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Internationales
Asienforum
International Quarterly for Asian Studies
Editorial Board
Claudia Derichs, Jörn Dosch,
Conrad Schetter, Uwe Skoda
Advisory Board
Hans-Dieter Evers, Solvay Gerke,
Michael von Hauff, Thomas Heberer,
Hermann Kulke, Gudula Linck, Jakob Rösel
Editorial Manager
Ann-Elisabeth Philipp
ARNOLD
BERGSTRAESSER
INSTITUT
ARNOLD
BERGSTRAESSER
INSTITUT
INTERNATIONALES ASIENFORUM is a forum for multidisciplinary research
on current and historical topics relevant to politics, economics and society in
contemporary Asia. It seeks to make the results of social science research on
Asia known to a broader public beyond the circle of regional specialists and
to provide a solid and informed basis for the public discourse about Asia.
The contributions in either English or German are intended for a public that is
aware that the regions and cultures of the world have always been interlinked
and, thus, need to be understood in relation to one other. Submitted manuscripts are peer-reviewed anonymously by external reviewers and members
of the editorial or advisory board; the acceptance or rejection of manuscripts
is finally decided at the board’s annual meeting.
INTERNATIONALES ASIENFORUM is published by the Arnold-BergstraesserInstitute at the University of Freiburg. It was founded by Detlef Kantowsky and
Alois Graf von Waldburg-Zeil in 1970.
Articles appearing in this journal are abstracted and indexed in Historical
Abstracts and/or America: History and Life; International Political Science
Abstracts; World Agricultural Economics and Rural Sociology Abstracts
(WAERSA); Rural Development Abstracts (RDA); Leisure, Recreation and
Tourism Abstracts (LRTA); EBSCO Academic Search Premier and ProQuest
Information and Learning.
Internationales
Asienforum
Number 3–4
Volume 46
Autumn 2015
Articles
Southeast Asia
The Dynamics of Social Change in Cambodia. Moving away from
Traditionalism?
229
MARKUS KARBAUM
Cambodia at a Crossroads. The Narratives of Cambodia National
Rescue Party Supporters after the 2013 Elections
261
ASTRID NOREN-NILSSON
between ASEAN and China. Two-level Games in Trade
Relations Between
and Security
279
JÖRN DOSCH
Sharia Law and the Politics of “Faith Control” in Brunei Darussalam.
Dynamics of Socio-Legal Change in a Southeast Asian Sultanate
313
DOMINIK M. MÜLLER
The Kachin of Myanmar. An Approach to a Complex Political and
Social History
347
DAGMAR HELLMANN-RAJANAYAGAM / SASCHA HELBARDT
Reviews
Peter Oborne, Wounded Tiger. A History of Cricket in Pakistan
(Anthony V.M. Horton)
Franz-Josef Vollmer / Friederike Weis, Angels and Madonnas in Islam.
Mughal and other Oriental Miniatures in the Vollmer Collection
(Tilman Lüdke)
Ute Falasch, Heiligkeit und Mobilität. Die Madāriyya Sufibruderschaft
und ihr Gründer Badī‘ al-Dīn Shāh Madār in Indien, 15.–19. Jahrhundert (Jürgen Wasim Frembgen)
Michael Mann, South Asia’s Modern History. Thematic Perspectives
(Manju Ludwig)
Anita Ghai, Rethinking Disability in India (Anna-Lena Wolf)
379
381
383
385
386
Gary Jonathan Bass, The Blood Telegram. Nixon, Kissinger and a Forgotten Genocide;
Namrata Goswami, Just War Theory and India’s Intervention in East
Pakistan, 1971;
Srinath Raghavan, 1971. A Global History of the Creation of Bangladesh
(Wolfgang-Peter Zingel)
Mirjam Weiberg-Salzmann, Die Dekonstruktion der Demokratie durch
die Kultur. Der Bürgerkrieg auf Sri Lanka;
Eva Gerharz, The Politics of Reconstruction and Development in Sri
Lanka. Transnational Commitments to Social Change
(Dagmar Hellmann-Rajanayagam)
Robert Heuser, Grundriss der Geschichte und Modernisierung des chinesischen Rechts. (Harro
(Harro von
von Senger)
Senger)
Carsten Herrmann-Pillath, Wachstum, Macht und Ordnung. Eine wirtschaftspolitische Auseinandersetzung mit China (Thomas Heberer)
Liza Wing Man Kam, Reconfiguration of “the Stars and the Queen”.
A Quest for the Interrelationship between Architecture and Civic
Awareness in Post-colonial Hong Kong (Subrata K. Mitra)
Lee Hyun Su, Die letzte Gisaeng (Albrecht Rothacher)
Masao Maruyama, Freiheit und Nation in Japan. Ausgewählte Aufsätze
1936–1949 (Albrecht Rothacher)
Momoyo Hüstebeck, Dezentralisierung in Japan. Politische Autonomie
und Partizipation auf Gemeindebene (Ralph Lützeler)
Daniel Bultmann, Inside Cambodian Insurgency. A Sociological Perspective on Civil Wars and Conflict (Thomas Kolnberger)
John Monfries, A Prince in a Republic. The Life of Sultan Hamengku
Buwono IX of Yogyakarta (Anthony V.M. Horton)
388
393
398
400
403
405
407
412
414
416
Conference Reports
Dynamic Alignments and Dealignments in Global Southeast Asia
(Anna Fünfgeld / Gerrit Gonschorek)
Scales of Knowledge: Zooming In and Zooming Out. 7th Annual Conference of the Cluster of Excellence “Asia and Europe in a Global
Context” (Georges Jacoby)
The Art of Hubbing: The Role of Small Islands in Indian Ocean Connectivity (Boris Wille)
Teacher Education in Afghanistan Challenges and Prospects
(Anne-Marie Grundmeier / Diana Sahrai / Fereschta Sahrai)
419
425
429
434
Authors
438
Inhaltsverzeichnis / Contents, Vol. 46 (2015)
441
Internationales Asienforum, Vol. 46 (2015), No. 3–4, pp. 229–259
The Dynamics of Social Change in Cambodia
Moving away from Traditionalism?
MARKUS KARBAUM*
Abstract
Despite enormous exogenous influence since the early 1990s and considerable
changes caused by the economic rebound, Cambodian society still appears largely
traditional and has taken only limited steps towards modernization. Although the
motivation of the current regime – maintaining its hegemony – does not offer incentives for the evolution of modern attitudes, perceptions and behavior, the impact of a
change in government would not be sufficient for a general shift. Instead, the level
of education, likely to continue to improve, has already had a noticeable positive effect
on attitudes toward a more modern way of life. By analyzing quantitative and
qualitative data, the author examines the evolvement of religion, family cohesion,
gender roles and equality, the hierarchic social order, economics, and politics to find
evidence for the dynamics of Cambodian society.
Keywords
Cambodia, Modernization, Transformation, Values, Society
1. Introduction
Since the Second World War, Cambodia has suffered more than most from
global change. The proxy war in Indochina and a totalitarian ideology
picked up by some Khmer students in Paris resulted in a bloody civil war
from the 1960s to 1975 (Kiernan 1985) and afterwards in the infamous
terror regime of the Khmer Rouge (Kiernan 1996). After Vietnamese
occupation in the 1980s, most parties to the Cambodian conflict agreed to
stop fighting and to establish a democratic regime with general elections,
separation of powers, and individual liberty rights. Since then, there has been
tremendous change: Cambodia’s population more than doubled between
* MARKUS KARBAUM, consultant and lecturer; [email protected]. The
author appreciates the useful suggestions for revision made by two anonymous
reviewers.
230
Markus Karbaum
1986 and 2012, and life expectancy rose from 46 to 66 years in the same
period. The political system, despite its dominating autocratic elements, is
quite stable after the last Khmer Rouge forces surrendered in 1998. The
economy recovered, with average annual GDP growth of 7.7 per cent between 1986 and 2012, mainly supported by a thriving garment industry since
the 1990s.
One may assume that this general development has also influenced
human attitudes and behavior. This assumption is based upon five stimulating factors. First, as a result of the economic rebound, the number of
people living under the poverty line decreased from 6.9 million in 2004 to
3.0 million in 2011 (Australian Aid / World Bank Group 2015: xv).1
Normally, with such an improvement in conditions people develop new
desires beyond basic needs (Maslow 1943). Second, beginning with the
United Nations Transitional Authority in Cambodia (UNTAC, May 1992 to
November 1993), the Kingdom of Cambodia – re-established by the constitution in 1993 – has been a hotspot of international development aid:
between 1992 and 2012, more than US$ 10 billion in official development
assistance (ODA) have flowed into the country, accompanied by thousands
of international experts and development workers bringing their own values,
beliefs, and way of living to Cambodia.
Third, compared to the 1970s and 1980s, the Khmer have increased
access to information through education, media consumption and the use of
electronic communication devices. In 2014, 96 per cent of young Cambodians (between the ages of 15 to 24) owned a mobile phone, and 92 per
cent had access to both TV and radio. By contrast, only 34 per cent accessed
the internet (UNDP 2014a: 4), and 79 per cent of those with internet access
visited Facebook at least once a month (ibid: 16). Fourth, Cambodia’s
demographic development is very positive. The median age is less than 25
years and these young people have enjoyed a much more peaceful life and
with fewer privations during socialization than their parents did decades
ago. Fifth, geographic mobility in “Cambodia’s rapid rural-urban migration
with a focus on Phnom Penh” (Asian Development Bank 2012: 11) takes
people permanently away from their villages, communes, and districts
(Ministry of Planning 2012: 9). With their new experiences, these mainly
young Cambodians also influence relatives at home. In addition, tourism
increased the connectivity to people from other countries.2
_______________
1
2
Comparable data for the 1990s are scarce and are based on “backward projection” (Ear
2012: 34).
A sixth driver of social change could be climate change, in particular regarding practices
(behavior) in the agriculture sector. Yet the dimension and concrete consequences of
231
Whereas change is obviously taking place, it is largely unexplored whether
it has also caused a change in society as expressed by changes in people’s
attitudes, perceptions and behavior and perhaps a change in values. This
article seeks to answer this question by analyzing both qualitative and
quantitative data. However, when dealing with traditionalism and modernization there are some methodological complexities which have to be tackled
at first.
2.
Methodological Approach
2.1 Traditionalism and modernization
According to Bert Hoselitz, “traditionalistic action takes place within a context in which explicit reference is made to the past history of development of
a society and to previous states of its existence” (Hoselitz 1961: 86). Hence,
traditionalism reflects on historic awareness, stable institutions (both formal
and informal), as well as widely homogenous patterns in people’s attitudes
and perceptions. The past becomes a pattern to manage the present, largely
constant and unchanged over generations, and is able to shape the character
of a society and even a whole ethnicity.
Due to stable living conditions, traditionalism in its “conceptual generality” (Apter 1967: 67ff.) was effective over centuries. However, the persistence of this “mindset” (Degele / Dries 2005: 19) was challenged by different
– although partly simultaneous – impacts: the scientific revolution, the
Enlightenment and the industrial revolution. These factors introduced new
elements such as autonomy, flexibility, and rationality. Therefore,
[…] “modernization” […] refers to the dynamic form that the age-old
process of innovation has assumed as a result of the explosive proliferation
of knowledge in recent centuries. […] “Modernization” may be defined as
the process by which historically evolved institutions are adapted to the
rapidly changing functions that reflect the unprecedented increase in
man’s knowledge […]. This process of adaption had its origins and initial
influences in the societies of Western Europe, but [these changes] have
been extended to all other societies and have resulted in a worldwide
transformation affecting all human relationships (Black 1966: 7).
Similarly, Daniel Lerner argued that modernization is “the social process of
which development is the economic component” (Lerner 1967: 21), a
definition Henry Bernstein refined: “(1) modernization is a total social process
climate change in Cambodia is unexplored and hence, it is too early to establish a direct or
indirect impact on changes within society.
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Markus Karbaum
associated with (or subsuming) economic development in terms of the
preconditions, concomitants, and consequences of the latter; (2) that this
process constitutes a ‘universal pattern’” (Bernstein 1971: 141). 3
In the 1970s, modernization theory drew increasing criticism. In particular, Dean Tipps identified numerous inconsistencies and shortcomings at
ideological, empirical and metatheoretic levels that led him to conclude that
modernization was an “illusion” (Tipps 1973: 223). In his late and global
reply, Ronald Inglehart was able to revitalize the concept by substantiating
that “there are powerful linkages between belief systems and political and
socioeconomic variables” as well as “coherent and to some extent predictable patterns of change in values and belief systems” (Inglehart 1997: 328).
By focusing his research on people’s attitudes and perceptions, he circumvented the concept’s biggest shortcoming as a universal, catch-all approach
lacking common criteria and a clear definition of the nexus of its numerous
components4 that describe a century-long, ongoing process that seems to run
non-linearly and aimlessly.
2.2 Operationalization for empirical research
Although it may seem self-evident to view tradition and modernity as diametric extremes on a one-dimensional continuum, this approach cannot
contribute to a better understanding of numerous processes bundled under
the umbrella “modernization”. To avoid conceptual arbitrariness and methodological blur, I adhere to three assumptions in this article: (1) modernization can take place anywhere, irrespective of a nation’s culture and its
stage of development; (2) modernization can be measured in its sub-dimensions only with clear statements about their initial positions and development
direction; and (3) to detect modernization, it is sufficient to provide evidence that there is a process toward modernity, irrespective of any absolute
benchmarks or normative prejudices5.
_______________
3
4
5
The relationship of these components can be regarded differently. Whereas the Marxist
school claims that “economic development determines the political and cultural characteristics of a society”, the Weberian version “claims that culture shapes economy and
political life” (Inglehart 1997: 67).
Inglehart mentions a “syndrome of changes” including “industrialization, […] urbanization, mass education, occupational specialization, bureaucratization, and communications development” (Inglehart 1997: 8).
Change, development, and modernization when used in academic debates hardly get by
without normative assumptions. Especially with regard of the evolvement of agrarian
societies into complex industrialized nation-states in the western hemisphere, the terms
imply positive and desirable processes that lead to improved living conditions for a vast
233
In this article I use Black’s definition and focus on six indicators that are
relevant for proving evidence of modernization trends in human relationships only. To generate indicators, I partly adopt Inglehart’s (1997: 42–43)
approach and assumptions.
1. Religion: In traditional societies, spirituality and transcendent beliefs
play an important role. In western countries, modernity promoted secular
attitudes. Hypotheses: To detect a modernization trend, (1) the close
relationship between state actors and the clergy breaks down, and (2)
secular institutions, attitudes and behavior become more significant than
religious values.
2. Family cohesion: Orientation and commitment to the own family, kin
and/or the clan are widespread in traditional settings. Hypothesis: In a
society with strong modernization processes, family cohesion decreases
in favor of other interpersonal ties beyond kinship relations.
3. Gender roles and equality: Most traditional societies need two-parent
families to ensure their survival. In particular women have limited access
to careers outside their home. Hypothesis: Modernization processes
favor emancipation of women that lead to new role conceptions and an
increased self-awareness of females.
4. Hierarchical social order: Traditional societies (due to linguistic and
ethnic diversity not the equivalent of nations or states) tend to be much
more homogeneous than modern societies. To ensure obedience to
cultural norms and political order, certain formal and informal institutions are necessary. Hypothesis: Hierarchical patterns in interpersonal
relationships erode in modernization processes.
5. Economics: In a traditional economy, informal arrangements such as
clientelism and patronage dominate in socio-economic exchanges.
Hypotheses: To detect a modernization trend, (1) formal trade-offs gain
significance and (2) a notion of social responsibility increases among
entrepreneurs.
majority in the long run due to, for example, higher incomes and life expectancy, increase
of production and consumption, access to education and welfare services, pluralism and
open societies, and political participation in democratic states. In this article I strictly
reject such a normative liability; therefore, I avoid any discussion about whether modernization is also desirable for Cambodia. Instead, I just use this term for structural description and analysis only.
234
Markus Karbaum
6. Politics: Traditional societies are often illiberal and/or undemocratic and
formal state institutions have low significance. Hypothesis: In modernization processes, one can expect increased significance of liberal
institutions and a growing acceptance of democratic values among both
the people and the elites.
To estimate how sustainable modernization processes in human relationships are, it is necessary to connect modernization with the assumption of
change in values, as Inglehart (1977, 2006) did. Values, analytically understood as independent variables, are qualities and characteristics that are
taken to be normatively positive. An individual who accepts certain values
perceives them as ethical and desirable. Value systems give orientation to
social groups up to complete societies and can change over time. In recent
years, scholars who predict a “convergence of values as a result of
modernization” have been challenged by those who emphasize the “persistence of traditional values despite economic and political changes”
(Inglehart / Welzel 2005: 19). However, research that seeks to substantiate
these conflicting concepts usually offers only limited evidence: Measuring
changes in values is quite complex because empirical researchers need
stable panel surveys over years or – even better – decades. In addition, given
that Karl-Heinz Hillmann (2001: 29–32) identified 17 levels with 108
eligible indicators, studies are usually limited to certain aspects of change in
values.
In consequence, any study about change in values is naturally incomplete. Moreover, representative surveys are impossible to conduct in
countries with political instability or even civil war. Therefore, studies about
change in values in Cambodia that examine quantitative data date from
19986 at the earliest and have to exclude changes in the decades before.
_______________
6
In 1997, unidentified assassinators killed at least 16 people in a demonstration of the main
opposition party. A few months later, Prime Minister Hun Sen initiated a bloody coup
d’état against his coalition partner with dozens of victims. In 1998 when parliamentary
elections were held, again dozens were killed, mainly during protests after the ballot. With
the capitulation of the last Khmer Rouge forces in their strongholds on the Thai border, an
era of violence and utmost confrontation finally ended.
235
2.3 Data
This article does not try to measure a change in values definitively because
the data to prove or disprove such assumptions are insufficient. Instead, it
wants to shed light only on current trends that can be used as a guideline for
further research projects. For this analysis in first instance I use, firstly, data
collected by the Asian Barometer Survey7 – a regional partner of the Global
Barometer Surveys – in 2008 (“Wave 2”) and 2012 (“Wave 3”). In 2008,
interviewers surveyed 1,000 voting-aged adults in all parts of Cambodia,
divided into five geographical zones (Phnom Penh, Plain Region, Tonle Sap
Region, Coastal Region and Plateau and Mountain Region) between 19
April and 5 May. In 2012, the sample was conducted between 29 February
and 21 March and increased to 1,200 interviewees ceteris paribus. Both
surveys cover numerous topics, of which “social capital”, “traditionalism”,
and “authoritarian vs. democratic values” are most relevant for this study.
The data of 2012 have been weighted to ensure an adequate urban-rural
proportion.
Following the principle of data triangulation (Denzin 1978: 340), I use
data collected in my own survey in January 2007 to provide additional
information whenever it seems appropriate and necessary. It was designed
as a stratified quota-sampling, with a sample of 1,200 individuals aged 15
and older in all provinces. Interviewees were chosen by sex, age, and
residence (for the methodology see Karbaum 2008: 85–93). Qualitative
research for this article, especially numerous expert interviews, was collected
on two field trips, in particular from October to December 2014.
3.
Social Change in Cambodia
3.1 Religion
Buddhism is the state religion; 95 per cent of the Khmer are Buddhists. It is
not an exaggeration to claim that religion has shaped “the personality and
the mentality of the Khmer people entirely” (Hansen 2004: 40). In contrast
to other countries where Theravada is practiced, in Cambodia animist
_______________
7
Data analyzed in this article were collected by the Asian Barometer Project (2005-2008
and 2010-2012; http://www.asianbarometer.org/), which was co-directed by Professors Fu
Hu and Yun-han Chu and received major funding from Taiwan’s Ministry of Education,
Academia Sinica and National Taiwan University. The Asian Barometer Project Office is
solely responsible for the data distribution. The author appreciates the assistance of the
aforementioned institutes and individuals in providing data. The views expressed herein
are the author’s own.
236
Markus Karbaum
influences are widespread. The belief in ancestral spirits and ghosts is not a
spiritual rivalry, but rather a form of coexistence and not opposed by the
Buddhist community, the sangha. Seen from a functional perspective, and
probably not unique to Cambodia, religion is designed to enable “the Khmer
villager […] to domesticate the unknown. He has acquired a whole
catalogue of spirit and magic lore to guide him through his dealings with the
invisible powers that surround him and to guide his everyday life in a world
where the invisible powers also play a part” (Mabbett / Chandler 1995:
108).8 At the same time, most Khmer also know the core Buddhist doctrine,
in particular The Noble Eightfold Path and the Four Noble Truths.
Close symbiotic relations between religion and secular authority
(mostly absolute power) have been typical in Cambodian society, beginning
with the devaraja cult (translated as “god-king” or alternatively as “god of
the kings”) during the Angkor Era (802–1431). According to Seanglim Bit,
the “Buddhist concept of political authority assumed that given the
imperfections of man a king was needed if social order was to prevail” (Bit
1991: 20). In return for theological legitimation, the sangha enjoyed the
king’s political support. The mutual relationship of spiritual legitimization
and political backing endured until 1975 when the Khmer Rouge assumed
power and conditions worsened dramatically: Based on their ultra-communist ideology, monks were declared to be public enemies with the goal of
eradicating all religious elements in society. By the time Vietnamese troops
toppled the Khmer Rouge in January 1979, most monasteries, temples and
libraries had been destroyed. Up to 80,000 monks had been murdered,
reducing the total number Buddhist dignitaries to just 3,000 in the early 1980s
(Harris 2005: 194).
The new regime, although composed of former Khmer Rouge cadres
and committed to socialist ideology, promoted the successful restoration of
Cambodian Buddhism, especially through donations of wealthy politicians
and business men for the reconstruction of Buddhist pagodas. In return,
organized Buddhism is widely regarded as politicized in favor of the ruling
Cambodian People’s Party (CPP) of Prime Minister Hun Sen (Karbaum
2014). Tep Vong, Cambodia’s Great Supreme Patriarch of the Maha Nikaya
sect, has held official functions within the political apparatus since the
1980s. Today, most monasteries and pagodas are aligned with the CPP, and
the promotion of a Buddhist monk to abbot or above depends on his political
loyalty. However, these close connections to the ruling party have reduced
_______________
8
One may assume that in society with a low level of education the ability to explain
perceptions rationally is less pronounced and therefore, these invisible powers are typical
concomitants of daily life.
237
theological substance and increased clerical conformism. In consequence, a
Cambodian Buddhism has not exercised a moral or social component
regarding political motivated violence, corruption, land-grabbing, human
rights violations and other big or small injustices within the country for
many years.
After parliamentary elections in 2013 at the latest, it became obvious
that numerous young monks did not want to follow the official line any
more. Most obvious, members of the Independent Monk Network for Social
Justice (IMNSJ) participated in demonstrations against irregularities during
the ballot and the government in general. Most of these monks also have a
social agenda; e.g., they express solidarity with victims of land-grabbing,
demand democratic reforms and document human rights violations. The
Samakki Raingsey pagoda in Phnom Penh emerged as a refuge for dissidents in orange robes, although under suspicious surveillance and threatened
by the regime (Dara / Peter 2015). In particular, disagreeable monks are
exposed to legal persecution, defrocking and even physical violence.
Although this new decentralized movement of Buddhist monks is
under extreme pressure of the government, it has already contributed to the
change in religious values. These monks represent Buddhism with close
connections to the people instead of the elites, with a clear morality, and an
awareness of how Buddhism can contribute to the social development
beyond pure rituals and liturgy. However, whereas a more independent
Buddhism would reflect the spirit of the 1993 constitution, the current
interrelations of the clergy and the regime correspond to Cambodian traditions. Today it seems that their persistence can only be reduced by a truly
liberal government, ending the political grasp and strict control mechanisms
of the regime.
Whereas changes in the self-understanding of Buddhism, its morality
and ethical principles are obvious, the relatively few survey data available
indicate only a slight decrease in religiousness from 2008 to 2012. However,
there are considerable differences among urban Khmers with a sharp decline
in people who claim to be very religious, while religiousness in rural areas
appears to be constant (see Table 1).
3.2 Family cohesion
Cambodia has been regarded as a post-war society for years. The experiences of 30 years of war, genocide and civil war have shaped a desolidarized society with a very low level of mutual trust (Table 2), a low
sense of community, and strong social capital only within families; this has
changed little in the last three decades (Ou / Kim 2013: 189–190). In add-
238
Markus Karbaum
TABLE 1: Religiousness in the self-perception of Buddhist believers (in %)
Total
Rural
Urban
2008
2012
2008
2012
2008
2012
very religious
60.7
57.4
61.2
61.0
59.0
44.8
moderately or
somewhat religious
39.3
42.6
38.8
39.0
41.0
55.2
N
975 1149
1149
763
897
212
252
Source: Asian Barometer Survey
ition to the terror regime of the Khmer Rouge – who tried to destroy the
family as a social entity – five major regime changes since the 1950s gave
the state an image of transiency. Although most Cambodians have enjoyed a
stability since the 1990s that is only comparable to Prince Sihanouk’s reign
sixty years ago, an individual cannot rely on the state in a case of emergency. Public goods and services are limited and social welfare mechanisms
in cases of unemployment, illness, or for elderly people do not exist. Hence,
for the vast majority of Cambodians, the family (kruasa) is the most
important social group in their whole life, reflected by various pro-family
attitudes (Table 3).
TABLE 2: Trust in other people (in %)
General speaking, would you say…
2008
2012
7.4
11.5
you must be very careful when dealing with others
92.6
88.5
N
998
1099
most people can be trusted
Almost 50 years ago May Ebihara (1968: 93) noted that the meaning of
kinship relations as pillars of peasant cooperation in Cambodian villages is
not as pronounced as in other cultures. Others stated later that “kinship is the
most important base for interpersonal relationships in the village”
(Ledgerwood / Vijghen 2002: 113), where only 10 per cent of all marriages
239
are formed with spouses from other villages (ibid: 112). In Cambodia, the
nuclear family with parents and their children prevails rather than the extended household and can be regarded as the “cultural norm” (Demont /
Heuveline 2008: 1), although weakening at the beginning of this century.9
Generally spoken, most families are partnerships of convenience with
distinct economic expectations. The parents usually exercise enormous
influence in the choice of the spouses of their children because a marriage is
always an association of two families. Love is a rather romantic concept and
a very minor motivation for marriages in Cambodia: in 2007, only 19.2 per
cent interviewees agreed to the statement “When a man and a woman marry
love should be the reason and not money”, whereas 48.8 per cent disagreed
and about a third was undecided. However, when there is no emotional
relationship between spouses, family life can also mean hardship; abuse and
violence are directly related to this. And in cases of conflict, it is likely that
men side with their own kin against the spouse; according to the Asian
Barometer Survey of 2012, out of 1,199 respondents, 83.3 per cent agreed
somewhat or strongly with the statement: “When a mother-in-law and a
daughter-in-law come into conflict, even if the mother-in-law is in the
wrong, the husband should still persuade his wife to obey his mother.” Only
16.8 per cent disagreed (data from 2012, Asian Barometer Survey).
However, although this seems to be a serious burden for family
cohesion in general, more data from the Asian Barometer Survey confirm
the assumption that family values have not become less important (Table 4).
Therefore, in the absence of state-run social welfare institutions, greater trust
among the Khmers, and more social capital, families in Cambodia will retain
their significance for at least the next generation – even if friendships10 and
other social subgroups beyond family bonds become more prevalent.
3.3 Gender roles and equality
A general view on the state of women in Cambodian society is better than
their position in families, although more women than men primarily define
their role as within their families. Despite women’s equality under public
law, Cambodian society still shows a gap between men and women.
_______________
9
10
In their article, the authors show an increase in extended families between 2000 and 2005
that is “hard to explain with a broad modernization framework that would associate traditional societies with extended families and modern ones with nuclear families” (Demont /
Heuveline 2008: 14).
Friendships and amicable relationships such as are common in western countries are still
very rare in Cambodia.
240
Markus Karbaum
TABLE 3: Attitudes toward the own family 2007 (in %; N = 1200)
Statement
I agree/
I totally
agree
I agree
somewhat
I don’t
agree/I don’t
agree at all
Don’t
know/
answer
refused
My family is the most
important thing for
me. I do everything so
that they can have a
good life.
83.0
13.2
3.6
0.3
In my family we stick
together and look
after each other.
91.6
5.1
3.0
0.3
I get on with my
whole family.
89.9
7.7
2.2
0.3
It is very important
that young people
respect their elders.
88.3
9.9
1.3
0.5
The children should
look after their
parents in old age.
90.9
6.8
1.5
0.8
My friends are more
important to me than
my family.
5.0
18.3
74.5
2.3
Source: Karbaum 2008: 265, 269
Traditionally, the Chbab Srey Code11 purports idealistic moral conduct and
behavior on the part of women in their relation to men and in public:
Women are to walk slowly and softly, be so quiet in their movements that
one cannot hear the sound of their silk skirt rustling. While she is shy and
must be protected, before marriage ideally never leaving the company of
her relatives, she is also industrious. Women must know how to run a
household and control its finances. She must act as an advisor to her
husband as well as be his servant (Ledgerwood 2002).
_______________
11
The analogy for men is the Chbab Pros Code. Until 2007, children learned both concepts
at school.
241
TABLE 4: Indicators for family cohesion (in %)
2008
Statement
Agree* Disagree*
(%)
(%)
2012
N
Agree* Disagree*
(%)
(%)
N
For the sake of the family,
the individual should put his
personal interests second.
82.1
17.9
877
84.1
15.9
1192
Even if parents’ demands are
unreasonable, children still
should do what they ask.
55.5
44.5
979
80.9
19.1
1200
* somewhat/strongly
And Susan Lee (2006: 24) pointed out that the man is the undisputed head
of his family „with nearly absolute powers over his wife, children and
household”. Some observers even perceive “traditional gender disparities in
Cambodian society”, in which “women have long been perceived as having
a lower status than men” (Plischuk 2012: 383).
Especially in rural areas it is not uncommon that women who want to
be respected by their environment have to prove their compliance with these
values and norms. Role allocations appear to be fairly traditional with clear
expectations for both sexes. Women usually orientate themselves toward
their own family and manage the household. By doing this, inside the family
women are usually more influential than their husbands. By contrast, their
social status in public is defined through the status of their families, in
particular their husband.12
Although these notions appear outdated (because they do not reflect
reality after years of civil violence and terror) they have strongly influenced
gender relations. At the latest the disastrous legacy of the Khmer Rouge
made clear that Cambodia cannot ignore women’s contribution to the
general development in the economy and society. Whereas females are still
drastically underrepresented in parliament and public offices, in other parts
of society women have become the backbone of Cambodia’s overall
_______________
12
For example, Bun Rany, president of the Cambodian Red Cross and wife of the prime
minister, is often called Bun Rany Hun Sen on TV.
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Markus Karbaum
development, first and foremost in the economy. Cambodia’s wealth beyond
the selling of public assets depends on women: 90 per cent of some 700,000
garment workers are female, and textiles account for 85 per cent of Cambodia’s overall exports.13 Women also dominate the workforce in retail,
handicrafts, and education. The first economic census of 2011 confirms the
assumption that women have become Cambodia’s economic engine: Nearly
two thirds of about 500,000 registered businesses in the country – 80 per
cent are micro businesses with two or less employees – were headed by
women (Passi 2013).
Even though Cambodia performs better – compared to the assessment of
overall development – in the gender inequality index of the United Nations
Development Programme (UNDP 2014b: 174), sexual abuse remains a
major concern in women’s general safety. Different sources suggest that
gang rape is widely accepted among Cambodian men (Hruby 2013; UNIFEM
et al. 2004: 115), indicating the persistence of a gender gap in Cambodia.
TABLE 5: Attitudes and perceptions about women 2007 (in %)
Statement
Yes
No
No
Don’t know/
answer refused
N
N
Married women should always
do what their husbands say.
32.4
60.1
7.5
1194
Compared to men, women’s life
is much more difficult.
78.2
13.0
8.8
1199
When a husband hits and hurts
his wife very strongly he must go
to prison.
81.6
13.3
5.1
1199
I wish more women will become
province governors, members of
parliament or ministers in
Cambodia.
77.2
12.1
10.7
1198
Source: Karbaum 2008: 267 (568 men (47.3%) and 632 women (52.7%) participated in this survey; this reflects the gender ratio of this age group exactly)
_______________
13
However, the very fact that at the same time nearly all union leaders are men illustrates
that Cambodia is still far from gender equality.
243
Although qualitative research on ongoing emancipation of Cambodian
women is extensive, data are insufficient to measure any evolvement of
values. At the very least, the snapshot survey from 2007 rejects the
assumption of a chauvinistic society (Table 5). The Asian Barometer Survey
also indicates that a stable majority of Cambodians welcome more females
in politics.14 Beyond government and party politics women are indeed
increasingly active politically, as seen during land disputes (LICADHO
2014) or with regard to women who are active within civil society
organizations and as social entrepreneurs in service delivery by nongovernmental organizations.
3.4 Hierarchical social order
Similar to families, Cambodian society as a whole is organized in a very
hierarchic way and “the characteristics of authoritarianism flow throughout
the social order” (Bit 1991: 61–62). This principle of hierarchy is deeply
fixed in virtually all social interactions and has significantly shaped the
Khmer language and main gestures.15 Table 6 shows the role of an individual’s
age in determining the hierarchical relationship in interpersonal interactions.
Similar to other Southeast and East Asian societies, the older people are in
Cambodia, the higher their position is within the formal hierarchy. For many
Khmer it is crucial for their self-image to know their individual position in
the hierarchy within their community and, even better, to improve their
position, which is mostly defined by the socio-economic status. For those on
top it is even more important to ensure that people do not question this
hierarchy because it guarantees subordination.
Under the monarchy until 1970 social hierarchies were very stable.
After the short intermezzo of the Khmer Republic under Lon Nol until 1975,
the Khmer Rouge tried to destroy these traditional patterns of hierarchy only
to implement an even stricter, criminal and murderous social order. After_______________
14
15
In 2012, 83.2% of 1,197 interviewees disagreed with the statement “Women should not be involved in politics as much as men”, whereas 16.8% agreed (data from Asian Barometer Survey).
There are six types of the formal sampeah greeting when people put their hands together,
palms inwards, and bow their head. The higher the position of the counterpart, as higher
people have to raise their hands on the head, in front of their face or the breast. The types
are: sampeah preah put (for the holy Buddha only, for example in front of statues in
pagodas), sampeah preah moha ksat (for monks, the king and his closest relatives),
sampeah miethda beyda (for a person's parents and grandparents, but only on ritual
occasions), sampeah neak mern tanak bonsak (for ministers, senior government officials
and other persons with official titles), sampeah neak mern tanak smao knier (common
among people with equal status), and sampeah neak mern ayuk diejch chieng (the
response to youngsters who are expected to greet older people first).
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Markus Karbaum
wards, the old hierarchies recovered in parts, but could never regain their
significance. Since the 1980s, new elites have emerged and introduced new
hierarchies, based on traditional concepts of patron-client-relations (Gottesman 2003: 299). In general, these patterns are not very different from the
archetype, but have been introduced by new stakeholders. Although
traditional or ritual hierarchies that put the king, monks, titulars, and elderly
at the top still exist, de facto they have been superseded by those defined by
the new ruling elites. In this regard, the granting of official titles and the
bloated administration with much more leading positions than necessary for
an efficient government is likely an attempt to put this new hierarchy on a
sustainable footing.
Survey data underline the assumption that hierarchies in social
interaction not only persist, but have even gained strength in some regards
within four years (Table 7), contradicting the assumption of modernization
in Cambodia. Whereas attitudes toward strong hierarchic principles prevail,
pluralism has a tough stand among the Khmer. One may explain this finding
by a general wish for harmony and peace in society, rather than as evidence
against diversity and freedom of expression in general. At least, to
summarize, there is no indication of an erosion of traditional patterns or of a
change in values away from hierarchic preferences.
3.5 Economics
To assess (socio-) economic values, it is crucial to understand the cultural
concepts beyond entrepreneurship and profit-seeking. A major pillar of
Buddhism is rebirth. To improve one’s status in the next life – most people
in Cambodia aspire to that –, a human being has to acquire as many as
possible merits by doing good deeds, especially by donating to the poor,
participating in religious ceremonies and developing a merciful attitude (twö
bonn). In consequence, a rich or powerful individual at present must have
been a good person in his/her previous life; the new life is the award. By
contrast, poverty means punishment for misconduct in one’s last life. In
other words, only the individual is responsible for his/her socio-economic
position; it is natural destiny and the reason why some are extremely poor
and some are extremely rich. As seen in the data collected by the Asian
Barometer Survey in 2012, among all Buddhist believers (N=1,149) a
majority of 62.1 per cent agreed with the statement “Wealth and poverty,
success and failure are all determined by fate.”, whereas 37.9 per cent disagreed. Notably, agreement was only a little stronger among rural than
urban Khmer, very religious than moderately or somewhat religious people,
people who are 39 or older than younger people, and women than men.
245
TABLE 6: Hierarchies in interpersonal communication
Age
difference
A person
is…
How to address others*
How to be addressed by
others
invisible
about the
same age
bong (exception: women
address men by using puh
or bong plus prename or
bong pros)
bong (exception: men are
addressed by younger
women as puh, bong plus
prename or bong pros)
little
(up to
10 years)
younger
bong (exception see above
because bong is only used
to address one’s husband
and one’s siblings)
oun, p’oun srey as women,
p’oun pros as a men or just
the prename/nickname;
koun as a child
older
oun, p’oun srey (for
women), p’oun pros (for
men) or just the
prename/nickname;
koun for children
bong (exception see above
because bong is only used
to address one’s husband
and one’s siblings)
younger
persons who are younger
khmui (when the prename
than one’s own parents: for is unknown), mi-oun or
men puh, for women ming; khmui-srey (in case of a
personal relationship bepersons who are older than tween women) and khmuithe own parents: men as
pros (in case of a personal
om (pros), women as om
relationship between men);
(srey) or eeh
koun as a child
older
khmui (when the prename
is unknown), mi-oun or
khmui-srey (in case of a
personal relationship
between women) and
khmui-pros (in case of a
personal relationship
between men); koun for
children
puh or om (pros) as a man,
men ta, women yeay
Chaou
Chaou
ta as a man, yeay as a woman
moderate
(10 to 25
years)
huge
younger
(dep. on the
absolute age) older
*
ming, om (srey) or eeh as a
woman
To address others in a formal way, Khmer just add the prefix neak (for women) or louk
(mostly for men, but not exclusive), e.g. louk ta, neak ming, louk p’oun (for younger
monks) or neak kru (for female teachers). If somebody holds an honorary title, it is appropriate to mention it. Most important titles are: Ey Oudom (His Excellency), Louk Chumdtiv
(Her Excellency), Oknha (for wealthy entrepreneurs), and Samdech (for very senior politicians,
normally translated as “the powerful”).
Source: compiled by author
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Markus Karbaum
TABLE 7: Indicators for hierarchic attitudes and pluralism (in %)
2008
Statement
Agree*
(%)
2012
Disagree*
(%)
N
Agree* Disagree*
(%)
(%)
N
Being a student, one should
not question the authority
of the teacher.
52.8
47.2
988
75.1
25.0
1196
A person should not insist
on his own opinion if his coworkers disagree with him.
51.2
48.8
810
74.7
25.3
1187
If people have too many
different ways of thinking,
society will be chaotic.
63.0
37.0
973
66.6
33.4
1191
Harmony of the community
will be disrupted if people
organize lots of groups.
42.4
57.5
796
55.3
44.8
1183
Government leaders are like
the head of a family; we should
all follow their decisions.
68.9
31.1
975
70.1
29.9
1193
* somewhat/strongly
This mentality maybe helps us to understand why Cambodia today appears
to be a turbo-capitalist state, where the rule of law is weak and the social
welfare state limited to rudimentary accident insurance. Instead, the
traditional concept of patronage and clientelism (Lemarchand / Legg 1972;
Bourne 1986) still dominates (Roberts 2009), contributing to the image of a
weak state. Albeit not neutral in a political sense, clientelism is widely
accepted as a distribution mechanism in an environment where poverty and
scarcity of resources play a major role. By contrast, there is hardly any
indication that corruption – during the last years, Cambodia was regularly
rated among the most corrupt countries of the world (e.g. Transparency
International 2014) – enjoys similar legitimacy among the population
(Nissen 2005: 2; Transparency International Cambodia 2015: 26ff.).
These living conditions have shaped people’s behavior for the last
decades. Most Cambodians experienced long periods struggling to ensure
247
their survival on a daily basis, normally with a focus on the own family.
Their short-term orientation, the general distrust of other people and the
inability to rely on the state and public goods have favored an economy in
which businesspeople often tend to play zero-sum games rather than
cooperate for win-win outcomes. Market economy structures are derogated
by crony capitalism principles and a rent-seeking mentality that bind
entrepreneurs to political elites. Most obviously, the plundering of natural
resources for immediate nonrecurring gains corresponds to these attitudes
and forms of behavior. In this regard, the decrease in the short-term
orientations of Khmer people when dealing with others (Table 8) is a major
step toward a more cooperative society. Yet the absolute level is still low
because most people exhibit huge particularistic, materialistic and statusorientated attitudes and behavior, irrespective of whether rich or poor.
Despite the positive setting of Buddhist morality, people with a notion of
social responsibility and voluntarism are still a minority, but they prevail in
civil society organizations, although in fact most Cambodian groups in the
tertiary sector do not correspond to this type (Ou / Kim 2013).
TABLE 8: Short-term vs. long-term orientations of Khmer people in social
interaction (in %)
Statement
Agree*
Disagree*
N
When dealing with others, developing a
long-term relationship should be more
important than securing one’s
immediate interests. (2008)
44.3
55.7
908
When dealing with others, one should
not only focus on immediate interest but
also plan for future. (2012)
84.6
15.5
1180
* somewhat/strongly
3.6 Politics
Being an academic who cannot deny his normative attitude, I equate
political values with values of liberty, equality, and checks and balances. On
a more practical level, political values affect human rights, rule of law,
social justice, participation and liberal democracy in particular. Regarding
Cambodia – an authoritarian state, despite formal democratic institutions,
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Markus Karbaum
with a war-torn society and with very weak democratic traditions – it is an
interesting question whether democratic values among the people have
already emerged or not. As seen in Table 9, in 2007 a vast majority of
interviewees agreed with the statements “in a democracy it is the duty of all
citizens to participate in elections regularly” and “everybody should have
the right to stand up for his (her) opinion even if the majority has another
opinion”. At the same time, nearly two thirds agreed with the statements “in
principle, all parties should have the same chance to come to power” and “a
vital democracy is not imaginable without a political opposition.”
TABLE 9: Perception of democratic values, in percentages (N = 1200)
Statement
I agree/
I totally
agree
I agree a
little bit
I don’t agree/
Don’t
I don’t agree at know/
all
answer
refused
In a democracy it is the duty
of all citizens to participate
in elections regularly.
87.1
7.9
2.6
2.4
In principle, all parties
should have the same chance
to come into power.
64.4
18.1
8.5
9.0
A vital democracy is not
imaginable without a
political opposition.
63.6
16.3
8.3
11.9
Everybody should have the
right to stand up for his (her)
opinion even the majority
has another opinion.
79.5
12.3
3.9
4.3
Source: Karbaum 2008: 166
It is likely – yet not possible to prove – that post-ballot protests in 2013
were based not only on dissatisfaction with the government’s performance,
but also reflect these democratic values. However, there is still a huge gap
between attitudes and behavior. Most demonstrations took place on weekends with just some ten thousand participants, insufficient to prove the claim
that they are directly linked to a significant change in political values among
the Khmer people. Data from the Asian Barometer Survey confirm this
assumption: although there is a clear majority of interviewees who prefer a
249
TABLE 10: Attitudes toward the form of government (in %)
Which of the following statements comes closest to your own opinion?
2008
2012
61.2
57.0
Under some circumstances, an authoritarian government
can be better than a democracy.
8.3
13.0
For people like me, it does not matter whether we have a
democracy or not.
30.5
30.0
N
852
1185
Democracy is always preferable to any other kind of
government.
TABLE 11: Preference of democracy or economic development (in %)
If you had to choose between democracy and economic development, which would
you say is more important?
2008
2012
Economic development is definitely/somewhat more
important
58.8
70.0
They are both equally important
14.3
3.7
Democracy is definitely/somewhat more important
26.9
26.3
N
941
1194
1194
democracy to any other kind of government (Table 10); for a growing majority
economic development is more important than democracy (Table 11). At the
same time, in both 2008 and 2012 a stable minority of about 40 per cent
would welcome a military junta in Cambodia (Table 12). Therefore, it seems
quite obvious that the approval of fundamental political values does not
LQIOXHQFHSHRSOH¶VQRWLRQRIDFRQFUHWHGHPRFUDWLFUHJLPH
This inconsistence has most likely arisen due to a general lack of
education, increasing the possibility of elites manipulating democratic
250
Markus Karbaum
institutions. In the previous chapters it became obvious that Cambodia’s
legacy of inner violence is noticeable in the high degree of politicization in
almost all parts of society. The lack of trust – as discussed above – has
impeded the emergence of a democratic “civic” culture and reduced the
impact of the liberal constitution of 1993 to a formal façade (Karbaum
2012). Whereas political parties in consolidated democracies maintain a
kind of partnership in competition, the immense distrust of Cambodian
politicians among themselves has been the major obstacle to cooperation
and consensus building. A mentality shaped by a “winner-takes-all political
culture” (Chandler 1998: 43) has induced almost necessarily a political
landscape with a strong hegemon. This position was captured by Prime
Minister Hun Sen, notably through his control of Cambodia’s main security
forces. He has created a highly personalized regime in which endemic
corruption and unlimited access to state resources ensures the loyalty of and
discipline among his followers. Horizontal and vertical institutions that
could limit executive power exist only on paper. Very few people are
involved in decision-making processes. Politicians, including members of
parliament, are responsible not to the public, but to their party leaders.
TABLE 12: Approval of a military junta, in percentages
Would you disapprove or approve of the following statement: “The army (military)
should come in to govern the country”?
2008
2012
Approve/strongly approve
43.1
39.1
Disapprove/strongly disapprove
56.9
60.9
N
918
1187
By reaching an agreement in 2014 to end the political stalemate after the
disputed parliamentary elections one year before, the ruling CPP and the
oppositional Cambodia National Rescue Party (CNRP) took a big step
forward toward reducing distrust and confrontation. More a symbol than an
institutional upgrade, the official recognition of the opposition – whose
president Sam Rainsy was elevated to minority leader, a position formally
equal to the prime minister – in 2014 and the so-called “culture of dialogue”
between the two main parties may be an indicator that Cambodia is able to
251
overcome the traditional confrontation between its political elites. After
adopting two new election laws and the establishment of the new bi-partisan
National Election Committee (NEC)16 in spring 2015, both parties showed
their willingness and ability to reach a consensus even on contested policies.
However, it is too early to exclude a political maneuver by the government,
and the conciliation process is overshadowed by the CPP’s willingness to
use undemocratic methods to maintain power.17 Yet, the self-interests of
those who greatly benefit from corruption, rent-seeking and a culture of
impunity are immense, leaving only a narrow opening for fundamental
political reforms that may affect the hegemony of the ruling party.
4. Main factors determining Khmer people’s attitudes
Attitudes, perceptions and types of behavior do not develop randomly and
spontaneously. Most often, they correlate with sociostructural characteristics. An analysis of the data of 2012 showed that the variables age, sex,
residence and socioeconomic status had little or no explanatory power – a
clear indication of a very homogenous society. Instead, I found the strongest
effect in two variables: education and residence. To measure these I first,
divided interviewees in two groups on the basis of education: into those with
six (completed primary education) or fewer years of schooling and those
with more than six years, and second, two groups on the basis of a combined
variable of residence (urban vs. rural) and age (18 to 38 vs. 39 plus). The
result was four main groups with two antipodes of young-urban and oldrural interviewees.
As seen in Table 13, the probability of agreement with modern issues
increases with the degree of education. This becomes most obvious with the
statements “Wealth and poverty, success and failure are all determined by
fate” (Cramér’s V = 0.293), “The army (military) should come in to govern
the country” (0.244), and “Being a student, one should not question the
authority of the teacher” (0.234). While the correlation with the other
indicators is quite weak, there is most likely no interrelation with other
indicators mentioned in this article. Given the perspective that the level of
_______________
16
17
The CPP and the CNRP each have four members in the NEC, and Hang Puthea – director
of the well-respected election watchdog Neutral and Impartial Committee for Free and
Fair Elections in Cambodia (NICFEC) – was selected as the ninth and “neutral” member
by the National Assembly.
The arrest of an oppositional senator in August 2015 and long-term sentences against
fourteen CNRP followers due to insurrection – both publicly demanded by the prime
minister – led to an abrupt termination of the recent rapprochement shortly after a
remarkable private get-together of Hun Sen, Sam Rainsy, and their families.
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Markus Karbaum
education is going to increase in the future, there is also some probability of
a change in values toward modernity, yet not in all indicators. Table 14
offers a similar impression: Young interviewees living in urban areas more
often tend to modern values – with one distinctive feature: They are much
more likely to agree with the statement “Harmony of the community will be
disrupted if people organize lots of groups”. Therefore, it is possible that the
wish for harmony is an integral part of modernization in Cambodia.
TABLE 13: The impact of education in 2012
Level and indicators
Interviewees with
completed primary
education or less
(in %)
Interviewees with
at least seven years
school attendance
(in %)
N
Cramér’s
V
Family cohesion:
Interviewees who agree
with the statement: “Even
if parents’ demands are
unreasonable, children still
should do what they ask.”
86.9
71.2
1200
0.195
Gender roles and equality:
Interviewees who disagree
with the statement:
“Women should not be
involved in politics as
much as men.”
79.0
90.0
1197
0.142
Hierarchical social order:
with the statement:
“Being a student, one
should not question the
authority of the teacher.”
83.0
62.1
1197
0.234
with the statement:
“Government leaders are
like the head of a family;
we should all follow their
decisions.”
75.5
61.3
1194
0.151
253
Continued:
Economics: Interviewees
who agree with the
statement: “Wealth and
poverty, success and
failure are all determined
by fate” (Buddhists only).
73.3
44.1
1149
0.293
Politics: Interviewees who
agree with the statement:
“The army (military)
should come in to govern
the country.”
48.6
24.1
1187
0.244
Source: based on data provided by the Asian Barometer Survey
5. Conclusion
Although a lack of survey data before 2007 bars any statement about this
period, the analysis suggests that Cambodia’s development has not induced
change toward modernity yet (see Table 15 for particular findings). As seen
in the data below, traditional conceptions about society, economy, and
politics continue to dominate. In regard to the enormous exogenous efforts
during the last 25 years, increased access to education and information and a
shift in necessities (ensuring daily survival is no longer the top priority for
most Khmer), the stability of traditional conceptions may surprise. However,
as discussed in connection with family cohesion, certain attitudes and
behavior patterns reflect not only cultural and historical imprinting, but are a
rational substitute for the lack of public goods. In almost every case study
discussed, the historical legacy of inner violence and extreme confrontation,
and the current political motives to maintain political hegemony exercise
enormous influence on the persistence of traditional patterns. Wherever this
influence is low or almost nonexistent, modernization is taking place – as
seen in a new self-awareness among and role conceptions of Cambodian
women. In other words, by maintaining its hegemony, the influence of the
current regime on the non-evolvement of modern attitudes, perceptions and
behavior is not equal to zero.
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Markus Karbaum
TABLE 14: The impact of residence and age in 2012
Level and indicators
Young and
urban interviewees
(in %)
Old and
rural interviewees
(in %)
N
Cramér’s
V
Religion: Interviewees who
confessed to be very religious
(Buddhists only).
35.8
63.4
555
0.240
Gender roles and equality:
Interviewees who disagree with
the statement: “Women should
not be involved in politics as
much as men.”
90.5
79.7
580
0.123
Interviewees who agree with the
statement: “Being a student, one
should not question the authority
of the teacher.”
60.5
77.2
581
0.163
statement: “Government leaders
are like the head of a family; we
should all follow their
decisions.”
62.1
74.2
579
0.116
statement: “Harmony of the
community will be disrupted if
people organize lots of groups.”
68.7
50.2
573
0.162
statement: “Harmony of the
community will be disrupted if
people organize lots of groups.”
68.7
50.2
573
0.162
255
Continued:
Economics: Interviewees who
agree with the statement:
“Wealth and poverty, success
and failure are all determined by
fate” (Buddhists only).
50.0
71.5
553
0.195
Politics: Interviewees who agree
with the statement: “The army
(military) should come in to
govern the country.”
19.3
48.0
576
0.254
However, I do not predict a general change in values following a regime
change. Although it is likely that the degree of education – the most
influential independent variable on attitudes and perceptions – will continue
to grow in the next decades, this growth will also reflect some cultural
characteristics. I assume that the wish for harmony in society is only one
example of a typical Khmer sense of pluralism. Yet, its impact on major
democratic principles – freedom of expression and association – is widely
unexplored. In addition, one should not underestimate the effect of strong
materialist attitudes among the Khmer people. Hence, post-material attitudes
– such as values of autonomy and self-expression – will hardly win
recognition in the coming years.
With regard to theoretical approaches, it is obvious that they lack
cultural components that facilitate an understanding of social change beyond
the western hemisphere. While these concepts are useful tools to describe
on-going changes in values, they do not have sufficient explanatory power
to understand causalities in ongoing processes. It is the multicollinearity in
this complex that led Bhandari and Yasunobu (2009: 19) to state that
“appropriate social values enhance social development, and social development, in turn, transforms various value systems of society. This implies a
dynamic relationship between social change and social development”. With
such understanding, the predictive potential of any approach is limited to
very common and unspecific assertions.
As expected, this study only offers limited evidence about whether
values in Cambodia converge as a result of modernization or persist despite
the overall socioeconomic development. It is not satisfactory to conclude
256
Markus Karbaum
rather vaguely that “Cambodian” modernity will be colored by certain
cultural characteristics, yet there are neither theoretical nor empirical models
that promise more prognostic potential.
TABLE 15: Modernization trends in Cambodia
Case study
Indicator for modernization
Consolidated
findings
Religion
(1) Close relationship between state
actors and the clergy breaks down
(2) Secular institutions, attitudes and
behavior gain more significance
over religious values
slight shift toward
modern patterns
Family
cohesion
Family cohesion decreases in favor of
other interpersonal ties beyond kinship
relations
slight shift toward
traditional patterns
Gender roles
and equality
New role conceptions for women
shift toward modern
patterns
Hierarchical
social order
Hierarchical patterns in interpersonal
relationships erode
constant
Economics
(1) Formal trade-offs gain significance
(2) A notion of social responsibility
increases among entrepreneurs
constant
constant
Politics
increased significance of democratic
institutions and a growing acceptance
of liberal values among both the people
and the elites
slight shift toward
modern patterns
constant
257
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Cambodia at a Crossroads
The Narratives of Cambodia National Rescue
Party Supporters after the 2013 Elections
ASTRID NOREN-NILSSON*
Abstract
Across Southeast Asia, election promises commonly centre on preferential access to
state resources, rather than on policy platforms. In Cambodia, gift-giving practices
have been a key strategy for the dominant Cambodian People’s Party to seek electoral
support. The surge in support for opposition CNRP in the 2013 elections, campaigning on an anti-money politics agenda, raises questions about popular perceptions of political gift-giving. Building on interviews with pro-CNRP demonstrators
in post-election Cambodia, this paper asks how the 2013 electoral outcome relates to
transforming popular values by exploring CNRP activists’ narratives about who they
are, the main problems facing today’s Cambodia, gift-giving practices and rights. It
employs these findings to reassess Cambodian popular electoral culture, and reframe
running debates about the relations between states and populations seeking to access
their resources in the region.
Keywords
Elections, opposition politics, rights, patronage politics, Cambodia
Introduction
In national elections on 28 July 2013, Cambodia’s fifth since the introduction of a multi-party democratic system, a sharp rise in support for newly
formed opposition party Cambodia National Rescue Party (CNRP) took
observers by surprise. The official election results placed long-incumbent
Cambodian People’s Party (CPP) at 48.83 per cent of votes, while the
CNRP, a coalition between the two main opposition parties, came a close
second at 44.46 per cent. This has broken the string of successive electoral
triumphs of the CPP under the leadership of PM Hun Sen, which peaked
* ASTRID NORÉN-NILSSON, Cambodian Institute for Strategic Studies, Phnom Penh,
Cambodia; [email protected].
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Astrid Norén-Nilsson
at a record 58.1 per cent in 2008. The aftermath of the elections evidenced
continued strong popular backing of the CNRP, leading eventually to a
government crackdown, which suggests that, regardless of the future of the
party, it has functioned as a vehicle channelling critical popular demands.
To analyse current political change in Cambodia and assess possible future
directions, we urgently need to understand the dynamics driving the surge in
CNRP support.
This paper builds on 64 in-depth interviews with CNRP supporters in
post-election Cambodia, carried out on 15 December 2013 at Freedom Park.
These semi-discursive, tape-recorded interviews were conducted by eight
university students from Phnom Penh’s Royal University of Agriculture and
later were analysed by the author. In December 2013 a series of mass demonstrations were staged at Freedom Park, the opposition rally point in
central Phnom Penh. The CNRP rejected the official election results, alleging
voting fraud, and refused to take their seats in parliament. The December
mass protests called for new elections. On 15 December, when this research
was carried out, about 10,000 people are estimated to have taken part (AFP
2013). Only three weeks later, on 4 January 2014, Freedom Park would be
forcibly cleared and cordoned off by authorities, and a ban on demonstrations imposed, which was still in force at the time of writing. Taking place
during a rare window of opportunity, these conversations with pro-CNRP
demonstrators are uniquely placed to illuminate the concerns of opposition
supporters.
This article seeks to answer three sets of questions. Who are the CNRP
activists? What are the narratives they advance about themselves? Secondly,
what do CNRP activists give as their reasons for joining the CNRP? What
do they consider the main problems in contemporary Cambodia to be?
Thirdly, what narratives circulate among them about rights and about giftgiving practices?
The Cambodian democratic project has been shaped by the tight grip
that the CPP holds on voters through a patronage system which links the
party to the rural electorate through gift-giving practices. It blends concerns
about popular welfare, patriotism, anti-Communism, an anti-Vietnamese
agenda, and a populist stance with the purported representation of global
liberal democratic ideas (Hughes 2001a, 2001b, 2002; Un 2008). The CNRP,
formed in 2012 by the merger between opposition Sam Rainsy Party (SRP)
and the Human Rights Party (HRP), has challenged the CPP by advocating a
rights-based agenda and sought to delegitimise CPP gift-giving in favour of
job creation and decent salaries. The strong CNRP gains therefore raise the
question of whether a new, “democratic”, rights-based conscience is now
emerging in Cambodia. Analyses to date have suggested that a long list of
263
structural issues, including a widening income gap, social injustice, a culture
of impunity, nepotism, corruption, land grabbing, deforestation, low wages,
high inflation, price fluctuations of agricultural commodities, high interest
rates, and increasing Vietnamese immigration, all contributed to the CPP’s
loss of popular support (Chheang 2013). The elections have also been analysed in relation to a generational shift (McCargo 2014). This article seeks to
evaluate the rise of the opposition based on the narratives of opposition
supporters themselves, with a specific focus on attitudes towards political
gift-giving and towards rights.
The case study of Cambodia has wide ramifications. Across Southeast
Asia, election promises commonly centre on preferential access to state resources, rather than on policy platforms. Running debates on popular electoral culture in the Global South have turned to challenge mainstream
interpretations of citizenship, which celebrate a struggle by individualistic
citizens to expand their rights as a vital aspect of democratic consolidation,
finding instead that populations are content to negotiate access to state resources, on however exceptional terms, typically in return for the vote.1 In
neighbouring Thailand, Andrew Walker finds that the population strategically
pursues the mediation of state resources, guided by a distinct set of popular
political values which endorse practices otherwise dismissed as vote-buying
(Walker 2008, 2012). Seen through this lens, the ability of political candidates to mediate benefits is a strong driver of popular support. This research suggests that in Cambodia, on the contrary, the strategic pursuit of
resource access does not account for the surge in support for the political
opposition. Though there is an ideal of political gift-giving among CNRP
supporters, rights trump gifts, and the real benefits mediated by the CNRP
are not decisive for support.
Patronage politics and the 2013 elections
The 2013 elections pitted two proposed political and economic orders
against each other. In power since 1979, the incumbent Cambodian People’s
Party oversaw economic liberalisation in the late 1980s, out of which the
current neo-patrimonial political system has emerged: a hybrid of informal
patrimonial power based on patron-client relations mixed with formal legalbureaucratic power (Pak et al. 2007: 43–47). The Cambodian state is structured along competing patron-client networks (khsae), and the ability to
_______________
1
For representatives of the former view, see e.g. Hadenius 2001; for the latter, see e.g.
Chatterjee 2004, 2011.
264
provide clients with material resources is key to political power (Heder
1995). Power is consequently centralised among politicians and ministries in
control of resources, which seek political support through the distribution of
material gifts and physical infrastructure (Un 2005; Pak et al. 2007:58). CPP
patronage benefactions are typically understood as a key factor in the electoral
marginalisation of the opposition, and have steadily intensified since the
first multi-party elections in 1993 (Heder 2012: 113). Throughout the multiparty democratic era, the party has brought donations to rural communities,
which are understood to increase in the event of electoral support – what is
known as the choh moulothan (“going down to the base”) strategy.2 Giftgiving ceremonies (pithi jaek omnaoy), during which gifts (omnaoy) of
money, food, clothing and utensils are handed out, typically take place prior
to elections. Physical infrastructure – roads, bridges, schools and health
clinics – is typically constructed or promised close to elections. Political giftgiving is consequently understood to be linked to votes (Pak et al. 2007: 58).
The CNRP represented an opposing model, typical of the Cambodian
democratic tradition that the party has come out of. Drawing on Western
democratic theory, democracy is defined by the equality bestowed by universal citizenship with pertaining rights (setthi). Similar to Thailand, democratisation is seen to require a change in popular mentality, and CNRP party
officials envisage a change from a prevailing “beggar mentality” – which
accepts gift-giving – to a “culture of citizenship” – based on employment
and decent salaries. While in Thailand elites refuse to recognise the democratic legitimacy of popular electoral choices which they consider swayed
by vote-buying, Cambodian democrats have sought to mould rural political
choices through delegitimising clientelistic exchanges. Ahead of the 2013
elections, the CNRP cast political change as citizens spending their own
resources and acting in accordance with their political conscience, rather
than offering political allegiance in return for material support. CNRP discourse portrayed CPP gift-giving as the “buying of the conscience” (dinh
teuk jeut) of the people. At the same time, the CNRP encouraged voters to
receive CPP gifts – but refrain from voting for the party. This transmitted a
readiness to accept the electorate’s dependence on gift-giving, but to imbue
it with a sense of rejection.
The CNRP collected donations from election campaign participants
and post-election demonstrators – including the December 2013 demonstrators through donation boxes at Freedom Park. At the same time, the party
also offered financial support to participants in the form of transportation
_______________
2
See Un 2005: 221–22. Hughes 2006: 469 traces the practice of gift-giving to the beginning
of Cambodia’s political and economic reform process around 1989.
265
and food. In the aftermath of the elections, the CNRP financially supported
those injured at demonstration incidents and communities hit by the August
to September 2013 flooding. According to the CNRP, its gift-giving differed
from that of the CPP in that target villages were not selected on the basis of
whether the party headed the commune, and that party membership was not
a criterion for receiving gifts. Rather, after village party representatives
contacted the party headquarters for help, the communities most in need
would be singled out for support. CNRP leaders would later credit both their
critique of CPP gift-giving practices, and their increased ability to assist
voters through local networks, with their strong surge in electoral support. 3
Another main factor believed to have attracted support for the CNRP was
the party’s seven-point policy programme, focused on raising living standards.
An important part of the programme guaranteed personal income: three
points guaranteed minimum salaries and pensions. Two more points promised social benefits in the form of free healthcare and education. Another
two points established a minimum price for rice and promised to lower
prices of oil, fertilizer, electricity and loan interest rates.4 The CNRP pledged
to fund this programme by cutting back on corruption so as to re-appropriate
missing state revenues.
The complexity of CNRP messages and practices raises the question of
what motivated CNRP supporters. The Cambodian democratic project, steered
by elites from the outset, has throughout its history been plagued by an elite
bias (Chandler 1991: 30; Hughes 2009: 35; Corfield 1994: 10–11). The
strong surge in popular support raises the question of whether the party
agenda has now been aligned with the concerns of the electorate, or at least
the nucleus of those who came out in support of the party. The political opposition has previously negotiated tensions between the leadership and
supporters’ agendas at political rallies, where messages from the top have
been filtrated down to subtly modify supporters’ political analysis (Hughes
2002). The demonstrations of December 2013, the largest since the introduction of multi-party democracy, were a key meeting point for – potentially
disparate – oppositional ideas.
_______________
3
4
Author’s interview with CNRP lawmaker Mu Sochua, 20 November 2013.
The seven points of the programme are: a monthly pension for individuals aged 65 years
and above of 40,000 riels (USD 10); a minimum monthly salary for workers of 600,000 riels
(USD 150); a minimum monthly salary for civil servants of one million riels (USD 250);
farmers guaranteed to receive at least 1,000 riels (USD 0.25) per kilogram of rice; free
medical care for the poor; equal education opportunities and proper youth employment; and
a reduction in the prices of oil, fertilisers and electricity and in interest rates on loans.
266
Who are the CNRP supporters?
Media has tended to construct a narrative about who the CNRP supporters
are. These analyses have typically stressed that the CNRP has benefited
from demographic changes – many of its voters are believed to have come
from the around 33 per cent of Cambodians classified as youth (between 15
and 30 years of age).5 An explosion in the use of social media, particularly
Facebook, is believed to have contributed to awakening their political
conscience. CNRP supporters are also generally believed to have a base
among the around 20 per cent of Cambodians made landless by evictions
(cf. Kung 2013; Tolson 2013). This section examines the pro-CNRP demonstrators’ narratives about their social composition, but in the absence of
extensive surveys makes no claim to objectively account for the composition
of pro-CNRP demonstrators gathering at Freedom Park in December 2013
(cf. Thabchumpon / McCargo 2011: 1000). Rather, it seeks to explore alternative narratives launched by a selection of CNRP supporters themselves.
Most of the interviewees were middle-aged, either in their forties or
fifties. 26 interviewees were women and 38 were men. The majority came
from, in declining order of numbers, Kampong Cham province (15 interviewees), Kandal province (14), Svay Rieng province (12), Prey Veng
province (9) and Phnom Penh with suburbs (7). The geographic origin of
interviewees closely reflects the vote, as the CNRP made strong gains in
Phnom Penh and in the traditionally CPP-dominated Kampong Cham, Svay
Rieng and Prey Veng, and in Kandal.6 The educational level of the demonstrators was typically low. About half of the interviewees had attended only
elementary school, or lacked schooling (33 interviewees). High school was
the highest level attended (by 13 interviewees), and no one had studied at
university. An overwhelming majority – about two thirds (42 interviewees) –
were farmers. A third of these supplemented their farming income with an
additional source, such as selling food and beverages, motorbike repairs, etc.
The remaining interviewees were traders, except for a handful of construction
workers and unemployed.
Contrary to the plausibility that perceptions of relative poverty may
have catalysed support for the opposition, a majority of interviewees con_______________
5
6
Statistics provided by the Ministry of Education, Youth and Sports (MoEYS 2011).
The CNRP made gains in Phnom Penh (CNRP 7 seats vs. CPP 5 seats, compared to CPP 7
seats and SRP 5 seats in 2008); traditionally CPP-dominated Kampong Cham (CNRP 10
vs. CPP 8, compared to CPP 11 vs. SRP and HRP 6 in 2008); Svay Rieng (CPP 3 vs.
CNRP 2, compared to CPP 5 in 2008); Prey Veng (CNRP 6 vs. CPP 5, compared to CPP 7
vs. SRP and HRP 3 in 2008); and in Kandal (CNRP 6 vs. CPP 5, compared to CPP 7 vs.
SRP and HRP 4 in 2008).
267
sidered their own economic situation to be average. About 4 out of 10
thought of themselves as poor, while no-one self-identified as rich. Three
quarters were in debt, mostly to microfinance institutions, including ACLEDA,
Amret, or Prasac. About half of these owed sums ranging between USD 100
– 1,000, while loans were as high as USD 6,000. This suggests a higher
incidence of indebtedness than nationwide, which stands at 1.2 m borrowers
(2012), and slightly higher loans than nationwide, which average USD 500–
900 (Liv 2013; Weinland / May 2012). One quarter were below or hovering
just around the poverty line, slightly higher than the 18.6 percent estimated
nationwide. At the same time, almost all interviewees owned their own land,
typically around 1 ha.
Almost all interviewees claimed to be CNRP members. Contrary to a
widespread CNRP narrative that had it that many CPP members joined the
demonstrations, only one in ten professed CPP membership. Roughly half
claimed to have been members of the political opposition before the
formation of the CNRP, indicating only relatively stable long-term overall
support for the opposition. Almost all listened to independent radio channel
Radio Free Asia nearly every day, but very few had access to Facebook.
This presents a picture of the typical pro-CNRP demonstrator interviewed as
a land-owning middle-aged farmer who considers him/herself to be of
average economic standing, but is indebted, who has access to radio, but not
to social media. This by no means rules out the typical image of the average
CNRP supporter, which may well be more representative. It does, however,
point to the existence of another type of supporter, equally present at
Freedom Park in December 2013.7
Cambodia’s challenges and reasons for CNRP support
The CNRP appears to be channelling a variety of forms of social discontent,
and one of the main challenges for the party is to keep supporters together
under its umbrella. The CNRP has mobilised supporters around the notion
of “change”, which can be understood as tying together a plurality of narratives, including an aspiration for regime change, an anti-corruption agenda,
and a demand for social justice. In whatever way it is understood by CNRP
supporters, the notion of “change” has typically been interpreted as their
_______________
7
From first-hand observations of Freedom Park from July 2013 to January 2014, the author
had the impression that urban youth supporters progressively thinned out and rural elements became more dominant on the square, although there is no additional data to
support this impression.
268
overriding priority, rather than loyalty to the party as such. The post-election
period evidenced that supporters were sometimes more radical than the
party leaders, and the CNRP leaders reportedly had to consult with core
supporters at Freedom Park during the course of their negotiations with the
CPP for a political settlement, raising the spectre of a rift with the support
base (Kung 2013). Two questions arise in this context: What reasons do
pro-CNRP demonstrators give for supporting the CNRP and what do they
consider the main problems facing contemporary Cambodia to be?
A widespread narrative among the interviewees was that they were
loyal CNRP supporters who had joined the demonstration out of love for the
party rather than a vague desire for change. Nearly all pledged their love for
the CNRP as their immediate reason for demonstrating, rather than a general
desire for change. This suggests that loyalty to and affection for the CNRP
was an important shared narrative among Freedom Park demonstrators –
despite the contending centrifugal forces let loose on the square. 8 Interviewees claimed not to expect any immediate benefits from their participation. Almost all stated that they had not been offered anything for joining the
demonstration, and the handful who did mentioned sponsorship of the trip
by their communities. Asked whether they believed that joining the demonstration would make it easier to secure different resources from the CNRP,
nearly all indicated that they expected only the long-term national benefits
which they believed would follow from a CNRP electoral victory. Some
explicitly rejected the idea of receiving resources in return for their participation as they interpreted this as personal benefits, as opposed to desired
social change. Only a handful gave more ambiguous responses that could
indicate an expectation of personal benefits to follow.
Four widespread narratives circulated among demonstrators about the
reasons for their support for the CNRP. Firstly, interviewees cited the CNRP
leadership’s ability and eagerness to understand general living conditions
(chivopheap). This line of reasoning focused on the CNRP leadership’s
readiness to put themselves in the shoes of ordinary people. CNRP leaders
were said to have close relations with the people, to “care” about general
living conditions, and to demonstrate this by inquiring into people’s real
living circumstances (cheah suor sokh tukkh pracheareastr). They were
perceived as respecting ordinary people, to whom party representatives were
commonly said to “speak politely”. Based on their ability to identify popular
concerns, CNRP leaders were believed to also have the ability to address
_______________
8
For example, prominent regime critic and monk But Bunthenh, head of the Independent
Monk Network for Social Justice, reportedly mobilised segments of the demonstrators
against the CNRP.
269
them. Help was offered in the form of moral support, the promise held out
by the seven points, support for the workers’ movement and through organising demonstrations. One narrative strand held that the CNRP would wipe
out differences between the poor and the rich. CNRP leaders’ compassion
would urge them to “save the poor” and “liberate the people from their hardship”, putting an end to perceived abusive CPP practices.
Secondly, demonstrators mentioned the concrete benefits which they
believed would follow from the formation of a CNRP-led government. Typically drawing these from the party’s seven points, they included salary rises,
pensions, counteracting youth unemployment, free education, stimulating the
agricultural market, and the capping of prices of certain goods. Nearly all
knew the seven points, which were supported because of a perception that
they would ameliorate living conditions. The promise of guaranteed salaries
ranked highest. It was followed by the promise of pensions, free education,
that the points would address the needs of farmers (through the fixed price
of rice and raising salaries of civil servants to eliminate corruption), free
healthcare, and the perception that these points, taken together, would
counteract labour migration abroad. In addition, one important reason for
support of this welfare programme was that it was perceived to benefit all
strata of society – both since it targeted a mix of societal groups, and since it
promised to help without discrimination between rich and poor. For example,
free education was extolled because it would allow equality between the
children of the poor and the rich.
A third narrative strand emphasised that the CNRP championed democratic principles and a rights-based agenda. The CNRP was considered to
work towards democracy (pracheathipatey), to claim freedom rights (setthi
seripheap) for the people and seek justice (yuttethor). As part of this struggle,
the party would eradicate current corruption and nepotism under the CPP.
Fourthly, the patriotism of the CNRP was cited. The CNRP was characterized as patriots who would serve and defend the nation. They would
protect the territory, liberate the nation from Vietnamese influence, limit
immigration, and end perceived discrimination against Khmer nationals.
Interviewees were also asked to choose their most important reasons
for supporting the CNRP from a list which included land concessions and
land rights, workers’ situation, youth unemployment, difficult general living
conditions, CNRP’s policies, and corruption. Land concessions and land
rights ranked highest, followed by difficult general living conditions and
workers’ rights. Land grabbing was also the most commonly encountered
problem, faced by a little under a half of those who mentioned it.
These replies indicate that the perceived readiness of politicians to put
themselves in ordinary people’s situation out of a desire to help – with all
270
the moral overtones this carries – is the most important criterion of political
leadership among political opposition supporters. Seen through this lens, the
CNRP gains can be attributed to a perception that the party has successfully
read popular needs, overcoming the elite bias that previously created barriers. In particular, the seven points, this suggests, successfully decipher
popular demands. The supporters’ parallel championing of democracy and
patriotism also indicate a fundamental symmetry between party supporters
and party leadership. Academic writing on the Cambodian democratic opposition often presents its politics as double-faced – embracing on the one
hand “democratic”, and on the other, racist and xenophobic tendencies (See
Un 2008; Hughes 2001c). Arguably, however, these notions are considered
to be mutually reinforcing not only by party leadership, but also by supporters who posit the achievement of democracy as contingent on liberation
from Vietnamese Communist influence. The naming of land issues, meanwhile, supports the common reading that landlessness as a specific issue has
contributed to the increase in oppositional support.
Narratives of gift-giving
In spite of the CNRP anti-money politics agenda, supporters overwhelmingly supported politicians’ giving through private means. Only a quarter of
interviewees preferred public funding to politicians’ giving of their private
funds. These argued that politicians’ use of their own money implied an
expectation of political support in return. This view held that public funds
should be used for common purposes as they constitute the shared budget of
all citizens.
The majority of supporters, however, preferred politicians giving of
their private resources. The reason given was moral: political gift-giving
was typically considered as evidence that the politicians would take the
trouble to understand general living conditions, and had the conscience (teuk
chett) to fulfil popular needs. One respondent thus typically argued that: “It
is good if politicians use their own money for the people, since it is good if
they know how to help the people (cheah chuoy reastr), how to think about the
people.” Gifts were therefore considered proof of the high moral standing of
politicians, displaying their conscience. Representative of this view, another
demonstrator stated that: “[…] if politicians give gifts, it means that they are
good. It is their conscience (teuk chett), their feeling.”
The approval of gift-giving was not confined to gift-giving as
occasional support on an ad hoc basis. Rather, gift-giving was supported as
a system of provision for popular needs. Gift-giving was even characterised
271
by some as a “form of development” which would create a balance between
the rich and poor and eventually come to blot out differences between them.
Though this was not a widespread perception, some demonstrators assumed
that the CNRP’s seven points were to be funded by the party leadership,
rather than state funds. For example, one man who disapproved of the use of
public funds praised the giving out of private means, which he assumed
would fund the CNRP pledge for a monthly pension of USD 10.
Though robust, support of gift-giving was typically qualified by several
conditions. Most importantly, the gift-giver should not expect to receive
anything in return for the gift, which only then would be an “honest” one
(smoh trong). A typical statement thus had it that:
Gift-giving is good if you don’t want anything back from the people, if
you give out of generosity; because of true love for the people. If you want
to benefit from it, it is not a good practice.
Moreover, gift-giving should not discriminate by political party affiliation or
wealth. These two conditions faulted current CPP gift-giving, which all
interviewees, without exception, consequently loathed. Firstly, CPP giftgiving was considered dishonest in the sense that gifts were believed to be
given to receive the vote. This violated the moral code that prescribes that
gifts should not be for one’s own benefit. Echoing CNRP rhetoric, demonstrators typically characterised CPP gift-giving as the “buying of the people’s
conscience”:
The gifts of the CPP are not honest gifts (omnaoy daoy smoh sâ), they are
gifts to receive something in return. Gifts only for the sake of benefits is a
bad practice.
I disagree with it because they want their own benefit. They distribute
gifts to buy people’s conscience and to buy their votes (tinh teuk chett,
tinh sânleuk chnot).
There was a widespread conviction that the popular conscience could,
however, not be bought. CPP gift-giving was therefore widely believed to
have contributed to the decline in electoral support for the party:
It [CPP gift-giving] cannot buy the ideals and the love of the people. As
soon as elections approach the CPP hand out gifts, but they only think
about their own interest. This makes the people hate the CPP ever more
strongly.
Secondly, demonstrators condemned CPP gift-giving because of perceptions
of nepotism. Gifts were perceived to be biased in a twofold sense – given
only among CPP party members, and favouring the wealthy:
It is not good because those are gifts that discriminate, those rich people
only give to people from the same party. If those gifts could reach the truly
poor I would be happy.
272
First of all, they only give to their own party supporters. Secondly, they
give in order of how poor you are, so that the rich receive more.
A third line of criticism held that gifts were inadequate in scale and would
alleviate needs only for a short period of time. Fundamentally unpredictable
and unreliable, they were contrasted unfavourably with employment, which
would generate a stable income. Often, this line of reasoning formed part of
a larger political analysis, in which gift-giving was considered part of a CPP
strategy to divert popular attention from national issues, such as the alleged
loss of territory to Vietnam and natural resource degradation. This suggests
that the CNRP party discourse, which likewise charges that the CPP seeks to
control the populace through keeping it in poverty and making it dependent
on gift-giving, has got through to supporters (cf. Sam 2008: 228–29):
These gifts, there is nothing great about them. Don’t let territory be sold
off, don’t let forests be cut. Before, when I saw them [the CPP] distributing gifts, I used to feel disappointed with not getting anything, but later I
came to know that they gave these gifts because they wanted our vote.
This [gift-giving] is a policy that impoverishes the people ever more. They
appropriate money from taxation, people’s land, and their resources. Then,
when elections approach, they distribute small gifts to buy people’s conscience in order to remain in power for a long time.
What would be good would be to provide the people with employment.
When there is flooding, they give gifts to the victims, but if we ask what
the disaster was caused by, it was the cutting down of forests. Gifts cannot
help us for a long time, like employment can.
Several demonstrators echoed the line propagated by the CNRP ahead of
elections – that citizens could legitimately receive CPP gifts as long as their
receipt did not translate into electoral support for the party. Often, demonstrators even framed this as a right to receive gifts. This indicates that the
CNRP strategy to accept the electorate’s dependence on gift-giving while
infusing a sense of moral rejection was successful for connecting with supporters.
If they give, I take the gift. For me, it doesn’t mean that I steal or beg. It
means that they distribute gifts and make it possible for me to take them.
Before the elections we received one sarong each. They [the CPP] gave
them so that we would vote for them […] but I didn’t.
If the CPP wants to give gifts, do so, but the people will still support the
CNRP. When they give gifts we have to take them because if we don’t
they will only distribute among themselves.
When the elections are approaching they bring us gifts. At that time I
think that all those things are rubbish, but I have to receive it, because all
those things are our rubbish.
273
Significantly, the ideal of gift-giving did at the same time cast the possibility of
future gifts from the CNRP in a positive light, since supporters were certain
of the party’s honest intentions. One demonstrator summed this up as:
It is a good thing if the CNRP use their own money to help the people,
because they are not corrupt. […] Gifts are good funding, gifts that are not
used to buy the conscience of the people – honest gifts.
The CNRP were believed to be morally capable of realising the ideal form
of gift-giving which the CPP had failed to do.
In spite of the CNRP supporters’ positive eye towards giving by private
funds, gift-giving was not generally seen as a necessary requirement for
political leadership. Three quarters named other characteristics as more important for ideal political leadership, which reflected the four discourses of
why demonstrators supported the CNRP. They included knowing about the
well-being of the people (cheah doeng suor sokh tukkh pracheapolroath),
taking the people seriously (yok pracheachon chea thum), supporting the
people; protecting the country, patriotism, loving the people and nation;
leading the country in a democratic manner, knowing about freedom rights;
bringing development; and mental and intellectual abilities such as a having a
good conscience, good thoughts and manners, incorruptibility, making
sacrifices for the people, having high knowledge, morality (promvihearthor,
kunthor), and ideals.
This suggests that while the above qualities are considered prerequisites
for political leadership, wealth is not. If, however, these other conditions are
fulfilled, wealth is a welcome bonus. One demonstrator elaborated:
Wealth is not a prerequisite. Other qualities, such as patriotism, knowing
about the well-being of the people, ideals and the will to sacrifice come
first. However, wealth would be an advantage if it is distributed to the
people without discrimination, if it is shared with the poor. But if politicians only have money and do not care about the people, there will be no
improvement.
More rarely, interviewees were opposed to the very idea of politicians being
wealthy. These respondents typically referred to how wealth would be used
to “buy the conscience of the people” – i.e. the vote. For this minority, the
collective experience of such practices had invalidated gift-giving as a
desired model of political behaviour.
Narratives of rights
While the CNRP party agenda has sought to replace money politics with a
rights-based agenda, CNRP demonstrators’ support for political gift-giving
co-exists with a strong belief in and desire for rights (setthi). In line with
274
CNRP discourse, they propagate an ideal of citizenship based on the recognition of the existence of rights innate to all.
In this view, the right to political participation is bestowed simply by
being one of the people – a citizen (pracheapolroath).9 Demonstrators typically justified their right to political involvement by their citizenship status,
through statements such as “Being citizens we must have the right to be
politically involved”. Demonstrators overwhelmingly considered political
rights to be lacking, and that they needed to be claimed (team tear). Put differently, the rights-claiming citizen can be understood as the demonstrators’
ideal model of popular political behaviour. Rights-claiming was the envisaged
manner of transmitting popular needs to politicians, an attitude which placed
responsibility for the achievement of rights on ordinary people.
Rights were central to this version of citizenship since they defined the
relationship between the individual and the political community as one of
fundamental equality and individual independence. Consequently, rights
would ensure personal dignity and even mental well-being. One demonstrator put it thus:
The right to a decent livelihood, the right to a place to live, the right not to
be abused – all these rights are the foundation of human existence. The
provision of resources it is not enough: we need to be healthy both physically and mentally.
Demonstrators expressed an overwhelming desire to receive public services
such as health care, education facilities, etc. as a matter of right, rather than
as gifts. The attainment of rights would wipe out the need for gifts. Above
all, a guaranteed income was widely considered an inviolable right, and was
clearly preferred over the receipt of gifts. This suggests that a main reason
accounting for the popularity of the CNRP’s seven points is the focus on
income. Belief in the centrality of decent personal incomes for the citizenry,
enabling citizens to assume financial responsibility for themselves and for
the nation, is at the heart of the CNRP party agenda. The name of the Cambodian National Rescue Party echoes the phrase sangkruos cheat (“national
rescue” or “salvation”) which was once part of the Kampuchean United
Front for National Salvation, the precursor to the CPP (Strangio 2014: 158).
By choosing it, the CNRP makes a rival claim to that of the Cambodian
People’s Party to save the Cambodian people. This national salvation has
_______________
9
The democratic opposition typically uses the term pracheapolroath to refer to the people,
which can be translated as “popular citizens”, in contrast to the CPP, which typically uses
pracheachon (“people”), or royalists, who employ pracheareastr (“subjects”). This
competing vocabulary has its roots in political dialects used in competing political projects in
the period leading up to national independence in 1953. See Heder 2007: 29–98.
275
been tied to earning and spending private income as opposed to the passive
receipt of gifts, such as in the electoral campaign slogan: “My gasoline, my
motorbike, my money, my morale, save my nation. Change! Change!
Change!” This referred to how CNRP campaign rally participants would ride
their own motorbikes and spend their own money on gasoline rather than
receive compensation for their participation, and tied the rejection of gifts to
assuming responsibility for the nation. Demonstrators often reproduced this
dichotomy between receiving gifts on the one hand, and saving oneself and
thereby the nation on the other, as in the words “I don’t want gifts – I have
myself, I save myself”.
The right to income was often contrasted with the public infrastructure
projects that underlie much of the CPP’s performance legitimacy, but which
demonstrators had an overwhelmingly negative view of. Weighing guaranteed personal income against public infrastructure projects such as bridges
and roads, a majority of demonstrators expressed a clear preference for
decent salaries. The main reason given was the ability of salaries to improve
livelihoods. Demonstrators commonly expressed a perception that the CPP,
by emphasizing their own achievements in public infrastructure, admired
(loek sârsaoer) or bragged about (uot) their own achievements:
I support the CNRP seven points because they guarantee personal income,
not like the party in power which only values (sârsaoer) public infrastructure
such as bridges and roads.
I support the seven points because they make it easier for the people,
rather than admiring only their own achievements (kar sârsaoer tae pi
snadai khluon).
Dissatisfaction with perceived CPP pride-taking in public infrastructure led
some demonstrators to reject current projects altogether, on the grounds that
these projects, though assumed to be funded by public funds, were presented
as gifts.
The perceived legitimacy, and even desirability, of gifts at the same
time as rights are considered to trump gifts is, if not inherently contradictory, a major tension at the heart of the Cambodian democratic opposition’s
support base. It can be explained by the fact that competing cultural and
political models which celebrate gift-giving or rights simultaneously resonate
with facets of popular aspirations. Its consequences for Cambodian democracy today are dramatic and deep: a popular model of citizenship is emerging
among democratic opposition supporters that incorporates these discordant
notions. This model of citizenship will doubtlessly evolve in tandem with
the responses of political parties. Faced with the reality of its supporters’
ambitions, the CNRP leadership has the choice of either seeking to mould
these or strategically adjusting to them.
276
Conclusion
Two years on from the momentous 2013 elections, Cambodia finds itself in
a volatile situation. A key determinant of future political developments is
whether the CNRP will manage to maintain popular support by channelling
popular grievances ahead of the 2018 elections. By shedding light on proCNRP demonstrators’ demands and ambitions, these results illuminate
future possible pathways of popular politics and their intersection with party
politics.
These conversations reveal a partial divide between official CNRP
discourse and activists’ concerns, but also substantial points of intersection.
CNRP support is ultimately attributable to a perception that the party has
identified real popular concerns. Competing elite projects have long propagated the view that legitimate leadership hinges on the ability to understand
general living conditions. The responses of pro-CNRP demonstrators indicate that this ability is the main criterion for popular support. Seen from this
perspective, the surge in support for the democratic opposition evidences the
success of its conscious strategy to overcome its elite bias by setting out to
identify popular needs.
In their reasons for support, opposition supporters blend patriotic concerns with pro-democratic ones. The democratic opposition parties have
long done so, which has typically been understood as an uncomfortable
amalgamation of a shallow pro-democratic stance, exaggerated for the benefit of international observers, and nationalist rhetoric for the sake of rural
electoral mobilisation. Yet, as it arguably is for the CNRP leadership, the
nexus between democracy and the nation is central to activists’ political
imaginings as the two are considered as part of the same battle.
The CNRP has championed an anti-money politics agenda. Yet, demonstrators overwhelmingly support giving of private funds. They reject CPP
gift-giving not because of an overall rejection of political gift-giving, but
because of perceptions of vote-buying and nepotism. Conversely, demonstrators strongly support political gift-giving, if given in earnest, as an ideal
model of political behaviour. This suggests that the CNRP party leadership
– aware of this duality – struck the right chord when placing an increased
emphasis on providing material support, allegedly without bias. Such proof
of an ability to provide was arguably a contributing cause for the CNRP’s
electoral gains – confirming the party leadership’s post-election analysis.
Future developments depend on the extent to which the party leadership will
continue to provide through party channels – which would surely continue to
boost its popularity – or, if it is serious about moving preferences away from
277
donations, to what extent it can make this shift resonate with the support
base.
Although political gift-giving can form part of democratic accountability for CNRP supporters, it cannot provide an alternative form of democratic accountability. The real benefits mediated by the CNRP are dwarfed by
those distributed by the CPP to the extent that they cannot be regarded as
decisive for political support. Rights trump gifts and are evidently a motivational force for contemporary political struggle. This tension calls into
question the strict dichotomization between rights-seeking and gift-seeking,
shared by accounts of popular political behaviour that focus on individualistic
rights-claiming citizens and by accounts that posit that populations are content
to access state resources as gifts alike. In its stead, a blurred set of popular
preferences emerges. The ability of the CNRP to negotiate these is arguably
key to its future fortunes.
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Relations Between
between ASEAN and China
Two-level Games in Trade and Security
JÖRN DOSCH*
Abstract
China’s role in Southeast Asia is of a multi-dimensional nature and, as in the case of
all small and medium powers that are forced to deal with the presence of a great
power in their midst, the Southeast Asian nations have to negotiate and mediate
China’s presence. The resulting conduct of foreign policy, foreign economic policy
and security policy towards China is no longer based on the strategic considerations
of insulated government elites, but are the result of complex decision-making
processes which are also influenced by non-governmental actors. Consequently,
foreign policy-makers have to reconcile international and domestic priorities and
demands. Loosely based on Robert Putnam’s analytical framework of “two-level
games”, this article looks at two case studies which highlight the interlinked reality
of international and national agendas. First, the ASEAN-China Free Trade Area
(ACFTA), which was initially and enthusiastically embraced by ASEAN for general
political reasons, and second, the conflicts in the South China Sea where the Southeast Asian claimants are carefully trying to balance a multilateral approach towards
China (via ASEAN) with their specific national interests.
Keywords
ASEAN, China, two-level games, ACFTA, South China Sea, Spratly Islands
Introduction
There can be little doubt about “China’s rise” in Southeast Asia, which has
already been the focus of a myriad of publications (for examples see
Chong / Li 2011; Yeoh 2009; Storey 2011; Percival 2007; Kurlantzick 2007).
However, a shortcoming of the existing literature is its bias towards either
one of two extreme and polarised positions. At one end of the two sides
have made remarkable progress in forging a strategic partnership for peace
and prosperity” (Yang / Heng 2011: 126). At the other end, a smaller group
proposes that the emergence of an expansionist China is a threat to a stable
* JÖRN DOSCH, International Politics and Development Cooperation, University of
Rostock, Germany; [email protected].
280
Jörn Dosch
regional order (cf. Grieco 2002; Sokolsky et al. 2001). Most of the studies
in this latter category were published in the first half of the last decade and
written against a backdrop of growing concerns about the future role of the
United States in Southeast Asia: a zero-sum scenario for big power hegemony in which “the Chinese are now eating the Americans’ lunch in the
region” (Cox 2008: 310). The key argument is aptly summarized by Thomas
Christensen:
China’s diplomatic accommodation of its neighbours [...] can be seen as
parts of a strategy to drive the United States out of the region. The danger
is that regional actors will bandwagon with and accommodate a rising
China, rather than balance against it by drawing closer to the United States
(Christensen 2006: 98).
I argue that neither position matches the empirically observable reality:
China’s role in Southeast Asia is of a multi-dimensional nature and, as in
the case of all small and medium powers that are forced to deal with the
presence of a great power in their midst, the Southeast Asian nations have to
negotiate and mediate China’s presence. At first glance this does not necessarily appear to be a novel and innovative perspective. For some time, the
mainstream literature on China-Southeast Asia relations has argued that, as
secondary states in the international system, ASEAN members have to
make flexible use of strategic behaviour ranging from “balancing” to
“bandwagoning” at the extreme ends of a horizontal scale, but also
including hedging and engagement or accommodation at mid-way points.1
However, this predominately neo-realist perspective neglects the presence
of an additional vertical dimension of decision-making, which is driven by
the role and interests of domestic constituencies in individual Southeast
Asian polities – and, by and large, the same applies to the liberalinstitutionalist and social constructivist camps in the debate. In other words,
the vast majority of existing studies looks at states as unitary actors. Yet, the
conduct of foreign policy, foreign economic policy and security policy
towards China is no longer based on the strategic considerations of
insulated government elites, but are the result of complex decision-making
processes which are also influenced by non-governmental actors.
Consequently, foreign policy-makers have to reconcile international and
domestic priorities and demands.
Few have hinted at the domestic angle in China-ASEAN relations. Ian
Storey does so to some extent when he concludes that each of the 11
_______________
1
See Kuik 2008; Ross 2006; Roy 2005; Ba 2006; Goh 2008. For a good overview of the
debate see Baviera 2011.
Relations Between
281
Southeast Asian states followed a different path in their respective relations
with China because of
an eclectic mix of elite perceptions, state ideology, geography, security
concerns, economic aspirations and responses to changes in the geographical environment (Storey 2011: 286).
Almost a decade before Storey’s book, several country specific chapters in a
volume edited by Herbert Yee and Ian Storey (2002) comprised one of the
most comprehensive accounts of domestic factors in the shaping of Southeast Asian approaches towards China. A more recent contribution, the
thematic issue “China and Southeast Asia: Political and Economic Interactions” of the Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs (Booth 2011),
elaborates on the multi-level nature of China-ASEAN relations without,
however, systematically delving into the domestic dimension.
Recent regional developments are difficult to explain without an
analysis of the domestic dynamics of decision-making in foreign policy.
Why do the ASEAN member states suddenly find it increasingly difficult to
speak with one voice in international relations – for example with regard to
the disputes in the South China Sea – even though they have successfully
managed to coordinate and harmonize their foreign policy outlooks for
more than four decades on most occasions? 2 Or why is the ASEAN-China
Free Trade Area (ACFTA) seen in a particularly critical light by those
ASEAN countries that seem to benefit the most from the agreement?
Loosely based on Robert Putnam’s analytical framework of “two-level
games” – that is, the argument that “decision-makers strive to reconcile
domestic and international imperatives simultaneously” (Putnam 1988: 460)
– this article looks at two case studies which highlight the interlinked reality
of international and national agendas.3 First, the ASEAN-China Free Trade
Area (ACFTA), which was initially enthusiastically embraced by ASEAN
for general political reasons, only for some member states to realise that they
had not taken the interests of some domestic key stakeholders sufficiently into
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2
3
This is not to suggest that there has always been cohesion in ASEAN foreign policymaking. In fact there are numerous examples that date back to the origins of the association, such as Cambodia policy and the pertinent evaluation of China and the thenSoviet Union as then significant Cold War actors in the region (see, for example, Jones
2012). However, on previous occasions ASEAN member states usually managed to sweep
their differences under the carpet and speak with one voice vis-à-vis the outside word.
Although Putnam’s concept of a two-level game might seem somewhat dated, it is still
useful to revisit his original argument. Besides, it is not the purpose of this paper to engage
in, and contribute to, discourses on the two-level games for the purpose of advancing
international relations theory. The idea is to open a new empirical perspective in the study
of China-ASEAN relations which has been largely neglected so far.
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consideration; and second, the conflicts in the South China Sea where the
Southeast Asian claimants are carefully trying to balance a multilateral
approach towards China (via ASEAN) with their specific national interests.
The following analysis focusses particularly on developments and foreign
policy decisions in the year 2012. This was a crucial year for ASEAN as the
effects of ACFTA became fully visible. Equally important, for the first time
in ASEAN’s history the meeting of the foreign ministers in Phnom Penh in
July demonstrated clear rifts among the member states regarding relations
with China. Essentially the article tries to explain why and how certain
foreign policy decisions were taken in 2012. Consequently, in order not to
distort the picture, the analysis is based on empirical evidence which was
available in 2012.
Two-level games
Southeast Asia has changed dramatically since ASEAN was formed in
1967. Given the region’s vast diversity of political systems and the
prevailing authoritarian or semi-authoritarian structures of some domestic
orders, Southeast Asia can hardly be described as a stronghold of
democracy. The remarkable success in the consolidation of democracy in
Indonesia is not necessarily easily replicable in other parts of the region, as
is shown by the seemingly never-ending circle of civilian rule interrupted
by military coups in Thailand, persistent cronyism in the Philippines,
Cambodia’s inability to move beyond a “democracy on paper” or
restrictions of civil liberties in Malaysia and Singapore. Yet, today every
nation in Southeast Asia is – to varying degrees – more liberal than it was
10 or 20 years ago. This article is not the place for a deeper discussion of
domestic political changes. Suffice to say that there is one common
experience that all young democracies or liberalising polities share
regardless of the respective cultural background in which they are
embedded: international relations and foreign policy making in these
countries are influenced by a larger number of actors compared with
insulated authoritarian regimes. The greater openness and complexity of
foreign policy making is due to electoral competition, a prominent role
played by parliaments, greater transparency and, not least, broad access to
independent sources of information. In many cases a stronger participation
of non-state actors, such as NGOs and other organisations of civil society,
in foreign policy making is not only a quasi-inevitable consequence of
liberalization but also a development actively supported by governments.
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With the notable exception of some more recent work on ASEAN, 4 the
making of foreign policies in Southeast Asia, and indeed the region’s
international relations, have mostly been seen and analysed as isolated policy
areas, unrelated to the structures and dynamics of the countries’ political
systems. This approach seemed to be acceptable during the periods of autocratic rule, when the foreign policy arena was the domain of small political
elites who defined and implemented narrow national interests without
taking into account broader societal interests or being subject to
institutionalized checks and balances. However, the processes of liberalization in Southeast Asia has not only resulted in changing national political
orders but also impacted on foreign policy making and, more specifically,
changed the way the respective governments perceive global and regional
challenges and react to them.
In 1969, the contributors to James N. Rosenau’s pathbreaking edited
volume Linkage Politics, on the convergence of national and international
systems, investigated in great analytical and empirical detail the reciprocal
relationship between external and internal variables in policymaking. This
attempt at a “systematic conceptual exploration of the flow of influence
across the […] boundaries of national and international systems” (Rosenau
1969: 3) can still be considered the benchmark for crossing the internationaldomestic divide. Rosenau introduced a matrix that featured no less than 144
areas in which national/international linkages can be formed (ibid.: 49).
However, with the notable exception of Ole Holsti and John Sullivan’s
(1969) chapter on France and China, the volume was more concerned with
the impact of international inputs on domestic policy outputs than the
influence of actors and structures on a given state’s foreign relations.
One of the most influential post-1970s contributions to foreign policy
analysis has been the metaphor of the two-level game as introduced by
Robert Putnam (1988) and developed further by many others since (especially
Evans et al. 1993). The two-level game framework is the “central analytical
device […] to span the domestic international divide” (Caporaso 1997:
567). It follows the idea that
state-society relations – the relationship of states to the domestic and
transnational social context in which they are embedded – have a fundamental impact on state behaviour in world politics (Moravcsik 1997: 513).
The two-level game links the national and international context of decisionmaking. At the national level, domestic constituencies pressure the government to adopt policies they favour. At the same time governmental actors
_______________
4
See for example Rüland 2009, 2014; Weatherbee 2013; and Roberts et al. 2015.
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seek power by building coalitions among these constituencies. At the
international level, governmental actors seek to satisfy domestic pressures
while limiting the harmful impact on foreign relations. Thus, political leaders
must simultaneously play both the international game and the domestic
game. The requirement that decision-makers satisfy both domestic constituencies and international actors is what produces constraints on foreign
policy behaviour. In sum, while the two-level game emphasizes negotiating
behaviour, it also serves as a metaphor for understanding the impact of
domestic influences on the broad spectrum of foreign policy decisions
(Trumbore / Boyer 2000: 680).
The last point is crucial. Putnam’s original framework focuses on
negotiations. In this model the negotiator is a quasi-rational decision-maker
who agrees to, or rejects, draft treaties on the basis of the presumed number
and size of “win sets” at home; that is, the level of support such an agreement would enjoy among domestic actors. However, two-level games are
hardly ever finally and conclusively decided at the negotiating table. The
decision-making process does not stop with the signing of an agreement. It
is often only after an international commitment has been made that governments realise that the specific treaty faces domestic opposition which can
either result in the non-ratification of the agreement or initiatives to renegotiate. The 2002 ASEAN Agreement on Transboundary Haze Pollution,
on paper one of the most progressive regional environmental treaties in the
world, is a case in point. Although clearly beneficial to Indonesia – the agreement facilitates cooperation and coordination in managing the impact of
land and forest fires, which particularly affect Sumatra on a regular basis –
for more than a decade, the Indonesian House of Representatives refused to
ratify the agreement, claiming that it would undermine national interests.
It is therefore useful to expand the application of two-level games as
an analytical framework beyond the negotiation phase to understand the
general dynamics of decision-making in foreign policy. The example of the
ASEAN-China Free Trade Area provides a decisive empirical case.
The ASEAN-China Free Trade Area (ACFTA)
Throughout the 1990s, trade between China and ASEAN grew at an annual
rate of 16 per cent and in 2000 the trade volume stood at USD 29.6 billion
(Xiao 2009: 309). Over the following decade trade increased almost tenfold
and reached USD 292.8 billion in 2010, according to official Chinese
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statistics.5 The largest annual increase (37.5 per cent) during this period was
achieved in the final year of the decade and has been attributed to ACFTA,
which officially came into full effect on 1 January 2010 – at which point
China and ASEAN-6 (Brunei, Malaysia, Indonesia, Singapore, Thailand
and the Philippines) had reduced tariffs to zero on 90 per cent of traded
goods (China Customs 2011). The four newer members, Cambodia, Laos,
Myanmar and Vietnam (CLMV countries), negotiated a delayed and gradual
entry into ACFTA. The Free Trade Area has a combined GDP of USD 6.6
trillion and comprises 1.9 billion people (ASEAN Secretariat 2010).
Chinese Premier Zhu Rongji first proposed a trade agreement at the
ASEAN+China meeting in November 2000 in response to the Asian economic crisis and regional concerns about the impact of China’s thenimminent WTO membership. Yet, this proposal
[…] also arose out of an acute sensitivity toward the need to maintain relations with as many states as possible in order to constrain American power
under a global system defined by the struggle between “one superpower,
many great powers” (Hughes 2005: 125).
From a neo-realist perspective the general political value of the project was
immediately obvious: ACFTA would further contribute to the enhancement
of Beijing’s position as a preeminent regional power, not only in relation to
the United States, but also at the expense of Japan. Tokyo reacted with alarm
to the plan and subsequently entered into talks on a Japan-ASEAN Free
Trade Area within the framework of the Japan-ASEAN Comprehensive
Economic Partnership. Within ASEAN, China is perceived as an engine of
growth, a distinction that previously belonged to Japan. Seen from this
perspective, ACFTA – which had already been gradually implemented under
the Early Harvest Programme (EHP) since 2003 – has strengthened China’s
status as a benevolent regional leader. China’s proposal of a “strategic
partnership” with ASEAN, unveiled at the ASEAN foreign ministers’ meeting in Phnom Penh in June 2003, has to be seen in the same context.
Staying within the neo-realist framework, it can be argued that
ASEAN enthusiastically supported the free trade initiative not only for
economic reasons but also because it offered a golden opportunity to jump
on the China bandwagon with general political-security intentions in mind.
Studies on ACFTA regularly stress the “longer-term strategic objectives of
this trade agreement” (Chandra / Lontoh 2011: 2), which might even off-set
potential negative economic impacts. As summarized by Leebeer Leebouapa et al. (2012), critics of ACFTA from a Southeast Asian perspective
_______________
5
The figures are lower according to WTO data presented in Figure 5.
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highlight the risk of a surge in imports of cheap and low value-added
manufacturing products from China, which could adversely affect the
domestic industries in the less developed ASEAN states – especially those
still relying on low value-added and labour-intensive industries. At the same
time, small and medium-sized enterprises (SMEs) in the most advanced
ASEAN economies, domestic industries in emerging economies such as
Indonesia and the Philippines, and the labour-intensive economies of the
CLMV countries might experience severe displacement effects, at least in the
short term.
Is there any possibility that ASEAN governments were lured into the
FTA deal by an increasingly assertive China, blinded by the strategic longterm advantages that the agreement might offer and deaf to the concerns of
domestic industries? Did the ASEAN negotiators neglect the domestic side
of the two-level game? Growing criticism of ACFTA, especially in Indonesia,
the Philippines and Vietnam, and often coupled with demands for a
renegotiation of the terms, seems to suggest that the ASEAN side did not fully
appreciate, or even deliberately ignored, the complex dynamics of the
agreement. However, answers to the above questions are not straightforward.
Figure 1 shows that ASEAN’s trade with China has increased
significantly since ACFTA came into force. While ASEAN has a trade deficit
with China, this deficit has not widened under ACFTA and is in fact lower
than in 2007 and 2008. According to reports and statements by several
PRC-based organisations such as the China Association of International
Trade, China Council for the Promotion of International Trade and the
China-ASEAN Business Council, the value of trade between China and
ASEAN is expected to exceed the official goal of USD 500 billion by 2015.
According to these predictions, in the same year, ASEAN will become
China’s top trading partner and overtake both the US and the EU as the
PRC’s current largest import and export markets. This projected growth is
based on the assumption of a sharp increase of China’s imports from
Southeast Asia, suggesting that ASEAN will run a trade surplus in its
relations with China in the near future (Bao 2012).
Figures 2 and 3 demonstrate that both ASEAN’s import and export
relations with China are mainly driven by manufactured goods. While this
finding in itself does not provide any deeper analytical insight into the
structure of, and growth prospective for, ASEAN-China trade, it nevertheless points to a striking difference in trade relations as compared with many
other trading partners of China. For example, Australia mainly exports iron
ores and concentrates to China, Chile predominantly copper and Argentina
agricultural products. At the same time, all three economies rely on imported manufactured goods from China. ASEAN’s export base is more
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diversified and therefore less sensitive to fluctuations in commodity prices,
but not completely immune to them. Where dependency still exists governments have partly tried to reduce them. For instance, Indonesia is China’s
top bauxite supplier with exports accounting for 80 per cent of China’s
bauxite consumption. In May 2012, Jakarta introduced a 20 per cent export
tax on 65 unrefined mineral types, paving the way for a full export ban on
unrefined bauxite exports expected in 2014. The restriction aims at boosting
domestic value by encouraging mining companies to process ores before
exports (Yap 2012).
Figures 4 to 7 depict the vastly different effects of ACFTA and the
preceding Early Harvest Programme (EHP) on four major ASEAN economies: Malaysia, Indonesia, the Philippines and Vietnam. In all four cases
and in line with the general ASEAN trend, the trade volume has increased
markedly between 2003, the beginning of the EHP, and 2011. However,
while the Philippines, Malaysia and Indonesia have been particularly successful in increasing their exports to China and – in the case of the latter
two – turning their respective trade deficits into surpluses, Vietnam’s trade
deficit has grown during the same period.
Even a cursory glance at this data puts into perspective the official
rhetoric that – in the words of then-ASEAN Secretary General Surin
Pitsuwan, for example – the ASEAN-China Free Trade Agreement was
“working wonderfully” (cited in Xinhua 2012b). Assessments and statistics
on the overall ASEAN-China trade volume do not carry much weight with
the member states, which generally show little interest in the effects of
ACFTA on ASEAN as a group and are mainly – and quite understandably,
given that ASEAN is not a supranational, but an inter-governmental
organisation – interested in the FTA’s effects on their respective bilateral
economic relations with China. This is where domestic actors enter the
scene. Given particularly Malaysia’s, but also Indonesia’s, apparent gains
from the agreement, one would expect both governments to have a
generally positive view of ACFTA. This is the case for Malaysia, but not
Indonesia. Under Prime Minister Najib Razak, the Malaysian government
has not once deviated from its approach of presenting relations with China,
which became Malaysia largest trading partner in 2011, as entirely troublefree and beneficial for the country’s development towards industrialized
nation status. Some small and medium enterprises have registered their
grievances and reported a lack of reciprocity, namely the need to meet high
export standards to enter the Chinese market, while the same would not
apply to Chinese exports to Malaysia (Abidin / Aziz 2012). Overall,
however, the effects of the free trade agreement have not triggered much
public debate in Malaysia.
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FIGURE 1:
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ASEAN’s trade with China, 2007–2011 (USD at current prices;
in millions)
Source: data compiled from WTO Statistics Database
FIGURE 2: ASEAN’s imports from China 2007–2011 (USD at current prices;
in millions)
telecom
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FIGURE 3: ASEAN’s exports to China, 2007–2011 (USD at current prices;
in millions)
FIGURE 4: Malaysia’s trade with China
Source: data extracted from OECD Stats, Bilateral Trade Database
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FIGURE 5: Indonesia’s trade with China 2003–2011 (USD at current prices;
in millions)
FIGURE 6: Philippines trade with China 2003–2011 (USD at current prices;
in millions)
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FIGURE 7: Vietnam’s trade with China 2003–2011 (USD at current prices;
in millions)
This is due to a combination of three factors. First, it is hard to ignore that,
on balance, ACFTA has indeed been beneficial to Malaysia. The agreement
has not changed the structure of bilateral trade relations, and just ten
products6 continue to make up more than 60 per cent of Malaysian exports
to China, where demand for almost all of these goods has grown
substantially over the past few years. Malaysia also successfully negotiated
the inclusion of 701 products in the sensitive and highly sensitive list, for
which tariffs will be gradually reduced, but not eliminated. Strategically
important key industries, such as iron and steel and automotive, largely
remain protected. Yet, together with Singapore and Thailand, Malaysia is
one of the most open ASEAN economies and, consequently, these three
member states have been at the forefront of negotiating regional and bilateral free trade agreements (see Chandra / Lontoh 2011). However, no FTA
deal ever produces only winners. Hence, the second observation is equally
important. Any private sector criticism of ACFTA has not been widely
reported in the Malaysian mass media which operates in a controlled
environment characterized by restrictive laws on press freedom and
_______________
6
In the following groups: electrical and electronic machinery, vegetable products (mainly
palm oil), petroleum products and rubber products.
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restricting media ownership to those close to the ruling Barisan Nasional
(BN) party. Third, the government’s foreign policy and foreign economic
policy agendas generally do not generate strong interest among non-state
actors, who are more concerned and pre-occupied with domestic developments. Together these three factors have created a favourable situation for
the government that allows it to concentrate on strategic priorities in its
relations with China without having to engage in two-level games.
This is not the case in Indonesia. The closer the implementation of
ACFTA came, the more concerned the Indonesian government got about
growing domestic criticism and opposition, which reflected a perception
that ACFTA was essentially a neo-colonial tool entirely serving China’s
interests. Opinion pieces in leading media outlets stressed the uncompetitive
nature of Indonesia’s agricultural products and manufactured goods vis-àvis China and painted a gloomy picture of the expected adverse effects of
ACFTA for the future of Indonesia’s economic development and capabilities.
Justified or not, these fears “appear to reflect widely held beliefs in Indonesian business, media and political circles” (Booth 2011: 154). Confronted
with the situation of a post-negotiation two-level game, the Indonesian
government formally lodged a letter on 14 January 2010 – a fortnight after
the official start of ACFTA – asking the ASEAN member states to defer the
implementation of the agreement until 2011. This move, however, proved
unsuccessful (ibid.: 153). The strong public pressure on the government,
including mass demonstrations in several major cities in early 2010, to
reconsider its position towards China also forced Jakarta to postpone new
free trade and economic partnership negotiations with other states
(Chandra / Lontoh 2011: 6–7).
Since 2010, the Indonesian Chamber of Commerce and Industry
(Kamar Dagang dan Industri Indonesia or KADIN) has repeatedly voiced
strong concerns over the difficulties faced by local industries in coping with
the massive flood of Chinese imports. Other influential private sector
groups, such as the Indonesian Textile Association (Asosiasi Pertekstilan
Indonesia), also claimed that textile imports from China controlled up to 50
per cent of the local market in West Sumatra (Chandra / Lontoh: 5). A 2010
study of the Indonesian Survey Institute (LSI) based on approximately
1,000 face-to-face interviews revealed that – rather unsurprisingly – 55.1 per
cent of the respondents feared the potential flooding of Indonesia by cheap
Chinese imports, which would damage the country’s economy in the long
term.
In April 2011, KADIN called again for a renegotiation of ACFTA to
give time for the Indonesian economy to develop its downstream industries
(The Jakarta Post 2011a). At around the same time, a survey by the Indo-
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nesian Ministry of Industry, which involved 4,236 traders and 12,151
buyers of both Indonesian and Chinese products, showed that ACFTA had
resulted in declining sales of local products in the domestic market, with
textiles, furniture, metal, machinery and electronics producers suffering the
most. The study established that most traders preferred to sell Chinese
products than the domestically made ones, since they found that by selling
the former, they increased their profits by around 20 per cent (Fadillah
2011).
In August 2012, Indonesian plastic manufacturers complained about a
new finance ministry regulation which widened the coverage of plastic
products exempted from import duty of 15 per cent under ACFTA, saying
that the measure would seriously harm the downstream industry (Yulisman
2012b). A deeper look, however, reveals that, at least in the plastics industry,
the main problem is not a lack of competitiveness, but the heavy
dependence of local manufacturers on imported raw materials, including
from China, as demand surpasses local production. In a similar vein,
Indonesian electronic manufacturers lack supporting industries, and thus
rely heavily on imported components, mainly from China, but also from
other ASEAN countries such as Malaysia, Vietnam and Thailand. An
editorial in The Jakarta Post neatly summarized the challenge:
[L]ocal manufacturing companies are […] becoming more dependent on
imported capital and intermediary goods from China to expand their
businesses (Yulisman 2012a).
In recent years, Indonesia has also increased its imports of Chinese machinery to build infrastructure, such as power plants.
The apparent flooding of the Indonesian market with cheap Chinese
products exercises the public imagination but, according to Indonesian
economist Faisal Basri, consumer products such as shoes and toys comprise
only 7.4 per cent of China’s total exports to Indonesia, while raw materials
account for 70 per cent (cited in The Jakarta Post 2011a).
Given the extensive domestic dimension of the two-level game, it is
hardly surprising that the Indonesian government did not give up on its
attempts to review the terms of free trade with China; however, they have
remained unsuccessful. Beijing has steadfastly maintained that ACFTA could
not be renegotiated with Indonesia as it was not a bilateral agreement. Simultaneously, senior Chinese government officials have reassured their
Indonesian counterparts of the PRC’s assistance in mitigating any negative
effects of the FTA, including encouraging Chinese commercial banks to
provide more loans to vulnerable Indonesian industries (Yulisman 2011).
Knowing that such statements do not necessarily appease the Indonesian
private sector and media, and can easily add grist to the mill of those who
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believe that China is tightening its hegemonic grip on Indonesia, Beijing has
not failed to remind Jakarta of the broader context of ACFTA: China has “a
large interest in continuing to forge bilateral ties with Indonesia for regional
security and world peace”.7
In Vietnam such arguments only convince the conservative or antiimperialist faction within the political party-state elite. For this group, China
is Vietnam’s most important strategic ally and model for development. For
the competing faction of the integrationists or reformers, which is roughly
equal in size, China is rather a source of threat and obstacle than one of
support and hope (Dosch / Vuving 2008). This cleavage is most visible in
security affairs in general and with regards to the South China Sea disputes
in particular, but has also began to express itself in diverging interpretations
of the benefits and challenges of Vietnam’s close economic relations with
China, which became Vietnam’s largest trading partner in 2005. The substantial growth of bilateral trade is mainly driven by Chinese exports to
Vietnam. No other major ASEAN economy has to deal with such a rapidly
widening trade imbalance, which stood at USD 14.89 billion for January–
November 20128 – not even taking into the account the black-market border
trade between the two countries at places like Mong Cai or Lang Son.
The main reason for Vietnam’s trade deficit with China is the unbalanced trade pattern between the two countries. “Close proximity, technological progress and undervaluation of the [Chineses currency] RMB by the
Chinese government have made Chinese commodities very attractive in
Vietnam. […] Due to the underdevelopment of supporting industries,
Vietnamese enterprises import production materials from China and then
contribute only assembly labour before export to the EU or USA (UNIDO /
Ministry of Planning and Investment Viet Nam 2012: 82).
Although Vietnam will only join ACFTA fully in 2015, the impact is
already visible. For example, a report by the Ministry of Planning and
Investment of July 2012 elaborates on the difficulties faced by the Vietnamese automobile industry due to growing competition from its Chinese
counterparts and structural disadvantages compared to other ASEAN
economies.
With complete production infrastructure and strong support industries,
together with attractive policies, some ASEAN countries have become
giant “workshops” for the world’s leading automobile brands. That disfavours Vietnam’s auto industry, particularly from 2018 when the import
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7
8
Ma Jisheng, a deputy director general in the Chinese Foreign Ministry, cited in The
Jakarta Post (The Jakarta Post 2011b).
General Statistics Office of Vietnam.
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tariff of complete-built automobiles from ASEAN countries to Vietnam is
reduced to zero percent (cited in Xinhua 2012c).
Private sector organisations such as the HCM City Enterprises Association
and the HCM City Plastics and Rubber Manufacturers Association have
called on the government to introduce more technical barriers to trade to
protect domestically manufactured goods from foreign competition (Vietnam
News Agency 2012).
It is difficult to assess the exact level of discontent with ACFTA, but a
two-level game, in which the government needs to balance domestic
economic interests and its foreign relations with its giant neighbour, undoubtedly exists. On the one hand, under the framework of the “strategic
partnership”, inaugurated in 2008 and further upgraded to “a strategic cooperative partnership” in the following year, China and Vietnam have developed a network of party, state, defence and multilateral mechanisms to
manage their bilateral relations – largely unaffected by the ongoing and
periodically escalating territorial disputes in the South China Sea (Thayer
2011). On the other hand, ‘“Containing China’ is a crowd-pleasing goal in
some quarters” (The Economist 2012), fuelled not only by the fierce competition for sovereignty in the contested maritime area, but also by the perception of China’s growing economic hegemony. The latter has been aggravated through the highly controversial bauxite mining project in the Central
Highlands for which the first two processing plants, that is, aluminium
factories, were contracted to the Chinese mining company Chalco.
The government’s dilemma is exacerbated by unfavourable macroeconomic developments – particularly high inflation (which peaked at 23 per
cent year-on-year in August 2011) and a debt-ridden banking sector (the
ratio of non-performing loans in the banking system is estimated to be around
15 per cent, the highest bad debt ratio of any Southeast Asian country) –
that have characterized the Vietnamese economy since the global crisis of
2007–08, but especially since 2010, and signalled the end of the boom
years. In his 2013 New Year’s message to the nation, Prime Minister
Nguyen Tan Dung admitted to “shortcomings in the government’s management” and “economic structural weaknesses” (Voice of Vietnam 2013).
While the government does not seem to have developed a clear and comprehensive strategy to mitigate any negative effects of ACFTA, precisely
addressing the intensifying dependency on Chinese imports – through, for
example, a further diversification of the export industry – offers the best
potential to score domestic points in its complex relations with China. So
far, however, the government has avoided a large-scale spill-over of any
ACFTA criticism into the pool of general anti-China sentiments. In this
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sense, ACFTA and the South China Sea disputes have remained separate
issues.
This situation differs markedly from the Philippines where, in public
opinion, economic relations with China and the perception of a security
threat originating from Beijing are seen as two sides of the same coin. China
is currently the third-largest trading partner of the Philippines and, driven by
ACFTA, bilateral trade has grown fast in the past few years. The bilateral
trade value reached a record high of USD 32.25 billion in 2011, an increase
of 16.2 per cent from 2010. In the first four months of 2012 it grew an unprecedented 17.8 per cent year-on-year, whereas China experienced an
overall poor foreign trade performance (Habito 2012). Given the significance of bilateral trade, there is a certain temptation to play the economic
card in the territorial dispute over Scarborough Shoal (referred to as
Huangyan Island by China and Panatag Shoal by the Philippines) in the
South China Sea. During a period of provocations and diplomatic standstill
in 2012, the Chinese customs authorities used the pretext of tighter
quarantine inspections to block Philippine banana exports from entering the
market. Agriculture accounts for about 20 per cent of the Philippine economy and employs one-third of the population. Bananas are the country’s
second-largest agricultural export.
Given that nearly half of all Philippines’ banana exports are now shipped
to China, the effects of China’s actions quickly reverberated among
Philippine fruit exporters. Beijing carefully calculated its sanctions to
exert domestic political pressure on the Philippine government. […]
Beijing hoped to pressure Manila to resolve the maritime dispute quickly
(Reilly 2012: 129–130).
While both the Chinese and Philippine media reported on possible countermoves by Manila, Philippine government officials rejected any suggestions
of links between China’s de facto economic sanctions and the territorial
dispute and were keen to avoid any escalation of the issue. Time and again,
the government in Manila stressed the importance of strong business relations between the two countries as a cornerstone of economic development,
thus trying to limit the impact of the South China Sea conflict as an international variable in the two-level games on ACFTA. Yet, the maritime dispute in itself constitutes one the most visible two-level games in the region.
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The South China Sea disputes
The South China Sea (SCS)9 plays an important part in regional security
considerations and is the focus of territorial disputes that are among the
most contentious and volatile in the Asia-Pacific theatre. At the heart of
these disputes lie the Spratly Islands – a collection of coral reefs, atolls,
islets, islands and sand bars scattered over a sea zone of some 410,000
square kilometres. This area is claimed, in whole or in part, by China, Taiwan,
Vietnam, Malaysia, Brunei, and the Philippines. Although the total land
mass of the islands does not exceed ten square kilometres, the Spratly
Islands’ geostrategic and economic significance is invaluable. Linking the
Pacific and Indian Oceans, the SCS sees passage of nearly 50 per cent of
global merchant marine traffic and 80 per cent of crude oil transports en
route to Japan, South Korea and Taiwan. Securing sovereignty over the
Spratly Islands equates to direct control of some of the most important
communication sea-lanes. Furthermore, the islands are set amid some of the
world’s most productive fishing grounds and may prove rich in undersea oil
and gas resources.
Following the oil crisis in the early 1970s, discovery of crude oil in the
Spratly Islands soon transformed the area into a zone of increasingly fierce
competition among its claimants. When German merchants first mapped
and surveyed the Spratly Islands in the early twentieth century, they found
no signs of human habitation. Today, military forces from Vietnam, China,
Taiwan, Malaysia and the Philippines occupy about 45 of the islands.
Brunei has claimed an Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ) in the south-eastern
part of the region without maintaining a military presence. In recent years,
the Chinese navy has intensified its patrols throughout the area and has
shown an increasing readiness and willingness to confront other nations for
control within the contested island chains. Carlyle Thayer has described
China’s current approach as “aggressive assertion of sovereignty over the
South China Sea” (2011: 573).
The dispute first gained prominence in 1978, when the Philippines set
out its EEZ, which formally included the island Kalayaan in the Spratlys.
However, the controversy itself remained relatively dormant until 1988,
when China and Vietnam clashed at Johnson Reef and several Vietnamese
boats were sunk, killing over 70 sailors. Since then hostilities in the South
China Sea have regularly erupted, most prominently between China and the
Philippines. The Philippines considers China’s occupation of Mischief Reef
in 1995 and its repeated incursions into Scarborough Shoal since 1997 as
_______________
9
The following outline of the dispute is based on Dosch 2011.
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Jörn Dosch
direct assaults on Philippine territory. In the first half of 2012, Chinese paramilitary ships confronted Philippine vessels in a two-month standoff over a
disputed shoal. In June 2012, the Philippines withdrew its presence due to
the approaching typhoon season and China has effectively controlled the
disputed area since then.
The essential problem is simple: the claimants disagree about the territorial division of the SCS among them. While China has repeatedly stated
that it owns sovereignty and jurisdiction over the islands and adjacent
waters, other nations involved in the dispute contradict this claim, basing
their responses on historical or legal arguments. The most important provision in this regard is the 1982 United Nations Convention on the Law of the
Sea (UNCLOS). It created several guidelines concerning the status of
islands, the continental shelf, enclosed seas, territorial limits and EEZs.
However, while UNCLOS strengthens the position of the ASEAN claimants, it does not favour China’s position. At the core of the sovereignty
dispute lays the so-called “nine-dash line” (since it is defined by nine dashes
on Chinese maps). This U-shaped line indicates China’s claims to over 80
per cent of the SCS (see Figure 8). In May 2009, China issued an official
note concerning the nine-dash line, formally bringing the nine-dash line
map to global attention. Shen Hongfang summarizes recent Chinese
discourses on the dispute and cites the allegedly popular view among
“almost all of Chinese senior military officials” that “China is legally
entitled to take military actions to repel the invaders” and that it might be
necessary to “teach some countries a lesson” (2011: 592–594). There seems
to be no doubt in Chinese official and public option about the illegal nature
of other states’ presence in the SCS.
It is interesting that a comprehensive volume on Chinese Foreign
Policy, published in 2005, only mentions the South China Sea disputes in
passing. However, it provides some valuable insights into the way that
foreign policy makers cling to the idea of China as a victim in international
relations:
Given its firm belief that China is a peace-loving nation and a victim, the
Chinese government – in situations of conflict and through the mechanisms
of cognitive balance – invariably sees the other side as the aggressor. Once
the situation is defined as foreign aggression against China, the Chinese
government often feels compelled to take resolute action. One can see that
pattern in numerous cases, from the Korean War to the Sino-Vietnamese
war, and from the multiple Taiwan Strait crises to the disputes in the South
China Sea (Wang 2005: 94).
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FIGURE 8: Overlapping territorial claims in the South China Sea
Source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:South_China_Sea_vector.svg
Official diplomacy is markedly more tamed. In April 2011, Chinese President Hu Jintao called on other Asian nations to forge better cooperation
regarding security matters involving territorial claims over the Spratly
Islands to avoid disagreements (Presidential Communications Operations
Office 2011). The idea of a cooperative approach to resolving the territorial
dispute is not new and has been floating about for some two decades.
ASEAN has been at the forefront of diplomatic initiatives to approach the
dispute from a multilateral angle. The ASEAN-China Declaration on the
Conduct of Parties in the South China Sea (DoC) of 2002 is often praised as
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a first step toward a peaceful settlement.10 On paper, the DoC commits the
signatories to resolve their territorial and jurisdictional disputes by peaceful
means and in accordance with universally recognised principles of international law, including UNCLOS. Though not binding, and dependent upon
the goodwill of signatory states, government officials and scholarly observers alike hope that the agreement will nevertheless oblige the Southeast
Asian claimants and China to avoid any activity that would damage or
complicate their relations. In an optimistic scenario, the declaration constructively contributes to the avoidance of armed clashes among the parties
over their conflicting claims on the sovereignty of the Spratly Islands and
paves the way for a negotiated multilateral solution. This, at least, is the
official view that ASEAN has repeatedly and continuously promoted in the
group’s joint communiqués, issued at the end of the annual meetings of the
ASEAN foreign ministers (the ASEAN Ministerial Meetings or AMM). In
the past two decades all AMM communiqués included – in some cases
detailed – references to the situation in the SCS to underline the point that
ASEAN was speaking with one voice on this issue, even though only four
members are parties to the disputes. For example, the joint communiqué of
2011 devoted an entire section and five articles to the SCS. In addition to
stressing “the importance of maintaining peace and stability in the South
China Sea, the continued exercise of self-restraint by all parties concerned,
and the promotion of confidence-building measures in this area”, the
document made strong, though general, references to international law,
including the 1982 UNCLOS (ASEAN 2011). While the communiqué of
2011 employed a general and familiar non-offensive pro-peace rhetoric and
did not explicitly name any territorial claims or disputes areas, some foreign
ministers planned to slightly change the tone of the 2012 statement.
As reported by Thayer (2012), a working party comprising the four
foreign ministers Marty Natalegawa (Indonesia), Anifah Aman (Malaysia),
Albert del Rosario (Philippines) and Pham Binh Minh (Vietnam) was
responsible for drafting the joint communiqué for the 45th AMM in July
2012 in Phnom Penh. Paragraph 16 of the 132-paragraph draft turned out to
be the most controversial in the deliberation of all ASEAN foreign ministers
at the meeting in Cambodia:
_______________
10
The DoC is based on the earlier ASEAN Declaration on the South China Sea of 1992. In
2009 the ASEAN Political-Security Community Blueprint committed the group to “work
towards the adoption of a regional Code of Conduct (CoC) in the South China Sea”. In
September 2012, Indonesia circulated a draft CoC – which is intended as a mechanism to
implement the DoC – to ASEAN’s foreign ministers. However, so far any initiatives to
negotiate a CoC have been restricted to intra-ASEAN dialogues, while China has not yet
made any formal commitment to participate in any such deliberations.
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In this context, we discussed in-depth recent developments in the South China
Sea, including the situation in the affected Shoal / disputed area, exclusive
economic zones and continental shelves of coastal states, particularly those
contrary to the provisions of the 1982 UNCLOS. In this connection, we call
upon all parties to respect the universally recognized principles of
international law including the 1982 UNCLOS. Further [we call] upon all the
parties to resolve the disputes in accordance with universally recognized
principles of international law (cited in Thayer 2012: 12).
Differences over the presentation of the SCS issue in the final document
eventually resulted in ASEAN’s failure to issue a joint communiqué at all –
for the first time in the group’s 45-year history. The reasons become
apparent in the leaked minutes of the AMM and related documents, which
have been analysed in detail by Thayer (2012). A mapping of the respective
positions at the meeting shows that there was no unified position on the
SCS among the member states and reveals the myth of ASEAN’s ability to
speak with one voice on the conflict. As Figure 9 summarises, the positions
ranged from Cambodia’s preference for excluding any reference to the SCS
disputes, to the Philippines’ and Vietnam’s demands to explicitly name the
issues at stake. The other members positioned themselves either closer to
the Cambodian or the Philippine/Vietnamese position, but all indicated their
willingness to compromise. At one point during the deliberations, a comprise seemed within reach when the Indonesian Foreign Minister Marty
Natalegawa suggested they omit references to the Shoal and EEZs in the
draft and only use the term “disputed area”. However, this wording proved
unacceptable to both Pham Binh Minh (Vietnam) and Albert del Rosario
(Philippines) who insisted that the EEZs and Scarborough Shoal, respectively,
had to be explicitly mentioned as they could not be subsumed under disputed areas. Del Rosario stated, “There are many disputed areas in the
South China Sea, but not in the Scarborough Shoal”. Pham Bin Minh
clarified,
the EEZ is not a disputed area, certainly not. Some countries [try] to turn
an undisputed area into a disputed area. That’s for sure [an EEZ is not a
disputed area] in accordance with international law (Thayer 2012: 13).
The attempts to find a compromise went on for several hours but did not
produce a result. When the blame game started, Cambodia found itself in
the spotlight, as the chair’s resolute rejection of language referring to Scarborough Shoal and the EEZs was seen as the main reason for the meeting’s
failure. At the same time, the non-negotiable positions of Vietnam and
especially of the Philippines equally contributed to this outcome.
Overall, it is hardly surprising that the claimant states – particularly
the Philippines and Vietnam, which have been most fiercely involved in
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Jörn Dosch
bilateral maritime conflict situations with China – voiced the strongest
support for the inclusion of a detailed ASEAN position on the SCS to
strengthen their leverage vis-à-vis Beijing. China was the big elephant in the
room and the contributions to the discussions at the AMM left no doubt that
the non-claimant states were unwilling to risk any damage to their relations
with China over a joint ASEAN position that Beijing would have most
certainly interpreted as offensive. In no case was this more obvious than
with regard to Cambodia. Together with Myanmar and Laos, Cambodia is
heavily dependent on Chinese investment and aid. Between 2007 and 2013
China was the largest of 39 providers of Official Development Assistance
(ODA) in Cambodia. Chinese ODA, which was mostly in support of major
infrastructure projects and agricultural development, amounted to USD 906
million or 19.4 per cent of the total ODA (USD 4,681 million) during this
period.11 As for foreign direct investment (FDI), between 2006 and 2012,
Chinese companies invested some USD 8.2 billion in Cambodia, more than
double the amount from second-place South Korean sources and almost
nine times the total FDI provided by US companies (Wong 2012). Heng
Pheakdey provides evidence for a direct link between Chinese aid for
Cambodia and the SCS issue:
In April 2012, President Hu Jintao promised millions of dollars of aid and
loans during his visit to Cambodia right before the ASEAN summit that was
chaired by Cambodia. In return, he requested that the South China Sea dispute
not to be discussed during the meeting (Heng 2012: 72).
Even before Cambodia assumed the chair of ASEAN for 2012, a senior
government official told this author12 that Cambodia would be determined
to keep the SCS disputes off the official cooperation agenda to the extent
possible. Being not involved in the disputes, it would not be in Cambodia’s
national and foreign policy interest to promote this issue for the sake of
ASEAN solidarity and at the possible expense of Phnom Penh’s fruitful
bilateral relations with Beijing. The official also suggested that it was time
for the smaller ASEAN countries to pursue their own interests and goals
rather than feeling obliged to simply follow the agenda of the larger and
more powerful member states – a clear hint at Cambodia’s reluctance to
_______________
11
12
Data extracted from the official governmental ODA database (Cambodian Rehabilitation
and Development Board, Council for the Development of Cambodia), http://cdc-crdb.
gov.kh/. Amounts for 2010–2012 are actual disbursed funds, while amounts for 2013 are
committed funds. Among the 38 other donors are 13 UN agencies, international financial
institutions (World Bank, IMF, ADB), the EU (both the European Commission and several
member countries) and other bilateral donors such as Japan, the US and Australia.
Interview in Phnom Penh, October 2011.
FIGURE 9: Basic positions of the ASEAN foreign ministers on the SCS at the 45th AMM (based on the
minutes of the AMM 2012 and related documents as presented by Thayer 2012)
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associate itself with Vietnam’s strategy towards China, which includes
elements of provocation in a seemingly never-ending circle of confrontation
and counter- confrontation between Beijing and Hanoi. In June 2011,
Vietnam conducted live-fire military exercises in the South China Sea, as it
accused the Chinese Government of raising tensions in the region. In June
2012, Vietnam’s National Assembly approved controversial legislation that
was due to come into force in 2013: in effect, the new law declared
sovereignty over parts of the Spratly and Paracel Islands, among them areas
to which China has a territorial claim. Although hardly enforceable, the law
also requires that all foreign naval ships entering these areas must notify
Vietnamese authorities. Almost immediately Beijing launched a countermove and raised the status of the contested islands to a Chinese prefecture
under Hainan province. To this end, a new administrative centre named
Sansha City on the Paracel’s Woody Island (“Yongxing Island” in Chinese)
was created to administer the Paracels, Spratlys and the Macclesfield Bank
(International Crisis Group 2012: 5). A physical city is yet to be built.
In sum, the necessity of balancing of bilateral and multilateral strategies and approaches towards China creates complexity in ASEAN’s relations
with China. However, only the consideration of the domestic dimension of
decision-making in individual member states provides full answers as to
why some ASEAN states are in a better position and more willing to
promote a unified, coordinated ASEAN position vis-à-vis China than
others. Again, it seems rational foreign policy behaviour that the claimant
states are keenest on making the conflicts in the South China Sea the central
agenda item of ASEAN meeting – or, in other words, to ASEANize their
respective bilateral disputes. Yet the Philippines and Vietnam are to a lesser
extent able to compromise than Malaysia and Brunei due to the different
domestic dynamics of their respective two-level games. In the Philippines
the SCS has emerged as one of the highest-ranking foreign policy priorities,
and a matter of deep public concern, which has expressed itself in regular
anti-China protests. Since 2007, similar rallies have also taken place in
Vietnam in spite of the fact that public demonstrations are extremely rare
and usually not tolerated in that country. Failure to show and increase
leverage towards China can, in combination with other dynamics, potentially
reduce the legitimacy of these governments among domestic constituencies.
While this applies more to the Philippines than to Vietnam, the latter’s stateparty apparatus is not immune to such developments, particularly since
other factors, including the economic slowdown and spiralling corruption,
have already tarnished the image of the Vietnamese Communist Party’s
(VCP) management capacities.
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By contrast – and very similar to the case of ACFTA – demonstrations
or other forms of “citizens’ voice” on the SCS have been absent in Brunei
and Malaysia due to the respective governments’ ability to manage and control foreign policy discourses. While the Malaysian mainstream media has
regularly reported on the SCS disputes in general and other claimants’
conflicts with China, the leading government-influenced newspapers like
the New Straits Times have not run major stories on the Malaysian claim in
recent years. Articles usually just report the diplomatically phrased general
government statements, which avoid any mentioning of Chinese assertiveness. Since foreign-policy making in Malaysia and Brunei is not subject to
deep scrutiny by non-state actors and, thus, takes place within an insulated
setting, the respective governments are more flexible in negotiating a common, compromise ASEAN position than Manila and Hanoi. Hence, weak
domestic pressure in the case of Malaysia and Brunei results in a limited or
even non-existing two-level game on the SCS, while strong domestic pressure leads to an elaborated two-level game in the Philippines and Vietnam.
Likewise, non-claimant states are affected by different types of two-level
games, which set the framework for these governments’ negotiating positions. Cambodia, Thailand, Myanmar and Laos do not have any national
interests in the situation in the SCS and, combined with the lack of the involvement of domestic actors in the shaping of policy preferences regarding
the disputes at stake, governments find it comparatively easy to weigh up
alternative options and can, as has happened in this case, give their economic interests in relations with China precedence over their solidarity with
other ASEAN members. The structural setting of foreign policy-making of
the non-claimants Indonesia and Singapore differs to the extent that, first,
both are deeply concerned about any developments that might restrict the
freedom of navigation in the SCS and, second, influential domestic actor
groups expect their respective governments to follow a normative foreign
policy to promote the strengthening of a rules-based international system.
Figure 10 clusters the ASEAN members into four groups according to the
nature of the two-level game.
Conclusions
Analyses of relations between Southeast Asia and China are customarily
and at least implicitly driven by the question: “Can ASEAN manoeuvre the
giant?” Given China’s quasi-hegemonic position in the region, which has
been fostered through rapidly intensifying and expanding economic,
political and security links with individual Southeast Asian nations and
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Jörn Dosch
ASEAN as an organisation, such a focus is obvious and straightforward
from both a neo-realist and a liberal-institutionalist angle. What are
ASEAN’s options to build up leverage vis-à-vis Beijing in the presence of
China’s seemingly unmatched power position? Most studies agree that
ASEAN’s best option is a collective approach regardless of whether China
is perceived as a threat (as in the case of the South China Sea disputes) or an
opportunity (particularly with regard to the ASEAN China Free Trade
Area/ACFTA). Neo-realists believe that the pooling of power is Southeast
Asia’s most promising strategy for, at least, a soft-balancing of China.
Institutionalists see the pacifying effects of multilateral order-management
shining through ACFTA and dialogue forums such as ASEAN+3 and the
East Asian Summit. Social constructivists, in a nutshell, claim to have found
first evidence for the convergence of foreign policy identities in China and
ASEAN. The three mainstream IR approaches are united by an interest in
explaining how ASEAN manoeuvres the giant. In doing so, they usually
treat ASEAN as a unitary actor and, if they look at member states, they
normally solely consider the output level of foreign policy making; that is,
the manifestation of a national interest in a given situation. The input level
of decision-making, or the way that different actor groups within countries
shape the foreign policy agenda, is often neglected. This is where Putnam’s
concept of two-level games comes into play. Only the study of the interplay
between international and domestic dynamics in foreign policy making
allows for comprehensive explanations of ASEAN’s behaviour and actions
towards China. At the same time, the two-level perspective reveals
ASEAN’s purported unity and ability to speak with one voice on China as a
myth. If ASEAN manages to promote a joint position it is in instances
where member states are able to agree on a rhetorically weak, non-offensive
diplomatic consensus. As such this has to be considered an important
achievement given the diverse membership structure. However, the case
studies on ACFTA and the SCS disputes have shown that member states –
regardless of their respective political systems – can never ignore domestic
interests, which they regularly rank higher than the preservation of ASEAN
solidarity at all costs. The approach of ACFTA members towards China is
no longer driven by enthusiastic free trade rhetoric as it was a decade ago,
when the project was launched, and neither is it characterised by a unified
ASEAN position. Instead, the degree of domestic pressure sets the stage for
the governments’ conduct of foreign economic relations with China. Such
patterns are even more visible in the case of the SCS disputes, which divide
ASEAN members not primarily along a claimant/ non-claimant cleavage, but
based on the specific nature of their two-level games. The two case studies
also demonstrate that two-level games are not only relevant for the analysis
FIGURE 10: Clusters of two-level games in the SCS in ASEAN (compiled by author)
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of negotiating behaviour (as with regard to the SCS conflict), but continue
to provide a useful analytical tool for the explanation of government
behaviour after international agreements have been signed (the case of
ACFTA). Overall, it seems that while clinging to the multilateralist rhetoric
to the greatest extent possible, ASEAN members have long accepted that
they can ultimately only deal with China on a bilateral basis. The SCS
provides the most illustrative example.
To conclude with an outlook: as a conflict over resources and geostrategic influence, the dispute over the Spratly Islands is essentially a zerosum game that does not provide much room for a multi-party compromise,
that is, a multilateral treaty. At the same time, none of the parties is interested in military confrontation, as any such action could easily escalate and
result in a major disruption of international trade and commerce and draw
other powers into such a conflict. The most likely scenario is a continuation
of the status quo: the parties to the dispute implicitly accept the existence of
conflicting claims and, to satisfy domestic audiences without provoking escalation, occasionally present their respective cases in justification of these
claims in a low level and non-threatening manner. While hiding behind the
diplomatic façade of ASEAN, the Southeast Asian claimants de facto
recognise Chinese leadership and Beijing’s quasi-hegemonic position in the
South China Sea in return for a “shadow of opportunity”: bilateral deals that
allow them to participate in resource exploration and get a share in the
heated race for energy supplies.
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Sharia Law and the Politics of “Faith Control”
in Brunei Darussalam
Dynamics of Socio-Legal Change
in a Southeast Asian Sultanate
DOMINIK M. MÜLLER*
Abstract
The government of Brunei is currently coming in for sharp criticism from international observers and human rights organizations for enforcing a far-reaching
Sharia law reform which carries drastic maximum penalties such as stoning to death
for religious offences. This article contextualizes Brunei’s approach to Islamic
governance vis-à-vis its domestic discursive context. It ethnographically illustrates
how religious policies are interrelated with normative changes in everyday life,
particularly pertaining to long-established Malay cultural practices that have been
outlawed and socially marginalized in recent years. However, although Brunei
society is often portrayed as streamlined and docile, the state’s exercise of classificatory power does not simply determine social behaviour. Despite sophisticated
disciplining strategies, some practices declared as deviant continue to persist, either
concealed as everyday forms of resistance or creatively reframed and controlled by
government institutions. It would, therefore, be inadequate to simplify the dynamics
of socio-legal change in one-dimensional totalizing terms, despite undeniable tendencies of “Shariatization” in the post-independence era.
Keywords
Sharia politics, bureaucratized Islam, law, society, Malay culture, Brunei
Introduction
The government of Negara Brunei Darussalam (henceforth Brunei) is currently coming in for sharp criticism from international observers and human
rights organizations for its decision to enforce the Syariah Penal Code Order
2013 (Perintah Kanun Hukuman Syariah 2013, henceforth SPCO 2013),
* DOMINIK M. MÜLLER, Cluster of Excellence “Normative Orders”, Goethe
University Frankfurt, [email protected].
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Dominik M. Müller
which carries drastic maximum penalties ranging from stoning to death for
offences like apostasy, adultery, homosexual intercourse and blasphemy.
There is, however, surprisingly little substantial scholarly work that sheds
light on the socio-legal complexities of the sultanate’s Islamization policies.
The article1 will first introduce some theoretical considerations on the
classificatory power of state bureaucracies. It will then describe the
discursive embeddedness and historical trajectory of Brunei’s approach to
Islamic governance, before outlining some of the SPCO 2013’s most
controversial provisions and demonstrating how the legal reform serves the
government’s and Islamic bureaucracy’s power-political interests. Drawing
on empirical data gathered in Brunei, the article will then explore how the
sultanate’s religious policies are intertwined with social changes, while the
government’s Sharia reforms simultaneously shape and reflect normative
transformations in the sphere of Malay everyday life. To illustrate these
socio-legal dynamics, certain long-established, but recently outlawed and
socially marginalized, Muslim-Malay cultural practices, such as shrine
worship, spirit beliefs, healing, and exorcism, will be scrutinized. While
some of these practices continue today, they are either concealed as everyday forms of resistance or creatively reframed in Islamic terms and controlled
by government institutions.
It is particularly, albeit not exclusively, the field of heterodox beliefs in
the supernatural where the government’s aspirations for ideological engineering and faith control (kawalan akidah) are stretched to their limits. The
article therefore argues that totalizing portrayals of contemporary Brunei
society as streamlined and docile (Mohamad Yusop 2007: 103) should be
problematized. More specifically, it would be inappropriate to simplify the
dynamics of socio-legal change in one-dimensional terms, despite undeniable tendencies of “Shariatization” in the post-Independence era.
Classificatory power and socio-legal change: conceptual
considerations
As “calls for ethnographic exploration of the everyday workings of the state
have grown louder” (Hoag 2011: 81) in recent years, state bureaucracies
have become increasingly prominent subjects of anthropological inquiry.
_______________
1
I would like to thank Matthew Walton, Stephen Druce and two anonymous reviewers for
their very helpful comments, as well as Bruneian friends who provided foundational help
during my fieldwork, but must remain anonymous. The paper also benefited from feedback
received during a lecture at the Asian Studies Centre at St Antony’s College, University of
Oxford.
Sharia Law and the Politics of “Faith Control” in Brunei Darussalam
315
Instead of conceiving of them as purely administrative bodies primarily
carrying out policies decided elsewhere in an objective and mechanical
manner, several anthropologists have described bureaucracies as an “aspect
of the modern state that makes the state function” and as a productive “arena
for social life” (Bernstein / Mertz 2011: 7), agency and political action.
They represent a “preeminent technology of power in the contemporary
world”, able to “orchestrate numerous local contexts at once” (Heyman
1995: 262). State power characteristically includes the “bureaucratic imposition of simple categorical schemes on the world”, often coercively
imposed, but often also countered by subversive attempts to challenge the
bureaucracies’ “right to ‘define the situation’” (Graeber 2012: 105, 120).
These categorical schemes resemble Bourdieu’s notion of the state’s “classificatory power”, implying that in addition to law enforcement the state also
imposes classificatory principles on the social order through its authorized
agencies (Bourdieu 1990: 136–137). Such agencies organize the population
along discursive distinctions (e.g. class, gender, race/ethnicity) that are often
legally compulsory (Bourdieu 1984: 476–477; 1991: 180–181). Although not
mentioned by Bourdieu, these distinctions can – and in the case of Brunei do
– include religious classificatory schemes such as “good believers” adhering
to state-sponsored doctrines and “deviant” groups endangering the “true”
faith. Many people internalize such ascriptions and an implied unequal status
as natural even if it disadvantages them, but they may also “take the
initiative by pursuing goals that bypass official control” (Heyman 1995:
261, 264), e.g. through a reflexive deconstruction of the genesis of
hegemonic ideas (Bourdieu 1998: 40), or by various other means. State
bureaucracies engaging in classificatory practices are therefore sites of
attempted control, but no matter how powerful they are, the effects of these
attempts need to be analytically distinguished from their intention and selfpresentation.
This complex relationship between attempted control through the
state’s classificatory power and diverse popular reactions to it will be
explored in the context of bureaucratized Islam in contemporary Brunei. By
investigating some of the government’s sanction-based Islamization and
faith-purification policies vis-à-vis their societal impacts, I shall illustrate
that although the exercise of classificatory power plays a key role in dynamics of socio-legal change, it does not simply determine social behaviour, as
various marginalized spheres of non-compliance and creative counter-tactics
continue to persist.
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Dominik M. Müller
Islamic governance and national ideology in Brunei Darussalam
Brunei is the only country in Southeast Asia that has consistently been
defined by its leaders as an Islamic state since independence in 1984, with
no intra-government or non-state actors ever openly calling for a “secular”
state (Siddique 1992; Abdul Latif 2003: 197, 2013: xxxiv). Situated on the
north-western coast of Borneo and inhabited by only 420,000 inhabitants,2
Brunei remains one of the region’s last bastions of almost uncontested nondemocratic rule, and is currently the only ASEAN country that does not hold
general elections and has no parliament3 and organized opposition actors. The
present Sultan – Hassanal Bolkiah, who ascended throne in 1967 and was
crowned in 1968 – holds the posts of prime minister, minister of defence,
and minister of finance. In 2015, he appointed himself as minister of foreign
affairs and trade, a post previously held by his brother Prince Mohamed
Bolkiah for three decades.
The constitution of Brunei defines the Sunni Shafi’i legal school of
Islam as the state’s religion and the Sultan as the “Head of the Islamic
religion” (ketua agama Islam) (see Constitution of Brunei Darussalam,
Preliminary and Part II, Articles 2, 3). The monarch is also seen as the “leader
of Muslim believers” (ulil amri), and “Allah’s vice-regent on earth”
(Khalifah), while “sovereignty is in Allah alone” (Abdul Latif 2003: 205,
210). Being officially considered a descendant of Prophet Muhammad further
contributes to Hassanal Bolkiah’s Islamic legitimation. His constitutionally
guaranteed and politically undisputed absolute executive powers are also
justified on ethnic and primordialist grounds. Dating back to the 14th
century, the royal family’s genealogy is framed as an essential element of an
ethnic Malay, or more precisely Brunei Malay cultural tradition. Drawing
upon these ethnic, cultural, historical and religious dimensions of legitimation, the Sultan and his clergy have declared an official “state ideology”
– also described as “state concept” and “national philosophy” – called
_______________
2
3
It is estimated that 100,000 of these are foreign workers. The population consists mainly
of ethnic Malays (66 per cent); 78.8 per cent are officially Muslim. Religious minorities
comprise Christians, Buddhists, Hindus, Sikhs, Taoists, Baha’is and animists. The state’s
definition of “Malay” in Brunei partly differs from that in Malaysia. Since the Brunei
Nationality Act of 1962, seven ethnic groups (puak jati) are considered indigenous and were
designated as Malay, regardless of their religion. Of these only the “Brunei” and Kedayan
speak Malay languages. The other five had previously been non-Malay groups and would
not be considered as Malay in Malaysia. Politically, this classification has been important
for the homogenization of the nation’s MIB culture vis-à-vis non-Malay elements.
A Legislative Council which was suspended in 1984 was re-opened in 2004, albeit with
no legislative powers. It plays only a consultative and advisory role, and the Sultan directly
appoints most members.
317
Melayu Islam Beraja (lit. Malay Islamic monarchy), commonly referred to
by its acronym “MIB”. Although the term MIB was first introduced by the
Sultan in his Declaration of Independence speech on 1 January 1984,
official discourse claims that it encapsulates the continuity of a sixcenturies-old tradition. However, a discussion of MIB as an invented
tradition and propagandistically exploited tool for modern nation-building
goes beyond the scope of this article; this view has been well argued by
distinguished non-Bruneian scholars (Braighlinn 1992; Gunn 1997; Lindsey /
Steiner 2012; Fanselow 2014). Of the few Bruneian scholars who dare to
write about Brunei politics, most are restricted by severe academic and
political (self-)censorship (Kershaw 2003; U.S. Department of State 2013)
and typically repeat the government’s positions in uncritical, often
passionately patriotic terms. In contrast to the invented-tradition argument,
local MIB scholars insist that although the acronym MIB may be new, it
adequately sums up the very essence of the nation’s centuries-old character
(Mohd Zain 1996: 45). Abdul Latif Ibrahim (2003, 2013) has repeatedly
expressed his frustration with deconstructivist foreign analyses, which he
perceives as ignorant, orientalist and possibly malicious misrepresentations
of Brunei.
From the late 1980s onwards, the government began to propagate MIB
more systematically and “with an unprecedented commitment” (Kershaw
2001: 127). Compulsory MIB classes are currently taught in all schools and
institutions of higher learning and no Brunei citizen can graduate from the
University of Brunei Darussalam without passing the MIB module. MIB is
constantly referred to in official public life as the superior source of good
citizenship and desirable ethics. The Sultan and members of the government
as well as the private sector tirelessly emphasize how anything they do is in
support of and rooted in MIB. Although each of MIB’s three pillars is
sacrosanct, Islam is officially superior within the ideology’s triangle (Abdul
Latif 2003: 206; Mohd Zain 1996: xi).
Eradicating political dissent: mechanisms of discourse control
The year 1962 was a decisive turning point in the history of modern Brunei,
the trauma of which motivated the royal family to develop uncompromising
strategies for eradicating any form of political dissent or unrestricted
discourse that might undermine its powers. The People’s Party of Brunei
(Parti Rakyat Brunei, PRB), a democratic movement that sought to reduce
the Sultan’s powers and form a larger state of North Kalimantan, won the
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Dominik M. Müller
first nation-wide elections4 with an overwhelming majority. Leaving aside
the complex details (see Hussainmiya / Asbol 2014), Sultan Omar Ali
Saifuddien III refused to accept the people’s vote. This was followed by an
armed rebellion, which was defeated with British help within two weeks. To
restore security and its own position, the Sultan’s government enacted harsh
Emergency Laws, some of which are still in force today, and developed a
framework for systematically de-politicizing the population. Some PRB
members fled and sought to revive their movement from exile, but the group
faded and finally disappeared (for a fascinating account of the exiled PRB
leadership’s last convulsions, see Kershaw 2011). Some imprisoned PRB
members were eventually pardoned and reintegrated into society only after
they formally pledged their allegiance to the Sultan. Brunei’s second elections, held pro forma in 1962 (for less than a third of the Legislative
Council’s seats) was the last to date, with the exception of elections for the
posts of heads of sub-districts (penghulu mukim) and village chiefs (ketua
kampong). Nowadays there is not a single opposition5 or civil society group
left, either locally or in exile, that openly criticizes the political status quo,
let alone aspires to replace the government.
In addition to effectively minimizing civic participation and freedom of
expression, the government provides strong incentives for loyalty. It employs
almost 25 per cent6 of the working population and provides them with generous salaries and significant social security. Funded by the state’s oil-wealth,
the government maintains a welfare state in which citizens enjoy free health
care and education, subsidized housing, and free pensions from the age of
60; they do not pay income tax. Tremendous investments have been made to
modernize the country’s infrastructure. In the Human Development Index
2014, Brunei ranked first among Muslim-majority countries worldwide and
second in ASEAN (after Singapore). The royal family donates thousands of
personal gifts to mark the end of Ramadan (see e.g. Brunei Times 2014a).
_______________
4
5
6
It was not a general election for governance of the country. The Constitution of 1959
stipulated that there would be elections for four District Councils with altogether 54 seats
(in 1962, in several there was only one candidate who was from the PRB). Just 16 of the
people elected for these seats would sit on the Legislative Council; however, the Legislative Council would be made up of 33 members, with the remaining 17 appointed by the
Sultan. Furthermore, the Executive Council had no elected members. The Constitution,
which was agreed between the Sultan and the British Government, thus ensured that the
Legislative Council’s elected members could never form a majority.
At present, the only political party is the National Democratic Party (NDP). Being heavily
restricted, it considers its role as “advisory” and expresses unconditional support for the
government.
In 2010 there were 46,600 civil servants in a labor force of about 190,000.
319
The Sultan is commonly portrayed as a caring monarch or benevolent ruler,
a notion which rests on long-established principles of royal Malay authority,
according to which “the Ruler must act justly to his subjects, and the
subjects must be loyal to their Ruler” (cf. Kershaw 2001: 126). 7 This idea is
constantly re-actualized in local media, and many Brunei Malays indeed
consider this reciprocal patron-client relationship an integral element of
their culture. “Betraying” the Sultan through disobedience is considered an
offence of the utmost seriousness and any criticism of the political system
can potentially represent such betrayal. Considering the extensive
surveillance and social control, both real and resembling the Foucauldian
panopticon effect8 of constant fear, expressing dissenting political views can
seriously endanger one’s material wealth and social status. As Kershaw
(2001: 118) rightly notes, Brunei’s oil-wealth has enabled the state “to
control the population”, and it has organized itself accordingly since the
colonial era.
Local news media’s coverage of domestic politics is limited to the
didactic dissemination of the government’s positions, with virtually zero
space to question or criticize them. The government is largely successful in
maintaining this situation even in the digital age. Two subversive online
platforms (most notably BruneiTalk, provocatively advertised as “a forum of
unexpected treasures”9), were quickly banned in 2003/4, followed by
exemplary arrests and – by now ritualized – public warnings about the dangers
of irresponsible social media use. The cyber-crackdown of 2003/4 led to the
quick disappearance of any larger grouping of critical voices for years.
Instead, Brunei saw the rise of patriotic weblogs supported by government
incentives. Internet usage is monitored and various government agencies
regularly identify cybercrime suspects, which in 2012, for example, included
a person challenging MIB by expressing an atheist worldview on his
weblog. To the author’s knowledge, there is currently only one large
platform where more than a handful of people interactively discuss truly
controversial positions. This app10, created by a young tech entrepreneur,
_______________
7
8
9
10
All translations by the author.
Foucault (1977: 204–205) transformed the panopticon, an architectural model for prisons
in which prisoners can potentially be watched at any time, into “a generalizable […]
mechanism of power” and “political technology” of control in modern societies, wherein
individuals regulate their everyday behaviour because they fear the possibility of observation (and punishment) at every moment, which contributes to the internalization of the
ruling order.
The slogan mimics the government’s advertising slogan “Brunei – A Kingdom of Unexpected
Treasures”.
To avoid harmful publicity, it is not named.
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Dominik M. Müller
allows users to remain anonymous. Its founder, however, consulted with
security services and discussed certain boundaries before launching the
application, a common way of securing and legitimizing possibly controversial work in Brunei.
The Sultan’s (well-mediatized) personality is another stabilizing factor.
Even less conformist Bruneians often spare him from criticism, although
they might argue he has bad advisors or is not sufficiently informed. The
Sultan’s frequent public appearances, often unannounced and typically including personal conversations with citizens, contribute to his advantageous
image as a sacred leader and simultaneously a down-to-earth, jovial person.
Other members of the royal family and government are not as spared from
critical scrutiny, although it is a taboo to openly express such views outside
of trusted circles.
Institutionalizing truth and heresy: the bureaucratization
of Islam
The government’s approach to Islamic governance reflects its more general
strategies of discourse-control, whereby any dissent that could undermine its
authority is criminalized. Over the last few decades, the state has legally
cemented its monopoly on any discussion of Islam. Alternative interpretations have been systematically silenced, as the religious bureaucracy
has institutionalized a monolithic and legalistic understanding of Islam as
the only acceptable Muslim truth, strengthened by sophisticated indoctrination mechanisms, material incentives and the threat of sanctions. Public
Islamic teaching or preaching is strictly forbidden without a government
licence; every imam is issued a certificate with the Sultan’s seal and licences
can be revoked at any time (Religious Council and Kadis Courts Act,
Sections 129–131, henceforth RCKCA). Because the government seeks to
eradicate any challenge to its classificatory “right to ‘define the situation’”
(Graeber 2012: 120), it is illegal to maintain mosques, give speeches, or
publish materials related to Islam outside this tightly controlled framework.
In the absence of democratic institutions or an influential civil society,
the Islamic bureaucracy has become the sultanate’s most powerful political
actor outside of the royal family. Government institutions are exclusively
responsible for the definition, control and administration of Islam. They
include, most notably, the Ministry of Religious Affairs, the State Mufti
Department, the Religious Council and its Legal Committee (headed by the
State Mufti), and the Islamic Da’wah Center. In its “advisory role” to the
Sultan, the Religious Council is the “chief authority” in “all matters relating
321
to religion” (RCKCA, Section 38); its rulings are binding on all Muslims
(RCKCA, Section 43) and there are no legal mechanisms for citizens to
challenge them.
Since the 16th century, Sharia-inspired and customary law (codified as
Hukum Kanun Brunei and Hukum Resam) have coexisted in the sultanate.11
Islamic law has therefore been integral to social life for centuries (Black
2002: 2), although some meanings ascribed to it, and the extent of formalization, have changed over time. British Indirect Rule (1888–1959/198412)
gave rise to a more diversified codification of Islamic law, beginning with
the Mohammedan Laws Enactment of 1912 and followed by numerous other
laws and institution building (for excellent overviews see Iik 2009; Lindsey /
Steiner 2012). British advisors seeking to help Brunei develop a “modern”
(in the sense of systematic, codified and bureaucratic) religious administration encouraged these transformations. The Sultans were, at least on
paper, granted autonomy in Islamic matters, which they used to consolidate
their domestic power. Since independence, the Sharia law sector has been
expanded, a process that served the absolute monarchy’s political interests
and simultaneously resonated with increasing popular piety in Brunei and
the region. From the late 1980s onwards, the government strongly emphasized
its “commitment to making the Islamic (legal) system the most effective
system in the country”, and it gradually widened the jurisdiction of Sharia
courts (Black 2002: 108). This Shariatization of the legal landscape covered
fields such as family law, adoption, evidence, arbitration mechanisms, as
well as banking and finance (ibid.).
The year 1990 marked another key turning point, when the Sultan
announced that all laws should “be brought in line with Islam” (Brunei
Darussalam Newsletter 1990: 1) and formed a committee of Islamic scholars
(ulama) to provide advice on how to realize his target. The public sale and
consumption of alcohol was banned in 1991, the production and sale of pork
was prohibited in 1992. Public entertainment became tightly restricted, and,
as elders recall, some once popular practices like gambling during His
Majesty’s public birthday festivities soon vanished.13 Compulsory Islamic
_______________
11
12
13
Elements of Islamic criminal law reportedly existed in the pre-colonial period (Mahmdud
Seadon 1996: 99–100). Hudud-based chopping of thieves’ hands was practiced at least in
a few documented cases. However, a late-16th century account, the Boxer Codex, also
describes punishments that have little to do with Sharia sources.
In 1888 Brunei became a British protectorate, followed by the British Residency (19061959). Between 1959 and independence in 1984, Brunei was internally self-governing,
but Great Britain remained responsible for foreign affairs and external security.
Interview, Tutong, 24 September 2014.
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Dominik M. Müller
teaching was intensified at all education levels, the Islamic bureaucracy was
further expanded and parts of the government began to undergo an “Islamization of the agencies” (Abdul Latif 2003: 208; cf. de Vienne 2015: 142–143).
A Bruneian lecturer informally explained that “in the 1990s, everything
changed”: prayer rooms across the country were crowded as never before,
many citizens sought to purify their everyday life of possibly “un-Islamic”
elements (encouraged by government sermons and fatwas), and the
government placed unprecedented emphasis on Islam as law, while Malay
customs were critically reassessed. As MIB ideologue Abdul Latif Ibrahim
(2003: 173) put it, “several forms of cultural manifestations which have preIslamic […] elements have either been refined or gradually phased out to
suit Islamic teachings”. Nevertheless, Sharia law remained applicable to
Muslims only, whereas other laws including the penal code applied to all
citizens. A dual system combining British-derived common law (with civil
courts) and Islamic law (with Sharia courts) had existed since the colonial
period, but its clear-cut separation was partly abandoned by the SPCO 2013.
Accommodating “God’s will” and the monarchy’s interests:
the Syariah Penal Code Order 2013
With the SPCO 2013 (enacted in 2014), Brunei became the first ASEAN
country to implement a strict form of Islamic penal code, including hudud
(lit. limitations) punishments that are particularly controversial outside of
Brunei and are characteristically desired by Islamist political movements.
The SPCO contains maximum penalties such as stoning to death for
offences like apostasy, adultery, homosexual intercourse, and blasphemy as
well as the amputation of limbs for robbery or theft.
The first announcement of the SPCO in 2013 and its long preparation
process went largely unnoticed beyond the sultanate’s shores until the first
of the SPCO’s three stages was initiated in May 2014. Previously, international coverage of Brunei was mostly limited to the yellow press, where
reports about the royal family, its rituals and marriages, car collections or
scandals were presented in the colourful language of oriental fairy tales.
Since May 2014, repetitive and often woefully uninformed news reports began
to flood international media. Finding itself the object of unprecedented
publicity, Brunei was criticized by (non-Bruneian) human rights groups
more sharply than ever before. Most prominently, the United Nations High
Commissioner of Human Rights criticized the SPCO 2013 for serious
violations of international human rights law. American celebrities such as
Jay Leno protested in front of a hotel in California owned by the Sultan,
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with Fox News TV commenting “Welcome to the Hotel Sharia!”. For most
journalists, the legal reform came out of the blue, as they lacked any
understanding of its discursive and historical embeddedness, leading to
crude theories as to why the Sultan suddenly chose to implement the Sharia.
Twenty years earlier, the Sultan had already announced plans to introduce an Islamic penal code.14 On 15 July 1996, Hassanal Bolkiah spoke unambiguously of a divine obligation to develop an Islamic Criminal Law Act
(akta undang-undang jenayah syariah).15 He also appointed a working group
of Sharia specialists to look into the matter, among them a scholar from
Pakistan (Black 2010: 340–341; Abdul Latif 2003: 192). The increased
attention to the Islamic penal code coincided with changes among the
monarch’s religious advisors. In 1994, he appointed Mahmud Saedon Othman,
an Al-Azhar-trained distinguished academic as a special Islamic legal
expert.16 Citing a speech in which the monarch stated that “no law or
constitution” can be “superior to, or truer than al-Quran”, Mahmud Saedon
Othman published a text in 1996 suggesting that Brunei abandon the dual
legal system in favour of a single Sharia structure that should also include an
Islamic penal code, as it had supposedly existed in pre-colonial Brunei.
Using a common strategy for legitimizing claims in absolute monarchies, he
presented his position as His Majesty’s vision, adding that “immediate
actions […] must be taken without delay” (Mahmud Saedon 1996, 2008).
Although Mahmud Saedon died in 2002, the text was translated into English
and re-published by the Islamic Da’wah Centre in 2008, at which time the
idea of implementing hudud laws enjoyed growing popularity. Mahmud
Seadon’s “visionary” publication clearly contributed to paving the way for
the SPCO’s realization two decades later and has for this reason repeatedly
been cited by local media and pro-MIB academics since 2013. Other leaders
of the Islamic bureaucracy had also long desired the SPCO, among them the
powerful State Mufti Abdul Aziz Juned who was appointed in 1993 and was
a key architect of the SPCO’s drafts; he now serves as one of its most
passionate propagators.
_______________
14
15
16
Even before that, Sharia-based criminal offences existed under the RCKCA.
Citing his royal address from 1996, in 2011 the Sultan reaffirmed his plan and asked rhetorically: “Who are we to wait?” (Brunei Times 2011).
Mahmud Saedon Othman had been involved in the PRB movement as their Middle East
representative before making a career in Islamic Studies at prestigious universities in Malaysia. The Sultan brought him back to Brunei and made him a high-ranking Islamic
advisor. From 1999 to 2002 he also served as the University of Brunei Darussalam’s ViceChancellor.
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The SPCO 2013 will be implemented in three stages. The first began in
May 2014 and included 55 general offences (ta’zir, a Sharia category for
offences that a legitimate ruler may himself define). Heavier punishments
(hudud and qisas, both supposedly directly prescribed by Islamic sources),
including stoning and amputations, will be enacted in the second and third
stage, alongside other regulations such as compensation in the form of blood
money (diyat), which will be implemented 12 and 24 months after the additional Syariah Courts Criminal Procedure Code (CPC) has been gazetted.
The CPC will regulate the SPCO’s enforcement procedures, particularly
investigation and prosecution. As of late 2015, the CPC’s drafting is reportedly nearly complete. The SPCO’s gradual implementation is meant to “give
the public and law enforcement time to get used to the new laws” (Brunei
Times 2014c). Although hudud is included in the second phase, hudud death
penalties will only become possible in the third.
The reform fundamentally changes Brunei’s legal landscape. NonMuslims can now also be punished under Sharia provisions, as each section
distinguishes between any person and any Muslim. Brunei’s dual system has
therefore now been re-labelled as hybrid (HRRC 2015: 57).17 Any person,
including a non-Muslim, can for example receive the death penalty or 30
years imprisonment for insulting Prophet Muhammad (SPCO 2013, Sections
110, 221). Repenting is, however, possible until the moment of punishment
and would free the offender. Any person can be sentenced to death for
homosexual and anal intercourse (SPCO 2013, Section 82). Only Muslims
can be sentenced to death, whipping or jail for extramarital sex (Sections 68,
69), similar to Muslim apostates who refuse to repent, who declare themselves to be God or a prophet, and who deny the validity of hadith (Sections
107, 108, 109 111, 113–117).
The Sharia reform is an expression of the Islamic bureaucracy’s classificatory power and simultaneously contributes to its further consolidation, as
several of the SPCO’s provisions strengthen the state’s monopoly on defining Islam. Islamic teaching without permit and contempt of members of
Sharia courts or the Islamic bureaucracy are now punishable by up to two
years imprisonment (Sections 229, 230). Mocking or insulting Islamic laws
or the State Mufti’s fatwas can receive three years (Section 220), while
spreading beliefs that are “contrary to Sharia law”, as defined by the government, can result in up to five years’ jail; publishing about Islam-related
matters without a permit can also lead to jail time (Sections 207, 209, 213,
215, 229). Issuing “illegal fatwas” can be punished with two years in jail or
_______________
17
In addition, 209 amendments were made to previous laws. Remarkably early, Black
(2010: 341) predicted a “merger” between the Sharia- and non-Sharia systems.
325
monetary fines. The only “legal” fatwas are those issued by the State Mufti
or persons authorized by him (ibid., Section 228). Several of these offences
existed previously under the RCKCA (cf. Lindsey / Steiner 2012), but the
punishments have now been sharply increased and numerous additional offenses have been added (for a detailed comparison, see HRRC 2015: 53ff.).
Defenders of the SPCO stress that its harshest punishments are conditional
on a high burden of proof and strict procedural conditions18 that make it
very difficult to sentence anybody to stoning. Furthermore, it will still be
possible to selectively apply the previous Penal Code instead of the SPCO
2013 under certain conditions that have yet to be delineated, possibly by the
CRC. It is therefore possible, though not certain, that the SPCO’s most
drastic provisions will be only symbolic, rather than actively applied (cynics,
however, assume that occasional examples will be made of low-paid guest
workers).
Brunei’s clergy categorically rejects foreign criticism. In 2014, the
State Mufti argued that the SPCO would ultimately protect real (God-made)
“human rights”, as opposed to fallible “man-made laws” (Müller, forthcoming). While more conciliatory voices argue that non-Muslim critics
abroad are naturally “unable” to understand Islamic law, he condemned any
criticism as “a new form of colonialism”, representing malicious “attempts
to colonize our minds” (RTB1 2014, translated). Giving in to critics would
result in a “deviation from Islam” and “anybody opposing God’s law” would
be punished in the afterlife. He stresses that implementing God’s law would
bring divine blessings: “Some Muslims abroad say Brunei will have even
more oil following the reform”, he stated smilingly in a sermon, and added
more seriously: “This is not impossible! […Since the] Sultan did a lot to
implement Islam, such as banning alcohol, God’s rewards can already be
observed (keberkatan sudah berlaku)! […] Elsewhere is chaos, social crises,
crime, shootings everywhere, but not in Brunei!” He also mentioned an
alleged absence of natural disasters vis-à-vis more disaster-prone countries
in similar geographic settings, concluding that the SPCO 2013 “will bring
even more protection, we must be grateful to our Sultan!” (RTB1 2014). The
idea of Islamic law bringing blessings has also frequently been mentioned in
the Sultan’s speeches. Foreign criticism is also delegitimized as “infidelity”.
To substantiate this point, the MIB ideologue Abdul Latif Ibrahim (2013:
xix, 109, translated) quoted a Qur’anic verse, Surah al-Baqarah, stating
“never will the Jews or the Christians approve of you until you follow their
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18
For details, see the author’s report in HRRC 2015: 71.
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Dominik M. Müller
religion”. Bruneians should therefore “stop being apologetic” and “make the
implementation of Islamic law our top priority at all levels”.
The SPCO 2013’s announcement led to unprecedented uncertainties.
“Briefings” were organized to “educate” the public about the reform. This
was unusual enough, as the government does not normally need to justify its
policies. Forty thousand people (10 per cent of the population) have attended
these briefings (Brunei Times 2014e). Nonetheless, and despite all
“education”, a small but remarkable number of Bruneians critically
discussed the legal reform online, mostly anonymously. When one person
sent a non-conformist reader’s letter to a local newspaper, signed with his
real name, the government reacted immediately. Although the author did not
question the reform as such but had merely argued that caning rather than
stoning was a sufficient Sharia punishment for adultery (Brunei Times
2013d), his case was used to send a clear, disciplining message to the
public: A week after his letter was, surprisingly, printed by the Borneo
Bulletin, the Ministry of Religious Affairs placed an article in the same
newspaper elaborating on the indubitable theological foundations of stoning
and “invited” the author to approach the Ministry for further “explanations”
(Borneo Bulletin 2013). He was arrested shortly afterwards in a joint
operation of intelligence and religious enforcement officers and charged
with heresy under pre-SPCO Sharia law. He finally made a public
“declaration of repentance” in front of religious officials, and agreed to attend
“counselling” to “help him deepen his knowledge of Islam” (Brunei Times
2013c), and was pardoned. His declaration was the first of its kind, but
similar repentance will become a more formalized procedure under the
SPCO 2013.
Following the case, the Sultan and State Mufti spoke of an “anti-hadith
movement”, as the letter’s author had argued that the Qur’an does not
mention stoning and thus had ignored hadith sources (Brunei Times 2013a).
At a speech given to Bruneian students abroad, the Sultan warned that an
anti-hadith movement was secretly desecrating Sharia law. The State Mufti
soon afterwards explained the alleged movement with reference to “liberalist”
and “orientalist” ideologies that in their deviant nature would resemble the
Khawarij, a pre-Islamic tribe that opposed the Shariah laws (Brunei Times
2013b). Notably, an “anti-hadith movement” is also a common theme in
Islamist discourse in Malaysia, where it is used to demonize liberal Muslim
thinkers.
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“Deviant threats”: the politics of faith control
In contrast to most other Muslim-majority countries, there are rarely any
public controversies about Islam-related questions (Iik 2002: 88). Without
the heated discussions that accompany Islamization or secularization
policies elsewhere, the government’s ulama have standardized their categorical schemes (Graeber 2012: 105) of Islam as the state’s official doctrine
and outlawed the expression of any alternative views. Simultaneously, the
bureaucracy has developed an institutionalized understanding of unacceptable “deviant teachings” (ajaran sesat). Any worldview that tolerates the
co-existence of differing interpretations of Islam outside the narrow spectrum of Sunni Shafi’i MIB Islam is believed to violate authentic Sharia norms.
The Sultan has repeatedly condemned religious pluralism and liberal Islam as
“deviationism” that “will never be related to Brunei” (Müller, forthcoming), a
position that his religious advisors have supported for decades.
In its exercise of classificatory power, the Islamic bureaucracy began
identifying a growing corpus of “deviant teachings” as early as the 1960s.
The list nowadays comprises the Shia, the Ahmadiyyah Muslim Jama’at (not
to be confused with the Ahmadi Sufi order, also banned), Sufi groups such
as the Naqsyabandiyyah and Tariqat Mufarridiyyah, the Bahai, Silat Lintau,
as well as the teachings of several foreign individuals (for a typical news
article warning of deviant teachings, see Brunei Times 2014b). One group,
al-Arqam, was banned in 1991, three years before it was more prominently
banned in its country of origin, Malaysia. Remaining Arqam sympathizers
have repeatedly been arrested for trying to spread their beliefs, most recently
in 201319. Some members of groups declared deviant have had to undergo
counselling programmes. Beyond threatening the official doctrine and the
pure faith (aqidah), alternative Islamic thinking is also construed as a security
threat, as members of the government’s Faith Control Section (Bahagian
Kawalan Aqidah, henceforth FCS)20 explained to me. In September 2003,
six Arqam members were detained under the Internal Security Act, which
specifically targets threats to national security and public order. FCS officers
also mentioned Shia Islam as a security issue to me. Wahabism, albeit
vaguely defined, is banned, notwithstanding the government’s view of
Saudi-Arabia as a role model in the successful implementation of Islamic
penal code, intense consultation with members of Saudi Arabia’s Sharia
judiciary during the drafting of the SPCO, and close diplomatic relations
_______________
19
20
Information provided by the Faith Control Section, Bandar Seri Begawan, October 2014.
Although the term aqidah may more aptly be translated as “doctrine” rather than “faith”,
English-language sources in Brunei regularly translate it as “faith”.
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Dominik M. Müller
(HRRC 2015: 39–40). To protect Brunei from Wahabism, however, the
government does not provide scholarships for students to study in SaudiArabia, and those who study there on their own budget are monitored
afterwards.21 Clearly, the authorities are worried that non-MIB-controlled
Islamic ideologies might lead Bruneians to question their government’s
legitimacy and “right to define the situation”, even if, as in the case of
Saudi-Arabia, they have some striking similarities with Brunei’s brand of
Islam.
Other deviant groups, such as Brunei’s Bahai community (according to
varying sources between 30 and 100 people), are considered lesser security
threats. Founded among indigenous communities in a Tutong village in the
early 1960s, a Bahai organization with 40 members, the Spiritual Assembly
of the Bahais of Brunei, has been under investigation since 1970. In 1971
Bahai beliefs were declared deviant, fatwas issued in the following years
stated that Muslims joining the Bahais are “leaving Islam” and becoming
“infidels” (Norafan 2007: 14). The Bahai Assembly was dissolved, Bahais
were banned from working in the public service, and, even today, Bahais are
a popular topic in Brunei’s anti-deviance literature.
Since independence, religious enforcement agencies, the police, and
other security services have carried out the surveillance and persecution of
intra-Islamic deviance with increasing intensity. One particularly interesting
body in this regard is the FCS. Its first predecessor was founded in 1986,
after an incident that was narrated to me in largely similar form by FCS
members and an elderly villager who did not have anything to do with the
government. In 1986, a child in Kampung Junjungan was possessed by an
evil spirit, a rather common belief and phenomenon in the Malay world then
and today. The child was supposedly able to “answer every question”, which
quickly attracted neighbours and later visitors even from distant regions,
with people standing in line in front of the house. When the authorities became
aware of this, they sent in Islamic scholars for an exorcism and decided that
an institution based in the Ministry of Religious Affairs should be formed to
deal with cases of black magic, consultations with demons, and deviance
more generally. In the course of several organizational changes and renamings (e.g. in 1994 as Unit Kawalan Aqidah dan Syariah, lit. Unit for Faith
and Sharia Control), the FCS’s powers and capacities have gradually increased, particularly following a merger with the religious Investigation Unit
(Bahagian Penyiasatan) in 2001. As of 2014, there were several sub-units,
e.g. one focussing on Sufi orders (tareqat) and spiritualism (ilmu kerohanian),
_______________
21
Interview with FCS members, Bandar Seri Begawan, 18 October 2014.
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one for shamanism (perbomohan) and superstition (khurafat), another for
observing “deviations from the faith and comparative religion” (penyelewengan
aqidah dan perbandingan ugama), administration, and one for surveillance
and operations. Prior to 2014, the FCS’s legal basis had been the RCKCA.
With the SPCO, the institution’s activities are now supported by a “better
foundation”, as its director explained. The FCS maintains 24-hour hotlines
for citizens to report suspicious activities (one national and three district
numbers). Internal statistics provided by the FCS reveal that tip-offs have
regularly led to arrests in recent years. Investigations include, for example,
Islamic teaching without a licence (e.g. in 2014 by a Tablighi Jamaat member), a mosque operating without a licence (led by guest workers from
Bangladesh), insults against Islam via Facebook and WhatsApp, a blogger
advertising atheism, a Muslim showcasing a crucifix at his house, and
Muslims not attending Friday prayers. The FCS’s sub-unit for education
maintains an exhibition of confiscated materials, which school classes,
office workers and other interested parties, including the grateful author, are
occasionally invited to view. In late 2014, it was planned to integrate the
FCS into an enlarged Religious Enforcement Section.
The government’s attempts to purify the faith have led to the repositioning of certain cultural practices that had long been central to Malay
cultural life; two of these, shrine worship and bomoh practices, will be
discussed in the following sections.
Dynamics of socio-legal change: the case of shrine worshippers
and healers
Keramat shrines have been worshipped in the Malay world for centuries
(Skeat 1900). They can be graves, old trees, anthills, or waterfalls believed
to contain powers and to be inhabited by spirits that can serve as mediators
with God. Following the Islamic resurgence (kebangkitan Islam) in Southeast Asia and its attempts to cleanse Islam of pre- or un-Islamic “contamination”, keramat worship was increasingly considered an illegitimate
superstition (khurafat); many of the shrines described in earlier sources have
been abandoned or have disappeared for various reasons (particularly in
Malaysia, Brunei and Singapore, less so in Indonesia). In parts of Malaysia,
religious authorities have even demolished keramat graves (Malaysiakini
2001) and the practice has declined among Malays following the popularization of the orthodox Islamic discourse since the 1980s. Some shrines remain
in Brunei, but visiting them is nowadays illegal and frowned upon by large
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FIGURE 1: Keramat shrine with a signboard carrying a warning by the Islamic
authorities.
© Dominik M. Müller
segments of the Malay society, a transformation that one of my interlocutors, in keeping with a widespread narrative, traced back to “better
Islamic education since the 1990s”.
One widely known keramat shrine – a “grave containing powers” (kubur
yang berkat) – is located in the Tutong district, right next to a highly frequented road in Kampung Pancur Papan, with a roof built over a stone,
typical for such places. It is believed to be the grave of a respectable Arab
missionary of prophetic descent (named Tuan Syarif / Tuan Sae), although
there are at least two different stories about its origin. A Tutong resident
recalled how ritual offerings were openly held in daylight until the early
2000s, sometimes even including the slaughter of animals, which today is
hard to imagine at that place.22 Another Tutong resident’s weblog states that
many people went there to worship (permujaan), to express wishes (niat),
pay offerings in return for benefits (membayar nazar), burn candles, and
_______________
22
Interview, Tutong, 24 September 2014.
331
sacrifice food and drinks; the author claims to have personally witnessed a
chicken being slaughtered there (Fotografi 2009). In the late 2000s,
however, the authorities placed a sign next to the grave, warning that it is
“strongly prohibited to undertake any activity/ceremony that contradicts
Islamic law” (see Figure 1).
It further specifies a section of the RCKCA under which practices
violating the Sharia were punishable by three months in jail or fines, adding
a Qur’anic verse promising hellfire. Under the SPCO 2013 (Section 216),
shrine worship can now even result in two years in jail and the maximum
fine was raised from BND 2,000 to 8,000. The FCS director told me that
following the legal reform the signboard would soon be updated by a district
office. He also mentioned occasional surveillance activities at Tuan Syarif’s
shrine in previous years. I saw fresh traces of worship practices (including
incense sticks), and interlocutors from Tutong shared similar stories about
how the shrine is still used. An elder from Tutong remembered how an
Indonesian kyai (Islamic teacher) had conducted a ceremony there “a few
years ago”. Others told me about people who still throw coins from their car
windows onto the shrine; I indeed found several there in 2014. 23 However,
the few individuals who still visit this shrine go there secretly at night or in
the early morning. According to the FCS director, “for two or three years, it
has become quiet there” which the signboard and surveillance helped to
achieve.24 Average citizens also make active
contributions: drivers passing by blow their horn when they see people
at the shrine, as I was told and experienced myself twice. According to the
above-mentioned local blogger, the authorities’ actions coincided with a rise
of complaints by neighbours about frequent superstitious activities by
irresponsible persons at the shrine that could damage the faith. These
neighbours had repeatedly asked Tutong’s Islamic Office to take action
(Fotografi 2009, quoting a concerned Panchor Papan resident from another
weblog). This exemplifies how the authorities deviantization of keramat
worship has not just been a one-directional top-down process, but resonates
with popular compliance and normative changes within society, thereby
constituting a complex process of socio-legal transformation.
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23
24
The practice of throwing coins on graves is also found in the Middle East. In Saudi Arabia
the throwing of qurush (“coins”) has been banned under Wahabi doctrines (personal information from Ondřej Beránek), as is building domes/roofs over graves (Beránek / Tupek
2009).
Interview, Bandar Seri Begawan, 18 October 2014. According to FCS representatives, prior
to 2014 most offenders only received warnings, combined with an agreement to attend
“counselling”.
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Dominik M. Müller
Other, more hidden shrines are frequented more regularly. At one,
situated under trees between a private garden and a riverbank in a Tutong
village, people arrive at dusk and some even stay overnight, as a neighbour
who tolerates the practice told me in 2014. The place, a large grave with a
roof built over it, was full of traces of recent use, including candles, incense,
unsmoked cigarettes, food and drinks offerings, and a “spirit bottle” (see
Figure 2). At another grave, located in a private garden, the roof was
removed not long ago (fragments were still there in 2014). The garden’s
owners, one of whom is a descendant of the buried person, claimed to have
no knowledge of worship activities, although she had more openly spoken
with a Bruneian student in 2010 and admitted that it was still sometimes
used by strangers at night. The relatively new culture of hiding and denial
results from the fear of legal sanctions and social stigmatization, as the
shrines are no longer part of the corpus of generally accepted Malay
everyday culture.
FIGURE 2: Well-hidden keramat shrine in Tutong, still in use.
333
The FCS has made only a few arrests at shrines. In 2014, two individuals conducting worship practices at an anthill were identified; in 2010 a
person had asked spirits at a graveyard for four-digit lottery numbers (a widely
discussed practice); another Muslim was caught burning a candle, wooden
sticks and spices for magic purposes at a grave (data provided by FCS).
Most of the remaining worshippers have learned how to avoid being caught.
I have heard credible narrations about other keramat places still in use,
including a waterfall and a royal grave. Although the phenomenon continues
to persist under the surface, it clearly happens to a much lesser extent among
the young generation. Visiting these shrines primarily at night or in the early
morning reflects some characteristics of what Scott (1985) has conceptualized as everyday forms of resistance in another context. Such resistance
must not be confused with rebellion: It is shaped by a pragmatic adaptation
to the ruling order and simultaneous refusal of normative compliance. This
refusal finds expression in practices that circumvent or subvert the hegemonic
order, in cautiously concealed forms without open confrontation.
The case of keramat shrines illustrates the connection between legal
and socio-cultural changes: after a once normalized cultural practice was
declared deviant by the government, it gradually became socially unacceptable
and is now illegal under Sharia law, and punishments were increased following the latest reform. A similar development is evident in the case of bomoh
(shamans/healers), who have been turned from central institutions of Malay
culture into dubious, socially marginalized criminals.
The bomoh similarly have a long history in the Malay world (Skeat
1900). They were openly active in Brunei villages until at least the 1980s
(cf. Funston 2006: 22). Their marginalization paralled that of keramat
worship and was effected by similar factors. Despite increasing pressure,
they still exist, and many Bruneians admit to personally knowing a bomoh.
Nevertheless, the government demonizes the bomoh practice as “a big sin”
(Brunei Direct 2007). The public is frequently warned that bomoh practices
are un-Islamic and illegal; 38 bomoh were detained following tip-offs in
2004, 55 in 2005 (HRRC 2015: 67). Later statistics give numbers between 4
and 14 arrests per year between 2009 and 2014, excluding cases under different FCS categories, such as the use of magic objects or shrine worship
where “bomoh work” is also often involved (data provided by FCS, 2014).
According to FCS estimates, there are still “probably hundreds of bomoh”,
of which between 70 and 80 per cent are said to be foreigners, mainly Indonesians and Malaysians. Local bomoh are mostly elderly, in contrast to
foreign ones that are “often in their 30s and 40s”.
In 2007, an exhibition was organized showcasing confiscated bomoh
materials. Around the same time, two permanent anti-deviance exhibitions
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Dominik M. Müller
were established, one by the FCS and one by the Islamic Da’wah Centre,
both of which focus on bomoh practices and materials. According to an
Islamic Da’wah Centre staff member, most local visitors are mainly interested in the bomoh- and sorcery-themed room and skip most other parts,
reflecting the topic’s popularity. Entitled “Objects leading to deviation from
the faith” (translated), it provides rare insights into the rich (banned) material culture of bomoh, including various types of amulets/talismans (azimat),
magic liquids, love and anti-love potions, clothes that supposedly make the
wearer invincible (baju kebal), cooking pots with chants written on them
believed to increase restaurants’ business profits, powerful rings, 25 needles
that give beauty to the wearer and a black powder to make humans invisible
(Figure 3).26 The exhibition’s goal is to educate the public about the unIslamicness of bomoh and the dangers of sorcery, not, in contrast to my
initial expectation, disenchantment. The Centre’s officer explained that
some chants and magic actually worked. For example, he narrated how one
of their high-ranking ulama had once tested an amulet for research purposes,
finding that it made him indeed temporarily invincible. All showcased
materials have therefore very carefully been cleansed by Islamic experts
through suitable prayers. Nevertheless, people refuse to enter the bomoh
materials room in the evening or at night, as apparently strange occurrences
repeatedly happen and sounds come from the empty room. Even in orthodox, literal Islamist belief sorcery and jinn exist, because scriptural Sharia
sources explicitly mention them. Accordingly, the rationalism of an Islamist
scholar’s purification efforts encounters its own paradoxes in the field of
magic.27
Another confiscated object is a deerskin showing Islamic calligraphy
designed in the form of a sitting human. The exhibition’s officer explained
that many Bruneian families, notably including his own, had such a deerskin in their houses in the past as they had “insufficient Islamic knowledge”.
The SPCO provides the government with even stronger legal instruments to fight such deviance. Unlike previous legislation, the new law
contains sections explicitly mentioning sorcery and beliefs in supernatural
_______________
25
26
27
When passing by the royal palace on a water taxi in 2013, the driver narrated rumours
about the Sultan having a particularly powerful ring, exemplifying how deeply rooted such
popular beliefs are.
The FCS’s separate exhibition documents how the photograph of a “sorcery victim” was
wrapped in underpants and placed in a grave, from where the officers confiscated the evidence.
It would be misleading to interpret such beliefs and their Sharia-based regulation solely as
a reaction to the Brunei-specific Malay cultural context, as drastic anti-sorcery (Arabic sihr /
sha’wadha) legislation also exists elsewhere, most notably in Saudi Arabia (BBC 2012).
335
powers. Anyone proven to have conducted or advertised black magic can be
sentenced to five years in jail or fined BND 20,000 and sent to
“counselling” (Section 208). Attempted murder by so-called black magic
can be punished by ten years imprisonment, BND 40,000, or both (Section
153). Section 216 states that Muslims who worship “any person, place,
nature or any object, thing or animal in any manner” contrary to Islamic law,
e.g. by believing that objects or animals possess certain powers, increase
wealth, heal diseases or bring good luck, can be sentenced to two years, a
monetary fine, and “counselling” (Section 216). Another section stipulates
that any Muslim who falsely “claims that he or any other person knows an
event or a matter that is beyond human understanding or knowledge” and
contradicts Islamic teachings can be imprisoned for 10 years, receive 40
strokes, “and the Court shall order him to repent” (Section 206b). Whether
and how these improved laws will be applied in practice remains to be seen.
FIGURE 3: Confiscated bomoh-produced cooking pot.
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Dominik M. Müller
Reinventing bomoh under state control: The rise of “Islamic
Medicine”
Following the Islamic resurgence and the government’s Islamization programme since the 1980s, the term bomoh has had a negative connotation.
People who still practise Muslim bomoh use various survival strategies: some
operate in secrecy while others reinvent themselves in more “Islamic” terms.
Some are less pejoratively known as orang pandai (also orang pemandai),
literally a “knowledgeable person”. Although some claim bomoh might use
black magic, whereas orang pandai are mainly protecting or healing, the
distinction is not consistently used or clearly defined among Bruneians.
From the FCS’ perspective, orang pandai are usually deviant as well, although their followers and customers tend to insist that what they do is
permissible because they are not bomoh.28
In 2014, I made contact with an orang pandai’s secretive circle. According to its members, who call themselves anak buah (“fruits”), it comprises 100 members and a smaller circle of core anak buah. The group’s
leader has practised for more than 30 years and learned his knowledge
(ilmu) from local teachers. In 2014, numerous patients visited his place daily
from morning to late-night. Group members learning from and assisting him
include academics, lawyers, housewives and even some government officials
who hide their affiliation with the group. My interlocutors excitedly narrated
how they witnessed their teacher’s spectacular miracles, which resembles
what is commonly ascribed to bomoh (except black magic). Similarly, the
group’s religio-political views are rarely compatible with the Islamic bureaucracy’s doctrines. Their leader has made the pilgrimage to Mecca (the Kaaba’s
key keeper is allegedly his good friend), prays five times a day and has
extensive knowledge of Islamic sources. Nevertheless, he told me that if
asked what his religion is, he could not give any honest answer as any
answer, such as Muslim, Christian or Hindu, would be divisive. His honest
reply would thus be “just one breath”, symbolizing the unity of mankind.29
Under the Islamic bureaucracy’s doctrines, this comes close to apostasy.
One core-member described them as tareqat-like, and expressed his
enthusiasm for the Sufi poet Rumi, adding that any institution between
humans and God would contaminate the purity of Islam. He also criticized
the government’s MIB indoctrination efforts and questioned the SPCO 2013
as a power-political instrument. The group’s leader, in contrast, is highly
cautious about direct political statements. He also denied that his group is a
_______________
28
29
Interview with FCS representatives, Bandar Seri Begawan, 18 October 2014.
The same notion appears in a 13th century Rumi poem, “Only Breath”.
337
tareqat, which is not surprising considering that several Sufi groups are
banned. His followers claim he has been repeatedly investigated and spies
have been sent (“We know who they are.”30); secrecy and his refusal to give
his group any name or category may have contributed to his safety. What
further protects him, his followers argue, is his emphasis that every service
he offers is essentially rooted in Islamic sources (“basically just reciting the
Qur’an”31). When it comes to more controversial supernatural practices, the
group has a strict code of secrecy. The anak buah are placed in different
“wider” and “inner” circles with different levels of access to the secret
knowledge. Another protecting factor, they claim, are VIP clients and (ex-)
group members that are found even at the highest echelons of the societal
hierarchy. The leader is claimed to be a millionaire on account of the gifts
he reportedly receives from grateful patients.
One survival tactic vis-à-vis anti-deviance policies targeting bomoh is
discursive reframing. Some practices, such as the exorcism of spirit possession (kerasukan), have recently been re-conceptualized as “Islamic medicine”, syifa, and practiced “Sharia-compliant” under the control of government institutions. Exorcisms and other so-called religious forms of medical
treatment can now be conducted by certified, state-approved Islamic healers,
“a very new thing”, as one interlocutor commented.
Brunei’s syifa movement32 began in 2007, inspired by the non-state
based Darussyifa (lit. House of syifa) of Malaysia. Haron Din (spiritual
leader of Malaysia’s Islamist opposition party and former university lecturer
in Islamic Studies), the Malaysian Darussyifa’s founder who regularly visits
Brunei, inspired a group of Bruneians to seek government approval to establish their own Islamic medicine centre. In 2007, they established
Darusysyifa Warrafahah (henceforth Darusysyifa, the spelling differs from
Malaysia’s Darussyifa) and the centre has expanded dramatically. According to internal statistics, membership numbers went up from 38 in 2007 and
175 in 2008 to 597 in 2013. Not all members hold a healing certificate as it
can only be obtained after passing the final examinations following a yearlong structured work course (the contents of which are based on Haron Din’s
writings and approved by Brunei’s Islamic authorities). The number of
treatments grew from 500 in 2008 (including 339 “disturbances”, gangguan)
to 5032 in 2013 (1820 disturbances). Disturbances, supposedly caused by
“spirits” (jinn), affect individuals or buildings. In 2014, more than 50 per
_______________
30
31
32
Interview with a group member, 2014.
Interview with a group member, 2014.
Syifa means “healing”.
338
Dominik M. Müller
cent of treated disturbances had affected government buildings and private
houses (statistics provided by Darusysyifa, October 2014). Darusysyifa
distinguishes three categories of medical problems: 1. physical (e.g. headache, flu, migraine); 2. spiritual or emotional (e.g. insomnia, family/neighbourhood problems, worries about safety, or a weak spirit); and 3. disturbances caused by jinn Muslim jinn and particularly infidel jinn) or sorcery
(sihir/ilmu ghaib), black magic (ilmu hitam), and bomoh-style poisoning.
At Darusysyifa’s centre, it is not unusual to have 10 or more patients being
treated simultaneously in separate rooms, as I observed in October 2014
(Figure 4). Initially, the group only had a small house and, as a co-founder
narrated, “spirits” would sometimes “jump from one body to the next” during
exorcisms.33 One of the founders, however, won a local bank’s prize competition, called “What is Your Wish?” (worth BND 100,000) and used the
money to build a larger clinic. Treatment is free and all healers work voluntarily, sometimes into the early morning. Patients can “choose whether they
wish to make a donation”, a sentence I had heard verbatim before from and
about bomoh/orang pandai in Brunei and Singapore. The centre receives large
donations and also sells self-produced Islamic health products. Among them
are herbal medicines and water that has been exposed to Darusysyifa members’ collective prayers (dizikirkan; packages are labelled respectively), a
very successful product.
It is noteworthy that reading Qur’anic verses into water is also common
among bomoh, but Darusysyifa insists that it is only their own method that is
properly Islamic. Some bomoh, Darusysyifa members argue, would not even
know that their practices involve demonic forces. Some individuals were
bomoh before they attended Darusysyifa’s courses and now want to cleanse
their work of un-Islamic elements and may also be attracted by Darusysyifa’s
legitimizing capacities. A member of an educational institution shared with
me how her father had once been a bomoh healer (“only in the family”), but
stopped and attended a syifa course.
As the FCS’ director told me, not all certificate holders entirely abandon their previous methods. In one case, a male Darusysyifa practitioner
sexually molested a female patient – usually only women are allowed to treat
women – and claimed afterwards he had been possessed by jinn. The FCS
also identified a bomoh who falsely claimed to be a Darusysyifa healer.
Leaving aside such transgressions, it is clear that Darusysyifa can provide
legal security and social recognition for (ex-)practitioners in a field that is
increasingly delegitimized and outlawed. It could be argued that Darusysyyifa
_______________
33
Interview, Bandar Seri Begawan, 11 October 2014.
339
presents a case of creative discursive resignification in line with parameters
set by the Islamic bureaucracy, although Darusysyifa members and government clergy would strongly disagree that there are any similarities between
their work and the healing conducted by bomoh.
FIGURE 4: Certified Islamic healer conducting an exorcism at Darisysyifa Centre.
340
Dominik M. Müller
Even government institutions and high-ranking dignitaries use Darusysyifa’s
services, some of whom had earlier been rumoured to consult with bomoh.
Darusysyifa has, for example, conducted a large-scale cleansing at a
notoriously haunted building of the Ministry of Defence (BRIDEX Centre),
in return for which Darusysyifa received permission to use it for a
conference. Darusysyifa members also told me that they treated buildings at
the University of Brunei Darussalam and that a national hospital regularly
calls Darusysyifa to cleanse rooms, which is also documented in pictures on
Darusysyifa’s webpage (2011). In 2014 an incident of mass hysteria
occurred at an all-girls Arabic School that had to be closed for a day, as
“around 15 students […] were affected by disturbances” (Brunei Times
2014d). Darusysyifa sources told me how more than 10 of its exorcists
cleansed the school’s premises, a job that in the past would have been assigned to a reputable bomoh. Darusysyifa has also been involved in events
of highest diplomatic significance, details of which the author was asked not
to publish. Mention that Prince Abdul Malik once served as Darusysyifa’s
patron must therefore suffice to illustrate its elite support and prestige.
As Darusysyifa’s case demonstrates, the politics of exorcism in Brunei
are shaped by the government’s attempts to exorcise politics from the country,
inasmuch as they reflect the sultanate’s characteristic mechanisms of discourse control. Operating under formalized government control serves to
legitimize any Islam-related (and in fact any other public) activity, as the
government has effectively outlawed uncontrolled, autonomous subjects that
might not conform to official doctrines. Simultaneously, Darusysyifa presents a case of an uneven, paradoxical continuation of a tradition declared to
be deviant, albeit in a discursively reframed form. Its practitioners have
creatively adapted to the MIB regime’s rules of behaviour and submitted to
the government’s classificatory power, but have, at the same time, created
some limited space for agency.
Concluding remarks
Brunei’s Islamization policies since the 1980s have been inseparably intertwined with socio-cultural transformations, and the MIB state’s exercise of
classificatory power has triggered far-reaching changes in the normativities
of everyday life. But the dynamics of socio-legal change are not entirely
uncontested, and the state’s hegemonic stipulations do not simply determine
social behaviour. Despite their tireless efforts to control faith and the powerful legal and bureaucratic resources behind them, the government’s Islamic
authorities have not entirely succeeded in eradicating practices declared
341
deviant. As the continued persistence of shrine worship, bomoh practices,
secretive Sufi-inspired communities deploying creative survival tactics, and
the creation of the Darusysyifa as a way of re-legitimizing controversial
practices through a government-recognized system demonstrate, there are
still marginalized spheres of creative agency, everyday resistance and rejection of normative compliance that defy a totalizing, one-dimensional portrayal of Brunei society as docile and streamlined. Taking these forms of
agency seriously and acknowledging the diversity of reactions to the ruling
order can help us to develop a more complex picture of law and society in
contemporary Brunei than the sultanate’s common stereotypical portrayal
would suggest. While Brunei’s Islamization programme deserves far more
scholarly attention than it has received to date, it is important not to confuse
its official doctrines and the government’s underlying strategies with their
impact at the micro-level. Although both levels are inextricably linked, they
need to be distinguished analytically. The described dynamics of socio-legal
change, with top-down and bottom-up processes interacting in complex ways,
cannot be captured analytically by one-directional explanations assuming a
clearly identifiable cause-and-effect relationship. From my anthropological
point of view, we can at best develop partial perspectives on this essentially
messy process, a project to which the present article seeks to contribute.
In historical analysis, Brunei illustrates the capacity for inexorable further
consolidation once a protecting power has effectively handed absolute power
to the successor regime, at least given the enormous material resources over
which the Brunei state disposes. Although the empowerment and expansion
of Sharia law in Brunei is locally presented, and might be interpreted academically, as an attempt at post-colonial emancipation, it cannot evade its
colonial imprint of modern legalism and bureaucratization, thus presenting a
case of uneven, paradoxical continuity. By advising the sultanate on the
systematic codification, institutionalization and diversification of its administration of Islam, the British helped to create the institutional and ideational
substrate from which the later Shariatization, including the latest legal
reform, eventually emerged. Islam became translated into the modern language
of bureaucratic legalism, which still continues to shape the post-colonial
state’s exercise of classificatory power today, as manifested in its sanctionbased policies of standardizing truth and deviance.
Considering the political priority given to Islamization policies, and
leaving aside sincere beliefs in accumulating divine blessings in this world
and the afterlife for realizing God’s legislative will, we may ask who
benefits from Brunei’s expansion of Sharia law? The Sultan and his political
system are the clearest winners, as the SPCO further consolidates their (literally and figuratively) unquestionable power and divine legitimation. Simul-
342
Dominik M. Müller
taneously, the SPCO gives to the Islamic bureaucracy what many of its
representatives had long hoped for and devoutly believe in, thereby ensuring
their support, while simultaneously further cementing the state ulama’s
monopoly and socio-political influence. In addition, pleasing other piousminded segments of the population is power-politically beneficial as well,
particularly as it pertains to the growing group of persons with educational
backgrounds in Islamic Studies. Widening the state’s Islamic sector creates
further employment opportunities, which helps to integrate and control
them. The SPCO enjoys striking support at Brunei’s Islamic University
UNISSA (Universiti Islam Sultan Sharif Ali), which indicates that refusing
to enforce hudud laws, even if implemented merely at a symbolic level,
might have led to ideologically deep-rooted discontent among this influential segment of society. Whether intentional or not, the Sultan’s legal Islamization policies may take the wind out of a potential future Islamist opposition’s sails, as they are likely to ensure that no future opposition movement
will emerge out of the ideational repertoire of political Islamism, at least not
for the time being.
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The Kachin of Myanmar
An Approach to a Complex Political
and Social History
DAGMAR HELLMANN-RAJANAYAGAM / SASCHA HELBARDT*
Abstract
Although Kachin resistance against the Burmese/Myanmar state has continued since
the 1960s, in 1948 the Kachin were enthusiastic supporters of the Panglung Agreement and the Union of Burma. The article traces the development and treatment of
the Kachin areas since British colonisation and shows how the foundations of the
current situation were laid in the early decades of the twentieth century. British
perceptions of the hill peoples as primitive, backward and in need of protection and
guidance carried over into independent Burma and may account for many of the
problems and misunderstandings experienced today. They may be compared to the
“house elves” in the books about the wizard Harry Potter: lesser mortals destined to
serve loyally, but not to be independent or determine their own fate. The Kachin
continuously strive to counter this perception.
Keywords
Myanmar, Kachin, ethnic minorities, history, violent conflict, identity.
Prologue
Some time ago, the author was asked to do a study on a rather remote hill
tribe. The tribe lives in a mountainous area straddling three countries, and
its members similarly straddle the official borders of all three. They speak
a language unique to themselves that has several often mutually unintelligible dialects specific to a certain valley or village. They have a reputation
* DAGMAR HELLMANN-RAJANAYAGAM, Southeast Asian Studies, University Passau,
[email protected]; SASCHA HELBARDT, Southeast Asian Studies,
University Passau; [email protected]. This article originated from the research
project “The Role of Religion in Violent Internal Conflict”, funded by the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (DFG), to whom my thanks are due. I also thank
my colleagues Rüdiger Korff and Nang Raw, Seng Raw and Saboi Jum for helpful criticisms and comments.
348
Dagmar Hellmann-Rajanayagam / Sascha Helbardt
for rebelliousness, having fought long and hard against having a part of their
area forcibly attached to a country in the region, thereby destroying their
long-standing autonomy.
The tribe are – did anyone guess? – the Tyroleans and the area is South
Tyrol, nowadays an autonomous province of Italy (Alcock 1970).
Why quote this European example in a paper dealing with the Kachin
of North Myanmar? Precisely to demonstrate how differing perceptions of
similar phenomena can distort judgements. The Kachin, like the Tyroleans,
straddle three different countries: North Myanmar, Northeast India and
Southwest China. Even their populations are of a similar size: around one
million. The Kachin’s official language is Jinghpaw, but they have a number
of dialects, some mutually unintelligible. Again like the Tyroleans, they
have fought long against the state of Myanmar for autonomy and sometimes
found a retreat across the borders in India and China. There, however, the
similarity seems to end. South Tyrol is nowadays one of the richest provinces of Italy, a well-developed agricultural region and popular tourist
destination. Today it is seen as a bridge between Italy, Austria and Switzerland (see Benedikter 2012; Peterlini 2005, 2008). The Kachin were for long
periods perceived as on the periphery of civilisation, poor and “barbaric”, at
most loosely affiliated to any of the states in the region.
Introduction
One should not push comparisons too far, and certainly both the composition and the situation of the Kachin cannot be equated one to one with
that of the Tyroleans. But the point here is to question certain assumptions
about “hill tribes” or “minorities” in general in South and Southeast Asia,
which seem to be carved in stone. These assumptions seem strange when
applied to situations nearer to home, so to speak. Conversely, the “hill
tribes” suddenly appear familiar when observed through the lens of “European regional groups”.
It becomes quickly – and maybe surprisingly – obvious that, while
structurally (violent) conflicts are quite similar, individual manifestations
and combinations of factors can and do lead to very different outcomes. The
deep structures include processes and procedures of access and inclusion
based on definitions of affiliation and belonging or ascribed identity, the
connections of language and power and the reasons for denial of access and
participation (Fairclough 1989; Helbardt et al. 2013). In other words:
whereas their deep structures correspond, on the surface these conflicts look
349
quite dissimilar. Yet, these surface differences are crucial as they can and do
lead to markedly different results (Wolff 2003).
In North Myanmar a new round of violence since 2011 shows few
signs of abating (ICG 2013). The reasons for violence are found not so
much in some “deep historical legacy or logic”, but precisely in events,
processes and mutual (mis)interpretations during British colonisation and
after independence (see e.g. Sai Kham Mong 2005). This does not mean that
conflicts over interests and affiliation did not occur earlier, but the British
made it a punishable crime to fight for one’s interests and autonomy. In fact
the Ashokan model of Buddhist kingship relegated the people on the periphery or the “wild border” to an area to be controlled and if possible converted (Tambiah 1976; see also Gravers 1999). But this border was seldom
penetrated, and its status remained vague. Perceptions of the population
there were rarely in line with current understanding of “ethnicity” or
“minority”.
British colonial understanding defined the hill people, who later were
called “Kachin”, in new ways, which the latter made use of to confirm
and/or maintain their status in the face of changes. This process involved a
change of view of interests and of the means to secure them. The British
policy regarding “minorities” and the question of a divide-and-rule approach
has been ably discussed by Roland Bless (1990). However, he concentrates
on what could be called “non-indigenous” minorities, viz. the Indians and to
a lesser extent the indigenous groups like Karen or Shan. The Kachin are
discussed rather cursorily (Bless 1990: 49–50; 290ff; 311), not least because
they hardly figured in political and constitutional negotiations until 1946.
British policies towards minorities were by no means uniform and differed
considerably across time and space. This applied especially to the so-called
hill tribes, which were alternately called “backward”, “wild”, “uncivilised”,
“politically immature” or “endangered”.
In colonial times the Kachin Hills, like similar areas in India, were
administered separately. After independence, political ties were ruptured.
This did not mean, however, that social, economic and family contacts
ceased (Sadan 2013: 184–85; Sai Kham Mong 2005: 134ff.). Independence
and secessionist movements in Northern Myanmar thus had their impact on
Northeast India as well.1 It would, therefore, be of doubtful use to restrict the
discussion to any one often arbitrarily delimited country, as Willem van
Schendel and James Scott have forcefully argued (van Schendel 2002; Scott
_______________
1
A poignant example of the interest events in Myanmar arouse in Northeast India is the
reprint of the FACE Report of 1947 in Manipur in 1998 to highlight the concerns and
rights of hill peoples (see Neihsial 1998).
350
2009), but rather to look across the borders to the Singhpo in India and the
Jinghpo in China (as the Kachin are called there) as well.
Van Schendel defines “Zomia”2 as based among other things on geographical conditions and sees the region as an integrated whole (van Schendel
2002: 653–54). But whether that makes the groups living in this area into
“non-state” groups, as Scott (2009: 137–140) argues, is another question. If
they retreat from the claims of larger states and develop the “art of not being
governed” that does not necessarily mean that they lack state-like structures
of governance of their own or exist in total isolation, nor does it mean that
they do not aspire to becoming states in their own right.
It might be more useful to develop an idea of Mandy Sadan (2013) and
see these areas as, if not a centre, at least a bridge area linking instead of
separating countries (a similar argument is developed by Thant Myint-U
2011). Sadan (2013: 184–85) contests the “non-state” status of the Kachin.
The fact that they straddle three borders gives the term “periphery” another
meaning, inasmuch as the periphery always knows more about the centre
than the centre knows about the periphery and can act as a bridging region.
By necessity, the Kachin had to deal with the outside world at the political
and economic levels and enter into negotiations with the hegemonic powers
of the day, often balancing them against each other, a fact which Scott does
not really discuss. Hill peoples were always tied into state systems, albeit in
various ways which could range from symbolic submission to active
resistance when the state became too dominant. Only with a new type of
expansion under the British, which involved active penetration and administration and fixed borders could the question of “autonomy” be raised, and
(mis)understood in manifold ways.3
This article will look at the development of the Kachin from a “hill
tribe” to an ethnic minority, or ethnic nationality as they are currently called,
and consider the historical events which led to the current situation. Only by
knowing the historical background can the series of periodic and apparently
“anti-cyclical” irruptions of violence against the “state” be understood and
seen as a way of coping with change and with the unfulfilled expectations
and broken promises that date from the turbulent times after World War II.
At the same time, only by following the historical and political developments is the development of a “Kachin identity”, in contrast to a narrower
“clan” identity, and their current struggle against the Myanmar state and
_______________
2
3
An artificial term for the hill region connecting India, China and Myanmar, derived from
the term “Mizo”, probably meaning “human”.
For a comprehensive discussion on the political concept of autonomy see Benedikter 2012.
351
government intelligible. To this end, a few definitions of what ethnicity and
ethnic identity should or could mean in this context are appropriate here.
Ethnicity and identity – some short considerations
Definitions of ethnicity and ethnic identity have been and continue to be
fiercely debated. It seems that the more states attempt to approach a Herderian ideal of nationhood, the further they move away from it because ethnic
identity lodges in ever smaller and more indeterminate groups. Whereas
ethnicity certainly is always socially and sometimes individually constructed,
this does not mean that it is arbitrary or fictitious. It needs, as Sandra Wallman
(1978, 1986) pointed out long ago, something to base itself on. What this is,
may, however, vary considerably across time and space. Karl Deutsch (1966,
1979) and Anthony Smith (1987) saw ethnicity as a choice, but a choice
within limits: ethnic groups define themselves and are being defined by
markers (not necessarily identical ones) whose salience and relevance may
differ. In other words, ethnicity is as much emphasis of chosen markers as
anything else, an emphasis that then bears on self-perception and identity as
the core of being (see Hellmann-Rajanayagam 1995, 2007).
Historical background
The Kachin are first mentioned relatively late and only incidentally in
Burmese and Chinese sources around the 14th and 15th centuries. In the
latter, the Kachin appear as a superstitious people without history or religion
who live on chillies and potatoes (Wyatt-Smith 1930). In Burmese historical
records they are mentioned from about the 15th century and later as
mercenaries for Kings Bayinnaung and Alaungpaya (FACE Report 1948: 8).
These records speak of fairly loosely arranged conditions of vassalage to the
Burmese kings (cf. Smith 1999: 38–39). A conclusive affirmation of this
relationship is documented only under King Mindon in the 19th century
(Sadan 2013: 124–127).4
Their own myths and legends locate their origin somewhere north of
Burma in Yunnan or Tibet from where they migrated around 500 A.D. and
finally settled around the Mali Hkwa and the Hukawng valley around 900
A.D. (Kawlu Ma Naung 1942: 5). They still locate the country of their
_______________
4
See also FACE Report 1948: 9, where it is mentioned that the Kansi Duwa got his appointment order from Mindon (1853–78) and was also appointed military commander in
Hkamti Long. See also Armstrong 1997: 122.
352
ancestors across the hills to the North, where they return when they die. The
Kachin put their own history in writing only in the middle of the 20th
century (Kawlu Ma Naung 1942: 5). In the late 19th century, research by
Christian missionaries gave the Kachin a sense of their uniqueness in the
sense that they became aware of having a culture and history that differed
from those of the groups around them (Gilhodes 1922; Carrapiett 1929).
The origin of the name is obscure. The Kachin themselves never used
this name until the colonial period, and even today they still add their clan
name when identifying as Kachin. The term seems to have been an outside
definition for a conglomerate of loosely aligned groups. Among them, the
most prominent were and are the Jinghpaw, who were therefore often
equated with the Kachin (Sadan 2013: 31–33, 104–05; Leyden 1943a). The
name Kachin (Kahkyen, Khachin, etc.) appears in the documents fairly soon
after English penetration began in the early 19th century (Fytche 1867). It may
originate from the Burmese, meaning people from the hills with an implicit
understanding of primitivism and barbarism.5
In the process, a number of lineage groups were bracketed together
under the Kachin ethnicity (Sadan 2013: 134–35). It was a twofold development: Jinghpaw groups and lineages had trade and family contacts across
developing borders and the “periphery” to India (Singhpo) and China (Jingpo),
and in the borderlands of Burma incorporated a number of other groups into
the newly developing entity of “Kachin” when this identity became politically opportune (Sadan 2013: 117, 174–75; Smith 1999: 35). Internal and
external definitions and perceptions slowly aligned with each other and led to
new alliances and divisions within fixed borders (Sadan 2013: 46ff., 304, 363).
Sadan highlights the varied strategies of related groups to assert their rights
and significance in the numbers game: The Buddhist Singhpo in India still
have family contacts with Christian Kachin in Myanmar, but they nowadays
identify strongly as Buddhist and as a small, clearly defined Scheduled
Tribe (ST) (ibid.: 184–85, 298–99, 412–14). Only as such will they be able
to get the privileges reserved for this group, because the ST category implicitly
and explicitly is reserved for groups considered small and vulnerable who
receive privileges if they remain in this state. In Myanmar, the numbers
game works exactly the other way round: the more people that can be
included in the category Kachin, the more influential and powerful the group
will be as an acknowledged indigenous minority (ibid.: 116–17, 143, 153–
55, 339). In China, Jinghpo are acknowledged as an ethnic minority among
_______________
5
In the Burma Handbook 1944: 19 it is speculated that the term Jinghpaw may be Tibetan
for “cannibals”, and that for the Chinese “Kachin” means “wild men”. Ruth Armstrong
mentions that the Kachin, therefore, prefer the term Jinghpaw, which (Armstrong 1997: 3).
353
others in the border region, but with a clearly dominant position. According
to Sadan, they feel they are Chinese nationals now (ibid.: 185).
In Myanmar, the Jinghpaw had parallel lineage groups across divisions
to other groups or tribes, both of an equal and hierarchical relationship and,
thus, could incorporate new groups fairly easily into their fold, a fact
affirmed by a corresponding and developing ritual (Manao) (Sadan 2013:
54, 134–36, 341, 421–430ff, esp. 425). This is an ongoing process, since in
times of strife and conflict groups would flee across borders and be incorporated into the fold as Kachin, like the Lisu from Yunnan during the
Cultural Revolution (ibid.: 192–93, 354, 450). What is important is the fact
that political and territorial borders were eventually acknowledged as both
inevitable and legitimate, while a consciousness of “transnational ethnicity”
remained.
The British perception of Kachin history remained vague. Leach’s
detailed study (Leach 1970) of the Kachin social system is one of the few
comprehensive works and remains definitive.6 It shows the differences
between the social formations and organisational principles of gumlao and
gumsa as basically fluctuations between closer (gumsa) or more distant
(gumlao) associations with the Shan model, while the content of these
formations remained stable and differed mainly in British eyes. Gumlao was
considered the more egalitarian (“democratic”) model, in which authority
was based on consensus and election and was for that reason denounced by
the British as rebellious and revolutionary, whereas gumsa was perceived as
more hierarchical, accepting the hereditary authority of the chief. Leach’s
approach was anthropological, and he did not take into account political and
social changes over time and space, but viewed Kachin society as static, one
reason why Sadan considers this study ahistorical (Sadan 2013: 15–16).
In Assam, the Kachin were perceived as obstacles to the newly developing economic opportunities and, instead of being granted economic
participation and access, were excluded from economic progress (Nugent
1982: 508–527), which led to the first Singpho rebellion in the tea areas of
Assam and NEFA in 1843. In the turbulent times of British expansion, the
Kachin groups endeavoured to have their customary and traditional rights of
land and trade confirmed by the side in the ascendance (Sadan 2013: 77–79).
Sadan here clearly contradicts Scott’s view of the “non-state”: the Singhpo
in Assam were quite willing to engage with and integrate into the colonial
economy, but were prevented from doing so by the colonial power itself.
The situation was complicated further by the clash between British and local
_______________
6
While the Shan were the – positive and negative – civilised model for the Kachin, they
were never accepted as tributary overlords.
354
conceptions of authority and allegiance: the British elected to misunderstand
or misinterpret the patron-client and land system of the Jinghpaw as “slavery”
and endeavoured to abolish it to make the Kachin “civilised” and into tax
payers (Sadan 2013: 59–60, 80–81; Barnard 1927)7 rather than vassals or
tributaries. This, and the destruction of the traditional trade rights and employment of the Kachin, led to violent resistance during the late 19th and
early 20th centuries (Raitt 1915b; Kachin Raids 1919).
The Northern parts of Burma (Frontier Areas Administration) were
formally annexed by Britain only in 1927/28 and the Kachin areas proper in
1929 (Treaty Diary 1897). A report on the routes through Kachinland from
that year still refers to the area as Burma Independent District Northeast
(Raitt 1915a). Until then the triangle was deemed to be “unadministered”
(Barnard 1927; Expedition 1883), which meant that the British did not
directly interfere in internal administration, but at most collected taxes – if they
could –, otherwise leaving the areas alone (Smith 1999: 42f; FACE Report
1948).8 Until 1894, the Burma-Yunnan border was not even marked, and a
map from 1899 showed the Kachin areas as neither Burmese nor Britishcontrolled.9 Resistance continued until 1926, though the hills were considered
“pacified” after 1915 (Raitt 1915a). The reasons for these rebellions are called
“obscure”, an obscurity that clears a bit when we learn that the Kachins had
killed government servants who intruded into the area demanding taxes, and
as punishment their villages and their harvest were burnt down and their
buffaloes killed (Abbey 1916; Sadan 2013: 7).
Into the existing volatility of the border regions and their contested
status between China and Burma, the British inserted their own insecurities.
In the constitution of 1937, when Burma was separated from India, the
reforms only applied to “Ministerial Burma”. The border and hill areas were
defined as “excluded areas” under the direct control of the governor and
without the political institutions granted to the rest of the country:
Certain special subjects are administered by the Governor without any
advice from his Ministers. These special subjects include defence and the
excluded areas, comprising the Federated Shan States and the Karen Hills
on the East, the Kachin Hills on the North-East and North, and the Chin
Hills on the North-West (Intelligence Reports 1937: 5; Smith 1999: 43).
_______________
7
8
9
On one Kachin expedition in 1893, Hsenwi (letter from 12 September 1893) mentions that the
Kachin do not like to be forced to pay taxes. Why taxes were levied remains obscure. Rice 1916.
Until 1895 the Kachin resisted British penetration. Then the British managed to establish
fragile indirect control. See U Hla Thein 2005a: 194–220 and Crosthwaite 1968: 281;
the reasons for not administering the Shan areas applied with equal force to the Kachin areas.
The border remained unmarked until WWII and beyond because neither power was able
to completely exert control there. Cf. Cass 1943; Kawlu Ma Naung 1942: 33; Creasey 1940.
355
World War II and looming independence
Kachin assistance for the allies in the defence of India and China during
WWII is well documented (Intelligence Reports 1942). Five thousand Kachin
levies were recruited, largely, but not only, for Orde Wingate’s Force 136
(Chindits) secret operations (Memo 1945b).10 They were instrumental in the
defence of Fort Hertz (Putao) by securing the air routes and in sabotaging
Japanese operations (Memo 1945b).
The question of the future of the hill tracts as well as that of the Kachin
and Kachin levies was debated from at least 1943/44 (McKenzie 1944). A
report on the liberated areas states that, bravely as these people fought, after
the end of hostilities chaos reigned since no proper civil administration existed.
To combat that, exclusively Kachin Pyadas, a sort of village constable, were
appointed as a first step in 1944 (Intelligence Report 1944).
This was also intended to check the Chinese advance up to Myitkyina
and Sumprabum and their administrative and recruiting efforts (Wallace
1943).11 Much as the Allied Forces needed Chinese assistance, they did not
want the Kachin to ally with them (Bowerman 1946; McDougal 1942), more
so since many British officers were well aware that Kachin support was
based less on a political cause or on loyalty to the British, than on defence
of their home and people and against ill-treatment by the Japanese and
Burmans (Simla 1944; Myitkyina 1947a). Hill people were the “rock against
which Jap invasion broke” (Dorman-Smith 1946b: 88).12
The Kachins along the frontier on the Chinese side are strongly pro-British
and dislike the Chinese and their admin intensely. [...] Once British admin
functions again, there is likely to be very marked and strenuous opposition
to any Chinese attempts to take over Kachin territory in Burma (Cass 1943).13
The British felt confident that the Kachin distrusted both the Burmese and the
Chinese, the implication being that they only trusted the British (Burma 1948: 26).
At the end of WWII most Kachin areas remained under the Frontier
Areas Administration (FAA), which was considered a provisional option
(Stevenson 1946a). Generally it was thought as settled that the Kachin would
have to join Burma at some point: “[…] the hill peoples had, willy-nilly, to
_______________
10
11
12
13
For a good account of the dubiousness of these operations, see Masters 1961 and FellowesGordon 1957 and 1972.
Reportedly, they even planned to open schools teaching Chinese, Jinghpaw and English,
based on claims of the alleged administration of the Kachin lands with a population of
their own “race” for the past 5,000 years: Leyden 1943c.
Dorman-Smith remarks that Hill Defence was more or less privately organised.
The same source claims that the Kachins prefer to remain with Burma.
356
throw in their lot with the Burmans (Pearn: 45).” The British had no intention to leave the considerable economic resources of the area to the Chinese.
Continued access to them, the British assumed, would be easier with a
Burma in the Commonwealth: “It was to the highest degree desirable that
after the war Burma should remain within the Empire (Murray 1947).”
Though the area had lost its strategic significance, it was liable to
possible irredentist demands by China, which should be countered by integrating the area fully into Burma. Kuomintang (KMT)14 remained an irritating
presence in the area until the 1960s (Smith 1999: 153; Sai Kham Mong
2005: 123) and led to fears of a Chinese incursion in the Northeast after
1949 (Bowker 1949c: 46). The problem was what this Burma would look
like, and in what form the hill areas would be incorporated. When it became
clear after 1945 that Burma insisted on full independence, the British had
second thoughts, but full Kachin independence was never an option for them
(Dorman-Smith 1942: 183). Even the self-styled advocates of the hill tribes,
like the former Governor of Burma, Reginald B. Dorman-Smith, realised
that if the hill tracts were incorporated into Burma, England would at one
stroke be rid of a considerable financial responsibility, because the hills
would depend on Burma for finance. In that case they would be forced to
join Burma, since they would not be able to exist independently. A number
of local civil servants voiced objections against the incorporation of the hills
into Burma regardless (Wilkie 1946a). Dorman-Smith15 warned against
creating an impression that England was deserting its allies and emphasised
its obligations to them:
[...] it is extremely difficult to see how His Majesty’s government can
move one step towards meeting the wishes of the Burmese without breaking
faith with the Hill Peoples to whom we are so deeply indebted (DormanSmith 1947c: 7; Dorman-Smith 1947a: 147).
Other civil servants voiced similar warnings (Sadan 2013: 302).
Panglung and the (mis)perceptions of political aspirations
In this climate of opinion the conclusions of the meeting in Panglung came
as a nasty shock to the British (Laithwaite 1947b), because when the Kachin
were actually asked their preferences, they voted for incorporation into
_______________
14
15
The Kuomintang troops were Chinese forces under the command of Mao Tse-tung’s rival,
General Chiang Kai-shek, later president of Taiwan.
Governor Reginald Dorman-Smith was one of the former iron-eaters of the Burma
campaign, a great supporter of the hill tribes, who intensely disliked Aung San (whom
he would have liked to court-martial in 1945) and, incidentally, Mountbatten.
357
Burma. The Burmans and representatives of the hill tracts met in Panglung,
a town in the Shan states, on 28 March 1946. Since it was considered useful,
it was repeated in February 1947 with an extended agenda and the
participation of the Burmese independence fighter General Aung San to
discuss the future status of the frontier areas.16 The hill areas took part
jointly as the Supreme Council of United Hill Peoples (SCOUHP) (FACE
1947).17 The British considered it merely a continuation of the earlier
gathering and thus misjudged its significance (Walsh Atkins 1947a). It ended
with the now widely known and cited Panglung Agreement, which promised
the frontier regions wide-ranging internal autonomy and special rights
within a united Burma (Stevenson 1946a). It envisaged an autonomous
Kachin state, though what was meant by autonomy was not defined,
certainly not in the rigorous way this was done for South Tyrol and/or in
ways that Benedikter has described in his wide-ranging study on the
definitions, preconditions and functioning of autonomy systems (Benedikter
2012). Panglung was seen by most as a provisional agreement to be further
refined and open to renegotiation (FACE 1947; Wilkie 1946a). 18
Panglung was hailed by all participants as a great success against British
aspirations to dominate the minorities in the guise of paternalism. Aung San
addressed the minorities directly and his assurances carried the day (Clague
1947; Ogmore 1947; New Times of Burma 1947).19 In an appreciation of
Panglung, the Kachin elders said that, “the safeguarding of their hereditary
rights, customs and religions are the most important factors” (Stevenson
1946b).20
For the British, Panglung was a shock not because it presaged the
eventual unification of the frontier with Burma – already expressed in the
Aung San-Attlee Agreement of January 1947 –, but because it took the
timetable out of their hands: they had confidently expected the hills to vote
against incorporation. They would then have been able to persuade them to
join and could have exerted pressure on Ministerial Burma about the conditions. Now the situation was reversed. In 1946 some officers had planned,
_______________
16
17
18
19
20
For the text of the agreement see e.g. U Hla Thein 2005b: 227–229.
The signatories of the report were Rees-Williams, U Nu, Sao San Htun, Tin Tut, Sima
Hsinwa Nawng, Khin Maung Gale, Vum Ko Hau and Myint Thein; Saw Sankey signed in
Maymyo. The Karen opted out.
A shadow council of the hills had already been discussed on 20 August 1945.
Laithwaite 1947a, quotes Aung San with the remark that the Director FA talked to the
participants like babies.
The memo was signed by Zau La, Zau, Lawn, Kumreng Gam, Zau Aung, Hkun Hseng
and Naw Seng.
358
Source: author’s private photograph
359
for the first time, to ask the hill tribes about their political aspirations,
because an exceptionally clever civil servant, R.S. Wilkie, a former District
Officer strongly in favour of keeping British control over the frontier areas,
had had a truly revolutionary idea: “The only method of ascertaining the
wishes of the people is to go and ask them (Wilkie 1946b).”
In the wake of the Aung San-Attlee Agreement a Frontier Areas Commission of Enquiry (FACE) under the chairmanship of David Rees-Williams
was announced to ascertain how the hill peoples could be incorporated into
Burma (Prime Minister 1947). The committee started work only after
Panglung with a somewhat changed brief. It now tried to pick up the pieces
and address the issues left out or left vague, such as the extent and
competences of the envisaged separate province Kachinland (Smith 1999: 79).
The final report was written by R.S. Wilkie and published in 1948. The
report incorporated historical background and the results of the 1946 report.
British conclusions in both cases were similar and somewhat surreal: the
Kachin preferred to remain under British rule or keep their autonomy
because of their assumed “historical hostility” to Burma, which the war had
allegedly exacerbated (Investigations 1946). Autonomy was preferred because
at the time of British annexation Burmese supremacy was strictly nominal.
The 1946 report recommended including Myitkyina, the capital of the
Kachin region, Bhamo, also in the Kachin area, and the adjacent railway
corridor, which until then belonged to Ministerial Burma, in the FAA, even
though the areas would then lose the voting and self-governing rights they
had had since the political and administrative reforms of 1937, which
applied only to Ministerial Burma. The FACE Report upheld this view (FACE
Report 1948: 12).21
For the Kachin these enquiries were a first opportunity to express their
point of view and they made good use of it. The Kachin elders interviewed
were both articulate and very aware of the significance of the exercise. Their
statements make interesting, albeit sometimes confusing, reading, since Kachin
from the hills and the plains as well as those from Myitkyina and Bhamo did
not always agree in their attitudes towards the British, their aspirations for
the future and their views of their compatriots. The Kachins from the valley
held the view: “Being a Hill Tribe, most of the Kachins are un-educated and
backward (Elders 1946).”
The elders substantiated their claims with historical precedence and the
consistency of their political demands, citing two memos: one submitted by
them in 1925, i.e. before most of the Kachin areas had been incorporated.
_______________
21
The 1935 Constitution created Part I and Part II areas, where part II areas were the towns
that eventually should join Ministerial Burma.
360
This memo rejected the extension of Home Rule into the frontier areas in
favour of direct British control (Wilkie 1946b; Smith 1999: 46). The second
memo dates from 1945 (Shan Lone et al. 1945) and is quite wide-ranging. It
discusses the economic and political situation in the Kachin areas since the
19th century: the prevention of mobility through British advances, quarrels
over and loss of scarce paddy lands (cf. Leach 1970), the frequent changing
of borders to the detriment of the Kachin and problems over the rights to
jungles and jungle products, which the Kachin considered their property and
for which they expected adequate payment in cash or kind. It noted that if
the Kachin did not retain control, the forests would soon be degraded and
cut down (a truly prophetic statement) (Shan Lone et al. 1945; Wilkie 1943).
Against this background, the elders stated their political demands,
which provide a picture not really congruent with British evaluations. First
and foremost they wanted to stay together as a group, internal differences
notwithstanding. Oppression during the war had opened their eyes for their
“racial individuality”, and they wanted to hold on to their name, culture and
religion as well as their land and their laws. This statement is a good
example of how the questioning or endangering of hitherto unquestioned
assumptions and ways of life evoke a consciousness of “identity” and “ethnicity” in the sense of Anderson’s exile experience (Anderson 1987; Anderson
1992). There follows a noteworthy, frequently quoted remark: Nobody had
ever defeated the Kachin except the British, and they had done it “with
kindness and friendship” (Shan Lone et al. 1945; Stevenson 1946b: 10),
whereas “the Burmese treat us like cattle” (Wilkie 1946b: 83; Smith 1999: 73).
The Kachin demanded an objective evaluation of their needs and that the
British keep their financial promises. The memo even invokes the Atlantic
Charter to substantiate and legitimate the demand for an autonomous
Kachinland. Yet, at the same time the borders of Kachinland should be
guarded by a Kachin Battalion as part of the yet to-be-created Burma rifles,
thereby treating Kachinland as part of Burma.22 Differences of opinion
surfaced mainly between the pro-British Kachin soldiers and another faction
around the Kachin leader at Panglung and member of the AFPFL (Anti-Fascist
People’s Freedom League), Sama Duwa Sinwa Naung. For many Kachin the
choice was between reconciling oneself to being a more or less self-governing
part of Burma or impoverished independence.23 Some elders from the northern
areas were more radical: if a separate or autonomous Kachin state including
_______________
22
23
The memo was signed among others by Shan Lone, Major Zau June, Kumje Tawng Wa
and Khun Nawng (Shan Lone 1945). For Zau June see below.
The information was gathered during meetings held in February 1946 (see Monthly
Report 1947).
361
Bhamo and Myitkyina were not granted (Kachin Elders 1947), they would
even prefer to remain with China (Wilkie 1946b: 92). The Kachin had by
this time internalised an originally alien etic definition because it was
politically opportune. This etic category was now applied not only to Burma,
but continued to straddle the borders.
Source: by courtesy of Pansodan Gallery, Yangon, May 2015
The Kachin were less concerned with the form of political administration
and government than with the protection and guarantee of their traditional
rights, resources and non-interference by whoever took control. In 1947 they
were well aware that when British rule ended they would be left in the lurch,
so it was imperative to secure their rights and borders in time. Control and
influence of various powers could be overlapping and had to be negotiated.
But only a few British officers had even a vague idea how this system of
fluid borders and overlapping loyalty and tribute systems worked.
This ignorance may account for the unflattering British view of Kachin
moral character, political acumen and awareness. Sama Duwa Sinwa Naung
362
was termed illiterate, in thrall to the Burmans and not acknowledged by the
Kachin themselves,24 though his father had been the leader of one of the last
revolts against British rule in 1910 (Bowker 1949a). However, Sinwa was a
highly regarded and respected elder who led the negotiations in Panglung
with considerable skill (Sadan 2013: 279–80; cf. Times of Burma 1947).
“Martial races” and loyal vassals: the British legacy
Popular legend counts the Kachin among the “martial races”. The term
denoted subject groups considered more suitable for military service than
others. In India these were Muslims and Sikhs and hill people like the
Gurkhas in Nepal and the Chin, Kachin and Karen in Burma. Conversely,
other groups, were “non-martial” and designated as “effeminate” and “weak”,
or, in the case of warrior castes in South India, as “criminal” castes or tribes.25
How arbitrary these designations were is demonstrated by the Burmans, who
were considered “non-martial”, although they had controlled vast areas of
mainland Southeast Asia for centuries.
The assumed fighting spirit of the Kachin, moreover, sits somewhat
uncomfortably with their assumed vulnerability. The Kachin were not always
considered “martial”. Initially, the British considered them primitive and
dangerous mountain tribes, relevant primarily as a means of securing the
borders of their Indian empire and potentially helpful in finding trade routes
to China (Fytche 1867; cf. Nugent 1982).26 During WWI a few Kachin had
been employed as military policemen primarily for home defence: they were
“very sturdy little men keen as mustard about drill and military exercises”
(Kachin Raids 1919; Secretary Military Dept. 1916).27 Ironically, serious
recruitment started after the “rebellions” of 1914–1916. It stagnated at a
relatively low level between the wars. In 1937, the Kachin were even con_______________
24
25
26
27
During the war, the British had taken a different view: “Quislings are made up mainly of
misguided products of the American Baptist Mission who have ever an eye on the main
chance.” Leyden 1943a: 162.
The concept originated only in the 19th century, after the “Mutiny” in India 1857/58.
Crosthwaite: 234–286 describes in detail the military campaigns aimed at subduing the
Northern Shan states and the Kachin areas between 1886 and 1890. His account is
interesting because he documents often close anti-British cooperation between Kachin,
Shan and Burmans.
Crosthwaite: 286, similarly, stated in 1912: “[....] the Kachin tribes, whom it was
necessary to subdue with such severity, have been for many years furnishing excellent
recruits to the military police; and Kachin detachments, officered by men of their own
race, can now be entrusted with the charge of frontier outposts.”
363
sidered so weakened by a dissolute life-style, “dirty” habits and drug addiction
that they were in danger of extinction. Means were considered to reverse the
trend in 1938, especially checking the spread of VD (Teasdale 1939).
Perceptions were to a large extent guided by a strictly utilitarian viewpoint of British security interests and usefulness. By their own admission,
they defined the geographic, ethnic, political and administrative status of the
hill frontier as it suited British needs. In other words: they created ethnicities
and minorities. Once defined as such, minorities were immediately seen as
in need of protection and special treatment, because they were allegedly
unable to defend themselves against the Burman majority, though they had
done that quite ably for centuries without British paternalism. But this “vulnerability” became the justification for British paternalism and continued
separate and direct control of the hill areas after 1935, depriving them of even
the small measure of self-government granted to Ministerial Burma (Leyden
1943a: 162; Correspondence 1948). This, it was believed, had prevented
political agitation there: “[...] the hills remained unaffected by the political
agitations which disturbed the plains (Burma 1948: 12–13).”28
In sum, the Kachin were treated by the British something like the
“house-elves” of Harry Potter, the useful and loyal, but in the first place
slightly dumb and easily-led lesser beings, who are supposed to exist to
serve the higher wizards:
Kachin self-respect and national spirit must be developed. Obviously,
unless it is carefully guided, it may be troublesome later on; but so far
it has not got beyond the stage of asking government to see that Kachin
rights are not ignored and in return pledging unswerving loyalty to them
(Teasdale 1939: 9).
The British presumed to speak for the Kachin, not to them or even with them
(Battersby 1945).29 Dorman-Smith e.g. called the British the trustees of the hill
people and defined indirect rule as “educating the indigenous people towards
native local self-government” (Dorman-Smith 1943: 164). Another example:
“[...] met Major Zau Jung30 […] (Myitkyina 1947b)”; “[...] the Kachins haven’t
_______________
28
29
30
Another reason was that allegedly they had no leader of the calibre of a Nehru.
Or they did not take their views seriously, as Laithwaite 1947a states: “One of the
dangers in the frontier is the vacillating character of these people who have no
experience and want one day this, another the next.”
Major Zau Jun(g), a member of the Kachin levies and a teacher was, according to his
daughter, later the assistant to Brang Seng, the first Myanmar citizen to be appointed
Additional District Commissioner. He got two military crosses for parachuting in from
India, where he was stationed (probably with the Chindits). He died of Malaria at the
age of 34. His students suspected foul play and demanded an inquest. The Indian
doctor who had treated him was subsequently deported to India. The Zau Djune Lan in
364
got a clue what is going on in Rangoon – they have woken up, but are a long
way behind (Howe 1948)”.
But the British did not have the courage of their convictions; the self-styled
protectors withdrew speedily when the going got difficult, if finance or
political interests did not allow, they would just abandon their charges: “Our
promises did not mean anything, though people thought so (Walsh Atkins
1947b).” The British raised expectations among protégés, only to disappoint
them and throw them to the wolves when they were no longer useful. The
minorities were for the British just so many pawns. If they could not
continue to rule them, they would simply be abandoned (Bless 1990: 321–
325). And yet the British managed to deceive themselves until the end that,
if not for the machinations of Aung San, the Kachin would have preferred to
be ruled by the British. Voices that claim that British rule was at the bottom
of current conflicts are only partly right. It is not so much British political
rule as British interference in social and local political constructions they
did not know and did not understand (Sadan 2013: 38). Yet their arbitrary
ethnic and social ascriptions were quickly and willingly appropriated by the
groups concerned. The Kachin used the British to strengthen their position.
E.g. they took up military service eagerly and on the strength of their new
and enhanced status demanded better schools and education, which in turn
was interpreted by the British as a sign of loyalty (ibid.). Sadan interprets
both as career options, which did not necessarily imply an acceptance of the
colonial system, but ensured access to the resources and life chances this
system could offer (ibid.: 221; 243). Her interpretation gains strength when
we consider that until quite recently a career in the Burmese forces was a
favoured option for young Kachin men, notwithstanding their sympathy for
the independence movement.
In fact, independence in 1948 was welcomed among the Kachin, despite the vague provisions for Kachin self-administration (Ledwidge 1947).
Only the constitution of 1947 contained any provisions for the shape and
competences of the yet-to-be-formed Kachin State, and these were mainly
administrative (Constitution Myanmar 1947: §§166, 167, 173–177).31
Moreover, the right of secession provided for the Shan States in Chapter X
of the draft was explicitly not applicable to Kachin State (Constitution
Myanmar 1947: §178). The Kachin defended the new government militarily,
in fact in 1948 the Kachin Rifles defeated the CPB in Pyinmana and then
31
Myitkyina was named after him to appease the people (interview with Lahpai Seng
Raw, 5 January 2014).
The Kachin State Council should, moreover, be composed of equal numbers of Kachin
and non-Kachin members.
365
secured Tounggoo for the government (Bowker 1949b; Fellowes-Gordon
1957: 252, 329f; Smith 1999: 115, 138). That said, in late 1949 a splinter
group under Naw Seng32 organised a short-lived rebellion (Pawng Yawng)
in the Kachin areas of Northern Shan State. His lieutenant Zau Seng, a
former intelligence officer for the American 101 force, later became the president
of the Kachin Independence Organisation (KIO) (Smith 1999: 93, 141–42).
That British policy was guided strictly by “national” interest became
painfully clear when in 1967, five years after the Kachin revolt (see below)
started, Duwa Zau Seng, the President of the Kachin Independence Council
in Thailand asked for moral support from Mountbatten and the prime
minister. He claimed that the Kachin “defend our independence achieved
from the British Government”, that the Panglung Agreement and the constitution had expired in 1957 and 1962, and that therefore the Kachin had a
right to independence. Since they had supported the UK, they had a right to
expect help in return. The prime minister never even acknowledged the letter
(Duwa Zau Seng 1967), while Mountbatten’s answer was non-committal
(O’Keefe 1968b).
Some Foreign Office notes were not happy with the Burmese path to
socialism or with the treatment of the minorities, but this counted less than
continued friendly Anglo-Burmese relations. Protests would drive Burma
towards China (O’Keefe 1968a).33
It is intriguing that in 1987 the fight of the ethnic groups in Burma
finally gained international recognition when members of the National
Democratic Front (NDF), including Brang Seng, the leader of Kachin resistance, travelled to London to meet with British politicians, some of whom had
actually been observers at Panglung (Smith 1999: 388; Pangmu Shayi 2015).
Emergence of the Kachin Independence Organisation (KIO) and
Kachin Independence Army (KIA)
It is often assumed that the resistance of the Kachin to the Burmese state
was mainly fuelled by religious, i.e. Christian considerations. But religious
demands as such or even a religiously defined state have not been foremost
among the demands of the Kachin. Though many Kachin converted from
_______________
32
33
According to Smith 1999: 139, Naw Seng was originally a commander of the Kachin
Rifles who began talks with the Karen, with whom he had fought against the Japanese,
and eventually joined them.
The efforts to keep on the right side of Burma went as far as subtle advice to ASSK not to
return to Burma (Gore-Booth 1967).
366
traditional animism to Christianity under colonial rule and a majority now
profess to belong to a Christian denomination, Sadan claims that large-scale
conversion only started after, not before, independence, possibly even after
armed resistance formed (Sadan 2013; 321–323, 367–375, 382),34 though
this is strongly contradicted by the Kachin themselves.35
Resistance started in the early 1960s because of perceived social and
political discrimination, but it turned violent, Sadan argues, only after the
Kachin felt that their identity was attacked by the Burmese state (Sadan
2013: 280, 321; Duwa Zau Seng 1967). That contradicted all hopes and
aspirations the Kachins had associated with becoming part of Burma. It
coincided with, but was not caused by, the declaration of Buddhism as state
religion by then Prime Minister U Nu in 1961. It had started with the handing
over of three Kachin villages (among them Hpimaw) to China in 1958,
which was interpreted by the Kachin as disregarding them and their needs
completely (Smith 1999: 158). In the 1950s they had fought virtually alone
against intrusions by both the KMT and the Communist Chinese, but their
only reward was the loss of their land to the Chinese and their weapons to
government soldiers (Sai Kham Mong 2005: 175–76).
The Kachin had always been able to organise on the basis of negotiation and consensus and find allies by defining them as related (see Sadan
2013). Wherever the gumlao system was emphasised, mutual help and obligation loomed large, but they were strong even when gumsa tended to
prevail. Christianity now became another useful principle of organising for
resistance. After 1963 it became a marker of identity for the Kachin, particularly because religious leaders, mostly high-ranking members of the Baptist
community, were frequently in the forefront of minority demands and acted
as mediators during the ceasefire negotiations between the army and KIA in
1994. Christianity became a way of resisting a state that treated minorities as
of no consequence. But in some ways that made them also suspect, not so
much because of their different doctrines and beliefs, but because in Christianity they had a principle around which they could organise unity and
resistance.
Kachin organisations first emerged in the shape of the KIO in 1958,
though a Kachin National Organisation had already been formed in 1947
(Monthly Report 1947). The considerably more militant KIA was founded
_______________
34
35
The Burma Handbook (1944: 11) mentions that in 1931 most Kachin were still animists,
and only 10% Christians. Bowerman 1946, however, claims, that Baptists and Catholics
(American, Irish and Italian) had considerable success in converting the Kachin.
Smith 1999: 192, also states that the largely Christian Kachin population strongly
resented U Nu’s move as contrary to the voluntary spirit of the Union; cf. Dean 2012: 120.
367
in February 1961, and the KIC followed in 1962. The KIA founders were
two brothers, sons of a pastor, Zau Tu and Zau Dan, later joined by their
elder brother Zau Seng.36 They were able to attract Kachin intellectuals like
Brang Seng, headmaster of a Christian School and the son of one of the
participants in Panglung (Smith 1999: 192). As leader of a Kachin youth
movement he had organised protests against Rangoon over the neglect of the
Kachin state and its infrastructure.
Periodic negotiations with the government mostly came to nothing, and
the army’s attempts to deal with the problem had indifferent success (Smith
1999: 206, 220). The new leader from 1975, Brang Seng managed to get
clandestine Chinese military support (ibid.: 330–31), which contributed to
some successful KIA resistance against the Burmese army (ibid.: 401). This
had less to do with ideology than with the periphery negotiating its autonomy among the big players (ibid.: 332).
Risks and side effects of ceasefires
The dissolution of the Communist Party of Burma (CPB) in 1989, despite
having finally acknowledged the legitimacy of ethnic struggle (Smith 1999:
362–63), left a vacuum that was filled by diverse ethnic groups. Countercentres and counter-unities emerged, and the junta, which had been in power
since 1962, was able to deal with them one by one instead of facing a united
front. It persuaded or coerced cease-fires with a range of militant groups,
thereby dividing the opposition.
Even in the KIA a certain war weariness had set in by 1994, and a
ceasefire was negotiated in February (Smith 1999: 445–46). Such a move in
itself can – and did – effect a split between the co-opted elites and the rank
and file of the minority groups, particularly as economic development does
not follow and issues of cultural rights remain unsolved. This development
worked to the advantage of the ruling junta, which subdued or assimilated
the minorities culturally as well (Callahan 2007: 3). Karin Dean (2012: 116;
124–25) argues that the ceasefire was almost wholly to the advantage of the
government. Individual KIA and KIO leaders profited by being able to
finalise business deals – timber, jade, etc., but for the rank and file the
ceasefire merely brought a halt to fighting and violence and not much more.37
_______________
36
37
According to Smith 1999: 191, it had originated as a small student cell at the university of
Rangoon.
Smith 1999: 451, however, argues that in the first years of the ceasefire the hopes were
high, because a number of development schemes were started and some factories, like
368
Many young men, often former fighters, were unemployed and succumbed
to drug addiction and other social evils. Early marriages, teenage pregnancies and HIV-infection soared (Dean 2012: 127).38 Moreover, the army
established and maintained a much larger presence in the Kachin areas than
before the ceasefire, particularly in Myitkyina and Bhamo. The administrative
HQ of the KIO shifted to the little border town of Laiza; since 2011, when
fighting broke out again, the HQ has operated from there as well (Dean
2012: 127; interview with Lahpai Seng Raw, 5 January 2014).
Current violence and peace prospects
Violence between the army and the KIA flared up again just when it seemed
that Myanmar was opening up to the world: in June 2011. The ostensible
reason for the renewed violence was the demand by the army that the KIA
should cease to be an autonomous military outfit and become part of the
army structure as a border protection force. It would then have been under
army command and lost all power of decision and autonomy (Smith 1999: 5;
Dean 2012: 128). But this was only the last straw, so to speak. The build-up
had begun earlier. Like most of the ethnic groups, and unlike the National
League for Democracy (NLD), the Kachin had participated in the deliberations of the National Convention till the bitter end (ICG 2011: 6),39 but
were disillusioned because not one of their 19 demands for language
autonomy, recognition of religious freedom, etc. was even acknowledged.40
Again they felt that this negligence struck at the core of their being and
identity (ICG 2011: 6). Their impression of mounting vulnerability was
strengthened when the party formed by the Kachin, the Progressive Party,
was refused registration and thus not permitted to take part in the elections
(Dean 2012: 128). In 2010 the government reneged on the ceasefire agreement because of alleged attacks by the KIA (ICG 2011: 7; ICG Briefing
2011: 11). The suspension of work on the Myitsone Dam on 30 September
did not stop the clashes, though the president ordered an end to the offensive
in December 2011 and warned the army against unprovoked attacks (BCN
2012: 10). A new cycle of violence saw people fleeing from Waingmaw to
38
39
40
the sugar-mill at Namti, reopened. The KIO opened a liaison office in Myitkyina.
Interviews with Saboi Jum, Revd. President of the Kachin Baptist Convention, in June
2007 and in March 2013.
Most armed groups remained in the Convention; only the Mon walked out with the NLD,
but returned later as observers (interview with Lahpai Seng Raw, 5 January 2014).
Interview with Saboi Jum, June 2007.
369
the towns of Myitkyina and Bhamo, bearing the now sadly familiar tales of
murder and atrocities by the army (BCN 2012; ICG 2011). People from the
vicinity of Laiza fled to the town, the HQ of the KIA/KIO, because ostensibly
safe camps in and around Laiza were bombarded, driving the people over
the border into China. China was irritated because of the possible impact on
its own Jinghpo community and because refugee camps there had been
strafed by the Myanmar army (ICG 2013: 12, 16).
Between 2011 and 2013, negotiations and military engagements went
on side by side with varying negotiators on the government side and with
indeterminate success. To forestall US and UK involvement in the negotiations China joined the peace talks in 2013. At talks in February, March
and finally on 31 May 2013 in Chiang Mai, Shweli and Myitkyina the KIA
could chalk up a success, since for the first time representatives from other
minority organisations participated in the United National Federal Council
(UNFC) (ICG 2013: 13; Saw Yan Naing 2013) and negotiated a common
platform with the government. Talks with the KIA restarted in Nay Pyi Taw
in March 2015, with the outlook slightly more hopeful (Myanmar Times, 10
March 2013).
A Technical Advisory Team was set up in Myitkyina with the brief to
ascertain the opinion and wishes of the population about the future shape of
Kachinland. Its members comprised an advisory and resource person from
an NGO, five representatives from the KIO and ten from the Kachin public
to determine grass roots opinion (Lahpai Seng Raw 2013; ICG 2013: 18). The
task of the team is to provide support for the negotiations and the peace
process, to document proceedings and, very importantly, to set the agenda
and procedure based on the wishes of the public. Seven issues or themes
were set for the dialogue with the government: military issues and the
cessation of hostilities; political dialogue; the composition of the joint
monitoring committee; IDP resettlement; discussion of separating troops on
both sides; establishing the KIO technical advisory team, and inviting this
team and other observers of the ceasefire and statutes to follow-up meetings.
Negotiations would have to be conducted on the basis of a representative
sample of opinion and by consensus. The often autocratic administration by
the KIA and KIO (gumsa is now understood as legitimate, but somewhat
unrepresentative government, while gumlao stands for democratic representation; Sadan 2013: 337; cf. Leach 1970) was resented, especially by young
people who saw their future collapsing and rebelled against their elders, so
far with indeterminate success.
370
Kachin aspirations
The political and economic aspirations and demands of the Kachin after
more than 50 years of struggle differ not that much from the analysis
furnished by the Kachin Elders in 1946: autonomy in political, social, religious and economic matters (Smith 1999: 209; Maran La Raw 1997).
Autonomy here means financial (ICG 2011: 14), religious and educational
self-determination. Language instruction in schools is a particularly sensitive
point (Ja Nan 2013).41
Nowadays, particular emphasis is given to the economy: in the 1940s
the Kachin saw themselves as economically disadvantaged, which has given
rise to an increased awareness of economic potential denied. Pipelines carrying oil and gas pass through their areas, but benefit the South and China
(ICG 2011: 2). The reopening of the Burma Road to China has only brought
a flood of cheap Chinese goods and Chinese businessmen into the area. In an
interview in the Irrawaddy Major General Gun Maw, deputy chief of staff
of the KIA, declared that Chinese investment in the Kachin areas would be
welcome. They were working closely with China, since there were Kachin
the other side of the border as well. Implicitly, however, it was clear that Chinese investments are not considered an unadulterated benefit and that
worries about the environmental impact weigh quite heavily (Irrawaddy, 11
January 2014: 6–7).
Intruders destroy the forest for timber, and there is no planning for
improved agriculture or a market for products (ibid.). The Myitsone Dam,
work on which was begun in 2000, is symptomatic for economic and
political disregard: the Kachin were not consulted on the project, and by
2007 it was clear from land erosion and river pollution that the environment
was being destroyed (ICG 2011: 14).42 The local people had been driven out
of the area and relocated on poor or barren soil (Lahpai Seng Raw 2013: 2–3).
In the above mentioned interview with the Irrawaddy, Gun Maw
emphasised another point: the armed forces. The army was a career option
for Kachin both before and after independence. They want to keep this
career option in a truly federal army43 drawn from all population groups,
which is quite different from the ancillary and toothless Border Guardian
Force (BGF) envisaged by the government.
Unrest seems to be developing between generations, not least due to
the lack of a peace dividend that would benefit the younger veterans. The
_______________
41
Interview
Interview
with
with
Ja Ja
Nan,
Nan,
director
director
of of
Shalom
Shalom
Peace
Peace
Foundation,
Foundation,
March
March
2013.
2013.
43
This was also an important point on the agenda at Myitkyina.
42
371
older generation of KIO/KIA leaders want to reach a negotiated agreement,
but especially younger Kachin media activists are dissatisfied with this
approach. They claim that the majority of the population demand independence, not any sort of federal system. While this criticism is not publicly
expressed in Kachin quarters, the leadership is quite aware of it.44 Kachin
independent media, like Laiza FM and Laiza TV, are in any case controlled
by the KIO/KIA, and other Kachin media like Kachinland News are also
close to the group. That means that there is no open criticism of the leadership. Journalists at Kachin FM have to have their programmes approved by
a KIO/KIA committee before they are aired.45 What is more serious is that
there is hardly any discussion about what the terms federalism, autonomy or
“new system” as used by the Kachin media actually mean, particularly in the
Myanmar context, and what could be the benefits for the minorities. The
Kachin News Group,46 initially established by a group of Kachin students as
an independent source of news, also struggles to express criticism of the
Kachin leadership.
Although this group and other more independent media groups are
aware of the involvement of the KIO/KIA leadership in the abovementioned
often illegal business activities, these issues are not deemed suitable for
publication at times like this, when the war could suddenly flare up again.
This still generates loyalty to the leadership, particularly since there is
currently no obvious alternative.47 Criticism of Kachin leaders can be found
on Facebook and in smaller blogs. Here even the legacy of Rev. Saboi Jum,
who was instrumental in the achievement of the 1994 peace agreement, is
critically discussed. Younger Kachin dare to argue that the KIO leadership
are out of touch with the population, especially in political and economic
matters, particularly the mentioned alternatives of federalism and independence. This criticism is all the more significant in the face of the
vanishing peace dividend discussed earlier. It becomes even more poignant
with regard to Kachin women. They often feel insecure and endangered at
home or in refugee camps48 and thus join the KIA in order to protect
themselves and others. Yet they cannot (unlike the Tamil Tigers) join combat
_______________
44
45
46
47
48
Lahpai Seng Raw e.g. commented on this in an interview in March 2013. Cf. also Lahpai
Seng Raw 2012: 3.
Interview with a Kachin journalist, Chiang Mai, 9 December 2014.
The Kachin News Group runs a Kachin news homepage (http://www.kachinnews.com)
and also produces a radio show for Radio Free Asia.
Interview with Kevin McLeod, Chiang Mai, 9 December 2014.
The case of two young voluntary teachers who were raped and killed near Laiza has drawn
particular attention in recent months (Ye Mon 2015).
372
and are mostly denied decision-making positions in the military or in the
peace process (Hedström 2015).
Outlook: revolt of the “house-elves”?
The crux of Kachin grievances remains that they are not accepted as equal
negotiation partners by the Myanmar government. The ethnic minorities are
considered subordinate, they should be loyal, not equal (ICG 2011: 11). The
government is not prepared to listen to the “house-elves”, a syndrome that
persists even in the NLD.49 This attitude strikes, to repeat Sadan, at the heart
of Kachin being and identity and might reignite countercyclical violence.
The Burman attitude to the minorities is not new, to judge by an article written
by the District Commissioner of Sagaing, Kyaw Min, on 7 March 1946,
when the discussion about whether the hill tracts, especially Myitkyina and
Bhamo, should join Ministerial Burma was at its fiercest: “The Kachin are a
primitive, suspicious, vindictive and revengeful people. They are not as virile
as the Chin and by no means as lovable (Formation of a Kachin Council
1946).”50
They should be grateful, or so the commissioner thought, if Burma accepted them in the Union, because their economic and financial acumen was
abysmal and their choice was to be ruled by Burma or England. They reject
Burma because that would mean the end of Duwa rule and democracy. Their
only use for Burma is to guard the border with China. But why should they
be rewarded for loyalty to Britain? They keep grudges, which the Burmans,
accommodating, friendly and forgiving quickly, forget – in the best tradition
of Buddhism.51
_______________
49
50
51
According to Dorman-Smith 1943: 164, at that time the Kachin areas fell under the
Commissioner of Sagaing, which Dorman-Smith considered a mistake.
There seems to be a cultural misunderstanding here: According to Sadan (2013), a feud
is over only when it is over, i.e. when it has finally been settled by bilateral negotiations and the payment of the debt or exoneration by the injured party, but not until then.
Once concluded, the feud is considered over and cannot be reopened. Leyden 1943a: 162
and Leyden 1943b, report another interesting example: at the beginning of WWII the
Kachin levies asked the British how it was possible that the Germans restarted the feud:
the British should have dealt with them summarily at the end of WWI and prevented this.
Cf. Armstrong 1997: 140–41.
373
The Kachin are not Buddhists, it would be best for the country, the
commissioner thinks, to send monks there to civilise them and to abolish
Nat worship, but they refuse to let monks come:
The ultimate aim of any administration in any country is the elimination
of any feeling of enmity that may exist in the hearts of the different
people that inhabit the country (Formation of a Kachin Council 1946).
In other words: the commissioner claimed the hill areas as Burmese territory
as a matter of course with a right to rule. Yet the commissioner omits to explain why he was so eager to have this unprofitable area included in Burma.
This dismissive attitude led the Kachin to violent, militant protest. As long
as they felt able to negotiate their interests more or less as equals among
several hegemons, being regarded as primitive, barbaric or uncivilised did
not matter too much; but marginalisation always led to violence.
It would be instructive here to look at the way India has dealt with the
Singpho and other minority and marginalised groups, though there is no
space here for a detailed comparison: Kachin state is a nominally autonomous entity with few independent competences that complains of long-term
neglect. The Singpho, on the other hand, are a recognised ST not affiliated
to other groups in Assam fighting for secession. Violence is a feature of
ethnic demands in both countries, but India employs a carrot-and-stick approach in which opponents are brought into the political system and given
political power (Mitra / Singh 2009). Myanmar has omitted this aspect: it
relied on coercion and economic bribery, but did not provide a stake in the
country’s politics for the minorities. Moreover, the sad reality of everyday
oppression and poverty notwithstanding, under the Indian constitution all
citizens have equal rights which are justiciable in the courts. So far, this path
has not been open to the Kachin in Myanmar.
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Reviews
PETER OBORNE, Wounded Tiger. A History of Cricket in Pakistan. London:
Simon & Schuster, 2015. XXX, 592 pages, £12.99. ISBN 978-184983-248-9 (pb) (Originally published in hardcover in 2014.)
This monograph provides a comprehensive survey of Pakistani cricket from the
founding of the country in 1947 right up to the present day, with digressions
where necessary to trace developments in earlier periods. Along the way much
is learned about the political, social, and even economic history of the republic.
Cricket is now Pakistan’s national sport (pp. 398–9); by coincidence, the white
clothing and green field match the colours of the republic’s flag. “Cricket is the
game of the village, it is the game of the towns. It is the game of the old, it is
the game of the young, the rich and the poor. It is played in the plains of Sindh
and in the mountains of the north. It is played by the army and the Taliban. It is
enjoyed by all Pakistan’s sects and religions” (p. 509).
Yet cricket is far more than a game: it is inextricably linked with considerations of power, religion, national identity and historical revenge. The cricket
world sometimes seems to have a rather unpleasant sub-text that has little or
nothing to do with mere sport. It provides a platform for triumphalism, bitterness, petulance, jealousy, affronted amour-propre and endless internecine disputes between players and administrators, both domestically and internationally.
The search for any sign of sportsmanship in Test cricket is long and hard (p. 86,
265). Joie de vivre is conspicuous by its absence.
Pakistan cricket was born out of the mayhem of partition, accompanied as
it was by violence and the mass displacement of populations. It is no accident,
therefore, that the author of this book should be not a sports writer as such, but
a former chief political commentator for the Daily Telegraph, a distinguished
journalist of great probity who resigned his post on ethical grounds in early
2015. Although Peter Oborne (born 1957) is not an academic, Wounded Tiger is
a scholarly study with no fewer than forty-six pages of endnotes and bibliography (pp. 520–65), not to mention a profusion of footnotes in the text proper.
Where possible the author has gone back to original documentation and unearthed new information, for example about the controversial MCC tour of
Pakistan in 1954–5. He is also an excellent oral historian, having interviewed
almost all the relevant parties. And he has conducted plenty of field work. But
Oborne does not appear to have done everything himself: Charles Alexander
contributed substantially to the chapter on the finances of Pakistan cricket and
Stuart Jackson carried out archival research, while the novelist Richard Heller
became “more like a collaborator”. Oborne, displaying his formidable forensic
skills and taking nothing on trust, provides a profound and penetrating analysis.
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He is passionate about his subject: this book is a labour of love designed as a
corrective to the “Anglo-Saxon bias” (p. 168) of much cricket writing.
Oborne’s periodisation of Pakistan cricket starts with the Age of Kardar
(1947–1975), followed by the Age of Khan (1976–1992), the Age of Expansion
(1992–2000) and the Age of Isolation since 2001. He promotes the case for his
great favourites among the players: AH Kardar and Fazal Mahmood from the
1950s, Hanif Mohammad (who played in all but two of Pakistan’s first fiftyseven Tests down to 1969), and Imran Khan (born 1952), “Pakistan’s greatest
cricketer” (p. 506), whose international career stretched for more than twenty
years from 1971, culminating in the World Cup victory of 1992.
There are cameos about radio commentary and women’s cricket along
with case studies of “reverse swing” and the Burki and Khan dynasties. The final
section of the book deals with recent controversies (such as match-fixing) and
with attempts by administrators to resist political interference. Terrorist incidents
in 2008–9 mean that Pakistan is no longer able to host any international matches;
their “home” games now have to be played in the Gulf States.
In Pakistan cricket has long been played under the shadow of war, civil
war and, latterly, terrorism; and if not war, then domestic rioting. India and
Pakistan have fought several wars (1948, 1965 and 1971), and there is frequent
border strife; Kashmir remains the “most militarised place on earth” (p. 417).
Pakistan itself split into two with the secession of Bangladesh in 1971. Under
such circumstances, international sporting relations could not be resumed as if
nothing had happened: no matches took place between India and Pakistan from
the 1960–1 season until 1978–9. In the latter season, when Pakistan achieved its
first win against India since 1952, General Zia proclaimed a national holiday:
“It was almost as if the results of the wars on the battlefield had been reversed
on the cricket pitch” (p. 271). One Pakistani test cricketer stated (p. 343): “I have
always had a militant approach to cricket. To me it is not so much a game as it
is war.” The idea that sport might foster peace and goodwill between nations is
plainly fanciful. In 1945 Orwell characterised international sport as “war minus
the shooting” (The Collected Essays, Journalism and Letters of George Orwell,
London 1970, p. 63), adding that even “a leisurely game like cricket, demanding
grace rather than strength, can cause much ill-will” (ibid., p. 62). He opined that,
on the contrary, international sport aroused “vicious passions” and led to “orgies
of hatred” (ibid., pp. 61–2). Furthermore, since Pakistan was subjected to long
periods of military rule, the large crowds attracted by cricket provided a rare opportunity for the political opposition, and matches occasionally resulted in riots.
Although Pakistan is sometimes unpopular (“no one really wanted to play
Pakistan, home or away”, p. 476), there is no doubting the excellence of the
country’s cricket, nor the genius of its players. Pakistan achieved Test Match
status in 1952 and by 1992 had become world champions; it had provided a
Wisden Cricketer of the Year as early as 1955.
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381
Wounded Tiger does not reflect a Comptonian sense of cricket as a game
of fun to be enjoyed by player and spectator alike. More than seventy years ago
Orwell suggested that the “true test” of a cricketer is that he or she should prefer
village cricket to “first-class” cricket (CEJL, III, page 66). Yet again, the mighty
Orwell was spot on.
Anthony V.M. Horton
FRANZ-JOSEF VOLLMER / FRIEDERIKE WEIS, Angels and Madonnas in Islam.
Mughal and other Oriental Miniatures in the Vollmer Collection. Berlin:
Jörg Lehmann, 2015. 116 pages, €24.90. ISBN 978-3-00-048460-5 (The
book can be ordered from www.amazon.de or [email protected].)
In this work, Franz-Josef Vollmer allows us a glimpse into his impressive collection of miniatures from India and Iran. The subject of the miniatures is unusual:
they depict Christian motives, but stem from the hand of Muslim painters and
were sold in a market dominated by Muslim buyers.
In his introduction, Vollmer describes the history of the artworks. In the
late 16th century, Mughal emperor Akbar – the first Mughal to reside permanently in India, and well aware that most of the subjects of his Muslim dynasty
were non-Muslims – encountered the Portuguese and showed himself impressed
with Christian teachings. Jesuit fathers came to Akbar’s court and acquainted
the emperor with Christian theology. Vollmer remarks, illustratively, that Akbar
was highly impressed with one of the presents he received, a beautifully
illustrated bible dedicated to the Spanish (and subsequently Portuguese) king
Philip II; he was enraptured that the most holy book of the Christians could be
dedicated to a sovereign.
Persian and Indian Islam has never strictly observed the Islamic interdict
on depictions of living beings. Consequently, a good deal of interest was shown
in illustrations, and in the following period a thriving market for miniatures
depicting Christian scenes emerged. To find Christian motives in Islamic art is
less surprising than appears at first glance. Mary and Jesus were and are
venerated in Islam, the former as a model of chastity and purity (there is an
interesting reference in the introduction to a legendary ancestor of the Mughal
dynasty, Alanqu’a, who like Mary experienced a virgin birth). Jesus, needless to
say, is revered as the last prophet before the prophet Muhammad. Saints, likewise,
are an important part of Islamic lore, particularly among Sufi brotherhoods, of
which many existed in India.
Vollmer explains that the model pictures with Christian motives were not
sent from Europe to India as paintings, but rather as engravings. This made
them more resilient to the Indian climate, and also offered Indian artists the opportunity to colour and adapt them to local taste – the majority of the published
works of art show Christian scenes in a clearly localized style. The publication
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contains fifty works of art spanning at least three centuries and covering a wide
range of Christian/Islamic topics. Rather than focusing entirely on Christian
motives (the virgin and child, individual saints, etc.), some of them refer directly
to the encounter of Muslims and Christians and almost attempt to effect a
symbiosis between the two related, yet different faiths. In this context,
Depiction 47 (“The Day of Cursing”) is the pièce de résistance.
The miniatures draw on a remarkable range of artistic styles. Picture 18
(“Madonna with Putti”), Picture 48 (“Christ on the Cross”) and Picture 24
(“Madonna and Child/Hastings Madonna”) resemble original European works
extremely closely. Other works clearly reflect local influences; there are substantial differences in style, depending on date and regional origin. “Pietá with
Angels” (Picture 37) shows a close resemblance to the Venetian original, which
was probably painted in the 15th or 16th century. Friederike Weis, an art historian specialized in Christian motives in Islamic art, suggests that the painter
might have seen the European original.
A painting, tentatively thought to have been created in Masulipatnam in
the 19th century, shows a different artistic style (Picture 38, “Hazrat Maryam
wa ’Isa Ruhullah [The venerable Mary and Jesus, the spirit of God]”) and is
connected with a motive not of Islamic, but of Hindu origin: the popular story
of Yashoda caring for the little Krishna. Picture 44, from Safavid Iran, dated to
1649 and attributed to Muhammad Zaman ibn Hajj Yusuf Qumi, is called “The
Victory of Truth”: it clearly resembles European baroque painting. That is not
surprising, as the painter was known to have created a number of artworks “in
the European style” (farangi sazi). This item is remarkable as evidence of
considerable curiosity among Muslim artists not only about the motives of
occidental painting, but also about its artistic style. Picture 21 (“Sultan Ibrahim
ibn Adham of Balkh”) is an interesting example of how an Islamic legend (the
sultan becoming a dervish who lived as an ascetic and was nourished by food
brought to him by angels) was expressed in a work of art based on a Christian
source, namely an engraving in the Evangelicae Historiae Imagines by
Jeronimo Nadal, a book published in 1593 in Antwerp. The book contained
illustrations from the gospels, and due to the absence of text it was soon described
as a “paupers’ bible” (biblia pauperum). The book was used extensively by the
Jesuits in India until they had to leave in 1773.
Vollmer’s collection in general and the choice of motive in particular deserve high praise. They point to a religious and cultural attitude that is entirely
alien to the all too frequent exclusionism and intolerance observable in our time.
The miniatures are thus witnesses of a probably – and regrettably – bygone age of
Islamicate culture which showed considerable interest in a religious culture and
art that was not its own – but not completely alien either. Such cultural hybrids
could and should serve as a reminder that in the past the dividing lines between
religions and cultures were not drawn as strictly as modern-day extremism would
have us believe.
Tilman Lüdke
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383
UTE FALASCH, Heiligkeit und Mobilität. Die Madāriyya Sufibruderschaft
und ihr Gründer Badī‘ al-Dīn Shāh Madār in Indien, 15.–19. Jahrhundert. Berlin: LIT-Verlag, 2015. 286 pages, €29.90. ISBN 978-3643-12916-1
Based on her dissertation at the Humboldt University in Berlin, Ute Falasch
presents a very well researched historical study of the Indian Madariyya Sufi
brotherhood, which includes brilliant comments on indigenous textual sources
in Urdu and other languages as well as critical reviews of earlier essentialist
approaches to Sufi studies. In her multi-layered investigation of complex religious
and social patterns in the veneration of the Sufi saint Shah Madar and the formation and development of his brotherhood since the 15th century she aptly uses
Talal Asad’s view of Islam as a “discursive tradition”. Apart from a couple of
interviews conducted with local pīrs or caretakers of the saint’s shrine (p. 286),
as a historian the author relies on written sources based on oral traditions.
Orality is, in fact, an important dimension of the Madari Sufi tradition as most
of its adherents are illiterate and belong to the lower social strata of rural North
Indian society.
After the introduction (chapter 1), chapter 2 deals with Shah Madar (died ca.
1434), a charismatic holy man whose shrine in Makanpur (not far from Kannauj
in Uttar Pradesh) is visited by both Muslims and Hindus. Although the fakirs
and dervishes attached to this popular Sufi brotherhood have the reputation of
practising a sort of “free religious lifestyle” and promulgating a devotional piety
characterized by elements of “folk Islam” and “informal Sufism”, it is important
to emphasize that their founder was not an antinomian Sufi, but a respected
spiritual master venerated as a qutb (“axis”, i.e. highest stage in the saintly hierarchy) since the 19th century. Following a well-written history of North Indian
Sufism in the medieval period (2.2), the author describes Shah Madar’s wanderings be-tween Gujarat in the west and Jaunpur in the east, in the process commenting on the saint’s Sufi networks (2.3), before focusing on his mystical concepts
and spiritual teachings (2.4). This is rounded off by a critical and nuanced examination of the representations of Shah Madar in local hagiography (2.5).
Chapter 3 on the history of the Madariyya covers a major part of this work.
Basically it is a case study on the social role of the malangs, i.e. the fakirs and
dervishes devoted to Shah Madar, especially in the 18th century. It investigates
the charismatic anti-colonial Madari movement, which was active mainly in
Bengal and characterized by uprisings of armed malangs against the oppressive
East India Company. Their resistance between 1770 and 1794 also attracted
many landless peasants and impoverished craftsmen. Their object was to restore
the economic conditions they enjoyed in the Mughal period, when they were
given land and exempted from taxes. When malangs collected alms during their
pilgrimages, they were persecuted by the army. In retaliation they plundered
trading posts and local traders who cooperated with the British. In consequence,
peripatetic dervishes were outlawed as “bandits” or “dacoits” (p. 186).
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In the final chapter on the Madariyya in the 19th century Ute Falasch
critically and insightfully reviews well-known historical works by Indian writers,
European travellers, Orientalists and British ethnographers. In this context she
also refers to Islamic reform movements whose proponents tried their best to
eradicate the concrete ritual practice of vernacular shrine Islam in Muslim South
Asia in general and in Makanpur in particular.
There are some inaccuracies in the text. For instance, on page 147 (note
38) Falasch writes: “Ein anderer Aspekt der Madāris bleibt weiterhin unklar.
Der Begriff ‘Madāri’ wird verwendet für Gaukler, die häufig mit Affen und Bären
von Jahrmarkt zu Jahrmarkt ziehen und mit den Tieren Kunststücke vorführen.
[…] Die Frage, inwieweit sie aus der Tradition der malang hervorgegangen sein
könnten, ist bisher offen. Ihr Name deutet darauf hin, jedoch wurde bei Interviews festgestellt, dass die Gaukler den Begriff ‘Madāri’ als Fremdbezeichnung
ansehen, sich selbst aber als qalandar betrachten” (cf. pp. 54–56, 245). In this
context she could have drawn on the transition between Qalandar dervishes and
Qalandar peripatetic performers. As I have argued in my work Journey to God.
Sufis and Dervishes in Islam (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 2009, pp. 115–
120) the religious mendicancy of qalandars, malangs and other such Sufi groups
can be understood as an occupational specialization of “gypsy-like” peripatetic
groups exploiting an economic niche, a phenomenon already observed by anthropologists much earlier. In addition, the use of unclear or dated terms such as
“ethnische Völker” (p. 197) and “Naturreligionen der Stämme” (p. 204) is irritating. The term for the close relationship between the pīr and his devotees is spelled
pīrī-murīdī or pīr-murīd without the Persian ezāfe (see for example pp. 146,
151, 161/note 75). I also object to the expression “Bettelmönche” used throughout the study under review for Muslim fakirs (faqīr) and dervishes (darwīsh), as
on the one hand this term seems loaded with Christian and Buddhist connotations
and on the other highlights begging, whereas it would be more correct to refer to
the acceptance of alms by the malangs of the Madariyya. However, these minor
criticisms should not detract from the undisputed value of this work.
In conclusion it has to be emphasized that it is to the author’s credit that
she has dedicated such a meticulous study to Shah Madar and his Sufi brotherhood. Historical research on this underestimated topic had long been neglected.
The author rightly calls for anthropological fieldwork on this topic (p. 255),
which should in my opinion include the shrine in Makanpur, the devotional
religiosity of the Madari malangs as well as their material religious culture.
Jürgen Wasim Frembgen
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MICHAEL MANN, South Asia’s Modern History. Thematic Perspectives.
London: Routledge, 2015. 426 pages, 2 tables, 6 figures, 27 maps,
£32.99. ISBN 978-0-415-62866-2 (pb)
Michael Mann’s modern history of South Asia joins the rather long list of existing introductory overviews to the history of the subcontinent. However, it still
manages to furnish a novel way of presenting South Asia historically to both a
broad as well as an academically trained readership. This monograph is not
merely a translation of the German edition published in 2005 (Geschichte Indiens.
Vom 18. bis zum 21. Jahrhundert. Paderborn: Schöningh), but rather an updated
and improved history which includes up-to-date scholarship. Parts of the chapters
have been reorganized thematically in order to enhance readability and avoid
repetition. The English version benefits substantially from these changes.
The book’s most innovative feature is its thematic – rather than chronological – arrangement of the text. One third of the overview (Chapters 1–3)
traces the familiar pattern of South Asian state formation from the 17th to late
20th centuries, covering the important influences of colonialism, patriotism and
nationalism, but also giving important insights into local and regional variations
beyond a supposed colonial European hegemony (pp. 28–51, with a mere 5 pages
for “British India (1757–1856)”). The narrative nevertheless stresses the importance of global entanglements as well. Furthermore, Michael Mann proposes new
temporal divisions that encourage the reader to view alleged watersheds like
1947 in a new light (p. 89) and generally problematize the periodizations which
replicate those in the “master narratives” of South Asian history.
More importantly, however, two thirds of the book addresses various themes
that depict cutting-edge research into South Asian history in general, while at
the same time reflecting the author’s research interests. In addition to the chapters on state formation and empire building in South Asia, and patriotism and
nationalism in the 19th and 20th centuries, the thematic perspectives picked for
the overview are as follows: agriculture and agro-economy; silviculture and
scientific forestry; migration, circulation and diaspora; urbanization and industrialization; and knowledge, science, technology and power. This approach showcases a broad spectrum of topics from social, environmental, intellectual and
labour history as well as from urban and Indian Ocean studies. By incorporating
these diverse perspectives on various aspects of South Asian history into one
introductory history, Michael Mann manages to distance himself from the criticized “previous master narratives” (p. 15) that centre around the history of those
in power and instead “pave[s] the way for a social history of the subcontinent
that is free from the nation-state as a point of reference” (p. 18). Congruously, the
book highlights trans-regional and trans-local historical aspects.
Naturally, the book cannot include each and every theme that is relevant in
research on South Asian history today – a fact that the author himself acknowledges (pp. 18–19). Conspicuously absent is a gendered perspective on South
Asian history, which today is of relevance especially among Indian scholars. Even
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though the author introduces the subaltern school and broaches the issue of
subaltern resistance, the topic deserves more attention, especially considering
the author’s aim at overcoming outmoded ways of writing history (for a subaltern introduction into the colonial period of South Asian history compare:
Crispin Bates, Subalterns and the Raj. South Asia since 1600. London: Routledge,
2007).
Another noteworthy feature of Michael Mann’s History is the claim to
cover the whole of South Asia and not “simply” write the history of India. The
author manages to do so by generally disregarding a nationalist framework as
the major entrance point to history and also by including not only histories of
colonial and post-colonial India, but also of the states of Pakistan, Bangladesh,
Nepal and Sri Lanka. Especially with respect to Pakistan he succeeds in doing
the often neglected country historiographical justice. Rejecting the notion of Pakistan as a “purely artificial construct” in keeping with his conviction that “each
nation-state is a historical-political construct” (p. 110) Michael Mann introduces
the conflict-ridden history of Pakistan as one of multiple identities, thus going
beyond the otherwise dominant focus on an alleged national Muslim identity.
Hence, the book refreshingly puts actors, not states, at the centre of historical
events.
The book includes maps and illustrations, a helpful index and an exhaustive
bibliography. Unfortunately, the new English edition no longer includes the
useful glossary of South Asian terms regularly used by the author. What makes
this book especially attractive to students and sets the work apart from other
overviews is the extensive discussion of ongoing scholarly debates and “concentrated literary review and analysis” (p. x). Michael Mann identifies and describes
different historiographical schools, singles out some of the major paradigm shifts
in writings on South Asian history (like the one initiated by Christopher A. Bayly
in the 1980s), and convincingly problematizes the questionable relationship
between history-writing and (contemporary) national ideologies. This nuanced
and refreshing overview of the history of South Asia as a whole can be recommended to students and scholars alike.
Manju Ludwig
ANITA GHAI, Rethinking Disability in India. New Delhi: Routledge, 2015.
392 pages, £95.00. ISBN 978-1-138-02029-0
In her recently published monograph, Anita Ghai, Associate Professor at the
Department of Psychology, University of Delhi, rethinks disability in India in
eight chapters. Rethinking Disability in India combines a reflection on the author’s
personal experience of growing up as a disabled person in India with the broader
socio-cultural context. A previous book, (Dis)Embodied Form (2003), relates
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disability to feminist discourse. Her new book is a critique of medical disability
models that rely on the idea of a defective individual in contrast to “normal” or
“abled” bodies and calls for a paradigm shift towards conceptualizing disability
as a “social, cultural and political phenomenon” (p. xxvi).
The book starts with an autobiographical note on Ghai’s personal history,
in which she describes painful attempts to cure her of her “disease” in childhood.
The medical treatments or traditional methods to make her an “able-bodied”
person included, for instance, burying her in sand during the eclipse of the moon.
Reflecting on these “traumatic experiences” Ghai writes that she hopes to impart
the view “that disabled people are fully human and do not need a cure from
disability” (p. 6). In her adult life, the author tried to overcome her disability so as
to no longer be viewed as the “other”, before finally becoming a disability rights
activist and scholar. She writes about disability-related and non-related
challenges in her life such as heart disease, cancer or her difficulties in dealing
with unfulfilled marriage and motherhood in a society where women are essentially defined by their relation to fathers, husbands or sons.
The cultural landscape of disability in India is further elaborated in the
second chapter, in which the construction of disability as a lack of ability, supernatural punishment, karma (retribution for past action), evil, desexualisation,
lifelong childhood/dependency, and heroisation is discussed. Ghai interprets the
occurrence of disability in Hindu scriptures, narratives and epics to better understand disability in India. In the end, the evaluation of disability both as misery
and as blessing shares the construction of disability in opposition to an idealised
normalcy. It is a pity, however, that the scriptures included in this part are exclusively Hindu because the cultural landscape of India is so much more diverse.
The third chapter focusses on definitions of disability and legislation.
Definitions are seen as a necessary evil. On the one hand, they are required to
guarantee eligibility for social benefits. On the other hand, definitions are highly
problematic when they are essentialist or when the power to define is misused.
Ghai says that while no coherent definition of disability exists in India, the
underlying understanding of disability remains within the framework of medical
models of disability.
The transformation of “impairment” to “disability” is addressed in the fourth
chapter. According to the social model of disability, a person’s impairment gets
transformed into disability by society. Therefore, the author also prefers to use
the term “disabled people” instead of other euphemisms to indicate that people
are actually disabled by society. The intersections of disability with gender difference, poverty and sexuality are discussed as are the education and work
situation. According to the author, inclusive education remains unfulfilled in
India and the disabled child is still perceived as a problem to be dealt with instead of as a child with a right to education. Moreover, in the capitalist premise
of productivity, the “unproductive” disabled person is evaluated as rather useless.
This also leads to the justification of prenatal selection on the basis of disability,
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which is legal in India, whereas selection on the basis of sex is forbidden, as
discussed in chapter five. Here, the dilemma between feminists’ claim to a
woman’s right to abortion and the right to life of the disabled child is discussed
as well as the danger that new technologies of (selective) reproduction can
become instruments for eugenics.
In chapter six the medical and social model of disability, the social construction of disability and the framing of disability as aesthetics and resistance
are presented and criticised as the prevailing theoretical conceptualisations on
disability. Ghai calls for theorising disability as a “critical modality” that challenges the myth of perfection by providing “possibilities for emancipation of
those who are ‘disabled’ by society’s view of them, but also those who are unwittingly trapped in their ‘normality’” (p. 222).
In chapter seven the issues of identity are addressed as related to disability
and in chapter eight Ghai introduces the need for a paradigm shift in both the
practical and theoretical engagement with disability in India by emphasizing the
importance of advancing disability studies to challenge misinterpretations of
disability.
Ghai’s book gives an extensive, detailed and complex overview of disability in India. It is the author’s position at the interface between a research
scholar on disability, a disability rights activist and a disabled person that makes
her book so interesting and demonstrative. As do her remarkable expressions of
hope and strength as illustrated by her comment, “Polio was a gift – an opportunity from which to learn, experience, understand, and then move on” (p. 15).
Anna-Lena Wolf
GARY JONATHAN BASS, The Blood Telegram. Nixon, Kissinger and a Forgotten Genocide. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2013. XXIV, 499 pages,
$30.00. ISBN 978-0-307-70020-9
NAMRATA GOSWAMI, Just War Theory and India’s Intervention in East
Pakistan, 1971. (PSP Monograph 1). New Delhi: Academy of International Studies / Jamia Millia Islamia, 2014. 90 pages, Rs250.00.
ISBN 978-93-83649-18-1
SRINATH RAGHAVAN, 1971. A Global History of the Creation of Bangladesh.
Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard UP, 2013. 358 pages, $29.96. ISBN 9780-674-72864-6
The war of 1971 that led to the creation of Bangladesh is subject of three new
publications by Gary J. Bass, Namrata Goswami and Srinath Raghavan. The
first author is professor of international politics at Princeton University, the
second research fellow at the Institute for Defence Studies and Analyses in New
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Delhi and the third senior fellow at the Centre for Policy Research, New Delhi,
and at King’s College, London. Their concerns are why the USA did not
interfere (Bass), whether India’s intervention was justified (Goswami) and the
geopolitical constellations that determined the most important actors in their
actions and non-actions (Raghavan).
The books by Bass and Raghavan were reviewed and praised right after
their release; the booklet by Goswami – a product of her PhD thesis on just war
theory and humanitarian intervention – came out more recently. None of the
authors is old enough to have followed events in the media in 1971. At times
especially Raghavan and to some extent Goswami refer to contemporary affairs.
Bass restricts himself discussing his main source, the telegraphic messages of
Archer Blood, the US Consul General in Dhaka, to the State Department, hence
the title of the book.
The authors follow different approaches: Bass chose a chronological
order, starting with the cyclone of 1970 that interrupted the elections. The
military government’s failure to respond to the worst natural disaster of the
century led to the overwhelming victory of the Awami League (160 out of 162
seats in East Pakistan and a total of 300 seats in the National Assembly, respectively). His grim tale of events ends with the unconditional surrender of
Pakistani troops in East Pakistan and the emergence of Bangladesh as an independent country by the end of 1971. Goswami starts with just war theory, before
turning to the “Crisis in East Pakistan and India’s Humanitarian Intervention”
and discussing the “Indian Intervention in East Pakistan” as a case for just war.
Raghavan starts with the history and emergence of the East Pakistan crisis and
then discusses the interests and policies of the main foreign actors, the
“Neighbour” India, the “Grand Strategists” in the USA, i.e. President Nixon and
his National Security Advisor Henry Kissinger, the “Reluctant Russians”, the
“Poster Child and Pariah”, i.e. the international civil society, the European
countries (under the caption “Power and Principle”), and China (“The Chinese
Puzzle”). Henry Kissinger’s verdict “I consider this our Rhineland” is the title
of the chapter on the geopolitical dimension of the conflict, seen in the context
of the Kashmir dispute and the Vietnam war, with Kissinger even more hawkish
than Nixon, both seriously discussing risking a nuclear war.
The late 1960s were the height of the Cold War. Pakistan was part of the
western defence system, created to contain “the red flood”. India tried a policy
on non-alignment and its own brand of socialism. The Third World was just
emerging, many states having been released into independence by their colonial
powers only a few years earlier. The USA and the USSR tried to rope in the
new states. In Vietnam a proxy war raged for a decade and became increasingly
unpopular in the USA. To end the war in Vietnam an understanding with China,
the emerging other socialist superpower, was needed. There were secessionist
movements of various intensities almost everywhere. The worst was in Nigeria,
where the province of Biafra tried to break free. Looking back it seems that one
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of the unwritten laws at the time was the sanctity of borders. The superpowers
stuck to their allies in the Third World, whatever their domestic policies were.
As a result of a decades-long struggle for statehood (or “states”, as demanded in the Lahore Resolution of the Muslim League in 1940), India at its
independence was divided into two dominions, i.e. Pakistan and India.
Simultaneously, India’s two major provinces, Bengal and Punjab, also were
divided. This partition was marked by murder and expulsion on a vast scale,
resulting in Pakistan as a new country with two “wings”, separated by 1,600 km
of Indian territory. The majority of the population lived in the newly created
province of East Bengal, later East Pakistan, where people soon felt neglected
and deprived on both cultural and economic grounds. As the colonial power had
preferred the “martial races” of the Northwest (Punjabis and Pakhtuns), Bengalis
were poorly represented in the army, an important factor once Pakistan came
under the rule of the military. With its long, winding border with India and a
lack of military installations, East Pakistan was regarded as indefensible; the
defence of the country focused on the west. Increasing tensions persuaded the
new military leadership to hold Pakistan’s first democratic elections in 1970, 23
years after independence. The Awami League of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the
dominant party in East Pakistan, won. The army, adopting the same line as
Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, the leader of the Pakistan Peoples Party and winner of the
elections in West Pakistan, refused to let the new Assembly meet and elect an
East Pakistani as prime minister. Fearing a popular uprising, they declared
martial law and started “Operation Searchlight”, an attempt to systematically
annihilate the East Pakistani intelligentsia and leadership. As civil war spread,
millions of people, especially Hindus, fled to neighbouring India, as the international community slowly became aware of the war.
The US General Consul in Dhaka, Blood, tried to alert his government
with a string of telegrams, urging it to intervene. Bass quotes Blood’s telegram
of March 28, 1971: “‘For three days we had been flooding Islamabad and
Washington with graphic reports of a vicious military action, only to be
answered by a deafening silence. [...] I was suddenly tired of shouting into the
dark and decided to ratchet the intensity of our reporting up a notch.’ [... Blood]
sent a furious cable with a jolting subject line: ‘Selective Genocide”’ (Bass, p.
58). The White House, however, had other priorities. President Nixon was
looking to the elections of 1972, which he wanted to win with a promise of
ending the Vietnam War. For this he needed the support of Vietnam’s major
ally, China. As the USA never had recognized the Communist government,
there were no direct diplomatic contacts and the White House had to be very
careful that the shift in policy did not become known too early. Pakistan had
been one of the first countries, and the first Muslim one, to recognize the new
government in China and had cordial relations with China, despite the fact that
they were allied to the USA as CENTO and SEATO partners. There was also a
direct air link between Pakistan and China, so that Henry Kissinger, Nixon’s
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National Security Advisor, could go to Pakistan for negotiations, pretend to be
sick, fly to Beijing and negotiate Nixon’s visit to China in the election year.
Thus, the Vietnam War could be ended, while the bipolar world became tripolar. Such a grand design left little room for sympathy with East Pakistan.
While the USA, China and the Islamic states sided with the military
government in Pakistan, civil society, especially in the West, supported the
movement for Bangladesh, i.e. the land of the Bengalis and Bengali-speakers. It
became part of the anti-establishment movement, especially in the USA, where
recruits were conscripted to fight in a faraway land. The other fear was that the
proxy wars in Asia and Africa might escalate into an all-out nuclear war. There
was little sympathy and understanding for the USA’s support for Pakistan,
limited as it was. Especially Bass demonstrates that for Richard Nixon and
Henry Kissinger the war in East Pakistan was of little importance: they needed
the good services of Yahya Khan, Pakistan’s chief martial law administrator, in
establishing contacts with the Chinese government. “With that, Yhaya’s special
usefulness to the United States and China expired. There were now easier ways
to talk to the Chinese” (Bass, p. 173).
Consul General Blood was not informed of the intentions and strategy of
his government and sent telegram after telegram to Washington, giving a minute
account of the ghastly developments. He might have had the support of the
State Department, but not of the White House. After widening the circle of
recipients of his alarming reports, he was finally removed from his post and left
Dhaka on 5 June 1971 (Bass, p. 344). He resigned from the foreign service. In
his review of the international constellation, Raghavan confirms the story. What
is striking is how a single dictator could have been the only reliable and trustworthy intermediary for the world’s most powerful government to establish
contact with the Chinese leadership, while other channels were soon abandoned
(Raghavan, pp. 173–74). To put this in context: it was the time of Willy
Brandt’s Ostpolitik, when all kinds of backdoor channels existed between East
and West.
Providing its good services to the USA did not improve relations between
that country and Pakistan. On the contrary, as in the 1965 war, Pakistan felt
forsaken, if not betrayed, when they received virtually no military support in
their war with India. Diplomatic relations soured further in the 1970s and
reached a low point in 1979, when Pakistan’s next military government did
nothing to prevent a mob of students from torching the American Embassy in
Islamabad. Ironically, they became best allies again a few weeks later, when the
Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan.
In 1971, within days of the start of “Operation Searchlight”, the stream of
refugees seeking protection in India became a flood, reaching ten million within
months. The East Pakistan tragedy became a humanitarian crisis of epic proportions. After the Sunday Times printed Anthony Mascarenha’s account “Genocide”, the mass killings became world news. The question was, however,
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whether that justified intervention on humanitarian grounds. Looking desperately for international support, Indira Gandhi finally entered a twenty-year
agreement with the Soviet Union. As Goswami outlines, the UN Charta would
not have allowed India to intervene in East Pakistan on humanitarian grounds
and try to end the mass killings (Goswami, pp. 46–50).
So the question was whether Pakistan’s de facto mass expulsion of
millions of its citizens to the neighbouring country could be seen as an act of
aggression, which gave India the right to act in self-defence and force Pakistan
to take back its people. Once hostilities broke out between India and Pakistan,
India feared it would be forced to agree to a ceasefire that would leave it with
millions of refugees to be accommodated in the northeastern states, which already had delicate minority problems. Accordingly, victory had to come quickly.
In the end it came quicker than anyone dreamt.
Was India’s intervention justified? Goswami thinks: yes, as it “was a
strong case of humanitarian intervention. [...] The failure of the Security Council
to stop the violence in Pakistan gave India a moral right to act unilaterally”
(Goswami, pp. 66–67).
Looking back, Raghavan in his “Epilogue” discusses the chances of Pakistan’s survival: “Had Bhutto joined forces with Mujib, as several contemporaries expected, the breakdown could have been averted” (Raghavan, p. 266).
He also saw opportunities to avert the unconditional surrender of the Pakistani
forces in East Pakistan: Poland had tabled a resolution that “had the potential to
deprive India of a clear victory” (Raghavan, p. 259). “If Bhutto had not consigned
the Polish resolution to the dustbin, it would almost certainly have passed, and
Indian forces would have had to stop short of Dhaka” (Raghavan, p. 267).
Raghavan raises another point that was played down then and is often
overlooked. Besides the small intellectual and political leadership, it was the
Hindu minority that was systematically targeted by the Pakistan army and their
helpers. Their share among the refugees certainly was larger than in the East
Pakistan population before the war. Raghavan does not give any figures. Because India wanted all refugees to return, it was important not to emphasize the
number of Hindu refugees. As a matter of fact, the process of Hindus leaving
East Bengal/Pakistan and later Bangladesh has never stopped: the proportion of
Hindus in the area has fallen from more than a quarter before the partition of
India to less than a tenth now. Hence the talk of 20 to 30 million “Bangladeshi”
in western India. Not only are the numbers inflated, but not all the migrants
from eastern India come from Bangladesh, nor are they all Muslims.
All three volumes are extensively referenced. Bass provides a bibliography
and Goswami President Yahya Khan’s statement at the General Assembly on
1 March 1971, his radio broadcast on 26 March 1971, the UN General Assembly Resolution 2793 of 7 December 1971 and the text of the resolution moved
by the Prime Minister of India in Parliament on 31 March 1971.
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We should expect more insights as material becomes available. Bass and
Raghavan rely on primary sources as far as they are accessible, which means in
particular sources in the USA and India. “Archives in Pakistan remain firmly
shut [...] and there are no official archives relating to 1971 remaining in
Bangladesh, as most of the documents were destroyed by the Pakistanis”
(Raghavan, p. 11).
In cases where authors venture away from the core stories, readers might
want to verify details. Statistical figures always have to be read more as an
indication of magnitudes, but in Pakistan it is not true that “fifty-five million
people spoke the official language – Urdu” (Goswami, p. 32): Bangla was not
simply the language with the largest number of speakers, Urdu was mother
tongue only of the refugees from West and Central India, seven per cent of
West Pakistan’s population; the rest spoke local languages, possibly with some
understanding of Urdu. Furthermore, there were not “more Muslims in India
after Independence than in Pakistan” (Goswami, p. 58). This was only the case
after Bangladesh’s independence, if at all: the figures for the last Pakistan
population census are provisional and questionable.
Bass’s work in particular has already become a standard source for the
events in East Pakistan, like Siddiq Salik’s Witness to Surrender. Raghavan also
explores the motives of US policy and those of India. Goswami brings out the
limitations of humanitarianism in international politics. All three books invite
readers to draw parallels to present conflicts.
Wolfgang-Peter Zingel
MIRJAM WEIBERG-SALZMANN, Die Dekonstruktion der Demokratie durch
die Kultur. Der Bürgerkrieg auf Sri Lanka. (Studien der Hessischen
Stiftung Friedens- und Konfliktforschung 10). Baden-Baden: Nomos
Verlag, 2011. 474 Seiten, € 69,00. ISBN 978-3-8329-5862-6
EVA GERHARZ, The Politics of Reconstruction and Development in Sri Lanka.
Transnational Commitments to Social Change. Routledge: London /
New York, 2014. 188 Seiten, £ 90,00. ISBN 978-0-415-58229-2
Das wissenschaftliche Interesse an Sri Lanka hat bedauerlicherweise nach dem
Ende des Bürgerkrieges 2009 erheblich nachgelassen. Umso erfreulicher ist es,
dass in den letzten Jahren zwei Arbeiten erschienen sind, die sich nicht nur
umfassend mit dem Bürgerkrieg selbst, sondern zumindest überblicksartig auch
mit der Zeit danach beschäftigen. Beide Untersuchungen gehen von unterschiedlichen Ansätzen aus, thematisieren aber dasselbe Problem: den Einfluss
der Kultur auf politische und ökonomische Strukturen. Während Mirjam WeibergSalzmann schon im Titel eine gewisse Unvereinbarkeit von Demokratie und
Kultur in Sri Lanka postuliert, ist Eva Gerharz vorsichtiger in ihrer Diskussion
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der unterschiedlichen Faktoren, die „Entwicklung“ und „Entwicklungshilfe“ im
weitesten Sinne bestimmen. Aber auch sie sieht in der Kultur eine wichtige
Komponente, die die Wahrnehmung und Definition von „Entwicklung“ beeinflusst. Allerdings definieren beide Autorinnen „Kultur“ sehr unterschiedlich.
Für alle, die einen schnellen und gründlichen Überblick über die politische
Entwicklung Sri Lankas in den letzten drei Jahrzehnten suchen, wird die Arbeit
von Mirjam Weiberg-Salzmann unersetzlich sein. Das Werk liefert eine Fülle
detaillierter Informationen zur Politik, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft des Landes,
die Machtspiele der politischen Fraktionen werden kompetent ausgeleuchtet.
Entstehung und Verlauf des Bürgerkrieges bezieht die Autorin in ihre Untersuchung ein, wobei sie nicht, wie viele Studien, die tamilischen Militanten anklagt, sondern deren Ideen und Motive durchaus differenziert analysiert.
Das eigentliche Anliegen der Studie ist es allerdings, einige gängige
Theorien zur Entstehung von Gewalt und internen Konflikten am Beispiel Sri
Lankas zu hinterfragen. Weiberg-Salzmann gibt daher zunächst einen weitreichenden Überblick über diese Theorien, die sie alle einerseits als nützlich,
andererseits aber auch als ungenügend erachtet, vor allem weil die kulturelle
Komponente zumeist übersehen oder als irrelevant betrachtet wird. Die Autorin
möchte daher darlegen, wie die „Kultur“ sich mit anderen Faktoren verbinden
und dann zu Gewalt und gewalttätigen Konflikten führen kann.
Im ersten Teil des Hauptkapitels wird dem Leser in groben Zügen die
Geschichte Sri Lankas vorgestellt. Insbesondere die späte Kolonialzeit sowie
die Entwicklungen nach der Unabhängigkeit bis in die 1970er Jahre, die von
politischen und wirtschaftlichen Kontroversen geprägt waren, stehen im Zentrum
der Untersuchung. In der folgenden Analyse wird aufgezeigt, dass die Demokratie
in Sri Lanka vor allem dazu genutzt wurde, um Patronagepolitik, Elitenherrschaft und ethnische Exklusion durchzusetzen. So begünstigte diese Form der
Demokratie letztendlich den Ausbruch des Bürgerkrieges und die Explosion der
Gewalt. Die Autorin arbeitet in diesem Zusammenhang auf beeindruckende Weise
heraus, dass sich Patronagesysteme und Gewaltrechtfertigungen auf Seiten der
Regierung und der Militanten quasi spiegelbildlich zueinander entwickelt haben
– ein sehr spannender Ansatz.
Während diese Argumentation schlüssig und überzeugend vorgebracht
wird, erscheinen der theoretische Hintergrund und die empirische Umsetzung
nicht unproblematisch. Exemplarisch sollen hier die wichtigsten Punkte angesprochen werden:
1. Für einige Schlüsselbegriffe fehlen nachvollziehbare Definitionen –
beispielsweise für das politische System der Demokratie. Zwar wird auf Seite 20
ein Erklärungsversuch unternommen, doch wird letztlich nicht schlüssig
dargelegt, was genau dieses System beinhaltet und wie es funktioniert bzw.
funktionieren sollte. Eine eindeutige Darstellung des verwendeten Konzeptes
von Demokratie wäre jedoch wichtig gewesen, da in der weiteren Analyse
dieses selbst sowie die Theorie des „demokratischen Friedens“ zu Recht hinter-
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fragt werden. Das politische System in Sri Lanka kann bestenfalls als eine formale, majoritäre Demokratie angesehen werden, deren offenkundige Mängel zu
den beschriebenen Problemen führten.
2. Obwohl die Beschreibung der kulturellen Komponente und die Frage
nach ihrer Bedeutung für den Konflikt viel Raum einnehmen, bleibt dennoch
unklar, was genau unter „Kultur“ verstanden wird. Es wird zwar beschrieben,
dass kulturelle Strukturen und kulturimmanente Systemvorgaben den Konflikt
begünstigen, doch werden die Definitionsebenen nicht klar differenziert. Dies
trifft etwa für die Beziehungen zwischen Kultur, Religion, Sprache und Ethnizität zu, wobei lediglich in einer Fußnote auf Seite 53 der Begriff „Ethnie“ definiert wird. Mehrfach weist die Autorin darauf hin, dass kulturelle Vorgaben
politische, soziale und wirtschaftliche Konflikte verschärfen und quasi entropisch
wirken können. Auf welche Art und Weise dies jedoch im Einzelnen geschieht
und welche Rolle dabei Ethnizität, Religion und Sprache spielen (können), wird
widersprüchlich dargestellt.
3. Aufgrund der Definitionsprobleme ergeben sich weitere Widersprüche
bei der Diskussion der Beziehungen zwischen Ethnizität, Religion und Kultur in
der Gegenwart. So beschreibt die Autorin etwa die gesellschaftliche/politische
Exklusion der Tamilen als eine Folge ihrer ethnischen Zugehörigkeit und daraus
resultierender Konflikte (S. 399). Doch führt sie an anderer Stelle auf, dass sich
die Eliten ethnischer und anderer Unterschiede bedienten, die dann als politisch
relevant definiert wurden, um ihre Herrschaft zu sichern.
4. Die Rolle des Buddhismus wird nur unzureichend beleuchtet. Die
These, dass Religion und Politik in vorkolonialer Zeit funktional und ideologisch getrennt waren und erst im Laufe der Kolonialherrschaft zu einer mythischen Einheit verschmolzen, ist nicht nachvollziehbar. Gerade im TheravadaBuddhismus waren weltliche (Chakravartin) und religiöse (Dharmaraja) Führung
eng miteinander verknüpft, was in der Folge zu gravierender Instabilität der
Herrschaft führte (siehe S. J. Tambiah: World Conqueror and World Renouncer.
A Study of Buddhism and Polity in Thailand against a Historical Background.
Cambridge et al.: Cambridge University Press, 1977). Es war die Pflicht des
Herrschers, für das Überleben der Mönchsgemeinschaften (Sangha) zu sorgen
und damit den Erhalt der Religion zu sichern. Doch von welcher Religion bzw.
welcher buddhistischen Doktrin ist überhaupt die Rede? Die Einordnung von
Gewalt als „magischem Mittel“ und die Diskussion des kosmologischen
Manichäismus (S. 409) widersprechen der buddhistischen Doktrin diametral.
Letztlich bezieht Mirjam Weiberg-Salzmann ihre Untersuchung doch auf
ein primordiales Verständnis von Kultur sowie auf die Annahme, dass Demokratie in Ländern der Dritten Welt nur bedingt erfolgsfähig sei. Diese postkoloniale Sichtweise hätte vielleicht vermieden werden können, wenn von Anfang
an klar definiert worden wäre, was Demokratie im konkreten Zusammenhang
bedeutet: eine periodische Akklamation von Patron-Klient-Verhältnissen. Freilich
folgt diese Definition einer sehr eingeschränkten Auffassung von Demokratie
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und dem, was sie leisten kann und soll, und wird zudem durch Indien konterkariert. Diese Mängel sind bedauerlich in einer sonst sehr wertvollen Arbeit.
Im direkten Vergleich ist das nur halb so lange Werk von Eva Gerharz
argumentativ überzeugender. Die Autorin beschränkt sich bewusst auf einen
Ausschnitt der Konfliktsituation – die entwicklungspolitischen Anstrengungen
in Jaffna und Kilinochchi kurz vor und während der Waffenstillstandsperiode.
Ihre Schlussfolgerungen haben aber Bedeutung über diese Region und den
zeitlichen Rahmen hinaus. Auch sie räumt der Kultur, hier vor allem bezogen
auf die tamilische Identität, eine wichtige Rolle ein. Gerharz vermeidet es
jedoch, Kultur auf eine oder wenige Komponenten und primordiale Prämissen
zu beschränken – auch wenn sie feststellt, dass im Selbstverständnis der Tamilen
die Sprache eine entscheidende Rolle spielt (insbesondere für die Beurteilung
der Diasporasituation ist diese Erkenntnis von Bedeutung). Im Verlauf der
Untersuchung bezieht die Autorin Kultur und Entwicklung aufeinander und legt
dar, wie kulturelle Vorgaben ganz unterschiedliche Definitionen und Wahrnehmungen von Entwicklung hervorbringen können. Dies erläutert Gerharz
u. a. anhand der Rolle der Diasporatamilen: Aufgrund der Annahme, dass diese
über wichtiges „kulturelles“ und „indigenes“ Wissens verfügen, fungierten sie
häufig als Vermittler zwischen Gebern und Empfängern von Entwicklungshilfe;
diese Annahme wird von Gerharz kritisch hinterfragt.
Trotz der Isolation durch den Krieg sei Jaffna nie völlig von globalen Entwicklungen abgeschnitten gewesen, so Gerharz, da familiäre und wirtschaftliche
Kontakte mit der Diaspora aufrechterhalten wurden. Sie beschreibt dann, wie
der Friedensprozess virtuelle in reale Kontakte umwandelte, was häufig zu Konflikten unter den Tamilen selbst führte. Dies ist ein bisher wenig diskutierter
Ansatz, der durchaus für andere Länder, die sich im Übergang von gewalttätigen Konflikten zu Friedensprozessen befinden, wichtig sein kann.
All diese Überlegungen führen Gerharz zur Frage nach der Wahrnehmung
von Entwicklungsmaßnahmen vor Ort durch unterschiedliche Beteiligte und
Interessengruppen, und nach den Definitionen von „Entwicklung“, die diesen
zur Verfügung stehen. Sie beschreibt eine bemerkenswerte Bandbreite an solchen
Definitionen und Wahrnehmungen von „Entwicklung“ (und damit von Entwicklungshilfe), die stark voneinander abweichen können, von uneingeschränkter Befürwortung bis scharfer Ablehnung.
Diese enorme Variation führt zu Widersprüchen, oft prallen die Ziele
internationaler Organisationen und die lokalen Bedürfnisse aufeinander. Bezeichnend ist die Beschreibung der häufig ideologisch und mechanistisch gefärbten
Vorgaben internationaler Geber, die auf lokale Staats- und Verwaltungsstrukturen
zurückgreifen möchten, um sozialen Wandel zu erzwingen, ohne zu bemerken,
dass in der Bevölkerung großes Misstrauen gegenüber diesen Institutionen besteht.
Nach dem Ende des Krieges zögerten Investoren und Unternehmer, in
Jaffna in größerem Umfang zu investieren, weil sie dem Friedensprozess nicht
trauten. Diese Erklärung der Autorin ist nur allzu gerechtfertigt, denn der Frie-
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densprozess brach kurz nach dem Ende ihres Forschungsaufenthaltes zusammen. Auch in die Zukunft schaut sie pessimistisch, wenn von „Entwicklung“ als
Hilfe zum sozialen Wandel und zur Selbstbestimmung die Rede ist: „Entwicklung“ unter der Regierung Rajapakse fasse allein den Aufbau von physischer
Infrastruktur ins Auge, ohne kulturelle und ethnische Bedürfnisse zu berücksichtigen.
Es gibt nur zwei kleinere Kritikpunkte, die den Wert des Werkes jedoch
nicht beeinträchtigen: 1. Die Autorin arbeitet zwar sehr deutlich das umfassende
(Miss)verständnis darüber heraus, was unter einer NGO verstanden wird, allerdings hätte die Diskussion bzw. Definition von NGOs und anderen CSOs an
sich etwas ausführlicher ausfallen können. So schreibt Gerharz etwa an einer
Stelle, dass einige lokale und sehr traditionelle NGOs keineswegs einen sozialen
Wandel anstreben, andererseits internationale NGOs in der Konfliktsituation sich
so „neutral“ verhalten, dass ihre Arbeit praktisch zum Erhalt des Konflikts beiträgt. Zu dieser Problematik von NGOs und Entwicklungsarbeit in Krisenregionen
hätte man gerne mehr erfahren, vermutlich wäre dadurch jedoch der Rahmen
der Arbeit gesprengt worden. 2. Die Studie zeigt den translokalen Charakter der
Gesellschaft in Jaffna sehr deutlich auf. Dieser Umstand ist aber nicht, wie von
der Autorin dargestellt, dem Bürgerkrieg geschuldet. Wie sie selbst erwähnt, hat
Migration eine lange Tradition in Jaffna, sowohl in andere Regionen Sri Lankas
wie auch nach Südostasien. Insofern schuf der Konflikt keine neuen Konstellationen, sondern verstärkte traditionell bestehende.
The Politics of Reconstruction and Development in Sri Lanka wirft eine
Reihe wichtiger kritischer Fragen zur Entwicklungspolitik insbesondere in Konfliktgebieten auf, die über Sri Lanka hinaus relevant sind. Das Werk sei daher
vor allem Soziologen und Entwicklungsexperten empfohlen, die sich mit der
Frage nach Definition und Ziel von Entwicklung konfrontiert sehen.
Zusammenfassend lässt sich sagen, dass beide Arbeiten wertvolle neue
Einblicke vermitteln: Während Mirjam Weiberg-Salzmann eine detaillierte faktische Aufarbeitung liefert, bietet die Studie von Eva Gerharz vielversprechende
Ansätze für eine neue Perspektive auf Entwicklungspolitik in Konfliktregionen.
Dagmar Hellmann-Rajanayagam
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ROBERT HEUSER, Grundriss der Geschichte und Modernisierung des chinesischen Rechts. (Studien zu Recht und Rechtskultur Chinas, Band 2).
Baden-Baden: Nomos Verlag, 2013. 286 pages, €74.00. ISBN 978-38487-0781-2
What are the essential features of China’s pre-modern history of law, which
covers a period of about 3,000 years? What is the relationship between the
millennia-old legal tradition, which exerts its influence even at the beginning of
the 21st century, and the requirements of a modern Chinese legal system?
In his masterpiece, Robert Heuser, Professor of Chinese legal culture at
Cologne University in Germany from 1992 to 2011, provides the newest, most
complete Western answers to these questions. Seven treatises published between
1983 and 2008 in Japan and Germany have been combined after an intensive
revision and the addition of substantial supplements. The brilliant result is an
overview of the entire course of China’s legal history up to the modernization
efforts of the present day.
The first two chapters and Appendix 1 focus on history and tradition. The
following two chapters describe the process of legal modernization. The Appendices 2 and 3 deepen the reflection about the challenges that tradition imposes
upon modernism.
The book is full of valuable statements which shed light on the historical
roots of the status of law in today’s People’s Republic of China: “With Chinese
law, we are carried back to a position whence we can survey, so to speak, a
living past, and converse with fossil men” (p. 15). “The Chinese law forms its
own legal system among the legal families of the world” (p. 66). “The traditional
Chinese legal culture […] never attained an independent position separated
from the political power” (p. 186). “China has never provided institutions that
have put the Emperor clearly under the law” (p. 274). “The Chinese language is
an important carrier of the Chinese culture” (p. 282). “Language and scripture
have an irreplaceable continuity. Every foreign cultural element must be expressed
and interpreted by the Chinese language and scripture” (p. 273). “We cannot
hope that immediately after their transfer into Chinese language and scripture,
concepts and rules of modern law become overnight a part of the Chinese legal
system” (p. 283).
Whereas Kai Vogelsang in his recent book Geschichte Chinas (China’s
History, Stuttgart: Reclam Verlag 2012) considers discontinuity as a characteristic
trait of China’s history, Robert Heuser rightly emphasizes its continuity. “The
Babylonian people have disappeared. Therefore, the Babylonian cultural heritage
is today only material for research and historical remember. […] The Chinese
people as the carrier of the Chinese culture (including legal culture) has survived and developed over the millennia. […] Because of the thousands of years
of continuance […], the taking root (Einwurzelung, p. 125) of foreign [legal]
culture in China depends on the intellectual-emotional recognition and approval
of the Chinese people” (p. 285, 272).
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Some terms are not translated coherent. For instance, the translations of
the Chinese word fazhi are not consistent. Heuser alternates between translating
this term as Gesetzesherrschaft (rule of the laws, p. 201, 268), Rechtsherrschaft
(rule of law, p. 208, 259, 266, 279), rule of law (p. 194), Recht (law, p. 191),
Rechtsstaat (state under the rule of law, p.191), Rechtssystem (legal system, p.
197), durch Gesetze geleitet (guided by laws, p. 207).
He interprets or renders li – another key term – as li (p. 23 f.), Riten (rites,
p. 18, 67, 83, 97), Ritenregeln (rules of rites, p. 59), Ritual (ritual, p. 28), Ritualregeln (ritual rules, p. 59), Sitten (customs, p. 17f.), Traditionsnormen (traditional norms, p. 24), Gewohnheitsrecht (customary law, p. 26), moralische
Gewohnheit (moral custom, p. 26), Sittlichkeit (morality, p. 65), die Regeln der
überlieferten Sozialnormen (the rules of the traditional social norms, p. 78),
Moralnormen, Gewohnheiten, Üblichkeiten (moral norms, customs, usual practices, p. 70), and Primärnormen (primary norms, p. 264).
One weakness of the book is caused by the author’s view of the law
in the very wide German sense of Recht rather than in the narrow Chinese sense
of fa / falü. In his eyes, every norm guiding the society (“sozialordnende Norm”,
p. 19), whether in ancient times or modern, is “law”. In the pre-imperial period
(before 221 B.C.), “both Fa and Li together form the legal order” (p. 19).
However, one could argue that fa and li are two different kinds of social norms.
This is evident in imperial times (after 221 B.C.), when under the Tang Dynasty
(618–907) not only a penal code, but also a ritual code with rules that applied
even to the emperor were compiled. This duality of two types of imperial codes
is not mentioned in Robert Heuser’s book. The reader gets the wrong impression, as though the “Confucian ethical commandments (Li)” (konfuzianische
ethische Gebote (Li), p. 264) were absorbed by the penal code. But a certain
corpus of li continued to exist in a specific code of highest sophistication.
Robert Heuser treats legal norms during the period when Mao ruled in
China in the same juricentric way. For Heuser, not only norms issued by the
state, but also norms issued by the Chinese Communist Party are legal norms
(for details about the norms of the Chinese Communist Party see Harro von
Senger: Recent Developments in the Relations between State and Party Norms
in the People’s Republic of China, in: Stuart R. Schram (ed.): The Scope of
State Power in China, London: School of Oriental and African Studies, 1985, p.
171–207). In fact, the status of the norms of the Chinese Communist Party
(political line, polarity norms, policy norms) as primary norms above the law of
the Chinese state has remained unchanged since 1985.
With respect to the time before the foundation of the People’s Republic of
China in 1949, he writes: “In the areas controlled by the Chinese Communist
Party, the Party law, that is to say orders of the leading Party organs, were the
main source of law” (p. 193). About the time after 1949, he writes: “The
‘socialist law’ […] consisted to a smaller extent of laws promulgated by the
National People’s Congress [= the Parliament] […and] to a larger extent of
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‘political guide lines’ (zhengce) laid down by governmental departments and/or
organs of the Communist Party” (p. 189). If it would be true that the Chinese
Communist Party is a law giver, should we then consider the “Cultural Revolution” (1966–76) as a period under the rule of law, because Mao Zedong,
acting as the chairman and in the name of the Chinese Communist Party, issued
many instructions which deeply influenced Chinese society?
A glossary and an index would have been helpful. Certain references in a
footnote to another footnote or a page are not precise. Sometimes there are two
different translations of the same Chinese texts. The important article translated
in Appendix 1 was published in 1997 and not, as indicated (p. 266, footnote 12),
in 1998. However, these and other flaws detract little from the high opinion we
have formed of this great scholarly work.
Harro von Senger
CARSTEN HERRMANN-PILLATH, Wachstum, Macht und Ordnung. Eine wirtschaftspolitische Auseinandersetzung mit China. (Institutionelle und Evolutorische Ökonomik 48). Marburg: Metropolis Verlag, 2015. 586 Seiten,
€ 38,00. ISBN 978-3-7316-1108-0
Carsten Herrmann-Pillaths Buch ist ein Monumentalwerk mit nahezu enzyklopädischem Charakter. Es führt ökonomische, sozial- und kulturwissenschaftliche
Ansätze zusammen, um politisch-ökonomische Kategorien und den Einfluss von
Kultur auf chinesische Wirtschaftsprozesse zu analysieren. Der Autor bezeichnet das Buch mit Recht als „wirtschaftsphilosophisches“ Werk. Er liefert keine
fertigen Ergebnisse, sondern möchte seine Ausführungen als Diskursschrift verstanden wissen, die den Leser zur Weiterbeschäftigung mit verschiedenen Fragen zu Chinas wirtschaftlicher und gesellschaftlicher Entwicklung einladen soll.
Der Autor beginnt mit einer tiefgehenden Selbstreflexion, wenn er zunächst
das Unvermögen „allgemeingültiger Theorien der Erklärung wirtschaftlicher
Prozesse“ beleuchtet. Dabei geht es ihm um die Vermeidung von sog. institutional monocropping – der unkritischen Übertragung sozialwissenschaftlicher
Theorien, die auf Analysen westlicher Gesellschaften und Institutionen basieren,
auf die Verhältnisse anderer Weltregionen, ohne deren Besonderheiten zu berücksichtigen. Er wirft die Frage auf, um mit Ludwig Wittgenstein zu sprechen,
ob wir nicht Opfer von „Sprachspielen“ werden, die uns Strukturierungsregeln
an die Hand geben und unser Denken in einer bestimmten Weise formen,
jedoch der Realität Chinas nicht entsprechen. Meinen Chinesen z. B. mit Begriffen wie „Staat“, „Markt“, „Unternehmen“, „Freiheit“, „Macht“, „Familie“
usw. dasselbe wie deutsche Betrachter? Herrmann-Pillath versteht sein Werk als
Beitrag zur emischen Betrachtung anderer Kulturen, indem er aus der Perspektive
der teilnehmenden Beobachtung im anthropologischen Sinn seinen Blick von
„innen“ auf die chinesische Kultur richtet.
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Im ersten Kapitel befasst er sich mit dem Kulturbegriff und Kultur im Sinne
kollektiver Sinnstiftung. Kultur sei nicht essentialistisch aufzufassen, ihr liege
vielmehr ein Interaktionsverhältnis zwischen Individuen zugrunde, und sie befinde
sich in einem Prozess permanenter Wandlung. Durch einen Vergleich zentraler
kultureller Aktivitäten und Kategorien zeigt Herrmann-Pillath wichtige Unterschiede zu westlichen Gesellschaften auf, etwa in der Konzeption von Begriffen
wie „Religion“, „Freiheit“ oder „Macht“.
Das zweite Kapitel ist der kulturwissenschaftlichen Analyse von Institutionen und dem „Wirtschaftsstil“ als einer zentralen Grundkategorie des Werkes
gewidmet. „Macht“, verstanden nach Foucault als die Gesamtheit staatlicher
Technologien zur Beeinflussung von Individuen (Gouvernementalität), sowie
Netzwerkstrukturen spielen in chinesischen Wirtschafts-, Gesellschafts- und
Politikprozessen eine besondere Rolle.
Der „Nexus der Macht“ auf lokaler Ebene und der Dualismus von zentralem und lokalem Staat sind die Themen des dritten Kapitels. Der lokale Staat
stellt das Bindeglied zwischen dem zentralen Staat und der ländlichen Gesellschaft dar. Er besitzt zwar eine strukturpolitische Teilautonomie, doch soll die
Politik der höheren Verwaltungsebenen im Kontext der lokalen Ressourcen und
Spezifika implementiert werden. Letztlich beruht die Interaktion zwischen zentraler und lokaler Ebene in hohem Maße auf Verhandlungsprozessen, was den
Autor zu der Auffassung gelangen lässt, dass zentralstaatliche Planung primär
als eine „Moderation und Koordination nachgeordneter Planung zu verstehen
ist“ (S. 204f.).
Kapitel vier untersucht die Rolle von sozialen Netzwerken, in die chinesische Akteure eingebettet sind. Da sich Individuen in China vornehmlich durch
ihre sozialen Beziehungen konstituieren, charakterisiert Herrmann-Pillath die
chinesische Gesellschaft als „Gesamtheit aller interagierenden egozentrischen
Netzwerke“ (S. 231), wobei auch die Kommunistische Partei letztlich eine Netzwerksorganisation darstellt. Die Organisation in Netzwerke ist jedoch keineswegs kollektivistisch, sondern individualisiert (egozentrisch) ausgerichtet, in
dem Sinne, dass in Netzwerken ein spezifisch rituelles Verhalten erwartet wird
und der Ritus wiederum das individuelle Verhalten der Menschen und ihre Beziehungen untereinander regelt. Entsprechend wird auch Korruption nicht als
„systemisches“ Problem verstanden, sondern als die Summe individualisierten
Verhaltens oder, wie es jüngst ein chinesischer Wissenschaftler ausdrückte, als
„Korruption des ganzen Volkes“. Anders als beispielsweise in Afrika, beinhaltet Korruption in China einen Moment des Vertrauens in einer dyadischen Beziehung, und vermag auf diese Weise „entwicklungsfördernd“ zu wirken (vgl.
Andrew Wedeman: Double Paradox. Rapid Growth and Rising Corruption in
China. Ithaca / London: Cornell University Press, 2012, pp. 15–51). Freilich
leiden zugleich die allgemeine Moral und die Legitimität der Partei darunter,
weil das „Ritual“ der Korruption in der jetzigen Form der Herausbildung einer
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Identifizierung des Einzelnen mit der Gesellschaft und damit der Entstehung
von Bürgern mit Bürgerpflichten (und -rechten) nicht gerecht zu werden vermag.
Das fünfte Kapitel befasst sich mit der „chinesischen Unternehmung“ und
deren Transformation zu modernen Unternehmen. Dabei wird zwischen privaten
(größtenteils Familienunternehmen) und staatlichen Unternehmen unterschieden,
die verschieden agieren und in unterschiedliche Netzwerke eingebunden sind.
Im sechsten Kapitel geht es um die Frage der chinesischen Wirtschaftspolitik aus kulturwissenschaftlicher Sicht. Der Autor bezeichnet insbesondere
den Dualismus von zentraler Plansteuerung einerseits und lokalstaatlicher
Marktwirtschaft andererseits als charakteristisch für die Wirtschaft Chinas. Dieser Dualismus wirke allzu absolut, zumal das staatliche Steuerungsmoment auch
auf der lokalen Ebene weitgehend präsent ist. Der Begriff der etatistischen Marktwirtschaft mag das „Wirtschaftsmodell“ Chinas u. U. eindeutiger zu klassifizieren
– dem Autor geht es allerdings primär darum, den spezifischen „Wirtschaftsstil“
herauszufiltern. So verdeutlicht er, dass die eigentliche Zäsur der Wirtschaftsentwicklung Chinas nicht im Übergang zur Marktwirtschaft bestehe, sondern in
der Einführung eines neuen Wachstumsmodelles, wie es Ende 2013 von der
chinesischen Führung konzipiert wurde. Dabei sieht er in der intendierten
Ausrichtung auf den Binnenkonsum zugleich „einen Aspekt des Ritus der
Modernisierung“ (S. 430). Die chinesische Konsumgesellschaft, so der Autor,
stehe in direktem Kontext mit der Herausbildung einer Zivilgesellschaft, die
letztlich aber strukturell vom Zentralstaat top-down gesteuert werde.
Abschließend widmet sich das letzte und siebte Kapitel der Untersuchung
des chinesischen Wirtschaftsstils, als dessen wichtigste Kennzeichen HerrmannPillath die enge Symbiose zwischen Staat und Markt, die Hegemonie des Politischen und die Einbindung in ein System offener Netzwerke herausstellt. Des
Weiteren definiert er den Wirtschaftsstil durch die Faktoren Ritualismus, Modernismus, Wachstumsorientierung, Lokalismus, Kulturalismus und Netzwerke. Es
ist an dieser Stelle leider nicht genug Raum, um all diese Begriffe in all ihren
Facetten zu beschreiben.
Carsten Herrmann-Pillath hat mit Wachstum, Macht und Ordnung ein großes Werk vorgelegt, das zum Nach-, Um- und Neudenken der wirtschaftlichen
Verhältnisse in China anregt. Man muss ihm nicht in jedem Punkt folgen, und
nicht jede Schlussfolgerung ist ganz nachvollziehbar. So stellt sich z. B. im
Kontext der abschließenden Schlussfolgerung, dass „sich China in Richtung
einer freiheitlichen Gesellschaft im Hegelschen Sinne“ entwickeln werde, die
Frage, ob hier nicht doch wieder westliche Konzepte auf China übertragen werden – Konzepte, die möglicherweise Hegels Geringschätzung des Individuums
und seine Vorstellung, dass die Bestimmung des Menschen im Staat aufgehe
und Staat und Kollektiv gottgleich glorifiziert werden, auf die Zukunft Chinas
projizieren. Aber genau dies ist ansonsten das besondere Verdienst des Autors:
dass er sich über vorherrschende wirtschaftswissenschaftliche Paradigma hinwegsetzt, indem er ökonomische Felder immer wieder an kulturelle Muster
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zurückbindet und daher neu interpretiert und einordnet. Das Buch ist durchaus
keine einfach zu lesende Lektüre, doch der Autor stellt viele interessante, zum
Teil provokative, Thesen auf, über die es sich lohnt, nachzudenken. So erweist
sich das Buch als eine wahre Fundgrube für neue Forschungsfelder – in diesem
Fundus an Anregungen sehe ich das Besondere dieses Werkes.
Thomas Heberer
LIZA WING MAN KAM, Reconfiguration of “the Stars and the Queen”. A
Quest for the Interrelationship between Architecture and Civic Awareness in Post-colonial Hong Kong. Baden-Baden: Nomos Verlag, 2015.
190 pages, €39.00. ISBN 978-3-8487-1083-6
Hong Kong was ceded to Great Britain by China in 1842 following the Opium
War. British colonial rule took a specific shape on the island in contrast to imperial rule in Africa and South Asia. Unlike a foreign regime based on extraction
of mineral resources or exploitation of markets and raw material, colonial rulers
in Hong Kong developed a tacit agreement with native elites. Thus, mutual benefits from trade became the basis of alien rule. The British rulers left in 1997,
leaving the new leaders of Hong Kong to chart their independent course. Part of
the efforts of the new regime to establish its legitimacy and political control
consisted in redesigning public space. The official project to carry out the
demolition of two iconic sites – Queen’s Pier and Star Ferry Pier, redolent with
memories of colonial rituals, as well as sites for anti-colonial mobilization –
forms the immediate context of this lucid and powerful analysis of the complexity
and inner contradictions of the post-colonial condition.
Liza Wing Man Kam, a native of Hong Kong and an architect by training,
has undertaken a multi-disciplinary enquiry which dissects the relationship between architecture and civic awareness in the post-colonial context. She asserts
that urban objects in the built environment are the physical forms into which are
woven fragments and layers of the city dwellers’ narratives. The demolition of
these iconic sites without effective negotiation between the different stakeholders and the central power terminally removed vital and living memories.
The main thesis that follows from these assertions is that the processes of realizing the continued existence of these objects are basic to the recognition of citizenship rights. More generally, Liza Kam argues, the transformation or removal
of the colonial space and architecture in the post-colonial setting should not be
seen as a linear and unproblematic promotion of post-colonial “modernity”, but
as sites of conflict between different forms of the colonial legacy and the emergence of new, post-colonial identities.
Kam talks about space, architecture and memory in an interdisciplinary
framework. The introductory chapter makes excellent reference to the contribu-
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tion of Bernard Cohn to an understanding of the relationship between power
and knowledge in a colonial set-up, and uses this reference to show how the
educational system of Hong Kong was designed to achieve “submissive integration”. Here, one can see the influence of Gramsci. From this follows the main
puzzle of this book: Why should the elimination of public buildings symbolic of
colonial rule bring people onto the street? Instead of a sentimental journey to
the past, the author takes us through a serious intellectual deconstruction of
vestiges of the past in terms of their character as instruments of power, counterpower and hegemony. She records one of the main contradictions between consciousness and action and different constructions of the same event across different generations through narratives, interviews and artifacts. From this we
learn something of the restricted tradition and institutional basis of participation
in Hong Kong. Only 1,200 people out of the 3.3 million qualified voters of the
whole city have the right to elect the Chief Executive. These 1,200 people are
made up of all 60 legislative councillors and representatives of major professions, which include mainly elites from business sectors, real estate sections and
liberals; universal adult franchise remains a chimera, promised for 2017.
Why are the masses in Hong Kong, as indeed everywhere, not permanently
in revolt? The author offers a powerful deconstruction of the putative silence of
the masses and, in the case of Hong Kong, the emergence of activism on the
issue of the piers by referring to the contribution of Henri Lefebvre. The “Lefebvre
triangle” consisting of rules and social practice, the representations of space and
the representational space which juxtaposes rules, actors and imaginaries serves
as a heuristic model to explain the variations in collective acquiescence. Liza
Kam asserts that if these three are not in equilibrium, then the resultant hiatus
might lead to a legitimacy deficit and popular discontent. The author could perhaps have expanded on this to include a comparative dimension in order to
showcase her own contribution to the topic of social power and the architecture
of space.
Liza Kam’s analysis of the emergence of the discourse of the young radical
activists is an important contribution to the comparative politics of post-colonial
popular consciousness and collective action. She has shown exemplary courage
and initiative in engaging with the field in terms of its interdisciplinary breadth
and empirical depth, conducting surveys of opinions and attitudes through indepth interviews and delving into public documents as well as indigenous
sources. Her reading of theoretical texts outside her main discipline is significantly diverse, both standard positivist mainstream works as well as a very
promising foray into alternative methodological works such as those of Henri
Lefebvre, Pierre Nora and Bernard Cohn. Perhaps she could have gone a step
further and used these texts as the basis to chart her own course as a specialist
of the politics of space, and show where and how architectural design and the
political process intersect and what public policies can help bridge the hiatus
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between the objective and the subjective parameters of space, i.e. how architects and stakeholders construct a given space.
Liza Kam’s important contribution to the emerging field of research in
post-colonial politics raises a number of new questions and conjectures that
juxtapose empirical findings with conventional theories of collective action,
memory and the construction of space. Her leitmotif for the actual driving forces
to shape latent resentments into powerful collective action is a new voice in the
discord of post-colonial narratives without the underpinning of testable conjectures.
Space, identity and citizenship are among the cutting-edge issues of politics today. Within this emerging field, detailed, empirical studies of the politics
of space, civic consciousness and the battle for public space between the state
and other stakeholders are relatively rare. This is particularly significant in the
post-colonial context, where the institutional basis of participation is soft or
non-existent. Liza Kam’s contribution has much to teach us in contested arenas
of public space in the post-colonial world. It is a timely reminder of how easy
the theft of memory of the powerless by dominant hegemonic bodies in the
name of a melting-pot modernity can be. That way, Liza Kam reminds us, lies
the ultimate disenchantment with modernity and the emergence of extreme,
radical rejection. Liza Kam’s serious and valuable contribution to the sociology
of knowledge, architecture of space, collective action and comparative modernity deserves our strong recommendation.
Subrata K. Mitra
LEE HYUN SU, Die letzte Gisaeng. München: Iudicium, 2013. 240 Seiten,
€ 19,80. ISBN 978-3-86205-296-7 (Aus dem Koreanischen übersetzt
von Youngsun Jung und Herbert Jaumann)
Die romanartige Schilderung der Gisaeng war bei ihrem Erscheinen in Korea
vor einem Jahrzehnt sehr erfolgreich. Sie beschreibt gleichsam als fiktive
„mündliche Geschichte“ die Schicksale, Erlebnisse, Hoffnungen und Enttäuschungen der in Korea aussterbenden Berufsgruppe der Gisaeng aus der Sicht
der unterschiedlichen Bewohner eines Gisaeng-Hauses.
Da ist einmal die erfahrene „Alte“ als Chefin mit dem goldenen Herzen,
die leider meist übellaunig und jähzornig ist. Da ist ihre Stellvertreterin, ebenfalls schon etwas in die Jahre gekommen und alkoholkrank, die nicht zum ersten
Mal von einem Zuhälter („Säulenmann“) ausgeplündert wird. Dann gibt es
jüngere Nachwuchskräfte für die beiden Spezialgebiete Gesang und Tanz, die
sich genauso noch vervollkommnen müssen, wie die Küchenhilfen, die sich
innerhalb einer strengen Hackordnung in der Küche erst nach Jahren des Lernens
und Dienens hocharbeiten können. Schließlich lebt seit 20 Jahren ein Faktotum
im Haus, ein Mann, der für alles zuständig ist – vom Lebensmitteleinkauf über
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Reparaturen bis zur Einführung der jungen Gisaeng in die sexuelle Praxis.
Diese erfolgt erstaunlicherweise im Rahmen einer traditionellen Hochzeitszeremonie, der nichts fehlt außer der gegenseitige Treueschwur von Gisaeng und
Faktotum, gefolgt von einer Hochzeitsnacht, an der die ganze Belegschaft mehr
oder minder diskret Anteil nimmt.
Es geht in diesem Roman recht lebendig zu, oft auch sehr lautstark und
gewalttätig. Auch die genannte Alte hält sich mit Schlägen nicht zurück, wenn
sie es für angebracht hält. Zu den eisernen Regeln der Gisaeng zählt, sich nie in
Kunden zu verlieben (wenn das doch geschieht, hängen sie sich mit gebrochenem Herzen am Küchenbalken auf) und eigentlich nur an Trinkgeld interessiert
zu sein. Schwangerschaften sind streng verboten, Abtreibungen erfolgen innerhalb
des Hauses.
Es stellt sich die Frage, ob und inwiefern sich Gisaeng von ihren japanischen Geisha-Kolleginnen unterscheiden. Beide unterhalten ihre zahlungskräftigen männlichen Gäste in aufwändig hergerichteten Häusern mit Gesang und
Tanz, um sie anschließend mit erlesenen Speisen zu verführen, mit leichtem Geplauder zu unterhalten und mit Alkohol zu traktieren. Angeblich hat eine Gisaeng
das Recht, einen Kunden für weitergehende Dienstleistungen abzulehnen. Doch
inwieweit dies bei solventen Stammkunden angesichts der rigiden Herrschaft
innerhalb der Hierarchie der Häuser tatsächlich möglich ist, bleibt offen.
Unterschiedlich ist sicher der soziale Status der Betroffenen. In Korea
wurden die Gisaeng als nachgeborene minderjährige Töchter von ihren Vätern
oder Stiefvätern an Zuhälter verkauft, die sie dann an Gisaenghäuser (unter
positiven Gesichtspunkten: weil sie dort noch halbwegs gut aufgehoben waren
und eine Ausbildung in Haushaltsführung, Kochen, Gesang und Tanz erhielten)
oder direkt an Bordelle veräußerten. In den 60er und 70er Jahren wurden sie
auch nach Japan in die Hände der japanisch-koreanischen Yakuza übergeben.
Als einzig mögliche Alternative für diese jungen Frauen, ihr Leben zu fristen,
gab es eigentlich nur die schlecht bezahlte Arbeit in Textilfabriken. Ihr sozialer
Status war und ist ganz unten in der gesellschaftlichen Ordnung angesiedelt,
während ihre Kundschaft, wie bei den Geishas in Japan, fast ausschließlich der
Oberschicht entstammt.
Unternehmer, hohe Beamte und Kulturschaffende werden als regelmäßige
Gäste genannt, die als geschlossene Gesellschaften das Haus für ihre Feiern und
Trinkgelage anmieten. Dabei geht es, in Korea öfter als in Japan, meist außerordentlich rau und unschön zu, zumal die Kunden oft völlig betrunken sind und
statt sentimental gewalttätig werden. Auch das innere Betriebsklima scheint
deutlich herber und derber zu sein als jenes in Japan, zumal in den GisaengHäusern auch räuberische Zuhälter mit einschlägiger Gefängniserfahrung
geduldet werden.
Abgelöst wurden die Gisaeng schließlich durch eine fantasielose, kommerzielle Sexindustrie ohne Tanz, Gesang und edle Speisen – eine Art von ökonomischem Fortschritt, wenn man so will. Ob das Aussterben der Gisaeng einen
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großen Kulturverlust darstellt, liegt naturgemäß im Auge des Betrachters. Der
Autorin kommt unzweifelhaft das große Verdienst zuteil, dieses verfemte und
doch sozialhistorisch wichtige Gewerbe, das von Tausenden von Koreanerinnen
durchlitten wurde, dokumentiert und in all seinen Facetten für die Nachwelt
erhalten zu haben.
Albrecht Rothacher
MASAO MARUYAMA, Freiheit und Nation in Japan. Ausgewählte Aufsätze
1936–1949 (herausgegeben von Wolfgang Seifert). München: Iudicium.
Band 1: 2007, 169 Seiten, € 15,00. ISBN 978-3-89129-875-6
Band 2: 2012, 182 Seiten, € 15,00. ISBN 978-3-86205-091-8
Masao Maruyama (1914–1996) spielte in der japanischen Nachkriegszeit als
linksliberaler Präzeptor und Kritiker vermeintlicher oder tatsächlicher restaurativer Politiken der konservativen Regierungen – vor allem, wenn sie den Friedensartikel 9 der Verfassung auszuhebeln versuchten – eine ähnliche Rolle als
öffentlicher Sozialphilosoph wie viele französische Intellektuelle oder etwa Jürgen
Habermas, Ralf Dahrendorf oder Ulrich Beck in Deutschland. Dabei waren seine
Argumentationslinien stets komplex und stark ideen- und sozialgeschichtlich
und von seiner intimen Kenntnis der europäischen und vor allem deutschen Philosophie geprägt, die er ausführlich und oft im Original zitierte.
Im Gegensatz zu der Rezeption der deutschen Philosophie in Japan ist die
Maruyamas in Deutschland bislang sehr dürftig ausgefallen. Umso erfreulicher
ist es, dass der Herausgeber in zwei schmalen, sehr lesenswerten Bänden die
wichtigsten bislang unübersetzten Aufsätze Maruyamas, die seinen intellektuellen Werdegang in der frühen, entscheidenden Epoche – von 1936 bis 1949,
während der Kriegs- und Nachkriegszeit – darstellen, exemplarisch in einer
vorbildlich annotierten Ausgabe vorstellt. Sie kreisen um die Hauptfrage des
Zusammenhangs von Nation und Demokratie: Wie wurden aus den früheren
national unbewussten und entmündigten Untertanen im Prozess der Modernisierung und nationalen Bewusstheitswerdung freie und unabhängige Bürger, bzw.
warum scheiterte in Japan dieser Prozess und endete in einem expansiven staatszentrierten Nationalismus? Dabei wendet Maruyama sich klar gegen die mythische kokutai, die als imperiale Staatsidee Japans 1889/90 kodifiziert wurde, hält
jedoch gleichzeitig das Konzept eines unabhängigen Nationalstaates für die
bürgerliche Emanzipation aus dem Feudalismus für unabdingbar.
In einem ersten, im jugendlichen Alter von 22 Jahren verfassten Aufsatz
aus dem Jahr 1936, kritisiert Maruyama faschistische Ständeorganisationen als
Rückschritt zu den Zünften des Mittelalters, da diese ähnlich die Individuen ihrer
Selbstständigkeit beraubten (Band 1, S. 31). Der Aufstieg von Irrationalismus
und Mystizismus verstärke die imperialistischen Konflikte, denn das Finanzkapital verlange nach einer aktiven Staatsmacht für seine Expansionspolitik.
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Schwache internationale Organisationen (wie der Völkerbund) könnten die von
der Finanzkrise verschärften Gegensätze zwischen den imperialistischen Mächten nicht im Zaum halten (S. 42).
Kurz vor seiner Einberufung zum Kriegsdienst nach Hiroshima (1944),
schrieb Maruyama testamentartig zur Frühzeit des japanischen Nationalismus:
Er sei für die Nationenbildung Japans, das Zusammengehörigkeitsgefühl, die
nationale Solidarität und die erstrebenswerte Einheit des Landes als ein progressives Phänomen zur Überwindung des spalterischen Feudalismus des TokugawaSystems notwendig gewesen. Dabei versteht Maruyama den Nationalismus als
Instrument der Selbstbehauptung und Identitätsfindung ohne imperialen Chauvinismus. Seine Kritik an der Tokugawa-Diktatur fällt (gerade im Licht der
aktuellen Shogunats-Nostalgie in Japan) durch unorthodoxe Schärfe auf: 90
Prozent der Bevölkerung, alle Bauern und Stadtbürger, seien politisch ausgestoßen und entmündigt worden. Sofern sie es vermochten, hätten sie sich nur in
sinnliche Genüsse geflüchtet (S. 60).
Das Ergebnis war eine strikt geschichtete Gesellschaft, aber keine Nation,
die zudem noch absichtsvoll regional zersplittert wurde. Zwar herrschten die
Tokugawa Shogune einerseits durch die direkte Kontrolle der wichtigsten Städte,
der Bergwerke und der lokalen Fürsten, der Daimyo, zentralistischer als ihre
Vorgänger. Andererseits blieb ihre Herrschaft in den von den Daimyo verwalteten Gebieten (han), die dort ihre eigene Rechtssetzung und Gerichtsbarkeit
betrieben, weiter indirekt. Der Verkehr zwischen den han wurde durch schlechte
Straßen und Reiseverbote absichtlich erschwert und die gesamte Gesellschaft
von den Adelsrängen abwärts in kastenartige Ränge mit strengen Beschränkungen eingeteilt. Damit wurden Erfahrungs- und Bewusstseinshorizonte aller Japaner so eingeschränkt, dass selbst bei der führenden Kriegerkaste sich das
Loyalitätsgefühl nur auf das persönliche Lehensverhältnis zum jeweiligen Feudalherrn beschränkte (S. 63).
Der Zweck dieses universellen Partikularismus war – mit reaktionärer
Metternichscher Logik – die Unterbindung eines Nationalgefühls von unten.
Dem diente sowohl die Abschottung von außen (sadoku) als auch ein systematisches Spitzelsystem, das von der gegenseitigen Überwachung der han bis zu
den Dorfgemeinschaften reichte. Diejenigen, die vor der Bedrohung aus dem
Westen und vor Japans Unterrüstung warnten, wurden verfolgt und ins Gefängnis geworfen. Denn mehr noch als vor den Fremden hatte Japans Elite Angst
vor den eigenen entmündigten Bürgern (shomin), die sie gemeinhin als dumm,
charakterlos und verräterisch betrachteten.
Als Kapitän Perry 1853 erschien, gab es keinen effizienten Küstenschutz.
Japan erschien gelähmt, als ein „Land ohne Regierung“ (S. 72). Ideen zur
Überwindung der Han-Grenzen durch Stärkung der absolutistischen Zentralmacht und Kaiserverehrung, die zur nationalen Modernisierung und Vertreibung
der Barbaren durch ein „reiches Land und starkes Militär“ (S. 100), führen sollten,
allerdings zugleich das Ende der feudalistisch aufgesplitterten Macht bedeutet
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hätten, gab es schon früher. Doch waren diese aus Furcht der Daimyo vor der
Emanzipation der Bürger und des Bedeutungsverlustes der Kriegerkaste unterdrückt worden. Als diese dann in der Meiji-Zeit (1868–1912) verwirklicht wurden, waren es ironischerweise radikalisierte Hofadlige, Samurai aus niedrigen
Rängen und Angehörige der bürgerlichen Oberschicht, die im Zuge der MeijiRestauration die Selbstauflösung der herrschenden Feudalordnung betrieben –
das gemeine Volk (shomin) blieb unbeteiligt (S. 102).
Nach dem Krieg konnte Maruyama wesentlich freier schreiben. In seinem
berühmt gewordenen Aufsatz „Zur Logik und Psychologie des Ultranationalismus“ von 1946 distanzierte er sich mit seinen ideengeschichtlichen und sozialpsychologischen Analysen jedoch deutlich vom nun vorherrschenden orthodoxen,
ökonomistischen Vulgärmarxismus mit seinen „schreienden Parolen“ (S. 113),
dem die Mehrheit der japanischen Intellektuellen (sowie ein Großteil der USBesatzer in MacArthurs Stab) huldigte. Insbesondere kritisierte er die kokutai,
die Doktrin, die Japans vormalige besondere Verfasstheit mit der Göttlichkeit
des Tenno, des kaiserlichen Herrschers, im Zentrum darstellte. So konnte nach
Maruyama der Meiji-Staat kein „neutraler Staat“ im Sinne Carl Schmitts sein,
der Privatangelegenheiten und religiöse Bekenntnisse als subjektive Innerlichkeiten garantierte (S. 116).
Tatsächlich war durch die Wiederherstellung der kaiserlichen Autorität
eine Legitimationsbasis geschaffen worden, die mithilfe von Polizei und Militär
gegen die Bewegung für Volksrechte durchgesetzt wurde. Wissenschaft und
Kunst hatten dem Staat zu dienen. Aufgrund der Göttlichkeit des Tenno gab es
auch keine Glaubensfreiheit und kein Privatleben: das Leben eines Untertanen
ist immer öffentlich. Die kokutai als „Vollendung des Wahren, Guten, Schönen zu
allen Zeiten und an allen Orten“ konnte als Quelle der Moral ihrem Wesen nach
nichts Schlechtes hervorbringen und legitimierte jegliche staatliche Handlung,
vollzogen im Namen des göttlichen Kaisers, – auch Kriegsverbrechen (S. 124).
Die Machtausübung war nicht auf ein starkes Ich-Bewusstsein gestützt,
sondern beruhte auf der Identifikation des Einzelnen mit der Staatsgewalt. Mit
der Nähe zum Tenno bestand vor allem unter den höheren Rängen des Militärs,
als dem „Kernstück des Staates“ (S. 130), die Tendenz, Eigeninteressen mit denen
des Kaisers zu identifizieren – eigene Gegner wurden damit zu Staatsfeinden.
Das mag erklären, warum sich niemand persönlich für den Kriegsausbruch verantwortlich fühlte. Auch der Militärdiktator Tojo stellte sich stets nur als „normalen Untertan“ dar (S. 135). Doch auch niedrige Dienstgrade fühlten sich,
besonders in Übersee, dank des kaiserlichen Dienstes in unbegrenzt überlegener
Position, wobei sie sich vom auf ihnen lastenden Druck durch „Triebhandeln“
befreiten (S. 137). In letzter Konsequenz verlangte das Tenno-System als zentraler Maßstab für den Weltfrieden die weltweite Herrschaft des japanischen
Systems. Die Pathologie jenes Systems sei damit keine Ausnahmeerscheinung,
sondern systemisch angelegt, so Maruyama (S. 144)
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Der zweite Band eröffnet mit einer politischen Biographie aus dem Jahr
1947 von Katsunan Kuga (1857–1907), einem nationalliberalen Zeitungsherausgeber. Diesem ging es darum, durch die Verbindung von Nationalismus
und Demokratie eine fortschrittliche Ideologie zur Zerschlagung des Feudalismus und zur Vollendung der nationalen Einheit durch die Einführung eines
parlamentarischen Systems und Volksrechte zu schaffen (Band 2, S. 26). Als
die neugegründeten Parteien mit der Oligarchenregierung (hanbatsu) im Interesse von Steuererleichterungen und militärischer Aufrüstung bald gemeinsame
Sache machten, agitierte Kuga gegen ihre „Volksverachtung“ und wurde mit
wiederholten langen Publikationsverboten bestraft. Er wandte sich zudem gegen
die staatszentristischen Kernelemente der Meiji-Politik – etwa die Bevorzugung
der Zentrale gegenüber der Peripherie, der Industrie gegenüber der Landwirtschaft und des Staatskapitals gegenüber des Privatkapitals. Weitere Anliegen
waren ihm der Mittelstand, die regionale Autonomie, die Arbeiterfrage und die
Freiheitsrechte.
In einem Artikel aus demselben Jahr zum „Freiheitsbewusstsein in Japan“
rechnet Maruyama auch mit dem Konfuzianismus als dem Erzfeind von Gleichheit und Freiheit ab (S. 46). Diese unter den Tokugawa Shogunen verbindliche
Ideologie habe die freiheitliche Natur der Menschen unterdrückt und den entmündigten Bürgern und Kaufleuten nur hedonistisch-sinnliche Betätigungen als
Ausweg erlaubt (S. 55).
In einer sozialhistorisch angelegten Studie zur „Geschichte der Bewegung
für Freiheit und Volksrechte“ der Jahre 1868 bis 1912 untersucht Maruyama deren
wechselhafte Beziehungen zur aus den Han-Cliquen gebildeten Oligarchenregierung. Als Träger der Freiheitsbewegung macht er jene deklassierten Samurai
und Angehörige des niedrigen Adels (shizoku) aus, die durch die Errichtung von
Präfekturen, die allgemeine Wehrpflicht und das Verbot des Schwerttragens
sich um ihre Privilegien betrogen fühlten. Durch den Wertverfall ihrer entschädigenden Staatsanleihen fürchteten sie eine soziale Deklassierung und nutzten
die Widerstandsbewegung der Bauern gegen die massive Besteuerung für ihre
Zwecke. Viele von ihnen sehnten sich nach der Tokugawa-Ära.
In den 1870er Jahren machte die Bewegung durch aggressive Zeitungsagitation auf sich aufmerksam, die aber insbesondere nach 1882 von der Regierung
durch die Einschränkung der Presse-, Vereinigungs- und Versammlungsfreiheit
zunehmend unterdrückt wurde. Nach 1886 lebte die Volksbewegung infolge der
Fusion konservativer und liberaler Forderungen erneut auf. Zum einen wandten
sich diese gegen die ungleichen Verträge, die Japans Zollautonomie aufhoben
und ausländische Konsulargerichtsbarkeit einführten, aber setzten sich auch für
die Herabsetzung der Grundsteuern sowie die Meinungs- und Versammlungsfreiheit ein (S. 77). Mit dem Zusammentreten des ersten Reichstags 1890 begann mit der Kooption kooperationswilliger Bewegungsführer laut Maruyama
der Beginn der politischen Korruption im modernen Japan. Vor allem die Liberale Partei stellte sich bald als Interessenvertretung des Großbürgertums und der
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Großgrundbesitzer heraus (S. 82). Außenpolitisch wollte die Bewegung einerseits Ostasien vor den europäischen Mächten geschützt wissen, andererseits aber
die weltweite imperialistische Strömung für Japans Machtinteressen nutzen.
Vor allem nach der Drei-Mächte-Intervention im Jahre 1892 wurden reaktionäre
Stimmen, die eine Intervention des Staates forderten, immer lauter. Nachdem
die ursprüngliche Akkumulation für die Entwicklung von Industriekapital von
der Oligarchenregierung geleistet worden war, brauchte Japans Industrie staatlichen Schutz zur Sicherung der Absatzmärkte in Korea und China. Diese hohe
Abhängigkeit der Wirtschaft vom Staat verhinderte laut Maruyama die Entwicklung einer unabhängigen Bourgeoisie, die der Träger eines politischen Liberalismus hätte werden können (S. 95).
Ein zusammenfassender Artikel zum „Staatsdenken der Meijizeit“ aus dem
Jahr 1949 beschließt stimmig den zweiten Band. Maruyama bewertete die
Kaiserverehrung als entscheidend für den Aufbau des zentralistischen Einheitsstaates, der nach innen wie nach außen ein starker Staat sein sollte (S. 100).
Dieser Wunsch nach einem starken Staat wurde aus der Furcht geboren, eine
Kolonie oder Halbkolonie wie die großen Zivilisationen Indien oder China zu
werden. Unterstützend wirkten die Ziele, die Samurai beschäftigen zu müssen,
die ungleichen Verträge zu revidieren, das europäische Vordringen aufzuhalten
und das nationale Ansehen zu mehren. Schließlich konnte man mit der Unterwerfung Koreas (und schon vorher Taiwans) den europäischen Imperialismus
ohne Risiko imitieren und die inneren Verhältnisse unter dem Vorwand äußerer
Konflikte nach eigenem Gutdünken regeln (S. 106). Das Erziehungssystem wurde
bereits 1885 mit dem Ziel modernisiert, mit militärischem Drill loyale Untertanen heranzuziehen (S. 119).
Nach dem sino-japanischen Krieg entstand das Einverständnis zwischen
den Zaibatsu Holdings der Großkonzerne und den Han-Cliquen als konstitutivem
Element des staatsnahen japanischen Kapitalismus (S. 126). Die Parteipolitiker
entwickelten sich schließlich immer stärker zu Anwälten einer starken Nation.
Ihr neuer Nipponismus sah Japan im darwinistischen Überlebenskampf der
Nationen. Dabei stand die Konzeption des Tenno als göttlichem Souverän immer mehr im Widerspruch zur Freiheit des Denkens, der Rede und der Wissenschaft (S. 133). So war die Verflechtung von Staatsmacht, Industriekapital, den
Privilegien einiger kriegswichtiger Schwerindustrien und des Großraums Tokyo
in Japans moderner Entwicklung eigentlich schon sehr früh angelegt (S. 141).
Man mag Maruyama nicht in allen Details und Argumentationssträngen
folgen, zumal manche verwendete Psychologismen, wiewohl scharfsinnig und
schlüssig, eher hermeneutischer und anekdotischer als empirisch gesicherter Natur
erscheinen. Doch wirken seine unorthodoxen, kraftvoll formulierten Einschätzungen der Tokugawa- und Meiji-Zeiten gegenüber den immer gleichen LehrbuchGemeinplätzen von harmonieträchtiger friedlicher Stagnation beziehungsweise
dynamischer Modernisierung (die beide trotz ihrer Widersprüche irgendwie sehr
lobenswert erscheinen) erfreulich erfrischend und intellektuell stimulierend. Dies
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lädt auch zur kontrafaktuellen Reflektion ein: Wie würden Japan und Ostasien
heute aussehen, hätte eine bürgerlich-liberale Freiheitsbewegung in der MeijiZeit sich durchsetzen können? Die Spekulation mag vielleicht müßig sein. In
jedem Fall haben Maruyamas hervorragend übersetzte und editierte Aufsätze
eine stärkere Beachtung durch das deutsche interessierte Fachpublikum verdient
als sie es bislang erfahren haben.
Albrecht Rothacher
MOMOYO HÜSTEBECK, Dezentralisierung in Japan. Politische Autonomie
und Partizipation auf Gemeindebene. (Ostasien im 21. Jahrhundert).
Wiesbaden: Springer VS, 2014. 227 Seiten, € 39,99. ISBN 978-3-65806266-8
Bemühungen, den zentralistischen Staatsaufbau Japans zugunsten einer dezentraleren Struktur umzuformen, sind an sich nichts Neues. Es gibt sie bereits seit
den 1950er Jahren, doch beschränkten sie sich überwiegend auf den Bereich
staatlicher Raumordnungspolitik und brachten aufgrund ihrer halbherzigen Ausführung zudem nur selten die gewünschten Resultate. Umso mehr lässt daher
aufhorchen, wenn der seit dem Jahr 2000 von der japanischen Regierung eingeleitete Reformprozess zur politisch-administrativen Dezentralisierung von einigen
japanischen Wissenschaftlern als tiefgreifende Änderung des Staatssystems bewertet wird, die in eine Reihe mit der Meiji-Restauration und den nachkriegszeitlichen Reformen zu stellen sei (S. 13). Die vorliegende Arbeit von Momoyo
Hüstebeck liefert einen wichtigen Beitrag zu der Frage, inwieweit nun dieses
Urteil gerechtfertigt ist.
Der japanische Dezentralisierungsprozess berührt administrative, fiskalische
und politische Aspekte, d. h. die Übertragung von Verwaltungsaufgaben und von
Einnahmequellen vom Zentralstaat an die subnationalen Gebietskörperschaften
sowie die Stärkung der lokalen politischen Partizipation. Entsprechend werden
diese drei Aspekte nach einer ausführlichen Einleitung, einer Darlegung des
demokratietheoretischen Rahmens der Arbeit – in dem die „komplexe Demokratietheorie“ von Fritz Scharpf im Vordergrund steht – sowie einer Evaluierung
des bisherigen Verhältnisses von Zentralstaat und Gebietskörperschaften nacheinander abgehandelt.
Den Schwerpunkt ihrer Ausführungen legt die Autorin auf die politische
Dezentralisierung, zumal dies auch der Gewichtung im innerjapanischen Dezentralisierungsdiskurs entspricht, der mit dieser Arbeit zugänglich gemacht werden
soll. Für die Untersuchung einer möglichen Ausweitung partizipativer Elemente
als Folge von administrativer und fiskalischer Dezentralisierung wurden die
beiden städtischen Kommunen Mitaka (Präfektur Tokyo) und Fujimi (Präfektur
Saitama) als Fallbeispiele ausgewählt. Zur Gewinnung ihrer Erkenntnisse analysierte die Autorin zunächst den neueren japanischen Dezentralisierungsdiskurs
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sowie den politischen Umsetzungsprozess mittels einer Auswertung der überwiegend japanischsprachigen Literatur und leitfadengestützter Experteninterviews,
während sie in ihren Beispielgemeinden qualitative Interviews mit diversen
Akteuren führte und zudem Dokumente einer qualitativen Inhaltsanalyse unterzog.
Die Untersuchung von politischer Dezentralisierung am Beispiel einer konsolidierten Demokratie wie Japan (und nicht, wie sonst üblich, anhand von Transformationsgesellschaften) bezeichnet Momoyo Hüstebeck zu Recht als innovativ.
Im Hinblick auf die Hauptfrage der Arbeit, inwieweit die nationalen Dezentralisierungsreformen den subnationalen Gebietskörperschaften mehr Autonomie und den Bürgern mehr lokale Partizipationsmöglichkeiten gebracht haben,
gelangt die Autorin zu einem eher ernüchternden Ergebnis: Generell haben sich
die hochgesteckten Erwartungen nicht erfüllt, was aber letztlich nur die Erfahrungen mit ähnlichen Dezentralisierungsbemühungen in anderen Staaten bestätigt.
Bei der administrativen Dezentralisierung (Devolution) fehlt es an der Bereitschaft der nationalen Ministerien, neben Aufgaben auch Entscheidungsbefugnisse
abzugeben, während die Kommunen ihrerseits die wenigen neu gewonnenen
Spielräume oft nicht nutzen. Allerdings bewirkt die Devolution in zahlreichen
Kommunen eine verbesserte Transparenz administrativer und politischer Verfahren.
Ein besonderes Problem bleibt weiterhin die (unzureichende) fiskalische
Dezentralisierung, die mit der Dreierreform (sanmi ittai kaikaku) der Regierung
Koizumi (2001–2006) angestoßen wurde. Letztlich wurde hier durch eine Kürzung von Finanzausgleichsleistungen des Zentralstaates an die subnationalen
Gebietskörperschaften das gesamtstaatliche Finanzsystem auf Kosten vor allem
ärmerer Gemeinden und Präfekturen konsolidiert. Doch auch hier ist der Autorin
zufolge ein Teil der Verantwortung den Kommunen selbst zuzuschreiben, die
ihre Steuersätze bislang kaum variiert haben, was sie seit der Reform hätten tun
können. Andererseits habe die gewachsene Zahl an Selbstverwaltungsaufgaben
viele lokale Verwaltungen schon aus Gründen der Arbeitsentlastung dazu veranlasst, die Partizipationsmöglichkeiten ihrer Bürger zu erweitern. Allerdings
sei es von der Eigeninitiative der Kommunen abhängig, in welchem Ausmaß sie
ihre Bürger an planerischen und administrativen Aufgaben beteiligten. Insgesamt,
so schließt Momoyo Hüstebeck ihre Ausführungen auf S. 205, dürfte die Dezentralisierung der zentralistischen Staatsstrukturen Japans auch für die kommenden Jahre und Jahrzehnte eine fortwährende politische Aufgabe bleiben.
Zu diesen Erkenntnissen gelangt die Autorin auf fundierte und methodisch
saubere Weise, nur gelingt es ihr leider nicht immer, sie durch eine lebendige
Sprache auch anschaulich zu vermitteln, was sicher nicht zuletzt der Tatsache
geschuldet ist, dass es sich um den (wohl unveränderten) Abdruck ihrer an der
Universität Duisburg-Essen entstandenen Dissertation handelt. Dennoch hätte sich
der Rezensent an der einen oder anderen Stelle wenigstens Visualisierungen in
Form von Tabellen oder Abbildungen gewünscht. Der Mangel an Anschaulichkeit in der Darstellung wird jedoch durch einen sehr klar strukturierten Aufbau
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der Arbeit wenigstens teilweise wieder wettgemacht. So bleibt unter dem Strich
festzuhalten, dass es sich um eine – freilich eher für Fachleute und Studierende
in höheren Semestern als für interessierte Laien geschriebene – informative und
für die sozialwissenschaftliche Japanforschung äußerst wichtige Analyse der
jüngeren Dezentralisierungsreformen des japanischen Staates handelt.
Ralph Lützeler
DANIEL BULTMANN, Inside Cambodian Insurgency. A Sociological Perspective
on Civil Wars and Conflict. Farnham: Ashgate Publishing, 2015. 216 pages,
£60.00. ISBN 978-1-4724-4305-2 (hb)
From the late 1960s until the early 21st century – after a brief era of peace
following independence in 1954 – generations of Cambodians were born and
raised in a state of war, civil war and political violence. Until the end of the
Cold War, the international scientific community mirrored the ideological chasm
and offered mainly biased accounts and explanations that were used in the
“battle for the hearts and minds” of the global public. Since the early 1990s,
Cambodia has been less exposed geopolitically, which has led to academic
disinterest in many areas, especially – rather surprisingly – in civil war research.
Daniel Bultmann’s book, which is based on his dissertation at the
Humboldt University of Berlin (Germany), is the first sociological study of the
Cambodian civil war – focusing on one side of the opposing coalitions. After
the fall of Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge regime in 1979/80, the new government of the
People’s Republic of Kampuchea (1979–91) was installed in Phnom Penh under
the aegis of the invading Vietnamese. On the international stage this regime was
supported by the Soviet Union. The opposition was an extremely heterogeneous
anti-Communist, anti-Vietnamese coalition forged under the auspices of “the
West” with the approval of China, the protector of Pol Pot and Prince Sihanouk.
This coalition had its power base in refugee camps along the Thai-Cambodian
border. These “insurgents” against the new Socialist republic constitute
Bultmann’s research interest. The label “insurgents”, although strictly speaking
there was no “insurgency” as such, may reflect the publishing context: the Ashgate
Series on Military Strategy and Operational Art, which “highlights the complexity
and challenges associated with insurgency and counter-insurgency operations”
(see series editorial). Indeed, “complexity” is the right characterization of the
Cambodian civil war setting.
The structure of the book is as classic as the writing is lucid and the line of
argument stringent. After an overview and critical assessment of the current
debate on the theory of civil war, the author presents his theoretical approach,
drawing on Pierre Bourdieu’s habitus-field theory and Michel Foucault’s discourse analysis of power relations, respectively. For this reason, Bultmann defines
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different habitus groups within the military field according to the chain of command: “leadership, operators, rank-and-file” (p. 36). To take one of these groups
as an example, the habitus types at the top of the hierarchy (“leadership”) are
again subdivided into “guerrilla strongmen, intellectual commanders, old military
elite, warrior princes and anti-intellectual intellectuals” (p. 37ff.). The latter represent the Khmer Rouge guerrillas after the fall of the Pol Pot regime in Phnom
Penh (officially Democratic Kampuchea, 1975–79). Thus, Bultmann uses a sociological matrix to make the complexity of Cambodia’s civil war situation
comprehensible. To complete the analytical tableau, on the one hand all habitus
groups are correlated with their particular schemata of reasoning and acting and
the perception of their specific social field (i.e. the cultural and economic
resources). On the other, each habitus group is presented as an ideal type with
specific power and discourse practices. This approach provides fresh insights in
two areas: new empirical data and theory construction.
The empirical base for the analysis comprises 86 semi-structured interviews
with participants of the civil war from all ranks. This compilation alone is
impressive and makes the book worth studying. Unfortunately, there are two
omissions in the above-mentioned matrix. First, the description of the “warrior
princes” – according to the author’s own categorization – is missing to protect
the anonymity of the two persons in that group. The protection of their privacy
has to be accepted; however, Bultmann could have offered to the reader a more
general description of this habitus group. Second, no interviewees for the group
of long-standing Khmer Rouge commanders could be found, which is a more
serious gap. It should be pointed out that many of them are dead, in prison or
refused to comment. Nevertheless, the ability of the author to differentiate the
groups by giving them an “individual” profile makes for a fascinating and
multi-layered overall picture. The use of habitus hermeneutics and the descriptive
table, which makes it easy to understand the author’s conclusions, are academic
strengths of the monograph. Another is the critical assessment and further
development of the theory applied.
The original theoretical approach was considered inadequate and too static
for two reasons. First, the lives of the actors, that is, their biographies within
multiple structural, social and cultural contexts, play a pivotal role. Second, the
persistency of patrimonial structures and personal charisma has to be taken into
account, otherwise the classification of the matrix will not be conclusive. Even
readers without an in-depth knowledge of Bourdieu and Foucault are able to
follow Bultmann’s theoretical amendments to the initial design (see the chapter
“Sociology, Civil Wars, and Conflict”, p. 165ff.).
Theories of life courses, prosopographical analyses and collective biographies are well known tools for historical studies. Is this volume an example
of the (re)discovery of these methods in sociology? The book could mark a fresh
and convincing start of this.
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The self-restriction to “only” one side of the civil war – that of the “insurgency” – may be criticized. Even if this limitation is legitimate, the author missed
the chance to compare the politico-military fate of Khmer Rouge defectors to
the Vietnamese with those who returned to guerrilla warfare. However, the only
real shortcoming is the exclusion of the refugee camps and their significance for
the socio-political and economic situation as a breeding ground for “insurgents”.
This omission does not detract from the merits of Bultmann’s work, and his
monograph can be recommended to all who are interested in the recent past of
Cambodia, especially the civil war, in civil war research and in the sociology of
(civil) wars in general and Bourdieu’s theoretical work in particular. Military
sociologists or historians are presented with a convincing case study exemplifying how biographies, power relations and discourses may influence war strategies, command-and-control, and even combat tactics. Indeed, the pen is mightier
than the sword.
Thomas Kolnberger
JOHN MONFRIES, A Prince in a Republic. The Life of Sultan Hamengku
Buwono IX of Yogyakarta. Singapore: ISEAS, 2015. XXVIII, 376 pages,
US$35.90. ISBN 978-981-4519-38-0 (pbk)
Hamengku Buwono IX (1912–1988), known before his accession as Gusti Raden
Mas Dorojatun, was Sultan of Yogyakarta from 1939 until his death nearly half
a century later. The Yogyakarta kingdom (1,223 square miles) was not even half
the size of Brunei, yet its population was considerably larger, rising from 1.2
million inhabitants in 1912 to 1.85 million thirty years later (compared to
growth from only 22,000 to 40,000 in the Bornean sultanate over the same
period). Yogyakarta city alone increased from around 100,000 to 435,000 over
the lifetime of Hamengku Buwono IX (henceforth HBIX).
HBIX played a prominent role in the Indonesian Revolution of 1945–9,
joined the national cabinet in 1946, and served as Coordinator of Internal Security
and/or Minister of Defence for much of the period from 1948 until January
1953. In the (comparative) wilderness for the next 13 years, he returned to
government as the coordinating minister responsible for economic affairs from
1966 until 1972. He was Vice-President of Indonesia, a largely ceremonial role,
from 1973 until his retirement from national politics in 1977. Throughout his
career he evinced a Talleyrandesque capacity to survive régime change and to
back the winning side; he was “always at the centre of events yet managed somehow to leave the impression that he was not connected with them” (pp. 2, 231;
AJP Taylor’s verdict on Lord Halifax, regarded as applicable to HBIX as well).
A Leyden intellectual, fluent in Dutch, and a doctoral student (the outbreak
of the war prevented him from completing his thesis), HBIX was a competent,
albeit dull public speaker. Possessed of a charming smile, he looked diminutive
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and dapper in traditional Javanese costume. Between 1940 and 1947 he married
four aristocratic Javanese women; his first daughter was born in 1943 and his son
and heir in 1946. After one of his (concomitant) wives died, he married for a fifth
time in the 1970s, this time a commoner. He had a total of twenty-one children.
Dorojatun arrived back in Batavia on 18 October 1939 and his father Sultan
Hamengku Buwono VIII (ruled 1921–39) died almost immediately afterwards.
Under the Dutch system, as opposed to that in British-protected Malay States
such as Brunei, every prospective local ruler in the Indies had to negotiate a new
political contract. Much more business-like than his father, HBIX’s negotiations
with the Governor Lucien Adam (1890–1978) lasted four months, itself an
indication of his strength of character and suggestive of a “firmer cast of mind
than his modest manner would indicate”. The coronation took place on 18 March
1940, which, by coincidence, was the day after Sultan Ahmad Tajuddin (ruled
1924–50) was belatedly crowned in Brunei Town. In the next two years under
the Dutch he consolidated his personal authority in Yogyakarta and established
a modus vivendi with Dutch power. It was said that the treatment of indigenous
servants by Dutch families in Java and the contrast between Dutch democracy
in Europe and the reality of Dutch repression in the Indies turned him into a
nationalist. Yet, he was also careful to keep his own record “clean”; the reserved
young man’s patriotic pride remained hidden. Having learned to restrain his passions and conceal his innermost thoughts, he remained discreet all his life.
HBIX had a genius for making the correct call in times of crisis. Two
examples: first, following the Japanese invasion in 1942, he rejected the chance
offered by the Dutch to flee, saying that his place was with his people. This was
“his first opportunity to exercise his own untrammelled political judgement, and
to demonstrate his fitness to be sultan” (p. 96). Second, in 1945 he supported
the Indonesian declaration of independence from the outset, an option which at
the time was brave and not without risk; from 1946 to 1948 Yogyakarta itself
was the capital of the new republic and the heartbeat of the revolution.
On the other hand, the Dutch had reasonable grounds to feel aggrieved, if
not betrayed. HBIX was, after all, raised in Dutch families, educated at the best
Dutch university and a guest at both Princess Juliana’s wedding in 1937 and
Queen Wilhelmina’s fortieth jubilee celebrations in 1938. If he were anticolonial all along, he appears to have been less than transparent in 1939–42 in
his relations with the Dutch authorities in Java. Even as late as 1949 they were
under the illusion that he had been acting under duress in supporting the nationalist government. His career is also a lesson that the provision of education is no
guarantee of the student’s subsequent goodwill towards the provider.
After the Japanese invasion cooperation with the Japanese was the only
realistic option (defiance being a demonstrably perilous undertaking). HBIX
issued a statement offering to cooperate with the occupying forces and thanking
Japan for freeing his country from the Netherlands. On 1 August 1942 the
Japanese formally recognised HBIX as Koo of the Yogyakarta kooti (princely
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region). As the occupation advanced, he showed increasing signs of wanting to
be an activist sultan. The key political relationship in his life was with Sukarno,
whom he first encountered in these years.
A politically-astute, trustworthy, non-ideological pragmatist lacking in
personal ambition, he exercised real power only at certain times of his career.
HBIX’s performance during the revolution was his finest hour. He ensured his
own political survival as head of the Yogyakarta region and safeguarded the
continued existence, within the republic, of his principality and dynasty. His
greatest failure was his underestimation of the forces opposed to his defence
reforms in 1952. His steering of the Indonesian economy in 1966–73 was
highly commendable, particularly compared with the mismanagement of the
Sukarno years, which had resulted in, among other things, rampant inflation.
Although he neglected Yogyakarta after he entered national politics, and it
remained one of the poorer regions of Indonesia, HBIX (unlike Sukarno and
Suharto) retained popular support and even affection; his funeral was attended
by no fewer than 200,000 people.
The author of the book, an Australian diplomat whose career included
postings to Indonesia and Brunei, returned to academia after retirement and this
book, the first English-language biography of HBIX, is based on his doctoral
thesis, written “several years ago”. In complete command of his brief and conscious of the potential pitfalls, John Monfries provides incisive analysis based on
exemplary sifting and assessment of the source material. Readers see the authentic
approach of the historian, reading events forwards, avoiding anachronism, and
detecting where the record has been “corrected” with hindsight. He also points
out where the evidence is too slight for a conclusive pronouncement. There is,
moreover, a series of brilliant digressions, including those on biography as a
genre, the intellectual climate at the University of Leyden in the 1930s, and the
history of Yogyakarta.
The weakness of this rewarding and exhilarating book is the biographer’s
apparent lack of access to his subject’s private papers. Although he says he
“visited the palace archives” (p. xv), he comments elsewhere that “holdings of
documents of political and historical interest are relatively scanty” (p. 357) and
that some records relating to HBIX’s later life are not yet available (p. 4).
Monfries has retreated perforce to writing a political biography and to providing
an empirical narrative that places HBIX in historical and political context (pp.
3, 21). This cannot, therefore, be regarded as the definitive account. Nevertheless, given the limitations under which the scholar was labouring, it is the best
that can be expected.
Anthony V.M. Horton
Conference Reports
Dynamic Alignments and Dealignments
in Global Southeast Asia
Freiburg, 24–26 June 2015
Southeast Asia is a region of vibrant economies, cultural diversity, and volatile
polities. It is a region characterized by multiple forms of alignments and dealignments that influence its societies. The analysis of alignments, meaning
cooperation and coalition-building, and dealignments, which include processes
of fragmentation, disintegration and conflict, is therefore of great significance
to understanding past, present, and future developments in the region.
On 24–26 June 2015, the interdisciplinary research group “Dynamic
Alignments and Dealignments in Global Southeast Asia” at the Freiburg
Institute for Advanced Studies (FRIAS) organized a conference on the topic
of Southeast Asia’s cooperation cultures. The conference presented the work
in progress of the institute’s fellows, which centered on (1) the changing nature
of political cooperation; (2) the repositioning of alterity and identity; (3) the
politico-economic consequences of alignment and dealignment in the local
settings of Indonesia and the Philippines; and (4) transcultural historical
interactions in Southeast Asia. Around twenty speakers examined these
questions from the disciplinary perspectives of political science, cultural anthropology, economics, and history.
In his keynote lecture Hal Hill (Australian National University) argued
that the Southeast Asian economy is currently on the rise, as evidenced by
high economic growth rates, rising living standards, and its growing share of
global trade. Besides mentioning the diversity of political systems and the
region’s economic disparities, Hill highlighted the policy areas in which
Southeast Asia has performed well. These include export-oriented industrialization, resilience in coping with economic crises, successful transitions to
democracy in Indonesia and the Philippines, and progress in regional integration. However, there are still issues of concern, such as educational
reforms, demographic transition, rising inequalities, and environmental sustainability. Hill also asked whether Asia is ready for global leadership and if
there will be a cohesive group of nations able to exert such leadership. For
the rest of the world this coincides with the question of whether the rise of
Asia will be a zero sum game, something Hill denied.
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The first session on “The Changing Nature of Political Cooperation in
Southeast Asia”, convened by Jürgen Rüland (University of Freiburg) and
chaired by Mikko Huotari (MERICS), concentrated on the changing patterns
of political cooperation in the region from a political science perspective.
Addressing what turned out to be one of the central concerns of the
conference, namely, Southeast Asia’s relations with China, Mark Beeson
(University of Western Australia) stated that the key problem that ASEAN
needs to overcome in order to respond to China’s growing importance is the
ineffectiveness of its institutions, such as, the ASEAN Regional Forum. For
Beeson, the crucial obstacle to more effective regional cooperation lies in
ASEAN’s recalcitrant retention of sovereignty norms.
Stefan Rother (University of Freiburg) highlighted a major dealignment between the discourse of an elite-driven ASEAN and people’s concerns as voiced by civil society organizations. However, he identified dynamic
alignments among these organizations potentially able to rectify ASEAN’s
democratic deficits. By applying his approach of “alternative regionalism”,
Rother explained how democratic spaces can be “carved out from below.”
Yet his case study on the ASEAN Civil Society Conference and the ASEAN
Youth Forum demonstrated the limited political space available for civil
society in democratizing ASEAN. Rother thus raised the crucial question of
whether and how a region can become democratic if its member states are not.
In the second panel, chaired by Muhadi Sugiono (Gadjah Mada University), Pavin Chachavalpongpun (University of Kyoto) explained how a
domestic crisis had led to more intense rivalry between China and the US in
Thailand and the wider region. According to him, the responses of the two
competitors to the latest coup in Thailand on 22 May 2014 may be categorized as interventionism versus pragmatism. The Chinese pragmatic approach could lead to shifting power relations in China’s favor and could
markedly affect ASEAN’s cohesion. However, Pavin suggested that competition between China and the US could also have positive effects. It might,
for example, encourage other powerful actors such as Japan, India, or Australia to play a more active role in the region.
Jürgen Rüland addressed in his presentation the interplay between
domestic and foreign policy and its consequences at the regional level.
Applying a role theoretical model, he focused on the question of whether
Indonesian democratization has changed the country’s foreign policy role
conceptions and thereby influenced policymaking at the regional level.
Rüland demonstrated the diversification of Indonesia’s role concept and the
growing significance of democracy. Concerning the complex yet important
question of the effects of Indonesia’s foreign policy role on ASEAN, Rüland
pointed to various democracy-enhancing developments in ASEAN prom-
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421
inently promoted by the Indonesian government. Among these are the ASEAN
Charter, the ASEAN Security Community, the Bali Concord II, and the
ASEAN Intergovernmental Commission on Human Rights. Still, the meaning
of democracy in Indonesian role concepts appears to be ambiguous, as it is a
localized vision of democracy which owes its specific form to the deeply
entrenched influence in society of anti-liberal organicist concepts of state
and society.
Salvador Santino Regilme (Northern Illinois University) took the opposite perspective when discussing the impact of foreign policy on domestic
policy. He queried whether foreign aid could undermine human rights and
examined this question in the context of the cooperation between the United
States and the Philippines on counter-terrorism measures. Regilme argued that
the convergence of political interests and the policy preferences of donor
and recipient governments crucially influence human rights outcomes.
Convened by Judith Schlehe (University of Freiburg), the second session,
entitled “Repositioning Alterity and Identity: Anthropological Perspectives”
focused on the intersubjective level of transcultural encounters reflected in
social imaginaries. In a panel chaired by Anna Maria Wattie (Gadjah Mada
University), Martin Slama (Austrian Academy of Sciences) studied the multiple positioning of Hadramis in Indonesia and their entanglement with
alignments and dealignments with the Middle East. The representation of
Hadramis as a social group with roots in the Arabian Peninsula is reflected
in the various terms applied to them. For example, in colonial times Hadramis
were categorized as “foreign orientals”, which implied a social position “in
between society” as opposed to “in the middle of society”. After 9/11, they
became increasingly associated with terrorist attacks and were represented
as “extremists in the land of moderate Islam”, as Slama put it.
Examining the situation of Iranian students in Malaysia, Olivia Killias
(University of Zurich) reflected on their feelings of belonging with respect
to their Muslim identity. She found that the distinction between different
strands of Islam has major repercussions on the identity of Iranian students.
However, exclusion from Malaysian Sunni mainstream Islam as reflected in
anti-Shia stereotypes does not necessarily facilitate intra-ethnic solidarity. In
fact, Killias encountered wide-ranging suspicion among Iranian students,
which she explained with reference to their prior experiences in Iran, where
they learned to have “two faces”.
In the panel chaired by Ariel Heryanto (Australian National University),
Eva F. Nisa (Universitas Negeri) and Judith Schlehe (University of Freiburg)
asked what imaginaries of alterity and identity Indonesian students of AlAzhar University in Cairo derived from encounters with the Middle East.
Combining Nisa’s insider view and Schlehe’s outsider perspective, the
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presenters showed that transcultural encounters do not automatically create
boundary transgressions and transnational alignment. While Nisa emphasized
the role of Azharites in promoting moderate Islam in Indonesia, Schlehe
stressed the limits of religious education, which she explained with reference
to lackluster class attendance and the segregated everyday life of Indonesian
students in Cairo. Schlehe and Nisa suggested that the cultural and religious
orientations mediated by Indonesian Azharites should be understood as related
to a new positioning of the religious in the context of middle-class spiritual
economy and new subjectivities.
By combining on- and off-screen perspectives, Evi Eliyanah (Australian
National University) and Mirjam Lücking (University of Freiburg) showed
how the Arab “other” is contrasted against the Indonesian “self”, working as
a reference point for the identification of good and evil and as evidence of
the moral superiority of Indonesians. Lücking explored how pilgrims and labor
migrants who have visited the Middle East distinguish themselves from
Arab men and women. In addition, Eliyanah illustrated how gendered representations of the “Arab World” are displayed in a range of Indonesian movies.
“Political-Economic Consequences of Alignment and Dealignment in
Localized Indonesia and the Philippines” was the title of the third session.
Convened by Günther G. Schulze (University of Freiburg) and chaired by
Hal Hill, the main objective of this section was to identify the consequences
of political alignment and its antipode, political rivalry, on political and
economic outcomes in Indonesia and the Philippines from an economic
perspective.
A paper presented by Joseph Capuno (University of the Philippines)
studied the effects of political competition on fiscal and economic outcomes
in subnational Philippine jurisdictions. Past studies on the Philippines found
an ambiguous relationship between political dynasties (a proxy for political
competition) and local development. Capuno showed that provinces with
higher numbers of officials belonging to the same political clan receive higher
per capita transfers for public services. However, these transfers do not seem
to have a significant effect on provincial development.
The paper by Gerrit Gonschorek (University of Freiburg) and Günther
G. Schulze analyzed how the political (non)alignment of districts and the
president’s party affect discretionary central government spending in Indonesia. Preliminary empirical evidence suggests that a district’s political alignment with the president and its geographic proximity to the president’s home
district significantly increase central spending for infrastructure. The socioeconomic development of a district, on the other hand, seems to play only a
minor role in the distribution.
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In a panel chaired by Krisztina Kis-Katos (University of Freiburg),
Antonio Farfán-Vallespín (University of Freiburg) showed that incumbency
is far more important for the re-election of local politicians in the Philippines than membership in a political dynasty. As political dynasties are
usually considered a main obstacle to good governance, this has important
implications for political reform efforts. If the high incumbency rate is responsible for the perpetuation of dynasties, according to Farfán-Vallespin,
reforms trying to increase electoral competition should focus on incumbency
advantages.
In another paper, Capuno, Farfán-Vallespín and Schulze examined the
killings of journalists in the Philippines. They indicated that the probability
of the murder of journalists can be predicted by institutional and economic
factors. Particularly interesting are the correlations between the probability
of the murder of journalists and the level of local corruption, the quality of
local institutions, and characteristics of the media in the province.
Joseph Capuno and Christian von Lübke (Arnold Bergstraesser
Institute) showed that good governance may be facilitated by elite competition.
By comparing two Philippine cities with similar backgrounds, but distinctly
different elite constellations, they demonstrated that more intense elite contests are accompanied by better governance outcomes. These findings confirm that, in the absence of credible judicial and societal controls, public
performance remains contingent on the extent to which established elites
keep each other in check.
Convened by Sabine Dabringhaus (University of Freiburg), the last
session “Historical Perspectives on Transcultural Interactions in Southeast
Asia” concentrated on transcultural processes of (de)alignment in Southeast
Asia from a historical perspective. In a panel chaired by Nurul Ilmi Idrus
(Hassanuddin University), Agus Suwignyo (Gadjah Mada University) discussed gotong royong as a social, non-state institution of welfare and citizenship and elaborated on its changing role in the process of Indonesian
state formation. The introduction of the gotong royong by the Javanese
changed the nature of communal service cooperation in Indonesia from an
externally imposed mechanism for lower class people to a unifying point of
identification. Hereby the institutionalization of gotong royong not only
strengthened communal service cooperation, but also stimulated consciousness of the individual’s position vis-à-vis the state.
In her presentation, Katja Rangsivek (University of Copenhagen) explained the importance of the return of King Prajadhipok’s ashes for the
reinvention of the Thai Monarchy. King Prajadhipok was the first Thai monarch to abdicate and go into exile, where he died in 1941. By the time his ashes
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were returned to Bangkok, the monarchy had regained some of its stature in
Thai politics and was about to establish its present omnipotence.
The last panel chaired by Kiyoshi Fujikawa (University of Nagoya),
focused on “Chineseness” in Southeast Asia. A presentation by Sai Siew Min
(National University of Singapore) looked at a Chinese association in today’s
Indonesia, known locally as the Tiong Hoa Hwe Koan (THHK). The THHK
was founded in 1900 and tried to establish modern schools to teach Tjia-Im,
or Mandarin to Chinese children. The THHK offers a significant example of
how diasporic Chinese nationalism developed in a fully colonized setting
and responded to events and dynamics different from those unfolding in
semi-colonial China. Its development can therefore be situated within what
Rebecca Karl has described as the “global moment” of Chinese nationalism,
as opposed to the archaic model of “overseas Chinese nationalism”.
Han Xiaorong (Lingnan University) showed that state and non-state
agents played significant roles in the cultural exchange between China and
Vietnam in the pre-modern period. Whereas the actions of Chinese state agents
in Vietnam in the pre-modern period were similar to the civilizing missions
of modern colonialists, today the Chinese and Vietnamese states have become
much more powerful than their pre-modern predecessors in regulating
cultural interaction between the two countries. Although Sino-Vietnamese
cultural interaction was bi-directional, it was asymmetric: Chinese influence
on Vietnam was much stronger than Vietnamese influence on China.
The conference contributions portrayed a region whose institutions and
social fabric are in a state of accelerated flux. Established cultures of cooperation have come under strain from an increasingly tense contest between a
largely Western form of modernization and a strong backlash by forces
seeking alternative responses to globalization. Each of these approaches to
modernity results in divergent alignments of social forces, different forms of
cooperation and inevitable dealignments with erstwhile coalition and cooperation partners. The result is a deep insecurity about the direction cultural
change should take in order to cope with the largely external challenges
facing the region. This holds true for the institutional setting at the regional
level, where ASEAN navigates between a more EU-inspired model of regional cooperation and the informal norms propagated by the ASEAN Way,
the region’s long-established repository of cooperation norms. The same
holds true at the local level, where economic growth seems to be impeded
by clientelist networks, which in many cases still prevail over more legalistic
approaches to the allotment of central state resources. Alongside this contest
over cultural orientations and alignments lies increased interest in the
Middle East, the Arab world and Middle Eastern Islam, even though – as the
anthropological contributions suggest – when directly exposed to these cul-
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tures during the hajj or tertiary education, such new alignments are often
seen in a critical light. In a region characterized by a high degree of structural
diversity from the outset, this obvious lack of cohesion may also impede
attempts to keep external forces at bay and to strengthen its global position.
Anna Fünfgeld / Gerrit Gonschorek
Scales of Knowledge: Zooming In and Zooming Out
7th Annual Conference of the Cluster of Excellence
“Asia and Europe in a Global Context”
Heidelberg, 7–9 October 2015
The Cluster of Excellence “Asia and Europe in a Global Context” held its
seventh Annual Conference Scales of Knowledge: Zooming In and Zooming
Out at Heidelberg University from 7 to 9 October 2015. The conference was
organised by the Cluster’s Research Area C “Knowledge Systems” and revolved around the much discussed phenomenon of scales of knowledge. In
an opening keynote lecture, four morning and nine afternoon sessions, 13
panels comprising 48 senior and junior researchers considered knowledge
observation and production from multitudinous vantage points. Convinced
of scales’ importance and versatility, the participants explored their use in
the analysis and narration of history, anthropology, medicine, geography and
other fields.
Framed by the Taiwanese ensemble 3peoplemusic’s journey through musical scales of East and West, past and present, indigenous and global,
George Marcus (Irvine) opened the conference with a challenging keynote
lecture. A noteworthy suggestion was to not only zoom in and zoom out, but
to dare and stop in the middle of a zoom. This idea resonated well with the
conference’s outspoken goal to scrutinise scales’ potential to overcome
lingering dualisms such as “global and local” and “macro and micro”. While
not all elements of his speech found a strong echo, he certainly set one recurring theme of the conference by stressing the importance of zooms into
the micro level.
On the second day, Pablo Blitstein (Heidelberg) showed how important
insights into argumentative practices were to be gained by zooming in on
specific discursive moments. By investigating the writings of Kāng Yǒuwéi,
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he established that the “Chinese nation” could inversely be conceived as
being based on either cultural or racial identity in early 20th century China.
This difference was shown not only to depend on whether the argumentation
scaled to the various peoples of China or to foreign political powers, but
also disclose global discursive trends. Simon Partner (Durham) expertly
deconstructed the mesh of spaces and times that intertwined in the peculiar
world of Yokohama in the 19th century. By studying the life of Shinohara
Chūemon, who went from the countryside to the city, from peasant to merchant, and ended in bankruptcy, he retraced how events on a global scale
conditioned the lifeworld of one specific individual. By aligning the global
with the local, he made a strong case for the factitiousness of the seeming
polarity of both concepts.
From a medical vantage point, Ananda Chopra (Heidelberg) retraced the
changing scales behind the Ayurvedic diagnosis of depression. His analysis
of modern Ayurvedic practice led him to distinguish between a traditional
perception and a more recent one approximating modern bio-medicine.
However, the fact that contemporary practitioners of Ayurveda also rely on
the influential religious text Bhagavadgītā led him to suggest that there is a
third, sociocultural dimension to nosological scales. He effectively cautioned
against a simplistic view of medical diagnosis that single-mindedly prioritises
bio-medical diagnosis and therapy. Similarly critical concerns were raised
by Stefan Ecks (Edinburgh), who surveyed the World Health Organisation’s
changing definitions of depression and the globally scaled effects of the
organisation’s recommendations.
In the afternoon panels, Kathrin Kohle (Heidelberg) retraced the resourceful blurring of scales between local megachurches and global media
ministries. She analysed how individual leaders were able to cater to both
scales equally well by contrasting “real” elements of identification in the
events at the local level with the potentially supra-regional and international
appeal of anonymised televangelist media events on a global scale. Esther
Berg (Heidelberg) analysed the two-facedness of the Singaporean City Harvest Church by contrasting the scales of the government and the adherents.
The church’s politics were shown to overemphasise its concern for social
services in its struggle for governmental recognition, but to shift its slogans’
focus to affirming late-modern and neo-liberal messages when recruiting
and exploiting its members.
Dominik Berrens, Katharina Hillenbrand, Sonja Gerke and Simone
Gerhards (all Mainz) presented an exceptionally homogeneous panel on
problems of emic and etic perspectives. Berrens opened the field by exploring “das nächste Fremde” as an adequate description of our relationship
with Greco-Roman texts. He traced how we were neither able to adopt an
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emic nor a properly etic perspective due to historical entanglements, but
were instead rather uncomfortably left between the two. Hillenbrand picked
up on this idea and warned against feeling too close a familiarity with
Greco-Roman texts. She cautioned against reading either scientific or
literary texts from a naively assumed emic perspective, as this could lead to
blindness towards conceptual variation and the subsequent substitution of
wrong concepts. Gerke departed from the Greco-Roman sphere and
explored how “inside” and “outside” views were differently applied in dealing
with ancient Egyptian texts. She explored phenomena surrounding Egyptology as an active scale in conditioning specialists’ approaches to source
materials. Gerhards took another step back and reflected on the limits and
opportunities that zooming in and zooming out presented in dealing with
ancient texts. As opposed to Hillenbrand, she warned not against the risk of
feeling too close to a text, but of blindly applying etic analytical categories
to it.
The last day kicked off with two panels on scales of environmental
knowledge. Julia Poerting (Heidelberg) presented her research on organic
agriculture in Pakistan. Her analysis established that the transfer of knowledge about organic agriculture not only needed to be spread on a lateral,
geographical scale, but also in a bi-directional movement along a vertical
scale. She illustrated that for the successful spread of agricultural techniques
it was not enough for them to be translated from scientific research into
practical action, but that farmers and knowledge brokers also needed to
scale up their involvement in those techniques. From a different angle,
Marcus Nüsser (Heidelberg) talked about the tensions between local and
global views on glaciers. He explained that in certain valleys glacier melt
water was the sole source for irrigation and showed how indigenous people
adapted to that challenge by building a unique infrastructure to secure
irrigation over longer annual periods. He contrasted this local knowledge
with the fairly recent worldwide polemic about the alleged disappearance of
glaciers and showed that that panic was not only potentially unfounded, but
that glaciers have become imbued with a political meaning that potentially
shrouds the interest in practical knowledge. Ravi Baghel (Heidelberg)
explored the political and military tensions around the Siachen glacier
between India and Pakistan. He showed that the imprecise formulations of
an original treaty were due to a lack of cartographic knowledge and thus
allowed both countries to claim the Siachen glacier. He then retraced how the
scale of the conflict changed from confusion to “cartographic aggression”
when Pakistan took as fact a straight line that the US air force had added to
a map as a guideline for their pilots. Although that “border line” did not
appear on differently scaled maps at the time, Baghel argued that it has
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come to weigh on both countries’ diplomatic relations, force harsh living
conditions on many soldiers and politicise the cartography of the Siachen
glacier on a global scale.
In the last round of afternoon panels, Andrea Bréard (Heidelberg/Lille)
presented a work in progress on mathematical modernity and explored Xià
Luánxiáng’s thoughts on conics. By closely reading Xià’s work, she was able
to discern that in a vain attempt to come up with a unified calculus for the
four basic types of curves he worked along different epistemological lines.
She demonstrated that Xià thought the Western system of mathematical
knowledge inferior to his own, which he scaled to a cosmological rhetoric
and developed within a structurally different organisation of knowledge.
Joachim Kurtz (Heidelberg) returned to the writings of Kāng Yǒuwéi and
explored the topic of epistemic ruptures. By turning to an unpublished draft
for a Comprehensive Book on Substantial Principles and Universal Laws,
he showed how already in the early 1890s Kāng was tormented by the
decline of argumentative validity that the Confucian classics had once
possessed and struggled hard to come to grips with metropolitan science.
Kurtz draw a vivid picture of the bewildering results Kāng had come up
with as he juxtaposed Euclid and the five cardinal relationships and analysed
this along various scales, from Kāng’s personal biography through intertextual relations to national and international politics.
During the concluding round table, William Sax (Heidelberg) recalled
the importance of letting go of the big narrative to scale down and check the
manifold personal stories. Sophie Roche (Heidelberg) on the other hand
called to mind that scaling is not just something we do, but that we are also
inevitably subjected to. Duncan Paterson (Heidelberg) cautioned against a
deflationary use of scales and warned against holding on to a polar view of
micro and macro. The present observer feels that the conference was highly
successful in displaying a wide range of productive applications of scales in
both knowledge observation and knowledge generation. He agrees with most
of the participants that we are still in dire need of all the micro studies we
can get in order to overcome our attraction to untested macro narratives.
However, there are a number of points that beg further investigation. First
among these is the practical concern of what scale to choose in addressing
specific problems. Second is the problem of correctly scaling one’s own
position in relation to the object of study. Last but not least, there is the
question particularly specific to the Cluster of Excellence, namely of just
what the relationship between scales and transculturality actually is.
Georges Jacoby
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The Art of Hubbing: The Role of Small Islands
in Indian Ocean Connectivity
Halle, 15 ––17
17October
October2015
2015
The conference “The Art of Hubbing: The Role of Small Islands in Indian
Ocean Connectivity” was held at the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology in Halle/Saale, Germany from 15 – 17 October 2015. It is already
the second conference on the Indian Ocean World organised by Burkhard
Schnepel and his Max Planck Fellow Group “Connectivity in Motion: Port
Cities of the Indian Ocean”. The conference focused on small islands and
their heuristic potential in the anthropology and historiography of the Indian
Ocean. It organised in an international interdisciplinary framework bringing
together scholars from African, South Asian, South East Asian and East
Asian Studies as well as anthropology, history, political science and sociology. This broad mix of regional and disciplinary expertise stimulated vibrant
discussions among the participants who all shared an interest in Island and/
or Indian Ocean Studies.
The conference commenced with a thematic introduction by the organiser Burkhard Schnepel. The core idea which the conference sought to address
was that small islands have been, are and continue to be “hubs”, i.e. contact
and exchange zones, negotiation spaces and socio-cultural laboratories,
crucial in Indian Ocean connectivity. Schnepel argued that “hubbing” may
be seen as a process of strategic accumulation and concentration of connections. He elaborated on this theme by emphasising three vital issues around
which the event revolved: First, the exploration of the various ways in which
islands, insularity and islandness matter in establishing, maintaining and
interrupting maritime and terrestrial connections in the Indian Ocean World.
Second, the empirical investigation of particular island sites and how they
emerge and sustain and/or collapse and vanish as nodal points (in various
respects) in Indian Ocean networks in the course of history. And third, the
study of small islands as conflations of geography, history, society and
imaginaries, which enables us to investigate broader issues, such as diasporic
living, creolisation, post-/colonialism, socio-cultural exchanges of various
sorts and globalisation.
Picking up on the core theme of insularity, smallness and “hubbing”,
André Gingrich (Austrian Academy of Sciences, Vienna) argued in his keynote address “Smallness and Insular Hubs: Some Working Hypotheses from
Historical Anthropology” for a notion of relative smallness by distinguishing
three types: first, a “binary” sort of island smallness that rests on the relation
to a large mainland neighbour; second, a “buffer” position between larger
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landmasses in which small islands might be situated, and third, a “cluster”
variant that lumps together small islands in close proximity. Drawing on
historic examples, he made the point that each type of relative smallness
makes specific hub functions more or less likely.
All 14 presentations that followed in the subsequent two days discussed issues of insularity, “hubbing” and connectivity by examining cases
covering almost the entire Indian Ocean rim over a period of nearly two
millennia. To be able to synthesise the contributions most comprehensively I
will divide them in two groups: on the one hand, those presentations that
focus on island hubs to explore the workings of connectivity, and on the
other, those papers that centre on connectivity to investigate to roles of islands.
The first kind of presentation includes Keebet von Benda-Beckmann’s
(Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology, Halle) “Ambon – A Spicy
Hub”. In her paper she investigated how the colonial struggle between
Portuguese, Dutch and Indonesian (and other) powers for control of the
spice trade, in particular cloves and nutmeg, has shaped contemporary society
in the harbour city of Ambon. Von Benda-Beckmann then related the long
history of connections with Europe, the Arab world and South Asia to
contemporary tensions, eventually arguing that despite Ambon’s long multicultural legacy segregation along religious lines now appears to be more
rigorous than ever before.
Jürgen G. Nagel (Fernuniversität Hagen) also presented a case study
from the Indonesian-Malayan region and also focused on the interplay of
religious and economic facets. His paper “Commodities and Creeds: Changing
Connectivity of Makassar (South Sulawesi), 16th to 20th Century” investigates
the fluctuation of connections of a port city in a long-term perspective. Besides
problematising and filling some gaps in Makassar historiography the main
contribution of Nagel’s paper was to show how the port city’s commercial
hub function intersected with its religious hub function. He concluded that
Makassar’s long history reflects well the various expansions and contractions of religious, political and commercial connections to closer and more
distant localities and thereby offers insights into the mechanics of “hubbing”.
In his paper “Port Louis (Mauritius) and the Making of a ‘HubSociety’” Burkhard Schnepel (Martin-Luther-Universität Halle-Wittenberg)
argued that from the time it was first inhabited in the 17th century the island
of Mauritius has always functioned as a hub. He maps out how Mauritians
have over the last few hundred years strategically positioned themselves at
junctions of trans-regional networks. Schnepel argues that Mauritians have
perfected the “art of hubbing” to that extend that the island is now not
merely a maritime hub for commodity trading (like sugar, seafood or petrol
products), but is also a hub for knowledge and information flows as well as
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financial transactions. Probably the biggest merit of Schnepel’s anthropological discussion was to demonstrate a society’s agency and creativity in
establishing itself as a hub at multiple levels.
Historian Tansen Sen (City University of New York) took a different
approach, investigating not an inside, but a particular outside view on the
island of Ceylon. In his contribution “Small? Big? Island? The Perceptions
of Sri Lanka in Chinese Sources” Sen presents his findings on how Chinese
travellers portrayed the island between the 5th and 15th centuries. Sen’s
historiography revealed that from the 5th century onwards the Chinese had
established quite sophisticated geographical depictions of the island and
were well aware of Sri Lanka’s commercial hub function. Many sources from
Chinese merchants, diplomats, scribes and monks also mention Sri Lanka as
an important centre of Buddhism, which is further evidence that historical
contemporaries appear to have given prominence to commercial and religious
aspects in depicting a distant land.
Ian Walker (Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology, Halle)
presented a paper, entitled “Zanzibar. A Hub in Comorian Diasporic Networks in the Western Indian Ocean”, in which he explored relationships
among individual Comorians across multiple localities spread along the
African coast. His analysis focused on a prominent Comorian who resided in
Zanzibar in the early 20th century. By means of loan and debt records
Walker traced a network of relationships that enabled him to demonstrate
how Zanzibar’s cosmopolitan centrality helped maintain ties within the scattered Comorian diaspora.
Zanzibar is also the location of Kjersti Larsen’s (University of Oslo)
paper, called “Multifaceted Identities, Multiple Dwellings: Connectivity and
Flexible Household-configurations in Zanzibar Town”. Larsen’s rich ethnography of Zanzibari households highlighted the complex intertwining of
regional mobility, social organisation and identity politics. She argued that
ideological and structural flexibility inherent in multi-ethnic and multireligious households in Zanzibar Town equips residents for manoeuvring in
different social and cultural spaces. This, she continued, not only enables
easier integration of religious and identitary plurality, but also forms a facilitating precondition for spatial mobility and hence connectivity.
With “Bali and Indian-Indonesian Connectivity: Why a Small Island
Has Mattered” Martin Ramstedt (Martin-Luther-Universität Halle-Wittenberg)
presented a paper in which he investigated the politics of imaginaries of “Bali”
in 20th century Indonesia. Assumptions, projections and romanticisations of
“Bali” as an enclave of ancient Indian roots, he argued, serve Indian Hindu
intellectuals and Javanese nationalists alike to glorify Indonesia’s Indian
past and to counter present day Islamisation tendencies. Ramstedt empha-
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sised that the strategic appropriation of historic Indo-Indonesian connectivity
forms an integral part of 20th century cultural politics that constructs Bali as
a significant other within Indonesia.
Ajay Gandhi (Max Planck Institute for the Study of Religious and
Ethnic Diversity, Göttingen) presented a comparison of two Indian Ocean
port cities in his paper “Specks that Speak Loudly: The View from Mumbai
and Ilha de Moçambique”. His comparison of the two places teased out
varying degrees of integration with state and imperial authority and explored
their entrepôt functions for religious, linguistic, but also criminal circulations.
Vijaya Teelock’s (University of Mauritius) paper “The Emergence of
‘Local Cosmopolitans’: Migration and Settlement in Early 18th up to Mid19th Century Port Louis” was a detailed historiographic analysis of urban
stratification. By tracing the evolvement and decline of spatial distributions
of particular segments of Mauritian society Teelock showed how the city of
Port Louis emerged as the social, cultural and political hub not only for
Mauritius itself, but also for its neighbouring islands.
Steffen F. Johannessen (Norwegian Business School, Oslo) showed
how the notion of the “hub” can usefully be applied to analyse connectivity
in the Chagos Archipelago. In his paper “From Coconut Trade to ‘War on
Terror’: Connectivity and Disconnections in the Indian Ocean” Johannessen
demonstrated how the control over access to the islands has dramatically
shaped recent Indian Ocean history. The installation of a UK-US airbase in
1973 transformed the archipelago into a military hub through which military
personnel, terrorist suspects, explosives and many kinds of fatal equipment
circulate between the Middle East, other Indian Ocean localities, and the
United States of America.
Johannessen’s paper is an exemplar for all the above papers that
focused on how connectivity features in island hubs. The following set of
presentations centre on how island hubs feature in connectivity – so they rather
explore the properties of the connections than the qualities of the knots.
Beatrice Nicolini (Catholic University of Milan) discussed a journey of
the first Omani ship to visit America in her paper “Global Indian Ocean
Ports: Sailing from Arabia, to Zanzibar, and to New York”. This mid-19th
century expedition presented the first ever mission of an African or Arabian
state to the United States of America. She argued that the mercantile motivation of the journey was closely linked to political aims, because agreements
on economic exchange were the main driving force for the travellers.
Edward A. Alpers (University of California, Los Angeles) in his contribution “Islands Connect: People, Things and Ideas among the Small
Islands of the Western Indian Ocean” investigated the various linkages
between islands along the coast of East Africa. For his analysis he favoured
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the notion of the rhizome over that of the network to emphasise the lively,
multidirectional and transregional aspects of connections among these places.
He argued that the rhizome metaphor provides another way to think about
what the conference addressed as “hubs”.
In “Displaced Passengers: States, Movements and Disappearances in
the Indian Ocean” Godfrey Baldacchino (University of Malta) explored two
cases of relocation within the Indian Ocean to scrutinise how this pressures
states and attracts tourists. Baldacchino presented the cases of the evicted
islanders of Chagos and the vanished Malaysia Airlines flight MH370 to
argue that various modi of mobility and immobility should be included in
the study of Indian Ocean connectivity.
Gwyn Campbell (McGill University, Montreal) investigated Kilwa as
an intermediary between Africa and the Indian Ocean World from its
beginnings to the 19th century in his paper “Kilwa Island and the Western
Indian Ocean World”. He emphasised the importance of considering Indian
Ocean connectivity beyond the fringes of the geographical margins of its
waters. It follows from this that an exploration of connections in the Indian
World must acknowledge maritime as well as terrestrial movements.
Overall, the papers picked up and contributed to the conference theme
either by centring on a particular island hub or by highlighting connections.
The interdisciplinary mix of conference participants provided an interesting
setting for enriching discussions and helped to promote the macro-region of
the Indian Ocean World as a trans-regional multidisciplinary research arena.
The conference illustrates that Indian Ocean Studies offer interesting heuristics
not only to challenge, but also to transcend common regional and conceptual
departmentalisations in academia.
Boris Wille
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Teacher Education in Afghanistan
Challenges and Prospects
Freiburg, 16–17 October 2015
Afghanistan has been in newspaper and TV headlines for years. The public’s
attention is drawn to Afghanistan when topics such as war, violence, terrorism
and, most recently, refugees in Europe are discussed. When education and
schools in Afghanistan are picked out as central themes, the reports are
equally negative due to the attacks on the Afghan educational system.
On 16 and 17 October 2015, a conference took place at the University
of Education in Freiburg. It approached the topic education and schools in
Afghanistan from a different perspective. The main goal of the conference
“Teacher Education in Afghanistan. Challenges and Prospects” was to discuss
this topic, despite extremely challenging conditions, with guests from Afghanistan.The conference was organized by the University of Education,
Freiburg, the University of Applied Sciences and Arts Northwestern
Switzerland and the Arnold Bergstraesser Institute for Socio-cultural
Research at the University of Freiburg. The Gesellschaft für Internationale
Zusammenarbeit (GIZ) provided significant financial support for the
conference. Further partners were the Schweizerische Direktion für
Entwicklung und Zusammenarbeit (DEZA), the University of Basel, the
Galtung Institute for Peace Theory and Peace Practice and the DeutschAfghanische Initiative e.V. (DAI) in Freiburg. With up to 180 participants,
the conference was better attended than expected for such a special topic.
During the conference, teacher education was discussed in a rather
general context of education (for everybody) as well as peace and development. The first day concentrated on an exemplary and at times controversial
presentation of the situation of schools and teacher education in Afghanistan. Craig Naumann, who held the first keynote, published his dissertation
“Books, Bullets and Burqas. Educational Development, Society and the
State of Afghanistan” in 2012. Naumann also worked for the Afghan government as well as various NGOs in Afghanistan until 2009. In his contribution, he first criticized official data still used as the basis for UNESCO
policy documents and Oxfam papers to this day. In his analysis of the
overall educational situation in Afghanistan Naumann pointed out that we
need to use the notion of a continuous improvement of school enrolment
rates of boys and girls with care, although this perception is widespread in
political discussions. He criticized that the so-called ghost students, i.e.
students who dropped out of school a long time ago, remain in statistical data.
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This is not considered in those political discussions. He argues that in the
meantime we can also read of whole ghost schools.
Susan Wardak, senior advisor of the Afghan Ministry of Education, is
also responsible for the Teacher Training Colleges (TTC’s) throughout the
country. She presented a very positive and promising view of the development of Afghan schools, school enrolment rates and teacher education, even
in the southern provinces of Afghanistan, which are considered dangerous.
Supported by the GIZ among others, the Afghan Ministry of Education
initiated large-scale programmes to strengthen girls’ education. According
to Wardak, even in rural areas the acceptance of girls’ education has considerably increased, because inhabitants of small villages have begun to
realize the value of schooling and higher education for their personal future
prospects. Afterwards, Asadullah Jawid portrayed the Gawharshad Institute
of Higher Education in Kabul, which had been founded by Sima Samar. It is
a private university which is not directly connected to teacher education (it
offers B.A. and M.A. degree programmes in economics, civil engineering
and political science). However, it is interesting in a general context of education, peace and development, since all Gawharshad University students
are required to take two courses in peace education. Amannullah Hamidzai,
president of the Kabul Education University of Rabbani (known as Kabul
Education University until 2012) outlined the structures of his university,
which covers high school teacher education. According to the current enrolment data, one third of the 8,300 enrolled students are female.
In the second session, the focus shifted to the Afghan province of
Herat. The session started with a presentation by Mohammad Joma Hanif,
who introduced the Faculty of Education of Herat University. What makes
this faculty remarkable is that more than half of the students as well as 44
per cent of the instructors are female. Heidi Kässer continued the series of
presentations about Herat with a report on her project, which she conducts
with students in and around the city. Since 2008, the DAI in Freiburg has
been promoting mainly female students from poor backgrounds under her
tutelage. She was and is in direct contact with 30 students and quoted from
students’ letters in order to illustrate their situation before and after their
studies. In addition, using statistical data for Herat University, she showed
that the number of female as well as male graduates has increased. However,
the percentage of unemployed former students has also risen continuously.
As Naumann had already emphasized in the morning, Kässer, too, pointed
out the need to establish a job-related school system, in Afghanistan. This is
necessary in order to open up new perspectives for graduates who cannot
enrol at universities.
436
Conference Reports
On Friday afternoon and Saturday morning, a total of ten workshop
sessions offered a relatively broad spectrum from the promotion of life-skills
to deeper insights into the work of the Afghan Ministry of Education to the
analysis of the Taliban movement and even a project with nomads in Afghanistan. A core theme of many workshops was peace and human rights
education as well as political education.
The human rights activist and Right Livelihood Awardee Sima Samar
gave a lecture on the situation in Afghanistan regarding human rights and
education on Friday evening. She raised concerns over various difficulties in
Afghan education: from the qualification of teachers to the increasing
closure of schools in areas threatened by the Taliban to corruption and even
the lack of school buildings. Sima Samar strongly suggested giving education the same priority as security. She argued that the need to maintain
education and educational institutions is similar to the need to maintain law
and order. If education took a subordinate role to security interests, this
would cause further harm to the country.
On Saturday after the workshop sessions, the conference continued
with two further keynotes that placed education, development and peace in a
general context again. Jochen Hippler, Afghanistan expert and advisor of the
Federal German Foreign Office, pointed out that there is no general primary
correlation between education and peace. Instead, other factors such as wellfunctioning labor markets act as central bonding agents. He stressed that
from the Afghan population’s perspective it would not always be evident
whether the Taliban rebels or corrupt parts of the government were the
lesser of two evils. Narkow Grant-Hayford, who represented the Galtung
Institute, emphasized on the other hand that dialogue with all conflicting
parties was the only chance to establish more peaceful conditions. He argued
that especially the intervening Western powers were supposed to agree on
setting up supporting conditions to promote a process of dialogue as the
precondition for the chance to pursue overall conflict transformation. He
made a strong argument for the introduction of peace education at all system
levels. In doing so, Narkow Grant-Hayford directly supported Susan Wardak,
who already integrated modules on peace education in teacher education,
and Sima Samar and Asadulla Jawid, who have already introduced peace
education as mandatory courses for all university students.
The synopsis of the conference revealed both progress in teacher
education in Afghanistan and various unsolved problems. It was clear that
teacher education in Afghanistan cannot be seen as a continuous success
story, despite tremendous efforts on the part of the Afghan government and
a vast number of NGOs and private initiatives. The difficulties are too evident regarding the quality of learning opportunities, the drop-outs, and the
Conference Reports
437
increasingly problematic security situation. Nevertheless, education in Afghanistan does not stand still. This conclusion is based on enrolment and
student rates, and still holds even if we halve the official figures. There was
a surprising level of agreement among the conference participants concerning the appreciation and establishment of peace and human rights education
in the context of university education in Afghanistan. One of the goals of
this conference was to investigate to what extent co-operations are feasible
and possible between the conference organizers and stakeholders of the educational landscape in Afghanistan. All participants are certain that these cooperations will occur; at least in this respect the conference was a complete
success. There is hope that through these and similar co-operations as well
as through the establishment of peace education programs the trend towards
improvement will continue in Afghanistan. However, almost all participants,
including organizers, lecturers, workshop leaders and attendees, agreed that
efforts to promote stability and peace education in Afghanistan will not have
any impact if the rise of militaristic tendencies in Western societies is not
curbed at the same time.
Anne-Marie Grundmeier / Diana Sahrai / Fereschta Sahrai
Authors
PROF. DR. JÖRN DOSCH, International Politics and Development Cooperation,
University of Rostock, Ulmenstraße 69, 18051 Rostock, Germany
[email protected]
PROF. DR. JÜRGEN WASIM FREMBGEN, Museum Fünf Kontinente, Abteilung
Islamischer Orient, Maximilianstraße 42, 80538 München, Germany
[email protected]
ANNA FÜNFGELD, M. A., Seminar für Wissenschaftliche Politik, Universität
Freiburg, Rempartstraße 15, 79085 Freiburg, Germany
[email protected]
G
ERRIT
, Dipl.-Volkswirt,
Institutefür
forAlltagskultur,
Economic Research,
DepartPROF
. DG
R.ONSCHOREK
ANNE-MARIE
GRUNDMEIER, Institut
Bewegung
und
ment
of International
Economic
Policy,Freiburg,
University
of Freiburg,
Platz der
Alten
Gesundheit,
Pädagogische
Hochschule
Kunzenweg
21, 79117
Freiburg,
Synagoge
Germany 1, 79085 Freiburg, Germany
[email protected]
[email protected]
P
. DG
R.ONSCHOREK
ANNE-MARIE
GRUNDMEIER, Institut
Bewegung
und
ERRIT
, Dipl.-Volkswirt,
Institutefür
forAlltagskultur,
Economic Research,
DepartGROF
Gesundheit,
Pädagogische
Hochschule
Kunzenweg
21, 79117
Freiburg,
ment of International
Economic
Policy,Freiburg,
University
of Freiburg,
Platz der
Alten
Germany
Synagoge 1, 79085 Freiburg, Germany
[email protected]
[email protected]
PROF. DR. THOMAS HEBERER, Chinese Politics & Society, Institute of East Asian
Studies, University Duisburg-Essen, Lotharstraße 65, 47048 Duisburg, Germany
[email protected]
SASCHA HELBARDT, Southeast Asian Studies, University Passau, Dr.-HansKapfinger-Straße 14b, 94032 Passau, Germany
[email protected]
PROF. DR. DAGMAR HELLMANN-RAJANAYAGAM, Southeast Asian Studies,
University Passau, Dr.-Hans-Kapfinger-Straße 14b, 94032 Passau, Germany
[email protected]
DR. ANTHONY V.M. HORTON, 180 Hither Green Lane, Bordesley, Redditch,
Worcestershire B98 9AZ, United Kingdom
[email protected]
GEORGES JACOBY, Karl Jaspers Zentrum für Transkulturelle Forschung (KJC),
Voßstraße 2, Gebäude 4400, 69115 Heidelberg, Germany
[email protected]
DR. MARKUS KARBAUM, Weimarische Str. 18, 10715 Berlin, Germany
[email protected]
DR. THOMAS KOLNBERGER, Université du Luxembourg, Campus Belval, Maison
des Sciences Humaines, 11 Porte des Sciences, L-4366 Esch-sur-Alzette,
Luxembourg
[email protected]
Authors
439
M
LUDWIG
, Geschichte
Südasien-Institut,
Universität Heidelberg,
DRANJU
. TILMAN
LÜDKE
, ArnoldSüdasiens,
Bergstraesser
Institute, Windausstraße
16, 79110
Im
Neuenheimer
Feld 330, 69120 Heidelberg, Germany
Freiburg,
Germany
[email protected]
[email protected]
IPL
.-G
EOGRAPH
PD, Arnold
DR. RALPH
LÜTZELER,Institute,
Universität
Wien, Institut
OstDR
.T
ILMAN
LÜDKE
Bergstraesser
Windausstraße
16,für79110
asienwissenschaften,
Freiburg,
Germany Japanologie, Spitalgasse 2, Hof 2.4, 1090 Wien, Austria
[email protected]
[email protected]
D
.-GLEOGRAPH
PD DR. RALPH
LÜTZELER
, Universität Wien,
Institut
für OstMIPL
ANJU
UDWIG, Geschichte
Südasiens,
Südasien-Institut,
Universität
Heidelberg,
asienwissenschaften,
Spitalgasse 2,
Hof 2.4, 1090 Wien, Austria
Im Neuenheimer FeldJapanologie,
330, 69120 Heidelberg,
Germany
[email protected]
[email protected]
DROF
R. D
OMINIK
M. MK
ÜLLER
, Cluster
of Excellence
“Formation
of Normative
P
.D
R. SUBRATA
UMAR
MITRA, Institute
of South
Asian Studies,
National
Orders”, Goethe
University
2, 60629
Frankfurt,
University
of Singapore,
29 Frankfurt,
Heng MuiMax-Horkheimer-Straße
Keng Terrace, #08-06 (Block
B), Singapore
GermanySingapore
119620,
[email protected]
[email protected]
D
R. D
OMINIK
M. MK
ÜLLER
, Cluster
of Excellence
“Formation
of Normative
.D
R. SUBRATA
UMAR
MITRA, Institute
of South
Asian Studies,
National
PROF
Orders”,
Goethe
University
2, 60629
Frankfurt,
University
of Singapore,
29 Frankfurt,
Heng MuiMax-Horkheimer-Straße
Keng Terrace, #08-06 (Block
B), Singapore
Germany
119620, Singapore
[email protected]
[email protected]
DR. ASTRID NORÉN-NILSSON, Cambodian Institute for Strategic Studies (CISS),
65 Street 606, Beoung Kok II, Toul Kork, Phnom Penh, Cambodia
[email protected]
DR. ALBRECHT ROTHACHER, EU Delegation, Europa House, 4-6-28 MinamiAzabu, Minato-ku, Tokyo 106-0047, Japan
[email protected]
PROF. DR. DIANA SAHRAI, Institut Spezielle Pädagogik und Psychologie, Pädagogische Hochschule FHNW, Steintorstraße 30, 4051 Basel, Schwitzerland
[email protected]
FERESCHTA SAHRAI, Institut Spezielle Pädagogik und Psychologie, Pädagogische
Hochschule FHNW, Steintorstraße 30, 4051 Basel, Schwitzerland
[email protected]
PROF. DR. IUR. DR. PHIL. HARRO VON SENGER, c/o Schweizerisches Institut für
Rechtsvergleichung, 1015 Lausanne/Dorigny, Switzerland
[email protected]
BORIS WILLE, M. A., Seminar für Ethnologie, Institut für Ethnologie und Philosophie, Martin-Luther-Universität Halle-Wittenberg, Reichardtstraße 11, 06114
Halle/Saale, Germany
[email protected]
ANNA-LENA WOLF, M. A., Institute of Social Anthropology, University of Bern,
Lerchenweg 36, 3000 Bern 9, Switzerland
[email protected]
DR. WOLFGANG-PETER ZINGEL, Abteilung Internationale Wirtschafts- und Entwicklungspolitik, Südasien-Institut, Universität Heidelberg, Im Neuenheimer
Feld 330, 69120 Heidelberg, Germany
[email protected]
Internationales
Asienforum
Articles
Contemporary Indigeneity and Religion in India
Editorial
5
GREGORY D. ALLES / LIDIA GUZY / UWE SKODA / ÜLO VALK
Music and Non-Brahmin Priests of the Bora Sambar Region
in Western Odisha
17
LIDIA GUZY
Housing Ancestors. The Reorganization of Living Spaces
among the Birhor of Jharkhand and Odisha
39
DEBORAH NADAL
Journey to the Center of the World. Indigenous Cosmogony
of Kuttia Khond in Odisha
59
STEFANO BEGGIORA
Rajas, Adibasis and their Goddess(es). Dasara Rituals and a
Sacrificial Polity in a Former Feudatory State in Odisha
81
UWE SKODA
Work and Play in Gamshahi. Performing the Indigenous Village
in Eastern Gujarat
103
GREGORY D. ALLES
Talom Rukbo and the Donyipolo Yelam Kebang. Restructuring
Adi Religious Practices in Arunachal Pradesh
127
CLAIRE S. SCHEID
Best of All Worlds: Rangfraism. The New Institutionalized
Religion of the Tangsa Community in Northeast India
149
MEENAXI BARKATAKI-RUSCHEWEYH
On Wealth and Jealousy among the Khasis. Thlen, Demonization
and the Other
MARGARET LYNGDOH
169
Southeast Asia
The Dynamics of Social Change in Cambodia. Moving away from
Traditionalism?
229
MARKUS KARBAUM
Cambodia at a Crossroads. The Narratives of Cambodia National
Rescue Party Supporters after the 2013 Elections
261
ASTRID NOREN-NILSSON
between ASEAN and China. Two-level Games in Trade
Relations Between
and Security
279
JÖRN DOSCH
Sharia Law and the Politics of “Faith Control” in Brunei Darussalam.
Dynamics of Socio-Legal Change in a Southeast Asian Sultanate
313
DOMINIK M. MÜLLER
The Kachin of Myanmar. An Approach to a Complex Political and
Social History
347
DAGMAR HELLMANN-RAJANAYAGAM / SASCHA HELBARDT
Reviews
Henryk Alff / Andreas Benz (eds), Tracing Connections. Explorations
of Spaces and Places in Asian Contexts (Katja Mielke)
Matthias Schmidt, Mensch und Umwelt in Kirgistan. Politische Ökologie
im postkolonialen und postsozialistischen Kontext (Andrei Dörre)
Katja Mielke / Conrad Schetter, Pakistan: Land der Extreme. Geschichte,
Politik, Kultur (Wolfgang-Peter Zingel)
Robin Jeffrey / Ronojoy Sen (eds), Being Muslim in South Asia. Diversity and Daily Life (Thomas K. Gugler)
Sabine Preuss (ed.), „Ohne Toleranz funktioniert nichts.“ Indisch-deutsche
Technische Zusammenarbeit: Berufsbildung, Hochschule, ländliche
Entwicklung (1958–2010) (Hildegard Scheu)
Zoltán Biedermann, The Portuguese in Sri Lanka and South India. Studies
in the History of Diplomacy, Empire and Trade, 1500–1600
(Perathiba Mohanathas)
Zheng Yongnian / Lye Liang Fook / Wilhelm Hofmeister (eds), Parliaments
in Asia. Institution Building and Political Development
(Michael H. Nelson)
Hubert Heinelt (Hg.), Modernes Regieren in China
(Florian Siekmann)
Byung Khwan Kim / Gi-Wook Shin / David Straub (eds), Beyond North
Korea: Future Challenges to South Korea’s Security (Hanns W. Maull)
Eileen Chanin, Limbang Rebellion: Seven Days in December 1962
187
189
191
193
196
197
200
202
204
206
Rolf Jordan / Gunnar Stange (Hg.), Aktuelle Herausforderungen der internationalen (Entwicklungs-)Zusammenarbeit in Südostasien. Nothilfe,
Wiederaufbau und Entwicklung im Diskurs (Nina Rothermel)
Peter Oborne, Wounded Tiger. A History of Cricket in Pakistan
Franz-Josef Vollmer / Friederike Weis, Angels and Madonnas in Islam.
Mughal and other Oriental Miniatures in the Vollmer Collection
(Tilman Lüdke)
Ute Falasch, Heiligkeit und Mobilität. Die Madāriyya Sufibruderschaft
und ihr Gründer Badī‘ al-Dīn Shāh Madār in Indien, 15.–19. Jahrhundert (Jürgen Wasim Frembgen)
Michael Mann, South Asia’s Modern History. Thematic Perspectives
(Manju Ludwig)
Anita Ghai, Rethinking Disability in India (Anna-Lena Wolf)
Gary Jonathan Bass, The Blood Telegram. Nixon, Kissinger and a
Forgotten Genocide;
Namrata Goswami, Just War Theory and India’s Intervention in East
Pakistan, 1971;
Srinath Raghavan, 1971. A Global History of the Creation of Bangladesh (Wolfgang-Peter Zingel)
Mirjam Weiberg-Salzmann, Die Dekonstruktion der Demokratie durch
die Kultur. Der Bürgerkrieg auf Sri Lanka;
Eva Gerharz, The Politics of Reconstruction and Development in Sri
Lanka. Transnational Commitments to Social Change
(Dagmar Hellmann-Rajanayagam)
Robert Heuser, Grundriss der Geschichte und Modernisierung des
chinesischen Rechts. (Harro von Senger)
Carsten Herrmann-Pillath, Wachstum, Macht und Ordnung. Eine wirtschaftspolitische Auseinandersetzung mit China. (Thomas Heberer)
Liza Wing Man Kam, Reconfiguration of “the Stars and the Queen”.
A Quest for the Interrelationship between Architecture and Civic
Awareness in Post-colonial Hong Kong (Subrata K. Mitra)
Lee Hyun Su, Die letzte Gisaeng (Albrecht Rothacher)
Masao Maruyama, Freiheit und Nation in Japan. Ausgewählte Aufsätze
1936–1949 (Albrecht Rothacher)
Momoyo Hüstebeck, Dezentralisierung in Japan. Politische Autonomie
und Partizipation auf Gemeindebene (Ralph Lützeler)
Daniel Bultmann, Inside Cambodian Insurgency. A Sociological Perspective on Civil Wars and Conflict (Thomas Kolnberger)
John Monfries, A Prince in a Republic. The Life of Sultan Hamengku
Buwono IX of Yogyakarta (Anthony V.M. Horton)
208
379
381
383
385
386
388
393
398
400
403
405
407
412
414
416
Conference Reports
5. Jahrestagung des Arbeitskreises Südasien der Deutschen Gesellschaft
für Geographie (DGfG) (Julia Poerting / Markus Keck)
211
Myanmar: Current Debates on a Society in Transition
(Jasmin li Sabai Günther)
Final Project Workshop: Towards an Effective NCD Surveillance System
for the City of Pune, India
(Mareike Kroll / Carsten Butsch / Frauke Kraas)
Dynamic Alignments and Dealignments in Global Southeast Asia
(Anna Fünfgeld / Gerrit Gonschorek)
Scales of Knowledge: Zooming In and Zooming Out. 7th Annual Conference of the Cluster of Excellence “Asia and Europe in a Global
Context” (Georges Jacoby)
The Art of Hubbing: The Role of Small Islands in Indian Ocean Connectivity (Boris Wille)
Teacher Education in Afghanistan Challenges and Prospects
(Anne-Marie Grundmeier / Diana Sahrai / Fereschta Sahrai)
214
217
419
425
429
434
Obituary
Sir Christopher Bayly – Pioneer of Global History
Authors
220
222/438
441

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