted them power and money, and protect their colleagues, without much regard for the actual demands of the revolution.

As different clerics began to consider the issues at play in depth, they split into two major categories. The pro-constitutional group often was not as religiously conservative and focused more on maintaining worldly power than the more traditional monarchists.17 At the same time, many of the anti-constitutional ulama had ties to the Qajar government and stood to gain from brokering political deals.18 Even during the schism of the later part of the revolution, though, the ulama shared the same major goals: protecting and expanding Islam, increasing the role of Islam in the government, and maintaining their own social and political power. They did, however, disagree on which form of government best achieved these goals, shifting the role of the ulama

16

Ibid., 37.

Arjomand, “The Ulama’s Traditionalist,” 175.

18 Said Amir Arjomand, The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam: Religion, Political Order, and Societal Change in Shi'ite Iran from the Beginning to 1890 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), 247.

17

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in the Constitutional Revolution dramatically. During the period to follow, the ulama also began to discover how to operate in political discourse and attempt to exert their will over opposing factions.

The Pro-Constitutionalist Ulama of the Later Revolution As the Constitutional Revolution continued to grow and become successful, the majority of ulama opted to stick with the movement and continue leading demonstrators. Although their support initially hinged on the instant fulfillment of leadership roles and protection of interests, clerics in the later stages of the revolution issued endorsements for more concrete rationales, developed after a more thorough consideration of constitutionalism. At the core, these ulama were looking for the best way to reach the goals of preserving Islam, increasing Islamic oversight in government, and protecting their own power, and they eventually arrived at constitutionalism as the best way to do so. In contrast to the current Qajar state, these ulama believed that a representative form of government would be better able to protect Islamic values and that religious leaders could better control legal proceedings. That being said, most ulama supported the continuation of the monarchy in a limited capacity due to its historical importance to the ulama. Moreover, constitutionalism was viewed as an excellent way to protect the rights of Iranian citizens and promote their interests adequately, which, benefited the ulama by keeping their religious and pecuniary supporters pleased.

Since the ulama derived both their importance and financial support from the people of Iran, keeping the general population happy was of central interest. A more representative form of government would accomplish this goal by protecting the people’s rights and giving them the representation that they demanded. Mirza Malkum Khan, a prominent constitutionalist,

33

summarized this argument nicely, describing an unlawful government like the Qajars as one which “plunders its subjects at will . . . wastes the kingdom's treasures . . . and brazenly denies its obligations and pacts.”19 This perspective on the Qajar government was not unique, with many ulama adapting these ideas into a religious context. Some even argued that Islam calls for a government which helps the people and promotes social justice during the occultation of the twelfth Imam.20 In short, the ulama advocated for constitutionalism as a way to protect the rights of Iranians and provide support for the poor. This message resonated with the demands of the constitutionalist demonstrators; the activists were able to claim the support of the ulama, while the ulama maintained the admiration of the people.21 This is similar to the role the ulama fulfilled at the beginning of the revolution but is based more in political theory than social forces.

Certainly, these clerics did not argue for Western-style democracy; on the contrary, they supported a continuation of the monarchy in some sense along with a majles, or parliament, that served to carry out Islam-based law.22 Still though, clerics incorporated the Enlightenment concepts of natural human rights and separation of powers into their arguments, using these as justification for the new form of government.23 One member of the ulama described this realization as Iranians becoming “aware of the true requirements of their religion and its Godgiven freedoms,” drawing parallels to Islamic theology and modern political ideals.24 These

19

Malkum Khan, “The Law,” trans. and ed. Charles Kurzman, available at Oxford Islamic Studies Online, www.oxfordislamicstudies.com/article/book/islam-9780195154672/islam-9780195154672-chapter-12, orig. published in Quanum, no. 10 (London: ca. 1890).

20 Hamid Algar, “The Oppositional Role of the Ulama in Twentieth-Century Iran,” in Scholars, Saints, and Sufis: Muslim Religious Institutions in the Middle East since 1500, ed. Nikki Keddie (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 232.

21 Algar, Religion and State, 252.

22 Asghar Fathi, “Ahmad Kasravi and Seyyed Jamal Waez on Constitutionalism in Iran,” Middle Eastern Studies 29, no. 4 (1993): 708.

23 Ibid., 709.

24 Muhammad Husayn Na’ini, “Government in the Islamic Perspective,” trans. Mahmoud Sadri, available at Oxford Islamic Studies Online, www.oxfordislamicstudies.com/article/book/islam-9780195154672/islam-9780195154672chapter-13, from Tanbih al-umma wa tanzih almilla ya hukumat az nazar-i islam, 6th ed. (Tehran: Shirkat-i Sahamii Intishar, 1960).

34

politically inclined ulama made it their mission to educate the people on the benefits of constitutional government, explaining its perks in numerous writings and speeches.25 Clerics utilized this politics-based argument to supply a quasi-secular rationale to their position, which would appeal to all Iranians as well as other ulama. In their view, not only would this new government provide tangible, real-world benefits to the people, but it would also serve as a pillar upon which Islamic law could be protected and spread.

In this same vein, many ulama believed that a constitutional government would be best suited to maintaining the purity of Islam. Keeping Islam safe from outside forces and changes was among the chief goals of all ulama, as Islamic purity was needed to maintain their legitimacy. The first argument of this sort used by pro-constitutionalist ulama was that the Qajars had become an anti-Islamic force which needed to be brought under control by an overseeing body. Many clerics saw the Qajars as un-Islamic due to the fact that the monarchy had gradually separated itself from the influence of the clerical establishment.26 Further, a common sentiment among members of the ulama, bazaaris, and average citizens alike was that Qajars had become far too friendly with foreign powers that did not share Islamic values and wished to dominate the Iranian state.27 This betrayal by the Qajars was evidenced by the numerous concessions it attempted to make and led many Iranians to doubt the government. The solution to this corrupted government, as presented by the ulama, was a representative system which would be able to guard against the infractions of the monarchy.28 Additionally, these religious leaders argued that the Western constitutionalist system was actually more compatible with Islam, as it mirrored the 25

Sayyid Abd al-Azim Khalkhali, “A Treatise on the Meaning of Constitutional Government,” trans. Hamid Dabashi, in Authority and Political Culture in Shi’ism, ed. Said Amir Arjomand (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1988), 343.

26 Abdul-Hadi Hairi, “Why Did the Ulama Participate in the Persian Constitutional Revolution of 1905-1909?” Die Welt des Islams 17, no. 1 (1976): 133.

27 Algar, “The Oppositional Role,” 235.

28 Na’ini, “Government in the Islamic Perspective.”

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principles of rational thought and ijtihad, or independent reasoning about Islamic law.29 Thus, the ulama effectively portrayed the Qajars as anti-Islamic and presented constitutionalism as a valid, Islamic alternative. So, representative government was seen, by this faction of the ulama at least, as the only way to truly protect Islam in Iran.

A large part of the argument above that constitutionalism is more Islamic than absolutism rests on the assertion that in a representative system, the ulama would have oversight power in government affairs. In the past, religious oversight derived from the informal bond between the ulama and state; however, as the Qajars did away with this connection, a representative government became an appealing alternative. This additional oversight would, at least in theory, come through a board of mujtahids who would analyze all legislation and either accept or reject it based on religious validity.30 This committee was promised to the ulama early in the revolution, and it was enough to garner their continued support, as it gave them the power to effectively control all actions taken by the government. From this, another important point can be deduced: the ulama fully expected the majles to operate within the confines of Islamic law.31 In contrast to the Qajar government, which did whatever it wished, the ulama expected that a representative government would only enact laws that supported their interests. In the early years of the revolution, this appeared to be especially true, and many ulama were pleased with the actions taken by the parliament.32 As a result, these ulama advocated strongly for the new representative government, seeing it as the best way to give themselves a position of influence over the legislative process. This legal power, in turn, granted them the opportunity to maintain Islam’s high place in society and secure their own status as leaders of the people.

29

Gheissari, “Iran’s Dialectic,” 37.

Abrahamian, “The Causes,” 411.

31 Fathi, “Constitutionalism in Iran,” 708.

32 Khalkhali, “A Treatise on the Meaning,” 341.

30

36

Certainly, then, the ulama also had a more personal stake in the government than just the expansion of Islamic law. If they were able to secure a high place in government, they could guarantee their own financial and social standing and ensure that the government would not interfere with their operations. For many centuries, the ulama had enjoyed a prominent post in Iranian society, serving as the role models of the people and receiving gifts through the waqf.33 A government which gave the ulama power, like the early constitutionalist form, would allow them to preserve the secular status quo and ensure that their authority as community leaders went unchallenged. Moreover, the ulama had become used to a less-involved state; in contrast to the mutualistic relationship between ulama and state that characterized the Safavid period, the two had become far less cooperative in recent decades. Instead of legitimizing the government and receiving money in return, the ulama had become accustomed to support from the people and ignoring the government as much as possible.34 So, in a sense, “the ulama were acting constantly . . . for the preservation of their own power” and lent their support to constitutionalism under the assumption that it would benefit them in the long run.35 Of course, this is not meant to imply that the ulama were secretly conniving to snag as much power as possible. On the contrary, they were working in their own best interest, which, at least in their minds, benefited Iran as a whole; if the ulama were able to keep themselves in a position of influence, then they could ensure that Iran progressed in a religiously just fashion in the future.

The pro-constitutionalist ulama, were, in general, only supporters of the movement insofar as it aligned with their own goals. Most still wished to retain some form of monarchy and were wary of overtly secular currents within the revolutionary coalition. The ulama’s support

33

Jahanbegloo, Democracy in Iran, 38.

Arjomand, The Shadow of God, 249.

35 Hairi, “Why Did the Ulama,” 152.

34

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hinged on achieving several major goals, like expanding the presence of Islam in government, serving the people, and sustaining the status of the ulama, which this group of clerics believed were best reached through representative government. Nevertheless, some ulama noted flaws in the constitutional system, and as time went on, these flaws pushed more and more ulama to turn against the newly established government. Most clerics still valued the preservation of their own role above all else, and it became clear that this would not happen under the new regime. The ulama were being outmaneuvered by liberal factions and losing their high posts in society; this growing rift between the goals of religious leaders and the constitutionalists led to a migration of clerics to the anti-constitutional camp.

The Anti-Constitutionalist Clerics and Their Proliferation Although the initial stages of the revolution included almost all ulama on the side of the new government, a select few were against the new system from the start, and as time wore on, membership in this camp grew. The anti-constitutionalist ulama from the beginning tended to be those with close ties to the Qajar government who would personally benefit from a continuation of the traditional monarchy. Soon after, this group was joined by the religious traditionalists— those who, unlike the more liberal ulama discussed above, believed a western, representativestyle government was anti-Islamic and thus not suitable for Iran. Compared to the larger group of ulama who supported the people against the government at first, this opposition group was relatively small. Nevertheless, in the later years of the revolution, many ulama determined that the parliament was not properly serving their interests or giving the clerics enough power, and so turned against the movement as well. Although most ulama supported the constitutionalists at the beginning of the revolution, they gradually returned to their position of traditionalism as time

38

went on. By the end of the revolution, neither the constitutionalists nor the monarchy had truly won, as the government remained in a sort of limbo. Either way, though, the ulama had not been able to preserve their influence as well as they had hoped, instead ceding powers to the government. Despite this, the ulama emerged from the ordeal more united and more politically prepared than ever before.

Although clerics served a vital role in the government during the Safavid and early Qajar periods, their connection to the government had begun to deteriorate through the nineteenth century. Most of the clerics who chose to stand with the government from the beginning stood to gain financially from their actions, as they were either high-level employees of the bureaucracy or worked as mediators in government dealings.36 Others were more personally connected to the Qajar family, either through familial relation or personal friendships.37 No matter how these ulama truly felt about Qajar policy or the merits of constitutionalism, turning against the government would have been needlessly detrimental to their own lives. As a result, these ulama tended to either outwardly support the Qajar state and legitimize its actions or attempt to negotiate with the protestors on behalf of the government.38 Even though these Qajar supporters were less in number that those who advocated for the people, they gave the government a sliver of legitimacy and formed the core of the future anti-constitutionalist ulama coalition, which eventually toppled the revolutionary movement.

Perhaps the most vigorous clerical criticism of constitutionalism was that it was not only against Islamic values, but specifically prohibited by Islamic laws. By far the most adamant supporter of this school of thought was Sheikh Nouri, a cleric who, after supporting the

36

Arjomand, “The Ulama’s Traditionalist,� 177.

Ibid., 178.

38 Ibid.; Arjomand, The Shadow of God, 249.

37

39

revolution in its infancy, turned staunchly against the majles and became the leading ulama opposed to constitutionalism. Nouri argued that the secular-leaning policies of the new government were threatening to Islam and that the constitutionalists wished to remove Islamic influence from Iran, gaining him immediate support from conservative ulama and regular Muslims.39 Nouri argued that since constitutionalism was built on “equality and freedom,” which were “pernicious principles” aimed at destroying Divine Law, it must be inherently anti-Islam.40 He further claimed that any form of representative government is not allowed, as only Imams are granted the rights to convene and review laws under Islamic doctrine.41 In short, Nouri held the view that “for the disposition of [Iran] Constitutionalism is a fatal disease, a terminal injury,” a stark contrast to those ulama who believed it was exactly what Iran needed to protect Islam and progress into the future.42 Certainly, these theological arguments illustrate a growing conservative Islamic and anti-Western undercurrent, which will become especially important in the late stages of the revolution all the way up until the revolution of 1979. Moreover, the goal of ulama, like Nouri and his followers, is clearly the preservation of Islam in its purest form; this goal is almost identical to that of the ulama who supported the revolution. Thus, the ulama all attempted to act in the best interest of Islam but had vastly different opinions on how this ought to be done.

Similarly, while some ulama believed that the representative system would give them the opportunity to review legislation, the anti-constitutionalist ulama concluded that the new government would generate less favorable policies. In the eyes of many conservative ulama,

39

Mansourian, “Iran: Religious Leaders,” 223.

Shaykh Fadl Allah Nouri, “Book of Admonition to the Heedless and Guidance for the Ignorant,” trans. Hamid Dabashi, in Authority and Political Culture in Shi’ism, ed. Said Amir Arjomand (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1988), 356.

41 Ibid., 362.

42 Ibid., 365.

40

40

Islam forbade any intrusion of man-made law into issues that were already discussed in a religious context, and so the ulama wished to eliminate any laws that could be considered overreaching in this way.43 From the beginning, members of the ulama who supported the revolution expected that they, as the people’s esteemed leaders, would have the final say in any new policies, so that they could veto anything deemed un-Islamic or against their interests.44 Indeed, as the constitutional form of government progressed and the majles came together, clerics demanded extensive oversight roles.45 Nevertheless, it became clear rather quickly that the ulama would be left out of the new constitutionalist system; they would, at best, be given nominal position while the majles would be free to pass reforms.46 As a result, many clerics switched to the anti-constitutionalist camp; maintaining the status quo would at least serve their interests more than a liberal-leaning government. Indeed, the ulama were, as a whole, increasingly fearful of the western form of government, believing it would take away their local power in communities and destroy traditional institutions.47 Without the promise of veto power, the ulama had no reason to advocate for such a government. Legislative review was one of the primary goals of both pro- and anti-constitutionalist ulama, and the growing realization that this would not become a reality led many clerics to turn against the revolutionaries, even if they initially believed in their cause.

More than gaining legislative power, the ulama were interested in maintaining their religious and social rank; once this was threatened by the constitutional government, the ulama overwhelmingly chose to defend their own interests over the demands of the revolutionaries. The

43

Ibid., 354.

Arjomand, “The Ulama’s Traditionalist,” 180.

45 Ibid., 181.

46 Algar, “The Oppositional Role,” 255.

47 Jahanbegloo, Democracy in Iran, 39.

44

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main tipping point for the ulama was a push in the majles for financial and judiciary reforms, both of which would have threatened the ulama’s sources of income and influence.48 The ulama were really supporters of their own goals; support for the constitution served as a potential surrogate of achieving their desired ends. Immediately after the new government began to attack their interests, such as traditional religious courts, the ulama either cut off their words of support or began to actively preach against representative government.49 From this, it is clear that promoting their own interests was at the core of the ulama’s involvement in the Constitutional Revolution. To be sure, other issues like protection of Islam and the well-being of the people were considered, but at the end of the day, only self-preservation truly motivated the clerics’ decisions. Further, it is evident that the pro- and anti-constitutionalist had more in common than it appears at first glance. As one scholar noted, “the pro- and anti-constitutionalist ulama had far more in common as members of the clerical estate than either group had with the secular constitutionalists or the absolutists,” perfectly summarizing the character of the ulama during the revolution.50 Although the ulama did temporarily debate each other, they remained, overall, united and continued to fight towards the same objective.

Clerics fought against the constitutionalist movement for reasons ranging from theology to politics to personal protection. Almost immediately, some members of the ulama were against the demonstrators either because they saw representative government as too Western or because they had a close connection to the Qajar state. As the revolution gained traction, however, it became increasingly clear to the ulama that they would not receive the benefits that their support had been contingent on. Moreover, they realized that the new government intended to undermine

48

Arjomand, “The Ulama’s Traditionalist,” 180.

Mansourian, “Iran: Religious Leaders,” 224.

50 Arjomand, “The Ulama’s Traditionalist,” 184.

49

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their position of authority and power within in Iran. These factors eventually swayed almost all of the ulama to turn against the revolutionaries; the clerics’ desire for influence outweighed their desire to remove Qajars and support their followers. Although the revolution was eventually stalled by the Qajars, the ulama were still not able to maintain all of their power and became less important in society than they had been to start with. However, they had also developed political skills, which would allow them to influence politics and exert their will later on.

Conclusion When the Constitutional Revolution broke out, the ulama had effectively no choice except to participate due to their lofty post in society, which left them intertwined with almost every facet of Iran. Initially, most ulama naturally sided with the constitutionalist revolutionaries, despite their lack of political expertise, as representing the interests of their supporters against the government had become an integral part of their function. Moreover, endorsing the will of the people secured the clerics’ position of influence and prosperity, which primarily derived from popular support. As the initial wave of revolution died down, however, the ulama split into two subgroups. The first of these continued to promote the constitution, believing it to be the best chance to protect Islam, ensure religious prominence in government, and serve the interests of the Iranian people. The second faction turned against the tide of revolution, believing it to be anti-Islamic or too Western. Over time, more and more clerics joined this second group, as it became clear that the new parliament would be detrimental to the religious establishment and its interests.

In the end, most ulama were united against the representative government, choosing to preserve their own place in society above all else. Certainly, the ulama shared the majority of

43

their goals and were stronger together; although they split temporarily, they continued to pursue the same ulama-specific goals of promoting Islam and expanding their own power. Nevertheless, they were unable to stop the new government from curtailing their power significantly. The clerics did, however, learn how to operate in a contentious, public political sphere, a skill which would serve them later on.

Following these events of the Constitutional Revolution, the Pahlavi Dynasty of the 1920s brought new pushes toward modernization and even further away from religious influence. Nevertheless, the ulama remained unanimous on their objectives through the reign of the Pahlavis and Prime Minister Mossadegh and successfully achieved their desires in the 1979 revolution, when Islam became the core of the government and the ulama obtained the leadership they had strived for. Although they were not fully successful in the revolution, the ulama gained the cohesiveness and political prowess necessary to enable their gradual rise to prominence throughout the twentieth century.

Works Cited Abrahamian, Ervand. “The Causes of the Constitutional Revolution in Iran.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 10, no. 3 (August 1979): 381–414. Available at www.jstor.org/stable/162146.

Algar, Hamid. Religion and State in Iran, 1785-1906: The Role of the Ulama in the Qajar Period. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1969. Available at https://quod-libumich-edu.ezproxy.lib.ou.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=acls;idno=heb00855. _____. “The Oppositional Role of the Ulama in Twentieth-Century Iran.” In Scholars, Saints, and Sufis: Muslim Religious Institutions in the Middle East since 1500, edited by Nikki Keddie, 9. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978.

Arjomand, Said Amir. The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam: Religion, Political Order, and Societal Change in Shi'ite Iran from the Beginning to 1890. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984.

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_____. “The Ulama’s Traditionalist Opposition to Parliamentarianism: 1907-1909.” Middle Eastern Studies 12, no. 2 (April 1981):174–90. Available at www.jstor.org/stable/4282826.

Fathi, Asghar. “Ahmad Kasravi and Seyyed Jamal Waez on Constitutionalism in Iran.” Middle Eastern Studies 29, no. 4 (1993): 702–13. doi:10.1080/00263209308700975.

Gheissari, Ali. “Iran’s Dialectic of the Enlightenment: Constitutional Experience, Transregional Connections, and Conflicting Narratives of Modernity.” In Iran's Constitutional Revolution of 1906 and Narratives of the Enlightenment, edited by Ali Ansari, 1.

Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015.

Hairi, Abdul-Hadi. “Why Did the Ulama Participate in the Persian Constitutional Revolution of 1905-1909?” Die Welt des Islams 17, no. 1 (1976): 127–54. Available at www.jstor.org/stable/1570343.

Jahanbegloo, Ramin. Democracy in Iran. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013.

Khalkhali, Sayyid Abd al-Azim. “A Treatise on the Meaning of Constitutional Government.”

Translated by Hamid Dabashi. In Authority and Political Culture in Shi’ism, edited by Said Amir Arjomand, 16. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1988.

Khan, Malkum. “The Law,” Translated and edited by Charles Kurzman. Available at Oxford Islamic Studies Online, www.oxfordislamicstudies.com/article/book/islam9780195154672/islam-9780195154672-chapter-12. Originally published in Quanum. No. 10. London: ca. 1890.

Mansourian, Hani. “Iran: Religious Leaders and Opposition Movements.” Journal of International Affairs 61, no. 1 (2007): 219–31. Available at www.jstor.org/stable/24358088.

Moaddel, Mansoor. “The Shi’i Ulama and the State in Iran.” Theory and Society 15, no. 4 (July 1986): 519–56. Available at www.jstor.org/stable/657210.

Na’ini, Muhammad Husayn. “Government in the Islamic Perspective.” Translated by Mahmoud Sadri. Available at Oxford Islamic Studies Online, www.oxfordislamicstudies.com/article/book/islam-9780195154672/islam9780195154672-chapter-13. From Tanbih al-umma wa tanzih almilla ya hukumat az nazar-i islam. 6th ed. Tehran: Shirkat-i Sahamii Intishar, 1960. Originally published 1909.

Nuri, Shaykh Fadl Allah. “Book of Admonition to the Heedless and Guidance for the Ignorant.”

Translated by Hamid Dabashi. In Authority and Political Culture in Shi’ism, edited by Said Amir Arjomand, 16. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1988.

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The Practice of Diplomacy: From Mesopotamia to the Present

Cecilia Cain

Abstract Diplomacy is an aspect of international relations (IR) theory that is not often analyzed as expansively as other areas of the field, though it is a phenomenon that is as old as civilization itself.

It incorporates important concepts of IR theory in general (power-sharing, hierarchies, reciprocity, etc.), and lends itself to interpretations from all schools of thought, from realist to constructivist scholars alike. In the following review, I will lean heavily on practice theory scholarship of diplomacy but will incorporate other views as well to show the complexity and importance of diplomatic studies in IR. Introduction Evidence of diplomatic relations between civilizations extends back thousands of years into human history, as far as 3500 BCE, when Mesopotamia began trading with the Indus River Valley civilization.1 Today, diplomatic relations affect many aspects of our everyday lives, from gas prices to the desirability of certain vacation destinations, even if much of these interactions go on behind closed doors, away from the eyes of the citizens who will experience their effects.

Even with such a long history and great importance in daily life today, diplomatic studies are only recently beginning to become a more popular topic of research in international relations theory. Vincent Pouliot and Jérémie Cornut refer to diplomacy as “the poor child of International Relations theory,” whose issues (such as power and order), though fundamental to the discipline, are considered to operate “separately from the ‘engine room’ of world politics.”2 Diplomacy is such a rich and extensive area of study—especially with the more modern

1

Alice Albinia, Empires of the Indus: The Story of a River (London: John Murray, 2018), 244.

Vincent Pouliot and Jérémie Cornut, “Practice Theory and the Study of Diplomacy: A Research Agenda,” Cooperation and Conflict 50, no. 3 (2015): 297.

2

46

development of subfields like public, digital, and NGO diplomacy—that it lends itself easily to interpretations from various IR schools of thought.3 In the following pages, I will provide the historical context of diplomacy, analyze some practice theory interpretations, and then explore what I believe are important concepts in diplomatic studies as well as IR in general: diplomatic recognition of states, multilateralism, and hierarchy. The goal with this work is to analyze what I consider to be a largely underexamined field of international relations theory and to show how closely it is tied to more well-known concepts in the discipline. Diplomacy is an ancient practice that extends back as far as the earliest human interactions. In a world that continues to grow ever closer, diplomacy is more complex and necessary than it has ever been, so it is important to understand its origins and its present-day conceptions among IR scholars.

Diplomacy’s Origins As discussed above, the beginning of diplomatic relations between civilizations goes back to the mid-third millennium BCE.4 Archeological evidence of diplomatic material has been found from as far back as the peak of the Mesopotamian civilization. Discovered in 1887, the Amarna letters are a collection of nearly 400 cuneiform tablets from the fourteenth century BCE that document correspondence between the Egyptian court and neighboring rulers.5 These letters provide insight into a wide scope of diplomatic relationships and showcase a relatively deep comprehensiveness, which is what distinguishes them from earlier diplomatic materials. They challenge the general assumption that modern diplomatic forms are influenced primarily by ancient Greek and Roman political philosophy and its more contemporary European offspring.

3

Ibid., 299.

Raymond Cohen, “On Diplomacy in the Ancient Near East: The Amarna Letters,” Diplomacy & Statecraft 7, no. 2 (July 1996): 245.

5 Ibid.

4

47

Raymond Cohen points out that concepts we think of as modern can be found in these letters, “Behind the archaic, dynastic guise the real issues at stake are remarkably contemporary: spheres of influence, deterrence, prestige, alliance formation, trade, the survival of small states, the rise and decline of great powers.”6 The diplomatic forms outlined in the Amarna letters, at their core, are not so wildly different from practices today as we might think. The concept of sovereignty in this time is largely different from our contemporary conceptualization of it today, of course.

However, it is important to note that, as these letters show, sovereignty and legitimacy were closely tied in this time period just as they are today; sovereignty was a prerequisite to independence and subsequent entrance to diplomatic relations within the Amarna fellowship.7 A brotherhood of rulers was created in this fellowship, cultivating a sense of solidarity between diplomats that would continue on through contemporary diplomacy. In her article “Late Sovereign Diplomacy,” Rebecca Adler-Nissen discusses the perceived erosion of that diplomatic solidarity, and the emergence of what she refers to as “late sovereign diplomacy.” She argues that this claim of the erosion of solidarity is misguided, at least in terms of the EU.8 Late sovereign diplomacy is defined as “the intense legal, institutional and social integration of national representatives adhering to the sweeping notion of ‘an ever closer union’ and producing legislation that challenges the sovereignty of their own nations.”9 There is still solidarity among diplomats; it is only that the conception of national interest has expanded. National interest is no longer shaped by the state’s interests for itself, but by the state’s ambitions for the EU as a

6

Ibid., 246.

Ibid., 266.

8 Rebecca Adler-Nissen, “Late Sovereign Diplomacy,” The Hague Journal of Diplomacy 4, no. 2 (2009): 122.

9 Ibid.

7

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whole.10 With increased globalization, diplomacy has changed shape and become more complex, but still revolves around some of the same issues that concerned history’s earliest diplomats.

Pouliot and Cornut’s article, as an analysis of diplomatic studies through the lens of practice theory, makes a nice conceptual base. They define diplomacy as “the claim to represent a given polity to the outside world.”11 They then further break the concept down into three elements in which diplomacy is: a process of self-determination, i.e. claiming authority and jurisdiction; relational, in that “it operates at the interface between one’s polity and others”; and political, involving both representation and governance.12 They connect this definition to practice theory by further claiming that diplomacy is not the outcome of a set of processes but is a collection of processes and practices in and of itself. Diplomatic practices (including, as I will discuss, multilateral treaty-making) make the state.13 Jérémie Cornut, in his own article on practice theory, goes on to emphasize the importance of improvisation and virtuosity in diplomatic practices. He rejects the realist concept of rational choice and constructivist norm-compliance as explanations of behavior and instead claims that international actors (and especially diplomats) “are primarily practical and put improvisations and virtuosity . . . in the foreground.”14 Cornut goes on to show that there is agency even in the seemingly agentless repetition of existing practices.15 With this agency comes the constant need for improvisation, because although these practices can be repetitive and similar, actors are ultimately never placed in the same situation twice.16 Activities, like

10

Ibid., 140.

Pouliot and Cornut, “Practice Theory and the Study of Diplomacy,” 299.

12 Ibid.

13 Ibid., 300.

14 Jérémie Cornut, “Diplomacy, Agency, and the Logic of Improvisation and Virtuosity in Practice,” European Journal of International Relations 24, no. 3 (2017): 712.

15 Ibid., 714.

16 Ibid.

11

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negotiating treaties, writing speeches, conducting bilateral relations, and even issuing visas, are enacted by agents “endowed with practical sense” who must use virtuosity and improvisation to adapt to constantly changing circumstances and incomplete information.17 In sum, Cornut states that “agents in international politics do not do what they do primarily because they think, perceive, or feel, but because what they do is the practical thing to do.”18

Diplomatic Recognition and Statehood Until recently, diplomatic recognition was an important diplomatic tool that remained largely unexamined by political scientists. According to the Montevideo Convention, the capacity to enter into relations with other states is one of the criteria required to be a state, along with a defined territory, a permanent population, and a government.19 This capacity to enter into relations with other states is taken to mean sovereignty, but often is understood to imply diplomatic recognition in that some members of the international community (there does not seem to be a consensus on how many) must recognize the prospective state’s sovereignty and right to self-determination. Hans Agné defines the most obvious act of international recognition as “when an existing government announces that another political entity has become a sovereign state.”20 Recognition by other states grants the prospective state legitimacy both at home and abroad, and so is an important component of statehood. There is a debate, however, about where this recognition really does, or should, come from. The constitutive theory of recognition defines international recognition as the constitutive act through which a state comes into being.

17

Ibid., 726.

Ibid., 730.

19 Paul R. Williams, “What Makes a State? Territory,” Proceedings of the Annual ASIL Meeting 106 (2012): 449.

20 Hans Agné, “The Politics of International Recognition: Symposium Introduction,” International Theory 5, no. 1 (2013): 95.

18

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According to this theory, “the rights and duties of states apply only to those political entities that have been internationally recognized.”21 Declaratory theory defines statehood as an internal process; international recognition does not affect statehood as long as a potential state fulfills other criteria outlined in international law.22 It is a question of whether statehood is legitimized internally or externally.

Eva Erman argues that it is not an either/or situation when it comes to recognition theories. Both theories limit themselves to explaining the relationship between the act of diplomatic recognition and the creation of states.23 They are not asking the right questions about statehood, Erman argues, and rely on “the problematic distinction” between empirical facts on the one hand and social facts and norms on the other, which makes them “conceptually fuzzy” theories.24 A more complete and realistic theory of statehood must include both internal and external criteria because in reality statehood is not a black-and-white phenomenon. By combining these theories, Erman offers a more coherent theory of statehood: “Statehood . . . is best understood as a particular practice of autonomous agency (external inter-state aspect) premised on certain capacities to take part in this practice (internal intra-state aspect).”25 Statehood and international recognition are both important, closely related concepts, and so developing a more comprehensive theory to explain their relation is important to better understand their role in the international system.

There is a degree of interdependence in diplomatic recognition. The decision to extend or withdraw diplomatic recognition, Brandon J. Kinne claims, depends heavily on the decisions of

21

Ibid., 97 Ibid.

23 Ibid., 98.

24 Eva Erman, “The Recognitive Practices of Declaring and Constituting Statehood,” International Theory 5, no. 1 (2013): 145.

25 Ibid.

22

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other states and their status in the global hierarchy.26 He also emphasizes the importance of signaling and prestige in the diplomatic network and how those factors influence diplomatic strategy. Kinne argues that though signaling and prestige seem symbolic, they are actually “a consequence of strategic responses” to power and informational asymmetries imposed by the international diplomatic network.27 Diplomatic recognition and network ties are how states signal their value to one another.28 States take other states into account when they make decisions about extending, withdrawing, or denying diplomatic recognition. Kinne explains that “when recognizing new regimes, states wish to avoid retaliatory punishments from powerful third parties, and, when withdrawing recognition, they wish to effect some change in policy or behavior.”29 Kinne’s argument is important to our understanding of diplomacy and power relations because it shows that even diplomatic recognition, which on its face seems to be only a bilateral interaction, is actually multilateral and shaped by international expectations and norms.

He demonstrates the interdependence of diplomacy; contemporary IR literature tends to view the diplomatic network as “a collection of discrete dyads” in which diplomatic relations are formed and dissolved independently of one another.30 Kinne’s emphasis on the interdependency of diplomacy, and especially of diplomatic recognition, can be applied particularly well to one issue modern states face: whether to recognize potentially controversial statehood-seeking entities. Paul Sharp offers an examination of the Taliban’s attempt at recognition, focusing on the rise and fall of Mullah Zaeff, the “ambassador-designate of the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan to the Islamic Republic of

26

Brandon J. Kinne, “Dependent Diplomacy: Signaling, Strategy, and Prestige in the Diplomatic Network,” International Studies Quarterly 58, no. 2 (2013): 247.

27 Ibid.

28 Ibid., 249.

29 Ibid., 247.

30 Ibid., 248.

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Pakistan.”31 Pakistan was one of only three nations that recognized the Taliban as the legitimate government of Afghanistan (the other two being Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates).

Western nations did not formally recognize the Taliban for many reasons, mainly concerning ideological issues related to their refusal to extradite Bin Laden, their stance on women’s rights, and the destruction of religious artifacts in Afghanistan.32 This widespread lack of recognition made the Taliban’s goal, UN recognition, effectively impossible.33 There were, however, attempts by Western powers and Zaeff to socialize the Taliban. Zaeff held meetings with the American ambassador, William Milam, and the British High Commissioner, Hilary Sinott.34 The meetings continued even as the UN continued to deny the Taliban their request for Afghanistan’s seat. Western powers could not formally recognize the Taliban without losing the support of their ideological allies, but they made informal attempts to socialize them so that they might later form real ties. All of that was of course shattered after the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, and the onset of war. The Pakistani government began cutting back on its support of the Taliban embassy (while insisting that ties were not being cut between the two) until, at U.S. request, the embassy was closed.35 Zaeff was deported back to Afghanistan and handed over to the Americans, who eventually sent him to Guantanamo Bay, effectively spelling the end of the Taliban’s bid for substantial international recognition.36 Sharp’s case study is an example of the importance of global perceptions and the interaction between internal and external forces in the search for statehood.

31

Paul Sharp, “Mullah Zaeef and Taliban Diplomacy: An English School Approach,” Review of International Studies 29, no. 4 (2003): 481.

32 Ibid., 487.

33 Ibid., 484.

34 Ibid., 486.

35 Ibid., 496.

36 Ibid., 482.

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In the case of Mullah Zaeff, hierarchy played a role. The powers who held higher positions in the international hierarchy could not formally recognize the Taliban, so the less powerful states were less inclined to step out of line and offer their own recognition (if they felt that the Taliban's claim was legitimate), and risk being stigmatized by their more powerful allies.

Global hierarchy is not a modern concept, as Edward Keene shows, but the version we see today has greatly evolved from its earlier conceptions. Keene describes two hierarchies and how one evolved into the other. Before the Congress of Vienna in 1815, there was a status hierarchy that “was not directly aligned with the distribution of capabilities,” so superiors were not necessarily stronger than their subordinates; it was also a precedence hierarchy, so it was not assumed that superiors had rights over inferiors.37 Over the course of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, a new hierarchy emerged. International actors began to think of themselves simultaneously as “equal sovereign states” and as “occupying differentiated positions within a hierarchical ‘grading of powers,’” which is more in line with the hierarchy we see in today’s international system.38 I mention this article because the international hierarchy plays a role in the practice of diplomacy; great powers tend to exert more influence in many diplomatic activities, including treaty-making, which is a crucial diplomatic practice.

To Glas et al., treaty-making is a constitutive process of statehood. They argue that multilateral treaty-making is not merely an instrument employed by states to pursue their own interests, but is “a taken-for-granted practice of the international system, constitutive of both state actors and the international system itself.”39 This is not to dismiss the instrumental value of

37 Edward Keene, “International Hierarchy and the Origins of the Modern Practice of Intervention,” Review of International Studies 39 (2013): 1078.

38 Ibid., 1079.

39 Aarie Glas et al., “Understanding Multilateral Treaty-Making as Constitutive Practice,” Journal of Global Security Studies 3, no. 3 (2018): 339.

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treaty-making; Glas et al. mean only to argue that it has another important purpose. States are what they do, and as such, treaty-making is both reflective and generative of global politics.40 In this way, treaties can reflect the global power structure and help states to form their subsequent interactions.

Emerging powers must frame their actions differently than great powers if they want to raise their voices on the international stage. In his article “Leaders in Need of Followers,” Stefan Schirm analyzes how emerging powers make bids for leadership. He focuses on followership as a crucial condition for the success or failure of a leadership project.41 Using Brazil and Germany as examples, Schirm shows how it is vital for emerging powers to appeal to the interests and/or ideas of their potential followers, sometimes even subordinating their own national goals, so that they can gain followership and win their bids for leadership.42 In this way, they can influence and even disrupt the international hierarchy. This can be tied to Adler-Nissen’s article, in that EU member states have taken on this trend of emphasizing regional unity over national interest to increase the status of the group. There is an element of reciprocity to these arguments; emerging powers take their followers’ interests into account, and the followers offer their support in the form of votes and endorsements.

Cooperation as a Constitutive Practice Reciprocity is the conceptual core of Cecilia Albin’s article on global public goods (GPGs), “Negotiation International Cooperation.” Albin discusses how GPGs are important to

40

Ibid., 364.

Stefan A. Schirm, “Leaders in Need of Followers: Emerging Powers in Global Governance,” European Journal of International Relations 16, no. 2 (2012): 198.

42 Ibid., 199.

41

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human welfare, yet are often underfunded and poorly implemented.43 She asks an important question: Why do countries so often fail to cooperate sufficiently on peace and security issues, even when the consequences are known to harm everyone in the long term?44 GPGs are victims of the failure of collective action; actors involved often see GPG distribution programs as unfair and this creates obstacles in negotiation and implementation. Albin points out that “the expectation or experience of cooperation delivering few benefits or even losses to some and plentiful gains to others always threatens to erode” cooperation.45 To be successful, international collaboration has to be seen as mutually beneficial and fair to all members. In short, diplomatic collaboration efforts must have a clear element of reciprocity to be successful; members have to feel they will get some reasonable benefit in return for the costs of collaboration.46 Reciprocity is likewise an important element of John Gerard Ruggie’s writing on multilateralism, an important element of diplomacy. Ruggie chides IR scholars for not recognizing that multilateralism is a widespread and significant phenomenon, and argues that we must go beyond its nominal definition (i.e., coordinating national policies in groups of three or more states) because that definition ignores the “qualitative dimension” of multilateralism that makes it a distinct phenomenon of international relations.47 He emphasizes the importance of what he calls “diffuse reciprocity in multilateralism: for the system to work, each state has to believe its sacrifices will yield rewards in the long run, and that others would not renege on their implicit commitments when they found themselves in tempting positions.”48 Ruggie goes on to

43

Cecilia Albin, “Negotiation International Cooperation: Global Public Goods and Fairness,” Review of International Studies 29 (2003): 365.

44 Ibid.

45 Ibid., 381.

46 Ibid.

47 John Gerard Ruggie, “Multilateralism: The Anatomy of an Institution,” International Organization 46, no. 3 (1992): 566.

48 Ibid., 583.

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say that “what is distinctive about multilateralism is not merely that it coordinates national policies in groups of three or more states, which is something that other organizational forms also do, but that it does so on the basis of certain principles of ordering relations among those states.”49 This means that hierarchy plays an important role in multilateralism, which is an important component of diplomacy.

Conclusion Historically, the study of diplomacy in IR has been incomplete. A more comprehensive conception of what we have traditionally referred to as multilateralism is needed if we are to better understand the study of diplomacy, and some scholars have already begun to address this discrepancy. Mark Raymond and Laura Denardis define multistakeholderism as “two or more classes of actors engaged in a common governance enterprise concerning issues they regard as public in nature, and characterized by polyarchic authority relations constituted by procedural rules.”50 This article is a response to Ruggie’s conception of multilateralism, and it is this distinction between multilateralism as three or more actors and multistakeholderism as three or more classes of actors that I find particularly compelling and valuable to our discussion of diplomacy. This definition allows for a more flexible conception of multilateral interactions, which is important in an ever-globalizing and increasingly politicized world. Pouliot and Cornut point out that IR literature has begun to include non-state actors in diplomacy, not just government actors, which they refer to as “polylateralism.”51 I argue that polylateralism is linked to multistakeholderism in this sense. In Raymond and Denardis specify four classes of actors:

49

Ibid., 567.

Mark Raymond and Laura Denardis, “Multistakeholderism: Anatomy of an Inchoate Global Institution,” International Theory 7, no. 3 (2015): 573.

51 Pouliot and Cornut, “Practice Theory and the Study of Diplomacy,” 303.

50

57

states (i.e., diplomats), formal intergovernmental organizations, firms, and civil society actors.52 This conception of multistakeholderism (or polylateralism) is more functional in today’s world, as we are constantly reaching new levels of globalization and interdependence.

Diplomatic studies in recent years have begun to garner more attention from IR scholars, but there still are many aspects of the field that remain underexamined. Including more comprehensive theories like that of multistakeholderism will help us not only to expand the literature of diplomatic studies, but to better respond to the unstable global political environment in which we now find ourselves. There is a movement in international relations away from the established order of which the United States is the hegemon. With this restructuring of the global order, diplomacy will become more critical than ever. At the same time, it must be more flexible to accommodate the changing nature of international relations. It is more important now than ever for us to continue studying this crucial practice so that we may be better prepared for the new world unfolding before us.

Works Cited Adler-Nissen, Rebecca. “Late Sovereign Diplomacy.” The Hague Journal of Diplomacy 4, no. 2 (2009): 121–41.

Agné, Hans. “The Politics of International Recognition: Symposium Introduction.” International Theory 5, no. 1 (2013): 94–107.

Albin, Cecilia. “Negotiation International Cooperation: Global Public Goods and Fairness.”

Review of International Studies 29 (2003): 365–85.

Albinia, Alice. Empires of the Indus: The Story of a River. London: John Murray, 2018.

Cohen, Raymond. “On Diplomacy in the Ancient Near East: The Amarna Letters.” Diplomacy & Statecraft 7, no. 2 (1996): 245–70.

Cornut, Jérémie. “Diplomacy, Agency, and the Logic of Improvisation and Virtuosity in Practice.” European Journal of International Relations 24, no. 3 (2017): 712–36.

Erman, Eva. “The Recognitive Practices of Declaring and Constituting Statehood.” International Theory 5, no. 1 (2013): 129–50.

52

Raymond and Denardis, “Multistakeholderism,” 576.

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Glas, Aarie, Clifton Van Der Linden, Matthew J. Hoffmann, and Robert A. Denemark.

“Understanding Multilateral Treaty-Making as Constitutive Practice.” Journal of Global Security Studies 3, no. 3 (2018): 339–57.

Keene, Edward. “International Hierarchy and the Origins of the Modern Practice of Intervention.” Review of International Studies 39 (2013): 1077–90.

Kinne, Brandon J. “Dependent Diplomacy: Signaling, Strategy, and Prestige in the Diplomatic Network.” International Studies Quarterly 58, no. 2 (2013): 247–59.

Pouliot, Vincent, and Jérémie Cornut. “Practice Theory and the Study of Diplomacy: A Research Agenda.” Cooperation and Conflict 50, no. 3 (2015): 297–315.

Raymond, Mark, and Laura Denardis. “Multistakeholderism: Anatomy of an Inchoate Global Institution.” International Theory 7, no. 3 (2015): 572–616.

Ruggie, John Gerard. “Multilateralism: The Anatomy of an Institution.” International Organization 46, no. 3 (1992): 561–98.

Schirm, Stefan A. “Leaders in Need of Followers: Emerging Powers in Global Governance.”

European Journal of International Relations 16, no. 2 (2012): 211–36.

Sharp, Paul. “Mullah Zaeef and Taliban Diplomacy: An English School Approach.” Review of International Studies 29, no. 4 (2003): 481–98.

Williams, Paul R. “What Makes a State? Territory.” Proceedings of the Annual ASIL Meeting 106 (2012): 449–50.

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Caught between Cultures: Alsatian Autonomy amidst French and German Tensions, 1871-1939 Anne DeLong

Abstract Alsace, a region of modern-day France, possesses a history ripe with lessons and insights for the study of nationalism. As a spoil of war passed between Germany and France, it lacked a clear cultural and political “home.” Analyzing French and German nationalizing efforts in the region and its own regionalist movement from 1871 to 1939 offers three conclusions for the fields of nationalism and European history. First, Germany and France replicated the methods of concurrent nationalist movements in Europe by using the press, normalizing institutions and tools aimed at creating shared memories. Second, the Alsatian regionalist movement occurred as a defense mechanism rather than a voluntary expression of social, cultural, and political cohesion. Lastly, the German, French, and Alsatian visions competing to define Alsace’s character failed due to misconceptions they held about the “Other.” The distinct sections of this conclusion reveal the complexity of Alsatian regionalism. Furthermore, they suggest the impossibility of one, allencompassing theory of nationalism and contribute to the lesser-studied question of why nationalisms fail.

Introduction The sentiment of the ancient Greek aphorism “know thyself” saturates our understanding of the world and serves as a fundamental concept in psychology, religion, and modern self-help rhetoric. We assume that by understanding our roots, our nature, and our desires, we can unlock a hidden potential or embark on a journey of improvement. Though for many uncovering or even finding peace with their lineage, the first jumping off point of self-discovery poses the biggest problem. Special difficulties face those whose parents oppose each other and attempt to reshape the identity of their prodigy. Bitter back-and-forth over which parent wins ownership of the child inflicts the most damage upon the innocent party. Now imagine the injury imposed by two of Europe’s greatest powers, France and Germany, in a custody battle of epic proportions over their estranged “child,” Alsace.

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Alsace, a small region of about 3,000 square miles,1 sits in the northeast corner of modern-day France where the Rhine River forms its border with Germany. Its history and culture intersect with both Germany and France, but it has never fully fit in with either nation—although both powers have long tried to make it their own, politically and ideologically, due its strategic position as a spoil of war.2 The discomfort of Alsace’s contested identity reached its peak in the years 1870–1939. During this time, regionalists urged Alsatians to define their identity amidst a barrage of German and French nationalizing efforts. In 1870, the triumph of the Prussian Empire over France resulted in the German annexation of Alsace. Under German control, vexed Alsatians planted the first seeds of autonomist sentiments that would manifest later under French rule. Autonomists emerged frustrated with years of foreign powers laying claim to their culture and implementing clumsy political measures without any input from the region itself. Under German and then French rule, Alsatian autonomists sought an elevated regional status within the respective ruling country, greater control over their own budgets and resources, and the end of intrusive methods by either country to quell those elements of Alsatian culture that bore a similarity to the opposing nation. Quite simply, autonomy meant “freedom from central control.”3 Analyzing Alsace from its German annexation up until WWII (1871–1939) offers three conclusions about the nature of its autonomist or regionalist movement, which I will detail after presenting a relevant history of the region. First, Germany and then France replicated the methods of other nationalist movements of nineteenth- and twentieth-century Europe by using 1

Encyclopedia of World Cultures Supplement, s.v. “Alsatians,” 2002, accessed November 21, 2018, www.encyclopedia.com/places/britain-ireland-france-and-low-countries/french-and-benelux-physicalgeography/alsatians.

2 Christopher J. Fischer, Alsace to the Alsatians? Visions and Divisions of Alsatian Regionalism, 1870-1939 (New York: Berghahn, 2010), 6.

3 Philip Charles Farwell Bankwitz, Alsatian Autonomist Leaders 1919-1947 (Lawrence: Regents Press of Kansas, 1978), 4.

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the press, normalizing institutions, and creating shared memories. Second, the Alsatian regionalist movement occurred as a defense mechanism rather than a voluntary expression of social, cultural, and political cohesion. Lastly, the German, French, and Alsatian actors that tried to implement their own vision of Alsace’s true nature failed due to misconceptions held about the “Other.” Each section offers a unique argument seemingly separate from the others; however, such a setup reflects the complex nature of regionalism in Alsace and gives the most apt account for understanding France, Germany, and nationalist phenomena in a larger sense.

History Before detailing the nationalizing approaches that Germany and France undertook in Alsace, tracing the region’s relationship with its neighboring countries explains how precariously intertwined it is with both. For much of its existence, Alsace “was a part of the Germanic world, sharing in its language, religious practice, culture, and network of political allegiances.”4 Even when the Peace of Westphalia placed Alsace inside French borders in 1648, the region remained economically involved with Germany, retained its cities’ governmental structures, and continued to use its German dialect with no resistance from France. Although the centralizing effect of the French Revolution in 1789 did not spare Alsace, administrative changes allowed for greater engagement between the French state and Alsace. The alluring conception of French citizenship that emerged in the Revolution’s “transfer of sovereignty from the king to the citizenry” drove Alsatian workers closer to France.5

4

David Allen Harvey, Constructing Class and Nationality in Alsace, 1830-1945 (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2001), 13.

5 Ibid., 14.

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Throughout these cultural and territorial changes, religious demographics also morphed.

Despite the region’s long-standing ties with Catholicism (in fact, the municipal structures were organized clerically), by the time of the French Revolution, only a little over half of Strasbourg was Catholic.6 In the future debates over autonomy, Catholic Alsatians were more willing to side with France than Protestant Alsatians. Attitudes towards France and Germany also fluctuated over time, with changes in rule and differing generational experiences, based on the turbulence of the Second French Empire under Napoleonic rule.

Thus, the Alsace of 1871 possessed a history of equally strong French and German ties.

A look at the region’s administrative control and definitive political, social, and cultural events under German rule offers a basic understanding of why Alsatians were compelled to pursue autonomy by the time of French rule. (Of course, German and French nationalizing efforts, detailed in the next section, explain the phenomenon as well). Under the Treaty of Frankfurt in 1871, Germany annexed Alsace as a Reichsland (Imperial Land), which placed it under direct control of the emperor. However, first a high-president and then a governor were set in place to administer the region alongside the Federal Council and the Reichstag (the parliament of the Empire). The territorial committee of locally elected officials had little power, and the “dictatorship paragraph” of the Constitution allowed the man in charge of Alsace to both silence and harass adverse political activity.7 Alsace’s limited power within the German Empire reflects the ironic paranoia of their ruler: despite believing that Alsace and their people truly belonged to and desired to be part of Germany, “cities like Strasbourg or Mulhouse, with their cosmopolitan outlook and Francophile upper classes” threatened the smooth assimilation into Germany.8 For

6

Dan P. Silverman, Reluctant Union: Alsace-Lorraine and Imperial Germany, 1871-1918 (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1972), 9.

7 Fischer, Alsace to the Alsatians? 13.

8 James Wilkinson, “The Uses of Popular Culture by Rival Elites: The Case of Alsace, 1890–1914,” History of

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the most part, the language divide coincided with class; the elites spoke French while the middle and lower classes spoke Alsace.

As a response to this constant cultural evaluation, Alsatians with different political intentions, under varying degrees of influence by the Germans or the French, spoke out on Alsatian folk culture. Beginning in 1895, the Renaissance Alsacienne witnessed a revival of “traditions, customs, and history” that, although crafted by men with political aims, appeared more as a form of “cultural regionalism” than a movement with clear-cut political goals such as independence or assimilation.9 Pro-French and pro-German artists, intellectuals, and leaders visited the rural countryside to cherry-pick art, literature, or dress that matched their agenda and then showcased it in museums and newspapers in the urban centers. A third faction instead recognized the deeply rooted elements of both cultures in Alsatian society and argued that categorizing the region’s culture as exclusively French or German ignored its unique and separate character.

The next event important for understanding Alsatian autonomy took place in 1911 with the creation of a new Alsatian constitution. Before its completion, Alsatians on all sides of the political spectrum held high hopes that it would either finally embrace the region as a part of Germany by giving it an equal status to other German states—the ultimate goal of German assimilationists—or grant greater autonomy and representation, an end more favored by proFrench or pro-Alsace advocates. Either way, many longed for a better understanding of Alsatian status and citizenship. In the end, though, it “did not define Alsatian nationality nor did it make

European Ideas 11, nos. 1–6 (1989): 607, doi:10.1016/0191-6599(89)90247-7.

9 Fischer, Alsace to the Alsatians? 21–22.

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Alsace a Land of comparable autonomy to the other German states.”10 Alsatians of all opinions were unhappy with the results of the constitution.

Until WWI, tensions continued to rise between Alsatians and their German rulers. Small clashes between the German military and citizens became frequent, and the fighting reached its peak in 1913, in what became known as the Zabern Affair. In the town of Zabern, insults traded between a small group of Alsatians and German soldiers caught the attention of the entire surrounding community. Violence nearly erupted out of this seemingly insignificant encounter.

The continued abuse of military power and disregard for Alsatian complaints finally brought Alsatian deputies to “speak with one voice” regarding their concerns with Germany.11 During the war, the German mistreatment of Alsace intensified. Afterward, the French made blunders similar to those of peacetime German rule in the region. Both countries took a highly assimilationist approach to administering Alsace—an approach inspired by simultaneous nationalist movements in central France and Eastern Europe—paving the way for the vocal Autonomous Movement of the interwar period.

Application of Common Nationalism Techniques by Germany and France The German and French methods of nationalizing Alsace now warrant an in-depth analysis. As a frontier region, Alsace served a vital national security function for its parent nation. Therefore, strategic rather than economic interests account for the aggressive efforts by both nations to instill their own nationalisms in the region. In this sense, nationalism served as a means of transmitting the culture and political cohesion of the center to the periphery (Alsace).

10 11

Bankwitz, Alsatian Autonomist Leaders, 8.

Fischer, Alsace to the Alsatians? 94.

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Considering their similar concern for security, Germany and France shared tools when crafting nationalism: the press, normalizing institutions, and shared memories. It should be noted that despite their outward similarities, the substance of the policies differed greatly between the nations. Interestingly enough, “Germanization” in each of the three categories consisted mostly of tearing down French influences. Detmar Klein writes, “As for specific Germanisation policies, they often displayed a petty and occasionally even ridiculous hard-heartedness in sledgehammer style, suggesting on the part of the Germans a certain insecurity as to the content and value of their ideas of nationhood. Germany had only just been unified, and identities were still much more regional than national, bringing up the problem of defining a national German culture and identity.”12 This phenomenon demonstrates the urgency of studying the case of Alsace, as it offers insight into two of Europe’s greatest powers in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

The Press First Germany, and then France, targeted newspapers and journals in the region as an effective front on which to fight for the nationalization of Alsace. Of course, the press within both countries contributed to the average German or Frenchman’s passionate claim to the region, but it was the works published within the politically precarious region by Alsatians themselves that they prized as the key to winning the hearts of their distant countrymen. It is difficult to ascertain the degree to which foreigners directly influenced content, and certainly many native Alsatians devoted to either side published nationalist rhetoric voluntarily. Here I analyze all newspapers and journals with known French or German tilts, regardless of their origin, as a part of the efforts of the countries to instill French or German nationalism in the Alsatian people.

12

Detmar Klein, “Folklore as a Weapon: National Identity in German-Annexed Alsace, 1890-1914,” in Folklore and Nationalism in Europe during the Long Nineteenth Century, ed. Timothy Baycroft and David Hopkin (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 167.

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Under German annexation, the primary publication concerned with strengthening cultural ties with Germany was the Jahrbuch für geschichte, sprache und literature (JfGSL). The journal’s contributors were mostly prominent Germans living in Alsace. It sought to highlight cultural events and customs with distinct German ties and dedicated sections to studying the Alsatian dialect. The power of the journal’s contribution to the debate over Alsatian culture (which hit its peak in the 1880s and ’90s) could be found less in its subtle praise of Germanic culture and more in its deliberate exclusion of any mention of French roots or associations.13 This was clearly not by accident; an apt historian would have understood how the political culture and Catholic makeup of Alsace came directly from France. Ignoring such history denied its importance and allowed German sympathizers to craft an alternative narrative of Alsace with Germany as the sole influence on the region.

Under French rule, the Journal d’Alsace et de Lorraine reemerged with new strength to advocate for complete assimilation after serving as the “forefront of the effort to resist German efforts to win over the region” before the war.14 The Revue d’Alsace et de Lorraine also supported assimilation, but to a lesser degree and with different methods. This journal subtly urged support for France through works that were either in French or dealt with themes and topics clearly related to French culture or history. Most of the major journals and newspapers visibly aligned with a political party or leader and played a crucial role in setting out their agenda and priming the public for its reception. During German annexation and the return to France, the linguistic choice of newspapers and journals made a political statement regardless of the content, contributing to nationalizing efforts as well.

13 14

Fischer, Alsace to the Alsatians? 26.

Ibid., 138.

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Here, we ought to consider the work of nationalism scholar Benedict Anderson. In his pivotal 1983 work, Anderson suggests that nations are “imagined communities.” Various institutions, practices, and symbols, he argues, arouse a sense of simultaneity and similitude among citizens of a nation, regardless of the physical distance between them. One such factor, “print capitalism,” would initially seem applicable here. After all, his concept and this case study recognize the press as a valuable component of nationalism. Yet a key difference is that for Anderson, newspapers brought unity not necessarily through their content, but in their ritual that formed an “imagined community” of citizens when everyone read identical papers at the same time.15 In Alsace, the language divide prevented a single newspaper or journal from attracting the readership of a majority of the region. An “imagined community” of Alsatians could not materialize through newspapers. Instead, the nationalist function of the press in Alsace took on a much less powerful and less unifying nature than Anderson would have anticipated.

Institutions State institutions, primarily the school system and administrative offices, offered the quickest and most obvious route for each power to pursue the changes they wished to see in the region. They provided a standard and ubiquitous method of normalizing citizens, regardless of class or whether they lived in the cities or rural villages. Furthermore, they required German, and then French, authority to take a stand on and institutionalize one side of several ongoing debates regarding the character and history of Alsace. When a single national language, border placement, or historical narrative was propped up by the state, the alternate stances, while never disappearing completely, lost traction because they did not have the same state credibility.

15

Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities (London: Verso, 1983), 38.

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In 1871, Germany issued its first language directive regarding the instruction of French in elementary and secondary schools. Notably, while the permitted instances of French use in the classroom decreased over time as tensions rose, never did Germany issue “a blanket order suppressing the use of French” because they realized “the futility of trying to teach German to French-speaking adults.”16 This decision speaks of the political and ideological, rather than solely logistical, intentions behind the push for German nationalism in the region. Germany’s decision to fill almost all the region’s administrative roles with German nationals also reflects their desire to use language as a discouraging statement to the French rather than a means of integrating Alsace into the politics and economy of the whole of Germany.

Schools and administrative offices also perpetuated the new German border placement by creating and spreading maps. Catherine T. Dunlop argues that the cartographic methods employed by the Germans in 1871 intentionally followed linguistic patterns—somewhat loosely to account for mostly French-speaking Lorraine and francophone urban centers, whose borders were drawn for security concerns—to validate their territorial gains and visually ingrain them into the minds of Alsatians and Germans.17 In 1918, France followed a similar game plan when shaping nationalism in Alsace.

However, unlike the case of Germany, the implementation of language in schools and the regional administration was a greater and more urgent priority considering the onus to culturally unify France in the Third Republic. Thus, the language shift in administrative duties happened immediately. It was also felt more widely than the efforts under German annexation, because

16

Silverman, Reluctant Union, 76.

Catherine T. Dunlop, “Mapping a New Kind of European Boundary: The Language Border between Modern France and Germany,” Imago Mundi 65, no. 2 (2013): 258, doi:10.1080/03085694.2013.784580.

17

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fewer Alsatians spoke French than German. Specifically, lawyers, civil servants, and teachers took the most damage.18 While this hampered French efforts, the content taught in schools, regardless of the language of instruction, still promised to spread the easily-abridged, catchy morsels of the Jacobin conception of France as an indivisible union that had succeeded in uniting France years before.19 French administrators thought that such a noble vision of France would be easy to transmit to Alsatians and surely appeal to them, especially after German rule.20 Plus, teaching French history in such a positive light helped to reconcile Alsace’s turbulent past and justify its return to France, as a 1918 publication by a well-known French historian expressed: “Before, there was chaos: without a common leader, private interests pitted one against the other, economic forces were left paralyzed; after, there was order, justice, prosperity.”21 Shared Memories Crafting a lasting German or French regionalism in the area required an emotional element that appealed to the Alsatians’ conception of his past. The press, educational institutions, and administrative offices mostly directed Alsatians on how they should feel and operate politically and linguistically in the present moment. Such measures seemed to say: “You no longer hear French being used by your administrators, teachers, and neighbors. So, from now on you belong more with Germany” or “La patrie, France, is indivisible and each of its people share in the national spirit of being French. This national awareness now extends to you.” However, such sentiments would not last in the politically turbulent atmosphere. The Germans and then the

18

Fischer, Alsace to the Alsatians? 135.

Eugen Weber, Peasants Into Frenchmen: the Modernization of Rural France, 1870-1914 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1976), 95.

20 Stephen L. Harp, Learning to Be Loyal: Primary Schooling as Nation Building in Alsace and Lorraine, 18501940 (Dekalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1998), 13.

21 Ernest Lavisse et Christian Pfister, La Question d’Alsace Lorraine (Paris : L'Université De Paris, 1918), 8.

19

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French attempted to create shared historical memories through the creation of buildings, monuments, and museums.

Before establishing markers of German history in the region, authorities had to remove physical reminders of former French connections, such as street signs. Once competing representations of the region’s history had been removed, the construction of new buildings and renovation of old began. Strasbourg’s central Kaiserplatz underwent a Germanic update, featuring the construction of the Imperial Residence and administrative offices of high importance all brimming with “busts of major German and European thinkers, writers, and artists as a means of demonstrating the importance of Germans to the European canon.”22 Then, a costly restoration of the Hohkönigsburg Castle sought to invoke awe and pride in Alsatians at the grand symbol of German power overlooking the city of Sélestat.23 French efforts after 1918 include changing the official name of Kaiserplatz to Place de la République and the construction of a WWI monument.24 An alternate method of crafting shared French memories appears in the works of the artist Hansi. Born in Alsace and staunchly proFrench, he illustrated quaint depictions of rural Alsace that critiqued Germany and connected French and Alsatian history simultaneously.25 His works subtly conveyed his political message, often through the use of color: his landscapes and sketches of Alsatians in their traditional dress maintain a subdued color palette interrupted by bright reds and blues, suggestive of the French flag.

Utilizing the press, normalizing institutions, and creating shared memories each offered different functions (short-term or long-term and logical or emotional) for the creation of German

22

Fischer, Alsace to the Alsatians? 54.

Ibid.

24 Ibid., 166.

25 Ibid., 130.

23

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or French nationalism in Alsace. However, as shown by the emergence of the Autonomous Movement, these efforts backfired and did more to alienate the region from its “parent� nations.

Autonomous Movement as Defense Mechanism Discontent with the German/French cultural dichotomy had already appeared in the Renaissance Alsacienne in the 1890s under German annexation. In the 1920s, the desire to define their own culture paired with frustrations over their politically weak status manifested in the Autonomy Movement among Alsatians. This decade witnessed the most visible and goaloriented instance of Alsatian regionalism (although such regionalism also occurred earlier in the culture debate and, in a more subdued and less mainstream vein, extended beyond the 1920s until effectively silenced by WWII). Analyzing Alsatian regionalism within this timeframe offers the greatest point of comparison with the nationalist phenomena considered by scholars and the most meaningful implications for the continued study of such movements.

Calls for an autonomous or even a separate Alsace did not occur, nor would they otherwise have occurred, voluntarily. In essence, nothing in the political or social makeup of Alsace indicated a desire or destiny for an autonomous state within France or even an independent state. Rather, the influence of outside forces reached an intolerable level, triggering Alsace’s defense mechanism in the form of the Autonomist Movement, which sought autonomy not as an end goal in itself, but as a way to combat the growing threats against the Alsatian way of life. Reviewing the response to the statement of the Cartel de Gauches and the character of the ensuing political parties reveals the defensive nature of Autonomism.

The first event to prompt Alsatian autonomists was the 1924 promise of the Cartel de Gauches. That year, the political coalition guaranteed to legally align Alsace and Lorraine with

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the rest of France. Such a move would tear down the clerical legal system that had been in place in Alsace for centuries, something that angered Catholic and Protestant Alsatians alike. The newly formed newspaper Die Zukunft (The future) rallied around this move by the French government and demanded that Alsatians “agitate for the rights of their homeland.”26 As a result, an autonomist coalition began to form in the region’s political scene. By this point, Alsace had been under French rule for six years, and plenty of other instances of France’s mistreatment and disrespect of the region had occurred. If Alsace had truly desired autonomy or separatism, then they would have pursued such a path after WWI or earlier in French rule. The fact that parties only began including autonomy as a part of their platforms after the announcement of the Cartel des Gauches, “the crystallization of Alsatian resentment towards France,”27 supports the theory of autonomism as a response to outside actors.

Secondly, reviewing the political parties that received relative electoral success in this period reveals that there were no mainstream parties dedicated solely to the autonomist effort; rather, the fact that well-established parties defined by other issues only adopted the autonomist banner after 1924 reflects the urgent and reactive nature of the movement. The first party to speak of autonomism was the Union Populaire et Républicaine (UPR). In connection with the Catholic League, the UPR sensed and took advantage of the deep unease felt by Alsatians at the thought of losing clerical rule and being subjugated by the foreign republican legislation of central France. Linguistic, educational, and architectural changes, while irking Alsatians, never evoked the same emotional response because the Catholic Church boasted such an integral position in how Alsatians viewed and anchored themselves: “Religion occupied a central place in

26

Jena Marie Gaines, “The Spectrum of Alsatian Autonomism, 1918-1929” (PhD diss., University of West Virginia, 1990), 191–92.

27 Samuel Huston Goodfellow, Between the Swastika and the Cross of Lorraine: Fascisms in Interwar Alsace (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1999), 15.

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Alsatian life . . . Alsatians, tossed from one state to another, had found their identity in religion rather than in their social and political trappings”28 Thus, Alsatians would not have necessarily desired the social and political transformations brought by a change in the region’s status (whether that be autonomy or independence) because they never found solace in their social and political conditions of the past.

The socialist political parties also held autonomist ideas. The regional wing of the German socialist party, (Sozialdemokratische Partei Deutschlands), transferred to the French party, (Parti Socialiste: Section Française de l’Internationale Ouvrière), upon annexation. They attempted to defend their loyalty to France by highlighting the intrinsic socialist nature of the French Revolution and claiming that, therefore, their ideological ties to France outweighed their former organizational ties to the SPD.29 As a result, the region’s party was initially reluctant to speak against the French mistreatment of Alsace.

However, beginning in 1921, their reticence disappeared, and the party became critical of France. In 1924, it intensified its critiques by expanding beyond its typical focus on economic matters to consider the religious issue. The Parti Socialiste Alsacienne claimed that the current relationship with France now hurt Alsace culturally. Before, the party only spoke of the region as “the victim of French capitalism.”30 Then, the party began advocating for autonomy within France. It was uncharacteristic of a socialist party to speak on a unifying factor other than class or represent a group other than the proletariat. This break from the norm illustrates the defensive and desperate nature of autonomy in politics.

28 Solange Gras, “Regionalism and Autonomy in Alsace since 1918,” in The Politics of Territorial Identity, ed. Stein Rokkan and Derek W. Urwin (London: Sage Publications, 1982), 321.

29 Alison Carrol, “Socialism and National Identity in Alsace from Reichsland to République, 1890-1921,” European History Quarterly 40, no. 1 (2010): 58, doi:10.1177/0265691409353255.

30 Gras, “Regionalism and Autonomy in Alsace since 1918,” 323.

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How does this conclusion fit into nationalist theories? Viewing Alsatian autonomy as a defense mechanism opposes scholar Anthony Smith’s primordial understanding of nationalism.

His 1991 book National Identity suggests that ethnic groups are innately bonded and destined for autonomy in the form of the nation-state.31 If all the world’s groups progressed on a linear road that began with the ethnie and ended in the nation, then why did Alsace, a region whose people possessed an extensive history dating back to the Roman Empire, only consider autonomy in the 1920s, and with such reluctance?32 Additionally, Smith’s conclusion implies that an ethnic group actually possesses and agrees on one shared culture or sense of cohesion; the fact that Alsatians battled over three different visions of themselves shatters part of his theory.

Yet the constructivist understandings of Eric Hobsbawm and Ernest Gellner ignore the genuine frustrations of many Alsatians and their desire for an autonomist state within France. In Nations and Nationalism since 1870, Hobsbawm views the elites as responsible for crafting nationalism as a desperate power grab.33 Gellner, instead, posits that the demand for flexible labor upon industrialization created nationalism in Nations and Nationalism.34 Both of these understandings fail to account for Alsatians who desired change of their own volition.

Then, Anderson’s theory does not fully apply because of the lack of an “imagined community.” Returning to Smith’s theory to search for a framework to explain nationalism as a defense mechanism requires one to dismiss the whole and cherry-pick the parts that do apply.

When dismissing the ethnic component, Smith’s recognition of the bottom-up element of

31

Anthony Smith, National Identity (Reno: University of Nevada Press, 1991).

Fischer, Alsace to the Alsatians? 12.

33 Eric John Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1870: Programme, Myth, Reality, 2nd ed. (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1992).

34 Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987).

32

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nationalism could explain the almost unanimous frustration held by Alsatians that resulted in the autonomist movement.

Misconceptions Contributing to Alsatian Regionalism Throughout German annexation, French rule, and the interwar period, Germany, France, and Alsace relied on their (often simplistic) assumptions about each other to predict how the other would act, which usually yielded unfavorable or unexpected results. Because of the tunnel vision of each of the three actors, a productive dialogue could not be established to facilitate assimilation with either power or the achievement of autonomy. The inaccurate visions of Alsace held by Germany and France both romanticize the past and disregard the power of historical forces to forage a complex, non-binary culture in the region.

German Misconceptions of Alsace Starting with Germany, the romanticized German image of Alsace stood as the source of problems from 1871 to 1918, when their administrative and cultural choices met resistance from a radically different Alsace than they had expected. When describing a mural in Strasbourg set in place by the Germans, James Wilkinson reveals how Germany conceptualized the region, writing, “An Alsace peopled by fresh-faced farm boys, smiling women in their native costumes (Trachten), and grandfatherly village mayors was displayed in the busiest transportation center of the region’s capital to make a point: the real Alsace was not, in the German view, urban Strasbourg, but an idyllic landscape little changed over seven hundred years.”35 This passage also highlights the creative lengths to which Germany went to invalidate the French presence as temporary and more disposable the German aspects of Alsatian society. Treasuring the rural

35

Wilkinson, “The Uses of Popular Culture,” 607.

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image of Alsace not only helped assert cultural dominance over France, but it also brought comfort to Germans experiencing insecurities born out of their “recent unification and accelerating industrialization” and yearning a return to the simplicity of medieval times that they believed could be found in Alsace.36 Gellner’s work can also explain why Germany valued this folk image and connected it to the larger trend of nationalism. He writes, “Nationalism usually conquers in the name of a putative folk culture. Its symbolism is drawn from the healthy, pristine, vigorous life of the peasants.”37 Applying Gellner’s commentary here further bolsters the argument that German nationalizing efforts in Alsace mirrored other European nationalist phenomena, as well.

Thus, part of the reasoning behind rapid Germanization was simply that Alsatian people desired such measures and that Alsatians would adapt easily to such an approach considering their deeprooted German nature.

However, the German understanding of Alsace was not all positive; despite believing in the inherent German-ness of Alsatians, German leaders quickly jumped on any cultural or political expressions that were not overtly pro-German and anti-French, and labeled them as adversarial. Even works of theater that celebrated Alsace’s own unique culture, rather than its overtly German parts, were perceived as a threat. This is despite the fact that calls for autonomy within the ruling country, or even independence, would not appear in the political realm of Alsace until the 1920s. 38 The German paranoia of insurgent French activity nonetheless prompted them to pursue aggressive Germanization upon annexation and, out of suspicion and distrust, limit the region’s status within the German Empire.39

36

Ibid.

Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983), 57.

38 Fischer, Alsace to the Alsatians? 14.

39 Silverman, Reluctant Union, 43.

37

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French Misconceptions of Alsace The two competing French visions of Alsace followed similar lines as Germany’s.

Throughout German annexation, the French held a “mythic” vision of Alsace as a lost province and believed that Alsatians remained loyal to France throughout insufferable foreign rule.40 Just as the German sketch of Alsace served as a comfortable foil to their current ills, France’s mourning of their former region played a part in the larger movement of French nationalism, and even became a rallying cry against Germany in WWI.41 Here, Gellner once again offers an explanation for why the French held their particular vision of Alsace. He posits that nationalism is a blatant form of “social self-worship,” whose “amnesias and selections” reflect those elements of a nation that its people celebrate the most.42 Using this framework, it becomes clear that the narrative of undying loyalty under German oppression echoes the narrative of the French Revolution. Throughout oppression and then bloodshed, the will of the people continued to fight up until the fateful year of 1789. France willingly projected this treasured national story onto Alsace.

France retained this simplistic understanding of the desires and loyalties of Alsatians throughout the war and in the early years of the renewed control of the region. The celebrations that ensued at the end of the war in the streets of Strasbourg and other Alsatian cities, full of tricolor flags and renditions of the Marseillaise, further bolstered the optimistic visions of the French.43 As they quickly began to implement secularist policies and limit the use of the Alsatian dialect, a second, more cynical, image of the region began to take hold of the malaise Alsacien.

40

Fischer, Alsace to the Alsatians? 129.

Alison Carrol, The Return of Alsace to France, 1918-1939 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 41.

42 Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, 56–57.

43 Laird Boswell, “From Liberation to Purge Trials in the ‘Mythic Provinces’: Recasting French Identities in Alsace and Lorraine, 1918-1920,” French Historical Studies 23, no. 1 (2000): 135, doi:10.1215/00161071-23-1-129.

41

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When Alsatians felt that French administrative decisions threatened their way of life, many responded by defending its unique nature and calling for more personalized treatment that did not assume the same cultural conditions as the rest of France. The political consensus of France as an indivisible nation, though, translated demands for individualism as cries of treason.

The harsh Commissions de Triages, in which French leaders determined, case-by-case, the fate of those with German connections or Germans themselves living in Alsace, reflect the hyperbolic tendencies of the French when dealing with Alsace. While the tendency of both Germany and France to mistake alternate expressions as dangerous finds its roots in different conditions of each country, it falls in line with the power-hungry element of Hobsbawm’s theory on the first instance of nationalism. Hobsbawm identifies the last-ditch efforts of the upper classes to preserve their power as nationalism’s spark.44 Germany and France did not target cultural and political particularism in Alsace for class-based reasons; yet, their actions share the urgency and paranoia of the elites that Hobsbawm finds responsible for first wielding nationalism.

Misconceptions Held by Alsace Although both Germany and France started off on the wrong foot due to inaccurate understandings, Alsace also failed to achieve its interests by relying on outdated and simplistic visions of both nations. By 1871, workers in the textile industry had been expressing dissatisfaction with its exclusive ownership through strikes and a shift in voting patterns for several years, resulting in leaders that welcomed an autonomous Alsatian state (free from both German and French rule) upon the end of the Franco-Prussian War.45 However, tensions between Catholic and Protestants turned the large Catholic faction vehemently against German

44 45

Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1870, 81.

Silverman, Reluctant Union, 20.

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annexation in the time leading up the Treaty of Frankfurt.46 A single image of Germany did not exist among Alsatians; yet, collectively, different groups possessed visible grievances towards the previous rule or to the possibility of German rule. They therefore hoped that the outcome, whether that meant French or German control, would recognize Alsace’s dissatisfaction and give the region a degree of control over its own affairs.

The effect of Alsatian misconceptions of Germany on their ability to achieve regionalist aims does not warrant much analysis, though, because of the meager political power the region held under annexation. Even after the 1911 Constitution, Alsatian regionalists were not in a place to make significant political progress, regardless of their efforts. However, Alsatian views and expectations of France during and after WWI severely impacted the results of negotiations over their rights and cultural particularity.

The Conférence d’Alsace et de Lorraine is the greatest instance of misunderstanding by both Alsace and France. The 1915 event brought together French and Alsatian (typically proFrench) officials. Even though both sides came to the table with the shared intention of figuring how to best integrate Alsace into France, their inability to comprehend each other beyond the self-serving images that they had conjured left them without a clear roadmap. Alsace did not realize the extent to which France had changed under the Third Republic and mistakenly believed France’s assurances to respect Alsatian culture repeated during the war. France lacked “a basic understanding of how embedded the religious and administrative institutions of Alsace were in the conduct of social life.”47 Basically, both believed they could exert power over the

46

Ibid., 23.

Jena Marie Gaines, “The Politics of National Identity in Alsace,” Canadian Review of Studies in Nationalism 21 (1994): 103.

47

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other.48 The Conférence set the tone for the years to come, and remained the greatest single instance of Alsatians failing to meet political aims due to their inaccurate visions of their opponent.

To dig deeper into the skewed Alsatian image of France, the formation of French nationalism in the years since 1871 that occurred through schools, political rhetoric, and the construction of the national railroad prevented Alsatian regionalism from making any political strides. Before German annexation, under the Second Republic and Empire of France, distinguishing one’s region from another through its dress, language, or customs would not have been unusual. Also, the loose confederation of culturally distinct states of the German Empire allowed regionalism to grow.49 However, the Third Republic of France and its idea of the “true Frenchman” transcended regional boundaries and valued the unity that came from French citizenship. Unfortunately, Alsatians continued to define and celebrate their distinct characteristics under French rule without realizing how subversive such a stance came off to the French. Autonomist leaders found little success because of, in part, the backlash of the French administration: As Fischer explains, “In seeing Germany behind every Alsatian who expressed a grievance, signed a petition, or voted for a candidate who campaigned upon a regional rather than a national platform, the government made it impossible for Alsatians to exercise their rights as French citizens without having their right to citizenship questioned.”50 Had regionalists and autonomists shrouded their message in a more pro-French exterior or identified the liberalism of the French Revolution as their motivation, perhaps they could have

48 Samuel Huston Goodfellow, “Autonomy or Colony: The Politics of Alsace's Relationship to France in the Interwar Era,” in Views from the Margins: Creating Identities in Modern France, ed. Kevin J. Callahan and Sarah A. Curtis (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2008), 140.

49 Fischer, Alsace to the Alsatians? 129.

50 Ibid., 105.

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avoided the harsh response that stifled their power. An updated understanding of the Third Republic would have aided the political strategy of Alsatian regionalists.

Conclusion The commencement of WWII cut the race short for the three competing nationalisms seeking to win Alsace. However, the period from 1871–1939 offers ample opportunity for analysis in the fields of nationalist and regionalist studies. By breaking down the nationalizing techniques of Germany and France, one can connect the case of Alsace to other nationalist phenomena discussed by Smith and Hobsbawm. Here, complications to Anderson’s “print capitalism” also arise. While the press certainly aided German and French efforts to bring the region closer to themselves, the multiplicity of languages rendered the creation of Anderson’s “imagined community” through print impossible. This is an instance where the case of Alsace does not altogether disprove a theory but limits its scope or finds an exception. This study also reveals instances where a theory rings true, but only in pieces. My analysis of Alsatian autonomy as a defense mechanism and its partial similarity to Smith’s theory is an example.

Lastly, my findings on why German, French, and Alsatian nationalisms failed did not find similar frameworks in the works of Smith, Hobsbawm, Gellner, or Anderson—indicating a need for more attention to why nationalisms fail rather than just what they are or how they form.

Such conclusions may discourage those seeking an all-inclusive, foolproof theory of nationalism.

However, hope can be found in the notion that with each new case study on nationalism, more patterns, exceptions, and contradictions will be made. The only way that a grand blueprint will be found is through the arduous efforts of many, even if such a theory is an aggregate of specific and elaborate schemes.

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Works Cited Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities. London: Verso, 1983.

Bankwitz, Philip Charles Farwell. Alsatian Autonomist Leaders 1919-1947. Lawrence: Regents Press of Kansas, 1978.

Boswell, Laird. “From Liberation to Purge Trials in the ‘Mythic Provinces’: Recasting French Identities in Alsace and Lorraine, 1918-1920.” French Historical Studies 23, no. 1 (2000): 129–62. doi:10.1215/00161071-23-1-129.

Brustein, William. The Social Origins of Political Regionalism: France, 1849-1981. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988.

Carrol, Alison. “Socialism and National Identity in Alsace from Reichsland to République, 18901921.” European History Quarterly 40, no. 1 (2010): 57–78. doi:10.1177/0265691409353255. _____. The Return of Alsace to France, 1918-1939. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018.

Dreyfus, François G. La Vie Politique En Alsace: 1919-1936. Cahiers de Fondation Nationale Des Sciences Politiques. Paris: Armand Colin, 1969.

Dunlop, Catherine T. “Mapping a New Kind of European Boundary: The Language Border between Modern France and Germany.” Imago Mundi 65, no. 2 (2013): 253–67. doi:10.1080/03085694.2013.784580.

Fischer, Christopher J. Alsace to the Alsatians? Visions and Divisions of Alsatian Regionalism, 1870-1939. New York: Berghahn, 2010.

Gaines, Jena Marie. “The Spectrum of Alsatian Autonomism, 1918-1929.” PhD diss., University of West Virginia, 1990. ProQuest. Accessed September 19, 2018. _____. “The Politics of National Identity in Alsace.” Canadian Review of Studies in Nationalism 21 (1994): 99.

Gellner, Ernest. Nations and Nationalism. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987.

Goodfellow, Samuel Huston. Between the Swastika and the Cross of Lorraine: Fascisms in Interwar Alsace. DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1999. _____. “Autonomy or Colony: The Politics of Alsace's Relationship to France in the Interwar Era.” In Views from the Margins: Creating Identities in Modern France, edited by Kevin J. Callahan and Sarah A. Curtis, 135–58. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2008. _____. “Fascism and Regionalism in Interwar Alsace.” National Identities 12, no. 2 (2010): 133– 45. doi:10.1080/14608941003764786.

Gras, Solange. “Regionalism and Autonomy in Alsace since 1918.” In The Politics of Territorial Identity, edited by Stein Rokkan and Derek W. Urwin, 309–54. London: Sage Publications, 1982.

Harp, Stephen L. Learning to Be Loyal: Primary Schooling as Nation Building in Alsace and Lorraine, 1850- 1940. Dekalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1998.

Harvey, David Allen. Constructing Class and Nationality in Alsace, 1830-1945. DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2001.

Hobsbawm, Eric John. Nations and Nationalism since 1870: Programme, Myth, Reality. 2nd ed.

Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1992.

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Hopkin, David. “Identity in a Divided Province: The Folklorists of Lorraine, 18601960.” French Historical Studies 23, no. 4 (2000): 639–82. doi:10.1215/00161071-23-4639.

Klein, Detmar. “Folklore as a Weapon: National Identity in German-Annexed Alsace, 18901914.” In Folklore and Nationalism in Europe during the Long Nineteenth Century, edited by Timothy Baycroft and David Hopkin, 161–91. Leiden: Brill, 2012.

Lavisse, Ernest, and Christian Pfister. La Question D'Alsace Lorraine. Paris : L'Université De Paris, 1918.

Mayeur, Jean Marie. Autonomie Et Politique En Alsace ; La Constitution De 1911. Paris: A. Colin, 1970.

Morrison, Jack G. “The Intransigents: Alsace-Lorrainers against the Annexation, 1900-1914.”

PhD diss., University of Iowa, 1970.

Silverman, Dan P. Reluctant Union: Alsace-Lorraine and Imperial Germany, 1871-1918.

University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1972.

Smith, Anthony. National Identity. Reno: University of Nevada Press, 1991.

Weber, Eugen. Peasants Into Frenchmen: The Modernization of Rural France, 1870-1914.

Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1976.

Wilkinson, James. “The Uses of Popular Culture by Rival Elites: The Case of Alsace, 1890– 1914.” History of European Ideas 11, nos. 1–6 (1989): 605–18. doi:10.1016/01916599(89)90247-7.

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The Turkish Woman and the Politics of State Identity Joni Keaton

Abstract This paper seeks to examine the relationship between the development of the women’s movement in Turkey during the early twentieth century and the rise of the modern Turkish state under the influence of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk. Although the women’s movement had an independent dimension through the context of female literary voices and autonomous women’s organizations, a series of wars and the culminating nationalist struggle that preceded the foundation of the Republic ultimately had a greater impact on the visibility of women in the public sphere. The new Turkish Republic sought to advance the image of a modern, Westernized state, and the implementation of policies that advanced the image of the modern Turkish woman were utilized toward this end. Women’s civil rights were granted with the same symbolic dimension during this time. By the mid-twentieth century, the identity of the Turkish woman had become bound to state identity.

Introduction The Turkish women’s movement developed in tandem with the modernizing efforts of the nation in the beginning of the twentieth century, as the works of female writers and the collective action of women’s organizations developed to represent the concerns of women. This movement succeeded in introducing an agenda that sought to expand women’s rights within the context of the family. Its real impact was limited, however, and did not directly influence policymakers.

Turkey’s involvement in a series of wars had a more visible impact on the status of women, as the absence of men necessitated women’s participation in the work force. The Turkish War of independence also provided women with new opportunities to engage in the public sector, as they were granted spaces to speak out in support of the nationalist cause. The image of men and women working side by side to support the cause was appropriated by nationalists, however, as they strove to frame Turkey as a modern, progressive state.

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It was primarily through the context of state advancement and the rise of Kemalist ideology that Turkish women gained new rights during the Second Constitutional Period between 1908 and the defeat of the Ottoman Empire in 1918, and through the consequent establishment of the Turkish Republic. Kemalist ideology was introduced by Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, who founded the Republic of Turkey in 1923 and served as its president until 1938.

Ataturk’s vision for the nation was one of Westernized modernization, and Kemalist ideology sought to introduce policies that advanced Western ideas in Turkey. In relation to women, this included expanded educational opportunities and the introduction of new civil rights. State secularization also had the effect of ending religious restrictions in women’s lives and allowed for their expanded mobility in the public sector.

The goals of state advancement have profoundly influenced the evolution of Turkish women in the twentieth century. Although the autonomous women’s movement gained traction during the Second Constitutional Period, it was overshadowed by deeply ingrained gender norms and a series of wars, which consequently led to a heightened focus on the development of a new state identity. The improvement of the status of women provided an avenue toward the expansion of democracy in the nation and served to reinforce Turkey’s new identity within the global community.

Origins of The Women’s Movement The women’s movement in Turkey has its origins during the Tanzimat period of the Ottoman Empire from 1839 to 1876.1 Westernized intellectuals identified the suppression of women as one of the factors responsible for the “backward condition” of the Empire when

1

Ipek Merçil and Osman Senemoğlu, “The Historical Grounds of the Turkish Women’s Movement,” Human and Social Studies 3, no. 1 (2014): 13.

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compared with the West.2 However, because problems concerning women and the family were considered “intimate issues” at the time, they were restricted from being publicly discussed and were acknowledged only in the works of Ottoman writers.3 This changed during the Second Constitutional Period from 1908 to 1918, as the nation became characterized by a “spirit of freedom” that opened new channels for discussing issues formally barred from the public sphere.4 Significantly, it was during this time that Turkish women began to develop a collective voice to advocate for their rights. The first generation of women writers reinforced the ideas introduced by Westerners during the Tanzimat and stressed the necessity of women’s advancement in the development of democratic society.5 Rather than organizing marches and demonstrations, these women voiced their concerns through literature.6 Among the initial issues addressed were those of family relations and marriage practices.7 The initial struggle focused on gaining rights within the context of the home and adapting the traditional role of the Turkish woman to have more autonomy over family life. It was not until the establishment of the independent republic under Mustafa Kemal Ataturk that civil rights, including the vote and the ability to participate in government, came to the forefront of women’s demands.

The emergence of magazines and journals addressing women’s issues allowed women to build a network of support during the Second Constitutional Period.8 These publications provided a forum where problems could be openly discussed at a time when these issues were

2

Ibid., 13–14.

Ibid., 14.

4 Secil Akgun, “Women’s Emancipation in Turkey,” Turkish Studies Association Bulletin 10, no. 1 (March 1986): 4.

5 Deniz Kandiyoti, “Women and the Turkish State: Political Actors or Symbolic Pawns,” in Woman-Nation-State, eds. Nira Yuval-Davis, Floya Anthias, and Jo Campling (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 1989), 127.

6 Merçil and Senemoğlu, “The Historical Grounds of the Turkish Women’s Movement,” 14.

7 Carter V. Findley, Turkey, Islam, Nationalism, and Modernity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010), 184.

8 Zuhal Y. Gündüz, “The Women’s Movement in Turkey: From Tanzimat Towards European Union Membership,” Perceptions: Journal of International Affairs 9, no. 3 (Autumn 2004): 115–16.

3

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considered intimate and were not addressed in the public sphere. The respectability of female authors was also called into question, however, and published work by women was largely rejected as irreputable.9 Even as the transition from private to public discussion of women’s issues began to take place, society was reluctant to embrace these concerns. The fact that many of the journals for which women wrote were owned and published by men also meant that in most cases, it was through the context of male power that women had the opportunity to speak out.10 However, it was during this period when women’s issues began to enter public discourse that initial changes regarding the position of women began to take place.11 One of the areas in which women’s journals were very successful was the discussion of polygamy in the Empire. Articles published in the late Ottoman period (1910–17) addressed the “evils of polygamy” and the need for the structure of the nuclear family.12 The Turkish intellectual Aliye Cevat Hanım refuted the arguments of conservatives by contending that polygamy lessened the physical and mental abilities of men, and that polygamous men were prone to die sooner because of the stress placed on them to take care of their large families.13 This left widows and children behind to fend for themselves, weakening the institution of family in Turkish society. Other literary works by men also detailed the ills of polygamy.14 Women’s arguments were therefore reinforced by male voices, which aided in legitimizing their claims and helped them in resisting religious traditionalists who supported polygamy. This resistance was also reinforced by the growing national trend of secularism. As Islamic values became less

9

Findley, Turkey, Islam, Nationalism, and Modernity, 178.

Khushbu Gupta, “Women’s Movement in Turkey Since 1980: Achievements and Limitations,” International Journal of Applied Social Science 2, nos. 3 & 4 (March–April 2015): 114.

11 Merçil and Senemoğlu, “The Historical Grounds of the Turkish Women’s Movement,” 14.

12 Nihan Atinbas, “Marriage and Divorce in the Late Ottoman Empire: Social Upheaval, Women’s Rights, and the Need for New Family Law,” Journal of Family History 39, no. 2 (2014): 120.

13 Ibid.

14 Ibid., 119.

10

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dominant over the family structure, women were able to effectively argue that polygamy was no longer a viable part of the Turkish family. This type of argument also alluded to the principle that would later become a defining element of the Turkish Republic: what is best for women should translate to what is best for the nation.

In addition to journals, a multitude of women’s organizations were founded during the Second Constitutional Period.15 The Ottoman Welfare Organization of Women was the first among these, established in 1908.16 The women’s movement had succeeded in evolving from written ideas into collective gatherings and the beginnings of structured representation. Such organizations therefore allowed women to support one another both ideally and materially.17 Westernization and Women’s Education During this time, the Ottomans were beginning to more fully embrace Western ideas in an attempt to keep pace with the political, economic, and cultural advancements of Western nations.18 One of the most profound problems identified by Ottoman leaders was the classical system of education within the empire, and in realizing that modernization was conditional on better education, foreign professionals were invited into the country and Turkish students were sent to study abroad.19 As young Turks rose through the ranks of Westernized education, their lives were shaped by this new model. Their integration into society provided an avenue for the introduction of Western ideas among the broader Turkish population.

Up until this point, the formal education of girls was limited to memorizing sections of the Quran and generally ended by the age of eight.20 After the start of puberty, girls were

15

Ibid., 115.

Gupta, “Women’s Movement in Turkey Since 1980,” 114.

17 Gündüz, “The Women’s Movement in Turkey,” 115–16.

18 Akgun, “Women’s Emancipation in Turkey,” 2.

19 Ibid.

20 Ibid.

16

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confined to the home and taught skills such as embroidery and weaving.21 While these were useful trades that hypothetically could have allowed women to participate in the informal economy, they were taught for the sole purpose of a woman being able to prepare her trousseau, which consisted of clothing and other belongings collected in preparation for marriage.22 A woman’s most important responsibility was to ready herself for marriage, and even the limited education she received worked toward this purpose.

Such restricted access to education meant that a major segment of the Turkish population was barred from knowledge relating to modern life. This fact was especially emphasized by foreign teachers, who noted the poor status of women’s education and brought attention to the importance of reforming the system.23 The desire of the nation’s leaders to develop a more “civilized” population therefore necessitated the expansion of women’s educational opportunities,24 particularly in formal school settings. These leaders wished to fully adopt the Western model and abolish what they conceived of as the “ignorance” of the past, and they realized that in working toward this goal education could no longer be restricted to male citizens.

Despite this acknowledgement, initial advancements in women’s education centered around education that allowed women to “fulfill their household roles in new and better ways.”25 Higher education would not be opened to women until 1914, when women were finally allowed admission to universities.26 The Effects of War on the Status of Women

21

Findley, Turkey, Islam, Nationalism, and Modernity, 67.

Ibid.

23 Akgun, “Women’s Emancipation in Turkey,” 2.

24 Gündüz, “The Women’s Movement in Turkey,” 115.

25 Findley, Turkey, Islam, Nationalism, and Modernity, 67.

26 Gupta, “Women’s Movement in Turkey Since 1980,” 114.

22

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The years between the Second Constitutional Period and the establishment of the Turkish Republic marked a major shift in the identity of the Turkish nation. Following the weakening of the Ottoman Empire in the early twentieth century, there was a “period of political search and redefinition” that gained momentum in the years preceding the establishment of the Turkish Republic.27 Following the constitutional period, this search coincided with important global events such as World War I, as well as significant domestic events such as the Turkish War of Independence. These years had a profound effect on shaping the nation and were also pivotal for Turkish women, who made an irreversible entrance into political discourse.28 The question of women’s rights had to be addressed through a modern lens for the nation to be able to sustain its emerging democracy and evolution on the world stage.

World War I acted as a major impetus for change in the day-to-day lives of Turkish women.29 Wartime needs encouraged women to work in the public sector, as they filled the gaps in the work force left by the men who had gone off to fight.30 Jobs in ammunition and food factories were initially offered to women, and soon after, banks, postal services, and administrative offices also began to open their doors.31 This hasty entrance into the labor market soon took on greater meaning as women’s presence became more established. The Society for the Employment of Women was founded to recruit women for jobs in the service industry throughout the war and provided an element of protection with the regulation of working conditions.32 Participation in the workforce was a major achievement, as women were no longer

27

Kandiyoti, “Women and the Turkish State,” 127.

Ibid.

29 Nermin Abadan-Unat, “Social Change and Turkish Women,” in Women in Turkish Society, ed. Nermin AbadanUnat (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1981), 8.

30 Nikki R. Keddie, Women in the Middle East: Past and Present (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007), 81.

31 Abadan-Unat, “Social Change and Turkish Women,” 8.

32 Erik J. Zurcher, Turkey: A Modern History (London: I. B. Tauris & Co, 1993), 126.

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exclusively confined to the home and had become an important asset in supporting Turkey’s wartime economy. However, this participation was afforded because the nation needed women to operate in place of men, and jobs were initially provided to women in the context of temporarily filling the labor void.

The increased “public presence”33 of women raised new concerns such as the issue of veiling, a practice where Muslim women cover their bodies in traditional garments as a sign of modesty. A law introduced in 1915 permitted women to unveil during working hours.34 Despite the fact that the realities of war necessitated women’s involvement in the work force, Turkish society opposed the additional reforms that were tagged onto this advancement, and rejected changes in women’s dress.35 Police officers utilized their power to send women home if their skirts did not comply with officially regulated lengths.36 Additionally, in 1917 the police publicly denounced innovations in women’s dress.37 Although the government went on to officially reject this statement, it provides evidence of the divisive opinions regarding women’s bodies at the time, and the extent to which society felt they should be controlled through the practice of seclusion. Changes in women’s dress had to be approved by men, and regardless if these changes benefitted women, the fact that they needed this approval meant that men retained control of women’s bodies. Women did not have autonomy over how they chose to dress and whether they wore the veil, but instead had to adhere to male standards.

Women’s entrance into the work force filled a need for labor, but women were not granted the same status as male workers and were not viewed as equals in the work place.

33

Keddie, Women in the Middle East, 81.

Abadan-Unat, “Social Change and Turkish Women,” 8.

35 Ibid.

36 Gündüz, “The Women’s Movement in Turkey,” 116.

37 Keddie, Women in the Middle East, 82.

34

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Evidence of this can be seen in the fact that women who took jobs did not assume the rights of male workers as a benefit of participation.38 Although they were performing a vital role within the nation, they were denied legal protection as workers. Further evidence is the case of the veil, which suggests that even though women were needed in public, they were not necessarily wanted. The ability to remove the veil at work challenged the practice of seclusion, which many were not yet ready to face with a modern understanding. Active opposition to women’s expanded presence in the public sphere stemmed from the ulama and their followers, who opposed increased visibility on the grounds of being un-Islamic and breaking with traditional Sharia law.39 A final piece of evidence can be identified by the fact that after the conclusion of World War I, most women resumed their traditional roles at home without any reluctance,40 although some women did go on to became involved in the nationalist movement.

Women’s Involvement in the Nationalist Struggle Following the official defeat of the Ottomans in the First World War, women’s participation in the public sector was redirected to the nationalist struggle for Turkish independence. The occupation of the land by allied forces accelerated the visibility of women in public and had the effect of increasing Turkish women’s involvement in the national struggle.41 While this primarily translated to civil involvement, a limited number of women joined the ranks of those in uniform on the eve of the Independence War, becoming part of Mustafa Kemal’s forces as they prepared to move forward with combat.42 Political activism and participation increased as women attended open-air meetings in greater numbers, many of which were

38

Akgun, “Women’s Emancipation in Turkey,” 6.

Keddie, Women in the Middle East, 80.

40 Gupta, “Women’s Movement in Turkey Since 1980,” 115.

41 Ibid., 114.

42 Abadan-Unat, “Social Change and Turkish Women,” 10.

39

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conducted in Istanbul after it was occupied.43 Women began to give speeches at these gatherings, and although female orators had previously been able to address audiences comprised solely of women, for the first time it was socially permissible for women to publicly address both genders.44 This furthered women’s visibility outside the home and expanded the possibilities of movement and dialogue in public spaces. Women were only able to speak in public, however, when the topic was related to the nationalist cause. It was thus in service to their nation that their ability to participate in public activity was founded.

The establishment of the Anatolian Women’s Organization for Patriotic Defense in 1919 was another means by which women participated in the nationalist struggle.45 Whereas past mobilization efforts had remained concentrated within women’s communities, this initiative was unique in that it was a direct attempt to influence politics.46 Having an independent organization to operate from gave women a sense of autonomy within the larger national cause, defining their role as advocators more than mere supporters. The organization became the “female counterpart” to the group of bureaucrats, merchants, and soldiers that made up the core of Mustafa Kemal’s followers.47 This fostered an image of women working side by side with men to further the efforts of the nationalist movement, portraying the integration of women as a part of the formally organized resistance. The creation of this image was a deliberate act by Turkish leadership, calculated to demonstrate to European nations that the whole of Turkish society was united in the struggle for independence.48 The façade of equal participation by both men and women was intended to portray strength to outside observers, and was not directly related to the improvement

43

Findley, Turkey, Islam, Nationalism, and Modernity, 67. .Ibid.

45 Keddie, Women in the Middle East, 82.

46 Abadan-Unat, “Social Change and Turkish Women,” 10.

47 Ibid.

48 Ibid.

44

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of the status of women. Women were mere beneficiaries of the state’s need to flex its muscles in the body of the international community.

The Path to Legal Reform The wars leading up the founding of the Turkish Republic, most notably World War I and the War of Independence, ultimately had a greater influence on the Turkish woman’s position in society during this period than legal reforms did.49 As men left to fight on the battlefields, women stepped into their roles in “labor, industry, and bureaucracy.”50 In these jobs they primarily worked to provide materials for the war and maintain the operations of the economy.

This growing magnitude of involvement, coupled with the fact that the male population was significantly reduced due to the violence,51 helped to cement women’s position in the work force.

By 1923, it was estimated that the male to female ratio was 88 to 100 between those aged fifteen to forty, and the rate of widowhood among adult females exceeded 30 percent in many provinces.52 As more and more lives were lost, Turkish society began to rely on women’s participation in the public sector to complete essential tasks. Ataturk later cited “these heroines” in preparing Turkish society for the emancipation of women.53 Despite accelerating women’s ability to work and participate in the public sector, war also had the effect of causing Turkish society to turn away from a closer examination of women’s issues and the need to address civil rights. To a greater extent, women themselves became less concerned with the immediate need for reform, as their focus shifted to the new roles provided by the wartime economy. The women who did continue to speak out during this

49

Merçil and Senemoğlu, “The Historical Grounds of the Turkish Women’s Movement,” 15.

Akgun, “Women’s Emancipation in Turkey,” 6.

51 Ibid., 5.

52 Findley, Turkey, Islam, Nationalism, and Modernity, 277.

53 Akgun, “Women’s Emancipation in Turkey,” 6.

50

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time were among the liberal elite class, and could afford to turn their attention to issues of civil concern as war ravaged the lives of most ordinary Turkish citizens.54 The women’s movement developed a class-biased dimension that silenced the voices of lower status women and denied the need for unified resistance. This reflected greater Turkish society and how a small group of elites had come to dominate the rural peasantry.55 Such an association demonstrates the nature of the movement’s synchronicity with national trends.

Although it was never fully implemented, the passage of the Family Act in 1917 offered hope as a first step toward greater gender equality grounded in legal precedent.56 The law placed restrictions on polygamous marriage, requiring the consent of the first wife.57 The bride was also required to be at least sixteen years of age, although the magistrate retained the power to make exceptions in certain cases.58 Thus, while polygamy remained legal and young girls were still not entirely protected under this act, the groundwork had been laid for more profound legal action concerning women’s rights. In step with global feminist movements of the time, in 1919 Turkish women used the issue of suffrage to re-launch the campaign for greater equality and demand the vote.59 Renewed interest in formal organization to rally for civil liberties was overshadowed, however, by the rise of the nationalist movement and the escalation of military action preceding the Turkish War of Independence. Although women’s issues would eventually become a part of national reform, their demands were ignored until the state deemed them worthy of further examination.

54

Atinbas, “Marriage and Divorce in the Late Ottoman Empire,” 115.

Simon Bromley, “The States-system in the Middle East: Origins, Development, and Prospects,” in A Companion to the History of the Middle East, ed. Youssef M. Choueiri (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing Ltd., 2005), 513.

56 Sirin Tekeli, “The Turkish Women’s Movement: A Brief History of Success,” Quaderns de la Mediterrània 1, no.

14 (January 2010): 120.

57 Aysegul C. Baykan, “The Turkish Woman: An Adventure in Feminist Historiography,” Gender and History 6, no.

1 (April 1994): 106.

58 Zurcher, Turkey: A Modern History, 126.

59 Tekeli, “The Turkish Women’s Movement,” 120.

55

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The Development of the Modern Turkish Woman Modernization in Turkey dates back as far as the eighteenth century, during the time of the Ottoman Empire, but it was after the foundation of the Turkish Republic in 1923 that the most important and consequential reforms began to take place in Turkey.60 Consequently, this led to a greater focus on women. With the declaration of the Republic, the status of women began to improve dramatically.61 Turkish society was more willing to accept major changes to women’s status after Ataturk proposed them because he was admired as a leader and his words carried authority among Turkey’s citizens.62 Ataturk’s beliefs about what was best for the nation came to represent the values of the new Republic.

The implementation of Westernized policies and the development of secular Turkish identity within the Republic shaped reform efforts, and women’s issues were included as a part of this new focus. One of the modernizing aspects highlighted by Ataturk, who led the development of the modern nation of Turkey, centered around shaping a new identity for Turkish women.63 The introduction of new civil rights, expanded educational opportunities, and increased possibilities of movement through public spaces contributed to shaping the modern role of women in Turkey.

In spite of women’s advancement being a major element of Kemalist ideology and the program of modernization in Turkey, Ataturk restricted the independent mobilization of women.64 The Turkish Women’s Association, which was involved in both domestic and international advocacy on behalf of Turkish women, was approved by the government in 1924,

60

Gupta, “Women’s Movement in Turkey Since 1980,” 115.

Akgun, “Women’s Emancipation in Turkey,” 5.

62 Ibid., 8.

63 Ibid., 5.

64 Keddie, Women in the Middle East, 83.

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but subsequently shut down in 1934.65 The reasoning behind this, according to leaders, was that “equality in all respects had been achieved by the Kemalist state.”66 Turkish women were therefore made bystanders of their own liberation. It was the state that decided what equality entailed, and they held the exclusive right to declare when sufficient progress had been made.

The decade in which the Turkish Women’s Association was permitted to operate primarily served to prove to the global community that, like their counterparts in the developed democratic nations of the West, women had the freedom to organize and advocate on their own behalf.

However, the role of women in demanding and fighting for their rights was limited by state control. The lack of women’s organizations following the “full equality claim” had the effect of silencing women, who were no longer allowed to challenge issues of gender equality.67 From then on the state held the exclusive power to speak on behalf of women.

The Civil Code introduced in 1926 was the most profound piece of legislation regarding women’s rights since the beginning of the organized struggle. Part of its significance lay in the fact that unlike previous attempts at legislative reform, it severed all links to Sharia law and traditional religious principles.68 It outlawed polygamy and gave women equal rights to divorce and child custody,69 greatly expanding women’s autonomy in family life. However, it should be noted that this law was not completely egalitarian in nature, as it also formally declared men head of the household.70 Thus, while a woman was empowered as a partner in marriage rather than a possession, she remained under the control of her husband according to traditional patriarchal norms. Religion had been eliminated as a legal factor in women’s status, but 65

Ibid., 94.

Gupta, “Women’s Movement in Turkey Since 1980,” 116.

67 Ibid.

68 Deniz Kandiyoti, “End of Empire: Islam, Nationalism and Women in Turkey,” in Women, Islam and the State, ed.

Deniz Kandiyoti (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 1991), 22.

69 Ibid., 22–23.

70 Keddie, Women in the Middle East, 83.

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entrenched gender roles continued to have a strong influence in society. Structures and practices that reinforced the patriarchal nature of Turkish society largely remained intact.71 In 1934, women in Turkey were granted the right to vote in national elections,72 and this was also the year in which they were formally allowed to become candidates for the national assembly.73 In the elections held in 1935, twenty-eight women were elected as deputies.74 For the first time, women could directly participate in state politics as both members of the constituency and the elected governing body. The idea of participation in politics through elected membership was a relatively new concept for both men and women, as previous parliamentary life in Turkey had been brief and dominated by an exclusive group.75 It was for this reason that women’s newfound participation was not seen as a threat; the majority of Turkish men had little prior experience in the realm of politics anyway, and permitting women to enter the field did not present a competitive challenge.76 The assurance of male power was a factor guiding state decisions concerning women; their advancement posed a threat to entrenched male authority.

Reform therefore had to be considered in the context of balancing the interests of both genders to maintain harmony within the state.

Following the establishment of the Turkish Republic, the legal gains made by women were granted by a government obsessed with fulfilling the vision of a westernized nation, and were not the result of sustained efforts by the Turkish women’s movement.77 This was in direct contrast with many Western nations of the time, where women had taken more comprehensive

71

Nora F. Onar and Hande Paker, “Towards Cosmopolitan Citizenship? Women's Rights in Divided Turkey,” Theory and Society 41, no. 4 (July 2012): 377.

72 Baykan, “The Turkish Woman,” 106.

73 Akgun, “Women’s Emancipation in Turkey,” 8.

74 Merçil and Senemoğlu, “The Historical Grounds of the Turkish Women’s Movement,” 15.

75 Akgun, “Women’s Emancipation in Turkey,” 8.

76 Ibid.

77 Kandiyoti, “Women and the Turkish State,” 126.

99

action to mobilize and organize demonstrations that forced the government to act on their behalf.

Although the women’s movement in Turkey had gained momentum during the Second Constitutional period, these efforts did not keep pace with the profound changes that the nation experienced following the founding of the Republic. Women’s issues became tied to larger societal reform and were viewed as part of a package of issues that the needed to be addressed to effectively modernize; indeed, the sole aim of the new laws that advantaged women was to further the processes of modernization and westernization within the nation.78 The passage of a few major pieces of legislation was also underscored by many other policy reforms related to women’s rights that were simply formalities, and served to advance women’s status in name only.79 Most of these were distinctively class-biased, and what little effect they did have benefitted only the urban bourgeoisie while ignoring rural areas.80 This was once again a reflection of larger Turkish society and the emphasis that was placed on the development of urban centers at the expense of the lower-class agricultural citizenry. The changes made to gender laws were thus often entirely ignored by those living in the rural interior.81 Traditional practices continued in these areas out of sight of Turkish officials, who were uninclined to expend the energy necessary to force these communities to adhere to the new laws.

The promotion of women’s issues also directly benefitted Ataturk and provided support for his position in the new government. The timing of the legislation that addressed women’s suffrage, for example, was a direct attempt by Ataturk to dissociate his leadership from European dictators of the time, notably those of Germany and Italy.82 By proving that he supported the

78

Gündüz, “The Women’s Movement in Turkey,” 116.

Kandiyoti, “Women and the Turkish State,” 126.

80 Ibid.

81 Keddie, Women in the Middle East, 83.

82 Kandiyoti, “Women and the Turkish State,” 127.

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same kinds of democratic initiatives that were being addressed in the West (women gained the vote in Britain in 1918 and in the United States in 1919), Turkey could claim its “rightful place among Western democratic nations.”83 The vote therefore had primarily symbolic significance, and this fact was further reinforced by evidence that having this right did not ultimately lead to greater politicization among women.84 Ataturk did not want to wait out the phases of adjustment to catch up to the level of development already achieved by Western nations, and reform was addressed with a distinct haste that did not provide society the time to “feel the need for it, seek it, fight for it.”85 While the speedy passage of new laws reduced the ability of the opposition to voice concerns and have an impact on decisions, it also meant that issues such as women’s rights were thrust upon society very suddenly and were not given time to be accepted as precedent. The Turkish woman’s position underwent rapid change, and many were not ready to see women in this new, liberated role. This was particularly true of those who wanted to maintain a society based on traditional Islamic principles, which were challenged by the expanded role of women. New rights therefore transformed not only the role of the woman, but the role of religion in society.

Secularization and The Role of Women One of the hallmarks of Kemalist ideology promoted by Ataturk was the secularization of the Turkish Republic. The position of women in Turkey has been heavily influenced by Islam and Sharia law throughout history. While secularization impacted the whole of Turkish society, it had a distinctly important impact on women’s advancement. In 1924, Ataturk abolished the Caliphate and brought education under state authority, and the elimination of religious courts

83

Ibid.

Gündüz, “The Women’s Movement in Turkey,” 116.

85 Akgun, “Women’s Emancipation in Turkey,” 9.

84

101

soon followed.86 What followed was a society that was lawfully free from adherence to traditional Islamic practices, and in the sphere of women this pertained to issues such as family life, veiling, physical movement, work, and education, which were all previously controlled to a degree by religious authority. Turkey effectively ended the power of the religious community to actively oppose women’s rights,87 which reinforced the state program of secularization.

Although women had been freed from restrictive practices dictated by Sharia law, secularization essentially transferred control of women from the religious body to the state. Women had not gained this new sense of independence by means of active resistance; the state had instead granted independence from religious doctrine in accordance with state goals.

The secularization of schools, which followed Ataturk’s larger policy of secular reform, reinforced the need to alter the system of educating Turkish girls. The termination of the medrese, the traditional system of religious education, facilitated the expansion of modern subjects and skills. It was believed that if women had schooling in these subjects, particularly the sciences, it would result in the advancement of the next generation raised by them.88 Desperate to align itself in the new world order, ensuring the next generation of worldly and knowledgeable Turks was valuable to the state. This created a dynamic in which men became more dependent on women, who provided initial training and education for young Turkish boys.89 A new sense of importance had been applied to the role of the woman as she gained responsibility in passing on learned knowledge. Ataturk publicly stated that a Turkish woman’s duty was to raise “generations . . . capable of preserving and protecting the Turk with his mentality, strength and

86

Kandiyoti, “End of Empire,” 22.

Keddie, Women in the Middle East, 95.

88 Akgun, “Women’s Emancipation in Turkey,” 3.

89 Ibid., 4.

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determination.”90 Despite this step forward, a woman’s livelihood continued to be tied to the responsibility of raising children. This only served to reinforce entrenched gender norms within the nation. Women’s advancement was often a double-edged sword, and improvement in status frequently coincided with a reinforcement of factors that limited this progress.

Conclusion Part of state development, particularly after 1923, centered on the construction of the “ideal Turkish woman” 91 through reform efforts aimed at expanding civil liberties, presence in the public sphere, and educational opportunities. Women’s reform became a major ambition of leaders to keep pace with the democratic nations of the West and build the modern Turkish Republic. Limits placed on women’s independent mobilization caused the program of their advancement to come under the absolute authority of the state in pursuing the goals of modernization, and it was thus in the context of creating a new image for the nation that women were granted rights and a heightened sense of equality. The Turkish Republic became defined as a “feminist” state; it was male-dominated, and the state determined women’s advancement as a part of national policy.92 The intention of reform efforts was to mold the image of the optimal Turkish woman,93 and the state monopoly over this process allowed leaders to dictate uniform patterns of behavior and adherence to a national standard. She came to represent the “modern, secular, westernized state.”94 While this led to a new degree of power and emancipation, it prevented women from moving forward with a collective agenda and limited progress to the select group who were able to avoid the constraints of rural life and actively seek education,

90

Gupta, “Women’s Movement in Turkey Since 1980,” 115.

Merçil and Senemoğlu, “The Historical Grounds of the Turkish Women’s Movement,” 18.

92 Jenny B. White, “State Feminism, Modernization, and the Turkish Republican Woman,” NWSA Journal 15, no. 3 (Autumn 2003): 145.

93 Ibid.

94 Ibid., 145–46.

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work, and participation in public settings. Ultimately, the nominal advancement of Turkish women during the beginning of the twentieth century resulted in the lack of an autonomous women’s movement. Women did not effectively sustain mobilization efforts and were incapable of advocacy strong enough to sway those in power. Emancipation is most profound when it emerges from grassroots mobilization, and the rights handed to Turkish women prevented such a force from growing and providing women with the opportunity to fight for equality. Turkish women lacked a true advocate as their advancement was determined based on national interests and they themselves had failed to catalyze a movement. Only when the Turkish woman’s identity is separate from the prescribed role of the state will she find herself on an authentic path of liberation.

Works Cited Abadan-Unat, Nermin. “Social Change and Turkish Women.” In Women in Turkish Society, edited by Nermin Abadan-Unat, 5–36. Leiden: E J Brill, 1981.

Akgun, Secil. “Women’s Emancipation in Turkey.” Turkish Studies Association Bulletin 10, no.

1 (March 1986): 1–10.

Atinbas, Nihan. “Marriage and Divorce in the Late Ottoman Empire: Social Upheaval, Women’s Rights, and the Need for New Family Law.” Journal of Family History 39, no. 2 (2014): 114–25.

Baykan, Aysegul C. “The Turkish Woman: An Adventure in Feminist Historiography.” Gender and History 6, no. 1 (April 1994): 101–16.

Bromley, Simon. “The States-system in the Middle East: Origins, Development, and Prospects.”

In A Companion to the History of the Middle East, edited by Youssef M. Choueiri, 504– 32. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing Ltd., 2005.

Findley, Carter V. Turkey, Islam, Nationalism, and Modernity. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010.

Gündüz, Zuhal Y. “The Women’s Movement in Turkey: From Tanzimat Towards European Union Membership.” Perceptions: Journal of International Affairs 9, no. 3 (Autumn 2004): 115–34.

Gupta, Khushbu. “Women’s Movement in Turkey Since 1980: Achievements and Limitations.”

International Journal of Applied Social Science 2, nos. 3 & 4 (March–April 2015): 113– 21.

Kandiyoti, Deniz. “End of Empire: Islam, Nationalism and Women in Turkey.” In Women, Islam and the State, edited by Deniz Kandiyoti, 22–47. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 1991.

104

_____. “Women and the Turkish State: Political Actors or Symbolic Pawns.” In Woman-NationState, edited by Nira Yuval-Davis, Floya Anthias, and Jo Campling, 126–49. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 1989.

Keddie, Nikki R. Women in the Middle East: Past and Present. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007.

Merçil, Ipek, and Osman Senemoğlu. “The Historical Grounds of the Turkish Women’s Movement.” Human and Social Studies 3, no. 1 (2014): 13–27.

Onar, Nora F., and Hande Paker. “Towards Cosmopolitan Citizenship? Women's Rights in Divided Turkey.” Theory and Society 41, no. 4 (July 2012): 375–94.

Tekeli, Sirin. “The Turkish Women’s Movement: A Brief History of Success.” Quaderns de la Mediterrània 1, no. 14 (January 2010): 119–23.

White, Jenny B. “State Feminism, Modernization, and the Turkish Republican Woman.” NWSA Journal 15, no. 3 (Autumn 2003): 145–59.

Zurcher, Erik J. Turkey: A Modern History. London: I. B. Tauris & Co, 1993.

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The Influence of Citizens United v. FEC on the Conception of American Corruption

Kayleigh Kuyon

Abstract The decision handed down in Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission prompted a flurry of action by every level of government to address the decision’s new definition of corruption and acceptable anticorruption policies. Academia traditionally focuses on the nature and effects of Citizens United or the limits of new campaign finance policies. Little research has been conducted on the government’s reaction to this decision and its struggle to defend or reconcile previous conceptions of corruption. This paper seeks to address this topic. Through case studies of both federal and state responses, this paper finds that all levels of government ultimately reconciled their previous definitions of corruption with the one presented in Citizens United, primarily due to the structure of America’s federalist system of government.

Introduction On January 21, 2010 the United States Supreme Court released a decision that would change the face of campaign finance, and corruption, in America. In Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission (henceforth Citizens United), Justice Kennedy authored the landmark opinion declaring that the federal government’s interest in preventing corruption in campaign finance was not sufficiently compelling, and only extended as far as preventing explicit quid pro quo arrangements.1 Crucially, the Court found that independent expenditures “do not lead to, or create the appearance of, quid pro quo corruption,” effectively overturning previous conceptions of campaign finance corruption, particularly those found in the Bipartisan Campaign Reform Act (BCRA) and previous legal precedent.2 The decision changed the legal definition of corruption overnight, excluding other types of corruption that were historically prohibited.

1 2

Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission, 558 U.S. 310, 41 & 43 (2010).

Ibid., 45.

106

Previously, the most influential definition of political corruption was found in another Supreme Court case, Buckley v. Valeo (1976), which the Citizens United decision explicitly overturned. Buckley was the first major case dealing with the issue of corruption in campaign finance and specifically recognized the potential link between campaign contributions and corruption.3 In the opinion, the Court held that “large independent expenditures pose the same dangers of actual or apparent quid pro quo arrangements as do large contributions.”4 The Court further contended that “contribution ceilings [are] a necessary legislative concomitant to deal with the reality or appearance of corruption inherent in a system permitting unlimited financial contributions, even when the identities of the contributors and the amounts of their contributions are fully disclosed.”5 In Buckley, the Court clearly upheld as correct and necessary measures to combat corruption in the American political system, the very stipulations that Citizens United overturned. However, the Supreme Court has long struggled with defining political corruption, especially in regard to campaign finance, and less than twenty years later a new conception of corruption emerged.

In Austin v. Michigan Chamber of Commerce (1990), the Court took a more abstract view of political corruption, ruling that corporations pose a unique threat to democracy in that they possess an outsized influence in election outcomes and have a minimal connection to the actual desires of the public.6 In this case, corruption was not defined as a quid pro quo arrangement or similar dangers, but rather as a “distortion of political outcomes as the result of the undue influence of wealth.”7 Essentially, financial actions that could take away the influence of the general public in elections could be considered corruption, if laws prohibiting these actions were sufficiently compelling and narrowly tailored.

It was in this environment that the BCRA was born with the aim of cleaning up campaign finance by limiting the use of “soft money” in campaigning and increasing transparency. While the word “corruption” was not included in the legislation, it had the clear intention of reforming campaign finance

3

Samuel Issacharoff, “On Political Corruption,” Harvard Law Review 124, no. 1 (November 2010): 121.

Buckley v. Valeo, 424 U.S. 1, 45 (1976).

5 Buckley v. Valeo, 424 U.S. 1, 28 (1976).

6 Austin v. Michigan, 494 U.S. 652 (1990).

7 Issacharoff, “On Political Corruption,” 122.

4

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and reducing the influence of special interests—essentially acting as an anti-corruption measure. In McConnell v. Federal Election Commission (2003), the Court once again affirmed the opinion in Austin and that the majority of the BCRA’s practices are acceptable safeguards against the corruption resulting from the distorting influence of money in politics.8 In addition to previous Supreme Court cases, federal laws also offered their own definitions of corruption. In particular, 18 U.S.C. §201 defines bribery as a criminal offense when a person or entity: directly or indirectly, corruptly gives, offers or promises anything of value to any public official or person who has been selected to be a public official . . . with intent . . . to influence any official act . . . [or when] a public official or person selected to be a public official, directly or indirectly, corruptly demands, seeks, receives, accepts, or agrees to receive or accept anything of value personally or for any other person or entity, in return for . . . being influenced in the performance of any official act.9

Importantly, this statute does not require explicit proof of a quid pro quo arrangement and additionally criminalizes bribes given indirectly to a candidate.10 Under this definition of corruption, individual expenditures and contributions to campaigns could qualify as a form of bribery and be criminally charged as corruption. Such instances were not uncommon, evidenced

by United States v. Brewster, United States v. Head, United States v. Myers, and United States v.

Tomblin.11 It is within this political landscape that the Supreme Court decided Citizens United and starkly broke away from the past conceptions of political corruption in the United States. Instead of viewing campaign contributions by wealthy persons or entities as a potentially corrupting influence on the political system, Citizens United emphasized and privileged the First Amendment free speech concerns inherent in limiting contributions. The “chilling effect” caused

8

McConnell v. Federal Election Commission, 540 U.S. 93, 99 (2003).

18 U.S.C. §201 (b), www.law.cornell.edu/uscode/text/18/201.

10 Ofer Raban, “Constitutionalizing Corruption: Citizens United, its Conceptions of Political Corruption, and the Implications for Judicial Elections Campaigns,” University of San Francisco Law Review 46, no. 2 (Fall 2011): 369– 70.

11 Ibid., 372.

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by limits on independent expenditures was too great a constitutional cost, and the “ingratiation and access” to candidates and politicians afforded by such expenditures were not determined to be clear markers of corruption.12 As Justice Kennedy wrote, “The fact that speakers may have influence over or access to elected officials does not mean that these officials are corrupt,” a fact that previous conceptions of corruption would conflict with.13 Critically, as the Supreme Court has ruled that corporations do have a constitutional right to free speech, the concern that their funding has “little or no correlation to the public’s support for the corporation’s political ideas,” was deemed irrelevant in light of the First Amendment.14 From January 2010 onwards, the United States government could not attempt to prevent political corruption by limiting “political speech based on the speaker’s corporate identity,” marking a fundamental change from previous American conceptions of corruption.15

Literature Review The primary concern among academics and legal scholars following Citizens United was whether America was witnessing the constitutionalization of political corruption, and what this decision would mean for future campaign finance and corruption related issues. For this reason, the majority of academic scholarship relating to Citizens United focuses on these dual concerns.

In his paper summarizing the apprehension about constitutional corruption, Raban details how the Citizens United decision exempts political corruption from punishment and serves to weaken American democracy. In particular, his argument highlights that the decision allows for practices that are traditionally viewed as corrupt, namely lending “financial support with the expectation

12

Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission, 558 U.S. 310, 45 (2010).

Ibid., 43.

14 Ibid., 5.

15 Ibid., 6.

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that the candidate will respond by producing the political outcomes [the donor] desires.”16 Raban argues that there is little distinction between the now permissible action described above and a quid pro quo arrangement; consequently, quid pro quo relationships are effectively permissible and it will be exceedingly difficult to establish new political corruption cases following the Citizens United ruling.17 The Supreme Court not only legalized political corruption, but constitutionalized it.18 In addition to scholarship on the constitutionalization of political corruption, other academics have debated the effect Citizens United would have on future campaign finance and corruption issues. Michael Kang dedicated a portion of his article “After Citizens United” to a discussion of how this decision will affect future cases and various aspects of campaign finance.19 Importantly, he remarks that “Justice Kennedy's view of corruption may limit campaign finance restrictions to not much beyond the regulation of contributions to candidates and officeholders.”20 If this statement is true, it marks a significant change in American campaign finance and corruption policies. Narrowing the definition to only explicit quid pro quo arrangements leaves countless other avenues of corruption (abuse of entrusted power, legal corruption) permissible and legally unregulated, effectively hampering any future attempts to control political corruption through campaign finance.21 For instance, if a quid pro quo arrangement is truly the only clearly corrupt act, in the future governments might not have a compelling interest strong enough to “regulat[e] contributions to political parties, political action committees, and interest groups when those funds are used only for independent expenditures.”22 16

Ofer Raban, “Constitutionalizing Corruption,” 374.

Ibid.

18 Ibid., 382.

19 Michael Kang, “After Citizens United,” Indiana Law Review 44 (2010).

20 Ibid., 250.

21 See Dan Hough, Analyzing Corruption (Newcastle-upon-Tyne, UK: Agenda Publishing, 2017), 7.

22 Kang, “After Citizens United,” 250.

17

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Without this regulation, corruption is essentially legalized and there would be no way to effectively monitor abuses of power.

However, Justin Levitt presents an alternative view of the true impact of Citizens United.

While the language of the decision sounds momentous and grandiose, in reality it does not require the sweeping changes to campaign finance and corruption policies that many believe.23 For example, Levitt argues that the decision does not prohibit regulating the most egregious and obvious forms political corruption can take, like “suitcases of cash delivered to candidates or their representatives.”24 Limits can still be placed on these types of expenditures. Furthermore, disclosure requirements were not touched by Citizens United and “appear to be even more secure,” leaving the door open for future regulation policies.25 However, the vast majority of academic scholarship on Citizens United overlooks the practical concerns the decision caused for the American government, on both the federal and state levels. Citizens United explicitly overturned key aspects of the BCRA as well as countless state laws regarding campaign finance and corruption, making them all unenforceable. The decision fundamentally challenged previous definitions of corruption, leaving the federal and state governments to adapt to a new political environment. Furthermore, the majority of the American population appeared to disapprove of the Supreme Court’s decision and preferred stronger limits on campaign finance, prompting public reactions from elected officials.26 There

23

Justin Levitt, “Confronting the Impact of Citizens United,” Yale Law and Policy Review 29 (2010): 220.

Ibid., 221.

25 Ibid.

26 See “Super PACs Having Negative Impact, Say Voters Aware of Citizens United Ruling,” Pew Research Center, January 17, 2012, www.people-press.org/2012/01/17/super-pacs-having-negative-impact-say-voters-aware-ofcitizens-united-ruling/; Lydia Saad, “Public Agrees With Court: Campaign Money is ‘Free Speech’,” Gallup Inc., January 22, 2010, https://news.gallup.com/poll/125333/Public-Agrees-Court-Campaign-Money-Free-Speech.aspx; Saad, “Half in U.S. Support Publicly Financed Federal Campaigns,” Gallup Inc., June 24, 2013, https://news.gallup.com/poll/163208/half-support-publicly-financed-federal-campaigns.aspx.

24

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has been little discussion about government responses to Citizens United and the role of public perception in those responses. This is despite the fact that countless academics have shown that public opinion can inspire legislative reactions to different issues. In Van Horn, Baumer, and Gormley’s explanation of politics and public policy, the authors find that “public policies may be changed quickly when large segments of the public rally to support or oppose issues of high salience.”27 As over half of the American population generally disagreed with the Supreme Court’s ruling, this issue can be understood as at least a moderately salient issue.28 Furthermore, when the scope of the political conflict is sufficiently broad, as campaign finance and highly publicized Supreme Court decisions can be, public opinion generally emerges as the driver of policy considerations.29 A study by David Mayhew provides an explanation of this phenomenon in terms of survival instincts on the part of elected representatives—if disagreeing with constituents would jeopardize the representative’s reelection prospects, he or she would support policies aligning with their constituents’ beliefs.30 If disagreeing with the constituents would not affect his or her reelection chances, the representative will not feel obligated to follow public opinion.31 Further empirical studies have shown that, while public policies decisions do not always align with public opinion, there is consistency between the two. For example, a study analyzing policy outcomes from 1980 to 1999 found that these decisions were consistent with public opinion approximately 55% of the times.32 A similar study released in 2014 found comparable

27

Carl E. Van Horn, Donald C. Baumer, and William T. Gromley Jr., Politics and Public Policy (Washington, DC: Congressional Quarterly, Inc., 2001), 251.

28 See footnote 24 of this document.

29 Van Horn, Baumer, and Gromley, Politics and Public Policy, 19.

30 Cited in W. Lance Bennett, Public Opinion in American Politics (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., 1980), 350.

31 Ibid.

32 Cited in Barbara A. Bardes and Robert W. Oldendick, Public Opinion: Measuring the American Mind (London: Rowman & Littlefield, 2017), 10.

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results.33 While public opinion does not always determine public policy decisions, it is a not insignificant factor in some cases, especially if the issue is particularly salient. As the Supreme Court’s decision in Citizens United was a politically salient and influential issue for both the public and the government, it is critical to analyze policy responses following the decision to determine the impact Citizens United had on political corruption-related issues in America. This paper will therefore begin to discuss governmental responses to Citizens United’s conception of corruption, as well as address the resulting interactions between the public, state governments, and the federal government writ large. Such interactions reveal much about the current conceptions of political corruption in the United States and the effect this process had on the relationships between various aspects of government.

Research Question and Methodology In order to properly address this topic, I will seek to answer the question: How did the Supreme Court’s decision in Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission affect legal conceptions of corruption on the federal and state levels? How did the United States’ federalist system influence these conceptions? My hypothesis is that the Supreme Court’s decision in Citizens United v. FEC resulted in a shift in the definition of corruption at all levels of government. While some state governments attempted to retain their past conceptions, the American federalist system ultimately ensured compliance to Citizens United’s definition due to the Supreme Court’s role as the final arbiter of the Constitution and their power of judicial review. To address my research questions, I will divide my paper into two overarching sections: the federal reaction to Citizens United and state reactions. My discussion of corruption will

33

Paul Burstein, American Public Opinion, Advocacy, and Policy in Congress: What the Public Wants and What it Gets (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 59.

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primarily focus on law-oriented corruption, or corruption that is defined within a given government’s legal framework.34 The discussion of federal reactions will consist of a general survey of bills proposed in Congress after the Citizens United decision and a case study of the Democracy is Strengthened

by Casting Light on Spending (DISCLOSE) Act. The survey will analyze the thematic topics and main goals of the proposed bills. However, there are some limitations to this survey, as I will only compile proposed bills from the 111th Congress, which was in session when Citizens United was decided. Furthermore, the survey will not, and is not meant to, be exhaustive. The majority of the proposed bills included in the survey come from Congressional Research Service documents that highlight relevant Congressional responses to Citizens United.35 The purpose of this survey is not to completely catalog all possible bills relating to Citizens United; rather, it is to highlight early Congressional reactions to the decision and analyze the content of bills written specifically to respond to it. This analysis will allow me to group the bills into general categories to discover what topics Congress viewed as critical to the corruption debate following the Citizens United decision.

As Congress has yet to pass legislation relating to the definition of corruption found in Citizens United or any of its effects, I will then examine the DISCLOSE Act, which was the most visible of the proposed bills and the most successful as it passed in the House of Representatives. By analyzing the DISCLOSE Act, I aim to discover how the House of Representatives chose to respond to Citizens United and shed light on its conception of political

34

Dan Hough, Analyzing Corruption, 7.

U.S Library of Congress, Congressional Research Service, Campaign Finance Policy After Citizens United v.

Federal Election Commission: Issues and Options for Congress, by R. Sam Garrett, R41054 (February 1, 2010); U.S Library of Congress, Congressional Research Service, The State of Campaign Finance Policy: Recent Developments and Issues for Congress, by R. Sam Garrett, R41542 (July 18, 2011).

35

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corruption in the wake of the Supreme Court’s decision. This analysis will primarily consist of examining various documents, ranging from committee reports to the actual text of the proposed bill.

The section on state reactions to Citizens United will be comprised of three case studies on the following states: Montana, North Carolina, and Oklahoma. These were chosen from a group of twenty-four states whose laws were affected by the Citizens United decision.36 Montana had the most visible and confrontational reaction to Citizens United’s new definition of corruption and the stipulations that came with it, resulting in a lawsuit argued in front of the Supreme Court. I selected Montana for an in-depth case study for this reason, as I will analyze how the state struggled against the new conception of corruption and how it eventually came to define corruption in its state. However, the more typical state reaction to statutes that conflicted with Citizens United was to repeal them in their next legislative session. Of the twenty-four states facing compliance issues after the decision, ten opted to repeal sections of their state statutes.37 For this reason I will also study North Carolina, as their House of Representatives quickly introduced a bill that repealed any aspects of their state statutes that did not comply with the Citizens United ruling.38 I will end with a case study on Oklahoma, as it displayed the quieter reaction states had to Citizens United—bringing state rules into compliance with the Supreme Court’s decision, but neglecting to repeal any problematic aspects of statutes. In Oklahoma, and nine other states, statutes conflicting with Citizens United are still technically on the books, although they cannot be enforced.39 The above case studies will offer a comprehensive analysis

36 “Citizens United and the States,” National Conference of State Legislatures, last modified July 21, 2016, www.ncsl.org/research/elections-and-campaigns/citizens-united-and-the-states.aspx.

37 Ibid.

38 General Assembly of North Carolina, Session Law 2010-170, House Bill 748 (2010).

39 “Citizens United and the States.”

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of state reactions to Citizens United and display how each type of case redefined corruption in light of the decision. In order to conduct these case studies, I will evaluate (when applicable) court records, state statutes, proposed bills, and commission reports.

Federal Responses to Citizens United In the wake of the Citizens United ruling, several high-ranking members of Congress shared their thoughts about the decision, revealing a stark division on party lines. Republicans were generally supportive of the Supreme Court’s decision. Senator John Cornyn remarked, “I am pleased that the Supreme Court has acted to protect the Constitution’s First Amendment rights of free speech and association. . . . This is an encouraging step.”40 Senator Mitch McConnell went a step further, commenting that the ruling “restor[ed] the First Amendment rights of these groups.”41 However, Senator John McCain did break with the Republican party, as he was reportedly disappointed with the results, particularly because of his large role in previous campaign finance reform efforts.42 Democrats were generally more combative toward the court’s decision, with Rep. Alan Grayson saying, “This is the worst Supreme Court decision since the Dred Scott case.”43 Democrats’ disapproval of the ruling would eventually turn to legislative responses to attempt to mitigate the effects of Citizens United.

Proposed Bills In order to truly analyze congressional responses to Citizens United and its conception of corruption, I will examine a group of bills proposed during the 111th Congress. Since Congress

40 Quoted in “Pols Weigh in on Citizens United Decision,” Politico, January 21, 2010, www.politico.com/story/2010/01/pols-weigh-in-on-citizens-united-decision-031798.

41 Ibid.

42 Ibid.

43 Quoted in “Pols Weigh in on Citizens United Decision.”

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has not yet passed legislation regarding campaign finance, proposed bills offer the best method to analyze how congress members are attempting to address and respond to the decision. While the ideas in the bills do not represent the majority of Congress members’ views, they present an opportunity to examine initial reactions to the decision, and particularly the views of those who disagreed with the ruling. My survey of proposed bills comprises twenty-two in total: fourteen from the House of Representatives, five from the Senate, two House Joint Resolutions, and one Senate Joint Resolution.44 These proposed bills were included in a Congressional Research Service document outlining potential responses to Citizens United as examples of current legislative action.45 The proposed bills included in this survey are not meant to be exhaustive and instead function as a sampling of reactions to the Citizens United decision. The main goal of the survey is to analyze the goal or focus of the proposed legislation to better understand how Congress members framed conversations about corruption and reform in light of Citizens United.

Therefore, I created six main categories for the bill’s goals, based on an analysis of the common themes of the bills: contribution limits; expenditure limits; contribution and expenditure limits; oversight and accountability; disclosure; and funding sources.

Results. After examining the content of each of the twenty-two proposed bills, I determined that the most common goal for this group was contribution and expenditure limits, with eight proposed bills recommending this course of action. In addition, four other proposed bills recommended either expenditure limits or contribution limits. The next most common focus was creating additional opportunities for oversight and accountability, primarily by involving

44

H.J. Res. 68, H.J. Res. 74, H.R. 4487, H.R. 4510, H.R. 4511, H.R. 4517, H.R. 4522, H.R. 4523, H.R. 4527, H.R. 4537, H.R. 4540, H.R. 4550, H.R. 4583, H.R. 4630, H.R. 4644, H.R. 5175, S. 752, S. 2954, S. 2959, S. 3004, S. 3295, and S.J. Res. 28.

45 U.S. Library of Congress, Congressional Research Service, The DISCLOSE Act: Overview and Analysis, by L. Paige Walker, Erika K. Lunder, Kate M. Manuel, Jake Maskell, and Michael V. Seitzinger, R41264 (March 8, 2010).

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company shareholders in the decision to give funds to political causes and filing with the Federal Election Commission. Figure 1 displays the results of my analysis.

Figure 1

I additionally examined where the proposed bills originated and who sponsored them. Of the twenty-two proposed bills included in my survey, the vast majority came from the House of Representatives, with only six proposed in the Senate. Of those six, four were the Senate counterparts of bills also proposed in the House of Representatives. All of the bills were sponsored by Democrats representing twelve different states, with seven states ultimately sponsoring approximately 80 percent of the bills. Interestingly, only one individual, Rep. Alan Grayson (D-FL), sponsored more than one bill. (He sponsored three in total: H.R. 4487, H.R. 4511, and H.R. 4510.) Therefore, six states—Connecticut, Maryland, Massachusetts, New Jersey, New York, and Ohio—had multiple representatives propose legislation in reaction to Citizens United (see fig. 2).

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Figure 2

Analysis. It is important to note that only three of the proposed bills sought to directly challenge Citizens United: House Joint Resolution 68, House Joint Resolution 74, and Senate Joint Resolution 28. These bills were proposed constitutional amendments to reverse the Supreme Court’s ruling that the government could not regulate independent expenditures. While the focus of the three proposed amendments differed slightly, their main result would have been that the government could set expenditure limits or restrict certain groups from using funds for independent expenditures, like prohibiting corporations from using their operating or general treasury funds.46 These three proposed amendments represent direct challenges to Citizens United and its conception of corruption, as they rejected the Court’s main contention and implicitly support a more expansive definition of corruption. While Citizens United held that corruption could only be defined as a quid pro quo arrangement, these three proposed

46

U.S. Congress, House, H.J. Res. 68, 111th Cong., introduced in House January 21, 2010, www.congress.gov/bill/111th-congress/house-joint-resolution/68/text.

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amendments recognized the potential for corruption in the giving of independent expenditures, something the Supreme Court denied.47 Even though the bills do not directly mention corruption, their goal of regulating and controlling expenditures is evidence that the sponsors were concerned about the outsized influence corporations and wealthy individuals could have on American democracy—a competing conception of corruption tracing back to Austin v.

Michigan.48 However, the majority of the proposed bills do not seek to challenge the decision in Citizens United and instead attempt to limit or mitigate the effects of the decision. For example, the most common focus, contribution and expenditure limits, was not aimed at reversing the decision, but rather mitigating the potential effects of removing expenditure limits. While the Supreme Court prevented the government from regulating independent expenditures of U.S. citizens, many of the proposed bills focusing on contribution and expenditure limits or just expenditure limits sought to limit the expenditures of foreign nationals and/or foreign corporations. By regulating expenditures by foreign nationals and corporations, Congress could ensure that individuals and entities outside of the United States would not have an impact on American elections. Proposed bills focusing on either expenditure limits or contribution limits had similar impacts, but typically addressed entities other than foreign nationals or corporations.

For example, H.R. 4511 proposed to prevent “corporations from making any expenditure . . . if they employ or retain a registered lobbyist under the Lobbying Disclosure Act of 1995.�49 These proposed bills typically focused on addressing potential conflicts of interest that could be exploited by corporations, like corporations giving funds for electioneering purposes while

47

Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission, 558 U.S. 310, 45 (2010).

Austin v. Michigan, 494 U.S. 652 (1990).

49 U.S. Congress, House, Pick Your Poison Act of 2010, H.R. 4511, 111th Cong., introduced in House January 26, 2010, www.congress.gov/bill/111th-congress/house-bill/4511.

48

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retaining lobbyists (H.R. 4511) or receiving federal funds (H.R. 4550). The other proposed bills largely dealt with increasing transparency and accountability. Perhaps the most comprehensive example of this group of proposed bills is the Democracy is Strengthened by Casting Light on Spending in Elections Act, or the DISCLOSE Act. Among other things, this bill proposed to limit contributions from certain entities, requiring filing with the Federal Election Commission, and increase disclosure requirements.50 In total, nine of the twenty-two proposed bills fell into this general category, proposing either increased oversight and accountability or additional disclosures. The last goal included in my survey was funding sources, in this case changing the source of election funding. S. 752 was the only proposed bill to fall into this category, and it aimed to strengthen incentives for Congress member to use voluntary public financing programs for their election campaigns.51 Discussion. It is critical to note that, unlike the proposed constitutional amendments, the other proposed bills did not attempt to challenge the Supreme Court’s decision or its conception of corruption. Instead, most of these bills attempted to work within the new definition of corruption, while mitigating the potential for corruption in ways that did not directly conflict with the ruling. None of the proposed bills included in the survey attempted to expand the definition of corruption or challenge the Supreme Court by regulating the independent expenditures of American citizens. However, the proposed bills did target independent expenditures and contributions of foreign nationals and corporations, and the bills concerned with oversight/accountability and disclosure attempted to make it more difficult for corporations

50

U.S. Congress, House, Democracy is Strengthened by Casting Light on Spending in Elections (DISCLOSE) Act, H.R. 5175, 111th Cong., introduced in House April 29, 2010, www.congress.gov/bill/111th-congress/housebill/5175.

51 U.S. Congress, Senate, Fair Elections Now Act, S. 752, 111th Cong., introduced in Senate March 31, 2010, www.congress.gov/bill/111th-congress/senate-bill/752.

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to make expenditures. It is likely that Congress did not propose bills (other than the constitutional amendments) because members understood that the Supreme Court had already determined that their conception of corruption in campaign finance and appropriate anticorruption measures was explicitly overruled. After all, it was key sections of Congress’s BCRA that Citizens United challenged and the Supreme Court clearly rejected. Therefore, Congress members knew that if they wanted to challenge the Court on its conception of corruption, they would need to go outside the Supreme Court and change the Constitution directly, as the Justices already established how the Constitution should be read in regard to campaign finance.

Proposing a bill in direct conflict with Citizen United would likely end up challenged and immediately struck down, as the Supreme Court already decided the matter. In this way, the American federalist system ensures that the legislature complies to the rulings of the Supreme Court. While the federalist system also offers an avenue to override the Supreme Court by adding a constitutional amendment, there was not enough support in Congress to pass such a measure.

Generally, Congress tacitly accepted the Supreme Court’s new definition of corruption as it did not seek to challenge the Court, barring the 3 failed constitutional amendments. Rather, Congress proposed bills aimed at limiting opportunities for corruption, such as requiring additional transparency measures or limiting funding amounts. The Citizens United conception of political corruption effectively became the new definition of corruption for the federal government.

Case Study: DISCLOSE Act While Congress has not passed any legislation regarding campaign finance since the Citizens United decision, the House of Representatives did pass the Democracy is Strengthened

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by Casting Light on Spending (DISCLOSE) Act. Since it is the most successful and visible congressional responses to Citizens United, it is worth studying more closely. The DISCLOSE Act was first introduced by Rep. Chris Van Hollen (D- MD) about two months after the Supreme Court’s ruling.52 As its name implies, the main goal of the bill was to increase transparency and accountability in campaign finance. It is a comprehensive bill, covering issues from limiting contributions from certain entities to increasing disclosure requirements.53 While this paper’s goal is not to analyze every aspect of the DISCLOSE Act, its main sections focus on regulating certain types of political spending used for contributions and independent expenditures; increasing disclosure requirements for individuals and corporations; and requiring that organizations disclose information to stakeholders.54 Crucially, like the other proposed bills, the DISCLOSE Act did not seek to challenge Citizen United; rather, the DISCLOSE Act recommended traditional, national approaches to address potential corruption (increasing transparency and accountability) that the Court did not prohibit.55 Therefore, the DISCLOSE Act functions within the Supreme Court’s new framework for corruption.

As mentioned previously, the DISCLOSE Act was introduced in the House of Representatives about two months after the Citizens United decision. Approximately two months after its introduction, it was presented for general debate.56 During the debate, five amendments were offered, four of which were eventually added to the DISCLOSE Act. Overall, the four amendments sought to increase transparency and prevent conflicts of interest and foreign

52

Democracy is Strengthened by Casting Light on Spending in Elections (DISCLOSE) Act, H.R. 5175.

Ibid.

54 Ibid.

55 Hough, Analyzing Corruption, 132.

56 “All Actions H.R. 5157,” Congress, www.congress.gov/bill/111th-congress/house-bill/5175/allactions?q=%7B%22action-by%22%3A%22House+of+Representatives%22%7D (accessed December 6, 2018).

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influence in elections.57 Following the amendments’ addition, the DISCLOSE Act proceeded to a roll call vote, ultimately passing 219 to 206. The vote was clearly along party lines, with Democrats representing 217 of the “ayes” and Republicans comprising 170 of the “noes.”58 Given this divide, it is important to keep in mind that the DISCLOSE Act is more representative of the Democrats’ response to Citizens United, and not the entirety of members in the House of Representatives. Only two Republicans ultimately voted for the DISCLOSE Act.59 The DISCLOSE Act’s companion bill (S. 3295) was then sent to the Senate, where it was read and sent to committee.60 However, unlike its House of Representatives counterpart, the DISCLOSE Act was unable to pass in the Senate and died in committee, without making it to the floor for debate.

While the DISCLOSE Act did not pass, it presents a unique opportunity to examine how Democrats in the House of Representatives chose to respond to Citizens United and the ways they conceptualized corruption. The proposed bill did not challenge the Court’s ruling, but subsequent reports produced about the bill display a differing understanding of corruption amongst congressional members. For example, a line from a House of Representatives report states in its “Findings” section, “Existing rules still allow donors to evade contribution limits by making campaign expenditures which . . . are for all relevant purposes coordinate with candidates and political parties and thus raise the potential for corruption or the appearance of corruption.”61 That report continues, finding that Congress does have a compelling interest in

57

See H.Amdt.710, H.Amdt.712, H.Amdt.713, and H.Amdt.714 at www.congress.gov/bill/111th-congress/housebill/5175/all-actions?q=%7B%22action-by%22%3A%22House+of+Representatives%22%7D. 58 “Final Vote Results for Roll Call 391,” House Clerk, http://clerk.house.gov/evs/2010/roll391.xml (accessed December 6, 2018).

59 Ibid.

60 U.S. Congress, Senate, Democracy is Strengthened by Casting Light on Spending in Elections (DISCLOSE) Act, S. 3295, 111th Cong., introduced in Senate April 30, 2010, www.congress.gov/bill/111th-congress/senatebill/3295/all-actions.

61 Democracy is Strengthened by Casting Light on Spending in Elections (DISCLOSE) Act, H.R. 5175, 3.

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“prevent[ing] corruption, the appearance of corruption, or the perception that some participants are circumventing the laws and regulations which govern the financing of election campaigns.”62 This conception of corruption stands in stark contrast to what the Supreme Court stated in Citizens United, that the government’s interest in preventing corruption only extended to quid pro quo corruption.63 As the report reveals, Representatives instead found that expenditures could lead to corruption, and that they had a sufficient interest to create legislation preventing this expanded definition of corruption. Despite this, the DISCLOSE Act still conforms to Citizens United. It does not mention corruption or the appearance of corruption; it does not equate coordinated campaign expenditures with potential corruption. Its anti-corruption measures do not conflict with the Court’s ruling. While it would have made it more difficult to make independent expenditures, the bill did accept that these funds could not be regulated (at least in most cases).64 Ultimately, the DISCLOSE Act tacitly agreed to operate within the Supreme Court’s new corruption framework, but it appears that its supporters in the House of Representatives did not personally agree with the Court.

Federal Response in Context Despite Congress’s inability to pass legislation regarding campaign finance and its potential corruption, the American public is generally in favor of increased regulation and limits on campaign funding. A Gallup poll taken immediately following the Citizens United decision found that, while 57 percent of respondents believe that donating to a political candidate is a form of free speech, 76 percent believe that the government should be able to “place limits on

62

Ibid.

Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission, 558 U.S. 310, 43 (2010).

64 See Sections 101 and 102 of Democracy is Strengthened by Casting Light on Spending in Elections (DISCLOSE) Act, H.R. 5175.

63

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how much money corporations or unions can give to a political candidate.”65 Another Gallup poll from 2013 found similar results, with 79 percent of respondents supporting legislation limiting the amount of funds candidates could “raise and spend on their political campaigns.”66 Furthermore, a 2015 poll by the Pew Research Center reported that, in an open-ended question asking, “What is the biggest problem with elected officials in Washington?” 16 percent of respondents named “influenced by special interest money,” which was also the most common response.67 A more recent Pew Research Service study in 2018 again reflected similar results, with 72 percent of respondents disagreeing with the statement that “people who give a lot of money to elected officials do not have more political influence than other people.”68 All of these studies taken together reveal that most Americans generally support campaign finance reform and disagree with the decision in Citizens United. However, Congress has yet to act on its constituents’ preferences. This discrepancy is likely explained by how political salient Congress members perceive a particular issue. It is generally understood that if an issue “arouse[s] intense public concern,” the representative will vote according to their constituents’ preferences.69 However, if the public does not particularly care about an issue, “member[s] of Congress [will] not follow public opinion in their voting.”70 In the case of campaign finance reform, it does not appear to be a politically salient issue for most Americans.

A study analyzing public opinion and campaign finance found that, while respondents often say that campaign finance is an important issue, they “believe that other issues should be dealt with

65

Saad, “Public Agrees With Court.”

Saad, “Half in U.S. Support Publicly Financed Federal Campaigns.”

67 “Perceptions of Elected Officials and the Role of Money in Politics,” Pew Research Center, November 23, 2015, www.people-press.org/2015/11/23/6-perceptions-of-elected-officials-and-the-role-of-money-in-politics/.

68 Bradley Jones, “Most Americans Want to Limit Campaign Spending, Say Big Donors Have Greater Political Influence,” Pew Research Center, May 8, 2018, www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2018/05/08/most-americans-wantto-limit-campaign-spending-say-big-donors-have-greater-political-influence/.

69 Bennett, Public Opinion in American Politics, 350.

70 Ibid.

66

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first.”71 Therefore, elected representatives may not feel the need to aggressively pursue campaign finance reform, especially when they could risk a constitutional challenge. However, as the proposed bill survey and DISCLOSE Act case study illustrated, campaign finance reform is a highly partisan issue. All of the bills included in the survey were sponsored by Democrats and the DISCLOSE Act roll call vote was largely along party lines. Consequently, it is possible that a Congress controlled by Democrats might put more of an emphasis on campaign finance reform.

State Responses After the Citizens United decision, twenty-four states were left with statutes that conflicted with the Supreme Court.72 The states had three main responses to this issue: challenge the Supreme Court’s ruling in a lawsuit, repeal the conflicting aspects of their statutes, or not enforce the conflicting aspects of the statutes. However, regardless of the mode of response, all of the states eventually aligned their various conceptions of corruption with Citizens United, at least tacitly.

Case Study: Montana Montana presented one of the most visible reactions to Citizens United that ultimately culminated in the Supreme Court case Western Tradition Partnership, Inc. v. Montana. In question was the state’s Corrupt Practices Act of 1912 which, among other things, prevented corporations from “pay[ing] or contribut[ing] in order to aid, promote or prevent the nomination or election of any person, or in order to aid or promote the interests, success or defeat of any

71

Jeffrey D. Milyo and David M. Primo, “Public Attitudes and Campaign Finance,” Campaign Finance Task Force (May 17, 2017): 15.

72 “Citizens United and the States.”

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political party or organization.”73 This portion of the Act directly contradicted the Supreme Court’s ruling in Citizens United that limiting a corporation’s use of funds for independent expenditures was unconstitutional.74 Montana presented a unique opportunity to challenge the Citizens United decision based on its long and complex relationship with political corruption.

While Congress might be unable to challenge the ruling because the Supreme Court already ruled on the federal issue, Montana has a different law, historical context, and relationship with the Supreme Court as a state-level entity.

Corruption background. Political corruption in Montana dates back to the late 1800s when wealthy copper barons essentially ran the state. Two in particular, William A. Clark and Marcus Daly, contributed significantly to the corruption of Montanan politics. In Montana’s 1894 elections, Clark and Daly both “attempt[ed] to bribe the electorate . . . giv[ing] away cigars, b[uying] rounds of drinks, and sometimes just hand[ing] out money in an effort to garner support.”75 Clark further revealed the extent of Montana’s political corruption in 1899, when he offered bribes to legislators (who at that time chose Montana’s representatives for the U.S. House of Representatives) in exchange for his election.76 He ultimately garnered enough support, paying an estimated $431,000 in bribes.77 However, it was the blatant corruption of Amalgamated Copper, the “dominant corporation in Montana at the time,” that led to the creation of the Corrupt Practices Act.78 The company’s extensive list of corrupt actions included: sponsoring monopolistic bills and bribing legislators to gain support; bribing legislators to kill

73

Quoted in Jeff Wiltse, “The Origins of Montana’s Corrupt Practices Act: A More Complete History,” Montana Law Review 73, no. 2 (Summer 2012): 324.

74 Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission, 558 U.S. 310, 45 (2010), 31.

75 Wiltse, “The Origins of Montana’s Corrupt Practices Act,” 303.

76 Ibid.

77 Ibid.

78 Ibid., 301n10.

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certain bills that would disadvantage the company; and sending lobbyists to silence legislators during debates.79 All of these events taken together reveal a highly corrupt political environment where corporations could use their wealth to substantially influence Montanan politics. The Corrupt Practices Act of 1912 sought to combat this political reality. While Montana had statutes regarding corruption, they only “prohibited public officials from accepting bribes and trading votes,” essentially explicit quid pro quo corruption.80 However, only prohibiting quid pro quo corruption did not stem the rampant political corruption in Montana. Therefore, the Corrupt Practices Act sought to expand the conception of corruption and increase the government’s ability to implement anti-corruption measures. Instead of corruption being strictly quid pro quo arrangements, Montanan reformers viewed political corruption as actions that resulted in elected officials “serving the interests of wealthy corporations rather than public good” or gave “wealthy candidates or those backed by corporations . . . an unfair advantage in advertising themselves to the public.”81 Consequently, the Corrupt Practices Act prohibited corporations from “giving money to campaigns” and implemented increased disclosure requirements for those who gave to campaigns.82 Supreme Court case. Given the expansive definition of corruption inherent in the Corrupt Practices Act and the impressive power given to the Montanan government to regulate it, the statute clearly conflicted with the Supreme Court’s ruling in Citizens United. Therefore, when a 501(c)(4) issue group named Western Tradition Partnership (WTP) began engaging in intense issue advocacy campaigns in Montana that appeared to target specific candidates,

79

Ibid., 311–12, 317.

Wiltse, “The Origins of Montana’s Corrupt Practices Act,” 322.

81 Ibid., 325.

82 Frontline, Big Sky, Big Money, television, PBS, October 30, 2012.

80

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Montana faced a crossroads: ignore the Corrupt Practices Act and accept the Citizens United decision, or act on the Corrupt Practices Act and challenge Citizens United.83 Montana’s Attorney General Steve Bullock opted for the latter.84 The state’s Commissioner of Political Practices at the time classified WTP’s activities as electioneering and ultimately “handed down a ruling accusing WTP of engaging in . . . wrongdoing.”85 The WTP then sued Montana, with Bullock taking up the case and arguing that there were meaningful differences between the federal statutes challenged in Citizens United and the Corrupt Practices Act, so much so that the Corrupt Practices Act should be considered constitutional.86 He contended that the burdens imposed by the Corrupt Practices Act were less substantial than those required by the federal statute and that the Corrupt Practices Act was necessary in Montana, a state with a history of political corruption and a stated compelling interest in preventing similar corruption.87 Montana’s Supreme Court sided with Bullock, with Chief Justice Mike McGrath writing, “The Montana law at issue in this case cannot be understood outside the context of the time and place it was enacted.”88 Essentially, Montana’s history of corruption proved that, at least in Montana, independent expenditures could lead to political corruption and therefore warranted a different conception of corruption than the one presented in Citizens United. The U.S. Supreme Court’s dissenting opinion agreed with this argument; however, in a 5-4 decision, the majority held that “Montana’s arguments . . . were already rejected in Citizens United, or failed to meaningfully

83

Ibid.

Ibid.

85 Frontline, Big Sky, Big Money.

86 Charles S. Johnson, “Montana AG Urges U.S. Supreme Court to Keep Corporate Spending Ban,” Missoulian, May 19, 2012, accessed December 7, 2018, https://missoulian.com/news/state-and-regional/montana-ag-urges-u-ssupreme-court-to-keep-corporate/article_d90f1278-a225-11e1-a945-0019bb2963f4.html.

87 Ibid.

88 Wiltse, “The Origins of Montana’s Corrupt Practices Act,” 299.

84

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distinguish that case.”89 The ruling of the Supreme Court of Montana was reversed and the Corrupt Practices Aced deemed unconstitutional.

Implications. The U.S. Supreme Court ensured that Montana complied with the conception of corruption presented in Citizens United, despite the fact that Montana attempted to retain their previous understanding of the issue. For all intents and purposes, Montana’s state government can no longer recognize the Corrupt Practices Act’s conception of corruption and must abide by Citizens United’s corruption definition. However, this does not mean that the people of Montana approve of this new understanding of corruption. In 2012, Montanans created a voter-passed measure (Constitutional Initiative 166) that would have required Montana’s federal and state legislators to “propos[e] and support[] a federal constitutional amendment to overturn Citizens United.”90 While this aspect of the measure was struck down by a district judge (as it “‘improperly attempted to orchestrate’ how the U.S. Constitution should be amended”), it also contained a nonbinding policy that elected officials should “prohibit, whenever possible, corporations from making contributions to or expenditures on the campaigns of candidacies of ballot issues.”91 The initiative was “approved by a 3-to-1 margin.”92 However, as the Montanan government already attempted to challenge Citizens United, it is unlikely that legislators can act on the desires of their constituents.93 Case Study: North Carolina Unlike Montana, North Carolina’s government did not attempt to challenge Citizens United; instead, the state government repealed the statutes that conflicted with the Supreme 89

American Tradition Partnership, Inc. v. Bullock, 567 U.S. 516 (2012).

Charles S. Johnson, “Judge Strikes Part of Montana Ballot Measure on Citizens United,” Missoulian, December 23, 2013, https://missoulian.com/news/state-and-regional/judge-strikes-part-of-montana-ballot-measure-on-citizensunited/article_c83a8b54-6c3f-11e3-a678-0019bb2963f4.html.

91 Quoted in Ibid.

92 Ibid.

93 Colorado, Kentucky, and Texas also had portions of their statutes ruled unconstitutional.

90

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Court ruling. In total, North Carolina had three state statutes that conflicted with Citizens United: §163-278.19(a)(1), §163-278.80(4), and §163-278.82.94 Essentially, the statutes taken together prohibit “corporation[s], insurance company[ies], labor union[s], or professional association[s]” from making any contributions or expenditures to campaigns and prevents these organizations from “mak[ing] any disbursement for the costs of producing or airing any electioneering communication.”95 However, by preventing organizations from using funds to make independent expenditures, the North Carolina statutes directly contradict Citizens United.96 In order to resolve the discrepancy, the North Carolina Senate used a previously proposed bill to bring North Carolinian statutes into compliance.97 The previous iteration of the bill (House Bill 748) dealt with electioneering at early voting sites and was originally introduced in March 2009; however, it remained in the Senate Judiciary Committee for over a year, eventually being reworked as a response to Citizens United.98 Crucially, the bill revised key aspects of the problematic statutes. For example, §163-278.19(a) originally read: “It shall be unlawful for any corporation, business entity, labor union, professional association, or insurance company directly or indirectly to make any contribution to a candidate or political committee or to make any expenditure to support or oppose the nomination or election of a clearly identified candidate.”99 However, the revised statute in House Bill 748 states that “it shall be unlawful for any corporation, business entity, labor union, professional association, or insurance company [to]

94

“Citizens United and the States.”

NC Gen Stat §163-278.80(4), https://law.justia.com/codes/north-carolina/2005/chapter_163/gs_163-278.80.html; NC Gen Stat §163-278.19 (2015), https://law.justia.com/codes/north-carolina/2015/chapter-163/article-22a/section163-278.19/; NC Gen Stat §163-278.82, https://law.justia.com/codes/north-carolina/2005/chapter_163/gs_163278.82.html.

96 Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission, 558 U.S. 310, 45 (2010), 31.

97 “House Bill 748,” North Carolina General Assembly, https://www2.ncleg.net/BillLookup/2009/H748 (accessed December 7, 2018).

98 Ibid.

99 General Assembly of North Carolina, House Bill 748, 8.

95

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directly or indirectly do any of the following: to make any contribution to a candidate or political committee.”100 Primarily, the bill removed any restrictions on independent expenditures and completely repealed Articles 22E and 22F, which included §163-278.80(4) and §163-278.82.101 House Bill 748 passed on September 10, 2010 with 57 “Ayes” to 47 “Noes,” and was signed into law on August 2, 2010.102 Implications. The passage of House Bill 748 signals North Carolina’s acceptance of Citizens United’s conception of corruption. Only a few months after the decision, the state Senate made sure to align their corruption definition and legal anti-corruption measures with the ruling. However, North Carolina presents an interesting case, because while it accepted Citizens United, it also created additional opportunities for disclosures and filings to increase transparency in campaign finance. While House Bill 748 removed sections dealing with independent expenditures, it added new sections about disclosure requirements. For example, individuals that make an independent expenditure are required to “disclose by report to the State Board of Elections within 48 hours of incurring an expense of . . . $5,000 or more or receiving a donation of . . . $1,000 or more for making an independent expenditure.”103 Furthermore, media outlets are required to receive “written authority for each independent expenditure or electioneering communication from each individual, person, or entity . . . [and these] written authorizations . . . shall be deemed public records . . . [with] copies . . . available for inspection during normal business hours.”104 While House Bill 748 demonstrated North Carolina’s compliance with Citizens United, it also displayed the state government’s desire to mitigate any

100

Ibid.

Ibid., 16.

102 “House Bill 748.”

103 General Assembly of North Carolina, House Bill 748, 6.

104 Ibid., 8.

101

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potential effects through increased disclosure requirements. However, North Carolina still rejected their previous conception of political corruption in favor of Citizens United’s definition.105 Case Study: Oklahoma Oklahoma exemplifies the final type of state response to Citizens United, as it retained its conflicting state statutes, but engaged in rulemaking to comply to the decision. There were two main statutes that conflicted with the Supreme Court’s ruling in Citizens United: 21 O.S. 2011 § 187 and 51 O.S 2011, §§ 301-325.106 The statutes effectively banned corporations and labor unions from making contributions to political action committees (PACs), or otherwise defined terms differently than Citizens United.107 However, these two statutes are still on the books in Oklahoma. In order to address Citizens United, the House of Representatives Rules Committee was tasked with analyzing Oklahoma campaign finance law, finding conflictual statutes, and recommending amendments to the Constitutional Ethics Rules to bring Oklahoma into compliance, if not in theory than in practice.108 While the statutes still exist, they are unenforceable due to new rules introduced by the Rules Committee.

Oklahoma sought to address Citizens United immediately, with Ethics Commission staff members offering a “proposed compliance amendment” the day after the decision was released.109 This compliance amendment was critical, as Oklahoma ethics rules “prohibited corporations from making independent expenditure and electioneering communications from

105

Note: Alaska, Arizona, Connecticut, Iowa, Minnesota, South Dakota, Tennessee, West Virginia, and Wisconsin all reacted similarly to Citizens United.

106 Oklahoma House of Representatives, “Oklahoma Ethics Laws in Response to Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission,” Rules Committee, March 14, 2012, http://digitalprairie.ok.gov/cdm/ref/collection/stgovpub/id/43670, 5-6.

107 21 OK Stat §21-187.2 (2014), https://law.justia.com/codes/oklahoma/2014/title-21/section-21-187.2/.; Oklahoma House of Representatives, “Oklahoma Ethics Laws,” 6.

108 Ibid.

109 Ibid.

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their treasury funds”—a direct contradiction to the Court’s ruling in Citizens United.110 The amendment, which the Ethics Commission passed, aligned these rules with the Supreme Court’s decision. To further ensure Oklahoma’s compliance to Citizens United’s conception of corruption, the Commission also passed a Resolution that it “would not . . . enforce any of its constitutional rules in conflict with the holding of Citizens United until the Legislature had the opportunity to review the promulgated amendment in the 2010 legislative session.”111 Although Oklahoma retained its conflictual statutes, the House Rules Committee and Ethics Commission essentially brought the state’s rules and enforcement practices into compliance with Citizens United, ignoring the statutes’ previous conception of corrupt acts.

Implications. While Oklahoma’s statutes do not explicitly comply with Citizens United, its rules clearly attempted to align with the decision. Therefore, Oklahoma’s understanding of corruption mirrored the Supreme Court’s in practice, as the previous laws were no longer enforceable. This is not an uncommon practice, as nine other states are in similar situations.112 By altering rules and leaving conflictual statutes on the books, Oklahoma tacitly accepted Citizens United’s conception of corruption.

Conclusion Citizens United fundamentally changed the conception of corruption in the United States.

Before the decision, the Supreme Court advocated for a more expansive definition of corruption, exemplified in Buckley v. Valeo, and states were able to experiment with campaign finance

110

James Coburn, “Campaign Finance Ruling Will Change Oklahoma Law,” Edmond Sun, February 5, 2010, www.edmondsun.com/news/local_news/campaign-finance-ruling-will-change-oklahomalaw/article_300b4eb1-82ad-5140-9894-6651e72cdc02.html.

111 Oklahoma House of Representatives, “Oklahoma Ethics Laws,” 6.

112 Alabama, Massachusetts, Michigan, New Hampshire, North Dakota, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, and Wyoming still have state statutes on the books that conflict with the Citizens United ruling.

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regulation, creating a wide range of political corruption statutes. However, once the Supreme Court decided that quid pro quo arrangements were the only clear form of corruption that the government could regulate, both the federal and state governments began to fall in line with the ruling. The federal government generally accepted the Citizens United decision, as the majority of proposed bills sought to work within the decision’s framework for corruption and campaign finance, despite the odd proposed constitutional amendments aiming to overturn the decision.

Overwhelmingly, the states acquiesced to the Supreme Court, altering their conceptions of corruption to match Citizens United, whether willingly or by force. No longer can governments enforce statutes regulating independent expenditures or attempt to curb private gain corruption.

Over the course of a few years, the understanding of political corruption was reduced to quid pro quo arrangements and countless anti-corruption measures were rolled back.

The Supreme Court’s achievement of this fundamental change in political corruption can, in most cases, relate back to the American federalist system. The federal government balked at supporting bills that directly challenged the Supreme Court, as the only way it could successfully challenge the Court would require a constitutional amendment. However, as the issue of campaign finance is highly partisan, such a measure would be all but impossible to pass in today’s political climate, despite the support of the general public. While some states attempted to challenge the Supreme Court, none were successful, and the failed cases resulted in the Court unequivocally declaring the state statutes unconstitutional, ensuring compliance with Citizens United. On the other hand, the remaining states chose to conform to Citizens United, instead of risking a constitutional challenge to their statutes. The Citizens United situation presents a unique type of irony: conforming to the federalist system and accepting the Supreme Court’s ruling can lead to an arguably less democratic future, but favoring states’ rights and rejecting the Supreme

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Court’s ruling could foster a more democratic environment. While it is not this paper’s place to determine whether conforming to Citizens United was objectively “right,” it is ironic that, by accepting the Supreme Court’s ruling on the basis of increasing civil rights, the experimentation and variety that are inherent in America’s laboratories of democracy are mitigated by an increasingly limited definition of corruption.

The Citizens United decision has another critical dimension, that of partisanship.

Generally, Democrats tend to support campaign finance reform, while Republicans prefer campaign finance deregulation. While in the past Democrats and moderate Republicans could find common ground on these issues (as seen in the BCRA), this relationship is unlikely to hold in the aftermath of Citizens United.113 The ruling presented a sharp ideological divide: five conservative Justices against four liberal Justices; the Republican Party and Federalist Society against the Democratic Party and American Constitution Society.114 With the election of Donald Trump and the recent appointments of Neil Gorsuch and Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court, the divide in the Court is likely to further retrench itself.115 Furthermore, Congressional Republicans’ general lack of “support [for] campaign finance legislation” severely limits opportunities for reform on the federal level.116 If the Supreme Court continues to lean conservative and support the deregulation of campaign finance, it is unlikely that alternative understandings of political corruption could emerge on either the federal or state levels. Going forward, it appears that the conception of corruption presented in Citizens United is here to stay.

113 Ann Southworth, “Elements of the Support Structure for Campaign Finance Litigation in the Roberts Court,” Law and Social Inquiry 43, no. 2 (Spring 2018): 35.

114 Ibid., 34.

115 Ibid., 35.

116 Ibid., 36.

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Works Cited 18 U.S.C. §201 (b). www.law.cornell.edu/uscode/text/18/201.

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Bennett, W. Lance. Public Opinion in American Politics. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., 1980.

“Big Sky, Big Money.” Frontline. PBS. Television. October 30, 2012.

Buckley v. Valeo. 424 U.S. 1 (1976).

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“Final Vote Results for Roll Call 391.” House Clerk. http://clerk.house.gov/evs/2010/roll391.xml (accessed December 6, 2018).

General Assembly of North Carolina. Session law 2010-170. House Bill 748 (2010).

“House Bill 748.” North Carolina General Assembly. www2.ncleg.net/BillLookup/2009/H748 (accessed December 7, 2018).

Hough, Dan. Analyzing Corruption. Newcastle-upon-Tyne, UK: Agenda Publishing, 2017.

Issacharoff, Samuel. “On Political Corruption.” Harvard Law Review 124, no. 1 (November 2010): 118–42.

Johnson, Charles S. “Judge Strikes Part of Montana Ballot Measure on Citizens United.”

Missoulian. December 23, 2013. https://missoulian.com/news/state-and-regional/judgestrikes-part-of-montana-ballot-measure-on-citizens-united/article_c83a8b54-6c3f-11e3a678-0019bb2963f4.html. _____. “Montana AG Urges U.S. Supreme Court to Keep Corporate Spending Ban.” Missoulian.

May 19, 2012. https://missoulian.com/news/state-and-regional/montana-ag-urges-u-ssupreme-court-to-keep-corporate/article_d90f1278-a225-11e1-a945-0019bb2963f4.html.

Jones, Bradley. “Most Americans Want to Limit Campaign Spending, Say Big Donors Have Greater Political Influence.” Pew Research Center. May 8, 2018. www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2018/05/08/most-americans-want-to-limit-campaignspending-say-big-donors-have-greater-political-influence/.

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Kang, Michael. “After Citizens United.” Indiana Law Review 44 (2010): 243–54.

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NC Gen Stat §163-278.82, https://law.justia.com/codes/northcarolina/2005/chapter_163/gs_163-278.82.html.

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Federal Election Commission.” Rules Committee. March 14, 2012. http://digitalprairie.ok.gov/cdm/ref/collection/stgovpub/id/43670.

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November 23, 2015. www.people-press.org/2015/11/23/6-perceptions-of-electedofficials-and-the-role-of-money-in-politics/.

Raban, Ofer. “Constitutionalizing Corruption: Citizens United, its Conceptions of Political Corruption, and the Implications for Judicial Elections Campaigns.” University of San Francisco Law Review, 46, no. 2 (Fall 2011): 359–82.

U.S. Congress. House. Pick Your Poison Act of 2010. H.R. 4511. 111th Cong. Introduced in House January 26, 2010. www.congress.gov/bill/111th-congress/house-bill/4511. _____. House. Democracy is Strengthened by Casting Light on Spending in Elections (DISCLOSE) Act. H.R. 5175. 111th Cong. Introduced in House April 29, 2010. www.congress.gov/bill/111th-congress/house-bill/5175. _____. House. H.J. Res. 68. 111th Cong. Introduced in House January 21, 2010. www.congress.gov/bill/111th-congress/house-joint-resolution/68/text. _____. Senate. Fair Elections Now Act. S. 752. 111th Cong. Introduced in Senate March 31, 2010. www.congress.gov/bill/111th-congress/senate-bill/752. _____. Senate. Democracy is Strengthened by Casting Light on Spending in Elections (DISCLOSE) Act. S. 3295, 111th Cong. Introduced in Senate April 30, 2010. www.congress.gov/bill/111th-congress/senate-bill/3295/all-actions.

U.S Library of Congress. Congressional Research Service. Campaign Finance Policy After Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission: Issues and Options for Congress, by R. Sam Garrett. R41054. February 1, 2010. _____. The DISCLOSE Act: Overview and Analysis, by L. Paige Walker, Erika K. Lunder, Kate M. Manuel, Jake Maskell, and Michael V. Seitzinger. R41264. March 8, 2010. _____. The State of Campaign Finance Policy: Recent Developments and Issues for Congress,

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Southworth, Ann. “Elements of the Support Structure for Campaign Finance Litigation in the Roberts Court.” Law and Social Inquiry 43, no. 2 (Spring 2018): 319–59.

“Super PACs Having Negative Impact, Say Voters Aware of Citizens United Ruling.” Pew Research Center. January 17, 2012. www.people-press.org/2012/01/17/super-pacshaving-negative-impact-say-voters-aware-of-citizens-united-ruling/.

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Washington, DC: Congressional Quarterly, Inc., 2001.

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Montana Law Review 73, no. 2 (Summer 2012). 299–337.

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Decades of Division: How Diverging Views of Ethnic Nationalism Affect Unification

Han Pham

Abstract Nationalism is not a fixed phenomenon, as people are able to change and mold it in a way that is beneficial to their agenda. This is true of Korea, both before and after its division. What started as a collective sense of ethnic nationalism that developed in the Japanese colonial era was later combined with other political ideologies to create the northern and southern division that is seen today in the Korean peninsula. Because both the DPRK and the ROK insist that they are the true holders of “Koreanness,” with the North claiming purity and the South embracing globalization, efforts for reunification are difficult, as their identities and ideologies have greatly diverged.

Introduction “Long live Korean Independence!”

On March 1, 1919, thirty-three Korean leaders declared independence from Japan. Backed by the entire Korean peninsula, the March First Movement was known as the “greatest mass movement of the Korean people in all their history.”1 Just twenty-six years later, the Korean nation would be split in half. Differences in leadership led to the creation of regimes that were opposed to each other in many ways. South Korea currently boasts a strong economy backed by a democratic government, while North Korea, despite its formal name being the Democratic

1

Ki-Baek Lee, A New History of Korea, trans. Edward W. Wagner (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 341.

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People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK), is run by a communist regime in which power is passed through family lines. Despite this political difference, many scholars argue that people from North and South Korea are racially and culturally the same. They share appearances, language, and even diet, and these ethnic similarities have been the basis for talks of reunification.

However, as the North shrinks further into itself and the South participates more actively in the global community, perceptions of their ethnic ties and movements for unification weaken.

Ernest Gellner believed that “nationalism is primarily a political principle, which holds that the political and national unit should be congruent.”2 While this is true for many nations, the Korean case is special in that there is one national unit being governed by two political entities.

Long before the Korean peninsula spilt in half, ethnic nationalism was strong within the country.

Primordialist Korean scholars attributed this nationalism to the origin myth of Tangun, who is said to be the founder of the nation. These scholars stressed that “the Korean nation is a unitary nation with a common blood, territory, language, culture and historical destiny for thousands of years.”3 Other scholars saw Korea’s nationalism as a newly constructed phenomenon, taking place in the Joseon Dynasty when the nation started to enter the global community in the late nineteenth century. These two schools of thought have given rise to a new way to study Korean nationalism. Scholars of this school believe that Korean nationalism should be thought of as a combination of both primordial and constructive ideas, and that the “historical developments of premodern Korea should be taken into account in any explanation of the formation of the modern Korean nation.”4 Not only was this idea used during the Japanese colonization, but also after the Korean War that left the nation divided. This paper will discuss how the period of Japanese

2

Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing Ldt., 2006), 1.

Gi-Wook Shin, Ethnic Nationalism in Korea (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005), 5.

4 Ibid., 7.

3

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power led to the growth of ethnic nationalism within the country as well as analyze the differences between the two nationalist identities that grew after the division. Finally, this paper will take look at how these identities affect reunification, and how, in particular, South Korea’s changing nationalism is making it harder to unify the peninsula.

Korea’s History In the Samguk Yusa, or “the memorabilia of the three kingdoms,” Tangun Wanggeom, a demigod born from a female bear, established the first Korean nation under the name of Gochoseon in 2333 BCE.5 Although the existence of Tangun could not be proven, this creation myth has played a role in the manifestation of Korean identity among the modern people, as many believe that they are his direct descendants. With the collapse of Gochoseon, the peninsula was divided into three kingdoms: Goguryeo, Baekje, and Silla. It was during the Three Kingdoms Period that the political structure of Korea was established. A monarch and senior officials ruled over the country with strict social classifications for the people. In 688 CE, the Three Kingdoms Period ended with the defeat of Goguryeo and Baekje by Silla. For the first time, the nation was united and ruled by a single state. The Unified Silla Kingdom brought growth to the country with its focus on infrastructure and agriculture. However, due to the strict class structure that did not allow for social mobility, feelings of unrest and injustice started to stir among the common and peasant class. The peninsula went through a series of popular uprisings, and in 918 CE, a new kingdom was formed. The Goryeo Dynasty was prosperous during its first few decades of existence, as a new currency went into circulation and new moveable type printing technology was created. With time, corruption from authorities and rebellions among the

5

Lee, A New History of Korea, 4.

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lower classes brought conflict to the kingdom. It was also during this time that Genghis Khan and his family led invasions all over Asia. Korea was not spared and came under attacks for nearly three decades. In 1392 CE, Goryeo officially came to an end with the establishment of the Joseon Dynasty.6 Founded by General Yi Seong-gye, the Joseon Dynasty allowed the nation to grow culturally and economically. King Sejong, the fourth king to the dynasty, felt that “his people must have a writing system designed to express the language of their everyday speech.”7 In 1446, King Sejong and his advisors released Hangeul to the nation. Its success laid in its simplicity and easiness to learn. Although it was not popular among the ruling elite class, as they wanted to “retain their monopoly on access to learning,”8 Hangeul became a way for people of all classes to communicate and has manifested into a factor in national pride in the modern day.9 In addition to this new writing system, new advances in farming techniques allowed for a surplus of food and increased economic power among the people.10 Joseon society had been strictly hierarchal, and the elites would have “found the idea of nationalism not only strange but also uncivil . . . [as many] considered themselves to be members of a larger cosmopolitan civilization centered around China.”11 Because of this, people within the Joseon society did not identify themselves as part of a nation, and thus there would not be a sense of nationalism. This changed as Joseon Korea entered into the global community, and many modernist scholars believe that

6

Mark Cartwright, “Ancient Korea,” Ancient History Encyclopedia, www.ancient.eu/Korea/#references (accessed November 30, 2018).

7 Lee, A New History of Korea, 192.

8 Ibid., 193.

9 Not only is there a national holiday dedicated to Hangeul, special merits are given to those who are said to have promoted the Korean language and culture.

10 Ibid., 227.

11 Shin, Ethnic Nationalism, 5.

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ethnic nationalism truly grew out of the end this dynasty. Threats from foreign countries during the late 1800s brought on a need for the Korean people to identity as one.

Scholars argue that while there had been evidence of an ethnie and the beginnings of nationalism, it was the threat of foreign invasions that gave way to the immense growth of ethnic nationalism. In the late eighteenth century, Western nations became increasingly interested in trade and business with Korea. The Korean government, having seen the result of China’s trade with Western countries contribute to its fall, “[rejected] Western demands for trade as a means of preventing such disasters from overtaking Korea as well.”12 Korea adopted a closed-door policy against all foreign powers. After two unsuccessful attempts by the French and American naval forces to open Korea’s ports, the two superpowers gave up as their attentions were drawn to other parts of the world. The United States and France were only interested in trade with Korea; they had no imperialist intentions to the invasions. It was Japan that was interested in annexing Korea, and in 1910 Korea came under the rule of the Meiji government.

The Growth of Nationalism and Communism During thirty-five years of Japanese rule, Korea experienced strong industrial development with the cost of strict repression of Korean identity. The Japanese saw Korea as a resource rich country and sought to develop it in order to benefit their home country. Colonial rule brought “rapid urban growth, expansion of commerce, and forms of mass culture such as radio and cinema.”13 While all these changes helped to modernize Korean society, Japanese assimilation policies “[involved] the suppression and denial of Korean history, Korean language,

12

Lee, A New History of Korea, 263.

“Korea as a Colony of Japan, 1910-1945,” Asia for Educators, Columbia University, http://afe.easia.columbia.edu/main_pop/kpct/kp_koreaimperialism.htm (accessed November 30, 2018).

13

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Korean tradition and the consciousness of the Korean people.”14 Although these policies were meant to create loyalty toward the Japanese government, the Korean people, who had only known independence and loyalty to their race, started to gain national sentiment and a sense of ethnic nationalism arose. Popular uprisings among different social classes were common during the colonial era, but the largest of these was the March First Movement.

After a decade of strict military rule by the Japanese, the Korean people set out to declare their independence. The March First Movement was unique because of its size and unifying force. Previous protest movements were led by small parts of society, such as the peasants, laborers, and women, but the March First Movement proved to be national, as over 2 million citizens mobilized and protested their “strong aspirations” for a Korean nation-state.15 Although the movement was intended to be peaceful, the Korean efforts for independence were met with bullets and violence from the Japanese authority. It was reported by the Japanese officials that over 60,000 Koreans were arrested, injured, or killed, but Korean scholars believe this number to be an underestimation.16 The March First Movement was a signal to the Japanese authorities that the Koreans thought of themselves as a separate and unique group. Their sovereignty and right to their own nation could not be denied, and they were willing to do all they could to achieve their freedom. After the March First Movement, the Japanese administration changed their military stance to promoting cultural aspects of Japan. The Korean people were forced to take Japanese names, school curriculum was taught in the Japanese language, and even propaganda of a “shared ancient, progenitor, bloodline and benevolent ruler” between the Korean and Japanese

14 Joong-Seok Seo, Korean Nationalism Betrayed, trans. Han Do-Hyun and Pankaj Mohan (Folkestone, UK: Global Oriental, 2007), 30.

15 Independence movements led by Koreans took place all over the world. This number includes native Koreans and those abroad; Lee, A New History of Korea, 344; Seo, Korean Nationalism Betrayed, 31.

16 Lee, A New History of Korea, 344.

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people was promulgated.17 This strategy did not work, as the people continued to speak Korean and nationalists revived the creation myth of Tangun to combat against Japanese propaganda.18 Despite trying to make them part of the Japanese society, Koreans were always treated as second-class citizens with no voice in the government.

In addition to nationalism, another ideology grew about during the colonial era.

Communism took root in Korea in the 1920s through international influence from the Soviet Union. Although Marxist ideology states that communism and nationalism are not compatible, the Korean communists used nationalism as an “appeal . . . to national liberation and as a vehicle for their anti-colonial struggles.”19 While nationalists and Communists were ideologically against each other, they both viewed colonialism as the common enemy. Nationalists “focused on the cultural and spiritual aspects in resisting colonial racism, whereas the Communists paid more attention to social and political issues.”20 After liberation of Japanese power, nationalism grew as a way to defend the nation from foreign powers. The Communists did this through adopting Marxist ideals and saw the United States as the new foreign enemy. The nationalists in the south focused more on ethnic ties and relations to distinguish themselves from others. These two groups grew in influence and strength as the colonial era progressed, and when liberation took place they had to decide who was going to be ruling group.

A Pure North Korea

17

B. R. Myers, The Cleanest Race: How North Koreans See Themselves – And Why It Matters (Brooklyn: Melville House, 2010), 26; Hyung Il Pai, Constructing “Korean” Origins: A Critical Review of Archaeology Historiography, and Racial Myth in the Korean State-Formation Theories (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000), 38– 39.

18 Myers, The Cleanest Race, 27.

19 Shin, Ethnic Nationalism, 60.

20 Ibid., 77.

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After three years of foreign occupation, the Soviet-backed Kim Il Sung established the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK) and the American-supported Rhee Syngman founded the Republic of Korea (ROK). Both governments used ethnic nationalist ideologies to push their political agenda. While both nations still had strong attachments to their ethnic origins, their political ideologies led to a creation of an identity within the bigger nationalist framework.

In the DPRK, communist identity grew while ROK experienced years of fascist rule that eventually gave way to democracy.21 It was evident that these two identities were strong enough that even a civil war could not bring consolidation. The first efforts of reunification through war failed. With the prolonged split of Korea, many began to wonder if Korea would ever again become one nation.

Scholars at the U.S. Federal Research Division described the government of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea as a “mix of Marxism-Leninism, Korean nationalism, and indigenous political culture.”22 Communist influence was evident in its proclamation as a people’s republic, although at the time of creation North Korea did not “claim to be a socialist or nationalist country.”23 After the Korean War, Kim Il Sung sought to rebuild his nation through propaganda of nationalism and the Juche ideology. Juche thought “considers autonomy or selfreliance as crucially important.”24 The fall of the Soviet Union played a major role in the creation of Juche. Although for many years Kim had relied on the help of the Russian neighbor, he had to make a nation that was independent and strong without foreign help. He became “obsessed with

21

Ibid., 78.

Bruce G. Cumings et al., North Korea: A Country Study, ed. Robert L. Worden (Washington, DC, Library of Congress, 2008).

23 Shin, Ethnic Nationalism, 87.

24 Seo, Korean Nationalism Betrayed, 17.

22

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promoting nationalism as a survival strategy in a precarious international environment.”25 The Kim regime was, and is still, able to hold power over its citizens due to strong propaganda.

One piece of propaganda that invoked loyalty to Kim was his direct involvement in the liberation of Korea from Japan. It was claimed that “Kim and his guerilla freed the race on their own.” Although this was untrue, as the USSR had more hand in liberation than Kim, North Koreans were taught to have great faith and trust in Kim, and by extension the Kim family, because he was their savior.26 Because of the “perceived success in strengthening the race” done

by Kim, “ethno-nationalism and state-loyalty are mutually enforcing.”27 North Korean people’s trust of the Kim regime shows a strong relationship between state and race, something that is not seen as strongly south of the thirty-eighth parallel.

In 1992, with the deletion of Marxism-Leninism from its constitution, “North Korea officially became a nationalist state.”28 The DPRK developed a form of “defensive nationalism,” one that denied any kind of foreign interaction with the nation.29 Though this has been detrimental to their economy, it has reinforced the idea of the purity of the Korean race. Officials do not easily allow any visitors to the country as it feared the racial mixing would contaminate the country. Propaganda stating that other countries, especially the United States, are dirty and devilish is also prominent in North Korea. Citizens are taught to hate foreigners and have a strong devotion to their race and country.30 In addition, this “purity of the Korean nation is not automatically inherent in any Korean by virtue. . . . It must be earned by . . . conservation of national traditions, maintenance of a high sense of national pride, and an affiliation with the

25

Shin, Ethnic Nationalism, 88.

B. R. Myers, “North Korea’s State-Loyalty Advantage,” Journal of International Affairs 65, no. 1 (2011): 118.

27 Ibid., 115.

28 Shin, Ethnic Nationalism, 88.

29 Ibid., 95.

30 Myers, The Cleanest Race, 41.

26

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Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.”31 This idea is founded on the thought that North Korea holds the true title of “Koreanness”, and that the south is has been contaminated by American imperialism.

Development Through Dictatorship On the other side of the DMZ, leaders of the southern regime also believe that they are the rightful owners of the aforementioned Koreanness. An example of this can be seen in South Korea’s formal name, Taehan min’guk, or the “Republic of the Great Han Race.”32 Rhee Syngman and Park Chung Hee, two prominent leaders in the ROK, blamed communist aggression on the split of the peninsula. Park in particular described the Korean War as “a treacherous attempt to destroy the nation’s rich tradition and identity.”33 These two Korean leaders used ethnic nationalism in their political pursuit to create a Korea that was anticommunist, yet displayed features of authoritarian rule. Rhee and Park led Korea through development at the cost of political freedom.

Despite economic and political stability that is seen in South Korea today, the Republic of Korea experienced many years of dictatorship that led to a public distrust of the government.

Much like Kim Il Sung, both leaders promoted an ethnic nationalism that was “anticolonial, antiimperialist, and anti-Japanese” but with a fascist spin.34 Coming into power in 1948, Rhee saw “little need for state building” and believed that the “strength of the republic’s claim to have

31

Tatiana Gabroussenko, “Ethnic Nationalism and Internationalism in the North Korean Worldview,” in Race and Racism in Modern East Asia, vol. 2, Interactions, Nationalism, Gender and Lineage, ed. Rotem Kowner and Walter Demel (Leiden: Brill, 2015): 427.

32 Shin, Ethnic Nationalism, 99.

33 Gi-Wook Shin, James Freda, and Gihong Yi, “The Politics of Ethnic Nationalism in Divided Korea,” Nations and Nationalism 5, no. 4 (1999): 479.

34 Shin, Ethnic Nationalism, 98.

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inherited the ancient Korean state would suffice to keep citizens loyal to it.”35 Rhee’s incorporation of the Tangun myth into his political strategy gave nationhood an “organic and collectivist” character.36 Rhee’s promotion of a nation that is “natural, indivisible, and immortal” was similar to the ideas put forth during colonialization.37 For some time, this policy of ilmin chu’ui worked at legitimizing his regime, but as Rhee became more authoritarian in his power, student protests began to break out across the country.

The April Revolution, Sa-il gu, took place in 1960 in the southern city of Daegu.

Students, high school and university-level, gathered to protest against the “corruption, political coercion, and electoral rigging by the Rhee authorities.”38 Their demonstrations were met with police violence. Soon, students from all over the country took to protesting. In Seoul, university students marched toward the presidential building and set fire to other government buildings.

Rhee called for military intervention, but Koreans, students and citizens, continued their march and occupation of the presidential house.39 Under immense pressure, Rhee resigned and the students went back to their normal life. Nationalism played a large role in the mobilization of student protests. Because the experience of colonialization had been fresh in Korea’s history, and many argued that the life under the Rhee regime was no different from Japanese rule, the students “felt responsibility for protecting and building the Korean nation.”40 Hobsbawm would argue that the student movements of South Korea were what led nationalism to become more prominent in society. Although it was clear that nationalism was a top-down process in the Rhee

35

Myers, “North Korea’s State-Loyalty Advantage,” 121.

Shin, Ethnic Nationalism, 99.

37 Ibid., 102.

38 Emma Campbell, South Korea’s New Nationalism: The End of “One Korea”? (Boulder: First Forum Press, 2016), 30.

39 Lee, A New History of Korea, 385.

40 Campbell, South Korea’s New Nationalism, 30.

36

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regime, these grassroots movements displayed the real desires of society.41 The nationalist facet of the April Revolution would be seen again during the Park Chung Hee government.

Coming to power in 1961 through a military coup d’état after the collapse of the Rhee regime, Park Chung Hee sought to economically advance his country. He, like Rhee and Kim, used nationalist propaganda to gain support and legitimacy. Park “blamed the Communist for breaking unity of the Korean national community . . . [and] argued that ROK solely represented the whole nation.”42 Park’s anticommunist stance called for a “harmonious integration of the nation to counter the continuous threat of the communist regime,”43 and he believed the best way to better the nation would be economic development. Although modernization had taken place during the colonial years, Park had a larger role in advancing the Korean nation. He started with modernizing agricultural areas of Korea through his Saemaul Undong, or New Village Movement. This program is a “classic example of community-driven development based on specific institutional principles and community participation.”44 From 1960 to 1983, the Saemaul Undong, along with heavy industrialization, brought Korea an average growth rate of 8.6 percent.45 The Korean people, who had only known warfare and poverty, gladly welcomed this increased standard of living. Out of the Saemaul Undong, a stronger ethnic nationalism grew.

The emphasis placed on community led the Korean people to believe that if they came together and worked hard, anything could be achieved.

41

Eric Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1780 (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1990).

Shin, Ethnic Nationalism, 103.

43 Sang Mi Park, “The Paradox of Postcolonial Korean Nationalism: State-Sponsored Cultural Policy in South Korea, 1965-Present,” Journal of Korean Studies 15, no. 1 (2010): 72, doi:10.1353/jks.2010.0002.

44 Asian Development Bank (ADB), The Saemaul Undong Movement in the Republic of Korea: Sharing Knowledge on Community-Driven Development (Mandaluyong City, PH: ADB, 2012), www.adb.org/sites/default/files/publication/29881/saemaul-undong-movement-korea.pdf.

45 Shin, Ethnic Nationalism, 103.

42

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While Park is accredited with economic development of the country, his foreign policies were seen as controversial. Park knew that in order to further develop his country he needed to make peace with the former colonizer. “Normalization” of relations with Japan could bring “technological resources and financial assistance “ to Korea, but anti-Japanese sentiment was still strong in a postcolonial Korea that it was hard for Park to gain support. Students, as they did under Rhee, protested against the Park government’s involvement with Japan. Believing that dependence on Japan, and even reliance on the financial aid of the United States, would “render Korea a colony in all but name,” students often took to the streets to protest.46 As Park began to lose popular support, he started to appeal through “popular memories of colonial rule, Communist aggression, poverty, . . . and the precarious international environment (especially after the fall of South Vietnam to Communism) made his appeal to nationalist politics quite effective.”47 The rural and working class were loyal to their leader because of the economic development he brought their sector of society48. For many years this national rhetoric worked at convincing the people in the agricultural industry, but as he became increasingly authoritarian, students became more enticed with democracy. In 1987, after the assassination of Park and the fall of another dictatorship, South Korea finally became a democratic state. As South Korea engaged more in the international community, a new sense of identity manifested itself within the society.

Differences in Identity

46

Campbell, South Korea’s New Nationalism, 35.

Shin, Ethnic Nationalism, 108.

48 Even today, there are many citizens that look favorably at Park. Although he was a dictator, the Korean people were willing to overlook this as he brought much needed economic growth and stability to the nation.

47

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The fact that both regimes believe that they are the rightful owners of Koreanness has complicated reunification efforts. South Korea’s acceptance of global influences has further added to the DPRK’s belief that Koreanness belongs to them. North Korea sees the ROK’s “expression of Koreanness, including language and culture, [as being repressed and manipulated] by the puppet government and by the ‘American bastards.’”49 To be Korean, in the DPRK view, is to be “pure” and not corrupted by outside influence. This idea is one of the underlying problems when discussing reunification of the peninsula. If the northerners are the superior and “pure” Korean, how would South Koreans fit in among their society? The Juche idea serves to be inclusive and “accept[ing] of people of all races, including Koreans,”50 but propaganda against foreigners states that “anyone who collaborates with imperialist forces is disqualified from membership in the Korean national community.”51 North Korea’s mindset of their purity makes it hard for reunification to become a reality. In addition to this, South Korea’s growing globalization has shifted the younger generation’s stance on unification.

With the initial split of the peninsula, many citizens from both sides were hopeful and wished Korea to be one again. They argued that they were an ethnie that shared a long history and they should share the same territory.52 Reunification was also looked upon favorably at that time due to familial connections that had been severed following the war, and those with kin on either side wanted to reunite with their family. Many students blamed the Rhee regime for the for the “continued division of the peninsula” and even believed that he had a hand in “perpetuating” this situation.53 In trying to gain legitimacy and keep his power over South Korea, Rhee “rejected

49

Gabroussenko, “North Korean Worldview”, 427.

Ibid., 435.

51 Shin, Freda, and Yi, “Politics of Ethnic Nationalism in Divided Korea,” 478.

52 Anthony Smith, National Identity (Las Vegas: University of Nevada Press, 1990), 21.

53 Campbell, South Korea’s New Nationalism, 31.

50

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the trusteeship plan that would have seen a unified Korea” Furthermore, he “institutionalized the division” with his participation of in the UN-observed elections that took place without North Korea.54 These students, along with protesting against the corrupt Rhee regime, used ethnic nationalism rhetoric in their pro-unification demonstrations. During this time, both North and South Korean people were considered to be the national unit. Although the political unit was split, reunification would solve this problem, and the Korean nation would emerge.

This was the hope that many Koreans, both North and South, held in the years following the war. But as time progressed, and each half settled with their own political regime, changing ideas of reunification started to emerge. In South Korea’s New Nationalism: the End of “One Korea”? Emma Campbell discusses the rise of a new national identity among the younger generation of the ROK. The identity of the isipdae, South Koreans who are in their twenties, is a “[manifestation of] pride in SK’s modernity, cosmopolitanism and status, and can be categorized as globalized cultural nationalism.”55 They attribute the success of the nation not to ethnicity, but on the hard work and ability of the people. This idea came out of the fast economic development that the nation saw under Park. People saw that their hard work brought their country out of poverty and into a position that allowed them to compete globally with other countries. They are proud of their advancement, which can be seen through “attainment of education, international travel and experience, and [ability to buy] myeongpum or luxury brands.”56 Thus, “the importance of ethnicity in expressions of national identity are waning.”57

54

Ibid., 29.

Ibid., 3.

56 Hagen Koo, “The Changing Faces of Inequality in South Korea in the Age of Globalization,” Korean Studies 31, no. 1 (2008): 1–18, doi:10.1353/ks.2008.0018.

57 Campbell, South Korea’s New Nationalism, 3.

55

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Out of this new national identity comes the fear and opposition of reunification. Young South Koreans today argue that reunification could be costly, and if united, North Koreans could rob them of their chances at getting jobs. Smith would argue that these arguments “merely reflect concerns about the financial, political, and social instability that unification” might bring, but the ethnie is still strong and present enough to bring consolidation.58 But Campbell’s research suggests that changing views of North Korea have made South Koreans see themselves as a separate group. One factor in this change is the spread of mass media. Before, it was easy for South Koreans to “imagine” themselves as identical to their northern brethren. They had, of course, been part of one nation. But as decades of malnutrition and separation progressed, North Koreans started to look and speak differently. In one particular interview, Campbell recalls a student feeling surprised at how differently North Koreans looked compared to southerners.59 Differences in language have also been brought up as a justification for why unification would be difficult. The North Korean language, often called Joseonmal, or language of Joseon, is an older form of Korean that was used during the last dynasty. Because of its isolationist character, the Korean language in the DPRK has changed little, if at all. In South Korea, advertisement signs are often written in a mixture of Hangeul and English, Chinese, or Japanese.

Loan words from foreign countries have made its way into the vernacular, and it is hard to find a South Korean that speaks pure Korean.60 This has made communication hard for the two Koreas.

South Korea’s incorporation of foreign words into the Korean language is another factor that has led South Koreans to form a new identity. They see themselves as more global and progressive in terms of language and thought, while North Koreans are seen as “backwards.” North Korean

58

Ibid., 57.

Ibid., 63.

60 Ibid., 60.

59

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defectors often speak of the hardships they endure after becoming South Korean citizens. They often complain about not fitting in, whether due to appearance, fashion, or speech. Defectors are also amazed at South Korea’s obsession with money and material possessions. Because they come from a country with no excess materials, the North Koreans have a hard time adapting to the capitalist lifestyle.61 The South Korean government offers training and classes on how to survive in the country, and interestingly enough, the defectors are taught how to achieve middleclass lives. But even for South Koreans this is a hard task to accomplish, as many struggle to obtain high paying jobs and prices on housing continue to grow exponentially.62 If it is hard for a South Korean to obtain this lifestyle, there is no doubt that a North Korean defector who looks different and speaks in a strange accent will only struggle more. These differences in lifestyle, fashion, and mindset have all been factors at further separating the two groups.

Conclusion The Korean case seems to contradict Gellner’s definition of nationalism as two different political entities ruling over one seemingly collective ethnic group. However, as the two halves of the Korean peninsula progress, their cultures and senses of identity are diverging. The ethnic nationalism based on centuries of shared history and culture has manifested in different ways after the Korean War. While this collective identity has been prominent in North Korea and predemocratic South Korea, today a new identity has arisen in the ROK. Globalization and materialism have taken over the ethnic rhetoric that was once the foundation of a unitary Korean nation. The isipdae of South Korea today have a hard time seeing themselves tied to their

61

Roy Richard Grinker, Korea and Its Futures: Unification and the Unifinished War (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998), 243–45.

62 Emma Campbell, “The End of Ethnic Nationalism? Changing Conceptions of National Identity and Belonging among Young South Koreans,” Nations and Nationalism 21, no. 3 (2015): 498, doi:10.1111/nana.12120.

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northern neighbor. Not only have appearances and languages diverged, but mindsets and identities have shifted. This change in identity of the young generation in South Korea complicates reunification movements, as they no longer feel tied to their ethnic family. The ethnic foundation that has built the Korean nation has given way to the modern mindset of success in education, work, and other social experiences. Authorities must take into account this new nationalist identity of the isipdae when discussing reunification. While this new nationalism makes it easier for non-Koreans to join the South Korean nation, it is only a matter of whether the North Korean people and government are willing to change their longstanding belief in being the “pure” race.

Works Cited Asian Development Bank (ADB). The Saemaul Undong Movement in the Republic of Korea: Sharing Knowledge on Community-Driven Development. Mandaluyong City, PH: ADB, 2012. www.adb.org/sites/default/files/publication/29881/saemaul-undong-movementkorea.pdf. movement-korea.pdf.

Campbell, Emma. South Korea’s New Nationalism: The End of “One Korea”? Boulder: First Forum Press, 2016. _____. “The End of Ethnic Nationalism? Changing Conceptions of National Identity and Belonging among Young South Koreans.” Nations and Nationalism 21, no. 3 (2015): 483– 502. doi:10.1111/nana.12120.

Cartwright, Mark. “Ancient Korea.” Ancient History Encyclopedia, n.d. www.ancient.eu/Korea/#references (accessed November 30, 2018).

Cumings, Bruce G., Donald M. Seekins, Joseph S. Chung, Pan Suk Kim, and Guy A. Arrigoni.

North Korea: A Country Study. Edited by Robert L. Worden. Washington, D.C.: Library of Congress, 2008.

Gabroussenko, Tatiana. “Ethnic Nationalism and Internationalism in the North Korean Worldview.” In Race and Racism in Modern East Asia, vol. 2, Interactions, Nationalism, Gender and Lineage, edited by Rotem Kowner and Walter Demel, 413–36. Leiden: Brill, 2015.

Gellner, Ernest. Nations and Nationalism. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing Ldt., 2006.

Grinker, Roy Richard. Korea and Its Futures: Unification and the Unifinished War. New York: 158

St. Martin’s Press, 1998.

Hobsbawm, Eric. Nations and Nationalism since 1780. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1990.

Koo, Hagen. “The Changing Faces of Inequality in South Korea in the Age of Globalization.”

Korean Studies 31, no. 1 (2008): 1–18. doi:10.1353/ks.2008.0018.

“Korea as a Colony of Japan, 1910-1945.” Asia for Educators, Columbia University. tp://afe.easia.columbia.edu/main_pop/kpct/kp_koreaimperialism.htm (accessed November 30, 2018).

Lee, Ki-Baek. A New History of Korea. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987.

Myers, B. R. “North Korea’s State-Loyalty Advantage.” Journal of International Affairs 65, no.

1 (2011): 147–61. _____. The Cleanest Race: How North Koreans See Themselves – And Why It Matters.

Brooklyn: Melville House, 2010.

Park, Sang Mi. “The Paradox of Postcolonial Korean Nationalism: State-Sponsored Cultural Policy in South Korea, 1965-Present.” Journal of Korean Studies 15, no. 1 (2010): 67–93. doi:10.1353/jks.2010.0002.

Seo, Joong-Seok. Korean Nationalism Betrayed. Folkestone, UK: Global Oriental, 2007.

Shin, Gi-Wook. Ethnic Nationalism in Korea. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005. _____, James Freda, and Gihong Yi. “The Politics of Ethnic Nationalism in Divided Korea.”

Nations and Nationalism 5, no. 4 (1999): 465–84.

Smith, Anthony. National Identity. Las Vegas: University of Nevada Press, 1990.

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Gazettes, Guevara, and Government Repression: Uruguay, 1968* Will Runion Abstract The year 1968 brought unprecedented unrest to the streets of Uruguay. Students and workers finally took to the streets after a decade of political, academic, and economic strain, and the government met them with violent force. Eventually, the government’s tactics worked and quelled the student movement. The timing of Uruguay’s student movement was not a coincidence. Many similar movements across the world in countries like France, Mexico, and the United States also peaked in 1968. Uruguayan newspapers reported heavily on these other movements and their successes. Uruguayan students also participated in international student organizations, which helped to unify students around the world in their fight for change. Finally, the recent death of Che Guevara in 1967 and the legacy he left behind were still fresh in Uruguayan students’ minds. These factors combined to spur Uruguayan students to rise up in response to their discontent. The student movement of 1968 in Uruguay remains important today. Though the movement failed, the leftist Tupamaros guerrilla group continued the fight against the government after 1968. The left-wing Frente Amplio party, which today controls the Uruguayan government, and was led by President José Mujica, a former member of the Tupamaros, from 2010–15. Uruguay remains one of the last examples of the New Left that rose out of 1968 in an increasingly right-leaning region of the world.

Introduction “In Germany, France, Italy, the United States, Spain, also in Poland and Czechoslovakia, the youth, especially the students, are rebelling,” begins the feature article in the May 17, 1968 edition of La Marcha, a weekly, national, left-leaning publication in Uruguay.1 Uruguay itself could also have been included in that list. In 1968, student protests and violent government repression dominated Uruguay—just like many other countries in the world. The conflict between protesting students and the government came to a head with the fatal shooting of student Liber Arce by police on August 12.2 This killing unleashed more waves of lethal violence and

*

I would like to give special acknowledgements to the Biblioteca Nacional de Uruguay for their assistance in providing local news publications from 1968 and to Dr. Ronnie Grinberg for her guidance in developing this essay.

1 “La Imagen de los Desesperados,” La Marcha, May 17, 1968, 5.

2 Vania Markarian, María Eugenia Jung, and Isabel Wschebor, 1968: La Insurgencia Estudiantil, (Montevideo: Universidad de la República, 2008), 103.

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repression that eventually led to the dissipation of the student movement by the end of the year.3 Where did this violence originate? In the decade leading up to 1968, Uruguay had faced dramatic political shifts, a struggling economy with large inflation, and increasingly unmet university needs as the population of students grew and became more diverse.4 Although these tensions had developed over several years, they exploded in 1968. International influence on Uruguay in 1968 aggravated economic discontent, strict government policies, and an inadequate university system into student protests and violent government repression. Coverage of international events by Uruguayan press, the influence of international student organizations, and the legacy of Che Guevara all galvanized the Uruguayan student movement in 1968. Fifty years later, the impact of this movement can still be felt: Uruguay remains one of the last successful left-wing governments in Latin America, and the Frente Amplio party currently in power includes former members of the Tupamaro guerrilla group that was active in 1968.

Timeline of the 1968 Movement Tensions in Uruguay began as early as 1958. Near the beginning of the year, Uruguay’s government passed a new law to reform the University of the Republic of Uruguay, the national public university in the country. This law, called the Organic Law, allowed for faculty, alumni, and student input in the governing of the university. Just a couple of months later, the country held a presidential election. For the first time in ninety-four years, the moderate Colorado party was defeated by the right-wing Partido Nacional. This shift in power demonstrated that the

3

Ibid., 104.

Jeffrey L. Gould, “Solidarity Under Siege: The Latin American Left, 1968,” The American Historical Review 114, no. 2 (2009): 354.

4

161

people of Uruguay were ready for a change.5 As the sixties progressed, the new leadership of the Partido Nacional implemented many political and economic changes while increasing anticommunist rhetoric.6 Also in 1958, devaluation in Uruguay’s major exports of beef and wool marked the beginning of economic struggles in the country. By the end of 1967, annual inflation had risen to 135 percent.7 During the 1960s, the population of students attending the University of the Republic increased. Following the passage of the new Organic Law, university officials were in the process of attempting to reform the university to meet the current needs of students by expanding programs and revising curricula. However, the economic crisis and political situation in the country did not help with the implementation of the university reform. The inability to reconcile the needs of the university with the needs of the country ended up leading many to believe that a radical change was necessary.8 In 1968, students began to act on this need for change.

The movement for change in Uruguay took off in May of 1968. La Marcha reported that on Wednesday, May 15, 200,000 government employees marched to demand better pay.9 On the same day, La Marcha reported that students marched to protest a raise in bus ticket prices.10 These protests were met with violent repression. Over the months of June and July, public outrage increased, and the government cracked down more severely as President Jorge Pacheco began to implement “Prompt Security Measures.” These measures banned union meetings, strikes, and demonstrations. They also censored the press, even closing certain media outlets.11

5

Carlos Quijano, “La Universidad es el País,” in 1968: La Insurgencia Estudiantil, ed. Vania Markarian, María Eugenia Jung, and Isabel Wschebor (Montevideo: Universidad de la República, 2008), 136.

6 Markarian, Jung, and Wschebor, La Insurgencia Estudiantil, 96.

7 Gould, “Solidarity Under Siege,” 354.

8 Markarian, Jung, and Wschebor, La Insurgencia Estudiantil, 15.

9 Carlos Bañales, “El Conflicto en la Administración Pública,” La Marcha, May 17, 1968, 11.

10 “Lineales en la Calle,” La Marcha, May 17, 1968, 12.

11 Gould, “Solidarity Under Siege,” 355.

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With these new measures, police now had the authority to escalate their response to student protests. La Gaceta de la Universidad, the University of the Republic of Uruguay’s student newspaper, reported that on July 18 police shot at a student protest near the university, injuring five.12 In July, students of the architecture school of the University of the Republic were shot at and gassed by police in response to a student protest. Ten students were reportedly injured by bullets in this attack.13 Police were no longer afraid to take the fight to the university, and violence was becoming a commonplace response to protests.

In August, the conflict between police and students reached a critical point. On August 9, police raided the University of the Republic, seriously violating the University’s constitutional right of autonomy from the government. This right meant that the government (including the police) could not interfere with the university or take action on its campus. During the August 9 raid, the police destroyed large amounts of furniture and supplies.14 As reported by La Gaceta, the police also planted evidence to indicate that the students of the university were violent insurgents, even trying to argue that ordinary, empty bottles were supplies to construct Molotov cocktails.15 A few days after the raid, police fatally shot student Liber Arce on August 12. In his death, Liber Arce became “the first victim of this official violence.”16 His death shocked the nation of Uruguay. After decades of relative peace, the idea that the police could kill a student was unfathomable. As one protester put it, “In Uruguay, you just thought that sort of thing was impossible.”17 La Gaceta described the effects of Liber Arce’s death: “The era of the bullet and grenade had begun.”18 Violence became a daily occurrence, and the number of those injured or 12

“La Era de la Bala y la Granada,” Gaceta de la Universidad, August 1968, 12.

Markarian, Jung, and Wschebor, La Insurgencia Estudiantil, 101.

14 “Libertad y Autonomía,” Gaceta de la Universidad, August 1968, 2.

15 “El ‘Arsenal’ de la Universidad,” Gaceta de la Universidad, August 1968, 8.

16 “La Era de la Bala y la Granada,” 12.

17 Gould, “Solidarity Under Siege,” 356.

18 “La Era de la Bala y la Granada,” 12.

13

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killed as a result of this violence continued to rise. Eventually, the government’s repressive tactics were successful, and the student movement died down by the end of the year.

After 1968, a left-wing guerrilla group called the Tupamaros became especially active in fighting the Uruguayan government. They ran campaigns of bombings, bank robberies, and kidnappings of political figures throughout the early 1970s.19 In 2009, former Tupamaro José Mujica was elected President of Uruguay. He represented the Frente Amplio political party, which had many other former Tupamaros as members.20 Mujica was elected along with a wave of our left-wing leaders in Latin America including Chávez in Venezuela, Lula in Brazil, Kirchner in Argentina, and Morales in Bolivia.21 Now, with the election of right-wing leaders in the United States of America and Brazil and the deterioration of other leftist governments in Venezuela and Nicaragua, the government of Uruguay remains as not only one of the few successful governments from the recent wave of left-wing leaders in the Americas but also one of the last examples of the New Left of the 1960s. Clearly, the events in Uruguay in 1968 are still significant to this day. The question persists, however, as to what caused all this unrest and violence to boil over specifically in 1968 after a decade of tensions in the country.

Media Coverage of Student Movements The global wave of movements in 1968 inspired each other and spurred Uruguayans to action. Mass movements spreading from one country to the next were not unprecedented before 1968. As reported in La Marcha’s May 17, 1968 issue, in 1918 “one of the most important mass student movements in Latin America” began in Córdoba, Argentina with the goal of university

19

Lindsey Churchill, Becoming the Tupamaros: Solidarity and Transnational Revolutionaries in Uruguay and the United States (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 2014), 20.

20 Ibid., 155.

21 Ibid., 156.

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reform. This movement spread from Argentina to Mexico, Cuba, Brazil, Peru, and Uruguay.22 In 1918, these Latin American countries were moved to action by their neighbors. In 1968, the countries of Latin America now had experience in the power of a synchronized movement.

Students in Uruguay were inspired by other movements in Latin America and other regions of the world to rise to action.

The influential weekly newspaper La Marcha often used large amounts of its publications in 1968 to discuss the notable events and movements in other countries. The May 17 issue of La Marcha mentioned all the countries in which students rebelled that year: “Germany, France, Italy, the United States . . . ”23 Another article described election conflicts in Panama, the Dominican Republic, and Great Britain.24 A third article in this issue described “student power” in the United States, and how members of the organization Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) “liberated” campus buildings in protest.25 The October 17 issue of La Marcha focused heavily on the Mexican student movement and described how students “heroically defended” the National Polytechnic Institute from police occupation.26 According to the article, if PRI (the political party then in power in Mexico, which like Uruguay’s Colorado party had been ruling for an extended period) did not realize the power of the student movement in time, the party would not survive.27 This article asserted the power of the students by stating that they could cause the downfall of an entire political party. By reporting so heavily on these international movements, La Marcha emphasized their importance and the integration of Uruguay into the international

22

Alberto Ciria, “´Poder Estudiantil´ en EEUU,” La Marcha, May 17, 1968, 19.

“La Imágen de los Desesperados,” La Marcha, May 17, 1968, 5.

24 “Variaciones sobre un Mismo Tema: El Electoral,” La Marcha, May 17, 1968, 14.

25 Ciria, “’Poder Estudiantil’ en EEUU,” 19.

26 Ted-Cordova Claure, “Mexico: Una Revolución Traicionada,” La Marcha, October 11, 1968, 19.

27 Ibid., 19.

23

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community. La Marcha portrayed these other student movements as powerful and capable of causing country-wide change. Uruguayan students were listening.

Nations around the world were even more connected in 1968 than they were during the mass movement of 1918. The May 17 issue of La Marcha described how the movements were now “so disseminated by the press and television.”28 Students in Uruguay took advantage of this availability of news on protests in France, the United States, Brazil, and other countries around the world. According to Jeffrey L. Gould, “These protests legitimized their own and fed into a sense of impending world revolution.”29 Like never before, students in Uruguay were able to hear about others like them fighting for change all around the world. This television and newspaper coverage inspired students in Uruguay to create their own movement.

Support from International Students and University Leaders University leaders in Uruguay and other Latin American countries also fed students the idea of an international movement. In 1968, the rector of the University of the Republic, Óscar Maggiolo, spoke about “the wave of dissatisfaction that travels the world.”30 In his speech, the leader of the university was calling attention to the international significance of the Uruguayan movement. It was not an isolated event, but part of a worldwide wave. Rector Maggiolo was commending the students for their efforts to create change. Additionally, after the Uruguayan police assaulted the University of the Republic, rectors from other Latin American universities in Venezuela, Peru, and Bolivia sent messages of support to the Uruguayan university condemning

28

Ciria, “´Poder Estudiantil’ en EEUU,” 19.

Gould, “Solidarity Under Siege,” 352.

30 Óscar Maggiolo, “A Liber Arce, Estudiante Fallecido en Defensa de las Libertades,” in 1968: La Insurgencia Estudiantil, ed. Vania Markarian, María Eugenia Jung, and Isabel Wschebor (Montevideo: Universidad de la República, 2008), 130.

29

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the actions of the police.31 These messages of international support once again encouraged the Uruguayan students to continue the fight and linked their movement even more strongly to the global wave of revolution.

Student organizations in Uruguay were closely involved with other student organizations around the world. As the university population in Uruguay grew throughout the 1960s, the most prominent student organization, the Federation of University Students of Uruguay (FEUU), benefitted from a growth in membership.32 With growing numbers, the FEUU took on an active role in domestic and international politics. In 1966, the FEUU sent representatives to Havana, Cuba to help found the Latin American Continental Organization of Students.33 In 1968, students from the Association of Fine Arts of the University of the Republic of Uruguay issued a declaration applauding the French student movement and its ideals. They specifically mentioned the importance of the International Union of Students and the Coordinating Secretariat of National Student Unions, two international student organizations active in 1968, in supporting student movements around the world.34 A strong international student infrastructure was present in 1968 that helped students in different nations to inspire and support each other. Youth in Uruguayan student organizations were intimately involved with these international student organizations.

The Legacy of Che Guevara Perhaps the most prominent example of the force of the international movement in 1968 was the influence of Che Guevara. Born in Argentina, Che was involved in revolutionary

31

“Apoyo LatinoĂĄmericano a Nuestra Universidad,â€? Gaceta de la Universidad, August 1968, 15.

Markarian, Jung, and Wschebor, La Insurgencia Estudiantil, 98.

33 Ibid.

34 Ibid., 109.

32

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movements all over Latin America, including the Cuban Revolution. Che was killed in Bolivia in October 1967. As prominent as Che was during his life leading radical revolutions, it was his legacy after his death that was truly important. According to Gordon H. McCormick, Che’s “power and influence over others increased dramatically after he was gone.”35 His legacy represented the struggle of the common person against oppression and inspired people to fight for “national liberation.”36 In life, Che wanted to lead nations to radical revolutions. In death, he inspired people to take over their own nations and to resist repression by their governments.

Because he spent his life working in Latin America, Che Guevara was especially important in this region. On the one-year anniversary of his death, students marched in Chile, Colombia, Brazil, Ecuador, Bolivia, and Argentina.37 These widespread protests demonstrate just how significant Che was to the youth of Latin America. He clearly had an important role in inspiring the movements of Latin America, and the movement in Uruguay was no exception.

Uruguayan publications during 1968 often mentioned the importance of Che Guevara and his legacy. At one point, La Marcha reported that students of the University of the Republic even wanted to name a classroom after him.38 In the article “Las Tareas del Che” (literally “Che’s Homework”), published in the October 11 issue of La Marcha, the author states that the next era of Che is after his death, as he leaves a revolutionary guide for the world.39 A poem entitled “Historia,” published in the same issue, states that Che “continues here and this is his war and we have to continue it without more excuses.”40 These texts support McCormick’s idea that Che’s legacy transcended his death and motivated people to continue the mission that this legendary 35

Gordon H. McCormick, “Che Guevara: The Legacy of a Revolutionary Man,” World Policy Journal 14, no. 4 (1997), 63.

36 Ibid., 64.

37 “A un año del asesinato del Che,” La Marcha, October 11, 1968, 20.

38 “Martes: Homenaje al Che,” La Marcha, May 31, 1968, 4.

39 Carlos Maria Gutierrez, “Las Tareas del Che,” La Marcha, October 11, 1968, 30.

40 Hiber Conteris, “Historia,” La Marcha, October 11, 1968, 31.

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figure had started. The language used in these news publications paints Che in a positive light and shows his popularity in Uruguay, especially among students. These publications inspired readers to continue fighting for Che’s ideals of popular control of a country and national liberation from repressive entities. The ideals of Che can be seen in the students’ increasing resistance to the Pacheco administration’s Prompt Security Measures. Students in Uruguay wanted freedom and the ability to advocate for their beliefs. The image of Che Guevara was a strong factor in bringing the Uruguayan students to protest in 1968.

Conclusion It was not just coincidence that Uruguay saw such widespread protests and police repression in 1968 after ten years of political, academic, and economic tensions. The global movement of 1968 was the spark that Uruguayans needed to act on their discontent. The importance of the global movement to Uruguay is evident. Uruguayan newspapers constantly reported on movements in other nations, especially those of France, the United States, and Mexico. Articles spoke positively of these movements and of the power of the students.

Additionally, Uruguayan student organizations such as the FEUU were involved with international student organizations. The integration of the FEUU into the global movement gave student leaders in Uruguay the knowledge to be able to fuel their own movement. Finally, Che Guevara provided a powerful driving energy to Uruguayan youth. With his death just the year before, Che’s actions and legacy were fresh on the minds of the people of Latin America.

Students thought positively of him, and discourse about the importance of continuing his revolutionary fight was common. It is because of the reporting by Uruguayan press on international events, the international involvement of Uruguayan student organizations, and the

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influence of Che Guevara on Latin America that a decade of tension finally erupted into conflict in Uruguay in 1968.

The effects of 1968 are still evident in Uruguay fifty years later. The Frente Amplio party created by former Tupamaro members is currently in control of the nation’s government, while other left-wing parties in the Americas continue to lose power. With Uruguay’s next presidential elections coming up in October of this year, the events of 1968 become especially important. The question remains whether the nation continue its leftist tradition or instead elect a right-wing leader—a change that would follow the larger international trends of the time, much like the students did back in 1968 when they were spurred to protest.

Works Cited “Apoyo Latinoámericano a Nuestra Universidad.” Gaceta de la Universidad, August 1968, 15.

“El ‘Arsenal’ de la Universidad.” Gaceta de la Universidad, August 1968, 8.

“A un año del asesinato del Che.” La Marcha, October 11, 1968, 20.

Bañales, Carlos. “El Conflicto en la Administración Pública.” La Marcha, May 17, 1968, 11.

Churchill, Lindsey. Becoming the Tupamaros: Solidarity and Transnational Revolutionaries in Uruguay and the United States. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 2014.

Ciria, Alberto. “´Poder Estudiantil´ en EEUU.” La Marcha, May 17, 1968, 19.

Claure, Ted-Cordova. “México: Una Revolución Traicionada.” La Marcha, October 11, 1968, 19.

Conteris, Hiber. “Historia.” La Marcha, October 11,1968, 31.

“La Era de la Bala y la Granada.” Gaceta de la Universidad, August 1968, 12.

Federación de Estudiantes del Uruguay. “La FEUU Condena la Intervención” (1968). In 1968: La Insurgencia Estudiantil, edited by Vania Markarian, María Eugenia Jung, and Isabel Wschebor, 143–45. Montevideo: Universidad de la República, 2008.

Gould, Jeffrey L. “Solidarity Under Siege: The Latin American Left, 1968.” The American Historical Review 114, no. 2 (2009): 348–75.

Gutierrez, Carlos Maria, “Las Tareas del Che.” La Marcha, October 11, 1968, 30.

“La Imagen de los Desesperados.” La Marcha, May 17, 1968, 5.

“Libertad y Autonomía.” Gaceta de la Universidad, August 1968, 2.

“Lineales en la Calle.” La Marcha, May 17, 1968, 12.

Maggiolo, Óscar. “A Liber Arce, Estudiante Fallecido en Defensa de las Libertades” (1968). In 1968: La Insurgencia Estudiantil, edited by Vania Markarian, María Eugenia Jung, and Isabel Wschebor, 130–34. Montevideo: Universidad de la República, 2008.

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Markarian, Vania, Maria Eugenia Jung, and Isabel Wschebor. 1968: La Insurgencia Estudiantil.

Montevideo: Universidad de la República, 2008.

“Martes: Homenaje al Che.” La Marcha, May 31, 1968, 4.

McCormick, Gordon H. “Che Guevara: The Legacy of a Revolutionary Man.” World Policy Journal 14, no. 4 (1997): 63–79.

Quijano, Carlos. “La Universidad es el País” (1968). In 1968: La Insurgencia Estudiantil, edited

by Vania Markarian, María Eugenia Jung, and Isabel Wschebor, 135–39. Montevideo: Universidad de la República, 2008.

“Variaciones sobre un Mismo Tema: El Electoral.” La Marcha, May 17, 1968, 14.

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About the Contributors Annapoorani Asokan graduated Summa Cum Laude from the University of Oklahoma in May 2019 with a Bachelor of Arts in History and a minor in the Medical Humanities. While studying at OU she was an officer for the Honors Student Association, researched in a biochemistry lab, and recruited high school students as a Student Ambassador. Upon graduation, she joined UT Southwestern School of Medicine in Dallas, TX. She hopes to use her experience with the humanities to become a more compassionate physician.

Matthew Bray is part of the University of Oklahoma Class of 2020. He majors in meteorology and mathematics, with a minor in history. While at OU, Matthew has been involved with the Honors Student Association and has performed research with the School of Meteorology. Upon graduating, he hopes to obtain a doctorate in meteorology and pursue a career in atmospheric research Cecilia Cain is part of the BA/MA accelerated program at the College of International & Area Studies. In May 2020 she is expected to receive her Master's of Global Studies with a concentration in Global Security. Her junior year at OU, she spent a year at the Universidad de Guanajuato, Mexico, where she studied Political Science. After graduation, Cecilia will work with the Peace Corps in Latin America.

Anne DeLong graduated Summa Cum Laude from the University of Oklahoma in spring 2019 with a Bachelor of Arts in International and Area Studies and a Minor in French. Her extracurricular involvement at OU includes serving as Peer Mentor for the New International Student Orientation, working as a Research assistant for the Honors College, and volunteering with Student Heroes to raise awareness for the rape-kit backlog. As a member of the Global Engagement Fellowship, she studied abroad in Bhutan, South Asia and will travel to Spain and Morocco to study diaspora communities. After graduation, she hopes to continue her work on promoting gender equality and progressive policy in the state of Oklahoma that began while interning at Sally's List.

Joni Keaton is currently in her senior year at the University of Oklahoma, pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Ballet Performance and a Bachelor of Arts in International Studies with a concentration in the Middle East. She is a member of the OU Global Engagement Fellowship and has worked as an associate editor for Danesh: The OU Undergraduate Journal of Iranian Studies. She has also interned for the Israel Education Center and is an active member of Hillel.

After graduation she plans to pursue a career as a professional dancer, and later aspires to work as a diplomat in the state department.

Kayleigh Kuyon graduated Summa Cum Laude from the University of Oklahoma in May 2019 with a Bachelor of Arts in International Studies, a Bachelor of Arts in Public and Nonprofit Administration, and a minor in Arabic. She is a member of the Arabic Flagship Program and the Fellowship for Global Engagement. For the past two years, she was also a Co-Editor-In-Chief of Danesh, OU’s Undergraduate Journal of Iranian Studies. Kayleigh began attending Berkeley Law in the Fall of 2019 to receive a J.D. 172

Han Pham graduated Magna Cum Laude from the University of Oklahoma in the fall of 2018 with a Bachelor of Arts in international and Area Studies. While at OU, she was a member of the Global Engagement Fellowship working to spread cultural awareness and completed two study aboard programs in South Korea. After graduation, she returned to Tulsa, Oklahoma and is looking into graduate programs to further her education in International Studies and Korea.

Will Runion is a St. Louis native currently in his junior year studying Spanish and biology at the University of Oklahoma. He is a Global Engagement Fellow and recently finished a semester abroad at the OU in Puebla study center. On campus, he is a member of the OU Cousins Advisory Board and Student Healthcare Outreach which raises money for the free medical clinic Manos Juntas in Oklahoma City where he volunteers as a translator on the weekends. He also works in the biochemistry lab of Dr. Susan J. Schroeder. Will plans to graduate in May of 2021 and continue on to medical school.

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