Migration and Activism in Europe since 1945 (Europe in Transition: The NYU European Studies Series)

Migration and Activism in Europe since 1945

EUROPE IN TRANSITION: THE NYU EUROPEAN STUDIES SERIES

The Marshall Plan: Fifty Years After Edited by Martin Schain Europe at the Polls: The European Elections of 1999 Edited by Pascal Perrineau, Gérard Grunberg, and Colette Ysmal Unions, Immigration, and Internationalization: New Challenges and Changing Coalitions in the United States and France By Leah Haus Shadows over Europe: The Development and Impact of the Extreme Right in Western Europe Edited by Martin Schain, Aristide Zolberg, and Patrick Hossay Defending Europe: The EU, NATO and the Quest for European Autonomy Edited by Joylon Howorth and John T.S. Keeler The Lega Nord and Contemporary Politics in Italy By Thomas W. Gold Germans or Foreigners? Attitudes toward Ethnic Minorities in Post-Reunification Germany Edited by Richard Alba and Peter Schmidt Germany on the Road to Normalcy? Politics and Policies of the First Red-Green Federal Government Edited by Werner Reutter The Politics of Language: Essays on Languages, State and Society Edited by Tony Judt and Denis Lacorne Realigning Interests: Crisis and Credibility in European Monetary Integration By Michele Chang The Impact of Radical Right-Wing Parties in West European Democracies By Michelle Hale Williams European Foreign Policy Making toward the Mediterranean By Federica Bicchi Sexual Equality in an Integrated Europe: Virtual Equality By R. Amy Elman Migration and Activism in Europe since 1945 By Wendy Pojmann

Migration and Activism in Europe since 1945 Edited by

Wendy Pojmann

MIGRATION AND ACTIVISM IN EUROPE SINCE 1945

Copyright © Wendy Pojmann, 2008. All rights reserved. Ezekiel, Judith, “French Dressing: Race, Gender, and the Hijab Story” was originally published by Feminist Studies Volume 32, Number 2 (Summer 2006): 256–278. First published in 2008 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN® in the US—a division of St. Martin’s Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Where this book is distributed in the UK, Europe and the rest of the world, this is by Palgrave Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States, the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries. ISBN-13: 978–0–230–60548–0 ISBN-10: 0–230–60548–6 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Migration and activism in Europe since 1945 / edited by Wendy Pojmann. p. cm.—(Europe in transition) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0–230–60548–6 1. Immigrants—Europe, Western—Political activity—Case studies. 2. Immigrants—Europe, Western—History—20th century. 3. Political participation—Europe, Western—Case studies. 4. Protest movements— Europe, Western—Case studies. 5. Pluralism—Europe, Western. 6. Europe, Western—Politics and government—20th century. 7. Europe—Politics and government—1945– I. Pojmann, Wendy A. (Wendy Ann) JV7590.M515 2008 304.8⬘4—dc22

2008005348

A catalogue record of the book is available from the British Library. Design by Newgen Imaging Systems (P) Ltd., Chennai, India. First edition: October 2008 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America.

Contents

List of Tables

vii

Preface

ix

Acknowledgments

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Introduction Wendy Pojmann

1

Part I Migrant Activists in National and Transnational Social Movements 1

For the Nation and for Work: Black Activism in Paris of the 1960s Felix Germain

2

Dissident Guests: Afro-Asian Students and Transnational Activism in the West German Protest Movement Quinn Slobodian

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The Kurdish Conundrum in Europe: Political Opportunities and Transnational Activism Vera Eccarius-Kelly

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The French “Sans-Papiers” Movement: An Unfinished Struggle Jane Freedman

Part II 5

6

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81

Migrant Activists in Trade Unions and Party Politics

The Example of a Communist Paper Aimed at Algerian Immigrants: L ’ Algérien en France (1950–1960) Caroline Izambert Parties of Muslim Persuasion and the Left in Ceuta, Spain Gabriel Alejandro Torres Colón

99 111

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Immigrants and the Brussels Labor Movement: Activism, Integration, and Exclusion since 1945 Eva Schandevyl

8 “From Camel-Boy to MP”: The Politics of Agency and Exclusion in Swedish Political Parties Magnus Dahlstedt

Part III 9

12

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Migrant Activists and Organizations in Outsider Politics

State Management of Immigrant Organizations in Sweden Olgu Karan

10 “We’re right here!”: The Invisibility of Migrant Women in European Women’s Movements—The Case of Italy Wendy Pojmann 11

129

The Political Participation of Berlin’s Turkish Migrants in the Dual Citizenship and Headscarf Debates: A Multilevel Comparison Anna Boucher French Dressing: Race, Gender, and the Hijab Story Judith Ezekiel

175

193

209 233

Bibliography

251

Notes on Contributors

267

Index

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List of Tables

3.1

Naturalization rates among Turkish citizenship holders in Germany, 1994–2006 8.1 Percentage of foreign-born municipal and regional councillors, 1979–2006 8.2 Percentage of foreign-born members of municipal executive boards and committees in 2003 11.1 Percentage of claim-making by migrants in the Nationality Act debate 11.2 Claim-making of migrants compared with citizen non-state actors in the Nationality Act debate 11.3 Percentage of claim-making by migrants in the headscarf ban debate

63 154 154 216 219 221

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Preface

M

ore than two decades ago American and European scholars “discovered” immigrants as political actors, as opposed to simply “powerless and voiceless” objects of politics. These newly established minorities had only limited rights as political actors and fewer rights still as participants in the electoral systems in European countries. Nevertheless, scholars argued that they had considerable protection in an emerging system of “post-nationalist” membership,1 that numerous forms of political participation were open to ethnic minorities, and that in many countries (France, Britain, and Sweden, e.g.) relatively simple naturalization requirements meant that immigrants and their children would soon be voting citizens. 2 This somewhat optimistic view did not go unchallenged. Post-national rights possess only a limited institutional status, protected mostly by judicial institutions, and can be easily swept away by tides of tribalism and nationalism it was argued.3 It is also clear that rights and protections may rest on a weak political foundation if there is a failure to build political support for either immigrant rights or new bases for citizenship. Moreover, the assumption that emerging ethnic minorities “would have a growing and dramatic impact on the politics of Western European nations” remains to be demonstrated.4 Now, this important new collection of essays, written mostly by a new generation of scholars from the United States and Europe, reexamines the issue of immigrants as political actors once again. The authors find that patterns of immigrant activism analyzed by scholars a generation ago have continued and have been reinforced. Activism has continued to be constrained and defined by the nation-state, its institutions, and its values. Protections for post-national rights remain highly fragile, and the reassertion of nationalist politics remains evident. The chapters in this book tell a more complex story than most of what was written before. On one hand, immigrant groups have not gone away politically. They continue to be present, to be organized, and to assert their interests. On the other hand, there is little indication that they have become more effective, or more important than they were a generation ago. The chapters on Sweden, France, Germany, and Belgium, all indicate political weakness, perhaps

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growing weakness, in the representation of immigrant interests, and indeed in the representation of immigrants. This is a rich collection of essays. It offers us the opportunity to examine once again the role of immigrant/ethnic minority groups as political actors in a Europe whose governments have become more hostile to the multicultural frameworks that informed public policy twenty years ago. In this context, it is not surprising that the special interests of these groups are more difficult to assert. Indeed, it is now more important that we understand how these groups participate in the political process. M A. S Professor of Politics New York University Notes 1. See Yasemin Nuhglu Soysal, Limits of Citizenship: Migrants and Postnational Membership in Europe (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994). 2. Alec Hargreaves and Catherine Wihtol de Wenden, New Community, Volume 20, Number 1, October 1993, Special issue: “The Political Participation of Ethnic Minorities in Europe.” 3. Christian Joppke, ed., Challenge to the Nation-State (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), see articles by Schuck, Feldblum, and Guiraudon. 4. Mark Miller, Foreign Workers in Western Europe: An Emerging Political Force (New York: Praeger, 1981).

Acknowledgments

M

y first words of gratitude go to the authors. Agreeing to contribute a chapter to an edited volume is a bit like agreeing to hop on a roller coaster. Thanks to their commitment to this project though it has been an exciting but relatively smooth ride for all of us. At Siena College, I wish especially to thank Susan Kuebler in the Faculty Support Office for preparing the manuscript and the Women’s and Multicultural Studies program for agreeing to pay reprint costs for Judith Ezekiel’s chapter. The School of Liberal Arts, Globalization Studies, and Women’s and Multicultural Studies helped with related conference travel. My colleagues in the History Department have continued to be supportive of my pursuits as an educator and scholar as has my brilliant colleague and friend Laurie Naranch in the Political Science Department. A special thank you to Toby Wahl of Palgrave Macmillan for supporting the project and to his highly professional coworkers for helping me through the publication process. Families often make the biggest sacrifices during large undertakings such as this one, and so I wish to thank my husband, Andrea, for being willing to listen and for offering encouragement at just the right moments.

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Introduction Wendy Pojmann

I

n the United States and Europe immigration is a hotly contested terrain that has generated intense debates at every level of society. The media, policy makers, and politicians, among others, have entered into a discourse that examines immigration from seemingly every possible angle. Within the academic world, numerous single-authored works and collections focusing on immigration and its consequences in postwar Western Europe have appeared in the past several years, especially on issues such as the economic and social impact of migration, its cultural dimensions, the integration of immigrants, national security, and the new role of Islam. An emphasis in much of this literature is the impact of immigration on the host society, and there is a continued tendency in the academy to see migrants, as Castles and Kosack did in their pivotal 1973 text, as powerless and voiceless.1 Yet, migrants are political actors, as Mark J. Miller recognized in Foreign Workers in Western Europe (1981), whose permanent and growing presence in Western Europe was sure to have a dramatic impact on the politics of Western European nations. As Miller wrote more than two decades ago: “Foreign workers have become political actors in their own right through a number of distinctive channels or avenues of influence that, although often unorthodox or obscure, have made them a characteristic component of advanced industrial political systems.” 2 Miller documented numerous instances of foreign worker involvement in trade unions, political parties, and civil rights organizations and remarked on the ramifications of strikes and other protests in which large numbers of foreign workers participated. Despite the exciting direction Miller took, there are still relatively few studies that attempt to sort out the question of non-European migrant activism in the Western European context since the end of World War II. Studies on the migrations of Europeans within Europe and their integration and political activism are perhaps better known, especially in the earlier part of the twentieth century. For example, numerous scholars have examined the political activism of the

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Italians and Spanish in France before World War II and have commented on the smoother integration of European migrants than those of non-European origins.3 Other recent studies have focused on the politics of migration and immigration from the perspective of official legislation, policy, public opinion, and the shifting priorities of the European Union.4 In these studies politics generally refers to the native context and immigrant actors mainly appear as a disruptive force to be reconciled by European governments. This is especially the case in scholarship that examines political developments since 1990 in part because of an emphasis on the development of “Fortress Europe” as internal European borders have come down while external borders have tightened. Scholars have largely avoided the contentious area of migrant activism, perhaps because of the many questions it raises about traditional ways of defining who is a migrant, what national loyalty means, and even what political participation entails. This volume aims to correct this oversight and generate debate by continuing in the direction set by Miller. It highlights exciting new research by a number of established and emerging scholars who examine non-European migrant activism in Western Europe since 1945 in a framework that seeks to challenge comfortable disciplinary and definitional categories. The authors analyze the significance of migration and immigration to political and social activism in contemporary Europe and ask how immigrants and native Europeans have confronted difficulties in working together in the post–World War II era. Migrants in this volume emerge as political actors and activists whose forms of organizing ref lect both the inf luence of politics in their home countries and in the Western European countries where they reside. Postwar migrants have entered into a complex global system of men and women on the move seeking educational or employment opportunities, f leeing persecution, reuniting with families, or otherwise responding to the pushes and pulls of migration. Regardless of whether they have permanently settled in Europe and sought citizenship there, migrants must interact with native Europeans as they live their daily lives. As a result, migrants participate in the European political process albeit not always through recognized channels. Each of the chapters in this volume seeks to understand the nature and degree of that political participation in relation to the specific characteristics of migrant communities and the individual European nation-states. To better come to terms with the immigration debates of the twenty-first century, the contributions to this book grapple with the complexities of contemporary European history. As a result, even when focusing on very recent developments, the contributors are aware of the dramatic changes in immigration to Western Europe that have occurred during the postwar decades. Key historical events and contemporary trends inform their studies: the consequences of decolonization; the war in Algeria; the student movements of 1968; the oil crisis of 1973; European integration; and September 11, 2001 have all had an impact on European politics and immigration. Because of its emphasis on critical historical and political moments, this collection advances the work undertaken by social scientists and adds a compelling longitudinal dimension to the study of migrant activism.

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Despite working from different disciplines, the authors share an emphasis on using some of the richest methodologies from the humanities and social sciences. Their chapters blend archival research, empirical data, media analysis, and interviews, and apply such theoretical frameworks as political opportunity structure, social movement theory, and gender analysis to the study of immigration. The authors, moreover, include narrative accounts and case studies to help bring the actors in their stories to life. It is this element of story telling that helps to enliven the authors’ research and allows greater access to the experiences of the women and men who have lived through this period. Moreover, the authors bring some of the most valuable aspects of their specialties to their research, such as long-term fieldwork and participant observation, the collection and interpretation of empirical data, and extensive archival work. As a result, they help to advance immigration studies by showing what historians can learn from political scientists, sociologists from anthropologists, and so on, as well as what specialists in subfields such as Diaspora studies, African studies, international relations, American studies, public policy, and gender studies can contribute to the field of contemporary European studies. Three methodological and theoretical elements that are utilized in several of the chapters require brief explanation. First, a number of the authors (Schandevyl, Dahlstedt, Torres Colón, Boucher, Ezekiel, Pojmann)5 in the collection have turned to oral history as one means of gathering data. An advantage to working on questions concerning contemporary Europe is precisely having access to men and women who can recount their experiences. In no case, however, have the authors relied solely on interviews. Instead, they use them as a complement to archival and statistical materials, which provides a valuable interpretative element to their studies. One of the early goals of oral history was to help give a voice to those individuals who were traditionally excluded from the written record and therefore marginalized, 6 which is especially applicable to the case of immigrant activists in contemporary Europe whose stories have not received adequate attention in the mainstream literature. Second, the influence of political opportunity structure (POS) is evident in several of the chapters (Eccarius-Kelly, Dahlstedt, Boucher, Karan). As a theory that allows scholars to combine the study of social movements with the particularities of immigration, POS is a useful tool in explaining the political participation of actors who may or may not have access to citizenship and who remain largely at the margins of traditional (i.e., Western) political institutions. Influenced by the work of Tarrow, Koopmans, Kriesi, and others, the authors here attempt to understand the ways in which political institutions, social discourses, and culture affect European political opportunities, especially migrants’ access to political participation.7 Finally, the impact of women’s and gender theory in the study of immigration is evident in the chapters by Freedman, Ezekiel, and Pojmann. As a rich literature in this area has made clear, women have been migrating to Western Europe throughout the postwar period, and not solely through family reunifications. 8 The “typical” migrant is not necessarily a young, single male nor do women and men experience migration in the same ways. Debates over the wearing of the Muslim headscarf in

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public places, for example, have put women’s bodies at the center of discussions of migration and integration. Freedman, Ezekiel, and Pojmann therefore recognize the gender-specific interests of women minority activists. As well as sharing methodological frameworks, the chapters in this volume explore several contested areas in combination with that of migrant activism to include nationalism, transnationalism, and citizenship—all of which call into question very limited definitions used in referring to migrants and their struggles. First, as recent scholarship has shown, despite the increased Europeanization of the immigration question and despite European Union policies that have led to the creation of “Fortress Europe,” the nation-state remains relatively autonomous while important differences among the EU member states continue to inform their approaches and responses to migrant political participation. Koopmans and Statham, in fact, have argued that immigration may actually serve to reinvigorate the nation-state.9 Migrant activism has certainly contributed to developments in national politics. To better comprehend how this has occurred, historical factors help explain why migrants in France appear to be more politically active in organized social protests (Freedman) and why migrants who attempt to organize in Sweden seem to disappear behind a complex system of government funding (Karan). More than simply defining the general characteristics of postwar migrations that are by now well known, however, the authors in this collection grapple with the complex results of national migration policies that have developed since World War II. In other words, in this volume, to state that Germany has long defined itself as not a country of immigration is less significant than coming to terms with the impact of that self-definition on the political activities of its migrant population (Boucher). Second, while the nation-state retains its importance, the transnational dimension of migration is not to be underestimated. Migrants remain connected to their countries or origins whether through language and cultural tradition or through physically traveling back and forth between countries, which can have important political consequences. Migrant activists employ strategies that fit local, national, and international contexts. However, contrary to many studies that see transnational migrant activists as primarily loyal to struggles in the home country, several authors in this collection (especially Slobodian, Eccarius-Kelly, and Germain) recognize the complexity of social activism in a transnational context. Slobodian, for example, challenges the common perception that African and Asian student activists in Germany simply followed the lead of the German nationals, and instead argues that the foreign students themselves acted as models for international student protest. Even notions of what constitutes the state and defines its borders is challenged in this collection by authors such as Torres Colón who demonstrates that in the Spanish exclave of Ceuta transnational politics are complicated by history and place. Similarly, the Algerians in France discussed by Izambert found themselves facing mixed loyalties as French citizens working in French industry with a stake in the independence of Algeria. Finally, Eccarius-Kelly’s work underscores the importance of nationhood in the Kurdish struggle and offers a challenge to scholars who suggest that the success of the Europeanization of

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immigrant activism is limited. These cases are examples of what Castles and Davidson may have had in mind when they stated, “there are increasing numbers of citizens who do not belong” in reference to neat traditional categorizations of national citizens.10 Third, the notion of citizenship as a derivative of political rights is problematic in Western Europe. Countries such as Sweden have long granted limited voting rights to noncitizens, but that does not necessarily mean that foreigners have a stronger political voice. In fact, the question of political participation is often defined by access to the rights of citizenship as distinguished in a variety of national contexts at different historical moments. In many cases, immigrant activists faced and continue to face deportation and legal action for their political participation. Citizenship becomes an important marker since, as Germain notes, Antillean leaders in the 1960s had French citizenship and so did not face the threat of deportation for their activism, whereas the threat of deportation is precisely the source of contention for the sans-papiers (undocumented migrants) discussed by Freedman. The sans-papiers were not the first migrants to organize in protest against French immigration policies, but they succeeded in capturing the public’s attention and in bringing questions of legality and political cooperation back to the center of immigration debates. In a very different context, Torres Colón’s research highlights how changes in the status of citizenship for the musulmanes of Ceuta have altered notions of multicultural politics. The acquisition of Spanish citizenship and the 1985 Immigration Law became the main focus of musulmanes activism in the late 1980s until most of Ceuta’s residents had obtained it by the early 1990s. Torres Colón notes that it was Spain’s desire to join the European Community that changed the country’s approach to the question of Ceuta and citizenship for its “immigrants.” The contributors to this volume have thus taken multiple meanings of citizenship, nationalism, and transnational belonging into their accounts of migrant activism. The volume is divided into three parts, with four chapters in each part that address similar themes in different contexts. Part one offers a long-term look at migrant activism in France and Germany, with special emphasis on periods of heightened activity in the 1960s and 1990s. Part two considers migrant activism in relation to European trade unions and political parties in France, Spain, Sweden, and Belgium. Part three examines issue-specific migrant organizing in France, Sweden, Germany, and Italy. A more detailed description of each section follows. Part I: Migrant Activists in National and Transnational Social Movements The chapters in part one help to explain the historical development of migrant organizing in the postwar period. They confirm that migrant activism is not a new phenomenon. Although some of the main issues of migrant activism may have changed, many more have not, and very few of the problems migrants have brought to the forefront in various contexts have been resolved.

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The contributions in this section show moreover how migrant actors participate in social protest from multiple vantage points: organizing to remedy their unjust treatment in the host country; participating in national social movements in the host country; responding to injustice in international politics; and representing the political interests of the home country. In each case, migrants have shaped political situations and have not simply reacted to extant circumstances. Slobodian argues, for example, that in the 1960s foreign students in Germany took the lead in transnational activism and globalized the German students’ awareness and concerns. In the more recent context, Eccarius-Kelly explains how Kurdish organizing at the European Union level may serve in the development of successful transnational political movements. And, as Freedman’s and Germain’s contributions demonstrate, in France migrant leaders have transcended limited notions of identity politics to become relevant in broader political debates. Germain, in particular, explains that migrants in France have long been involved in multiple forms of protest, some of which are related to home concerns, some of which are related to treatment in host country, and many of which overlap with the forms of protest used by the French. As a result, the contributors demonstrate that even when mainly focused on a singular cause in a specific location, migrant activists frequently operate according to multiple forms of identity and multiple understandings of place. A transnational element exists even in struggles not directly related to events in the home countries. This may be because the migrants perceive themselves as connected to broader or even global struggles, as Slobodian’s chapter shows, or it may be because the European host population continues to view migrants as temporary and waiting to “go home” (Freedman) or to have a “home” created (Eccarius-Kelly). These four chapters especially focus on developments in France and Germany. Both nations have been major countries of immigration since 1945 but have taken very different approaches to it. Broadly speaking, the French have supported limited immigration while downplaying racial and ethnic differences. The Germans, on the other hand, have asserted that Germany is not a country of immigration and have tended to approach migrants as temporary guest workers that should maintain their traditions for an eventual return to their home country. However, migrant activists have employed similar political tactics in both countries. Since at least the 1960s, migrant workers in France and Germany have used protests and strikes to bring attention to a series of issues pertaining to labor, housing, immigration law, and racism. Participation in the student and workers’ movement of 1968, the SONACOTR A rent strike that began in 1975, the national Convergence antiracist marches in 1983–84, the sans-papiers protests in the mid-1990s, and most recently, the Ni Putes Ni Soumises march in 2003, all point to the long-term organizing of migrants in France. Striking and taking to the streets, of course, are not new forms of political protest in France and certainly fit within French history and tradition. In Germany also migrants have been involved in strikes and protests but mostly through the trade unions. Miller described labor strikes as early as 1963 in Baden-Württemberg and housing occupations in Frankfurt in the early 1970s.11

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Nevertheless, Koopmans and others have commented on the different development of migrant political activity in France and Germany. Whereas France can be characterized as having a higher level of national political activity and a closed political opportunity structure, Germany has more open institutional structures but less access to formal political citizenship.12 The consequences of these differences emerge in the chapters in part one. Part II: Migrant Activists in Trade Unions and Party Politics The chapters in part two examine the ways in which migrants have developed relationships with European political parties and trade unions in the postwar period. As key players in the political systems of the European nation-state, the political parties and trade unions have helped to shape policies on immigration, especially those that define inclusion or exclusion in political life and posit questions of social and cultural integration.13 During the decades of recovery and economic boom that followed World War II the political parties and trade unions supported the recruitment of foreign workers to help temporarily meet the need for an increased labor supply. By the 1960s, northern and Western European nations such as Germany, France, and Belgium were relying increasingly on labor from non-European nations. By the time of the first oil crisis in 1973, however, it was clear that the new migrant workforce was permanent, and despite a closing of doors to foreign labor, the immigrant populations continued to grow throughout the 1970s, largely because of family reunifications. With an immigrant workforce reaching into the millions by the 1980s, it was clear that the political parties and trade unions would have to take a stance on immigration. While both the parties and unions could potentially benefit from increasing their memberships, they also had to use caution in attempting not to alienate their native constituents. At the same time, migrants were faced with the question of how much benefit the political parties and trade unions could be to them. Access to some forms of the political rights of citizenship played a role in migrant activism but also having the opportunity to bring issues related to immigrant status into the discussions of the political parties and trade unions informed migrant participation or the lack thereof in these traditional political structures. The chapters in this section offer new insights into the response of migrants to the political discourse in their European countries of residence and therefore go beyond just an examination of the political parties’ and trade unions’ approaches to immigration. Moreover, while the rise of the extreme Right in Europe with its militant anti-immigrant stance has attracted the interest of many scholars in recent years, these chapters relate the positions of mainstream political bodies and question the supposed affinity between political parties and trade unions on the political Left and immigrants while demonstrating an awareness of the Right’s influence on recent political discourse. Dahlstedt and Schandevyl examine the question of migrant activism and exclusion from the contexts of national politics in Sweden and Belgium. Sweden

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is generally known for a multicultural approach to immigration and integration. The Swedes recognized the permanent features of migration by the 1960s and so approached migrant workers, in particular, as immigrants and not as temporary guest workers. Foreigners achieved resident status and naturalization more easily than in many other European countries. Following the recession of 1972, however, the Swedes shut their doors to labor migrants and looked at how to deal with migrants already in Sweden as well as with their families arriving from abroad who were still entitled to reunite with them. From this point on, the Swedish government took to expanding its egalitarian and social welfare policies to its foreign-born population. Housing and labor legislation, for example, were to be equal for migrants and natives alike, and the Swedes granted noncitizen immigrants voting rights in local elections. However, as Dahlstedt points out, the promise of political equality and the reality of migrant political participation have not always matched. According to him, and despite discourse to the contrary, Swedish political parties practice exclusion because migrants do not have equal access to the networks, language, and tools available to native-born Swedes. The emergence of immigrant political candidates in the late 1990s who stress their ethnic identities has begun to upset previous models of political integration. These political actors have challenged a multiculturalism that aims to downplay difference. Like other northern and Western European nations, Belgium developed as an immigration country beginning with migrations of southern Europeans to work in its mines and factories in the immediate postwar period. The recruitment of northern Africans and Turks in the 1960s and the halting of immigration in 1974 followed.14 In the subsequent period of family reunification, Schandevyl shows that the immigration question turned from being associated mainly with labor issues to being a “problem of national identity and cohesion.” She explains how the role of the Arab section in the Christian trade union, the CSC, changed from representing mainly immigration issues to sharing the other emphases of the Belgian trade unions. However, the regions of Walloon and Flanders have taken different approaches to immigration politics in Belgium, with Walloon following a French-inf luenced stance of assimilation and Flanders resembling the multiculturalism of the Netherlands. This has had an impact on the activism of migrants and their roles within the trade unions. Taken together then, Dahlstedt and Schandevyl offer a complex look at the history and role of migrants in the traditional political structures of northwestern Europe. The chapters by Torres Colón and Izambert add a compelling transnational component to discussions of party politics and immigration. Torres Colón examines the historical development of Muslim political parties in Ceuta where traditional means of organizing have been complicated by the exclave’s position as a tiny piece of Spain in northern Africa and by the ambiguous political status of its Muslim residents. Izambert looks at the relationship between the French Communist Party and Algerians in France as it evolved during the Algerian crisis. Both of these chapters demonstrate how European political parties failed to successfully appeal to migrants of Muslim origin and to

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consider their multiple interests. In the case of Ceuta, until the mid-1980s, migrant activists were especially caught up in questions of immigration and citizenship for musulmanes residents, which meant that they had little in common with the objectives of the political parties. When they formed their own party, however, Torres Colón points out that musulmanes activists had to enter into coalitions with other political parties. Interestingly, it was not always parties on the Left that became allies of the new Democratic and Social Party of Ceuta. For the Algerians in France, however, who did have French citizenship, the question of Algerian independence overshadowed their identity as members of the working class. The Parti Communiste Français (PCF; French Communist Party) found itself in a bind; it was not able to delineate a clear stance against imperialism and therefore found itself at odds with a sizeable immigrant population that otherwise would likely have supported and voted for the Communists. Izambert’s analysis of the PCF’s newspaper specifically targeted to Algerian immigrants provides many examples of the Communists’ inability to connect with Algerian workers, including a lack of Algerian columnists and Arabic language articles. In each of the four chapters, the authors question to what degree migrant activism has been possible inside political institutions that have a long history of exclusionary practices and mixed loyalties. Part III: Migrant Activists and Organizations in Outsider Politics The contributions to part three of the volume examine immigrant activism in issue-based politics. In particular, they consider forms of immigrant organizing outside national political parties and trade unions while at the same time reflecting on how national discourses on immigration shape migrant mobilization. As earlier chapters will make clear, traditional political bodies may have only limited appeal to migrants, who in many cases have formed their own organizations to confront matters of importance to them. However, the decision to self-organize is seldom an uncomplicated one since migrant leaders must nonetheless find a way to act within the existing political context. The individual historical settings and experiences of immigration in Sweden, Italy, Germany, and France are therefore relevant in understanding immigrant self-organizing. French difficulties at making foreigners French, and German stubbornness to only partially integrate migrants have led to many of the conf licts discussed by Ezekiel and Boucher. Yet, as Karan details, perhaps in an unintentional way, the Swedes’ relative openness to immigrants has not necessarily allowed migrant leaders to operate on their own terms either. In Italy, on the other hand, Pojmann notes a late response to immigration and government dependency on nongovernmental bodies to assist immigrants. In each case discussed in these chapters, the postwar history of immigration has shaped recent debates. The authors emphasize this in their analyses. The chapters by Karan and Pojmann consider conf licts between existent political structures and migrants. Karan argues that by controlling the purse

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strings, the Swedish government has limited migrant autonomy even within migrant-led organizations. Immigrant voices are marginalized within a corporatist system that tends to favor “open and democratic” associations over those with a clear ethnic component despite policies that favor the maintenance of cultural traditions. Migrant leaders have thus had great difficulty in providing the members of their communities with associations that represent ethnic minority interests since they may ultimately express more affinity to the Swedish government that funds them than to their own communities. However, even within historical social movements with a strong emphasis on overcoming inequalities, migrant interests have been discounted. In her account of relations between Italian and migrant women, Pojmann traces how gender-conscious migrants to Italy have been excluded from participation in the national women’s movements. Migrant women have formed their own associations to deal with problems related to gender and migration, such as employment opportunities, while engaging in a difficult relationship with Italian feminists who have generally not ref lected on the impact of migration on women’s rights. Pojmann brings to light why it is only in the past decade that the antiracist and feminist movements have united on the question of immigration and why two types of women’s movements developed simultaneously. In both of these chapters, it is clear that extraparliamentary politics and culture are tied to broader systems that require migrant activists to seek ways to work with native Europeans. In their chapters on recent events in France and Germany, Ezekiel and Boucher use specific cases to illustrate how the native European and immigrant populations have mobilized around issues connected to immigration and minority rights. Both authors explore the volatile headscarf issue, a matter of debate in France since the late 1980s and in Germany especially since 2003, and demonstrate the ways in which migrant and minority activists have engaged in local and national discourse. Ezekiel turns especially to France’s secular, Republican history to attempt to make sense of why a head covering has caused such heightened emotions there. She then explains the response of “women of color” groups to the headscarf ban that went into effect in 2004. Immigrant and minority women activists have not taken a united approach to the ban. For example, some women’s groups have taken the position that the headscarf is a sign of oppression, but they oppose the ban nonetheless. However, immigrant and minority leaders have mobilized their communities on the issue and have followed the model set by such national antiracist groups as the SOS Racisme. Some of these groups, especially the women of color feminist association, Ni Putes Ni Soumises, have attained national attention and the support of French celebrities. In 2005, the parliament of the city-state of Berlin passed a ban on headscarves.15 As in France, the issue generated public discussions, demonstrations, and a great deal of media coverage. Boucher looks at how Turkish migrant groups, those she identified as most directly affected by the ban, participated in the political debates about the headscarf in formal political institutions and local government bodies. By comparing migrant participation in debates on

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the headscarf at the city-state level to those that took place at the federal level in 1998–99 over the Nationality Act, Boucher shows that Turkish migrants participated to a greater extent in the political discourse about the headscarf. Interestingly, the cultural–religious legislation generated more of a reaction than did the legislation directly affecting migrant political rights. Boucher connects the different responses to the political opportunity structures available to Turkish migrant activists at local versus national levels rather than to the emotional nature of the headscarf issue. Both Ezekiel and Boucher underscore the importance of activists of Islamic backgrounds in France and Germany who are working to combat negative cultural interpretations of their communities while also striving for greater political rights. The contributors and I hope that this volume will advance understanding of migrant activism in Western Europe and reopen research and lively discussion of migrant political participation in the contemporary era. Also, we look forward to further cooperation among historians and social scientists in grappling with the many issues raised here. Interdisciplinary scholarship is sure to offer insights into the question of migrant activism, and we welcome the opportunity to share our piece of that work with you. Notes 1. Stephen Castles and Godula Kosack, Immigrant Workers and Class Structure in Western Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1973). 2. Mark J. Miller, Foreign Workers in Western Europe: An Emerging Political Force (New York: Praeger Publishers, 1981), xvii. 3. See, e.g., Catherine Wihtol de Wenden, “Immigrants as Political Actors in France,” West European Politics 17, no. 2 (April 1994): 91–110; and Alec G. Hargreaves, “Perceptions of Ethnic Difference in Post-War France,” in Immigrant Narratives in Contemporary France, eds. Susan Ireland and Patrice J. Proulx (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2001), 7–22. 4. Andrew Geddes, The Politics of Migration and Immigration in Europe (London: Sage Publications, 2003); Sarah Spencer, ed., The Politics of Migration: Managing Opportunity, Conflict and Change (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2003); Gallya Lahav, Immigration and Politics in the New Europe: Reinventing Borders (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004); Pontus Odmalm, Migration Policies and Political Participation: Inclusion or Intrusion in Western Europe? (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005). 5. Authors’ names in parentheses in this introduction refer to their chapters in this volume. 6. Donald A. Ritchie, Doing Oral History: A Practical Guide (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003). 7. Sidney Tarrow, Power in Movement: Social Movements, Collective Action and Politics (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994); and Ruud Koopmans and Hanspeter Kriesi, New Social Movements in Western Europe: A Comparative Analysis (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995). 8. E. Kofman, Gender and International Migration in Europe: Employment, Welfare and Politics (New York: Routledge, 2001); and Jacqueline Andall, ed., Gender and Ethnicity in Contemporary Europe (New York: Berg Publishers, 2003).

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9. Ruud Koopmans and Paul Statham, eds. Challenging Immigration and Ethnic Relations Politics: Comparative European Perspectives (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 45. 10. Stephen Castles and Alastair Davidson, Citizenship and Migration: Globalization and the Politics of Belonging (New York: Routledge, 2000), viii. 11. Miller, Foreign Workers, 104–105. 12. Ruud Koopmans, Paul Statham, Marco Giugni, and Florence Passy, Contested Citizenship: Immigration and Cultural Diversity in Europe (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2005), 128, 135. 13. Rinus Penninx and Judith Roosblad, eds., Trade Unions, Immigration, and Immigrants in Europe, 1960–1993: A Comparative Study of the Attitudes and Actions of Trade Unions in Seven West European Countries (New York: Berghahn Books, 2000). 14. Patrick Ireland, “Reaping What They Sow: Institutions and Immigrant Political Participation in Western Europe,” in Challenging Immigration and Ethnic Relations Politics, eds. Ruud Koopmans and Paul Statham (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 250–7. 15. It is worth noting that in Germany each Land was granted autonomy to pass its own legislation on the headscarf issue. That was not the case in France where a national law was enacted.

PART I

Migrant Activists in National and Transnational Social Movements

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CHAPTER 1

For the Nation and for Work: Black Activism in Paris of the 1960s Felix Germain

U

ntil 1945, sub-Saharan African and Caribbean migrants to France were especially soldiers and professionals. During World Wars I and II, thousands had answered the call to save the mère patrie. After each War, however, most of the soldiers were quickly dismissed.1 A few, such as the former Senegalese writer and president Leopold Senghor, remained in France, mingling with other black professionals, intellectuals, and artists from francophone Africa, the French Antilles, and the United States. 2 By 1960 the black migrant community in France was still relatively small (about fifty thousand),3 consisting mostly of students, professionals, and a few low-skilled African workers typically recruited by car factories and naval companies. While the car factories used the Africans as temporary summer replacement,4 naval companies often hired the men as soutiers (coal room workers) and manoeuvres (manual laborers), two unpopular trades among French seamen.5 At the turn of the 1960s, the creation of the Bureau pour le Développement des Migrations Interressant les Département d’Outre Mer (BUMIDOM), 6 a state-sponsored agency that recruited workers from the French Antilles, and the lack of economic opportunities throughout sub-Saharan African nations spurred a large-scale working class labor migration to Paris. However, this postwar labor migration occurred in the midst of changing mentalité (attitudes). The attributes of colonialism had recently been challenged. As citizens of independent nations, sub-Saharan Africans negated the idea that foreigners with supposedly higher social, cultural, intellectual, and political accomplishments were entitled to make laws, govern, impose their language, their educational system, and even their customs on them. On the other hand, the French Antilles (Martinique, Guadeloupe, and French Guyana), which were

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conquered and ruled by France since 1635, became Overseas Departments in 1946, and thus became totally integrated into France’s socioeconomic and political structure. Although seemingly different, these political statuses conferred Antilleans and sub-Saharan Africans a greater sense of pride, freedom, and equality. However, when Antilleans and sub-Saharan Africans migrated to France in the 1960s, their former colonial status still determined their social conditions, especially in the labor and housing markets.7 As the Antillean writer Françoise Ega who lived in France during this period observes, “the French government and society perceive all Polish people as agricultural workers, all Algerians as unskilled construction workers, and all Antillean women as maids.”8 Although race, gender, and ethnicity structured the labor landscape, only offering people of African descent menial worker, household employee, or lower rank tertiary worker positions, Antilleans and sub-Saharan Africans had migrated to France with clear-cut professional goals; they desired decent wages, congenial and respectful treatment, and the possibility of receiving a job promotion relative to their hard work. This chapter chronicles the tensions resulting from the gap between the migrants’ expectations and their designated position in French society. Specifically, it examines the relationship between the working class black migration and activism in postwar France, particularly in Paris of the 1960s. I first analyze the relationship between French labor unions and black activism. I then map the different forms of black activism and interrogate how they fit within the larger narrative of social protest depicted in conventional contemporary French history, especially in regards to May 1968. Most importantly, I discuss the transnational dimension of black protest in Paris in the 1960s, suggesting it results from social inequalities and political turmoil in France as well as in sub-Saharan African countries and the French Antilles. This chapter aims to compensate for the lack of scholarly research on the African Diaspora in postwar France. Fascinating texts by Paul Gilroy, Winston James, Stephen Small, and Stuart Hall discuss the multiple consequences of the postwar Caribbean and African migration to the United Kingdom. However, although blacks migrated to France in equal numbers, virtually nothing is written about them in English, rendering our intellectual landscape on contemporary French history incomplete and longing for new perspectives on race, ethnicity, nationality, identity, and social activism, which, ultimately, would also complement an already burgeoning French scholarship.9 In sum, this chapter emphasizes Antillean and Africans’ sociopolitical agency, and as is commonly recognized, it demonstrates that social change often occurs from the bottom–up. By combining archival research and interviews, I attempt to restore silenced voices to the historical record. I suggest that black organizations and movements that have been traditionally perceived as unimportant are in fact worth studying, for they reveal that contemporary Europe is, in fact, a heterogeneous space wherein cultural and sociopolitical identities are constantly invented, reinvented, and negotiated.

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The French Labor Unions and Postwar Black Protest Following World War I, French officials were preoccupied by ideas of racial purity and by the decline of the population, which had persisted since the Franco-Prussian War. As a result, they encouraged increasing the national fertility rate via a number of social interventions. Facing unsuccessful results, demographers and officials from the Ministry of Labor began to contemplate importing foreign labor migrants as a means to strengthen the ailing nation. Europeans whose culture was supposedly similar to that of the French were identified as the most desired migrants.10 Although conservative elements of French society always remained hostile to all types of immigrants, by virtue of their “superior” position within the ethno-racial hierarchy, the migrants who for the most part came from Italy, Poland, and Belgium received an enthusiastic welcome for the hands and sperm they offered France.11 The desire for white labor migrants inf luenced the representation of colonial workers who had been conscripted during World War I to work in military factories and fight against the Germans.12 The French journals and newspapers that advocated for European labor migration and increasing the national birthrate reinforced the idea that colonial workers represented a problem for France. For instance, the monthly journal L’Alliance Nationale pour L’Accroissement de la population Francaise (the National Alliance for the Increase of the French Population) declared: After having been f looded during the war with Kabyle street sweepers, Annamese stokers, Negro dockers, and Chinese laborers, whom we had to import because it was the best we could get, we were forced to send the majority of these worthless immigrants back to their faraway homelands. They were more disposed to pillage and thievery than serious labor. The re-establishment of the peace has permitted us to replace these “undesirables” with our usual immigrants, the Italians and the Spaniards.13

The trope of the black worker as a problem, which becomes apparent as soon as the horns of victory are blown, continued throughout the following decades, structuring government immigration policy and industrialists’ behavior vis-à-vis black people. Yet, since the logics of capitalist society entails reducing production cost to maximize profit, the importance of whiteness and ethno-cultural similarity as a prerequisite for socioeconomic growth was sometimes dismissed. Although the French government and the industrialist community strongly believed that people from the colonies were inferior colonial subjects, they perceived them as a pool of cheap laborers, which they could exploit and utilize to stabilize the wages of the French working class. Despite their seemingly nonthreatening position in the society, the French working class and their labor union representatives viewed nonwhite immigrant workers as a problem, if not a threat. From the interwar to the French labor unions of the early 1950s, of course, also contaminated by racism, asserted that foreign workers, and especially the colonials, undermined the strength of

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the French working class.14 Apparently, the sort of seasonal labor migration from the colonies promoted by the major industrialists deterred the unions from considering nonwhite workers as agents capable of contributing to the long-term struggle against capitalist exploitation in France.15 Or perhaps, it may well be that the trade unions utilized the “seasonal migration card” as an excuse to avoid dealing with colonial migrants in France.16 In any case, what matters most is that the French labor unions remained silent when colonial labor migrants working in factories complained, “In France, they throw you away like a dross. The day that you are affected by old age you are pushed aside, abandoned. A worker . . . an Algerian is like a lemon: they squeeze it, take the juice, leaving the skin, which counts for nothing. Go back home now that you are buggered, go and croak down there, die somewhere else, you’re good for nothing.”17 Throughout the interwar the black intellectual elite was convinced that the blood they spilled for France entitled them to a citizenship status free of the colonial stigma. As a result, activism against unfair working conditions similar to the one cited earlier was uncommon.18 Rather, black intellectuals protested against colonial relations. Following World War II, this paradigm changed. In Marseilles, a distinctive working class sub-Saharan African community became visible, and according to Ousmane Sembène and Claude Mc Kay, they still worked like mules for a meager pay.19 This time around, the Confédération Général du Travail (CGT), the largest French labor union, noticed the African labor migrants who loaded and unloaded cargo boats, and decided to organize them, which attracted the socially and politically oriented members of this burgeoning community. In fact, the CGT’s interest in the condition of dockworkers encouraged Ousmane Sembène, 20 at the time a young Senegalese dockworker, to join the union. An autodidact, gifted speaker, and devout anticolonialist, Ousmane Sembène saw in the CGT an ally that allowed him to organize African workers while pursuing his political agenda: Independence for Senegal and for the other African countries colonized by France. As one of the founding members and secretary general of the Association des Travailleurs Sénégalais en France and the CGT steward in Marseilles, Ousmane Sembène became the leading spokesman of the African community. Although he noticed that the African workers’ living conditions and daily struggle in Marseilles were different from their educated middle-class counterparts in Paris, the focal point of his organizing was still structured by anticolonial sentiments. 21 By the turn of the 1960s, the CGT had gone through a major ideological shift. Whereas in the interwar years French labor unions perceived immigrants and colonial migrants as a threat to the French working class, in the early 1960s the CGT suggested they constituted an “untapped” resource to fight against capitalist exploitation. The organization believed that creating alliances with migrant workers and empowering them vis-à-vis the employers would counter the pro-business Gaullist government that utilized immigrant workers to deflate/stabilize working class wages. 22 In a journée d’ étude on Spanish workers in the Parisian region, the union asserts, “the presence of immigrant workers

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interferes with our recruiting efforts and propaganda, forcing us to alter our agenda and mode of operation . . . [yet] considering that the government uses foreign labor to control wage increase, it is in the interest of the French working class to unite with them.” 23 Ironically, despite vouching to pay a closer ear to the migrants’ problems, the relationship that had developed between the labor union and sub-Saharan African workers in Marseilles faded in Paris. Because most African countries had become independent and the Parisian immigrant population was much larger and diverse than in Marseilles of the 1950s, the labor union focused on the general themes affecting both the French and migrant workers, and dismissed the specificities of the sub-Saharan African working conditions. The CGT advocated for wage equality, better labor contracts, equal rights in professional elections, equal social rights (insurance and allocation for family), and access to professional development. When the union emphasized the need to address specific issues that affected migrant workers, it purposely prioritized the issues that concerned the Spanish and Portuguese migrants because they constituted the largest groups of labor migrants in Paris. In sum, it suggested that the Portuguese and the Spanish workers should receive the same salary and social benefits as the French and that French workers should be understanding and respectful toward their neighbors who were f leeing repressive regimes. 24 The CGT was not the only labor union advocating for the French and migrant workers’ rights, the Confédération Française Démocratique du Travail (CFDT), the second largest trade union, was also involved in improving the conditions of migrant workers, including sub-Saharan Africans. 25 Similar to the CGT in Marseilles, the CFDT recruited African leaders to represent and highlight the important issues affecting their community. At the Conférence des Travailleurs Immigrés, which the union organized in 1966, the African delegate Mr. Khlidou revealed that sub-Saharan African workers faced long periods of unemployment despite actively looking for work; he writes: “they knock on the factory doors every morning, yet they remain unemployed for many months. Even if they enlist with the unemployment office at the department of labor, they still have difficulties finding a job.” 26 Although the CFDT was keen to hear the specificities of the working class sub-Saharan African struggle in Paris, many of its inf luential members had preconceived notions of African identities. Perspective Socialiste, a monthly journal sponsored by the labor union, claims that traditional African values and customs conf lict with the exigencies of the industrial world, and supposedly, the migrants cannot adapt to the urban life, the “factory, the office, or the workshop because it requires a strong work ethic and demands the ability to work alone, which is unlike the typically ‘free character’ and communitarian aspect of life in rural Africa.” 27 Since many sub-Saharan African workers originated from agricultural societies, the CFDT also assumed they were not familiar with trade unionism and were therefore difficult subjects to organize. Yet, despite reservations about organizing African migrants, CFDT members still desired to enlist them within the union roster. They believed all comrades

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should join the struggle against capitalist exploitation, particularly sub-Saharan Africans, whom they identified as the quintessential victims. However, the labor union’s understanding of African identities and the observations of the African delegate Mr. Khlidou suggest a major gap between theory and practice. In other words, the CFDT believed that showcasing the poor conditions of African workers in France and Africa served its political agenda, but it failed to create a space within its institution where more Africans such as Mr. Khlidou could become active agents working toward reducing the social inequalities that specifically affected them. In the absence of a firm commitment and agenda for improving the social conditions of Africans in Paris, many migrants who had been recruited simply passed through, unable to find the oppositional social space they longed for. One migrant whom I interviewed remembers that the union’s ideals seemed quite appealing, compelling him to join his white coworkers. Yet as no significant changes occurred in his professional and social life, he remained affiliated for a couple of years and then left. 28 By the mid-1960s, French labor unions in the Parisian region had failed to attract sub-Saharan African workers. Their previous anticolonial position, which had motivated African activists such as Ousmane Sembène to participate, was substituted for rejuvenated preconceived notions depicting African workers as inexperienced and hard to organize. Moreover, the unions appeared to prefer servicing the larger immigrant communities of Spanish and Portuguese workers. Only after the press revealed the infamous “drame d’Aubervilliers,” where African workers died, asphyxiated in an overcrowded basement on January 2, 1970, did the CGT and the CFDT begin advocating seriously for improving the working and living conditions of sub-Saharan African workers in Paris. 29 In many ways, French labor unions shared the same sort of “disconnected relationship” with Antillean migrants. For instance, they tended to lump Antilleans with the immigrant population, ignoring the fact that they are French citizens. For instance, in a report entitled “Pour Défendre plus Efficacement les Travailleurs Immigrés de la Métalurgie de la Seine” (for a better defense of immigrant steelworkers in the Department of the Seine Efficiently) the CGT claims “Out of the 80,000 immigrants who arrive yearly 21,950 settle in the Seine region . . . the majority of these immigrants are Portuguese, Italians, Martinicans, Guadeloupeans, and Spanish.”30 This sort of vision drew spaces with the Antillean community, and most importantly, did not allow the CGT to properly address the ways in which racial differences contribute to creating social inequalities among French citizens. One Antillean man who arrived in Paris in the early 1950s and subsequently became active in organizing the rapidly growing community of working class Antillean workers claims, in the 1960s: We were trying to steer out people towards the unions so they could form a distinctive group. We had tough fight . . . We wanted the CGT to recognize that Antilleans had specific needs and that they deserve a special section inside the

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CGT apparatus . . . In the 1970s, since there were more Antilleans, especially in the hospitals, we were able to form our own group. But in the 60s, it was very difficult. We had countless meetings and confronted white French trade unionists who for the most part opposed our demands. They believed in a homogenous French working class and we were trying to justify our presence as different.31

In addition to the union’s belief in the virtue and infallibility of the republican French universalist tradition, which supposedly bestows all French citizens the same rights and opportunities, there were political and structural barriers preventing Antilleans and sub-Saharan Africans from joining. First, a large proportion of Antillean community leaders in Paris embraced nationalist ideals. They often viewed their community through neocolonial lenses, strongly believing that departmentalization would reproduce social inequalities based on race and origins. These beliefs made it almost impossible to join mainstream French organizations (CGT and CFDT), which for the most part were disconnected to their culture, history, as well as the post-departmentalization (post-1946) Antillean political culture. Second, in Paris the BUMIDOM channeled many Antillean migrants into employment not conducive to participating in trade unions. For instance, it placed about a third of Antillean women in the domestic industry, which had the adverse effect of depriving them of critical rights.32 In a brilliant study Jacklyn Cock confirms that the right to collective bargaining and legal protection as defined in advanced capitalist societies is in fact rarely extended to domestic workers.33 Third, migrating without any sort of governmental assistance (i.e., the BUMIDOM or the ONI,34 which provided job contracts for the bulk of European migrants) and unable to find steady work, many sub-Saharan Africans were forced into the day laborer market, which is rife with violations of workers’ rights (they are often unpaid, work in hazardous places, and endure insults and abuses by employers) and is also an obstacle to participating in trade unionism.35 Most importantly, a law stipulating that immigrants could only be part of or elect a representative to the Comité d’Entreprise (work council) unless they had been working in France for at least five years prevented many sub-Saharan Africans from bringing their issues to the employers, and thus participating in effective trade unionism; many were transnational migrants living in France for one–five years. According to Sally N’Dongo, the leader of the largest organization of African workers in France, this law had the disastrous effect of marginalizing African workers in major factories. He claims that sometimes they comprised 80 percent of the personnel, yet they had no representation.36 Last, the Ministry of Interior, the branch of government responsible for managing immigration to and out of France, deterred labor migrants from participating in trade unionism, especially in strikes. Migrants could face deportation if the government determined the strikes were politically motivated. After the May 1968 events, as an intimidating gesture, the Ministry of Interior deported seven hundred migrant workers for demanding the same things as the other eight million French workers. The Union Générale des Travailleurs Sénégalais en France suggests that the French police also used this sort of intimidation

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strategy to “keep Africans in their place.” Apparently, high ranked police officers summoned foreign workers to the precinct where they threatened them to cease all “political activity” or face immediate deportation.37 Thus, in the 1960s Antillean and sub-Saharan African migrants hardly benefited from trade unionism partly because of structural causes, as much as the unions’ reluctance to acknowledge how race, migration, gender, and citizenship led to the reproduction of inequalities in the labor market. Consequently, if people of African descent in Paris in the 1960s wanted incremental or radical changes in their working or living conditions, they would have to exploit, organize, and utilize the resources from their own communities. The Conventional Parameters of Social Protest and Activism in France of the 1960s There is no standard practice for describing the various forms of social protest occurring in the French 1960s. However, there are patterns of explanation addressing the root causes, meanings, and implications of the social protest, particularly for the May 1968 events, that overshadow all sorts of political, social, and cultural activism occurring in the French 1960s. Indeed, as the deluge of scholarly analysis across many disciplines infers, any discussion of activism in 1960s must account for May 1968, for the events are often perceived as a massive “civil uprising” resulting from discontent in the cultural, social, and political spheres. Economic historians tend to rationalize the May 1968 events through a labor market analysis, arguing that social instability resulted from the modernization of the French economy in the late 1950s without modernizing social relations.38 The result, Chris Howell claims, is that May 1968 is “a response to the prolonged exclusion of workers from the benefits of growth and the disproportionate share of the costs of growth they had to bear.” 39 Sociologists, the pioneers of the scholarship on postwar social movements, explain 1968 along different angles. Regarding the student protest, they suggest it resulted from an outmoded university system, privileged middle-class backgrounds, and an outpouring of leftist ideologies apparently more seductive than the conservative Gaullist government.40 Alain Touraine, the preeminent sociologist of the time, suggested the student protest and the strikes were, in fact, new forms of social conf licts, stemming from the rejection of technocratic values that were effectively promoted by the state and the multinational corporations.41 Recently, interdisciplinary scholars have suggested that a combination of factors such as the increased awareness of the Third-World plight, the students and workers’ dissatisfaction, and a widespread institutional crisis sparked the nationwide protest.42 As Margaret Atack suggests, the discourse of social dissatisfaction preceding the events was polymorphous, encompassing an “amalgam of many strands and themes, including the university system, Vietnam, the consumer society, the modernization of France, capitalism and imperialism, class oppression, and the memories of the Algerian war.”43

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Most importantly, these interdisciplinary scholars shed light on the symbolic meanings of May 1968, contending it represents the apex of popular dissatisfaction, which had been expressed at different venues during the preceding months. In many ways, they reject French sociologists and philosophers’ conventional representation of May 1968, specifically contesting the idea that it was a movement about everything and nothing.44 Indeed, they contend the movement is a watershed for French labor and cultural history. They effectively demonstrate that the students and the workers succeeded in threatening the political regime, which reacted in the most creative manner to secure its survival and maintain the established social order.45 Last, social protest and activism in the French 1960s, and particularly the student protest of May 1968, have also been described as part of a transnational phenomenon, following in the footsteps of the 1964 “Free Speech Movement” occurring at the University of California at Berkeley and connected to other student protests occurring in London, Madrid, Prague, Berlin, Warsaw, Dakar, Mexico City, and Milan. Lavabre and Rey argue that the media coverage of the Vietnam War, the apathy for conservative governments throughout the world, Marxist ideology, and desires for more sexual and intellectual freedom fueled these somewhat transnational students’ protests.46 For them, “The real question is whether the 1968 events are the manifestation of a transnational postwar generational malaise or the product of national movements with distinctive roots and temporalities.”47 The new scholarship on the implications of the transnational f low of ideas suggests that social protest and activism in France in the 1960s results from national movements with distinctive roots and temporalities as much as the inf luence of contentious international social movements.48 However, the question that remains largely unexplored is about how racial minorities participated in these struggles? How did global struggles for equality and justice inf luence minority struggles in France? More importantly, do the reasons fueling black protest and activism have a transnational character, and if so, what do they suggest about race relations and minority lives in France? Within and Beyond the Nation: Black Activism and Protest Community activism among sub-Saharan African and Antillean migrants in Paris of the 1960s shared many similarities. As nascent, racialized, and postcolonial communities in the city of light, they were forced to compensate for the shortcomings of the French institutions responsible for their integration. Consequently, aiming to secure decent housing, jobs, and a space wherein the migrants could practice their indigenous cultures without facing uninformed criticism, important sub-Saharan African and Antillean organizations f lourished. By the early 1960s three organizations, The Comité d’Action Sociale en Faveur des Originaires des Départements d’Outre Mer en Métropole (the CASODOM), L’Amicale des Travailleurs Antillais et Guyanais (L’AMITAG),

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and the Union Générale des Travailleurs Sénégalais en France (UGTSF), would play a major role in their respective communities. The idea to create the CASODOM came about in the mid-1950s, when Antilleans were migrating to Paris at a yearly rate of five thousand.49 Since many migrants were unable to find employment and decent housing, Antillean activists sought help from the Services Sociaux des Nords-Africains (SSNA) and the Service Social d’Aide aux Emigrants Etrangers (SSAEE), who declined their request. However, Mrs. Dancenis, an Antillean woman working at the SSAEE, took upon herself to do the initial groundwork to determine the possibility of creating an association that specifically catered to the migrants’ needs. She provided essential information about the status of the community that helped the organizations’ founders determine the size and scope of their operation. According to a publication for the association’s forty-fifth anniversary, without her perseverance it is unlikely that the CASODOM would have seen the light of day.50 By 1956 the organization began its operation. Since it was created in partnership with the state, it received funding from the Ministry of Health, Overseas Departments, Labor, and National Education; to secure continuous funding the CASODOM handpicked representatives from these respective Ministries and encouraged their participation in the administrative council. By 1967, Alizé, a Catholic Antillean student magazine, claimed, “Essentially the CASODOM provides all the services the migrants may expect from a welfare institution: It serves as a liaison with employers, orients the migrants towards specialized services, grants loans, and assists them with their social security dossier.”51 Following the CASODOM, the AMITAG was born in 1960. Declaring itself apolitical, and short of offering loans, the AMITAG provided the same services as the CASODOM. According to the BUMIDOM who funded most of their projects, it became an effective organization capable of establishing a relationship with employers in the private and public sector who subsequently hired many Antilleans. It also drew its success from providing more than four hundred beds in a foyer (dormitories for migrant workers), organizing cultural activities to raise money for the needy and the sick, offering free legal advice, and from lending their large conference rooms for weddings.52 Regarding the sub-Saharan African organizations, the UGTSF was by far the most important community organization. Created in 1961, it aimed to assist all sub-Saharan African workers in France. In contrast to the Antillean organizations, the UGTSF mainly obtained funding from membership fees and a grant from the Senegalese government. During its first years of operation, the association was primarily concerned with housing, employment, and health issues affecting the African communities. It also provided personalized assistance, helping the migrants navigate through their social security dossiers, and offering them legal advice and financial assistance. While the UGTSF was an apolitical community organization seeking to uplift its members through its varied initiatives, it nonetheless played an important role in developing a critical political consciousness around issues of housing

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and labor injustice affecting working class sub-Saharan African workers in Paris. Specifically, through the countless meetings it sponsored, which the famous Senegalese journalist and author Jean Pierre N’Diaye describes as democratic in form and “jazz-like” in style,53 it provided a forum for discussing the lack of foyers in the Parisian region and the staggering cost of the existing ones. Along with the impact of May 1968, the UGTSF planted the seeds for the uprisings and the numerous rent strikes occurring in the African foyers of Ivry and Saint Denis during the mid-1970s.54 These Antillean and African grassroots organizations were committed to improving their respective communities vis-à-vis a social activism that compensated for the lack of available social services. However, there were other forms of activism within the sub-Saharan African and Antillean Diaspora. Indeed, the sudden formation of a working class black Diaspora in France, which corresponded with the rise of fragile and nascent postcolonial African democracies and the new departmentalization of the French Antilles status, triggered a wave of radical political activism. Student organizations were the most contentious element of the continental African Diaspora. Whereas African associations such as the UGTSF provided social assistance, the student organizations were politically oriented. They condemned neocolonialism, corruption, and the general lack of democracy in Africa.55 They also began addressing issues of gender inequalities resulting from the colonial era, and questioned the policies, or lack thereof, regarding the development of rural areas. Furthermore, as students in “exile,” forced to move beyond their borders to obtain an education, they criticized their government for failing to provide an appropriate educational infrastructure, and they brought attention to the inconsistency of the government fellowships, which they depended upon to live.56 The forms of African student activism and protest varied. They conducted meetings, printed journals, and at times occupied and vandalized African embassies. For instance, the Association of Senegalese Students in France declared its government a corrupted puppet of France, denounced the police brutality affecting their counterparts in Senegal, and as early as May 24, 1964, occupied their embassy. Other African student organizations from Mali, Haute Volta, Mauritania, and Gabon also occupied their respective embassies, the representative of undemocratic and unpopular political regimes.57 This sort of political activism pressured African governments, prompting them to find creative ways of silencing these transnational student insurgencies. For instance, on August 25, 1971, the Gabonese government decided to nullify all student associations, declaring them threatening and illegal, and subsequently created a new student association (the Association des Etudiants et Elèves Gabonais), which became the only one eligible for government fellowships.58 However, throughout the 1960s the forms as well as the spatial and temporal dimensions of radical black protest varied according to ethnicity, class, and citizenship. As French citizens, Antillean workers were not intimidated by the threat of deportation. Thus, for many Antilleans, the theater of social protest was in the streets and universities of Paris, where during May 1968, the symbolic

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moment of protest in contemporary French history, the workers and students demonstrated with their French counterparts. The Antillean Catholic student organization observes, “Whether they are workers or students, Antilleans are implicated in the current demonstrations shaking the entire nation. Although some have deliberately chosen not to participate, most voice a passionate opposition against the administration.”59 Although many Antilleans were involved in the general protests, there are sites and forms of protest that are specific to the Antillean experience. Indeed, for most black soixanthuitards, the fiercest and most symbolic battles took place in L’AMITAG and the BUMIDOM, two institutions all too familiar to the Antillean community, yet unknown to the wider French working class. In May and June 1968 dozens of Antilleans occupied L’AMITAG. Most of the insurgents were students, workers, and political activists who believed the organization paid lip service to a deceitful French government, especially in regards to inserting Antilleans into the job market. They also occupied the BUMIDOM, which the community imagined as the official “passeur” to France. This joint initiative, uniting students, activists, and workers, is a unique occurrence in postwar French protest movements, especially in regards to May 1968, as French historians have clearly demonstrated that the state successfully prevented the mainstream students’ struggle from joining the mainstream workers’ struggle. As Kristin Ross asserts, in early May public officials wanted the students out of the Sorbonne, and in contrast, by June in an effort to prevent further descent into chaos they aimed to prevent them from joining the workers by containing them behind the barricades they had previously erected.60 Hence, as the alliance between Antillean students, workers, and political activists does not correspond to the representation of May 1968 mentioned earlier, one should examine the context and implication of this unusual alliance. As soon as the events began, Antillean students affiliated to the Sorbonne Occupation Committee and Antillean workers founded the Comité d’Action des Travailleurs et Etudiants des Territoires sous Domination Coloniale Francaise. Well-organized and coordinated, the committee formed different groups that rotated during the entire occupation. At the BUMIDOM, instead of the tricolor bleu, blanc, rouge French f lag, they erected a red f lag, revealing their Communist and Marxist political inclinations.61 This symbolic display does not mean that Antilleans were pushing a leftist agenda. Robin Kelley’s study of African American communists during the interwar period, which demonstrates how they promulgated and utilized communism to achieve a black nationalist agenda, may be relevant to understanding why Antilleans decided to raise the red banner. Kelley claims, for “African-American Communists, like American Jewish and Finnish Communists, whose cultural and national identities constituted a central element of their radical politics, ethnic nationalism and internationalism, were not mutually exclusive.”62 Likewise, for Antilleans, the red banner speaks to their allegiance to the French student and intellectual movement against French imperialism and capitalism. But their demands, especially as they relate to the politics of labor

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migration to France, is rooted within an indigenous anticolonialist and nationalist discourse that had been popular in the Antillean Diaspora since the soixante-huitard generation was still in elementary school. Indeed, by the late 1950s, the postwar Antillean intellectual Diaspora in France, particularly Frantz Fanon, Edouard Glissant, Paul Niger, as well as two “civil rights” lawyers, Marcel Manville and Marie-Joseph Cosnay, were laying the foundations for a nationalist agenda. Whereas Fanon’s texts on colonial identities and the need to resist colonial and neocolonial powers had a global impact, the two lawyers, Paul Niger and Edouard Glissant, who had recently become famous in literary and intellectual circles for their widely acclaimed novels, played a critical role in spreading anticolonial and nationalist ideas throughout their community in Paris. In 1961, with Manville, Niger, and Cosnay, Glissant founded the Front Antillo-Guyanais, an organization advocating for political autonomy on the basis of French cultural hegemony and economic exploitation. The Front Antillo-Guyanais quickly became the most popular Antillean political organization. During a conference they organized on April 22, 1961, six hundred people from all the social classes participated; there were skilled and unskilled workers, artisans, government employees, and professionals.63 Although the Front Antillo-Guyanais attracted and seduced many Antilleans, its existence was short-lived. Declaring the organization a threat against the nation, in July 1961 Charles De Gaulle ordered its dissolution. Glissant was placed under house arrest for months and subsequently forbidden to travel to the Overseas Departments until 1965. Yet the ideas, the discourse, and the radical politics of the Front Antillo-Guyanais continued to live. The founding members and the participants went on, forming and adhering to new anticolonialist associations with either an autonomist (they wanted more political agency while maintaining some sort of association with France) or independentist agenda (they wanted to form new independent states).64 By 1968, these political organizations were still committed to having members from various social classes. This phenomenon resulted from the organizations’ communist or Marxist leadership seeking to recruit the masses, but also from the background of the student and intellectual community in Paris, who unlike their French counterparts were the first generation to attend college, and thus felt organically connected to the challenges of the working class labor migrants. This class f luidity in the postwar Antillean diaspora facilitated organizing and protesting for change. One former member of the Amicale Générale des Travailleurs Antillais et Guyanais (AGTAG), an autonomist organization created in 1962 by former members of the Front Antillo-Guyanais, claims that in May 1968, gathering all kinds of Antilleans at the BUMIDOM was very easy; a few comrades called each other and a crowd sort of followed. When asked about the participants and the meaning of 1968 for them and the community, he asserts: We had been anti-BUMIDOM for a while and I with a few friends decided to demonstrate at the headquarters. We wanted Césaire there, but he feared the

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situation could potentially escalate into a much larger problem and cautioned us not to go. We went, and occupied the BUMIDOM, like our French counterparts were occupying other buildings. It was a demystifying moment for us. We felt as if we brought down what it symbolized. It was an institution that was deeply hated by many Antilleans. In sum, the occupation signaled a fresher start for the community. 65

Antilleans occupied the BUMIDOM during the entire events, preventing administrators from entering the building, wrecking offices, and destroying documents. As my archival research at the BUMIDOM and my fieldwork among former AGTAG members suggests, although the takeover was spontaneous, it quickly escalated into a well-coordinated event. Even the participants’ destructive spurts were encoded with symbolic gestures against this infamous institution and the ways it related to its clientele. For instance, asserting their anger against the insertion of Antillean women as maids, the insurgents ripped the labor contracts designated for household employment.66 Three themes structured the protest. First, the insurgents suggested the migrants, particularly women, deserved employment in other areas than the household and healthcare industries where they typically received positions at the bottom of the hospital hierarchy. They perceived these employments as professional traps, requiring hard labor, paying little, and offering few opportunities for growth. Second, they expressed their frustration against French racism and what many students and members of political organizations perceived as continuing colonial relations or neocolonialism. Third, they portrayed the labor migration in terms of exile, and thus demanded that government officials also facilitate a return to the native land. Conclusion Black activism in Paris of the 1960s stemmed from the need to improve blacks’ living and working conditions at a time when social welfare institutions and trade unions failed to understand the depth of their problems. Both Antilleans and sub-Saharan Africans created community organizations, which to the best of their ability compensated for the necessary social services. Antillean and sub-Saharan African activism also stems from political discontentment. Both communities asserted that the political conditions in their homelands resulted in the production of a dispossessed African Diaspora in Paris, prompting them to adopt more radical forms of activism. As transnational political agents, African students published articles against their corrupted and abusive governments and risked losing their fellowships, they invaded embassies, demonstrating their willingness to fight for radical change at home despite living abroad. For Antilleans, May 1968 becomes the most visible milieu of protest. It is simultaneously a self-critical period whereby the participants manifested their opposition against the community organizations apparently too compliant and acquiescent to the power structure, as much as took a stand against French neocolonialism, which is exemplified by the BUMIDOM takeover.

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By casting light upon the Antilleans and sub-Saharan Africans’ effort to survive and f lourish in their host society, this chapter echoes the French sociologist Michel Giraud who asserted, “no one scatters petals of roses in the migrants’ path.” Yet, at the same time, the chapter peels another layer of this common “immigrant narrative,” showing that racialization and colonial relations structure the insertion process in very different ways, and subsequently engender new oppositional identities and sociopolitical cultures. Notes 1. Eric Deroo and Antoine Champeaux, La force noire: Gloire et infortunes dune légende coloniale (Paris: Editions Tallandier, 2006). 2. For a general overview, see Pascal Blanchard, Eric Deroo, and Gilles Manceron, Le Paris noir (Paris: Hazan, 2001). 3. This estimate is taken from data offered by L’INSEE (the National Institute for Statistics and Economic Studies). 4. Archive de la Confédération Générale du Travail, boite Immigrés Travailleurs en France, “Main d’œuvre immigrée,” no date of publication given, Paris. 5. Journal Officiel de la République Française, Avis et Rapports du Conseil Economique et Social “Problèmes Posés par l’immigration des travailleurs Africains en France,” July 24, 1964. 6. The BUMIDOM began to operate in 1962. Throughout the 1960s, each year about five thousand Antilleans migrated to France via the organization. See Alain Anselin, Lémigration antillaise en France: La troisième île (Paris: Karthala, 1990). 7. For a discussion of the French Antillean and sub-Saharan African relation to the French since the onset of enslavement to the end of colonization, see William Cohen, The French Encounter with Africans: White Response to Blacks, 1530–1880 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1980); Raoul Girardet, L’ idée coloniale en France de 1871 à 1962 (Paris: Hachette, 1978); and Tzvetan Todorov, On Human Diversity: Nationalism, Racism, and Exoticism in French Thought (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993); Bernard Moitt, Women and Slavery in the French Antilles, 1635–1848 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001); and Clarence Mumford, The Black Ordeal of Slavery and Slave Trading in the French West Indies, 1625–1713 (Lewiston, NY: Mellen Press, 1991). 8. Françoise Ega, Lettre à une Noire: récit antillais (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1978), 137. 9. For recent texts in French about the African Diaspora in France, see Francois Durpaire, France blanche colère noire (Paris: Odile Jacob, 2006); Claude Ribbe, Les nègres de la République (Monaco: Alphée, 2007); Bernard Zongo, Mensonges et vérites sur la question noire en France: Ma réponse à Gaston Kelman (Paris: Asphalte, 2006); Boubacar Diop, Négrophobie (Paris: Arènes, 2005); and Jean-Louis SagotDuvauroux, On ne nait pas noir, on le devient (Paris: Albin Michel, 2004). 10. See Gary Cross, Immigrant Workers in Industrial France: The Making of a New Laboring Class (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1983); William Schneider, Quality and Quantity: The Quest for Biological Regeneration in Twentieth-Century France (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990); Vincent Viet, La France immigrée, construction d’une politique 1914–1997 (Paris: Fayard, 1998); and PaulAndré Rosental, L' intelligence démographique: Sciences et politiques des populations en France, 1930–1960 (Paris: Odile Jacob, 2003). 11. Jacques Valdour, Atelier et Taudis de la banlieue de Paris (Paris, 1923).

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12. Tyler Stovall, “The Color Line Behind the Line: Racial Violence in France During the Great War,” The American Historical Review 103, no. 3 (June 1998): 737–69. 13. Quoted from Elisa Camiscoli, “Reproducing the ‘French Race’: Immigration and Pronatalism in Early-Twentieth-Century France,” in Bodies in Contact: Rethinking Colonial Encounters in World History, eds. Tony Ballantyne and Antoinette Burton (Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press, 2005), 225. 14. Martin Schain “Immigration and Trade Union in France: A Problem and an Opportunity,” in A Century of Organized Labor in France: A Union Movement for the Twenty-First Century?, eds. Erick Chapman, Mark Kesselman, and Martin Schain (New York: St. Martin Press, 1998), 97–114. 15. Leah Haus, Unions, Immigration, and Internationalization: New Challenges and Changing Conditions in the United States and France (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002). 16. Tyler Stovall discusses how the government, the industrial community, and the trade unionists seemed all to agree that colonial workers should remain in the colonies. According to Stovall, preventing colonial people from working in France during the interwar is a process entangled with the construction of the national identity as white. See Stovall, “National Identity and Shifting Imperial Frontiers: Whiteness and the Exclusion of Colonial Labor after World War One,” Representation no. 84 (Autumn 2003): 52–72. 17. Neil MacMaster, Colonial Migrants and Racism: Algerians in France, 1900–62 (New York: MacMillan Press, 1997), 84. 18. Phillip Dewitte, Les mouvement nègres en France, 1919–1939 (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1985); and Alice Conklin, A Mission to Civilize: The Republican Idea of Empire in France and West Africa, 1895–1930 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997). 19. Claude McKay, Banjo: A Story Without a Plot (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1929); and Ousmane Sembène, Black Docker (London: Heinemann Educational, 1987). 20. Ousmane Sembène is by far the most popular and inf luential African filmmaker. He also authored novels, which are now among the classics of African literature. 21. Samba Gadjigo, Ralph Faulkingham, Thomas Cassirer, and Reinhard Sander, eds., Ousmane Sembène Dialogues with Critics and Writers (Amherst: The University of Massachusetts Press, 1993). Also, one must note that Ousmane Sembène’s agency in the CGT branch in Marseilles was certainly related to the union’s own anticolonial position. Throughout the countries colonized by France, especially Guinea, Senegal, and Cameroon, the CGT had satellite operations concerned with the working conditions of colonial workers. In fact, it is through the CGT’s antenna in Africa that many of the first generation postcolonial leaders and top officials were able to gain popular support for effectively spreading a nationalist consciousness. See Elizabeth Schmidt, “Top Down or Bottom Up? Nationalist Mobilization Reconsidered, with Special Reference to Guinea (French West Africa),” American Historical Review 110, no. 4 (October 2005): 975–1014. 22. Archive de la Confédération Général du Travail, A 22g Box Immigrés travailleurs en France, “Quel sont nos revendications.” 23. Archive de la Confédération Général du Travail, A 22g Box Immigrés travailleurs en France, “Les travaillleurs espagnols dans la métallugie parisienne” (June 1964). 24. Ibid. 25. The CFDT or French Democratic Confederation of Labour was created in 1964 when the majority of the members of the Christian union Confédération Française des Travailleurs Chrétiens (CFTC) decided to become secular. 26. Archive de la Confédération Française Démocratique du Travail, Box 7 H 28, “Conférence nationale sur les travailleurs immigrés.”

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27. Confédération Française Démocratique du Travail, Perspective Socialiste (January 1964). 28. Fieldwork interview, Paris, April 2004. 29. For the repercussion of the drame d’aubervillier, see Yvan Gasteau, “Les bidonvilles, lieux d’exclusion et de marginalité en France durant les trente glorieuses” cahiers de la meditréranée vol. 69, May 2006. 30. Archive de la Confédération Général du Travail, A 22g Box, Immigrés travailleurs en France, “Pour Défendre plus Efficacement les Travailleurs Immigrés de la Métalurgie de la Seine,” January 1963. 31. Fieldwork interview, Paris, May 2004. 32. Bureau pour le Développement des Migrations Interressant les Département d’Outre Mer, Bulletin D’ information (Paris, 1967). 33. Jacklyn Cock, Maids and Madams: Domestic Workers under Apartheid (London: The Women’s Press, 1989). 34. Created in 1945, the Office National d’Immigration (O.N.I.) recruited migrants from throughout Europe. 35. The issue of day laborers’ exploitation concerns primarily advanced capitalist nations. These countries such as the United States, England, and France usually have a pool of undocumented migrants who can be used as cheap labor to perform the task that most nationals refuse to do. See Abel Valenzuela, “Day Labor Work,” Annual Review of Sociology 29 (2003): 307–33. 36. Union Générale des Travailleurs Sénégalais en France, Le livre des travailleurs Africains en France (Paris: Edition François Maspéro, 1970). 37. Ibid. 38. Chris Howell, Regulating Labor: The State and Industrial Relations Reform in Postwar France (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992); and Odile Merckling, Immigration et marché du travail: le developpement de la flexibilite en France (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1998). 39. Howell, Regulating Labor, 61. 40. Pierre Bourdieu, Homo academicus (Paris: Minuit, 1984); and Roger Gregroire, Worker–Student Action Committees, France, May 1968 (Detroit: Black & Red, 1970). 41. Alain Touraine, Le mouvement de mai ou le communisme utopique (Paris: Edition le Seuil, 1968). 42. For instance, see Kristin Ross, May 1968 and its Afterlives (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2002); Bernard Brillant, Les clercs de 68 (Paris: Presse Universitaire de France, 2003); and Luis Gruel, La Rébellion de 68 une relecture sociologique (Rennes: Presse Universitaire de Rennes, 2004). 43. Margaret Atack, May 68 in French Fiction and Film: Rethinking Society, Rethinking Representation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 9. 44. Edgar Morin, Claude Lefort, and Cornelius Castoriadis, Mai 68: La brèche (Paris: Éditions Complexe, 1988); Henri Lefebvre, The Explosion: Marxism and the French Revolution (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1969); and Alain Touraine, The May Movement: Revolt and Reform (New York: Irvington Publishers, 1979). 45. Ross, May 68 and its Afterlives. 46. Marie-Claire Lavabre and Henri Rey, Les Mouvements de 1968 (Firenze: Casterman, 1998). 47. Ibid., 7. 48. Regarding postwar women’s movements, Myra Marx Ferree and Carol McClurg Mueller argue that transnational exchanges among women’s organizations in the previous decades played a key role in the remobilization of women in the 1970s.

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49.

50. 51. 52. 53.

54.

55.

56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62.

63. 64.

65. 66.

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See Myra Marx Ferree and Carol McClurg Mueller, “Feminism and the Women’s Movement: A Global Perspective,” in The Blackwell Companion to Social Movements, eds. David Snow, Sarah Soule, and Hanspeter Kriesi (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2004), 576–607. Recently, Arjun Appadurai has demonstrated how the circulation of ideas and images across national boundaries shapes identity and sociopolitical processes. See Arjun Appadurai, Modernity at Large (Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 1996); and Appadurai, ed., Globalization (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001). Throughout the 1960s, each year about five thousand Antilleans migrated by themselves, and another five thousand came with the BUMIDOM’s help. See Bureau pour le Développement des Migrations Interressant les Département d’Outre Mer, Mises au point (no month of publication given, 1972). CASODOM, 1955–2001 45eme anniversaire du comité d’action sociale en faveur des originaires des départements d’outre-mer en métropole (Paris, 2001). Alizé Bulletin de la Fédération Antillo-Guyanaise des Etudiants Catholiques, “L’émigration des Antillais vers la France,” December 1966–January 1967, 20. Bureau pour le Développement des Migrations Interréssant les Département D’Outre Mer, Bulletin D’ information (Paris, 1967). Fieldwork interview, Paris, May 2004. One should also note that Jean Pierre N’Diaye authored a text about African students in Paris in the 1960s. Jean Pierre N’Diaye, Enquete sur les étudiants noirs en France (Paris: Edition Réalites Africaine, 1962). For a discussion of the social unrest in the foyers, see Oumar Dia, Yakare: L’autobiographie d’Oumar (Paris: François Maspéro, 1982); and Michel Samuel, Le prolétariat africain noir en France (Paris: François Maspéro, 1978). One should note that there were a few conservative student associations. For example, the Jeunesse du Mouvement Populaire de la Revolution supported their government headed by the infamous Joseph Mobutu. Centre des Archives Contemporaines, Fontainebleau, Box 19870799, art. 24. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Alizé Bulletin de la Fédération Antillo-Guyanaise des Etudiants Catholiques, May–June 1968. Ross, May 68 and its Afterlives. Alizé Bulletin de la Fédération Antillo-Guyanaise des Etudiants Catholiques, May–June 1968. Robin D.G. Kelley, “ ‘Afric’s Sons with Banner Red’: African-American Communists and the Politics of Culture, 1919–1934,” in Imagining Home: Class, Culture, and Nationalism in the African Diaspora, eds. Sidney Lemelle and Robin D.G. Kelley (New York: Verso, 1994), 37. Bibliothèque de Documentation Internationale Contemporaine, Nanterre, pièce 9.899, “Congrè des Antillais et Guyanais résidant en France.” The Group d’Organization Nationale de Guadeloupe (GONG) was the major independentist organization, while the Amicale Generale des Travailleurs Antillais et Guyanais (AGTAG) was the largest autonomist organization. Fieldwork interview, Paris, May 2004. During my fieldwork research the current BUMIDOM archivist pointed out that certain documents printed before 1970 were destroyed during the May 1968 takeover.

CHAPTER 2

Dissident Guests: Afro-Asian Students and Transnational Activism in the West German Protest Movement Quinn Slobodian

T

ransnational connections were essential for the emergence and growth of a West German New Left in the 1960s. Scholarship to date, however, has concentrated overwhelmingly on links between activists in West Germany and the United States.1 Mapping the movement of protest tactics, inf luences, and individuals across the Atlantic, historians have provided a rich portrait of exchange but risk misrepresenting “1968” as an inner-Western project. 2 A narrative that recognizes the role of the Berkeley Free Speech Movement as a “model for campus revolts,” as Wolfgang Kraushaar puts it, must also acknowledge the activism of African and Asian students on West German campuses that first mobilized German students around issues of state violence and justice beyond North America and Europe in the early 1960s.3 Education migrations from the Third World to West Germany at the beginning of the decade created the conditions for Africans and Asians to speak in their own names, rather than as distant objects of charity or romantic identification.4 In the first part of the decade, West German universities experienced what one observer called an “invasion of students from African and Asian countries.”5 Numbers of students from those countries newly designated as “developing” rose from two hundred in 1951 to around twelve thousand by 1962.6 Financed through state scholarships and family funds, African and Asian students were to be the new national elites, gaining practical knowledge with which to return to their home countries. Their presence in West Germany as temporary “guests” was intended to demonstrate the openness of German state and society to the world beyond Europe and augment the program of industrialization loans and

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grants to Third World nations begun in earnest in 1961. To the surprise and concern of officials in both West Germany and the home countries, many African and Asian students began quickly to deviate from their prescribed role by organizing politically in West Germany, using publicity campaigns, hunger strikes, and demonstrations to bring to light instances of injustice and state violence in their home countries. As foreign students faced censorship, blocked money transfers, and threats of deportation for their activism, they urged West German students to act in solidarity with them. Dissident guests from Africa and Asia acted as models of the political role that students could play on a national and international level, compelling the umbrella West German student organization to take political stances for the first time in its history. In the first half of the 1960s, internationalism in the West German student movement developed through concrete collaboration and relationships of solidarity with individuals from the Third World who shared their status as students and young intellectuals. The spread of brutal tactics of repressing student protest to West Germany after 1967 created new equivalencies as German and foreign students framed their struggle globally as one of young progressives against the internationally coordinated forces of police and state. Far from being mere projection screens for West German revolutionary fantasies, African and Asian leftists were the initiators of activism across national borders in West Germany of the 1960s. The following chapter reconstructs this history of collaboration through sources from both the official archives of the West German federal government and archives of the “extra-parliamentary opposition,” as the loose coalition of student groups and New Left political organizations was known. It makes use of the internal files of state ministries responsible for tracking and policing student dissent as well as the ephemeral leaf lets, posters, and hand-copied publications created by dissident students themselves as a literature of mobilization. Articles from the mainstream and student press fill out the narrative and serve as evidence as to which protest campaigns succeeded in entering the wider West German public sphere. African and Asian Students Mobilize West Germans The most visible Third World campaigns in West Germany in the early 1960s were directed against Portuguese colonialism, South African racism, and political repression in Iran. In each case, the official and popular West German relationship with the countries was good: Portugal was a fellow member of NATO, South Africa still benefited from what African historian Immanuel Geiss called in 1963, a “deep-rooted Boer-Romantik,” and the private life of the Iranian Shah was such a beloved subject of the tabloid press that some dubbed it the “SorayaPress” after his first wife.7 Iran was also a key source for West German oil imports, which grew ten times over from 1957 to 1962, helping fill the needs of a rapidly motorizing population.8 Most importantly, despite some aid from the Soviet Union to Iran, all countries were firmly in the “Western” U.S.-led bloc,

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and supporters of West Germany against the claims for legitimacy of the German Democratic Republic. To mobilize opinion against the injustices of these states, foreign students had to work outside of the categories of Cold War competition. They also had to overcome wariness on the part of West Germans, even those on the Left, about the capability of non-Western populations to be responsible political actors. West German labor leader Ludwig Rosenberg summarized the caution in this relationship in 1960, writing that West Germans were watching the developing countries with “concern” about the “uncertainty of the political path they are striking out on, their deficient preparedness for self-sufficiency, and the interruption of existing economic connections.” 9 He also expressed the common worry about the vengeful volatility of postcolonial populations whose experience of colonialism often led them to “doubtless excesses and misguided hate” against their former oppressors.10 West Germany’s relationship to the developing nations, Rosenberg suggested like many others, must be one of cautious accommodation with new governments. West German influence would be exercised through the soft power of economic investment, foreign aid, and the cultural diplomacy of state and unions.11 Strident demands for human rights and political freedom expressed by African and Asian students did not sit well with this model of interstate relations. The first major intervention of African and Asian students and their first major appearance in West German streets came in early 1961, provoked by the two events of the closing of Teheran University after a demonstration against parliamentary fraud, and the murder of Congolese leader Patrice Lumumba.12 On February 19, a female Iranian medical student led a march in Cologne of three hundred Iranian, Egyptian, and West German students to protest the Iranian university’s closure with further protests in Munich, Erlangen, Göttingen, and Düsseldorf and one planned in Mainz but forbidden by the police.13 On February 20, in Bonn, Egyptian and African students protested Lumumba’s murder, with some demonstrators carrying the cover of leftist magazine konkret and its image of the leader accompanied by the caption “Murder.”14 Further Lumumba demonstrations were held in Hamburg, Erlangen, Kiel, and Frankfurt.15 West German officials reported that some of the same students participated in both protests, with Egyptian students playing a leading role.16 Both demonstrations contradicted the official West German position, which was critical of Lumumba and supportive of the Shah, and exposed the intolerance of alternatives within the Cold War mentality of West German officials. In labored logic, Bundestag president Eugen Gerstenmaier expressed the incomprehensibility of Lumumba’s independence from both blocs, saying in an interview months before the leader’s murder: “A Lumumba in power can ruin everything and throw the door to Bolshevization wide open, even if he is not a communist and does not want to comply with Moscow in any way.”17 State officials similarly refused to concede a third space between the blocs in their reaction to the demonstrations of Iranian students. A Foreign Ministry memo acknowledged that “the overall tendency of the [dissident Iranian] students is not communist but socialist. They are striving for a democratic system after

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the model of India and want to follow a neutral course in foreign policy.”18 Nonetheless, because of the perceived likelihood of socialist students falling “more and more into communist channels” with time, and of communist agents “exploiting the unrest among Afro-Asian students by stoking the fires of their political passion,” the official recommended working to restrict the “all too liberal” attitude of university and state toward the political activity of foreign students.19 In the wake of the 1961 demonstrations, another Foreign Ministry official asked with concern, “What would it come to when every student group from every which foreign country were allowed to drag their internal political problems from home out into the street here?” 20 In the following years, this is precisely what happened as foreign students took political positions that troubled Cold War dichotomies. Campaigns of foreign students against colonialism, apartheid, and political oppression appealed to universals—democracy, human rights—but worked practically through solidarity actions with individual victims of state violence. Such actions of solidarity were the first to move the West German umbrella student association—the VDS (Verband deutscher Studentenschaften)—into political action. In 1961, the VDS, which had taken no official positions in the late 1950s (though cooperating unofficially with the Foreign Ministry in attempting to subvert the communist World Youth Festival in 1959 in Vienna) surprised reporters by calling a press conference at which a refugee Angolan student spoke under a pseudonym against the persecution of Angolan students by the Portuguese colonial state. 21 Upon discovering that the West German relationship to Portugal, which was backed by NATO and a recipient of Western European foreign aid, would be criticized, most journalists from major newspapers in attendance left the event early, one leaving “angrily” before it even began. 22 The VDS declared its first political position the following year, against the apartheid policy of South Africa and the colonial wars of Portugal in Angola and France in Algeria. 23 In 1963, the organization declared its solidarity with Iranian and Moroccan students facing state repression, two nations that were partners of West Germany and major recipients of its foreign aid. When the West German vice president returned from Angola in 1963 and justified Portuguese racial policies, the VDS spoke publicly about the suppression of indigenous intellectuals by the colonial government and called for the end of NATO military aid for use in the colony. 24 In a 1964 article in leftist magazine konkret, journalist and poet Reimar Lenz, who had been active in solidarity campaigns with Algerians during their war against the French, asked “what had happened with the German students” that drove them to begin taking political positions, even against allies of West Germany, answering: In their encounter with national student associations from Asia, Africa and Latin America, German student representatives have developed an idea of the political importance of young intellectuals in the developing countries, how difficult the struggle for freedom of opinion, freedom of research and teaching and the autonomy of the universities can sometimes be. 25

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West German students watched the development of politicized students in Africa and Asia keenly, and responded to their calls for solidarity. Klaus Meschkat, active in the German Socialist Students Association (SDS) in putting together a proposal on university reform, wrote an article that year on the founding of an exile association for “Students of Black Africa under Portuguese Rule.” 26 Meschkat commented that “part of the unique form of this congress was that they were not concerned with the so-called purely academic issues” but were also taking explicit positions against Portuguese colonialism. 27 Meschkat ended the article saying “the VDS will be observed with great attention. The president as well as the vice-president of the association of students from the Portuguese colonies study in the Federal Republic.” 28 Activism of the VDS worked in conjunction with that of African students on the ground on campuses, who, for example, released a leaf let in 1963 at the university in Aachen denouncing the use of foreign aid from NATO by the Portuguese state to finance state repression in Angola, citing in particular the 1961 massacre of civilians as retaliation for attempts of nationalist guerrillas to free political prisoners. 29 Along with early mobilization around Angola, solidarity with a former fellow student Neville Alexander, a black South African who had finished a dissertation on the work of Gerhart Hauptmann at the University of Tübingen in 1961, first led to the organized protest of German students against the racist regime.30 Returning to South Africa in 1961, Alexander was arrested in July 1963 for distributing leaf lets for an outlawed organization—African Peoples Democratic Union of Southern Africa—whose program called for the abolition of apartheid.31 West German students responded by establishing a fund for Alexander’s legal defense and drawing attention to West Germany’s indirect support of the regime by calling for a boycott of South African trade by West German firms.32 In West Berlin, students used Alexander’s case to draw members’ attention to the sixty-seven thousand other political prisoners in South Africa and the institutional oppression of the black population by the white minority, sending a convoy of fifty cars through the city’s center distributing leaflets, from Charlottenburg to Kreuzberg.33 In 1963, exiled South African students and engaged Germans formed a “Free South Africa Committee” to advocate against apartheid and work to replace the idyll of Boer life carried by many Germans for “the reality of the police state.”34 Students condemned the economic argument—that disenfranchisement of blacks was necessary to preserve the living standard and economic structure for whites—used by the South African government to justify political inequality.35 Their slogans included “Bonn development aid for racial terror in South Africa” and “He who supports apartheid, sanctions Auschwitz.”36 The sense of urgency for students campaigning for Alexander was doubtlessly heightened by articles such as one that appeared in November 1963 reporting the execution of three Africans in Pretoria jail for the political crime of “participation in unrest.”37 The intervention of the VDS in such an overtly political case was, as a Die Zeit article reported in 1963, “so unusual” that it required an explanation.38 The article’s author, Professor Ludwig Raiser, president of the German

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Research Foundation (DFG) wondered at the vigorous response to Alexander’s case from an age cohort that had been described five years before in an inf luential book by sociologist Helmut Schelsky as “the skeptical generation.” 39 Raiser speculated that perhaps skepticism was more a feature of his own, older generation and their belief that “injustice in the world does not appear first on the other side of the ocean.”40 Raiser saw the campaign as justified nonetheless because, though Alexander was far from Germany, he had become “through his study among us—if one allows the Christian word—our neighbor (Nächster).”41 Raiser’s use of the word Nächster, taken from the biblical axiom “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself ” and the root of the German word for compassion—Nächstenliebe—is suggestive when applied to the Alexander case and the general tendency of collaboration between Third World and West German students in the early 1960s. On one hand, a shared history of education and proximate collaboration at West German universities created a sense of “neighborliness” between African, Asian, and West German students, which became the foundation for later acts of enlightenment and advocacy. On the other hand, what characterized student activism was the movement from a generalized Christian compassion for “all humanity regardless of race” to a politicized solidarity with specific active individuals. The Christian mode of interacting with the world beyond Europe—best represented by the “Nodding Negro” (Nickneger) donation boxes portraying begging black figures that sat in many West German churches into the 1960s—was first one of charity with a powerless and mute African subject. Transnational student activism in the early 1960s attempted to reverse this model, with West Germans ideally playing a supportive role in creating a space for the articulation of African and Asian intellectuals. An example of this was the creation of “working groups” within the SDS on Third World issues often co-led by foreign students, as in the one on Africa led by Alexander at Tübingen in 1960/1 and another on Latin America co-led by Haitian and Venezuelan students at the FU in 1964/5.42 West German students used their solidarity campaigns to bring to light the distortions of the mainstream image of the regions beyond Europe in West Germany. For example, an SDS press release wrote that it was “all too grotesque” that representatives of the South African state were being guided through a highly publicized industrial exhibition as Neville Alexander sat imprisoned on “Robbins [sic] Island,” allegedly partially deaf from mishandling after his trial.43 Students brought the discordance between the two narratives of South Africa—as peaceful industrial partner and as brutal police state—to light by staging a major demonstration against a South African industry showcase in West Berlin in 1965. An SDS leaf let analogized the industry week to Josef Goebbels’s 1942 propaganda film about Theresienstadt concentration camp, The Führer Builds the Jews a City: Just as the propaganda film of 1942 portrayed an idyllic picture of well-ordered community life in a German concentration camp, the “South Africa Week,” with its fur fashion shows, photo exhibitions, “culture films” and folkloric presentations

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shows a picture of peaceful coexistence between three million whites and eleven million blacks in the South African Union.

Asking “but what does South African reality look like?” the leaflet went on to cite the state’s racial law and its prohibitions on the black right to land, to strike, and to speak against apartheid.44 Student activism around South Africa sought to make talk of profit and economic growth seem obscene by introducing facts of personal suffering, injustice, and the specters of death and imprisonment for dissidence. Iranian students similarly mobilized West German students with the prospect of the execution of imprisoned colleagues in Iran, and enacted the precariousness of their colleagues’ lives through hunger strikes. In October 1963, Iranian students in several West German cities began hunger strikes to plead for amnesty for three professors and students sentenced to death for political activity in Iran.45 The hunger strikes, planned to coincide with the visit of German president Heinrich Lübke to Teheran, were not permitted in Erlangen but went ahead elsewhere.46 Because the strike did not receive police approval in Bonn, it happened in the office of the General Union of Arab Students with twentyfour students participating, including one woman.47 The female student carried their demand on a placard: “The UN must send a delegation of neutral countries to Iran with the task of investigating the existence of human rights there.”48 Two years later, one hundred students in Karlsruhe began a hunger strike again, with photos of six of nine condemned political prisoners hanging on the wall behind them.49 In their leaf lets and publications, Iranian dissident students used portraits of the condemned and images of tortured bodies to amplify a sense of urgency and to individualize the otherwise abstract demand of human rights.50 The technique of personalizing protest through individual letters and portraits was also used by Amnesty International since its founding in 1961, and with whom Iranian students cooperated through the decade.51 By making the political issue about the life and death of individuals, dissident students both opened and polarized the debate. In doing so, they refused explanations of compromise based on economic necessity. Focusing on death sentences, performative hunger strikes, and polemic analogies to the Third Reich, the success of dissidents in prompting solidarity among their fellow students in the early 1960s came down to their ability to create a sense of those in danger as not only “neighbors” but the political partners of West German students. In their activism and demands, African and Asian students promoted a model of education and development that placed the right to critique as a necessary element of democracy. In collaboration with West German students, African and Asian students rejected the use of development aid to prop up repressive regimes as in Iran, Portuguese Angola, and South Africa, and demanded instead the redistribution of wealth, political freedom, and racial equality under parliamentary law. At the same time, the language of antiimperialism, which would define the later 1960s, was not to be heard. The demands of critical students in the early 1960s still implied the possibility of a humane version of capitalism that could combine the liberal goals of political

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freedom with the socialist goals of economic equity. This faith would be stretched and for many broken by the trauma of the escalation of the Vietnam War after 1965 and the violent repression of student protest in Western states. The Politics of Education For students to take a political role in the early 1960s was an unexpected development. Although expanding in numbers and economic function, West German universities were still vigorously maintained by state and academic administration as spaces outside of politics. In 1959, philosopher Theodor Adorno, teaching in Frankfurt, expressed the double nature of “democratization” at postwar West German universities. On one hand, access to higher education was including more economic groups, diminishing the elitist aura carried by universities in the past.52 On the other, relationships between student and professor were f lattening out to resemble relations of commercial exchange, engendering an understanding of democracy as operating through conformity (Anpassung) rather than through “critical self-consciousness.”53 The model of education as accumulation of economic exchange value was an especially pronounced reality for students from the Third World. Ahmed Abdel Gadir expressed this in a dissertation on African students in West Germany completed at Freiburg in 1967, writing “education and knowledge acquired by an African student . . . is not seen as property for individual use, but, one could say, as earnings that have to be paid back to the state.”54 Having arrived in West Germany as part of a project of development, students from the Third World were expected first and foremost “to attain knowledge in an industrialized country in order to apply the knowledge later in the economic-technical development of the home country,” as the book jacket of a 1962 sociological study of international students read.55 Although most students had their tuition and living expenses paid for by their families, about a third studied under scholarships, usually through the German Academic Exchange Service (DAAD), which had been created as part of West Germany’s official entrance into the project of foreign aid at the beginning of the decade under pressure from the United States.56 Into the 1960s, education took on even greater importance as West German experts and officials disappointed with the difficulties of Third World industrialization began to see development as more a cultural than economic problem, emphasizing the need for imparting “Western norms” and an overcoming of an endemic “apathetic attitude toward work” in Third World populations.57 In demanding the right to participate politically, foreign students appealed to a different idea of development than that of economic utility. In a 1964 open letter to the minister of the interior, Sayeed ur Rahman, an Indian physics student and leader in the Afro-Asian Student Union, argued that the restriction of political activity contradicted the function of education for the purpose of development: the goal of all academic training is to develop a well-balanced personality that enriches the human community. Free exchange of opinions and free discussion

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are essential elements of such training. When our students are prevented from speaking freely and discussing from the beginning onward, then the aim of German development policy, as far as training of students is concerned, fails.58

Though most of the foreign student associations on West German campuses were national in their membership—for example, the Iraqi Student Association, the Indian Student Union—some were transnational, for example, the African Student Association at the Free University in West Berlin, which eschewed a strict geographic definition in including Haitians as some of its most active members, and the African-Asian-Latin American Student Association formed in Aachen in 1961.59 The Afro-Asian Student Union at Justus-Liebig-University in Gießen explained its political mission, saying: The Union is committed to the solidarity of the countries of Africa and Asia first expressed at the Bandung Conference . . . The union pleads for the goals and ideas of the United Nations and is committed to the realization of overall human rights. To that end, it turns against every form of racial discrimination, colonialism, imperialism and every new imperialist form of support for reactionary, backward, antidemocratic regimes in Africa and Asia. 60

University administrators did not want the political activity of foreign students on their campuses. The rector of Justus-Liebig-University Johannes Glathe appealed directly to the Ministry of the Interior, asking for permission to block funding to the Afro-Asian Student Union, on the grounds that the political opinions of Third World students on foreign aid contradicted the official West German position.61 At Friedrich-Alexander University in Erlangen, the rector responded to a hunger strike by Iranian students with plans to “proceed energetically” against foreign students in the coming year by forcing “ex-matriculation” of those who had been studying too long without passing any exams.62 “Forced ex-matriculation” (Zwangsexmatrikulation) would become one of the major prompts to mobilization by West German students. In June 1966, German students at the FU occupied a university building after the administration introduced the practice without any attention to student demands for progressive university reform.63 This first sit-in for academic freedom on a West German campus, though modeled self-consciously on the Berkeley Free Speech Movement, had been preceded by similar actions by foreign students in West Germany, when Iraqi students occupied their embassy in protest in 1963 against the Baathist military takeover of their government, and again in 1965, when Egyptian students staged a sit-in in their embassies to protest the denial of passport extensions to sixty students who had been expressing views critical of Nasser.64 How States Silenced Dissidents Dissident students faced consequences from both their own state and the West German government for bringing instances of state violence to light internationally. Home governments often refused to extend passports, canceled

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scholarships, and blocked money transfers to critical students, attempting to force their return home. The Iranian government had blocked money transfers to dissident students since 1954 and also often refused to extend passports. 65 In 1969, the Turkish government withdrew the study visa of Hakki Keskin, the leader of the Turkish student organization and a political science student at the Free University, along with sixteen others, after Keskin gave a speech in front of the Turkish embassy condemning censorship and inequalities of wealth in Turkey.66 Regime changes at home also often made students sent to study under a previous government suspect to the new state. After the 1963 coup in Iraq, the new right-wing Baath Party cut scholarships and money transfers to those students sent to West Germany under the previous leftist government of Qasim in an attempt to force Iraqi students to return to possible persecution. 67 Iraqi students being pursued maintained a parallel organization to the official Baathist-sponsored group for years after the coup in West Germany, but, despite cooperation with the SDS to publicize their predicament, three hundred were forced to return home.68 After the 1967 coup in Greece, leftist Greek students had bank transfers from their parents blocked.69 Following the coup that replaced President Soekarno with Suharto, the twelve hundred Indonesian students in West Germany were forced to declare their allegiance to the new state in writing and denounce those with communist sympathies, forcing many to apply for asylum to avoid deportation.70 State measures were occasionally more aggressive. In June 1967, seventeen South Korean students studying in West Germany were abducted by South Korean secret police and forcibly taken back to South Korea, where they were charged with espionage.71 In 1955, the Iranian government secured West German help in arranging the deportation of three students critical of the Shah.72 The political activity of foreign students created a crisis in state strategies of policing for the West German state. At the beginning of the decade, the West German state had scant legal means with which to confront the vocal dissidence of Third World students. To the expressed annoyance of officials, foreigners in West Germany enjoyed the same constitutional right to free assembly as Germans, although their political activity was subject to restriction under the 1938 Foreigners Police Order (Ausländerpolizeiverordnung) if it was considered to lead to “damage (Beeinträchtigung) to German interests.” 73 Pressured by foreign embassies and their own anxiety about the intrusion of non-state actors into the realm of foreign relations, the Foreign Ministry and Ministry of the Interior used methods of “enforcement” (Verwaltung)74 to eliminate troublesome elements of protest, seizing signs, making arrests, prohibiting demonstrations, limiting the movement of foreigners, and even deporting protesters. In the wake of the 1961 protests against Lumumba’s murder and the closure of the Teheran University, as well as the protests of Algerian students against the French, West German officials began to worry about the “increasing radicalization” within “Afro-Asian student circles” and the recent frequency of demonstrations “directed against their home governments, with which the Federal Republic enjoys friendly relations.” 75 Officials in the Foreign Ministry

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and Ministry of Interior believed that the previously “decidedly liberal” attitude toward demonstrations of foreign students must be revised, advising the internal intelligence agency (Bundesverfassungsschutz) and the provincial Ministries of the Interior to “proceed with all severity” (mit aller Schärfe vorgehen) against foreign student leaders.76 Officials were especially anxious to prevent the foreign students from making contact with guest workers, who had been arriving since 1955, as West German companies made arrangements to import ostensibly temporary workers from first Italy, followed by Spain, Greece, Turkey, Portugal, Tunisia, and Yugoslavia.77 In a sentiment echoed by others, a member of the secret service emphasized “how dangerous things could become if the form of activity of students were to carry over to the numerous foreign workers (Fremdarbeiter) in Germany.” 78 Arguing for the restriction of the political rights of foreign students in 1962, the Bavarian interior minister also raised the specter of politicized foreign workers, pointing out that many of them came from countries with strong communist parties.79 The fear of organized guest workers remained through the decade as the number of foreigners more than tripled from 1.2 percent of the population at seven hundred thousand in 1960 to 5 percent at close to three million by 1970.80 Clearly, the primary group mobilized by foreign students were not foreign workers but West German students. The 1961 protests, though organized by Egyptians, Iranians, and others, were composed of over half West German students. 81 The cosponsorship of events by German socialist and liberal student organizations complicated attempts by the state to prohibit them on the basis of the foreign status of their African and Asian participants. 82 In 1965, the Foreign Ministry considered using the newly passed Foreigner Law to forbid protesters from demonstrating for amnesty for a group of intellectuals sentenced to death in Tehran in front of the Iranian consulate. 83 Discovering that the event was co-organized with the trade union student group (Gewerkschaftlicher Arbeitskreis der Studenten), they realized that the Foreigner Law could be used to police the Iranians, Iraqis, and Africans but not the Germans. 84 The police worked under the direction of the Foreign Ministry to limit political activity in diplomatically sensitive areas, as two examples show. When the Kurdish students planned to hold a congress in Munich in August 1963, the Ministry of the Interior instructed the Bavarian Ministry of Interior to prevent the attendees from holding public demonstrations of any kind and to ensure that no press releases be made by the Kurdish students. The reason given was a request by the Iraqi embassy and the desire of the Foreign Office that diplomatic relationships with Iraq and Turkey not be disturbed by the public political activity of Kurdish emigrants. 85 West German state cooperation against potential Kurdish dissidents took even more proactive forms when, in May of the same year, Kurdish students were arrested by West Berlin police and had their apartments and the office of the student organization searched. 86 Another example from 1965 shows how foreign student protest was suppressed through direct and indirect means. In May 1965, Arab students planned a conference in Bonn, with delegates expected from neighboring European

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countries, to discuss Palestine, German–Israeli relations, and developments in the Arab world. 87 Organizers of the conference were the Arab Student Union of West Germany and West Berlin and the General Union of Palestinian Students (GUPS). 88 At the urging of the Tunisian embassy, which predicted that President Bourgiba’s policies would be harshly criticized and warned of violent demonstrations, the West German Foreign Ministry sent a request to the Ministry of the Interior that the congress “be prevented under all circumstances.”89 The Foreign Ministry recommended special controls at all incoming roads and train stations, that the police “direct away all buses with protesters or persuade them to turn back,” and that Arab participants be turned away at the border. The Ministry also suggested that the holding of the conference in the planned building be “forbidden on general policy grounds (for hygienic, engineering or similar reasons) and then the attempt to hold the event outside be forbidden on the basis of the constitutional law of assembly.” 90 The congress went ahead but two Moroccans (as well as nine other participants) were turned back at the border arriving at Aachen train station, leading to some public embarrassment for the West German state when Arab students studying in Paris published a letter of protest in Le Monde decrying the tactics of the West German officials as “worthy of the Nazi period.” 91 Even when demonstrations were permitted, the content of the political messages conveyed was strictly policed, or its public impact suppressed, as in 1963, when the Foreign Ministry told the Iranian embassy it had ensured that Iranian student protests would not be shown on television.92 In a time when the only acceptable demonstration was silent, this meant the censorship of the placards carried by protesters. The signs carried at protests needed to be approved beforehand and unauthorized signs were often seized, as was the case at a 1961 Munich demonstration of Iranian students where signs protesting the closing of the Teheran University, the release of arrested students, and the shooting of students were allowed but one reading “Freedom for Persia! Away with the Dictatorship!” was seized.93 At another demonstration of Iranian students, signs critiquing the Shah’s recent reforms were allowed but those calling for the release of political prisoners and the arrest of police who shot students were not.94 The line between allowable and prohibited dissent was not clear and was always open to the arbitrary decision of police officers and bureaucrats. The legal space allowed for the students was open to encroachment by the independent action of an official. At times, officials set the lines of allowable dissent informally, as in 1963 when the federal minister of the interior approved a demonstration in writing but a note shows that he communicated with the regional minister “by telephone to impede the demonstration. Legal grounds for prohibition of political activity according to 13 III APVO.” 95 The handwritten note continues that the Niedersachsen minister would speak to the official personally, and that if necessary, that official should call the Bonn minister privately, presumably at home. The APVO referred to the 1938 Foreigner Police Order, whose Nazi provenance was an awkward point for officials into the 1960s. A 1960 Tagesspiegel

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article called for the revision of the law so that the “bleached-out swastika on the German front door not just be stamped over with the federal eagle” but replaced with a “new one without blemishes.”96 Foreign students also criticized the law. Iranian students, for example, remarked to reporters in 1963, after a request for a march was rejected on the basis of the 1938 law that “one shouldn’t appeal to regulations that awaken unpleasant memories.” 97 A new Foreigner Law (Ausländergesetz) passed in 1965, though praised by some for its liberality, was in fact, in part, the product of years of deliberation by officials in the Ministry of Interior about how to better police the political activity of foreigners.98 The Foreign Ministry had been communicating with the Ministry of Interior since 1959 about how the new law should give explicit power to the federal ministries on foreigner issues “for the protection of foreign policy interests of the Federal Republic.” 99 After the Lumumba demonstrations, Werner Kanein, architect of the new law, complained the current law was unable to forbid foreign student political activity.100 Ministry of the Interior officials realized that vagueness worked in their favor. The use of the undefined term “West German interests (Belange)” meant that officials could be selective about which demonstrations by foreigners to permit, allowing, in their example, demonstrations “in the struggle against communism” but not others.101 The new law maintained this language, restating the fact that foreigners were only tolerated in West Germany as far as their presence did not contradict West German interests.102 After the passage of the law in 1965, a Ministry of Interior official wrote to the West German embassy in Tehran that it should inform Iranian officials that the new provisos related to political activity “were not least created in order to be able to intervene more effectively than before against foreigners, especially those who try to damage the friendly relationship of the Federal Republic to other states through the use of slanderous or revolutionary propaganda.”103 In the same letter, the official complained that dissidents often escaped deportation by appealing to West Germany’s generous asylum law.104 This was the case in 1967 when Greek communist workers avoided the deportation requested by their home governments by applying for asylum.105 Hassan Massali, a leader of the opposition to the Shah in West Germany, deflected attempts for his deportation first through application for asylum in 1964.106 Although his first application was rejected, he appealed his case a year later.107 By 1968, Iranian dissidents and sympathetic journalists had successfully publicized the attempts of the authorities to restrict the political activity of Massali, and articles on the topic appeared in several major West German newspapers.108 That year, West German officials in Hessen abandoned attempts to silence Massali on the grounds that “proceeding against Massali would likely be criticized in press, radio and television.”109 The ability of the West German state to act against foreign dissidents was attenuated by a critical public sphere of critical students and journalists along with activist lawyers. Massali’s lawyer was Hans-Heinz Heldmann, who also helped write an extensive critique of the new Foreigner Law with the VDS and had traveled to Iran in 1965 to observe a trial of students in coordination with

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Iranian students in West Germany and Amnesty International.110 The intervention of the Berlin Socialist Lawyers Collective saved Greek leftist journalist Demetre Maracas from deportation in 1968.111 The diligence of journalists, students, and lawyers ensured that the cases of politically motivated deportation under the new Foreigner Law were few. These new conditions were taken advantage of with success however in February 1967 when a Nigerian medical student Obi Ifeobu in Hamburg, arrested in a demonstration against the Vietnam War, was escorted to a departing airplane within twenty-four hours by immigration officials and given no chance of appeal.112 The deportation happened on the basis of the testimony of one drunken witness, later discarded, that Ifeobu had wielded a knife at a police officer.113 Friends of Ifeobu in West Germany stopped hearing from him quite soon after his return to Nigeria. Because he was an Ibo from a wealthy family, many believed that he was killed during the Biafran conf lict that broke out that year.114 Although students complained repeatedly to the Ministry of the Interior, Ifeobu’s case was evidence of how acts of enforcement sometimes happened too quickly to be caught by the interventions of press and law.115 State Violence and the New Solidarity Despite the fact that instances of political deportation were rare, the new Foreigner Law was used extensively to police the movement of foreign residents during the visit of the Shah in June 1967. Violent suppression of student protest during the Shah’s visit would change the cast of transnational student solidarity. In the week before the Shah’s arrival, Iranian students and other citizens resident in West Germany in many cities, including Bonn, Köln, Düsseldorf, and Frankfurt, received word from the police that they could not leave their cities during the four days of the Shah’s visit and must appear in person to the authorities at least twice—and in one case six—times per day to confirm their presence.116 Iranian residents of Munich, the first stop on the Shah’s visit and the site of a particularly large Iranian community, were subject to the strongest measures. Given two days notice, they were required to evacuate the city and the surrounding areas for the duration of the Shah’s time in Germany. To ensure compliance, they were required to register at their temporary place of residence with the authorities, again appearing multiple times per day for the course of the four-day period.117 In all cases, the recipients of the letters were threatened with deportation for noncompliance according to the 1965 Foreigner Law, which, it was emphasized, would be “executed immediately” (sofortige Vollziehung), eliminating the likelihood of an appeal to the legal system. The protest in West Berlin on June 2, organized by dissident Iranian students, ended with one West German student, Benno Ohnesorg, shot dead in the back of the head by a police officer and dozens of others beaten by both German police officers and armed Iranian Shah supporters. The equivalencies created between West German students and foreign students took on a new tenor after June 2, as a feeling of being common victims of state violence began

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to replace that of the common status as progressive intellectuals that had bound West German students to Neville Alexander and other persecuted academics in the early 1960s. In historical memory, this day is seen as the beginning of the West German “1968,” setting off an increase in the frequency, volume, and intensity of student protest. Participant Inga Buhmann wrote that June 2 was “for me, as for many others, decisive. Until then I had hesitated about whether or not I should actually become politically engaged. With one blow, it was clear and irrevocable.”118 The new solidarity between German and foreign students on the New Left was defined by a shared sense of engagement with a belligerent opponent, who would not retreat from using deadly force to silence dissent. Days after June 2, Iranian students in Hamburg distributed a f lyer reading: In the face of our struggle against the manifest fascism in Iran, supported by the ruling powers in West Germany, and the resistance of our German colleagues against the latent fascism in West Germany, driven by those very same powers, we see international solidarity as the foundation for our common struggle.119

West German students believed they saw the “latent fascism” of West German society coming to light in the days and weeks following June 2 as they were repeatedly cursed and heckled by West Berlin residents. One participant in a funeral procession for Ohnesorg was told by a bystander that “there should have been fifty demonstrators shot to death, and not just one, so that peace and order could finally prevail.”120 Other demonstrators were told by elderly passers-by “they haven’t shot enough of you yet,” and “you should all be sent to the concentration camp (KZ ), in the gas chamber.”121 At the June 2 demonstration itself, one witness reported an onlooker shouting, in Berlin dialect, “You all need to be gassed; it was probably just your relatives that got gassed, right? (wohl nur deine Verwandten vergast, wa?).”122 A documentary film made by Hans-Rüdiger Minow in the weeks after June 2 related the West German predicament directly to the Third World. Over a black screen, dissident Iranian intellectual Bahman Nirumand, whose critical book about Iran went through five printings in 1967, described a demonstration for political freedoms that left one student dead and many more beaten and hospitalized.123 The event, he finished, was in “Teheran January 21, 1962.” The film cut directly to the location of the West German demonstration and the line read by a German voice: “Berlin June 2, 1967.”124 In a stark case of political justice, West German Foreign Ministry officials conceded to the demand of the Iranian government in 1968 by having Nirumand’s residence permit revoked by the Berlin police, forcing him to leave the country.125 At the same time, Shah supporters, though charged and found guilty of physical assault, were freed on probation and allowed to remain in the Federal Republic.126 Demonstrations and teach-ins against Nirumand’s deportation were held at almost every campus in the country.127 A common transnational front of critical students against oppressive forces of state seemed to be an emerging reality.

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Conclusion Kraushaar, leading historian of the student movement, has argued, like many others, that the international student movement “had its origins without any doubt in the West.”128 Yet it was not the students of Berkeley or the American South but the students of Africa and Asia who first led West German students to take a public, political role, a fact that forces a revision of the narrative of student protest in the 1960s as one of diffusion from the United States. Foreign student activism in West Germany bore the common qualities of the international student movement in the motivation for protest—against state violence—and the reassessment of the role of education and the university. Chosen as agents of national–economic growth, Third World students studying abroad arguably felt the pressures of an economic–utilitarian approach to education more acutely than any others and they were also the first to resist against it by acting publicly as both students and political actors, in the face of vigorous state attempts to silence them. African and Asian dissident students made allies of West German students by individualizing the victims of state violence in the Third World, insisting on the precedence of life and political freedom over economic and geopolitical necessity. The first Third World individual around whom leftist students in West Germany rallied was the persecuted intellectual, who they related to as fellow students. After 1967, the basis of solidarity changed. As West Germany transformed from a safe place from which one could advocate for those oppressed elsewhere to a site of police and state violence itself, First and Third World students began to relate in their shared victimhood and their shared resistance. Notes 1. For an exception, see Jennifer Ruth Hosek, “Cuba and the Germans: A Cultural History of an Infatuation” (dissertation, University of California, Berkeley, 2004), chapter four. 2. Martin Klimke, “Sit-in, Teach-in, Go-in. Die transnationale Zirkulation kultureller Praktiken in den 1960er Jahren am Beispiel der direkten Aktion,” in 1968. Handbuch zur Kultur- und Mediengeschichte der Studentenbewegung, eds. Martin Klimke and Joachim Scharloth (Verlag J. B. Metzler, 2007); “Black Power, die Black-PantherSolidaritätskomitees und der bewaffnete Kampf,” in Die R AF und der linke Terrorismus, ed. Wolfgang Kraushaar (Hamburg: Hamburger Edition, 2006). See also Detlef Junker, Carla McDougall, and Wilfried Mausbach, “Atlantic Crossings? Transcultural Relations and Political Protest in Germany and the United States, 1958–1977,” Bulletin of the German Historical Institute (Spring 2004); and Ingrid Gilcher-Holtey, Die 68er Bewegung. Deutschland—Westeuropa—USA, 2001 (München: C. H. Beck, 2001). For comparative studies of the United States and West Germany, see Ingo Juchler, Die Studentenbewegungen in den Vereinigten Staaten und der Bundesrepublik Deutschland in den sechziger Jahre. Eine Untersuchung hinsichtlich ihrer Beeinflussung durch Befreiungsbewegungen und -theorien aus der Dritten Welt (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1996); and Michael Schmidtke, Der Aufbruch der jungen Intelligenz. Die 68er Jahre in der Bundesrepublik und den USA (Frankfurt: Campus, 2003).

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3. Wolfgang Kraushaar, 1968 als Mythos, Chiffre und Zäsur (Hamburg: Hamburger Edition, 2000), 68. 4. My use of the term Third World follows the usage of the time, designating the regions of Asia, Africa, Latin America, and the Caribbean emerging as a political force in the 1960s as a result of the near completion of decolonization and efforts at international coordination such as the Bandung conference of 1956 and the NonAligned Movement founded in 1961. I use it in the spirit expressed by New Left activist Bahman Nirumand in 1967, who chose the term over others such as “developing nations,” because of its explicitly political rather than economic valence. Bahman Nirumand, Persien, Modell eines Entwicklungslandes oder Die Diktatur der freien Welt (Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1967), 9. On the origin of the term as one of advocacy and entitlement rather than denigration, see Carl E. Pletsch, “The Three Worlds, or the Division of Social Scientific Labor, Circa 1950–1975,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 23 no. 4 (October 1981): 569. 5. Karl Fritz Heise, “Politische Aktivitäten ausländischer Studenten innerhalb und außerhalb der Hochschule (1962),” in 30 Jahre Reintegrationsdiskussion an den deutschen Hochschulen., ed. Afrikanisch-Asiatische Studentenförderung e.V. (Göttingen: IKO-Verlag, 1998), 146. 6. Bjørn Pätzoldt, Ausländerstudium in der BRD. Ein Beitrag zur Imperialismuskritik (Pahl-Rugenstein, 1972), 101; Dieter Bielenstein VDS Pressereferat an den Abgeordneten des Deutschen Bundestages Herrn Dr. Fritz. Anlage, April 26, 1961, Bundesarchiv Koblenz (hereafter BA)/B166/1172; “Das Ausländerstudium in der Bundesrepublik,” Dokumentation III/63, ew - Entwicklungsländer Informationen, May 24, 1963, 4–5. 7. Immanuel Geiss, “Gegen die Apartheid,” Welt der Arbeit, October 25, 1963, 8; Walter Nutz, “Tendenzen zu autoritären Verhaltensmodellen in der Regenbogenpresse,” Kölner Zeitschrift für Soziologie 21 no. 3 (1969): 657. 8. AUMA. Informationen über die Deutsche Industrie-Ausstellung Teheran vom 4.10–22.10.1960. Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amts (hereafter PA-A A)/ B55/2141. By 1962, West Germany imported over two hundred million dollars worth of oil from Iran annually. Ref. IIIB6 A A. Aufzeichnung Betr: Vorbereitung der Asien-Reise des Herrn Bundespräsidenten. September 6, 1963. PA-A A/ B55/2141. 9. Ludwig Rosenberg, “Wie helfen wir den Entwicklungsländern?,” Gewerkschaftliche Monatshefte 11, no. 8 (August 1960): 449. 10. Ibid., 450. 11. A major motivation for official West German activity in developing nations was the determination to prevent diplomatic recognition of East Germany under the so-called Hallstein Doctrine. See William Glenn Gray, Germany’s Cold War: The Global Campaign to Isolate East Germany, 1949–1969 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2003). 12. In January 1961, four thousand students occupied Teheran University. The police surrounded the campus and the sit-in lasted three weeks until the university was shut down by the state. Afshin Matin-Asgari, Iranian Student Opposition to the Shah (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 2001), 44. 13. Voigt. Ref. 708. Vermerk. Betr: Unruhe unter iranischen Studenten in Köln; mögliche Bedrohung der Iranischen Botschaft. February 24, 1961. PA-A A/ B82/528; Ref. 708. Voigt an das Referat 502. Betr: Iranische Note vom 14. February 1961. February 21, 1961. PA-A A/B82/528; Raab. An den BMI. March 1, 1961. PA-AA/B82/528; Niederschrift über die Sitzung des Koordinierungsausschusses

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15.

16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

32. 33.

34. 35. 36. 37. 38.

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zur Bekämpfung verfassungsfeindlicher Bestrebungen im BMI am 13. March1961. PA-A A/B82/528. Voigt. Ref. 708. Vermerk. Betr: Unruhe unter iranischen Studenten in Köln; mögliche Bedrohung der Iranischen Botschaft. February 24, 1961. PA-A A/ B82/528; Konkret 4 (February 20, 1961). Niederschrift über die Sitzung des Koordinierungsausschusses zur Bekämpfung verfassungsfeindlicher Bestrebungen im BMI am 13. March.1961. PA-A A/ B82/528. Voigt. Ref 708. Vermerk. Betr: Unruhe unter iranischen Studenten in Köln; mögliche Bedrohung der Iranischen Botschaft. February 24, 1961. PA-A A/B82/528. “Karitas für Afrika,” Der Spiegel 14 no. 44 (October 26, 1960): 33. Lüders Referat 604 A A an Herrn D5. Betr: Politische Demonstrationen ausländischer Studenten in der Bundesrepublik. February 20, 1961. PA-A A/B82/528, 2. Ibid., 2–3. Voigt A A an Herrn D5. Betr: Politische Demonstrationen ausländischer Studenten in der BRD. February 16, 1961. PA-A A/B82/528. “Afro-Asiaten sagen in Bonn ihre Meinung,” Colloquium 15, no. 11 (1961): 22. G.E.K. “Angola,” Colloquium 15, no. 11 (1961): 3. Roland Rall, “Keine Hallsteindoktrin für Studenten. Der Verband Deutscher Studentenschaften tagte in München,” Konkret no. 5 (May 1962): 9. Reimar Lenz, “Zwischen Macht und Menschenrecht. Warum Studenten manchmal auf die Straße gehen,” Konkret no. 1 (January 1964): 17. Ibid., 16; Claus Leggewie, Kofferträger: das Algerien-Projekt der Linken im AdenauerDeutschland (Berlin: Rotbuch Verlag, 1984), 28. Siegward Lönnendonker, Bernd Rabehl, and Jochen Staadt, Die antiautoritäre Revolte: der Sozialistische Deutsche Studentenbund nach der Trennung von der SPD (Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher Verlag, 2002), 11–12. Klaus Meschkat, “Gründung des “Verbandes des Studenten des schwarzen Afrika unter portugiesischem Kolonialismus,” Colloquium 15, no. 11 (1961): 6. Ibid. Afrikanische Studenten Union-Aachen, “Wir fördern die Freiheit und Unabhängigkeit für Angola,” February 11, 1963. BA/B166/1411. C.G., “Solidarität,” Colloquium 17, no. 12 (1963): 4. Rudolf Hickel. ASTA Tübingen. “Bitte um Hilfe für Dr. Alexander in Südafrika.” N.d. [1963], Archiv “APO und soziale Bewegungen” (APO-Archiv) Freie Universität Berlin, Otto-Suhr-Institut für Politikwissenschaft (hereafter APO)/Privatbesitz Marianne Lieck/“Alexander 1963” Folder. C.G., “Solidarität,” 4. “Humboldt Stipendiat in Todesgefahr,” Notice of Demonstration for November 4, 1963. APO/Privatbesitz Marianne Lieck/“Alexander 1963” Folder; “Kfz-Konvoi der Studenten: Freiheit für Dr. Alexander” Welt am Sonntag. November 3, 1963; “An alle Teilnehmer des Autokorsos . . .” Description of Demonstration Route. N.d. APO/Privatbesitz Marianne Lieck/“Alexander 1963” Folder. Geiss, “Gegen die Apartheid,” 8. Renate Bühning. Humanistische Studenten-Union Berlin. October 25, 1963. APO/Privatbesitz Marianne Lieck/“Alexander 1963” Folder. “Slogans (Michael Maukes Entwurf ),” APO/Privatbesitz Marianne Lieck/“Alexander 1963” Folder. “Drei Afrikaner gehängt,” Frankfurter Rundschau, November 2, 1963. Ludwig Raiser, “Vor Gericht in Südafrika,” Die Zeit, November 8, 1963.

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39. Ibid. See Helmut Schelsky, Die skeptische Generation. Eine Soziologie der deutschen Jugend, (Düsseldorf: Diedrichs, 1957). 40. Raiser, “Vor Gericht in Südafrika.” 41. Ibid. 42. Willy Albrecht, Der Sozialistische Deutsche Studentenbund. Vom parteikonformen Studentenverband zum Repräsentanten der Neuen Linken (Bonn: Verlag J.H.W. Dietz Nachfolger, 1994), 449; HIS/“Nachlass Rudi Dutschke”/RUD 210,03 “Inhalt eines Ringordners ‘1964/1965 Lateinamerika’ 1964–1965” Box. 43. SDS, “Presseerklärung zum Besuch des Aussenministers der Südafrikanischen Republik.” N.d. APO/A.K. Privatbesitz/“SDS Arbeitskreise” Folder, 2. 44. SDS, “Aufruf zum Boykott der ‘Südafrika – Woche.’ ” Leaf let for Demonstration on March 6, 1965. APO/A.K. Privatbesitz/“SDS Arbeitskreise” Folder. 45. “Bekanntmachung der iranischen Studenten der Universität Heidelberg.” Flyer handed out at Heidelberg university cafeteria in October 1963. BA/B166/1173. 46. Lenz, “Zwischen Macht und Menschenrecht. Warum Studenten manchmal auf die Straße gehen,” 17. 47. “Polizei: ‘Im Krankenhaus sind keine Betten für Sie frei,’ ” Bonner Rundschau, October 28, 1963. 48. Ibid. 49. “Iranische Studenten traten in Hungerstreik” [Karlsruhe newspaper]. October 26, 1965, 9. 50. See, e.g., both techniques used in CISNU. “Was it a plot to kill the Shah or is it a Conspiracy to silence the students?” N.d., BA/B166/1173. 51. Tom Buchanan, “ ‘The Truth Will Set You Free’: the Making of Amnesty International,” Journal of Contemporary History 37, no. 4 (October 2002): 586. 52. Theodor Adorno, “Zur Demokratisierung der deutschen Universitäten (1959),” in Frankfurter Schule und Studentenbewegung. Von der Flaschenpost zum Molotowcocktail 1946–1995, ed. Wolfgang Kraushaar (Hamburg: Hamburger Edition, 1998), 120. 53. Ibid., 122. 54. Ahmed Abdel Gadir Abdel Basif, “Einige politische und soziale Aspekte des Studiums der Afrikaner in der BRD” (dissertation, Freiburg, January 1967), quoted in Pätzoldt, Ausländerstudium in der BRD. Ein Beitrag zur Imperialismuskritik, 110. 55. Prodosh Aich, Farbige unter Weißen (Cologne: Kiepenheur & Witsch, 1962), book jacket. 56. The West German financial commitment to long-term loans, grants, and multilateral commitments jumped to around three million DM a year after 1961. HeideIrene Schmidt, “Pushed to the Front: The Foreign Assistance Policy of the Federal Republic of Germany, 1958–1971,” Contemporary European History 12, no. 4 (2003): 483–5; Pätzoldt, Ausländerstudium in der BRD. Ein Beitrag zur Imperialismuskritik, 107. 57. Peter Heintz, ed., Soziologie der Entwicklungsländern (Cologne: Keipenheur & Witsch, 1962), 717; Rudolf Stucken, “Der ‘Circulus Vitiosus’ der Armut in Entwicklungsländer,” in Entwicklungspolitik. Handbuch und Lexikon, eds. Hans Besters and Ernst E. Boesch (Berlin: Matthias-Grunewald-Verlag, 1966), 60; Ingo Haase, Zwischen Lenkung und Selbstbestimmung. Geschichte und Gegenwart des Deutschen Entwicklungsdienstes (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1996), 19. 58. Sayeed ur Rahmen für den Vorstand der Föderation der Afro-Asiatischen Studenten-Unionen in der Bundesrepublik und West-Berlin (FA ASU) an den Bundesinnenminister Hermann Höcherl. March 2, 1964. BA/B166/1173; “Afro-Asiatisches Prinzip,” Colloquium 17, no. 7 (1963): 22.

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59. “Des Sammelns müde,” Colloquium 15, no. 8 (1961): 22. In 1961, there were 237 associations of foreign students at 29 West German universities. Dieter Bielenstein VDS Pressereferat an den Abgeordneten des Deutschen Bundestages Herrn Dr. Fritz. April 26, 1961. Anlage. BA/B166/1172. 60. Afro-Asiatische-Studentenunion Gießen. Satzungen. N.d. Anlage to Glathe. Der Rektor. Justus Liebig-Uni Gießen. an den Herr BMI. May 4, 1965. PA-A A/ B82/803. 61. Glathe Der Rektor Justus Liebig-Uni Gießen. an den Herrn BMI, May 4, 1965, PA-A A/B82/803. 62. Von Pölnitz. Der Rektor der Friedrich-Alexander-Uni. Erlangen-Nürnberg an Staatsminister Heinrich Junker. Bayerisches Staatsministerium des Innern. July 30, 1964. BA/B106/31348. 63. Kraushaar, 1968 als Mythos, Chiffre und Zäsur, 63. 64. “Kairos langer Arm in Bonn. 60 Ägypter für ‘schlechtes nationals Verhalten’ gerügt,” Akut 18, no. 23 (January 1966): 14–5. 65. Telegramm. Gielhammer Botschaft der BRD Teheran an das A A. November 16, 1954, PA-A A/B82/168; Massali, CIS an VDS. June 4, 1964. BA/B166/1173. 66. “Türkei geht gegen Studenten vor,” Frankfurter Rundschau, May 29, 1969; Hakki Keskin, Transcript of Speech from February 2, 1969, APO/ AstA der FU Files/“Griechenland, Türkei” Box. 67. Studentenunion Ortsvereinigung Heidelberg. Presseerklärung der Studentenunion Ortsvereinigung Heidelberg zu den Maßnahmen der irakischen Regierung gegenüber irakischen Studenten. July 22, 1964. BA/B166/1172, 1. 68. Al-Dujaili. 2.Vorsitzender der VIS. Vereinigung irakischer Studenten in der Bundesrepublik und in West-Berlin e.V. March 16, 1965. APO/SDS Bundesvorstand/“Referat Ausland Okt 64-Okt 65” Folder; Faruk Redae. 2. Sekretär des Allgemeinen Studentenverbandes der Irakischen Republik. “Internationales Seminar über die Lage der irakischen Studenten im Ausland.” APO/SDS Bundesvorstand/“Referat Ausland Okt 64-Okt 65” Folder; Ezidin Al-Dujaili an den SDS. 12.5.64. APO/SDS Bundesvorstand/“Referat Ausland Okt 64-Okt 65” Folder. 69. Ilias Katzoulis. 1. Vorsitzender des Vereins Griechischer Studenten und Akademiker (VGSA) in Berlin. “Presseerklärung” des ASTA und des VGSA. July 21, 1967. APO/ ASTA der FU Files/“Griechenland, Türkei, Baden-Württemberg Kontakte” Box; “Warnung vor Griechen-Geheimdienst.” Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung July 25, 1967. 70. “Aufforderung zur Hexenjagd.” Diskus 17, no. 3 (March 1967): 8. 71. Günter Krems, “Können Geheimdienste verboten werden?” Die Welt, July 28, 1967. 72. Kaiserlich Iranische Gesandtschaft. Memorandum an das A A. January 7, 1955. PA-A A/B82/168. 73. Niederschrift über die Besprechung mit den Ausländerreferenten der Länder in BMI am February 24, 1961. PA-A A/B82/528, 9. 74. Though Verwaltung is more commonly translated as “administration” or “management,” its use in matters of policing foreigners follows more closely that of the English “law enforcement,” a translation supported by its common root with the word for “force” (Gewalt). 75. Raab A A an den BMI. March 1, 1961. PA-A A/B82/528. 76. Ibid., 2.

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77. Stephen Castles, “The Guests Who Stayed—The Debate on ‘Foreigners Policy’ in the German Federal Republic,” International Migration Review 19, no. 3 (Autumn 1985): 518. 78. VLR I Scheel A A. Aufzeichnung. March 14, 1961. PA-A A/B82/528. 79. “Vorschlag des Bayerischen Staatsministerums des Innern für die Tagesordnung der Innenministerkonferenz am 15/16. February 1962 in Berlin.” BA/B106/47380. 80. Philip L. Martin and Mark J. Miller, “Guests or Immigrants?: Contradiction and Change in the German Immigration Policy Debate Since the Recruitment Stop,” Migration World 18, no. 1 (1990): 8. 81. Niederschrift über die Sitzung des Koordinierungsausschusses zur Bekämpfung verfassungsfeindlicher Bestrebungen im BMI am. March 13, 1961. PA-A A/ B82/528, 2. 82. The most common cosponsors were the SDS, University Socialists Association (Sozialistischer Hochschulbund—SHB), and the Liberal Students Association (Liberaler Studentenbund Deutschlands—LSD). 83. Referat V3 A A. Vermerk No. 2. Studentendemonstrationen gegen die iranische Regierung. October 27, 1965. PA-A A/B82/528. 84. Ibid. 85. Dr. Toyka. BMI. An das bayerische Staatsministerium des Innern. Betr: Kongress Kurdischer Studenten vom 9–15.Aug.1963. August 5, 1963. BA/B106/47386. 86. Telegram. COL an den VDS. June 4, 1963. BA/B166/1411. 87. Von Pirch V3 A A an Pioch. BMI. May 7, 1965. PA-A A/B82/803. 88. Innenminister des Landes NRW an den BMI. May 21, 1965. PA-A A/B82/803. 89. Von Pirch V3 A A an Pioch. BMI. May 7, 1965. PA-A A/B82/803. 90. Ibid. 91. Meyer-Lindenberg A A an Diplogerma Paris. May 21, 1965. PA-A A/B82/803; Klaiber. Paris Diplogerma an das A A. Betr: Erklärung Vereinigung arabischer Studenten in Frankreich zu verhinderter Einreise in die Bundesrepublik. May 18, 1965. PA-A A/B82/803. 92. Holzheimer. Referat Prot 2. Vermerk. Betr: Demonstration iranischer Studenten in München. 13. May 1963. PA-A A/B82/528. 93. Dr. Voigt an Herrn D 5. Betr: Politische Demonstrationen ausländischer Studenten in der Bundesrepublik. February 16, 1961. PA-A A/B82/528. 94. Grote. Niedersachsen Minister des Innern an den BMI. Betr: Versammlungen ausländischer Vereinigungen. April 14, 1963. BA/B106/31348. 95. Handwritten note on the reverse side of Grote. Niedersachsen Minister des Innern an den BMI. Betr: Versammlungen ausländischer Vereinigungen. Fernschreiben. April 14, 1963. BA/B106/31348. Because the telegram was addressed to a member of the BMI and the telegram was found within the archival files of the BMI, it is safe to assume that the author of the note was a member of the BMI. 96. “Ausländer-Polizeiverordnung,” Der Tagesspiegel. January 7, 1960. 97. “Stempel im Ausweis.” General-Anzeiger (Bonn). January 29, 1964. BA/ B106/47386. 98. For an article praising the “liberal hospitality” of the new law, see “Offene Arme,” Christ und Welt, February 19, 1965. 99. Van Scherpenberg A A an Dr. Ritter von Lex. BMI. September 10, 1959. BA/ B106/47380. 100. “Niederschrift über die Besprechung mit den Ausländerreferenten der Länder im BMI am 24 Feb 1961.” BA/B106/47380, 8.

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101. Breull. IB3. BMI. “Politische Betätigung der Ausländer in der BRD.” February 12, 1962. BA/B106/47380. 102. Christian Joppke, “The Rights of Aliens in Germany and the United States,” in Two Cultures of Right: The Quest for Inclusion and Participation in Modern America and Germany, eds. Manfred Berg and Martin H. Geyer (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 105. This proviso was also intended to avert claims on permanent residence by “guest workers.” See Rita C.-K. Chin, “Imagining a German Multiculturalism: Aras Ören and the Contested Meanings of the ‘Guest Worker,’ 1955–1980,” Radical History Review no. 83 (Spring 2002): 52. 103. MR Breuel BMI an Franz Josef Bach. Botschaft der BRD Teheran. February 16, 1965. B106/39962. 104. Ibid. 105. Ernst BMI an das A A. Betr: Ausweisung kommunistischer Agitatoren unter griechischen Gastarbeitern. June 7, 1967. PA-A A/B82/800. 106. Breuell. BMI. An den deutschen Bundestag. Ausschuß für Petitionen. November 19, 1964. PA-A A/B82/520. 107. Von Borries. V3. Vermerk. November 10, 1965. PA-A A/B82/520. 108. See, e.g., Ulrich Weithoff, “Hassan Massali hat Angst vor SAVAK,” Handelsblatt. June 20, 1967; Anton-Andreas Guha, “Ausländer zwischen Grundgesetz und Staatsräson,” Frankfurter Rundschau. February 8, 1968. 109. Abteilung V. Aufzeichnung. Betr: Ausländerrechtliche Maßnahmen gegen den iranischen Staatsangehörigen Hassan Massali. March 19, 1968. PA-A A/ B82/520. 110. Dr. W. Kanein. Ministerialrat im Bayerischen Staatsministerium des Innern an Dr. Heuer BMI. Betr: Fremdenrecht. Hier: Politische Betätigung ausländischer Studenten. December 6, 1967. BA/B106/39954; Dr. Hans Heinz Heldmann an Amnesty International. Betr: Berufungsverfahren gegen Parviz Nikkah und acht weitere Angeklagte vor dem Militärgerichtshof in Teheran. December 14, 1965. Archiv des Hamburger Instituts für Sozialforschung (hereafter HIS)/ Bestand “Sozialistisches Anwaltskollektiv Berlin”/230, 10 “2.Juni. Demonstration. Diverses” Folder. 111. Türpitz Bundesamt für die Anerkennung ausländischer Flüchtlinge. Bescheid. April 26, 1968; Rechtsanwalt Horst Mahler an das Bundesamt für die Anerkennung ausländischer Flüchtlinge. June 4, 1968; Urbanek Bundesamt für die Anerkennung ausländischer Flüchtlinge. Widerspruchsbescheid. May 19, 1969; all from HIS/ Bestand Sozialistisches Anwaltskollektiv Berlin/300,53 “Asyl und Aufenthalt” Folder. 112. Heinrich Hannover, Die Republik vor Gericht. 1954–1974. Erinnerungen eines unbequemen Rechtsanwalts (Berlin: Auf bau Verlag, 1998), 169. 113. Ibid., 179. 114. Ibid., 176. 115. Regierungsdirektor Dr. Heuer. BMI an Ministerialrat Dr. W. Kanein im Bayerischen Staatsministerium des Innern. Betr: Politische Betätigung ausländischer Studenten. November 29, 1967. BA/B106/39954. 116. Hans Heinz Heldmann, “Neuigkeiten aus unserer Fremdenrechtspraxis (1967),” in Verwaltung versus Verfassung: Ausländerrecht 1965–1988 (Frankfurt: P. Lang, 1989), 59. 117. Ibid., 12. 118. Inga Buhmann, Ich habe mir eine Geschichte geschrieben (Frankfurt/Main: Zweitausendeins, 1983), 265.

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119. Vereinigung Iranischer Studenten an der Universität Hamburg, “Warum sind wir gegen den Schah und sein Regime?” n.d. but stapled to a press release from June 6, 1967. HIS/ Bestand “Dr. Jürgen Klein—SDS-Archiv Hamburg”/III. Welt 1967–1971/Ordner 21. 120. Horst Kurnitzky. Witness Nr. 0551. APO/“Untersuchungsausschuß 2.Juni Zeugen ab 401” Folder. 121. Barbara Kerneck. Witness Nr. 0589. APO/“Untersuchungsausschuß 2.Juni Zeugen ab 401” Folder; Eckhart Bauer. Witness Nr. 0597. APO/“Untersuchungsausschuß 2.Juni Zeugen ab 401” Folder. 122. Reinhard Strecker. “Zeugenaussage vom 27.6.1967.” Witness Nr. 624. APO/ “Untersuchungsausschuß 2.Juni Zeugen ab 401” Folder. 123. Bahman Nirumand, Hansi Scharbach, and Peter Schneider, “Ringvorlesung vom 15.Juni.1988. Internationalismus als Realitätsf lucht,” Kalaschnikow no. 8 (February 1997): 58. 124. Berlin 2.Juni.1967, dir. and wr.: Hans-Rüdiger Minow and Thomas Giefer, cam: Skip Norman (1967). 125. N.d. n.a. [A A] Betr: Politische Betätigung schahfeindlicher Iraner in Bundesgebiet. PA-A A/B82/502. 126. Grunst. Der Senator für Inneres. Berlin an den BMI. January 9, 1969. Betr: Ausländergelegenheiten. PA-A A/B82/801. 127. Niels Siebert, “Der Schlafenden Flughafenpolizei krachten die Scheiben um die Ohren: Ausländergesetz, Arbeitsmigration, Afroamerikaner: Der Kampf gegen Rassismus in der Agit 883,” in agit 883: Bewegung Revolte Underground in Westberlin 1969–1972, ed. rotaprint 25 (Berlin: Assoziation A, 2006), 229. 128. Kraushaar, 1968 als Mythos, Chiffre und Zäsur, 37.

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CHAPTER 3

The Kurdish Conundrum in Europe: Political Opportunities and Transnational Activism Vera Eccarius-Kelly

Introduction The Turkish-origin Kurdish immigrant community in Europe represents a case study that illustrates how this historically marginalized minority group effectively pursued supranational political opportunities to achieve ethno-cultural recognition. Through a concerted strategic effort, the Turkish-origin Kurdish community transitioned from an immigrant group perceived as obstinate and linked to international terrorism to one that sought and attained international protection.1 By taking advantage of existing institutional structures and discursive channels available in both nation-states and the supranational European Union (EU), the Kurdish minority community asserted a claim of ethnocultural distinctiveness from Turkish immigrants in Europe. Over the past decade, Kurdish activists strategically reshaped the immigrant community’s relationship with European nation-states, intergovernmental organizations (IGOs), and nongovernmental organizations (NGOs). 2 As a result, the Diaspora strengthened the Turkish-origin Kurdish community’s ability to legitimately claim a distinct identity from Turkish immigrants in Europe.3 The Kurdish Diaspora launched its political campaign from a de-territorialized space that at first only cautiously engaged with the structures of nation-states. Today, the Kurdish Diaspora participates in numerous political processes and systematically influences European Turkish relations. By moving forward politically, the Kurdish community asserted a growing sense of agency to shape public debates affecting the larger Kurdish question.4 This development is particularly relevant in light of newly emerging transnational political opportunities for

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Kurdish Diaspora activists in Europe and relates to the establishment of an autonomous arrangement for Kurds in northern Iraq and the unprecedented election of ethnic Kurdish parliamentarians in Turkey. The strategy of political engagement appears to provide benefits to the Kurdish minority in Turkey as well as in Europe. While Kurdish provinces in Iraq achieved international recognition as a separate entity and thereby outline a potential blueprint for Kurds in Turkey, the political agenda of Kurdish delegates in Turkey also offers promising viability. Parallel developments in Iraq and Turkey strengthen the vital role played by members of the European-based Kurdish Diaspora, in particular by affirming claims to an independent ethnic identity, while also advancing the notion of cultural recognition linked to a regional homeland. This chapter explores the impact, consequences, and future opportunities for collective action by a small but vocal minority community in Europe, namely Turkish-origin Kurdish immigrants. An examination of the reasons for the configuration, maintenance, and eventual transformation of this challenger community from an activist Muslim minority to a transnational European-wide Kurdish Diaspora movement helps to conceptualize the sociocultural, historical, and structural dynamics that shaped Turkish-origin Kurds as social actors in Europe. It is important to recognize that Kurdish mobilization started in Germany during the 1960s, and only decades later manifested itself as a wider European phenomenon (see Slobodian in this volume).5 Three fundamental questions provide a useful leitmotif to frame the transnational Kurdish case study: Which factors contributed to the formation of a Kurdish transnational movement after Kurds arrived in large numbers in Germany? What successes and failures did the Kurdish minority experience in its attempt to influence politics in Germany and later in Europe? And, to what extent does the Kurdish movement in Europe provide a model for other transnational movements? Theoretical Framework To analyze the Kurdish minority’s political strategies within the European context, both domestic and international factors must be considered to measure the successes, failures, and future opportunities of the Diaspora. The application of social movement theory, and in particular transnational political opportunity structure analysis, offers insights into the political preferences expressed by immigrant groups. Diaspora groups often lack the unity, size, and required political alliances to exert inf luence on host countries or the ability to push effectively for changes in their respective homelands. 6 Yet, despite its small size in contrast with other immigrant groups in Europe, the Kurdish minority has avoided several of the typical predicaments encountered by less powerful Diaspora groups that aim to influence homeland policies.7 In contrast to Somali and Hmong communities in the United States, Pakistani immigrants in Britain, and Maghreb immigrants in France, Turkish-origin Kurds have gained key allies within

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existent nation-states and supranational structures. 8 Instead of concentrating primarily on awareness-raising campaigns, national collective mobilization, and protest activity, the transnational Kurdish movement has purposefully begun to pursue leverage points and political opportunities that present themselves from within the international system. In contrast to earlier findings by Adrian Favell and Andrew Geddes related to inherent restrictions to immigrant access to the EU, the Kurdish Diaspora emerges as an immigrant group that takes advantage of supranational opportunities through a meticulous effort of transnational mobilization. Both scholars proposed that “it makes sense to look for a distinct European ‘transnational opportunity structure’ in the immigration policy sector, only where specific channels and sources of empowerment have begun to be institutionalized.” 9 In other words, Favell and Geddes argued that access is still limited to elite groups, because ethnically based challenges by outsiders such as migrants remain unsuccessful due in large part to their lack of technocratic and judicial expertise.10 The scholars accurately assert that channels to political empowerment in Europe are frequently blocked for noncitizen immigrants, yet the Kurdish Diaspora’s concerted effort to gain entry has resulted in noticeable political traction. Kurds originating from Turkey have benefited from a progression of unusual political circumstances that advanced the minority’s ability to become “pseudo-insiders” within Europe’s supranational structures. In earlier work, this author posited that European and transnational opportunities emerged for ethnic Kurdish mobilization because of intersecting interests among national representatives of EU member states and Kurdish Diaspora activists.11 In particular, both Kurdish activists and representatives of EU member states agreed on the prerequisite of marked improvements in the treatment of ethnic and religious minorities in Turkey for the application of Turkish membership in the EU to be taken seriously. In identifying the full spectrum of transnational activism orchestrated by the Kurdish Diaspora, Andreas Blätte pointed to growing Europe-wide political opportunities pursued by the Kurdish minority.12 His work clearly recognized that the Kurdish movement’s protest patterns are directed at European institutions. Blätte convincingly demonstrated improved Kurdish access to political channels within EU structures, despite the widely held hypothesis that noncitizen immigrants are excluded from such channels. To determine how the Kurdish minority managed to circumnavigate institutional barriers invites a renewed empirical assessment of transnational political opportunities available to the minority. The Kurdish case presents a series of complex realities that now practically has guaranteed a degree of political access for Kurds in the EU. Yet this access is essentially linked to the Kurdish minority’s historical experience, its geographic location, and Turkey’s desire to join the EU as a full member state. Without a doubt, these factors uniquely enhanced the Kurdish immigrant group’s ability to achieve the status of quasi-insider within the EU.

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Linking Migration to Transnational Social Movements In large part, social movement literature focuses on challenger communities that are active within the United States and Western Europe (with some notable exceptions linked to anticolonial struggles inspired by Martin Luther King, Jr., Mohandas Gandhi, and Nelson Mandela).13 There are several explanations for this emphasis on Western democracies. Initially, social movements emerged in the eighteenth century out of class-based struggles that pitted organizing workers against economic and political elites in Europe. Social scientists, generally speaking, more easily gain access to movement participants and government officials in democratic environments, and the media tend to report frequently about events related to protest activity carried out by challenger communities in flourishing democracies. Also, a disproportionate number of scholars interested in activist communities and social movements are affiliated with North American or Western European research institutions. In all likelihood, a combination of these factors limits scholarly pursuits of lesser known or unfamiliar social movements in semi-closed or closed societies. This dearth of social movement case studies can be characterized by its nonWestern and transborder or transnational nature, and points to a significant void within the larger body of literature. While some scholars astutely point out that transnational case studies link the fields of social movements, ethnic collective action, and nationalist mobilization, it is worthwhile to examine transnational social movements outside of the constraints of familiar examples and frameworks.14 This gap can be bridged by examining transnational social movement activity that links communities in developing countries to those in industrialized countries. Migration from Turkey to Europe and the transfer of ethno-cultural and national grievances by Turkish-origin Kurdish migrants to Europe present such an opportunity. Immigration patterns in this case study relate directly to the subsequent formation of a transnational social movement that today exerts increasing pressure on both Turkey and EU member states through the use of supranational structures. However, the fields of migration studies and transnational social movements are not necessarily comfortable bedfellows in an international system that is dominated by nation-states. Governments aim to control and manage migratory trends, while transnational social movements operate in extraterritorial political space that escapes the immediate controls of nation-states. Migration literature typically focuses on obstacles to social integration, examines inf luences and aspects of cultural difference, and compares how nation-states’ policy approaches impact groups of immigrants.15 Migration scholars only occasionally investigate political motivations and interests expressed by immigrant groups.16 Yet, immigrants often articulate political aspirations by transplanting demands from a developing country to a Western democracy, and in the process assert political spaces to express grievances (see chapter two). An examination of social movements that originate in countries

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that undergo intense processes of modernization as in Turkey, and those that connect the developing world to industrialized democracies such as Kurdish immigrants in Germany is therefore valuable. Such studies advance our understanding of politically motivated transborder activism by immigrant and minority communities. The predominant questions of interest in the Kurdish case relate to why this particular transnational movement emerged at the time it did, how it functioned and changed over time, and in which ways webbed Kurdish challenger communities inf luenced the politics of both the host and sending countries. Transnational social movement organizations (TSMOs) such as the Kurdish movement in Europe link political activities of immigrants with ethnonationalist agendas in the country of origin. This connection represents an obvious opportunity to expand social movement research beyond the work completed on familiar aspects of antiwar or peace movements, the environmental/ green movements, the feminist/women’s rights movements, and aspects of labor rights and antiglobalization movements.17 During the past two decades the limited ability of nation-states to manage and control the impact and consequences of transborder problems has become increasingly obvious to social actors. A convincing example that demonstrates the limited power exerted by nation-states relates to the trafficking of women as sex slaves from Eastern to Western Europe, or from Central to North America. As a transnational human rights issue, a regional and/or global policy and enforcement approach is desperately needed to disrupt criminal gangs that force women into prostitution by taking them across borders. The realization that a nation-states’ power is limited to a purely domestic response has contributed to an increased rate of civil society participation in TSMOs. This aspect in combination with growing access to and dissemination of information, and an overall improvement of technological capabilities, allows civil society to feel empowered to pursue specific demands and to express grievances in contrast to earlier decades.18 Anthony Giddens proposed that social movements are more concerned with “life politics” or the “self-realization of identity” than with gaining control over state power since the mid-twentieth century.19 The concept of life politics or the idea that groups of people prefer to shape how their own values and ideas are represented across borders is an additional explanation for the proliferation of TSMOs. 20 These indicators, including technological advancements and a rise in civil society groups, give direction to the Turkish-origin Kurdish challenger community’s developmental path. From an earlier emphasis on ethno-national identity formation and local articulations of grievances, loosely networked Kurdish Diaspora groups transformed themselves into a fully functioning transnational social movement organization. 21 Turkish-Origin Kurdish Activism Social movements represent the most common form of collective action through which people express grievances and expectations related to their perceived

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socioeconomic and cultural rights, their political well-being, and their grouprelated interests. 22 Scholars in the field of social movement theory identify classic conditions to advance the understanding of characteristics that encourage movement formation, and to scrutinize their impact on societies. The body of social movement literature emphasizes several analysis points including (i) collective action that takes place outside of an institutionally authorized framework, (ii) the assertion of claims in pursuit of change, (iii) the existence of identifiable organizational structures, and (iv) the ability to sustain collective action over an extended period of time. 23 The Turkish-origin Kurdish movement in Europe is consistent with the parameters of a classic social movement and manifests typical characteristics. Kurdish activists engage in expressions of collective and goal-oriented challenges through the persistent use of protest actions including demonstrations and mass gatherings in support of particularistic demands related to ethnonational grievances. 24 Kurdish activists efficiently utilize appropriated spaces by organizing awareness-raising campaigns and cultural events in public parks or rented soccer stadiums; by marching through inner city streets to slow down traffic; by disseminating pamphlets, propaganda literature, and films; and by utilizing the Internet and text-messaging to share information and to facilitate mobilization efforts for its cause. 25 The recent recurrence of political tensions in Turkey over the insurgent Kurdish Workers Party’s (PKK) attacks on Turkish targets from hideouts in autonomous Kurdish territory in northern Iraq have intensified protest actions throughout Europe. The PKK is a separatist guerrilla organization active in both the southeastern provinces of Turkey and the Kurdish regions of northern Iraq. 26 It is no surprise that Kurdish Diaspora activists repeatedly clashed with Turkish nationalist groups in Europe reflecting the political climate inside Turkey. 27 There is little doubt that the Kurdish movement has been able to sustain and adapt its organizational features over time. Kurdish political activism has been a familiar feature of European urban life for at least two decades. 28 While aggressive public protest campaigns continue to serve a clear purpose on the national level, the Kurdish movement now demonstrates a preference for insider lobbying and structured political participation on the EU-level. 29 Kurdish Diaspora organizations formed forty years ago when tens of thousands of foreign laborers were recruited from Turkey to Western Europe. Today, the so-called Turkish community in Europe includes ethnic Kurds, Islamists, pan-Turkish nationalists, and Alevis, numbering more than three million in total.30 Between 70 and 75 percent of all the members of these diverse communities live in Germany, predominantly as a consequence of a 1961 bilateral guest–worker agreement between Turkey and Germany. The total number of ethnic Kurds residing in Europe is estimated to be around one million; at least that was the case prior to the 2003 Iraq war.31 Hidden in those numbers is the fact that Germany lays claim to as many as two-thirds of the Turkish-origin Kurdish community in all of Europe, but estimates can range from five hundred thousand to seven hundred thousand Kurds depending on the source.32 An additional complication to identifying the exact

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size of the Kurdish community relates to the changing legal environment for long-term immigrants in Germany. Most immigrants only recently gained access to citizenship privileges in the country (see chapter eleven in this volume). Ali Yumusak of the German Turkish media agency Europress proposed that a total of six hundred thousand former Turkish passport holders gained access to voting privileges as a consequence of changed citizenship regulations.33 That suggests an approximation of one hundred and fifty thousand to two hundred thousand ethnic Kurds who attained German citizenship and potentially can exercise the right to vote in Germany and for EU parliamentarians. This author proposes that ethnic Kurdish immigrants pursued German citizenship at a higher rate than Turkish immigrants. The underlying reason for this assertion relates to the Kurdish experience in the southeastern regions of Turkey, and in particular since the 1980s. Kurds often dealt with discriminatory bureaucratic patterns and violence perpetrated by the Turkish military prior to migrating to Germany.34 A caveat to consider is that a certain percentage of naturalized German citizens originating from Turkey may have left Germany, or could have lost German citizenship following the German government’s discovery of unauthorized dual-citizenship. However, this author proposes that most Kurds living in Germany prefer to remain in the country and have little incentive to favor Turkish citizenship over German citizenship. Finally, it is important to acknowledge that it remains unconstitutional in Germany to collect ethnically based data, which makes assertions about the specific number of ethnic Kurdish German citizens a challenging task, according to the German Federal Office for Migration, Refugees, and Integration.35 The only reliable data available are the official German naturalization rates that indicate how many former Turkish citizenship holders applied for and received German citizenship (table 3.1). Table 3.1

Naturalization rates among Turkish citizenship holders in Germany, 1994–2006

Year

Total number of applications for German naturalization

1994 1995 1996 1997 1998 1999 2000 2001 2002 2003 2004 2005 2006

61,709 71,981 86,356 82,913 106,790 143,267 186,688 178,098 154,547 140,731 127,153 117,241 124,832

Number of applicants holding Percent of total number of Turkish citizenship applicants for naturalization 19,590 31,578 46,294 42,240 59,664 103,900 82,861 76,573 64,631 56,244 44,465 32,661 33,478

Source: Statistisches Bundesamt, “Einbürgerungen von Ausländern,” Wiesbaden, 2007.

31.7 43.9 53.6 50.9 55.9 72.5 44.4 43.0 41.8 40.0 35.0 27.9 26.8

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A closer examination of the political choices made by the Kurdish community, and in particular its transnational activities, offers a remarkable insight into issue-specific awareness-raising campaigns during the early stages of the Kurdish movement between 1980 and 1995. During the movement’s maturing process between 1995 and 2005, the emphasis shifted to lobbying efforts, and in its most recent phase as “quasi-insiders,” Kurdish Diaspora leaders sought out new opportunities to shape the future of the Kurdish question within the European context. Transplanting the Kurdish Identity Question In the early to mid-1980s, Kurds in Europe, and especially in Germany, expressed ethno-national grievances by protesting in the streets for human rights improvements in Turkey, and demanded the formation of an independent homeland called Kurdistan.36 Years later, Diaspora Kurdish protesters shifted away from separatist articulations to more culturally based grievances such as the right to study and speak their ethnic language, to select Kurdish names for their children, to operate Kurdish TV and radio programs, and to openly perform regional cultural practices.37 Before the Kurdish Diaspora transitioned to a strategy of supranational lobbying at the European Union level in the mid-1990s, Kurds in Europe and in Turkey underwent a period of intense radicalization, which was spearheaded by the Kurdish Workers Party (PKK). During the 1980s the PKK, a militant separatist group espousing a mixture of Marxist ideology and Kurdish nationalism, attempted to advance its ethnonational and separatist agenda through insurgent activities in Turkey. After years of military failures, the PKK launched an organizational transformation of its guerrilla structures in favor of political strategies more typical for transnational social movement organizations. PKK cadres left for Europe, built up corresponding political structures abroad, and succeeded in establishing powerful networks of sympathizers and supporters not only in Germany, but also in the Netherlands and in Belgium. Yet, by the mid-1990s, under the leadership of Kurdish Diaspora members in Europe, Kurdish activists engaged in aggressive campaigns of transnational lobbying instead of an orchestrated campaign of terror.38 As a political challenger community, the leadership of Kurdish Diaspora organizations pursued substantial leverage points, such as allies within human rights organizations and members of European Parliament (MEP), to exert pressure on Turkey through supranational political structures. Some EU member states, particularly Greece and Germany during more conservative administrations for example, provided Kurdish Diaspora activists and receptive human rights organizations with pragmatic political alliances in hopes of excluding Turkey from full membership in the EU. European left-libertarian bloc parties signaled a willingness to integrate the larger Kurdish question into discussions and debates related to accession negotiations with the EU. As a result, the Kurdish minority gained an indirect voice in the European Parliament,

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and occasionally succeeded in influencing human rights policy discussions in the Council of Europe.39 The Kurdish Diaspora may have been a political pawn during the early 1990s by serving the interests of several national governments in Europe with little motivation to resolve the actual Kurdish issue in Turkey. Delaying Turkey’s admittance to the EU played a role among conservative parties throughout Europe. But pressure to grant minority rights to Kurds in Turkey essentially moved Turkish society toward a more moderate policy approach, and in the meantime, a codependent relationship developed between several EU parliamentarians (MEPs) and Kurdish activists as they relied on a free f low of information to advance a temporarily overlapping agenda. As both political and discursive opportunities for Kurdish activists increased, their unofficial status shifted from intermittent contributors to critical reports on Turkey to quasi-insiders and regular consultants on the treatment of the Kurdish minority in Turkey. Another significant side-effect during this process of rapprochement between MEPs and Kurdish activists was the reduction of radicalism within the transnational Kurdish movement. Yet to grasp the causes for an independent Kurdish Diaspora identity and movement that developed among Kurds from Turkey, it is important to elucidate the underlying historical, socioeconomic, and political causes that explain its initial formation. Three factors made it essentially possible to transfer the Kurdish ethno-national question from Turkey to Germany. Initially, following German labor recruitment schemes during the 1960s, Kurdish immigrants established enclaves abroad, and thereby transplanted ethno-national agendas from Turkey to Europe. Second, radical subgroups among Kurdish immigrants gained critical support after Kurdish asylum applicants escaped to Europe following the Turkish military’s crackdown on leftist dissent in 1980. Finally, politicized Kurds in exile effectively utilized and benefited from their access to the liberal democratic environment in Europe during the 1980s and 1990s. Kurds in Germany Nearly fifty years ago, postwar Germany recruited foreign workers to satisfy labor needs during the country’s reconstruction period. Between 1961, the initial year of the so-called German Turkish worker agreement, and 1975, just a couple of years after the recruitment period ended, about 650,000 Turkish citizens settled into semi-permanent arrangements in Germany.40 Despite a relatively large inf lux of Italian, Greek, Spanish, and Portuguese workers during the 1960s, the German government failed to satisfy the economy’s extensive demand for additional labor. This shortage persuaded government officials to pursue temporary worker arrangements outside of the traditional European labor migration countries. In this period of dynamic economic growth, the German government neglected to consider the human and social effects a migratory pattern would have on both German communities and immigrant groups.41 A common expression among politicians—arrive today and leave again tomorrow—underscored

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the utilitarian attitude German business and public policy circles promoted within the country.42 Only decades later would German society acknowledge that the question of social and political integration of immigrant communities deserved attention from among the highest levels of policy makers.43 In retrospect, it is obvious that multiple intertwined sociopolitical factors contributed to an accelerated formation of a distinct Kurdish Diaspora identity in Germany. While the public primarily characterized Turkish and Kurdish immigrant workers by their country of origin (Turks), occasionally by their blue-collar employment or legal status (guest–workers), or their religion (nonChristian or Muslim), minimal social interactions took place between Germans and immigrants outside of prescribed contacts in their places of employment. Differences and nuances within Turkish and Kurdish immigrant communities related to cultural, class, religious, and educational backgrounds became entirely obscured by stereotypical assumptions about immigrants who had arrived from Turkey. The general public lacked incentives to discern between Turks and Kurds as a consequence of repetitive pronouncements by German government officials that foreign workers would close the gap between labor supply and demand as long as it was necessary. Officials had no intentions of permanently integrating and thereby acknowledging and addressing the diversity among workers from Turkey. As a result, a public attitude emerged that can best be characterized as a mixture of disregard for domestic Turkish conf licts and a high degree of ignorance and disinterest about the political baggage immigrants brought with them. Politically astute and engaged Kurdish immigrants in Germany perceived their host country to be hostile since it denied them the right to claim a separate Kurdish identity just as it had been the case in Turkey.44 The fact that German society was ignorant and disinterested in the Kurdish question continues to shape perceptions among second and third generation Kurdish German citizens today. The long-term consequences of social exclusion become obvious in a conversation between this author and Aryana, a young woman of Kurdish descent. Aryana explained that her family had arrived from Diyarbakir in the 1970s (a predominantly Kurdish province in southeastern Turkey). In perfect German, she expressed her sense of identity without acknowledging the inherent paradox: “I have a German passport, but in my heart I’m more Kurdish than German.” Had she ever spent time in Diyarbakir? “Nein, ich war noch nie da (No, I’ve never been there),”Aryana responded, but mentioned that her family regularly visited relatives living in Istanbul.45 Without a doubt, at the time when Aryana’s parents arrived in Germany, many Turkish and Kurdish men hoped to improve their economic status back home by working several years abroad.46 But others entered into foreign labor agreements mainly to escape a repressive cultural climate in Turkey or to utilize what they perceived to be extensive political freedoms abroad—especially in contrast to the permanent marginalization ethno-nationally oriented Kurds experienced in Turkey.47 The separate Kurdish Diaspora identity formed quickly as a consequence of the sudden end to recruitment or Anwerbestopp legislation in 1973. The German

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hiring freeze, which was directly related to the international oil crisis, affected all foreign workers, yet Kurds felt the consequences more immediately than other groups. Kurdish workers who lived in Germany lost their direct connection to predominantly Kurdish regions and urban neighborhoods when the f low of new Kurdish arrivals was reduced to a mere trickle in the host country. Young and predominantly male Kurds were cut off from regular patterns of communication and especially new information, which made them susceptible to ethno-national propaganda disseminated by radicals in Germany.48 Turkey’s military coup in 1980 created the necessary preconditions for a rapid emergence of Kurdish political activism and waves of radicalization within Europe.49 In the decade following the coup, tens of thousands of Turkish citizens, many of them ethnically Kurdish, entered Germany, France, the Netherlands, and Belgium to escape political, religious, and ethnic persecution in Turkey.50 The granting of asylum in European countries facilitated the creation of clandestine political resistance networks by both ethno-national Kurds and leftist Turks. This development transformed the makeup and organizational structures of both the Turkish and the Kurdish Diasporas from predominantly apolitical migrant groups to highly organized and homeland-oriented challenger communities. Germany, in particular, registered a significant increase in asylum applications from Turkish citizens in the 1980s.51 Since Germany did not collect ethnically based data on immigrants, it has been difficult to estimate the exact percentage of asylum applicants who claimed Kurdish ethnicity. Migration experts at that time suggested that one-quarter to one-third of all Turkish asylum seekers represented ethnic Kurds during the postcoup period.52 Radical PKK cadres entered Germany among the asylum applicants, established clandestine support networks, and provided Kurds in Germany with detailed information (or propaganda materials) about human rights offenses experienced by brethren in Turkey, Iran, Iraq, and Syria. The exposure to carefully selected information and the PKK’s effective recruitment tactics essentially strengthened the cohesion of Diaspora Kurds, who experienced rising levels of economic exclusion as well as antiforeigner sentiments in Germany.53 In pro-PKK publications such as Azadi and Kurdistan Rundbrief, contributors regularly accused the German government of embracing “Kemalist perspectives on Kurds” and suggested that “only political activism can change the country’s discriminatory and racist policies toward Kurds.”54 However, the most crucial element that led to the rapid formation of a separate Kurdish identity in Europe related to Germany’s democratic structures. Kurds gathered in neighborhood organizations, cultural clubs, and mosques to take advantage of the discursive and associational space afforded to them. This stood in dramatic contrast to the Kurdish experience in Turkey according to Denise Natali. She argued that already during Turkey’s transition to republican statehood “the denial of Kurdish identity, harsh secularization policies, prohibition of opposition groups, and militarization of the Kurdish regions prevented the continued evolution and open manifestation of nationalist sentiment.”55

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In Germany, despite the PKK’s attempt to control the Kurdish national sentiment, dissent and alternative interpretations of Kurdishness emerged and survived.56 By the late 1990s, Kurdish Diaspora activists established connections with human rights organizations and lobbying groups to initiate transnational networking efforts. The Kurdish Diaspora moved away from the confrontational tactics utilized by the PKK. As a consequence, noticeable changes took place in the way in which Kurdish publications covered political events. Traditionally PKK-affiliated publications such as Serxwebun, Özgür Politika, and Rohani stopped the practice of printing long and detailed descriptions of “final heroic acts by martyred guerrilla fighters.” In an interview with a German socialist publication called Junge Welt, the PKK’s European spokesperson Riza Erdogan explained that “since the PKK decided to abandon its guerrilla strategy, it also had to overcome classical interpretations of conf lict and struggle.”57 In an attempt to continue to politically engage Kurdish activists and to monitor the European Commissions’ performance in ensuring Turkey’s compliance with the EU accession criteria, a group of nonprofit organizations established the EU–Turkey Civic Commission (EUTCC) in 2004. Representatives from human rights organizations, including the Kurdish Human Rights Project (UK), the Rafto Foundation (Norway), Medico International (Germany), and the Bar Human Rights Committee of England and Wales, aimed to increase the ability of Kurds to articulate dissent and alternative perspectives on the supranational level. The EUTCC sponsors annual international conferences on the theme of “The EU, Turkey, and the Kurds,” and communicates its findings and proceedings with the EU Enlargement Commissioner.58 Stating that “a fundamental aim of the Conference Resolution is to help to guarantee respect for human and minority rights and to promote a peaceful, democratic and long-term solution to the Kurdish situation as well as the accession of Turkey as a member of the EU,” the EUTCC developed into an inf luential mechanism for information sharing.59 The renewed interest by members of the European Parliament in the question of Turkish accession has intensified Kurdish political activism through legal channels. The EUTCC succeeded in formalizing and legitimizing interactions between MEPs, representatives of national governments, Kurdish civil society organizations in Europe and in Turkey, and academics. KON-KURD, the Confederation of Kurdish Associations in Europe, argued on its web page that it shares the goals of the EUTCC.60 In contrast, Turkish researchers regularly propose that the PKK has made significant inroads into mainstream European political circles and that the organization must be stopped by antiterror agencies.61 The transition toward politicizing the Kurdish Question in Europe encouraged the formation of Kurdish special interest groups and an intensification of lobbying efforts. Collaboration between members of the special interest lobby and the Kurdish Diaspora showed promise through its inf luence on Turkish accession negotiations within the European Parliament.62 Kurdish exile groups

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and their sympathizers in various EU member states catapulted the Kurdish question to prominence in EU–Turkish relations as a consequence of political pressure campaigns.63 In essence, several political opportunities contributed to the formation of a Kurdish transnational movement in the past decade. The PKK lost credibility among Diaspora Kurds who expressed a preference for political negotiations— especially after the capture of PKK leader Öcalan in 1999. 64 But more importantly, Turkey’s interest in joining the EU elevated the Kurdish human rights agenda to a new level. Kurdish German MEP Feleknas Uca, for example, severely criticized the treatment of Kurds in Turkey and demanded a more judicious EU reporting system for specific human rights violations in a speech to the European Parliament in 2003. 65 In 2006, Turkish German MEP Cem Özdemir participated in a discussion on the situation of Kurds in Turkey. He demanded that the Kurdish ethnic identity be recognized and that Turkey discontinue its assimilation policies toward minorities.66 While these two delegates emphasized diverse aspects related to the treatment of Kurdish communities, both demonstrated a strong commitment to improving minority rights in Turkey, and supported Turkey’s accession to the EU. It is obvious that a number of members of the European Parliament demonstrate high levels of sensitivity with regard to the status of the Kurdish minority in Turkey. The Kurdish Conundrum in Turkey In the 2007 Turkish parliamentary elections the governing Muslim party or AKP (Justice and Development Party) garnered nearly 47 percent of the total vote.67 The reaction in Germany was politically charged as politicians from the center-right parties characterized the outcome as sensational. Elmar Brok, a member of Chancellor Angela Merkel’s Christian Democrats, commented that “now we have to see whether Turkey is prepared to end its resistance to reform.”68 Shortly after the Turkish parliamentary elections, the University of Cologne published comparative research findings examining public attitudes in EU countries and Turkey regarding religious freedom and gender equality.69 The study identified a clear value gap between Turkish and European Union citizens—an argument frequently utilized to slow down accession talks with Turkey. Referencing similar sociocultural considerations, Chancellor Merkel and French president Nicolas Sarkozy, two of the more powerful players in Europe, oppose full Turkish membership in the EU. Turkish prime minister Recep Tayyib Erdogan depicted his AKP as a centerright, conservative Muslim party with both a pro-Western and pro-business outlook, yet many Europeans express doubt. Suspecting that the Turkish secularist establishment may be correct in asserting that the AKP represents a hidden Islamist agenda, Europe’s political class expects clearer signs of democratization in Turkey. Despite long-standing ideological disputes over the portrayal of the AKP’s true objectives, Turkey’s parliamentary elections confirmed the dominant position of the Justice and Development Party through the allocation of 341 of 550 seats in the new parliament.

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Just as significant as the remarkable victory of the AKP is another frequently overlooked outcome of the 2007 parliamentary election. Turkey’s Kurdish minority gained an unprecedented and surprisingly strong voice in the new parliament. The emergence of minority representation in parliament signifies noteworthy progress in terms of future opportunities for articulation of ethnic and religious interests in Turkey. For the first time in Turkish elections, Kurdish candidates who ran as independents to bypass Turkey’s stringent 10 percent hurdle for registered parties gained the opportunity to advocate for Kurdish regional interests in the national assembly.70 Among the most surprising of the elected Kurdish parliamentarians is Sebahat Tuncel, a young woman who had been imprisoned since the end of 2006 and was awaiting trial for separatist activities. Since Turkish law mandated that all parliamentarians enjoy legal immunity while serving as elected representatives, Tuncel had to be released from prison to be installed as a member of the new Turkish parliament. She belonged to the original group of founders of the DTP or Democratic Society Party in 2005, which circumvented the rigid electoral regulations by having its candidates run as independents. As a Kurdish successor party to a number of banned forerunners including the HEP, DEP, and HADEP, the DTP is perceived by Turkish secularists, and especially the military, as affiliated with the radical PKK. The fortified position of Iraqi Kurds since the 2003 U.S. intervention in Iraq, the PKK’s ability to rebuild cadres in Iraqi Kurdish territories, and the suspected covert U.S. support for PKK-friendly Iranian Kurdish forces (PJAK) are three factors that have opened up multiple new political opportunities for cross-border Kurdish activism.71 In addition, Turkey’s Kurdish parliamentarians are poised both to benefit from and to take political advantage of transnational linkages with European allies. For years, Kurdish activists in Europe and in Turkey received political backing from left-leaning parties in the European Parliament. A small but vociferous group of MEPs regularly challenged Turkish human rights standards, its policies toward ethnic and religious minorities, and the country’s glacially paced reform process to join the EU.72 Among the most critical voices that emerged from subcommittees within the EU are delegates of ethnic Kurdish, Turkish, and Greek descent, whose parents left Turkey and Greece in the aftermath of military coups. Feleknas Uca, a member of the Party of European Socialists (PES) in the European Parliament, represents the most obvious transnational linkage that exists between the newly elected Kurdish parliamentarians in Turkey and delegates in the European Union. Uca, a German citizen of ethnic Kurdish descent who is often accused of affiliation with the PKK by Turkish officials, recently traveled to Diyarbakir and other southeastern Kurdish towns to observe and document political conditions in Kurdish regions prior to Turkey’s parliamentary elections.73 She took the opportunity to meet with members of DTP or the Democratic Society Party, which successfully put forth the independent candidates in the Turkish elections. The obvious question that arises for observers of transnational Kurdish activism is how such interactions and exchanges of ideas between, for example, Uca, the Kurdish German member of the European

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Parliament, and someone like Tuncel, the released Kurdish DTP representative, will shape Kurdish transnational mobilization and political activism in the near future? The complexity of the so-called Kurdish question emerges through the examination of multiple layers of transnational political activities organized by Kurdish groups in Turkey and in the European Diaspora. Webbed networking efforts loosely link representatives from international nongovernmental organizations, members of national political parties, and delegates of the European Parliament with organized Turkish and Kurdish groups active in Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, but also in Turkey. While few human rights organizations, political parties, and ethnic groups share the exact same interests, their concerns often overlap or intersect, and this reality facilitates transnational cooperation and collaboration on multiple levels. Moderate Islamists and members of AKP, for example, certainly disagree with many Kurdish organizations on the role of Islam in society, but they tend to share a common interest. Both favor Turkish membership in the EU. The governing AKP perceives the EU as a vehicle to economic prosperity for its constituency, while Kurdish groups argue that EU membership will strengthen Kurdish minority rights inside Turkey. In that sense, a more inf luential AKP can create the necessary political environment that allows elected Kurdish parliamentarians and members of the Kurdish Diaspora to collaborate with the AKP as if they were natural allies. Linked by an intersecting interest of making Turkey a full member state in the EU, collaboration between Kurdish parliamentarians, Diaspora Kurds, and religiously conservative but business-oriented AKP members can become a reality. An Appraisal of Transnational Diaspora Politics Favell and Geddes proposed that it was essential to look for sources of empowerment and a sense of institutionalization before asserting that a distinct European transnational opportunity structure exists in the immigration policy sector.74 Immigrants usually lack the expertise to effectively advocate for their interests in Brussels or Strasbourg. Yet, the Kurdish Diaspora’s transnational challenge presents an exceptional set of circumstances, unlike other challenger communities, because its political interests intersect with standards and preferences of EU member states. While the EU itself fails to offer institutionalized channels of access to immigrant groups for the articulation of demands and grievances, the Kurdish Diaspora no longer fits the neatly defined category of “silenced immigrant group.” Increasing numbers of Kurds (and Turks) have become eligible for German citizenship (as well as other European citizenships) and thereby reached comparatively high leadership positions. Turkish and Kurdish Germans involved in politics today no longer represent the interests of a marginalized and voiceless immigrant community, but often entrepreneurial and middle class interests. For example, Vural Öger, a German MEP of Turkish descent, successfully founded numerous travel and tourism

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businesses in the 1980s that helped to solidify German Turkish trade connections before he entered politics. He now serves on several inf luential EU committees, including on Foreign Affairs and the EU–Turkey Joint Parliamentary Committee. Uca and Özdemir, more accurately defined as second-generation ethnically Kurdish/Turkish Germans, gained valuable political expertise on the local and regional levels in Germany, before moving on to the EU as delegates. A highly controversial figure because of Uca’s outspoken comments on the Kurdish issue and her membership in the Left/PDS (a successor party to the East-German SED), she lacked credibility on the national political level in Germany. Uca decided to pursue a political career on the European stage instead. Fueling Turkish suspicions that she represents the PKK in the EU Parliament, she releases regular comments about the treatment of Kurds in Turkey on YEKKOM (Federation of Kurdish Organizations in Germany) internet sites, accusing the Turkish state of “increasing levels of human rights violations affecting Kurdish politicians, civil society organizations, and mayors of various cities.” 75 In contrast, Özdemir’s early career on the national German level showed tremendous promise. As a member of the Green Party and as the first person of Turkish descent to be elected to the German Bundestag or lower house in 1994, Özdemir was poised to move on to the national level. Yet, he resigned in 2002 after a scandal involving the use of public frequent flyer miles for private trips. Since then, Özdemir has been an active delegate in the EU Parliament, but is expected to make a full return to national German politics in the coming years. Germans of ethnic Kurdish and Turkish descent, and in particular those of the second generation, have progressed to political circles on the nation-state level and are represented at the European Parliament. EU documents demonstrate that Uca and Özdemir, for example, show a higher level of sensitivity and interest in Kurdish issues and in negotiations over Turkish accession to the EU than many other MEPs. While this form of access to the supranational structures might not fit conventional interpretations of institutionalized channels of entry, it does demonstrate discursive access through lobbying efforts and initial evidence of Kurdish insider-status. Blätte argued that beyond the lobbyism identified by this author “a Europeanization of the Kurdish movement has begun to occur in a fuller sense, including European-level Kurdish protest activity.” 76 His empirical work points to numerous protest activities organized by the Kurdish movement in Brussels and in Strasbourg, including the fact that transnational Kurdish Diaspora organizations such as The Kurdish National Congress and The Confederation of Kurdish Organizations in Europe (KON-KURD) have opened up offices in Brussels.77 While street protests and awareness-raising campaigns in Brussels as well as in the capitals of nation-states publicize and reinforce Kurdish concerns, lobbyism remains a favorite tactic for the Kurdish movement. A convincing example relates to a spring 2007 campaign that encouraged German-speaking Kurds to forward a KON-KURD petition to delegate Uca. This petition demanded that the European Council’s Committee for the Prevention of

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Torture (CPT) send an independent medical team to Imrali in Turkey, where PKK leader Öcalan is imprisoned.78 Uca, as well as other left-libertarian EU delegates, directly solicited support from Kurdish organizations for a narrow Kurdish issue (the treatment of PKK leader Öcalan) and couched it as a larger human rights concern. Ample public records demonstrate such a pattern of communication or lobbying between Kurdish groups and Uca’s office at the European Parliament. Without a doubt, the Kurdish transnational movement has experienced its share of successes and failures in recent years. Most successful has been the Kurdish shift away from militant protest activities and acts of terrorism in favor of insider lobbying and targeted transnational activism. Numerous individual EU parliamentarians are committed to improving the treatment of the Kurdish minority and have led efforts to do so by serving on the EU–Turkey Joint Parliamentary Committee—including Uca and Özdemir. This particular committee has sent regular investigative delegations to Kurdish regions and called for prompt constitutional reforms in Turkey supporting a consensus in the EU to improve civic and minority rights in Turkey. This consistent emphasis on minority rights in Kurdish regions has proved to be an effective tactic. In response, consecutive Ankara governments expressed deep concern with the country’s image abroad. In counter-lobbying efforts, often directed at European nation-states, Turkey demanded the ban of organizations affiliated with the PKK to undermine the influence of Kurdish Diaspora organizations.79 Among the key failures are continued linkages between some Kurdish Diaspora groups and militant PKK units abroad. This relationship, particularly in the post-9/11 world, undermines the credibility of the transnational Kurdish movement and makes the minority vulnerable to security-related concerns in Western Europe as well as in Turkey. An example of such a problematic connection is Roj TV, a Kurdish satellite station that airs out of Denmark, but also has production offices in Belgium. While a significant portion of its programming focuses on sociocultural issues in Kurdish regions, the station also airs guerrilla footage, which is absorbed by Kurdish populations in Turkey, Iraq, and Iran. Roj TV, according to reports, enjoys “open access to the PKK, whose fighters and leadership are holed up in the mountains of northern Iraq. The station frequently airs footage provided by the organization of its guerrillas in action against Turkish security forces.”80 By affording an occasional voice to militants, Kurdish organizations in Europe provide a rationale to more conservative political circles in Europe to shy away from involvement with groups that represent this minority. In the past five years, the Kurdish minority abroad has faced an increasingly security-conscious climate. Despite its political maturing process, Kurdish organizations in Europe have not severed all ties with Kurdish militants and guerrilla units that are active in southeastern Turkey and northern Iraq. This is highly problematic for future lobbying efforts in Europe. To increase resonance beyond the left-libertarian political circles in the EU Parliament, and to be taken seriously by centrist and conservative European governments, Kurdish Diaspora organizations must more openly criticize militants.

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Conclusions Kurdish Diaspora activists have taken advantage of countless transnational political opportunities over the past several years. Among the most promising emergent opportunities is the concept of a federal arrangement for Kurds in Turkey, and a collaborative relationship between Diaspora Kurds and Kurdish parliamentarians in Turkey. Both issues represent particularly sensitive predicaments for the AKP government, but excellent future leverage points for the Kurdish Diaspora. Impending developments in northern Iraq are of utmost significance to Ankara. Fears abound that a divided Iraq, or an autonomous northern Iraq, will strengthen PKK guerrilla units, reinforce irredentist activities inside Turkey, and fortify the role played by Turkish nationalists and the Turkish military. Both the AKP government and the Kurdish Diaspora will be best served by engaging in negotiation efforts with the EU rather than becoming involved with additional covert activities in Iraqi Kurdish areas. Today, the AKP government, the Kurdish Diaspora, and European nation-states share an overlapping interest in supporting a negotiated solution to the Kurdish question. The AKP must convince Europeans that as a party it is committed to human rights, religious freedom, and gender equality to advance the country’s chances for membership. To do so, Turkish prime minister Erdogan needs to demonstrate a willingness and ability to reach out to the country’s Kurdish minority—an opportunity afforded to him by the recent parliamentary election, yet complicated by PKK militants and the Constitutional Court’s hearing of a case to outlaw the DTP for separatist activities. The Kurdish Diaspora can become an ally to the AKP by focusing its criticism on issues that deserve scrutiny. The immediate goal of the Kurdish Diaspora today is not only the recognition of sociocultural and religious rights in Turkey, but also the actual implementation of those rights (i.e., the right to speak and study Kurdish, to give children traditional Kurdish names, to produce Kurdish books, newspapers, radio and TV shows without restrictions, to celebrate Newroz as the Kurdish New Year, etc.). 81 Neither the Kurdish Diaspora nor the Turkish government benefit from military excursions into the southeastern regions of Turkey nor the arrests of public figures of Kurdish ethnicity—such as Leyla Zana’s arrest in 1991, and subsequent ten years of imprisonment for irredentist activities.82 The Kurdish Diaspora can play a vital role in a process of détente by helping to de-escalate relations between new members of the Turkish parliament and encouraging a forward-looking approach to the Kurdish question. Currently, the interests of the Turkish government and those of the Kurdish Diaspora overlap; both perceive great benefits from making progress toward full EU membership. European nation-states will be cautious to determine if Turkish society is committed to a reform process that qualifies the country for eventual membership in ten–fifteen years. In 2006, the European Parliament still criticized Turkey for its insufficient progress in the areas of freedom of expression, minority rights, corruption, and violence against women. Collaboration between the AKP, the newly elected Kurdish parliamentarians, and the Diaspora movement

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can serve as an initial sign of sincerity in a reform process that addresses some of the fundamental concerns of the EU. Exchanges of ideas and consultations between newly elected Kurdish parliamentarians from the DTP and members of the EU–Turkey Parliamentary Committee have the potential to elicit a commitment to progress by EU delegates, the strengthened AKP government, and the Kurdish minority in Turkey. Such cooperation could become a model for other transnational movements, but only if Kurdish Diaspora organizations manage to mediate and take advantage of newly emerging opportunities in the international arena.

Notes 1. Leo Lucassen, The Immigrant Threat (Chicago: The University of Illinois Press, 2005), 158–9. Lucassen proposed that “many Germans still see them [the Kurds] as a homogeneous, nationalistic, and fundamentalist group whose integration is highly problematic, if not totally impossible.” 2. Nation-states constructed IGOs to facilitate discussions and channels for negotiation processes in international forums. IGOs and NGOs collect information and provide assessments of specific conflicts to representatives of nation-states, which enhance the ability to resolve disagreements. For additional discussions, see Chester Crocker, Fen Osler Hampson, and Pamela Aall, eds., Turbulent Peace: The Challenges of Managing International Conflict (Washington: United States Institute of Peace Press, 2001). 3. The use of the term Diaspora has shifted in recent years to include exiled communities and immigrant groups with a relationship to their ethnic homelands. For a discussion on the subject, see Robin Cohen, Global Diasporas: An Introduction (London: UCL Press, 1997); and Richard Marienstras, “On the Notion of Diaspora,” in Minority People and The Age of Nation-States, ed. Gérard Chaliand (London: Pluto Press, 1989), 120. Historically, the term Diaspora refers to the dispersed Jewish populations, namely those living in Eretz Israel. Here the author adopts Richard Marienstras’ broader definition of the term to ref lect the changing understanding of Diaspora communities. Marienstras argued “it is only recently that this term has come to describe minority groups whose awareness of their identity is defined by a relationship, territorially discontinuous, with a group settled elsewhere.” 4. The Kurdish question has been a difficult one for the international system as the Kurdish minority is spread across Turkey, Iraq, Iran, and Syria. In contrast to Armenian, Jewish, and Greek members of Turkish society, Kurds were not granted protected religious minority status in accordance with the 1923 Lausanne Treaty. Section III, Articles 62–63 of the earlier Treaty of Sèvres, which was signed by the Allies and the defeated Turkish government in August 1920, stipulated that Kurds would be allowed a high level of local autonomy. However, Ataturk’s subsequent War of Independence allowed Turkey to renegotiate territorial controls in the Treaty of Lausanne. During the 1980s, the Kurdish Diaspora community mobilized around the ethno-national grievance that the promised independent homeland had fallen victim to imperialist interests of the Allied powers. For further information, consult David McDowall, A Modern History of the Kurds (London: I.B. Tauris, 1997). 5. For commentary on the organization of Kurdish student protest in Germany, see chapter two by Quinn Slobodian in this volume. Of particular interest are notes 64, 85, and 86.

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6. Among the most successful Diaspora groups in Europe are the Greek-Cypriots in the United Kingdom and the Armenians in France. Both communities inf luence political discourses related to their particular interests on the nation-state and the EU-wide levels. 7. The Turkish-origin Kurdish community in Europe is estimated to number up to one million, while the Turkish community has more than three million members. About 70–75 percent of both ethnic groups reside in Germany. 8. For additional discussions of the issue of political access, see Nedim Ögelman, Jeannette Money, and Philip Martin, “Immigrant Cohesion and Political Access in Inf luencing Foreign Policy.” SAIS Review 22, no. 2 (Summer–Fall 2002): 145–65. John Esposito, “The Muslim Diaspora and the Islamic World,” in Islam, Europe’s Second Religion: The New Social, Cultural, and Political Landscape, ed. Shireen Hunter (Washington: The Center for Strategic and International Studies, 2002), 245–55. Ruud Koopmans and Paul Statham, “Challenging the Liberal NationState? Postnationalism, Multiculturalism, and the Collective Claims Making of Migrants and Ethnic Minorities in Britain and Germany,” The American Journal of Sociology 105, no. 3 (1999): 652–96. 9. Adrian Favell and Andrew Geddes, “Immigration and European Integration. New Opportunities for Transnational Mobilization?” in Challenging Immigration and Ethnic Relations Politics, eds. Ruud Koopmans and Paul Statham (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 407–28. 10. Ibid. 11. For an examination of webbed Kurdish lobbying activity within EU structures, see Vera Eccarius-Kelly, “Political Movements and Leverage Points: Kurdish Activism in the European Diaspora,” Journal of Muslim Minority Affairs 22, no. 1 (2002): 91–118. 12. Andreas Blätte, “The Kurdish Movement: Ethnic Mobilization and Europeanization,” in Migration, Regional Integration, and Human Security, ed. Harald Kleinschmidt (Hampshire: Ashgate, 2006), 181–202. 13. For a superb examination of how social movements are shaping the future beyond Europe and the United States, see Charles Tilly, Social Movements, 1768–2004 (Boulder: Paradigm Publishers, 2004). 14. Susan Olzak, “Ethnic and Nationalist Social Movements,” in The Blackwell Companion of Social Movements, eds. David A. Snow, Sarah A. Soule, and Hanspeter Kriesi (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2004), 666–93. 15. Andrew Geddes, The Politics of Migration and Immigration in Europe (London: Sage Publications, 2003); Stephen Castles and Mark Miller, The Age of Migration (London: Macmillan Press, 1998); Patrick Ireland, Becoming Europe (Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2004). 16. An early and groundbreaking study about political demands of immigrants in Europe is, e.g., Zig Layton-Henry, ed., The Political Rights of Migrant Workers in Western Europe (London: Sage Publications, 1990). 17. Well-researched aspects related to the peace movement focused on nuclear proliferation, antiracism, and anti-sexism campaigns, and in the environmental movements offered examples linked to acid rain and global warming. Labor questions have shifted from union activity to fair trade and human rights issues in recent years. 18. For an interesting examination of transnationalism and the use of media, see Matthijs van den Boos and Liza Nell, “Territorial Bounds to Virtual Space: Transnational Online and Off line Networks of Iranian and Kurdish Immigrants in The Netherlands,” Global Networks: A Journal of Transnational Affairs 6, no. 2 (April 2006): 201–20.

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19. Anthony Giddens, Modernity and Self-Identity (Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University Press), 1991. 20. Several examples of such groups come to mind, including the Zapatistas in Mexico, the Ogoni people in Nigeria, and the Kurds in Germany. 21. Eva Østergaard-Nielsen, “Working for a Solution through Europe: Kurdish Political Lobbying in Germany,” in New Approaches to Migration, eds. Nadje Al-Ali and Khalid Koser (New York: Routledge, 2002), 186. 22. Interest groups differ from social movements in that interest groups are defined by their relationship to governments and political decision makers. They are mostly regarded as legitimate participants within governments, while social movements lack the same level of authorization or legitimacy. For further discussion, see Jack L. Walker, Mobilizing Interest Groups in America: Patrons, Professions, and Social Movements (Ann Arbor, MI: Michigan University Press, 1991). 23. Highly respected scholars in the field of social movements include Robert Benford, Donatella della Porta, Marco Giugni, Hanspeter Kriesi, Ruud Koopmans, Doug McAdam, Dieter Rucht, David Snow, Charles Tilly, Sydney Tarrow, and many others too numerous to name. For excellent approaches to conceptualizing social movements, see, e.g., Marco Giugni, Doug McAdam, and Charles Tilly, eds., How Social Movements Matter (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999); Sidney Tarrow, Power in Movement: Social Movements, Collective Action and Politics (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1998). 24. Alynna J. Lyon and Emek M. Ucarer, “Mobilizing Ethnic Conf lict. Kurdish Separatism in Germany and the PKK,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 24, no. 6 (2001): 925–48. 25. Vera Eccarius-Kelly, “Radical Consequences of Benign Neglect: The Rise of the PKK in Germany,” The Fletcher Forum of World Affairs 24, no. 1 (2000): 161–74. 26. The size of the Kurdish population is estimated to range from twenty to twenty-five million people with approximately half living in the southeastern provinces of Anatolia, and several million in Istanbul. Since the early 1980s, a Marxist inspired guerrilla organization by the name of Kurdish Workers Party (PKK) engaged in violent conflict with state forces to pursue Kurdish independence. For a useful examination of the Kurdish issue in Turkey as well as its process of internationalization, see Robert Olsen, ed., The Kurdish Nationalist Movement in the 1990s (Louisville: The University of Kentucky Press, 1996). Also, Henri J. Barkey and Graham E. Fuller, Turkey’s Kurdish Question (Oxford: Rowman and Littlefield, 1998). 27. Ranty Islam, “Turkish-Kurd tensions spill into Europe’s streets,” The Christian Science Monitor, November 8, 2007. 28. Martin van Bruinessen, “Shifting national and ethnic identities: the Kurds in Turkey and the European diaspora,” Journal of Muslim Minority Affairs 18, no. 1 (1998): 39–52. 29. Eccarius-Kelly, “Political Movements,” 91–118. 30. Christian Joppke, Immigration and the Nation-State: The United States, Germany and Great Britain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 65. 31. Birgit Ammann, Kurden in Europa, Ethnizität und Diaspora (Hamburg: Lit Verlag, 2001), 138. 32. While no European government has carried out a reliable census of the Kurdish Diaspora, the Kurdish Institute in Paris (considered a hostile source by Turkish nationalists) suggests the following estimates by country totaling roughly 1 million Kurds in Western Europe. Germany: 500,000–600,000; France: 100,000–120,000; Netherlands: 70,000–80,000; Switzerland: 60,000–70,000;

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33. 34. 35.

36. 37.

38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43.

44.

45. 46.

47. 48. 49.

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Belgium: 50,000–60,000; Austria: 50,000–60,000; Sweden: 25,000–30,000; Greece: 20,000–25,000; Denmark: 8,000–10,000; Norway: 4,000–5,000; Italy: 3,000–4,000; Finland: 2,000–3,000. Nearly 85% of the Kurdish Diaspora in continental Europe comes from Turkey, while Kurds from Iraq form a large part of Kurdish communities in Great Britain, the Netherlands, and Sweden. The numbers of Iraqi Kurds in Europe increased since 2003 because of the ongoing war, and are not adequately ref lected in any counts. Additional information is available through the Kurdish Institute in Paris at http://www.institutkurde.org/en/kurdorama/. These estimates are based on communications between this author and Ali Yumusak of the German Turkish media agency Europress, September 2007. Olson, The Kurdish Nationalist Movement, 1996. These comments are based on communication between the author and Dr. Tabbara from the German Federal Office for Migration, Refugees, and Integration, September 2007. Lyon and Ucarer, “Mobilizing Ethnic Conf lict,” 925–48. For a fascinating examination of the use of satellite television by Kurdish groups in Europe, see Amir Hassanpour, “Satellite Footprints as National Borders: MED-TV and the Extraterritoriality of State Sovereignty,” The Journal of Muslim Minority Affairs 18, no. 1 (1998): 53–72. Eccarius-Kelly, “Political Movements,” 91–118 and Østergaard-Nielsen, “Working for a Solution through Europe,” 186–201. Blätte, “The Kurdish Movement,” 181–202. Ted Robert Gurr and Barbara Harff, Ethnic Conflict in World Politics (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1994), 67–8. Christian Joppke, Immigration and the Nation-State: The United States, Germany and Great Britain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999). Martin Baldwin-Edwards and Martin Schain, eds., The Politics of Migration in Western Europe (London: Frank Cass, 1994), 135. International Crisis Group, “Islam and Identity in Germany,” ICG Europe Report, n. 181, 14 March 2007. Available at www.crisisgroup.org/home/index.cfm?id= 4693&1=1. “According to a 1996 opinion poll that assessed German sentiments toward four minority communities—Jews, Italians, Aussiedler (ethnic German immigrants), and Turks—Germans consider Turks to have the most alien life styles; they are least comfortable having Turks marry into their families or move next door; and they are least willing to see Turks enjoy equal rights,” as quoted in Ögelman, Money, and Martin, “Immigrant Cohesion and Political Access,” 156. This conversation took place in the region of the Niederrhein (Kempen) in 2007 and was translated from German to English by the author. Graham Fuller and Ian Lesser, Turkey’s New Geopolitics (Boulder, CO: Westview Press and Rand, 1993), 23. In this study, the reasons for Kurdish migration within Turkey and abroad are reviewed, including finding employment and gaining access to better educational opportunities for children. “Like other Turkish citizens, Kurds migrate abroad, too, in search of work and to accumulate capital to improve their status when they come home, perhaps to the southeast, perhaps to the cities. Kurds from the southeast constitute a significant share of Turkish laborers in Germany.” Graham Fuller, “The Fate of the Kurds,” Foreign Affairs (Spring 1993): 111. Eccarius-Kelly, “Radical Consequences of Benign Neglect,” 161–74. Lucassen, The Immigrant Threat, 150. “Until the military coup d’état in 1980, virtually all Turks entering Germany had arrived under the auspices of the

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51.

52.

53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59.

60. 61.

62.

63. 64.

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guest-worker program, although it was clear that a number of them had political or religious reasons for leaving Turkey as well. This was the case with the communist activists, members of minority Muslim sects (such as the Alevites), and the Kurds. When the military abolished democracy in Turkey in 1980 and started a straightforward repressive policy, the number of asylum seekers increased rapidly.” Ibid. Lucassen argues that “one of the results of the increased refugee migration from Turkey in the 1980s was that the number of Kurds increased by one-quarter of the total Turkish population in Germany, laying the foundations for large scale intragroup violence in the 1990s . . .” Statistisches Bundesamt, Anerkennung Ausländischer Flüchtlinge (Wiesbaden: Federal Statistical Office, 1980–1990). Available figures indicate that at least one hundred and twenty thousand refugees from Turkey were accepted in this decade. Stephen Castles and Mark J. Miller, The Age of Migration: International Population Movements in the Modern World (New York: Palgrave Macmillan Press, 1993), 276–7. Claus Leggewie, “How Turks Became Kurds, Not Germans,” Dissent 43 (Summer 1996): 79–83. “Kemalistische Kurdenpolitik in Deutschland,” Azadi 24, April–June 2001. The same article was reprinted in Kurdistan Rundbrief 14, n. 16/17, August 8, 2001. Denise Natali, The Kurds and the State: Evolving National Identity in Iraq, Turkey, and Iran (NY: Syracuse University Press, 2005), 85. One organization that competed with the PKK is KOMK AR. Information about this association is available at http://www.komkar.org/selbstdar.htm. “Wir wünschen uns einen gesellschaftlichen Kompromiß,” Junge Welt, January 7, 2000. For further information on the organizational goals of the EUTCCU, see http:// www.eutcc.org/articles/1/17/document275.ehtml. For details on the “Final Resolution from the Third International Conference on the EU, Turkey, and the Kurds,” see http://www.eutcc.org/articles/1/17/ document266.ehtml. The web page of KON-KURD offers further information about Diaspora Kurdish activism http://www.kon-kurd.org/english/indexen.php?f=news&act=show&id=9. Soner Cagaptay and Cem S. Fikret, “Europe’s Terror Problem: PKK Fronts Inside Europe,” The Middle East Quarterly 14, no. 1 (Winter 2007) available at http:// www.washingtoninstitute.org/templateC05.php?CID=2413. Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty online, “Turkey: EU Conference Highlights Continued Repression of Kurds,” September 20, 2005, states that Hatap Dicle, a former Kurdish member of Turkish parliament, supported Turkish membership of the EU to aid Kurdish interests. This article also demonstrates that exchanges of ideas take place between MEPs and Kurdish interest groups. See http://www.rferl. org/featuresarticle/2005/09/97618727-009f-4ac3-8449-d062f5d982e7.html. Also of interest are efforts by the London-based Kurdish Human Rights Project (KHRP) in terms of its activities to pressure Turkey into improving Kurdish ethnic recognition. Please refer http://www.khrp.org/newsline/newsline31/newsline31.pdf. Heinz Kramer, A Changing Turkey: The Challenge to Europe and the United States (Washington: Brookings Institution, 2000), 246. Martin van Bruinessen comments on ideological changes within the PKK’s structures in the foreword to Wadie Jwaideh, Kurdish National Movement: Its Origins and Development (Syracuse: Syracuse University, 2006), xii.

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65. For Uca’s address in its entirety, see http://www.europarl.europa.eu/sides/getDoc. do?pubRef=-//EP//TEXT1CR E1200306041ITEM-0041DOC1X ML1V0// EN& language=EN&query=INTERV&detail=3-156. 66. For Özdemir’s full comments, see http://www.europarl.europa.eu/sides/getDoc. do?pubRef=-//EP//TE XT1CR E1200604061ITEM-0111DOC1X ML1V0// EN& language=EN&query=INTERV&detail=4-131. 67. Total turnout of eligible voters was slightly over 84 percent; Justice and Development or AKP garnered 46.6 percent or 341 seats, the Republican People’s Party or CHP earned 20.8 percent or 112 seats, the Nationalist Movement Party or MHP collected 14.3 percent or 71 seats. Independents gained 5.2 percent of the vote or 26 seats. Among the independent parliamentarians are ethno-national Kurds with separatist aspirations. 68. For the entire article, see Spiegel Online International at http://www.spiegel.de/ international/germany/0,1518,496192,00.html. 69. Deutsche Welle Online offers a summary of the Cologne study at http://www. dw-world.de/dw/article/0,2144,2666276,00.html. 70. This International Herald Tribune article discusses perceptions related to the DTP http://w w w.iht.com/articles/ap/2007/08/04/europe/EU-POL-Turkey-KurdishLawmakers.php. 71. Seymour M. Hersh suggested that PJAK, the Party for Free Life in Kurdistan, a militant Iranian branch of a Kurdish organization close to the PKK and operating out of Iraqi Kurdish territories, receives covert support from U.S. forces and the CIA. For further details, see Seymour M. Hersh, “The Next Act,” The New Yorker, November 27, 2006. Available at http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2006/11/ 27/061127fa_fact. 72. Eccarius-Kelly, “Political Movements,” 91–118. 73. For information about Uca’s visit to Turkey between July 18 and 23, 2007, see http://linkszeitung.de/content/view/129394/101/ (accessed in August 2007). 74. Favell and Geddes, “Immigration and European Integration,” 407–28. 75. The communication from YEK- KOM (Federation of Kurdish Organizations) is available at http://www.nadir.org/nadir/initiativ/isku/erklaerungen/2006/08/05.htm. 76. Blätte, “The Kurdish Movement,” 182. 77. Ibid., 198–9. 78. For the full text of the petition (in German), access the following site: http://www. kon-kurd.org/deutsch/index.php?f=news&act=show&id=14. 79. Germany’s minister of the interior Schily banned a Kurdish publisher (E. Xani Press) as a consequence of Turkish pressure in 2005. For the announcement of the ban, see http://w w w.eu2007.bmi.bund.de/nn_332136/Internet/Content/Nachrichten/ Archiv/Pressemitteilungen/2005/09/Verbot— extremistische —Vereine — en.html. 80. Yigal Schleifer, “Denmark, Again? Now it’s under fire for hosting Kurdish TV station,” The Christian Science Monitor, April 21, 2006, is available at http://www. csmonitor.com/2006/0421/p01s01-woeu.html. 81. According to Kurdish legend, Newroz (or NûRoj) celebrates the deliverance of Kurdish people from a repressive tyrant. 82. Zana, elected to Turkish parliament in 1991, was imprisoned for speaking Kurdish and showing support for the PKK. In 1995, the EU awarded her the Sakharov Prize to affirm that her treatment was profoundly illegal and undermined any Turkish efforts to join the EU.

CHAPTER 4

The French “Sans-Papiers” Movement: An Unfinished Struggle Jane Freedman

T

he sans-papiers1 movement has been one of the major features of the contemporary political debate over immigration in France, highlighting the specific situation of those residing “illegally” in France, and organizing to resist the attempts of successive governments to expel “illegal” residents from their territory. Worldwide media attention was drawn to the situation of the sans-papiers in 1996 when the government ordered special police forces to break down the doors of a church in Paris to expel those sanspapiers who had been staging a hunger strike inside. This expulsion and the media coverage it attracted served to mobilize both other immigrants finding themselves in a situation of illegality, and parts of the French population who rallied to the support of the sans-papiers, with a series of demonstrations and public petitions ensuing. This key moment in the recent history of immigration in France symbolized both the determination of the French state to refuse to grant rights to those who were believed to be residing illegally on its territory and also to expel those illegal 2 immigrants wherever possible, and at the same time the political mobilization both of the immigrant population and their French supporters to resist this categorization of illegality. Current immigration policies that encourage the police to reach targets of illegal immigrants to expel from France have been built on this criminalization 3 of the sans-papiers and securitization of the immigration issues. This chapter will examine the development of the sans-papiers movement in France, analyzing the challenges in creating an autonomous political movement amongst illegal immigrants, and the difficulties involved in developing strategies for cooperation with “native” political movements. It will argue that the sans-papiers movement remains an “unfinished struggle” in the sense that despite the strength gained by these

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immigrants through their collective action and through their reclaiming of the category of illegal migrants, the failure to make stable and lasting alliances with other opposition groups and particularly with the parties of the Left has undermined the ability of the movement to achieve its objectives. The current climate of repression of immigration4 serves to illustrate the inability of the movement to make a real impact on public policy. Origins and History of the Sans-Papiers Movement Occupations of buildings (particularly churches), hunger strikes, and demonstrations are not a new phenomenon of immigrant mobilization in France. As early as December 1972, nineteen Tunisians faced with expulsion from France occupied a church in Valence and went on a hunger strike. The success of these hunger-strikers in bringing their plight to public attention and in eliciting a favorable response from the government—all nineteen were granted legal residence papers—gave rise to similar demonstrations in about twenty other French towns in the following year.5 Nearly ten years later in February 1980, seventeen Turks employed illegally in clothes manufacturing workshops in Paris began a hunger strike, claiming regularization, legal employment, and better working conditions. This time, the CFDT trade union, which was active in this sector, supported the movement, and following a number of large demonstrations around three thousand Turkish textile workers were regularized. Since then there have been a series of mobilizations of a similar nature by those living and working illegally in France, claiming their regularization. As government policies toward immigration have become more restrictive the scale of the movements has grown. Perhaps the largest and most sustained movement of sans-papiers began in the mid-1990s as a result of a series of legislation introduced by right-wing governments, which had the effect of pushing more and more immigrants into a situation of illegality. The continuation of the sanspapiers movement today can be argued to reveal both a continuing politics of “rejection” of those living without legal papers in France, a politics that has been shared by both Right and Left. It can be argued that the question of the sans-papiers has in fact revealed a new consensus between Left and Right over a “hard-line” in immigration politics. 6 In March 1996 three hundred Africans, originating mainly from Mali and Senegal, began their occupation of the Saint-Ambroise church in the eleventh arrondissement of Paris, an occupation designed to put pressure on the government to regularize their residence situation in France. Four days later the occupation of Saint-Ambroise was ended by the expulsion of the protestors by the police. Mamady Sané describes this expulsion in his diary recounting the story of the sans-papiers: On Friday March 22, we were woken at five thirty in the morning, by policemen dressed in riot gear with helmets and batons. Touré, the cook, told me how they started hitting some men, those who were on hunger strike. Women and children

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were screaming, men running to try and escape arrest, chairs f lew through the air and broke against the walls of the church. It was complete chaos. Sixty two adults were arrested and the others who had escaped were surrounded by policemen. They told them that they should know that blacks had no place here in France, and asked whether they thought they were in Africa . . . 7

After their expulsion from the church by the police, the demonstrators moved around a variety of locations around Paris, before installing themselves in the Saint Bernard church in the eighteenth arrondissement on June 28. In the interval between the occupations of the two churches, a college of mediators had been formed on the initiative of the theater director Arianne Mnouchkine. This group of mediators, composed of academics, lawyers, and other personalities, met the government of Alain Juppé on April 10, but their propositions were rejected. Meanwhile, other occupations and hunger-strikes began in various cities and towns around France. Ten of the sans-papiers occupying the Saint Bernard church also began a hunger strike. On August 23, 1996, over a thousand police and riot police broke down the doors of the church in order to expel the sans-papiers inside. Madjiguène Cissé, a leading spokeswoman for the sans-papiers movements, described the events of that morning: At 7.56 huge crashes broke through the back door. The blades of axes appeared through the splintered wood. The door gave way and a crowd of riot police piled in throwing chairs over their heads. Quickly tear gas filled the building . . . The police started to sort people and to separate the whites and the blacks. We were sitting down gripping on to each other. Anyone who resisted received numerous blows. 8

Ironically, the underlying racist assumptions that motivated the police to separate the occupants of the Church into groups of black and white—with the white people being allowed to go free whilst the blacks were arrested—meant that some white sans-papiers were not arrested, whilst many of those black people who were arrested did actually have legal residence papers, and had been in the Church as a support to their friends and relations.9 This example illustrates the increasing racialization of the immigration issue, and the way in which the security of many has been threatened by the presumption that all of the nonwhite population are potentially illegal immigrants. The violence of the police intervention at Saint Bernard, together with the widespread media coverage it received provoked a wave of public support and demonstrations in favor of the sans-papiers. A demonstration in Paris the following week brought eleven thousand people on to the street to protest against the government’s treatment of these sans-papiers. This massive mobilization pointed to a further politicization of the sans-papiers issue, and beyond it, a more general debate on the issues of immigration and citizenship in France. As Terray argues, this issue “raises problems which are decisive, even vital, for French society.”10 The movement in support of the sans-papiers gained even greater resonance when at the end of 1996, Alain Juppé’s government introduced two new bills relating to illegal residence and work in France. Particular attention was

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focused on the so-called Debré law, named after Minister of the Interior JeanLouis Debré. This law was adopted at a first reading in the National Assembly in December 1996, with amendments introduced by certain deputies to make it even more stringent. There was little opposition to the adoption of the law from the Left-wing deputies, which attracted great criticism from the extraparliamentary Left, and from associations defending immigrants’ rights. Two articles of this law provoked particular objections from the sans-papiers and their supporters. The first was the decision to end the process of automatic renewal of ten-year residence permits, which meant that even those who had been living in France for at least ten years could suddenly find themselves without legal residence papers and thus subject to possible deportation. The second measure that aroused vocal criticism was that which stipulated that French nationals who received any non-EU citizens to stay in their houses must inform the local authorities of their arrival and departure. Further to this the local authorities would have the right to check whether any non-EU citizen whose residence permit had expired was still living with this French national. This clause was seen not only as an unacceptable check on the rights of movements of non-EU nationals in France, but also as an infringement of the rights of French individuals and of their liberty to receive visitors of their choice in their private homes. Reaction to this clause was led by a group of filmmakers who published a petition in Le Monde and Libération declaring that they were all themselves guilty of receiving illegal foreign residents in their own houses and calling for a campaign of civil disobedience against this new Debré law (Le Monde, Libération, February 12, 1997). This petition soon received 120,000 signatures, and a demonstration in Paris against the Debré law on February 22, 1997, gathered more than 100,000 demonstrators. The Conseil d’Etat also objected to this clause in the law, warning the government that it may be unconstitutional to oblige French citizens to inform on who was staying with them in this way, and so when the final text of the bill was adopted in April 1997, the clause was reworded to place the obligation on the immigrant and not their host to inform local authorities of their movements. This partial retreat on one area did not greatly impinge, however, on the major thrust of the law, which showed the government’s determination to crack down on illegal immigrants within French territory. This determination has been maintained by successive governments, of both the Left and the Right-wing, and despite the limited concessions made by the Left-wing government elected in June 1997, under Lionel Jospin, including the regularization of a number of sans-papiers under the terms of the Chevènement circular, a mobilization by and around the sans-papiers has continued. Indeed, for many, the policies of the Left-wing government on this issue were highly disappointing, failing as they did to repeal the Pasqua–Debré laws and introducing stringent conditions for the promised regularization of sans-papiers so that eventually only about half of the 160,000 who submitted a request for regularization did actually receive legal residence papers. And those 79,900 people who were regularized received only temporary one-year permits, which still carried with them the insecurity

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of being unsure whether or not a long-term residence in France could be guaranteed. Balibar argues that the question of the sans-papiers has revealed a new consensus between Left and Right and that: The way in which the Jospin government tried to put into force a renewed version of the essential dispositions of the Pasqua and Debré laws, laws against which one of the major mobilizations of the Left in recent years had taken place, and which he himself had promised to abrogate during his election campaign, is very revealing in this sense. All the more so as this was accompanied by an intense production of reactionary rhetoric aimed at stigmatizing the “moral Left” and its “abstract claims for human rights,” in other words the militants who had the weakness to believe—in the light of past experience—that loyalty to engagements which have been undertaken is an essential component of political credibility.11

The Jospin government was criticized by the sans-papiers and by those supporting them for not repealing the previous Pasqua and Debré laws and for not removing many of the repressive aspects of this legislation. Both Jospin and Chevènement declared the necessity to maintain a firm line on immigration and to avoid the danger of regularization of sans-papiers becoming an invitation for more immigrants to try and enter France illegally. Although some sans-papiers were regularized under the terms of the Chevènement law and circular, many complained that the policies and legislation in place were ambiguous and left too much room for arbitrary decisions by officials. The Chevènement circular specified that the situation of certain categories of foreigners in an irregular situation would be reexamined, and thus some were automatically excluded from the process as not being within these certain categories, whatever the particular conditions of their personal situation. In addition, the proofs needed to accompany the dossier requesting regularization were often impossible to gather, either because of lack of administrative services in a sans-papiers country of origin, which did not allow them to have access to birth certificates and so on, or as a result of the particular forms of vulnerability that they had encountered while they were in France. The obligation to supply eight years’ worth of pay slips, for example, was difficult to meet for workers who had spent the last eight years working illegally on the black market. As Cissé recounts: The arbitrariness which the sans-papiers have constantly denounced is still omnipresent: a dossier which is refused in one prefecture may be accepted by another; a sans-papière receives a response notifying her that her dossier has been refused after her interview at the prefecture, when in reality she has never been asked to come for that interview.12

The process of regularization under the Chevenèment law and circular also led to an anomaly in the situation of those sans-papiers whose requests for regularization had failed. These roughly seventy thousand sans-papiers had registered their dossier at the prefecture and were thus known to the authorities, who also knew that their claim had failed and that they were still illegal residents.

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These people were now “official clandestines” whose presence in France was known and registered, and a question arose as to what would happen to them. The government announced that these official clandestines should leave France and that they would be deported from the country if they were stopped and controlled in a public place. However, Jospin said that the authorities would not “go and look for them in their homes.” Clearly the French administration did not have the political or technical capability to go out and find seventy thousand people and deport them all in one go, but this creation of a set of official clandestines did nothing to clear up the situation, and left many living in a state of great insecurity where they felt scared every time they left their home in case they were stopped by the police. The Right-wing government elected in 2002 promised to resolve the issue of the sans-papiers once and for all, with a new circular issued by the minister of the interior Nicolas Sarkozy aiming to clarify procedures for prefectures dealing with claims for residence papers, together with an increased resolve to expel those without papers. Sarkozy announced to prefects that he had declared the number of expulsions to double within a year, and he has restarted the use of “charter” flights to expel illegal immigrants, even reaching an agreement with the Belgian government to run joint “charters” through Paris and Brussels. Since 2002, a series of new legislation on immigration and asylum has been passed, which has imposed further restrictions on the rights of entry and residence in France. In 2003, two new laws on immigration and asylum were passed, followed by the introduction in 2006 of a new Code de l’entrée et du séjour des étrangers et du droit d’asiles (Code on the entry and residence of foreigners and the right of asylum—CESEDA). This CESEDA law has been highly criticized by NGOs and associations working for the defense of immigrants and asylum seekers because of the way in which it entrenches a utilitarian vision of “chosen”13 immigration (immigration choisie) through policies that make it harder for all but the highly qualified to enter or reside legally in France. The new laws have also introduced new measures to favor the expulsion of illegal immigrants—such as lengthening the legal limit of administrative detention and introducing new procedures to deal faster with “priority”14 asylum claims (claims of those who have come from a “safe”15 country or who have not been able to deposit their asylum claim within the prescribed time limits) in order to expel those whose claims are rejected. Family reunification has also been made harder with increasingly stringent criteria to be met before an immigrant is allowed to bring his or her family to France. The legislation has been accompanied by a number of ministerial circulars concerning implementation and by direct orders by ministers to police prefects concerning targets for the numbers of expulsions of illegal immigrants. In 2003, even before the passage of his new immigration laws, Sarkozy announced to police prefects that they should aim to double the number of expulsions in the coming year. This politics of “numbers” has led to what NGOs and associations have denounced as increasingly arbitrary detention of large numbers of immigrants without papers, and the proliferation of rafles 16 (roundup operations) in areas with large immigrant populations.

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Faced with these increasingly repressive policies on immigration, the sans-papiers movement has continued both with its traditional repertoire of actions—including hunger strikes and occupations of public buildings—and through new types of collective action such as that of the Réseau Education Sans Frontières (RESF), which have both expanded and fragmented the movement. In the first register, another very “mediatic” occupation took place in 2006, this time of a gymnasium in the Paris suburb of Cachan. Following the evacuation of a “squat” housing over a thousand families of African origin, several of these families refused to be taken into new accommodation by the police, believing that this was merely the first step to expulsion for those without papers. Those who refused to be moved to hotel accommodation by the police were given temporary shelter in a gymnasium by the mayor of Cachan, leading to a prolonged period of hunger strikes and debates with the government over their future. In the expanded repertory of collective action, support for the sans-papiers has also come from more “focused” mobilizations, in particular the movement against the “double peine” (double punishment) and the RESF, a highly visible mobilization in favor of children of sans-papiers who are educated in French schools. The RESF, which was formed in June 2004, shows an interesting example of the “future” of collective action by or for the sans-papiers. The Réseau focuses on lobbying for the children of sans-papiers who are educated in French schools and whose family is threatened with deportation. Although it was formally established as a “Réseau” or “network” in June 2004, mobilizations in favor of school children threatened with deportation had been ongoing for several years previously. The formation of the network coincided with a few highly publicized cases of children or their families threatened with deportation17 and led to a national debate the outcome of which was a ministerial circular published by Nicolas Sarkozy, then the minister of the interior, in October 2005, telling prefects to suspend the expulsion of school children at least until the end of the school year in June. Faced with increasing numbers of mobilizations led by parents and school teachers in support of those menaced with expulsion, Sarkozy published a second circular in June 2006 that permitted those families sans-papiers with at least one child attending a French school in 2005 to submit a dossier to the prefecture in view of a regularization on “humanitarian” grounds. Although this circular may be seen as a retreat by the government on their well-publicized intentions to expel illegal residents from French territory, in practice the implementation of the circular was much less favorable to the sans-papiers than might have been expected from a literal examination of the text. In total 33,538 dossiers were received by police prefectures in view of regularization of families sans-papiers. Of these, only 6,924 were accorded regular residence status. The hardline discourse that Sarkozy had adopted on immigration, and his assurances that the June circular would concern a maximum of 6,000 families, meant that the treatment of dossiers by the prefectures was done under highly political constraints. Yannick Blanc, the head of the Parisian police prefecture, who was seen to take a more “laxist” view of the regularization process, was moved from his post by Sarkozy a few

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weeks after the circular came into operation. Moreover, the huge number of dossiers deposited at the prefecture (especially in large cities), and the time constraints placed on the treatment of the dossiers—Sarkozy had announced that all decisions would be made before the new school year in September— meant that the decisions were taken on a very random basis, without a real consideration of whether the family met the criteria for regularization or not.18 This very partial regularization might be seen as a failure for the sans-papiers movement, but it did create a widespread public debate over the problem of these illegal residents, and in particular about the fate of children of sanspapiers. As Keck and Sikkink19 have argued with regard to transnational advocacy networks, the issue of harm to those perceived as “innocent” or “vulnerable” has a strong potential for mobilization. This seems to be the case in a national context as well, where the issue of the expulsion of innocent or vulnerable children has acted as a spur for mobilization and has allowed the RESF to expand its reach outside of the traditional circle of militants and to include school teachers, parents, and other concerned citizens in its actions. The issue of sanspapiers has thus been reframed by the movement from one of immigration to one of the protection of children’s rights. 20 This question of the sans-papiers has occupied a strategic place in the political debate over immigration in France, highlighting as it does the boundaries between nationals and nonnationals, and between citizens of the EU and those from outside of Europe. In addition, it provides an interesting ref lection on how those in a position of great insecurity and with few immediately apparent political resources can mobilize to defend themselves against threats posed by the French state. The Creation of Illegality The mobilization of the sans-papiers has brought to the foreground the issue of illegality and of how people come to be illegal residents in France. The issue of illegal or clandestine immigration is not a new one—throughout French history there has been clandestine immigration and sporadic periods of regularization of illegal immigrants. Indeed at one point, illegal immigration was viewed as completely necessary for the functioning of the economy. In the postwar period politicians freely admitted that they could not control all immigration and that to attempt to do so would be to reduce the number of immigrant workers available for French industry, hence weakening France’s economic performance. Recently, as anti-immigration discourse has grown stronger, illegal immigration has become a key issue, with politicians trying to create a clear distinction between legal and illegal immigrants, and framing illegal immigrants as a source of growing insecurity in French society. This focus on illegality has had important impacts across the immigrant population and those of immigrant origin in France, as Marie argues: Taken as the principal axis of government thinking and action for ten years, the trilogy of immigration, illegality and insecurity have favored a manipulation of

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the notions of legality and legitimacy and have thus perverted the political discourse on the rights of the totality of the populations of immigrant origin and on their place in society. 21

The focus on the legality or illegality of an immigrant’s status, and the attempt to draw a strict boundary between the two categories, can be seen to have led the fragilization of the status and security of all immigrants. Even those immigrants who are in a regular situation with legal residence permits find themselves often in a state of “potential illegitimacy,” whereby they become suspect and feel insecure in their status. This insecurity of even legal residents is reinforced by political reforms and discourse that has undermined the automatic renewal of ten-year residence permits, thus fragilizing the status of those immigrants in possession of one of these cards. This potential illegitimacy even hits the children of immigrants, who have themselves been born in France and who have French nationality, by a continual process of ethnicization of social relations and of increasing discrimination and stigmatization of immigrants. 22 One of the components of the focus on illegality in immigration control has been to normalize the idea of the security of the French state being breached by foreigners (mainly from Africa and Asia) crossing the borders of France and entering the country without the legal right to do so. The discourse has defined as an illegal immigrant anyone who finds themselves in breach of the regulations controlling the entry and residence of foreigners in France. By so defining illegal immigrants this discourse creates the notion of a homogenous mass of people who are all “clandestine” and who all pose a threat to the security of the French state. It reduces a complex situation to one of the “lowest common denominator,” depicting all those who find themselves for various reasons without the requisite legal residence papers as criminals who have illegally entered the country. Thus state policies on immigration control can be legitimized by reference to the defense of French national interests against this mass of clandestines. The official discourse on immigration policy has been framed by the idea that there must be a distinction between legal immigrants who should be integrated into French society and illegal immigrants who must be removed from France. Often the expulsion of illegal immigrants is described as a necessary condition for the integration of legal immigrants. This discourse, however, oversimplifies the nature of illegality and removes the complexities of the situation of many illegal immigrants, and the ambiguous nature of the division between legal and illegal status. Contrary to the attempts to portray illegal immigrants as those who plot to cross the French borders without the necessary papers, many of those who find themselves in a situation of illegality do so not as a result of illegal entry into the country, but as a result of one of a number of other processes. Many of those in the sans-papiers movement have been living in France for many years, since the 1980s or even the 1970s, and have experienced long periods when they had legal residence permits and worked legally. These people have found themselves without legal residence papers due to a number of different circumstances including the nonrenewal of residence permits for various reasons. Both the law and its application, in many cases under

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the discretionary powers of prefects or other administrative officials, 23 may lead to migrants becoming illegal residents on French territory. 24 The insecurities resulting from this constant creation and reinvention of the definitions of illegality are clear, with immigrants unsure as to their status and to whether or not they will be able to obtain a legal residence permit, or to be able to renew their existing residence permits. Such uncertainty with regards to residence status has an impact on their ability to engage in the labor market, their relationships with employers, and their abilities to claim benefits or to receive health care, or education for their children. The Pasqua reforms of 1993, which subordinated the right to claim social benefits to the possession of regular residence status, meant that many foreigners living in France were plunged into states of extreme precariousness. Many amongst them had paid social security contributions while in possession of legal residence status and legal employment, but were then refused benefits when they lost this legal status. This type of insecurity provided the motivation for the political mobilization of the sans-papiers movement, but its scale and the support it has received was surprising for many. As Simeant asks, how did a group of foreigners in an illegal situation, a group that might be imagined to be particularly exploited and devoid of any resources, political or otherwise, manage to create such a massive collective action?25 The mechanisms of this mobilization and those of the creation of a collective identity of sans-papiers will be explored in the next section. Mobilization without Resources? The case of the sans-papiers movement provides an example of what might be called an “unexpected” political mobilization, given that these are individuals with few resources, and that the individual costs of mobilization, in particular, the possibility of sanctions relating to the illegal status of an individual, may be thought to outweigh the possible benefits of collective action—the hope of regularization. Collective action of immigrant populations may be unexpected because, as Sayad has remarked, the status of immigrant has for a long time been associated with that of a member of the labor force and not that of an active political citizenship. 26 Moreover, as Noiriel argues, immigrant populations in France have consistently failed to constitute a social group in the sense that they have not gradually acquired representatives, symbols of identity, or modes of action that have permitted them to contest political decisions that could harm their interests. 27 The difficulties outlined earlier mean that the role of entrepreneurs has been vital in the move to collective action for the sans-papiers28 as it has with other “low-resource” mobilizations such as that of the homeless. 29 Simeant shows how these collective actions have only been possible because of the actions of entrepreneurs motivated via differing political and moral imperatives.30 Thus the earliest mobilizations of sans-papiers, usually hunger strikes, often involved support from trade unions who led the actions in support of immigrant workers

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employed illegally. The imperatives of the labor market acted as a spur for such union involvement, as well as the more “humanitarian” motivation of individual trade union representatives who became involved in the movement in order to express their solidarity with their fellow workers who were being treated unjustly. The support of the trade unions was never unproblematic, however, with the continuing debate over the value of a support for “foreign” workers who might harm the interests of native French workers in the labor market. The more important type of justification for the sans-papiers thus came from individual engagement through moral imperatives to action. This type of “moral militancy”31 has survived the decline of the traditional trade union movement and of more traditional forms of militancy32 and may be argued to have been reconverted into a new type of militancy and collective action based more on associational types of movements.33 Thus, at the same time as collective action based around the trade union movement has declined, associations defending particular causes, such as that of the sans-papiers, have begun to emerge in greater numbers. This is particularly clear in studying the Réseau Education Sans Frontières (RESF), which has gained support from a number of the new trades unions (e.g., SUD) formed in the wake of the decline of old style trade union membership plus a wide range of other associational movements— some of which are formed by immigrant groups themselves, and some of which are mainly composed of French citizens supporting immigrants’ rights. Another type of external support has come from “personalities” of the film and media world who have aided the visibility of the movement. The occupations of the 1990s started this trend with film stars (including such figures as Emmanuelle Béart) coming to demonstrate their support of the hunger strikers occupying the Parisian churches, and with the release of the petition signed by film directors and actors claiming to have given housing to illegal immigrants. This trend has continued with a highly visible presence of film and television actors supporting the Cachan “squatters” and most recently the production of a short film Laissez-les grandir ici (Let Them Grow Up Here) by directors sympathetic to the RESF, which was shown in cinemas across France during March 2007. Commentators have also pointed to the role of legal experts in supporting and facilitating the actions of the sans-papiers movement. This aspect of “cause lawyering” has been particularly in evidence in relation to the movement against the double peine that was based on a contestation of a perceived legal discrimination—that of different punishments for the same crime committed depending on whether the person found guilty was a French national or an immigrant, the immigrant being subject to expulsion from French territory in addition to the “normal” punishment—and that used legal means to contest these decisions.34 The presence of engaged lawyers as entrepreneurs of the sans-papiers’ cause is also evident in associations such as GISTI.35 However, this alliance of law and politics in the defense of sans-papiers is not straightforward. One of the major divisions that emerges is the way in which a legal defense of the sanspapiers is often reduced to a “case by case” defense of individuals, while the more “political” demands emerging from the sans-papiers themselves have

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insisted on a collective treatment of the question thereby refusing case by case treatment to claim regularization for all. The sans-papiers have also had significant interaction with antiracist movements and with various feminist organizations—one of the significant features of the mobilization being the pivotal role played by women in organizing various mobilizations and in playing the role of spokesperson for the movement.36 The earliest sans-papiers movements in the 1970s were composed primarily of men, mainly men who had arrived in France without their families. However, a feminization of migration patterns from the 1970s onward 37 meant that when the sans-papiers started the occupation of the Saint-Ambroise church in 1996, women were a very large and visible presence amongst the occupants. Women were also the motor for the Cachan occupation of 2006. It was they who refused to board the buses provided by the Police Prefecture to expel the squatters, and thus sparked off the occupation of the gymnasium. 38 Gender relations within the movement have not been unproblematic, however. Madjiguène Cissé who emerged as one of the leading spokespeople of the 1996 collective action recounts that women had to struggle to be heard by male delegates of the SaintAmbroise occupation and by the representatives of French associations supporting the sans-papiers.39 Similarly, Lloyd points to a “rendez-vous manqué” (missed rendez-vous) between feminist and antiracist movements that holds true also for the sans-papiers movement in many cases.40 For much of the 1990s the major part of the French feminist movement was concentrated on the debate over gender parity in political representation, a debate that framed the difference between men and women as a fundamental one, and that thus tended to overlook differences among women. Citizenship was conceived as a relationship to the formal political process, and as such concerns of women who were not political citizens (in so far as they did not have the right to vote) were not considered within this debate. It has thus been mainly the smaller and more marginal feminist groups—such as R AJFIRE, a group founded specifically to support immigrant women in France—that have invested heavily in support for the sans-papiers. Similarly, antiracist and pro-immigrant movements have often failed to consider women’s specific concerns. One of the difficulties in women making their voices heard within these movements has been the insistence on universalism, which opposes the creation of different categories within a group of immigrants or foreigners. Interactions between the sans-papiers and other mobilizations and associations have been problematic given the differing political opportunity structures available to the various groups, and their varied mobilization strategies. The recent mobilization by the Enfants de Don Quichotte in favor of the homeless, for example, failed to make any real links with the sans-papiers movement even though the two populations of homeless and sans-papiers are largely intertwined. This failure to make linkages between different groups of “sans” (sanslogement, sans-emploi, sans-papiers or homeless, unemployed, sans-papiers) can be seen as a result of the acceptance and integration of categories of thinking created by the State. The fact that government and administration deal with all of these different populations as separate categories without creating

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any linkages between them means that public policies are focused exclusively on one category of the population. This categorization is reflected in collective action, which is most often focused on opposition to one particular area of public policy, and which thus mobilizes only with respect to one particular segment of the population, again ignoring the intersections between different “excluded” groups. This fragmentation can have damaging results for some of those populations. For example, the new housing law, which was passed following the mobilization of the homeless in 2006 and 2007, has meant that places in emergency shelters have become transformed into places for longer term rehabilitation and reinsertion of the homeless but, as a result, it has become more difficult for someone without legal residence papers to get a place in this type of emergency accommodation because those who run the emergency shelters are not sure about the future of such residents. The most recent immigration law even proposed that places in emergency housing should be kept only for those with papers, an amendment that was finally rejected only after opposition from within the government itself. The fact that such an amendment could be debated, however, shows the way in which government policies have sought to deal separately with different groups of the excluded in order to make alliances between these different groups more difficult. As well as a failure to build larger alliances with other movements of sans, the sans-papiers actions have suffered from a fragmentation into smaller and more “issue focused” mobilizations, such as the movement against the double peine and the current mobilization against the expulsion of families of sanspapiers with children in French schools through the RESF. Although the RESF can be perceived as a “successful” mobilization in terms of the scale of the actions that it has undertaken and the media attention that it has received, the focus on school children has in some cases diverted attention away from the more general problem of the way in which the politics of migration have been constructed in France. Indeed, the strength of RESF lies in it very localized mobilizations for individual families and children, mobilizations that have been successful in terms of obtaining papers on a case by case basis, but that have had little or no impact on the government’s general policies on immigration.41 Conclusion Although they might be considered to constitute a marginal social category, with no legal status, the sans-papiers have thus managed to become a central figure in French political debate. They have managed to gain widespread media coverage, divide political parties, and provoke a continual mobilization in their support.42 The reasons for the centrality of the issue in political debate are complex, but it can be argued that they return to the major debate on the nature of citizenship in France and also of exclusion from that citizenship. For, in posing illegal immigration as a threat to the security of the French nation, French governments have in turn justified the exclusion of the sans-papiers, these illegal or clandestine immigrants, from many citizenship rights. These exclusions affect not only civil rights, but also the economic and welfare rights,

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and can thus be argued to provoke growing insecurity among the populations of sans-papiers. These exclusions and their impacts can also be seen as a source of support for their mobilizations, moving the debate beyond one simply concerning immigration rules, and expanding it to one about the nature of citizenship and inclusion or exclusion. The collective mobilization of the sans-papiers in France can be seen as an attempt to overcome some of their insecurity through a creation and redefinition of a collective identity, based on the status of illegality. It might be argued that despite the many external and internal difficulties experienced by the movement, its very existence has brought about a change in the experience of foreigners living in France without legal residence papers. Rather than existing in an individual state of illegality and insecurity, they have become politically active and have acquired a means of engaging politically with the French authorities. The very reclamation of an identity as sans-papiers can be seen in itself as a militant action, an attempt to replace the more negative terms used to describe this group of people, and to denounce those truly responsible for this situation, not the immigrants themselves, but the French state that has made them illegal.43 This process has, of course, not been without many difficulties, and many fissures and disagreements still exist within the movement both regarding the underlying justifications of their struggle, and the tactics to be employed to further their goals. Moreover, strategies for cooperation with other political and social movements have been difficult. In particular, the relationship of the sans-papiers to the political Left has been problematic, with various attempts by Left-wing parties at instrumentalization of the movement, and an eventual disenchantment due to the failure of Left-wing governments to proceed to any real or sustainable political actions in support of the movement (apart from sporadic and limited regularizations of some of the sans-papiers). The 2007 presidential campaign showed the limits of the support of major Left-wing parties to the sans-papiers, with the Socialist candidate Ségolène Royal promising only a very limited regularization following very strict criteria. The “securitization” of the immigration issue and the general acceptance of a discourse that paints illegal immigrants as a threat to the French state have meant that many political leaders think any substantial support for the sans-papiers would be too costly in electoral terms. In conclusion, it might be argued that the failure to build a coherent and stable alliance with other movements of the Left or with any of the Left-wing political parties has meant that the sans-papiers movement has become an “unfinished struggle,” and that in the light of the current political climate, where illegal immigrants have been represented as a source of “insecurity” for the French nation, their struggle is unlikely to have a positive conclusion in the near future. Notes 1. Sans-papiers means literally “without papers” and was a term adopted by those residing “illegally” in France to define their situations with regards to citizenship and residency rights.

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2. The use of the term “illegal” to refer to those immigrants who are residing within a country without the correct residence papers is open to criticism as it acts to criminalize those who have not in fact committed any crime. Illegality in this context must be viewed rather as a product of government policies than of the actions of individuals, many of whom entered a country legally and were subsequently “illegalized” by changes in immigration policies and legislation. For this reason it may be preferable to refer to “undocumented migrants.” 3. For an analysis of the way in which immigrants have been criminalized in Europe and the United States, see, e.g., Michael Welch and Liza Schuster, “Detention of Asylum Seekers in the UK, France, Germany and Italy: A Critical View of the Globalizing Culture of Control,” Criminal Justice 5, no. 4 (2005): 331–55. 4. For example, the most recent immigration law, the loi Hortefeux, passed by the National Assembly in October 2007, has introduced the measure of DNA testing in order to prove that members of families trying to immigrate through family reunification procedures really are biologically related to each other. 5. J. Simeant, La cause des sans-papiers (Paris: Presses de la fondation nationale des sciences politiques, 1998). 6. E. Balibar, “Le droit de cité ou l’apartheid?” in Sans-papiers: l’archaïsme fatal, eds. E. Balibar, M. Chemillier-Gendreau, J. Costa-Lascoux, and E. Terray (Paris: La Découverte, 1999), 89–110. 7. M. Sané, Sorti de l’Ombre. Journal d’un Sans-papiers (Paris: Le Temps des Cerises, 1996), 45. 8. M. Cissé, Parole de sans-papiers! (Paris: La Dispute, 1999), 116. 9. M. Cissé, “Sans-papiers: les premiers enseignements,” Politique la revue 2 (1996): 9–14. 10. E. Terray, “La lutte des sans-papiers, la démocratie et l’Etat de droit,” in Les lois de l’ inhospitalité: Les politiques de l’ immigration à l’ épreuve des sans-papiers, eds. D. Fassin, A. Morice and C. Quiminal (Paris: La Découverte, 1997), 249. 11. Balibar, “Le droit de cité ou l’apartheid?” 93. 12. Cissé, Parole de sans-papiers, 161. 13. The notion of “chosen” immigration has been a key to Sarkozy’s immigration policy, which aims to ensure a far greater control over who should enter France, and to allow only those who will play a useful economic role to immigrate. This contrast between chosen and “suffered” immigration is demonstrated in the new loi Hortefeux (see note 4 earlier), which imposes much stricter conditions on family reunification, but which at the same time allows a possibility of regularization of illegal immigrants who are doing “useful” work within France. 14. Claimants whose claim is treated in a priority procedure do not have the same rights to housing or benefits as other asylum claimants, and their claim should be treated more rapidly by the French authorities. 15. The notion of “safe” countries has been adopted by all European countries in order to be able to deal rapidly with asylum claims where the claimant comes from a country of origin deemed to be “safe,” i.e., to have no state sanctioned persecution or discrimination. The notion of safe countries has been highly criticized by human rights groups, however, who point to the various different human rights abuses that may still take place even in these countries deemed to be safe. 16. The use of the word “raf les” to refer to these roundups of sans-papiers by the police is controversial in that it is it the same word used to denote the roundups of Jews by the Vichy police during World War II. 17. A. Gintzburger, Ecoliers, vos papiers! (Paris: Flammarion, 2006).

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18. C. Vanneroy, “Comment est mise en oeuvre la circulaire du 13 juin 2006 relative aux sans-papiers? L’exemple de Paris,” TERR A-Editions, Collection Synthèses, 2006. http://terra.rezo.net/article552.html. 19. M. Keck, and K. Sikkink, “Transnational Advocacy Networks in International and Regional Politics,” International Social Science Journal 51, no. 159 (1999): 89–101. 20. J. Freedman, “The Réseau Education Sans Frontières: A New Form of Collective Action?” paper presented at the ECPR General Conference, September 5–8, 2007, Pisa. 21. C.-V. Marie, 988, “Entre économie et politique: le ‘clandestin,’ une figure sociale à géométrie variable,” Pouvoirs 47 (1988): 91. 22. D. Fassin and A. Morice, “Les épreuves de l’irregularité: les sans-papiers entre déni d’existence et reconquête d’un statut,” in Exclusions au coeur de la Cité, ed. D. Schnapper (Paris: Economica, 2001), 260–309. 23. A. Spire, Etrangers à la carte (Paris: Grasset, 2005). 24. N. Ferré, “La production de l’irregularité,” in Les lois de l 'inhospitalité: les politiques de l 'immigration à l' épreuve des sans-papiers, eds. D. Fassin, A. Morice, and C. Quiminal (Paris: La Découverte, 1997), 47–64. 25. Simeant, La cause des sans-papiers. 26. A. Sayad, L’ immigration ou les paradoxes de l’alterité (Brussels: De Broek, 1991). 27. G. Noiriel, Le creuset français. Histoire de l’ immigration XIX-XX siècles (Paris: Le Seuil, 1988). 28. Simeant, La cause des sans-papiers. 29. C. Péchu, “Quand les « exclus » passe à l’action. La mobilisation des mal-logés,” Politix 9, no. 34 (1996): 114–33. 30. Simeant, La cause des sans-papiers. 31. E. Reyanaud, “Le militantisme moral,” in La sagesse et le désordre, ed. H. Mendras (Paris: Gallimard, 1980), 271–86. 32. I. Sommier, Le renouveau des mouvements contestataires à l’ heure de la mondialisation (Paris: Flammarion, 2003). 33. J. Ion, La fin des militants? (Paris: L’Atelier, 1997). 34. L. Mathieu, La double peine. Histoire d’une lutte inachevée (Paris: La Dispute, 2006). 35. L. Israel, “Faire emerger le droit des étrangers en le contestant, ou l’histoire paradoxale des premières années du GISTI,” Politix 16, no. 62 (2003): 115–43. 36. J. Freedman and C. Tarr, eds., Women, Immigration and Identities in France (Oxford: Berg, 2000). 37. J. Freedman, Immigration and Insecurity in France (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004). 38. A. Mary and L. Schulmann, “Cachan: diviser pour mieux éloigner?” Plein Droit 71 (2006): 10–12. 39. Freedman and Tarr, Women, Immigration and Identities in France. 40. C. Lloyd, “Rendez-vous manqués: feminisms and anti-racisms in France,” Modern and Contemporary France 6, no. 1 (1998): 61–74. 41. Freedman, “The Réseau Education Sans Frontières.” 42. Fassin and Morice, “Les épreuves de l’irregularité.” 43. J. Ion, S. Franguiadakis, and P. Viot, Militer aujourd’ hui (Paris: Autrement, 2005).

PART II

Migrant Activists in Trade Unions and Party Politics

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CHAPTER 5

The Example of a Communist Paper Aimed at Algerian Immigrants: L ’ Algérien en France (1950–1960) Caroline Izambert

To immigrate is objectively—that is to say, beyond all the partners’ will and consciousness—an act which is, unquestionably, fundamentally political. Abdelmalek Sayad, La double absence

U

ntil independence in 1962, Algeria was a singular colony within the French Empire. From an administrative point of view, the country was a part of the French territory, divided into départements just as the metropole was. This status was justified by the presence of a “European” or “pied noir” population living on Algerian soil,1 which consisted of under one million inhabitants who had the same civil and political rights as other French citizens. As for the nine million Algerians, they were subjected to a discriminatory regime defined by the French code de l’ indigénat.2 They had no political representation. However, World War II brought about fundamental changes to this situation. As many soldiers from the colonies had taken part in the Liberation of France, and as colonized people expressed an increasing will to break with the colonial status quo, the French authorities of the Fourth Republic were forced to make reforms. In Algeria, this resulted in the Statute of 1947, bestowing French citizenship on Algerians. Political representation was only slightly improved—in a system of two unequal electoral colleges; one Algerian deputy represented ten times as many citizens as his counterpart in the European Electoral College. Nevertheless, Algerians obtained the right to move about freely. As there was a shortage of industrial workers in France, more Algerians moved to districts devoted to automobile and steel manufacturing around Paris, Lyon, and Lille. From 1954 to 1962, the Algerian population in France increased from 211,000 to 350,000.3

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This is what sociologist Abdelmalek Sayad calls “the second age of immigration.” These immigrants behaved in a quite different way to those who had arrived before World War II. This “new age” of immigrants were mostly working class men who spent longer and longer periods of time in the metropole, had more clearly broken with their rural origins, and were less likely to go back to their birthplace. Moreover, Algerian immigrants no longer mainly came from the region of Kabylia; instead, they were coming from all different areas in Algeria. This put an end to the practice of reestablishing in France familial and neighborly groupings based on the geography of Algerian villages. This new age also gave way to a new type of political consciousness. At this time, on both sides of the Mediterranean, Algerian nationalism experienced a period of intense radicalization. During World War II nationalists in Algeria gathered around Ferhat Abbas’s “Manifeste du Peuple Algerien” (Algerian People’s Manifesto). On May 8, 1945, while Liberation was celebrated in France, peaceful demonstrations in Sétif, in eastern Algeria, were violently repressed. The number of dead may have reached several tens of thousands. The MLTD (Mouvement pour le Triomphe des Libertés Démocratiques, Movement for the Triumph of Democratic Liberties), led by Messali Hadj, represented the nationalist current convinced by the idea that independence was the only way to put an end to colonial oppression. The French defeat in Indochina in 1954 persuaded some MTLD members that independence could only be won by armed struggle. These men formed the FLN (Front de Libération Nationale, National Liberation Front) and were responsible for the bomb attacks on November 1, 1954, which marked the beginning of the Algerian War of Independence. In France, the Algerian nationalist movement developed along parallel lines. Immigrant workers organized within the CGT (Confédération Générale du Travail, General Labor Confederacy), a trade union under the influence of the PCF (Parti Communiste Français, French Communist Party). But many of these immigrant workers focused their political work on the defense of Algerian nationalism. Herein lies a paradox: these immigrants, who had more decisively left their Algerian roots behind, were all the more involved in the nationalist struggle. In March 1952, a section of the MTLD was created within the car plant Renault-Billancourt, a manufacturing facility that grouped the largest contingent of the Algerian workforce.4 Algerian students, amongst whom we find Mohammed Harbi, organized within the UGEMA (Union Générale des Etudiants du Maghreb et d’Afrique), which represented the intellectual current of Algerian nationalism in France. The PCF took an inconsistent interest in anticolonial movements and immigrants’ political expression. Though formally defending internationalist slogans, the PCF was too deeply involved in national affairs to be able to speak out and demand that the colonial Empire, the keystone of French power, be dismantled. During the 1920s, one of the pioneers of Algerian nationalism, the ENA (Etoile Nord Africaine, North African Star), led by Messali Hadj, was born within the French communist rank-and-file. Yet from then on, French communists and Algerian nationalists moved further and further apart, both in France and in Algeria. In 1936, Algerian hopes in the Popular Front were betrayed when the National Assembly rejected the Blum-Violette project, which was

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designed to provide the right to vote to those who were considered to belong to the Algerian elite. That same year, Algerian communists independently formed the PCA (Parti Communiste Algérien, Algerian Communist Party), which brought together Europeans and Algerians. The colonial question and the immigration issue were now disconnected and dealt with by two different organizations. World War II only deepened the chasm between French communists and Algerian nationalists. In May 1945, the PCF’s newspaper L’Humanité described the demonstrations in Sétif as a result of a fascist plot, adopting the well-worn theme of a supposed collusion between Arabism and fascism as a way of justifying repression while communist ministers were part of the government. After World War II, the political orientation of the PCF was anti-imperialist but mostly nationalist, often in contradiction with its internationalist principles— the will for independence expressed by colonized peoples and immigrant spokesmen in the metropole. Basking in its status as the parti des fusillés 5 since the Resistance, and as the “first labor party in France” since the 1947 strikes, the PCF’s political and trade-unionist network was unrivalled. Its allegiance to Moscow was stronger than the other European communist parties. As Etienne Balibar states: “the Party was not an empire within another empire, that is to say a hermetic space within French society, miraculously protected, by its nature or history, from the evolutions and the crisis this society was going through.”6 And communist activists were not above treating immigrants with suspicion, and indeed racism, even if communist convictions and the rejection of theories of racial inequality made this a rather progressive milieu on such questions. However, the Comintern had to intervene for the French section to proactively seek out Algerian immigrants, who represented a growing part of the proletariat as well as a precious political client after 1947, when the PCF electoral results started to crumble election after election. In this context, a newspaper, the L’Algérien en France (AF, Algerian in France), was founded in May 1950. It was specifically designed for Algerian immigrants in metropolitan France. In this chapter, we will examine this newspaper over the ten years of its publication. This case study follows a double historiographical renewal: in the field of the history of the French communist party a multidisciplinary approach has developed with works such as Bernard Pudal’s thesis, which is free of political arguments. The history of immigration in France has also acquired a new visibility with Gérard Noiriel’s,7 Benjamin Stora’s, 8 and Nancy Green’s9 books. Laure Pitti’s thesis10 dealing with Renault’s Algerian workers from the 1950s to the 1970s invigorated research concerning the attitude of the left on the issue of immigration. These renewals are linked to the opening of new archives. Those of the PCF itself are now accessible in an archive independent from the PCF. The state archives, protected during a thirty-year period, are now open to historians. This new context revealed the existence of the AF, a newspaper long forgotten by militants. The aim of this analysis is not to enumerate the successive political positions that the communists had on the Algerian issue, but to understand what they knew about and how they saw the Algerian nationalists who were politically active in the metropole as Algeria spiraled into war. From what perspective did communists interpret the movement for independence? Since

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the 1920s, for working class immigrants and, in particular, for Italian immigrants, the PCF can been seen as a tool for entering French society. One might therefore ask, to what extent did immigrants’ independent political expression prevent the PCF from playing that role with Algerian immigrants? The PCF’s equivocal political stances, such as their refusal for a long time to admit the possibility of Algerian independence and the fact that they voted for the pouvoirs spéciaux (“special powers”) in 1956, have traditionally been explained by the PCF’s national aims, such as their desire for a closer alliance with the socialists, or the PCF’s anti-U.S. policy. If these explanations are pertinent, the examination of the AF nevertheless shows that the explanations for the “rendez vous manqué ” (“failed meeting” and indeed “missed opportunity”) between Algerian immigrants and French communists are also to be found in much more long-term communist conceptions and representations. Genesis of a Militant Newspaper L’Algérien en France was published from July 1950 to October 1960. The French National Library is the only institution where an almost exhaustive collection of this newspaper is to be found. The PCF decided to launch the AF in order to strengthen its ties with North African working class communities in metropolitan France. In May 1950, this concern led the national secretary to set out a new political framework: “based on the immediate defense of Algerian, Moroccan and Tunisian workers and on the fundamental principle of support which Communist Parties should show towards colonized peoples.”11 On May 31, 1950, the Central Committee decided to launch the publication, putting into practice this new political direction. The monthly paper presented itself as aimed at all North African immigrants, whether politically organized or not. On October 1, the newspaper acquired its own administrative structure. Georges Lachenal, one of the outstanding figures of the communist anticolonial battle in the 1930s, was nominated as manager and remained in that position until the last issue, published in 1960.12 With its four pages and large format (eight inches long and sixteen inches wide), the AF looked like a regular newspaper. If initially the newspaper may appear as simply a way of expressing allegiance to Moscow, the personal involvement of important figures in the PCF, including Léon Feix, a former member of the Section Coloniale (Colonial Section) who wrote the majority of editorials, the high proportion of original articles, and the steady publication of the paper suggest that some PCF leaders were very much aware of the colonial question. Articles were usually not signed, Algerian writers were a minority, and Bensadek was one of the very few authors to be both an immigrant and a PCF member. The newspaper was published in French; barely twenty articles were written in Arabic, and these usually reproduced leaflets distributed in the workplace during electoral campaigns. According to Cédric Dameron, five thousand copies of the AF were printed for the first issue.13 Even if the goal was to address all Algerians living in France, only the small percentage of immigrants who mastered written French could be reached. However, as articles were written in an open-minded spirit with

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abundant references to Arabic and Muslim culture, the readership of the AF must have spread beyond the handful of Algerians who were members of the PCF. It seems that the paper was not distributed within enterprises, which suggests that it was more a means to initiate political discussions for communist activists who knew Algerian immigrants outside of the workplace. The shanty towns of Nanterre, on the outskirts of Paris, populated by tens of thousands of immigrants were one of the favored locations of AF distributors. AF’s public was thus this “political immigration” Abdelmalek Sayad talks about when referring to those whose immigration had political motives,14 as opposed to “labor immigration” for those whose exile was related to their social situation. In practice, the border between these two categories was not clear-cut. Sayad highlights this methodological distinction as a way of explaining how links were built between “popular nationalism (or spontaneous patriotism),” which labor immigration “brought” with it, and “politically refined nationalism, backed up with a theory, a program and a guide for action” conceived by a less numerous “political immigration.”15 Communists chose to use this narrow immigrant layer as a go-between to reach the Algerian laboring masses. MTLD militants were the first audience targeted by the AF, and the paper was presented as complementing the two short-lived metropolitan MTLD newspapers: L’Emigré Algérien (The Algerian Immigrant) and L’Etoile algérienne (The Algerian Star).16 Between 1949 and 1950, the MTLD went through a serious political crisis, which revealed profound ideological disagreements, notably on the question of the continuing relevance of Marxist doctrine. The PCF perhaps tried to benefit from these difficulties to attract some activists. But the AF’s essential aim was less to recruit communist militants and more to make nationalists conscious of communism. In doing so, it was trying to get closer to Algerian political organizations. In addition, witnessing the weakening of the PCA in Algeria, communists were eager to find within immigrant communities new opportunities to attract this population in turmoil. The study of this initiative raises the question of its reception among the nationalist militants of the MTLD. The fact that many of them seem to have “forgotten” its existence leads one to think that though it may have been considered a praiseworthy initiative, the AF never became a serious rival to the MTLD publications, nor did it ever encourage debates between nationalists and communists. Directives from Moscow had set the same goal and the timing was auspicious, but skepticism inside the PCF had to be overcome for the newspaper to emerge. If a monthly four-page newspaper might seem a rather limited attempt by an organization as powerful as the PCF was at the time, its mere existence implied that communist hardliners had broken free of a principle that was deeply rooted within the party’s rhetoric. This principle was that the party should always address the working class as a homogenous and united body, and refuse to let a specific fraction—in this case as a group of immigrants from a colonized country—express itself politically. I must also stress the fact that such an endeavor was an exception on the French political landscape. At a time when Algerians were “almost invisible in the public space,”17 it was the only publication by a political organization aimed at immigrants.

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From the Desire to Convince (1950–1956) . . . The senior hierarchy of the PCF agreed with the project. Yet the content of the newspaper remained to be defined and there were numerous obstacles that could have prevented the communist initiative from being positively received by the immigrant population: how could people forget that communist ministers in the government had allowed the repressions in Sétif in May 1945 and in Madagascar in March 1947? How could the PCF be politically credible in the eyes of a population whose main concern was less class struggle than the fight against colonialism? The difficulties were also theoretical, as Sylvie Thénault notes: “in 1945, the forces of the left had [ . . . ] no plan anticipating the emergence of independendist demands and preparing an accurate response.”18 The PCF’s Marxist–Leninist methodology was a major obstacle for the communists in understanding why the struggle for independence had crystallized Algerian immigrants’ political fights. In this context, the originality of the AF was its efforts to fit in with the immigrants’ own political concerns. The AF closely followed events affecting the MTLD, a reminder to Messali Hadj’s militants that they were the AF’s privileged audience. AF headlines often firmly condemned the censorship, which was steadily outlawing the MTLD newspaper, L’Algérie Libre (Free Algeria). Arguments were often chosen to flatter nationalist militants: when Jacques Duclos, a leading figure in the CP, was arrested at the same time Messali Hadj was put under house arrest in 1952, this mere coincidence was exploited as unquestionable proof that both men were “on the same side.”19 More anecdotal details from the MTLD’s everyday life were also mentioned: Messali Hadj’s wife’s illness was described in a monthly medical bulletin, and a photographer from the AF attended her funeral, a staged exhibition of the ties supposedly binding both political organizations. But the most important theme consisted of exalting the real or claimed union between nationalists and communists. AF writers always introduced themselves as “sincere and disinterested” 20 allies to Algerian nationalism. The second issue was widely devoted to the acquittal in Constantine of a militant from the UDMA, Ferhat Abbas’ nationalist movement. According to the AF, “this victory was celebrated by a large and enthusiastic demonstration at which MTLD, UDMA, communist, and party activists were present.” 21 In December 1950, the front page photograph showed Bachir Hadj Ali, a prominent PCA militant, together with Mostefai Chawi (MTLD) at the Warsaw Peace Congress. In 1951, all hopes were placed in the FADRL (Front Algérien pour la Défense et le Respect de la Liberté, Algerian Front in Defense of Respect and Liberty), which brought together in Algeria the UDMA, the MTLD, and the PCA. But for the communists, “union” did not mean “confusion,” and the editorial line was based on a clear “you and us”—“you” the Algerians, “us” the communists. Editorial number seven, written by an Algerian for the first time, had the telling title: “Our communist ally is 30 years old.” However, the newspaper could not avoid the disputes that shaped the relationship between the two sides: communists on one hand, Algerians on the other. During elections in February 1951, the MTLD called for abstention—which Léon Feix regretted

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in his editorial. And when the MTLD decided to boycott the 1952 county elections, thus prompting the eviction of the communists from FADRL, the AF hardly made any comment. In France, the Parisian police killed seven people, including six Algerians, during the Bastille Day commemorations on July 14, 1953. 22 The AF, stressing the presence of the communists in the same demonstration, omitted a significant detail: for the first time on July 14, MTLD and PCF militants had marched separately. The AF also wanted to prove how close nationalists and communists were to each other in the realm of foreign policy. Indeed, most headlines dealt with news concerning the Arab world and the Maghreb. These front-page articles reveal editorial staff not only adapting to the concerns of its readership, but also using these for propaganda purposes. Aware of Nasser’s aura after his coup in July 1952, AF writers took care not to question him, while L’Humanité, the main PCF newspaper, did not hide its distrust and indeed its hostility toward the Egyptian colonel’s pan-arabism. In December 1952, the front page of the AF read: “Egyptian fight boosts colonized people’s struggle.” Such a headline would have been unthinkable in any other communist publication. Again, in La Nouvelle Critique, the PC’s intellectual review, the 1955 Bandung conference is “made possible by the bitter defeat inf licted upon the Yankee aggressor in Korea and by the military victory of the Vietnamese people.” 23 In the AF it is seen as the announcement of the “upcoming emancipation of the colonized people.” 24 Without being contradictory, these different perspectives reveal two different editorial directions. Whereas the broader communist publications and union bulletins of the CGT show moderate enthusiasm for Third-Worldist and nationalist initiatives in the nonaligned countries after 1956, the AF’s trademark was its systematic support for the self-determination of peoples. Struggles for social rights were another opportunity to depict the union between immigrants and communists. Strikes organized by Algerians unionized within the CGT were foregrounded. Indeed, the newspaper was very quick to react. In June 1951, workers from Mandy, a chemical manufacturing company in Lyon that almost exclusively hired Algerians, went on strike to protest their working conditions. Entering into its second day, the strike seems to have been “broken” by “stool pigeons sent by the boss.” This event gave way to fighting; fourteen workers were arrested and sent to jail. The day before their trial, in autumn 1951, an AF special issue 25 was devoted to the campaign for their acquittal. A meeting was also organized at the Salle Wagram in Paris with MTLD leaders. The call was rather classic—“against attacks on the right to strike”—but it also denounced “arbitrary indictments [ . . . ] based on racist and colonial prejudices.” In each AF issue, we also find news inserts entitled “Do you know your rights?” that explained how to get state family benefits, vacations to return to Algeria, or to protest against wage inequalities. The level of accuracy reveals day-to-day meetings between communist militants and Algerians. Until 1956, the newspaper describes antiracist operations in Parisian cafés, which consisted of sending in militants perceived as white, and then others perceived as North African, to denounce the bar owners’ discriminatory practices.

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Yet the AF maintained an ambiguous attitude. If the slogan “independence” often appeared in the editorials, it was used in a spellbinding way; and the idea of a “French Union,” that is to say a kind of limited sovereignty conceded to Algerians within a sort of Commonwealth à la française, was never decisively rejected. “The necessity of maintaining ties” between France and Algeria was emphasized in many issues, without ever talking up the MTLD’s call for “immediate independence.” In addition, the way the communists saw Algerians is marked by stereotypes and prejudices of the time, despite a real attempt to move away from these. This is particularly noticeable when reading the fourth page, devoted to arts, culture, and sports. Short stories from well-known Francophone Algerian authors such as Mohammed Dib and Assia Djebar are frequently reproduced. These short stories, which were often hitherto unpublished, are proof of personal friendships between communist militants and Algerian writers. But most articles on page four tried to accommodate the history of Arab world and readers’ cultural references to a Marxist–Leninist framework. Headlines read: “Ibn Khaldoun, Founding Father of materialism” or “From insurgency in Kabylie to the Paris Commune.” 26 This strategy overtly aiming at intermingling nationalist and communist memories and cultural references is also to be found in the parallel that was drawn between the events of Sétif on May 8, 1945, and the Oradour-sur-Glane massacre, organized by German troops against French resistors and civilians in August 1945. A humoristic equivalent of this approach was developed in the section “Let’s laugh a bit.” It features Djeeha, a comic character from Algerian folklore, known for his smart and witty spirit. Month after month, Djeeha was depicted, in turn, as a thief, a lazy man, a glutton, a wife beater, as if, despite their good will, the authors could not avoid the racist representations pervading society at that time. We can thus see the pervasion in these cultural pages of a certain form of “Orientalism,” as this notion was developed by Edward Saïd and summarized as follows by Gilles Manceron: [Orientalism] ref lects both a feeling of superiority and attraction toward this or that element of a civilization found on other continents, and the failure to consider these elements for themselves, to strive to understand them in their cultural context. On the contrary, [Orientalism] uses [these elements] in an abstract reconstruction, which says more about the author and his or her public’s inner mental pictures than about their specific signification in the context of their own civilization. 27

Communist militants had difficulty trying to grasp the meaning of immigrant political demands as they were outside their own imagination. This prevented communists from perceiving the tensions within the MTLD on what means were justified to achieve independence, and from understanding that the events of November 1, 1954, followed by the insurrection in the Constantine region in August of 1955 were nothing less than the beginnings of a war of independence. The AF devoted the front page to these events, but expressed reservations. On one hand, the newspaper could not agree with practices that could only be legitimate during a genuine revolutionary climax, in a strict Marxist sense; on the other, it could not reproduce the analysis given in L’Humanité, which saw the events of November 1, 1954, as “terrorist acts.”

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Until 1956, condemnation of the repression carried out by the French army and call for negotiation took the place of any political program. Throughout its first six years of existence, the AF thus stood apart compared to other standardized publications produced by the PCF. The newspaper was certainly a tool for propaganda but its content reveals an attempt by a small communist minority that sincerely wanted to understand the specific aspirations of immigrants, who were mobilized by socioeconomic issues as much as they were by the struggle against colonial oppression in their homeland. However, after a few years of relative editorial independence, the increasingly onerous involvement of the French army in Algeria, and the growing strength of the FLN transformed the newspaper’s objectives and limited its writers’ possibilities. . . . To the Necessity of Justification (1956–1960) The year 1956 was a turning point for the PCF. When communist militants saw the pictures of Soviet tanks sent into Hungary, heard of upheavals in Poland, and learned of revelations about Stalinism made by Khruschev during the Twentieth Congress of Communist Party of the Soviet Union, some started to doubt the communist cause. The war in Algeria was another turning point: in March, communist deputies in the National Assembly voted special powers to the socialist government of Guy Mollet. In doing so, they antagonized a segment of their rank-and-file. These special powers restricted the role of civilian authorities in Algeria. They also gave a free hand to the army on the most questionable methods of repression: torture was used on a wide scale during the “Battle of Algiers” in 1957. 28 Since 1954, the AF had confined itself to denouncing repressive methods and had taken care not to reproduce communist reluctance about FLN methods. As a consequence, the AF faced anger and disappointment from its readership. The vote for special powers was justified as “the only way to protect those who advocated the development of a united front with socialist workers, first and foremost for a cease-fire and negotiation.” 29 Such a justification found no echoes within an immigrant community that was increasingly in favor of armed struggle. This decision made by PCF leaders confirmed the divorce between nationalists and communists. Even though the newspaper implicitly recognized that the special powers were a mistake and accused the socialists of having “betrayed” the spirit of the law, the remaining political ties between communist activists and nationalists had been broken. In an internal document dating from 1958, the Fédération de France (the FLN organization on mainland France) summarized as follows the FLN’s analysis of the French communist attitude: “the PCF does not hesitate, and never has, to turn colonial or neocolonial milieus into allied forces when they are to agree on a parliamentary grouping or on certain objectives concerning foreign policy.”30 The situation was all the more delicate now that the FLN metropolitan branch was fighting with the MNA (Mouvement National Algérien, Algerian National Movement), Messali Hadj’s new party, heir to the MTLD. The opposition was political but, in 1956, it turned into a violent conflict responsible for thousands of deaths in the metropole. The AF limited itself to regretting the “dangerous excesses”31 of this fratricidal conflict. They did not overtly support either of

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these organizations. However, the history of the relationship between communists and Algerian nationalists reveals broader areas of agreement between the PCF and the Messalists. Nothing was done to sweep away this ambiguity. From this point onward, even the names of the FLN and its leaders had almost vanished from AF articles. When the writers encouraged the French authorities to open negotiations, they only referred to a “legitimate negotiator” without mentioning the organization that had undoubtedly taken hold of the leadership on both sides of Mediterranean Sea.32 The newspaper was also incapable of reacting to internal debates within the FLN, and to the militarization of the organization after the Soumman Congress in 1956, which had finished by ousting more political leaders such as Ramdane Abbane, to the benefit of military leaders. Furthermore, the newspaper lost the outspoken tone that had until then been its trademark. The heads of the PCF controlled free speech; communications from the Central Bureau and Central Committee were faithfully reproduced, one after the other. The paper died slowly from 1958 onward. It became nothing but a gathering of articles from L’Humanité. In October 1959, its size was cut by half. This progressive disappearance reflected the new outlook of the PCF on the Algerian War. In 1958, the parliamentary regime of the Fourth Republic collapsed in the face of its failure to resolve the Algerian crisis and World War II hero General de Gaulle was called back to the head of the state on June 1. As early as September, a new regime reinforcing presidential powers was born—the Fifth Republic. De Gaulle became the communists’ favorite target; they saw his return as an autocratic threat. The left was therefore taken off balance when he declared, in September 1959, that the Algerian conflict should be solved according to the principle of self-determination—thus making toward the FLN the step forward that the left, head of the last government of the Fourth Republic, had never dared. How could the communists react to this declaration, at a time when even Khrushchev admitted self-determination as a progress for the Algerian people?33 In October 1959, the AF tried to diminish the importance of De Gaulle’s declaration, stating that: “the conditions for selfdetermination [ . . . ] exclude de facto independence.”34 Yet as early as November, self-determination was presented as “the first victory of the Algerian people.”35 The AF finally ceased publication after 111 issues in October 1960. To end this publication was to admit failure: the PCF had not found the right way to draw Algerian immigrants into its fold, for Algerians immigrants were riveted to Algiers and waiting for independence. Even though the immigrant population had become highly politicized during the war, they no longer read the AF, which had subsequently lost its raison d’être. As for the PCF’s political outlook on the Algerian issue, it was more than ever seen through Moscow’s eyes. Long drawn-out negotiations between the FLN and the French government, as well as bomb attacks organized by OAS (Organisation Armée Secrète, Secret Army Organization)—a terrorist group bringing together Europeans from Algeria and French soldiers in the fight against independence—postponed the end of the war until July 1962. It is during the lapse of time between De Gaulle’s announcement of self-determination and the official independence of Algeria on July 5, 1962, that French public opinion, and more specifically that of

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left-wing activists, organized in the most intense way. Hence paradoxically, just when the AF ended, the massive mobilizations among communist forces and mass demonstrations calling for peace and independence in Algeria began. Nationalists and communists finally marched with the same slogans—only separately. On both sides, militant organizers were severely repressed. On February 8, 1962, the police at the Charonne metro station killed eight militants. As for the Algerians, they had already been the victims of a “state massacre”36 a few months previously: on October 17, 1961, after a peaceful demonstration, several hundred people were slaughtered and thrown in the Seine River. Conclusion Though resulting from an original approach and formulating a specific propaganda, the AF’s content and purposes were distorted by the worsening conflict in Algeria. Communists were caught up in their own theoretical, political, and tactical contradictions. The party’s inability to maintain the publication of L ’ Algérien en France confirms how traumatic the Algerian War was for relationships between metropolitan French, French of Algerian origin, and immigrants. The AF represented a political direction that was undercut from the very beginning by the lack of reflection on the links between colonialism and immigrants’ political consciousness. It was caught between the denunciation of colonialism and participation in state government. This impossible junction between communists and nationalists during the war heavily contributed, after 1962, to maintaining the separation between the PCF and Algerian immigrants, despite the PCF remaining the biggest party in France until the 1970s, and despite Algerians forming the largest immigrant group in France after 1962. Notes 1. Matthew Connelly, A Diplomatic Revolution (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 11: “French people of the metropole called Muslim immigrants stoking coal on cargo-boats pieds-noirs because of their black feet. The term became a way to insult settlers, but by the 1950s Algeria’s nearly one million citizens of European descent had made this epithet their own.” 2. This code, defining the legal status of colonized people, prescribed all sorts of backward physical punishments. 3. Benjamin Stora, Ils venaient d’Algérie. L’ immigration algérienne en France, 1912– 1992 (Paris: Fayard, 1992), 143. 4. Laure Pitti, Ouvriers algériens à Renault-Billancourt, de la guerre d’Algérie aux grèves d’OS des années 1970: contribution à l’ histoire sociale et politique des ouvriers étrangers en France, 3T, PhD under the supervision of René Gallissot (Paris VIII University, 2002). 5. During the resistance against German occupation in World War II, many communists were executed (“ fusillés”), thus contributing to the PC’s patriotic reputation afterward. 6. Etienne Balibar, “De Charonne à Vitry,” in Les frontières de la démocratie (Paris: La Découverte, 2004), 17.

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7. Gérard Noiriel, Le creuset français (Paris: Fayard, 1992). 8. Benjamin Stora, Histoire politique de l’ immigration algérienne en France (1922–1962), PhD (Paris VII University, 1990). 9. Nancy L. Green, Ready-to-Wear and Ready-to-Work: A Century of Industry and Immigrants in Paris and New York (Comparative and International Working-Class History) (Duke University Press, December 1997). 10. Laure Pitti, Ouvriers algériens à Renault-Billancourt, de la guerre d’Algérie aux grèves d’OS des années 1970: contribution à l’ histoire sociale et politique des ouvriers étrangers en France, 3T, PhD under the supervision of René Gallissot (Paris VIII University, 2002). 11. Decision made by the Secretariat on May 9, 1950, as mentioned by Cédric Dameron, The PCF and Immigration (1944–1958), mémoire de maîtrise sous la direction de Marie-Claude Blanc-Chaléard (University of Orléans, 2000), 78. 12. Cédric Dameron, Le Parti Communiste Français et l’ immigration (1944–1958), mémoire de maîtrise sous la direction de Marie-Claude Blanc-Chaléard (University of Orléans, 2000), 80. 13. Ibid., 82. 14. The political climate in the metropole was far more relaxed than in Algeria and was therefore an incentive for immigrants. 15. Abdelmalek Sayad, La double absence (Paris: Le Seuil, 1999), 157. 16. Benjamin Stora, Ils venaient d’Algérie. L’ immigration algérienne en France, 1912– 1992 (Paris: Fayard, 1992), 101. 17. Gérard Noiriel, Immigration, antisémitisme et racisme en France, 1912–1992 (Paris: Fayard, 2006), 112–13. 18. Sylvie Thénault, “La gauche et la décolonisation,” in Histoire des gauches en France, 2, La gauche à l’ épreuve de l’Histoire, eds. Jean-Jacques Becker and Gilles Candar (Paris: La Découverte, 2004), 435–51. 19. “Une même lutte: la libération de Jacques Duclos; le rapatriement de Messali Hadj,” AF, July 1952, no. 25. 20. AF, October 1950, no. 3. 21. AF, July 1950, no. 2. 22. Stora, Ils venaient d’Algérie. L’ immigration algérienne en France, 1912–1992, 112–13. Bastille Day marks the anniversary of the storming of the Bastille by Parisians in 1789. It is nowadays the equivalent of Independence Day. 23. “Les leçons de Bandoeng,” Nouvelle Critique, May 1955, no. 65. 24. AF, May 1955, no. 57. 25. Special Issue Mandy, AF, September–October 1951. 26. AF, December 1950, no. 6. 27. Gilles Manceron, “Les paradoxes de l’orientalisme,” Rencontres d’Averroès 10 (2004): 63. 28. Raphaëlle Branche, La torture et l’armée pendant la guerre d’Algéri (1954–1962) (Paris: Gallimard, 2001). 29. Léon Feix, éditorial “Frères de lutte,” AF, April 1956, no. 68. 30. Jean-Pierre Vernant, “Le PCF et la question algérienne,” Voies Nouvelles (1959): 4–7. 31. AF, October 1957, no. 88. 32. AF, November 1957, no. 75. 33. Gilbert Meynier, Histoire intérieure du FLN (Paris: Fayard, 2002), 611. 34. AF, October 1959, no. 101. 35. AF, November 1959, no. 102. 36. This expression is borrowed from Alain Dewerpe, Charonne, 8 février 1962. Anthropologie historique d’un massacre d’Etat (Paris: Gallimard, 2006).

CHAPTER 6

Parties of Muslim Persuasion and the Left in Ceuta, Spain Gabriel Alejandro Torres Colón

Introduction Wholly unknown to some Spaniards and many Europeans, Ceuta is a small Spanish exclave on Morocco’s North African coast, directly across from the Rock of Gibraltar. For the people of Ceuta, their land has been unquestionably Spanish since 1640 when Portugal ceded the territory to Spain. Portugal had previously captured it from its Muslim inhabitants in 1415 as part of the Christian Reconquest of the Iberian Peninsula. For most of its history, Ceuta served as a military fortification and prison. It was not until the late nineteenth century that a civil society emerged in Ceuta. Then, as Spain’s colonial ambitions in Northern Africa increased in the beginning of the twentieth century, so did the nonmilitary population of Ceuta. Spanish and Moroccan workers f locked to the region to construct the infrastructure of the Spanish Protectorate, which lasted from 1912 until 1956 when Morocco gained its independence from France and Spain. After independence, many Moroccans continued to live and raise their families in Ceuta. Many of Ceuta’s Moroccans were essentially stateless because they were not official citizens of Spain or Morocco. Nonetheless, many moved back and forth across the Spanish Moroccan border with ease until the end of the twentieth century when Spanish immigration control tightened, and the European Union financed the construction of a multimillion-dollar fence along the border. Despite Moroccan officials’ repeated territorial claims over Ceuta, today the exclave’s Spanish and European character is evident through its people, institutions, and urban appearance. However, there are significant sociocultural differences that divide Ceuta’s population of under seventy-six thousand that self-identifies as cristianos (Christians) and musulmanes (Muslims).1 These differences include religion,

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national origins, employment, housing infrastructure, education, and language (musulmanes speak a local variant of Arabic in addition to Castilian). The majority of musulmanes, who compromise anywhere from 35 to 45 percent of the total population, live in marginalized neighborhoods near the Spanish Moroccan border. 2 This chapter is concerned with the emergence of multicultural politics in Ceuta from 1985 to 2007. I trace the development of how musulmanes became citizens, organized political parties, and changed the political landscape of the city. Whereas most minorities in Western Europe have organized outside the sphere of governmental politics, in Ceuta musulmanes have formed political parties to secure socioeconomic equality for their community. These new political parties have more frequently pressed a political agenda parallel to that of Ceuta’s Left. I explore the relationship between musulmanes and the Left by focusing on how divergent memories of the past have informed the manner in which each group practices politics. The situation in Ceuta serves as a metaphorical mirror to the traditional Left in which the only apparent variable in the reflection is collective identity. Furthermore, we can better grasp this metaphorical duality if we seriously take into account cultural differences implicit in those identities; especially as they relate to a people’s interpretation of their political, economic, and social marginalization—that is, how each group knows the political. In the context of a “new Europe” that includes different forms of multicultural policies, the formation of supranational identities, and the rise of an unspecified Islam as the foe of the West,3 Ceuta presents an interesting case study that can shed light on each of these processes. Ceuta’s geographical location transcends the symbolic divide between Europe and Northern Africa. Although outsiders from Western Europe or Morocco might question the Spanishness of the exclave, for the people of Ceuta there is no question that Ceuta is part of a Spanish and broader European polity. Consequently, Ceuta’s official and popular notions of multiculturalism are inclusive of groups that other Europeans categorize as outsiders. Musulmanes might face the same problems that other immigrants face in Europe, but the manner in which the people of Ceuta publicly debate these problems—primarily through governmental politics—reveals ideological and cultural differences that established political orders occlude. Nonetheless, some observers might balk at the possibility that a place like Ceuta, where people talk of “cristianos and musulmanes” and where “ethnic politics” dominate the public arena, could possibly offer any insights to other national political orders that pride themselves on having superseded the primordial nature of ethnicity with liberal democracy. But Ceuta is, in fact, as liberal and democratic as any other European polity; and researchers have demonstrated the propensity of old racist and fascist ideological practices to reappear in various Western European contexts.4 Therefore, I suggest that the question of intercultural conflict in Ceuta is accentuated and clearer in Ceuta than in other parts of Europe, and it is not the case that the problems between musulmanes and cristianos are merely colonial relics of past times. If anything,

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Ceuta exemplifies how the symptoms of postcoloniality are as much a problem for former colonizing nations as it is for the colonized. For what is multicultural politics to Western liberal democracies if not a mirror image of what national crises are to former colonies? As Sivaramakrishnan argues, “This tension between continuity and rupture, mimesis and repudiation, lived hybridity and the quest for authenticity, is a central condition of postcolonialism.”5 The same could be said of multicultural politics in Ceuta, Spain, Europe, and beyond.6 Research Context I carried out ethnographic research in Ceuta from September 2004 to June 2005. During that period, I conducted all of the participant observation and interviews (informal and structured)7 used in this chapter; however, I have continued to communicate with various informants through June 2007 to gain a more thorough understanding of subsequent political developments reported in the local media. 8 From November 2004 to January 2005, I was able to work intermittently from a desk in the Assembly’s office of records where I reviewed all Assembly sessions from 1995 though January 2005. Beyond accessing records, working from a desk in the Assembly allowed for daily interactions with politicians, party officials, and bureaucrats. I chose to conduct all twentytwo structured interviews with community and political leaders under the condition of anonymity. I am sure that remaining anonymous did not matter for a few interviewees because their answers resembled the guarded and carefully scripted language that politicians use in their public lives. However, offering anonymity did make a difference in most of my interviews because I had already established informal relationships with many politicians outside the Assembly. (Non)Citizens of a Borderland On a quiet and cool evening in April 2005, I sat with Abdelselam and Mohamed in Abdeselam’s living room enjoying a cup of freshly brewed tea with mint and sugar. Abdelselam’s house is located in a neighborhood mostly inhabited by musulmanes. Both men were born in Ceuta shortly after Morocco gained independence in 1956, and they lived and worked in the city all of their lives. We talked about the 1960s and 1970s, when they were not Spanish citizens. Both men remembered the difficulties that many musulmanes faced when they attempted to travel to the Iberian Peninsula. Before 1970, it was virtually impossible for musulmanes to travel to other parts of Spain, although they were able to travel freely to Morocco. In the 1970s, the Spanish government began giving musulmanes “statistical cards” that attested to their residence in Ceuta, but did not give them any rights as Spaniards. Even with the statistical card, crossing the Strait of Gibraltar was a hassle. As Abdelselam explained, “you had to go to the government and ask for a pass that would specify how long you could travel and where you were going.” I then inquired, “So if someone asked you about your nationalities in those days, what would you say?”

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Mohamed replied, “I would say I am from Ceuta, I was born in Ceuta.” Abdelselam added, “Or Moroccan, because how can you be Spanish and not have Spanish nationality. Moroccan because Morocco is the place of origin, because our parents are from Morocco, originally they were Moroccan.” 9 Abdelselam and Mohamed’s responses are indicative of the political ambiguity that characterized Ceuta’s musulmanes in those days. For people like Abdelselam and Mohamed, who lived and worked all their lives in Ceuta, being stateless was the normal state of affairs. Even though Morocco was an independent state, crossing the border was still relatively easy. Many musulmanes crossed the border on a regular basis to take advantage of whatever educational or work opportunities were available to them, even though it was difficult to work in Morocco while living in Ceuta. They had no legal right to Spanish citizenship, and protesting their status was not realistically possible under Franco’s dictatorship (1939–1975). Furthermore, though musulmanes identified themselves as having Moroccan origins, Moroccans on the other side of the border often questioned their national allegiance to that country.10 After the transition to democracy and the establishment of the 1978 Spanish Constitution, Spain moved to join the European Community (EC). As a precondition for admittance in the EC, Spain agreed in 1985 to adopt a comprehensive immigration policy. Given that at the time Spain was not receiving large quantities of immigrants, the aim of the 1985 Immigration Law11 was to regulate the legal condition of foreigners already in the country.12 The new law was instrumental in the process of what Liliana Suárez-Navaz has dubbed “rebordering the Mediterranean.” This process of rebordering the Mediterranean is a complex phenomenon that involves not only a dramatic reshaping of socioeconomic structures, but also the creation of a new notion of citizenship that emphasizes an ethnic continuity with Europeans and obscures the long historical and geographical bonds with the peoples of North Africa.13

One might think that Ceuta’s location on the northern coast of Africa would exempt it from the rebordering of the Mediterranean, but the cristianos of Ceuta quickly moved to adopt their supranational European identities. However, the 1985 Immigration Law did not include provisions for Ceuta’s musulmanes to acquire citizenship. Although many were born in the exclave, the new law treated them as foreigners and made it extremely difficult for them to secure Spanish citizenship because of complex procedures of work permits and ten-year wait periods. The threat of expulsion moved musulmanes to organize and press the central government for changes in the new law.14 At the time, representatives from the Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party (PSOE) controlled the central government and Ceuta’s assembly. The PSOE leadership at the national and local levels simply miscalculated or did not take into account musulmanes’ reactions to the new law. Nevertheless, after various protests in Ceuta and Melilla, PSOE officials invited Muslim community leaders to participate in a joint commission to

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address the problems of musulmanes in the exclaves. Negotiations were difficult, and they resulted in more protests and increased tensions between musulmanes and cristianos. Many cristianos felt threatened by a loss of Spanishness as Ceuta became more marroquinizado (literally, “to be made like Morocco”). They organized counter protests asking for equal application of the law, which would have resulted in the expulsion of thousands of musulmanes. Eventually the central government made concessions to musulmanes and allowed exceptions in the application of law. However, as Peter Gold has argued, none of the different groups involved in this negotiation process was wholly satisfied with the outcome.15 For the PSOE in Ceuta, the whole situation proved to be a political embarrassment. Many cristianos still believe that the PSOE “gave away citizenship” and musulmanes generally resent their treatment as “foreigners in their own land.” The Muslim organizations that rallied for citizenship were the first to mobilize musulmanes as a political community in Ceuta. However, this political novelty was far from a homogeneous process. First, fissures between various Muslim leaders hampered their efforts to have a unified voice before government officials. Local and national government representatives were quick to recognize one Muslim group over the other. This preferential treatment by the government, in turn, exacerbated accusations among musulmanes of being either conformist or extremist. As either side saw it, those who wanted to work with the government did out of self-interest, and those who refused to cooperate were isolating the Muslim community. Second, musulmanes worried that accepting Spanish citizenship would mean that they were not Muslims. These concerns stemmed from political parties in Morocco who argued that to accept Spanish citizenship was to renounce Islam and their Muslim identity. Furthermore, the Moroccan government financed mosques in Ceuta, so some imams and Islamic jurists warned musulmanes against the dangers of accepting citizenship. These tensions within the Muslim community were accentuated when residents of Ceuta’s most marginalized neighborhood, Principe Alfonso, formed a small party that was in favor of returning the exclave to Morocco.16 This group’s agenda legitimized the fear among cristianos that musulmanes wanted citizenship out of convenience and that a future majority Muslim population would turn their land over to Morocco. The range of political stances among musulmanes toward Spanish citizenship was a manifestation of contradictory and ambiguous feelings that are consistent with identity formation in borderlands.17 In Ceuta, such conf licts about nationality are latently manifested when musulmanes show concern for Moroccan or pan-Arab affairs, self-describe interchangeably as Moroccans or Spaniards, or even root for Morocco’s national soccer team. However, when individual musulmanes consciously ref lect upon their place in Ceuta’s society, they are more likely to unapologetically qualify their official identity as Spaniards. Latifa, a musulmana in her early thirties, is a lifelong resident and neighborhood activist of Principe Alfonso. In May of 2005, we met to talk about how she came to be involved in social work and political activism. As with many

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musulmanes involved in politics with whom I spoke, problems with citizenship served as the starting point for political action. Latifa lowered her voice and measured her words when she told me, “Do you want me to be very honest with you? I made myself Spanish a little out of self-interest.” Latifa’s family all applied for citizenship in 1989 but did not receive it until a few years later. Nonetheless, in the summer of 1989, she left to study in Granada without citizenship. She recalled, “I had a very hard time without it. Without it, I felt like I couldn’t do anything, go anywhere, get a scholarship.” Then, in describing how she became a social worker and community activist, Latifa explained what it means for her to be a citizen of Spain in Ceuta: When I left El Principe, there were certain things that were very clear to me: in my neighborhood, my house, in this city. I had seen it. And so social work helped me. When I was a student, I always thought about my neighborhood. When I learned about community studies, I thought about how to do it in Ceu[correcting herself ] in El Principe so that it would be worth something. I do not know. Maybe at a personal level I could have lived somewhere else, and maybe I would have lived much better. But I think I have specific responsibilities with a group of people. I thought I had that responsibility. And when I returned, it was clear to me because at a professional level I looked for what was going on at that moment. I was always interested in . . . in 1985, for example, it was the problem with citizenship.18

Latifa’s sense of obligation toward the socially and economically marginalized neighborhood of Principe Alfonso is critical to understanding the development of politics in Ceuta. Although she is not fully committed to a nationalistic sentiment of Spanishness, she is committed to the improvement of conditions of Principe Alfonso vis-à-vis other neighborhoods in Ceuta. Furthermore, she has developed this vision within the Spanish education system of social work and neighborhood associations. That commitment alone might not be much different from other grassroots movements in Spain. What makes Latifa and other musulmanes’ politics unique is the manner in which their experiences as (non)citizens in Ceuta mediate their political knowledge. They are a community whose problem with citizenship was their first step in becoming politically active. Because they were not citizens, there were no other legitimate politics to be made at the time. This is most clear when Latifa cites the 1985 Immigration Law as a reason for getting involved in her community. On one hand, she confesses that she obtained citizenship out of self-interest; on the other, she remembers the “injustices of the late 80s” as something that motivated her to work for her community. This contradiction is representative of a complex political boundary between musulmanes and cristianos that stems from the impasse of a colonial borderland.19 Of course, musulmanes live with other contradictions in their community. For example, Latifa does not consider herself Muslim because she does not adhere to Islamic practices, yet she is comfortable saying that she belongs to a community of musulmanes. She distinguishes between Muslim as a religious

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identity and musulmán as an ethnic/religious community in Ceuta. In addition, musulmanes move in a variety of social spaces that do not neatly conform to the notion of one community. These include the military, mixed marriages, and business relationships. Nonetheless, the memories and political activism that originated when musulmanes became citizens congeal the complexities with which musulmanes negotiate their everyday lives. This results, in part, from the homogenizing nature of any form of political representation, but it is also a consequence of their particular history of marginality and exclusion. The first major political encounter between musulmanes and cristianos in Ceuta was part of the process of rebordering the Mediterranean. Despite a colonial past that resulted in longstanding military, economic, and social ties between the two communities, musulmanes suddenly appeared as foreigners in a new Europeanization of southern Spain. From the outset, the Spanish state, particularly its representatives in Ceuta, treated musulmanes as outsiders in need of integration. One such benevolent effort made by city officials was to officially recognize the exclave’s multicultural heritage. They borrowed the popular concept of convivencia (coexistence) between various cultures, which also invoked the convivencia among Christians, Jews, and Muslims in Spain during the Middle Ages. However, this historical heritage would play itself out in contemporary political struggles in the city as musulmanes sought to remedy their situation through the formation of political parties. Parties of Muslim Persuasion The Muslim organizations that formed to protest the 1985 Immigration Law mostly morphed into religious organizations after tensions subsided. 20 Some leaders attempted to transform these organizations into political parties, but they failed because of either lack of popular support or because of their ambiguous pro-Moroccan stance. It was clear at the time that if musulmanes wanted to enter local politics, they would have to be committed to the Spanishness of Ceuta. Meanwhile, political parties in Ceuta failed to integrate musulmanes into their electoral lists, which resulted from a combination of discrimination by cristianos, hierarchical party structures, and a scarcity of musulmanes with enough social, political, and economic capital to be politically inf luential. Nonetheless, in the early 1990s various groups of musulmanes began organizing political parties. In 1995, local businessman Mustafa Mizzian headed the electoral list of the Democratic and Social Party of Ceuta (PDSC), which gained one out of twenty-five seats in the local assembly. Still, the element of fragmentation that affected Muslim unity during the immigration crisis pertained to party formation. Three other Muslim parties split the votes that would have amounted to another seat in the assembly. Nonetheless, Mizzian finally provided the political representation that many musulmanes wanted. The question of what the political agenda of the PDSC would be was clear: to address the problems faced by musulmanes in Ceuta. A member of the PDSC explained to me that their party came into existence because musulmanes had needs that the government

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was not addressing, “so we got in to improve the condition of the most marginalized sectors of this city.” 21 This agenda set the PDSC apart from all other political parties of the time. The PDSC was not explicitly concerned with Morocco’s claim of sovereignty over the exclave. When necessary, they affirmed the Spanishness of Ceuta and denounced Morocco’s claims; yet they were neither attached to traditional symbols of Spanishness (e.g., one nation devoted to a Catholic King) nor forgetful of their Moroccan heritage. In addition, immigration issues were no longer front and center in their campaign because by 1995 most musulmanes had acquired citizenship. Once in the Assembly, the question remained of how the PDSC would stand in relation to other political formations in the Assembly. A top party official explained, “When we first came into the Assembly, we were looking to work with any group that was willing to attend to the needs of the least favored people in this society.” 22 In the 1995 elections, six parties gained seats in the Assembly, so coalitions were necessary for governance. After much political turmoil, the PDSC backed the Popular Party (PP), a national center-right party that garnered the most votes in the elections. While in government, the PDSC helped implement various programs, such as a temporary employment plan for manual laborers, job training programs, a neighborhood infrastructural repair plan, and construction of housing for the poor. These programs mainly benefited musulmanes, and helped Mizzian to secure several hundred votes in subsequent elections. The PDSC continued to support the PP through the 1999 elections. But as the PP began to consolidate its power in the assembly and dramatically increase its popular support, they no longer sought the support of the PDSC. In addition, top members of the PDSC endured political scandals in which other local political parties accused them of causing social unrest among musulmanes and clientism. By the end of the 1999–2003 governing period, the PDSC was alone and without a clear ideological stance in relation to other political parties in the assembly—it was neither right nor left. Four years before the 2003 elections, a group of musulmanes studying in Granada voted for Mizzian in the local elections. They often gathered and discussed the many problems facing musulmanes and Ceuta, and at times, contemplated entering local politics themselves upon completing their degrees. They came back to Ceuta to find the hostile political environment that marked the 1999–2003 governing period. They approached the PDSC hoping to contribute, but found the party relatively closed off to new influences. As a result, what begun as a far-fetched idea in Granada turned into the 2003 political campaign of the Democratic Union of Ceuta (UDCE). The party elected Mohamed Ali as the leader of this new political formation. Only in his late twenties and with a law practice in the city, Ali and his colleagues were able to mount a campaign that would energize more musulmanes to vote than ever before. The UDCE’s candidates were college educated young professionals, which gave them political legitimacy among more musulmanes. The party promised new ideas and approaches to local politics but would still have to carry the baggage of being a political organization composed almost exclusively of musulmanes.

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As the May 2003 elections approached, tensions between musulmanes and cristianos increased. A couple of factors contributed to the tense situation. First, since the 1990s, crime resulting from drug trafficking from North Africa to Europe had dramatically increased in the city. Drug use, burglaries, theft, and armed assaults had become commonplace in the peripheral neighborhoods near the border but affected the whole city. Musulmanes were often the perpetrators of such crimes, and the people of Ceuta came to associate criminality with musulmanes and their neighborhoods. Second, a military confrontation between Morocco and Spain over the Isle of Perejil in July 2002 revived old fears about musulmanes being in favor of Morocco. After a group of Moroccan soldiers occupied the deserted isle, the Spanish military responded with overwhelming force to capture a territory that Spain has held since the seventeenth century. The conflict was resolved diplomatically, but many people in Ceuta remember the fear and uncertainty they experienced during those days. The isle is only a few kilometers west of Ceuta, and most residents of Ceuta experienced the atmosphere of a military buildup—troops were mobilized from bases in Ceuta, helicopters filled the skies above, and the border was heavily reinforced. Jaime, a cristiano in his early thirties remembered, “Many of us thought that they [Morocco] would come after Ceuta next. We were ready for war . . . And which side do you think [musulmanes] would have fought for?” Musulmanes also experienced fear since they felt that cristianos directed the strong antiMoroccan sentiment at them. Because the national center-right Popular Party (PP) controlled the national government at the time, it gained support in Ceuta for taking such a strong stance against Morocco. The increased tensions between musulmanes and cristianos, the rapid ascendance of the PP in the city, and ideological isolation of Mizzian’s PDSC in the Assembly all served as contributing factors to the politicization of ethnic/ religious relations in Ceuta. However, what resulted was not outright ethnic/ religious conf lict. Rather, Mizzian’s PDSC and Ali’s UDCE occupied an ambiguous place at the margins of Western liberal democracies. They were not quite a religious or ethnic party, yet they did not fall within the spectrum of ideologies commonly known in Ceuta, Spain, and Western Europe. 23 The people of Ceuta began describing them as partidos de corte musulmán (parties of Muslim persuasion). Most cristianos use the phrase to describe parties mainly composed of musulmanes, voted into office by musulmanes, and concerned only with the problems that affect musulmanes. Mizzian’s PDSC appeared to be the prime example of this description, and the party embraced it without apologies. However, Mohamed Ali and the UDCE wanted badly to move away from being a party of Muslim persuasion, but that would prove difficult. The UDCE’s political incursion in 2003 cut the PDSC’s votes in half from the previous election. Still, the UDCE and PDSC were two of four parties of Muslim persuasion in an election year that saw the national center-right PP consolidate most of the votes by wining nineteen out of twenty-five seats in the Assembly. The UDCE won three seats, the nationally based Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party (PSOE) won two, and Mizzian’s PDSC held on to one seat.

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Although small in numbers, for the first time in Ceuta’s short political history a musulmán (Mohamed Ali) was leader of the opposition. The leaders of the UDCE desired a political agenda that represented all the people of Ceuta. 24 They expected anti-Muslim sentiments, but hoped that a progressive (i.e., Leftist) political stance could capture the attention of more than just musulmanes. An affiliate of UDCE told me that their party was “genuinely caballa” (the fish that the people of Ceuta are named after), and their party had from the beginning been open to all people, regardless of religious credence. Mohamed Ali followed through with his strategy. In the first few months in the Assembly, most of the UDCE’s motions did not exclusively address issues that affected musulmanes. In addition, Ali proved to be quite astute in debating the resolutions the ruling center-right PP brought to the assembly. On several occasions, he successfully debated the technicalities in resolutions from a legal standpoint, and his team meticulously challenged budgetary plans. They brought ordinary issues to the assembly, such as installing showers on beaches and improving traffic circulation near the port. In September 2003, the UDCE presented two complaints that clearly attempted to break the stereotypical tendency that musulmanes only cared about political issues that directly pertained to them. The first was a complaint by two elderly women about needed repairs in the Christian cemetery, and the second noted fire hazards and lack of storage space in a police station. It was unprecedented at that time for a musulmán to care about a Christian cemetery. The lack of musulmanes in the local police, in addition to all the previous confrontations between that force and musulmanes, truly made it unlikely that a party like the UDCE would state these political concerns. This is not to say that the UDCE did not continue some of the political trends established by Mizzian’s PDSC. For example, within the first few months of their term in office, they presented the following motions: to increase festive lighting during the holy month of Ramadan; requested that the delegate from PP retract statements that were offensive to musulmanes in Ceuta; and asked that the government make infrastructural repairs in peripheral neighborhoods. Like Mizzian, Ali believed that it was his responsibility to bring issues affecting musulmanes to the assembly. According to a UDCE member, “other political parties have had the time to address the issues that affect our community, and they have failed.” 25 Furthermore, Ali has echoed Mizzian in various instances when he says that what is good for musulmanes is good for all of Ceuta. As the 2003–2007 governing period progressed, the UDCE became more entrenched in the politics “of Muslim persuasion.” Although they always sustained various positions on a wide array of issues that affected the whole city, it was their proposals on behalf of musulmanes that caused heated confrontations in the Assembly. For example, the UDCE supported official protection of Arabic and bilingual education to remedy the high dropout rates of musulmanes in schools, which met strong resistance by the PP. In addition, Mohamed Ali became quite insistent on petitions for infrastructural repairs to marginalized neighborhoods—often repeating the same motions multiple times throughout four years. Tensions between the UDCE and PP peaked over

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a musical group competition during carnival when a winning group’s lyrics included references to Muslims as animals and lamented that Hitler did not go after Muslims. The UDCE denounced the fact that the monetary prize drew from city funds, and that officials from the PP (including Ceuta’s president) were present and applauded at the end of the song. The UDCE formalized a complaint in the Assembly, sued the musical group for inciting racial violence, and organized a march against racism and promoting the peaceful coexistence of all cultures in Ceuta. The PP disassociated itself from the events and denounced the lyrics as racist. The party then accused the UDCE of dividing Ceuta along ethnic lines and exaggerating the pervasiveness of racism in the city. The strong disagreements between the center-right PP and the UDCE over the years were not surprising because the PP fundamentally disagreed with the UDCE’s politics from the beginning. However, the reaction of the Left in Ceuta to “parties of Muslim persuasion” is somewhat more complex. For example, the two most prominent socialist parties in the city denounced the racist lyrics and the PP’s slow reaction to correct the situation. Nonetheless, both declined to participate in the march organized by the UDCE. This represented the first major instance in which the UDCE publicly appeared to be at odds with Ceuta’s Left. This was problematic for the UDCE because their plan to move the party beyond “Muslim persuasion” hinged on their ability to represent themselves as left of center. The Left and Musulmanes in Ceuta To understand the relationship of musulmanes and the Left in Ceuta, it is necessary to return to the period that immediately preceded musulmanes’ struggle for citizenship. With the signing of the 1978 Constitution, democracy was officially instituted in Spain. After Franco’s repression of regional nationalisms, a state of seventeen Autonomous Communities (ACs) was established to allow renewed regional autonomy. In the new Spain, ACs stood as integral parts of a whole nation. The national leaders involved in negotiations over the new constitution did not grant Ceuta and Melilla the status of AC; however, provisions in the constitution allowed the exclaves to ascend to the status of AC if they reached an accord in their respective assemblies and the national legislature approved it. In 1981, Ceuta’s assembly approved a statute of Autonomy that it then sent to the national legislature, controlled at the time by the center-right Democratic Center Union (UCD), predecessor to the aforementioned Popular Party (PP). Under the UCD, the national legislature did not act on Ceuta’s new statute. In 1982, the Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party (PSOE) won the general elections and took control of the national government, but they, like center-right UCD, also left the question of Ceuta’s status unattended. This proved costly to the PSOE leadership in Ceuta that in 1983 had also won the local elections. In 1985, Ceuta’s PSOE splintered because four members were angry that their party was ignoring the will of the people of Ceuta to ascend to AC. Those four members, along with members of other leftist parties, in 1986, formed the

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localist People of Ceuta’s Socialist Party (PSPC) and then gained three seats in the 1987 local elections. It is no secret for the people of Ceuta that the delicate diplomatic relationship between Spain and Morocco is the reason for the delay in granting the status of AC to Ceuta. If Spain accepted Ceuta as an AC, then it would send a strong message to Morocco that it did not have plans to return the exclave. Various Spanish scholars, with opposing views on whether Ceuta belongs to Spain or Morocco, have also concluded that the Spanish government has not been willing to jeopardize its economic and political ties with its southern neighbor over the situation of Ceuta and Melilla. 26 These circumstances have had a decisively negative impact on the relationships between musulmanes and cristianos during and after the citizenship crisis of the mid-1980s. Regardless of political affiliation, cristianos feared that too many musulmanes gaining citizenship would eventually give way to the return of Ceuta to Morocco. Further, it did not help matters that as the Muslim community became politically active, several leaders were openly sympathetic to Moroccan claims. As such, local and national political formations in Ceuta excluded musulmanes because their place as citizens in the Spanish nation was questionable. Although the PSOE made it possible for musulmanes to obtain citizenship, they were not able to gain political capital with musulmanes in the 1990s. First, the bureaucratic process for citizenship was slow, so the fruits of the political labor were uneventful. Second, into the mid-1990s the center-left PSOE began to lose votes to the center-right PP at the national level, but in Ceuta the process was accelerated as the citizenship granted to musulmanes proved costly to the PSOE among their cristiano constituents. In local elections, the PSOE gained twelve out of twenty-five seats in 1983, eight in 1987, and three in 1991. At the national level, the PP won the general elections in 1996, and the PSOE would not govern again until 2004; however, in Ceuta the PSOE did not recover, and since the 1999 local elections it has not won more than two seats. Third, because musulmanes were noncitizens for so many years, local political leaders have often complained of the difficulty of getting them involved in local politics. I talked to many musulmanes who have been voting for the PSOE in national elections for many years, yet distrust that party at a local level. Only since the 2003 elections have parties of Muslim persuasion been able to significantly mobilize the Muslim electorate. As discussed earlier, initially these political parties represented a localized effort to address problems faced by musulmanes. However, as Ali’s UDCE has been more open about its leftist intentions, their situation in relation to socialist parties has increasingly appeared as a fissure in Ceuta’s Left. In talking to leaders of Ceuta’s socialist parties (the national PSOE and the localist PSPC), it became apparent that some of these differences came about because the memories that inspired Ceuta’s socialists did not include the citizenship crisis of the mid-1980s. Instead, the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939)—and the historical class-based struggles symbolized by that war—was always important to the narratives in which socialists described how they became involved with politics. Rarely would they speak of

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the hardships of musulmanes in those narratives, unless they were citing them as a local example of generalized phenomena of inequality. I often began interviews with political and community leaders by asking them to tell me how they became involved in politics. Antonio, a young “cristiano” militant of the PSOE in his late twenties, immediately began talking about his early interests in the Civil War and the stories his grandfather told him.27 As he learned more about the subject, he began to be more sympathetic toward one side. When he was a teenager, he joined the PSOE because he liked their ideals and “the socialists represent everyone, while the others represent the same ones.” As we began talking about the situation between cristianos and musulmanes in the city, he talked about being uncomfortable with the labeling of people by their religion. He pointed out that he was agnostic and that many so-called musulmanes do not practice their religion. Eventually, he argued that it was not good for the city to have parties of Muslim persuasion. He explained that the main problem with musulmanes is that they do not have a vision of a life outside of Ceuta because of their economic marginalization. Antonio thinks that the younger generations of musulmanes could be salvaged from marginalization if the government invested more in their education and living conditions. Manuel, a high-ranking member of the localist PSPC, was differently inspired to get into politics. 28 He talked about how he faced the possibility of leaving Ceuta for a job elsewhere in Europe, but he could not leave his homeland without trying to do something for it. He cited the marginalization of Ceuta within the Spanish political landscape and the growing inequality in the city as the main reasons why he wanted to get involved in politics. Another major concern of his party is the corruption and unchecked patronage that plagued the city for many years, mainly because of the illegal markets that characterize the border. 29 His party has not won seats in a local election since 1995, but they have continued to work and put the interests of Ceuta above those of any national party. As for parties of Muslim persuasion, he asked the following question: “Today the neighborhoods in which musulmanes live are the most marginal, but when the day comes that those neighborhoods are not the most marginalized, what will their social politics be like?” Other socialists who did not trust the political principles of parties of Muslim persuasion made similar statements. Antonio and Manuel’s political visions are inclusive of remedies for the many social, political, and economic ailments that affect musulmanes. However, they situate those remedies within a broader socialist project that is inclusive of other marginalized peoples. Antonio’s PSOE is committed to national and international agendas that address international relations, gender inequality, human rights, labor relations, and the protection of other underprivileged sectors of society. In the case of Manuel and his localist party, the city of Ceuta itself is marginal to the interests of the Spain and Morocco. Although the PSPC has held many of the positions that the UDCE currently holds regarding bilingual education and targeted infrastructural repairs in neighborhoods mostly inhabited by musulmanes, they have not ideologically coincided because of the UDCE’s appearance as an exclusive Muslim party.

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Nonetheless, the most important factor that has separated musulmanes from socialists is the political and historical memories that inspire individual members to political action. While musulmanes fought for citizenship, the PSOE in Ceuta continued to define itself within the class-based struggles of the twentieth century, particularly embodied in the memories of the Spanish Civil War. In fact, it was precisely in the spirit of moving away from the isolation brought about by fascism that the Spanish government drafted the 1985 Immigration Law as a condition for entering the EC. That Ceuta’s PSOE did not foresee the effects that the law would have on musulmanes is evident of a fundamental ideological disconnect between both collectives. Meanwhile, the PSPC’s concern with securing the status of AC for Ceuta drew from a local fervor to defend the Spanishness of the exclave. However, the Spanishness of Ceuta was historically and symbolically exclusive of musulmanes, and cristianos perceived the musulmanes’ citizenship crisis as a threat to the future Spanishness of the exclave. If, as I have argued so far, musulmanes and socialists are differently motivated to political action through specific memories of the past, then they should ref lect such differences in Ceuta’s Assembly. Here I want to consider the political agenda and interaction of both of these parties during the 2003–2007 governing session. Because the PSOE and UDCE are parties in this opposition, they are limited to presenting proposals and making requests of the governing party (PP) during assembly sessions. The most significant difference between the two parties is the content of proposals and requests that each party brought to the Assembly. Over half of all proposals and requests made by Ali’s UDCE were directly relevant to musulmanes in Ceuta. Requests were most commonly made through petitions to have specific infrastructural repairs in neighborhoods where musulmanes live. Other proposals and requests included the hiring of bilingual (Spanish/Arabic) personnel in public schools or social service offices, repairs to a Muslim cemetery, public recognition of Muslim heritage, and the rectification of inappropriate police behavior toward musulmanes. When the UDCE was not directly concerned with issues affecting musulmanes, they focused on budgetary problems in the government, requests for citywide economic reform, renewal of labor contracts, and other infrastructural repairs throughout the city. In contrast, less than 10 percent of the PSOE’s actions in the Assembly exclusively addressed problems faced by musulmanes. Of course, it is important to remember that socialists argue that their proposals and requests benefit all the people of Ceuta, including musulmanes. For example, when the party presented a comprehensive plan to battle violence against women, they had Muslim women in mind. On the occasions when they did address problems that mainly aff lict musulmanes, they were responding to well-publicized events in the local media. On those occasions, neither the UDCE nor the PSOE sought to present a joint motion in the Assembly (a common practice when two parties have the same objectives); instead, each party presented almost identical separate motions. The PSOE’s local political agenda shows influence from national party ideology. Issues such as youth development plans, compliance

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with disability laws, environmental protection, health code implementation, immigration, and proper local government administration dominated their agenda. The politics of both parties outside the Assembly were also different and sometimes conf licting. First, Ceuta’s PSOE sought to extend the national rivalry between the PP and PSOE to a local level. Over two-thirds of the PSOE’s press releases directly criticized Ceuta’s PP and its leaders. Meanwhile, most of the UDCE’s press releases denounced and took positions on issues affecting the city. Second, there were several political conf licts between the two parties in the city’s youth association, the UDCE’s Young Democrats (JJDD) and the PSOE’s Young Socialists (JJSS). After JJDD withdrew their support for the socialist leader of the organization over how administrative positions would be distributed among the two groups, the leader of the JJSS accused the JJDD of being opposed to her leadership because she was a woman—an accusation that UDCE has also had to deal with because of the few women who appear on their 2003 electoral lists. Third, the PSOE did not back the UDCE in their campaign to protect the Arabic language in a newly proposed statute of autonomy for Ceuta (one that never made it out of the assembly in the 2003–2007 governing period). The PSOE did back the UDCE in motions to have tourist signs around the city displayed in Arabic, but the question of bilingualism was so divisive between the PP and UDCE that the PSOE refrained from entering the debate. Finally, both parties clashed again during the 2007 electoral campaigns as they competed for leftists votes. The PSOE criticized the UDCE for exclusively catering to musulmanes and of sexism within their political organization. The UDCE countered with accusation of demagogy and selling out the interests of the people of Ceuta to national interests. Conclusion It is possible that the UDCE and other parties of Muslim persuasion will not continue to exist for much longer. In the May 2007 elections, the UDCE joined forces with the United Left (IU)—a national coalition of socialist and communist parties. Even though Ceuta’s IU is mostly composed of musulmanes, it is a first step for the UDCE in ridding itself of its “Muslim persuasion.” Indeed, a week after the elections, the UDCE and Ceuta’s socialist parties held a meeting to contemplate the possibility of presenting a united front in the next elections.30 Nonetheless, the existence of parties of Muslim persuasion provides a powerful example of how divergent memories of the past can condition political ideology. I have suggested at various points throughout this chapter that musulmanes have come to know the political differently from cristianos with various political inclinations. Musulmanes’ collective memory of exclusion during the citizenship crisis of the 1980s framed the rise of various political parties. Mizzian’s PDSC appeared as a local party concerned with musulmanes, yet they were willing to collaborate with whichever party was willing to aid their cause. The UDCE was more selective in their positioning as a Leftist party, but

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also endured the isolation of being a party of Muslim persuasion. This isolation was enunciated when the UDCE quarreled with Ceuta’s socialist parties. The UDCE’s concern with issues that affect musulmanes, as illustrated by the march against racism, proved too exclusive for socialists. The importance that Ceuta’s socialists place on broader political projects is understandable given the prevalence of class-based paradigms throughout the world. Still, there are memories that are specific to the Left in Ceuta and Spain. Those struggles make it difficult for socialists to fight, or appear to fight, only for musulmanes. The practices of parties of Muslim persuasion make us question assumptions about how minority politics are envisioned within political ideologies in Europe. When we think of the “needs” of minorities, we often do so from a liberal paradigm that subsumes cultural difference in favor of broader political projects. Immigration, for example, appears as one of many issues within a political field that spans the nation. However, it is often difficult for immigrants to envision their problems as part of something else precisely because they are not legally or symbolically part of that something else, that is, the nation. Thomas M. Wilson and Donnan Hastings have argued, “The theoretical importance of an anthropology of borders lies primarily in what it might reveal about the interplay between nation and state, and about the role of the border in past, present and future of nation and state.”31 If we accept this proposition, then the political efforts of Ceuta’s musulmanes not only reveal much about the Spanish nation and state, but also shed light on the politics of inclusion and exclusion in Europe and beyond. The manner in which minority groups come to know the political greatly inf luences the teleological order of their political ideologies. However, the ability of established political organizations to engage successfully the concerns of minority groups involves more than negotiating the priorities of different political agendas. Instead, such successful engagements require the willingness of all parts to value how their respective political ideologies are constituted culturally and historically through everyday lived experiences. Notes 1. There is also a small minority of Jews, Hindus, Chinese, and sub-Saharan migrants. Jews and Hindus are part of Ceuta’s official multicultural heritage. Most Jews are Spaniards with historical ties to the Iberian Peninsula and Morocco. Hindus arrived in the mid-1950s from various parts of the South Asia to take advantage of Ceuta’s free-port status, and many have remained in the city despite the commercial decline that began in the mid-1980s. Chinese immigrants are the most recent arrivals, and they have set up various shops and restaurants around the city. Finally, sub-Saharan migrants come to Ceuta hoping to apply for asylum. However, unlike many small cities throughout Southern Europe, these migrants do not settle in Ceuta. Most live in a detention center in the outskirts of the city waiting for a decision on their asylum application. 2. Spain’s census does not ask people to identify themselves according to their religious credence or ethnic origin; therefore, there are no exact figures for Ceuta’s population.

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5.

6.

7. 8. 9.

10.

11. 12.

13.

14.

15. 16. 17.

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I have taken the figures of 35 and 45 percent from estimates made by city officials and other politicians during interviews. Musulmanes tend to give higher estimates and cristianos the lower ones. Tariq Modood and Pnina Werbner, The Politics of Multiculturalism in the New Europe: Racism, Identity, and Community (New York: Zed Books, 1997). Marianne Gullestad, “Invisible Fences: Egalitarianism, Nationalism and Racism,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 8, no. 1 (2002): 45–63; Douglas R. Holmes, Integral Europe: Fast-Capitalism, Multiculturalism, Neofascism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000); Verena Stolcke, “Talking Culture: New Boundaries, New Rhetorics of Exclusion in Europe,” Current Anthropology 36, no. 1 (1995): 12–4. K. Sivaramakrishnan, “Postcolonialism,” in A Companion to the Anthropology of Politics, eds. David Nugent and Joan Vincent (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2004), 367. Carol J. Greenhouse, Democracy and Ethnography: Constructing Identities in Multicultural Liberal States, Suny Series in National Identities (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1998); Stephen May, Tariq Modood, and Judith Squires, Ethnicity, Nationalism, and Minority Rights (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2004). For informal interviews, n=106; for structured interviews, n=22. The online newspapers El Faro de Ceuta (www.elfarodeceutamelilla.com) and Diario Sur Digital (www.diariosur.es) are my main sources of daily news about Ceuta. Abdelselam and Mohamed are pseudonyms. Interview with author, Ceuta, April 2005. I conducted the interviews in Spanish and fully transcribed the interviews. The translation to English is mine. Eva Evers Rosander, Women in a Borderland: Managing Muslim Identity Where Morocco Meets Spain, Stockholm Studies in Social Anthropology. 26 (Stockholm: Department of Social Anthropology Stockholm University, 1991). Officially, Ley Orgánica sobre los derechos y libertades de los extranjeros or Ley de Extranjería. Joaquín Arango, “Becoming a Country of Immigration at the End of the Twentieth Century: The Case of Spain,” in Eldorado or Fortress?: Migration in Southern Europe, eds. Russell King, Gabriella Lazaridis, and Charalampos G. Tsardanidis (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2000), 265–6. Liliana Suárez-Navaz, “Law and Surveillance in Non-Core Europe: A Case Study of the Andalusian Countryside,” Political and Legal Anthropology Review 19, no. 1 (1996): 22–3. Peter Gold, Europe or Africa?: A Contemporary Study of the Spanish North African Enclaves of Ceuta and Melilla (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2000); Ana I. Planet Contreras, Melilla Y Ceuta: Espacios-Frontera Hispano-Marroquíes (Ceuta, Melilla: Ciudad Autónoma de Melilla, Ciudad Autónoma de Ceuta, UNEDMelilla, 1998). Gold, Europe or Africa, 115–16. Planet Contreras, Melilla Y Ceuta: Espacios-Frontera Hispano-Marroquíes, 124. Thomas M. Wilson and Donnan Hastings, “Nation, State and Identity at International Borders,” in Border Identities: Nation and State at International Frontiers (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 1–30. Latifa is a pseudonym. Interview with author, Ceuta, May 2005. I conducted the interview in Spanish and fully transcribed the interview. The translation to English is mine.

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19. Cf. Fredrik Barth, “Introduction,” in Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Difference, ed. Fredrik Barth (Bergen: Little, Brown & Co., 1969), 9–38. 20. Planet Contreras, Melilla Y Ceuta: Espacios-Frontera Hispano-Marroquíes, chapter five. 21. Interviews and informal conversations with members of all political parties were conducted by the author between November 2004 and June 2005. I conducted the interviews in Spanish and fully transcribed the structured interviews. The translations to English are mine. I determined the agendas of each political party from interviews, media declarations, and records of Assembly sessions from 1995 to January 2005. 22. See note 15. 23. These parties are different from the other regional nationalist parties in Spain. For example, unlike the Basque or Catalan national movements, the PDSC and UDCE have never sought to move away from the idea of a unified Spanish nation. Instead, they have sought to have their Arab/Muslim heritage equally incorporated into Ceuta’s official heritage. 24. See note 15. 25. See note 15. 26. Ángel Ballesteros, Estudio Diplomático Sobre Ceuta Y Melilla (Ceuta: Instituto de Estudion Ceutíes, 2004); Enrique Carabaza and Maximo de Santos, Melilla Y Ceuta. Las Ultimas Colonias (Madrid: Talasa Ediciones S.L., 1992); Dionisio García Flórez, Ceuta Y Melilla. Cuestión De Estado (Ceuta: Ciudad Autónoma de Ceuta, 1999). 27. Antonio is a pseudonym. Interview with the author, Ceuta, February 2005. I conducted the interview in Spanish and fully transcribed the interview. The translation to English is mine. 28. Manuel is a pseudonym. Interview with the author, Ceuta, March 2005. I conducted the interview in Spanish and fully transcribed the interview. The translation to English is mine. 29. The trafficking of drugs and migrants from Morocco to Spain and the unregulated trade of goods from Ceuta to Morocco characterize the border’s illegal market. There are no custom regulations at the Spanish–Moroccan border. 30. The meetings were prompted by the poor performance of the PSOE and the crisis of leadership that ensued in that party. Since the center-right PP retained its nineteen seats in the assembly in 2007, all leftist parties have recognized the need for a united Left. However, how such a coalition would work out is far from certain. 31. Wilson and Hastings, “Nation, State and Identity at International Borders,” 7.

CHAPTER 7

Immigrants and the Brussels Labor Movement: Activism, Integration, and Exclusion since 1945 Eva Schandevyl

Historical Context and Starting Points The postwar 1940–1950s marked a global change in the history of Western Europe, as its traditional nation-states faced a world of increasing porous frontiers and changing cultural standards. The ever-increasing mobility of trade, communication, and labor was accompanied by the slow disintegration of these very states—once the ultimate sources of power and authority—in favor of worldwide globalization and fragmentation.1 International movements and a global consciousness that increasingly questioned national symbols and politics, traditional values and institutions were developing. The mid-1950s saw the rise of protest factions in the Western labor movement that opposed dominant social democrat and Stalinist traditions. It was a period of intense social changes and transitions on the mental and political level, in which some important and actual evolutions and structures are rooted. In Belgium, too, this period marked a change. The Belgian labor movement has since then been confronted with two increasing challenges: regional division within the national borders, and the rise of the extreme right wing in politics, in response to the arrival of immigrants in modern Belgian society. The entry of different ethnic groups into the national trade unions and their various bodies (a process witnessed across the whole of Western Europe) has increasingly challenged the sense of unity in the unions’ collective identities, which traditionally have been supported by the notion of one common working class, joint by solidarity. However, it was already evident before World War I that national identities had always played an important role in the collective

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positions of European trade unions; this was also shown by their practical involvement, at a later stage, in the establishment of the national welfare states. 2 Thus, although their discourse referred to the international solidarity of all workers, their dominant frame of reference nonetheless remained firmly rooted in the national state and context.3 In addressing the national workers’ demands and simultaneously the multiple needs of new immigrant communities, trade unions faced the difficulty of reframing their basic values of national unity, equality, and international solidarity. Statements produced at Brussels’ trade union conventions, minutes of meetings, interviews with militants, and international discussions inform us in this chapter about the obstacles that immigrants met on their way to social and political participation within these native organizations and show the evolution of identity discourse and organizational structures of the unions in relation to the immigrant issue and the activism of ethnic minorities. In particular the group of Arab militants within the Brussels’ labor movement constitutes an interesting case of interaction between the notions of class and culture, and the difficulties encountered in conciliating these realities in Brussels’ multicultural urban setting. Methodologically, this chapter is inspired by concepts developed in discourse theory and historical theory in relation to the nation-state and trade union organizations, labor migration and the “guest workers” issue, class, identity, and diversity.4 In this contribution, we will first look at the process through which the presence of immigrants has been transformed from a labor market problem into one of national identity and cohesion, and second, we will examine the way in which unions have tried formulating answers to the question of social cohesion and cultural diversity in the multinational state of Belgium.5 Immigration and the Labor Movement The mounting emergence of regional identities across Europe as well as the ascension of extreme right parties during the past thirty years have taken place within a climate of major economic upheaval. The Belgian process of constitutional reforms since the 1970–1980s aimed at regional devolution, in which the north and the south of the country obtained more self-government, and the consequent regional reshaping of the national trade union movement followed an increasingly wider social and economical gap between Flanders and the Walloon provinces in Belgium since the 1950s. In addition to this growing regional diversity, the presence of migrants, too, in rising numbers since the 1950–1960s, has presented a challenge for Belgian trade unions in terms of their values and ideals.6 Mindful of their ideology of solidarity, they should have taken the lead in the struggle against racism on the shop f loor and in society in general; yet within the national working class and beyond, people started to respond negatively to the presence of migrant workers in “one’s own country.” 7 The Belgian situation in this respect does not fundamentally differ from that of other (neighboring) countries as Holland or France, where trade unions have more or less been facing the same dilemmas in relation to migration and diversity.

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These dilemmas were manifold. Social scientists agree on the presence of the following dominant questions: should the unions assist governments and employers with these international migrations of workers from “the periphery of capitalism” to the so-called welfare states in the center, or should they oppose this? Should these migrants be regarded as part of the national working class, or should they be regarded as temporary workers with only limited social and political rights? Should trade unions develop a specific policy and particular structures for migrants or not? Should they opt for unity or diversity, for internationalism or pluralism? And should the antiracist struggle be integrated in the general social struggle; should unions promote the multicultural model, or should they rather concentrate on reinforcing democracy against the parties of the extreme right?8 Different countries’ trade unions have developed a wide range of strategies in response to these dilemmas; these strategies were inspired by their ideological stance and also changed according to the successive phases of immigration in the country. The Belgian socialist trade union Fédération Générale des Travailleurs de Belgique/Algemeen Belgisch Vakverbond (FGTB/ABVV) and Christian trade union Confédération des Syndicats Chrétiens/Algemeen Christelijk Vakverbond (CSC/ACV) formulated various answers to these issues that were also differently dealt with in the northern and the southern parts of Belgium. Initially, trade unions opposed migration, yet later they tried to regulate it, for example, after World War II;9 migrants were, after all, a key resource for building up postwar national economies. They could be deployed as “auxiliary troops” of labor forces to perform the inferior and dirty jobs such as working in the mines, an occupation that most Belgian workers would perform with reluctance. Not many regarded them as people with their own expectations and ambitions— not even the trade unions.10 It was only from 1960 onward that some discreet recognition started to emerge, thus enabling immigrants who had decided to stay in Belgium not only to have duties, but also rights.11 In the meantime, migration had also started to play a role in demographic policy. The Belgian population was slowly ageing, and it was gradually understood that migrants could boost the birthrate. In other words, the migrants not only had to produce, they also had to be encouraged to reproduce. Family reunion for migrants consequently became a valuable political option.12 The arrival of the wives and children of migrants in Belgium from the 1960–1970s onward was a real watershed in terms of the history of migration that was then no longer solely focused on labor. The organized immigration that was sanctioned by the state mainly focused on the Mediterranean countries. Bilateral treaties that granted certain benefits to foreign workers in relation to work, residence permits, and social security were drawn up. In the summer of 1964, the government extended an appeal for the first time to migrant workers from Turkey and North Africa.13 Between 1961 and 1970, about two hundred and sixty thousand foreigners, mainly Moroccans, migrated to Belgium. These foreign workers represent at present, together with their families, 10 percent of the total population of Belgium, which is about ten million.14 The bilateral agreement between Belgium and Morocco dated December 17, 1964, provided

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a collective framework for the decision by workers to migrate in tens of thousands. Until then, the act of migration had been viewed as a matter of individual volition. One did not always realize that ethnicity had an instrumental function: employers and government used it as a means to pursue economic (or demographic) interests.15 The economic downturn at the beginning of the 1970s, however, prompted the Belgian government to issue a migration stop in 1974. Both trade unions sided with this measure and, taking account of the contribution made by the migrants to the country’s economic prosperity during the preceding decades, started to concentrate on their integration into the national community. This led to a new discursive strategy, referring to the historical role of the unions in the struggle for democratic rights and social and economic security. The struggle against discrimination was presented as an exponent of the general struggle for the emancipation of the working class. Seldom though did this lead to concrete actions. This was partly caused by the weakened position of the trade unions in a neoliberal climate of social sacrifices.16 Yet some perceptible change still took place during these years with regard to migrant rights, with this partly being due to impetus by the unions’ foreign militants. From 1971 onward, the distinction between Belgian and non-Belgian eligibility for social (union) elections was scrapped, and five years later (parallel with the migration stop), a regularization of clandestine workers took place on a large scale, following a massive show of solidarity from the Brussels branch of the socialist trade union. A law against racism was voted on and more attention was paid to the topic of political rights for migrants. Still, the arrival of the liberals in the Belgian government from 1981 onward meant that individual naturalization would be deemed to be preferable over granting the right to vote to foreigners. The presence of migrants thus evolved from being associated with a problem of the labor market, to being associated with a problem of national identity and cohesion.17 The Political Construction of the Migrant Problem In 1981, a number of Brussels’ right-wing politicians turned “the migrant problem” into a theme for the local election campaign. It was argued that this problem prompted a sense of insecurity that was linked to the geographical concentration of migrants in the so-called difficult districts of the capital. Migrants were singled out as being responsible for the prevailing economic crisis and a growing consensus was in favor of migrants returning to their native countries. It is in this context of right-wing middle class liberalism that the conditions for obtaining Belgian nationality would be liberalized, and the return of long-term unemployed migrants to their home countries encouraged. The trade unions were to vehemently oppose this scheme of repatriation and curbing of family reunification. For the FGTB the antiracist struggle was, after all, an integral part of the struggle against the shift to the right, which the Belgian national government in power at the time went through.

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From the end of the 1980s, the politicization of migration moved geographically primarily to the north of Belgium.18 During the local elections of 1988, the racist party Vlaams Blok won almost 18 percent of the votes in the seaport city of Antwerp. Migrants were thus no longer perceived as being a problem exclusively associated with Brussels, but from that moment on also as a Flemish problem. After these elections, a Royal Commissioner’s Office for Migration Policy was hurriedly established, which, by its fifth anniversary, had issued three reports with a long string of policy recommendations, few of which were to be implemented with any resolve. The idea of “equal rights” and the concept of integration as defended by the Royal Commissioner’s Office—somewhere between assimilation and the development of a multicultural society—gained the approval of both trade unions. The subject of voting rights was not discussed in the reports from the Royal Commissioner’s Office, but the idea of migrants returning to Morocco was rejected in no uncertain terms.19 A Fragmented Integration Policy The Royal Commissioner’s Office would define the official terms of reference for integration in Belgium. Yet many different views about this topic existed in the southern French-speaking part and in the northern Dutch-speaking part of the country. 20 The differences between the so-called Latin vision (assimilation—the Walloon provinces in Belgium) and the Anglo-Saxon vision (diversity—Flanders) continually confronted each other in Brussels. A multitude of different “sub-policies on migration” are applied in Brussels (a city divided along cultural, linguistic, social, and economic lines, together with a highly complex institutional structure), depending on the decision-makers: Flemish or French-speaking regional authorities, local councils, and umbrella organizations. As a result of the process of constitutional reform toward regional devolution and the continuous weakening of the Belgian nation-state since the 1950s, a part of the migration policy (at least that which relates to cultural and personal matters) has been cut to shreds and uncoupled from the employment policy, thereby making the migration problem more of a cultural issue, principally a Muslim problem. References in the national and Flemish initiatives to the term “poverty of chances,” can be compared with references to the term “exclusion” in French-speaking Brussels; and the equivalent of “a policy of equal chances” was “a policy of social integration” in Brussels. Whereas Flemish migration policy has mainly been driven by the successes of the extreme right at the polls, the Brussels government mainly reaches out to migrant youngsters in order to try and convince them that they are not forgotten. 21 This attitude of dealing with migrants, as an excluded group deserving integration, is characteristic of the Brussels, metropolitan migration policy. 22 The Unions’ Policies The trade unions kept referring to class solidarity and the equation of racism and the extreme right, with the assaults by the employers on the weakest link

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of the working class. It appeared that migrants were thus portrayed as defenseless victims of global capitalism. 23 What is more, the lack of well-considered actions in relation to migrants and their place on the labor market and the improvement of their social position in Belgian society in general characterized the attitude and the political options of the trade unions. 24 Indeed, what steps exactly have Belgian unions taken during the past twenty years to improve migration problems? To what extent did they (and in particular the socialist union) adhere to the principle of international solidarity? How have they also accepted the national criterion as a factor for identification and differentiation? Which concrete initiatives have been implemented in relation to migrants? And where exactly lay the specificity of Brussels in all of this? While the socialist union customarily grants a great deal of autonomy to its federations of labor (trade secretariats), the Christian union is traditionally more centralized and less doctrinal. So just how did these typical characteristics manifest themselves in the capital’s multicultural framework? How did both trade unions cope with the processes of exclusion and racism, the recognition of diversity, and the threat of the extreme right during the 1980–1990s?25 An initial period in both unions’ policy toward migrants was characterized by the organization of migrant structures in the union movement and the quest for support for migrant voting rights. This was later accompanied by a reorientation of the emphasis, more and more focusing on the struggle against racism. 26 Antiracism became part of the struggle for social emancipation and participation of all workers, and specific measures for migrants would be replaced by a more discrete and general discourse relating to social exclusion. Ideologically speaking, the unions dismissed all forms of racism, intolerance, and xenophobia. But whereas the Christian union talked about a widening gap between the grassroots and the political elite, the importance of social networks, and the realization of a tolerant and multicultural society, the socialist union concentrated on criticizing neoliberalism when referring to the reasons for the success of the extreme right from the 1980s onward. 27 The Socialist Union’s Obstinate Unity Policy It was not until the middle of the 1960s that the FGTB set up a national service for guest workers, involved with administrative tasks and providing social and legal aid. The rather late interest in foreign workers by the socialist trade union was due to several factors, including the postwar heritage of reconciliation and social consultation between workers and employers. Other inf luencing factors were the trade union structure of the FGTB and the dominant role of the different federations of labor that increased the gap between the wider social visions proposed by the national union leaders and their actual practical implementation. That is also the reason why some regional union bodies had started to implement their own initiatives that sometimes opposed dominant union and social democratic traditions. 28 The Brussels federation, under the chairmanship of A. Faust in the years 1980–1990, who was a keen advocate of radical union action and antiracism, did some pioneering work in this respect. 29

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This local activism and radicalism was partly due to the lack of metal and mining industries in Brussels itself, while it is these sectors that have a predominant position in the socialist union and are therefore in favor of consultation rather than protest and strikes. Brussels, on the other hand, is traditionally characterized by more diverse small groups and sectors (e.g., the public services and the transport sector), a so-called labor aristocracy that has much less weight at the negotiating table. Indeed, on the whole, the Brussels federation (constituted by Brussels’ local divisions and regional organizations) laid stress on different topics than those proposed by the national leadership or by the big federations of the FGTB.30 The various regional bodies of the socialist trade union, with all of their migrant committees, which existed in addition to the national service for guest workers, put the emphasis on different categories of expression. However, the voice of the large federations of labor predominated and was generally opposed to any specific migrant approach.31 In addition to this, in 1978, the three so-called Interrégionales/Intergewestelijken—regional organizations—of the FGTB were established (one for Flanders, one for the Walloon provinces, and one for Brussels), so that the socialist trade union assimilated to the constitutional reform and to the new institutional structures of the country. Yet on the Flemish and the Brussels side, this adaptation to the new structures proved to be very difficult.32 A major influencing factor in this respect was the decision made by the national leadership in 1989 to split up the Brussels Interrégionale into one Brussels-center federation and one Brussels-northern/western (a Flemish industrial zone) federation. This new structure resulted in Brussels having less weight within the FGTB.33 Social and Economic Solidarity in Brussels Brussels’ regional officials did not see eye to eye with the so-called reformist national leadership. This was, for example, evident from the pleas in favor of a more self-centered and sometimes communist-inspired approach toward the social and economic problems in Brussels. There was also dissatisfaction about the attitude of the (socialist) Walloon provinces, which refused to acknowledge Brussels as the embodiment of a skilled working class. Brussels would stand out from the other regional federations by presenting an image of itself as the defender of traditional values such as class solidarity, equality, internationalism, diversity, and the struggle against marginalizing processes.34 In 1980, the Brussels federation established a commission for migrant workers composed of militants who were sympathetic toward this subject; they stressed the importance of addressing the needs of immigrant workers by organizing special information sessions for them. These events seemed to have attracted considerable attention.35 But this commission did not take up particular positions toward international politics and was not supposed to function as a meeting place for migrants per nationality, in order to prevent the countries of origin from having a hold over their citizens abroad. “The” migrant was mainly considered here in social and economic terms; hardly any attention

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was paid to his cultural values. At the same time, the question was asked whether supporting the specific problems of migrants belonged to the union’s duties and priorities, and whether “the struggle of the working class” and “the struggle of the migrants” had to or could converge; with the discourse about equality and solidarity in mind, the only course of action open was to stand up for the migrants, but in fact, very little ever happened in this respect. Yet at the same time, the union’s officials also wanted to retain the benefits of the recruitment potential that was offered by the existing left-wing migrant organizations. The Brussels federation, which had only reluctantly followed the political logic of constitutional and structural reforms, had insisted on the organization, in December 1986, of a national FGTB congress, which would be completely devoted to “the problems experienced by immigrant workers”; in the end though, it became a national congress devoted rather to “migration problems.”36 Although the FGTB had initially been oriented toward Spanish immigration in Belgium, the Turkish and Moroccan communities would from then on take center stage: an approach by the trade union that was clearly a politically defined one in relation to migrants. This was somewhat contradictory, however, because one of the standard arguments quoted by the trade union for not meddling in this subject (and that was rooted in the illusion that trade unions had to and could remain out of politics) was the claim that migration (since the migration ban) was a political and not a trade union topic. The 1986 congress report, which had been formulated by trade union militants, politicians, and academics, expressed the trade union concerns at the time: not only in relation to the right of residence for the migrants and their integration in Belgian society, but also in relation to the concerns about increasing fundamentalism in some Muslim communities and the reactionary politics of certain emigration countries in relation to their subjects abroad. The 1986 congress report was certainly a milestone, if only because of its exhaustive character; all possible problems (accommodation, health, faith, culture, political participation, trade union commitment, emancipation of the women, young migrants, etc.) were dealt with in the text. The report was also well received outside the labor movement, even abroad. At the end of the 1986 congress, a “Manifesto for the Integration of Immigrant Workers” was accepted in which the FGTB committed itself to working hard for the social rights of migrants, and to their “positive integration” into society in particular.37 As such, the socialist union (and also the Christian one) adopted the premises of “integration” as a way to solve migration problems. The concept referred to both adaptation (by the immigrants) and tolerance (by the native population): two conditions considered necessary in settling ethnic relations within the workforce and in society at large. Integration is a very general concept, which gives cause to very diverse readings; however, the general meaning of this notion has evolved from “the right to participate in society as a full citizen” to a dominant reading in which integration becomes “a two-sided process of rights and duties, of giving and taking.” Integration becomes then primarily a discourse strategy to reassure the “own” Belgian population.38 Also, this socialist trade union’s national “Manifesto” was mainly addressed to Belgian workers

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and not primarily to the migrants themselves who, for that matter, had not really been involved in its elaboration. Its response in migrant milieus was, not surprisingly, rather small. Antiracism and Political Radicalism The Brussels federation, in turn, kept reiterating that most of the social problems experienced by migrants were closely connected with their insecure social status as employees, and not with their culture and origins.39 The Brussels trade union leaders thought it more appropriate to speak about “immigrants,” rather than of “national minorities”: the first term referred to a temporary situation that could be “rectified” after granting voting rights, the second term, when understood by French speakers, conveyed the underlying meaning of a somewhat inferior final status.40 As previously stated, at the end of the 1990s attention was switching to the struggle against racism and the extreme right—also within the own ranks. To stem the upsurge of the extreme right and of racism, FGTB-Brussels believed that the union had to speak out about voting rights for migrants, independently of the socialist party’s views on this matter.41 On the insistence of the CSCBrussels, both unions would finally organize a press conference devoted to this issue. This time the unions had themselves been the initiators. This was rather unusual: most of the time they only supported other originators in this respect. But then the specificity of Brussels stimulated different strategies, inspired by particular needs. This characteristic situation in Belgium’s capital relates to the large number of unemployed foreigners, as well as to the enormous quantity of non-Belgians in the population in general: more than 26 percent of the inhabitants of Brussels do not have Belgian nationality, compared with about 8 percent in Belgium, 5 percent in Flanders, and 9 percent in the Walloon provinces. According to the figures provided by the National Institute for Statistics on January 1, 2004, these 263,451 (26 percent) non-Belgian inhabitants in Brussels consisted of 41,987 Moroccans, 11,595 Turks, 7,300 Congolese, and 145,279 citizens of EU member states. And these figures obviously do not include the Belgians of foreign origin (who are the second and third generation). Has the socialist trade union in the end, with all of its different initiatives throughout the years, met the needs of the migrants? And to what extent did it actually reach this group? Figures concerning the number of immigrants paying union dues are difficult to obtain. In any event, it is certain that many foreigners in Belgium found it difficult to find their way into the trade union for a variety of reasons, including membership costs, the absence of a trade union tradition in their native country, or even the often suspicious attitude toward them of Belgian members. Foreign FGTB militants were generally dissatisfied with the fact that discrimination on the shop f loor was addressed too little or too late, and also with the poor representation of migrants in the union decision-making bodies. It is remarkable how a simplistic view continued to be defended within this trade union that different nationalities followed each other along the same route toward integration and participation. This tends to

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conceal the union’s proper responsibility in this matter, and also leads one to assume that the problem of ethnically related social advancement and hierarchy was only encountered outside the trade union. This was of course largely the case. Moreover, until the 1980s, any real trade union action by foreigners was often hindered because the immigration police refused to grant residence permits to workers with a history of trade union activism. Yet a major shortcoming in the trade union itself resided in the fact that many of the leading union positions were not, and for a long time would not be, filled by migrants.42 Room for Diversity within the Christian Union The Christian union, with its special attention toward faith and cultural values—equal opportunities, respect, and tolerance are the basic standards of Christian syndicalism—was perhaps more than the socialist one “predestined” to deal with migrants in a consistent manner. In addition, the influx of Italian miners after World War II provided the Christian union with the opportunity to enlarge its recruitment base in these sectors in which it previously only had a low level of representation. But soon the union leaders came to realize that all forms of rivalry between Belgian employees and foreign workmen had to be avoided. That is why the CSC established separate migrant structures from 1947 onward.43 A department for foreign workers was responsible for organizing subscriptions of non-Belgian employees. Interpreters were deployed to help them overcome any language barriers and special sections were established for each nationality.44 This CSC approach in favor of diversity and respect for national identities, by setting up specific migrant structures, was a logical consequence of the Christian democratic tradition that respected individual cultural perception and that encouraged the social participation of migrants in a multicultural society, with this contradicting the idea of assimilation that is based on (compulsory) acceptance of Western European customs and cultural models. In April 1975—nine years before the Manifesto for the Integration of Immigrant Workers of the socialist FGTB—the CSC elaborated and approved a “Statute of the Immigrant Worker.” This text contained both social and economic as well as cultural and political demands, including municipal voting rights. This total approach seemed to indicate that the CSC adopted the view that the migrant had (finally) acquired the right to social and professional advancement as a human being and as a citizen, just like any other Belgian worker. The adoption of this text meant official union support for a whole range of demands expressed by the foreign militants of the Christian union, who had co-advised on the text, and in which the issues of discrimination and political rights for non-nationals was pushed to the forefront. Yet, the broad base of national workers proved reluctant to take up the struggle against discrimination, and in a period of high employment and job insecurity, the perceived conflicting interests between foreign and indigenous workers became a difficult matter to solve.45

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The foreign workers did not silently accept the accusations launched at their address, but their voice did not sound very loud in the union, and special bodies for migrants in the CSC, such as the department for foreign workers, remained marginal structures within. Since this department was not deeply rooted in the union’s federations of labor (such as the Free Miners that initially grouped almost all migrants), it did not have the weight to impose strategic choices upon the national leadership, and its members did not have a mandate in the actual decision-making bodies of the union. And in the end, the department for foreign workers would be downsized in favor of a migrant policy tailored to the needs of the three regional bodies of the CSC (the Walloon Provinces, Brussels, and Flanders), with a casting vote for the federations of labor.46 These migrant structures acted as an instrument for recruiting members, and ultimately also as a kind of springboard for the trade union careers of a series of migrant members; but this advancement could still only take place after these immigrant workers’ discourse “had passed through a filter of what was acceptable and unacceptable (from a Christian point of view).”47 Behind closed doors, migrants were more tolerated than welcomed with open arms. Their chances of professional advancement within the union remained rather slim long after the 1975 Statute document. During its existence, the department for foreign workers promoted the establishment of organizations that, as a continuation of the union’s work for migrants, took initiatives on the educational, cultural, or religious level. In so doing, the CSC succeeded in expanding its territory and recruitment radius at the very basic local level, where the Christian union always had been more visibly present than its socialist competitor.48 At the same time, in comparison with the FGTB, the CSC also had a stronger national leadership coordinating all the actions of the union, from the federations of labor to the regional union bodies. Throughout the 1970s, the emphasis given to migrants in the CSC shifted from nationality-related services and cooperation, over integration via social and cultural associations, toward the general struggle against exclusion. Once again, the Brussels federation did some pioneering work in this respect.49 Social Christian Dynamism in Brussels With its present two hundred thousand members (in 2004), of whom thirty thousand are migrants, the CSC-Brussels has developed, after a long and difficult growth process, into the largest union in the capital.50 In 1963, this Brussels federation established its own regional department for foreign workers that performed the same tasks as the national department for foreign workers.51 In the middle of the 1960s, contact days were organized for foreign members and militants, who were organized per nationality or per language community. Integration was seen as a duty in order to achieve labor and world solidarity, with the emphasis for this coming from Brussels, because “solidarity” didn’t really exist in the Christian CSC vocabulary, neither nationally nor in Flanders. It was initially firmly believed that the foreign employees (among the fortyseven thousand members of the CSC-Brussels at the beginning of the 1970s,

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about four thousand of them were immigrants) would only reside temporarily in Belgium and that, in the long term, they would return to their native countries.52 At the beginning of the 1970s, the union had established a specific unit for Turks in Brussels, and the initial impetus was given to the creation of an Arab section. But some twenty years later, as globalization and labor migration seemed irreversible, union leaders decided to follow a new course and to switch priorities from problems specifically related to migrant workers—such as work permits, naturalizations, visas—to more general problems of exclusion—such as accommodation, education, and work. In other words, those issues that typically affected other minority groups as well, and not only foreigners. As a result of the immigration ban in 1974, the concept of services to suit nationality-based groups was actually rendered redundant. From the 1980s onward, increasing support was given to the idea of shutting down these committees and merging them into the ranks of mainstream trade union structures, in order to give renewed impetus and enthusiasm to their work.53 Also, the leadership in Brussels had, in the line of reorganization processes of the union’s structures in order to adapt them to the constitutional reforms, manifested its intention to increase over time the number of elected trade union officials of foreign origin. For their part, the union’s Arab militants in Brussels were pushed to develop closer ties with the coordinating structures of the Christian labor movement.54 At a congress in 2002, it was finally announced that the existing committee of Arab workers would be modernized and rejuvenated. This was actually the outcome of a long process that saw its temporary conclusion in 1998, when the Brussels federation decided to “take over” the Arab section (which had hitherto been organized on the national level). The changing positions of the CSC in relation to migration, as well as the adaptation of the union’s structures to regional demands and state reforms, and the foreign militants’ activism in response to these processes, were implicitly expressed in the evolution of the national department for foreign workers and the Arab section that was initially part of it. Based on interviews with former militants in these two structures, an accurate account of this evolution can now be provided. It illustrates the tensions that often existed between different groups’ priorities and goals within the union. The National Department for Foreign Workers and Thereabouts When the national department for foreign workers was established in the early mining secretariats and was tasked with defending the professional and social interests of foreign workers, the new immigrants had quickly been grouped per nationality; a national coordinating committee grouped together all of these nationality committees. In time, the annual meetings of these committees became the occasion for the foreign militants to air their many grievances, as well as the union leadership’s dissatisfaction with these militants. During a convention in 1979, for example, the present discontent referred to the passivity

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shown by the majority of these committees. On the Arab militants’ side there was displeasure about the general lack of information and opportunity to have their say in the general CSC policy.55 An attempt was made to counteract this mutual criticism by introducing some new structures and strategies. But despite this, the communication between the officials who were responsible for migrants in the union’s regional bodies and the officials of the department for foreign workers often seemed to run into difficulties.56 The CSC had the vague intention to have every existing immigrants’ center eventually rooted in local (Arab) sections of the union. In addition, the status of nonprofit organizations was often adopted so that migrants could fully deploy their social and cultural initiatives in an autonomous way. This was in line with the Flemish two-pronged policy at the time, which, on one hand, was aimed at eliminating discrimination and neglect via an equal opportunities policy and, on the other, promoted emancipation and participation via the development of club and social life. But the transformation of immigrant associations into nonprofit organizations was a difficult process, because the foreign militants did not always share the views of the subsidizing policy makers and the union’s establishment. Since these migrant committees found it so extremely difficult to voice their specific demands during their contact with the leading trade union bodies, many of them instead concentrated on social and cultural work. Consequently, they only played a minor role toward further strengthening the trade union.57 In this respect, a distinction needs to be made between associations that effectively work(ed) hard for the emancipation of their members and reconciliation between the various communities, and those mainly committed to preserving the culture of their native countries and suppressing foreign inf luences. These two categories sometimes comingled— also in the Arab section of the CSC. Whether individual foreign militants opted for “traditional trade unionism” or, in the end, for autonomous associations often depended upon their level of education, the conditions through which they had come to Belgium, their age upon arrival and the generation they belonged to, and, last but not least, the difficulty or the facility with which they adapted their goals and initial expectations—for example, with regard to political rights and citizenship—to Belgium’s realities and the union’s priorities (e.g., social corrections, no political revolutions). The Foreign Militants’ Activism The Arab section was established in June 1970, as the last of the nationality committees in the CSC. The élan of the first generation of Arab militants had been inspired by the firm belief that they would ultimately return to their native Morocco. They had been progressive idealists who wanted to make their fellow compatriots aware of the political situation in their home country, and who firmly wished to export “the revolution” and “global consciousness” to Morocco. Still, many would be disappointed to learn that the daily course of events and bureaucratic practices in the CSC was far removed from the political

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and social radical image of Western European unions that they had had in mind, prior to their arrival in Belgium.58 In the 1970s, the Moroccan political resistance reached a peak in the wake of the May 1968 movement. A political action group, called Rassemblement Démocratique Marocain, was established at the Université Libre de Bruxelles. This opposition group defended democracy and human rights in Morocco and united union activists of the CSC and the FGTB. Notably, the Arab section of the department for foreign workers and the immigrant committees of the FGTB would originate from this group. All sorts of similar social and cultural organizations for migrants (language centers, schools for homework, youth organizations) that were partly financially supported by the CSC would be set up. However, they often lacked structure or articles of association, resulting in most of them having to be shut down at the beginning of the 1990s, after years of recurrent problems. The idea of returning to their native country (fostered by most of these organizations) did not really appeal to the second generation. The Arab section thus became aware that they needed to pay less attention to the situation in Morocco, and instead needed to focus more on the Moroccan presence in Belgium. The Dutch-speaking S. Abdeslam who arrived in Belgium in 1971 and worked as a welder and a dockworker in Antwerp was a leading figure in the Arab section. He expanded it further by organizing educational activities, on one hand, and further developing the social life via establishing Arab cells (or replacing nonprofit organizations) and publishing a monthly magazine, Le Travailleur Arabe, that all Arab members of the CSC (according to Abdeslam they numbered at least thirty-five thousand during the 1980s) received, on the other.59 The Arab Section in its Midlife Crisis The overall operation of the various immigration structures within the CSC continued to exhibit a lack of consistency though. The union leadership and the foreign grassroots members were often not on the same wavelength. The first ones increasingly questioned the functioning of the migrants’ institutions in the prevailing crisis situation. In turn, the members of the Arab section shared the opinion that the Christian union should not just focus on their professional interests, but also deal with the educational, cultural, and religious problems that were typical of the immigrant population; a global approach, in short, in which the right for more political participation and trade union autonomy for migrants was demanded. 60 Abdeslam and his team promised rejuvenation and increased stability and efficiency, hoping to be taken more seriously by the union’s policy makers.61 Very few of these intentions would ever be implemented however. For one, the Arab section never firmly established itself in the Walloon provinces, nor entirely succeeded in setting up a long-lasting relationship with its own community. The program of the Arab section and the associated social and cultural organizations was probably too weak for this purpose. The Arab migrants traditionally also lacked managerial expertise and did not have enough social

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and political insight.62 But they did realize that they had to become more involved in traditional Belgian trade union topics, such as the struggle against neoliberalism, racism, and xenophobia, the importance of social elections, and the promotion of equal opportunities, tolerance, humanism, and solidarity in society. They also understood that the Arab militants had to take a more active role in union activities that were not related to migrants’ matters.63 At the same time, they accused the national government and politicians of not doing enough for the often-difficult living conditions of the second and the third generations of Moroccans in Belgium. The Closing of the Arab Section The imminent shutdown of the last nationality section of the CSC prompted a great deal of resistance from the Arab militants. After being specially requested by them, a spokesman of the department for foreign workers negotiated with the Brussels federation secretary about a possible takeover of the national Arab section by this regional federation. A similar operation had also been carried out earlier for the Italian section. Brussels agreed, with the proviso that the grassroots members themselves would provide the necessary support and finances. The subsequent convention that was drawn up in October 1998 between both parties was thus nothing more than a pro forma agreement; yet it was, of course, a guarantee that the section would not be abolished upon encountering the first setback.64 Versus the protective function of the Brussels federation, a wide range of duties also existed for the Arab militants: external actions first had to be approved by the federation; furthermore in the Arab section, in addition to external volunteers, several representatives of the national and regional union leadership had to be present, who would provide guidelines for switching to general themes and actions around social exclusion, and so on 65 —though many in the Arab section kept paying attention to only migrant themes.66 Different members thus had and still have divided opinions, but they did jointly realize a number of important goals, such as a wide-scale regularization of people-without-papers, the payment of unemployment benefits to young North Africans, and the abolition of compulsory work permits. 67 It is in these kinds of small-scale and concrete realizations that the significance of the Arab section over time has to be sought, in the improvement of the immigrants’ statute and their social rights. During the last couple of decades, it has become evident that the attention paid by the CSC to various nationalities was more inspired by strategy and pragmatism than by theoretical reflection on the consequences of immigration in the long term with regard to social stratification. It would not be exaggerating to state that migrants in the union had more opportunity for advancement and obtaining important positions if they completely devoted themselves to and identified with these issues dominating in the European autochthonous working class. Whenever migrants have attained power and status within the union, they have mainly done so outside the structures that specifically deal with migrants, but that does not necessarily mean that their career has not

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started there. Perhaps it is exactly those people who have climbed up the social and professional ladder who were already completely integrated in Belgian society and who have learned to adopt its values, expectations, ways of life (e.g., good linguistic ability, an unblemished school career, naturalization, or marriage to a Belgian), and prevailing trade union concepts, including those related to the role and position of migrants.68 It seems the further distance migrants took from their cultural origins and embraced instead their new country’s traditions and norms, the more chances there were for them for promotion within the union. With regard to the second and third generation of migrants who have important positions in the trade union, it is evident that many of them now distance themselves from the union’s specific migrant structures. This young generation of qualified union fellow workers finds it difficult identifying themselves in a construction such as the Arab section. In the current multicultural society, they regard this organism as obsolete and in this context the term “selfdiscrimination” has been mentioned: the mere existence of this section constitutes a factor of discrimination. 69 Conclusion: Diversity as a Challenge to Trade Union Solidarity The majority of the current immigration problems are rooted in a dual and somewhat contradictory social process: on one hand, the development of nation-states, based on the principle of popular sovereignty (with the French Revolution as a starting point), and, on the other, the industrial revolution that has encouraged human mobility. This historical backdrop has prompted even more waves of migration at a fast pace. At the same time, nation-states have made their borders more impenetrable in order to protect their own national communities, citizens, and their interests from outside influences.70 Yet, the growing traffic and peaks of (labor) migration since the 1950s was accompanied by the slow dissolution of the nation-states’ borders and the rise of transnational civil society. After World War II, when immigrants began to constitute a significant part of the Belgian working class (and indirectly contributed to the economic boom), the negative reactions to this (and subsequently the formulation of a “migrant problem”) became evident also within the trade unions and presented them with several challenges. Following the permanent settlement of immigrant workers and their descendants in Belgium, they became an inevitable union topic. Moreover, since the electoral breakthrough of xenophobic and extreme right tendencies, this issue has become much more compelling on the general social and political agenda. Trade unions are not only social, economic, and political action groups, but also organizations with a well-defined collective identity that, as a result of increasing diversity in society (due to the presence of migrants and to the rise of regional identities), are coming under growing pressure. The arrival of foreign workers within their own ranks forces the unions to question their own identities and the interests or ideals they foster, such as unity, equality, and

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international solidarity. The contradictions that the Belgian labor movement has struggled with when dealing with migration and migrant issues are the same problems that society as a whole has been confronted with: how can foreigners be involved in the national labor struggle, and how can cultural diversity be reconciled with the idea of national unity? How can problems of national politics be solved within international contexts and structures? These issues within the Belgian labor movement do not fundamentally differ from other countries’ situation where trade unions have been facing the same dilemmas with respect to non-nationals, and where they have responded to these challenges differently, depending on their ideologies, structures, and positions between the integration models of assimilation or diversity. In the Brussels context of economic globalization and of social fragmentation, many questions relating to this subject have in addition been thwarted by a cultural and linguistic divide, which draws even more attention to the issue of identity and solidarity. As a result of the constitutional devolution process in Belgium, migrant-related action has not been dealt with in a uniform manner within the national labor movement, nor have the visions relating to this issue been dealt with in a concerted manner. In this respect, the Flemish, Walloon, and Brussels federations of the Christian and socialist unions have worked almost autonomously and independently from each other. This has resulted in fragmentation of the means and the curbing of dynamism and activism.71 With regard to antiracism—a topic that is characterized by a lack of unanimity about the universal fixed values that should be addressed—points of view were stated at a coordinating level, yet these were seldom followed up with concrete and efficient actions. The discrepancy, in this field, between intentions and final results has been most striking: the CSC and especially the FGTB only seemed to be able to provide verbal promises. In this respect, the Brussels federations of the Christian and socialist unions did not diverge from both unions’ national lines. A different union tradition and scale of actions and a larger presence of migrants in Brussels may perhaps have contributed to more militancy in the local labor movement, but the gap between intentions and actual achievements was not less pronounced there than on the national level, though the CSC adopted a more pragmatic approach than its socialist rival. A body such as the Arab section was important for the CSC as long as it welcomed foreign workers who further increased its membership level. Unlike the FGTB that did not question the concept of one unified working class, the Christian union had for a long time paid a great deal of attention to the individual and cultural problems of migrants, so that the underlying reality of class difference and struggles was virtually overlooked. But from the moment that the permanent presence of immigrant workers in Belgium became a reality, the various nationality sections of the CSC acted counter to the permanent integration of migrants in the union. Over time, many Arab militants mainly stayed amongst themselves, although this might have been synonymous with the fact that they were virtually ignored by the higher echelons of the trade union that preferred ignoring the challenge that these militants’ presence posed them in terms of reframing the unions’ values and identities. Relations between

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the department for foreign workers and the associated nationality sections, as well as between the regional union bodies and the local migrants’ associations, were not always optimal, and various groups of people within the union fostered very different (political) ideals and (social) priorities. Despite this, the CSC succeeded in extending its radius of action within migrant communities, by engaging in permanent collaboration with external social and cultural organizations. The FGTB, on the contrary, has always continued to recognize a strict distinction between trade and non-trade union activities. From the second half of the 1990s onward, both unions in Brussels would focus on the theme of “exclusion” and the associated large target group composed of the “underprivileged.” At the same time, the Christian union wanted to abolish the last remaining nationality committees, and thus the Arab section finally ended up in the Brussels federation. The weight of the Arab section in the union was rather limited, and the enthusiasm from this first generation of Arab militants regularly encountered outright indifference and lack of interest on the part of the union management. Following their arrival in Belgium during the 1960s and 1970s, many of these activists had initially found their way toward the socialist FGTB and had become aware that migrant topics were not an issue there: the message was that migrant workers simply had to integrate in the existing working class. The CSC leadership would reach similar conclusions thirty years later. For many years, the socialist union had regarded the migrant worker as little more than a social and economic category that had dragged down Belgian wage levels. It was not until the mid-1980s that attention was also paid to other aspects relating to the presence of migrants in Belgium. Only then was cultural diversity reluctantly recognized, but on the condition that it would benefit the socialist interests of the working class.72 The theme of “antiracism, fascism, and the extreme right” was particularly useful for the political radicalism that is inherent in the Brussels wing of the FGTB, because it could be easily linked to other general conf lict situations such as the struggle against capital, against society’s dominant institutions, and against the establishment. It also provided the latter body with a means for emphasizing its left-wing profile and making it contrast with that of the “social-democrat right-wing” within its own union. It goes without saying that this strategy, however, diverted the attention from the migrants’ problems and priorities. The sometimes-difficult collaboration within the FGTB between the different federations of labor, even more than in the Christian union, also impeded the definition of a coherent migration policy. Fragmentation, regionalism, and linked political issues have furthermore overshadowed possible union actions relating to migrants. In both trade unions, constitutional reform was at the expense of such initiatives. Generally speaking, it can be concluded that the position of Belgian trade unions in society has been weakened as a consequence of the country’s state reforms. Fifty years of policymaking in relation to migration and immigrants in Belgium has only produced slow and insignificant results: a not very successful equal opportunities strategy in terms of employment, and a problematic integration in terms of religion, culture, and education. Moreover,

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migrants were granted political rights only very late, as the right to vote for non-European citizens at municipal elections did not materialize before 2006.73 In the end, strategies appear to have been devised on purely ad hoc bases in response to problems, not as they developed but long after they had approached critical stages. Government and politicians are only just beginning to anticipate the future. Notes I wish to thank Anja Detant for her comments on an earlier version of this text as well as William Condliffe for reviewing my English. 1. C. Fink, F. Hadler, and T. Schramm, “1956: New Perspectives. An Introduction,” in 1956. European and Global Perspectives, eds. C. Fink, F. Hadler, and T. Schramm (Leipzig: Leipziger Universitätsverlag, 2006), 10–11. 2. P. Pasture, “Introduction: Squaring the Circle? Trade Unions Torn between Class Solidarity and Regional and Cultural Identities in Western Europe,” in Cultural Diversity in Trade Unions. A Challenge to Class Identity?, ed. J. Wets (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), 1–3. 3. A. Detant, Nationals and “Others” in the Quest for Solidarity? Belgian Ttrade Unions’ Attitudes towards the Immigrant Issue. Paper presented at the Communities Conference, Trinity and All Saint’s College, Leeds, September 18–20, 2003, 2. 4. J. Torfing, New Theories of Discourse. Laclau, Mouffe and Zizek (Oxford: Blackwell, 1999); R. Penninx and J. Roosblad, eds., Trade Unions, Immigration, and Immigrants in Europe, 1960–1993: A Comparative Study of the Actions of Trade Unions in Seven Western European Countries (New York: Berghahn, 2000); L. Heerma van Voss and M. van der Linden, eds., Class and Other Identities. Gender, Religion and Ethnicity in the Writing of European Labour History (New York: Berghahn Books, 2002). 5. Detant, Nationals and “Others,” 2–3. 6. Pasture, “Introduction,” 4–8. 7. K. Pittomvils, “Het ABVV, internationale arbeidsmigraties en ‘gastarbeiders’ in de periode 1960–1974: internationalisme versus nationale verdediging,” Belgisch Tijdschrift voor Nieuwste Geschiedenis, no. 3–4 (1997): 432; Detant, Nationals and “Others,” 3. 8. J. Roosblad, “Trade Union Policies Regarding Immigration and Immigrant Workers in the Netherlands (1960–95),” in Cultural Diversity, 169–90; Pasture, “Introduction,” 8–15; S. Castles and G. Kosack, Immigrant Workers and Class Structure in Europe (Oxford: University Press, 1973); Detant, Nationals and “Others,” 6; Pittomvils, “Het ABVV,” 433. 9. Pasture, “Introduction,” 8–9; M.-T. Coenen, ed., Les syndicats et les immigrés. Du rejet à l’ intégration (EVO-CARHOP-FEC, 1990). 10. E. Deslé, “Brussel 1968–1995: de politieke constructie van een migrantenprobleem. Een inleiding,” in Migrantenpolitiek in Brussel. Brusselse Thema’s 4, ed. E. Deslé (Brussel: VUB-Press, 1997), 10–11; E. Deslé, “Racism and the ‘Foreign Labour System’: An Exploration of Their Mutual Relationship Based on the Experience of Belgium in the Immediate Post-War Period,” in Racism and the Labour Market: Historical Studies, eds. M. Van der Linden and J. Lucassen (Berne: Peter Lang AG-European Academic Publishers, 1995), 537–61. 11. Detant, Nationals and “Others,” 7; A. Martens, 25 jaar wegwerparbeiders. Het Belgisch Immigratiebeleid na 1945 (Wilsele: Pencoprint, 1973).

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12. M.-T. Coenen and R. Lewin, eds., La Belgique et ses immigrés. Les politiques manquées (Bruxelles: De Boeck Université, 1997), 23. 13. R. Attar, “De geschiedenis van de Maghrebijnse immigratie in België,” in Geschiedenis van het eigen volk. De vreemdeling in België van de prehistorie tot nu, ed. A. Morelli (Leuven: Kritak, 1993), 301–03. 14. A. Martens, “Trade Union Policies towards Immigrants: The Case of Belgium (1944–97),” in Cultural Diversity, 152. 15. A. Morelli, “L’Histoire des migrants et l’Histoire,” in Trajectoires et dynamiques migratoires de l’ immigration marocaine en Belgique, ed. N. Ouali (Louvain-la-Neuve: Bruylant, 2004), 15; Coenen and Lewin, eds., La Belgique et ses immigrés, 23; Detant, Nationals and “Others,” 7–9. 16. Pittomvils, “Het ABVV,” 439–40, 463–6; Detant, Nationals and “Others,” 8–12. 17. A. Rea, “Mouvements sociaux, partis et integration,” in Coenen and Lewin, eds., La Belgique et ses immigrés, 49–55; Detant, Nationals and “Others,” 2; P. Magnette, M. Alaluf, and S.E. Francesco Corrias, De l’ étranger au citoyen: construire la citoyenneté européenne (Bruxelles: De Boeck, 1997). 18. Rea, “Mouvements sociaux,” 56–66; E. Deslé, “Brussel 1968–1995,” 15–16; A. Rea, ed., Immigration et racisme en Europe (Bruxelles: Editions Complexes, 1998). 19. Rea, “Mouvements sociaux,” 63–66; R. Dresse, “L’action des syndicates,” in Coenen and Lewin, eds., La Belgique et ses immigrés, 12–13, 180–81; K. Vandenbrande, “Het Brussels migrantenbeleid bestaat niet. De ingewikkelde structuur van de Vlaamse initiatieven binnen het Brussels migrantenbeleid,” in Migrantenpolitiek in Brussel, ed. Deslé, 166–67. 20. Rea, “Mouvements sociaux,” 66–67. 21. Vandenbrande, “Het Brussels migrantenbeleid,” 154–58; Detant, Nationals and “Others,” 12–13; J. Blommaert and J. Verschueren, “The Belgian Migrant Debate,” New Community, no. 2 (1994): 227–51; Deslé, “Brussel 1968–1995,” 8, 19–20. 22. A. Meynen, “Afsluiting en insluiting. Facetten van lokale migrantenpolitiek in Brussel,” in Migrantenpolitiek in Brussel, ed. Deslé, 142; N. Ouali, “Emploi: de la discrimination à l’égalité de traitement?,” in Coenen and Lewin, eds., La Belgique et ses immigrés, 147–48. 23. Deslé, “Brussel 1968–1995,” 16. 24. Pittomvils, “Het ABVV,” 432; Detant, Nationals and “Others,” 3. 25. Pasture, “Introduction,” 14–15. 26. Martens, “Trade Union Policies,” 157–61. 27. Detant, Nationals and “Others,” 11–12, 15–17. 28. Pittomvils, “Het ABVV,” 448–58; Lire l’ immigration. Immigration et syndicats nationaux 4 (Bruxelles: Comité de liaison des centres de formation immigrée de l’agglomération de Bruxelles, s.d.), 9–12. 29. R. De Schutter, 10 ans de textes à l’ intérieur du syndicat. Sélection de textes de la régionale FGTB de Bruxelles-Hal-Vilvorde de fin 1966 à mi-1977 (Bruxelles: Contradictions, 1978), 3–8. 30. J. Puissant, “Un fil rouge des origines à aujourd’hui,” in Fil rouge d’un siècle de syndicalisme FGTB à Bruxelles (Bruxelles: La Fonderie, 1998), 12–14; D. Luyten, “Les syndicalistes socialistes bruxellois pendant l’Entre-deux-guerres, centre d’un ‘syndicalisme de combat’?,” in Fil rouge d’un siècle, 54–56; G. Vanderhulst, “Des responsables syndicaux, socialistes et bruxellois témoignent,” in Fil rouge d’un siècle, 78–79; Pittomvils, “Het ABVV,” 442.

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31. Pittomvils, “Het ABVV,” 457; A. Bastenier and P. Targosz, Les organisations syndicales et l’ immigration en Europe (Louvain-la-Neuve: Academia-Erasme, 1991), 65–66. 32. Interrégionale Wallonne de la FGTB, Congrès Statutaire, 3–12–1986 (Walloon Statutory Congress), 19–30; Interrégionale de Bruxelles-Hal-Vilvorde-Liedekerke, Congrès Régional de Bruxelles, Rapport Institutionnel, 8–12–1985 (Brussels Regional Congress), 1. 33. ABVV-Brussel, Statutair Kongres, 5–11–1993 (Brussels Statutory Congress), 2–10. 34. Interrégionale de Bruxelles-Hal-Vilvorde-Liedekerke, Congrès Régional de Bruxelles, Le contexte politique, 8–12–1985 (Brussels Regional Congress), 3–13. 35. Interrégionale de Bruxelles-Hal-Vilvorde, Congrès du 23–9–1989 (Brussels Congress), 44–46. 36. Intergewestelijke ABVV-Brussel, Congres van 8/9–11–1990 (Brussels Congress), 4–9, 12–13, 42–46. 37. ABVV, Statutair Congres, Brussel, 5/6/7–12–1986 (Brussels Statutory Congress), 2–172; Bastenier and Targosz, Les organisations syndicales, 66–67. 38. Detant, Nationals and “Others,” 14–15. 39. Intergewestelijke ABVV-Brussel, Congres van 8/9–11–1990 (Brussels Congress), 42. 40. Syndicats, 26–10–1991. 41. ABVV-Brussel, Statutair Congres, 20–9–1997 (Brussels Statutory Congress), 76–83; ABVV-Brussel, Statutair Congres 2e deel, 2–12–1997 (Brussels Statutory Congress), 2; De Morgen, 13–1–1995. 42. Bastenier and Targosz, Les organisations syndicales, 74–83; Pittomvils, “Het ABVV,” 434–35. 43. Bastenier and Targosz, Les organisations syndicales, 61–62; Rapport du Service des Travailleurs Migrants pour la période 1947 à 1949 (CSC: Bruxelles). 44. Bastenier and Targosz, Les organisations syndicales, 61–62; Rapport du Service des Travailleurs Migrants pour la période 1947 à 1949 (CSC: Bruxelles); FMDO (Federation of Moroccan Democratic Organisations), papers S. Abdeslam, text E. Loof (in charge of the department for foreign workers), November 24, 1988; Interview with G. Tordeur (chairman CSC-Brussels), November 24, 2003. 45. Detant, Nationals and “Others,” 11. 46. Bastenier and Targosz, Les organisations syndicales, 72–74; Le STM de la CSC: sa raison d’ être, sa mission, ses structures et son fonctionnement (Bruxelles, 1981); Interview with E. Loof, December 19, 2003. 47. Bastenier and Targosz, Les organisations syndicales, 71–72. 48. Statut du travailleur immigré, proclamé par la CSC à Bruxelles, le 12 avril 1975 (CSC : Bruxelles), 1–8; Bastenier and Targosz, Les organisations syndicales, 62–64. 49. Propositions du MOC pour une nouvelle politique d’ immigration: position du Bureau National du 21 juin 2001 (MOC: Bruxelles), 3–6. 50. G. Kwanten, De Pletinckxstraat. Een eeuw sociale strijd in en rond Brussel (ACWBrussel-Halle-Vilvoorde, 1985), 118; Interview with G. Tordeur, November 24, 2003. 51. Activity report CSC-Brussels, July 1963–June 1967, 39–41; Activity report CSCBrussels, July 1959–June 1963, 84. 52. Activity report CSC-Brussels, 1967–1972, 26–27. 53. Interview with E. Loof, December 19, 2003. 54. Activity report CSC-Brussels, January 1997, 5–31. 55. FMDO, papers S. Abdeslam, report of the meeting of the Provincial Committee of Migrant Workers, January 13, 1979.

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56. FMDO, papers S. Abdeslam, letter to the department for foreign workers, Brussels, December 21, 1989. 57. FMDO, papers S. Abdeslam, working note, December 6, 1983; letter to the members of the executive committee, Brussels, November 14, 1988; text of E. Loof, Brussels, November 24, 1988. 58. Interview with S. Abdeslam, March 31, 2004. 59. Ouali, ed. Trajectoires et dynamiques, 306–11; Interview with A. Bakkali, March 4, 2004; Interview with J. Ben-Allel, January 10, 2004; Interview with S. Abdeslam, March 31, 2004. 60. FMDO, papers S. Abdeslam, report of the migrants’ committee, April 8, 1984; report of the militants’ general meeting, March 8, 1986. 61. FMDO, papers S. Abdeslam, working note, January 14, 1989; working note of the Arab section, September 18, 1993. 62. Interview with A. Bakkali, March 4, 2004. 63. FMDO, papers S. Abdeslam, note by S. Abdeslam, September 24, 1994. 64. Interview with E. Loof, December 19, 2003; Interview with J. Ben-Allel, January 10, 2004. 65. Convention entre la fédération bruxelloise des syndicats chrétiens et la section arabe de la CSC, Bruxelles, October 27, 1998. 66. Interview with E. Loof, December 19, 2003; Interview with J. Ben-Allel, December 9, 2003 and January 10, 2004. 67. Interview with J. Ben-Allel, December 9, 2003 and January 10, 2004; Interview with S. Abdeslam, March 31, 2004. 68. Bastenier and Targosz, Les organisations syndicales, 74–78; Interview with S. Abdeslam, March 31, 2004. 69. Interview with R. Kaaoiss, March 2, 2004. 70. G. Noiriel, Atlas de l’ immigration en France (Paris: Editions Autrement, 2002), 6–8. 71. Detant, Nationals and “Others,” 3–4, 17–19; A. Detant, “The Politics of AntiRacism in Belgium. A Qualitative Discourse of the Anti-Racist Movement Hand in Hand in the 1990s,” Ethnicities, no. 5 (2005): 86–87. 72. ABVV, Statutair Congres, 5/6/7–12–1986 (Brussels Statutory Congress), 13–14. 73. P. Pasture, “Divergent Developments, Regional Alliances and National Solidarity in Belgium,” in Cultural Diversity, ed. J. Wets, 45–62; Coenen and Lewin, La Belgique et ses immigrés, 11.

CHAPTER 8

“From Camel-Boy to MP”: The Politics of Agency and Exclusion in Swedish Political Parties Magnus Dahlstedt

[I]t’s not the fact that some people are democrats and other people are not that is important. The real problem is which meaning of democracy is actually in play. Stuart Hall, “The Toad in the Garden: Thatcherism among the Theorists” [A] democracy of consensus is a democracy of neutrality in which undemocratic practices at the level of daily life go depressingly unquestioned and unchallenged. Peter McLaren, Revolutionary Multiculturalism: Pedagogies of Dissent for the New Millennium

Introduction Official declarations state that Sweden is today a multicultural society. As a result of continuous postwar immigration, Sweden has today one of the largest proportion of immigrants in relation to the total national population in Europe.1 Today, approximately 16 percent of the Swedish population has “immigrant background” from all over the world. 2 At the same time, as the Swedish population has become more and more multiethnic, ethnic hierarchies have become increasingly conspicuous, “even in Sweden,” a country long well-known for its ambitious welfare and integration policy.3 The labor and housing markets, the mass media and politics, the educational and justice systems are in various ways clearly stratified along ethnic, religious, and racial lines.4 The Swedish welfare state that was built after World War II was, first, based on the notion of universalism. Public welfare services such as the educational

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system, unemployment insurance, health services, care for children and the elderly, and the pension system, all had universal coverage. Second, the Swedish welfare state was based on the principle of corporatist policymaking, where different organizations, not least unions and employers, represented the different segments of the population. As such, they were to play a significant role as the state’s partners, to ensure that policymaking ref lected public opinion and enjoyed the support of those affected by it.5 The drive for social equality in Swedish welfare policy was also extended to immigrants. In terms of the typology of citizenship models suggested by Stephen Castles—differential exclusion, assimilation, and multiculturalism— Sweden has, together with countries such as Canada and New Zealand, gradually developed a multicultural mode of incorporation, which “both implies the willingness of the majority group to accept cultural difference, and state action to secure equal rights for minorities.”6 Internationally, Swedish immigrant and migration policy, developed in 1975, with its goals of equality, freedom of choice, and cooperation, has long been regarded as an ideal. The policy granted all foreign citizens living in Sweden the right to vote and run for office in local (municipal) and regional elections (after three years). The state also provided institutional arrangements facilitating the formation of and support for immigrant organizations. Like other corporatist organizations, immigrant organizations have traditionally had a well-established relation to the Swedish state in, among other things, representation in public inquiries, decision-making processes, and advisory bodies. According to several researchers, such arrangements have been auspicious in the exercise of political inf luence by immigrants as well as immigrant organizations as compared to many other countries.7 Since the 1970s, however, Swedish welfare policy, as well as its immigration/ integration policy, has undergone substantial change. In the 1970s, globalization/ internationalization was seen as something basically positive. By the end of the 1980s, and especially in conjunction with the profound economic and social crises of the early 1990s, Sweden was gradually “moving closer to the exclusiveness, selectivity and increasing brutality of Fortress Europe.”8 Economic constraints made it harder to finance generous social policies. Public support for admission of refugees declined, and xenophobia and right-wing extremism became more visible in the public sphere. Globalization/internationalization came to be seen more in terms of risks and dangers, rather than openness and opportunities. In Sweden, as in many other countries, immigration and integration policies were realigned along international standards in terms of immigration control, with stronger emphasis on immigrants’ cultural expressions and their special needs as problematic or even “dysfunctional,” not only for the immigrants themselves but for Swedish society at large as well.9 By the mid-1990s, a new broad political consensus was established in Sweden and a new integration policy was outlined, strongly emphasizing that integration involves not only “the immigrants” but the entire Swedish population as well. Integration came to be seen as an issue that involved the development of Swedish society as a whole. Furthermore, the new political consensus did not

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focus on the rights of citizens as groups or collectives, but as individuals, thus embracing those neoliberal doctrines that in many respects characterize both today’s European Union and the “new Swedish model,” highlighting issues of “lifelong learning, employability, entrepreneurship and small business, immigrants as a f lexible resource for regional economic growth, and the diversity management of corporate business.”10 There is, thus—with few exceptions—no formal exclusion of immigrants within the Swedish welfare state. In terms of formal rights, civil, social, and political, the differences between native Swedes and immigrants, naturalized Swedes and denizens are very small, compared to many other countries, though not always in practice. As other liberal democracies, Sweden is formally characterized by political equality. Swedish democracy is founded on the principle that “all public power proceeds from the people.” It is further based on universal and equal franchise. These citizenship rights also include immigrants in the democratic community. Paradoxically, however, there are a number of studies indicating a significant gap between the promise of political equality on one hand, and real inequalities in terms of levels of participation and inf luence in present day Swedish politics on the other.11 Visible and invisible barriers of different kinds appear to make it difficult in a number of ways for those identified as “immigrants” to plead their own case and to participate in Swedish public life on equal terms. The question is how such substantial ethnic differences could arise in the context of Swedish democracy, which formally gives all citizens the same right to participate in the way the country is governed. How is this discrepancy between formal rights and concrete outcomes to be understood? The focus of this chapter is the politics of exclusion in Swedish political parties. First, I discuss some key elements in the excluding practices that may constrain citizens with foreign background to pursue their political rights in Sweden. Formal “rules of the game” and established conventions that regulate political party life also tend to sustain exclusionary processes of institutional discrimination. This goes, as well, for the prevalent dynamics of informal networks within the parties. Moreover, processes of exclusion are exacerbated through prevalent stereotyped representations of the Other(s), legitimizing the treatment of “them” as “deviating from the Swedish norm.” Second, I address a relatively new feature of Swedish politics—“immigrant candidates” conducting personalized election campaigns. One of the strategies that candidates make particular use of when campaigning is to emphasize their “ethnic background” and personal experience as immigrants, in order to build a personalized political image or profile focused on the problematic of integration. Decision-Making and Underrepresentation In recent years, several studies have emphasized the underrepresentation of immigrants in decision-making bodies as a fundamental democratic deficit in Swedish politics.12 Patterns of underrepresentation are found at basically all levels in the decision-making process. In 2006, those born outside Sweden

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constituted 12.9 percent of the total population of Sweden. In the same year, the total of foreign-born regional and municipal councillors was 7.0 and 6.8 percent, respectively (table 8.1). The percentage of immigrants has admittedly increased with time, but the increase has been rather modest and slow. However, the percentage of foreign-born elected representatives is, to some extent, a result of the status of the political body. The percentage of immigrant elected representatives is considerably lower in more prestigious bodies, such as municipal executive boards, than in less prestigious ones, such as municipal district committees (table 8.2). These status patterns also show the differences in the character of the political assignment. For example, the percentage of deputies with foreign backgrounds is higher than the percentage of chair(wo)men and vice chair(wo)men. What is particularly worth noting in this connection is that those who are foreign-born are overrepresented in positions such as deputies in relation to the percentage proportion of their compatriots in the total population.13 We find corresponding patterns if we look at how the majority of those nominated were elected into political associations.14 When you look at the category of people elected in the 1998 election that were born in Sweden, just over a quarter of them were elected as municipal (local) councillors. The figure decreases for those born in another country, in the following order: Western Europe (just over one-fifth), the Rest of Europe (just over a sixth), and Outside Table 8.1

Percentage of foreign-born municipal and regional councillors, 1979–2006

Body

1979

1982

1985

1988

1991

1994

1998

2002

2006

Regional (county) councillors Municipal (local) councillors

3.7

3.7

4.0

4.3

4.2

4.6

5.4

6.9

7.0

2.5

3.9

4.2

4.0

3.7

4.4

5.7

6.5

6.8

Sources: Henry Bäck and Maritta Soininen, “Invandrarna, demokratin och samhället” in På medborgarnas villkor: En demokratisk infrastruktur (SOU 1996: 162, The Commission on Democratic Development, 1996); SCB, “Riksdagsval 1982–2006: Valda efter födelseland,” http://www.scb.se/templates/tableorchart_160730.asp (accessed May 12, 2007).

Table 8.2 Percentage of foreign-born members of municipal executive boards and committees in 2003 Body Municipal executive boards Municipal council Municipal committees Municipal district committees All bodies

Percent of foreign-born 5 7 8 15 7

Source: Hanna Bäck and Rickard Öhrvall, Det nya seklets förtroendevalda: Om politikerantal och representativitet i kommuner och landsting 2003 (Stockholm: The Swedish Federation of Local Authorities and County Councils, 2004).

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Europe (just over an eighth). Between the elections of 1994 and 1998, we see that the number of those elected in the categories Rest of Europe and Outside Europe respectively increased somewhat, but it can nevertheless be stated that the ratio between the different categories remains fairly stable. In the election of 2002, the total number of foreign-born increased somewhat among the Swedish parliamentary, regional, and municipal council representatives.15 There is still a big difference, however, between those foreign-born candidates who were nominated and those who were elected. That is especially the case in the parliamentary elections, where 10 percent of those nominated were foreign-born but only 5 percent of them were elected. Among the foreignborn candidates, those born outside Europe have continued to find it more difficult to get a seat. The percentage of foreign-born candidates elected to parliament, however, rose from 2.0 to 5.4 percent between the 1998 and 2002 elections. While the ratio between the categories mentioned earlier has shifted somewhat, the starting position for those born in Africa, for example, has been very difficult. In the 2006 election, the percentage of foreign-born candidates elected to parliament declined once again, to 4.9 percent.16 The Politics of Exclusion Since the early 1990s, with growing social end ethnic divisions in labor and housing markets, politics, and education, there has been an increasing concern about “social exclusion” throughout Europe.17 The concept has entered policyoriented as well as academic discourses. Here, the concept of exclusion refers to dynamic processes throughout society, whereby certain groups of the population are being shut out, fully or partially, from the full range of rights that come with formal citizenship status, not only from access to the labor market, which is most often emphasized in the literature on “social exclusion,” but also from citizenship rights such as decent housing, education, social services, and participation in political processes. The people being excluded are not (a) homogenous group(s). On the contrary, individuals are excluded, or included, differentially, in complex processes where axes of power such as race, ethnicity, gender, class, sexuality, and age intersect. Exclusion may be individualized or institutionalized. It may be the result of intentional behavior or an unintended consequence of various institutional policies and routines, and the actions taken by persons working in these institutions. Several studies indicate that there are a large number of institutional practices that do not intentionally exclude certain groups, but that are nonetheless exclusionary in their consequences.18 Exclusion may be found in political parties as well as in other social arenas. Referring to Pierre Bourdieu, political parties can be seen as parts of a broader “political field,” intersected by relationship and conf lict patterns between numerous actors in distinct positions on the field.19 These actors are all part of an ongoing struggle for space on the field as well as support from the electorate. Their conduct is governed by the structural conditions of the field and the specific “rules of the game.” However, exclusion is not only a question

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of material injustice. It is also related to the discursive constitution of reality, thereby bringing questions of politics, boundary setting, and the formation of groups to the fore. 20 Excluding practices are often legitimated by various conceptions of normality and deviance, as well as sameness and otherness. According to Bourdieu, it is in the constitution of groups that the effectiveness of representations is most apparent, and particularly in the words, slogans and theories which help to create the social order by imposing principles of division and, more generally, the symbolic power of the whole political theatre which actualizes and officialises visions of the world and political divisions. 21

In these boundary-setting processes certain groups and interests tend to be represented in terms of problems and deviances, and sometimes as disturbances or even threats to “mainstream society.” 22 On the other hand, when the excluded Others are not made present in such a stigmatizing manner, they tend to be made invisible in public discourse, in the sense that representations of their particular experiences, points of views, and interests are silenced or excluded. 23 Certain actors always seem to have the preferential right of interpretation— the possibility to make their starting points and their jargon within a certain organization. Organizations are therefore not neutral fields, where individual actors are encountered on equal terms. They are rather structured according to principles that give them quite unequal starting positions. In that respect, the political field manifests a certain “mobilization of bias.” 24 “There is,” as James March and Johan Olsen verify, “a tendency for large, powerful actors to be able to specify their environments, thus forcing other actors to adapt to them.” 25 They note that these unequal relationships tend to have an ethnic dimension, as organizations are often formed by those ethnic groups that are present. Parliamentary Everyday Life Inequalities in terms of participation and influence in Swedish politics appear in part to be a result of the unequal opportunities available to people to take up any kind of place within the framework of the public channels for political action—which requires various forms of resources and abilities. Previous research on political representation has been able to identify a number of distinct correlations between, on one hand, differences in various types of resources and abilities—such as access to work and education, confidence and knowledge—and, on the other, differences in levels of participation and influence between persons born in Sweden and those with an overseas background. 26 A number of studies have recently also pointed to the way in which parliamentary everyday life comprises a set of routines and conventions, roles and expectations, which place immigrant elected representatives in a precarious situation. 27 Within the Swedish political system, there are a number of institutionalized everyday routines and procedures that, in different ways, position or

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exclude representatives on the basis of their ethnic background. At the same time, however, individual representatives position themselves and thereby create a particular space for themselves as political subjects. In the following paragraphs, I will brief ly outline three main processes of exclusion within the political parties—“rules of the game,” contacts and networks, and stereotyped representations of immigrants—and thereafter discuss the question of the representatives’ own agency in terms of “identity politics.” 28 Interviews with representatives with different ethnic background, in different political parties as well as parts of Sweden, indicate that one crucial aspect of exclusion within the political parties involves the rules of the game, the particular set of taken for granted conventions that regulate political party life. 29 In addition, the rules that are set up to be impartial can have definite ideological subtexts, in the sense that they are, in the main, judgments that are “colored” according to who and what is and is not claimed to be suitable or acceptable within the parties. For example, as a party representative your political profile should not be “too provocative” and you shouldn’t be too outspoken or “dogmatic” about issues such as racism and discrimination—certainly not within your own political party. Otherwise you risk sharp opposition. The rules of the game are therefore symbolic or ideological, although at the same time they are material. They are a result of patterns of behavior and routines that position individual representatives according to the prevailing rules of the game. A second aspect of exclusion involves access to the different kinds of contacts and networks that exist within the parties.30 Without a widespread network of contacts it is difficult to keep up with the competition that is prevalent within the parties. Here, immigrant representatives easily find themselves at a disadvantage in relation to native Swedes, because as a rule they don’t have the same network of contacts within the parties. However, widespread networks outside of the parties, involving for instance various immigrant associations, may in a number of respects be a quite valuable resource for immigrant representatives, in terms of lobbying and securing votes from different “ethnic communities.”31 Such networking has been shown to be crucial, for example, in the nominations processes within the parties.32 A third aspect of exclusion, finally, involves a collection of stereotypes and racialized representations of immigrants, which at times are used to legitimize the treatment of the Others as “deviations from the norm.” These representations seldom seem to involve open conf licts or clearly formulated preconceived thoughts and ideas, but rather ideas mentioned in passing, without being followed up and explained. These insinuations can be difficult to get a hold of and identify, but they can nevertheless accumulate and give rise to “structures of feelings”33 that are both evident and highly unpleasant for those subjected to them. According to a prevalent party image, for instance, the issue of integration is associated with the immigrants themselves, and not with Swedish society as a whole, which in many cases means that immigrant representatives are associated with pursuing integration issues. Immigrantship and integration perspective thus tend to become something of a political reservation to which elected representatives with foreign background are referred.

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Democracy—The Swedish Way? Many immigrant representatives, particularly those with non-European background, feel that they are constantly perceived as in some way or another deviating from a rather exclusive Swedish norm. Immigrant representatives, their particular “ways of being and acting,” are thereby often defined as a problem within the parties, something that has to be “handled” or “overcome.” Within the political parties, Swedish society is assumed to be characterized by a “democratic ethos.” Here, democracy is, though most often implicitly, associated with Swedishness. To the extent that immigrants lack knowledge of the way politics is conducted in Sweden, this is seen as a consequence of their “different culture” not being characterized by the same democratic ethos. According to this cultural deficit paradigm,34 there are more or less strong demands for immigrant representatives to “adapt to the Swedish norm,” to what is referred to as “the specific Swedish way of doing politics.” Within the framework of this particular paradigm, there is basically no acknowledgment of the representatives’ actual competences and qualifications. They are for instance often assumed to be less “socially competent” than Swedes. Behind this wall of representations of a collective lack of competence, it is often difficult for the representatives to be seen and treated as individuals of their own. By means of the recurrent characterization of democracy as something specifically Swedish, it becomes our job as Swedes to “enlighten” them, the immigrants, and not vice versa, and to educate them to become “good, Swedish democrats.”35 Here, I have particularly focused on the exclusion of immigrants in Swedish political parties. Similar processes of exclusion have been documented within other arenas in Swedish politics and society. Several studies have indicated that democracy in contemporary Sweden in a number of respects is characterized by a specifically Swedish “imagined community.”36 Citizens that take their place in public life, whether they are native born or from overseas backgrounds, face a number of routines, conventions, and more or less taken-for-granted ideas that categorize them according to their perceived closeness to an imagined Swedish normality. Democracy thus does not only constitute a formalized system of impartial procedures and routines, regulating decision-making and the formulation of opinion in a way that guarantees freedom and equality to all participants on various domains of public life. Participation on different public arenas rather reflects more or less openly excluding practices, long well documented in, for example, the housing and labor markets. Such excluding patterns have also been shown to exist in the political landscapes of other countries.37 In order to be able to enjoy the rights afforded by Swedish democracy and to participate as equals in public life, immigrants need to fulfill a number of, most often implicit, entry requirements. There are a number of demands and conditions that at different times and in different respects serve to structure citizen participation and action in the context of Swedish democracy. Participation is subject to certain conditions.38 In the everyday life of political parties, for instance, there are numerous examples of how immigrants in different situations

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are required to prove both their belonging and loyalty to Swedish society and the Swedish imagined community. They are required to prove that they have learned the right codes, have a proper command of the Swedish language and the rules of the game, and that they share the fundamental principles on which the imagined community is based. Irrespective of which strategy the immigrant representatives choose—to create a profile for themselves on integration issues and to act as spokespersons for immigrants or to build their political profile on other, more general political questions—they constantly seem to encounter new demands.39 Entry requirements are reformulated, expectations specified in more detail. Those who make demands for change in a fashion deemed to be inappropriate in terms of prevailing party conventions always risk being excluded or silenced on ethnic grounds. Those excluding practices within the political parties are often presented as being based on universal or neutral premises, despite the fact that they are often, in actual fact, ethnically particular. They include by means of stigmatizing and subordinating.40 In order to capture these processes of inclusion by means of exclusion, I have elsewhere elaborated the concept of “reserved democracy,” which denotes a political order in which a set of normative ideals and practices of Swedishness constitute Immigrantship in terms of deviancy.41 Reserved democracy is a concept that, on one hand, designates the privileged space of political agency reserved to Swedes. At the same time, reserved democracy captures the role of exclusionary processes in inducing reticent attitudes toward mainstream Swedish politics by immigrants. Those who are not regarded as belonging to Swedish society are not likely to participate in the official channels for political action. And the question is, why should they? Many residents in stigmatized suburban environments are also asking themselves this question: If you are not respected in society, then why should you in turn respect society, by voting, for example? Doing Politics, Doing Identity: The Elections of 1998 and 2002 However, the Swedish political system is neither static nor homogeneous. Those voices that today promote a multiethnic Sweden have increased in strength, not least in political constituencies. The presence of the Others in decision-making bodies is not least emphasized by the fact that several organizations are currently led by people with foreign background. The struggle for inf luence and representation continues. That has always been the case. The phenomenon of identity politics is a clear example of the complexities of political life. Various stereotypes about immigrants certainly contribute to establishing, maintaining, and legitimizing the exclusion of immigrants, who are still perceived to be “foreign elements” in the Swedish political system. Immigrant representatives are not, however, passive victims in relation to these mechanisms defining and treating them as alien elements in an otherwise “normal Swedish” political system, without the capacity to react independently. In fact, it is quite the reverse.42 Immigrant representatives actively contribute to both

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establishing and breaking the mechanisms of stigmatization and exclusion operating within Swedish party political life as well as in other locations. Although many of the representatives that I have interviewed have experienced various forms of exclusion within the Swedish parties, it is nevertheless quite obvious that the vast majority of them still try to negotiate with the existing power structures within the Swedish political system in different ways. At the same time, individual immigrant representatives could themselves actively contribute to the dynamics of exclusion by, in some way or other, consciously making use of or alluding to images and metaphors that are offered throughout society, either for themselves or for their ethnic group. Let us turn to the elections of 1998 and 2002. From fieldwork carried out in multiethnic suburbs in Stockholm during the elections, I will in the following paragraphs illustrate how some candidates in their campaigning developed and emphasized their otherness with the aim of both establishing a determined political profile and capturing the electorate’s ardently coveted votes. In a sense, the 1998 election was of historical importance because it was the first time in Swedish history that voters could choose a particular candidate besides choosing a party.43 When the personal vote made its entrance in Swedish party politics, the personal element was given more weight in relation to political party doctrines. From one angle, this new feature of Swedish politics can therefore be seen as another way toward the generally increasing personification that has taken place in politics during the last decade. The personal vote has meant an increased scope for lifestyle politics and for a somewhat deliberate creation of both image and identity within the political process. The already close relationship between politics and the media is therefore strengthened. The personal vote reform, however, doesn’t only support a universal personification of politics. It is also part of a widespread political aspiration to renew and strengthen local democracy. Both in the 1998 and 2002 election proceedings, there were several examples of how political parties actively worked to put questions of integration and the living situation in multiethnic suburbs on the agenda in ways that differed from what had previously been the case in Swedish politics.44 In the parliamentary, regional, and municipal elections, candidates with foreign backgrounds conducted personal vote campaigns. The election proceedings showed how ethnic background was used by a number of candidates as part of a political profile—something that we recognize from other European immigration countries.45 With the introduction of the personality-based election, there has also been a tendency for some representatives to present themselves as immigrant representatives and emphasize their background as being crucial to their role or loyalty as a politician. During the election campaign, several candidates created an image that was, to some extent, based on issues of integration. “I shouldn’t go there”: The Party Meets the Suburbs During the 1998 election, the parties regarded immigrant candidates as crucial when it came to “reaching out” to potential suburban voters. Such reasoning

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was evident in an interview with Pia Gustafsson, ombudsman for the liberal Centre Party in Stockholm, in the newspaper Svenska Dagbladet, in the middle of the 1998 election campaign.46 In the interview, she stated that the Party consciously directed its election canvassing toward the city’s multiethnic suburbs in order to promote candidates with a foreign background. She announced that: “We are backing immigrant candidates that can meet the immigrant groups on their terms,” and justified the action by referring to a well-known incident that occurred in 1992, when, among others, the former migration minister Birgit Friggebo visited the Rinkeby Community Centre. The meeting was a disaster. The minister’s attempt to get the inhabitants of Rinkeby who attended the meeting to sing the American peace song, We Shall Overcome, was completely misdirected. In the interview, Pia Gustafsson said that the incident had taught her that: “I shouldn’t go there, because it would easily become a ‘We Shall Overcome-happening.’ ” She also rather blatantly indicated that: it is much more appropriate to have an immigrant candidate that goes out to the suburbs to meet immigrants “on their terms.” “I am a part of the difference”: Confrontation and Polarization To some degree, Juan Fonseca, the former Social Democratic MP, pursued a partly self-financed personal campaign during the 1998 election in order to improve his fifteenth place rating in the parliamentary listings.47 During the mid-1990s, he had already established himself as a nationally popular figure. He had long been in opposition to, and often in conf lict with, the Party’s official position for constantly standing up for a “black-haired Sweden.” During the spring, he was dropped from the Party’s Stockholm listings. The controversy surrounding Fonseca was given national media coverage. Besides outlining the pitch of his forthcoming personal campaign, he explained to a press conference that: “I am absolutely determined to fight for a place in parliament in 1998 using my own resources and with support from those people in Stockholm who find themselves both segregated and poor.”48 In a newspaper interview given just before the 1998 election, he asserted that: “If you don’t rub shoulders with those in power, you will be sidelined. The parties are afraid of losing control. If you are loyal you are welcome, but they don’t want anything to do with individuals who think for themselves and are critical.”49 He was featured on black and white posters, standing in a market square, wearing a black t-shirt displaying the words: “Sweden is not like it was. I am a part of the difference.” The text should of course be read against the background of Fonseca’s profile during the previous mandate period. In a smaller advertisement in the daily press, the image was supplemented by the caption: “Say yes to tolerance, diversity, integration” and “no to discrimination.” Juan Fonseca is one of the best examples of how to use a personal campaign to position an individual candidate as a champion for—as Fonseca himself describes it—black-haired Sweden. The style is deliberately confrontational and dramatic. Fonseca makes use of codes, images, and metaphors that allude to conf lict and

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polarization, such as between the city and its suburbs, differences and similarities, “those in power,” and “critical and independent thinkers.” However, Fonseca was not the only one who adopted a strategy of confrontation when it came to launching himself as a political candidate. In an election poster, the Liberal Party parliamentary candidate Bijan Fahimi tried to capture the electorate’s attention by putting the provocative question: “Dare you vote for a wog?” “Vote against racism”: Profile and Personification Issues Novin Harsan was another Social Democratic parliamentary candidate. In the final stages of the election campaign she was given special attention by the mass media when it emerged that, in her personal campaigning, she had been continually harassed and opposed by xenophobic groups. In order to increase her ratings from thirty-second place in the parliamentary listings, she profiled herself in a similar—but more cautious—way to Fonseca, by forming a somewhat ethnic profile. On one of her election campaign posters you could read the following: Vote for: —the struggle against discrimination and oppression —a fair and just Sweden, where everyone is equal —a society where solidarity is a natural feature and where everyone takes responsibility, irrespective of nationality, skin color or gender —the universal right to good health care, good schools and care for the elderly —the universal right to employment and housing

Besides profile issues such as “the struggle against discrimination and oppression,” for “a fair and just Sweden,” and for “solidarity,” issues such as medical care, schools, and care of the elderly, employment, and housing were also high on the list. In order to create a political profile that would attract electors in the metropolitan area, traditional left-wing issues were intertwined with those relating to the situation in the country’s multiethnic suburbs—particularly the immigrant population. Several candidates focused on their identities, affiliations, and their individual qualities, rather than on the political party itself. Yvonne Ruwaida, the Green Party MP, was one of those who used the strategy of emphasizing her ethnic background as being significant in her particular political profile. One of her campaign posters encouraged you to: “Vote against Racism! Vote for Yvonne Ruwaida, your Swedish–Palestinian parliamentary candidate.” Ruwaida put herself forward first and foremost as a “Swedish–Palestinian,” and second as a “parliamentary candidate.” At the same time, the Party took the opportunity to profile itself as integration-friendly. “Vote for a Party that takes a vigorous stand against the causes of racism and works actively against discrimination.” Two local authority

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candidates Sabina Bossi and Rebwar Hassan were featured on another of the Party’s election posters with the slogan: “Diversity and Equality.” They didn’t cash in on their “ethnic background,” but instead put forward the Party’s profile on the issues of integration and discrimination: “The Green Party is the one that has worked hardest against all forms of discrimination. That is why we have the best representation of women and the best representation of immigrants in the parliamentary assemblies in Sweden.” The pattern was repeated on an election poster promoting Hatam Jafar, the Centre Party candidate in all three ballots, whose all-embracing message was: “You have your own responsibility in this country!” It is apparent from the poster that the candidate put great emphasis on himself as a person and on his life story, as there is a long description of Jafar himself, with the following lead-in: “My name is Hatam Jafar. I was born in Baghdad in 1970 and I am a Kurd from Iraq.” In the same way, Maria Hassan, the Social Democrat’s municipal candidate, chose to introduce her election brochure with a presentation of herself as a politician by saying: “I am a Ukrainian who came to Sweden in 1986.” The person’s background is again in focus. “Make it possible”: Product Placement and Local Variations During fieldwork in different suburbs of Stockholm during the weeks leading up to the 1998 General Election, it became obvious that the party manifestoes were formed and packaged in accordance with specific local requirements. I met a specific set of election posters and political profiles in mid-town, upper class Östermalm, whereas in multiethnic Rinkeby the situation was somewhat different. During those final stages of the election campaign it really was an amazing experience to alternate between these two areas. In some ways they were like universes that ran parallel to each other, while at the same time belonging to one and the same community. In Rinkeby, as in other multiethnic suburbs, Sweden’s ethnic diversity was represented on the different party election campaign posters. Candidates profiled themselves on the issues of racism, discrimination, integration, and diversity. In Österman the images were completely different, because as far as I could make out, nothing of this kind was represented. One—perhaps rather hackneyed—example of that pattern was of the Moderate Party (formerly the Conservative Party) election posters displayed in Stockholm. One of the Party’s main slogans in the election campaign was “Moderates make it possible.” Although there were several variations of the same theme, I only found the following example in the suburb of Rinkeby, situated to the north of Stockholm. Full-length portraits of four Moderate candidates were featured on a big wall poster. Two of them were of foreign background. Fatima Nur, the Party’s main regional council candidate, was one, and the other was Sylvia Shahin, fifth in line for a seat as a municipal councillor. The choice of sites for displaying such political publicity had probably been governed by the local situation and particularly the suburb’s ethnic

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composition. Furthermore, the Moderate’s slogan, “make it possible” had, in the city’s multiethnic suburbs, been supplemented with the caption “for everybody.” During the previous election, the Party experienced a remarkably low level of support for its policies among Stockholm’s multiethnic suburbs.50 The Party was therefore anxious to improve its profile in these areas during the 1998 election, particularly by promoting candidates with a foreign background and by emphasising that the Party “makes it possible for everybody,” also for—or perhaps especially for—the inhabitants of the city’s most disadvantaged areas. Such a profile creating strategy is, however, not unique to the Moderates. As has already been mentioned, it is part of a more general political trend, where parties and individual candidates take advantage of the opportunity that the personal vote offers when it comes to creating a distinct political profile that is expected to win votes as well as confidence. “From camel-boy to MP”: Candidature in the Shadow of September 11 The trend of candidates underlining their otherness to create a political profile for themselves continued in the election of 2002 and was particularly noteworthy in one personal vote campaign. In 2001, Social Democrat Abdirisak Aden was put on the list of suspected terrorists drawn up in the United States after the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center on September 11. For ten months before his name was removed from the list, he was suspected of collaborating with Osama bin Laden’s terrorist network, al-Qaeda. During the 2002 election, Aden ran as a parliamentary candidate. The election poster showed him posing in the front of the Riksdag, the Parliament building, with a camel. In an interview with the newspaper Aftonbladet, he said: “That was how my life began back home in Somalia. My family lived as nomads until I was eight years old. We had about 15 camels.”51 The captions on the poster ran: “From camel-boy to MP” and “Different experiences make Sweden richer.” In another interview just before the impending election, he described his political ambitions in the following terms: “I might not be able to change life in the suburbs, but I want to be a voice for those people.”52 In his personal campaign, Aden repeatedly emphasized his otherness as being particularly important for his political profile. At the same time, journalists were not slow to maintain that political profile, by further positioning him as a foreigner. Politics of Agency and Identity To some extent, the continuous rise of identity politics among ethnic communities in contemporary Swedish politics both results from and supports a situation where people are constantly ascribed to certain cultures and affiliations, whether they accept it or not, and are treated in the way that they have been defined.

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It is partly an answer to and partly a direction in the dynamics of exclusion that currently exists within the political system. On one hand the identity politics opens itself to organizing and resisting prevailing patterns of exclusion, isolation, and stigmatization. On the other, it opens the way for quite opportunistic maneuvers and instrumental exploitation of what are referred to as authentic identities. Sometimes, and very indiscriminately, individual immigrant representatives can use stereotyped dichotomies and prevailing perceptions of identity and origin—for example, in election campaigns—to promote themselves as legitimate interpreters of the “authentic” experiences and points of view of “their group.” However, the crucial question of representation of immigrants in Swedish politics is most often framed within a much too simplified way of understanding of the whole “problem of representation.”53 In what way is it simplified? First and foremost It is simplified in the sense that it tends to define ethnic groups as homogeneous and united around a determined nucleus of assumed values, experiences, and interests. According to this particular definition, some people are different, but this otherness is not necessarily a bad thing in itself. Otherness is rather something that ought to be both encouraged and represented in decision-making bodies. An ethnic elite is here supposed to, more or less easily, give voice to this nucleus of values, experiences, and interests. In large parts of contemporary research about ethnicity and multiculturalism, however, the concepts community and ethnic identity are approached as highly complex, integrated in a number of social processes intersected by (power) dimensions such as gender and class, sexuality, and age.54 In an argument that primarily starts out from the significance of highlighting the underrepresented otherness, there is always a risk that lines of conflict of that kind get more or less out of focus. If cultural otherness rather than power, inequality, and social exclusion is the starting point of the discussion, it means that sooner or later otherness has to be established and institutionalized. Individual representatives will, in different ways, then take it upon themselves to interpret that otherness. It is a risky democratic step to take, because in the long run, it sustains and legitimizes the distinction between people and groups. Second Representation stands out as a predominately linear practice between predetermined interests and individual representatives.55 Such a starting point makes it difficult to capture the creative and symbolic act where individual representatives make a number of strategic choices when it comes to, for example, creating a particular political image of themselves, for instance in connection with election campaigns, by referring to tradition and background. In the act of pursuing this kind of identity politics, individual representatives weave together different narratives, slogans, and myths to fit the circumstances. It can therefore be ascertained that the representatives’ background and roots are thus more about the conditions and consideration of the here and now than an obscure past. Third The individual representative’s claim of acting as an agent for a determined category of immigrants supports the image of immigrants being primarily linked to their culture, their collective roots, and their primordial

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traditions, while the Swedes are basically seen as individuals.56 The focus that identity politics puts on background and origin successively shifts the focus in political processes, from content (substantial critique or suggestive measures) to form (where an individual representative was born, lives, or what s/he is called). The question of representation should, in essence, be understood as a question of power, of stigmatization and exclusion, rather than something that is “only” concerned with the adaptability of the Others, about their assumed deficiencies in terms of social competence, with little insight into “the Swedish way” of meeting people and doing politics or the Swedish popular movement tradition. It is true that several of those representatives I interviewed during fieldwork emphasized the significance of, as an actor on the (Swedish) political field, having a distinct political competence—good knowledge of the Swedish language, the ability to “speak properly” and “know the right codes.”57 It should, however, be kept in mind that the demand for a certain kind of “competence” is always the result of processes of classification, judgment, and, consequently, the exercise of power.58 In this respect it is important to pay attention to and critically scrutinize the processes that create—as well as normalize and recreate—patterns of judgment that distinguish and define what is, for example, good Swedish or knowledge of what that Swedish code is all about. The idea of a specific political competence that all representatives are expected to live up to can also exclude certain people, as I argued earlier, from the point of view of their ideas about similarity and difference, proximity and distance, in relation to a perceived Swedish normality. Beyond Monocultural Democracy There is today an acute need for substantial political change. Over time, democracy as the reserve of an exclusive, culturally homogeneous We undermines democracy itself, both as idea and practice. Democracy in present day, multiethnic Sweden is stratified along ethnic lines in several respects. This is a fundamental democratic problem, but is at the same time also a problem of democracy. If power, as is specified in the Swedish Instrument of Government, is to proceed from the People, democracy needs to become considerably more inclusive. The ethnic hierarchies in contemporary Swedish politics and society contain the seed of an immense problem of legitimacy. Why should those who are included by means of subordination support such a regime? From a democratic point of view, it is thus necessary that ethnic minorities themselves, through democratically elected representatives and otherwise, have better opportunities to articulate political issues and insist on changes that would otherwise probably have been silenced, marginalized, or even removed from the mainstream political agenda.59 In the long term, the demands and political challenges raised by various immigrant representatives will gradually broaden or democratize the public debate.60 A more fair representation of subordinated ethnic minorities in decision-making bodies could, moreover, foster

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more positive attitudes toward government as well as further encourage political participation among the minority electorate.61 The crucial problem in Swedish politics, therefore, is perhaps not the actual percentage of representatives that in one way or another claim to give voice to otherwise suppressed social groups, but rather the tangible expressions of identity politics in contemporary Sweden. Today it is mostly immigrants that bring up or profile issues of integration and discrimination, despite the fact that, on the political level, it has time and again officially been emphasized that integration and discrimination both affect and concern the Swedish society as a whole—and not just the immigrants.62 In the everyday life of Swedish politics, however, the situation seems to be quite different. Identity politics, as it is nowadays known, runs the long-term risk of contributing to the establishment of individual spaces or political “reservations” and establishing a situation where immigrants are expected to pursue issues of integration in the same way that women are currently expected to pursue issues of gender equality. Many of those representatives interviewed distance themselves from the role of immigrant politicians often attributed to them, not only by the parties but also by others, for instance the mass media. Instead they see themselves as representing a greater proportion of the population—their own Party, the inhabitants of the peripheral suburbs of a big city, or the workforce. The identity politics pursued by certain “immigrant” representatives is therefore, as pointed out earlier, full of inconsistencies and contradictions. While it can facilitate opposition to exclusion and isolation, it can also facilitate opportunist maneuvers and an instrumental exploitation of so-called authentic identities. A democracy that will provide a place for all, on equal terms, needs to be founded on a community that is not based on a nostalgic, national narrative in which democracy is defined in exclusively ethnic Swedish terms. Referring to Peter McLaren, such a conception of democracy “evokes a society resembling a frozen space of emptiness, a structured and sedimented silence in which power and antagonism disappear.”63 As such, it automatically excludes certain groups, immigrant as well as national minorities, not only from the democratic community of yesterday, but also from that of today. The democratic community should be founded on premises that both in theory and practice include people, on equal terms, irrespective of their origins and affiliations. These premises should be based on political, rather than on ethnic and cultural grounds, so that the implicit link between the universal claims or ambitions of democracy—freedom and equality for all—and its ethnically particular basis can be avoided. Here, democracy should be looked upon as “an on-going struggle without final resolution,” following Stuart Hall, 64 a vision rather than a thing, that may be owned by someone and be given to someone else. It goes without saying that within such an inclusive democratic community, the future of democracy, as well as the questions of multiculturalism and integration, are the responsibility of neither Swedes nor immigrants, but of everyone.

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Notes The main arguments presented here have been published in another form elsewhere, see Magnus Dahlstedt and Fredrik Hertzberg, “Democracy the Swedish Way? The Exclusion of ‘Immigrants’ in Swedish Politics,” Scandinavian Political Studies 30, no. 2 (2007): 173–201. 1. According to Charles Westin, postwar immigration to Sweden can be divided into four main phases. The first phase, 1940–1948, was marked by refugee immigration, mainly from neighbor countries. The second period, 1949–1971, included immigration mainly from Finland and southern Europe, in a situation where the Swedish welfare state was growing rapidly and the economic expansion created a strong demand for workers. The third phase, 1972–1989, was characterized by family reunion and refugee immigration from Third World countries. In the 1970s, immigration was dominated by South American refugees. In the 1980s, most of the asylum seekers came from the Middle East. The fourth phase began in the early 1990s, when immigration mainly consisted of asylum seekers from ex-Yugoslavia. Charles Westin, Immigration to Sweden: An Overview (Stockholm: Ceifo, 1996). 2. Much too often categories such as immigrant, ethnic group, and ethnic minority are used as descriptive and self-evident categories. However, rather than being used as empirical “facts,” their content and origins need themselves to be understood. The first time such categories appear in the chapter, inverted commas are used to indicate the problem of how sections of the population are indiscriminately put into predetermined categories. When the term “immigrant” is used, it ref lects the popular expression of how the population in Sweden is divided into us and them, Swedes and immigrants. The term “foreign-born” relates to people who have been born outside Sweden and who have migrated to Sweden. The expression “people of foreign/ immigrant background” refers to those who have migrated and who also have at least one parent who has migrated to Sweden. 3. Alan P. Pred, Even in Sweden: Racisms, Racialized Spaces, and the Popular Geographical Imagination (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000); Aleksandra Ålund and Carl-Ulrik Schierup, Paradoxes of Multiculturalism: Essays on Swedish Society (Avebury: Aldershot Ashgate, 1991); Carl-Ulrik Schierup, Peo Hansen, and Stephen Castles, Migration, Citizenship and the European Welfare State: A European Dilemma (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006). 4. SOU 2005: 56, Det blågula glashuset: Strukturell diskriminering i Sverige (final report, The Commission on Structural Discrimination on Ethnic and Religious Grounds, 2005). 5. Bo Rothstein, Just Institutions Matter: The Moral and Political Logic of the Universal Welfare State (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). 6. Stephen Castles and Mark J. Miller, The Age of Migration: International Population Movements in the Modern World (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 1998), 248. See also Stephen Castles, “International Migration and the Beginning of the Twenty-First Century: Global Trends and Issues,” International Social Science Journal 165 (2000): 269–81; Schierup, Hansen, and Castles, Migration, Citizenship and the European Welfare State. 7. Tomas Hammar, “Sweden” in: European Immigration Policy: A Comparative Study, ed. Tomas Hammar (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); Hammar, Democracy and the Nation State: Aliens, Denizens and Citizens in a World of International Migration (Aldershot: Ashgate Avebury, 1990); Yasemine Soysal, Limits of Citizenship: Migrants and Post-National Membership in Europe (Chicago: University

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8. 9.

10.

11.

12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

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of Chicago Press, 1994); Pontus Odmalm, “Civil Society, Migrant Organisations and Political Parties: Theoretical Linkages and Applications to the Swedish Context,” Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 30, no. 3 (2004): 471–89. Schierup, Hansen, and Castles, Migration, Citizenship and the European Welfare State. Ålund and Schierup, Paradoxes of Multiculturalism, 8. Maritta Soininen, “The ‘Swedish Model’ as an Institutional Framework for Immigrant Membership Rights,” Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 25, no. 4 (1999): 685–702; Christina Johansson, Välkomna till Sverige? Svenska migrationspolitiska diskurser under 1900-talets andra hälft (Bokbox: Malmö, 2005); Pred, Even in Sweden. Schierup, Hansen, and Castles, Migration, Citizenship and the European Welfare State, 223; Karin Borevi, Välfärdsstaten i det mångkulturella samhället (PhD diss., Department of Political Sceince, Uppsala University, 2002); Soininen, “The ‘Swedish Model’ as an Institutional Framework.” Hammar, Democracy and the Nation State; The Swedish Board of Integration, Excluded from Democracy? On the Political Participation of Immigrants (Norrköping: The Swedish Board of Integration, 2001); Paula Rodrigo Blomqvist, Närvarons politik och det mångetniska Sverige: Om att ta plats i demokratin (PhD diss., The School of Public Administration, Gothenburg University, 2005). See, for instance, Hammar, Democracy and the Nation State; Henry Bäck and Maritta Soininen, “Invandrarna, demokratin och samhället” in På medborgarnas villkor: En demokratisk infrastruktur (SOU 1996: 162, The Commission on Democratic Development, 1996); Bäck and Soininen, “Immigrants in the Political Process,” Scandinavian Political Studies 21, no. 1 (1998): 29–50; Hanna Bäck and Rickard Öhrvall, Det nya seklets förtroendevalda: Om politikerantal och representativitet i kommuner och landsting 2003 (Stockholm: The Swedish Federation of Local Authorities and County Councils, 2004); Magnus Dahlstedt, Reserverad demokrati: Representation i ett mångetniskt Sverige (Umeå: Boréa, 2005); Magnus Dahlstedt and Fredrik Hertzberg, eds., Demokrati på svenska? Om strukturell diskriminering och politiskt deltagande (SOU 2005: 112, The Commission on Power, Integration and Structural Discrimination, 2005); Dahlstedt and Hertzberg, “Democracy the Swedish Way?”; Birgitta Niklasson, “Enstaka öar av framgång: Etnicitet och invandrarrepresentation i den politiska eliten,” in Makten och mångfalden: Eliter och etnicitet i Sverige, ed. Anita Göransson (Ds 2005: 12, The Commission on Integration, Politics and Power, 2005); Rodrigo Blomqvist, Närvarons politik. The Swedish Federation of Local Authorities and County Councils, Kommunpolitikern (Sundbyberg, Ordförrådet, 2000). Abdul Khakee and Marcus Johansson, “Nominerade men inte valbara,” Invandrare & Minoriteter 29, no. 2 (2002): 29–32. SCB, Statistiska meddelanden Me 12 SM 0301 (Stockholm: SCB, 2003). SCB, “Riksdagsval 1982–2006.” Schierup, Hansen, and Castles, Migration, Citizenship and the European Welfare State. Ian Law, Racism, Ethnicity and Social Policy (Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1996). Pierre Bourdieu, Language & Symbolic Power (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1990). David Sibley, Geographies of Exclusion: Society and Difference in the West (London: Routledge, 1995).

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21. Bourdieu, Language & Symbolic Power, 129f. 22. Iris Marion Young, Justice and the Politics of Difference (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990). 23. Ibid.; Kristina Boréus, Diskriminera med ord (Umeå: Boréa, 2005). 24. See further Elmer Eric Schattschneider, The Semisovereign People: A Realist’s View of Democracy in America (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1960). 25. James March and Johan Olsen, Rediscovering Institutions: The Organizational Basis of Politics (New York: Free Press, 1990), 47. 26. Hammar, Democracy and the Nation State; Bäck and Soininen, “Invandrarna, demokratin och samhället”; Bäck and Soininen, “Immigrants in the Political Process”; The Swedish Board of Integration. 27. See, for instance, Dahlstedt, Reserverad demokrati; Niklasson, “Enstaka öar av framgång”; Rodrigo Blomqvist, Närvarons politik; Mirjaliisa Lukkarinen Kvist, Etnisk mång fald i politiken (Tumba: Mångkulturellt Centrum, 2001); Isabell Schierenbeck and Sara Schütt, “Invandrare som folkvalda,” in Politisk annonsering eller nätverkande? Uppföljning och utvärdering av partiernas särskilda informationsinsatser till invandrarväljare vid 2002 års val, eds. Henry Bäck and Maritta Soininen (The School of Public Administration: Gothenburg University, 2004), 196–222; Clarissa Kugelberg, “Förhandlingar om tillhörighet: Transnationella identiteter hos svenska politiker med chilensk och kurdisk bakgrund” in Makt, kultur och kontroll över invandrares livsvillkor: Multidimensionella perspektiv på strukturell diskriminering i Sverige, eds. Tom R. Burns, Nora Machado, Zenia Hellgren, and Göran Brodin (Department of Sociology, Uppsala University, 2007), 393–409. 28. The chapter is based on extensive fieldwork carried out during the elections of 1998 and 2002, in multiethnic suburbs of Stockholm, Gothenburg, Malmö, and Umeå. The material mainly consists of in-depth interviews and focus group discussions with some hundred or so people—most of them with foreign background—involved in political parties, local government, and local associations. In choosing interviewees I tried to maintain an equal balance of men and women, political parties and ethnic backgrounds, although the number of men interviewed was slightly more than women. In addition, the majority of the people I interviewed originally come from outside Europe—mainly from the Middle East, Latin America, and North Africa. On the whole, the interviewees give a representative picture of Swedish political party life. The material also includes observations made in “the field,” policy documents, information material, surveys and other “public” material, a wide variety of press cuttings, and miscellaneous election campaign material such as party political programmes, posters, and leaf lets. 29. Dahlstedt, Reserverad demokrati. 30. Lukkarinen Kvist, Etnisk mång fald i politiken; Schierenbeck and Schütt, “Invandrare som folkvalda”; Niklasson, “Enstaka öar av framgång.” 31. John Solomos and Les Back, Race, Politics and Social Change (London: Routledge, 1996); Schierenbeck and Schütt, “Invandrare som folkvalda.” 32. Khakee and Johansson, “Nominerade men inte valbara”; Maritta Soininen and Nils Etzler, Partierna nominerar: Exkluderingens mekanismer—etnicitet och representation (SOU 2006: 53, The Commission on Power, Integration and Structural Discrimination, 2006). 33. Raymond Williams, The Long Revolution (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1965). 34. Ålund and Schierup, Paradoxes of Multiculturalism; Ali Osman, “Folkbildning i ‘integrationens’ tjänst: Folkbildningens dilemman och invandrarföreningars

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35. 36.

37.

38. 39. 40.

41. 42. 43. 44.

45. 46. 47.

48. 49. 50.

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pragmatism,” in Demokrati på svenska? Om strukturell diskriminering och politiskt deltagande, eds. Magnus Dahlstedt and Fredrik Hertzberg (SOU 2005: 112, The Commission on Power, Integration and Structural Discrimination, 2005). Dahlstedt and Hertzberg, eds., Demokrati på svenska?; Kugelberg, “Förhandlingar om tillhörighet.” Diana Mulinari and Anders Neergaard, “ ‘Black Skull’ Consciousness: The New Swedish Working Class,” Race & Class 46, no. 3 (2004): 55–71; Boréus, Diskriminera med ord; Boréus, Diskrimineringens retorik: En studie av svenska valrörelser 1988–2002 (SOU 2006: 52, The Commission on Power, Integration and Structural Discrimination, 2006); Osman, “Folkbildning i ‘integrationens’ tjänst”; Soininen and Etzler, Partierna nominerar. See, for instance, Ralph D. Grillo, Ideologies and Institutions in Urban France: The Representation of Immigrants (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); Robert Miles, “The Racialization of British Politics,” Political Studies 38 (1990): 277–85; Steven Castles and Alastair Davidson, Citizenship and Migration: Globalization and the Politics of Belonging (London: Macmillan, 2000); Aldisdair Rogers and Jean Tillie, eds., Multicultural Policies and Modes of Citizenship in European Cities (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001); Shamit Saggar, Race and Representation (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000). Dahlstedt and Hertzberg, eds., Demokrati på svenska? Rodrigo Blomqvist, Närvarons politik. Ålund and Schierup, Paradoxes of Multiculturalism; Stuart Hall, “Conclusion: The Multi-Cultural Question” in Un/settled Multiculturalisms: Diasporas, Entanglements, Transruptions, ed. Barnor Hesse (London: Zed Books, 2000), 209–41; Mulinari and Neergaard, “ ‘Black Skull’ Consciousness.” Dahlstedt, Reserverad demokrati. Mulinari and Neergaard, “ ‘Black Skull’ Consciousness.” Sören Holmberg and Tommy Möller, eds., Premiär för personal (SOU 1999: 92, The Board of Evaluation of the 1998 Election, 1999). Tomas Hammar, “Closing the Doors to the Swedish Welfare State,” in Mechanisms of Immigration Control, eds. Grete Brochmann and Tomas Hammar (Berg: Oxford, 1999), 169–201. Solomos and Back, Race, Politics and Social Change; Saggar, Race and Representation. Anna Asker, “Invandrare ska locka invandrare,” Svenska Dagbladet, September 18, 1998. In order to be elected to the Swedish parliament, a candidate needs to win at least 8 percent of the party’s votes in a given constituency. If this target is achieved, the candidate is moved to the top of the party list. Fredrik Mellgren, “Fonseca startar kampanj,” Svenska Dagbladet, February 4, 1998. Ann Bergman, “Välj själv! Personvalet kan förstöra karriären,” Expressen, August 11, 1998. Stockholm Office of Research and Statistics, Allmänna val i Stockholm 1994 (City of Stockholm, 1994). For example, in the 1994 election, the percentages of those who voted for the Moderates were as follow: 11.4 percent in Husby, 9.6 percent in Tensta, and 5.9 percent in Rinkeby. Corresponding figures for the Social Democrats in the same areas were 58.9, 60.8, and 67.5 percent, respectively. The figures for the entire city of Stockholm were 28.7 percent for the Moderates and 26.5 percent for the Social Democrats.

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51. Leif-Åke Josefsson, “En kamel ska ta ‘terroristen’ till riksdagen,” Aftonbladet, August 7, 2002. 52. Jens Kärrman, “Äntligen en fri man på stan,” Aftonbladet, July 15, 2002. 53. Grillo, Ideologies and Institutions in Urban France; Dahlstedt, Reserverad demokrati. 54. McLaren, Revolutionary Multiculturalism; Hall, “The Toad in the Garden.” 55. Anne Phillips, The Politics of Presence (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995). 56. Mulinari and Neergaard, “ ‘Black Skull’ Consciousness.” 57. Lukkarinen Kvist, Etnisk mång fald i politiken. 58. Bourdieu, Language & Symbolic Power. 59. Phillips, The Politics of Presence. 60. Young, Justice and the Politics of Difference; Ian Law and Malcolm Harrison, “Positive Action, Particularism, and Practice,” Policy Studies 22, no. 1 (2002): 35–50. 61. Susan A. Banducci, Todd Donovan, and Jeffrey A. Karp, “Minority Representation, Empowerment, and Participation,” The Journal of Politics 66, no. 2 (2004): 534–56. 62. Borevi, Välfärdsstaten i det mångkulturella samhället. 63. McLaren, Revolutionary Multiculturalism, 297. 64. Hall, “Conclusion,” 235.

PART III

Migrant Activists and Organizations in Outsider Politics

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CHAPTER 9

State Management of Immigrant Organizations in Sweden Olgu Karan

Introduction After World War II European countries such as Germany and Sweden invited immigrants to their countries on a large scale, to make up for shortages in the labor market. As a result, the demography of those countries changed. For example, today, about one-fifth of Sweden’s population of nine million is either an immigrant or has parents of foreign origin. Since World War II, the character and pace of immigration to Sweden has changed significantly. During the 1950s and 1960s the majority of immigrants came from Nordic countries, with the largest numbers coming from Finland. Over this period 550,000 Finns migrated to Sweden. However, during the 1970s and 1980s the nature and pace of immigration shifted from labor recruitment to acceptance of refugees and asylum seekers from non-European countries in Africa, Asia, and Latin America. Immigration reached its peak in 1994 during the war in the former Yugoslavia with 83,000 individuals migrating to Sweden. In addition, under the category of family reunification individuals from nonEuropean countries provided an ongoing pattern of immigration to Sweden. Swedish immigration policies underwent an important change in 1974. The early 1970s faced the transformation of official policy, which recognized cultural diversity and shifted its focus from assimilation to “integration.”1 The official reports stated three principles, which characterize today’s social policy toward immigrants: equality, freedom of choice, and cooperation. The principle of equality means that immigrants should have the same rights as the majority, but also share the same obligations. Freedom of choice means that immigrants should be free to choose the extent to which they want to be part of Swedish cultural identity, including the right to keep their own cultural

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identities. Finally, the objectives of cooperation and solidarity mean that immigrant groups and the Swedish-born population should work together to resolve issues of common interest. In this respect, the Swedish government has officially recognized the Swedish society is multicultural and immigrants have the right to preserve their culture. These fundamental principles still apply today although the terminology of identity used in the 1970s was replaced by that of diversity, multiculturalism, and pluralism in the 1990s. The reason was that the integration 2 of immigrants to the mainstream society was no longer regarded as a unilateral process of incorporating immigrants, but rather as a mutual process. However, the diversity policy did not result in any obvious improvements. Today, it is widely acknowledged by governmental reports that immigrants face structural discrimination particularly in regards to the labor market, the housing market, mass media, the political system, the legal system, the educational system, and in welfare services such as social services and health care. It is vital to investigate immigrant activism as a reaction to the discrimination immigrants face in their daily lives in Sweden. Consequently, the main aim of this chapter is to assess how the political opportunity structure or the political institutional setting of Sweden shapes the claim-making of immigrants’ collective organizations. The general underlying idea is that the dominant political–institutional setting is reproduced by the immigrant organizations.3 The political opportunity structure available in the host society, I suggest, determines the opportunities and constraints upon migrant participation, as well as the type and degree of migrant mobilization. As a particular case, in Sweden, migrants’ collective organizations are articulated by the preestablished institutional setting, which provides a framework that shapes the political opportunity structure for participation. In this regard, I will focus on the legal institutional setting of Sweden as a structure of political opportunity where immigrant activism as a dependent variable finds opportunities and restrictions for activism in the host society. As David Meyer points out, “The key recognition in the political opportunity perspective is that activists’ prospects for advancing particular claims, mobilizing supporters and affecting inf luence are context-dependent.”4 This chapter discusses on one hand the relations between civil society organizations and the state, and on the other, whether or not immigrant organizations have autonomy to voice their demands, to generate their own life preferences, and to affect decisions related to them within this dominant institutional setting. As Carl-Ulrik Schierup states, “[Any] multicultural ideology must be seen in relation to society’s power structure . . . The future of a multicultural society is linked to the real possibilities of immigrants to organize them and to exert influence on their own conditions of existence and on society’s development in general.”5 It is crucial to ask whether collective organizations of immigrants have autonomy to exert influence on their own conditions of existence, and how Swedish governmental structures regulate organizations. In light of these questions, I suggest, historically, the use of “corporatism” as a term that is essential in determining the shape of relations between the civil

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society organizations and the governmental structures in Sweden. Corporatism is a key to understanding the political opportunity structure for immigrants in Sweden, since as Castles and Davidson point out, corporatist structures in Sweden, Germany, and Australia were designed to include ethnic groups in certain decision-making processes.6 The political opportunity structure within the context of corporatism in Sweden will provide the framework for my argument. Swedish corporatism has structured the ways in which migrant communities can act with reference to social, political, and economic rights. I argue that although structural opportunities encourage migrants to mobilize, this leads to the creation and construction of static ethnic identities in culturally essentialist compartments rather than to the celebration of multiple fluid identities. In line with the questions mentioned earlier, I also discuss the consequences of the structural requirements of becoming a licensed immigrant organization in order to receive grants. Migrant collective organizations must turn to a governmental branch that constitutes obstacles to their autonomy and creates negative effects for democratic processes. Corporatism The conceptual definition of corporatism could be the cooperation of interest organizations and the state in the process of formulating and implementing public policy. It points to the domination and co-optation of specific sectional interests by the state and the mediation of section dispute through the offices of the state. Interest organizations inf luence policies in corporatist exchanges with the state. Corporatism is a concept generally employed to refer to economic management in which employers and employees come together in corporatist boards to reach an agreement. The most utilized definition of corporatism provided by Philippe Schmitter states: Corporatism can be defined as a system of interest representation in which the constituent units are organized into a limited number of singular compulsory, noncompetitive, hierarchically ordered and functionally differentiated categories, recognized or licensed (if not created) by the state and granted a deliberative representational monopoly within their respective categories in exchange for observing certain controls on their selection of leaders and articulation of demands and supports.7

In a similar vein, Howard Wiarda defines the characteristics of corporatism as such: 1. a strong directing state 2. restrictions on interest-group freedom and activity, and 3. incorporation of interest groups into and as part of the state system, responsible both for representing members’ interests in and to the state and for helping the state administer and carry out policies. 8

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The formative moment 9 for corporatist structures in Sweden has formed new institutions with lasting legacies, which provide us a framework to understand the opportunities and constraints of immigrant participation. Corporatism is a concept generally employed to refer to economic management. In this regard, the formation of corporatist structures has been related to industrialization. However, if corporatism is an interest intermediation and a problem-solving mechanism and will not be considered in relation to industrialization, then the formative moment for corporatist structures in Sweden can be identified as in the Free Church Movement10 in the middle 1800s. The formative moment constituted and shaped the way of formulating and implementing public policy through the cooperation of interest organizations with the state. One of the most important Swedish political leaders, Tage Erlander, regards the Free Church Movement as such: For many people from the province of Värmland, the large movements of the 1800s—the free churches and tee totaling societies—appeared to be a force that saved family, friends and the entire village from decline and destruction. These social movements taught cooperation and coordination. Poor people united at the mission houses and tee totaling chapters.11

It is in this period of large social movements that the first formulations of corporatist structures were observed and the first welfare policies, such as “poor relief,” were introduced by the state. It is also possible to state that this period has been marked by a formulation of a general pattern to handle newly emerging social movements, and to resolve and manage social conf licts. As David Brown states: The origins of corporatism lie in attempts by the state to employ the moral relationship of family, guild, tribe, and church, so as to restore the harmony of the Gemeinschaft community, to societies characterized by Gesellschaft complexity. So long as class conf lict was perceived as the major threat to the harmony of society, corporatism focused attention on the capacity of the production unit to function as the moral community with which to rebuild societal cohesion.12

In this regard, the response of the Swedish state to any folk movement has been the same: encouraging them to create large and centralized interest organizations to rebuild societal cohesion. According to Öberg and Micheletti, the state acts as an entrepreneur in relation to the centralization and disciplining of social movements.13 The state uses carrots and sticks to control, centralize, tame, and discipline folk movements. A similar model of incorporation characterizes immigrant organizations.14 Accordingly, in his discussion of modalities of immigrant participation Han Entzinger sets three models: individual rights, multicultural, and corporatist.15 In contrast to the individual rights model (i.e., France), and multicultural model (i.e., U.K), in the corporatist model the individual is not seen as the primary target of incorporation; rather, in accord with the definitions of corporatism, the incorporation of immigrants is organized around corporate groups. Individuals

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are defined in terms of group membership, and their communities tend to be defined as separate entities.16 The immigrants’ collective organizations are recognized and given government grants and subsidies if the organizations are disciplined and centralized and if they appear to be Swedish folk “movements.” The encouragement of organization formation by funds based on recognized ethnicity or identity belongings and the licensing of legitimate identities to form organizations raise the question of fairness and/or the neutral consideration of interests. As Bo Rothstein states, “the Swedish state has granted support to a multitude of organizations and associations precisely because they have been thought to stand for high moral principles.”17 In this respect, the state determines high-low morality and deviant-legitimate forms of identity. The state provides incentives and acts as an entrepreneur in the creation of collective identities, while marginalizing or illegitimating some identities. The equal consideration and respect of interests are neglected and the state has the ability to favor or marginalize one interest over another. Ålund and Schierup write: The narrow ethnic focus of the established associations can not offer new ethnically-mixed youth cultures a local public space. In traditional form, the associations cannot provide a satisfactory forum for the increasing number of individuals who have a differentiated double or multiple cultural competence and who possess political experience and the motivation and capacity for self-organization.18

In line with the definition of corporatism by Schmitter stated above, when the concept of corporatism is applied to the state’s management of ethnicity, it directs attention to the construction of hierarchical intermediary institutions since the organizational-structural prerequisite for corporatism is centralization.19 Centralization of interest groups and representation in corporatist structures lead NGOs to work against their own interests or, put in another way, leaders, bureaucrats, or experts of the organization may lose their accountability or the representativeness of their members. 20 Several studies have also mentioned the discrepancy in points of view between the spokespersons of the immigrant organizations and their constituents. 21 My interviewee, a member of the Social Democratic Party since 1987, stated that the institutional structure is forcing immigrant organizations to conform to corporatism and connects it to the “necessity of recognized spokesperson’s conformity with the hegemonic policies of integration to be able to provide funds from the government.” Accordingly, corporatism refers to interest representation, which discourages individual participation and legitimacy being exercised by the most influential groups. Corporatism is a system of incorporation of state and civil society organizations that favors some interests at the expense of others. The centrally made agendas of some organizations that have the opportunity to voice their demands and interests on the corporatist boards could dominate the public policy. However, minority views or the immigrant organizations that could not find a place on corporatist boards could be marginalized and excluded from the

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public sphere. The following quotation is from an official statement given by the Swedish Employers’ Confederation in 1985: The starting point for the debate about corporatism is the organizations’ increasing inf luence on the state . . . On various occasions, representatives for other interest organizations have also emphasized the importance of keeping a clearcut distinction between the area of political responsibility and the organizations’ responsibility . . . The interest organizations should not take part in decisions in the political sector. If that happens, the special interests will get too much inf luence in the political decisions. 22

As David Held says, “by placing certain issues high on the political agenda, tripartitism leads inevitably to the marginalization or exclusion of others.” 23 If we consider the affiliation between the LO (Landsorganisationen i Swerige— i.e., workers’ union) and the Social Democratic Party, we will see that the special interests of the LO and class-related issues have dominated the public agenda and have been given priority for several decades, while immigrant voices and issues based on ethnicity have been marginalized. Accordingly, the narrow interest of the organization that has the opportunity to voice its demands on corporatist boards will be given priority and the multitude of voices in the society will not be able to exert inf luence on their own conditions of existence. As Held suggests, “corporatism exhibits tendencies in which bureaucratic structures ossify and leaders become unresponsive elites in the public and private sectors.” 24 Since there is no direct role of the members of the organizations, the role of the leaders of the organizations in the decision-making process enables them to act without being accountable to the constituents they represent. As David Byrne points out: Under corporatism the leaders of interest groups act without any clear mechanism through which they are accountable to the constituencies they represent, and under corporatism crucial decisions are much more likely to be wholly secret. There is no direct role for the political citizen in the corporatist framework. They are included through membership of the group or estate to which they are considered to belong. 25

This point was also mentioned in the interview and within these prevailing structures, governments may seek to co-opt minority movements and their leadership, and build them into state strategies of surveillance and accountability. Similarly, community activists may be offered positions within welfare bureaucracies according to rules and structures set from above. 26 Due to the prevailing pattern of social movements since the middle of the nineteenth century, Sweden is probably unique in Western Europe in the extent to which its public life is controlled, tamed, and regulated. The state has been successful in controlling and transforming radical claims of spontaneous organizations by disciplining and institutionalizing them through incorporation and co-optation—a fact that has been closely linked with Sweden’s elaborate corporate structure. Characteristically, such movements are very quickly

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extinguished by the state, which tries to co-opt their leadership, translate their claims, transform and adapt their strategies, and integrate them into the praxis of the state institutions. 27 Corporatism, furthermore, can work rather well in economic issues since both sides can sacrifice certain amounts of their interest to compromise. This was the case in Sweden in earlier periods, when blue-color workers, farmers, and businesspeople formed the pillars of Swedish society and the bases of the main political parties. However, on issues such as ethnicity, in terms of moral values and religion, it is harder to say. For example, abortion and veiling are issues that are either won or lost, since in both cases, there are only two possible outcomes. In the headscarf debate, for example, the sides are positioned that it should be either permitted or banned in schools. The European Court of Human Rights backed the Turkish headscarf ban in 2005. In this debate it was impossible to reach an agreement that could have the consent of both sides, as had been the case of employees and employers compromising over wage labor. The same logic in the headscarf debate can also be applied to the debate about abortion. While the local municipality is in charge of registering, monitoring, and administering immigrant organizations, the organizational model of sport clubs of immigrants and immigrant organizations are teaching Swedish norms to the members of the organizations. 28 Immigrants consider the Swedish model of association as a threat to their natural communities. They state: Most of the project is formalized, as it is in the Swedish associations. Protocols must be kept, everything must be planned in writing, and meetings should take place as planned. It becomes more effective, but that is not at all. It becomes difficult to maintain a natural community. Everything follows the clock . . . Things don’t function that way with us. 29

Immigrants frequently comment on how Swedish clubs only meet on special occasion, on how everything is prepared, organized, and planned. According to Ålund and Schierup, “cooperation is viewed as forced organization, as ‘following their model.’ Immigrants normally characterize the Swedish association models as planned, well organized, specialized, rational and formal and it is precisely these characteristics that the Swedish representatives tend to search for in the immigrant associations.”30 An interviewee of mine mentioned that “the formal procedures and the schedules that have to be kept for the conduct of the organization result in lack of participation to the organizations at the community level and further argued that it becomes too boring for a community member to participate in the meetings of the organization.” The formal procedures that have to be followed for conducting migrant organizations result in an assimilationist policy. Fred asserts that “Swedish pluralism is organized via a polarization of two basic types of contrasting ‘ethnicities.’ The Swedish institutional (administrative/organizational) ‘ethnicity’ confronts and homogenizes the immigrants’ ethnic diversity with a system of regulations and rules, which must be learned by participants in an ordered society.” 31 The

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corporatist framework of political opportunity structure, as I have discussed earlier, for migrant organizations corresponds to tokenism, which means migrant organizations are reduced to a branch of government that implements policies set from above. As Fred further argues, “in contemporary situation immigrants experience ‘their lives put into order’ through the technocratic, scientifically oriented control of integration . . . The public administration’s basic role is ‘to control the impact of challenges to the world view and norms on which Swedish social life is grounded.’ ”32 The structural prerequisites to be a licensed migrant organization and to be eligible to receive grants from the Swedish state, as an ultimate source of finance for migrant organizations, act as an extension of the state. Opposition to the structural discrimination, racism, xenophobia, and class position of migrants could become a risk. An example of this kind can be found in the declaration of Samarbetsorgan för etniska organisationer i Sverige (SIOS: The cooperation Group for Ethnical Associations in Sweden). According to the SIOS, the negative campaigns toward ethnic organizations started fifteen years ago when they started to make known their demands in Sweden.33 Their demands were: to enter the labor market without discrimination, to gain protection from racist violence, to provide good education for their children, and to participate in the broadcast of multicultural TV and radio programs.34 Corporatist management of ethnicity serves to strengthen ethnic compartments rather than celebrating the multiple and fluid identities available in the society. This is due to the structuring of collective organizations of immigrants by a cultural essentialist 35 framing, an understanding of which serves Steven Lukes’ third dimension of power—the power to shape perceptions, cognitions, and even preferences, in ways that promote the interests of one group over another. He states that “ideology somehow plays a mediating role between individuals and their experience so that they see certain behaviors as natural and unchangeable . . . divinely ordained and beneficial.”36 Accordingly, the state fixes identities, forces them to organize under one umbrella. The individual from a migrant background has thus been authorized to talk from a certain master position that is assumed to have the essence of the culture as if representing all the immigrants. This is categorizing all migrants as corporate groups rather than as individuals. The imposition of static ethnic cultural categories leads to tokenism that “might well be intended to maintain state hegemony and class domination.”37 Furthermore, the ref lection of such cultural essentialist understandings of immigrants can effectively be integrated to the debates of racialized construction of “cultural differences.” One primary example is that of the so-called honor killings, such as Fadime Şahindal’s murder by her father on January 21, 2002, in Sweden, only a couple of months after the September 11 attack on the World Trade Center in New York. The murder had a great impact on Swedish society and in neighboring countries and was intensively covered in print media and on television. It was the leading news for several weeks and it is still a matter of debate in the Swedish public sphere. Consequently, the issue deserves to be looked at closely in terms of policy measures that are suggested and

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practiced as a result of the explanations that become hegemonic in the state apparatus and in the immigrant organizations. After Şahindal’s murder, two explanations dominated public discourse; the one that embraced a culturalist explanation goes hand in hand with the discussion of the integration of immigrants in Sweden and the other that delineated patriarchy as a universal phenomenon. In the days following Şahindal’s murder, in an interview the chairman of the Kurdish National Association said he “fails to understand why a whole ethnic group is blamed for the crime of one individual.” Honor killings have been effectively utilized to draw the line between “us” (i.e., the modern, civilized Swedes) and “them” (i.e., feudal, patriarchal, uncivilized migrants). Mona Sahlin, who was the minister of democracy and integration in the Social Democratic Party from 2002 to 2004, provides one example of racialized constructions of cultural differences in her declarations and insisted that immigrants have to adopt Swedish gender equality norms and values—“In Sweden we have a set of values that everyone has to adjust to. Whether you like it or not that is the case. If people withdraw from society to avoid adjusting to it we have to find a way to force Swedish values upon them.”38 This is what Foucault called State Racism, the identification of enemies as being outside of the population by drawing the line “us” and “them.” Biopolitical states are invested in protecting the life of the population and the sovereign gains legitimacy through keeping its people alive. Groups that are identified as a threat to the existence of the life of the nation leads to the justification of state racism rationally. T. David Goldberg argues: The law of postcolonial distinction, by contrast, predicates itself on racial denial and the cosmetic masking—the making invisible—of the institutionalizing causes of racist violence and exclusion fronted by reifying discursive fabrication of the ever threatening, panic-producing figure of postcolonial character: the revolutionary; the mugger, the criminal; the gang member; the religious fanatic; the terrorist.39

One of the policy responses that employs culturalist explanation in the aftermath of Şahindal’s death is the allocation of 180 million SEK for preventative and educational measures about honor-related violence against women. The new right-wing coalition government brought to power in the September 2006 elections created a new ministry called “Integration and Gender Equality” in January 2007. In other words, both Social Democrat Mona Sahlin and the right-wing coalition designate the problem of gender equality as a problem of the integration of immigrants, which actually stigmatizes immigrants and creates the map of patriarchy as coming from outside of Sweden rather than designating patriarchy as a universal structure. The new right-wing government issued funds for a project to build up women’s organizations for the aim of combating violence against women. The issue is considered as a problem of integration to the modern, civilized, gender equal Swedish identity. One incentive to build up women’s organizations as national organizations of migrants is the financial support provided by the

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government. Otherwise, it was impossible for them to get organized since they are wholly dependent on government grants. Turkish national organizations have stated that they have been waiting for this step for many years. This shows that without political and financial state investments, organizations cannot exist. Furthermore, the grants provided to the national organizations of immigrants force them to be in conformity with the hegemonic discourse of governmental agencies. According to the head of the Turkish organizations, violence against women resulted in the establishment of women’s organizations, which will be a great step toward integration. The governmental branch called the Delegation for Organizing Women provided, for instance, 550 SEK only to the Swedish Turkish Federation. A member of the administrative board of the Swedish Turkish Federation Aliye Bilfeldt Onay is also the manager of this project and at the same time the founder of an organization that works for the problems of women in the labor market and in social life. The organization she founded called “Karma Multicultural Resource Centre” started to work under the governorship of Stockholm. In other words, she voluntarily works for the immigrant organization and at the same time has a position offered by the bureaucratic apparatus of the state. The key issue here is the existence of organic ties with the state and the NGOs. It becomes hard to distinguish her loyalties. For whom does she work? Is it possible for her to voice the demands of SIOS listed earlier without losing her position under the governorship of Stockholm? In an interview in a Turkish magazine, she responded to a question about the suppression of Turkish women by Muslim macho men in European public spheres by stating: “we have to talk about violence against women in terms of feudal culture . . . Turkish women can overcome these problems by following examples in the society where they live and they should act in harmony with the society . . . We have to have steps to become modern.”40 We can see that she reproduces the us and them dichotomy used by Swedish governmental structures. The Turkish feudal, backward women have to follow the lifestyles of modern Swedish women. She further argued that “women’s organizations will provide a channel to ref lect their problems to the government.”41 The organizations of immigrants (i.e., the civil society sector) and the state apparatus are interwoven in the sense that a hegemonic discourse of the governmental structures is totally internalized and accepted by immigrant organizations in the form of “blaming the victim.” The only possible voice that can be heard from immigrants in the public sphere is the one that is in conformity with the state. The key issue here is to provide a case for the operation and establishment of corporatist structures in Sweden. In addition to the structural prerequisites to establish a licensed migrant organization, the strong directing role of the state in this corporatist framework has been capable of directing the activities of immigrant organizations in accordance with the state policies of its funding criteria. As I mentioned earlier, to be a licensed immigrant organization and to be eligible to receive grants and subsidies from the state, the state plays a directing role by imposing structural prerequisites to establish an organization and by monitoring all the activities of the organizations at the local level. In this corporatist framework government

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funds are provided to all the voluntary organizations.42 Concern about government control of grant usage began in the nineteenth century, which corresponds to the formative moment of corporatism by the incorporation of the Free Church Movement with the state, as I have discussed earlier. The issue of government grants should be at the heart of analysis of government control over collective organizations, more specifically ethnic organizations. The key issue for political democracy is whether economic resources determine the formulation of public agenda, the decision-making process, and the political inf luence of civil society organizations. Financial aid provided by governmental structures as an ultimate source of finance and the impossibility to diversify financial aid from other means in the Swedish context in turn operates as the blurring of boundaries between governmental structures and the ethnic organizations, since all migrant organizations are wholly dependent on, and cannot survive without governmental funds. Because of the risk of cutbacks to financial aid, the line of responsibility of the governmental structures and the ethnic organizations in terms of policy forming, policy implementation, and agenda setting became equivocal. Accordingly, it is possible to state that migrant organizations do not have autonomy, and cannot act independently from the government. The very condition and possibility for voluntary civil society organizations to exert inf luence on the decision-making process is through autonomy from the state. If there is one source of finance, and it is conditioned by conformity to the policies, reaffirmation of hegemonic officially set policies by the immigrant spokespersons, the dividing line between civil society and government has become blurred. Control of officially set policies checking state power and even the creation of new meanings and becomings became impossible. The organizations’ ability to act independently from the government or even to oppose it is highly dependent on whether or not there is a dividing line between civil society and the government. Since the civil society typology suggests that civil society organizations are accountable for their constituencies, they articulate and represent the interests of the migrants—not the government. If government grants serve to control these organizations, immigrant organizations do not have autonomy. Furthermore, if conditions are attached to the grants, it is also possible to argue that the immigrant organizations are controlled and directed by the governmental structures. In Sweden, two kinds of government grants are available: first, according to membership density; second, financial aid based on registered activities promoting integration. In terms of the first criteria, Yasemin Sosyal notes that: “The amount of funding is determined in proportion to membership. The direct correlation between number of members and funding makes the size of membership central concern of migrant organizations. Enlarging membership, without necessarily broadening the active participation of members, thus becomes a goal in itself.”43 In terms of the degree of migrant mobilization, there are one million people who were born outside and migrated to Sweden. Approximately, one hundred and sixty thousand of them (16 percent) are members of ethnic organizations—a

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comparatively low migrant percentage. Throughout Sweden there are forty organizations that have been recognized by the state as democratic and open to everyone. Since the proportion of membership has great importance to the amount of the grant, the funding schemes do not consider views or interests equally. The majority, in this case “Swedish,” organizations are favored and they have more resources to generate and communicate their interests. The second funding criterion is in accordance with the projects they have. However, the government could effectively determine the agenda or the content of the projects since they depend on the government’s goodwill to finance them. Conversely, the organizations may be forced to take on projects and set their agenda in accordance to the government’s high priority areas of policy. It is possible to state that the government grants function as a carrot and stick. Organizations are somehow forced to behave as a branch of government. Schierup states, “By constant touch with all the national/ethnic central organizations the state exercises tight economic control over their activities. Its support is not without conditions. For example, its guidelines influence the content of the immigrant press and govern the forms of organization of both central and local immigrant associations.”44 Accordingly, the lack of definitions on the grounds of government grants provided to the ethnic organizations results in dissension among organizations rather than in the creation of solidarity among them to combat racism and forms of structural discrimination that exist in Sweden. An example of this can be seen in statements made by leaders of Turkish organizations in Rinkeby45 who have stated, “Other Turkish organizations in the area try to prevent our activities by complaining to the municipality, which is in charge of registering, monitoring and administering immigrant organizations, about us.”46 One of the consequences of such a complaint to the municipality, of course, could be financial cutbacks of funds if complaints are approved by the government. Accordingly, enlarging membership in organizations cannot necessarily be viewed as equivalent to effective national representation. As Sven Alur Reinans states: “The immigrants’ central organizations are in no way dependent upon their own constituencies: they subsist on state funds and do not have to consider what their members think. In addition, this contributes to a widening gap between ethnic leaders and grassroots.”47 Moreover, the state subsidizes specific projects in high priority areas, in accordance with the emphasis of governmental policy. New regulations for government grants entered into force January 1, 2002, and will apply to grants for youth and ethnic organizations beginning in 2004. The report prepared by the Ministry of Justice called the Grant System for Ethnic Organizations (Ett Sammanhållet Bidragsystem för Etniska Organisationer) states: The old immigration policy (invandrarpolitiken) provided for collective organizations of immigrants for the purpose to protect their distinctive culture, identity, and their home language. However, these grants didn’t serve integration of these immigrants. Consequently, new criteria for government grants should aim

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to direct organizations’ activities to the projects that effect integration positively. In this respect, the new regulation aims to provide government grants to the organizations for the content and scope of their activities.48

What is clear in the official document is that it monitors the activities, projects, and scope of the migrant organizations through the grant system. As the National Council of Swedish Youth Organizations declares: “we believe that the government and its agencies should not interfere with the aims and objectives of non-governmental organizations.”49 In other words, the grants are not without conditions. National organizations of migrants should accept and apply the policies stated by the government to receive funds. In this sense, organizations become a governmental office, a special branch where they become responsible for implementing the policies and agendas set by the government, which in turn raises the problem of blurring the boundaries of the government’s political responsibility and the responsibility of the organizations. Furthermore, since financial aid depends on the official goodwill of the government, which constitutes the organizations’ ultimate source of finance, this creates conformity with the officially set policies, and thus this effectively means abandoning the goal of making fundamental changes in economic, cultural, and political institutions. Another example of this kind is as follows: through these structures and mechanisms those organizations are tamed and practically all they care about is to get funds for their activities, so they are really tamed and don’t dare to think about questioning anything. They know that they will be punished . . . because all aid and funds will disappear. So it costs, participation costs. The funding they get from the Board of Integration, and a little from the local municipality, are merely symbolic sums which cover nothing (Green Party candidate).50

The ability of civil society organizations to check the power of the state becomes impossible within these terms. The very condition to check the power of the state and the capability to act as a defense against the “colonization of the life world” by the state is dependent on migrant organizations’ independence and autonomy. It is also possible to argue that national organizations of immigrants are not civil society organizations representing the interest of immigrants but, rather, a governmental organization responsible for implementing policies set from above. This is a paradox for the civil society typology that assumes autonomy and independence from governmental structures. The civil society typology has been artfully illustrated by Charles Taylor as follows: In a minimal sense, civil society exists where there are free associations, not under tutelage of state power. In a stronger sense, civil society only exists where society as a whole can structure itself and co-ordinate its action through such associations which are free of state tutelage. As an alternative or supplement to the second sense, we can speak about civil society wherever the ensemble of associations can significantly determine or inf lect the course of state policy.51

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However, Micheletti states, Few Swedes find government involvement and integration with civil society as strange. This is indeed a historic paradox for true social movements are independent of government and the established political order. Yet government involvement with collective action organizations shows how the movements had become goals in themselves rather than channels or methods of social protest. Central government invested in them financially, politically, and gave them carte blanche legitimacy.52

Concluding Summary This chapter has discussed the role of migrant civil society organizations in the Swedish context. Political opportunities structured by corporatism provide incentives for migrants to organize and encourage them to mobilize according to their sense of national identity. Corporatism in the Swedish context has operated as a way of encountering and managing social movements since the nineteenth century. The political opportunity structure shaped by corporatism in the Swedish context results in the existence of migrant civil society organizations under the tutelage of state power. Immigrant activism is shaped, controlled, and tamed by the prevailing institutional setting since the organizational survival of migrant civil society organizations depends on the funds provided by the government. In return, the conditions attached to funding are: first, effectively operate to manage the activities of migrant civil society organizations at the local level; second, result in the abandonment of reservations against the structural discrimination they face; and, third, effectively establish conformity with officially set policies and agendas among migrant civil society organizations. Corporatist structures have provided an environment to protect migrants’ cultural features even though it is possible to argue that immigrant organizations have to adopt the Swedish model of association to be recognized by the state and to be eligible to receive grants, which is considered as an obstacle to their spontaneity and to their natural community. Even in this case as well, organizations are the means through which Swedish norms are thought. Accordingly, culturally essentialist corporatist compartments do not enable the whole society to celebrate hybrid, multiple, and f luid identities and instead result in racialized constructions of identity and perceptions. Furthermore, since the creation of organizations becomes a goal in itself rather than a means of migrant activism to exert influence on their conditions, the political opportunity structure is characterized by tokenism. The leaders and legitimate spokespersons of migrant civil society organizations have to be under the state tutelage to keep the organizations and their positions safe. They do not have to be responsible to their grassroots constituency. There is no direct role for the political citizen in this corporatist framework, and bureaucratic structures ossify. In addition, the funding of migrant organizations by the state leads to dissension among organizations to receive grants; thus, they cannot produce a

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common voice on issues that are of common interest to them. The grant system serves as a carrot and stick, which considers civil society organizations as a branch of government to implement policies. Since government grants are their major source of finance, they are dependent on the government to survive. Consequently, opposing the government’s policy carries the risk of being marginalized and leads to a decrease in government funding. Government grants operate as a mechanism to control immigrant participation. Their organizational form and agendas are dependent on government impositions. Yet the very definition and condition of civil society is the existence of associations that are free from state pressure and tutelage. They have to be autonomous in their decision-making procedures and in their relations with the state. They have to organize themselves independently from the government. Since civil society organizations are the agents of social change because they exert inf luence in the political decision-making process, they have to have no organic ties with the government and should be outside the praxis of the state. Autonomy by definition should be civil society’s foremost character. In this respect, the very possibility for migrants in Sweden to solve the problems they face, to improve the quality of their lives, and to exert inf luence on their own conditions, such as the structural discrimination they face, is dependent on their ability to organize autonomously.

Notes In memory of my grandmother Sabahat Gözaçan. 1. SOU, Invandrarutredningen 3, Invandrarna och minoriteterna (Stockholm, 1974: 69). 2. Integration by definition does not mean recognition of minority rights. It can be said the more the minority is assimilated, the more integrated the society you have. For example, according to Charles Westin, “The rhetoric’s of integration really amount to a less brutally presented assimilation policy in Sweden.” See Charles Westin, “The Effectiveness of Settlement and Integration Policies Towards Immigrants and Their Descendants In Sweden,” International Migration Papers 34 (International Labor Office Geneva: Migration Branch), 43. 3. Yasemin Nuhoğlu Soysal, Limits of Citizenship: Migrants and Postnational Membership in Europe (London: The University of Chicago Press, 1995), 85. 4. David S. Meyer, “Protest and Political Opportunities,” Annual Reviews (February 2004). 5. Carl-Ulrik Schierup, “Immigrants and Nordic Welfare States,” The Study of Power and Democracy in Sweden 21 (Stockholm: November 1988). 6. Stephen Castles and Davidson Alastair, Citizenship and Migration: Globalization and the Politics of Belonging (London:Macmillan, 2000), 151. 7. Philippe C. Schmitter, “Still the Century of Corporatism,” in Trends Towards Corporatist Intermediation, eds. Philippe C. Schmitter and Gerhard Lehmbruch (London: Sage Publications, 1979), 13. 8. Howard J. Wiarda, Corporatism and Comparative Politics: The Other Great “Ism” (Armonk, NY: M.E.Sharp, 1997).

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9. According to Rothstein, the concept is a key to understand the emergence and development of corporatism and refers a period of crisis whose solution surpasses the capability of the existing political institutions in which they can create new institutions with lasting legacies. See Bo Rothstein, “Explaining Swedish Corporatism: The Formative Moment,” Scandinavian Political Studies 13 (1992), 17–18; See also, Jens Blom Hansen, “Still Corporatism in Scandinavia? A Survey of Recent Empirical Findings,” Scandinavian political Studies 23 (June 2000), 159; and Bo Rothstein, “Social Classes and Political Institutions: The Roots of Swedish Corporatism,” The Study of Power and Democracy in Sweden 24 (Maktutredningen, 1988). 10. The crisis led by the Free Church Movement in the political establishment and the process to establish political legal institutions for corporatism and conf lict resolution formed during that period. See Michele Micheletti, Civil Society and State Relations in Sweden (Aldershot: Avebury, 1995), 34, for the Free Church Movement as a formative moment of corporatism. 11. Micheletti, Civil Society and State Relations in Sweden, 180. 12. David Brown, “The Politics of Reconstructing National Identity: A Corporatist Approach,” Australian Journal of Political Science 32 (1997): 256. 13. Öberg provides cases from labor movement in the years 1920s and 1930s and civil servants’ demand to strike in 1960s. See Blom Hansen, “Still Corporatism in Scandinavia?,” 163; Micheletti provides cases from peasant movements, peace, environmental, and feminist movements in Civil Society and State Relations in Sweden, 100–101, and 129. 14. Alexandra Ålund and Carl-Ulrik Schierup, Paradoxes of Multiculturalism: Essays on Swedish Society (Avebury: Aldershot, 1991), 114. 15. Han Entzinger, “Immigrants’ political and social participation in the integration process,” Political and Social Participation of Immigrants through Consultative Bodies (Council of Europe Publishing, April 1999). 16. Each migrant group is expected to be represented by its own national organization. Migrant associations with differing political orientations are compelled to organize under one umbrella federation. Recognition by the state as a legitimate ethnic category is a prerequisite for access to funding, and participatory mechanisms become an animating goal for migrant organizations. See Soysal, Limits of Citizenship, 84. 17. Bo Rothstein, Just Institutions Matter: The Moral and Political Logic of the Universal Welfare State (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 47. 18. Ålund and Schierup, Paradoxes of Multiculturalism, 130; see also endnote 13. 19. Soysal, Limits of Citizenship, 66–7. 20. Swedish employers’ confederation’s (SAF) decision in 1991 to withdraw all its members from corporatist structures could be evaluated in this respect. See also Bo Rothstein, “State and Capital in Sweden: The Importance of Corporatist Arrangements,” The Study of Power and Democracy in Sweden 18 (1988), 8. 21. See Zenia Hellgren and Barbara Hobson, “Intercultural Dialogues in the Good Society: The Case of Honor Killings in Sweden” (preliminary draft), http://www. g w u.e du /~psc /ne w s/ Hobson%20Honor %20K i l l i ng s%20paper %20Ju ne% 2006 doc. 22. As quoted in Bo Rothstein, “State and Capital in Sweden: The Importance of Corporatist Arrangements,” The Study of Power and Democracy in Sweden 18 (1988), 8.

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23. David Held, Models of Democracy (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987), 231. 24. Ibid., 195. 25. David S. Byrne, Social Exclusion (Open University Press, 1999), 40. 26. Stephen Castles and Davidson Alastair, Citizenship and Migration: Globalization and the Politics of Belonging (London:Macmillan, 2000), 149. 27. Micheletti, Civil Society and State Relations in Sweden, 100–101, 156; Ålund and Schierup, Paradoxes of Multiculturalism: Essays on Swedish Society, 17. 28. Ålund and Schierup, Paradoxes of Multiculturalism, 100. 29. Dahlgren and Dahlgren as quoted in ibid., 76. 30. Ibid., 77. 31. As quoted in ibid., 80. 32. Ibid. 33. SIOS is the cooperation group for ethnical associations in Sweden. At present, SIOS is constituted of sixteen national associations, representing approximately four hundred local associations and ninety thousand members throughout Sweden. 34. İsveç Türk İşçi Dernekleri Federasyonu: Turkiska Riksförbundet, Yeni Birlik (2002: 1). 35. Essentialism refers to a reduction of the diversity in a population to some single criterion held to constitute its defining “essence” and most crucial character. This is often coupled with the claim that the essence is unavoidable or given by nature. It is common to assume that these cultural categories address really existing and discretely identifiable collections of people. See Craig Calhoun, Nationalism (Open University Press, 1997), 18. 36. Steven Lukes, Power: A Radical View (London: MacMillan, 1974), 24. 37. David Brown, “The Politics of Reconstructing National Identity: A Corporatist Approach,” Australian Journal of Political Science 32 (1997), 258. 38. Hellgren, Z. and Hobson, B., “Intercultural Dialogues in the Good Society: The Case of Honor Killings in Sweden” )very preliminary draft), http://english.fsw.vu. nl/images_upload/D9EA95A A-065A-392D-A504C264A572FD2F.doc. 39. T. David Goldberg, “Racial Europeanization,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 29, no.2 (2006): 361. 40. Aliye Bilfeltd Onat, “Zorla Evlendirme Şiddeti Doğuruyor,” Vizyon no.1 (2007): 35. 41. Ibid. 42. The State used to provide patronage to Free Churches until 2004. In addition to priests, the State now subsidises all the staff that works for the church. The State also funds adult education, sports, women’s, cultural, environmental, disabled, hobby, humanitarian, pensioner, civil defense, youth, ethnic, and union organizations. 43. Soysal, Limits of Citizenship, 91–2. 44. Schierup, “Immigrants and Nordic Welfare States,” 11. 45. Rinkeby is a suburb area at the outskirts of Stockholm where mostly immigrants reside. 46. Prizma, Samhällsmagasin på Turkiska, May 2002, 26. 47. As quoted in Schierup, “Immigrants and Nordic Welfare States,” 24. 48. Justice Depatment of Swedish Government—Riksdag, Ett Sammanhållet Bidragsystem för Etniska Organisationer (2003: 10).

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49. National Council of Swedish Youth Organizations: http://www.lsu.se/In%20 English.aspx. 50. Pontus Odmalm, “Civil Society, Migrant Organizations and Political Parties: Theoretical Linkages and Applications to the Swedish Context,” Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 30, no. 3 (May 2004): 478. 51. Charles Taylor, “Invoking Civil Society,” Philosophical Arguments (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 207. 52. Micheletti, Civil Society and State Relations in Sweden, 112.

CHAPTER 10

“We’re right here!”: The Invisibility of Migrant Women in European Women’s Movements—The Case of Italy Wendy Pojmann

I challenged them when in Bologna after the Beijing conference they organized a big seminar—bringing Beijing home. And, they were all talking about, and I refer to all of those who were there, all the Italian women who were there—who were famous feminists who were intellectuals. They said it was a very interesting experience for them to be in Beijing and to have met women from the African region, women from India, women from all over the poor countries and that they should do something to support these women. I was very upset and I grabbed the microphone and I said “hey, we’re here . . . we’re here” and I don’t know. I can’t remember anymore what I said but I just went on . . . And some of them were crying and many of them apologized actually. Charito Basa, December 7, 2005

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hese are the words of Charito Basa, NGO activist, founder of the Filipino Women’s Council, and holder of the prestigious Cavaliere della Repubblica award.1 Basa’s words echo those of many migrant women in Italy who are frustrated by their invisibility as they stand in the same spaces as Italian women but go unnoticed. 2 Migrant women in Italy are long-time activists—many have been working for women’s rights for more than twenty years—but their paths have intersected with native leaders infrequently. Migrant and native self-organizing since the 1970s has occurred in separate spaces, especially in autonomous women’s associations. The creation of independent groups for Italian and migrant women can be linked to two main factors. First, migrant women have had to confront the difficulties of integration, that is, of having access to the same rights and services as native citizens. Second, Italian and migrant women do not necessarily perceive gender

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oppression in the same ways. This chapter will demonstrate that Italian women failed to consider fully the implications of decolonization, globalization, and migration on their feminist theories and practices even when they began to ref lect on differences of ethnicity and culture. As a result, they missed opportunities to develop a mature, antiracist, and multicultural feminism. In what follows, I will analyze how and why this occurred. Few studies have looked in detail at the relationship between migrant and Italian women outside the framework of the employer and employee. A sizeable body of work on gender and migration pertains to female domestic workers. 3 Some notable exceptions are worth mentioning. Jacqueline Andall and Heather Merrill have written about the multiethnic women’s associations Donne Senza Frontiere, Libere Insieme, and Alma Mater, all of which date to the early 1990s. Andall is highly critical of the way Italian women approached native-migrant organizing and argued that: “while migrant women saw the association as a vehicle through which their specific problems could be resolved, the Italian women were more interested in the significance of having a mixed women’s association.”4 According to Andall, neither Donne Senza Frontiere nor Libere Insieme ultimately dealt effectively with the intersections of gender, ethnicity, and culture. Alma Mater, on the other hand, is regarded as a highly successful association founded by Italian and migrant women together. Merrill has argued that this Turin-based group represents the truly groundbreaking results that can occur when migrant and Italian women merge their experiences into a modified form of feminism.5 Andall and Merrills’s work is significant in opening discussions of relationships between Italian feminists and migrant women. Both scholars, however, limited the scope of their studies to just a few associations and to the contexts of Rome and Turin, respectively. This chapter broadens and deepens analyses of migrant and native women’s relationships and extends the discussion to some of the first contacts made among activist women.6 With this goal in mind, I first provide a general overview of the development of the postwar Italian women’s movement and of migrations to Italy since the late 1960s. I then discuss some of the earliest contacts between migrant and native women before turning to an analysis of the significance of their relationships in the final section. Movements and Migrations A continuous movement for the emancipation of women began with the Italian Resistance as World War II concluded. Women on the political left and right fought for the liberation of Italy and then turned their struggles into a massive campaign for women’s suffrage, which they obtained in time for the first democratic elections in 1948. True to the postwar divisions that characterized Italian politics in the early years of the Cold War, women’s self-organizing took the form of two large autonomous associations. The Unione Donne Italiane (UDI) represented the interests of women of the left, and the Centro Italiano Femminile (CIF) appealed especially to women with a strong Catholic identity. Both associations worked for much of the pro-woman and pro-family legislation passed

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in the first two decades after the war—obtaining, for example, protections for working women, greater access to educational and employment opportunities, pensions for housewives, after school programs for children, and the right to divorce. Although the UDI and the CIF did not always agree on the specific principles behind certain legislation, both associations worked on putting forward a new image of the Italian woman as a worker, wife, and mother who required greater economic and social equality with men to build a stronger nation. The large women’s associations established a model for future generations of women’s activists by refusing to be absorbed into the political parties, trade unions, or religious organizations. Women’s sections inside other structures had less freedom to act on behalf of the interests of women than did the UDI and the CIF.7 When the workers’ and students’ movements erupted in the late 1960s, many young women were frustrated not only by the political systems but also by their minor roles in extra-parliamentary politics. To allow them to focus more on the issues they retained had gone unnoticed by the parties, extraparliamentary groups, and the historic women’s associations—especially in relation to women’s public roles and sexuality—this generation of women formed new autonomous associations and commenced innovative practices such as autocoscienza (consciousness-raising) to understand women’s oppression. Many of the feminist groups operated within specific local contexts and had small memberships, ranging from a few dozen to several hundred women. Italian regional differences, especially political ones, also inf luenced the perspectives and activities of the women’s organizations. For example, in Milan and Verona, psychoanalytic groups, such as Diotima and the Milan Women’s Bookstore Collective, tended to dominate feminist discourse, whereas in Emilia-Romagna Marxist-feminist groups and the UDI attracted more members. 8 Roman feminists, on the other hand, took a very practical approach to organizing, and led especially by associations such as the Movimento di Liberazione della Donna (Women’s Liberation Movement), an affiliate of the Radical Party, took to the streets and initiated national campaigns for the passage of abortion and antiviolence legislation.9 Underlying philosophical tensions and disappointments in the political arena kept women’s associations from uniting in a coherent national feminist movement. By the end of the 1970s, women had an abortion law and greater access to careers outside the home, but they did not have a unified voice. Many women’s associations disbanded, but others grew in the early 1980s, shifting their focus from distinctly political goals to an emphasis on fare cultura tra donne (making culture among women). Larger women’s associations such as the Orlando Association in Bologna and the Casa delle Donne (Women’s House) in Rome created study centers, archived materials related to women and gender, and stepped up efforts to reach out to their communities, turning even to local administrators for support.10 Today, most Italian cities house a women’s center that can trace its origins to the postwar organizing of autonomous women’s associations. At the same time Italian women were organizing for their rights, Italy turned from a country of emigration to a country of immigration. Between 1951 and

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2001 the number of foreign residents in Italy jumped from approximately 129,000 to more than 1.2 million.11 The migrations of foreign-born ethnic Italians and the return migrations of Italians living abroad, including those from Italy’s former colonies, accounted for population increases in the immediate postwar period. However, as Italy recovered from the war and grew into an advanced capitalist democracy, it became an attractive site for women and men responding to strife at home and/or looking for greater economic opportunities abroad. Some postwar migrations resembled those of other European countries such as France and Germany, in which young, North African men found work in manufacturing and agricultural centers, and once established, sent for family members to join them. However, a large component of early migrations was of women migrating on their own to work as domestics in Italian homes. In certain populations, women accounted for as much as 90 percent of total migrations.12 Eritrean women were the most connected to the decolonization process and often followed Italian families to Italy and continued to work for them. Many other early female migrants arrived in Italy because of Catholic organizations that recruited women from Cape Verde and the Philippines to fill the increased requests for domestic workers arriving from the parishes of larger cities such as Rome and Milan.13 Researchers have generally accounted for the migration of domestic workers to southern Europe as representative of two related failures in the host societies—first, the failure of the feminist movement to redistribute tasks in the home, and, second, the failure of the state to provide needed social services. As more Italian women entered the workplace, they were not freed from their domestic responsibilities. “Liberated” women came to rely on migrant domestic workers to allow them to find employment outside the home and to participate in demonstrations, consciousness-raising, and other feminist activities without neglecting their families. Southern Italian women no longer met the demand for live-in domestics, and the unregulated labor of migrant women allowed the underground economy to f lourish. It is the relationship of employer to employee that defined the earliest contacts between migrant and native women. Migrant women responded to pulls in the world economy that the native women helped to create. Whether or not the liberation of native women was actually won through the labor of migrant domestic workers is still a matter of some debate, especially since many feminists did not employ domestic workers and rejected middle-class standards of housekeeping. However, it is clear that the arrival of thousands of foreign women in Italy escaped the attention of the women’s associations and that the framing of pertinent gender issues was restricted to the Italian and Western contexts. Italian women missed an important opportunity in the 1970s to get to know women from nations as far apart as Peru, Cape Verde, and the Philippines, and as a result, their associations ref lected a limited cultural context. Italian Women’s “Associationism” Andall has written extensively on the relationship between migrant and Italian domestic workers in the domestic worker trade union, the ACLI-COLF. She

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argues that during the 1970s, the trade union developed closer ties to the workers’ movement than to the feminist movement. Her premise is that migrant women’s interests, in any case, were subordinated to a primary class identity of worker, followed by an emphasis on gender equality. Questions of citizenship, ethnicity, and culture rarely entered into discussions between migrant and Italian women.14 In fact, trade unions have generally held little appeal for migrant women since migrants typically have just a minimal interest in the broader ideologies and political perspectives in which trade unions operate and do not share full political rights with Italian workers.15 Nonetheless, it was within the trade unions that some migrant women first worked side-by-side with Italian women and formed their plans for selforganizing. For example, Maria De Lourdes Jesus, founder of the Cape Verdean Women’s Association in Rome, was active simultaneously in the mixed-sex Cape Verdean migrants’ association and with Italian women trade union activists from the CGIL. Her work in both organizations in the 1970s led her to the conclusion that what was really needed to represent the interests of Cape Verdean migrant women was an association created by and for them. With help from the women of the CGIL, Jesus took an opportunity to begin organizing on the basis of migrant status, ethnic identity, and gender. She did not propose the creation of an Italian–Cape Verdean association nor the greater participation of Cape Verdean women in the Italian trade union. Instead, Jesus did what many migrant women’s leaders would do after her—organize an association based on gender and a self-defined vision of identity. She explains: “I participated with Italian women in the associations and in the demonstrations for women’s rights and so I already had there female support struggling for women’s rights. Going through this with these other women, I wanted to bring this debate inside our community with the Cape Verdean women.”16 In most cases, country of origin, ethnicity, or language group formed the core identity of the first autonomous migrant women’s associations. Jesus says despite her involvement with the Italian women, she did not fully share their vision of women’s emancipation, which she believed was constructed on a Western model of equality between the sexes. Moreover, she did not see a commitment by the Italians to integrating the concerns of migrant workers into their programs. As I have already stated, independent women’s associations were key sites for Italian women’s activism throughout the postwar period and operated with greater autonomy than did women’s sections in the political parties or trade unions. It would seem that the women’s associations would have had more appeal for migrant women than these other bodies. After all, few migrant women had an interest in the political parties and trade unions because they did not have the right to vote. Excluded from formal modes of representation, migrant women sought alternatives for voicing their concerns as gendered foreigners. Some of the places they turned to included religious institutions, charitable organizations, nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), and mixed-sex autonomous migrant associations. Few of these structures were able to address effectively a full range of migrant women’s concerns that were connected both

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to migrant status and to being female. Many of the members of even the pro-immigrant organizations made the assumption that migrant women would work as live-in domestics, and as a result, that they required little assistance with housing, employment, or immigration documents. This was not the case, however, and migrant women frequently found themselves in circumstances in which they did not know where to turn for help. Few migrant women turned to the Italian women’s associations. A few exceptional migrant women, most often those women with a history of activism in their own countries and who were holders of advanced degrees, became curious about Italian women’s groups and visited their centers. Three such women are Saida Ahmed Ali, Graciela Boqué, and Charito Basa, all migrant leaders and long-time residents in Italy. Saida Ahmed Ali, a Somali immigrant who completed her law degree in Italy, began frequenting the Casa delle Donne in Turin to see if Italian feminism might offer her some ideas on social activism: I started to study on site. I began to go to the centers, the Case delle Donne, to understand. At first it was more of a curiosity to compare social work in Europe and Africa. Also, in Somalia, my mother had always been an activist even if she was a professional. My mother worked as an obstetrician while at the same time she was a point of reference for her community. Therefore it was my curiosity to make a comparison.17

Over the years, Ahmed Ali developed very positive relationships with Italian women that would later result in the founding of the Alma Mater multicultural women’s center. She, like her mother, continued to work on behalf of her community in other capacities, however, because Somali concerns about the war at home and integration in Italy were not priorities in the women’s centers. Argentine born Graciela Boqué, one the founders of the multiethnic migrant women’s association Candelaria, began meeting with her co-nationals at the coffee bar inside the Casa delle Donne in Rome. She liked the space for its architectural charm and because it was a historical and exclusive place where women congregated. However, meaningful dialogue between the Roman feminists who used the building and the migrant women who gathered there opened only very slowly and with great difficulty. Boqué says that the feminists’ shared history of the center at times shut them off from interaction with women from backgrounds that differed from their own. The Candelaria association now has an office in what has become the Casa Internazionale delle Donne (International Women’s House), but that position took years to obtain: My fundamental scope was to integrate into the Casa and, all that it signified [for women], an international perspective. The work was not easy and it continues not to be easy. A little because the women of this Casa have a little bit of a homogenous story among them—it’s been thirty years that they are Roman feminists, and so even if our group is great and very interesting, the cultures of the world are not always incorporated.18

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Charito Basa, founder of the Filipino Women’s Council in Rome, says she had many Italian friends who were active feminists, but that she saw that: The Italian’s women’s movement was really suffering at that time. I mean, it never went ahead after their liberation . . . It was also kind of weak as a structure. They could only be sent to us and say “oh, we were like that 10 or 20 years ago.” That was not the kind of help we needed.19

Like Jesus, all of these migrant women’s leaders were cognizant of the Italian women’s movement and even developed important relationships with Italian feminists, but they did not suggest immediately that they unite their interests. Instead, migrant women leaders founded their own associations and began to work on the task of gaining access to political, social, and cultural rights. It was clear that without basic rights, inequality would always frame their relationships with Italian women. Meanwhile, Italian women were noticing more foreign faces in their communities. Through their associations, they began slowly to open communication with migrant women. This was the case in the older women’s associations as well as in the newer feminist collectives. The historic UDI and CIF have a two-part relationship with migration. Beginning in the mid-1940s, both organizations were already active supporters of Italian emigrants working abroad and used their political inf luence to increase protection for emigrant workers. Fifty years later, in the mid-1990s, the UDI and the CIF began to show an interest in migrant women in Italy. The years in between included instances of developing rapports with women’s associations around the world. For the UDI during the first years of the Cold War, most international correspondence took place with communist and socialist women around the world, and in the 1960s and 1970s, the UDI cultivated relationships especially with Western European women’s groups. The CIF meanwhile worked with Catholic women’s organizations on an international level. A few instances of the in-person participation of women from the developing and non-Western worlds appear in documents from the UDI and the CIF’s national conventions in the 1970s and 1980s, but the precise nature of the contribution made by foreign women or any evidence of contact continuing after these special events remains unspecified. By the mid-1980s, non-Western women appeared on the pages of the UDI and the CIF’s major publications, Noi Donne and Cronache e Opinioni, in stories about problems connected to globalization and development. It was only in the 1990s, however, that both associations began to ref lect on the implications of immigration to Italy. The UDI’s greater awareness of non-native women in Italy is ref lected in the association’s name change from Unione Donne Italiane (Union of Italian Women) to Unione Donne in Italia (Union of Women in Italy). However, the association made little contact with migrant women, preferring instead to focus their efforts on the problems of women in the developing world and not on the meaning or impact of the “new” migrations. For example, the UDI took an active interest in the struggles of women in the

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aftermath of the wars in the former Yugoslavia, supporting affected women with financing while attempting to bring more worldwide attention to the atrocities committed against them. In Italy, however, the UDI relied on established pro-immigrant organizations to assist refugees. For example, the CGIL trade union and UNESCO are named in an UDI document listing ways to help women in the former Yugoslavia. Other than a mention of being part of a network to exchange information, however, the UDI did not appear to have concrete plans for the women who migrated to Italy. 20 Local chapters of the CIF included migrant women in their programming, establishing, for example, job training courses geared toward foreign women. The CIF, in its tradition of Catholic outreach, tended to approach migrant women with a spirit of Christian charity. Alba Dini Martino, for example, wrote in an editorial about immigration that: Our Association of women of a declared Christian inspiration, realistically located in the present, but with a glance projected to the future, cannot but accept the most difficult and urgent challenges that confront us today in a continuous effort of interpretation and response in the “consciousness that God entrusts woman with man, with human beings . . . especially because of her femininity” (quoting John Paul II). Among the challenges to address, as we can see, the many problems and aspects tied to immigration cannot be put in parentheses. 21

Yet, at the same time, the CIF has not always used its Catholic foundations to appeal to migrant women—a serious lapse since most female migrants to Italy in the 1970s and 1980s were from Catholic countries. It was only in the mid-1990s that the national CIF began to devote more attention to immigration. The first full issue of Cronache e Opinioni devoted to this theme appeared in 1998. The women of the UDI and the CIF have yet to really explore what could be gained by entering into a more profound discussion with migrant women. Unfortunately, neither the UDI nor the CIF connected emigration to immigration early in their histories and, as a result, the women have scrambled to try to reconcile the past hardships faced by Italian emigrants with those now encountered by immigrant women in Italy. The smaller Italian feminist associations have also begun to cultivate relationships with migrant women’s communities. For Italian groups with a heavy emphasis on the provision of social services, such as telephone hotlines, legal counseling, and job training, the challenge has been to bring migrant women into their centers and show them the advantages of working with a women’s— rather than with a pro-immigrant—association. Maria Sangiuliano in her study of the Centro Donna in Venice noted that staff members actively recruited migrant women to the center by spending time in the public places in which migrant women were known to congregate and telling them about the services available through the Centro Donna. 22 Several of Sangiuliano’s interviews reveal that migrant women were not impressed with the “emergency” approach used by many organizations and therefore were open to seeing what alternatives the Centro Donna might offer them. Although some migrant women used the

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space just to check their email or to recharge their cell phones, many of them began attending seminars and returned to the center with some regularity. The Orlando Association in Bologna and the Coordinamento Donne Lavoro Cultura [Coordination Women Work Culture (CDLC)] in Genoa are two other Italian women’s associations that can trace their histories to the social movements of the 1970s and that have recently begun to work more closely with migrant women. Orlando has been developing relationships with migrant women’s associations in Bologna since the early 1990s and is approaching migration and development as interlacing matters. The association’s leaders point out that “Orlando was born not only with the conviction that ‘the personal is political’ but also that because of globalization that the personal is international, planetary.” 23 As a result of this vision, Orlando has supported the development of autonomous women’s associations outside Italy and continues to add more programs to the center’s activities that consider gender in a global context. The CDLC, which traces its origins to trade union movements in the mid-1970s, has also entered into a discussion of globalization, migration, and gender since the 2001 G8 summit held in Genoa. Migrant women participated actively in the center and co-organized a large convention called Donne in Viaggio (Women Traveling) in 2003 to tackle areas in which gender and migration are implicated. 24 Relationships between Migrant and Native Women The main obstacles to effective communication between native and migrant women in Italian-led women’s associations stem from the fact that these groups developed over the past three decades as sites for Italian women’s activism. As migrant women’s leader Pilar Saravia puts it: “[Coming together] didn’t happen because, as Italian feminists, they have their own dynamic. We have other dynamics. Our first identity isn’t to be feminists. Ours is that of immigrants. We have to work; we have to take care of legality, of legislation. They think about other dynamics.” 25 After years of ignoring migrant women, Italian feminists began to approach them from the vantage point of the “benevolent colonizer.” The direction of the women’s centers is overwhelmingly Italian, and despite the good intentions of their leaders, work with migrant women appears in some sense to be “tacked on” to other initiatives. Italian and other continental European feminists have certainly not ignored the problems faced by women around the world, but they first framed certain questions from a European point of view. For example, French and Italian feminists in the 1970s were highly critical of the failure of the American and English women’s movements to effectively incorporate race, class, and sexual orientation into their theories and practices. 26 They interpreted the American women’s movement, in particular, as a movement for white, middle-class, heterosexual educated women. European women, some feminists proclaimed, had been much more attentive to the needs of working class women and lesbians, while American feminists had allowed a great chasm

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to form between white and black women. At the same time, however, continental feminists paid little attention to the issue of race in their own nations. In France, where official policy on immigration was to assimilate foreigners, race as a category was erased. French feminists dealt with questions of women’s differences primarily from non-racialized standpoints. 27 In Italy, where official policy on immigration was to pretend it was not occurring, Italian feminists failed to take notice of the faces of the women of color around them. Ironically, it was at about this same time that many European feminists began to participate in the international women’s events that got underway with the First International Women’s Conference held in 1975 in Mexico. As a result of their contact with women from the developing world, European feminists during the 1980s incorporated a global perspective into their studies of gender oppression and women’s movements. Italian feminists’ reading lists expanded to include Trihn T. Min-ha, Cherrie Moraga, and Rigoberta Menchu; women’s centers hosted more events on women of the Third World. Despite all of their good intentions, however, the Italians constructed separate worlds of women and did not see that they overlapped in Western Europe. As a result, the Italian feminists did not really incorporate their newly acquired awareness of women around the world into usable theories about gender and identity in Italy. Greater attention to the persecution of ethnic minority women or to the dire realities of women living in poverty added a dimension to the feminist production of knowledge. However, Italian women mostly looked past the lives of migrant women until finally confronted with the reality in the 1990s that immigration had affected their communities, lifestyles, and futures. It was only then that the Italian women’s associations shifted their focus and brought migrant women into their centers. It has not always been simple for migrant women to enter the Italian women’s spaces and assume a leadership role. Moreover, in the continued spirit of learning about gender oppression worldwide, migrant women who are invited into the Italian associations are often called upon to “testify” about their experiences and to reinforce certain perceptions about globalization, racial inequality, or world politics: It has become one of the major obstacles in growing together or knowing ourselves. We know them because they are mostly our employers in general terms, but they don’t know us. They don’t know our apartments, the quality, our backgrounds. They only hear our stories when there is somebody who is going to testify. You know. In some conferences when migrant women are called upon to talk about their experiences—to testify. That’s it. 28

Migrant women frequently deliver speeches about the conditions they experienced in their home countries that led them to migrate and explain why they chose to come to Italy, in particular. Migrant women are rarely given an opportunity to express dissatisfaction with the treatment they received by governmental or nongovernmental organizations once they arrived in Italy or to go into detail about the discrimination and hostility they face in their daily lives.

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The Italian women are quite open to hearing about personal experiences of migration but not necessarily to confronting the reality that migrant women’s lives in Italy are not necessarily free of hardship—a hardship that derives in many ways from an Italian immigration system that makes integration difficult: In Italy, there’s a lot of talk about security, but also the immigrant has to talk about security because without it, without the permesso di soggiorno [resident permit], it’s as though you don’t have your feet on the ground. You are insecure because you can’t think about other things. This sends us years and years back in time. Even us as an association—if instead of thinking about things on a higher level, I have to take time to go resolve other immigrants’ problems, I don’t have time to organize other initiatives. 29

When migrant women have to struggle constantly just to live on a day-to-day basis in the country they hoped would offer more opportunities, they may quickly lose interest in discussing what led them to migrate. By calling on migrant women to serve as examples for their political goals, Italian women constructed the dynamic of the compassionate maternal educator. The more experienced, established, and liberated Italian women had a duty to come to the aid of the less fortunate foreigners. It was sometimes difficult for the Italian feminists to conceive of gender oppression and women’s emancipation from a vantage point other than their own. In their events programming, for example, the Italian women sometimes had a tendency to focus on sensational issues, such as trafficking or genital mutilation, that they believed concerned migrant women. Italian organizers therefore overlooked many of the matters migrant women actually wanted to address, such as careers and family, especially since migrant women were not included in the planning process. Ainom Maricos points out how this attitude inhibited effective communication between migrant and Italian women in Milan: We contested some attitudes that are a bit paternalistic from women, who claim to be evolved, that they had to teach us some things. We were asking for an equal relationship. However, that was truly difficult to put into gear. There was reciprocal diffidence. On our side, there was the impression of being observed by experts who then had to arrive at conclusions or to plan projects to “assist” us that we had to undergo passively. Frankly, there was little space for real confrontation.30

In other words, for the Italian women cultural exchange meant listening to migrant women’s testimonies and then attempting to help them and their “sisters” in the developing world. Cultural exchange rarely meant a mutual sharing of experiences or making meaningful comparisons. In fact, women from mostly female migrant groups attempted to remind Italian women of the distinct cultural differences that informed their experiences of gender in their home countries and as female migrants in Italy. They pointed out the great strength and courage that it took for them to leave their homes. Mrs. Fana of the Eritrean Women’s Association says Italian women have

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much to learn from migrant women in this regard: “It’s not easy for a woman to leave her country for one where she doesn’t speak the language. To live in a foreign country without anyone, relatives, normalcy. Italian women can learn from us because we are are strong; we are patient.”31 Moreover, migrant women have argued that women from the developing world are not necessarily “backward” in terms of gender roles and should not be treated as though they are the hapless victims of patriarchal societies. For example, Cape Verdean women have thought it worth noting that despite having fewer opportunities for higher education, a significant number of their co-nationals have been successful at reaching prominent positions in the government. Italian women, although in proportion better educated than the women of Cape Verde, have not assumed as many leadership roles.32 In the Philippines, women were privy to many educational and professional opportunities, perhaps even surpassing those available to Italian women, but social and economic pressures dictated that they provide more material goods for their families even if it meant living away from them.33 Stereotypes of women’s lives in developing countries and of “the immigrant” have been difficult to overcome, however, especially since they are frequently reinforced as migrant women tell their stories. Italians have not fully reconciled their lengthy history of emigration with their recent experience of immigration, and this failure to deal with the past may actually contribute to the limited way in which they ask for the contributions of migrant women. Scholars such as Donna Gabaccia have shown that Italian emigrants were not solely desperate southerners escaping poverty, but that particular image continues to embarrass Italians while it informs their own approach to the new migrants entering Italy. For example, migrant women are much more likely than Italian women to be severely underemployed. Eastern European women and Filipinas often enter Italy with professional degrees and extensive qualifications but end up working as domestics or badanti (home care workers).34 They have great difficulty moving out of the sphere of domestic work and into jobs with higher pay and greater social esteem. However, since the Italian perception is that migration occurs only in desperate circumstances, Filipinas or Ukrainians who lament the squandering of their skills are often criticized for being ungrateful or for not embracing their new roles. This, too, has had a negative impact on relations between migrant and native women. Italian women’s associations may not ultimately be the best structures to advance the interests of migrant women since there will always be the perception that they are, in fact, centers created and led by Italian women. Nonetheless, the Italian women are beginning to recognize their neglect of considerations of the role of race, ethnicity, and citizenship in relation to gender and are working to mature strategies that are more sensitive to inequalities among women. If European women want to construct viable antiracist and antisexist strategies while all the Europeans struggle to redefine their identities in relation to the nation-state, Europe, and the international arena, they will have to do so with the inclusion of migrant women’s experiences. To continue to ignore migrant women’s experiences or to suggest that migrant and Italian women have little common ground is to allow gender and racial oppression to continue to work in nefarious ways.

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Notes 1. This award recognizes outstanding service to the Italian state and is conferred by the president. 2. I am aware of the problems associated with using terms such as migrant and native. By migrant, I mean foreign nationals with permanent or temporary status in Italy. By native, I mean Italian-born and ethnic Italian citizens. In some cases, I prefer to use the term immigrant because migrant suggests a transitory status and has been used by the government to justify an incomplete integration of foreigners. On the use of the term migrant, see Laura Agustín, “Forget Victimization: Granting Agency to Migrants,” Development 46 (September 2003): 30–36. 3. See, e.g., Jacqueline Andall, Gender, Migration and Domestic Service: The Politics of Black Women in Italy (Hampshire: Ashgate Publishing, 2000); Rhacel Salazar Parrenas, Servants of Globalization Women, Migration and DomesticWork (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001); Helma Lutz, “At Your Service, Madam! The Globalization of Domestic Service,” Feminist Review 70 (2002): 89–104; Giovanna Campani, “Immigrant Women in Southern Europe: Social Exclusion, Domestic Work and Prostitution in Italy,” in Eldorado or Fortress?: Migration in Southern Europe, eds. Russell King, Gabriella Lazaridis, and Charalambos Tsardanidis (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2000), 145–69; Gabriella Lazaridis, “Filipino and Albanian Women Migrant Workers in Greece: Multiple Layers of Oppression,” in Gender and Migration in Southern Europe: Women on the Move, eds. Floya Anthias and Gabriella Lazaridis (New York: Berg, 2000), 49–79. 4. Andall, Gender, Migration and Domestic Service, 266. 5. Heather Merrill, “Making Space for Antiracist Feminism in Northern Italy,” in Feminism and Antiracism: International Struggles for Justice, eds. France Winddance Twine and Kathleen M. Blee (New York: New York University Press, 2001), 17–36. 6. For a more complete discussion of women’s associations in Italy, see Wendy Pojmann, Immigrant Women and Feminism in Italy (Hampshire: Ashgate Publishing, 2006). 7. Wendy Pojmann, “Emancipation or Liberation?: Women’s Associations and the Italian Movement,” The Historian 67, no. 1 (March 2005): 73–96. 8. Teresa De Lauretis, ed., Sexual Difference: A Theory of Social–Symbolic Practice. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1987); Anna Rita Calabrò and Laura Grasso, eds., Dal movimento femminista al femminismo diffuso: ricerca e documentazione nell’area lombarda (Milan: FrancoAngeli, 1985); Centro Documentazione delle donne a Bologna, Il movimento delle donne in Emilia-Romagna: alcune vicende tra storia e memoria, 1970–1980 (Bologna: Edizioni Analisi, 1990). 9. Valeria Moretti and Marina Pivetta, eds., Il mio segno la mia parola: rabbia, amore, confessioni, appuntamenti, disegni nella casa della donna in Via del Governo Vecchio (Rome: Edizioni quotidiano donna, 1979); Movimento di liberazione delle donne, “Bozza di piattaforma dei principi del movimento di liberazione della donna,” in I movimenti femministi in Italia, ed. Rosalba Spagnoletti (Rome: Edizioni Samonà e Savelli, 1971), 62–70. This is a collection of documents written by Italian feminist groups. 10. The websites for the Orlando Association and the Casa Internazionale include comprehensive descriptions of the centers’ histories. For Orlando in Bologna, go to www. women.it and for the Casa in Rome, see www.casainternazionaledelledonne.org.

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11. Asher Colombo and Giuseppe Sciortino, “Italian Immigration: The Origins, Nature and Evolution of Italy’s Migratory Systems,” Journal of Modern Italian Studies 9, no. 1 (2004): 49–70. Comprehensive statistics on immigration to Italy are available from annual studies conducted by Caritas, the Dossier, and data gathered by ISTAT, available on their website at www.istat.it. 12. Giovanna Campani, “Le donne immigrate in Italia,” in Stranieri in Italia: Caratteri e tendenze dell’ immigrazione dai paesi extracomunitari, ed. G. Cocchi (Bologna: Misure/Materiali di Ricerca dell’Istituto Cattaneo, 1990), 3–16, gives figures of 60–70 percent of Filipinos and 90 percent of Cape Verdeans; Macioti cites 80 percent of Filipinos in Maria Immacolata Macioti and Enrico Pugliese, L’esperienza migratoria: Immigrati e rifugiati in Italia (Rome: Gius. Laterza & Figli, SpA, 2003). 13. On Cape Verdean women’s migrations, see especially Marina Bozzoni, Giulia Della Marina, Emilia Ferraro, and Chiara Pasti, “Il mito del ritorno delle donne capoverdiane,” in Ghetti etnici e tensioni di vita, ed. Roberto De Angelis (Rome: La Meridiana Editori, 1991), 97–123. On Filipinas, see the study completed by the Filipino Women’s Council, Charito Basa and Rosalud Jing de la Rosa, Me, Us, and Them: Realities and Illusions of Filipina Domestic Workers. A community research project by the Filipino Women’s Council (Rome: Ograro, July 2004). 14. Andall, Gender, Migration and Domestic Service, 236–37. 15. Alessandra Angelini and Giovanna Casciola, “Il ruolo del sindacato nella difesa dei diritti degli immigrati” (presentation, Reti. Migranti e Native/i: reti di esperienze, reti di accoglienze, Università degli studi “Roma Tre” Dipartimento di Filosofia, June 27–28, 2005). 16. Maria De Lourdes Jesus, phone interview by author, February 5, 2005. I interviewed her in Italian and fully transcribed the interview. The translation to English is mine. 17. Saida Ahmed Ali, phone interview with author, February 15, 2005. I interviewed her in Italian and fully transcribed the interview. 18. Graciela Boqué, interview with author, offices of Candelaria, Rome, Italy, June 17, 2005. I interviewed her in Italian and fully transcribed the interview. The translation to English is mine. 19. Charito Basa, phone interview with author, December 7, 2004. I interviewed Basa in English and fully transcribed the interview. 20. UDI, “Seminario delle donne provenienti dalla ex-Jugoslavia (Arrica, 14–15 febbraio 1992) Relazione del gruppo di lavoro per la solidarietà e la ricostruzione.” 21. Alba Dini Martino, “L’immigrazione, una sfida alla democrazia,” Cronache e Opinioni 4 (April 1998): 3. 22. Maria Sangiuliano, ed., Le altre: Donne migranti a Venezia (Venice: Stamperia Cedit, S.r.l. 2002). This was published by the City of Venice and printed by the Stamperia Cedit. I obtained a copy directly from Sangiuliano. It is available in limited quantities from the City of Venice, the author, and the Centro Donna. 23. Orlando Associazione di donne, Il convento e la città. Donne e Uomini nella Mondialità. Progetto-Programma 2005/2009. Bologna, September 2004, 34. Available from their website at www.women.it. 24. Coordinamento Donne Lavoro Cultura, ClicBra, Ecuadoriana di Solidarietà Liguria, Encuentro Entre 2 Mundos, Hermanas Mirabal, La Semilla, and Terre des Hommes, eds., Donne in Viaggio: Testi del Convegno. Loggia della mercanzia. October 11–12, 2003 (Genoa: Comune di Genova, 2003). Comprehensive convention publication, including text of presentations.

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25. Pilar Saravia, interview by author, June 24, 2005, offices of Unione Italiana del Lavoro, Rome, Italy. I interviewed her in Italian and fully transcribed the interview. The translation to English is mine. 26. See, e.g., Elaine Marks and Isbelle De Courtivron, New French Feminims: An Anthology (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1980). 27. Anne Golub, Mirjana Morokvasic, and Catherine Quiminal, “Evolution de la production des connaissances sur les femmes immigrées en France e en Europe: Ou du difficile déplacement des frontières,” Migrations société 52 (1997): 30. 28. Charito Basa, interview with author, offices of the Food and Agricultural Organization of the United Nations, Rome, Italy, June 22, 2005. I interviewed her in English and fully transcribed the interview. 29. Jesus, phone interview. 30. Ainom Maricos, interview with author, offices of Il Tropico Cooperativa di Servizi, Milan, Italy, July 8, 2005. I interviewed her in Italian and fully transcribed the interview. The translation to English is mine. 31. Mrs. Fana, president of the Eritrean Women’s Association, phone interview by author, December 19, 2004. I interviewed her in Italian and fully transcribed the interview. The translation to English is mine. 32. Maria De Lourdes Jesus (Speech at conference L’altra Africa: il G8 al femminile. Padoa, Italy, April 30, 2004). Available for download at www.arcoiris.tv. 33. Wendy Harcourt, “This Place Could be Our Place? The Experience of Filippinas in Italy: Interview with Charito Basa,” Development 45 (March 2002): 117–20. 34. Badanti is from the Italian badare for to look after and refers to women employed in private homes to take care of the elderly or infirm. See Grazia Naletto and Luci Zuvela, Smiling: Skilled Migrants and Labour Market Integration (Rome: Lunaria, 2004).

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CHAPTER 11

The Political Participation of Berlin’s Turkish Migrants in the Dual Citizenship and Headscarf Debates: A Multilevel Comparison Anna Boucher

Introduction When Turkish migrants came to Germany in the early 1960s as guest workers, it was not expected that they would stay. The notion of “return” was intrinsic to the guest worker system, premised as it was on the importation of cheap labor without social or political costs.1 Workers would assist in the rebuilding of postwar Germany and then return to Turkey when the job was done. Yet even after the first oil crisis, a rise in unemployment and the official end to the guest worker program in 1973, most Turkish guest workers did not leave but rather made Germany their home. They became permanent residents. Five decades on, there are almost two million Turkish migrants without German citizenship in Germany. 2 They comprise Germany’s biggest migrant group and a significant proportion of Germany’s three million Muslims.3 Further, unlike many other migrants in Germany, Turkish migrants do not hold European Union citizenship and therefore cannot benefit from the advantages this brings. The original Turkish guest workers, their children, and their children’s children have largely remained foreigners. They are denied formal political rights such as the right to vote,4 the right to stand for office,5 and the constitutionally protected rights to assemble and associate, although the latter are provided through statute.6

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Chapter Outline Given that the bulk of Turkish migrants in Germany remain non-citizens, the focus in this chapter is upon Turkish migrants without German citizenship status. This chapter investigates the political participation of Berlin’s Turkish migrants given their absence of formal political rights. In particular, the chapter focuses on how the opportunities for political participation differ at the federal, compared with the state or Land-level of German politics. This research question is investigated through the lens of Political Opportunity Structure (POS) theory—a theoretical tool that assists in analyzing the institutional, cultural, and historical factors that inf luence the political participation of social actors, including that of migrants. In particular, this chapter draws upon the work of European POS scholars who have argued that political participation is shaped by three “dimensions of opportunity”—formal political institutions, informal procedures, and prevailing state strategies and actor alliances and configurations.7 This theory and its application to the study of migrant activism is considered in part four later, while part five brief ly canvasses methodological aspects of the POS approach. Parts six and seven explore the POS facing Berlin’s Turkish migrants, at both the federal and state (Land ) level of German politics, through an analysis of the political participation of Turkish migrants in Berlin in two contemporary political events. The federal case study concerns participation of Berlin’s Turkish migrants in debates over the Staatsangehörigkeitsgesetz (Nationality Act; 2000). This Act sought, but largely failed, to introduce dual citizenship in Germany. The political participation of Berlin’s Turkish migrants at the Land or “city-state” level is explored through the case study of a ban on religious symbols in public positions by the city-state of Berlin in late 2004. These case studies were chosen both for their political relevance but also for their wider application to contestations over the social and legal inclusion of migrant groups in Germany. The analysis focused on Berlin because of the city’s position both as Germany’s capital and a city-state of Germany in its own right. In applying POS to these two Berlin case studies, this chapter considers how different opportunity structures shape the possibility for political action in differentiated ways at the different levels of government. These issues are explored later. First, however, it is necessary to consider the historical context of Turkish migrant activism in Germany and POS theory, as well as the relevance of this theoretical approach to the study of Turkish migrants in Berlin. The Historical Context of Turkish Political Activism in Germany There is a dynamic historical relationship between the German state’s policies toward migrants (Ausländerpolitik) and Turkish political activism; each historical period of migration policy within Germany corresponds with changes in the nature of political activism among Turkish groups. The initial immigration of Turkish guest workers to Germany must be viewed within the postwar economic growth enjoyed by Western European nations. This economic boom led to growing demand for labor, unmet by the domestic workforce.8 The first

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labor agreement was signed between Turkey and the Federal Republic of Germany in 1961, and from this point onward, the migration of Turks to Germany rose rapidly.9 During this period, Karl-Heinz Meier Braun notes, Turkish migrants were viewed largely as a commodity, rather than as political agents in their own right.10 This perception reflected the prevailing position within the Ausländerpolitik that migrants would provide Germany with necessary manpower, and then repatriate. Following this general assumption, Turkish activism over this time, centred on labor and cultural, rather than distinctly political issues.11 As is discussed further in this chapter, there was also a clientalistic aspect to Turkish engagement over this period. German organizations, such as trade unions and church groups, frequently represented Turks, rather than facilitating autonomous representation by Turkish migrants themselves.12 Following rising domestic unemployment in the early 1970s, Germany introduced a general stop on labor migration in 1973. Known as the Anwerbestopp, the policy was intended to stem the continued immigration of guest workers. It can thereby be seen as an exclusionary state policy. However, as several commentators have noted, subsequent federal government policy was often contradictory. While discouraging further immigration and actively encouraging repatriation to source countries, policies also focused on the integration of existing migrants into German society.13 Largely as a result of an ongoing right to family reunification immigration, the Turkish population in Germany increased following the Anwerbestopp.14 From the early 1970s onward, as the long-term settlement of Turkish migrants in Germany became an accepted reality, political Turkish organizations also emerged. These organizations crossed the political spectrum and often reflected domestic Turkish political parties.15 By the 1980s, it was clear to policymakers that Turkish migrants had become a permanent feature in Germany. Turkish organizations responded through the consolidation of their autonomous political groups. Umbrella organizations were created for the various political associations established in the 1970s and there was also a proliferation into a wider range of issues, such as women’s concerns, integration, and antidiscrimination.16 The existing scholarship on the political activism of Turkish migrants in Germany is largely descriptive. Despite its acknowledgment of the relationship between Ausländerpolitik and Turkish migrant political activism, the literature lacks detailed analysis of the particular ways in which the German state shaped the activism that did emerge and an account of how these historical trajectories inform the current political engagement of Turkish migrants. Finally, the historical literature often fails to differentiate between the national and state levels of German politics,17 despite the important differences between two levels for issues of migrant policy and integration. These shortcomings invite consideration of the theoretical contribution of POS theory to a study of Turkish activism in Berlin. Political Opportunity Structure Theory and Migrant Activism Political Opportunity Structure theory provides a powerful tool to study the political participation and activism of migrant groups, including those without

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citizenship. In contrast to traditional political participation theory, POS is neither implicitly nor explicitly premised upon a link between political participation and citizenship status. The focus within traditional mainstream political participation theory on electoral politics meant that the political activities of disenfranchised migrants were implicitly ignored.18 Despite the emergence of the new social movements and the more recent expansion of the concept of political participation beyond elections, permanent migrants without citizenship continued to remain largely overlooked in the mainstream scholarship.19 In contrast, POS theory has emerged as a theoretical approach to study the position of activists who stand “outside of the polity,” or at least on its edges. 20 POS theory draws upon neo-institutionalism, which advocates a shift away from behavioral explanations of political events, and raises a renewed interest in the role of institutions in shaping political outcomes. 21 However, unlike most variants of neo-institutionalism, 22 POS theory acknowledges the importance of political cultures and social discourses in shaping political opportunities. 23 The term “political opportunity structure” was first coined by Eisinger24 and was further developed by European scholars. Tarrow describes political opportunity structures as “consistent—but not necessarily formal or permanent—dimensions of the political environment that provide incentives for people to undertake collective action by affecting their expectations for success or failure.” 25According to Tarrow these “dimensions” include the institutional strength of states, government structures, the state’s relation to new actors, and the existence of influential allies. 26 Kriesi and his collaborators have developed this list into the following three dimensions of opportunity that shape political participation: (i) formal institutions; (ii) informal procedures and prevailing state strategies; and (iii) actor alliances and configurations. 27 In this chapter, these three categories are adopted as the starting point for an analysis of political opportunities for Turkish migrants at the national and city-state levels of Berlin politics. The existing literature on the three dimensions of political opportunity focuses on cross-national rather than multilevel comparison within the one nation. Nonetheless, this literature provides interesting insights into an analysis of differing political opportunity structures within Germany—a point that is explored in further detail in parts six and seven in this chapter. Looking first at the issue of formal political institutions, Germany’s cooperative federalist structure with strong state governments (Länder) set against a relatively weak federal government (Bund ) could be characterized as a “weak” state that provides many access points for new actors. 28 POS scholars also consider how informal procedures, including historical legacies, can shape opportunities for participation by determining which cultural views are accepted and which are not. 29 Prevailing state strategies, a second aspect of this dimension, refers to how the facilitative or repressive nature of the state encourages or discourages political action.30 Particular aspects of state action, including a clientalistic “divide and rule” policy toward migrant groups, have been identified as weakening the participatory potential of migrants in Germany. Under this policy, non-state actors, such as church groups and trade unions, were funded to “supervise” migrants, leaving little room for autonomous action on the part of

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migrants themselves.31 Finally, the configuration of actors or “the specific balance of power relationships between actors at a given time and place” is also relevant.32 Such alliances include the relationships between state and non-state actors, as well as interactions among various non-state actors. Kriesi and his collaborators argue that in “high profile” policy domains where significant resources and political gains are at stake, corporatist policy monopolies dominated by several actors can emerge.33 Immigration is seen as a high profile policy domain.34 Consistent with this argument, several German scholars have suggested that non-state, non-migrant organizations, such as church groups and trade unions, have created a “policy monopoly” in German immigration affairs, which blocks the potential for autonomous participation by migrants themselves.35 Methodological Approach The POS literature provides fruitful beginnings for an analysis of the conditions for the political participation of Berlin’s Turkish migrants. In a comprehensive cross-national study, Koopmans and his collaborators point to the importance of national configurations of citizenship in shaping POSs differently for migrants in different national contexts.36 However, this present study differs from previous works in this area in that it considers how possibilities for migrant activism are shaped by opportunities within countries at the different levels of government, as well as across countries. The issue of multilevel intra-national variance in POS has not been considered extensively within the migrant specific POS literature. A number of scholars compare local POS within one country or across several countries. 37 In a more recent article, Koopmans compares the claim-making of migrants in various German states with claim-making in British and Dutch cities. Interestingly, for the purposes of this study, he identifies low levels of participation in the then capital of Germany, Bonn, as well as in the Hague. This leads him to conclude that “the national level is much less accessible to migrants than the local level.”38 Several scholars have also considered the interactions between different levels of government, across nations, and the impact this has on political claim-making.39 These existing studies point to a perception in the POS literature that the local level is more open to migrant activism than the federal level of politics. A key rationale of the present research was to test this suggestion empirically. In order to do so, the research applied POS theory to analyze and characterize the POS frameworks at the different levels of German politics. It also analyzed the potential impact of these frameworks upon levels of migrant activism. The key research hypothesis that different political opportunity structures at the different levels of government within Germany shape the levels of political engagement of Berlin’s Turkish migrants was tested through ten lengthy interviews with eight Turkish organizations in Berlin during December 2002– February 2003. The interviewees came from a range of left and religious organizations. Press statements and publications of the organizations were also

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analyzed. This qualitative analysis was complemented by a quantitative media analysis of coverage of the two case studies in two major Berlin dailies; the leftist Berliner Zeitung and the more centrist Tagesspiegel. Over 180 articles were examined. As political participation covers an enormous variety of activities, the focus of the media analysis was on claim-making. Koopmans defines claim-making as “the expression of a political opinion by some form of physical or verbal action, regardless of the form this expression takes (statement, violence, repression, decision, demonstration, court ruling, et . . .).”40 The research design for the media analysis was modelled on previous studies on the political participation of social actors by the Social Science Research Center in Berlin (WZB).41 The codebook for the media analysis was a simplified and adapted version of a codebook developed by Koopmans for a project on political mobilization in the European public sphere.42 A semantic approach to the construction of a claim was taken. By answering the “where,” “who,” “how,” “whom,” and “what” questions of each act, the location of the claim, the actors involved, the mode of claim-making (i.e., protest, speech), the addressee of the claim, the substantive issue of the claim, and the symbolism of the claim were recorded.43 All claims were recorded whether they were made by state actors (governments, the opposition or members of the administration or judiciary), citizen non-state actors (i.e., non-state actors with German citizenship), or migrants (without German citizenship) at any level of politics.44 In order to capture the media’s role as claim-makers in its own right, opinion pieces and editorials were also recorded and included under the subdivision of “citizen non-state actors.” In the following section, the empirical findings are presented and discussed in light of POS theory. Dual Citizenship and the Nationality Act (2000) Debate The first case study concerns the participation of Berlin’s Turkish migrants in the debates over the Nationality Act (2000). This debate extended from October 1998 when the Act was first discussed in the Bundestag (the lower chamber of the national German parliament) to late May 1999, when the legislation was passed. The claim-making of Berlin’s Turkish migrants is considered within the context of the three dimensions of political opportunity structure. Prior to this theoretical analysis, it is necessary to consider the events that led to the new Nationality Act. Germany’s New Nationality Act In 1998, after fifteen years of conservative Christian Democratic Union (CDU) rule, a new Social Democratic (SPD) and Green coalition government was elected at the national level. The appointment of this government, dubbed the “Red–Green coalition” because of the political affiliations of its two parties, represented a major juncture in German politics. One of the first plans for the

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new Coalition was to update Germany’s citizenship law.45 The Empire and Nationality Act (1913) adopted the citizenship principle of jus sanguinis or nationality by German descent. It contained nationalist overtones. During the historical debates over the Empire and Nationality Act, the legislation had been justified on the grounds that it prevented “non-German blood from being assimilated into the German fatherland.”46 Despite this racialist pedigree, the 1913 Act remained in place until 1998. By this point, the naturalization of migrants was possible but a lengthy and expensive process. Further, dual citizenship was denied except in certain limited scenarios. As a result, Germany had a 1.6 percent naturalization rate, which was one of the lowest rates in Western Europe.47 In light of this demographic reality, the Red–Green coalition proposed a new Nationality Act that made citizenship a birthright ( jus soli) rather than a blood right. The introduction of dual citizenship was also proposed. This provision was warmly received by Turkish migrants, who had indicated that they would naturalize at much higher rates if they were able to retain their Turkish passports.48 At the same time the CDU and their partners, the Christian Socialist Union (CSU) mobilized against the proposed reforms. The CDU/ CSU ostensibly opposed dual citizenship on constitutional and international legal grounds as well as the perceived anti-integrationist potential of dual citizenship.49 As Hagedorn notes, however, underlying most of these objections was a belief that dual nationality would ultimately change the demographic face of Germany.50 By allowing more Turks to migrate to Germany through family reunification programs, the dual nationality laws, it was believed, would make Germany more Turkish. Rallying support for their cause, the CDU-CSU coalition launched a signature campaign against the proposed Nationality Act in the lead up to an election in the State of Hesse. Across Germany, five million signatures were collected.51 The election results marked a devastating defeat for the SPD and the Greens in a former Left stronghold. Many analysts argued that the swing to the conservatives was a negative response to the proposed Nationality Act.52 The most important effect of the Hesse state election was that the Red–Green coalition lost the balance of power in the Bundesrat, the second chamber of the national German parliament. In order to pass the Nationality Act through the Bundesrat, the SPD quickly reached a compromise with the centrist Free Democratic Party (FDP). The Act that emerged was a heavily watered-down version of the initial Red–Green plan. A birthright for all children born in Germany to non-German migrant parents was secured provided the parents had been residing in Germany for eight years prior to the birth of their child.53 Dual citizenship was allowed until children reached twenty-three, at which point they would have to decide between their foreign or German citizenship.54 The requirements of naturalization for those over twenty-three were tightened. While the final legislation did do away with blood citizenship, Turkish migrants in Berlin criticized the changes as insufficient. As Kenan Kolat, president of the Turkish Union of Berlin (TBB), stated: “Our final position was—better no law that this so-called ‘improvement’ of the national government.”55

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The Political Participation of Berlin’s Turkish Migrants in the Nationality Act Debate Given the importance of German citizenship as an issue for Berlin’s Turkish migrants, it is relevant to consider the degree of political participation of this group in the debate over the Nationality Act. The media analysis, the qualitative analysis of interviews with Turkish leaders in Berlin, and the study of these organizations’ press statements establish that Berlin’s Turkish migrants were only marginally involved in the debate. The media analysis recorded the claimmaking of all actors in the Nationality Act debate. As table 11.1 indicates, of the 183 claims recorded, 8.2 percent were made by migrants in total and 3.8 percent by Turkish migrants in particular. The qualitative analysis of the interviews with ten Turkish leaders from eight organizations in Berlin supports the finding of the media analysis. Of the eight organizations interviewed, only two—the TBB and “Immigrün”—were actively involved in this debate. The other organizations, while being interested in the proposed reforms, either organized events such as information sessions and public forums after the Act was passed or were not involved at all. Of the two groups actively involved, the TBB was the only organization to issue numerous press statements on the issue and to lobby political elites. The political claim-making of Immigrün, whose members are largely Turkish members of the Greens Party, focused on intra-party lobbying. Political Participation and the National Political Opportunity Structure The three dimensions of political opportunity provide a useful explanation for the low levels of participation by Turkish migrants in Berlin in the debates over the Nationality Act. The First Opportunity Structure: Formal Institutions Formal institutions, the first dimension of the POS, can affect the “openness of access to the state, as well as [the state’s] capacity to act” (my emphasis).56

Table 11.1 Percentage of claim-making by migrants in the Nationality Act debate Actor category

Turkish migrants Other migrants Total: Migrants Total: Other actors * Total: All actors

No. of claims

Claim-making as percentage of all claims

7 8 15 163 183

3.8 4.4 8.2 91.8 100.0

* Claims of all actors who are not migrants. Source: Own calculations, media analysis.

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Here the focus is on how the institutions of parliamentary committees and cooperative federalism affect both the access of Turkish migrants to formal political channels and the national government’s capacity to act in its role as an ally to Turkish migrants. Institutional structures at the national level of the German political system can block access for new actors. Of particular importance are the parliamentary committees (Ausschüsse) that are comprised of members of the Bundestag. These committees are considered the major arena for law making and lobbying in Germany’s national political system.57 While committee meetings are not completely closed to interest groups, the involvement of such groups is entirely at each committee’s discretion.58 The Committee on Domestic Affairs, responsible for the Nationality Act, held a Hearing of Experts on April 13, 1999. This Hearing took place after the SPD and FDP had negotiated the compromise model. Of the fourteen experts invited to the hearing, only one represented migrants. Further, Turkish migrants had no independent representation at the hearing.59 Germany’s cooperative federalist composition, while opening up opportunities for activists, can also inhibit the state’s ability to act in support of such actors. The potentially stultifying effects of the cooperative federalist structure on the national government are most evident in the powers and makeup of the German Bundesrat. This second parliamentary chamber comprises a proportionate number of executive representatives from the different states or Länder of Germany.60 The Bundesrat has the power to veto all laws that pertain to Land-level financial or administrative concerns (consent laws), which encompass about 60 percent of all laws. 61 In times when the opposition in the Bundestag holds the balance in the Bundesrat, blockages will emerge; unless a compromise can be reached in the Mediation Committee between members of the Bundestag and the Bundesrat.62 A compromise is accordingly informed by the political composition of state governments as represented in the Bundesrat. In the present case study, state actors were very important. State actors made 16.9 percent of all claims and the Hesse state election was the third most important issue in the media analysis. The Second Opportunity Structure: Informal Procedures and Prevailing State Strategies The structural significance of the Hesse election and the signature campaign was compounded by the symbolic or cultural significance of these events. Kriesi argues that procedures and strategies over time determine “what kind of ideas become visible for the public, resonate with the public opinion and are held to be ‘legitimate’ by the audience.”63 Germany’s traditionally ethnocultural understanding of nationality may have informed which voices in the debate were considered legitimately German, and which were not. As Brubaker suggests, historically to be German has been to be of German descent.64 The symbolic significance of the jus sanguinis laws was reinforced by political rhetoric that cast guest workers as a temporary feature of the German landscape. The phrase “Germany is not a country of immigration” became almost an official refrain of the Kohl administration.65 Through a denial of their very

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presence, the statement located Turkish migrants outside of the ambit of German identity. It thereby arguably undermined the political clout of claims made by this group. 66 The new Red–Green government’s platform was to challenge this ethnocentric understanding of German identity. However, the media analysis of the debates over the Nationality Act suggests that at the early stage of the Coalition’s leadership, the ethnocentric definition of German identity, which had been cemented under previous administrations, still had an enduring hold on the German polity. In the media analysis, the various issues raised in the newspaper articles were divided into those that supported the inclusion of migrants in German society and those that excluded them. Those issues pertaining to the exclusion of migrants were far more prominent in the debates over the Nationality Act than those that supported their inclusion.The signature campaign was the second most discussed issue. As a political claim, the signature campaign appealed to an ethnocultural notion of German citizenship and became a symbol of the German identity that needed to be protected against “new sources,” meaning “foreign,” Turkish sources. The Third Opportunity Structure: Actor Alliances and Configurations Discourses can change over time. Proposing that political elites can play a central role in transforming national identity, Hagedorn points to the importance of the SPD-Green government in bringing citizenship onto the national agenda and calling for a jus soli model. 67 Further, Left-wing parties represent a major ally for Turkish migrants in Germany. An overwhelming 87.6 percent identify with the Left.68 Given Turkish migrants’ weak electoral leverage, however, the strength of this alliance from the perspective of the political parties must also be investigated. Kriesi argues that when leftist parties are in opposition, they stand as powerful allies for new social movements. Leftist opposition parties can draw upon the claims of social movements to critique conservative parties in power. Once in power themselves, however, leftist parties and especially the Social Democrats will have to “place a heavy emphasis on the economic concerns of their core electorate—that is, the working class.”69 The SPD and the Greens had been lobbying for dual citizenship for decades.70 After the electoral defeat in Hesse, the Red–Green Coalition realized that the political stakes of supporting dual citizenship could be too great. Renate Künast spoke for the Coalition in the aftermath of Hesse when she said that: “We have to be more concerned with everyday issues such as those involving youth unemployment.” 71 By implication, dual citizenship was dispensable in a way that working class, economic issues, such as youth unemployment, were not. There were also difficulties in the Nationality Act debate in the actor alliance between Turkish migrants and the federal commissioner for Foreigners.72 The commissioner is the most senior public servant responsible for migrant issues in Germany. She is also considered an important advocate of resident alien rights.73 The commissioner at the time of the passage of the Nationality Act, Marieluise Beck, was initially supportive of the dual citizenship bill and

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critical of the compromise reached with the FDP.74 However, as a Greens representative, she was compelled by party discipline to vote in favor of the Act and eventually backed the reforms.75 This move deeply disappointed the Turkish migrant community in Berlin and led to a souring of relations. As put by Kenan Kolat from the TBB: “[The Government] is now saying: ‘It is a good law, we shouldn’t criticise it.’ . . . That is why we have had really big disagreements with Beck for instance.” 76 Relations between migrants and citizen non-state actors form the third area of focus of actor alliances and configurations. In contrast to corporatist theories of migrant participation, discussed in part three earlier, the quantitative analysis of the current case-study provides little support for the argument that citizen non-state actors, such as church groups and unions, monopolize the political debate on migrant issues. As table 11.2 indicates, when the media are excluded as an actor, there is only a 1.6 percentage point difference between the claims of those actors with citizenship and those without. This difference in percentage points is too small to offer quantitative support for the corporatist argument. Qualitative analysis does suggest, however, that some citizen non-state actors may have been consulted more than migrants. Yet, the “policy monopoly” was held not by churches or trade unions but rather by legal experts. Hirner’s study of the committee system finds that experts often figure in parliamentary hearings.77 According to Katzenstein, the “high degree of professional expertise [in the committees] enjoins against partisan politicization of issues.” 78 The high presence of experts in the committees can therefore have the effect of encouraging middle-ground compromise. With regard to debates over the Nationality Act, half of the experts invited to the hearing on the Nationality Act were constitutional law professors.79 As Green argues, the composition of the hearing “sp[eakes] volumes about the level at which the discourse . . . was located.” 80

Table 11.2 debate

Claim-making of migrants compared with citizen non-state actors in the Nationality Act

Category of actor Turkish migrants Other migrants Total: Migrant actors Media Other Total: Citizen non-state actors Total: Non-state actors Total: State actors * Total of all actors * Claims of all state actors. Source: Media analysis, own calculations.

Number of claims 7 8 15 10 18 28 43 140 183

Percentage of claim-making of all actors 3.8 4.4 8.2 5.5 9.8 15.3 23.5 76.5 100

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The Berlin Headscarf Debate The political participation of Berlin’s Turkish migrants in the Nationality Act debate can be compared with the participation of this group in the debate over the introduction of a ban on headscarves for teachers in public schools as well as in other areas of the public service in the city-state of Berlin. The period studied is from late September 2003 when the headscarf debate became a state issue to July 2004 when a bill was presented to the State House of Representatives. The purpose of this second case study was to consider how the POS differed at the state, compared with national level of German politics.

The Headscarf Ban in the Public Service The headscarf became a major issue in Germany in 2002 when Fereshta Ludin, a Muslim German of Afghani background, brought an action before the Constitutional Court; Germany’s highest court. Ms. Ludin had been forced to step down from her position as a teacher in the State of BadenWürttemberg because she had refused to take off her headscarf while teaching. The Court of Baden-Württemberg had found that Ludin’s headscarf interfered with the religious freedom of her students. Ludin appealed this decision to the federal Constitutional Court, who proclaimed on September 24, 2003, that the prohibition on her headscarf was unconstitutional on the narrow technical ground that Baden-Württemberg had introduced its headscarf ban without primary legislation. On this basis, the Court called for each state parliament to pass laws on the status of the headscarf in the education sector. 81 At this point the headscarf became an issue in the city-state of Berlin. The city-state was governed by a “Red–Red” SPD–PDS coalition and reactions to the Ludin case were split along party lines. Initially, the SPD was strongly in favour of a ban on headscarves in the public service. The post-Communist PDS82 was strongly opposed. 83 The day after the Court’s decision, the Berlin senator for domestic affairs from the SPD, Ehrhart Körting, announced the position of his party. The headscarf, he said, was an “expression of fundamentalism and aggression . . . against Western values and the emancipation of women.”84 Körting called for a speedy introduction of a headscarf ban across the entire public service. 85 In stark contrast, Carola Freundl for the PDS demanded a balance between the religious neutrality of the state and the personal religious freedom of teachers. 86 Fierce debate ensued within the Red–Red coalition and across the city-state of Berlin. There was a great deal of public involvement. In January 2004, over one thousand Berlin Muslims marched through the city under the slogan “my headscarf is 100 percent cotton and zero percent terror.” 87 Numerous foundations and think tanks organized public forums. 88 Most significantly, the PDS held a public hearing in the Berlin State Parliament in early March, in which a range of academics, politicians, teachers, representatives of the Muslim and Turkish communities, and journalists participated. 89

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The SPD gradually retreated from its initial position for a ban on headscarves across the entire public service. By the end of March 2004, the SPD and PDS were in agreement: Berlin would ban the headscarf but it would also ban other visible religious symbols (such as the cross, the Star of David, and the Kippur) for public servants employed in schools (although not preschools), the courts, the judiciary, the court administration, the criminal justice system, and the police force. On July 20, 2004, the coalition presented the bill to the parliament and it was passed in early 2005. A package of measures to counter stigmatization of Muslims in the state of Berlin, including a new antidiscrimination law (Allgemeines Gleichbehandlungsgesetz) accompanied the ban.90 Among the Turkish community of Berlin there were mixed reactions toward the ban. Most Turkish migrants in Berlin are Muslims but only one-third are practicing.91 Left-leaning Turkish migrants are inf luenced by Turkey’s tradition of laicism and most supported the ban.92 Some were even critical that the ban did not go far enough,93 while Islamic Turkish organizations opposed the ban.94 Of central importance to this study, however, were not the differing perspectives within the Turkish community on this issue, so much as overall levels of participation of Turkish migrant groups in the political debates. The Political Participation of Berlin’s Turkish Migrants in the Headscarf Ban Debate The media analysis of the two newspapers over this period, the qualitative analysis of interviews with Turkish organization leaders in Berlin, and the study of press statements of those leaders’ organizations confirm that the Turkish migrants of Berlin were involved quite significantly in the debate. Looking first to the results of the media analysis, as table 11.3 indicates, 14.8 percent of all claims were made by Turkish migrants. The interviews with Turkish organizations confirm the comparatively high levels of political participation by this group in the debate. Only two of the eight organizations interviewed were in no way involved. Despite divergences in the level of participation of the six remaining, active organizations, all issued press statements on the topic and most were either invited to the Public Hearing in the Berlin Parliament or had lobbied parliamentarians on their stance on the Table 11.3

Percentage of claim-making by migrants in the headscarf ban debate

Actor category Turkish migrants Other migrants Total: Migrants Total: Other actors * Total: All actors

No. of claims 31 17 48 162 210

* Claims of all actors who are not migrants. Source: Own calculations, media analysis.

Claim-making as percentage of all claims 14.8 8.1 22.9 77.1 100.0

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ban. The overall impression from the interviews is that claim-making was substantially higher in the headscarf debate than the Nationality Act debate. Political Participation and the State Political Opportunity Structure The high levels of claim-making among Turkish migrants in the debate over a headscarf ban was at 14.8 percent almost twice as high as the claim-making of all migrants combined in the national debate. In order to understand why there were such high levels of participation, it is necessary to consider the three dimensions of political opportunity at the state level of Berlin politics. The First Opportunity Structure: Formal Institutions The openness of formal political institutions is informed both by access available to activists as well as the state’s capacity to act in concert with such activists. Looking first to the question of access, the state and local levels of politics are identified in the literature as the most participatory of German politics.95 This is also the case for migrants. The inclusion of migrants on parliamentary committee meetings and at public hearings is often stipulated in the institutional arrangements of state governments.96 Migrant representation in public hearings has been required on a semiformal basis in the state of Berlin since 1982.97 In the current case study, the importance of formal access channels is apparent. The Public Hearing on March 4, 2004, was a vital opportunity for Turkish groups to voice their views concurrently with the debates over the ban. Smaller hearings were also organized in local councils throughout Berlin.98 The strength of state governments is also a relevant factor that informed the PDS–SPD’s capacity to push through the ban on all religious symbols. As discussed earlier, at the national level, the composition of the Bundesrat weakened the institutional strength of the government, thereby requiring it to reach a less favorable compromise position. In the state of Berlin, members of parliament elect the mayor and eight senators to constitute the executive branch, the Senate of Berlin. Since the Parliament elects the Senate, state executives are particularly strong and opposition parties hold more symbolic than actual power.99 The results of the media analysis ref lect the favorable institutional structures in place for German state governments. If institutional structures were to weaken a government’s capacity to act, we would expect the claim-making of opposition parties to be high because of their importance in political debate. At 9.5 percent, the opposition claim-making was substantially lower than the 16.9 percent level of claim-making of opposition parties in the national debate. The Second Opportunity Structure: Informal Procedures and Prevailing State Strategies Informal procedures and prevailing state strategies may also have been important in informing the participation levels of Turkish migrants in the debate

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over a ban on religious symbols. In contrast to the federal level of German politics where an ethnocentric culture undermined Turkish claims of attachment to Germany, a different political culture has emerged in the city-state of Berlin. As early as 1972, the state of Berlin acknowledged that Germany was “increasingly becoming a country of immigration.”100 This statement was revolutionary for its time and secured the State of Berlin’s position as a leading figure in migrant integration policy.101 Berlin was also the first state in Germany to appoint a commissioner for migration and integration, Barbara John. Under the directorship of the senator for welfare and with the assistance of the commissioner, the state of Berlin initiated a “self-help” program. Migrant groups were given financial support to organize autonomously.102 This self-help encouraged political action on the part of migrants and equipped them with the necessary resources and “know-how” to participate in Berlin state politics.103 These symbolic and concrete aspects of the city-state’s prevailing strategies toward Turkish migrants may well have contributed to a political environment where claim-making by this group was seen as normal and was even encouraged. The media analysis supports this proposition. A division of the 210 claims into issues reveals that the political discourse was not dominated by a singular definition of German identity, as was the case in the Nationality Act debate. Some actors did cast the headscarf as “fundamentalist” and incompatible with “German values.” However, these claims were balanced by claims on the constitutional right to wear a headscarf and the virtue of a ban on all religious symbols. In short, there was a far greater spectrum of claims on German identity than at the national level. The Third Opportunity Structure: Actor Alliances and Configurations The final dimension of the opportunity structure, actor alliances and configurations, is also relevant. Looking at the first actor alliance, that between Turkish migrants and the State, it is clear that Turkish migrants at the city-state level identify with the Left. Had they rights of suffrage, over 64.4 percent would vote for the SPD and over 88 percent for leftist parties generally.104 The support that the PDS in particular provided for Turkish migrants was essential in ensuring an outcome that would not disadvantage Muslims over other religious groups. The second actor alliance of concern is that between Turkish migrants and the Berlin commissioner for migration and integration. In contrast to the federal commissioner for foreigners, the Berlin commissioner is nonpartisan and sits within the state administration.105 While this renders the power of the Commission symbolic rather than political, the legacy of the previous commissioner, Barbara John, suggests that the commissioner can still play an important role in shaping immigration policy within Berlin. John represented a vital advocate of migrants’ rights both within Berlin and across Germany.106 In 2002, Günter Piening replaced John. While his opposition to a headscarf ban attracted the criticism of some laicist Turkish organizations, it also sent an important message to the Turkish community as a whole that the state of Berlin

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was not targeting Islam.107 His warnings against the potentially discriminatory effect of a headscarf ban alone in many ways preempted the enactment of the antidiscrimination law that prohibits discrimination on a number of bases, including on religious and ethnic grounds.108 This was a beneficial corollary outcome of the ban. The State of Berlin: An Outlier? It is necessary to briefly consider whether the city-state of Berlin is an outlier with regard to the open POS it provides for Turkish migrant activism. The states of Bavaria, Lower Saxony, Baden-Württemberg, and Saarland have banned the headscarf from schools, leaving other religious symbols untouched. In Hesse, there is a headscarf ban in the public services as well as in schools.109 In analyzing the headscarf ban debate in Berlin and the claim-making of Turkish migrants in that debate, it has been suggested that the state POS differs in many ways from the national POS. Is it possible, however, that the city-state of Berlin differs from both the national level and the other states of Germany. Without conducting separate media analyses of the claim-making of Turkish migrants in this debate in all these states of Germany—an enterprise well beyond the scope of this chapter—it would be impossible to test this possibility quantitatively. In some ways the state of Berlin is the exception rather than the rule. With regards to actor alliances, the SPD–PDS alliance is unique to Berlin. Left-wing parties110 are only in power in three of the fifteen states of Germany, although it is in coalition with the CDU in an additional four states. Given the close allegiance between Turkish migrants and leftist parties, it is likely that the actor alliances of Turkish migrants and state governments will not be as favorable in all German states as it is in Berlin. Yet, despite the State of Berlin’s idiosyncrasies, many of the factors that exist in the city-state of Berlin that foster a positive POS for migrants also exist in the other states. Access to public institutions as well as the unicameral parliamentary system are common features of all states.111 All states now have a commissioner for integration and many have followed the city-state of Berlin’s lead by initiating self-help programs for migrants.112 Similarly, Patrick Ireland finds similarities across the German states with regard to intercultural education and local-level integration through social work with migrant groups—additional forms of facilitative state policy not considered in this chapter.113 In short, while we could expect divergence in the openness of political opportunity structures across the various German Länder, a point made by Koopmans,114 there are shared aspects within the state system of German politics which appear more open to the political participation of Turkish migrant activists than they are at the national level. Conclusion This chapter has considered the political participation of Berlin’s Turkish migrants at the two levels of German politics—the national and the city-state

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or Land levels. Two case studies have been considered—the participation of Berlin’s Turks in the debates over the Nationality Act (2000) and the participation of these migrants in the ban on religious symbols in the city-state of Berlin. This brief comparison of the claim-making of migrants in these events suggests that at least with regard to the two case studies under examination, the POS in place at the national level was significantly less open to migrant claims than that at the state level. Three dimensions of the POS have been considered—institutional structures, prevailing state strategies, and actor alliances. With regard to the two case studies, we find that these three dimensions interacted to provide a less favorable environment for Turkish migrant political participation at the national level than at the state level of Berlin politics. The weak cooperative federalist system limited the capacity of the SPD-Green coalition to institute its desired dual citizenship reforms. The strong city-state Berlin parliament, in contrast, assisted the SPD–PDS in introducing the ban on all religious symbols. A prevailing culture of migrant activism and “self-help” encouraged the participation of Turkish migrants in the Land-level debate. Despite efforts by the Red–Green coalition, such a facilitative culture had not emerged at the federal level of German politics at the time of the Nationality Act debate. Finally, differences in the institutional position of political parties and the state and federal level government bodies representing foreigners, also affected the strength of Turkish migrant alliances with these political elites. These three dimensions of opportunity correspond with differing levels of political participation at the different levels of German politics. In the federal case study, Turkish migrants made 3.8 percent of all claims, compared with 14.8 percent in the city-state level. The interviews with Berlin Turkish elites confirm this finding that far fewer Turkish migrants were engaged in the debates over the Nationality Act than those over the ban on religious symbols. In the current case studies, therefore, the state-level provided a more facilitative environment for political participation than the national level. One concern that could be raised about this conclusion is that the particular state-level case study inf lates the degree of political participation due to the emotive nature of the headscarf debate. However, it could alternatively be argued that the attainment of German citizenship was an equally important issue, related to the key issue of legal inclusion of migrants within the German polity. As such, we could well expect far greater levels of political participation in this case study than the analysis reveals. The empirical analysis indicates that this is not the case, in turn pointing to the importance of the political opportunity structures, rather than the particular substantive issues at stake, in shaping the levels of participation in the case study. This chapter does not seek to provide an exhaustive account of the opportunities and constraints upon Turkish migrant activism in Germany. A more comprehensive study would need to compare not only a larger range of federal and state-level cases-studies but also more German Länder. This could well be a basis for future research in the area. However, in drawing attention to the qualitative and quantitative differences in the political participation of the

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Turkish community of Berlin in these two levels of German politics, it is hoped that this chapter has revealed important institutional and cultural dimensions that shape opportunities for migrant activism in differentiated ways. These aspects are not only a product of current political exigencies but also more deeply entrenched structural and cultural arrangements that emerge over time. Notes 1. Christian Joppke, Immigration and the Nation-State: The United States, Germany and Great Britain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 65. 2. Marieluise Beck, Bericht der Beauftragten der Bundesregierung für Ausländerfragen über die Lage der Ausländer in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland (Bonn: Bonner Universitäts-Buchdruckerei, 2002), 391. 3. Ibid., 222. 4. Mehmet Kilicgedik, “Bielefeld: Politische Partizipation fängt auf der kommunalen Ebene an,” in Integration durch Partizipation: Ausländische Mitbürger in demokratischen Gesellschaften, eds. Christian Büttner and Berthold Meyer (Frankfurt: Campus Verlag, 2001), 62. 5. German Basic Law (Grundgesetz), Art 33(2). 6. Claudia Diehl, Die Partizipation von Migranten in Deutschland: Rückzug oder Mobilisierung? (Opladen: Leske + Budrich, 2002), 18. 7. Hanspeter Kriesi, Ruud Koopmans, Jan Willem Duyvendak, and Macro G. Giugni, New Social Movements in Western Europe: A Comparative Analysis (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995), xv. 8. Simon Green, The Politics of Exclusion: Institutions and Immigration Policy in Contemporary Germany (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2004), 31–32. 9. Ibid., 32. 10. Karl-Heinz Meier Braun, “40 Jahre Gastarbeiter und Ausländerpolitik in Deutschland,” Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte, B35 (1995): 14–22, 16, cited in Green, Politics of Exclusion, 33. 11. Ertekin Özcan, Türkische Immigrantenorganisationen in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland: Eine Entwicklung politischer Organisationen und politischer Orientierung unter türkischen Arbeitsimmigranten in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland und Berlin West (Berlin: Hitit Verlag, 1989), 337; and Irfan Ergi, Lebenssituation und politische Beteiligung von ArbeitsimmigrantInnen in der Bundesrepublik: Möglichkeiten, Probleme und Formen, dargestellt am Beispiel von TürkInnen (Tectum Verlag, Marburg, 2000), 51. 12. Özcan, Türkische Immigrantenorganisationen, 44. 13. Green, Politics of Exclusion, 38; Özcan, Türkische Immigrantenorganisationen, 46 and 342. 14. Green, Politics of Exclusion, 34. 15. Özcan, Türkische Immigrantenorganisationen, 67–68. 16. Ibid., 343–45. 17. The seminal comparative work on guest worker systems by Miller for instance, devotes only one page to a discussion of federal German treatment of guest workers, and spends the remainder of his discussion of Germany to the Land-level, without explicitly differentiating between these levels: Mark J. Miller, Foreign Workers in Western Europe: An Emerging Political Force (New York: Praeger Publishers, 1981), 136.

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18. See, for instance, Walter Dean Burnham, “The Changing Shape of the American Political Universe,” American Political Science Review 61 (1965): 7–28; Paul Lazarsfeld, Bernard Berelson, and Hazel Gaudet, Erie County Study: The People’s Choice. How the Voter Makes up his Mind in a Presidential Campaign (New York: Columbia University Press, 1968); Martin Needler, “Political Development and Socioeconomic Development: The Case of Latin America,” American Political Science Review 62 (1968): 889–97 and Hans-Martin Uehlinger, Politische Partizipation in der Bundesrepublik: Strukturen und Erklärungsmodelle (Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1988). 19. Ronald Inglehart, The Silent Revolution: Changing Values and Political Styles Among Western Publics (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1977), 296–7; G. Bingham Powell, “American turnout in comparative perspective,” American Political Science Review 80 (1986): 17–42, 40 and Sidney Verba and Norman Nie, Participation in America: Political Democracy and Social Equality (New York: Harper and Row, 1978), 1. All of these definitions of “political participation” draw an explicit link with citizenship. 20. David A. Snow, Sarah A. Soule and Hanspeter Kriesi, “Mapping the Terrain,” in The Blackwell Companion to Social Movements, eds. David A. Snow, Sarah A. Soule and Hanspeter Kriesi (Carlton, Victoria: Blackwell Publishing, 2004), 7. 21. Bo Rothstein, “Political Institutions: An Overview,” in A New Handbook of Political Science, eds. Robert Goodin and Hans-Dieter. Klingemann (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 139–40. 22. But see the important contribution of sociological neo-institutionalism: Peter A. Hall and Rosemary C. Taylor, Political Science and the Three New Institutionalisms (Max-Planck-Institut für Gesellschaftsforschung, Cologne, Germany, 1996), 14–17. 23. Ruud Koopmans and Paul Statham, “Migration and Ethnic Relations as a Field of Political Contention: An Opportunity Structure Approach,” in Challenging Immigration and Ethnic Relations Politics: Comparative European Perspectives, eds. Ruud Koopmans and Paul Statham (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 30–31. 24. Peter K. Eisinger, “The Conditions of Protest Behavior in American Cities,” American Political Science Review 76 (1973): 11–28, 25. 25. Sidney Tarrow, Power in Movement. Social Movements, Collective Action and Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 85. 26. Ibid., 85–99. 27. Kriesi et al., New Social Movements in Western Europe, xiii–xvii. 28. For a general political science approach: Kurt Sontheimer, K and Wilhelm Bleek, Grundzüge des politischen Systems der Bundesrepublik Deutschland (Munich: Piper Verlag, 2003), 353. For migrant-specific analysis: Romain Garbaye, “Ethnic Minorities, Cities and Institutions: A Comparison of the Modes of Management of Ethnic Diversity of a French and a British City,” in Challenging Immigration and Ethnic Relations Politics: Comparative European Perspectives, note 13, 300. 29. David A. Snow and Robert D. Benford, “Ideology, Frame Resonance, and Participant Mobilization,” in From Structure to Action: Social Movement Participation Across Cultures, eds. Bert Klandermans, Hanspeter Kriesi, and Sidney Tarrow (Greenwich, CT: JAI Press, 1988) 210; and Koopmans and Statham, in Challenging Immigration and Ethnic Relations, 34. 30. Charles Tilly, From Mobilization to Revolution (Massachusetts: Addison-Wesley Publishing Co., 1978), 55.

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31. Jürgen Filjalkowski and Helmut Gillmeister, Ausländervereine—ein Forschungsbericht: über die Funktion von Eigenorganisation für die Integration heterogener Zuwanderer in einer Aufnahmegesellschaft—am Beispiel Berlin (Berlin: Hitit Verlag, 1997), 274–75; Peter J. Katzenstein, Policy and Politics in West Germany. The Growth of a Semisovereign State (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1987), 220–21; and Jürgen Puskeppeleit and Dietrich Thränhardt, Vom betreuten Ausländer zum gleichberechtigten Bürger (Solingen: Lambertus, 1990), 143–44. 32. Ruud Koopmans and Paul Statham, “Migration and Ethnic Relations as a Field of Political Contention: An Opportunity Structure Approach,” in Challenging Immigration and Ethnic Relations Politics: Comparative European Perspectives, eds. Ruud. Koopmans and Paul Statham (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 34. 33. Kriesi et al., New Social Movements in Western Europe, 27. 34. Ibid., 96–98, 102. 35. Filjalkowski and Gillmeister, Ausländervereine, 274–75; and Puskeppeleit and Thränhardt, Vom betreuten Ausländer, 171. 36. Ruud Koopmans, Paul Statham, Marco Giugni and Florence Passy, Contested Citizenship: Immigration and Cultural Diversity in Europe (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2005). 37. Garbaye, “Ethnic Minorities, Cities and Institutions,” in Koopmans and Statham; Patrick Ireland, The Policy Challenge of Ethnic Diversity: Immigrant Politics in France and Switzerland (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1994) and Ruud Koopmans and Paul Statham, “Migrant Mobilisation and Political Opportunities: An Empirical Assessment of Local and National Variation,” paper at Explaining Changes in Migration Policy: Debates from Different Perspectives, October 27–28, 2000, Geneva. 38. Ruud Koopmans, “Migrant Mobilisation and Political Opportunities: Variation Among German Cities and a Comparison with the United Kingdom and the Netherlands,” Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 30, no. 3 (2004): 449–70, 464. 39. See for instance Koopmans and Statham, cited in Koopmans et al. 40. Ruud Koopmans, Codebook for the Analysis of Political Mobilisation and Communication in European Public Spheres, Wissenschaftszentrum Berlin, Germany, 2, http://europub.wz-berlin.de/Data/Codebooks%20questionnaires/ D2-1-claims-codebook.pdf. 41. Wissenschaftszentrum Berlin, Weitere Informationen zu den Projekten 2007, http:// www.wz-berlin.de/zkd/zcm/projekte/details.de.htm#merci. 42. Koopmans, Codebook for the Analysis of Political Mobilisation. 43. Ibid., 2. 44. Given the low levels of naturalization among migrants in Germany, the coding assumed that migrants did not hold German citizenship—that is, were noncitizen, non-state actors. 45. SPD-Greens, Koalitionsvereinbarung zwischen der Sozialdemokratischen Partei Deutschland und Bündnis 90/Die Grünen, IX(7) Integration (Bonn, Germany, 1998), http://www.datenschutz-berlin.de/doc/de/koalo/09.htm#ix7. 46. Cited in Green, The Politics of Exclusion, 29. 47. Celalettin Kartal, “Die ‘doppelte Staatsbürgerschaft’ als Integrationsfaktor in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland,” Zeitschrift für türkische Studien 42 (2002): 226. 48. “Türken wollen deutschen Paß,” TBB-Spiegel, 9. 49. Sigrid Averesch, “Nach 95 Jahren ist das deutsche Blutsrecht passé,” Berliner Zeitung, October 16, 1998, 4 and Sigrid Averesch, “Staatsbürger: Riskanter Gang

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50. 51. 52.

53. 54.

55.

56. 57. 58. 59.

60.

61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66.

67. 68.

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nach Karlsruhe: Klage Erfolg ist umstritten,” Berliner Zeitung, January 8, 1999, 6. Heike Hagedorn, Wer darf Mitglieder werden? Einbürgerung in Deutschland und Frankreich im Vergleich (Opladen: Leske + Budrich, 2001), 188. “Zwei deutsche,”Berliner Zeitung, May 21, 1999, 6. Arthur B. Gunlicks, The Länder and German Federalism (New York: Manchester University Press, 2003), 295; Christian Joppke, “Mobilisation of Culture and the Reform of Citizenship Law: Germany and the United States,” in Challenging Immigration and Ethnic Relations Politics: Comparative European Perspectives, note 13, 155; and Graham Thom, Immigration and Modern Western Citizenship, PhD dissertation. Discipline of Government and International Relations, University of Sydney (2000), 393. Nationality Act (2000), Art 1(4). There are certain very limited exceptions allowing for dual citizenship in Germany: Foreigner Act (1990), Article 2, §87 as amended by the Nationality Act. Since January 1, 2005, these changes are incorporated into the Nationality Act (2005). Kenan Kolat, Interview with author, Offices of the Türkischer Bund in BerlinBrandenburg. I interviewed him in German and transcribed the interview in full. Translation into English is my own. Berlin, December 8, 2003. Kriesi et al., New Social Movements in Western Europe, 27. Sontheimer and Bleek., Gründzüge des politischen Systems, 293–94. Ibid., 295. Innenausschuß des Deutschen Bundestages, “Reform des Staatsangehörigkeitsrechts: Die parlamentarische Beratung,” Dienstag, dem April 13, 1999, in Protokoll über die 12. Sitzung des Innenausschusses (Bonn: Bonner Universitäts-Buchdruckerei, 1999), 33. Stephen J. Silvia, “The Bundesrat, Interest Groups, and Gridlock: German Nationalism at the End of the Twentieth Century,” in Breakdown, Breakup, Breakthrough: Germany’s Difficult Passage to Modernity, ed. Carl Lankowski (New York: Berghahn Books, 1999), 124. Ibid., 127. Gunlicks, Länder and German federalism, 348–49 and Sontheimer and Bleek, Gründzüge des politischen Systems, 364–65. Kriesi, Political Context and Opportunity, 72. Rogers Brubaker, Citizenship and Nationhood in France and Germany (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1992), 114–37. Koopmans and Statham, in Ter Wal and Verkuyten 2000, 148. Bernhard Santel, “Außen vor?—Zur politischen Partizipation von Zuwanderern in Deutschland,” in Integration und Partizipation in der Einwanderungsgesellschaft, eds. Marianne Krüger-Potratz, Hans H. Reich and Bernhard Santel (Osnabrück: Universitätsverlag Rasch, 2002), 15. Hagedorn., Wer darf Mitglieder werden, 178. Claudia Diehl and Michael Blohm, “Apathy, adaptation or ethnic mobilisation? On the attitudes of a politically excluded group,” Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 27, no. 3 (2001): 412. The “Left” here is defined as the SPD, PDS, and Greens combined. Kriesi et al., New Social Movements in Western Europe, 59. Randell Hansen, “Citizenship and Integration in Europe,” in Towards Assimilation and Citizenship: Immigrants in Liberal Nation-States, eds. Christian Joppke and Ewa Morawska (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), 94.

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71. Ulrich Zawatka-Gerlach, “Eine Steilvorlage für die CDU – Warnschub für SPD und Grüne,” der Tagesspiegel, February 9, 1999. 72. Since 2002, the Commissioner’s official title is “Commissioner of the National Government for Migration, Refugees and Integration.” 73. Bernd Geiß, “Die Ausländerbeauftragten der Bundesregierung in der ausländerpolitischen Diskussion,” in Deutschland – ein Einwanderungsland? Rückblick, Bilanz und neue Fragen, Festschrift des europäischen Forums für Migrationsstudien, eds. Edda Currie and Tanya Wunderlich (Stuttgart: Lucius & Lucius, 2001). 74. Federal Commissioner for Foreigners, “Beck: Union soll Farbe bekennen,” Press Statement, 9 February 1999. 75. Federal Commissioner for Foreigners, “Überfälliger Schritt zu einem modernen Staatsangehörigkeitsrecht,” Press Statement, March 12. 1999. 76. Kolat, Interview with author. 77. Manfred Hirner, “Das Parlament im Netzwerk gesellschaftlicher Interessen,” in Parlament und Gesellschaft: Eine Funktionsanalyse der repräsentativen Demokratie, eds. Dietrich Herzog, Hilke Rebensdorf, and Bernhard Weßels (Berlin: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1993), 154. 78. Katzenstein., Policy and Politics in West Germany, 43. 79. Innenausschuß des Deutschen Bundestages. Reform des Staatsangehörigkeitsrechts, 33. 80. Green, The Politics of Exclusion, 102. 81. BvR. 2003, 1436/02. Kopftuch Fall: Bundesverfassungsgericht, September 24, 2003. 82. Now known as “die Linke” or “The Left.” 83. Jan Thomsen, “Die PDS will noch kein Kopftuch-Verbot,” Berliner Zeitung, September 27, 2003, 20. 84. “Körting will Kopftuch im öffentlichen Dienst verbieten,” der Tagesspiegel, September 26, 2004. 85. Susanne Vieth-Entus, “Kopftuch-Verbot: Eltern und DGH unterstützen Körting. Lehrergewerkschaft will Debatte über Trennung von Staat und Kirche,” der Tagesspiegel, September 27, 2003. 86. Sabine Beikler, “Nach Karlsruher Urteil: Böger plant Gesetz gegen Kopftücher,” der Tagesspiegel, September 25, 2003. 87. “100 Prozent Baumwolle, 0 Prozent Terror,” der Taggespiegel, January 19, 2004. 88. See for instance the following forums: Friedrich Ebert Foundation, “The Headscarf in Berlin,” Public forum, Berlin, February 11, 2004, 7:00pm–9:30pm. Brandenburg, House of Cultures, “Al global forum,” Berlin, March 9, 2004. 89. Correspondence by email with Marion Seelig, PDS Member of Parliament, Berlin, over the headscarf ban, Berlin–Sydney, August 31, 2004. 90. PDS, “Gesetz zur weltanschaulich-religiösen Neutralität des Staates: SPD and PDS vereinbaren Maßnahmenpaket,” PDS Newsletter, April 2, 2004. 91. Barbara John, Repräsentativumfrage zur Lebenssituation türkischer Berlinerinnen und Berliner (Berlin: Senatsverwaltung für Arbeit, Soziales und Frauen, 2002), 28. 92. Berrin Alpbek, interview with author at the offices of Turkish Union of BerlinBrandenburg. Interview was in German. Translation into English is my own, January 21, 2004; Bilkay Öney, interview with author at the offices of Berlin Greens about her role within Immigrün. Interview was in German and English. Translation into English was my own, February 13, 2004; and Saadet Özulusal, interview with author, Offices of Treff- und Informationsort für Frauen aus der Türkei, Kreuzberg, Berlin. Interview in German. Translation into English was my own, January 9, 2004.

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93. Ozcan Mutlu, interview with author as representative of Immigrün, Greens Office, Berlin. I interviewed him in German and English. All translations into English are my own, January 22, 2004. 94. Burhan Kesice, interview with author, Offices of the Islamische Föderation Berlin. I interviewed him in German. All translations into English are my own, February 13, 2004. 95. Roland Roth, “Lokale Demokratie ‘von unten’: Bürgerinitiativen, städtischer Protest, Bürgerbewegung und neue soziale Bewegungen in der Kommunalpolitik,” in Kommunalpolitik: Politisches Handeln in den Gemeinden, eds. Helmut Wollmann and Roland Roth (Bonn, Bundeszentrale für politische Bildung, 1998), 2–22. 96. Thomas Scheffer, “Ausländerpolitik in der Kommune,” in Kommunalpolitik: Politisches Handeln in den Gemeinden, 776–78. 97. Thomas Schwarz, Zuwanderer im Netz des Wohlfahrtsstaats—Türkische Jugendliche und die Berliner Kommunalpolitik (Berlin: Edition Parabolis, 1992), 133. 98. Seelig, email correspondence with author. 99. Winfried Steffani, “Länderparlamentismus im parlamentarischen Bundesstaat,” in Liberale Demokratie in Europa and den USA, Festschrift für Kurt L. Shell, eds. Franz Greß and Hans Vorländer (Frankfurt/New York: Campus Verlag, 1990) cited in Gunlicks., Länder and German federalism, 217. 100. Schwarz, Zuwanderer im Netz des Wohlfahrtsstaats, 125. 101. Ibid., 143. 102. Thomas Schwarz, “Integrationspolitik als Beauftragtenpolitik: Die Ausländerbeautragte des Berliner Senats,” in Migration und Integration in Berlin: Wissenschaftliche Analysen und politische Perspektiven, ed. Frank Gesemann (Berlin: Leske + Budrich, Opladen, 2001), 134. 103. Schwarz, Zuwanderer im Netz des Wohlfahrtsstaats, 13. 104. Maria Berger and Christian Galonska, “Political Integration by a Detour? Ethnic Communities and Social Capital of Migrants in Berlin,” paper presented at Demokratie und Sozialkapital—die Rolle zivilgesellschaftlicher Akteure, June 2002, Berlin, 14. The “Left” here is defined as the SPD, PDS, and Greens combined. 105. Schwarz, Zuwanderer im Netz des Wohlfahrtsstaats, 132–33. 106. Ibid., 141. 107. Günter Piening, “ Muslimische Frauen integrieren—nicht ausgrenzen: Ein Kopftuchverbot löst keine Probleme!,” Press Statement, Integrationsbeauftragter des Berliner Senats, Berlin, February 17, 2004. 108. Günter Piening, “Allgemeines Gleichbehandlungsgesetz (AGG) tritt in Kraft,” Press Statement, Integrationsbeauftragter des Berliner Senats, Berlin, August 17, 2006. 109. K. Rüdiger Durth, “Keine religiösen Symbole im Öffentlichen Dienst: Berlin und das Kopftuchverbot,” Das Parlament (05–06). 110. Defined here as either the SPD or the PDS. 111. Scheffer, Ausländerpolitik in der Kommune; and Gunlicks, Länder and German federalism, 147. 112. Sigrid Baringhorst, “Symbolic Politics of Multiculturalism: How German Cities Campaign against Racism,” in Minorities in European Cities: The Dynamics of Social Inclusion and Social Exclusion at the Neighbourhood Level, eds. Sophie Body-Gendrot and Marco Martiniello (London: Macmillan, 2000), 162–75; and Scheffer, Ausländerpolitik in der Kommune. 113. Patrick Ireland, Becoming Europe: Immigration, Integration, and the Welfare State (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2004). 114. Koopmans, Migrant Mobilisation and Political Opportunities.

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CHAPTER 12

French Dressing: Race, Gender, and the Hijab Story Judith Ezekiel

I

n February 2004, French legislators overwhelmingly approved a law banning conspicuous signs of religion in public schools. Although Jewish yarmulkes and “excessively large” crucifixes are also mentioned, it clearly targets the hijab. Called a “scarf ” ( foulard ) by opponents to the ban and a “veil” by its supporters, it is neither; what the wearers call the hijab covers hair and neck, leaving the face tightly framed. This ban was the culmination of a long and intense debate including a five-month investigation by the nonpartisan “Stasi Commission” appointed by President Jacques Chirac in July 2003. The law went into effect in the autumn of 2004. In its first year, only fortyeight girls and three Sikh boys were expelled, but the debate has rocked the nation and sent tremors around the world. In August, days before the new school year, events took a surreal turn when two French journalists and their chauffeur were taken hostage in Iraq and held for 124 days; their captors demanded that the French government abolish the ban. Although the law only mentions elementary and secondary public schools, new incidents crop up regularly. A Paris meter reader was suspended for wearing a headscarf under her hat. Authorities prohibited a fashion show of beveiled women. Schools have forbidden beveiled mothers from volunteering in libraries and for school outings. A university cafeteria refused to serve a beveiled girl. A municipal official stopped a bride’s aunt from signing as a witness when she refused to remove her hijab “for identification.”1 The recent affair is not the first of its kind; two such incidents preceded it, and beveiled girls were suspended from schools in 1989 and 1993. Yet none attained the proportions of the present clash. For instance, whereas the LexisNexis database shows ten articles in the francophone press that discussed the

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French hijab or “Islamic headscarf ” in 1989–1990 and about 150 articles in 1993–1994, it jumps to nearly 1,000 in 2003–2004. In January 2006 Google. fr showed about 55,000 hits for these terms. The unprecedented intensity of this controversy, incomprehensible to most foreigners, stems from the fundamental meanings attributed to this bit of cloth. The controversy reveals and further distills the transformation of French political culture over the last fifteen years. At the core of this culture lies an apparent near-consensus around a resuscitated national identity and model for humanity: that of la France laïque et républicaine, the universalist, secular, republican France. The hijab has been constructed as a dire threat to this identity, and the ban as a bulwark against Islamic fundamentalism and also “American-style” multiculturalism. This model has replaced international utopias, particularly borderless socialism. Despite its universalist pretensions, I contend that it is a nationalized, even nationalistic model that “others” ethnic, racial, and religious minorities, as well as those who quite simply deny its “universality.” The hijab saga is, bizarrely, my own story. No, I am neither a Muslim nor veiled. I am an immigrant of a different ilk: a baby-boomer American; an atheist Jew; a lifelong feminist, radical, and antiracist activist; and an insider– outsider observer of and participant in French politics. Don’t get me wrong: I strongly believe that veils are symbols and factors in women’s oppression, and I am still that child who refused to utter the “under God” in the Pledge of Allegiance. Yet the changes in political culture that culminated in the ban have “othered” me as effectively as it has the beveiled girls. The hijab story is, for me, one of lost utopias, retracting borders and entrenchment. I have been trying to write some version of this chapter for years. Although I am not alone in my critiques, I have not published it in France; indeed, an earlier incarnation of this chapter appeared as far away as possible, in Australia. 2 First, I knew it would be discounted in France by those I criticize, illegitimated because “foreign,” American, and, even worse, feminist American. After spending almost three decades in France—nearly all my adult life—and despite the fact that my French is fluent, that I have been a “public servant” for twentyeight years, and that I am (undeportable as) the mother of two French children, I am a failure of the much-touted French intégration. Mostly, however, my silence has been strategic. Although I have opposed many proponents of this republican model on specific issues in the past, on the issue of the ban my opponents have included my closest feminist sisters. Given the unparalleled passion of the debate, voicing my positions would mean that, for many people I deeply respect, I would cross the line into the enemy camp. On the other side, some Greens, human rights, Far Left, and a few feminist activists oppose the ban, but my political home does not lie with them. Although they vocally set themselves apart, their opposition has dovetailed with that of increasingly visible fundamentalists, anti-Americans, and anti-Semites. How can I protest alongside the bearded men keeping watch over the rows of veiled women or in a demonstration including a group that has chanted “death to the Jews” and in which some believe that the story of the Shoah was invented to justify Israeli occupation of Palestine?

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The hijab story lies at the intersection of the myriad developments since 1989 that have resuscitated and recentralized a nationalist republican model: the discrediting of international utopias and of revolution, the rise of the neofascist Right, increased anti-Americanism, the rejection of multiculturalism, and the fragmentation and recomposition of political blocs. The veiled girls singularly embody these historical processes, and their story contextualizes the birth of a new “woman of color” feminism. From Internationalism to National Universalism When I first arrived in France in 1975, political models were varied and conf licting, but most radicals shared a vision with international scope incorporating some form of borderless socialism. No nation-state was immune to criticism; my condemnation of the United States was no less vigorous than my friends’ denunciations of France. I felt welcomed into the French part of an international community. By the late 1980s, as France entered its second term of Mitterrandiste socialism, that international viewpoint had eroded to the point of near invisibility. A generation of nouveaux philosophes had argued that the Gulag, the Stalinist horrors, showed that all forms of socialism were not just bankrupt, but de facto evils. In 1989, when the Berlin Wall fell, many took this not just as the symbolic end to Soviet communism but more broadly as vindication of anticommunist, antisocialist, or at least antirevolutionary positions. These “new philosophers,” after dissociating themselves from the Left for years, later reclaimed the label after the said Left grew closer to their positions, notably a renovated, moralistic humanitarianism. They and other “public intellectuals” became general practitioners of mass media political philosophy, with near rock-star status, called upon to pontificate on everything from French foreign policy to tsunamis, the homeless, and the hijab. The year 1989 also marked the bicentennial of the French Revolution. The very nature of the Revolution came under scrutiny. Some argued that, as Stalinism was inherent to communism, the Terror and totalitarianism were inherent to the French Revolution. In a counteroffensive, many public intellectuals resurrected a different Revolutionary model, la France laïque et républicaine. This secular and republican model began filling the void left by international socialism. My shared Franco-American, international utopias began giving way to a national model. Not all got on the bandwagon. For a short period in the early Mitterrand years, the term “democracy” came back into vogue. It carried with it the issues of minority rights and hence of multiculturalism. A brief window opened to the emergent movement of first-generation French-born children of Maghrebi (North African), sub-Saharan African, and other immigrants. Aha, I gloated, the French would finally be confronted, not just with anticolonial uprisings far from home but with a mass antiracist social movement on the mainland. Having experienced the rise of the civil rights and Black Power movements in the United States, I savored the times, watching the rising anger and

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self-confidence of a generation. Like that day on the subway with my friend, daughter of Vietnamese parents: when racists told her to “go home,” she stared them straight in the eyes, amusement on her lips, but steel in her voice. “Just where I’m going,” she said, “Ivry-sur-Seine, end of the line.” No longer shackled by the pressures of gratitude to the host country, fragile legal status, and gaps in cultural literacy of their mostly poor and working-class parents, French-born children of immigrants began forging new identities and demands. In 1983, a group inspired by the U.S. civil rights movement organized the “March for Equality and against Racism,” dubbed the Marche des Beurs (“Beurs” is slang for “Arabs”). It drew some one hundred thousand people and gave birth to several groups, the most famous being SOS Racisme, which emerged from the orbit of the Socialist Party, and the small but significant Nanas Beurs (slang for Arab women). Yet the multicultural experiment, although never actually opposed to the republican ideal, proved to be a brief interlude. As the Stasi report reminds us, “Our political philosophy was founded on the defense of a single, unified social body. The concern with oneness prevails over all expression of difference, perceived as a threat.”3 In the French Revolutionary stance, “the people”—like the sovereign before them—had to be indivisible; separating out any group that endangers this conception of the French Republic. The classic example given is the Revolutionary attribution of citizenship to Jews: full rights as individuals but none “as a nation,” Stanislas de Clermont-Tonnerre declared in 1789. The fear of “nations within a nation” would make sense at the time of the Revolution when the memory of regions patched together and cemented into one nation by extreme, iron-fisted centralization was still fresh. Today, French micronationalist demands, from Corsica to the Basque country, ranging from separate languages to territorial secession evoke this history. Opposing today’s ethnic communities with the rhetoric reserved for “nations” is no innocent mistake. In public discourse, all multiculturalism was reduced to “identity politics” and more recently to a dreaded “communitarianism” (the said “communities,” although rarely defined, are obviously “other” to the white male universal). Both have been discredited alternately as “American” and even as a ref lection of the fragmentation and “tribalism” in post-Soviet Eastern and Central Europe. In this construction, republicans’ opposition to multiculturalism can tolerate no compromise. Even the slightest infraction represents a dire threat. For example, some girls tried trading in their hijabs for other headcoverings, either by order of Muslim authorities or of their own volition, adopting the then-fashionable bandanas that leave neck and ears exposed. Naively, I assumed this would be interpreted as a show of goodwill and a compromise between these girls and the French state. To the contrary, the education minister issued instructions to repress this practice. Today, although my daughter will never be stopped from wearing her bandanas to school, if a Muslim girl does so repeatedly, she may be expelled.4 One television report showed an enraged teacher reprimanding a Black girl (Muslim, we assume) for wearing a thick headband because it covered the roots of her hair!

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Them and Us: The Far Right Sets the Tone Concomitantly, opposition to diversity from the Far Right, notably Jean-Marie Le Pen’s National Front Party, has also provided crucial context to the hijab story. Although anti-Semitism has remained central to the Far Right’s repertoire (and takes on particularly sinister meaning in the country of Vichy), its most visible face is anti-“immigrant” racist discourse and practice. For most French people, “the immigrant” and their French-born children are racialized, with roots in North and sub-Saharan Africa. When I refer to myself as an immigrant, my French interlocutors are disconcerted; one recently painstakingly explained to me that neither I nor my children were “immigrants,” because we are white and middle class. After a few local victories in the early 1980s, a change in the voting system allowed the National Front, with a showing of almost 12 percent, to win seats in the 1986 National Assembly elections. Since then, between 10 and 17 percent of French voters have cast their ballots for the National Front alone and millions more for candidates who could arguably be called Far Right. Then, in the first round of the 2002 presidential elections, with votes split among sixteen candidates, Le Pen came in second with almost five million votes, more than Socialist prime minister Lionel Jospin and only 3 percentage points behind right-wing Jacques Chirac. A shocked Left watched a run-off between the Right and the Far Right. Today, about 21 percent of the population admits to having voted for the National Front at least once and as many as one-third agree with some of its ideas.5 National Front discourse has shifted from notions of white racial superiority to arguments of “incompatibility” among races or “cultures.” Since the mid1980s, this discourse has spread far beyond the limits of that party, to the Center Right, but also into the Left. The Socialist party, including members of the then-administration, began speaking of the “problem” of immigration and “thresholds of tolerance,” as well as associating (male) immigrants and their descendants with violence and a myriad of social ills. 6 The potential threat posed by difference is ref lected in how racism and discrimination have been framed. For years, when I used the term “racism,” well-meaning friends corrected me: “You mean ‘xenophobia.’ ” Most of them, like my students today, “explain” to me that the fear of “the foreign” is an elemental constituent of all humans. (This always left me perplexed, as a member of a large family of wandering Jews in which the “foreign” was alluring and sameness boring.) They continue: this natural impulse must be curbed through societal intervention, principally among children and through the educational system, the ultimate republican institution. (As I write, my daughter is studying this view as a part of the mandatory national educational program in junior high school.) At the same time, there is a widespread, relatively sophisticated understanding that the nineteenth-century scientific construction of “races” is a fiction. Virtually all students, from my daughter on up, rightly know that the only real “race” is the human race. The social deconstruction and psychological approaches come together in extreme race blindness even among progressives in French society. On the one

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hand, reducing racism to xenophobia places it on a psychoanalytic, thus individual, level. It contributes to the implicit, yet overwhelming consensus that (understandable, potentially symmetrical) attitudes, not institutions, are the problem. On the other hand, because most French people know that races do not exist and correctly understand that any attempt to measure them actually creates the categories, all racial categorization becomes taboo. French law, recently reaffirmed, actually forbids collecting data by race or ethnicity; only country of birth is allowed. Racism becomes difficult or impossible to measure and thus invisible. Opposition to racial categorization has gone so far as to threaten antidiscrimination law. In November 2004, Socialist National Assembly delegates introduced an amendment that would remove the mention of the “shocking” and “dangerous” term race from the French Constitution, a philosophically coherent but politically dangerous position. The passage in question is that which guarantees equality for all citizens “without distinction of origin, race, or religion.” 7 Nearly always, the reduction of racism to xenophobia posits the immigrant as foreign and the French as white and (usually lapsed) Catholic: as the poster for a new museum on immigration proclaims, “Their history is our history.” However, to become part of “our history,” “they” must leave their separate stories at the doors of the Republic. When it became clear that members of certain minorities were not doing so, several explanatory narratives surfaced Left and Right. One is: “North African immigration is too recent—it just takes time (see how well the Portuguese have ‘integrated’).” This narrative runs up against a historical detail: although Tunisia and Morocco were protectorates of France, Algeria was, by 1848, one of the country’s departments—that is, like the Dordogne or the Gironde, supposedly an integral part of the French nation. Even if only a handful of Algerian Muslims benefited from full citizenship, Algerians were thus French long before most southern and eastern European immigrants. The second argument, an example of the absorption of Far Right discourse, is that “integrating” Poles and Italians was no problem because they were from similar, that is, Catholic, cultures. Islam, the argument goes, prevents assimilation. Even discounting Algeria, it is inaccurate to say that France has been homogeneously Christian, let alone Catholic. Jews lived in France at the inception of the Revolution; indeed French republicans brag of being the first to grant citizenship to Jews (overlooking that this occurred earlier in the United States). Conceptualizing secularism as incompatible with an entire religion and republican “integration” as dependent on being of the same culture is borderline oxymoronic. Interestingly, discussions of poverty and of inequality in general have also fit into a similar paradigm: for nearly a decade, both terms have been replaced by the notion of “exclusion.” The solution is thus incorporation into an established, scarcely remodeled French society (the term assimilation is shunned, but it appears in dictionary definitions of intégration). Although “the excluded” are not necessarily racialized, this notion posits a core society into which outsiders must enter, with help (for the Left) or without (for the Right).

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French Identity and “America” Several days after the hijab ban was approved, I attended a large public meeting in the poor housing projects of Toulouse where I heard a “women of color” feminist group speak in favor of the ban. But then, a white French Muslim convert, seated in a row of veiled women, compared the ban to the Jews’ yellow star in Nazi-occupied France. Another veiled woman argued that France was not secular—it was “godless.” Behind me, a row of misogynous young men, consulting with their bearded leader, heckled the feminists mercilessly. When I tried to quiet them, their reaction made me worry for my safety. One stood up and waved a paper, saying, I have here in my hand a document proving that, in America, a veiled woman became valedictorian of an important university. If in the United States, a woman wearing the hijab can succeed, why not in France? That night, I turned on the news. Talking heads were discussing “positive discrimination” (the poor French translation for affirmative action), championed by Nicolas Sarkozy, the Right-wing minister of the interior and probable candidate in the next presidential elections, called the “French Bush” by some. Speaking for the other side, “experts” from the Left and ethnic minorities were condemning these measures as “American-style communitarianism.” (This American model, constructed around a small number of oft-repeated anecdotes, is a part of an unshakable stock of French “knowledge” and is usually accompanied by the ominous warning “ . . . and we know where that got them.”) For an American, what a topsy-turvy world: Fundamentalists invoking American multiculturalism to oppose feminism? Progressives supporting a dress code? The Right supporting affirmative action and the Left and minorities opposing it? Although the French Republic does not pretend to be a new utopia, it unquestionably defines itself in opposition and as an antidote to a dystopian “America.” For Jacques Chirac, who portrays himself as Charles de Gaulle reincarnate, tapping into this renewed anti-Americanism and the hijab controversy has been a useful tool. When, in defiance to all that is American, Chirac refused to back the United States in Iraq, he might have appeared “soft on Islam,” a dangerous position for any politician intent on courting the Far Right vote. Fighting the hijab offered him a domestic alternative to the war [in this respect, the Iraqi captors of the French hostages were not entirely wrong when they accused France of “waging war (emphasis added) on the Islamic veil”). 8 Like the abortion issue in America, the hijab has thus provided a wedge to rend political blocs and recompose alliances. Right-wing Chirac, elected by the Left in the run-off election against neofascist Le Pen, could thus present himself as spanning political divisions. With his opposition to the war in Iraq and support of the hijab ban, he gained more-or-less grudging respect from the republican Left. At the same time, he has assuaged anti-immigrant racism by being “tough on Islam.” (In the meantime, his administration continues furiously privatizing industry, cutting social welfare, and generally following the same unjust domestic policies as those of George W. Bush, including those that hit women disproportionately.)

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Secularism in a Christian Culture The more my peers proclaim France to be the world leader in secularism, the more I perceive the cracks in the wall between church and state. Religions, including the clergy’s salaries, are state-funded in Alsace and Moselle. The state heavily subsidizes private schools, nearly all Catholic. Workers and students benefit from numerous Christian holidays to the exclusion of all others (including the Jewish sabbath, because most children have school on Saturday morning to compensate for the weekday off originally reserved for their Christian education). Thirty years ago, most people I knew shared my disapprobation of these violations of secularism. Today, with the notable exception of a few ecumenical secularists, such as those from the feminist group Prochoix, such contradictions are now brushed off as merely quibbling over details. My criticisms, essentialized as Jewish and American, are exasperating. Having children has made me more prickly, such as when my daughter’s ever-so-hip alternative school held a Christmas play on the first night of Chanukah. Or when my state-run university, after shutting down following an explosion, held its first university-wide meeting on Yom Kippur. In both cases, my timid comments provoked wrath: “Of course you can hold a meeting on a Jewish holiday, because France is secular.” “And what of the Christmas trees in school?” I ask, “and of my university’s yearly Christmas party recently held during Chanukah and days after Aïd-el-Fitr?” Answer: “Christmas is secular and Christmas trees come from pagan ritual.” Or even: “but we must respect French national culture.” Seeing my anger, the university president responded, heavy with innuendo: “You’re of the Hebrew faith, aren’t you?” Usually, people pull rank, reminding me that I am an outsider: “French Jews and Muslims like celebrating Christmas.” I had even started to believe them until the hijab story stirred up memories among students and friends who told me in confidence how they had pressured their reticent Muslim parents to partake in this “secular” holiday. Despite an apparent consensus, struggles over the place of the Church in affairs of education are ever-so-French and ongoing. One need not go back to the anticlerical violence of Revolutionary France or to the struggles that led to the 1905 law on the separation of church and state. In the early 1980s, when François Mitterrand and his education minister tried to reorganize the educational system into a unified, public, secular system, the Catholic Church orchestrated one of the largest protests since May 1968, bringing out over a million of its faithful. It brought down the prime minister and made Mitterrand fight for his political life. The Socialists remained in power but never again attempted to extract Catholicism from the school system. This incident, the defeat and capitulation of secularism, has vanished from contemporary narratives of France as an exemplary secular state. From the Revolution to the 1980s, secularism was seen as the bulwark against the hierarchical, reactionary, and powerful Catholic Church but not as the sole progressive force in society. Today, with the loss of socialist and international utopias, we are left in a binary of religion versus secularism, the latter

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becoming a freestanding, overarching political ideology. The original opponent, Catholicism, has been replaced by Islam.9 The Schools and National Consensus It is no coincidence that the site of the hijab controversy has been the public schools, represented virtually unquestioned as the exemplary secular republican institution. Schools “in our Republic,” writes the head of a principals’ union, are “liberating” and “emancipating.” Public intellectual Alain Finkielkraut went further in legislative hearings, calling school “temples of laïcité . . . And you remove your headcovering in this temple,” Finkielkraut declared, “precisely to open yourself to the great works of culture, the works that make humanity. If the teacher is the representative of the poets, the artists, and culture, nothing should come between the teacher’s representation and the students’ reception.” The headscarf does just that, he claims.10 Even most opponents to the ban remain within this paradigm, arguing that expelling veiled girls deprives them of the benefits of republican schooling, lauded as a secularizing and liberatory process. The schools continue to be vested with the creation of social cohesion. One year after the Stasi report, a parliamentary committee made up of eighteen white men and two white women, submitted its “findings” on juvenile delinquency to the prime minister. The transparency of the report’s conception of the schools as a form of social control is breathtaking. It urges the government to “restore teachers’ authority over students and their parents” in order to address the root cause of the problem: bilingualism. Mothers of young children, it says, must speak French exclusively in the home, avoiding unspecified “other” languages (no one would doubt that Arabic and African languages are targeted). The said mothers, the report suggests, may be too weak to stand up against their husbands—exoticized, ignorant patriarchs—who supposedly insist upon speaking patois. In this case, the child’s teacher (and note that public school starts at age three, and sometimes even two) must report the families to the authorities and the educational system will appoint an agent to oversee follow-up, coordinating with social workers, psychologists, and speech therapists.11 From National Feminism to “Women of Color” Feminism In the 2004–2005 school year, forty-eight girls were expelled from French public schools. Far more serious than the plight of these individuals is how they, and an extended group of “Arab women,” are being denied agency. Neither helpless victims, nor empowered agents, these girls are among the many negotiating daily in a country infused with interlocking racism and sexism. Many live in families and neighborhoods searching for balance as cultural and/or religious Muslims and immigrants in a country “of Christian culture.” The jury is still out, but it seems that their political, social, and religious itineraries

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vary.12 Some wear the hijab, others a scarf; some are forced to cover their heads by fathers and brothers, others do so in opposition to their family; some (mistakenly) think the hijab will provide protection from the sexist gaze and violence in their neighborhoods, others piously adhere to a fundamentalist interpretation of the Koran. Perhaps most importantly, all are sisters, mothers, cousins, and friends of other, unveiled women, for whom they are not the exotic, foreign objects most outsiders see in common representations. Although the hijab story has mostly been told in gender-blind terms, women’s oppression and emancipation have also been an ongoing thread in pro-ban discourse. Much of this discourse has come from public figures who have never distinguished themselves for their feminism. They depict the Republic as not just the potential but the actual defender of (supposedly established) gender equality. Feminism has been nationalized twofold, both as French and as inherent to the Republic. From the (mostly male) politicians to the educators, the journalists, the public intellectuals, and scholars, had we in the women’s movement had but a fraction of the support and coverage that they have lent to the hijab story, France would be a feminist paradise. To the contrary, the period I scrutinize can be characterized as antifeminist.13 Most of this “feminist” discourse is what I have called “National Feminism,” akin to Laura Bush and Lynn Cheney’s sudden concern with Afghan and Iraqi women and as close to feminism as National Socialism was to socialism. However, not all those evoking feminism are cynics. Many longtime, committed feminist activists and scholars have engaged in the debate; most support the ban with a vengeance. Longtime feminist Anne Zelensky (founder, with the patronage of Simone de Beauvoir, of the Ligue du Droit des Femmes) demands that, if any women are harassed for not wearing veils, the State should extend the ban even to the streets.14 Another statement, signed by feminist lawyer Linda Weil-Curiel, nuclear physicist and longtime feminist Annie Sugier, and Sandrine Godeffroy-Durand for La Ligue du Droit Internationale des Femmes, proclaims that the French hijab is “stained with the blood” of all the women oppressed and murdered in the Muslim world for not covering themselves.15 Understandably, many longtime feminists bitterly remember the French Left’s blindness to the misogyny of the Iranian Revolution: a 1979 delegation of French feminists that traveled to Iran to observe the new government and to meet with the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, was the first to sound the alarm, based in part on its analysis of the chador as indicative of trouble to come. Upon return, feminists encountered cultural relativist justifications at best; at worst, they were quite simply ignored. Yet the secularists do not distinguish between the millions of women worldwide forced to cover themselves in totalitarian regimes and the French beveiled girls, living in an imperfect democracy. On the other side, longtime feminist Christine Delphy (founder, with the patronage of Simone de Beauvoir, of the journal Questions Féministes) has become the feminist figurehead for the group organized against the hijab ban, Une Ecole pour Tous et pour Toutes (School for All, Boys and Girls), whose founding members, according to Prochoix editor Caroline Fourest, include

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fundamentalists and anti-Semites.16 In her antiracist zeal, Delphy has joined forces with pro-hijab groups and has appeared in forums with charismatic Islamic leader Tariq Ramadan, proponent of a mere “moratorium,” not ban, on stoning women. Delphy participated in the 2004 London European Social Forum session called “The Hijab, a Woman’s Right to Choose.” I shudder at how pro-hijab groups have hijacked the rhetoric of the abortion rights movement. Delphy’s ambiguous proposal for “a feminism, not against, but with Islam” has been lauded on fundamentalist websites worldwide.17 At a major conference of Marxist scholars, after I presented a historical account of the diverse relationships the women’s movement has entertained with religious institutions and beliefs, I pushed Delphy to clarify her statement. She—who has published my writings on anti-Americanism—neutralized me with a supposedly humorous comment about my question being American. There is another feminist arena that is neither National Feminism nor that of the war-torn longtime feminists, a feminism that is emerging among the daughters of Maghrebi immigrants and, perhaps to a lesser extent, of sub-Saharan African and Caribbean background, which I will call, for lack of a better word, a “women of color” feminism (the activists themselves reject this term but have not yet settled upon an alternative). I have encountered this new feminism increasingly over the last decade, among women’s studies students, in demonstrations, and in community organizations. In recent years, when government and media directed their spotlights on the suburban housing projects where poor and working-class immigrants and their children live, they concentrated on the so-called kaïds, the male youth depicted as both victims of the “communitarian” ghettos and purveyors of violence and fundamentalism. Community members, from fundamentalists to feminists, decried the demonization of these boys. Feminists exposed how governmental practices reinforce boys’ machismo and girls’ domesticity, such as a governmentsponsored mentoring program in which the male workers interact with and encourage neighborhood boys to occupy public spaces, while the female mentors are sent into the private, domestic sphere.18 For years, women and girls in the projects faded into the background, rendered invisible or portrayed as passive victims of their men. Today, the screen that hid these women has been cracked, ironically by the hijab debate but also by this new feminism. Yet “women of color” groups have existed for decades, although strikingly invisible in the historical record. Most, however, such as le Réseau pour l’autonomie des femmes immigrées et réfugiées (Network for the Autonomy of Immigrant and Refugee Women), les sans papières (the undocumented), and small neighborhood groups scattered around the country (including several where I teach, in Toulouse) have mobilized first-generation immigrants and refugees, and not all have adopted the label “feminist.” Only a few small groups, such as the Nanas Beurs and the lesbians of color Groupe du 6 Novembre, brought together French-born minority women and girls. As the millennium began, new groups were forming, the most famous created by women from the antiracist group SOS Racisme and its network of community centers. They organized meetings around the country, followed by

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a national congress in January 2002. Two months later, they issued a “National Call to Women from the ‘Neighborhoods’: Neither Whores nor Subjugated!” since signed, they claim, by about sixty-five thousand people. It demanded women’s freedom from the machismo of the men in the housing projects and from the society that shut them in ghettos and that spoke in their names, and declared that women’s emancipation was inseparable from the fight against racism and “exclusion.”19 In October 2002, in a Paris suburb, seventeen-year-old Sohane Benziane was brutally murdered—doused with gasoline and burned alive—for having stood up to a local hoodlum; the new group transformed her story into a political campaign. From February 1 to March 8, 2003, eight activists “marched” around France to protest conditions in the ghettos and demand equality, meeting with local groups in city after city. The march culminated in a meeting with the prime minister and participation in a thirty-thousandstrong International Women’s Day demonstration. In April 2003, the organizers officially founded NPNS (Ni Putes, Ni Soumises/Neither Whores nor Subjugated) and subsequently spawned committees in various cities. For the following Bastille Day, the group initiated an exhibit, which fully covered the monumental neoclassical pillars of the National Assembly building, of sexy ethnic Mariannes (the icon of France, on its stamps and currency, previously incarnated by Brigitte Bardot and Catherine Deneuve). While NPNS invokes a métis republic, others, such as the president of the National Assembly, proclaimed it was the women’s way of “showing their loyalty to the French State.” 20 From the start, the group denounced veiling and, after a short period of indecision, rallied behind the government ban and, indeed, has become a showcased supporter of the new republican national ideal. By 2005, the NPNS issued a manifesto that embraced the label “feminist,” saying that “there is no fight for women’s emancipation other than the struggle against all forms of fundamentalism and obscurantism” and identifying secularism and mixité (gender integration) as the two pillars of feminism (a historical inaccuracy because neither have been central to the French Second Wave movement, particularly not mixité, which means both ending sexual segregation in society, but also rejecting the women-only organizing so central to 1970–1980s feminism). A star-studded cast, from government ministers Right and Left to France’s most famous singers, movie stars, journalists, intellectuals, and longtime feminists, has endorsed NPNS. Viewed from afar, I initially saw the emergence of NPNS as a historic moment in the birth of a new feminism. I rapidly learned, however, that many, perhaps most, feminist and community activists from the projects regard the group with distrust and anger. They see NPNS as top-down, pawns of the media and politicians, and “in the pocket” of the Socialist party. They predict that the group’s president Fadela Amara, as did SOS Racisme’s male leaders, will use NPNS as a springboard for her own political career, equated with instrumentalizing the movement. Many feel that focusing solely on male violence within their communities, without sufficient contextualization, plays into racism and vilifies “Arab” men. Preliminary research also suggests that at

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least several local committees are led by white, middle-class women, not the daughters of working-class African and Maghrebi immigrants that made the group so potentially innovative. 21 Yet, from a social movement perspective, irrespective of the specifics of this story, I suggest that the idea of NPNS resonated with thousands of women throughout France, particularly young women of color who had not been touched by other groups of older, first-generation immigrants or by the overwhelmingly white feminist groups. The thousands of minority women who connected with the march, who swelled the ranks of the 2003 International Women’s Day demonstration, are only a fraction of those whose consciousness is shifting. If nothing else, NPNS has blown the lid off the box. A new generation of feminists, acutely aware of the danger of stigmatizing their communities, are breaking the silence nevertheless, denouncing the multiple sources of their oppression that include racism, economic injustice, sexism, and violence—from within and without their neighborhoods. Neither sexy Mariannes proclaiming their loyalty to France nor the alienated victims of fundamentalist preachers, they are speaking in different voices. Whereas many older feminists born in Arab or Muslim countries, where they courageously fought veiling, have actively supported the ban, these younger feminists more commonly oppose both the veil and the law banning the veil; many supported a recent petition that denounced the ban while defending the separation of church and state. 22 These new feminists appear to be multilevel activists struggling to create antiracist feminism within and without neighborhoods, schools, universities, organizations, progressive parties, and in a few cases, via autonomous groups. In addition to NPNS and its small regional committees, other small groups have appeared, some more or less openly in opposition to NPNS and the ban, such as the Blédardes in Paris and the Scumalines in Strasbourg. Recently, feminists have split from the Motivé-e-s, a small but important political organization cofounded by the iconic radical rock band Zebda, with roots in the projects and minority communities. The utopian experiment, one dissident explained to me, was sabotaged when male leaders, including their FrancoMaghrebi “brothers,” lost sight of their commitment to participatory democracy and to fighting sexism. The origins of the split, she says, go back to the time when the group’s antisexist caucus suggested running two women of color for the 2002 legislative elections, but the male leader and a hand-picked female ally were chosen instead. The two women of color remember being told that they were no longer authentic, no doubt disqualified and “whitened” by being aggressively feminist and challenging the men’s monopoly as voices of the projects. These dissidents are meeting to share their analyses and to write about the experience. 23 New publications and initiatives are also emerging from academe, such as the Toulouse Race et Genre group, which I cofounded in 2003 with women of color activists and scholars. In January 2005, a manifesto appeared that marked a transformation in the debate on race and immigration. “We are the Indigènes of the Republic,” it proclaimed (indigène meaning “native” but also referring to the code de

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l’ indigénat that deprived French colonial subjects of most civil and human rights). The manifesto denounced past and present French colonialism, the domestic “indigenization” of postcolonial immigrants and their children, and declared its solidarity with all anticolonial and anti-imperialist struggles around the world. It called the hijab ban racist, sexist, and colonialist. One poignant passage, which resonated particularly with Franco-Maghrebi and African youth, denounces how their immigrant parents have been vilified for supposed parental irresponsibility, when, it says, “we know of their sacrifices, their efforts, and the suffering they have endured.” Many intellectuals and scholars of colonialism denounced the manifesto’s logic as sloppy and inaccurate. Feminist secularists exposed fundamentalist and anti-Semitic ties of some of the initial sponsors and pointed out the manifesto’s weakness on gender. (Indeed, the female leader of the Indigènes organization, while calling herself a “radical feminist,” later proclaimed that Arab women could only be liberated by giving proof of loyalty to their men and, she said, the veil was one example of such proof. 24) Nevertheless, thousands rushed to sign, including many women and feminists of color. The manifesto has inspired several small collectives around the country and has contributed to popularizing the term “postcolonial” and forcing recognition of the specificity of immigration from the former colonies. More importantly, it has intermeshed with other developments, such as blacks’ efforts to organize and to have officially recognized a revisionary history, from the 2001 law declaring slavery to be a crime against humanity, introduced by Christiane Taubira, former presidential candidate and the sole black woman in the French National Assembly; to the refusal of Martinicans, including founding father of the negritude movement and longtime mayor of Fort-de-France, Aimé Césaire, to meet with Nicolas Sarkozy after Sarkozy, in 2005, called rioters “rabble”; to the December 2005 creation of a federation of about sixty black organizations (Conseil Représentatif des Associations Noires/Representative Council of Black Organizations) that has declared its opposition not just to racism, but, contrary to the Indigènes group, also to anti-Semitism, homophobia, and sexism. Following the publicizing of the manifesto, however, and as if on cue (providing evidence of continuing neocolonialist policy), the National Assembly, on February 23, 2005, adopted a law that requires schools to teach about “the positive role” of French colonialism, angering not only postcolonial immigrants but also heads of state of former colonies. Shifting consciousness and growing anger at the republican dream deferred culminated in the largest civil disorder France has known since the May 1968 students’ and workers’ uprising. In late October 2005, a revolt erupted in a Paris suburb when three teenagers, sons of African, Maghrebi, and Kurdish parents, were electrocuted, two fatally, after hiding in an electric substation to escape a police descent on their neighborhood. Government attempts to lay blame on the boys, Sarkozy’s infamous slurs, and the explosion of a tear gas grenade in a mosque enf lamed the situation. By the end of November, in hundreds of towns, some ten thousand cars had burned, hundreds of buildings had been damaged, and nearly five thousand people had been taken in for questioning. The government exhumed a 1955

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colonial state-of-emergency law designed to quash the Algerian independence movement, remembered bitterly by some of the rioters’ parents and grandparents and never since used in mainland France. Although various people tried to implicate Islam, drug lords, and other criminal elements, a report leaked from the French secret police described the riots as a “popular revolt” caused by sentiments of young people from the “neglected projects” who “feel that they are handicapped by poverty, the color of their skins and their names.”25 Although rioters were represented as exclusively male, women have been held responsible. Single and working mothers were singled out as culprits: at least one, a Pakistani single mother of four, was taken into custody by the police after her son was apprehended, and was sentenced to parenting classes. The blogosphere showed an outbreak of rage against veiled girls. Finally, several Rightwing politicians began blaming polygamy. Girls from the projects did not set themselves apart from the rioters; a handful joined in and others expressed regret for not having had the nerve to join in. In December, a predominantly female group calling itself “The Rabble of France,” self-identified as the “‘tanned,’ black, and Asian” children of “postcolonial immigrants,” carried out a zap action, posting signs such as “To the memory of the rabble’s grandparents, who fought for France in every war.” 26 As this chapter has explained, alongside the icon of the passive veiled woman, a new women of color feminism is emerging. Yet, even setting aside constraints due to economic and social injustice and everyday sexism from within and without their communities, the hijab story reveals how their space is tightly circumscribed psychologically, culturally, and politically. On the one hand, fundamentalists are eager to exploit any seemingly sympathetic statements, and in various manifestos and organizations, these feminists find themselves in unsavory company. On the other hand lies the suffocating French national model. Horia Kebabza, director of a pathbreaking project on youth and gender relations in the Toulouse housing projects, links her own feminist consciousness to the realization of how a supposed “universalism” excluded her family and community, impacting even more on the women than on the men. Viewed from the ground, the model “is extremely violent,” she says. “As [minority] women become aware that the republican model is one of a forced march toward assimilation, they begin, more or less explicitly, demanding a new model of society that takes [them] into account.” 27 Notes My immense gratitude to the women in the Toulouse Race et Genre research group, without whom I could not have written this chapter, particularly Horia Kebabza, Saloua Chaker, Loubna Zaoui, Alice Nyingone Endamne, and Fatiha Majdoubi. Thanks to Graeme Hayes, Phil Green, and Alain Lipietz for their useful comments, to Carol Sternhell and the New York University’s School of Journalism where I was a visiting scholar in the spring of 2004, to Susan Magarey for making me write this, and to Clara and Eizo for their understanding and loving support. 1. “Une ‘Pervenche’ parisienne refuse d’ôter son voile sous sa casquette,” Le Monde, September 15, 2004; “Interdiction d’un défilé de femmes voilées en banlieue

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4. 5.

6.

7.

8.

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parisienne,” Dépeche, October 4, 2004; “Une Etudiante exclue d’un resto U de Paris,” Le Monde, September 26–27, 2004, 9; “Une Mairie interdit à une femme voilée d’être témoin de marriage,” Le Monde, September 26–27, 2004, 9; “Voile: Débat sur la tenue des mères accompagnant les sorties scolaires,” Le Monde, September 17, 2004. Judith Ezekiel, “Magritte Meets Maghreb: This Is Not a Veil,” Australian Feminist Studies 20 (July 2005): 231–43. All translations are my own. Bernard Stasi, “Commission de réf lexion sur l’application du principe de laïcité dans la République: rapport au Président de la République” (Paris: Présidence de la République, 2003), 17. http://lesrapports. ladocumentationfrancaise.fr/BRP/034000725/ 0000.pdf. “Bandana, couvre-chefs: les termes de la loi laïcité à nouveau débattus,” Agence France Presse, October 20, 2004. Although never discussed in the French media, this support is disproportionately male; for example in the May 2002 elections, exit polls showed 26 percent of all men as opposed to 11 percent of all women voting National Front, the largest gender gap for any of the candidates. “L’attitude des Français à l’égard du Front national,” IPSOS poll for France 2 and the Nouvel Observateur, April 25–26, 2003, www.ipsos.fr/CanalIpsos/poll/ 7765.asp. IPSOS poll for Vizzavi, Le Figaro, France 2, Europe 1, and Le Point, April 21, 2002, www.ipsos.fr/CanalIpsos/poll/7549.asp; IPSOS for Vizzavi, Le Figaro, France 2, Europe 1 and Le Point, May 5, 2002, www. ipsos.fr/canalipsos/poll/7553.asp. See also Christiane Chombeau, “Les idées du Front national s’imposent dans l’opinion,” Le Monde, December 15, 2005. See, for instance, Pierre Tévanian and Sylvie Tissot, Dictionnaire de la lepénisation des esprits, 2d ed. (Paris: Esprit frappeur, 2002). On the demonization of Arab men, see Nacira Guénif-Souilamas and Eric Macé, Les Feministes et le garçon arabe (Tour d’Aigue, France: Editions de l’Aube, 2004). Proposition de loi constitutionnelle visant à supprimer le mot “race” de l’article premier, Présidence de l’Assemblée nationale, November 15, 2004, www.assemblee-nat. fr/12/propositions/pion1918.asp. “Les Ravisseurs accusent la France d’être ‘ennemie de l’islam,’ ” Radio France International, September 15, 2004, www.france-echos.com/actualite.php? cle=1667. The fear of “communitarianism” is such that the French state has favored religious, male-dominated authorities over representatives of the multifaceted ethnic, cultural, and historical communities. For example, in 2003, it created the French Muslim Council to ensure “an Islam of France, not an Islam in France,” but its members were elected by representatives of the mosques, in proportion to the square feet of the buildings. This favored organized religion (and specifically wealthy mosques receiving funding from Gulf states), whereas most French people of Muslim culture are independent or secular. For example, only 22 percent of those who call themselves Muslim go to the mosque at least once a month, similar to figures on church attendance of those who identify as Catholic. It also reinforces male domination because three times more men go to mosques than do women, even though the latter are more religious in their day-to-day lives. (See Sylvain Brouard and Vincent Tiberj, Français comme les autres? Enquête sur les citoyens d’origine maghrébine, africane, et turque [Paris: Presses de Science Po., 2005], 27–30.) Philippe Guittet, “Sous le foulard, l’intégrisme,” in La Laïcité dévoilée: Quinze années de débat en quarante “Rebonds,” ed. Jean-Michel Helvig (Tour d’Aigue,

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12. 13.

14. 15. 16. 17.

18.

19. 20. 21.

22. 23. 24. 25.

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France: Libération/Editions de l’Aube, 2004), 47; Aline Baïf, “Le Débat sur la laïcité scolaire: Deux commissions pour quel projet?” Prochoix, no. 26–27 (Autumn 2003): 89. “Sur la prévention de la délinquance: Rapport préliminaire de la commission prévention du groupe d’études parlementaires sur la sécurité intérieure,” October 2004, www.abri.org/antidelation/IMG/pdf/rapport_BENISTI_prevention.pdf. See Françoise Gaspard and Fahrad Khosrow-Khavar, Le Foulard et la République (Paris: La Découverte, 1995). See Judith Ezekiel, “Le ‘Women’s Lib’: Made in France,” European Journal of Women’s Studies 9 (August 2002): 345–61; Christine Bard, Un Siècle d’antiféminisme (Paris: Fayard, 1999). “ ‘Laïcardes’ puisque féministes,” Prochoix, no. 25 (Summer 2003): 13. “Un voile tâché de sang,” http://la_pie.club.fr/librexpr/voilesanglant.htm. Caroline Fourest, La Tentation obscurantiste (Paris: Grasset, 2005), 83–85. For example, Delphy is lauded on the website of the “Assembly for the Protection of Hijab,” www.prohijab.net/english/main.htm and www.al-muslimah.com/, which respectively defend “Muslim women’s struggle to wear the hijab”—both in Europe and internationally—and the hijab as “Our Choice, Our Freedom, Our Right.” Fatiha Majdoubi, “Miss Visa, mi pute-mi soumise? L’Europe comme dote et le mariage comme accroissement du pouvoir d’agir,” Race et Genre seminar, April 11, 2005; Horia Kebabza, “Jeunes filles et garçons des quartiers: Une approche des injonctions de genre,” Rapport GIP (Groupements d’intérêt public) Justice et Délégation interministérielle à la Ville, September 2003. Fadela Amara, with Sylvia Zappi, Ni Putes Ni Soumises (Paris: la Découverte, 2003), 146–47. “Ni putes, ni soumises: émergence d’une nouvelle iconographie de la femme en France,” August 1, 2003, www.kwabs.com/actualites5.html. Some of this information comes from my current research on this new feminism, including preliminary oral history interviews and discussions within the Toulouse Race et Genre research group. See also Patricia Mercader and Marie-Carmen Garcia, “Le mouvement Ni putes, ni soumises: un féminisme nouveau?” (unpub. paper delivered at Gender and Activism International Conference, 26 Nov. 2004, Lausanne, Switzerland). “Oui à la laïcité, non aux lois d’exception,” Prochoix, no. 25 (Summer 2003): 14–17. This information comes from notes for the article these women are preparing and interviews with one of the women involved. Christelle Hamel and Christine Delphy, “On vous a tant aimé-e-s! Entretien avec Houria Bouteljda,” Nouvelles Questions Féministes 25, no. 1 (2006): 128–29. “Banlieues: 21 nuits qui ont ébranlé la France,” Nouvel Observateur, January 2, 2006, http://archquo.nouvelobs.com; “Selon les RG, les émeutes en banlieue n’étaient pas le fait de bandes organisées,” www.lemonde.fr, December 7, 2005. Mustapha Kessous, “Les ‘Racailles de France’ affichent leur colère,” Le Monde, December 10, 2005. Horia Kebabza, interviews with the author, January 24, 2005, January 4, 2006.

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Notes on Contributors

Editor Wendy Pojmann is assistant professor of modern European history at Siena College in Loudonville, New York. She is the author of Immigrant Women and Feminism in Italy (Ashgate 2006). Her articles on women’s movements, immigration, and oral history have appeared in The Historian, the Journal of International Women’s Studies, and Migration Letters. Pojmann has taught modern European history and women’s studies courses at the University of Missouri in Kansas City, Franklin College in Lugano, Switzerland, and Boston College where she earned her PhD in European history. She is presently working on a study of international women’s organizations during the Cold War and a comparative project that examines migration through the port cities of Genoa and Marseille. Anna Boucher is a doctoral student within the Department of Government at the London School of Economics and Political Science. Her current research is on the gender and race dimensions of skilled immigration policy. The research presented in this volume on the political participation of Berlin’s Turkish community was conducted during a German Academic Exchange Service funded trip to Berlin in 2003–2004. The research was awarded the University Medal in Government and International Relations at the University of Sydney (2004) and best thesis in Australia on European Studies by the Contemporary European Research Centre at the University of Melbourne (2006). Magnus Dahlstedt holds a PhD in political science and ethnic studies and is a research fellow at the Department of Social and Welfare Studies, Linköping University, Sweden. Among his primary research interests are the politics of inclusion/exclusion and multicultural democracy, activism, and civil society. He is currently working on a research project on immigrant youth, social exclusion, and political subjectivity in the suburbs of contemporary multiethnic Sweden. Vera Eccarius-Kelly, associate professor of political science at Siena College in Loudonville, New York, specializes in comparative Middle East and Latin

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American politics. In 2002, she received her PhD from The Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy at Tufts University in Boston. Dr. Eccarius-Kelly has spent extended periods of time researching Muslim minority communities in Europe and indigenous revolutionary movements in Latin America. Her publications have appeared in Peace Review: A Journal of Social Science, The Journal of Muslim Minority Affairs, The Fletcher Forum of World Affairs, and Countering Terrorism in the 21st Century (Praeger International 2007). Judith Ezekiel, currently professor in residence at Wright State University, is associate professor at the Université de Toulouse le Mirail in France. In addition to her book Feminism in the Heartland, she has published extensively on U.S. and French women’s movements, the history of women’s studies, FrancoAmerican (mis)representations, and comparative race and ethnicities in journals such as Les Temps Modernes, Feminist Studies, Nouvelles Questions Feministes, Women’s Studies Quarterly, Confluences Mediterranee, and Australian Feminist Studies. Founding editor of la revue d´en face, The European Journal of Women’s Studies, and the innovative website The “Second Wave” and Beyond. She also cofounded the French, European, and International Women’s Studies Associations (ANEF, WISE, WOWS), and has created and runs their listservs WISE-L and etudesfeministes-L. Since starting the group Race et Genre in 2002, a part of the Simone-Sagesse Women’s Studies Research Center, her work has emphasized transnational perspectives on race and gender. Jane Freedman is the Marie Curie Visiting Chair at the Centre de Recherches Politiques de la Sorbonne at the University of Paris I and a senior lecturer in the Department of Politics and International Relations at Southampton University in the United Kingdom. She is author and editor of six books including Immigration and Insecurity in France (Ashgate 2004) and Women, Immigration and Identities in France (Berg 2000), as well as numerous articles on gender, immigration, and security in Europe. Her book Gendering the International Refugee and Asylum Debate was published by Palgrave Macmillan in 2007. Felix Germain is assistant professor of history at St. John’s University in New York. He received a masters in Africana Studies at Cornell University and a PhD at the University of California at Berkeley in the African Diaspora Studies Program. He specializes in postcolonial urban migration and comparative racial formation, with a focus on France and the United States. Caroline Izambert is currently preparing her dissertation on the PCF and Algerian immigration in France from 1945 to 1965. She is a member of a research network led by the Institut d’Histoire du Temps Présent-CNRS on the Algerian War in France. Quentin Ravelli of the Ecole Normale Supérieure translated her chapter in the volume, which results from a conference paper presented at the National Library in France. Izambert’s articles have appeared in El Watan and La France en guerre.

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Olgu Karan is a PhD candidate in the Department of Sociology at the Middle East Technical University in Ankara. He received his BS degree from the Political Science Department of Bilkent University in Ankara, Turkey, and his MS degree in Political Sociology from the Dalarna University in Falun in 2003. Karan attended a one-year program of thematic courses on social exclusion for international graduate students at Stockholm University. Karan is interested in the areas of social exclusion, social movements, and development. Eva Schandevyl holds a PhD in contemporary history from the Vrije Universiteit Brussel—Free University of Brussels, on the subject of intellectuals and leftist politics in twentieth-century Europe. She is presently conducting research on a variety of topics such as urban and migration history, the history of law and justice, cultural history, and the history of social and political movements. She has published in Dutch, French, and English, in several international monographs and journals, including the Journal of Communist Studies and Transition Politics and the European Review of History. Quinn Slobodian is assistant professor of modern European history at Wellesley College in Massachusetts. He holds a PhD from New York University. His dissertation is titled “Radical Empathy: Third World Politics in 1960s West Germany.” Slobodian has held several fellowships, including a DAAD graduate research scholarship. He has forthcoming articles on West German labor internationalism in the Cold War and on West German interventions at the World Youth Festivals of the 1960s. Gabriel Alejandro Torres Colón holds a PhD in anthropology from the University of New Mexico and is currently a postdoctoral fellow in the Center for Women’s Intercultural Leadership at Saint Mary’s College in South Bend, Indiana. His dissertation is entitled “Of Muslim Persuasion: The Politics of Convivencia in Ceuta, Spain” which examines the political anthropology of multiculturalism, international borders, and nationalism. Torres Colón is the recipient of a National Science Foundation Dissertation Improvement Grant and has presented his work at the annual meeting of the American Anthropological Association.

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Index

Abdeslam, S., 142 accommodation, 35, 87, 93, 136, 140 ACLI-COLF (Italian Christian Worker’s Association–Family Collaborators), 196 Africa, 19–20, 25, 41, 155, 175, 198, 237 francophone, 15 northern, 8, 111–12, 114, 119, 131 South, 34, 36–9 Algeria, 2, 4, 36, 99, 100–1, 103–8, 238 Algerians, 4, 8–9, 16, 36, 99, 101–6, 108–9, 238 Antilles, 15–16, 25 Antilleans, 16, 20–1, 24–9 antiracism, 134, 137, 145–6 Alexander, Neville, 37–8, 47 apartheid, 36–7, 39 Asia, 4, 34, 36–7, 41, 89, 175 Asians, 33 assimilation, 8, 69, 133, 138, 145, 152, 175, 238 asylum, 42, 45, 65, 67, 86, 175 Ausländergesetz (Foreigner Law), 43, 45–6 Belgium, 5, 7–8, 17, 64, 67, 71, 73, 129–31, 133, 136–7, 140–6 Brussels, 71–2, 86, 129–30, 132–7, 139–40, 143, 145–6 BUMIDOM (Bureau pour le Développement des Migrations Interressant les Département d’Outre Mer), 15, 21, 24, 26–8 Candelaria, 198 Cape Verde, 196, 197, 204 Cape Verdean Women’s Association, 197 Caribbean, 15–16, 243

Casa Internazionale delle Donne, 198 Catholic Church, 240 Catholic identity, 194, 238, 241 Catholic organizations, 26, 196, 199–200 Ceuta, 4–5, 8–9, 111–26 citizenship, 9, 18, 90, 92–3, 152–3, 155, 197, 204, 236 Belgian, 141 European, 2–5 French, 9, 83, 93, 99, 238 German, 63, 209–10, 212–16, 218–19, 225 Spanish, 114–16, 118, 121–2, 124–5 Turkish, 63, 71 claim-making, 176, 213–14, 216, 219, 221–5 Cold War, 35–6, 194, 199 communism, 26, 45, 103, 235 communists, 9, 26, 100–9 corporatism, 176–81, 185, 188 CSC/ACV (Confédération des Syndicats Chrétiens/Algemeen Christelijk Vakverbond), 131 Arab section, 8, 140–6 CSC Brussels, 139 Department for Foreign Workers, 138–43, 146 Statute of the Immigrant Worker, 138 cultural deficit paradigm, 158 De Gaulle, Charles, 27, 108, 239 democracy, 39, 112, 114, 121, 131, 142, 183, 185, 235, 242, 245 in Africa, 25 as conformity, 40

272

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democracy—continued Liberal, 112 in Sweden, 153, 158–60, 166–7 Western, 60 Democratic Union of Ceuta (UDCE), 118–21, 123–6 Democratic and Social Party of Ceuta (PDSC), 9, 117–20, 125 deportation, 5, 21–2, 25, 34, 42, 45–7, 84, 87 Diaspora, 3, 16, 25, 27–8, 57–9, 61–2, 64–9, 71–5 diversity, 133–5, 138, 144–6, 161, 163, 237 cultural, 145, 175–6 ethnic, 181 among workers, 66, 130–1 domestic workers, 21, 194, 196 Eastern European, 204, 238 education, 39, 40, 48, 116, 123, 140–1, 155, 182, 220 access to, 25, 40, 90–1, 142, 146, 156, 195, 204 bilingual, 120 Christian, 240 intercultural, 224 migrations, 33, 114 employment, 21, 24, 133, 138, 196 household, 28, 82 legal, 90, 198 opportunities, 2, 10, 146, 162, 195 temporary, 118 ethnicity, 16, 25, 112, 132, 165, 179–82, 194, 204, 238 Kurdish, 67, 74 exclusion, 22, 117, 146, 180, 211, 218, 238, 244 political, 7–8, 93–4, 125–6, 151–3, 155, 157–60, 165–7 social, 66–7, 133–4, 139–40, 143 European Union, 2, 4, 6, 57, 64, 69–70, 111, 142, 153, 209 European Commission, 68 EU Turkey Civic Commission, 68 family, 19, 194 reunification, 3, 7–8, 86, 131–2, 175, 196, 211, 215 social assistance, 33, 105 fashion, 38, 159, 233

Faust, A., 134 FGTB/ABVV (Fédération Générale des Travailleurs de Belgique/Algemeen Belgisch Vakverbond), 131 Brussels federation, 134–7, 139–40, 143, 145–6 Manifesto for the Integration of Immigrant Workers, 136, 138 feminism, 194, 198, 235, 239, 241–5, 247 Filipino Women’s Council, 193, 199 Filipinas, 204 Flanders, 8, 130, 133, 135, 137, 139 foreign aid, 35–7, 40–1 foreign students, 4, 6, 34–6, 38, 40–3, 45–7 France, 4–11, 15–18, 20–7, 36, 58, 67, 81–6, 88–94, 99–102, 105–7, 109, 111, 130, 178, 196, 202, 234–5, 238–40, 242, 244–7 Free Church Movement, 178, 185 French Communist Party (PCF), 8–9, 100–5, 107–9 Front de Libération Nationale see National Liberation Front gender, 10, 155, 165, 193–7, 201–4, 244, 246 (in)equalities, 25, 69, 74, 92, 123, 167, 183, 242 theory, 3 Germany, 4–7, 9–11, 33, 38, 43, 46, 58, 61–9, 71–2, 175, 177, 196, 209–15, 217–18, 220, 223–4 West, 33–8, 40–2, 44–8 globalization, 129, 140, 145, 152, 194, 199, 201–2 Guest workers, 6, 8, 43, 66, 130, 134–5, 209–11, 217 headscarf, 3, 10, 181, 209, 220–5, 233–4, 241 health care, 28, 90, 162, 176 hijab, 233–7, 239–43, 246–7 see also headscarf housing, 6, 112, 118, 151, 155, 158, 176 access to, 23–4, 91, 162, 198 legislation, 8, 93 projects, 239, 243–4 “squat,” 87

Index human rights, 61, 67–74, 123, 142, 234, 246 demands for, 35–6, 64–5, 85 organizations, 68, 71 and the United Nations, 39, 41 hunger strike, 34, 39, 41, 81–3, 87, 90–1 identity politics, 6, 157, 159, 164–7, 236 imagined community, 158–9 (im)migrant associations, 141, 157, 181, 186, 197 Muslim, 3, 8, 58, 66, 69, 103, 111, 114–17, 119–26, 133, 136, 184, 209, 220–1, 223, 234, 236, 238–42, 245 student, 25, 36–7, 41 women’s, 10, 193–204 integration, 1–2, 4, 23, 89, 92, 117, 129, 136–7, 145–6, 157, 159–63, 167, 175–6, 179, 182–8, 198, 203, 211, 234, 238, 244 cultural, 7–8 policy, 133, 151–3, 223–4 political, 8, 66, 193 social, 60, 66, 132–3, 139, 193 Iran, 34, 39, 45, 47, 67, 73, 242 Islam, 1, 71, 112, 115, 224, 238–9, 241, 243 Italy, 5, 9–10, 17, 43, 193–6, 198–204 KON-KURD, 68, 72 Kurdistan, 64, 67 Kurds, 58–9, 62–72, 74–5 Kurdish movement, 58–9, 61–2, 64–5, 72–3 Kurdish question, 57, 64, 66, 68–9, 71, 74 Kurdish Workers Party (PKK), 62, 64, 67–70, 72–4 legislation, 8, 194–5, 220 immigration, 2, 66, 82, 85–6, 201, 214–15 lobbying, 62, 64, 68, 72–3, 87, 157, 216–18 local elections, 8, 118, 121–2, 133 Lumumba, Patrice, 35, 42, 45 media analysis, 3, 214, 216–19, 221–3 Morocco, 111–15, 118–19, 122–3, 131, 133, 141–2, 238

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multiculturalism, 8, 112, 151–2, 165, 167, 176, 234–6, 239 Muslims, 111, 115, 117, 121, 209, 220–1, 223, 238, 240–1 Nationality Act, 210, 214–20, 222–3, 225 National Liberation Front (FLN), 100, 107–8 Netherlands, 8, 64, 67, 71 New Left, 33–4, 47 Ni Putes Ni Soumises, 6, 10, 244 nineteen sixty-eight (1968), 2, 6, 16, 21–3, 25–8, 33, 45–7, 142, 240, 246 nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), 57, 71, 86, 179, 184, 187, 197, 202 Nirumand, Bahman, 47 Peru, 196 Philippines, 196, 204 political opportunity structure, 3, 7, 11, 58, 92, 176–7, 182, 188, 210–12, 214, 216, 222, 224–5 political participation, 2–5, 8, 11, 62, 130, 136, 142, 167, 209–14, 216, 220–2, 224–5 Portugal, 34, 36, 43, 111 prostitution, 61 racism, 6, 17, 132–4, 157, 182, 241, 244–6 in France, 28, 101, 236–9 in South Africa, 34 struggle against, 121, 126, 130, 134, 137, 143, 186, 244 “vote against,” 162–3 Rassemblement Démocratique Marocain, 142 refugees, 63, 152, 175, 200, 243 religion, 66, 111, 123, 146, 181, 233, 238, 240 Republican, 10, 21, 67, 234–9, 241, 244, 246 Rome, 194–9 sans-papiers, 5–6, 81–94 Sarkozy, Nicolas, 69, 86–8, 239, 246 Sembène, Ousmane, 18, 20 social movements, 3, 5–6, 10, 13, 22–3, 60–1, 94, 178, 180, 188, 201, 212, 218 social movement theory, 3, 58, 62 South Africa, 34, 36–9

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Spain, 5, 8, 43, 111, 113–14, 116–17, 119, 121–3 Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party (PSOE), 114–15, 119, 121–5 supranational structures, 59–60, 72 Sweden, 4–5, 7–9, 151–4, 156–9, 161–4, 166–7, 175–8, 180–6 trade unions, 1, 5–9, 18, 21, 28, 90–1, 97, 129–34, 136, 144–7, 195, 197, 211–13, 219 Belgian trade unions, 8, 130, 146 European trade unions, 5, 130 membership, 91 trafficking, 61, 119, 203 transnationalism, 4 Turkey, 42–3, 58–74, 131, 209, 211, 221 Turkish migrants, 11, 209–25

undocumented migrants, 5 see also sans-papiers unemployment, 19, 143, 152, 209, 211, 218 United Nations, 41 violence, 41, 63, 214, 237, 242–5 against (im)migrants, 83 against women, 74, 124, 183–4, 242 racial, 121, 182–4 state, 33–4, 36, 41, 46, 48 Walloon provinces, 130, 133, 135, 137, 139, 142 World War II, 1, 2, 4, 7, 18, 99–101, 108, 131, 138, 144, 151, 175, 194 xenophobia, 134, 143, 152, 182, 237–8 Yugoslavia, former, 175, 200